coming home

He takes hold of me almost as he walks through the front door, one arm reaching around my waist, the other about my shoulders and stroking the slope of my neck with his fingertips. He crones in my ear, a comforting burble, and i swallow his scent with hungry lungs, feeling myself shrink into a malleable space within his embrace.

"Come" he says, after a long moment of welcoming silence, and i follow him to the side of the sofa, where he presses my head to bend me at the waist, sinking over the broad leather back. My skirt follows, enveloping my head, dimming the light. I stretch out my arms and spine in a gesture of invocation, eyes shut, abandoning my lower body to him.

First he peels off my knickers; he is not perfunctory but it is with economy, for his purpose is not to tease me, or himself. He slaps me on my bared right cheek and i feel warmth blossom, my exposure suddenly vivid. Next his fingers, burrowing, and i shift my stance to open myself wider.

With hips resting on the furniture and face buried in the cushion, my toes lift from the floor and i am floating, suspended on the pivot of his two stiff fingers in my cunt. He pushes into me, hard, and i rock backwards to suck in the pressure, his arm pistoning into a fleshy hollow.

He holds me there, one hand on my waist while his other fist continues to stir between my parted legs and all the while i can feel the solid heat of his erection pressed to the bare back of my right thigh, the bold brand of his lust trapped within his suit, hotly threatening.

HNT/mask

silent screaming

All my writing energies today have gone towards responding to an email from my husband. I don't want to spar words with this man who used to be my best friend, my confidant and my lover. This particular struggle makes me very weary.

It was our regular supper night which we share with the children. He was late, as usual. I cooked, as usual, but he didn't eat with us, as he is having supper elsewhere tonight.

I put the leftover food in the fridge and try and let his vague excuses bounce off me.

obvious

"Protest as much as you wish"

he says, ignoring my squeals at the tight grip of his fingers, his full weight keeping me from wriggling free,

"but your pussy tells a different story"

and he laughs in my face, transparent pleasure at my ragged breaths, shifting his hips so we can both hear the obscene liquid noise of his cock in the sloppy mess of my happy cunt.

*

A simple marinade for chicken (adapted from Nigella Lawson's Buttermilk Roast Chicken):

Into a plastic bag pour 300ml buttermilk with 30ml olive oil, 2 crushed cloves of garlic, a big pinch of salt, lots of ground pepper, 1 teaspoon of ground cumin and 1 tablespoon of maple syrup. Add approximately 500g of chicken - breasts, thighs or drumsticks - and massage gently. Leave overnight or for a few hours in the fridge, or for an hour or so at room temperature just before cooking. Shake of excess marinade, drizzle with a little extra oil and roast in a hot oven. Serve with coleslaw and a new potato salad, in between bouts of sexual excess.

large anzac biscuits

This recipe is totally shit rubbish, frankly. I only noticed it because i adore these iconic cookies nibbles (it is illegal to refer to Anzacs as cookies!) and this particular version does not include coconut, which, on reflection was probably a typo. Have you ever heard of anzac biscuits without coconut? Exactly my point.

My son can not eat coconut, so i was easily seduced into trying something new for him. It was apparent fairly early that the ingredients were not doing what they should, so i winged it. If you want that burnt-sugar hit, a deep full-throated caramel crunch with a hint of chewy oat .. well, my version worked. I'll be making them again, for sure.

Heat oven to 160ºC.

In a pan, gently melt 125g of butter with 2 tablespoons of golden syrup. Leave to cool slightly and add 170g of porridge oats, 100g self raising flour, 125g caster sugar and 1 teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda.








Take a teaspoon of mixture and roll into a ball, place on a silicone bake tray, flatten slightly with a fork. Repeat, but do not underestimate how these biscuits spread. Bake for 10 minutes until golden brown. If, like mine, your biscuits spread into each other, divide with the blunt edge of a baking slice while they are still soft and pliable. Allow to cool completely on a rack before eating, if you can.






My children are elsewhere for the weekend, the house is silent and still. The playroom looks oddly paralysed, as if held in suspension until they return. I indulge myself in solitude, in pleasures, in thought and deeds which are purely for myself. I feel myself expanding into this vacuum, and may not leave this private haven for the duration.

**update** If you don't recognise the date/name; it is Anzac Day today, which is a national day of remembrance in Australia and New Zealand, and is commemorated by both countries on 25 April every year to honour members of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC) who fought at Gallipoli in Turkey during World War I and also to commemorate the soldiers who fought in France and Belgium. Anzac Day is also observed in the Cook Islands, Niue, Samoa and Tonga.

The acronym ANZAC stands for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps, whose soldiers were known as Anzacs. The ingredients for these sturdy biscuits do not spoil easily so they kept well during naval transportation to loved ones who were fighting abroad.

HNT/kinky

quiet house

He takes his time, for we have the whole day ahead of us.

His body is arranged carefully to reflect mine, overlapping stars upon the bed, his knees pinning my forearms, his elbows incapacitating my spread thighs. His weight on my chest limits me to small breaths, and i become very still and quiet as he observes, his fingertips barely moving. I am aware of only the encompassing sensation of being minutely studied and the subsequent aching desire to be touched harder.

"She is so swollen" he says in wonder, as if he has never seen her before, "as long as the knuckle of my thumb."




Baked Sweet Potato

One long slit along their length with a sharp knife and into a hot oven for 40 minutes or so. Always put a baking sheet on the shelf beneath as they leak, stickily, and the juice caramelises quickly.

When softly collapsing add a slice of butter, a little sea salt and a spritz of lime juice. The children use spoons to eat the vibrant flesh from papery skins.

sunday food

Moving rapidly on from last night's misery, my weekend improved with sunshine and the simplicity of being just me and my children.

Dusting bookshelves this morning i noticed that my husband is removing cookbooks. There are odd gaps in lines that used to be packed tight; the bookshelves bulged fit to burst with 500 volumes, but now spines sag crookedly. This dissolving of the household is inevitable, but i am determined not to fight over possessions, particularly when books are so replaceable. It does, however, encourage me to explore some of the titles that i don't usually pick up.

It is hard to read these books and see my husband's writing - he always made notes about recipes in the margin of books, and often added whether i enjoyed the dish.



I found a little volume of Pennsylvania Dutch Cooking ("a plump wife and a big barn never did any man harm"), full of recipes which are characteristically short and often sweet. There is a recipe for Rivel (crumb) pie, with 3 simple ingredients of flour, sugar and fat, also Sand Tarts and Flannel Cakes. I am tempted to try Spaetzle, which i recognise from my time as a swiss housewife.

From Lindsey Bareham's Just One Pot; Aromatic lamb curry with spinach (with personal adjustments).

For a marinade; 5 tablespoons of plain yoghurt, 1/2 teaspoon of ground cumin and 3 cloves of garlic and a finger of fresh ginger (5cm), peeled and finely chopped. Add 500g of diced lamb steak and stir.





Peel and chop a large onion. Cook on a high heat for a couple of minutes, then sprinkle with a little salt, another 1/2 teaspoon of cumin, 1 tsp of ground coriander, a big pinch of chilli powder, a bay leaf, 4 cloves, seeds from 4 cardamon pods. Stir well and cook gently for 10 minutes.





Increase the heat, add the meat and marinade. Cook briskly to brown the meat; the sauce will thicken. Sprinkle with a pinch of sweet paprika and add a tin of chopped tomatoes. Simmer for 30 minutes. Just before serving add a bunch of chopped and blanched spinach and heat.

i don't really care

There is much made of the thrill and variety of decadent hotel sex but sometimes i wish i was just going upstairs to bed with a man whom i share my space with.

red

This is the best way of using up the uninspiring gluten-free cornflakes that i can't bring myself to eat for breakfast: 100g of milk chocolate (i prefer more chocolate - next time i will use dark chocolate, and at least 150g), 25g of butter and a teaspoon of golden syrup melted gently in a pan. Add 50g of cornflakes and allow a child to stir gently. Spoon into cupcake cases, top with an easter egg if required, and allow to set in the fridge; eat the same day (it was not difficult).


My Chilli Red.

I was reading Heston Blumenthal's Perfection at the time, and loosely following his recipe. My version contains rather more vegetables, without any of the fancy accoutrements.

A large pan with a little oil, a chopped onion and a generous spoonful of chilli powder. Cook slowly until onion is soft and caramelised.

Add crushed garlic, 2 chopped carrots, a green pepper and 3 sticks of celery and cook gently for another 10 minutes, then add a tin of chopped tomatoes and a good squeege of tomato ketchup. Allow to bubble gently while picking child up from tennis club (about 30 minutes).



Briskly fry 500g of good minced beef until browned. Add to vegetable mix (don't forget to deglaze the pan) and simmer the savoury fragrant mix over a low heat for as long as necessary - at least an hour.

Apparently chilli is best left to the next day, but there wasn't enough left ...



I love to watch him.

When i curl on to my side in surrender, knees tucked into my chest, and he penetrates me from behind the curve of my hip, that is when i can look back along my length and surreptitiously view my fucking machine.

He rises above me, blocking out the light with the familiar bulk of his bowed head, his taut arms and powerful shoulders looming as a physical cage and i am thrilled by his strength and energy, by the brute force of his arched back and the brutal expression in his eyes.

i am not

... a patient woman. The current pattern of my life grates.

In my mind's eye i am that expectant submissive, sitting on the upright chair; not bound, not yet, but waiting. I am blindfolded, or the equivalent of, for i can not see him, not yet, but am slowing my breathing in preparation as i wait for him to reveal a little more of his depraved self.

*

As i left the gym this morning i (almost) collided with the muscular, inked and rock hard (i can only imagine) bodies of my two favourite gym instructors. They had large bags of equipment and were a formidable passing presence in the wood-lined lobby; I was freshly showered and herding a small child.

"If you are not in class next week" he said, "i will seek you out".

I floated away in a little subbie bubble of contentment.

a simple fish stew

There are countless recipes for fish stew, but this was my version from last night. It filled the house with a perfect combination of sweet tomato and the sun-drenched aroma of dried herbs to drive off the chill of a wet spring evening.

A large, solid pot, a little heated oil. Two fat leeks and a green pepper, sliced, 2 diced courgette and a couple of large garlic cloves, crushed: soften gently without colouring. When the vegetables are sweetly melting together add a tin of chopped tomatoes and an extra half pint of water, a bay leaf, a little dried thyme, fennel seeds (i was generous), and a few strands of saffron (first moistened in a ladle of the liquid). I would have added a curl of orange peel, if i had had one to hand.

Then peel and slice 4 potatoes into 1cm thick rounds, add to the pot with extra water to fully cover. Simmer until potato is almost cooked, then add fillets of firm, white fish .. maybe some shellfish if you have some to hand. It will take only a couple more minutes on the heat to finish off.

*

Today i tackled some *husband* jobs - clearing the shed of broken toys and cobwebs, cutting grass, taking rubbish to the tip. My 8 year old showed me how to empty the grass cuttings from the lawnmower; we made a good team.

Next i shall start with the power tools.

*

I am listening to Lily Allen sing "Fuck You" with a bounce. It is my theme for the week.

it is my ruin

When he joins me in the bed (we had moved location, preparing for sleep) i already had the blunt-ended tool inside me, as if i can not bear to be empty, not even for the few minutes it takes for him to brush his teeth.

I can feel that my cunt is fleshier, an extra resistance to the pressure of my hand as i shift gingerly around the gentle vibrations. She is spongy from his use, engorged and tender, but with the extra sensitivity comes the need to be touched further, for unremitting pressure to further aggravate the heat.

He doesn't remove his usurper but instead climbs in between my legs, shifts my knees further apart with his shoulders, lowers his head.

option

"It is time to fuck your arse" he says, as i put down my bags, take a brief look around the room.

I must have rolled my eyes, or made a moue of disagreement, for he laughed and took my face gently between the palms of his hands.

"All you have to decide" he says kindly, "is whether we use lube, or not."

holiday snaps

We have very large rabbits.

I have been cloud gazing (if only we had clouds, but blossom will do).

a trifle

I didn't make a birthday cake; i have so little time/privacy for thought or deed at the moment, and extra baking is not on the agenda. Nor is writing smut. I can probably manage a holiday snapshot now and then.

Slices of chocolate sponge on the bottom of the dish, a sprinkling of port, then some raspberries and cherries. A raspberry jelly poured over and allowed to set. A layer of barely warm custard on top, then, the following day, a blanket of fragile and light whipped cream. The strawberries i rescued from the breakfast table, and the pale green squiggles are strips of candied angelica. I have always enjoyed the fresh green flavour, whether as the sweet treat on top of a cake, or as the sticky green liquor in the Chartreuse Barrel from the selection of my mother's favourite Terry's Old Gold Chocolates.

Thank you for all the birthday messages and good wishes. Every one of them is treasured x

Thank you also to Madeline Glass for Fleshbotting my post-sex-wind-down last week.

lucky

Walking along the clifftop on a sunny April afternoon.

My children are down there already, on that distant pale sand, digging contentedly. In the hazy distance, on the extremity of the green curve, is where i went to school. The aroma of heated flowering gorse says more to me about the seaside than any combination of sun cream lotion and candy floss ever could.

Today is my birthday. It will start quietly, but will flow with family jolliness. The final hours, however, are less predictable; a collision of timing has resulted in possibilities i could not have foreseen, and would have never considered viable. Perhaps a portent for the year? I hope so.

when the time comes

... he rolls me onto my belly and i swing one arm above my head to grip the wooden plank of the bed frame, the other arm reaching over the side of the bed, seeking a bracing position from the solidity of the mattress. I lengthen my spine, a full body stretch from the heel of my pressed palm to the arched soles of my feet, legs slightly apart, straining to open against the constriction as he straddles my bottom. There is a pause as he rears up above me, his hands pressing sharply on my waist to tilt my pelvis, then a sliding warmth and he settles his cock into me.

I am expectant beneath him, taut and still, pinned between his embedded weight and the swaddle of the bed beneath us, my thighs now clamped shut. He leans forward, puts one hand on the back of my neck, tightens his fingers and begins to pump with his hips.

I won't orgasm in this position, and he knows this, but to lie prone and trapped by his body above me, held down at the narrow, vulnerable point of my neck to be ground into the bed while he relentlessly ruts still thrills me inordinately. With no direct stimulus on my clit, nor the hard pressure of his cock on that particular spot in my cunt I am reduced to a vessel, and even more so as his movement becomes a frenzy, then that final solid thrust as he sinks deep and unleashes himself into my depth.

light/shade

I walked slowly home from preschool this morning with my blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy beside me, luxuriating in the early summer sun.

"I have to learn to walk" he announced.

"But you are walking now" i reasoned.

"I have to learn to walk without holding mummy's hand" he explained, and skipped off along the pathway.

*

I feel cared for, tended, and a little cosseted emotionally, if not physically.

*

It is almost my birthday, then my/our wedding anniversary, then, approaching rapidly, is the 366th day of our separation.

drifting towards the seashore

I am keeping to my Lent pledge of no Grown-up Dating (not mentioning this). No meeting new faces. Just as well, as i being kept busy enough with the old, familiar ones (damn these lingering winter colds).

As an idle aside: are kinky men invariably creative? 3 trombonists, a conductor .. and am now talking to a man who played rock music, on a flute.

A simple roast chicken supper.

I cooked my bird fast and hot with a good smear of butter, garlic cloves and a couple of bay leaves stuffed into crevices. 20 minutes at 220ºC, then 40 minutes at 180ºC, then turned the oven off, keeping the door shut, while i cooked a pan full of new potatoes and some white sprouting broccoli. The chicken fell apart at the promise of my knife, still succulent and steaming. The soft innards of the garlic cloves were squashed into the caramelised juice crusted on to the bottom of the roasting dish, then a splash of Madeira added to make a sparse and delicious gravy.

There was so little effort put into dessert - a wine-dark raspberry jelly, with a handful of raspberries - but we needed nothing else but cool, slippery sweet-with-tart to distract us from the savoury leftovers of the first course.






I can almost feel the sand between my toes already.