Friday, 22 April 2016

First Tango in Paris 2 – The Conclusion.

I am honoured that Emma J. Styles comes to my blog this week, to talk about her latest book; First Tango in Paris, the Conclusion. Here’s Emma to tell you all about it.

Exactly as the title says, “The Conclusion” picks up where Pt.1 left off, 2003 and approaching my big four zero, which was celebrated in style with a considerable amount of food, wine and totally depraved sexual shenanigans (all explicitly described in the book). I have included in the book a cross section many of my finer sexual dalliances right up to 2016. They are very diverse in nature, whether it be in elegant sophisticated surroundings, or alone amongst a group of strangers in a sleazy Parisian cinema, experiencing the black “Mandingo” group in Miami or being used by a Portuguese bull and his gorgeous transgendered friend with the enormous fully functional appendage, to highlight just a few. However, one of my all time stand-out evenings had to be when unexpectedly chaperoning a very famous Hollywood movie star through a thoroughly debauched evening at a Parisian Swingers club, where the men outnumber the ladies by around four to one, for obvious reasons I don’t name her but it will be most clear as to who it was by my description (no, she didn’t have any panties on during this night either!). All graphically written and exquisitely detailed. The scenarios are numerous.

Due to feedback from reviews and emails resulting from the first book Paul my every supportive and most understanding husband gets to contribute a few thousand words, expressing how my sexual awakening and subsequent journey has been from his point of view. He also describes what he calls one of his finer moments, where he and two male friends of ours entertain a very needy American Lady in her quest for a depraved evening in a top London Hotel. In her words she wanted a night that would make “Emma Styles” proud! Upon reading his version of events I am more than certain the lady got her wish!   

This time I go into detail of how, when, and why the London Swinging finally got up and running, after lagging so far behind its European counterparts, this is also reflected across the entire U.K. The year 2011 was in fact a key date in the real explosion in Britain and all is explained as to why. In fact, I have included a comprehensive guide at the end of the book of all the best and most relevant Swingers venues and online resources.

The book is a roller coaster ride of my sexual adventures but also is most informative guide as all the places mentioned are all fully “Googleable”.

After the success of Pt. 1 and its topping the Amazon book charts the feedback from readers was amazing, with many using the book as a guide to their own personal weekend of swinging adventure. Several readers have recently become close friends and feature in a few of the more salacious chapters. Look out for the chapter “Mentoring Karen” where after an email exchange and a coffee in London we meet up in Southern Spain where I introduce her to the many delights of “Beach Dogging” – amongst a few other decadent things!

Finally, after spending much time writing and editing both books I feel that they comprehensively describe in explicit detail my journey from “Shy Kitten to Full Blown Cougar”. One that is always on the lookout for fresh prey (written with smiley face)

Emma xx  

And as if that were not enough, Emma is giving you a free read; Chapter 32 of Last Tango in Paris; the conclusion.

Chapter Thirty-Two: A Staring Role

During the following month, I arranged one of my regular solo excursions to Paris; this one, in particular, was dedicated to the memory of Yves. It was one of the more unusual and quite frankly most depraved and debauched afternoons that I’d so far celebrated in his honour, one of which I’m sure he’d have applauded wildly, and thoroughly approved of.
As per normal, I hopped on the Eurostar delivering me swiftly to the Gare du Nord, where Marc was waiting to drive me to the apartment. I’d called him the previous week just to let him know I’d be in town for a couple of days. We had our customary catch up over a drink, and being ever thoughtful he told me he’d been to the apartment and had gotten a few essentials in for me. He would never take any payment, each time simply telling me that “it had been taken care off”, I can only assume Yves had made some arrangement with him, it is something that is never discussed. However, he did accept my goody bag of gifts that I’d brought for him, he was particularly fond of a mature Cheddar cheese and Jacobs cream crackers, complimented by some Branston pickle, most strange for a Parisian. They will often like such things, but heaven forbid them ever admitting to it, in this respect they are “les tossers” (written with a big grin).
I’d often wondered what had become of the magnificent home in the South of France that Yves had owned and entertained Paul and I at all those years ago. Marc informed me that he’d bequeathed it to his beloved “Military” and as was his wish it was being used as a place for servicemen recuperating from life changing injuries sustained during active duty. This was typical of the man we knew, always thinking of others less fortunate than him, and so very patriotic.
My tribute to Yves began the following morning after breakfast with a trip to the lingerie department of Les Galeries Lafayette where I indulged myself in a stunning pair of Wolford – Silk crystal Hold-ups, always such fun and a great precursor to some naughtiness is a little shopping trip to this amazing store.
After a small light lunch, I returned to the apartment, where I booked a taxi before luxuriating in the bath for a while with a glass of wine, getting slowly turned on as I allowed my mind to wander, imagining every scenario that could happen in the execution of my “tribute”. I liberally coated my body with my favourite Chanel Body Velvet and encased my legs in my new hold-ups, accentuating the look further with a pair of high black patent platform heels. Feeling a warm glow of anticipation I went to the wardrobe and retrieved the “fur coat” from its protective cover and slipped into it with an overwhelmingly decadent feeling engulfing me. I had just enough time to demolish a nice large Jack Daniels before the taxi arrived.
I gave the taxi driver the address of my destination, which was located about fifteen minutes away in the second arrondissement. I’d read about it over the years and heard many people discuss it with great enthusiasm. It was a cinema, not just any cinema, but Paris’s oldest and only surviving adult porn cinema. It has a great reputation for being very welcoming and safe, especially so for the much revered single female. With its huge exposed-brick wall and expansive red-leather-style seats, it ranks alongside the very best small cinemas in Paris, in terms of both comfort and its retro chic styling. I’d rang the previous evening and spoke to the owner Maurice Laroche, a pleasant smiling young seventy something who’d been running it for well over thirty years. I explained my request in detail to him and he assured me that it would be no problem whatsoever and that he’d meet me in the reception at three o’clock, which he explained would be the best time for a good cross section of clientele that would work perfectly for what I was looking to experience. True to his word a smiling Maurice was waiting to greet me and whisked me quickly into his projection room, where he poured me a nerve calming large glass of white wine and lit us both a cigarette. He was so charming and put my mind at rest and any last minute reservations were well and truly replaced by an overwhelming aura of daring. Once ready he showed me to the entrance of the small narrow theatre with its legendary brick wall and its twelve rows of seating, he told me he’d reserved three seats on the back row just for me, and to go and enjoy the experience. The rows of seats had around seven or eight per row, so I had an unobstructed few steps to my seats. Discreetly, as I was getting seated many heads turned to look at the new arrival (having certainly been primed by Maurice). Once accustomed to the dark atmosphere I quickly saw that the place was about half full, with most customers in the rows nearing the rear. The film was a high quality stylish French affair, which added to the elegant yet “sleazy” ambience, which was exactly what I was looking for. I felt very secure, safe in the knowledge that Maurice would be keeping an eye on things from his projection booth; this feeling of security was reassuring and relaxed me very quickly into the moment. Over the next ten or so minutes I slowly undid the three coat buttons and untied the belt so that the heavy fur draped loosely over me, just exposing the tops of my hold-ups and a glimpse of cleavage, several men by this stage had moved to the row directly in front of me and were busy alternating between watching the film and checking out what I was up to behind them. Two men came and sat at either end of my row with just a couple of seats between them and me, I was instantly on fire, and felt my wetness begin to flow as I reached between my legs to prepare my vagina for public display, butterflying my labia and unleashing my engorged clitoris, which was longing to be touched by a few strange, anonymous hands. Eventually, all eyes were peering back my way; the film had become just a background enhancement, the audio giving this seedy scenario another kinky dimension. I could sense as well as see that many of the men were openly masturbating at this most slutty unfolding situation. It was at this point I snatched a huge hit of my poppers just before I let my coat fall totally open, fully exposing my naked body. I opened my legs as wide as possible, placing my heels on the tops of the seats in front of me, giving full easy access to my expectant and gaping pussy; it was fully open, ready to be entertained. This was like lighting a very short fuse, as in seconds numerous hands were coming at me from all directions, stroking and probing me, many vocally commenting on my rapidly increasing wetness. It was sleazy in the extreme, with numerous men politely queuing to take turns in kneeling in between my legs and use their tongues on me, lapping at my anus and vagina in unadulterated depravity, pure vaginal worship ensued, which I completely adore. Many skilled fingers and thumbs masturbated my protruding clitoris into their willing mouths, my ejaculations began to come thick and fast, each one more violent than the last, until I was being kept on the crest of one powerful gushing tsunami of female ejaculate after another. Men were gently jostling for position to drink from me while many were happy just to watch and pleasure themselves. At one stage there was a gent tonguing my anus as another nibbled on my clit, I was squirting like an uncontrollable burst pipe. It just wasn’t subsiding at all, and it felt like there was an unending fluid producing machine deep inside me, its tap stuck in the on position. I think it was the pure seediness of the situation and the novelty of the location that was making everything feel more intense and depraved. It was like my inner slut had escaped and was showing the audience how a true “salope” should behave in such sleazy company. It was everything that filthy wanton sex should be, and I adored every cum filled minute. It was two hours of pure debauched filth, and one that lives on in my memory, and hopefully Yves had been looking down on me approvingly, full enjoying the lewd and vulgar spectacle!
Appreciating a wind-down vino and cigarette with Maurice I thanked him profusely for his hospitality, and we chatted away until my taxi came to take me back to reality. Just as a side note he holds couples only evenings on Thursday and Saturday, well worth a visit, I’m definitely dragging Paul along soon, as I know he’d relish the decadence of it all. Just go and have a look at the web site for any relevant information. This establishment definitely caters to the more outrageous amongst us.

First Tango in Paris is at Amazon UK  and Amazon US

Friday, 15 April 2016

I read Vivien Walden's book, Eating From The Cherry Tree last weekend. It's certainly an eye opener, it is also an incredibly honest book.

It's a book about sex, but there's no attempt to titillate, or arouse the reader. These things happened...there's a wise saying telling us that the truth is stranger than fiction, the events of Vivien's life illustrate the proverb perfectly.

No matter how much time I spend crafting my erotica.. I cannot hope to achieve the mood, the beautiful, yet stark reality of Vivien's life story.

It's an engaging narrative, Vivien tells her story in a refreshingly uncomplicated way. A happy childhood in a loving Jewish family, Vivien's  choices take her from prostitution to Madame of a high class brothel. There is no attempt to dissemble...this happened, this is how and why this happened.

If the reader is expecting shame, or guilt he/she will be disappointed...there's none of that in this book. Why should there be?

And snapping at the heels of illicit sex, come the secrets. Celebrities, politicians...a prerequisite for a Madame of a high class brothel, is discretion.

A few months ago I ran a blog post about a famous 1961 Court case. It was popularly known as the Profumo Affair and involved John Profumo, the Minister of State for War, a call girl, Christine Keeler and Eugene Ivanov, a Soviet naval attaché at the Soviet Embassy in London. Ivanov was also engaged in espionage. Christine was sleeping with both men. It was a security mess at the highest level. The case ended untidily, with a career in ruins, the suicide of a good man and the subsequent downfall of the Conservative government.

I messaged Vivien on Facebook. She knew everyone involved in that trial. It was a case that registered great changes in how sexuality was perceived, our personal attitudes to sex and our subsequent behaviours. Think about what you are reading and let the huge cultural changes that were precipitated by Vivien and her generation sink in. But above all read Eating From The Cherry Tree by Vivien Walden and enjoy.

Eating from the Cherry Tree by Vivien Walden, is at Amazon UK and Amazon US

Friday, 8 April 2016


I wonder what it is like to be a Muse? To have the sort of beauty that drives men, and women to despair? Helen’s beauty, inspired a war that raged for ten long years. Men died for the sake of Helen. Lizzie Siddal’s profound, ethereal beauty was Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s inspiration, he painted her over and over again, in a variety of poses and guises. One of those guises, was as Helen of Troy.

Here is Lizzie again -- this time as the Roman Goddess of the Underworld, Proserpine.

In both his art and writings Rossetti exalted Lizzie. In fact, his period of great poetic production began when he met her and ended around the time of her death. His poem, "A Last Confession," in particular, exemplifies his profound, spiritual love for Lizzie, whom he personifies as the heroine with eyes, "as of the sea and sky on a grey day."

Rossetti painted Lizzie as "Beata Beatrix", one year after Lizzie's death.

A Last Confession -- Rossetti 1848

Eleven years before, when first I found her
Alone upon the hill-side; and her curls
Shook down in the warm grass as she looked up
Out of her curls in my eyes bent to hers.
She might have served a painter to pourtray
That heavenly child which in the latter days
Shall walk between the lion and the lamb.

Marylin Monroe inspired intellectuals, politicians. Much has been written about how she was used and abused. But her lovely image has not faded since her death. Men and women still want to make love to her, be her friend, save her.

Marylin was the inspiration for Elton John’s lovely lament; “Candle in the wind”. The song was also the inspiration for another Muse; Princess Diana; Elton John sang an adaptation of “Candle in the Wind” at Diana’s funeral.

And not forgetting the Fair Youth of Shakespeare’s sonnets. We have no image of him but he inspired some of the most beautiful poetry in the English language.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

And finally, lovely Pattie Boyd, whose face inspired two of our contemporary musicians. George Harrison wrote “Something” for her. Eric Clapton wrote “Layla” and “Wonderful tonight” She is the Muse for my own generation .

Here is George Harrison singing about beautiful Pattie.

Friday, 1 April 2016


“The number of women prosecuted for domestic violence rose from 1,575 in 2004-05 to 4,266 in 2008-09. "Both men and women can be victims and we know that men feel under immense pressure to keep up the pretence that everything is OK," said Alex Neil, the housing and communities minister in the Scottish parliament. "Domestic abuse against a man is just as abhorrent as when a woman is the victim.”

Denis Campbell The Observer, Sunday 5 September 2010

I am not going to go into detail about violent stuff inflicted on guys by women. Most of it is too horrible to think and write about. There is plenty of stuff online if you care to search.

If you share a pint with a mate at the match and he turns up with a black eye, would you automatically believe it if he said he walked into a door?

Look across your row before kick-off. One in five men are a victim of domestic abuse at some stage in their life.

A lot of men suffer in silence, fearing pals will laugh. Most domestic violence help is for women but there are confidential help-lines for men.

“If you are a victim and in danger, the advice given is leave if you can and call police, who have officers trained to help.

Don’t retaliate physically or verbally — you may end up arrested. Keep a diary of incidents and photos of injuries. If kids are involved, seek council help.”

And it isn’t just physical violence. Many men suffer screaming, shouting or controlling behaviour from partners. This can, and I am sure in some cases, go on for years. A woman embarrasses her partner in front of their friends. It might be something that is deeply personal -- his sexual prowess. His habits in the bedroom. Even his habits in the bathroom. It doesn‘t matter what his hobbies are; she will be scornful about those as well. The ring of laughter in his ears humiliates him into silence. Perhaps later, when they are alone, he complains.

“But I was only joking!” he is told. “Can’t you take a joke?”

Or she might say; “I was only being honest!”

It isn’t joking. It isn’t being honest. It’s bullying. If he persists, or complains another time, he is told that he is “whiny, wimpy, uptight, insane, paranoid.”

Any word will do, as long as it demeans, cuts deep, makes him feel less of a human being.

We hear so much about female domestic violence, it seems only fair to redress the balance.

It happens in the pub, on a night out with friends. If the two work for the same company, it may happen in the workplace. It is hardly a surprise that it even happens online, on Facebook! The absolute, venomous control and humiliation is there -- for the whole world to laugh and sneer at.

Here are the details of one help line in the UK. If you search online, there are many more.

The Men's Advice Line is a confidential helpline for male victims of domestic violence and abuse.
We welcome calls from all men - in heterosexual or same-sex relationships.

The Men's Advice Line offers emotional support, practical advice and information on a wide range of services for further help and support.
Our focus is to increase the safety of men experiencing domestic violence (and the safety of their children) and reduce the risk.

0808 801 0327 - free from landlines and mobile phones.

Friday, 25 March 2016

THE STORY...psychological terrorism from MJ Lewis

"The Story" by MJ Lewis is a psychological's a narrative that makes you nervous, sweaty, looking over your shoulder as perceptions of time, perceptions of reality are jangled. Can you really feel the floor beneath your feet...or do you just think that you do? And how is it that the hands of the clock have taken 2 hours to move 5 minutes?

The Story is a challenging read, surreal, an exercise in philosophical scepticism. What is reality....your reality, is not my reality...reality is relative.

How about time and the passing of time? Time too is relative...a day can pass so quickly for one person, for another, that same day can feel like a year.

MJ Lewis takes you on a's dark, it's can't join up the dots...MJ's protagonist can't join up the dots either..."Why is this happening?" he asks...he receives an answer worthy of the Sphynx.."to find the answer you have to ask the right question". It's a creeping nightmare, except that MJ Lewis assures us that it is absolutely true. This really happened. His book stirs a disturbing chilling resonance.

Characters enter and exit, sometimes naked, sometimes clothed. The mood of "The Story" is reminiscent of Iain Banks' The Wasp Factory, with its dark, pounding rhythms.

MJ Lewis writes horror. He writes nasty stuff, the sort of stuff that makes a reader squirm...I don't believe he'll mind me saying that...his Twitter profile tells would be followers that MJ is into Violence and Splatterpunk.

Splatterpunk is gory, violent..nothing is off limits. Add the stench of sulphur into the mix and you have a recipe for a cloying viscous gunge of grime, crime and slime for a delicious putrefication pie.

MJ's stories are dark, exuding pessimism. His "Don't Slip" is a free read on my has a devastating ending, as does "Sunday Lunch"...a free read on MJ's blog.

I've changed my mind...MJ Lewis' "The Story," is more than a psychological drama, it's an exercise in psychological terrorism. You know that you are going to be shocked, disturbed and yet despite making you squirm, MJ has got you hooked and you keep on reading.

The ending has a twist that makes you question whether you, or anyone else, can determine your own safety in your small any of us can ever know what is really going on.

It’s a profound ending, a quiet ending. “The Story” closes with an affirmation, a claiming of sanity, of sanctity…he waits.

If you enjoyed this read, please leave a review on Amazon.
Also, follow me @lewismj78 on Twitter! I am active there, so start a conversation with me. I don’t bite, well, not hard anyway!

Also visit my website over at for free short stories ranging from erotica to extreme horror.

The Story is available at Amazon UK and Amazon US

Friday, 18 March 2016


THE LADY OF SHALOTT 1888 Sir James William Waterhouse: You can see it in The Tate Gallery London.

She sits alone and lonely, viewing the beautiful city of Camelot through a mirror. She weaves a tapestry, copying the images from the mirror into the picture that she sews. She doesn’t know why she sits like this, never to view the real world. She only knows that to look, is forbidden. The reader of Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s poem knows that “The Lady of Shalott” is cursed, if she looks, she will die.

“Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.”

"The Lady of Shalott" tells the story of a beautiful woman who lives in a tower in Shalott, which is an island on a river that runs, along with the road beside it, to Camelot; the setting of the legends about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Every day, the woman weaves a tapestry picture of the landscape that is visible from her window, including Camelot. There is, however, a curse on her; the woman does not know the cause of the curse, but she knows that she cannot look directly out of the window, so she views the subjects of her artwork through a mirror that is beside her. The woman is happy to weave, but is tired of looking at life only as a reflection. One day, Sir Lancelot rides by, looking bold and handsome in his shining armour, and singing. The woman cannot resist going to the window and seeing the beautiful Lancelot for herself.

“I am half sick of shadows,” JW Waterhouse, can be seen at the Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto, Canada.

“There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.”

“The Lady sees the exterior world, not through a window that opens onto real space and nature, but only as the shadow of that reality reflected in the magic mirror. The curse does not allow her to appear at the casement where the exterior and interior worlds can meet and merge; she is totally cut off. The emphasis upon love and confinement of the woman becomes intensified in the fictional Lady of Shalott, a subject that allowed the artist's imagination more freedom of interpretation.”
From “The Embowered Woman:” Elisabeth Nelson

Waterhouse continually frames her in poses in which her alluring beauty can be displayed.

“Paintings representing the Lady in her boat were as popular as interior scenes. The Lady setting out for Camelot, alive in her boat, allowed an artist like Waterhouse to portray the pathos of the "cursed" Lady, who follows her heart knowing she is going to die doing so. Mario Praz has perceived throughout the literature of Romanticism "the inseparability of pleasure and pain and, on the practical side, a search for themes of tormented, contaminated beauty" (The Romantic Agony, 1970). Tennyson and Waterhouse, poet and painter, seemed to have agreed with Edgar Allan Poe, who explained in "The Poetic Principle" that a "certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected with all the higher manifestations of true Beauty." Exterior scenes provided the artist a different subject, mood, and set of circumstances with which to work.”
Again from “The Embowered Woman:” Elisabeth Nelson -- you can read her complete essay here

“And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls.
And there the surly village-churls
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.”

The lady weaves her tapestry in a richly appointed, artificial bower, cut off from the world. Restraint is a word that seems to sum up the Victorian’s attitude to sex.

The Lady of Shalott is as restrained as any slave in a 21st century BDSM fantasy.

The lady doesn’t speak, she scarcely moves. Waterhouse presents her in chains; she may as well be wearing a chastity belt. Her look is lascivious; predatory. Her mouth shows the beginnings of a snarl, as she growls out her urge to copulate. She has seen her mate and even death will not stop her.

“His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror…”

Perhaps in works of art and literature like “The Lady of Shalott” and contemporary Erotica we have a meeting of minds. Readers of Erotica and Pornography are certainly turned on, and carefully tuned in to the Victorian notions of sexual restraint. The clothes restricting womens’ ability to breathe, let alone run. The concept of the woman just being there, until she is needed; until the male requires sexual release. The woman is displayed for the viewer in an erotic reverie; she is waiting, wet, wilting with desire for her mate. But this is not just a male fantasy; women fantasise about these things as much as men. Those tight, tight corsets forcing the breasts upwards and outwards. Velvet and lace stretching over smooth, silky, creamy flesh. It is an urgent notion of beauty that women and men both cherish. We allow the fantasy to tease out the moment when we copulate; a restorative, groan as that first thrust of penetration finally, finally occurs.

“She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror cracked from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.”

The Lady sees the beautiful Lancelot in her mirror. She will risk the curse to see him in the flesh. Sexual release will mean real death, even more than “la petite mort” -- she doesn’t care. Tennyson’s carefully crafted words bring the Lady’s passion from simmering, to boiling point. She is frantic with desire…

Lancelot, these days, wears leather. He’s a biker, I think. The engine throbbing into his crotch reminding him that he is all male. He has been too long away from his lady, the engine growls his frustration.

And the scenario has endless possibilities -- so let’s play a little. Have some fun. The role play can be as serious as you want to make it; or as joyous, but BDSM fulfils a huge need for many people out there.

It doesn’t have to be a submissive female, waiting for the attention of a Dominant male. It can be reversed; a Dominant woman and a submissive male.

He waits hopelessly for his Lady’s attention. All he needs is a gentle brush of her hand; a look would suffice. She will forbid him sexual release and he will comply; how can he not? Like the Lady of Shalott, he waits. He would wait for an eternity for her. His hard, muscular chest is bare, his tight, frayed jeans cover a throbbing erection. His Lady likes it that beneath the worn denim his cock pulses. His orgasm is forbidden, until his Lady permits…

…maybe it’s two women engaged in the Dominant/submissive scenario -- she is tied at her wrists and ankles -- spread wide and open on the four poster bed. She waits for the ecstasy of her Mistress’ lips caressing her soft inner thigh; her small, pointed tongue thrusting, dancing into her wet, willing labia. She will touch her clitoris with the tip of her tongue…

…or two men; his Master keeps him locked in the cage that is his home. There is limitless intelligence in his dark eyes, yet he paces the floor like the animal he has become. He remembers the night that his Master claimed him. His Master had laughed at him as he tried to deny the attraction; His Master knew that the slave was already half in love. The slave is trying so hard to be patient, but his strong fingers grip the bars and he growls his frustration. Seeing him like this, it is hard to believe that he is passive; living only for the moment that his lover’s cock will open him…

And it doesn’t even need to be about sex. Fulani suggests, if it’s done right, this kind of relationship can have an almost spiritual quality; an exquisite sharing of trust that many people find is as important as sex.

“Actually by no means all bdsm play involves sex (i.e. penetrative sex) at the same time as the bdsm - it depends on the people, their relationship, the nature of the fantasy etc. Obviously if the sub has a forced sex fantasy the two will be closely linked, but other possibilities exist - e.g. sex as the conclusion of play, or the wind-down after play, or something that happens on another occasion, or even in some relationships it's purely play and no sex in the usual sense of the word. That of course doesn't mean it's not sexual - just that the play itself satisfies sexual desires. Which is, I guess, the definition of fetishism.”


It’s a game, it’s a wonderful fantasy. It is played out in our Erotic night and daydreams. Some of us never move beyond the dreaming stage; but we have all inherited a gift from the Victorians in the tales that they tell, and through those tales, we have our own Erotica.

Thanks to Jan Vander Laenen for correcting my appalling French -- Jan knows what I mean! And thanks to Fulani for his incisive comments, and for allowing me to quote him.

Here is Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s complete poem. “The Lady of Shalott.”

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley, 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls.
And there the surly village-churls
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling through the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazoned baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often through the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror cracked from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seër in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance—
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right—
The leaves upon her falling light—
Thro' the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turned to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in His mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

Friday, 11 March 2016

MY PRISON WITHOUT BARS; Taylor Fulks' speaks out her indictment...

This is a tricky book to write about...can I find anything positive to say about a book that delves into a subject that is abhorrent to most of us? I'm talking about paedophilia and within the framework of paedophilia the destruction, the helpless collapse of innocence. Something beautiful, that had so much potential, is ruined...her abuser might as well have crushed her face with his boot and ground it into the dirt.

The horror...the pity of it...I want to make it alright…but I can't…it will never be alright because this actually happened to this little girl.

But just because a subject upsets me, upsets us, is not a good enough reason to not talk about it. We need to talk about it, paedophilia is a horrible reality. Taylor's book has had accusations of pornography thrown at it. Some have even tried to get it banned. I don't understand why.

Would My Prison without Bars be enticing to a paedophile...would the book corrupt someone whose secret paedophilic fantasies had never been acted on? I don't know...who knows what the fuck goes on in the fucked up mind of a paedophile?

Whatever interpretation you want to put on her intent, Taylor is giving a voice to those who have no voice…the children.

We want honesty in literature don't we? Happy ever after is's nice, but it is not a reality for most of us. Romance novels offer us escapism...and how we love it. I don't know the statistics, but the Romance genre must account for a huge chunk of the readership across the planet.

The narrative is graphic...there is intent to shock, but Taylor is just telling it like it was. This was Taylor's childhood from the age of three, yes THREE, through to adolescence...dreading the nights, and she's talking about every night, the constant demand for sex as her abuser gloats and ravages her infant body...felatio and sodomy were his preferences.

Her violator was her stepfather...her appeals to her mother went unheard.

And, of course the abuse has had its affect...always disastrous relationships with men…making terrible choices which precipitate absolute betrayals of trust.

Taylor's book will always be read with a chilling shudder.

What amazes me, is that Taylor is still sane.