Chloe Thurlow's Blog, page 3

Home Porn – Addictive, Easy to Make, on the Web FOREVER

Home porn puts gas in the empty tank of a faltering relationship and gives couples a new lease of sexual life. It’s fun, too.

Home porn is easy to make. In fact it’s never been easier to shoot, light and edit your own erotic movie and show it life-size on the bedroom wall while you re-enact every kiss, lick, suck and manoeuvre. Like shadows. Or avatars. Or twins separated in some fantastical myth.

Just as it is seductive, if perverse, watching others make love, it is downright kinky watching yourself. You feel proud and ashamed at the same time. Proud that you are playing out your animal instincts, your innate role. Yet embarrassed by all the sweating and groaning captured live and filling the screen.

The camera is an aphrodisiac. Inside us all there is a performer as well as a voyeur. When someone focuses their smart-phone on you, you automatically turn a hip sideways, look over one shoulder and pucker your lips like Scarlett Johansson. The video camera has the same effect multiplied a pixi-million times. You are the star in your own red hot picture show and feel compelled to give an Oscar-winning performance.

Home Porn Survey

Couples get so turned on making home porn movies they are sending them off to a to a plethora of websites to share their lust with the world. Men’s faces – though not other parts – are often hidden or blurred, so it’s obvious who’s doing the sending.

I had never given much thought to home porn until my old school-friend Gemma sent me a movie-selfie. I was both shocked and aroused watching the girl I used to share a room with at boarding school on her hands and knees with her boyfriend like a robot drilling into the lakes of her precious essence. You could see the top of the Eiffel Tower out the window, adding a frisson of oo là là. Typical Gemma.

I did my usual research survey with 10 girls I trust and have known for a long time: 3 have shot their own home porn, 2 said they now wanted to try it; 5 said no way, not in this lifetime. They were the 50% who probably voted Brexit.

There you have it. Home porn has entered the zeitgeist like student prostitution and teen porn addiction. And remember this, if you share your home porn on the web it is there for future boyfriends, employers and parents FOREVER!

Teen Nubile Sluts & Porn Addiction

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Unquenchable Lust is the Gift that Girls Bring to Life

Unquenchable lust. Those two words went through my mind as he took a grip on the heavy flesh of my lower lip and pinched down until my lip must have been as red as a rose in full bloom. He pulled me closer, a hand on the small of my back, and transferred my stinging lip into his mouth, biting down gently and sending quivers through my entire body.

He ran his hands over my shoulders, down my arms, over the line of my waist. He stroked my prominent hip bones, my fluttering tummy. I was ready for anything, but anxious nonetheless. I wanted to be my best. My breasts were throbbing, jutting from me like the prows of pirate ships, the Jolly Roger flags of my flaming nipples demanding attention.

I thought he would reach for them, squeeze them, bite me hard. But he didn’t. He turned me round, unbuckled my belt, and dropped it on the floor at our feet. He now in the soft light of the chandelier spent a long time studying my bottom. It was pink still from the beating and he prodded me with his fingertips to see I suppose how tender it was.

When I had first arrived at the house, Lee-Sun had led me upstairs to the dressing room and produced a bottle of ointment he said was arnica. I bent over the end of the narrow bed and, swallowing my pride, allowed him to rub the pale creamy liquid into my inflamed bottom. My first instinct had been one of acute embarrassment, the hub of my sex appearing through my burning thighs, the winking diamond of my bottom thrust in the air. But Lee-Sun’s attention was solely therapeutic and I got the feeling that he had performed this task with spanked girls many times before. The fire in my bottom dampened down and the pain soon went away.

As Sergio began to caress the plumpness of my rounded cheeks, there was no pain, but I felt mortified as I started to leak, the oily juice gurgling from my pussy and coating my thighs. I was like a faulty tap that needed a new washer. And he was like a child with a toy, or a sculptor who had just finished carving a human figure and was admiring his masterpiece which he would call, no doubt, unquenchable lust.

He stroked my back and my bottom as you would stroke a horse in long, sensitive caresses from the scruff of my neck, over the sloping curve of my prickling spine and down to the sopping place between my legs, each stroke drawing more creamy liquid from that never ending well inside me. He eased my legs apart. He ran the flat of his hand between my cheeks and I was so wet there I heard sucking, slurping noises as the side of his hand sawed slowly back and forth. For some reason I visualised a knife cutting a birthday cake covered in whipped cream.

Unquenchable Lust Erotic

I would have been happy if this had gone on into eternity, just standing there below the shower of the chandelier’s light gazing at myself replicated over and over again in the curving looking glass while the Duc de Peralada, the man who owned half of Cataluña, plumbed the warm waters of my erotic nature.

Any lingering doubts I may have had about my role at Black Spires had faded like mist in sunshine. I suffered an unquenchable lust. I was born to give and receive the gift of pleasure. I would never have been satisfied with one man, with groping hands, with clumsy boys. I wasn’t built for it. I bored easily, I knew that. The sisters at the convent said that. I needed continual change and surprise, new demands and challenges.

I had always considered myself special, most people do, I suppose, but now I knew in which way I was special. Just as Milly, that paradigm of female perfection, recognised that she was not born to be an actress, I knew as I had always suspected that the cold certainties of economics would tire as I embraced the abstract uncertainties of the flesh. I was naked, as a girl like me should be. I had found myself. This was my gift.

Of course I knew there were girls who reluctantly worked as prostitutes to feed drug habits or luxury lifestyles. Those girls hated what they were doing. It was a chore, a bore, a disgrace. That hadn’t grasped that paid sex, vanilla sex, repetitive sex is not the same as the gift of sex, that the erotic is always consensual, that the pain of being bound and spanked must be measured against the pleasure. I may have been tricked into coming to Black Spires, I may have tricked myself, but I knew the moment I descended the sweeping staircase beside Milly that I was where destiny in her modest way had always been leading me.

The Duc had fallen in love with my bottom. He wanted to take that precious little plaything and place it like a Teddy bear on the pillows piled like a snow drift on his four-poster bed in his castle in Spain, a place I imaged with ivy climbing the walls and white swans on a silvery lake.

Unquenchable Lust Sacrifice

Juice was running in a stream down my legs and tickling my ankles. If he kept on caressing my backside, his warm hand stirring my reservoir of sticky liquids, I would leak over the floor and flood the carpet in a scene that could have been envisioned by Isabel Allende, that syrupy substance climbing the walls, coating the mirrors, consuming us in a human sacrifice.

It is always the most beautiful girl in the tribe who is chosen to pacify the Gods. She is stripped of her garments and I recalled Sister Nuria saying that being naked while others are dressed is in itself a form of sacrifice, a reminder of a long forgotten ritual, a practice remembered and acknowledged in Black Spires, that house of fun and commerce by those men who ruled the world.

I had always wondered why they chose only the most desirable girls as offerings, and it was suddenly clear to me: ugliness would be an affront to the Gods. Ugliness is a compromise, a stingy gift. Ugliness cannot be spoiled and to despoil as well as to caress is the interplay at the heart of eroticism. The sacrifice of beauty gives meaning to beauty as well as mortality, and I understood something I had read once in a book that I wasn’t supposed to read: that assenting to erotic pleasure is assenting to pleasure to the point of death.

My mind was turning, churning, spinning, chattering to itself, zooming off every which way. My body was electric and my head was exploding with new ideas and sensations. Sweat beads formed pearl necklaces over my back and juice dripped down my legs into my high heel shoes. I had come a long way since climbing into the silver Range Rover in the garage in London to set off on this miraculous journey. I had learned more about love, sex, the erotic, the gift of being a girl and my own unquenchable lust in two hours than I’m sure most girls learn in a lifetime.

Excerpt from The Gift Of Girls – available from all the Amazons

‘…the bible of new erotica.’ Davo Rhinehart
‘…copious amounts of eroticism to keep the fires burning in more places than one. ‘ Carrie White
‘This is the Bildungsroman if told by Anais Nin; written in a true language of the senses. The vibrant and impassioned prose is arousing both to the libido and the literary critic.’ Adam Greves
‘..a joyous and wonderful read from someone who clearly has been to the edges of reality, taken a knife from their pocket, cut through and stepped beyond.’ Phaedrus
‘Beautifully written, totally absurd and utterly, gloriously filthy.’ Ms Bianca Mitchell

All reviews on Amazon. Just CLICK

The post Unquenchable Lust is the Gift that Girls Bring to Life appeared first on Romance writer Chloe Thurlow.

Orgy – One Way To Find Out Who You Really Are

Orgy is such a gorgeous word it’s like a mantra and sometimes I find myself saying it over and over again as I walk down the street – orgy, orgy, orgy.

People look at me as if I am really sad (or entirely mad) but we all have an orgy fantasy and mumbling my mantra probably does a lot more good than harm – it reminds people of their subliminal desires, their antediluvian instincts.

People tend to think of an orgy as a swingers’ party where exactly what gets inserted into whom is less important than the daring of being there nakedly doing the inserting or receiving the insertions like a letter box with junk mail.

The lucky dip (more often unlucky dip) of dropping car keys in a pot for an accidental night of wife swapping is as passé in cyber times as writing thank you notes and personal letters, although I still do when Mother deigns to give me a gift.

Orgy Happens

If we travel back down the human highway to Ancient Athens, the orgia was about sex; yes, of course, it’s always about sex, but practitioners liked to think of it more as a fertility rite, a pleasant way of realizing ecstatic union with the divine. There were many cults known as Hellenistic mystery religions. The most famous of these were followers of Cybele, where nocturnal orgies ended with the initiated in a feverish trance and the priests being castrated. They knew how to party back then.

The Romans – more bourgeois than we would like to think – invented the Bacchanal – an orgy with lashings of good wine. Drunk sodden sessions where servants ended up inserting themselves in the masters’ wives got so out of hand the Senate set about trying to suppress the revels, something not achieved until the Christian era when God replaced the gods and man, made in God’s image, felt obliged to take on God’s doubts, inhibitions and imagined rules. And of course, when there are rules man (and woman) feel obliged to break them.

The best orgies are unplanned. They happen. At least, that is my experience. You go to a party. You see your boyfriend kissing another girl and immediately have a desire to kiss her too. His hand runs under her skirt and you find a stranger’s busy fingers undoing your blouse. You’ve had two glasses of champagne and a cocktail containing who knows what; Spanish Fly, I imagine.

Music throbs like a heartbeat. The room is lit by flickering candles. Shadows waltz about the walls. Your blouse is off and you are still kissing the unknown girl while your boyfriend, soon to be ex-boyfriend, runs her panties down her legs. He bends her over the arm of the sofa. Your lips part and the unknown man fills your mouth with his insert. Decadence is an aphrodisiac.

Orgy Instincts

As the music changes tempo, you move on like Pavlov’s dog, shedding more clothes and discovering who you really are and what you really want. You are a human animal. You were born to breed, our only real function. You like sex. You like a lot of sex. You like variety. And you like girls just as much and maybe more than you thought you did.

It’s easy to understand why the Romans introduced the grape to the saturnalia. It lowers your reserves, your hang-ups, our body image obsession. In the twilit world of the candles, with the curtain sound of the music, with our boundless capacity for dissolution and betrayal, the orgy is the most normal of all human instincts.

“Orgy” illustration by Sattu Rodrigues

Bella in The Secret Life of Girls wants to be a pop star and will do anything to reach her dream – YES, ANYTHING! 

5***** “This is a rare book in the erotic market, really well written, good strong story with believable characters, and a main subject in Bella who is amazing, adventurous and sexually confidant. She is like ‘Candy’ on speed. Chloe Thurlow is in my view top of the tree in this genre.” Anthony on Amazon

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Summer Sex Ways To Lose Weight and Look Younger

Summer sex is easy and slow, drenched in warm sweat and the scent of hot bodies. Summer sex burns calories, you sleep better and wake up feeling years younger.

Sex at any time is great, but summer sex with open windows and starry skies gets you in touch with your cave girl instincts. Go to the beach, swim naked and howl at the moon on all fours to the drumbeat of the moving tide with the man in your life gripping your hips bones like they’re the wheel on a Ferrari. What girl doesn’t adore the rush of a multiple-orgasm? Doggie style is the way to get one.

The experts say we burn about 150 calories making love. That’s one-and-a-half chocolate biscuits. At that rate, to burn off the 3,500 calories it takes to lose one pound of body weight, you’d have to have sex 25 times. You can do that. Course you can. But can he?

What the so-called experts don’t take into account is, after you make love, you don’t rush down to the kitchen and hit the cookie jar. That happens after smoking pot. On the contrary, you stretch and cuddle and make love again. You skip meals and, as you feel the weight dropping off, you fall in love with the svelte new thinner you.

Summer Sex Passion

Summer sex means summer dresses, summer sandals, summer tops, summer undies – easy to wash and easy to exit. Summer sex means bare legs and bare shoulders, summer lusts and summer longings. Summer sex means finding the fun you lost in the cold chills of winter.

When the sun burns on a scorching sky, girls feel a Dionysian need to go around half-naked. You want to look great and feel great with acres of flesh bronzing in the killer rays. Summer sex is the logical consequence of desire meeting passion.

Sex is good for you as exercise because it increases the heart rate, aids sleep and pumps estrogen and hormones into the blood stream. Unlike most work outs, sex is never boring. If you have pains of any type, headache, backache, cramps, anxiety, before reaching for the paracetamol, an orgasm is a far better cure.

Every time you have sex, that hour between the sheets is added like a bonus to the end of your life, cheating time and helping you to sleep better, feel better even smell better. There are 25,000 reasons to have sex every day. I’m not kidding. Click and see for yourself. 

Here’s my tip about summer sex, sex at any time: if in doubt, do it. Regret is a terrible thing and we regret most what we didn’t do and should have done than what we did do and probably shouldn’t have done. 

Katie, my avatar from Katie in Love, loves summer sex.

Get your copy from your local Amazon today.

5***** “…one of the most brilliant writers I have had the privilege of reading,” Brian Kirk, Amazon

 

The post Summer Sex Ways To Lose Weight and Look Younger appeared first on Romance writer Chloe Thurlow.

Love Bends and Curves Like Space and Time

Years ago, when I was working in a second-hand book shop, a woman came in seeking a novel. Title? Publisher? Author? She couldn’t remember. ‘It’s all about a man and a woman. They fall in love!’ she announced, indignantly, when I professed bewilderment. I was about to suggest that we began with the Troubadors and proceeded to Anais Nin by way of D.H Lawrence, but by then she’d stomped out, obviously dissatisfied with my lack of bibliographical recall.

Chloe Thurlow with her new novel Katie in Love has taken the oldest story in the world and made it her own, making it new in the process – and making it memorable. This tale of Katie’s progress from wild erotic experiment to sexual and emotional fulfilment is infused with passion, wit, and self-knowledge. It’s propelled by an intense love of life – and language.

The appeal of Katie’s first-person narrative lies in the sharp focus of her consciousness. Katie is a writer of erotic fiction, which scandalises her posh mother and places her as a partial outsider, despite her privileged background as a convent school pupil. Intelligent and educated (BA Cambridge) her sensibilities are fine-tuned and allied to a flair for vivid imagery and felicitous phrasing, whether she’s evoking the transgressive delights of prolonged oral sex or the more sedate pleasures of a family lunch in a Surrey farmhouse.

Katie doesn’t miss a thing when it comes to social observation and the black comedy of metropolitan manners, which encompasses the piggery of champagne-fuelled executives at the corporate functions where she sometimes waitresses, the niceties of lesbian flirtation at exclusive Soho clubs and the narcissism of floppy-haired ‘resting’ actors and media types. She celebrates the secret rites of girls as she chooses the right knickers, the definitive top, the Jimmy Choo shoes. But she’s equally alert to contradictions in her own attitudes, especially as her relationship with Tom develops. He’s a doctor working with Sri Lankan orphans, whose indifference to worldly possessions challenges her hedonistic lifestyle. But he’s fantastic in bed…

Love Bends Freshly

If you’ve read Chloe Thurlow’s earlier books like The Secret Life of Girls, you won’t be surprised to learn that the sex sequences are created with remarkable freshness of language and insight, as Katie comes to realise that through role-play and artifice – symbolised by the mask she wears as they make love – the deep energy of her sexuality is released.

As her involvement with Tom deepens, reflections on her earlier affairs and the enigma of sex are deftly interwoven with the ongoing narration. She lost her virginity in a situation that could be construed as both exploitative and liberating. And her Cambridge tutor’s chastisement when correcting her essay went further than merely giving her a D grade – yet also expanded her intellectual horizons.

There is a depth and complexity to her analysis of her sexual history – and of Tom’s – which reflects the existential ambiguity of lived experience, instead of falling back on ideological stereotyping. She discovers her ‘core values’ -a phrase much debased by politicians but useful here – so inevitably is forced to make bold decisions when Tom returns to his work in Sri Lanka.

‘When you add love to sex it feels as if your soul is being drawn from the chains of gravity into the core of the infinite. Love bends and curves like space and time.’ Chloe Thurlow has pushed against the boundaries of the erotic fiction genre to create something highly distinctive and individual. I look forward to her next book. 

5***** Amazon Review by Bookserf

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 – or download from your local Amazon – just CLICK.
More than 100 5-star reviews at Amazon.com / 80+ at Amazon.co.uk

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Erotic Quotient – How To Measure Sexual Pleasure

Erotic quotient measures the immeasurable, defines the indefinable, quantifies and calculates pleasure.

Erotic quotient is the sum total of foreplay, orgasm and afterplay, an isosceles triangle with orgasm at the peak. Sex without orgasm is like decaffeinated coffee or warm champagne, an aberration, the denial of life’s essence.

The first time you have sex sets the metric of your personal erotic quotient for the rest of you life. In my case, I suppose I was lucky. During a week in Spain, I became friends with a Spanish boy named Ricardo. We had no language to cloud our enchantment and knew deep down we would never again see each other after that last night of my holidays when we danced at the disco, wandered down to the beach and swam naked in the midnight sea. We joined like two slippery fish, like the sign of Pisces, and on a scale of 1 – 10, our erotic quotient was an existential 11, a gold standard eternally hard to reach.

You never forget the first time you make love. If it is awful, and it is for many girls with their doubts and pressures and insecurities, making love will always be haunted by that first experience. If, on the first time, you get that WOW! sensation, that sense of: ‘Now I know what they’re all talking about,’ sex becomes the fulcrum around which your adult life turns and the erotic quotient is a marker that all further experience will be judged against.

Sex is nice.
Sex is painless.
Sex is healthy.
Sex is fun.
Sexy is sexy.

You need sex (or a scientist) to make babies. Sex is that warm cuddly thing like an old pair of slippers you slip into with the person you love and trust. Great sex makes sense of the nonsensical and fires the quicksilver up the erotic barometer until it explodes in ecstasy.

Erotic Quotient Index

A blend of nature and nurture determines how we behave and how we conduct our relationships through life. What we do between the sheets is largely a product of how your sexual personality was shaped by those early couplings. When you lose your virginity, the foundation stone of your erotic quotient is laid and all further affairs and romance build on that foundation.

Sexual pleasure is important, vital, and its value should not be underestimated or devalued. Sexual pleasure leads to a happier, more balanced, often more fulfilled life. Life without sex, especially for a young person, can end in depression, fatigue, paranoia, even psychosis.

Celibacy, still practised, among others, by Catholic priests, is not healthy or wise. On the contrary, it is unnatural and alien to every species that has ever existed. There are no animals nor plants without pollination and fertilization.

Making love is a gift, the greatest of all gifts, the only human activity where the more you give the higher the erotic quotient. Making love is a meditation – and the secret of meditation is not to ruminate on something but to empty your head of all thought and let go, be in the moment, merge with the moon and stars.

If you start thinking – ‘this is great, I’m making love’ while you are making love, you are not making love at all. You are pedalling through the motions like riding a static bicycle on a journey to nowhere. Worst still, if you start thinking about something totally tangential, like whether or not to buy the red shoes you saw that morning in a shop window, the erotic quotient drops like icicles from a gutter.

If you want to make the most of your sex life and reach the heights of your sexual desires and potential, it is crucial to get in touch with what lies deep inside you. If the man in your bed scores low on your erotic quotient, it is up to you to bring more excitement between the sheets.

If you are a shrinking violet, buy a mask and play the minx. If you have a routine, a familiar position, reset the default and bring out the unpredictable. Try introducing sex toys (discreetly available on the internet and more sophisticated than ever); suggest light bondage, masks, spanking. Suck it and see. You don’t know what you like or might like if you don’t try it.

And if your erotic quotient remains in the shallows, find a new partner and dive into the deeps.

Now up your erotic quotient with a copy of KATIE IN LOVE – more than 100 5-star reviews.

5***** “An erotic novel that touches on a range of social and philosophical issues. Sex scenes are notoriously difficult to get right, and it’s equally difficult to avoid tedious repetition if you’re writing a succession of them. Thurlow does both and manages to integrate them in an absorbing story.” IWM at Amazon.com, 1 July, 2016

Available from Amazons everywhere .

 

 

 

 

 

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Eton Wall Game, Brexit and Confusion by Design

The Eton Wall Game is only played at Eton, the poshest school in the world. It has rules only Etonians can follow and is laced with words like ‘bully’, ‘furk’ and ‘calx’, which only Etonians understand.

The purported purpose of the Eton Wall Game is to score a ‘shy’ by running a ball up a curved brick wall built in 1717. Once a ‘shy’ has been achieved, players can attempt to convert the ‘shy’ into a goal. The field has two ‘goals’, one an old garden door, the other a tree.

The last goal scored in the Eton Wall Game was on St Andrew’s Day in 1909, an occasion still spoken of with nostalgia as is, for example, England’s surprise victory over the French at Agincourt on 25 October 1415, St Crispin’s Day – and a sign, surely, that God, as the English believe, is an Englishman.

‘The Eton Wall Game is exceptionally exhausting and is far more skilful than might appear to the uninitiated,’ it clarifies at www.etoncollege.com. ‘The skill consists in the remorseless application of pressure and leverage as one advances inch by painful inch through a seemingly impenetrable mass of opponents. Few sports,’ it adds, ‘offer less to the spectator.’

The rules of the Eton Wall Game change depending on where the players are positioned on the field, sometimes they can touch the ball with their hands, sometimes not.

To an outsider, the game appears to be just a lot of posh boys barging each other and rolling about in the mud as they move the ball without touching it with their hands or feet. When someone picks up the ball and kicks it, no one knows why except boys who went to Eton. That’s really the point. The Eton Wall Game is designed to confuse, unsettle and demoralize, make the uninitiated seem ill-informed, unattractive, badly-dressed with the wrong shoes, déclassé, oiks and outsiders.

The Prime Minister, David Cameron went to Eton at the same time as his boyhood rival, Boris Johnson. Cameron wasn’t the captain of his team in the Eton Wall Game. Johnson was, a wily, skilful, tough, unscrupulous, ball-hugging opportunist greatly admired by his peers. And no doubt the Old Etonian Peers lining the red benches in the House of Lords.

Cameron and Johnson both had their hearts set on being Prime Minister. Cameron got there first. Will Johnson follow one day? It is not unusual if you attend Eton. Three old Etonians in 10 years from 1955 to 1964 took the top job: Anthony Eden, Harold Macmillan and Earl Alex Douglas-Home (pronounced Hume, for the ill-informed and uninitiated). 

To the Etonian list of PMs we can add Robert Walpole (1721–1742); John Stuart (the Earl of Bute); George Grenville; William Pitt the Elder (Marques of Rockingham); Frederick North; William Grenville (Lord Grenville); George Canning; Arthur Wellesley (Duke of Wellington); Charles Grey (Earl Grey); William Lamb (Viscount Melbourne); John Russell (Earl Russell); Edward Smith-Stanley (Earl of Derby); William Ewart Gladstone; Robert Gascoyne-Cecil (Marquess of Salisbury); Archibald Primrose (Earl of Rosebery); Arthur Balfour.

There are in England major public schools, like Eton, and minor public schools, which are not worth mentioning. Aside from Prime Ministers schooled at Eton, the majority of British Prime Ministers in the last 300 years attended the other major public schools such as Harrow (Winston Churchill and the present chancellor George Osborne), Winchester, Charterhouse, Rugby and Westminster.

One should add at this point that public school in England means private school – as the Ministry of Defence deals with war and the Ministry of Health looks after the sick. At least, that was its purpose when launched by a Labour Government in 1947, although many observers have noted that since Jeremy Hunt (Charterhouse) took on the ministerial portfolio it appears the current political resolve is to dismantle the beloved NHS into bite size pieces easy to swallow by circling hedge funds.    

While 7% of children in the UK attend private schools, those at major public schools number less than 1%. These schools, including Eton, having charitable status, a form of subsidy granted to the richest people in the land.

Eton Wall Game RULES

Britain is ‘deeply elitist’ according to a report by the government’s Social Mobility and Child Poverty Commission. People educated at public school and Oxbridge create a ‘closed shop at the top’ and elitism ‘is so embedded in Britain that it could be called social engineering.’

Of course Old Etonians and Harovians don’t just become Prime Ministers – they sit around the Cabinet table at 10 Downing Street (‘…a preposterous number in the present Cabinet,’ according to Michael Gove); some 70% of top judges went to the best schools; they rule unelected from the House of Lords; top civil servants, army officers, leading businessmen, diplomats, spies, university chancellors, even cricket and rugby captains – though not football, a game for plebs.

With sporadic, usually short periods of power by Liberal and Labour Governments in the last century, for most of the last 300 years, the same class of men who, apart from holding most of the top jobs, own the land and country estates – places like Downton Abbey. They are the ‘in’ group, the chosen, the inheritors of wealth and titles who habitually know each other’s families (“If we don’t know them they can’t be worth knowing!”). They wear the esoteric ties and know the secret rules to such distractions as the Eton Wall Game and have ruled the British 93-99% for so long it seems the people are unable to take charge of their own destiny.

They voted Brexit without fully understanding that ‘brexit’ is just another word in the lexicon of the Eton Wall Game played out between Cameron and Johnson who, through ‘the remorseless application of pressure and leverage’ advanced ‘inch by painful inch through a seemingly impenetrable mass’ to score a ‘shy’ although, not quite the goal Boris had anticipated when he betrayed his old school chum to enter the the Brexit camp which he never truly believed in.

Brexit for 93% of Brits isn’t a ‘shy’. It is an own goal in their own incomprehensible wall game where the rules require players to bash their own heads against a wall until their brains turn to mush and their sole guide to the future is the faces of the Conservative Party contenders for the PM’s job beaming out from The Daily Mail and Rupert Murdoch’s Sun and The Times. There will be an election in September for a new Prime Minister. Mr Murdoch knows who will win. He will decide.

The job of the government is twofold: it must assist and encourage business to create jobs that provide working people with a means to make a living. And, secondly, it must then protect the working people from unscrupulous or prejudicial activity by business to the detriment of their workers – zero hour contracts without holidays or health care, raiding pension funds, unfair dismissal, banning trade unions.

Since the 2008 financial crisis, the government in the UK, and much of the world, has forgotten the second part of their twofold role. They have provided business with greater freedom to create unbalanced contracts and deprived working people of the right to earn a leaving. Through austerity measures to assist the banks, 20% of the population of the UK (formerly the 5th richest country in the world) now live on or below the poverty line, while one million people – the majority working families, the families the Conservative Party promised to protect, and who voted for Brexit, now use food banks.

The Eton Wall Game is a metaphor. For Etonians, life is a game played behind a curved wall with rules they don’t have to follow. Boris may not be the new Prime Minister in 2016, but the unwritten rules of the game state that he probably will be at some time in the future. I mean, he did go to Eton.

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First Orgasm, Being Spanked and Being A Girl

First Orgasm! It was something I had become obsessed about and didn’t think was ever going to happen and it probably wouldn’t have done if it wasn’t for my sister – at least, not in the way I expected. 

Should I love her for it, or carry on hating her? I am not sure. But I could have killed her when I put my name down for a summer job at a casting agent’s and then found her name written in her big rounded letters on the list. The interview happened to fall on the same day as I was sitting my history exam, and that was typical. I was confident that I’d done well in Italian and theatre studies, but I needed a good mark in history to be assured of my place at Cambridge.

Things always work out for Binky and it’s just not fair. She’s a year younger than me and had suddenly shot up with long perfect legs that she was showing off like an absolute tart in a little pink suit, a white, high-necked top with a gold cross on a fine chain, everything demure and charming, and so much bare flesh streaming out from below her skirt.

Her interview was at 2.00 and I watched her leave school, a Burberry bag swinging from her shoulder and her long silky legs like scissors striding down the drive towards the West Gate. She turned with a little skip and a feeling of doom touched me as she vanished from view.

With her delicate features and deep green eyes, Binky had only recently become aware of the affect she had – on men, on the nuns, on the world – and was making up for lost time. My sister’s name when we were small had been shortened from Roberta to Berta and familiarised to Binky. Everyone, just everyone, adored Binky Belladolce. But then, they didn’t know her.

The placement was supposed to be for someone in the upper sixth and Binky, in the lower sixth, wasn’t weighed down with ghastly exams. Our only rival was Virginia Ward, a really nice girl who thought her red-framed glasses were cool and still didn’t have anything to put in her white cotton bra. Virginia was the sort of girl you did prep with and avoided on Saturdays when we were allowed to go into town.

Once Binky had disappeared through the school gate, I went back to my last minute revision, memorising dates, names, battles. It seems as if all of life was one big battle and Binky was ahead in the charge. I read one last time through my notes on the English victory over the French at Agincourt and raced upstairs to the exam room where four other girls were already at their desks crisscrossing their legs and sweeping the hair from their eyes. We exchanged nods and good lucks and I realised I was going to miss Saint Sebastian’s. The convent had been my home for the last five years and I didn’t think I was ready for the real world, we had in truth been so coddled and protected.

Once the exam started, I pushed Binky from my mind, and just concentrated. I can do that, really focus on one thing and put everything into it. The afternoon was warm. My underarms were damp and you could smell the tension in the air with five girls sweating over their papers.

The moment the exam was over, I blew kisses to the others and ran. We had started twenty minutes late and I bolted down the drive, along the busy high street and down into the tube without even combing my hair. The convent is at the furthest point on the Piccadilly Line and it was already rush hour by the time I squeezed into the packed carriage. The Underground smelled like a charity shop and I always had the feeling that someone was pressing against me rather harder than they should have been.

I didn’t have to change trains, but by the time I reached Leicester Square, I was totally stressed and had decided if Binky got the job with the casting agent I would never speak to her again. Never. This was going to be my job and I would do everything I could to get it.

At least the lavatories at Leicester Square were clean. I pulled the band from my pony tail and brushed my hair as best I could with my fingers. That’s another bone of contention, actually: Binky’s yellow locks fall from a neat centre parting to her shoulders, glossy and perfect, and it’s true what they say: men do prefer blondes. We have the same green eyes, but like daddy, an Italian, I am dark and provocative; at least, that’s what matron says, and I wasn’t sure whether to take it as a compliment or not. Binky didn’t have my figure, but she had those long legs revealed half way up her thighs, while my plaid kilt fell to the prescribed two inches below the knee. I hiked the skirt up at the waistband and hid the folds of material by pulling out my blouse. Now, I just looked scruffy. I sighed despondently as I took off my socks and hid them in my backpack.

The agency was in one of those little passageways running into Chinatown. I had printed out a map on the web. It was easy to find, although I was so late when I finally got there the thought crossed my mind that it was more than likely that everyone had left for the day. Binky had got the job and I was going to kill her when I got home. I pressed the buzzer despondently and let out a sigh of relief when a deep voice came on the entry-phone.

‘Yes?’

‘Camilla Belladolce,’ I said and the door clicked open.

Inside the building it was dark. As I climbed the stairs, I don’t know what came over me, but I did something utterly mad. It was just silly really, immature, on the spur of the moment, but had consequences that I would ponder long into the future. I was hot in my blazer. The bag of books weighed a ton. Perspiration was trickling between my shoulder blades and, without thinking, I opened the top button on my blouse. Finally, I could breathe.

As I climbed the second flight of stairs, as if this action constituted some mathematical prerogative, some hidden equation, I undid the second button. My heart was pounding and the soft creamy mounds of my breasts were rising and falling as I caught my breath and tapped on the door.

‘Come in.’ The voice was muffled and seemed far away.

I entered and found Jean-Luc Cartier facing away from me glancing through a pile of photographs. I waited and he slowly turned in his swivel chair. He looked me up and down, as I suppose an employer would, and I felt foolish in my school uniform, my blouse stupidly half undone, the backpack like some terrible punishment on my shoulders. I felt like the wanderer in Pilgrim’s Progress.

‘I’m so sorry to be late…’

‘I was just leaving…’

‘I had an exam…’

I’d blown it.

He glanced at his watch, then at a sheet on his desk. ‘It was your sister I saw, the same name, of course.’

‘Roberta.’

‘Yes, that’s right, Binky,’ he said, and smiled as if from a pleasant memory. I was livid.

I smiled back through gritted teeth. It was even hotter in the office than it had been on the stairway. I felt another bead of sweat run down my back. Jean-Luc Cartier was fresh in a white shirt and jeans, a heavy watch that he moved around his wrist as he stood and sort of circled me. He wore a look I took for disappointment as he gazed at my school uniform, the bunched up material around my middle, the backpack with a heart drawn in red felt tip. How pathetic.

As I glanced down at my throbbing chest I realised another button had popped open by itself. I did consider doing the buttons up again, but that would only have drawn attention to my breasts and Mr Cartier seemed to have been reading my mind anyway. He was now focusing the full weight of his gaze down my front.

‘You know all about computers, that sort of thing?’ he asked, addressing my breasts.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I got an A in IT…’

‘Très bien.’ He smiled and I pressed my fingernails into the palm of my hand. An A in IT. What an idiot.

He looked up from my breasts into my eyes and I blushed under his gaze. I felt hot. My throat was dry. I was so nervous when he reached forward and brushed a lock of hair away from my eye I just didn’t know what to do. It was just gesture, but I had never met this man before and it seemed too weird, too intimate.

‘You finish school soon?’ he then asked.

‘Yes, in a couple of weeks. I’ve applied to Cambridge,’ I said, immediately regretting it.

‘Cambridge?’ he repeated.

‘To read the history of art and theatre.’

He glanced around at the portraits decorating his office. ‘You are an actress?’ he asked.

‘Oh, well, you know, yes, sort of. I would like to act, but I want to get a good education.’

‘Better to have two horses in the race than one?’

I nodded and felt foolish. He was looking me up an down as if I were there for a casting.

‘It needs a strong sense of discipline to be an actress,’ he then said.

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Do you have that discipline, Camilla?’

‘Yes.’

‘Très bien,‘ he said again. ‘Come, we should see the nerve centre,’ he added and pointed to the corner. ‘You can leave your bag.’

I shrugged it off my shoulders. I was going to do up my blouse, but before I could, he stretched his hand out. I wavered for a second and, when I took it, he squeezed really quite hard and led me down a narrow flights of stairs with wooden rails on each side, the space between them so narrow we were pressed together like two people descending on the escalator to the Underground.

We entered a room with four big flat screens pulsing a pale blue light along one wall and a row of tall filing cabinets opposite. He clicked a loose mouse and brought up the face of a famous actor I’d seen on TV many times but whose name at that instant escaped me. Was he doing this to impress? I wasn’t sure. I was just hot and tense. I was in a world that fascinated and frightened me at the same time.

First Orgasm & Fate

Below a row of tensor lights at the centre of the room was a square glass table that for some reason made me think of Alice when she found the golden key that would take her to Wonderland.

‘This is where we lay out the goods for the directors,’ he said, and turned to the banks of filing cabinets. ‘Most people are on file, but more are going straight to computer now.’

The room was stifling. The computers hummed and Jean-Luc Cartier’s voice with its faintly accented English made me feel drowsy. I had worked so hard on the exams I was exhausted. My stomach was squeezed against the waistband of my skirt, my blouse was sticking to my back, and my breasts were rising and falling immodestly with each breath I took. Everything was tight, constricted. I was bursting from my clothes, as matron had said, but it was so close to the end of term it would have been a waste to buy a new uniform.

Mr Cartier didn’t say anything but he must have known I was hot and filled a big glass of water from one of those plastic fountains, the bubbles making a vulgar noise as they exploded on the surface. I guzzled the water down so quickly, it splashed on my blouse, and I felt like a complete idiot as I handed back the glass. He wedged it under the tap.

‘Take off your jacket,’ he said.

It was like an order and I obeyed without thinking, hanging it on the back of the chair where the actor was still staring from the computer screen with a faintly mocking expression.

Mr Cartier approached with the glass refilled, but instead of giving it to me, he held it to my mouth and I was so thirsty I opened my lips. He stared and I watched his eyes as he tilted the glass, the water gushing out, soaking my school blouse and running down my front. He kept tipping the glass until all the water had gone and it seemed like a game but he wasn’t smiling. This was a new sort of game and I didn’t know the rules. I was panting for breath, hot still, and he was standing so close, a wave of panic coloured my neck and cheeks.

Now he spoke in the same soft hypnotic way, kindly, with force, pointing with a sort of impatience at the wet blouse.

‘You should take it off,’ he said.

We were silent. I swallowed. I couldn’t understand what he meant. Had I misheard?

‘What…’

‘It’s wet, Camilla,’ he added. ‘Slip it off so it can dry.’

‘But Mr Cartier…’

But what? I didn’t know. I didn’t have the right words. I could smell sweat under my arms, a feeling of fear, even excitement, like I was in a horror film.

‘I can’t do that,’ I finally managed.

‘You can’t?’

I shook my head.

‘If things are going to run properly it’s important to follow instructions. Do you understand that?’

‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘I thought you had a sense of discipline…’ he said, pausing, and I wondered if he were trying to remember my name.

‘Milly,’ I said.

‘Then don’t let me have to tell you again, Milly.’

Now he waited, staring at me, at my breasts rising and falling, and I don’t know if it had been the tone of his voice or some furtive yearning inside me, but I wanted to prove that I would do as I was told if I got the job, that even if Binky had long gymnast legs my breasts in their white cotton bra were as pretty as two little flowers. Actually, quite big flowers.

He sighed as he glanced at his watch and while I was daydreaming about Binky’s legs skipping along the drive at Saint Sebastian’s, my fingers were nervously doing my thinking for me, releasing the last few buttons on my blouse until it was completely open down the front. The material was soaking wet, so it did make sense. Sort of. That’s what I was telling myself, anyway.

‘Come along,’ he said.

I shuffled the sleeves down my arms and clutched the blouse to my chest. He turned his watch around his wrist and then held out his hand, motioning with his fingers. The actor with no name was staring across the room, daring me, and I gave Mr Cartier the ball of damp cotton.

He shook out the creases, straightened the sleeves and placed it neatly over another chair. He hadn’t looked at me at all, but glanced back with an irritated expression.

‘Come along, Milly, and that please.’

He was pointing at my bra. I sort of shrugged and tried a smile. It was ridiculous.

‘Oh, but I can’t.’

‘There is no such thing as can’t. Not in my language.’

He held out his hand but I remained defiant. ‘Mr Cartier, I’m not going to.’

‘But why?’

‘Well, I’m just not.’

‘Milly, what did I tell you about obeying. Are you going to obey?’

‘Yes…’

He pointed at my blouse. ‘You have done very well. Now, off please.’

I felt a tremor run through me. Nothing like this had happened before. It was embarrassing, humiliating, but sort of exciting. He was testing me and I suppose I was testing myself. I was Alice falling, falling, falling down the rabbit hole.

He glanced at his watch and shook his head. I’d blown it. My sister was going to get the job. She’d be strutting around with the soap stars showing off her long legs. I sniffed back a tear. I didn’t mind taking off my blouse. It was hot, and I was rather proud of my breasts if truth be told. It seemed sort of logical, natural. My blouse was wet and, anyway, breasts are everywhere, in every magazine, in the daily newspapers, on every ad in the tube; starlets and weather girls. Breasts were in – or, out rather. They were public property, but no one except the girls at school had ever seen my breasts completely uncovered. Another bead of perspiration slipped down my back, the horror and the shame and the thrill of standing there hot and breathless was just too much to bear.

‘Mr Cartier…’

‘Yes.’

‘I just can’t.’

But my voice had weakened with my resolve.

‘Milly, I think you can. And I think you want to.’

What did he mean by that?

‘I don’t. Honestly.’

And it was true. Almost true. I didn’t want to, yet while I felt nervous and self-conscious, my body was tingling with new sensations. After the months of study and stress I wanted to cast off everything, be naked, run naked through the streets, exhibit myself to the world. I liked being on stage. On show.

Mr Cartier had moved back to the chair. He picked up my blouse and held it towards me.

We were silent. The computers were blinking. The lights were bright and I thought about Binky in her pink suit. My breath was beating so fast it was as if I was running a relay race. Mr Cartier held the blouse pegged in his fingers, waiting for me to move towards him and put it back on.

First Orgasm Last Doubts

I tried to move but I was rooted to the spot. My knees trembled and the slope of my tummy was knotted against the roll of material at my waist. I opened my throat to suck air into my constricted lungs and his eyes remained on my eyes as I angled my arms awkwardly up my back to unfasten the metal clasp. I heard the snap. It was loud in the silence.

He nodded and I felt ashamed as I lowered the thin white straps from my shoulders, first one, then the other, being provocative without meaning to, sliding the straps over my elbows, and cupping my breasts with my palms. I continued clutching the bra, but Mr Cartier put the blouse back where it had been hanging and came towards me, his eyes never leaving mine. I dropped the white tangle of cotton in his outstretched hand and he tossed it over the chair.

As he approached me again, I moved back instinctively, my legs locking against the glass coffee table.

‘There, that wasn’t so terrible, was it?

I shook my head.

‘Well, come along then, let’s have a proper look, shall we,’ he said and he sounded like the biology teacher before we peered down the microscope.

It wasn’t really a question or a suggestion. Now that I was exposed so fully it was as if my will had parted from me. I dropped my hands, arched my back, and the most incredible thing happened. As I looked down, the soft plain around my nipples darkened from pink to cherry red, the little buds had sprung out rigid and were prickling. The beat of my breath hastened. I lifted my hands to cover my shame but mechanically took those erect nipples between my thumbs and fingers and rolled them hard. I had thrown back my head and although I tried to control it, I realised I was panting.

‘Très bien. There, you didn’t need that little bra at all. They stand up so nicely on their own.’

He placed his hand flat on my ribs, below the undercurve of my breasts, and it was true, they were round and full, the little teats on fire beneath my fingers. His touch was firm, and the awful thought flickered through my mind that I wanted him to cup my breasts in his hands, take them into his mouth and bite me hard. The vision sent shivers up my spine.

The bend of my legs was level with the edge of the table. As Mr Cartier put his free hand against my shoulder, I folded as if the bones of my body were soft rubber and laid back, propping myself up on the glass surface. He drew back the hem of my skirt and we both gazed spellbound at the rising mount pushing up from my white knickers. He looked into my eyes. I think I smiled. Everything was happening so fast it was hard to catch my breath.

When he placed his hand on my knee, I locked my legs together and it was like seeing a car drive uncontrollably towards a cliff edge, his hand moving up my thigh, across the plump muscle at the top. I had stopped squeezing my nipples. My breasts were bobbing about. The heel of his hand brushed against my sex and he slipped his fingers over the band of my knickers.

He pulled at the elastic as if to peek into a closed box, lowering the front and revealing a wisp of dark hair. My mouth was open. I was observing what was happening as if it had nothing to do with me. I wriggled but his hand was firm. The white cotton material was bunched up. He pulled again, just softly, staring into my eyes, and I don’t know why, but for the briefest moment I lifted my bottom from the glass table and watched him lower my knickers slowly down to my knees.

We both gazed in quiet astonishment at the dark curly patch of pubic hair. It was lush and silky, an unspoiled lawn. I knew I was to blame for allowing this to happen. I had lifted my bottom from the glass surface of the table. I was wicked and shameless and felt oddly vibrant, totally alive, as if school had been stifling me, drowning me, and I was breathing freely for the first time. I squeezed my nipples and the pressure pushed out a dewy dribble from the lips of my vagina. Nothing like that had ever happened before. It was humiliating with the scent of arousal in the room, and I couldn’t understand why I was all wet between my legs.

Mr Cartier placed the palm of his hand on my stomach, warning me not to move, and ran my knickers down my legs and over my shoes. I felt so ashamed as he studied the yellow stains in the gusset, and my mouth literally dropped open when he held the cotton to his nose. I had no idea why anyone would want to do such a thing and I watched in a trance, this strange man with my damp knickers pressed to his face while he inhaled.

‘Mmm,’ he said.

He nodded with approval and it was a relief when he put the knickers to one side. He looked back at the wayward patch of my pubic hair. I could feel myself leaking. After drinking all that water I wanted to go to the lavatory but didn’t dare say anything. I was sweating. The lights were hot. My underarms were wet and my breasts seemed to have grown huge billowing out like sails in the wind. I cupped my breasts to still them.

Gently but firmly, like the nurse checking for sprains after hockey, he wedged his hand between my knees and eased my legs apart, just a little, and it was as if my will had gone. I had no idea how this had happened, how it had gone so far, and I couldn’t help wondering if Mr Cartier had tested Binky in this way and, if he had, just how far he had gone. How far she had let him go. She had already gone further than me with her boyfriend.

He now took my hand and slid it from my breast, over my ribs, my tummy and down to the sticky bush of my pussy. He folded my fingers into the moist pink opening, and I couldn’t have stopped myself slipping them inside even if I had wanted to. I peeled back the inner lips of my vagina and the warm pad of my fingertip caressed what the girls call the magic button, the little hot pulsing point that no one but me had ever touched.

I was moaning, swirling my hips, unsure how I had come to be masturbating like this with Mr Cartier watching, and pushed back, raising my legs from the floor and resting the soles of my feet on the surface of the table.

‘Are you a virgin, Milly?’ His voice was a whisper, almost breaking the spell.

‘No,’ I gasped.

Even this was shameful, humiliating.

‘You are, aren’t you? You must tell the truth.’

I sniffed back another tear.

‘Yes,’ I admitted.

‘That’s lovely. That’s why you’re so wet.’

He ran his hand under my pussy and showed me his fingers slicked with juice. Below me there was a puddle of drool and Mr Cartier did something so weird I would remember it always. He scooped up the creamy liquid on a fingertip and rubbed it over his teeth. I was truly mortified and flushed a shade of crimson.

I had brought myself to a state of terrible excitement but it ebbed away when Mr Cartier sat on the edge of the table and pulled at my hand. I thought it was over. I had shown I could obey. I had got the job and felt pleased that for once I’d got one over on Binky. I scrambled to my feet and my skin squelched on the glass. He swung me round in front of him, his hands running under my skirt to the globes of my bottom. He smiled and I felt, I don’t know, safe, confident in being me.

First Orgasm Naked

‘We don’t need this, do we?’ he said, and fanned the air under my skirt.

I shrugged and shook my head. Was this the last test? I unrolled the fabric at my waist, lowered the zip and he removed his hands from my body to allow the kilt to fall to the floor. I stepped away from it. I was naked, completely exposed, my breasts warm and full, my pussy wet and smelly. A few hours ago I’d been a schoolgirl taking an exam and I couldn’t even remember what it had been about. I looked around the room, at the old TV star staring from the computer, the water fountain, the skirt on the floor, my knickers on the table.

Mr Cartier held my thighs and looked up at me with a small smile.

‘Now, Milly, over you go,’ he said.

I didn’t know what he meant. Over where? He was turning me sideways, a hand on my stomach, another on the small of my back. He applied pressure and my bones turned to sponge as my thin body folded over his knees. I spread my hands flat on the floor and realised that I was revealing myself in a way I never imagined I would reveal myself to anyone.

He stroked my bottom for a long time. It was terrifying but it was nice at the same time. He dipped the tip of his finger into my pussy, not far, just enough to make it wet, and then he did something so rude I can’t believe I let it happen. I wriggled and squirmed but not so much. I didn’t scream out. I felt new things, new sensations. He was making his finger wet and pushing it against my bottom, right over the hole, pushing just softly back and forth and I heard soft popping noises and fidgeted with shame.

‘Don’t,’ I said weakly.

‘Shush,’ he replied.

And he kept on, dipping his finger into my pussy, then tapping it against the hole in my bottom. I would never in a million years have imagined anything like this happening, being stark naked, stretched over a man’s knees, my breasts full and swinging, my pink nipples tingling and hard. I had gone beyond remorse or embarrassment. My body was singing. I pushed myself up and out. The golden key turned and I sucked his finger inside my bottom.

He moved in a spiral, round and round, back and forth, slowly, smoothly, teasing all the nerve endings, the pressure touching my magic button and bringing me back to that oozy feeling that had ebbed away. I panted for breath, his finger greased with my own juice running up inside this dark exquisite place, in and out, in and out. I was naked, my breasts pounding, my bottom in the air. I was coming. I could feel contractions. I could feel a wave inside building up, rolling through my body…

Then, just as I was on the point of making it, he slid his finger clean out of my bum, and I just wished he’d have kept going for another few seconds. The wave retreated and Mr Cartier now did something that shocked me more than anything else.

He spanked me.

He removed his finger from my bottom, lifted his hand, and brought it down on my soft skin. I screamed and wriggled. But he was strong and the more I wriggled the tighter he held me. He lifted his big hand back in the air and brought it down with a thunderous clap that made me gasp.

‘No, no, no,’ I cried.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he replied, and smacked me again, three hard smacks one after the other.

I was panting. Tears were streaming from my eyes, snot fell from my nose. His left hand was pressed down on my back. I writhed and yelped as his right hand came down again and again, spanking my soft cheeks and sending tremors of unknown pain and unexpected pleasure coursing through me. I could feel the heat in my bottom spreading down my thighs and up my spine.

He stopped to massage the globes of my bottom, pounding the cheeks like dough, and when the smarting began to ease, he smacked me again, and it didn’t feel so hard now. The pain had gone. I was numb. I was all sensation. I was alive. I gasped for breath and waited for the next one, a loud hefty wallop, and as he lifted his hand from my burning flesh the wave inside me started to rise again. The heat on my poor bottom was warming all the liquids inside me. It was like all the taps in a house had been turned on and the juices rolled and tumbled through all the channels and passages of my body, building in volume, and I started to gasp for breath. The gasp became a scream. I screamed and kept screaming, and as another great spank came scolding across my bottom I screamed through the tide of my first orgasm.

My first orgasm. 

And it was glorious. It was better than anything the girls at school had described because it really is indescribable. It is as if you have lost your physical form and become pure essence, pure feeling. You are one with the universe. For just a moment it is like you are flying through space on your way to heaven.

That big, wonderful first orgasm pulsed down my loins and reverberated through my body like an echo. I rocked and quaked. I shifted and squirmed across Mr Cartier’s knees. I pushed out my bottom and I swivelled my hips and felt ashamed, so ashamed, and so pleased with what I had done.

I was naked on a strange man’s lap and I loved it. I had let him spank me. I had wriggled and writhed, and although my first impulse had been to try and get away from having my backside spanked, a deeper instinct yearned to feel the weight of his hand on my bare flesh. That first spank had been painful and shocking, but with each roaring thunderclap across my bottom the pain just became pleasure and the pleasure just grew and grew until it all erupted in that bounteous climax. My first orgasm and I would remember it always. 

I was still wriggling like an eel and slithered slowly to a stop. I hung over Mr Cartier’s knees spent and exhausted. My breasts were hanging heavily with their own weight, and I raised my two hands from the floor to give them a good hard pinch. I groaned. I was wet and warm and my bottom was like the mouth of a volcano pulsing with hot lava. Mr Cartier stroked my back from the nape of my neck, down over my waist, over the rising hill of my tender bottom and I kept thinking: I’ve done it, I’ve had my first orgasm, and I was dying to tell Binky I’d got the job.

First Orgasm Shame

Now it was over I did feel ashamed. I dragged myself shakily to my feet and Mr Cartier held my bottom, pulled me towards him, and I felt so embarrassed as he rubbed his face over my drenched pussy. He then stood and really smiled for the first time.

‘C’est colossal. Magnifique,’ he said, and I wanted him to kiss me, but he didn’t.

He retrieved my knickers. I rested my hands on his shoulders as he pulled them up. He pulled at the front to take a last peek at my drenched pussy and let the elastic snap back. He did up the bra at the back and then watched with what I thought was a look of encouragement while I buttoned my blouse right up to my throat. I zipped myself into my skirt and grabbed my blazer. I was waiting for him to tell me that I’d got the job but even when we walked upstairs he didn’t mention it. He lifted my backpack for me and I slid my arms under the straps.

‘Did I, you know…’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’d already promised the job to, what’s her name…’

‘Binky?’ I gasped.

‘No. No. No. The other one.’

‘Virginia Ward?’

He nodded. ‘She’ll be perfect around the office.’

‘But what about me?’

‘I’d never get any work done,’ he said. ‘Once a girl has had her first orgasm being spanked  she is never satisfied. She just wants more and more and more.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘How do you know?’

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know.

Mr Cartier went to a drawer and took out a business card which he tucked into the top pocket of my blazer.

‘Just in case.’

‘In case of what?’ I said impatiently.

‘The right part comes along for a young actress.’

Is Milly’s first orgasm the best? Read the book and find out!

Excerpt From BEING A GIRL

A journey of discovery and awakening to the delights of discipline. When Milly is late for a vital interview on a sweltering day, casting agent Jean-Luc Cartier pours her some water and holds the glass to her lips. When the water soaks her blouse he instructs her to take it off. Milly is embarrassed but curious. As Milly strips off her clothes, not only her shapely body, but also her deepest nature, is slowly uncovered. Jean-Luc puts her over his knee. He spanks her bottom and her virgin orgasm awakens her to the mysteries of discipline. Milly embark upon an erotic journey from convent school to a black magic coven in the heart of Cambridge academia, to the secret world of fetishism and bondage on the dark side of the movie camera.

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The post First Orgasm, Being Spanked and Being A Girl appeared first on Romance writer Chloe Thurlow.

Making Love Is Not Love But It May Be The Beginning of Love

Making love requires no thought. You move as the fronds of a palm tree move in the breeze. It is all instinct. All wonder.

After making love there is nothing like making love, slowly, idly, like walking without a destination, or swimming in a warm sea.

Making love defies explanation or exposition, description or clarification. Making love is one of those rare human exchanges in which the more you give, the more you get back.

When you are making love, there is a moment when time stops, when the air grows still, when you enter a state of nothingness, a state of purity and completion. That is the moment to strive for.

Making love is a meditation, a quest for perfection. We make our own destiny, not because we can see the road ahead, but because we cannot see the road ahead. It is the road, the motion, the forward movement, that takes us to ourselves.

If sex is a journey, orgasm is the both the purpose and journey’s end.

What is love? Love is like being on a small boat in the middle of the sea with no compass and no one to rely on except each other.

In The Symposium, Plato tell us that humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves. Making love is the acceptance that you are one half of a whole and you have found the other half.

In Shakespeare’s Othello, when the irate Brabantio asks Iago: ‘What profane wretch art thou?’ Iago replies: ‘I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.’

Sex is a three act play: foreplay, play and afterplay. Love is a noun as well as a verb, a treacherous construct.

Making Love in Love

If the existentialists are right, that life is meaningless, and if we acknowledge that, we are better equipped to find pleasure in small things. Making love is one of those small things that grows and becomes an all-consuming, vast and precious thing.

When strangers’ eyes meet across a crowded room and they want to fall into bed, that is not love. It is passion, instinct, sexual desire. Making love comes before love. It is the transformation of our base instincts into the gold of exquisite potential.

Making love is easier for a woman, more pleasurable for a woman. She isn’t fated by the male psychosis to prove herself, to be a great lover, just to be a lover. She takes the man who wants her into her body and absorbs his oils and essence. A part of him enters her and becomes a part of her.

The moment of orgasm is like the first dramatic moment of birth when you draw breath and scream out that you are alive. It is hard to imagine the moment when you fade back into the vacuum and draw your last breath.

Making love is not love but it may be the beginning of love. Love, true love, first love, are uniquely human. Love enters us like a vague ailment. Your head spins. Your underarms tingle. Love hurts and love has consequences: marriage, babies, separation, longing, human complications.

When you love someone, your lips are incomplete until they are oiled by a kiss. You can say ‘I love you’ a thousand ways, but you can say it better with silence and a kiss.

In life there are few perfect moments. You cannot plan them – the very act interferes with the laws of the universe – but you must be ready to recognize them when they come.

Inside our mind there is hidden place that contains the mind within the mind. There, you will find another version of yourself that may be your true self. We do not find that self by travelling, by searching. We find that self by sitting still, being quiet and looking inside. Ask yourself: who am I? And your true self will answer.

It is Katie Boyd, the character created for “Katie in Love”, who inspired these reflections on love and making love.

Buy a copy from Amazon you will fall in love.

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Blowjobs Feel Great and Make a Woman Feel Alive

Blowjobs feel great and made her feel totally wanton and totally alive. She wasn’t sure why.  It was a gut feeling, a desire born in her genes and it been with her as long as she could recall.

Blowjobs feel great. And they made her feel great. It was like time had stopped and all life was concentrated in that frozen moment. When she was giving a guy a blowjob it felt as if the skin on her body was peeling off, evaporating, disintegrating, and she was being reborn in another version of herself. 

She looked up and smiled. He was waiting for her to unbuckle his belt, unsnap the button at the top of his jeans, lower the zipper. He was wearing white shorts and when his cock emerged from the folds she hesitated only long enough to admire this thing, this creature that is man, this work of art, this object with a will of its own. His cock was long, wide, the head pale pink and it felt as smooth as porcelain as it slid between her lips and down her throat.

‘That’s it, slowly now, up and down, up and down. Don’t think, just go with the flow,’ he said and she remembered the way he had encouraged her with his velvety voice as they jogged across Battersea Bridge and into the park with its Buddhist stupa and green parrots.

She paused for breath. She flicked her tongue across the indent at the tip of his cock and softly squeezed the sack of his balls. He sighed. He liked that. She dropped to her knees. She pulled his jeans and boxers down to his feet. He tossed his jacket on a chair, removed his tee-shirt and took hold of the hair at the nape of her neck before setting her back in motion. His taking control identified why blowjobs feel great and made her feel more feminine, more attuned to the role she was born to play. Katie loved being a woman.

‘Open your eyes, look up at me,’ he said.

She could hear the whoosh and slap of flesh against flesh. She held the globes of his backside and slid rhythmically up and down the length of his cock, her mouth expanding and contracting, her senses pricked by the scent of roses. She hadn’t done this for a long time, longer than she could recall, but it’s like…like swimming.  You don’t forget. It’s natural, elegant, ethereal. She felt as if she were born to be down on her knees, eyes wide, a beautiful cock sliding in and out of her throat.

She recalled a lifetime sucking pen tops and ice cream cones. Blowjobs feel great because every blowjob is both the same and different. Like great novels and all great works of art, blowjobs feel great because they are full of surprises, mystery, a glimpse into the new and unknown. Giving head feels right because the throb and rhythm are in tune with the beating of your heart and melody of your soul.  

A dribble of spit rolled over her chin. The moon stood still. There were no appointments. There was no past. No future. There was no angst about not living in the present. There was only the present, this moment rolling into the next moment, the warm flesh that filled her mouth as if the illusive ephemera that had been missing from her life, that driving force that had taken her through myriad glass ceilings and hidden barriers was there, where it belonged, and the void that held her in its grip had departed. She felt his muscles tense. She thought he was going to come, but he stopped and eased himself away from her.

‘You like that?’ he said, and she nodded.

‘You are so vain,’ she replied, and he laughed.

He removed his shoes and jeans. She pulled back the covers. He stretched out across the middle of the bed, his head propped up on the pillows, legs parted, arms wide, his cock, quaking like a sea anemone. He was lean from running, strong from exercise, blue eyes like stars in the silky glow of the table lamp.

She kissed his mouth, his nose, his chin, the hollow of his throat, his chest with its fine spray of dark hair. He pulled one of the pillows from under his head and pushed it below the pit of his back. He raised his legs and she kneeled like a serving girl at the temple of his cock which she devoured in one gulp.

‘Slowly, slowly, catch a monkey,’ he whispered.

Blowjobs Feel Great Because…

She did as she was told, her hair falling over her eyes, her breasts bobbing with the movement, her breathing slow and even. She marvelled, in an abstract way at the design of humanity, how this stranger’s cock fitted her mouth as if it belonged there, as if they were two parts of something, a new key in an old lock that had grown arid and needed the scent of roses to come back to life again.

He cupped her ears and held the side of her head between his palms, directing the motion. She slowed, a spring uncoiling, taking the entire shaft down her throat to her tonsils; slowly down and slowly up, absorbing him until he became a part of her; he belonged to her. That’s why blowjobs feel great, this sense of ownership, of ultimate control. She moved like a nodding oil pump, drawing energy from the shaft of his cock and, for a moment, she became weightless, something ethereal released from the will of gravity.

She looked up across his chest and his eyes opened as if he felt her gaze, her feeling of awe and wonder. He watched her rocking up and down, sucking at his cock as if she were a small animal greedily feeding. Katie didn’t want to rule the world. She didn’t want to be a famous author, a high flyer. She wanted to be just as she was at that moment, on her knees, nursing his balls between her palms, her breasts swaying, her bottom pushed out, her mouth stretched in a rictus, her tightly clamped lips creating a vacuum, the warmth of her throat an oven warming his essence.

He tensed and his palm clamped over the back of her head.

‘Ah, ah, ah.’

Her mouth filled. She thought she was going to gag, a reflex, but stopped herself and swallowed it down. Blowjobs feel great because the taste of semen is addictive and you need to recharge on all that male energy. She came up for air, then sucked out every last exquisite drop, the tip of her tongue spiralling into the slit like a humming bird taking nectar from a flower. Ah, that mixture of ricotta and lemon, that indescribable blend of youth, open air, of man, of why giving head is always deeply satisfying.

He still had his hand on the back of her head and she rocked like a noviciate at prayer, up and down, up and down. His cock slowly softened and she sat back, holding it gently, sliding the warm outer skin through her palm. Her body was wet with sweat and she slithered across his body demanding to be kissed, to share his essence on his lips. Why blowjobs made her feel alive she still wasn’t sure but, at that moment, she felt fully and totally alive. 

Excerpt from Work in Progress.

Katie in Love available from all the Amazons. Just click. 

5***** “Something of a triumph – erotica that reads like contemporary literature. Exquisitely written and amusingly daring, it’s very much a novel of today.” Anthony Stancomb, author of Notes From A Very Small Island

http://bookgoodies.com/a/B019MZ6C6E

 

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