Angels

I sit and wait
Does an angel contemplate my fate
And do they know
The places where we go
When we’re grey and old
‘Cause I have been told
That salvation lets their wings unfold
So when I’m lying in my bed
Thoughts running through my head
And I feel the love is dead
I’m loving angels instead

And through it all she offers me protection
A lot of love and affection
Whether I’m right or wrong
And down the waterfall 
Wherever it may take me
I know that life won’t break me
When I come to call, she won’t forsake me
I’m loving angels instead

When I’m feeling weak
And my pain walks down a one way street
I look above
And I know I’ll always be blessed with love
And as the feeling grows
She breathes flesh to my bones
And when love is dead
I’m loving angels instead

And through it all she offers me protection
A lot of love and affection
Whether I’m right or wrong
And down the waterfall 
Wherever it may take me
I know that life won’t break me
When I come to call, she won’t forsake me
I’m loving angels instead

This is probably my favourite record of all time. It is by Robbie Williams and apparently about the idea that loved ones that have passed will protect us. For me, there is something beautiful about the lyrics that resonate with me. That those we have loved are always close to us, especially when we are at our lowest ebb. And it is certainly a song that I have played when alone and feeling down. 

Mind you, it also has happy memories for me and I will always remember the two times I have heard Robbie sing live. The first at Knebworth in 2003 – A beautiful sunny and warm August afternoon and evening. A day spent with my two brothers and their wives. We were lucky enough to be living nearby, parked in town and walked, much to the dismay of my two sisters in law. But once in the grounds, we had an amazing time – a rare outing without children. Angels was played as an encore at the end of the concert. We were already starting to make our way towards the exits since 100,000 people were present. but as Angels started we stopped, listened and watched. 

My second time was at Wembley in 2013. My ex refused to go with me as we were in the throws of arguing about potentially separating. I had bought the tickets and didn’t want to waste them so invited one of my sisters in law. She is now divorced from my brother and so I don’t see her often. She was one of the first people I told about the impending split and that I was seeing someone else. The support she gave me on that day gave me the strength to tell my parents and to ultimately move on. I can’t remember exactly, but am pretty sure Angels was again the encore song. 

People often play Angels at funerals, though I haven’t heard it at one. There is a reasonable chance I’d want it at mine. Though I prefer to think of it in a more pleasant setting and definitely being sung live at a concert. 

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Smut

The 2018 Smut Marathon has ended. 85 writers began their smutty journey in January and last weekend the winner, Exhibit A was crowned. The final 7 stories were, not surprisingly, longer than in previous rounds. With 2250 words to play with there was much more room for the story as well as sex and erotica. Strange then, that not everyone who commented found all the stories as smutty as they might be. This has been a theme throughout the competition and a source of discussion on Twitter. Since Smut Marathon 2019 starts in January and I am considering entering again, I decided to explore this in more detail.

What is smut?

The Cambridge online dictionary definition demonstrates that smut is not always seen as a good thing. A noun that describes magazines, books, pictures, films or jokes that offend some people because they relate to sex. Indeed, the word comes from the German ‘schmutzen’ and dates back to the 17th century – defile, corrupt or make obscene. 

Fast forward to the 21st century and while some will still be offended by smut, some of us are actually looking for it. The top definition in the Urban Dictionary is: When two or more characters (fictional or non fictional) has a sexual encounter with each other. It could be all sex with little story plot, or a well thought out story with occasional sex scenes. 

Of course, there doesn’t even need to be two people in the story. For two rounds of the Smut Marathon we wrote about sex toys and in one of those, from the object’s point of view. 

What do readers look for?

In the comments section for the final round, one of the judges expressed of the winner’s story “Is it smut”. Where as Marie found it: “Brilliant, sexy, hot. I thought that there was smut, but like Charlie; not my thing. Perhaps this is where the issue lies. Smut is something personal. 

I put a call out on Twitter to ask how that community defines smut. There were some interesting responses. Floss  sets the scene:

“For me Smut can be sexy, explicit, sensual, downright dirty or subtlety seductive, all at once or one at a time works for me. But for it to be Smut it needs to make my mind wander to sexy places. To make me feel like I want some of what had been described. Sometimes I read erotica or smut & I just see no words or imagery or suggestion that says this is meant to woo me into being aroused & excited, either in mind or body. Even if the writing is excellent, if I’m not giddy with tingles then it just didn’t hit my Smut button”

Overt vs Subtle

For Marsha Adams “erotica is anything inspiring sexy thoughts and smut explicitly describes those thoughts.” Similarly Brigit Delaney wrote “I tend to be subtle in my sex scenes, which didn’t go over well. And when I tried to be smuttier, I edited out plot to make room for it and then wasn’t as happy with my stories”.

One of Vida Bailey’s stories was reviewed badly because ‘nothing happened’,  for her “erotica doesn’t have to have lots of explicit action, I’d rather read a good story that awoke ideas and feelings in me”. 

When you don’t have many words to play with, it isn’t always easy to build a plot and build up to a smutty scene. Plus, not everyone wants their smut to be too subtle. As Chintz Curtain says “something that allows my brain to create a really good, clear picture of said smut. The words don’t necessarily have to be explicit but the sexual intention needs to be clear. I struggle with it being messed with too much. It’s sex. So let it be sex”.

Charlton Todd responded: “For me, smut is evocative. It should make me feel like I’m there physically as well as emotionally. It should be both intelligent and visceral. And personally, I don’t think it’s enough to have just one. You need to have both. I want to feel like I’m transported into the scene, and am an active part of it more than a fly on the wall”


Writing for a competition

This makes writing for a competition challenging. Because what makes one person tingle, leaves another cold. What transports one into a scene drives another out of the window. As the competition progressed, the writers grew to know the audience they were writing for. As Daz wrote: 

“it makes me wonder if the question isn’t so much about what we, as individuals, think of as smut; but more, how you see it (writing for yourself) or your target readers see it (getting the votes).” Also ” It depends why people read erotica; some enjoy the aesthetic(?), some just want to get off on it. Ultimately it’s about why you write…

In conclusion

I set out to try to understand a bit more about smut and what it means and have got the answer I expected. It means completely different things to different people. Some prefer their smut subtle, as part of a developing underplayed story. Others need to see erotic and sexy words on the page before it means anything. Even then, if it isn’t your kink the words may leave you cold. 

Maybe it isn’t what you say but how you say it. Which suggests that the most important part of story telling is the edit. Allowing yourself time not just to write, but to read and alter the words. When writing for a competition remember this isn’t a blog post, an erotic story for a meme. That people will judge differently. But, in my opinion, better that we are debating that is and isn’t erotic rather than semi colon placing or the length of sentences. But grammar is another topic and not one I am going to get into. 

Thank you to my fellow writers, bloggers and twitter friends for your inspiration and contribution. The final word goes to Bear’s cub who sent me this: 

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Playtime

Note – I didn’t’ read the prompt properly and so while I can be playful, this is about something else. 

We don’t so much have a play box, but a whole room. It’s called the play room (no lack of imagination here). It is the first room in the house I saw (other than the hallway and stairs). We played the day after we met.

I’m sure the rule book of BDSM says you should take more time to get to that stage. A strangers house, the day after you meet. But, it seemed right and anyway it was a while ago now (5 years in February). 

That Sunday afternoon was the first time I had been played with in such an intense way. Restrained, blindfolded, gagged. I discovered just how much I am turned on by impact play. How much my body can be stimulated by a variety of sensations. Our fate was probably sealed that day.

Toys, large and small

The playroom is full of equipment, large and small. Collected over a number of years, by someone who loves to shop online and in person. The largest thing is the swing and appeared soon after our first trip to CMnf. There’s one at that club and someone we met there raved about it. We didn’t try it out then, but one soon appeared at home. To begin with, it’s a little scary as you are suspended (probably naked), arms, legs and bottom supported by slings. Once you stop worrying about falling it is great fun. 

As you can see it provides open access for play with other implements and also sex. Sad to say we haven’t used it much. But it would probably be a good way for us to play while I am still recovering because I doubt I could manage my arms being restrained at the moment. Particularly above or behind my head. 

Other toys include the fucking machine (also not well used) and the violet wand which is an evil toy. I love the sensations it produces in me, but struggle with the concept of electrical play. If I’m blindfolded though, I am able to relax into it. Master also owns a large number of impact toys plus things that can be inserted into orifices. Dildos, plugs, vibrating toys and a zipper. In fact, if it has been invented and is safe and available, it is probably in our play room.

Getting back to play

Since I moved in during the summer the playroom has been a bit of a store room. Mind you, most rooms in the house are currently storing a box or 3. We have been talking about getting the playroom ready for some fun again and writing this post makes me want to do that. 

Time to get back on that swing again and have some fun. 

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Writing

I have always enjoyed writing

When I was 8 I was entered into a writing competition at school and won a good called ‘Mrs Cockle’s Cat’ for my troubles. I had a vivid imagination as a child, and preferred to create my own fiction, rather than keeping to exactly what the teacher might have wanted. So much so, that in a music competition at aged 11, I made up a tune rather than follow the one on the page in front of me. I found my own life dull and so also told ‘tales’ of a more exciting existence. At some point during my secondary school years though I realised I had to start to be truthful and also produce the work requested. But that didn’t stop me and a friend writing romantic fiction about the boys we fancied. But we restricted our activities to evenings and weekends.

Once in nursing school

My life became about writing patient notes and reports, plus of course essays and course work. There was little time to continue creating fiction and anyway I had my own boyfriend by then. Plus nursing friends with interesting relationships and patients who led fascinating lives (well one or two of them did). My writing was forced to take on a factual side and what’s more it could no longer be based on my opinion.

Some time in my early 20’s I began to write fiction again. As before, I wrote in longhand in notebooks. This time, given that I was already married but bored with the long hours my husband worked, the romance became a little more raunchy. Sex had been a bit of an anticlimax in my own reality and so I became creative on the page. Looking back it is amazing that I was able to write such erotica given my lack of experience. Remember that back then, there was no access to the wealth of information we have today. Mind you at least I was aware of anatomy because of my nursing experience. Once I had my son there was little time for writing for pleasure. I was soon back working full time, studying for a degree and looking after him. My hands were full enough.

At some point in the 90’s we got ourselves a computer in the house

Soon after I found myself helping my son to create his own website about his favourite cartoon characters. I impressed myself, as well as him when it actually worked. Not long after that I discovered blogger and began my first blog. This was based on my work, by now nursing management. I wrote mainly opinion pieces and some that were researched as well as a kind of academic diary. In fact, I later used the blog as the basis for my reflective practice aspect for the Masters I was studying at the time.

My work over the past few years has involved a lot of writing – reports, papers, proposals and the like. Some long and in-depth. I have enjoyed constructing them, though not always the deadlines. But it feels as if the creativity I once had is somewhat buried beneath facts. My attempts at writing fiction on this blog while well received haven’t been easy to produce. I have much more time to write the things I want to now. So, perhaps it is time to rediscover the imagination I know I had as a child. What I won’t do though, is to stop voicing my opinion. This is my blog and I can write whatever I wish.

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Power through control

He likes to exercise control over me and all aspects of his and our life. This really is who he is. While he will do things at my suggestion, I know he likes to come up with ideas first. Through the control he has over me, I know he feels power. He tells me that when he controls me he feels his domination and my submission. Sometimes, in the right situation this power arouses him sexually and in turn it does me too. 

It’s funny because in the past I hated to be out of control. To have others tell me what I should and shouldn’t do. Indeed in a work situation I can still get a little tetchy if I think someone is trying to control me. But over the last (almost) 5 years I have willingly given control to him. I have consented to be his slave and to allow him to make decisions on my behalf. 

There are 13 other posts on this blog labelled in the category of control. Most were written in the first year or two of our relationship. At a time when I was learning about my needs and of course his. Then I thought about control a lot. Recognising for the first time that there was no need to micromanage myself and everyone else around me. The key thing I recognise as I write this post today, is how far along this journey I have travelled. 

So often now, I don’t even worry about decision making. I just expect him to take the lead. He books concerts and theatre trips and puts them in the diary. He makes suggestions about places we might go and before I know what has happened we are on our way. Hotels are booked, sightseeing organised and quite often I just turn up, guide book in hand. But the strange thing is, it doesn’t feel like he is doing anything different or odd. There is no malice involved, just a desire to be the one that decides things. And I am pretty happy to just let that happen. 

In bed he willingly takes the lead. It isn’t that I can’t or don’t want to, but he just does it. Telling me to get on my knees can be so powerful, for us both. When he comes up behind me as I am standing at the window or in the kitchen and lays his hands on my shoulders or hips. I can feel the control he has over me, a physical and emotional thing. Something I can almost see and which I always know is there. 

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Scents of life

The first time I think I was actually aware that people had perceptibly different smells was when I first visited the home of my future husband. I didn’t know he was that as I was 15 and he was my new boyfriend. I observed that their house smelt different from ours and realised that other peoples did too. It wasn’t that the people themselves smelt unpleasant, there was just a smell or scent that pervaded. I have visited many homes as a nurse, and some of them did smell unpleasant. Food smells, a lack of cleaning (body and environment) and wounds to name a few. My nose has always been a little sensitive to the scents and smells around me. 

The scent of my men

In the main I haven’t got close enough to many people to actually breathe in the aroma of them.  Because I have only had 3 lovers in my life, I haven’t had the pleasure, or displeasure. When I first met my husband, the family used imperial leather soap. I could smell him from a distance and no, that wasn’t the scent I detected in the house. Later some of his aftershave aroused me, just as well as he did a manual job and often smelt of grease before showering. 

S wasn’t into the use of cleaning products or aftershave. He blamed his eczema and used a simple soap to wash in the shower. Sad to say it often wasn’t enough. I am pretty sure his excuse doesn’t hold up as Master also has eczema and it doesn’t stop him smelling clean. I suspect S sweated more, was less thorough and used the wrong products. He was also a bit tight when it came to spending money. Plus his job was also a manual one. Having said all that, his natural scent could be alluring. So long as he has recently taken a shower. 

Master doesn’t have a strong smell. He washes with products that don’t contain perfume for the reasons described above and his aftershave – Chanel Pour Monsieur – is subtle. But when he holds me close and I breathe him in, he is unmistakably him. 

The scent of us

I sometimes worry that other people can sense my arousal through my scent. But suspect that often only I can smell it. I wrote in one of my smut marathon entries about that aroma of sweat on a summers day when it combines with the scent of arousal. The story was about sex toys, but if I had continued in that vein it might have been a better entry. Anyway I digress.

He is definitely attracted to the scent of my sexual juices as well as the taste. He doesn’t smell much until he is very aroused, but tastes pretty good. But when our fluids have mixed together and are oozing out of me I can smell that. I love to lie there, nose under the covers and breath us in. That is a special smell that I had never really noticed before and is one to treasure. Sex and love, dominance and submission rolled together. I love it. 

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Cemeteries and Graveyards

I love to look around cemeteries and graveyards, I find them fascinating places. Particularly those containing the remains of people from long ago. I wander around looking at the names, dates of birth and death and wondering. A collection of graves, or a family tomb can help you create a picture in your mind of the lives people may have led. Did they live long lives, marry young or later on. Did they have children who died young, or did they go on to have families of their own? All questions with potentially no obvious answer.

A final Resting place
British Cemetery, Lisbon

Cemeteries abroad are often a little different from here in the UK. For a start they tend not to be near to a church. Catholic cemeteries in France and Spain are often large, containing large mausoleums, or little huts with coffins in side.

On one of our first holidays together Master and I travelled to Lisbon and there we discovered a magnificent cemetery specifically for British people. Though there were actually people from other nations buried there too.

Blight Valley Cemetery, The Somme

Last year we visited the area around the Somme in France, and saw the enormity of the loss of life from world war 1. Row after row of white headstones, many of which unmarked as the remains were of unknown soldiers. Beautifully kept with flowers between graves they quite took the breath away. In contrast the German graveyards were dark, sombre places. As with the allied graves though, they contained the bodies of young men. Many of whom were not, or barely out of their teenage years.

Fun in a graveyard

I can’t imagine wanting to strip off for photos, or to have sex in those places. It would be highly disrespectful and inappropriate. But I can imagine doing so in some of the old churchyards here in the UK. There is something daring but exciting about such a prospect. Perhaps it is the age of the graves and that often you can barely read who resides beneath. Or that they are often  quiet, spooky places with few visitors especially around dusk. Maybe the grass is overgrown and the plants a little uncared for, offering an opportunity to hide. I don’t know. But this does feel like an opportunity as yet unexplored.


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Halloween and all that stuff

As a focus for scary stories the ghosts and gouls of Halloween are perfect. I love the idea of the dead haunting graveyards on all Hallows eve and can see why people would want to read about them, watch films and generally celebrate. I’m even taken with the idea of some sad ghost wanting to possess my body, to replenish his lifeblood, though I have little interest in erotic vampire fiction. I like stories that are weird or full of suspense, including ghosts and poltergeists but they are for all year round not just for 31st October.

I don’t think I’ve ever dressed up at Halloween, nor have I been to a party to celebrate. I’m not a party pooper and enjoy seeing people who’ve made an effort, but I don’t feel the need to join in. When my son was little we found costumes for him to wear, we held a party for he and his cousins and a couple of friends. We went trick or treating, but only to neighbours houses. We cut pumpkins and displayed them around the house, children love that kind of thing. Now, there are no children at home and so we can be Halloween free. Maybe

Halloween feels like a construct imported (not always well) from abroad- the USA to be presise. Maybe if I found myself in the USA at Halloween and experienced it there I’d feel different. But here in the UK it feels like we are not quite getting this thing right. From the end of August costumes, pumpkin sweet holders, plastic spiders and other stuff arrives in the shops. By the middle of September, the first pumpkins are appearing, but why? Unless they are small and are for cooking they aren’t going to last.

The very worst thing about Halloween is that once it is over, the shops try to make us think we are only days away from Christmas. Perhaps it’s best I don’t get started on that one!

Happy Halloween (in 6 days time)!

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Pause

It feels a little as if we are on hold right now, someone has pressed the pause button. Around me, people are busily getting on with their lives, caught in the daily grind while I sit here and wait.

Life for me right now is made up of endless hospital appointments interspersed with doing very little. Shopping, cooking, the odd evening out, all of those things continue. We are also making time for some sex – well there is plenty time for sex, but obviously we don’t have sex all the time. There are still things around the house to be done, the big declutter continues – for him that is. Plus I continue to gradually unpack (assisting in his declutter). 

Yesterday I dug over a patch of the garden. It had become overgrown with weeds and grass. Also some bulbs with leaves but no flowers, we have no idea what they were. Now, the ground is clear and I have planted bulbs. This might be the last bit of strenuous work I do for a while. Very soon I will have to pause even more.

This afternoon I will get the results of the MRI scan, which took place only yesterday. The scan was a weird experience, not entirely unpleasant just very odd and noisy. Surgery will be soon, and today I will know when. Before that I will have a blood test and on the morning of the operation sentinel node imaging. This seems to be my life right now.

Having said all that, we do have one thing on the agenda. A two week trip to a nearby city for a classical music festival. For the past two years, this has been our way of taking a break from real life. A pause, you might say. Well it starts on Friday and we plan to spend as much of the next two weeks as possible there. Hospital appointments and operations permitting. We have an airbnb booked and will stroll the city, attend concerts and lectures. It will be a great place to pause the pause as it were!

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The follow up post can be found here

Power and glory

Apparently Master had an odd dream. This is nothing unusual, only last week he has travelled to China having been abducted on an underground train. In this dream though he was describing the different ways in which he and I fuck. Nothing odd about that, though he didn’t expand on the context. However it led him to thinking about the ways we have sex. This post is a reflection of the conversation we had. 

For him, there are two kinds of sex firstly where he has the power and is a dominant force and secondly where he feels the desire to breed me. For the purpose of this post I am calling glory.

Power

I would estimate that 70-80% of the time our sex life resolves around the power dynamic of our relationship. His role as Master and mine as slave is most evident in the bedroom, or playroom. It is always an undercurrent the rest of the time but is subtle. During sex though he says and does things that increase his feelings of power and that in turn brings out my submissive side. He might use humiliating words to describe me – bitch for example, or he may instruct me to kneel and suck his cock.

The more that I conform to his words, the fact that I ask and even beg for an orgasm, the way he can make me wait all make him feel more powerful. In this context I can feel myself drift into submission, how that feels is difficult to describe. It feels almost trance like, hypnotic. When he sees that slightly glazed look on my face, especially after several orgasms, his voice chances in tone. There is no doubt he is in control, has the power  over me.

If he orgasms he will often do so on my body somewhere; breasts or tummy. He will wipe his cock over my pubic hair as a final sign of his power. This will have been my prize.  

Glory

The sex described in my post yesterday falls into the second category. While some of the words spoken may be the same and there will be an overt power dynamic. But this will be about him burying his cock deep inside me, with the intention of breeding me. This of course is a fantasy. I am in my mid 50s and can’t be bred, I am post menopausal. But for him it feels real, a sign of his love for me. To me, it is ok, because if I had known him earlier in my life, there is a good chance I would have wanted a baby with him. 

This isn’t all about him though, he will still make me orgasm. His fingers will still be caressing me and his cock will rub against my piercing. But he will want his orgasm to occur with his cock deep in my vagina. I love when that happens, partly because it is less common. But also it feels like sex that is born of love not just dominance and submission. There is glory for both in that moment 

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