January was fun, but now we are into a short month with only Valentine’s Day as a distraction from the cold and misery of winter. I was going to tell you about how Tanya got on last weekend and it occurs to me that Valentine was given that name because he was born on Valentine’s Day. It could also be why he’s got his weird thing going on with women.
I’ve just uploaded January and ‘the gift’. I’ve also done a couple of drawings of Carly aka Madecrown which I’m pleased with. She has a really interesting face with big hooded eyes and freckles and teeth like mine, and a beautiful body. The drawing was from a photograph she sent me, but when I was doing it I could feel her changing on the paper into somebody more reminiscent of a model of Gustav Klimt. That’s not a comment on my drawing, rather on her. I’m really looking forward to painting these, and doing others. I’ve also done a journal entry, so I’ll just wait and see.
I’ve had a few notes so far, but whether or not I experience some fantastic surge of psychic energy remains to be seen. I kind of leapt out of bed this morning with a spring in my stride and frantically busied myself for about an hour getting everything done. That was followed by the anti-climax that always results from having completed some artwork or project.
As an artist I find it impossible to be satisfied with anything I produce, but there is a moment during the process when I am completely content and focussed and optimistic. It is in that moment when I feel that I have a purpose and I am fulfilled, and the work in front of me is my best work ever. And then there is the point when I’m finishing off and realise it’s done. And that’s it, all of that is gone.
I suppose that is why I post things online to justify the effort I put in, but it’s not really an outcome or a finish work I seek, rather it is being lost in the act of creation. And although some of my works are a little risqué it’s not any sort of sexual gratification, I’m never aroused when I paint, more that I am at peace.
Learnt that yesterday was the pagan festival of Imbolc, dedicated to the Goddess Brigid, and associated with the first return of spring. It is an occasion for spring cleaning and lighting candles and if you leave a scarf out in the night, it will be blessed by the Goddess Brigid who will grant you a wish. It is also the point of the years when sheep start lactating for the arrival of spring lambs. In pagan traditions it is celebrated by the eating of oat cakes and the drinking of rose hip wine. Christian who borrowed Imbolc turned it into Candlemas, the festival of Saint Brigitte.
So you know…but its weird isn’t it? I was discussing it with Anne-Marie and she described the same burst of energy. So not my gift and all my online friends dedicating their seed to me in an artistic ritual conjured from my diary. Rather pre-existing rules that govern our existence, part of a blueprint I didn’t know about until yesterday.
I’ve been really depressed too. It’s not really something I want to write about because who wants to read about feelings of hopelessness and despair? For me it tends to go in cycles and I’ve often thought that maybe I am bipolar. I emerge after a couple of days or weeks and have moved on in some way. I find it impossible to imagine these people who are in the same mood every day or think the same thing one day and haven’t changed their mind the next. Being conflicted and neurotic are part and parcel of being an artist.
Got a few difficult notes from people who my gift and my diary has upset. Made a few comments about men and Christians, I can say what I like about sex, but say something about faith and all hell breaks loose. I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about faith and the things people believe in, especially about Christianity with Tanya, Taoism and Jonas, even Physics and Melvin.
Religions could say: you know nobody knows what the answer is, but we have imagined an answer based on what we would like an answer to be, and have chosen to try and believe it. It’s not ideal, but there are lots of people who have agreed to do the same and there’s a community of us who try to adhere to a common set of principles. Of course there is individual doubt, but try not to think about that too much because that will just make you insecure and uncomfortable. In any case if you bring up your children telling them this is Gods honest truth, must of them believe it, and they grow up never really needing to think about worrying questions like: Why are we all here? What’s it all for? What happens to us when we die? And so on.
Taoism I understand is an atheistic religion, and its incomprehensible texts are responsible for the past perception of the Chinese as inscrutable. The Tao, which we are talking about here for example, is not the real Tao, because it’s not really possible to speak about the real Tao. This contradiction is one of many which tries to define the Tao’s mysterious truth through paradoxes. And of course there is that famous question: What is the sound of one hand clapping?
Jonas’s interpretation of Taoism is going with the flow, taking it easy, and sticking to the path or the way beneath his own feet. If he is in the right place at the right time he is aligned with the Tao, and spontaneous ‘magic’ will arise as a consequence. Jonas believes that he should do nothing at all, and through this inaction, simultaneously accomplish everything that needs to be done. From his perception our meeting and liaison on New Year’s Eve was simply the Tao doing its work, which he merely had to accept with the openness of a child. This is all straight forward, and after all as Jonas would say, a thousand mile journey begins with one step. However as I mentioned previously, Jonas is always stoned.
Christianity from Tanya point of view is a terrible constricting monster, doing as you ought through fear of the devil and eternal damnation, and souls tortured for eternity as punishment for wrongdoing. There is the bible, a book which cannot be questioned, or comprehended, only studied interminably by the faithful, and all the answers can be found by wading through its dense undergrowth of text. It doesn’t provide Tanya with solace or succour only with unhappiness. It reminds me of an old cartoon of a scantily dressed young girl complaining:
“I gave myself to Jesus,” she says forlornly, “and now he never calls.”
For me there is a conflict between Christian faith and basic logic. I can understand Melvin better with the scientific method. Or even Tippler with the idea that we exist within a computer simulation.
One more, I remember, a mother chastising her naughty child.
“Maybe Jesus was a bit hasty,” she says testily, “dying for your sins.”
Friday at last and the end of the week. I’m afraid it’s another one where I’ve got nothing lined up. Well you know, a bit of shopping, meeting a couple of people for coffee, washing my hair, and all that entails, but no big social events. And that’s fine with me. I may have given the impression that those are the sorts of things that I enjoy, and whilst that’s true they are also kind of outside my comfort zone.
As an artist and writer sometimes I suppose, I am inclined towards my own company. I have a watercolour of Carly to finish and this to write of course. My online activities are also solitary in their own way. There is just me and the computer, and when I think about the people the other side of the computer screen who I have never met and never seen, who could for all intents and purposes be nothing like they say they are anyway, they seem like voices in my own head speaking to me. That sounds schizophrenic but I don’t mean it in that way. I suppose as well with the gift I was hoping for some sort of psychic event that would impact real life.
Smoking marijuana doesn’t help either. I enjoy smoking alone and being wrapped in my own thoughts inside my head. I can’t go out and do anything when I’m like that anyway, the world overwhelms me with its perceptions and I can’t talk to ‘straight people’ at all who seem oblivious automatons frantically engaged on some purpose of their own, missing everything that is around them. Jim said that in the sixties straight people were referred to as ‘stiffs’ and there is something about that which is very descriptive.
On the other hand, most of my friends are straight people; Anne-Marie especially, Tanya, Melvin, all my friends at work. I suppose that’s one thing about my online friends and the voices in my head, at least they are not like that. And thinking about the comfort zone, and parties and social events and so on, I long ago decided that everything that happens, happens outside your comfort zone. That said, if I really am going in pursuit of truth, I should get used to being outside of it.
I was thinking about putting the ‘gift’ in here. Way I figure it, the people who censor work on dA only do so if they are tipped off, or on works which are so obviously in contravention of their rules. With written work they probably scan the first few paragraphs or lines looking out for penetration or erect penises, they certainly wouldn’t have the time to read this. In fact half the time I don’t think anyone is bothered to read this anyway. And why should they?
Well there is a piece I wrote a while back supposedly on the subject of anal sex which is very dark and painful to me, but I have been promising it since I started this diary. There is also an update on Tanya and Mandy, so there’s plenty of interest coming up, so stay tuned.
Monday morning a little bit hungover, had quite a crazy discussion with Melvin last night. He was trying to explain his research on his quantum battery while I was drinking a bottle of prosecco. Let me try and explain it to you.
There’s atomic theory: everything is made up of protons, neutrons and electrons. This was arrived at by experimentation over a long period of time. Most of an atom is empty space. The ancient Greeks came up with the idea of the atom in the first place by doing what Melvin refers to as thought experiments.
More recent research suggests that subatomic particles are made up of quarks. There are six quarks, and physicists usually talk about them in terms of three pairs which are: up/down, charm/strange, and top/bottom. Also, for each of these quarks, there is a corresponding antiquark.
Ok, now there are other things, called hadrons, bosons and leptons. No idea what they are. And there was the discovery of the Higgs boson recently, the so called God particle. There is the Higgs field which causes particles to have mass when they interact with it-that’s something to do with it. Apparently this was zero at the big bang, but increased as the temperature dropped. There are gluons of course, muons most probably, photons which don’t have any mass, and so on. This comprises the standard model of elementary particles.
So far so good. In physics, string theory is a theoretical framework in which these point-like particles are replaced by one-dimensional objects called strings. String theory describes how these strings propagate through space and interact with each other. There are lots of different varieties of string theory including super string theory, however it is generally agreed that all consistent versions of string theory are subsumed in a single framework known as M-theory.
In M-theory there are eleven dimensions, folded up on themselves. And Melvin has been working with string placeholders, which he calls sigils. These are theoretical sections at the end and beginning of strings to confirm their veracity, which are analogous to headers and terminators at the end of packets of data.
So I’m thinking, string theory meets Tippler. Or eleven dimensions and sigils, the tree of life and Cabalistic magic. I explained this to Melvin after I’d persuaded him to smoke his first ever joint. He lay there and laughed for about half an hour.
I was telling you about Tanya. She was really upset by her date. Mandy, Valentine and Tanya are all embroiled in some sort of love triangle where no one is happy. They seem to keep trying things out which are hopeless and never going to work. I keep telling Tanya she needs to be honest with Mandy about her feelings, but she isn’t able to do that. She spent about an hour crying on my shoulder, until she looked like a panda, with pink eyes framed by black streaks, her face all puffy and forlorn.
She decided to take a bath, whilst I sat on the sofa, browsing the internet, catching up on notes. And then it suddenly hit me, what was I doing? The bathroom door was open anyway, and I knocked softly and walked in. I began by washing Tanya’s hair which started out innocent enough, but then I was drying her hair which was still OK until she got out of the bath and I was drying the rest of her. She was all hot, pink, and clean. It’s one of the things I love about women: as I began stroking her breasts and belly, lightly tickling with the tips of my fingertips she was all soft and yielding, sighing with appreciation, parting her legs slightly so I could stroke her inner thighs.
You know what it’s like when you are in love with someone and you can’t keep your hands off each other, and you tear each other’s clothes off and fuck like skunks whenever you can? It was like that with Richard, and also with Darcy to a lesser extent. But with Tanya it was something different altogether. It was lazy and languid, soft and sensual. And our kisses were delicate exercises of pleasure on the play of lips and tongues and saliva, entwined, and given. And her pussy was sweet and perfect, with an enviable shape and symmetry, a tight thin crack with a little exposed bud of a clitoris I could flick with my tongue. And how easy it was to slip my middle finger inside her slippery tightness to find the exact spot that made her squirm. But there was something about possession too, not just sweet lesbian duos out of the bathtub having a little female fun, but dark, even sinister. I think she wanted me to stop at one point before we’d passed the point of no return, but I was determined to continue and force an orgasm out of her.
“Maddie please don’t.”
But I’d ignored her protest, and pushed the fingers of my left hand into her mouth whilst massaging my fingers inside her pussy, twiddling her clit with my thumb simultaneously biting her puffy pink nipples, until she was writhing and squirming, her eyes closed imagining being fucked by who knows what. And it wasn’t until her thrashing and moaning had subsided that I stopped and kissed her, and outlining the contours of her face with the sticky fingers of my right hand, told her that I hadn’t finished with her.
Her eyes were still closed, and I stripped off in silence retrieving the purple strapless dildo from the Amazon box under the bed, carefully inserting one end into myself and forcing her legs apart. I’m by no means an expert with such things but I was determined. I positioned the purple shaft of the dildo over her thin pink opening and carefully lowered myself onto her, slipping the whole length of the device inside her until her we had squished together. And then sort of grinding, and trying to thrust, with my end continually slipping out of me, and using my hand to give support.
Tanya was impassive, it was obviously doing nothing for her, but she was stroking my hair, and she tried clawing my back, to encourage me. I was grinding and writhing, absorbed into her and the smell and the warm fleshiness of her, our breasts, rubbing together until I was completely overwhelmed. Not by some earth shattering orgasm, but by a sudden emotion that came over me, formless and terrifying, a dark nasty horribleness that engulfed me.
Part of me wanted to be a man, wanted to have a cock and wanted to spurt my genetic code, in a splurge of empty procreation. But most of me didn’t. And how pathetic I was at that moment masturbating into the prone body of my best friend in imitation of something real to satisfy an impossible need. And it was too much. I suddenly burst into tears, a sort of uncontrollable wretchedness. I was sobbing and blubbering, and Tanya was comforting me all of a sudden, in a sudden reversal of roles and we were moving together in a new way, a sort of unforced syncopation, but I had become useless.
I don’t know what happened. Tanya changed positions so now she was on top. The cock shaped half of the purple dildo was inside me and Tanya was fucking me. I was still sobbing, still overwhelmed with feelings which had opened up inside me like an echo in a huge empty hall, but when I looked at her face it was fierce and determined. She was being so forceful she was hurting me, fucking me in a way no man would do. There was nothing I could do but give in to her.
Afterwards I was all soppy and mushy. Telling Tanya I loved her. Things have taken an unexpected turn, I have become her bitch.
Tanya got me a dozen pink roses. Melvin bought me chocolates. It was just like my birthday. I got half a dozen Valentines cards in all. Some were a surprise, and some were not. Gareth sent me a card as he always does-we’ve sent each other cards since we were teenagers. Darcy sent me a card. Jim, I hadn’t really expected. The one I really didn’t expect was from Richard. When I opened that one the blood drained from my face and I felt physically sick. He said he missed me. Who sends their ex a Valentines card like that? My first impulse was to rip it up, but I didn’t. I lined them all up on my mantelpiece as if they were birthday cards. I’m certainly due some cake this evening.
Melvin asked me to be his girlfriend this evening. He was really sweet about it, but it did make me wonder if he believes we are both twelve years old.
Kind of fed up with my diary at the moment. Feel like I need to go and lick my wounds.
What is it with men and anal sex? I’ve noticed that of the pictures that I’ve put online the ones which are always more popular are those featuring it. And in my personal life, anal is something my partners always go crazy about. Myself, I cannot see what all the fuss is about. So the idea was to write something about my experiences and try drawing a few more pictures, maybe try and understand where all you guys are coming from, and tell you a bit more about myself. Unfortunately it has got a little bit out of hand and open ended, and a little bit crazy. I could probably go on with it forever, but this is it for now…
I guess when I was younger there was some sort of taboo on the subject of anal sex. It was something I regarded as dirty; something I swore I would never do –an act for real sluts who had no sense of decency. I carried on thinking that for some time.
Well not really, because I was still at school actually, being a petulant difficult teenager. And David was there too, a sixth former attracted to a much younger awkward version of me, with my own particular brand of nihilism and angst. He was intelligent, lanky, kind of yeti-like, and I must have spent two years insulting him before we finally got it together. I wasn’t a virgin though, that had been lost a few years earlier to a good looking boy taking advantage of my natural curiosity and desire to experiment. I’d had a reasonable amount of underage sex; already counting up the number of times I’d ‘done it’; quibbling with my peers about whether blow jobs even counted, before my first serious relationship.
David was my first boyfriend, and I would have done anything for him. When he first suggested anal sex I said no, of course, but the longer I was with him and the more he went on about it, the less convincing my refusal became. When he first did it to me I felt a little bit ashamed I have to say, but I regarded it as something secret and intimate between us, and I loved him so much. I remember, he was so excited at the chance, he was still trying to push his cock into my bum, when he suddenly gasped, exploding all over the place. He was really embarrassed about that, but I kissed him, and held him close and said it was OK, and told him I didn’t mind if he tried again.
Thereafter I could always tell when he wanted to do it. He would start by stroking my buttocks, then kissing them, crawling between my legs licking my pussy in a rather half-hearted fashion before invariably turning his attention to that other, ‘forbidden’ hole. He would spend some time reaming me out with the sharp point of his tongue, warming me up for a bigger, more solid insertion. He wasn’t really that big though, in terms of cocks, I’ve known bigger, but it was a nice introduction to the brown art. To be honest, once he’d slapped on some lubricant his cock would just slip into my bum really easily. Nothing fancy you understand, no KY jelly in the bedside cabinet, just whatever was to hand –olive oil, coconut oil, even butter. Fucking upstairs in his bedroom, his mum and dad downstairs, with their TV blaring out. Being fucked to the sound of ‘EastEnders’-now those were the days.
I have so say, although it didn’t really get me going, there was something about anal sex I kind of liked. It was the dirtiness of it I guess. Or the thought of it. We could be sitting in a public place and my mind would wander off from the everyday and I’d start thinking to myself: “I’m the sort of girl who takes it up the ass,” and I’d look around me at all the regular people going about their business and I’d feel kind of horny and disgusting at the same time.
David eventually went off to University, I did my A levels. We said we’d keep in touch, but you know how these thing are.
Of course I was young, and anxious to learn everything about sex. Eager to please, I always said I’d try anything once. My bum was always my best feature too, and I was always wearing tight jeans or short skirts. David had been older than me, but my next boyfriend Jack was old enough to be my father. He was a school governor and a local councillor. He had a car and money. It was probably his worldliness and stature that attracted me. And our relationship was a little bit kinky from the start, as you can imagine since I’d only just turned seventeen. Those of you who are familiar with my writing know that I’m small, and when I was in my teens and early twenties I always had to carry ID to be served in a pub or buy alcohol. Even now, thirty one years old, guys often think I’m much younger than I am.
Jack had me dressing up in my school uniform, short skirt, blazer, tie. It was funny because at the time I thought myself very grown up, dining in fancy restaurant, drinking cocktails, being driven everywhere in his Mercedes, but really I suppose it was the fact that I was so young that turned him on. He’d get me to call him Sir, and because I was still at school it didn’t seem funny. I’m not even sure I liked it at the time. Or him. Every time we went out anywhere people would assume I was his daughter, and so there was something incestuous about the relationship, which I’m quite sure the old bastard liked.
It was all mixed up and fucked up. It started off as simple fun and ended up being all about power and control. The first time we had anal I was in my school uniform, hands behind my back, bent over a chair. He was fondling my bum and sliding his cock in and out of my pussy, telling me I’d been a naughty girl, and it was all strange but kind of interesting. Next thing he’d stuffed something in my mouth, forced my head down onto the chair and he had taken his cock out of my pussy and he was pushing it you know where. The only lubrication was what we had got going-which wasn’t nearly enough, and the more I struggled, the harder he pushed and the more painful it became. In the end I was just lying there sobbing while he groaned and panted, repeatedly calling me “his dirty little slut”, before depositing his load in my bum.
I swore I’d never let him lay a finger on me again, but I gave him a second chance and it marked a turning point in our relationship. Control seemed to be slipping away from me and he exerted more and more power over me. We’d be sitting in the front seat of his car and he would tell me to suck him off, and I’d obediently scramble between his legs and do what he told me. Or else he’d be fucking me –any notion of ’making love’ was long since gone-and he’d pull out and slowly masturbate into my mouth, or drizzle his cum over my face. For someone with low self-esteem, Jack was a nightmare.
He’d also introduced me to smoking marijuana, and half the time I would be stoned and drunk or completely wasted. He’d strip off my clothes and I’d lay immobile on the bed while he had his use of me. Anal sex was just another type of sex to me, and I ceased thinking of myself as a girl who took it up the bum, rather as some sexual object for his use. My sense of self-worth came from him. He could be really generous and charming when he wanted to be, but as our relationship developed those occasions became rarer and rarer. I became even more withdrawn and sullen at school, but because my grades were always good, and to be honest my relationships with the other girls had always been bad, I don’t think anyone much noticed.
The worst was on an occasion when I was pretty much out of it. It was really hot and humid, outside a thunder storm was brewing. I was naked and splayed out on his bed and I was really wet, and horny. Jack had been taking pictures of me naked, and although I made him promise to never show another living soul-part of me knew he was lying.
There was a ring at the door, and Jack left the bedroom to answer the door. I heard talking downstairs going on for some time, mixed with the patter of rain and the clink of glasses -the occasional rumble of thunder. Eventually I lost consciousness.
When I awoke it was with a feeling of oppression and a heavy weight pressing down on me. A large man was lying on top of me, his breath stinking of alcohol. At first I thought I was dreaming and this was some sort of hideous nightmare, until a terrible feeling of dread spread up from my stomach and a feeling of physical sickness overwhelmed me. Then I knew something appalling was happening.
The room was dark with only a distant hall light to provide any illumination. The thunderstorm was still going on and a sudden flash of lightening lit the whole room up. For a fraction of a second everything was thrown into sharp relief, and the whole horrifying image was etched on the back of my eyes in painful overexposure. Jack was sitting in an armchair studying the two of us with cruel enjoyment, a half smoked joint clasped between his fingers.
The large man on top of me, was not that old but he must have weighed fifteen or sixteen stone. He was completely naked, rippling with muscle, his shaved head slick with sweat. He looked like a rugby player or a body builder-certainly not my type. He was the sort of man, other men, think women find attractive, but don’t. He was ugly with a thick neck and his head seemed oddly small for the rest of his body.
I lay there, frightened and disorientated, not completely sure what was going on. Then I realised his hand was probing between my legs, and felt a finger slipping inside me. I tried to scream but his hand was closed over my mouth. Guiding the head of his cock towards my crack, easing into me with a groan of satisfaction. And I lay there, repulsed and violated, feeling the length of his cock slowly inching into me little by little, gasping with horror because his cock was so huge.
I don’t know whether it was because I was really stoned, or whether when you’re emotionally overwhelmed a calm rational part of your mind comes to the fore. But part of me was aloof from events, reassuring the small terrified girl inside that she wasn’t going to get murdered, or become pregnant; telling her that there were no STI’s and that everything would be all right in the end. Forcing myself not to struggle as he rammed into me in rough, urgent thrusts, burying his massive cock all the way inside me.
I don’t know how long it went on for even. It might have just been a few minutes, but it seemed like hours. I couldn’t tell. Finally he grunted with pleasure filling my womb with his dirty unwelcome seed, a disgusting leer of satisfaction distorting his ugly face. And I could feel every last little spasm as he came, holding his cock deep inside me, pumping sperm into me in hot gloopy gushes. Lying there a moment catching his breath: And Jack, who had remained silent throughout the proceedings was suddenly on his feet, clapping his hands together slowly:
“Bravo,” he said. Biting his lower lip and whistling loudly through his teeth.
“Bravo.” As the man pulled out and scrambled off me.
“Bravo.” As I turned onto my side. And puked over the floor.
Then there was another sudden flash of lightening, and I counted the seconds, until I heard the sound of thunder.
I was suicidal-off the rails-and I did all sorts of things I now regret. You would have thought I’d get rid of him like a shot, but it was Jack who dumped me. I was traded in for a newer model, a fresh faced innocent, ready to corrupt. I caught them at it too, banging away in the sitting room-just as I was meant too. But that was another story.
Let me slow things down and tell you about my best friend Sarah. She was not really my best friend at all, but she was always there. When I needed to go out, when I needed a shoulder to cry on, and at that time, as you can imagine, I needed an awful lot. Sarah had never had a boyfriend. She was plain, it’s true and kind of shy and not at all outgoing. We always went out together, and it was always me that received all the attention from guys.
We were down in Brighton the first time I saw her boobs. We were topless on the beach, hanging around getting a tan, clubbing, I was still very young -if no longer innocent. I couldn’t help staring at her tits. They were sweeping and pendulous and perfectly shaped with craggy pink nipples- I felt so envious. I kept thinking to myself how confident I would be if I had a rack on me like Sarah. And when I came to rub sunscreen on her back, my hands couldn’t help but stray to her marvellous boobs and as I fondled and squeezed them there was a moment that passed between us. I pulled away, feeling uncomfortable, and kind of embarrassed by it. Sarah on the other hand continued to stare at me, sweeping her straw coloured hair away from her hazel eyes with a lazy smile on her face. She told me later that that had been the moment she first wanted to kiss me, but a few months were to pass.
It was Halloween. Dressed up as witches at some stupid party. I was drunk and had already humiliated myself. I’d given two teenage boys a blow job in an upstairs bedroom, and in a moment of carelessness got cum over my black top. I was mortified, locked in the bathroom, desperately trying to get rid of the stains on my top, the whole room spinning around. I’d made myself sick in the wash hand basin too, with the notion it might make me feel better, and people outside were banging on the door to get in. I don’t know how much cum I’d swallowed, but there is something truly wretched about bringing it back up again.
I don’t remember what happened next, but it was Sarah that saved me, dragging me out into the cold night air. Later on she was walking me home, and we went back to her shared house. It was almost like taking some hallucinogenic drug in which reality becomes fluid and shifts from one thing into another. I flung myself down on the bed wandering how I was going to get home, absolutely disgusted with myself, in the company of a close female friend. I emerged-well I’m getting ahead of myself.
I was sprawled out on the bed in my witches outfit looking a total mess. My mascara was smeared over my face, I’d got cum on my best top and over my skirt, and I was probably smelling of vomit too. I had sobered up a little I suppose but I was still pretty far gone.
“I’ll get you some coffee,” said Sarah.
There was something about the way she said it, standing at the foot of the bed her hands on her hips. Sarah who was so reliable, so sensible. I met her eye and there was the same lazy smile playing on her lips.
“I must look a total mess,” I ventured.
“You look beautiful,” she said, not drawing her eye away, but continuing to stare.
I shifted my position on the bed, kind of opening my legs but sort of casual, as if it was an accidental manoeuvre and that I was completely unaware of what I was doing. My attention shifting to Sarah’s chest recalling the day on the beach and looking at her cleavage on display in her low cut dress, soft and squishy. And back to her face, her tongue moistening her lips.
“I’ll get the coffee then.”
“If you like,” However she made no attempt to move.
If I’d been a little more sober I might have had doubts about misreading her signals, as it was I was ninety-nine per cent certain. With her eyes still on me, very slowly and very deliberately I allowed my right hand to drift between my legs, burrowing beneath my skirt. There was no question that it was an awkward situation, but I knew she wanted it. Pulling aside my knickers, and locating that favourite spot just above my clit. Applying pressure with my index finger and making slow circular motions. I can still see her face, like a rabbit frozen in the headlights of a speeding car, unable to take her eyes off me, gulping with surprise. I was pretty wet down there already. And I spread my legs and pulled up my skirt.
“Are you going to fuck me or what?” I demanded.
The comment stirred her into action and she really surprised me. She got down on her hands and knees right there and then. She crawled towards me without hesitation and went straight for my pussy. Before I knew what had happened she’d got my knickers off and had her head buried between my legs. I’ll tell you, I was in heaven.
Last day of the month, and I’ve been a bit useless with this. Haven’t written in my diary for weeks. Haven’t drawn anything at all. I have done a bit of video editing, and I’ve tried some modelling with polymer clay. So far I’ve nothing to show for my efforts. I end the month with a proper boyfriend, and a proper girlfriend, and a string of former lovers. I can’t say how any of this is going to work out for me. But at least it’s interesting.