Everything I've Written in Chronological Order: Parts 1 and 2

by Matt Triewly


All my stories (adult and otherwise), memories and blog/diary entries in chronological order that they were written.

Saturday 20th January 2007: Uncle has Died - Journal Entry

My great-uncle has died. He was 89. I last saw him on Thursday evening shortly after I got back from Torquay. I'd gotten a phone call from my cousin-in-law to tell me that he was very weak and wouldn't last long.

I went straight to the bus stop and waited for the bus. Whilst there I had a sudden urge to burst into tears, but I managed to control myself.

Having arrived at the hospital I hardly saw a person as I walked along the corridors. It was quite eery.

When I got to his room he was sleeping and one of the nurses asked me if I wanted him to be woken up - I said no.

I went to his bedside, held his hand, and then whispered in his ear that I knew he could hear me. In response he squeezed my hand.

I told him what a nice man he was and how we all loved him - I didn't really know what else to say.

All the time I was there I could hear the clock on the wall ticking which didn't just remind me that time was running out for my uncle, but for all of us.

When I left I knew it would be the last time I would see him alive.

I then caught the bus back home on a quiet and cold night feeling very sad.

Tuesday 14th October 2008: Day Trip to Brighton - Journal Entry

Took the train down to Brighton to catch-up with Ronan. Had a good laugh and chat. Funny enough I had a swim there since I'd left my bathing trunks and towel in my backpack. We then had a few beers and a sandwich. We talked a lot about CP and also paid a visit to a sexshop. In the afternoon I popped into the Little Preston Street Brothel and had a massage from a pretty blonde woman who rubbed my nipples whilst I wanked myself off. Was very enjoyable. Concluded the visit with a curry with Ronan.

Sunday 2nd November 2008: A Taste of Bamboo for Painslut Maria - Kinky Fiction

Her eyes, like twin emerald hued laser beams, had bored into me. Mesmerised me.

It had been oppressively hot and my eyes were sore from the smoke. There were far too many people and the music was screwed up way too loud. And if it hadn't been for the chance of pulling a bird I wouldn't have been there. Bogart's Discotheque.

She had been leaning provocatively, with a self-assurance that was almost intimidating, against a pillar and supping casually from a glass. Slim and 'dressed to kill' in a skimpy black number.

I'd fancied myself a bit of a 'wolf' back then so I'd meandered over, and for my own self-assurance I'd checked my reflection briefly in the mirrored surface of the walls: neat, well-groomed auburn hair, large brown eyes, strong features and a tallish athletic frame. I was also well presented, groomed, in an expensive patterned Midnight-Blue shirt with pressed, well fitting, tight around my arse, black trousers and shiny polished black shoes. Clothes define a person. Define me. I could still just discern the Zendiq aftershave I had slapped on my cheeks prior to leaving the house. I'd looked good, smelt good and had felt good. Very good.

I'd closed in on her. Cut off her retreat. Predator and prey.

Full and wavy raven locks had cascaded onto the exquisite exposed ivory flesh of her shoulders and had framed her oval face which was pale yet healthy and gifted with high cheekbones. A small, straight and cute nose had sat atop a mouth that was wide and expansive with glossed lips.

"Like what you see?" she had said, with a lilting Irish accent.

Naturally, I had expected to speak first and had almost been taken out of my stride.

"Yes, I do rather. And what I hear-"

The rich green hue of her eyes, the dark depths of her large pupils, had drawn me in like the dangerous swirling waters of a whirlpool.

"My name is Matt, Matt Triewly."

I'd suddenly felt awkward. Gauche.

She'd smiled, reassuringly and had replied, "I'm Maria," she had then paused significantly, mysteriously and not a little teasingly before adding: "It is all that you are required to know."

I'd understood, I'd thought.

We'd talked and she had reminisced, longingly, of Eire. Its landscapes, the people, the music, the myths, and the rich literature. Her family and growing up; I had explained my work in a laboratory, my career aspirations. Shared happy memories from my childhood. Funny stories.

As the evening had drawn on, I had warmed to her as a person. I liked her. I could have loved her. And then we were on the dance floor. The lights dimmed. Slowly rotating to Three Times a Lady and her slender bare arms wrapped tight around my torso. Me erect. And then I'd kissed her sweet lips and had slipped my tongue in her mouth... but she had gently pulled away and for an instant I had feared rejection before whispering in my ear, "Let's go," just as the music had begun to fade out.

I had caught the eye of one of my friends at the peripheral of the dance floor. He had read the situation and knew I wouldn't be requiring a lift back. We had then passed out of the club's entrance into the comparative chill of the night.

"You came here alone?" I had been curious.

"I have a few I chat with here, but yes," she had partially answered.

There had been a pause in the conversation and I had listened to the waves breaking softly on the beach; the club was but a road away from the shore. The air had been still and the swell of the sea, gentle and rhythmic.

She had walked a little ahead of me - maybe she hadn't wanted to draw too much attention to us. She had moved with poise and I had wondered if she exercised, perhaps played tennis or swam.

We reached her car, a racing green Mini 1275 GT, and in a reversal of gender chivalry she'd unlocked the passenger door for me. A strong aroma of rose petal had greeted me from the air freshener dangling from the interior mirror. I'd squeezed myself into the black-leather bucket seats and had drawn the inertia reel seatbelt across my chest before fastening it. She then started the engine and sped quickly out of the car park and onto the main road.

She had driven nippily and I had admired the fluid movements of her limbs as she had shifted gear and handled the sporty steering wheel. I had hoped she wouldn't attract the attention of the law as she was, I had suspected, rather over the limit. We'd travelled fast out of the small seaside town and into the country with the hedgerows and trees eerily illuminated by the cold lunar light.

After a while we'd turned into a new looking road that led shortly to the prestigious 'Garden Village'; a recent development. I doubted that the four or so miles had taken any longer than seven or eight minutes. Maria had swung the Mini onto a drive and had stopped a few feet short of a double garage. She'd killed the engine and then slipped out of the vehicle.

The residence had been large, detached, and like all the surrounding properties, new and in the style, I believe, Neo-Georgian. Everything about it said, money; and 'fuck you'.

Only the distant hoot of an owl had disturbed the peace as Maria had slipped the key silently into the lock. The door had opened into a sumptuous lobby and she had directed me through to the lounge.

"Would you be liking a coffee... first?" she had smiled wickedly.

I had merely stood there gaping at the opulence: oil paintings spotlighted by brass wall lamps; expensive furnishings; curtains with gold braided pull cords. It was casual wealth taken by granted by the occupants. Or maybe that was the image they sought to project.

"Two sugars and cream, please." I had followed her into the kitchen.

I then noticed a silver photo frame lying face down on a window ledge. I had sneakily picked it up. It was a snap of a bald, ruddy-faced businessman with heavy jowls at a 'bash' of some kind. I now knew why I was here.

Her back had been to me as she had prepared the filter coffee. I'd stolen up behind her and had lightly kissed the side of her delicious neck. She had immediately swivelled round and had said, "I'm going to give you what you so desire... me," she drew breath, "but before anything you will have to attend to wayward Maria."

We had moved into the lounge and I'd sat gingerly in an armchair being extra careful not to spill coffee onto the plush cardinal-red velvet covers. She was on a sofa - her toned legs folded under her. We had supped at our drinks and excitement had coursed through my every nerve. This was what life was all about.

"There's no need to worry. He is in Dubai and won't be returning for a month. Don't you think I'm rather naughty for bringing a man back," she'd sucked in air, "and do you not think I deserve to be punished?"

How could I resist?

We had finished our drinks and she had asked me to follow her. We had then entered the master bedroom which unsurprisingly was as ostentatious as the rest of the house.

In front of me, Maria had stopped and then to my utter amazement pulled her dress over her head in one motion with her lustrous dark locks falling back into place onto her bare shoulders as though in slow motion. She was now standing in front of me naked and absolutely shameless.

"What you are going to do now Matt is to strip off yourself and then you are going to beat me first with a plimsoll and then cane me hard on my buttocks. After you have spanked me with the plimsoll you are going to attach clamps to my nipples. When I'm ready - I'll tell you - you can fuck me from behind. There's no need to concern yourself with pleasuring me as I'll come anyway. Have you got that?"

"Yes," I had replied, and had thought that this was one uncomplicated woman who knew exactly what she wanted in life.

"Not get your clothes off, Matt, and try not to ejaculate before you fuck me. I like cocks hard. Really hard."

As Maria had padded over to the corner of the spacious room I had swiftly taken all my clothes off. She had then lifted the lid of what looked to be an antique Ottoman chest and had taken out a small white plimsoll, a school cane and some shiny steel nipple clamps. She picked up the gym shoe walked over to me and plonked it into my sweaty hand. "I want you to smack me with it as hard as you can. Leave about twenty seconds between strokes so that I can savour the pain fully. Don't worry about anyone hearing; the house is well insulated and detached." She then walked over to a similarly ornate chair, bent over and placed the palms of her hands on the seat. I then positioned myself parallel to her and savoured her undraped form which was pale, lithe and taut. Her cunt was shaved smooth and enticingly thrust out. I had hesitated for a second but then thought, 'What the hell' and had brought the plimsoll hard and swiftly down on to her bare left buttock. There was a loud 'thwack' yet she didn't flinch. But straightaway, there was a reddening imprint of the sole upon her flesh. She had thrust out her posterior even further as she relished the impact of the second blow, which I delivered with even greater force. She had gasped and already, her left buttock was beginning to purple. I then switched to the right and gave her two satisfyingly hard swats in succession - she had trembled but I had given her another three hard double-whacks on each cheek ignoring her instructions to leave time between swats. Each blow had caused her to sway forward before she had returned to the punishment position and her previously white skin was now raw. I administered another dozen or so before she said breathlessly, "Cane me now... and don't forget the clamps."

She'd straightened up and turned to me, her pretty face flushed, and had kissed me.

"You're doing a good job, Matt."

She then stared at me plaintively with her beautiful green eyes for a second as I placed the plimsoll back on the chest. I then picked up the steel toothed clamps and as I did she thrust her large firm breasts towards me, her nipples dark and engorged. To each nipple in turn I watched as they bit deeply into the dark sensitive flesh causing her to wince. She then embraced the discomfort with fortitude - she knew what was to come - before swivelling round and assuming the punishment position once again. I remember 'weighing' the curve handled cane in my right hand and again studying the almost sculpted form of her nude body. I noticed the tiny little dark hairs on her toned arms and the cute little mole on the small of her back.

Without any further delay I had swung the cane down in an arc with a whoosh and then a 'crack' as it struck her skin. "Uh," she had uttered. A ruddy ridge had appeared instantly, and my god it must have stung.

I then gave her another, slightly harder I felt and I'd watched with twisted satisfaction as her fingers had clutched at the fabric of the chair. Yet she had suffered in silence.

She shuffled position slightly in anticipation of the third stroke. Her tight bum was scarlet and purple but now with two deeper purple stripes overlaid.

I had then raised and brought down the cane another fifteen times upon her buttocks.

I had observed her body shudder with the agony, her clamped breasts sway under her and her labia was pink and swollen with her juices.

I kind of felt sorry for her but it was what she craved and lived for. She was a masochist, a pain slut who pitted pain against pleasure before the final triumph of ecstasy.

After another six she was shaking and wretched and broken and I feared for her.

"Fuck me now, do it hard, do it fast. Take me, whilst it still hurts!" she suddenly cried out. And I did. I was as hard as I had ever been in my life before. Still bent over the chair I had easily penetrated her from behind. Immediately, her internal muscles had seemed to powerfully grip and caress my shaft. She had moaned but this time in anticipation of pleasure. I had felt the spasmodic contractions as she had attained orgasm and screamed out almost simultaneously as my cock had exploded shooting my hot spunk into her cunt, my fingers reflexively tightening around the naked firm flesh of her upper arms. Her body then went limp and she nearly fell onto the chair taking me with her. She then turned and faced me, her face red and sweating and her eyes watering before kissing me sweetly on the lips.

"Thanks," she said, was all she said. And I understood.

I had dressed, without a word, still dazed and had then headed for the door - she had made no move to stop me.

Before I placed my hand on the brass door handle I had turned and blown her a kiss before exiting. But it felt cheap. Ungracious. Corny.

I then let myself out into the moonlight night and walked the eight miles home. It took just over two hours.

About six months later I thought I saw her in the high street. I'm not certain she recognised me; or would have wanted to have recognised me. She appeared older, about mid-thirties. She was still beautiful, still had style, but she didn't look happy. There was a poignancy about her. About me. About life. I will never forget her though.

Wednesday 19th November 2008: I Collapsed Yesterday - Blog

Funny enough, yesterday morning I had woken up and felt better than I had for a long time. Feeling energised I'd had breakfast followed by a long soak in a very hot bath. This hadn't been a good idea with hindsight. Anyway, after the bath I had then got dressed and feeling motivated had then commenced on giving the flat, and in particular the kitchen, a bloody good clean. In between cleaning I was also drinking quite a lot of tea and also playing the financials on which involved predicting share and commodity prices. I hasten to add that if one kept cool and wasn't too greedy or took too many risks then money could be made; I had once made a £100 in a week and had wondered at the time if I should become a 'professional gambler'.

But I have digressed.

Anyway, it was as I was sat down placing a bet that I experienced this strange sensation of the flat, with me in it, being picked up as though by a giant and then being spun round in his hand. I was also aware of objects falling to the floor. I then found myself lying under the table with a load of pens and pencils beside me along with the pot I kept them in. I realised immediately that I had collapsed. The strange thing was that apart from a very slight 'pulsating' of my vision and breaking out into a cold sweat I'd felt physically okay. Psychologically though I was extremely scared. I'd immediately speculated as to whether I'd suffered a stroke or a minor heart attack and decided that the best course of action was to stay where I was for a while as I didn't want to provoke another and more serious attack of what had precipitated my initial collapse. As I lay there keeping as still as possible I speculated reaching up to the table and phoning for an ambulance but decided not to as they would have to break down two doors to get to me. Also, I wasn't that convinced that they could actually do something for me since I had been complaining to my GP for some time that I had been suffering from intermittent dizziness, nausea, clamminess and a strange visual disturbance in which my vision when I turned my head quickly took a second to catch up, only for him to tell me that the symptoms were either due to Meniere's Disease or stress. I had once put it to him that it was perhaps the recurrent dizzy spells that were making me stressed, but he ignored that. To be fair he had arranged a CT scan which revealed nothing and subsequently a MRI scan which picked up a very small scar in my brain which at the time they had diagnosed as a 'pinhead' stroke. But after later analysis by a neurologist they decided it was most likely a natural and not uncommon 'fold' in the brain. After these rather unsatisfactory consultations with the GP I had unhappily concluded that either they didn't know what was wrong with me or that the doctor did know what was wrong and that he was protecting me from the knowledge that I was suffering from something serious that nothing could be done about. Either way I had lost faith in the medical profession.

So, I had lain under the table for quite a while and after a short bit I had begun to feel perfectly okay. I had then got up and dragged myself to the sofa where I had lain down and eventually drifted off to sleep. About twenty minutes later now feeling totally recovered I had got up but thinking constantly about what had happened. I soon resigned myself to the depressing fact that I was probably going to die soon and to make the most of life whilst I could. I also called my son, who was twenty-one, and asked him to pop round so that I could have a chat with him.

In the evening I watched a programme, narrated by Ian Hislop, about the large scale closures of railways in Britain and the end of steam. The programme had evoked a strong feeling of melancholy in me not just about the end of the 'golden age' of railways but about my own life. I'd also realised that I was only four days away from the twentieth anniversary of my mother's death and had speculated morbidly that maybe I would die on that particular day.


Phoned up the Company this morning and cancelled my 'sickness counselling' - far too ill. I still haven't told the doctor though Juki, who's been very good, says she'll go with me. I've taken it very easy all day as I'm still very shaken up by what happened. I do not believe I am long for this world now. I went shopping but found it an ordeal and was glad to get back.

Earlier today I also called my son and asked him to pop round so that I could have a chat with him.

Read more of Legion of the Damned - great book.

Juki also phoned and it was good to talk to her - I feel quite lonely at times.

Thursday 20th November 2008: Visited the Doctor - Blog

Visited the doctor (a locum) this morning and told her what had happened on Tuesday with me collapsing.

She thought it could be a mini-stroke. I mentioned to her that I thought an MRI scan would confirm it but apparently it's too expensive and my treatment would be just the same. She said that I was anxious and that that wouldn't help. I replied that I wouldn't be anxious if I hadn't collapsed. I will be having more blood tests anyway. I also underwent an ECG whilst there and she informed me that my heart had a few problems though she didn't feel that they were acute - great. She apologised for not being able to give me a firm diagnosis (which a MRI or CAT scan could have done). She then asked me what I thought. I told her I felt that I was going to die soon and though I appreciated what she had done I believed that the human body was a complicated chemical reaction which was working its course - some working quicker than others.

Later on I phoned James again and asked him to come over so I could tell him a few things in the event - highly likely - that I should die. He was concerned but I felt it the right thing to do.

I also told my line manager and got the impression they think I am 'swinging the lead'. I wish.

Juki says that at the end of the day I am only a number to them and she is right - they will try to cut down my cost to them.

In the afternoon Juki came round and we watched Il Postino - a brilliant film.

Ronan also phoned up and he thought I should get a second opinion but I know it's cardiovascular and I also need as much money as possible if I'm going to lose my job.

So many regrets I have in life but the biggest one is not being a better father to my son. Also, I should have stayed with one woman all my life and pursued an interesting career. Too late now.

Saturday 22nd November 2008: Felt Woozy Again - Blog

This morning I got up and felt woozy so took my tablets and went back to bed till I felt a little better.

I'm hoping to see my son soon. And today is also the twentieth anniversary of Mum's death.

Thursday 27th November 2008: Fobbed Off - Blog

The practice phoned today and asked me to see the doctor, my regular doctor, about the results of the ECG. I had gone in with a mixture of feelings as on the one hand it was good news that they had finally found out what was wrong with me and perhaps could do something to rectify or treat it. On the other hand it might be that they couldn't do anything about it and that it would only be a matter of time before my condition deteriorated perhaps resulting in my death.

As it happened Doctor M casually told me that my 'enlarged heart' was nothing to worry about since many people of my age had enlarged hearts like mine and most of them wouldn't have any symptoms at all. He had added that there was no reason to believe that I wouldn't reach a good old age. I hadn't questioned his diagnosis but as I had left the surgery I had felt 'fobbed off' - again.

Wednesday 10th December 2008: Felt I Was Going to Collapse Again - Blog

Whilst on the computer this morning I felt for a moment that I was going to collapse but the feeling passed.

I wish that I was well and that I could see my grandson grow up. Alas that won't happen and in a way I wish it was all over as I can barely stand this constant sensation of feeling about to lose balance and collapse.

Changing the subject I have got a new theory about time - or rather a speculation.

Because we can conceive no end of time but cannot conceive of a beginning-less beginning then that means that time is fixed at the end i.e. time is flowing backwards but we 'feel' it flowing forwards. Now, exponential decay curves can't start but they do tend to infinity. So, time 'grows' rather than flows and it expands and contracts. It's difficult to explain and I will try to better in my next entry - if I have time.

Tuesday 16th December 2008: Another Attack - Blog

I experienced another episode earlier. It felt like I was spinning through space. It probably lasted about twenty seconds. Afterwards I felt sick and wobbly and was sweating with blurred vision. It was about 08:15 this morning.

I managed to get back to sleep and finally got up at about 11:15. I had a little breakfast and have decided to go back to bed. I feel better but still not right.

I must get my affairs sorted and I'll leave a list for my son and the executor. I'll do that later.

As I have said before, I just wish it was all over. I have contemplated killing myself because I feel constantly ill, anxious and that there is no future.

Thursday 1st January 2009: Woman Raped? - Blog

It's the New Year and I'm feeling pretty tired as there was a lot of noise outside the flat. Last night there had been a lot of screaming, shouting and crying. I was woken up several times and in the morning when I had bothered to look through the curtains I could see a police car parked outside.

Later on I mentioned the noise to Ulrika and she told me that a woman had claimed to have been raped. I'm feeling a little guilty now as maybe I could have prevented it (if indeed it had happened) had I bothered to look out of the window. The problem is that one just accepts rowdy behaviour as a fact of modern life nowadays.

Sunday 25th January 2009: Trouble Outside the Flat Again - Blog

So, I finally get to bed at about 0130 and the only decision I have to make is what sordid fantasy I'm going to run through my mind whilst I make love to myself-


What the fuck is that?


I peer through the crack in my curtains down onto the street. It's a very nice street in the day and regarded as 'posh' by many. Unfortunately it's the main thoroughfare between the town with its bars and clubs and the main estate...

There's about seven lads and they've torn off a street sign. They're mooning, scrapping and shouting - cunts. And what's more annoying is they're not moving on. After about ten minutes I decide to call the Old Bill but as I get to the phone my lounge is illuminated by flashing blue lights. Most of them scarper but the slow (and stupid) ones get caught. I was hoping to witness a bit of police rough handling or even brutality but it appears that they are only cautioned. It quietens down but now I'm visualising bare bottoms being seriously birched and yobs screaming and pleading for mercy.

Naturally, I was a model citizen when I was a youth.

Wednesday 28th January 2009: Hot Chocolate with Maria - Blog

Maria texted me this morning to see if I fancied meeting up with her in Thorntons for a hot chocolate to which I replied, yes.

Maria is forty-three and I know her through once chatting to her at the Balcony Bar nightclub. That was about three years ago. Since then she has divorced her husband, had an affair, remarried her husband and finally split from her husband (after he had an affair). She's definitely the type of woman I get involved with - emotionally fucked up.

The important factor though is that she is sexy: lovely dark hair, glossy olive eyes, tanned, and though a little plump, curvaceous.

Well, we met outside and she insisted on buying as I did last time. We then went up to the counter and was served by the 'Model'. The 'Model' is about nineteen and a very pretty slim brunette with large entrancing charcoal blue eyes. Once when she was wearing a very low cut dress my gaze was drawn to a very beguiling mole betwixt her ample breasts. I confess that I fantasised about shagging her on a couple of occasions after.

Returning back to reality, the Model had asked me if I required marshmallows on my hot chocolate. "No, thanks," I'd replied wondering in return if she would appreciate an offer of hot spunk on her bare breasts.

Having got our drinks Maria had lead the way to a table. Once sat down she then asked me about my ex's, and I must admit I do seem to have an embarrassingly large number of them. However it didn't seem to faze her. She then inquired about Juki so I explained my relationship with her.

"I'm only friends with Juki though we do hold hands when we're out. I think she would like to take it further but for some reason I do not feel able to commit to her. I like her as a friend and she is good company."

Maria had been satisfied with my reply. Or had appeared satisfied.

The above is partly true. I did once get Juki's top off and suck her breasts but she didn't seem very interested so I never bothered again. However, she also recounted a tale (having commented on the lack of discipline in schools today as a pervy does to tease out similar inclinations) of how she was once slippered by the headmaster, with the deputy present to witness, for being involved with bullying as a member of a girl gang. She only got one whack but said it really stung and she didn't cry as she refused to display weakness. I have to say I found that rather exciting and must probe more about this incident at some point.

Returning to Maria, I get the impression that all she wants is a bit of uncommitted company now and again - I can cope with that. All the time with her I played the understanding and caring male and the strategy seemed to work as we parted with a kiss and cuddle. I reckon I will be seeing her again.

Afterwards I popped into Somerfield straight after to pick up a few bits and pieces. The background music above the aisles was playing All Night Long - a hit from the eighties. I could never last 'all night long' now, not without Viagra anyway. Still, I felt lifted.

Thursday 5th February 2009: 'Vanilla Sky Day' Anniversary - Explicit Memoir

Tuesday 5th February 2002...

I am in the changing rooms of The Heights leisure centre in Sandown. I have swum a mile then spent about thirty minutes luxuriating in the sauna, Jacuzzi, and steam room. I'm glowing and feel really relaxed. I have also taken the week off work to wind down.

I take my mobile out of my backpack and switch it on. There is a pause before the message alert sounds.

Pop round for a cuppa when you're ready x

The message is from Claire. Claire is the ex-wife of one of my colleagues, Christopher. They have been divorced for about five years after she ran off with someone else. It broke his heart at the time, but he is now happy with his new love. Her new relationship, however, didn't last. She has had a couple of boyfriends since but is now single. She is physically attractive, easy going and in possession of a good sense of humour - a dangerous cocktail for a weak willed yet strong desired man like me.

She had got on my bus a couple of times recently and after chatting had given me her mobile number. "Let's meet up for a tea and a chat before too long," she had stated in her lilting Liverpudlian accent before stepping off the platform of my double-decker bus the week before. As I had driven off, she had turned and waved, the gaze of her arctic blue eyes locking enticingly onto mine...

I reply informing her that I will be about ten minutes.

I pick up my bag, walk out of the changing rooms, drop my health suite wrist band off at the reception and then exit the building. It is a cold, sunny winter's day but my body temperature is still warm from the heat of the sauna. I get into my car, a white Renault 19, and drive the short distance to her flat which is at the top of a two-storey converted house. I press the buzzer and after a minute or so she answers the door.

"Hi, come in Matt, I've done you some sandwiches as I thought you might be hungry after all that swimming."

"Thanks, I am a little peckish."

She is wearing a tight white T-Shirt and jeans which emphasise her shapely buttocks.

She invites me to sit down in her plush and spacious sitting room while she goes off to make the tea.

"Help yourself to the sandwiches - I take it you like cheese and tomato?"

"I do, thanks."

The act of her preparing food for me makes me feel special, wanted even - it is a long time since Sharon cooked me a meal - and I am reminded of one of the few occasions when my mother had brought me in honey on buttered bread whilst I had been watching Robinson Crusoe on the old black and white television as a young boy all those years ago. I wonder if the root of all my emotional problems is not feeling loved enough as a child, and maybe not feeling loved enough now.

I pick up a sandwich and take a bite being careful not to drop any crumbs on her meticulously clean sofa and carpet. Claire enters the room and plonks down a cup of tea on the small table in front of me. She then settles herself comfortably into the armchair opposite me before saying, "You've been a bit up and down recently what with your father dying. How is it all going with Sharon? Still shaky?"

I look at Claire and realise that she puts me in mind of Gaby Roslin. I also catch a whiff of her fragrance, Chlöe.

"Yeah, it's not that good between us, we haven't had sex since the beginning of November, but she did come down to Torquay for my father's funeral. I think we will split up eventually."

"My dad is clear from cancer at the moment, but I do worry about him. We're very close."

"That's good and bad, it's good that you love him but bad that you may lose him. My relationship with my father was different, he split from my mother when I was about eighteen months old and then went off and married a German nurse working over at the Ventnor Chest Hospital whom he had got pregnant. I have a faint memory of a man holding me with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth but that's about it- "

"But you got in contact with them, didn't you?"

"Yes, about six years ago I traced them to Torquay and discovered that I also had twin half-brothers, fourteen years younger than me, and of course met my half-sister who is three years younger than me. His wife made me feel very welcome, but he couldn't face seeing me though he did write to me and speak on the phone. I always hoped that he would eventually relent and agree to meet, but we never did. He was an odd fellow but highly intelligent - he could rush through and solve the Times crossword in double quick time but was lazy and an alcoholic. He had also been in jail for a bit after smashing windows which his wife reckoned was to do with inner anger towards his parents who had had a greengrocers in Ryde - funny enough I pass by the old shop most days. Even though he wouldn't see me I used to pop down and visit the rest of the family who were very friendly and kind - on one occasion he hid in his room when I popped round- "

"He doesn't sound that nice, you were probably better off not knowing him. Would you like another cuppa Matt?"

"Yes please, two sugars."

A few minutes later she returns with more tea.

I carry on with the tale. "Anyway, back in December, Thursday the 20th to be precise, I got a phone call from his wife telling me that he had died suddenly in the local post office - he was just seventy. She didn't seem upset at all, in fact that morning he had got into an argument from a chap from the council who had been round to arrange the fitting of free double glazing. The agent had left telling him that he would return when my father was in a better mood. As soon as his wife, I suppose she's technically my step-mother, heard that he had died she phoned the fellow up to get him to come round telling him, 'That you won't have any further problems with my husband as he has now died'.

Claire chuckles.

"Between Christmas and the New Year Sharon and I drive down to Torquay for his funeral - there were only eight of us attending: his four children, his wife, his sister and her husband, and Sharon. He had no friends. There was no music or service as his wife couldn't see the point in spending a lot of money on him now that he was gone, and he wouldn't have done on her she said. Strangely my Auntie's husband told me that the last time he had seen me was when I was a baby and he had held me in his arms - he had never expected to see me again. The funny thing, Claire, is that I have six cousins across the water in Portsmouth and I have probably passed them in the street at some point without knowing it. After the funeral Sharon and I had a meal with the rest of the family before my half-brother and I scattered his ashes in the garden of remembrance - it was the closest I ever got to him."

"Do you feel sad?"

"That's another odd thing, I thought I would, I was curious about him, and disappointed that I didn't meet him, but I actually feel nothing for him. Nothing at all."

"Do you know what Matt, you're an orphan now!"

She picks up the plate and her cup and walks into the kitchen - I follow with my empty cup. She turns her back to me as she plonks the crockery in the sink. As she does, I kiss her on the back of her neck, draw in the heady fragrance and whisper, "Let's go to bed."

It is a moment of madness and I fear rejection but all she says is, "Okay, but we will have to be quick as my daughter is home in half an hour."

We go to her bedroom and both strip. I am only half hard at this point. She is naked on the bed and I take in her body: Small but nicely shaped tits with a slim figure. She is probably about five foot three and her fanny is light brown and looks trimmed. Her skin is quite fair with light freckles on her shoulders and her hair is shoulder length and blonde.

Blemish wise she has a small mole on her wrist and a couple of cuties on her midriff - she also has a slightly larger mole on her strong left thigh.

I take her in my arms and commence to kiss her.

"You're trembling slightly," she states softly.

"It's a reaction to the swimming," I reply. But it's not as I am in fact a little apprehensive and feel guilty. But obviously not guilty enough.

I run my fingers gently over her upper arms and kiss the exquisite curves of her neck. Her chest and face begin to flush with sexual arousal, so I gently rub her nipples. She begins to moan so I slip my now fully erect member into her cunt. I thrust rhythmically and as I do, she brings her hand down to her clit and starts to massage it - it turns me on more. I ask her to rub my nipples and she complies with my wish though she appears lost in her own rapture. As I begin to climax an image of a pretty dark-haired girl with, who works in my local bank, forces itself into my imagination - I see myself being caned by her.

Having 'come' I return to the 'real world'.

I pull out my penis shrouded in spunk and juice and kiss Claire's fanny as she looks anxiously at the bedside clock. "You'd better go as my daughter will be back in the next five minutes."

I wipe myself as quickly as I can with a tissue then swiftly get dressed. I give her a quick kiss then leave.

As I start the car, I can't believe what I have done. I have also broken the vow I made silently in Cherbourg to be faithful to Sharon.


I call in at McDonalds on the outskirts of Ryde for a Big Mac and fries. Whilst there I text Claire to tell her how good it was and how much I fancy her.

When I get back to the bungalow, I will have a bath and put my clothes which are steeped in Claire's perfume into the washing machine.


It is about seven in the evening. I am watching television in the lounge-cum-dining room of our bungalow. I am still replaying in my head the events of earlier when I hear Sharon walk along the path and then slip her key into the front door.

I wonder what kind of mood she is in - not good if the past few days are to go by.

She puts her head round the lounge door and cheerily greets me, "Hi, you look very relaxed with your feet up, your little break from work seems to be doing you good. You've got some colour back in your cheeks, and I can tell you're less tense. What did you get up to today?"

She's very cheerful suddenly - odd.

"Not a great deal but had a few hours at the leisure centre followed by a healthy McDonald's."

I'm back in deceit mode.

"I'm going to get changed out of my work clothes and then perhaps we could go off to the cinema? Do you know what's on?"

"Vanilla Sky. It's supposed to be good."


Julie (Cameron Diaz) turns to David (Tom Cruise) in the car and confronts him saying, "The body makes a promise even if you don't."

I inwardly cringe as I recall my actions of a few hours previous.

The car speeds up and ends up crashing through the parapet of the bridge.

David is paying the price, a very high price, for his philandering, and his life will never be the same.


We're back in the bungalow now.

"Do you want a cup of tea, Sharon?"

"I'm okay thanks. Shall we just go to bed?"

What has got into her? She even held my hand in the cinema.

We both stroll into the double bedroom and remove all our clothes and though I have seen her naked a thousand times before I still cannot resist looking at her body. She has full and rich curly chestnut hair that tumbles halfway down her pale back and is slim, probably weighs no more than nine stone, and is about five four in height with toned and shapely limbs. Her breasts are big and firm with prominent nipples, her pubes a reddish-brown. Her complexion is pale.

I turn the light off and get into bed next to Sharon. The room is still dimly illuminated by the lights around and in particular the floodlit Parish Church which is just a couple of hundred yards away on the corner of Queens Road and Upper West Street.

There is plenty of time for foreplay, unlike earlier, as I caress her arms and kiss her neck. I tease her as much as possible, licking as close to her nipples without actually making contact with them. I rub gently between her upper thighs without touching her 'lips' then kiss her mouth and tell her I love her whilst dimly discerning her swollen nipples in the half light. She moans and I know she is slowly beginning to reach heat. I reach down with my right hand and begin to massage her engorged clitoris. Her left hand tries to stop me, but it is a game she plays for she really seeks to be forced to orgasm.

I pull her left arm behind her head and increase the frequency of my circling movements to her clitoris. I chew upon her nipples as her breathing deepens. She is close now to release.

Suddenly she arches her back and cries out before slumping back exhausted onto the bed.

"That was so good. It's been a while hasn't it," she says after a minute or so.

"Three months, but who's counting," I kind of joke.

"I'd better let you have your pleasure now. Do you want me on top or on bottom?"

"Bottom please."

I penetrate her and then wrap my legs around hers. She rubs my nipples without me having to request it. Within about half a minute of thrusting I reach the point of no return and as I do I visualise Claire's naked body.

"You were quick then."

"Men normally are quicker than women," I retort.

"Are they?" she responds cryptically.

We wish each other good night, embrace and kiss.

Prior to dropping off I reflect upon the events of the day, and the fact that having had no sex for three months I end up shagging two attractive women in the same day. I can't work out whether to feel guilty or self-satisfied...

Monday 9th February 2009: Do You Have any Weakness? - Blog

I had an appointment with the neurologist earlier.

During the course of the examination she asked me if I suffered from any weakness?

I wanted to say: "A penchant for spanking firm, lily white, naked female buttocks perhaps?"

But I didn't.

Friday 13th February 2009: The Future is Today; Tomorrow Never Comes - Blog

It's one of my colleague's funeral today. I wanted to go but as I suffered another bout of vertigo I decided to play safe and stay at home. There would be nothing worse than being ill and staggering around drawing attention away from the person who we are there to remember.

I feel a little better now but still not well enough.

It's a shame as he was a real 'Diamond Geezer'. He was one of those that what-you-saw-was-what-you-got. He could laugh at himself too; and more importantly he laughed at my jokes too!

He was only 56 and it was not two months ago that he seemed in good health - seemed. We were informed that he was undergoing a course of chemo and I thought well at least he's going to fight it. Next, I was shocked to hear, he had died.


I keep thinking: What's the point of it all?

Deafening cosmic silence.

There's a quote from Robin of Sherwood: 'Nothing is forgotten.' But, what is 'it', exactly, that remembers?

Sorry, too heavy.

The only option, I see, however absurd, is to live for the day. The future is today; tomorrow never comes.

Changing the subject...

I am looking forward immensely to the forthcoming 'torture' and 'flogging' of Nat - hope you're reading this. Juki is too. Last night I got out a few implements and tried them out gently on her jean clad bum. She concluded that the 'senior' cane is the most painful though the flogger came close. She also is determined to try the cane out on me and after I virtually gave her my copy of Il Postino, her new favourite film! Gratitude, I ask you!

She also told me that she was slippered on a few occasions at school and that that really hurt - something else I can try on one of my victims.

Changing the subject again...

I received a text from Ginger Jane this morning asking how I was. She seems keen to come over and stay the night. As I am still single, a meal, a DVD and a bit of mutual masturbation may be quite pleasant. Ginger Jane is in possession of lovely ivory fat arse which needs a good slap or even a caning. Unfortunately I don't think she's into that. She has got a rather pungent fanny which is interesting. I'll let you know.

Maria, though I had a hot chocolate with her the other day and introduced me to her daughter, still seems to want to maintain her distance. I'm not going to pressurise her. I noticed that she's got lovely tanned arms with alluring just noticeable dark hairs on. I would love to see her naked. But we'll see!


Just taken a picture of my cock on my phone. Don't ask me why - weird day. Anyway, I was reminded of the occasion I sent a picture of my erect cock to The Minger. We had just started dating and it seemed a romantic thing to do. I had waited for her to reply but she never got back to me.

A tad miffed I went round and saw her later. "I've never received it, or any of your texts," she had said.

After checking the mobile number it appeared I had transposed one of the figures.


Where had I sent it? Or rather who had I sent it to?

I then had this terrible vision of some little old lady utilising my pride and joy as a screensaver thinking it may have come from the Toadstool and Mushroom Fanciers Society.

I never heard back so it still may be floating about in the Ether. I probably could have been charged with indecency. I amended the number and all was well.

The next day the Minger sent me a text the next day informing me that she was about to send a picture of her cunt. I awaited it with pervy anticipation.

Sure enough my message alert sounded. I opened the multimedia inbox. And it was a picture of me.

Witty bitch. Witty fucking bitch!

Sunday 15th February 2009: So, Matt, How Did Valentine's Day Go?

So Matt, I hear you all say, how did Valentine's Day go?

Interesting, interesting...

I didn't surface till late as the tablets sometimes take a while to kick in. After they had I decided to nip up town and get a few things before settling down to the rugby having placed a fiver on the Scots.

In the High Street I bumped into Hopkins who suggested a coffee in the Bagel Shop.

Well, we were sitting outside supping cheap coffee and discussing Economic Nationalism, Distributism and Education amongst other things when 'Bob' strolled past on the opposite side past Thorntons - Bob and his wife (who always reminded me of an old fashioned school teacher), used to be Sharon's (I was with Sharon for just over twelve years) best friends at one time.

Anyway, I said 'hello' to Bob along with something witty. He responded friendly enough but carried on walking. I also suspected (because he lives in East Cowes) he had been round to pay a visit to Sharon who doesn't live too far away.

I also had to laugh inwardly because Bob was affecting his look of Sharon's-still-my-friend-and-I-know-all-about-your-sordid-sadomasochism-coupled-with-all-your-affairs-and-one-night-stands-and-I'm-far-more-moral-than-you-and-Sharon-values-morals-and-one-day-she-may-realise-when-she-dumps-her-current-no-hoper-that-I-was-the-best-one-after-all-and-I'll-have-her-and-you-won't!

I may have overdone the last bit but what the fuck!

But, but, I know something about Bob that he doesn't know I know.

A little background.

Bob was with his wife for many years but it was marriage going nowhere. But, after several years she, however, opted to go somewhere: an elderly rich widower with a dodgy ticker. I have to say that it hasn't quite panned out as she hoped. After ten years the 'ticker' is still ticking. Perhaps I'm being cynical.

Bob was devastated when she left him but I could understand why she did because he smoked and drank heavily, played his music way too loud and was also quite depressing to be around.

I actually used to look forward to working Sundays because Bob would normally turn up in the afternoon and go on endlessly about how badly his missus had treated him.

Mind you, if that wasn't bad enough Sharon used to have another friend, Angelica, who would often turn up as well and she would go on about her split up. A weekend break at Guantanamo Bay would have provided a welcome respite.

On one occasion Bob admitted to Sharon that he wished he'd married her all those years back. I think Sharon politely ignored him and changed the subject. Later, having recounted what he'd said, she told me that she had never fancied him. And never would.

I must admit I'd always had the impression that Bob had fancied her but to be honest I wasn't really bothered, because after me, Sharon wasn't going to opt for another loser (though she did funny enough after we had split up). However Sharon did share with me, a while later, a rather strange incident...

She'd finished work one day and was walking home along her street when she'd spotted Bob's car and because the vehicle had been parked badly she wondered if he'd been drinking. Sharon also knew he didn't have any other acquaintances in the road and was half expecting him to be waiting outside of the house for her.

But, he wasn't.

Now Sharon was always quite lax about security and often left her front door open which she had on this occasion - I hasten to add that this was prior to Sharon and myself purchasing the bungalow. Sharon upon getting in had straight away set about preparing herself some dinner in the downstairs kitchen which was next to the dining room which in turn was next to the main entrance. She had paid a visit to the loo and whilst in there had thought she had heard the front door opening and closing. She hadn't been particularly concerned thinking that it was probably her daughter who frequently visited her.

But it wasn't.

She then checked the door only to discover that it was now locked - odd. Concerned she might have had an intruder she went upstairs. But there was nobody there. At this point she noticed that her bedclothes were rumpled and that there was a slight hint of tobacco and alcohol. Putting two and two together she ventured out onto the street to see that Bob's car had now disappeared.

What she concluded was that Bob had been on the sauce and in his drunken stupor had decided that it would be prudent to go over to Sharon's, walk in, strip off, clamber into her bed, and wait for her. But he must have panicked and buggered off before he was discovered and totally humiliated.

Of course that may not have happened as it's all circumstantial, but me... I'm convinced.

So, Bob, keep smiling at me in that smug way of yours because I'm smiling too!

I have again gone off at a tangent.

Having finished our coffees Hopkins and me wandered off to the library where he has a small exhibition. I had a good look round and though I'm not arty I thought some were particularly good. His collection was of a maritime theme and my favourites were 'Medina Road', 'West Cowes' and 'Seaview Slipway'. I adored the warm colours and I would have been more than happy to have hung any of them on my walls. I wish him luck.

After shopping I returned home and to the rugby. I lost my fiver.

About five minutes later Nat phoned, to discuss his flogging. It turns out that he lives not quarter a mile away which is handy.

He's well spoken, articulate and sane, but if you're reading this Nat don't think because of that I'm going to be lenient. It's going to be hell for you as the flogging is going to be protracted and I have instructed Juki to show no mercy to your nipples whatsoever!

After I'd had dinner Juki turned up and asked if she could try out the cane on me in preparation for Nat's beating.

We went into my bedroom and I stripped off for her and lay face down on my bed; the first time I've been naked in front of a female for a long time. She told me she was going to bring it down really hard so I braced myself.

It stung, but not as much as I expected. This was the 'senior' cane I hasten to add.

I let her have another swipe and it landed in exactly the same position. That did sting!

She then tried out the leather studded paddle and the junior cane.

Now, having not been on the receiving end of CP for ages I actually found it quite stimulating and in my aroused state I thought the least I could do was perhaps give her a 'good lick' in gratitude. But she declined.

Once dressed and a bit bruised she told me that she had found punishing me really invigorating.

"Can I come round and cane you again, especially if I've had a hard day at work?" she had said.

"That's fine."

Then she opened up to me. "I love you but I don't want a relationship with you, a relationship is too painful if it goes wrong-"

I took the bull by the horns. "You're a virgin and you've never had a boyfriend?"

"Yes, that's true."

"So, how would you feel about me and other women?"

"I would be jealous but if you were always to be my friend then I would accept it."


"I had a lot of crap when I was a kid," she had added painfully.

So, this is the situation. She's a good friend who is going to beat me because she enjoys it. She is going to assist me in punishing subs. And I can have other women. Great.

The heavy conversation out of the way we settled down to watch The Big Sleep. We were disappointed. The title was apt. I found the 'magic' between Bacall and Bogart corny. And I never understood the plot either. Hopefully, Key Largo will be better.

Anyway, it was an interesting Valentine's Day.

And by the way, I didn't get any cards either!

Monday 16th February 2009: Pill to Erase Bad Memories - Blog

Pill to Erase Bad Memories. Headline in Daily Mail today.

"Reckon your numerous ex's will queuing up outside their doctors' to get that on prescription!"

Gee, thanks, Ronan.

Tuesday 17th February 2009: Healthy Living... Pah! - Blog

Eat five portions of fruit and veg a day;

Don't smoke;

Restrict your alcohol intake;

Take regular exercise.


My grandfather smoked eighty a day;

Consumed half a bottle of scotch before dinnertime;

Had a greasy cooked breakfast to start the day and normally finished off with chips etc;

Never exercised;

He rarely got to bed before two... and up at six;

He was bad tempered and stressed most of the time,


He got to the grand old age of thirty-two!

Healthy living?


Wednesday 18th February 2009: A Hot Date - Blog

Bumped into P in the town yesterday.

P is the spitting image of Gordon Brown.

P hates Gordon Brown with a vengeance.

What a cruel twist of fate that you should be the double of someone you loathe.

That's some sense of humour you've got there God.

Memo to the almighty: I absolutely detest Brad Pitt.

Anyway, that's by the way.

P recounted this tale of how when he was a young man his friends arranged a blind date for him.

Apparently she was 'really hot' and 'gagging for it'.

Being a sensible man (and also not wishing to jeopardise his chances) he decided to pop into Boots and purchase some condoms.

The assistant was an extremely attractive young lady and P was somewhat flustered.

Nevertheless he bought the condoms - ribbed for extra pleasure as advised by the young assistant - and went home to prepare for his hot date.

Later that evening he set off down to the pub where his mates and his date would be waiting.

As he entered the bar to his horror he saw that the 'hot date' was the same girl that had served him with the ribbed (for extra pleasure) condoms.

He was so embarrassed that he turned tail and went home.

He phoned his mates up later and excused his abscence by saying he had been unexpectedly ill.

I had to laugh as that's the sort of thing that would happen to me!

Thursday 19th February 2009: The Worm - Blog

A few years ago I used to subscribe intermittently to a fetish mag called Axis. I expect a few on here will have heard of it or even been members. It was, I think, a non-commercial enterprise. Sadly, due to the ill health of the founders, it folded a couple of years ago. But not before I'd had some 'fun' through it!

The first encounter I had through it was with Mistress V, a lifestyle Domme. I shall devote a weblog to that in due course.

But, it's the 'Worm' I want to tell you about today.

I can't remember the actual content of the ad I placed but I was basically looking for S&M fun with a female. I had put my 'mucky mobile' number in the ad. And waited.

In due course I had two or three responses from males which wasn't what I was hoping.

I then received a text from a male seeking someone to degrade him in front of his girlfriend. Disappointed, I despatched a rather rude and provocative message back. It read something like: Didn't you read the content of my advert? I am looking for a female, you pathetic little worm!

Surprisingly, I got a message back saying that was exactly the kind of response he wanted!!

He phoned and we had a long chat. It transpired that he was looking to be humiliated socially and in front of his girlfriend whom he said despised him (sounds like a lot of relationships too me).

I have to say at this juncture that it was impossible to verify anything he told me; it could all have been complete fabrication.

During the conversation (he seemed a sane fellow) I thought: What the hell and agreed to dominate him by phone for a while.

Most evenings he would phone at exactly the time I instructed him - he would have to cane himself if too early or too late - and I would relay my latest orders to him.

The first incident in which I contrived to humiliate him socially was in the pub on a Sunday afternoon where used to regularly drink with a circle of friends and their partners. After quizzing the Worm he admitted that one of the women there didn't like him much. Seeing an opportunity I ordered him to go to the pub next time with only enough money for one and half rounds. After everybody had purchased one round of drinks it would be the Worm's turn again. But he wouldn't have enough. My instructions were that he would have to request the very woman who despised him to help him with the round.

When he reported back to me a few days later he had told me he had copped a load of abuse from her which soured the atmosphere. The Worm was of course thoroughly humiliated and I made him wank over the phone after he had recounted the tale. I hasten to add that I completely controlled his sex life too.

The next task I set him was to 'accidentally' brush his arm against a female colleague's breast - dangerous. But living on the edge is exhilarating.

When he got back to me he told me that she hadn't believed him - despite his grovelling apologies - and had mentioned the incident to her brother who had come in and threatened him.

It was hard not to laugh as I ordered him to self-cane then pay me homage by shouting out my name as he orgasmed. I also used to get him to clamp his nipples to add to his suffering.

Also at this point he was begging me to meet him in London so he could handover money and for me to abuse him in person.

I nearly agreed but only on condition he would travel down from the Midlands with his partner (apparently he had a girlfriend too) only attired in an overcoat - I salivated at the prospect of them both being stopped and searched by the transport police.

He was also hoping to still persuade me to degrade him by using him as a piss pot whilst I shagged his woman in front of him. Which sounded good I must confess.

I have to say it was quite challenging each day to think up new tasks but I did come up with a cracker: he was to secure half a tennis ball around the crotch area and after a while a whole tennis ball. The idea was to look like his testicle(s) had swollen up. He was also to consume a raw clove or two of garlic each day before work such that he would stink his office out. He was also to purchase some harmless tablets and put them into a Chinese pill box. Now what I was doing was gambling on the fact that his appearance - he was to say nothing unless asked - would lead to him being called in by his superior. Total embarrassment for all parties concerned. He would then tell the boss that he suffered from recurrent swelling of his testicles and that the only medication that alleviated it was an old Chinese herbal preparation. He could show the boss the pill box with Chinese writing. He was to keep a straight face at all times. After a week or so he would take out the tennis balls and leave off the garlic. He would of course be the laughing stock of the office. It was a brilliant idea of mine I thought.

But that wasn't to be because he suddenly stopped phoning; he probably found someone who would indulge his fantasies in person.

He was great fun I must admit. And if you're on here now I'll say hello and thanks.

The other strange thing was that during my contact with The Worm I became much more assertive at work and socially. Probably did me good.

Oh well, happy memories!

Friday 20th February 2009: Indignant - Blog

Late one night a mugger wearing a ski mask jumps into the path of a well dressed man and sticks a gun in his ribs.

"Give me your money!" he demands.

Indignant, the clearly affluent gentlemen replies: "You can't do that - I'm Gordon Brown the Prime Minister."

"In that case," replies the mugger. "Give me MY money!"

Saturday 28th February 2009: The Official Account of the Flogging of Nat - Blog

Punishment was scheduled for 1500.

The prisoner was ordered to strip to the waist.

Nipple clamps were attached and the prisoner secured upright to the whipping station.

The prisoner was then lashed 100 times in groups of 10.

Madam J was in attendance to ensure that the stipulated number of strokes were carried out and the flogging in accordance with regulations.

Nipple clamps were then removed.

The prisoner was then secured facing the punishment officer, Master M.

25 strokes (50 in total) were then administered alternately to each nipple - Madam J ensuring the correct number were applied.

The prisoner was once again released and allowed water.

Clamps were once again applied to the miscreant's nipples.

The prisoner was then secured again to the whipping station and 50 lashes applied although 11 were adjudged by Madam J to be of insufficient force - these were re-administered (61 in total)

The prisoner was turned again and his trousers pulled down.

25 strokes were then applied to the prisoner's penis.

Out of compassion the prisoner was allowed to have some relief from the clamps.

The prisoner then had the nipple clamps reapplied with extra weights to compensate for the short period of release from them.

The miscreant was then secured to the punishment bar and 50 severe lashes administered.

This having been carried out to Madam J's satisfaction the punishment was adjudged to have been carried out in accordance with the regulations.

The prisoner was released.

The prisoner was gracious and thanked Madam J and Master M for their kind but, of necessity, severe treatment.

All present accepted that the prisoner had behaved stoically in the face of extreme punishment.

The session was now terminated and the prisoner left to reflect on the reasons for his punishment.

Madam J and Master M now left the punishment chamber.

Wednesday 11th March 2009: Saw the Minger Today - Blog

I found myself behind the 'Minger' today in the local supermarket. We had a pleasant and polite chat but all the time I was thinking how gloriously ugly she was. In fact she's really fucking ugly. She's so ugly that I just wanted to take her back to my flat and thrash her bare back with a flogger before fucking her from behind.

As we went our separate ways I wished her 'Take care' but I was thinking, lucky nobody can read our thoughts as I'd be fucking arrested, locked up and the key thrown away!

Tuesday 14th April 2009: Suicide - Short Story

Roger stood in plain view of himself in front of the large mirror in the sitting room - he wanted to see himself die.

There was nothing for him to live for: his wife had left him, and his career was going nowhere fast. Nothing excited him anymore. He had nothing to look forward to. He was permanently tired with hypertension and cholesterol; it would only be a matter of time before a fatal heart attack anyway. Nobody would miss him; perhaps his income but that would be compensated by insurances. Nobody listened to him; his opinions and interests counted for nothing. His wife had only been interested in his salary. His son laughed at him - he was a joke.

It was time to put an end to this miserable existence.

He placed the cold metal of the revolver to his temple, felt it draw the warmth out of him.

What would he feel?

Would he see himself fall?

Would he hear the shot?

Nothingness, oblivion, was that what death was? How could you comprehend the incomprehensible?

As a child he had believed in God.

He hesitated before he pulled the trigger. Wasn't it taught that it was wrong to take one's life?

But, he had long since become an atheist.

Perhaps he would spend the rest of eternity in hell?

Rubbish. Religion was just a myth.

He lowered the gun.

He raised the gun.

"Fuck it!"

He squeezed the trigger and brilliant white light blossomed within his mind and vanished as swiftly. There was no pain.


He was eight years old and his mum had entered the classroom.

She had been crying; her mascara was smudged.

She was at his desk and something was terribly wrong.

"Daddy's dead, darling."

She clutched at him.

From that moment on he would have to pay for his crime. Karma. He would suffer grief for the rest of his life - his son's grief - and not know why.

From now on he would be his son.

A terrible abiding emptiness filled his being. The tears flowed.

Wednesday 15th April 2009: Einstein a Psychopath? - Dark Short Story

It was Boogar who kind of made me even things out.


That's an odd name you're thinking.

Well, Boogar is my invisible friend and he's been in and out of my life since childhood and Boogar first made himself known when I was eight.

I'd been given a good hiding for not eating up all my dinner and then locked in my bedroom till I stopped crying and calmed down.

It was an injustice and I had felt betrayed by my mother - weren't parents supposed to care for their offspring?

The whole unhappy situation had arisen because my mother had been talking to 'precious' Neville's mother about how I didn't eat all my dinner and Neville's mother had retorted haughtily: "Neville ALWAYS eats all his food, EVEN the greens!"

My status sensitive mother had felt diminished by this remark - I had indirectly and unintentionally let her down.

So, the next time I had been unable to finish my meal I had been given a good beating and then thrown into my room.

I was still sobbing when Boogar appeared. I say appeared but more like I became aware of his presence. I mean, I can't actually see Boogar but where he is, reality distorts, kind of like a fold in the space time continuum - sort of.

I know also that Boogar is the same age as me and that our destinies are entwined.

I have to say that I'm pretty certain that Boogar has my best interests at heart but he has done some pretty weird things in the past...

I remember on one occasion Mum coming up stairs to find me with my head down the loo and my hair soaking wet after having the chain repeatedly pulled.

"Matt! What on earth are you up to?!" she had bellowed.

"My invisible friend is bullying me!" I had retorted.

"Go and dry your hair - there are all sorts of germs in that bowl. Sometimes I don't think you are right in the head!" She had then gone off tutting.

Most of the time, however, Boogar gets things sorted for me.

I have digressed a bit. Back to the locked bedroom...

There I am sniffling and feeling very sorry for myself when I became aware of Boogar for the very first time.

Boogar wasn't, as you would expect for an eight year old, as articulate as he is now but he conveyed to me that what had just happened wasn't right, and that things had to be balanced.

"It was natural justice," he added.

He then instructed me on what I had to do.

I told him that what he had in mind was wrong and that two wrongs don't make a right, just as we had been recently taught in school by the vicar.

But Boogar was vehement: "Two wrongs do make a right!"

You see, that's the difference between me and Boogar: I'm quite mild and meek and people plainly take advantage of me whereas Boogar, well, Boogar just doesn't put up with any shit at all!

So, Boogar reveals his plan and what is expected of me and though a bit nervous I agree to go through with it.

Right, my Mum used to have a miniature poodle named, of all things, Wagner.

How could you have any animal less Wagnerian?! Ride of the Valkyries - yes. Ride of the Poodles - nah!

And I still, after all this time, retain a vision of winged poodles.

Not only that, Wagner, was the 'house' composer of the Nazis - can you imagine any self-respecting member of the Master Race associating with a Poodle, a German Shepherd, yes... but a Poodle.

I suppose I ought to explain about my mother:

Mum was an art teacher at the local private school and she was also very much into architecture and classical music. We lived in a modest-ish three bedroom Georgian house in Sunset Road which had been part of the divorce settlement with my father John; who I can vaguely remember as he left when I was about eighteen months old.

My Mother's parents resided in John Street and would look after me when Mum couldn't - not that often I add.

My Mother's name was Shirley and she was originally from Manchester though she tried to downplay her origins by affecting a middle class Southern English tone - sometimes she would forget herself and revert back to her natural accent before correcting herself halfway through a sentence - I found that quite amusing as got older.

I think, on the other hand, I let her down with my strong Isle of Wight twang.

Anyway, she absolutely adored Wagner the poodle which I couldn't understand as Wagner was flea bitten and half bald - Kojak had more hair, and the fur that it did possess was discoloured; a sort of peachy tone instead of white.

It had blackheads on its stomach and was yappy and ill tempered - even the cat, Stravinsky, used to bully it.

Forgive me whilst I digress yet again - I've just remembered a couple of incidents involving Stravinsky and Wagner...

Stravinsky was a male tabby tom and could be quite vicious at times. One morning at the breakfast table Mum said: "Where's Wagner? He should be down by now!"

Wagner used to sleep with my mother during the night on her bed I hasten to add.

Quite often Mum would get up first, get dressed, go down stairs and then Wagner would follow a few minutes later.

But on this particular morning Wagner had failed to turn up.

"Be a darling, Matt, and see where he has got to?"

I got up and went to the hallway and was about to ascend the stairs when I espied Stravinsky lying on the top step. Wagner was behind him and it was obvious Stravinsky was deliberately blocking his way.

I can now imagine Stravinsky, football hooligan style, taunting him: "Try and get past Wagner, if you think you're hard enough!"

Wagner was quivering and I could see he was desperate to get down to the security and warmth of the kitchen - these were the days before universal central heating.

I called to Wagner and he wagged his little stump of a tail, perked up confidence and trotted past Stravinsky. As he did so Stravinsky casually swiped him with his paw with just enough force to propel Wagner forward causing his front legs to buckle under his body. Wagner then slid down the eleven or twelve steps banging his chin on each one prior to hitting the flag stone floor with a sickening crunch. Wagner looked a bit concussed but surprisingly was still in one piece - worse luck!

On another occasion Stravinsky was resting languidly on the rocking chair in the kitchen when Wagner wandered underneath. Stravinsky was obviously outraged at the audacity of it - how dare Wagner intrude upon his space! Stravinsky then clawed repeatedly at Wagner's back removing clumps of fur - which may have explained why Wagner was going bald - and then finally biting him.

Actually, I think Wagner may have had the last laugh at that one because Stravinsky became ill shortly after for a while: vomiting and feverish. He probably contracted an unknown virus from Wagner's scabby back.

Back to the tale!

A few days later the opportunity arose - remember at Booger's instigation, not mine. I waited one morning for my Mum to put the washed empty milk bottles out at the front door. She then went upstairs for some reason. Wagner was still in the kitchen in his stinking wicker basket, asleep. I very quietly undid the latch on the front door and then stole into the kitchen. I picked up Wagner and fortunately he didn't struggle - he was heavy for me, an eight year old, and made for the kitchen door. All the time I was listening out for my mother but she was occupied with whatever she was doing upstairs, making beds or cleaning. I got out of the kitchen and into the hallway where the front door was. I then shoved Wagner out onto the busy street being careful not to click the latch shut. I then went into the lounge to pretend to play with my train set which I had put out the previous day. It must have been a weekend or school holiday because I can't recollect having to prepare for school - it is a long time ago.

A few minutes later I heard the screeching of tyres and then my Mum running down the stairs. I think she may have thought it was me.

The next thing she's cradling Wagner's limp and broken body in her arms and she's crying. She asked me what happened and I told her that I didn't know as I was playing with my trains. Suddenly she realised that the door hadn't been closed properly when she'd rushed out - the beginning of years of self-recrimination.

"How could I be so careless? I've murdered Wagner!" she wailed.

Actually, the school orchestra once 'murdered' Wagner too years later!

Still, I couldn't believe how well things had turned out by trusting in Boogar. It was just so satisfying to know I had gained revenge on my Mother and in such a subtle way - though I didn't really appreciate that till later. And it would be a long time till she forgave herself.

On the other hand I'd probably done Wagner a favour by prematurely putting an end to his miserable existence.

Anyway, Mum duly buried Wagner in the back garden.

Funny enough, I think Stravinsky missed Wagner - he had no one to terrorise.

Shortly after, Mum bought home a parrot who she named Beethoven.

I tried to teach Beethoven a few sentences but the only phrase he picked up, in a posh accent, for some strange reason was: "Stop bithering me Matt, you aggriviting little shit!"

But, we didn't hear that for too long - a cheap second hand cage with a dodgy catch saw to that!

One afternoon I returned from school to find exotic coloured feathers scattered all over the lounge and Beethoven partially consumed under the television stand.

There could only be one culprit and I can recollect Mum saying later that day: "It mist have been Stravinsky because he hisn't eaten all his Kit-E-Kat, why do cits have to be so cruel?"

But, the wheel of karma kept revolving because the next door neighbour, a government scientist, owned a gay Rottweiler - please don't smirk - called Einstein.

I didn't really know at my age what 'queer' implied but Mum kept going on about it because Einstein, apparently, was forever attempting to shag Wagner - this was before he met his 'timely' death.

Our back gardens were divided by a privet hedge which was easily and often breached by Einstein.

I was there when Mum came out and caught Einstein one time pinning down a whimpering Wagner and attempting to 'roger' him. Mum threw a bucket of cold water over them and Einstein retreated back to his own garden.

What we think happened was that Einstein tried the same thing on with Stravinsky and that Stravinsky retaliated by clawing him in the eye, enraging Einstein who then shook Stravinsky so violently by the neck that he managed to break it.

Nobody can be really certain about the circumstances but Stravinsky had been found with a broken neck next door and Einstein's eye had been slashed.

Mum had a big row with the next door neighbour, Will - whose surname was Barrow - about the incident.

They were arguing over the hedge and I recollect Mum telling (in a posh accent to affect superiority) Mister Barrow that: "If it's not bad enough thit Einstein is a bloody queer ripist, he's also a ficking psychopith!"

Will had countered by stating that: "I'd just about had enough of Stravinsky shitting in my vegetable patch anyway!"

It was very tense between the two neighbours however an uneasy peace eventually prevailed but that wheel of karma just kept on a turning...

A couple of months later Einstein savaged an Avon Lady - I can just visualise that encounter...

'Bing Bong' "Avon calling," announced in saccharine tones followed almost immediately by snarling and screaming!

There was a court case and Einstein was ordered to be put down - which he duly was.

Einstein's body was brought back to his home in a wheel barrow, by Will Barrow and buried in his back garden.

Reflecting back on it that little area of Ryde came close to rivalling Westminster Abbey: Three great composers... DE-composing in our garden... and arguably the greatest scientist of all, relatively speaking, of all time interred next door.

Wit eh?

Sorry, I went off at a bit of a tangent there.

So, that was the beginning of Boogar entering my life, and it had worked out alright though: Mum had suffered guilt about Wagner for a long time after, but it was her own fault as Boogar reminded me because she had treated me harshly and unjustly.

Boogar has stepped in on more than a few occasions since when I've needed him, and I'll share a few more tales about him in due course - if you think that's wrong then remember Boogar's words: Two wrongs do make a right!

Friday 17th April 2009: Knowing - Blog

Knowing that when we die we are totally oblivious then we will have no concept of the passing of time. This means that we will reach the end of time in no time subjectively - a paradox. Sorry, I have these weird speculations from time to time.

Changing the subject...

Juki and I saw the film Knowing last night at the cinema. Expecting the usual Hollywood fare I was pleasantly surprised by how exciting and scary it was. The effects were brilliant too. I'd recommend it.

Sunday 19th April 2009: Rachmaninov - Blog

Rachmaninov: Piano Concerto No.2 in C Minor was what I felt compelled to play half way through my day.

I received a letter yesterday from my Company informing me, that after 25 years, I would be leaving due to 'Frustration of Contract'. This is because of my recurrent illness. I want to work but nature has decided to the contrary. I will be gone by the middle of May and I will get a payoff but will be entitled to nothing from the state because the system works under the principle that the longer and harder you work and the more you pay in the less you are entitled to. I have been working since I left school in 1973.

Okay, I've had my gripe. Moving on...

Pierce and Farrah phoned yesterday to inform me that they were over on the Island for a while as Farrah's Nan had died. She was in her nineties. They also invited Jeremy (my childhood friend) and myself for a quick drink at 'Spoons. Once there Pierce asked Jeremy how he was getting on with married life - he wedded in January. He also asked him how Auto Pilot was too. Auto Pilot is the ex-husband of Jeremy's new wife. And also his ex-friend too. The reason for this is that Jeremy was knocking off Amanda (Auto Pilot's wife) whilst she was still with Auto Pilot and also still playing squash with him. Mind you, Auto Pilot was also having an affair - I'm sure Isle of Wight people think fidelity is something to do with the quality of music reproduction.

Anyway, as Pierce asks Jeremy about Auto Pilot I butt in trying to be witty: "After all that time you spent in the showers with him and then you go and run off with his wife. He's doubly heartbroken!"

I did wonder as I spoke whether I may have been over the top but everybody laughed. Thankfully.

I then told Pierce about how, on a whim, I purchased a small crossbow and then shot Juki on the arse with a ball bearing after she wondered if it would hurt. After I had shot her we inspected her bare bum just to see a small red mark. But the next day there was a bruise the size of a tennis ball. Juki said I have got to take a couple of hard strokes of the cane for that at some point.

Still, I shocked which is what I like doing.

After an hour everybody wandered off but it was good to catch up.

Later I brought a new pair of trousers for my date with Maria which went really well - I didn't tell Juki even though we are just friends as she gets jealous. I took Maria to Michelangelo's on Ryde Seafront. The food was really tasty. Funny enough Maria isn't doing much dancing at the moment as she did her leg in and is hobbling. She's really sexy with lustrous dark hair and eyes with olive skin - I couldn't take my eyes off her bare suntanned arms. She paid me a compliment by remarking how young I looked for my age - she only looks mid-thirties herself though she is actually in her early forties.

After the meal we strolled slowly along the Esplanade and looked at the lights from Portsmouth. I felt good. The best for a long time.

We got a taxi back to our separate home and I kissed her gently on the lips as we parted - a great vanilla evening. We're going to meet up soon again.

So, I've lost my job but gained a girlfriend.

Monday 20th April 2009: Lizzy Totally Humiliated - Blog

Lizzy, my submissive online friend contacted me yesterday with some great news - she had carried out my latest task.

Saturday evening just dressed in her nightie - totally naked underneath - she had gone to her front door to check out a strange noise. The door had 'accidentally' closed on her nightie trapping her outside. All she could do was avail herself of the nightie, leaving her naked, and knock on the door of her neighbour who was male and in her sixties. The neighbour was totally surprised when he was confronted with Lizzy in all her natural beauty, and then some as she keeps her fanny shaved. Lizzy also told me that her nipples were like organ stops, and not just because of the cold. The neighbour kept smirking and couldn't keep his eyes off her. The 'ordeal' only lasted about five minutes as he was able to get back in for her.

Later she masturbated and had a really strong orgasm - the embarrassment and humiliation had really left her soaking.

Of course if I had been there I would have administered a prolonged and hard slippering till she could have stood it no more for being so naughty - and the marks would have lasted a week.

I have set her another task and will keep you all posted.

Tuesday 21st April 2009: Caned Juki Earlier - Diary Entry

As regular followers of my weblog will know, Juki is my partner in crime. She is looking to help me give a sub a good caning. But I suggested she experience some CP herself before she doles it out.

Anyway, about half seven she popped round and told me she was ready to face the cane. She went into my bedroom and I ordered her to strip and lie face down on my bed. I gave her a few minutes on her own and then walked in. She was as I ordered.

Juki is about five three with angular features, blue eyes and shoulder length chestnut coloured hair. She has a few freckles on her pale arms and back and is very slim.

To begin with I used the leather paddle on her - about ten mild ones on each buttock. Then I utilised the junior cane across both - she said it hurt more on her left buttock so I concentrated on that being a bastard. Next was the flogger and I built up the level till she was flinching. I then gave her about a dozen with the senior cane before finishing off with a slippering. Her buttocks were quite red and will be bruised tomorrow. Afterwards, she said she found it stimulating and reckons she could get addicted to it.

To give her a chance to get her own back I have consented to taking several hard strokes with the senior cane another day. That is unless we get a sub soon!

Later on we watched a DVD and when Juki had gone home I ended the evening messaging my female sub from the Midlands.

Time for bed now, and a wank.

Monday 4th May 2009: Weary of Life - Blog

I woke this morning. I had been dreaming I had been making a French movie. Bizarre yet stylish: an image of a ring with an H being slowly covered by a rising level of blood; a hairy canoe slalom through rapids in gorges; a pretty girl; a psychopathic killer. Odd.

What does it signify? Who knows? Who cares? Apart from me.

I realised that I was weary of life. No. I was weary of my illness. But I cannot separate the two - they are inextricably linked.

Thoughts of Dignitas.

I'll give it a year if it a year if I last a year.

Tuesday 5th May 2009: Meaningless Meanings - Blog

Not knowing the reason for life is why it is so interesting - read that a couple a days ago in a book of underground short stories. Think I'll reflect on that for a bit...

Okay, I've reflected on it.

Fuck! Why didn't I think of that?

Meaningless meanings.

Friday 8th May 2009: The Golden Boot - Blog

That's it. I've been with the Company 25 years and I leave, officially Sunday, with a modest payoff - the 'Golden Boot'.

I should feel apprehensive about it but I don't. Why? Because my poor health worries me more. I am convinced I am not long for this world. Fear. The most powerful of emotions hovers around me all the time. Sometimes I forget it. But not for long.

What to do in the time I have left?

I don't know. Not much time but maybe plenty of thinking.


Inside I'm Dancing

Just watched this film with Maria.

Forgot how good it was.

Rent or purchase it if you can - you won't regret doing so!

Tuesday 12th May 2009: What's the Most Shocking Thing You've Seen? - Blog

What's the most shocking thing you've ever seen in real life?

The second most shocking thing to me was waking up, many years ago, to see my partner, Sharon, with a contorted purple face frothing at the mouth. I thought she was dying but it turned out she had suffered an epileptic fit. Even worse would have been the fact that she would have died in the very same bedroom that my mother passed away in. Fortunately, she was okay.

The worst incident I ever saw was when I was a bus driver. I had just pulled away from a bus stop layby outside a hospital, St Mary's, but had had to stop for a red light at a Pelican crossing. A group of pedestrians (some from my bus) lead by a young blonde curly headed girl commenced to cross. As the girl got to the centre of the crossing a white Ford Escort ploughed into her causing her to smash into the windscreen and then somersault like a rag doll before landing hard onto the tarmac - absolutely still. I thought she was dead. Strangely I didn't worry for her - she was out of it - but immediately felt terribly, terribly sad for her loved ones. She was so young too - in her twenties.

A doctor who had been a passenger on my bus immediately attended to her and I detected some slight movement.

To cut a long story short she was knocked unconscious and only suffered bruising. She was very lucky.

The car driver admitted it was his fault for driving through a red light - he was trying to overtake me believing that I was pulling out and failed to notice that I had stopped for a red light.

I have to admit it really shook me up at the time and it just struck me how tenuous our hold on life is. And how tragic too.


Cynical? Moi?

Several hot chocolates, an Italian meal, a few drinks, a Malaysian meal, a couple of taxi fares and an expensive bottle of perfume. Three weeks of me wooing her.

What does she give me?

A text informing me that she can't cope with a relationship.

Fuck. She asked me out.

I guess it was getting to just about the time she treated me. I guessed wrong.

Cynical? Moi?

Wednesday 13th May 2009: I've Never Been Really Happy - Blog

I've never been really happy.

Those were my cheerful thoughts prior to me drifting off to sleep last night. I could only think of about a dozen times in my fifty-one years when I experienced true happiness or elation; or a feeling of contentment or hope. That's fucking sad but after a bit my thoughts crystallised into believing that death may not be such a bad thing after all and I felt bizarrely consoled by this and drifted off to sleep.

Today, I still can't shake the feeling quite out of my head. A part of me says that I should be concerned by these dark thoughts but another part just isn't. It will pass, I'm sure.

Changing the subject...

We watched the Star Trek movie last night and was quite disappointed. Juki reckons that it was too reliant on special effects and I agree.

Funny enough my favourite Star Trek episode was The Cage which starred Jeffrey Hunter. I must get a copy of it.

Thursday 14th May 2009: The Dark Descent? - Blog

I walk into the chemists. I go up to the sunglasses display. I think: I'll try one on, reckon I look cool in sunglasses. I select a pair of mirrored dark blue shades. I put them on and look in the mirror. I do indeed look cool. Then I notice a roughness about my skin. I hurriedly take off the glasses. My skin is ageing rapidly in front of me. The flesh begins to melt and bits of my skull start to show through...

I awake. It is just a dream. For some reason I think of something I had written about freedom on this site: True freedom is the freedom not to choose.

A further thought about freedom: True freedom is the freedom not to be.

The dark descent has begun?

Day Trip to Brighton - Blog

Downhill bike ride to the Hovercraft. 1229 train from Portsmouth Harbour. Two chavs talking too loud but saying nothing. One pervert (me). A weirdo - there just has to be one - whistling Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue for too long. Just past Barnham, a view of the river Arun and Della. Happy memories of a sultry summer Saturday with my ex supping at the Black Rabbit, strolling round the town and stripping off naked and fucking close to the river. August 2007.

A few stops before Brighton the number of perverts in the carriage double. I greet pervert #2 and shake his hand. Ronan, my old school friend.

A coffee on the beach. An open top bus tour. Curries at the Marina. Chats about mistresses and CP. Discussions about politics and old school mates. Some not mates.

Back on the bus.

Coffee and cake in town.

1800 train back. Juki texts me to suggest a caning session. Me, I presume. 'Okay' I respond, she's a good friend.

A bomb scare at the Harbour.

A chat to a good looking woman.

1955 Hover to Ryde.

A ride up the hill. Heavy breathing and sweat.

My downstairs neighbour asking me to water his vegetables while he's on holiday. Okay. Does he know that I'm to plants what Dr Shipman was to pensioners?

A cup of tea. A lonely evening. A wank.

Friday 15th May 2009: Auntie is Dead - Blog

I could hear the rain pattering down. I couldn't see it as my curtains were still drawn. I had slept late.

The phone by my bedside rang. Bloody cold sellers! I thought. Wrong. It was my cousin (through law). "Bad news. Auntie passed away yesterday."

We talked earnestly. We talked trivia.

The receiver was replaced.


My great auntie to be accurate. She was 94 and died of old age. She had saved my great uncle from loneliness and an early death through too much drink. My mother had introduced them when they were in their early fifties. She was kind to me when I was little. Kind all the time. She had a great sense of humour.

The last time I had seen her I had welled up. Emaciated and sleeping the rattly and wheezy slumber of those close to the end. In fact I hadn't recognised her at the end of the ward, thought they had mistakenly put the wrong name at her bedside.

I feel sad but still can't quite grasp the fact that she has gone. She's not suffering anymore which is a relief.

Enough said.

Saturday 16th May 2009: I Really Must... - Blog

Time: 2030-ish. Place: The northern side to the entrance of Ryde Harbour on the Isle of Wight.

From where I am, facing west, the most significant feature is Ryde Pier. The pier constructed in 1815 is the oldest pier in Britain. It is the fourth longest behind: Southend, Southport and Walton-on-Naze. It actually consists of three piers: One for the railway, another for a tramway (disused since 1969) and the busiest section which is utilised by pedestrians, cyclists and light traffic.

As I hold this in my mind's eye a train rumbles down the tracks.

The train has two coaches and is of ex London Underground stock - and liveried, for heritage reasons, in London Underground colours. The train is due to meet the 20:15 Catamaran from Portsmouth Harbour.

There is also a stream of cars travelling down the pier to either pick up passengers from the 20:15 from Portsmouth or drop off for the 20:40 to Portsmouth Harbour.

The twinkling of head and tail lights from the vehicles in the twilight evening travelling down the pier looks pretty I think.

Beyond the pier and to the west, about four to five miles away, is the northern most point of the Island which ends in East Cowes and Cowes.

I can't make out East Cowes but I can just discern in the fading light the 'Twin Towers' of Osborne House.

Further still, getting on for perhaps near on twenty miles, I espy the orange glow of Fawley Oil Refinery at the far mouth of Southampton Water - curiously attractive.

The sun is swollen, blood red and shortly to dip below the horizon.

Between the pier and me is about an eighth of a mile. At the base of the pier is the Esplanade Railway Station and landward to that, Ryde Bus Station - where I used to work.

Traversing east is first the Hovercraft Terminal with its concrete apron and three craft finished for the day. Next to that is Planet Ice where you can ice skate and watch the Wightlink Raiders ice hockey team play - there is also a gym above and round the rink. Further along is LA Bowl and above that a popular night club.

I notice that the town of Ryde is built on a gentle hill - not that gentle for old folk - and that its most noticeable land mark on the top of that hill is the spire of The Parish Church which can be seen from miles around and is floodlit at night.

I would like to describe more of the town and its surrounding area but I am unable to move - a policeman has me pinned down whilst he searches me. I'm not dangerous but he has to do his job. My hands are pinioned behind my back and he informs me that I will be getting up and accompanying them to the station. I see the second cop standing legs astride with both hands gripping a Taser which is trained on me - I reckon he watches too much American TV. In the background is a police van and a small group of onlookers.

It is at this point that I realise that, I really must stop masturbating in public.

Monday 18th May 2009: Claire Slippered and Caned Cruelly - Spanking Fiction

Claire, my ex. She broke my heart. And now she is going to 'pay'.

I have made her strip naked and shave her fanny - I like her cunt bare and exposed. Vulnerable.

Facially she is an amalgam of Jodie Foster and Gaby Roslin.

Her golden hair dances upon her lightly freckled shoulders and her flesh is fair. She is slim but not thin and her breasts are modest. Her legs are strong.

I am curiously drawn to her 'imperfections': single small moles on her wrist and thigh with a couple of cuties on her right midriff.

"I am going to punish you for the pain you caused me!"

"I deserve it. I treated you cruelly. Beat me as you see fit," she says with a 'Scouse' accent.

After all this time I am still captivated by her voice, her body. I love her. But she must still be taught a... lesson.

I move the stool into the centre of the room and she casts me a glance of apprehension - to no avail.

"Bend over the stool. I am going to give you three very hard strokes of the slipper, like the teachers used to give us."

She bends over the stool and I observe her body tense.

I grip the plimsoll in my right hand and bring it down hard onto her left buttock - her naked body shudders. Already there is a scarlet imprint of the sole.

Again, I swing the slipper onto her buttock with a resounding whack. She moans but takes it well.

I notice the contrast between her reddening left cheek and her pale untouched right cheek - that will soon change I think cruelly.

I hit her as hard as I can and her nude body recoils with the blow. She starts to sniffle but it"s not over - yet.

"Straighten up."

She obeys with her arms by her sides.

I approach her from behind and hiss into her ear: "The pain you are feeling now is nothing to what I felt when you dumped me for him!"

Do I detect guilt?

"Reflect on what you did to me, dear, for a minute. Then I"m going to cane you!"

"H-how many d-do I have to take?" she stutters out.

"We were together for nine months in total and you've had three already so six with the cane - a whack for each month."

She is resigned to taking it.

"Bend over again and grasp the lower rungs of the stool. This is going to really hurt!"

I watch her comply noticing the tautness in her sexy bare arms.

I weigh the cane in my hand then swing it down across both buttocks. Instantly a ruddy ridge appears. She is strangely silent.


Number two stroke impacts across the flesh of her buttocks. "OOOWWW!" she cries out.

Four more 'months' to go.

I take my time to prolong her suffering. Her deserved suffering.

"March. And the month of your birthday. Happy birthday... bitch! "" I deliver it as hard as I can. She screams and for a moment I think she is going to straighten up.

Three crimson stripes now 'adorn' her buttocks with her left buttock already ruddy from the 'kiss' of the slipper.

"April. But it was me that was the fool!"

The fourth stroke lands along the tracks of the second one and beads of blood form. But I am in no mood for mercy.

"May. And no holiday for you!"

She whimpers and sobs but remains - all credit to her - in the punishment position. The cane 'whooshes' and 'cracks' as it connects. Her vulnerable body shakes and her crying intensifies.

"June. The beginning of my pain when you ditched me. But it is the end of yours!"

As the sixth one lands, she yells out, straightens up and throws herself into my arms.

"I'm so, so sorry. I love you and I have passed your test. Please, I beg of you, have me back!"

I relent.

"Fuck me!" she pleads.

I strip, casting my clothes to the floor, and then begin to fuck her hard. I thrust as though I might split her in two. She gasps and pants. Her breasts and chest become flushed. As I climax so does she. I doubt that we have even been fucking for a minute.

She was also back now with the one man who truly loved her.

Tuesday 19th May 2009: Poor Tragic Catherine - Blog

Your name was Katherine and I awoke late today thinking of you. We had played on the beach whilst our mothers had walked and talked. We would have been about seven or eight.

At first you were shy. It was a winter Sunday and cold. It didn't matter as we were wrapped up warm. We chased each other. We threw stones together in the choppy sea. We jumped off low sea walls to land with a thump onto soft dry golden sand. Western Gardens, before the never completed relief road.

We tried, and failed, to get into the disused roller-skate rink with its broken windows when we thought no one was looking.

Our mums walked and talked and we ran and played.

I was young but I kind of grew fond of you that day. I think we were bought ice creams but it all goes hazy now. You returned to the mainland and I never saw you again.

Another memory, and later, maybe a couple of months. I am in the kitchen at home when Mum comes and speaks to me. She is solemn. "Katherine's mummy has committed suicide."

I don't think I really reacted at the time. I didn't understand but, it must have gone deep, really deep because now I am thinking: What terrible despair drove her to take her life and abandon her only daughter in the most unimaginable way? To break that little girl's heart who wouldn't, couldn't have understood...

What ever happened to that little girl? And as I write, again fragments of memories of that day flicker through my mind like an old black and white film...

Did she overcome that terrible tragedy? Did it make her stronger in some strange way? Did she find love? A loving and happy family of her own?

Perhaps she turned to faith?

Or was her life ruined? Failure at school? A string of unhappy and unfulfilling relationships? Alcoholism? Drugs?

Did she take her life too?

I'll never know. And why have I dredged up this memory from so long ago like a body retrieved years later from a melting glacier?

Poor tragic Katherine.

I cannot forget...

Wednesday 20th May 2009: Drop Your Trousers - Blog

A few years back. I'm in the doctor's surgery. I have something that is worrying me. My doctor is Indian, and charming, but for some reason he reminds me of Kenneth More the actor.

"Do you think you could just drop your trousers and pants please?"

I'm kind of uncomfortable with it but I comply nevertheless. Whilst I do that he slips on a surgical rubber glove.

He comes up to me and gently feels around my testicles.

I don't think he finds anything.

"That reminds me," he says. "I must pick up some onion bhajis for tea."

He pulls the glove off and throws it in the bin.

Funny thing is, I only came in to ask him about the spate of headaches I had been suffering from...


If you masturbate then you're gay because you are having sex with an individual of the same gender. If you are playing with your own penis it's only a small step up to playing with someone else's penis.

The same applies to a woman - naturally.

I explained this to my homophobic friend. He had no real answers.

Just a thought.

Thursday 21st May 2009: The Road to Dignitas - Blog

Yesterday afternoon. At the top of Union Street opposite Wetherspoons. An old school colleague, M, waves to me from her car. I make a joke about kerb crawling and jump in.

"Coffee?" I suggest.

"That'll be good. Where?"

We drive along the Esplanade and opt for the Appley Cafe.

I buy her a diet coke and I have a hot chocolate and a Bakewell Tart.

We're just up from the beach with a great view of the Solent - Portsmouth and Spinnaker Tower can be clearly seen. The Ryde Dotto Train passes by. We wave.

"I'm not on it this year because of my illness," I explain to her.

Coke dribbles down the side of her mouth. She's just been to the dentist and is still numb.

I suddenly feel dizzy and clutch onto the table.

"If anyone's watching us, they'll wonder how we managed to shake off our carers," I joke.

I start to feel worse. My balance starts to go and I feel that I am about to collapse.

She gets me in the car and takes me home.

I take two tablets and threw myself onto the sofa. I fall asleep and when I wake I feel better but not right.

I get through the evening. I even manage to wank about a girl I once had a one night stand with a few years ago.

After, I wonder what would have happened if I had died mid-wank and had been found naked with penis in hand - a good tale for the grandchildren.

This morning I suffer another attack.

I feel a little better now.

The truth is that I am not going to get better and if you read between the lines, the writing's on the wall.

I'm scared about how bad it's going to get. Fear. That's what runs through me most of the time. Fear, the most powerful of all emotions. I have posted that before on here.

Dignitas. Is Dignitas my only option?

All my friends and relatives could cope with my death. Except my son. I would rather just do it. But, I have to talk to him. It's the right thing to do.

Saturday 23rd May 2009: For Fuck's Sake - Blog

A few years ago.

I'm a bus driver. I'm on a route that picks up school kids from Seaview, Elmfield and Oakfield and then takes them to Ryde High School. It's tightly timed and busy.

At Elmfield a young mum gets on with her son who's about five. "One to Ryde Bus Station please," she says.

I inform her that the she would be better getting the bus immediately behind - and it is actually behind - as this one takes the longer route.

"I'm not in a rush," she replies. She pays her fare and sits down. I carry on with the service.

Everywhere I go I get held up: Motorists pushing their way through gaps; Cars parked on corners so I can't swing round; Mothers dropping off sons and daughters where they're not supposed to - frustrating, and I have to commence another service straightaway when I get in.

I finally arrive at the Esplanade Bus Station.

The mum who got on at Elmfield gets up and walks down the aisle to alight from the bus with her son. As they get level with the cab the little boy says: "Mummy, what does 'For Fucks Sake!' mean?"


I remind myself in future to check first that the microphone isn't still on when I take over a vehicle.

I never heard anything from the Company. Guess, I got away with it.

Monday 25th May 2009: True Love - Blog

I'm with Sharon, my ex, in a large room. I do not recognise the room. In the middle of the room is a shower.

It is, of course, a dream. Dreams are bizarre. What or who creates them?

I digress.

Sharon is older now. I'm not sure whether I fancy her anymore and I notice that she is packing her belongings.

A feeling of being soiled and dirty suddenly overwhelms me. I must shower. I turn it on. The water sprays out. I start to strip but I feel self-conscious in front of her. Then I rationalise that she has seen me naked countless number of times before.

Before I step under the shower, I tell her: "We could have been really happy you know."

"How could we have ever been happy?"

I look down and see my penis half hard at this juncture.

"We could have been really happy if-" I awake but I continue the line, " you had let me be the person I really am."

Fully alert now I feel sad.

I get up and feel wobbly. Is today the day I die? Found face down in my porridge - the last time I get my oats! Gallows humour.

I experience fear. Fear my constant companion. My constant very unwanted companion.

Then I think about love. Not an original thought I suspect. There is nothing new under the sun: Ecclesiastes. Only unrequited love or lost love is true love.

I have a companion for fear now. Heartbreak.

Wednesday 27th May 2009: The Day I Visited a Prostitute - Blog

It was in October 1997 that I first visited a prostitute. It was also in October 1997 that I should have realised too that my six and a bit year relationship with Moody was never going to work - should have realised...

It had been my day off and there had been no chores to do - just me, my thoughts, my fantasies and my lust.

That August I had turned forty and with it a feeling, a dread, that time was running out. I had been dumped twice by Moody during the summer but on each occasion she had asked me back and because I loved her, was weak, I had taken her back. Yet my loyalty and devotion had seemed to mean nothing to her. In this miserable existence my only consolation was hedonism - the gratification of the senses.

Or was that, now reflecting back, just an excuse for my immoral behaviour. And is it not necessary to believe one's own lies all the more fully in order to deceive others more skilfully?

Perhaps another excuse would have been to say that I was in the grip of a mid-life crisis but the truth of the matter was that my whole fucking life had so far been a crisis: childhood anxiety merely morphing into teenage angst.

In the lounge of the town cottage I alone rented and occupied I had picked up a copy of the Daily Sport which a punter had given me from the day before and I had causally left on the arm of my settee. I had flicked through it before getting to the 'massage' ads near the back with one advertisement in particular catching my eye - a blonde 21 year old with a tanned 36-24-36 figure in Bournemouth.

Shaking, I had then rung the number.

A woman had answered to inform me that 'Tanya' was working and that there was no need to book. She had also given me the address.

I knew that what I was about to do, possibly about to do, was illicit yet it made the idea all the more exciting.

I had then worried that there was a chance that I would get caught, exposed, perhaps be prosecuted and be publicly shamed - I had openly and frequently, mouthed off moral platitudes, and had condemned infidelity. I was in a dilemma.

I had then taken a shiny two pence piece out of my pocket - tails I go, heads I don't. I had flicked the coin spinning up into the air before catching it with my right hand and slapping it down upon my the back of left hand. Gingerly I had then uncovered it - tails!

Without further ado I had caught a bus to Yarmouth which had connected with a ferry to Lymington, a train to Brockenhurst and then one to Bournemouth.

On the train to Bournemouth a group of school children had boarded and in a moment of paranoid panic I had imagined them pointing me out and singing: 'We know where you're going, we know where you're going!'

I'd managed to get a grip of myself whilst every second I neared my dirty destination and sordid liaison whilst on another level my excitement began to reach such a peak that I could feel my heart pounding.

Another wave of anxiety: What if I suffer a heart attack?

I'd visualised the headlines in the local paper: 'Respectable' Local Man Dies in Brothel - Humiliated Partner Never Knew. I could also hear the cutting wit of my colleagues: He went before he came!

And then I arrived - Pokesdown. The station had seemed rather aptly named. It had also put me in mind of a rough suburb of London.

I had then strolled out of the station and entered Boscombe High Street desperately attempting not to look like a bloke visiting a prostitute.

Having found the place I then double-checked the address I had written on a scrap of paper. Satisfied I had then pressed the buzzer.

As I waited at what felt like an eternity for the door to be opened I was sure that everyone passing by was looking at me with disgust. 'Just answer the fucking door,' I'd thought desperately.

And then a plain middle-aged woman had let me in and for a second I'd been disappointed: Surely, that can't be her?

"Tanya will be with you in a minute."


The 'receptionist' had then led me upstairs into a 'waiting' room presumably because Tanya was still with another client. There had been an attempt to tidy the place up but it was still run down - still felt sordid. On a table next to me were some porn magazines which I had picked up and flicked through.

About five minutes later Tanya, wearing a see-through and very skimpy lace top, had poked her head round the door. She was gorgeous: blonde, tanned shapely and beautiful. And for a moment she reminded me of another woman I kind of had a crush on at the time, Claire, though she was younger and a little prettier.

Tanya, who'd had a slight 'Brummie' accent (she informed me later that she was originally from Wolverhampton), asked me what I would like her to do for me.

I told her and she said: "Okay, it'll be seventy quid."

I'd handed her the notes and before she momentarily disappeared into a back room she asked me to go through an adjacent door and take all my clothes off - which I did.

A few minutes later Tanya had returned and apprised me of the rules: no kissing and no exchange of bodily fluids - fair enough.

She'd then removed her slip over her head and had told me to lie down upon the bed. I'd then heard her pick up the cane, about three feet in length, and awaited, with some trepidation, the first stroke. "I'm going to start gently then gradually whack you harder."

"Okay," I'd said.

She did as she promised and after about ten strokes she was really bringing the cane down with some force across my bare buttocks - it had begun to really sting. I was also achingly stiff and needed to fuck her. After a couple more whacks I'd asked her to stop.

I'd then turned over onto my back whilst she had picked up a condom from a dish she had kept on the side and had handed it to me. I'd opened the packet pulled it out and then rolled it over my cock.

When I'd done that she told me that she wanted me to go on top. She then lay down next to me whilst I mounted and penetrated her. As I did I wondered how she could remain damp and accommodating all day long.

I then requested her to rub my nipples whilst I began to thrust. There was no doubt that she was beautiful: deep blue eyes, shapely tits, golden tan - and worth every penny.

As we had fucked she had told me that I was a good looking fella with beautiful eyes. The remark had me feel good but I suspected she had flattered all her clients.

It didn't take long for me to climax. And that was that. I got dressed, gave her a peck on the cheek and thanked her before leaving.

After I had emerged into the daylight I had felt elated with, strangely, not an ounce of shame.

I had then popped down to the shops, had a coffee and a sandwich before setting out on the journey back.

Later that evening I had gone round to see Sharon. Still on a high and aroused by the afternoon's events I had suggested an 'early night'.

"Not really in the mood, thanks," she had responded.

I'd thought: Always in a mood, actually. But didn't say it.

Despite that we lasted nearly another six years - another six years of ups and downs and highs and lows - but the truth is that my actions that day had changed us, or rather me, irrevocably, and underneath things could never be the same again.

The Golden Boot Has Landed - Blog

I look out of my kitchen window. It's raining and windy. The trees across the road are swaying to and fro. For some reason I am reminded of the girls dancing in Beau Travail.

I turn away and face the kitchen floor: black rubbish bags which need taking down - the bins are emptied today. I've been tidying. Funny that. I can tidy everything except the contents of my head.

I pick up the leaking bag and carry it downstairs. The wind and the rain combine to make me shiver as I exit the communal entrance. I place the bag in the alleyway and return to the house. I pick up the post in the hallway. There is a thick brown envelope addressed to me. I'm intrigued. I open it. Inside is a P45 and a pay slip - my final pay slip.

Relief and sadness simultaneously flood through me. Relief, that I have finally received my pay off - more than I expected; sadness, because it is the end of twenty five years.


Yesterday I received from the Company my twenty-five year badge and gift voucher.

Melancholic, I play first Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No. 2 in C minor then Ravel's Pavane Pour une Infante Defunte.

The wind howls in the background deepening my mood.

Life must go on, I tell myself.

Must it? I answer myself back.

A new existence is forced upon me.

I make myself a cup of tea and read the forms...

Thursday 28th May 2009: Neurotic Text Tennis - Blog

Late yesterday afternoon I receive a text from Maria. It reads: Hi Matt just wondered how u r ive got some books of urs shall i post them through ur door? X

Me: You can come round and ring the buzzer. I'll let you in and you can leave them on the table. I don't want them damaged by being stuffed through a letter box or getting damp.

Me: And the dvd I lent you too please

Maria: What dvd?

Me: The triplets of belleville

Maria: I thought that was given to the kids?

Me: Keep it then

Maria: Look im not that bothered i was just trying to be friendly but can c u dont want to u can hav it all bk but i'll meet u in town to give them as im not going all up them steps in ur flat

Me: I'll come round and get them tomorrow. I'll be honest with you... i'm not interested in being friends. Find some other sucker to play your childish games with

Maria: For a start im not on isle of wight this week and i'll meet u next week in town as i dont want u at my house as i think u r a cheating creep who cant keep it in his trousers and they r not my words so how dare u say im the one playing games u jerk get stuffed

Me: Point proved. If you thought i was a cheating creep then why did you go out with me other than to play games. I actually thought you were a nice person. I treated you with respect and didn't try it on with you... if you remember. I was honest with you and told you that i had a few flings when me and Sharon were virtually over...i regret that now

At this point Juki turns up. I turn off the phone and go to the cinema.

Juki asks me if I'm okay.

"Just a bit blitzed by losing my job... beginning to sink in now," I reply.

It's a lie. My mind is on Maria - I'm being neurotic and handling it all wrong.

I am also not being honest - mainly with myself.

After going into the wrong studio we sit down to watch the film: 12 Rounds.

One round would have been enough - I've had my fill of angry macho American cops, car chases, explosions, guns and clichéd villains.

The film, mercifully, over I walk Juki to the Parish Church. The spire (185 feet high) looks beautiful bathed in the sodium floodlights.

I digress.

I kiss Juki goodbye and we go our separate ways.

I switch on my phone. One message. Maria: Its not anything to do with ur past it was now and i only found out u were a cheating creep the weekend it finished u lied about u and Juki i thought u were a nice guy too how wrong was i so who was the one playing games again now let me c oh yes it was u and u and u

Me: I can understand if i was having an affair with Juki but on my son's life i am not. I hold her hand but nothing else. Somebody had told you lies. I've lost my job today and i'm still ill...it's not a good time for me and it seemed like you were playing games. If you weren't then i apologise

Maria: Well I wasnt playing and i can understand how u feel losing ur job but there was no need to take it out on me to b honest i don't know what to think anymore i'll text u next week to meet so u can have ur things bk

Me: I'm sorry. I've been trying to put a good face on things but everything is just beginning to get to me. I felt really comfortable with you and loved your company. I was quite hurt when you dumped me actually. I thought you really liked me. I wasn't in a rush to jump into bed with you because i wanted it to be right. You didn't call me back and talk about it so assumed you had either got someone else or that you were very cold. I felt very dejected and cynical. I feel very very down at the mo with one thing and the other. Read the books and return them when you can. I've got a danielle steel dvd here which i bought cheaply for you... I'll give it to you when i see you. Take care. Matt.

I haven't heard from her since.

So, if you want any relationship advice, don't fucking ask me!

Saturday 30th May 2009: Pond - Short Story

"Lies are the foundation of a strong relationship."

Jeremy just raising a pint of Abbots to his lips splutters then lowers it to safety at chest level.

We're in 'Spoons, Wetherspoons, Union Street, Ryde, Isle of Wight. And it's Friday night.

"Matt, is this another one of your crazy theories? If there's one thing that's guaranteed to split couples up it's deceit, lies, mistrust-"

"If you think about it's not the lies that destroy a relationship, it's the finding out of the lies that finishes it off, or maybe redefines it. For instance: if a bloke has an affair it's only when his wife discovers he's been shagging someone else that it falls apart. Of course, she could become suspicious beforehand because perhaps he doesn't make love to her as often or as passionately as he once did. Or he starts working late at the office et cetera. Being a woman, she would say nothing but would mentally file those things away till the appropriate time to bring them out... like during a blazing row..."

Jeremy chuckles but I can see I've captured his interest.

I continue. "But what would happen if that fellow was a perfect actor: never behaved in such a way to arouse suspicion; carried on making love to his wife as he always had; was always where he said he was; had a mistress who was in total complicity-"

"But that wouldn't happen in real life, there would always be holes: a crisis with the kids; phoning during the dinner hour when he was the other woman; his mobile would be off - all things that would start to sow the seeds of doubt in her mind," Jeremy points out.

"Well, nobody is immune to risks but it's quite conceivable that none of these things happen and provided he can maintain the charade then he is going to get away with it, maybe for life, think of all those unsolved crimes for example."

I take a sip of my lager shandy - real ale drinkers cringe now.

Another thought slips into my mind. "What if he does get caught out but is such a convincing liar that his wife totally believes him."

"Aw, come on Matt, no woman is going to be that naïve!"

"But it's not just in the domain of fidelity that lies are an issue - let me widen the field. I said just now that lies and deceit are paramount to maintaining a successful relationship..."

Jeremy effects a quizzical expression before raising his glass to his lips and just behind Jeremy, a little along the bar, I observe a fellow shoot me a look that I can only interpret as slightly hostile - I notice little else about him apart from the fact that he is the same height as me, maybe a tad shorter, and in possession of piercing blue eyes. I notice little else about him because suddenly I feel threatened - imagined or not!

"You were saying," Jeremy prompts me.

"Look, imagine the consequences if you were to tell the whole truth, what you actually thought, what you really felt towards a person in a relationship. Can you see yourself saying for instance: 'I only married you because the buxom blonde wasn't interested and I was worried about being left on the shelf, furthermore when we make love, I have fantasies about other women-' "

"Yes, but-"

"... she says to you: 'I don't really fancy you Jeremy but you've got a well-paying job and without you I would be working long hours in a shop and living in a dingy bed-sit, however if someone better looking comes along with even more money, I'll be off like a shot!' - get my point?"

"You're getting a bit close to the mark, Matt."

"Sorry Jeremy but I think you'll have to agree it's the kind of way things are, but take the 'lying option', if you and your partner give each other credible lies. 'You're not the best-looking bloke in the world Jeremy but I've never met a man so kind and considerate, and that's what is so important to me besides which you are the only man to really satisfy me in bed...' And after something like that you'll be straight down the retail park to order that kitchen she's always wanted!"

"You really are a cynical bastard, Matt, no wonder you can't get women-"

"Which is exactly the point I've been making: I'm far too honest! You see what you've got to do is the hone the lies to perfection such that both parties totally accept them, in fact I would say that there are couples out there who have practised their lies so well that they actually believe their own fictions, which make sense: in order for others to believe your lies, first you must believe them yourself. In fact, that could also apply to politicians and religious leaders. But I digress-"

"What you having?" Jeremy interjects.

I can see he wants to change the subject - few people can stomach the truth. But I throw in just one more thought: "My observation is that there is only one more thing that a woman hates more than a man that lies... and that's one that tells the truth!"

"I'm sure they'll be falling at your feet!" Jeremy smiles.

I pause and then reply, "For a moment there my best friend I thought I detected just a smidgeon of sarcasm. Oh and I'll have a lager shandy please, Jeremy."

I get a 'daggers' look from the bloke with the blue eyes - I feel decidedly uncomfortable.

"I'm going to stand over there by the entrance," I say to Jeremy, and then thumb the direction to him who has just turned to the bar. "It's a bit crowded here."

"Right you are."

I plonk my empty glass down on a wooden shelf running around a support column and casually stroll the five or six yards nearer the glass doors which are hooked open being as it's June. I leave Jeremy at the bar and scan round for a free table, but all are taken.

I feel slightly conspicuous stood there on my own but I don't suppose anyone notices.

Periodically people wander in and past me.

Jeremy returns with my lager shandy and he's got real ale for himself - Old Badger Shit, or something like that!

I decide to change the subject.

"How's the new position at work going, Jeremy?"

Jeremy is answering me but I'm not hearing - matey who was eyeballing me earlier has wandered over with his pal.

"You're a bit full of yourself, mate," he sneers, and then adds, "I was listening to you at the bar spouting off your opinions about women and lies and you kind of reminded me of the geezer who shagged my missus behind my back who was full of fancy talk too, till I beat the shit out of him and had the cunt pleading for mercy-"

"Yeah, well, I'm very sorry that's happened, but..."

I study him and though still a little apprehensive realise that he's not as physically intimidating as I at first thought. Sure, he's modelled himself on a Cockney hard man like Grant Mitchell, but appearances don't mean a thing, and he's not that big either - I reckon he's no more than ten and a half stone and about five seven - three inches shorter than me, and two and a half stone lighter. His features are quite neat and as I noted earlier his eyes are blue and quite penetrating. His complexion is fair, but his skin seems quite raw, due in all probability to working outside - I wouldn't mind wagering that he's a labourer or a brickie. Also, he's probably not half as hard as he makes out. On the other hand, I'm taller and my weight advantage is muscle - I swim four miles a week - fast - and do a fair amount of cycling. I also possess a very quick right hand which I have utilised effectively in past similar such situations. My reactions are pretty sharp normally, and I've only had one lager shandy. 'Mini Grant' has more than likely been here since lunch and his reflexes seriously under par. I'm very confident that if it comes to a scrap I will prevail and hopefully in the process I will impress a few female onlookers. Another consideration is the law - I will let him launch the first blow so that I can claim that I acted in self-defence, should it come to that. In addition, 'Spoons is covered by CCTV. I know that he will initiate the fracas by attempting to punch me in the face with his right fist - I'd read that ninety nine percent of assaults start that way - and I will block it then demolish him with a lightning quick counter from my right hand then follow up by overwhelming him with fast repeated blows till I have knocked the stuffing out of him. Game over. But, let's have a bit of fun for starters. Let's be Kid Curry prior to outdrawing the baddie - I really want to impress the audience, and especially the tottie, not just with my physical prowess but with my wit as well!

"... and you also don't have a pond I'm guessing?" I finish off my response and notice that I'm intoning my voice in a superior manner.

"No, I don't have a fucking pond. What the fuck has that got to do with it?" he counters in an antagonistic manner.

His accent is definitely North Portsmouth.

His mate suddenly looks a bit awkward - he doesn't want to be there.

Jeremy, I don't know how Jeremy will react, but he'll probably do the right thing. If there is violence.

"I'm going to tell you about Fred and Bert who hail from the West Country."

Mini Grant does nothing, so I continue.

"Well, Fred and Bert are in the pub after a hard day working on the farm supping Scrumpy when this young man in an expensive suit breezes in, marches up to the bar and orders himself a gin and tonic.

Fred says, 'Look at the young pup with a suit - bet he's got a high-powered job in the city with loads of money?' "

I affect, as best I can, a Somerset twang for Fred and Bert.

"Bert says, 'Go on ask what he do for a living, Fred.'

'Roight, I'll do just that,' Fred says and goes up to the young fellow and politely asks him what brings a smart looking chap down this neck of the woods, 'If you don't mind me being so nosey,' Fred adds.

'That's okay, I'm a logicologist,' the young man replies in a posh voice.

'What be one of them?' Fred queries.

'Well, I'm paid to deduce a whole wealth of facts from the minimum of information and save companies and individuals the trouble and cost of expensive surveys - for that I am well rewarded!'

'Give me an example.'

'Have you got a garden pond...?'

'Fred is my name... and yes I do happen to have a pond in my garden.'

'Well, from that simple fact, Fred, one can then deduce that you have a large garden-'

'Yeah... that be roight.'

'And further that you must have a big house with lots of bedrooms...'


'Because you have lots of children...'

'Four boys and three girls.'

'Which means that you must have plenty of sex with your good lady wife...'

Fred smiles. 'That I do.'

'And that leads me to conclude that you have absolutely no need to masturbate.'

'No need whatsoever, young man.'

'So, you see, Fred, we have deduced all these facts from just one question... and that's what a logicologist does.'

'I'm well impressed, so I am. I bid you good noight.'

Fred wanders back to the table to re-join Bert who says, "Well Fred, what do he do?'

'He's a logicologist, Bert.'

'What's one of they?'

'Let's put it simply Bert, have you got a pond?'

'No, I haven't Fred.'

'Then you's a wanker then!' "

I study 'Grant's' visage as the punch line sinks in and watch for any twitching of his right hand.

"You fucking big nosed CUNT!"

Silence engulfs Spoons. Then somebody's mobile goes off - the ring tone is Eye of the Tiger.

Lightning flashes...

I'm leaning against a wall and I've got a really bad throbbing headache and everything's at an angle, it appears there's been an earthquake and the building's been turned on its side. No. I'm lying on the floor and there are people standing over me...

Jeremy is speaking into his mobile.

I make out a voice say, "He's coming around."

I put my hand to my mouth because there is a warm and sticky substance clinging to it and my nose is really hurting.


Jeremy wanders over and leans over me in a concerned fashion.

"Try to keep calm, Matt, you may have concussion. The paramedics will be here in a minute... oh, here they are, that was quick I must say!"

After a few cursory checks, which I'm sure they're not, I'm placed on a stretcher. I'm picked up and carried out to the ambulance. I turn my head to one side and recognise the girls now watching me who only a short while ago I was attempting to impress...

With a dazed expression and an enlarged proboscis that would put Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer in the shade, I appreciate that events haven't exactly turned out as I might have hoped.

As we exit out of the entrance, I feel a gust of the warm June air ruffle my hair - I'm reminded of the song Summer Breeze by the Isley Brothers and the words, 'Summer breeze makes me feel fine, blowing through the Jasmines in my mind...'

It doesn't make me feel fucking fine!


We're at the hospital now, Jeremy and I. I will be kept in overnight and X-rayed in the morning. The medical staff think I'll be okay, but you can sometimes get a delayed reaction from brain injuries: haemorrhages and the like.

I shall tell my parents after I have got out otherwise, they'll just worry themselves sick.

I'm being wheeled up to one of the wards and Jeremy is with me.

"What happened, Jeremy?"

"It was all very quick. After you had finished the joke, I knew I should have stopped you, he jabbed you on the nose with his left then chinned you with his right. He was fucking fast..."

The porter shoots Jeremy a disapproving frown for the bad language.

"... but almost immediately he grasped his left hand and said, 'I've effing broken my finger my finger on that C.U.N.T's massive great hooter!' and then him and his mate scarpered. He knocked you spark out!"

"That's one advantage of having a big nose, and it's only swollen and not broken. Thank God!"

"I shouldn't laugh Matt but you don't half sound like a Dalek!"

"Ex...terminate! Ex...terminate!" I shout out.

"Do you mind," the porter interjects, "my grandmother perished at Belsen!"

"Sorry!" We exclaim in unison.

"Jeremy, I've never seen him before, do you know if this thug is an Islander?"

"Whilst we were waiting for the paramedics, I had a brief chat with this fellow who came up to me and said he knew who he was and would be prepared to be a witness-"

"I don't want the police involved. So, who is he?"

"His name's Jamie Reed and he's just purchased a bungalow in Argyll Street. He's originally from Leigh Park and he's a builder. He buys run down properties for a song then does them up and makes a pretty penny. The bloke who spoke to me said he did some plastering for him but had trouble getting paid. Reckons he's a nasty bastard!"

"No kidding! I'm not getting involved with the police as it was half my fault, and apart from a sore nose there's no harm done."

"As you wish, Matt"


It's four weeks since the incident in Spoons and I have been interviewed by the police, but no action will be taken. Spoons have banned me till October and my assailant is also banned - permanently, so at least I will be able to drink there in peace in future.

I'm out on my bike as the weather is great - cloudless and sunny. It's the last week in July and I'm cycling down Argyll Street as it happens for the first time since the incident - you can't let your fears conquer you. I'm nearly at the end of the road and when I am I will turn left and head up to Haylands then over the Downs. To my right is a bungalow set back and in the front garden I spot Mr. Reed in just a pair of cut-off jeans. At the sight of him my testicles tingle as they involuntarily contract - a reflex action to danger. I refuse to show fear, however.

I must admit that he is well muscled for a small frame - I underestimated him.

He still doesn't see me as he is digging - and I can't actually discern whether any of his fingers on his left hand are damaged in any way, but what I do glimpse and realise ironically in this fleeting scene is that...

The. Cunt. Is. Digging. A. Fucking. Pond.

Sunday 31st May 2009: Four Months to Live - Blog

Yesterday. Another random Saturday.

Juki and I catch the 1535 Downs Tour. It actually departs at 1545. It's a lovely day. Sunny and hot. The bus is an open topper. We sit on the top deck. I have ridden the tour quite a bit. I have also driven it too. And been a conductor on the route too in a vintage vehicle. But, never again unless a miracle cure is found for my condition.

It's not the most scenic open top bus tour on the Island. That honour I reserve for The Needles Tour. If you're over on the Island then I recommend that. You'll never forget the hair raising drive up the cliff edge to the Old Battery.

I have strayed away from my train of thought. It's a fault of mine.

The bus halts at the Hare and Hounds country pub and I remember sitting on the patio there overlooking Robin Hill Adventure Park about two years ago with Della sharing a drink with her. The weather that day was also good. A gentle wave of nostalgia washes over me.

Juki is talking to me. I'm not really listening. Funny. Because when I was with Della I used to feel sadness about Sharon - and Claire. Yet when I was with Sharon I also used to experience an undefined aching emptiness. It wasn't overwhelming but it was always present. Hovering in the shadows of my mind. Only when I was living intensely would I be unaware of it. It was like a chill wind howling through my being. I can never recollect a time when it wasn't there.

That's not quite true.

One Christmas when I was ten...

My Grandfather is standing in front of the blazing log fire smoking a cigar. I have been allowed a beaker of Woodpecker cider. We are all watching Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea on the black and white television. I feel emotionally secure, optimistic and happy...

A little over three months later that all changed: my Grandfather died. On April the 1st, of all days.

Yes. That was when I realised that sadness outweighed and outlasted happiness in this world.

Back on the bus.

We are driving to the top of Ashey Down. We are treated to the panorama of Ryde in the foreground and the expanse of the Solent further away. The spire of the Parish Church is clearly visible as is the Spinnaker Tower over in Portsmouth.

I glance at Juki.

She's attractive in an unassuming way: petite with sharp but nevertheless pleasing features and long chestnut hair. She has a great figure. I like her blue eyes too. But, I know I can never love her.

For a relationship to have half a chance of success you need character and chemistry. I so very nearly had that with Moody. Definitely chemistry.

Juki loves me in a non-sexual way. It's all a bit odd when I think about it. She told me she loved me once. I will never love her though. I wish I could. I need to love someone.

I also need interest and excitement too. I do not believe I will get that now.

Back in Ryde we stroll around the harbour.

I watch teenage lads back flip into the water. It's all very carefree. I yearn to be young once again.

We have a coffee then catch the Service 16 to Puckpool Park. Puckpool Park: so much of my life has centered there.

We each have a coffee ice cream.

We decide to be lazy and catch the Dotto Train back to Ryde.

Whilst waiting for the 'train' I see an old driver. He resembles Bill Oddie. I know he has been ill.

I ask him how he is.

"I have only four months to live the doctors tell me," he replies in his softly intoned voice.

What do you say to that?

He has terminal cancer. It is of the lung. He was a smoker. And he is strangely acceptant of his bleak prospects.

I wish him well and then board the Dotto Train.

It's sad that he's dying but I am unable to really feel for him. We feel for some but not others.


Back in Ryde Juki and myself have a drink.

When the Tandoori opens at six we sit down and each treat ourselves to a Chicken Dopiaza with Pilau Rice.

I enjoy the food but I don't really enjoy it like I used to.

I reflect on this - I seem to have lost the passion in life and it's this passion that counter balances the sadness and emptiness.

There were books I couldn't put down. There were social events I couldn't wait to attend. Films I was gripped by. Sex, kinky or vanilla. I used to love cycling downhill fast and reckless. Swimming and snorkelling.

Life used to be in colour and now it's all monochrome.

Life is for the young, the talented and the attractive.

It's all over for me now I realise.

Recently I have thought about death, maybe suicide. But, it's not oblivion I seek. What I see death as is a gateway to a new existence. What new reality will Nature have conjured up for us? It is a moment of enlightenment for me: the person who commits suicide is not really seeking to end their life, they are merely looking for a new beginning.

Why didn't I see that before?

Too, too much introspection.

A book and a cold drink in the sun now.

Another Fucking Twist and Turn

Not long been back after a gentle bike ride and I check my mobile. There's a message from Maria. We've both been invited to birthday party on the 13th June. How do I feel about going?

I phone her up but can't get through.

She rings me back.

We have a nice chat.

"I think we may have got our wires crossed!" she says and then adds: "I'd like to go as an item."

"That would be really nice."

She replies: "I've missed you."

I say, almost without thinking: "Me too."

We agree to meet up for coffee during the week.

It looks like it could be back on but I'm not going to build up my hopes too high.

Fucking funny life is!

Tuesday 2nd June 2009: Dizziness Migraines, Hairy Arms and Spat at by a Prawn - Blog

Yesterday I had an appointment with a specialist at Queen Alexandra Hospital, Cosham, Portsmouth. It's in connection with my recurrent vertigo. I had to be there for 1530. I opt for catching the 1415 Catamaran from Ryde Pier. At 1400 I look out from my hallway to see if the 'Cat' is on its way - I can see across to Portsmouth from there. Sure enough I espy the tiny yellow hull of it just outside the harbour. Sometimes sailings get dropped. Best to be sure.

I cycle down to the Esplanade and then up the pier. There's no sign of the boat and it's rather quiet, apart from a train pulling out. I go to purchase a ticket and I'm beginning to think that it may be seriously delayed. I ask the clerk and he informs me that there is no 1415 - it only operates in 'high season'. The Cat I had seen must have been going into the Harbour not from. Fuck and double fuck!

I cycle back down the pier and round to the Hovercraft. Fortunately there is a 1430 Hover. I lock my bike up and wait. I now have to revise my travel plans. Instead of getting the train to Cosham I now have to get a taxi straight there - I really don't want to be late.

The Hover gets me to Southsea at 1440 - it's fucking quick.

I step into the nearest taxi and I'm on my way.

On the way we cross a very busy intersection, and the thought hits me: we'd be really, really fucked if the oil was suddenly cut off or dried up.

I get to the hospital at 1500 - half an hour early. In fact the whole journey once boarding the Hover has only taken 30 minutes!

Once at the department I am whisked away for hearing tests by a pleasant dark haired lady. I idly speculate about her life and love.

At 1537 I am called into to see the specialist. He performs a lot of tests on me: tuning forks, balance investigations etc. I'm impressed.

"Your hearing in your right ear is quite impaired."

I knew that already.

"I think but, I'm not a hundred percent certain yet, that your vertigo is the result of 'Dizziness Migraines'. Did anyone in your family suffer from that?" he questions me.

"My grandmother used to suffer from bad migraines. I guess I've inherited that from her too, along with the goatee beard!"

He chuckles.

"I'm going to arrange further tests to try and rule out whether your deafness is causing the problems but in the meantime, I would like you to cut out cheese, alcohol, caffeine as we need to ascertain what is triggering the attacks. Make certain that you eat regularly and sleep properly. Also stop taking the Prochlorperazine as it's a powerful drug and can cause damage with prolonged use. It's also used to treat Schizophrenia."

"That would explain why since taking it I have lost a lot of my friends." I make an attempt at a joke, a feeble one.

He smiles out of politeness or is it professionalism?

I thank him for his time, and leave. I had confidence in him.

I catch the 1C to Copnor Road where I get off and go and visit William (an old school mate) and his wife Jessica at their business. We have a pleasant chat but there's a mystery surrounding another former member of our school, *Phil H. I was told recently that he had died, but there's nothing in the local paper and nobody seems to know anything. Both Ronan and Wiliam have his email address but neither of them want to contact him because, quite frankly, he's an arrogant prick. We'll find out eventually.

After a cuppa I caught the 21 down to Gunwharf, treated myself to a Burger King, I say treated, it was nothing special and certainly didn't live up to the hype then got a taxi round to the Hovercraft. The time was now 1845.

On the Hovercraft I found myself sitting across from a young pretty-ish woman. She was probably in her early twenties. She was wearing a sleeveless top and I found myself staring at her bare arms. She had a few evenly spaced out moles of modest size - I find moles intriguing as they can be either off putting or beguiling - but it was the dark hairs that I found fascinating. I couldn't decide whether she was too hairy or just hairy enough. Later I decided that they were just hairy enough as I fantasized about her being naked on top of me!

*He had in fact died.


Late last night just before I retired to bed, I became aware of something flying around the flat. I thought it might be a moth at first. It wasn't. It was a bat. It flew around me but never on me though it did brush past my legs. The thing I noticed most was that its wing beat was almost soundless. They are certainly mysterious creatures, and I can understand how supernatural myths have grown up around them.

I managed to trap it in the bathroom and then opened the slats on the window. I carefully exited the bathroom and closed the door tight. In the morning it had gone.

I rose late today and on my mobile was a text from Maria: I'm going swimming but will be back in Ryde about 1. Do you fancy a coffee?

I text back: That will be nice. Let me know when you're on your way back from Sandown.

We agree to meet in the Black Sheep Bar, previously known as Bar 53, in Union Street. I get there a few minutes before but text her to see what she fancies to drink. I order a Gin and Tonic and an Apple Juice for myself.

She arrives wearing a red sleeveless top and cream coloured slacks. It's the first time I have seen her since before she 'dumped' me. She is sexy, I conclude.

We order some food which is over-priced as you would expect from an establishment with aspirations. I opt for prawns in garlic butter and Maria goes for figs and feta cheese.

We sit outside in the sun at one of the tables and I ask her how she is - she had to have an operation on her knee after she injured it dancing a couple of months ago. She's still limping but I can see she's making progress.

I tell her about yesterday at the hospital.

"That's kind of good news, maybe you can get on top of it?"

I hand her the Danielle Steel DVD I bought for her about three weeks ago. She's really grateful. The dumping incident is not talked about. At this juncture the waitress brings us our food. The waitress is young dark and pretty with nicely tanned arms. I try not to ogle. But, Maria is tanned too, and sexy. I still speculate as to whether this is all a game to her. I remind myself not to build up my hopes.

We talk about our ex's.

Her ex-husband is a writer. She tells me that he is becoming increasingly introverted and antisocial though he is still great with the kids.

She asks me about Sharon.

"I loved her, and I still have feelings for her but I could never make her happy. She had a split personality, a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde. I admit I did have affairs, but I had become completely disillusioned."

She doesn't seem fazed by my frank admission. Well, not that frank. I didn't mention the prostitute or the couple of mistresses I visited. There is also a rather disturbing connection between Sharon and Maria - they both belong to the Spiritualist Church in Ryde. What if they meet and chat?

It's at this point that I attempt to shell a large prawn and as I do I squeeze it and a small jet of juice lands on my shirt, a shirt I was wearing in order to impress. Spat at by a fucking prawn! "For fuck"s sake" I want to say. In reality I just say, "oh dear!" and then march off to the loo to clean it, with little success.

When I come back, she has dropped some cheese on her top, so I don't feel such a pratt.

After we finish our drinks and food we stroll down Union Street and then around the seafront soaking in the hot sun. I could get used to this Bohemian lifestyle of bars and cafes. We watch a hovercraft depart from the footbridge over the railway and we agree to meet up Friday along at Appley if the weather is good. I also promise her a day out in Portsmouth: a boat trip round the Harbour; a visit to Spinnaker Tower - which she hasn't been up yet and a meal on the waterfront of Gunwharf Quays.

I wonder if it will all actually happen.

We catch the bus. The driver is one who caused a few problems between Claire and me at one point. It's all kind of forgotten.

I kiss her and get off at the Commodore. She stays on to Oakfield.

I phone Juki who has texted me earlier and agree to a coffee at The Bagel Shop. I then nip into Somerfield for some salad stuff - healthy diet and all that. When Juki turns up, she kisses me and holds my hand. I feel awkward but I do anyway.

We treat ourselves to a milkshake each then take the Downs Tour - again to kill a bit of time.

Christopher is driving - Claire's ex-husband - and we have a bit of banter as we board. It's a lovely day but I've done that tour just a little too much. I get out along the end of my road.

When I get back I reflect on the day and Maria. I wonder how it is all going to turn out. Like crap if my past record is anything to go by. Still, live for the day!

Wednesday 3rd June 2009: Clearing Out My Locker - Blog

Cleared out my locker first round at the bus depot then at the bus station. Tomorrow I will return my equipment: uniform, change dispenser, module and bag.

Wished the lads well and they all replied in unison: "Fuck Off!" I shall miss their subtlety.

As I left the rest room somebody, R, had already bagged my locker.

I exited the place for the last time.

Do I feel sad? Sort of, but it's good to be away from the pressure of driving and shift work.

I then walked up Union Street with the Union Secretary - he's been a good bloke. We had a good chat then Maria texted me: Fancy a drink at the Appley Cafe?

Me: Okay.

Maria: I'm having a reading done at the Appley Tower.

I dump my work stuff at home then cycle down in the sun. I wait for her outside the door. She's longer than I thought.

When she gets out she apologises for the delay: "I've had a full in depth reading which took longer than I thought!"

"No worries." It had been nice watching the people go past and I never tire of the view.

"I've given up my job today. I've had enough," she informs me frankly.

We have a piece of cake each and fruit drink at The Appley Cafe. I feel relaxed and she looks sexy.

Juki texts me: "I have something very important to tell you later."

I don't answer but wonder if this is to do with me seeing Maria again.

I then walk Maria home. As I do she tells me a few things about her past. I laugh it off but underneath I think: 'She's fucking trouble.'

Problem is, I'll have to find out for myself. I don't learn.

Saturday 6th June 2009: Death by Electrocution - Blog

We're at a railway station. From the dress and appearance of the people it could be in Pakistan or India. I'm not sure. There is a stationary train at the platform. People are milling around but a group of about twenty are observing a man who has clambered onto the roof of one of the carriages. It is a sunny day and the man is topless. I can't quite make out how old the individual is, twenty, thirty, forty? He is crouching and talking to a couple of men on the platform. One of the men taps on the roof to draw attention. About six foot above the carriage are the high voltage power lines for the train. The man casually stands up and walks along the roof. He appears nonchalant. In what could be bravado he raises his right arm close to the cable. Without warning there is a blinding flash accompanied by a loud crack followed by a slightly lesser flash and bang. There is also a small cloud of smoke. We see the man still standing there and frozen in almost the same attitude immediately prior to the contact. He hangs there for a moment then falls backwards onto the roof with his arms hanging loosely and awkwardly behind his head. He is absolutely motionless. It is clear that he was dead from the moment of the first flash. The camera zooms in and we see flames flickering around his face. Smoke issues forth from his lower body and trousers. Passengers now pour out from the carriage. They probably fear it was a bomb. The people on the platform also drawback instinctively. Then the hubbub increases. At this point the video clip ends.

It was sent to me by a friend. It is utterly gruesome. I watched it in the morning and the ghastly imagery stayed with me all day.

Later that night I played it over and over to desensitize me to it. It kind of worked because I don't feel quite so bad now.

I do not think the man committed suicide. I believe it was a tragic mistake.

If someone sends you this then think very carefully about watching it.

Sunday 7th June 2009: Funny... - Blog

I'm waiting for a Number Nine bus to take me back to Ryde and I'm at the 'Old Police Station' bus stop. Behind me is a wooden jetty and the leisurely flowing waters of the River Medina.

I'm startled to hear a voice: "Will we have to wait long?"

I turn to see a little old lady.

Where the hell did she come from?

She's dressed in a camel coloured long overcoat, with dark brown tights and plain black shoes. On her head is wide brimmed cream hat with a brooch at the front composed of various fruit. Her features are strong with intense grey eyes and her pallid flesh is deeply wrinkled. I do not recognise her.

I respond to her query: "The bus should be here any minute, we can see it merge onto the roundabout from here."

"I don't have time to wait that long," she says, then adds: "You don't have much time either."

The remark chills me to the bone and I feel as though not only can she read my mind but she can also see my future.

I shiver inwardly and gaze in the direction of the roundabout scanning vainly for the bus. I want to get away from here. And her.

I discern footsteps and turn round to see her descending gingerly the rusting steel steps that lead directly into the muddy waters. I feel that I should stop her but a cruel thought takes over - I want to see her drown.

I observe, morbidly fascinated, as she submerges slowly into the water. I wonder, almost distractedly, if her distinctive hat will float off but it doesn't and she disappears into the murky depths. I expect any second for her to burst to the surface gasping shrouded in bubbles.


I conclude that she has drowned. How weird. How very weird.

I stare at the spot for several minutes almost in a trance.

Then a movement on the opposite bank breaks me out of my morbid reverie and I watch in astonishment, amazement as she walks calmly out of the water. As though nothing has happened she makes her way slowly up the bank and then disappears between two abandoned warehouses...

Funny, funny, what you dream.

Monday 8th June 2009: Benefit Bingo and Mind Games - Blog

I decide to take the bull by the horns. It is two weeks since I lost my job. Time to find out about my benefits.

I phone the number given to me at the Job Centre. It takes about twenty minutes before I get to speak to someone. Still, the classical music whilst I'm in a queue is nice. Finally, a pleasant female voice asks me: "How may I help?"

I tell her my situation, that I have lost my job due to illness.

"Before we go any further, I have to ask you some security questions to verify your identity."

I understand.

She asks me a few personal questions which I answer as best as I can.

"I'm afraid that you have failed the security test. You must ring again tomorrow."

I hear in my mind the nice classical music again.

"Can you tell me why I have failed the security test?"

"Sorry, I can't."

I think it's because I fail to recollect the post code of my last address.

"Okay, would it be possible to make an appointment with someone in person?"

"We don't do that anymore." I suppose too many 'clients' were threatening the staff. I understand.

"Okay, can you tell me what information I will need to have at hand when I phone tomorrow?"

She tells me.

"I have all that here in front of me now. Why don't you just ask me a new set of security questions now and if I pass then we can sort out my claim now?" I want to add: 'Save me listening to the nice classical music for twenty minutes again!' But I refrain.

"We're really busy on Mondays so it's best for you to phone tomorrow."

I think and want to say, let's be honest, sarcastically: 'If everybody takes your advice about phoning Tuesday then you'll be just as fucking busy Tuesday!'

I don't. I understand how difficult working with the public can be.

I then tell her my financial circumstances and ask her off the cuff if I will be entitled to anything.

"You won't be eligible for any means tested benefits, but you will get your National Insurance paid."

Again, I want to say: 'What's the fucking point of that if I'm to get nothing now after all these years of paying it?!'

But what I do say is: "Thanks for your help." I'm not sure I mean it. I put the receiver down.

"Still, I'm looking forward to hearing the nice classical music again!" I say to myself out loud.

Fifteen minutes later my message alert sounds. It's Juki and the message reads: You prob don't need to hear this now but if i don't say it now i never will. It isn't true that i want to be just friends with you but I'm scared of letting anyone get that close and I'm scared of letting you down and then you'll hate me too. I spent my childhood being told i was ugly and useless and no one would ever love me and there's a huge part of me that still believes that. I decided when i was young that no one would get close to me and with the exception of my grandfather no one did. I hope this doesn't ruin everything x x x

I text her back reassuring her not to worry.


Funny enough Maria sent me some provocative texts last evening just to confuse me after she told me she just wanted to be friends.

My life is never fucking simple!!!

Wednesday 10th June 2009: How NOT to Play Mind Games - Blog

As regular readers of my blog will be aware, recently I suspected Juki of playing mind games with me...

I have mulled over what to do about and finally came to a decision: a fucking controversial decision. Maybe even a dodgy one.

I thought of a text I was going to send her but wasn't sure. So when in doubt toss a coin. Heads, I don't. Tails, I do. It was a shiny 2p piece and it spun up in the air. I caught it and slapped it down on my wrist. Tails. I send the text which reads thus: I have decided after deliberating on it for a few days to give my response to your text. I have decided to punish you. You have 2 options: 1. We have no contact for a month or 2. You are to report round at 8 o'clock tonight, strip naked and then lie face down on my bed whilst I give you an appropriate number of strokes with the cane! Sorry but you deserve it x x x

I also send a copy of this text to Ronan who is my confidante.

Juki: You are so funny! Always knew honesty was NOT the best policy x x x

Me: Thought you'd enjoy that! So you don't fancy a caning later... you know you deserve it :-D x x x

Juki: Course i haven't had enough punishment being at work all day! However I may let you have your fun if your really nice to me x x x

Me: You were supposed to say: I miss you so much i'd be only too glad to take the cane for you... thought you might need a few mind games to perk up your life... and mine too. Only losers or the very strong tell the truth... you're right x x x x

Juki: Of course i meant to say i miss you, etc. I'm sure by caning me you are showing how much you care about me! Or i could be just deluded! :-) x x x

Me: That's my girl! :-D x x x

Me: Hang on a minute... you're smarter than i thought... twisting it round like that... it's you that's supposed to be grateful :-D x x x

Juki: I've had the best teacher! :-) x x x

Me: Never teach too well or you will be taught yourself...hmmm x x x

It's at this point I receive a text from Ronan in response to the initial message I sent to Juki: I think that's a reasonable request, in view of her recent bleating, self pitying, probable b'shit txt. Hope she turns up to get her just desserts..

Me (to Chris): Things haven't quite worked out as I hoped...it's quite conceivable that it may be me that's on the receiving end of a caning!

Ronan: Equaly wel deserved!

So there you have it: How NOT to play fucking mind games. Don't think I'll bother now. How on earth did I fuck that up?!

As many of you are aware, I worked for a few seasons on the Isle of Wight Road Trains. They operated in three seaside towns - Ryde, Sandown and Shanklin and I have driven and been a conductor on all of them at one time or the other. In the absence of anything deep and meaningful it is probably the best job you can have. You're out in the open, by the sea, meeting pleasant and at times interesting people, you've got regular hours and you're not rushing around. What more could you expect from a job; apart from anything deep and meaningful that is?

You might at this point wonder why there is a need for a conductor. Well, it's a legal requirement for any road train that operates on the public highway and the conductor is as much there to ensure safety as he is to collect fares.

That said...

Thursday 11th June 2009: Dotto Train Passenger Abducted by Aliens - Memory

Back in May 2008, I was asked to drive the Sandown Train. The weather was overcast, and we weren't busy; just ticking over.

My conductor was 'Mini Me' and he was the son of one of the managers. He would fill in for the regular conductors when they were sick or on leave.

Mini Me was actually sixteen but looked twelve. He had thick curly blondish hair and a face that would make a choirmaster weep. He was also quite short - he may not have even been five foot - and the passengers would sometimes look bewildered when they heard a voice requesting their fare but couldn't pinpoint where it was actually coming from, as he stood at times, depending on the camber of the road, often below the level of the train's sides.

Character-wise he was fairly shy, but he possessed a dead-pan sense of humour at times. He was in addition quite creative and artistic - he posted short animated films on YouTube which I felt showed great promise. I liked him. He was a nice lad.

Anyway, we were waiting our time at Eastern Gardens when three, remember three, passengers got on. Mini Me collected their fares and I asked him where they were all going. He told me that were all just having a trip right the way round. This meant that the only place I would need to wait time at would be The Isle of Wight Zoo, though I would keep a lookout and listen for the buzzer should anyone change their mind.

I jumped into the cab started the engine and set off. We trundled past The White City Amusements, Sandham Gardens, the Canoe Lake (in a poor state of disrepair) into Dinosaur Isle and out again re-joined Culver Parade past The Grand Hotel and then stopped on the concrete apron outside the entrance to the Zoo where I'd killed the engine and had got out of the cab. I then casually observed Mini Me help two passengers out of the carriage.

Two passengers?

I was absolutely certain there were three passengers and we hadn't stopped anywhere so that anyone could get off.

So, I'd gone up to Mini Me and had said: "I could have sworn that we had three passengers on when we left Eastern Gardens."

He'd replied, matter-of-factly: "Well, there was one man, one minute he was there and the next time I had looked he had disappeared."

I'd thought: Is this a wind up?

I'd then responded, extremely sarcastically: "But, where's he gone? Has he been fucking abducted by aliens? Maybe he's spontaneously combusted?"

Mini Me had just shrugged, and I'd seriously wondered if I was losing it.

Then across the car park a family had run up to me. The father, out of breath, had said to me: "Some old fellow has just thrown himself out of your train just before you got to the hotel. He landed on the road flat on his face. He had blood on his nose, and he started scrabbling around on the road picking up the money that had fallen out of his pockets. We asked him if he was okay and he said 'yes' so we let him get on with it!"

I'd thought: How the fucking hell did I miss that? I must have been checking the offside mirror at exactly the time he threw himself out of the nearside and landed behind the train out of my vision.

Mini Me had been sitting in the front carriage facing forward - officially he's supposed to sit at the back so he can observe the whole train - and wouldn't have seen him.


I'd phoned the police and informed them of what had happened - I think they were trying not laugh.

I then took the names and addresses of the witnesses and had started off on the return half of the trip.

As I had passed along the section of the road where he had apparently fallen out, I had scrutinised the surface for signs of blood or coins, but I'd seen nothing. I'd also looked out for old men with bleeding noses; again nothing.

The rest of the shift had passed without further incidents.

When I'd got back to the depot I'd filled out an accident report, which another driver I'd entrusted to deliver to the inspector at the bus station had failed to do, leaving it in the rest room overnight for all the other drivers to read; and laugh their fucking heads off!

I'd never heard any more about it but I did wonder what had happened to the chap who was most likely over here on holiday. I imagined him getting back to his guest house or hotel with his nose caked in blood, a couple of black eyes, maybe his trousers torn, and the owner asking him if he had had a good day.

"Well, I had a little trip on the Dotto Train..."

Better to Believe in a Lie than Nothing - Memory

I'm sitting in the tranquil tea gardens of Quarr Abbey. Blue, blue sky and sun beating down.

I'm with Della. She's a handsome looking woman: thick curly dark hair, pale complexion, hazel eyes, neat features.

A couple of hours previous we had been fucking in my bed. I had savoured her naked body - ran my hands over her ivory flesh. I had sucked her ample breasts. Penetrated her dark and thick black triangle. She had shivered when she had come - it was a response unique to her. Her legs were gripped between mine as I too climaxed. We had embraced for a while after. And she had stated: 'It smells of sex in here. I like that.'

I had cooked her breakfast.

Easy like Sunday morning.

I had recalled the tune in my head.


Sitting on a rustic bench amongst the carefully tended greenery. The distant and muted roar of the traffic. The murmur of the other patrons. Monks in their long robes, wearing enigmatic expressions, occasionally wandering past.


I speculate that I could love Della.

A phrase forces itself into my mind. Unbidden. It is an intruder.

Better to believe in a lie than nothing.

Better to believe in a lie than nothing.

What does it mean? Is it a subconscious reaction to the trappings of religion surrounding me? A warning not to be entranced by the illusion of religion?

We continue to chat.

I recall the words Della spoke to me once before in these very gardens: 'Do you think we could still be friends if we ever split up?'



Better to believe in a lie than nothing.

We finish our drinks and catch the bus back to Ryde.

Walk to Puckpool. Brown bread prawn sandwiches at Dell's Cafe. The sun glinting off Spinnaker Tower across the Solent. People lounging on the golden sands. Swimmers in the blue green sea.

Better to believe in a lie than nothing.

I walk her back to the Hovercraft Terminal. I wave to her on the craft as it slides off the slipway, turns and heads to Southsea. I think of her back home across the sea. Near but so far.

Better to believe in a lie than nothing.

I make my way home.

Back in my flat I pick up a scrap of paper and a red marker pen. I clumsily scrawl in capital letters: BETTER TO BELIEVE IN A LIE THAN NOTHING. I secure it to my fridge with a magnet.

I see it every day.

What does it mean? What does it mean to me? Truth is subjective.

I conclude that you can't believe in nothing - it's a paradox.

Without God life has no value. No. Without belief in God life has no value. But it is the value that is God. Value is God.

My mind is at peace. But not for long.

Better to believe in a lie than nothing.

It still troubles me.

Della dumped me a year later - no real reasons. And do you know what? I could have loved her.

Better to believe in a lie than nothing.

Sunday 14th June 2009: You Have a Lot of Feminine Traits - Blog

Last night. About 8 o'clock. The roof terrace of the Eight Bells public house. Carisbrooke, Isle of Wight.

A brief shower has just dispelled the mildly oppressive humidity.

I'm at a birthday party for an ex-colleague of mine, Pat. He's sixty-eight next week - the party is early.

It's been stressful for his daughter, Kay, arranging it and his son also. Expensive too.

There's also been a fabulous surprise for Pat - Jet Harris formerly from The Shadows. Kay met him at a dance and knowing how much her father loved The Shadows persuaded him to attend her father's birthday.

But Jet Harris had suffered from 'stage fright' and it had taken a long while for him to overcome his nerves and make a public appearance. Odd, for a man who had once performed in front of thousands.

It had worked out fine in the end - he had even played a few hits with the band.

But now I'm leaning on the wooden balustrade with Maria gazing across at the lawned children's play area with its slides and swings. The mill pond, with ducks paddling along its smooth surface, lies adjacent to the play area. About four hundred yards further lies the small hillock upon which Carisbrooke Castle is constructed.

I feel that I am in the 'shadow' of the Castle.

I'm talking small talk with Maria though we're not really communicating.

She looks the best she's ever looked: her dark hair styled seductively and a low-cut dress that flatters her curves.

"You've got a lot of feminine traits," she states. I don't know what to say so she adds: "I like that, my ex-husband has too. I bet you have had a lot of gay men come on to you."

"That's true, I have though I don't find men attractive."

"My ex isn't gay either."

"But why do you think that? I don't look gay, and I don't sound gay either."

I'm intrigued as it has been said before, but not very often.

"You're sensitive and gentle, not at all a tough type. I hate that."

I suddenly recollect the harsh flogging I administered not so long ago to a fellow IC member.

"Do you fancy me?" I ask her frankly yet dreading the answer.

"Yes. I love your grey hair and goatee beard but I'm suffering from a block. I want to go to bed with you but something's stopping me."

"Maybe you're not emotionally ready?"

"I d-don't know."

She takes a deep breath and I know she's about to confess something of importance to me.

"I want to know what it is like to be with a woman. Women understand each other's bodies. I'm not a lesbian though."

"It wouldn't worry me if you were. I'm not judgmental."

How the hell can I be with my kinks?

"I once had a fling with a woman, not so very far from here who told me in the middle of having sex that I made love like a woman. I asked her how she knew. She told me that she had lived with a woman for a year but even though the sex had been good, very good, she still yearned for a man. Shortly after the relationship had finished."

Am I feminine?

I suppose I am quite sensitive and emotional. I love my nipples being rubbed and I'm not that hairy. My eyes, I have been told, belong to a woman and not a man. My fantasies are ninety nine percent about woman though I have had on a very few occasions thought about receiving corporal punishment from a male authority figure. Does that make me bisexual?

I put my arm round her: "Please don't worry about anything. We can just be friends if you prefer."

"You told me that you didn't just want to be friends and had loads anyway," she says a little provocatively.

"I like you and I feel comfortable with you."

I do feel happy just to be friends with her.

"Okay," she says.

We say nothing and just take in the view and the atmosphere...

The evening ends early and Kay gives us a lift back to Ryde. Once there I get out at the end of my road. Before I do I kiss Maria. I wonder if it has ended before it ever began. She has a lot of introspection ahead of her. And so do I have. Her comments have given me a great deal to ponder.

Monday 15th June 2009: Longing - Blog

June is November. Howling winds and bleak. Then I see them. They're walking up. I'm walking down. It is 'her' with her daughter, the daughter that should have been mine. Well, at least in name.

There's a flicker of recognition. A pretence of not seeing. From all of us to none of us.

Then they're gone. We've passed.

I loved her longer and more deeply, than any before. Than any since. And any to come. Maybe.

Bereft of her. Empty is my existence, Lonely my life.

Oft, I dream of love not lost to greet the day with flooded eyes.

Regrets, regrets, regrets.

Why, oh why, did I betray her to just betray myself?

To the counsel of my heart I listened not. Too late, too late. She is gone.

Chestnut hair tumbling onto shoulders bare and freckled. Button nose and big blue eyes.

A poignant memory of a single red rose on Lover's Day.

I love her. Simply and forever.

Brief Encounter

"Can you get one of your drivers, Pete I think it is, to return my propelling-pencil. He's walked off with it."

It was the first time she had properly spoken to me in four years and I had been walking along the Esplanade close to the entrance of the Pier and on my way home after an early shift.

Her light auburn hair - now out of a bottle - was stylishly brushed across her face to render her a coy look. She had a few more wrinkles but her entrancing deep blue eyes, neat button nose and tight mouth with thin lips, oddly sensuous, still combined to make her a handsome woman at fifty. Her frame was slight and she was wearing a faded jean jacket. Her left arm hung loose, a roll up smouldering between her pale fingers. I knew she now owned and ran a drawing office-cum-stationers up the road.

"I'm a lesbian," she states flatly. "I have two girlfriends."

I say nothing, walk over and threw my arms around her.

She doesn't resist; rather, she wraps her right arm round me and holds me tight.

"I spent twelve years of my life trying to make you happy," I start to cry, "followed by four years of emptiness."

I laugh at the absurdity. I sob again at the tragedy, and watch a fallen tear darken a small area on the fabric of her jacket.

I should have guessed really; the lowered octave of her voice, the strong chin.

I let my arms fall away and then I kiss her on the cheek.

"Bye," she says.


She raises the nearly burned down roll-up to her lips, draws strongly causing it to glow momentarily brighter, and then tosses it to the asphalt before grinding it with her heel.

She smiles thinly, turns and makes her way back and up towards Union Street.

It's a nice day with the sun out in a clear blue sky. But it is kind of cold.

Monday 13th July 2009: Kan Kicker Klown - Poem

You're a can kicker kid from a can kicker town.

You're out of control and spiralling down.

Your mothers at work, your father's not there.

You're never at school and the teachers don't care.

You're financially dependent on mother's green purse

And you're living your life full speed in reverse.

Your mother's on pills when she's not shedding tears -

What hope has she got for the following years?

You've started to steal 'cos it gives you a kick

And the prospects look good for a spell in the nick.

But, along comes a chap, a regular rough Joe.

One period is missed and off he does go.

You're mum is a granny at age forty one,

And changing them nappies isn't much fun.

So, it's off to the social, trudging down town,

And the clerk at the desk thinks: 'Can kicker clown'.

Tuesday 14th July 2009 Traumatic Memories of a Beating - Blog/Memory

I am eight years old.

I have been returned home by Mrs H after having tea with her and her son.

"He's been a good boy but he didn't eat all his greens like my son did - my son always eats all his greens!" Mrs H superiorly intones at the front door to my mother.

I can sense that my mother feels diminished by the remark and I can feel the rage rising like the brewing of thunder clouds.

The door is closed and Mrs H makes her way up the steps leading to the pavement.

"You have shown me up ONCE AGAIN!"

An unpleasant tingle of fear courses through me like an electric shock - I know what is coming and I run.

You can run but you can't hide.

Words from the future - the past, the present and the future begin to blur.

I run up two flights of stairs.

You can run but you can't hide.

Angry footsteps close in on me.

You can run but you can't hide.

I make it to the top landing outside my mother's bedroom.

I am grabbed roughly and the beating begins. Heavy blow after heavy blow lands on my back and posterior. I start to cry because it hurts like hell and because I want my Mummy to love me. Heavy blow after heavy blow. I am scared now. Very scared. My Mummy is going to kill me. Heavy blow after heavy blow.

"Somebody HELP ME please!"

"Stop it NOW - he has had ENOUGH!"

My grandfather has heard and climbed the stairs to intervene - concerned for my safety.

I will never forget his kindness.

A tear has fallen on the table in front of my screen as I have written this - I keep thinking I have cried enough in life. Why do I keep dredging up these traumatic memories? Forty four years ago. Why?


Last night I dreamt I was living in a church. It was cheap. The congregation kept streaming past me but I was not perturbed.

I felt myself being gently drawn into the church garden by Jesus but I do not believe that Jesus is the prophet of God - Jesus is merely the prophet of man.

Nature is the true prophet of God.

I carry on been drawn into the garden by the power of Jesus.

I know now that it is not a garden - it is the afterlife. I feel blissful.

I awake.


I arranged to meet Ginger today. I changed the sheets in case we ended up in bed - we have in the past.

When she asked me to meet her in Wetherspoons I knew we would not be having sex. It was kind of a relief. It would have been sex for the sake of sex - I do not really seek that.

We were served by a girl who I had thought left Wetherspoons - she is a girl I have fantasised in the past about being caned by. There is a special reason why I wanted to be caned by her.

I had a nice chat with Ginger and then we went up the road and had a coffee at the Bagel Shop. We sat outside on the tables. An old school friend joined us.

Whilst we were there another lady I know walked past us with her daughter. There is a special reason why I want to be caned by her also.

I would pay her to cane me without mercy every two to three weeks and then get her to rub my nipples whilst I wanked myself off.

You see today is the day that I finally knew what that special reason is.

The counsellor that Sharon forced me to see nearly ten years ago told me that I hadn't told her everything - and I hadn't. I have been repressing something nearly all my life and I now know the nature of it - it is similar in function to a recurrent dream.

I have been compelled to write a true story recently about my relationship with Sharon - you know that it is titled: Moody Fragments of a Broken Heart Interposed between Two Dreams. But I became unsatisfied with it, stopped writing and posting it and then deleted my profile.

I couldn't figure out why.

Earlier today the answer came to me. It is not a tale of two people after all but rather of three, and there is an extra chapter to write.

I am not a physically well person but it is my hope that Nature will allow me time to complete it. I do not believe that I am long for this world - it remains to be seen whether I depart by my own hand or that of Nature.

I cannot with any honesty say whether I am about to tumble into the abyss of insanity or attain some sort of closure or peace of mind.

I have resolved something today and I will share it with you if I can.

Sunday 19th July 2009 The Shallow Sea - Blog/Dream

It is either at the beginning of time or it is at the end of time. Perhaps the end is indeed the beginning.

The sun is low in the sky and blood red. Sunset?

All around me in every direction and as far as I can survey is sea. It is a shallow sea. It is a shallow sea because to my right are the bleached bones of a giant ribcage belonging to a creature long dead resting on the sands just below the surface of the water.

I do not know why I am here in this bleak otherworld nor do I want to be in this place.

I hear a voice. It is my dead mother. I cannot see her though.

"I have just spoken to the Doctor and he tells me that you are going to die soon. There is nothing that can be done. You must take it as easy as you can in the time that you have left to you."

A chill runs through my body.

I awake. I am anxious. I am anxious because in the past dreams such as this have come true.

Time will tell. But in the meantime I must take it easy. Ignore the inner voice at your peril.

Sunday 26th July 2009 Tanya - Blog

Pissed. Pissed on two ciders and two Stella Artois. Not been back long. Can't sleep so on here. Sad fucker.

Been to a fortieth birthday party. Juki and I. Good little do and nice little location: Seashells Restaurant, Appley Beach. Good view across the Solent of Portsmouth and Spinnaker Tower.

We watched the tower become floodlit as the dark descended. Nice. Kids playing on the sand. Adults drinking and chatting. Good band.

Knew a few there but we didn't socialise much. Surprising considering my intelligence, charisma and wit, said Juki who isn't the kind inclined to sarcasm. Not inclined one little bit.

Tanya was the partner of whose birthday it was. Tanya. Tanya was also the name of a prostitute I shagged when I was just forty. Forty was when I began to fuck my life up and others too. Guilt and grief. I still carry it with me. Maybe to the grave.

Tanya. I knew another Tanya. Briefly. She was round faced and Slavic looking. She had curly dark hair and was pretty. I would imagine that her parents loved her very much. I would have loved her too.

In the only photo I saw of her, her lips were slightly parted and she was lying on her back in the snow. Her eyes were closed. Her left breast was exposed and badly bruised and around her neck was a noose that had been severed. She was young but quite dead.

The image moved me considerably and etched itself into my memory. I felt terribly sad for all those that loved her and for all those that never would. I grieved for the children she would never had, the love and joy she would never know.

She was a Russian partisan and she had been captured by the Nazis, beaten and then hanged.

All this from a grainy monochrome photo in a book of war images, a book I had browsed through in my local library.

This was about eleven years ago when I was just forty.

Tanya. Funny how that name and image still resonates.

I'm tired now. I am also getting tired of life. I thought that earlier.

Perhaps I will feel better after a long sleep. Perhaps.

Monday 27th July 2009 Talking of Suicide - Blog

I have just been going through some of my old paperwork and I came across this entry in one of my old diaries. I have decided to post it on here as there is a rather interesting tale of an unhappy young man, and indirectly it also reveals the feelings of the author of this diary: an unhappy middle aged man.

Thursday 6th July 2006

Feel slightly under par. Even though I am on higher levels of Lisinopril, since Monday I've been experiencing an underlying sensation of mild nausea and just detectable 'sticky' vision. I was going to go swimming today but have decided perhaps to go tomorrow. It seems to me that exercise either raises my blood pressure or puts my circulatory system under some strain which then leads to the dizziness and nausea. I believe that my 'vertigo' stems from heart and circulation problems and not inner ear defects. It's not good whatever the cause. I will hopefully have the chance to commit suicide before it gets too bad.

Anyway, I watched a programme a few days ago about the case of Steven Hiller - I think that is his name - who plunged to his death during a parachute jump. On the day of the tragedy he went skydiving with two 'friends' and jumped from the aircraft at about, I think, 20,000 feet. They performed some formations together then separated before opening their chutes and touching down a safe distance apart. After landing, Steven was nowhere to be found. His reserve chute was found by itself and alarm bells rang. A search was conducted, and someone noticed that a small area of corn in a field had been flattened; this was shown on the film but obviously not the body. The police were called, and it was ascertained that vital straps had been cut; it was now apparent that his death was not accidental. Initially the police overlooked a pair of scissors that had been left in the boot of Steven's car because an 'expert' concluded that they could not have cut the straps - wrong. Because of this oversight his skydiving mates were suspected of his death; and there was some evidence to suggest that there had been friction at times between them. Fortunately, another investigator returned to the scissors in Steven's car. They were tested for fibres and it was concluded that they were used to cut the straps. The boot of the car was not locked so there was a remote possibility that someone could have had access to them. Once again, suicide came to the forefront of the investigation. Steven's state of mind and lifestyle was put under scrutiny. It was discovered that he was heavily in debt - he was a student at an army college - and that his relationship with his girlfriend was coming to an end. His friend said that he wasn't - his opinion - worried about the debts because he would soon be earning a high salary in the services; however, he had failed several exams so the future high earnings may not have materialised. His girlfriend said it was only a 'casual' relationship, but how would she know what he really felt? Underneath he may have been really desolate. The other factor was that he had recently embraced the faith of Roman Catholicism; a sure sign of existential crisis. Naturally, the priest interviewed stated that it was contrary to 'God's law' that anyone would take their own life; but just because you go to church doesn't make you a believer; or a 'good person' for that matter. The most interesting thing, for me, about this case was the footage of him prior to his last jump: in the minibus; practising manoeuvres with his partners; in the plane - in all of them he looked happy, even larking about. This fact was remarked about by his family, girlfriend and friends: how could he kill himself when he appeared so happy. During the programme it was revealed that he had a talent for acting - though we all have a lesser or greater aptitude for adopting a persona. I postulate - nobody will ever really know - that for whatever reason he intended to end his life. I believe that he didn't want his jumping buddies to get any wind of it otherwise they would have aborted the jump, so he had to act as he normally behaved prior to jumping. It maybe that he thought it would be easier on his parents if there was some doubt as to the cause of his death; or possibly he derived some twisted satisfaction in leaving this world with a question mark, and in that he succeeded.

Also, on telly yesterday was a short programme about the personal life John Le Mesurier - I mention it because of some of the insights of human nature. Apparently JLM was a very attractive man, especially when he was younger - a former friend of his on the programme said: "You either have it or you don't!" I don't obviously, but that's by the way. JLM's first wife was Hattie Jacques whom he had two children with. She left him after a few years for a younger man and JLM was so soft that after a bit he let her, and her lover move in with him. Eventually he met Joan and they then got married. Joan then had an affair with JLM's best friend, Tony Hancock the comedian. The funny bit is that Tony Hancock was an alcoholic prone to depression and violence - he treated Joan like shit, unlike JLM who was a gentleman. Had not Tony Hancock committed suicide then Joan admitted that she would have married him. As it was, she returned to JLM and stayed with him till his death in 1983.

So, what can we draw from this about the general nature of women?

1. Woman want young good-looking men - Hattie Jacques.

2. They see nice men as weak - Joan.

3. Treat 'em mean keep them keen - Tony Hancock.

4. They only pretend to care - would Joan have cared about JLM's feelings if she had gone off with Hancock?

5. A bloke is only a stop gap till something better comes along.

Thanks for reading.

Tuesday 28th July 2009 Falling - Blog


I have thrown myself from the parapet of a church that no longer stands in the other world.

I do not feel fear.

Yea, though I walk through the shadow of valley of death, I will fear no evil...

I am accelerating at the rate of 32 feet per second per second.

I will not attain terminal velocity though the velocity is terminal.

Why am I thinking of O'level physics?

Did not Nietzsche say: Of what use is the knowledge of the chemical composition of water to a drowning man?

Soon I will be free. Very soon.

I feel tranquil.

There will be no pain.

Yea, though I walk through the shadow of valley of death, I will fear no evil...

A decision to decide no more.

The tarmac rushes up to embrace me and I kiss the sweet lips of oblivion.

I cannot hear the soundlessness nor can I see the nothingness.

Yea, though I walk through the shadow of valley of death, I will fear no evil...

Because here, there is no evil: the realm of the really real.


Wednesday 5th August 2009: The Vampire - Short Horror Tale

I awake and roll out of bed. I slip my dressing gown on and prepare to go downstairs for breakfast.

The light is somewhat 'pearly' and I know that I am still dreaming; a dream within a dream.

I sense that the Vampire is close; he has been stalking me for a while now. I get back into bed and swiftly fall asleep again.

I rise refreshed and the light is natural. I will have no trouble with the Vampire now.

Once again, I slip my robe on; no, for the first time, for it was only a dream before.

I am looking forward to breakfast; I can almost smell the sizzling bacon. The birds are beginning to sing, and it is good to be alive.

I descend to the first-floor landing and sense the presence of the Vampire. A shadow passes ominously along the window. His powers are increasing, no doubt of that.

I turn and tiptoe back up the stairs and I pray that he does not hear me. Surreptitiously I clamber under the covers and surrender myself to sleep.

I stir again and I am fully conscious. I have confounded the Vampire; even He cannot keep me asleep forever. A dream within a dream within a dream - clever. He nearly had me in his icy grasp.

I descend the stairs; they feel reassuringly solid. I can actually smell the bacon.

I open the kitchen door. My grandmother is at the stove.

"Morning, did you sleep well?" she inquires.

"Yes, thanks!"

I do not tell her about The Vampire; it would spook her.

I sit down at the table and she places the cooked breakfast in front of me.

"Thank you," I say, then add, "You're dead, aren't you?"

My grandmother has indeed been deceased for over twenty-five years. Why did I not realise that?

"There's someone at the door for you," she says.

Clever. Very clever.

Defeat is close.

Behind the frosted glass panels towers the dark figure of him - the Vampire.

I swing open the door and recognise the features of the Vampire - they are mine.

"What is it you seek from me? To suck out my soul?"

"Why do you run from me? Why do you run from the truth?" he hisses.

"And what is the truth that I must know?"

"You are just a dream, dreaming in the mind of God."

"And what if God wakes-"

I awake. I am in my flat.

It was all indeed just a dream...

Friday 7th August 2009: Without Gossip - Blog

Without gossip the soul grows weak, withers and dies!

I just had to laugh yesterday as karma can work in such a strange way. The background...

Between October 2003 and June 2004, I went out with a lady called Claire - regular readers will be aware of this and my strong feelings for her. Claire was the ex-wife of one of the bus drivers, Christopher.

Anyway, all the time I was going out with her another driver was also try to shag her - I will call him Ray.

Claire wasn't interested in him but instead of just ignoring him she couldn't resist leading him on - she is known for this.

Physically, Ray, was early sixties, of Indian descent, balding with a thick grey beard and quite slim.

When he first starting working for the company I liked him as he was polite and softly spoken - he was a nice chap.

After a while I discovered that he liked taking pictures of naked women - nothing wrong with that - but he had also approached a female colleague of mine, told her that though he loved his wife dearly their marriage was sexless and would it be alright if he slept with her?

She told him that she would rather not, even if he was the last man alive.

He wouldn't take no for an answer and eventually my female colleague, who unbeknown to him had been a female wrestler in the past, offered to demonstrate a body slam on him, or so the story goes.

There were also rumours that several female passengers had complained to the Company that he had been suggestive to them - I believe he had been cautioned by the Company for this.

After Claire and I split up we kept in touch - underneath I was hoping she would return to me - and would occasionally meet up for coffee even though I was now with Lulu, who told me Claire was just pulling my bells.

Around about October 2004 Claire informed me that she was now seeing someone else - I was hurt but he was everything I wasn't: tall, good looking, slim, young and with a well-paying job. I couldn't compete. The funny thing was that Lulu in fact was the better woman for me, though I couldn't see that at the time being besotted with Claire - and still being in love with Sharon didn't help.

Time moved on and Lulu dumped me (she didn't know about my affair with The Minger at this point) because she saw no future for the relationship - I was completely fucked up - but I remained friends with her too, we had after all known each other since primary school.

Occasionally Claire would also text so everything was amicable.

In June of 2005 Claire's father died with whom she had been very close - I sent her my condolences. After the funeral she had come round and got a lot off her chest. As I was driving her back she told me that the fellow she had dumped me for had turned out to be very selfish and it was at this point I got the feeling that she might want to come back. But she was still in a state of shock about her father so I didn't pursue it. On the way home she requested me to stop off at where she worked to pick up her wages. As we did we passed another car and to my surprise she ducked down under the dash - it transpired that she had done that to avoid the stares of another fellow, presumably one she was having an affair with.

I couldn't believe it, her father had only been dead a few weeks and she was fucking around. When my mother died the last thing that was on my mind was playing around. I said nothing and took her home.

A couple of weeks later I was at a barbecue-cum-birthday party for Lulu. The evening was a complete disaster and I have already blogged* about the first part of the evening - but there was more...

Claire had texted me asking for Ray's mobile number - why? She could have asked Christopher her ex-husband or anybody else on the Company. The reason was to make me jealous because she was probably annoyed I hadn't tried it on when I had taken her home - she needed attention being a vain woman.

Anyway, I told her that it was wrong to start messing around with him, besides which his wife was a lovely person. Claire sent me back an offish text and I didn't bother to reply - she had rattled me.

I left the party with Jeremy and went down town and the drunker I got the worse things seemed to get. I bumped into The Minger and ended up snogging with her despite having dumped her a few weeks previous but that was all I did.

Walking, or rather staggering, home at two in the morning I began to think of the cheek of it, there's me offering Claire a shoulder to cry on and all she can do is play wind up games - I decided to text her...

Dear Claire, I am sorry that your dad died but please don't text me again. You will never get a decent bloke because you cannot be trusted to stay faithful and what's more there is nothing that looks more ridiculous than an older woman flirting with younger men x

My own hypocrisy knows no bounds.

I went to bed laughing my drunken head off as she would see that the text was from me and her first thought would be that it would be another from that sap Matt - she was about to have her ego punctured!

In the morning there was a letter from her informing me how upset she was - remorseful and hungover, I apologised unreservedly. I had scuppered any chances permanently, however slight, of a reconciliation.

On the Monday I had driven my bus into Ryde Bus Station only to see Claire with her daughter waiting at the stands talking to Ray who had an expression like the cat that had got the cream. I had slinked off into the rest room feeling like shit - how could I lose out to a creep like that?

I explained to Ray a couple of days later that I had really loved that girl and how upset I had been when she had dumped me - he still had a really smug expression. I had to accept defeat and try and put it behind me.

There were a couple of more incidents, one in which I told her daughter that I had been out with her mum for a bit - Claire had obviously been ashamed of going out with a minger like me and had tried to keep it from her daughter but that was that really - we never spoke again.

Ray, meanwhile used to take great delight in showing me texts she had sent him and telling what she had been up to periodically to rub it in. However, Claire told him his fortune one day when he had tried it on with her 17-year-old daughter. Inwardly, I smiled as the tables had turned.

I think Ray managed to convince Claire it had all been a misunderstanding and he sneaked back in.

Time passed and the dust settled - I started dating The Minger and then shagging Lulu from time to time before one of Lulu's workmates told The Minger - another story.

One evening, I received a text from Ray: Watch out Claire is about. She texted me earlier. We must have a drink sometime?

What he really meant was: I'm still in contact with her so I'm the better man and feel really smug because you haven't got a chance but I have.

I texted back: I don't know why you bother with her as she is totally insincere and plays wind up games with men. Take care.

That's taken the wind out of his sails, I thought.

He never replied but a week later he beckoned me over to show a text Claire had sent him about me calling me a two-faced bastard - she was right about both as my parents weren't married.

It was obvious that he had sent a Claire a copy of my text - snide bastard!

Anyway, I thought the matter was closed and Ray and I began to chat again - despite everything I couldn't hate him - but last year when I was at Ryde Esplanade as a conductor on the Dotto Train, Claire's daughter, now twenty with a baby, stormed over and confronted me about me calling her Mum a psychopath.

I was nonplussed - I had never said that. I said it had probably come from Ray, who had incidentally been spreading rumours that the baby wasn't her partner's. But I didn't mention that. The story actually came from me joking about Sharon, who shares the same Christian name as Claire, in the rest room accusing my girlfriend of being schizophrenic and that being a mistake as both her personalities rounded on me then - kind of a Les Dawson gag. This story was picked up by another driver who was trying to ingratiate and thereby bed Claire's daughter by making out that I had said that about her mother, and also got schizophrenic confused with psychopathic - a double mistake.

I couldn't understand why this fellow would feel the need to rubbish me in order to pull the daughter, but it turned out that the daughter for some strange reason had had a crush on me at some point, so now it all figures. As it happened the fellow did end up sleeping with the daughter so the strategy worked but it finished his relationship with the female wrestler who I mentioned had threatened Ray at the beginning of this long and convoluted tale of bus people.

Anyway, last Sunday I was invited out for a curry with my friend as it was my birthday but as we had a bit of time to kill before the meal Juki and I popped into Wetherspoons. Sitting at a table was Ray and another driver. Not wishing to be rude I wandered over, said hello and asked him how he was? He told me that he was off sick because both his brother and sister had died within a very short space of time and the doctor had thought it best he had some sick leave to get over it. I told him I was sorry and then changing the subject asked him how his wife was? He looked a bit strange and told me she was fine. Shortly after we left.

Tuesday, I got on Christopher's bus and told him that I had seen Ray in Wetherspoons and that he was off sick. Christopher replied: "He's a total liar. He's been sacked by the company for something and his wife has left him. Apparently he invited some friends down to his flat for a drink, who incidentally knew the female wrestler, and when they knocked on the door he was in the middle of watching a blue movie and asked if they wouldn't mind if he finished watching it. They reluctantly agreed. Halfway through he got out his dick and started wanking - they stormed out. And when his wife found out she left him!"

So, when I unaware, last Sunday, asked him how his wife was he probably thought I was taking the piss in revenge for all the stirring he did between me and Claire - no job and no wife!

Funny how it all turns out after all those years.

Karma eh?

And apologies for this long and self-indulgent blog!

* Yesterday when I was cycling through Appley Park and taking in the pungent fumes of the many barbecues along the way I was reminded of an incident that happened to me at one once. It's a typical Matt incident: a fucking disaster. Some background first though.

After Claire dumped me in June 2004 I ended up going out with Lulu shortly after. Okay, rebound relationships not a good idea.

I had been in the same class as Lulu at primary school and our paths often used to cross. As it does in a small town and funny enough on our first date, we had reminisced about all the slipperings Mr G had dished out. Lulu had told me how sorry she had felt for one lad who had suffered - unfairly in her view - at the hands of Mr G.

I had mixed feelings. One the one hand I kind of did feel sorry for him but on the other I used to derive a quiet satisfaction from watching the slippering which was quite harsh. I hasten to add that I never told Lulu about my kink.

Anyway, I went out with Lulu for a good few months but she dumped me because I couldn't commit. We remained on friendly terms, however. In actual fact Lulu was attractive, intelligent, generous, humorous and kind but I was too mixed up to appreciate her at the time.

For her birthday, however, the following year in June 2005 she invited me to a barbecue at her friend's house. Her friend by the way is the spitting image of Julie Walters incidentally. Anyway, apparently, I learned later, Lulu had invited me to the barbecue partly to show off her new toy-boy and make me jealous.

When she had dumped me (on election night of all nights) she had immediately regretted it, me being so handsome, witty, sexy and modest. The next day she had pleaded for me to have her back. I had turned her down. I was also shagging someone else from time to time too. Okay, I've been a bit of a rat in my time.

Back to the barbecue.

To be honest I don't really like barbecue food that much and also because I'm not that keen on food poisoning too. Burnt to the crisp on the outside, warm and pink in the middle. Thanks, but no thanks. So, I decide to eat beforehand.

From the supermarket I buy some cooked ham, bhajis and a quiche which I eat when I get back. I also get a couple of bottles of wine for the party and a card for Lulu.

A little later I turn up at the party with Jeremy, my childhood friend, who is also invited.

The party is good. I have a lot of laughs and end up chatting to a girl who I think I may have a chance with. But it turns out she was just flirting.

After a bit I start to get tipsy on all the wine.

Lulu is a bit cheesed off because the toy-boy fails to show.

Whilst there I observe everybody gorging on the food and feel smug because I know I'm not going to be the one suffering with my gut in the morning.

Suddenly my message alert sounds. It's Claire, my ex who I still pine for. What the fuck does she want?

Well, it turns out she wants the number of my one of my colleagues. It's a ploy to make ME jealous. It works too. She's already got a fella, the one she dumped me for. She's a game player.

Later when I'm really drunk, I tell her that too by text.

Time is getting on and I and Jeremy have an invite to join some others downtown. We accept but suddenly I experience a mild stomach pain. I have to go to the loo.

I walk back into the house which is quite small and at the end of a terrace. It also only has one toilet - not enough to cater for about twenty or so guests. In addition, there is no lock on the door and when I sit down, I realise that I have a dose of the shits. Big time.

This isn't supposed to be happening to me, me who cleverly ate at home in order to avoid tummy trouble from dodgy barbecue food.

I have terrible flatulence interspersed with pebble dash diarrhoea and just when I think there can be no more it starts up again. Meanwhile I'm having to keep the door pressed shut with one leg because there's no lock on it. People keep trying to get in. Finally, I get over it and I flush the chain. But to my horror I see that the water isn't draining away probably due to the fact I've used a hell of a lot of loo paper. The level of water and raw sewerage rapidly begins to rise and any second, I fear it's going to overflow. Mercifully, it doesn't but it's still blocked. With one foot against the door to keep the other desperate toilet users at bay I pump repeatedly with the toilet brush with my free hand. Finally, there is a loud sucking noise as the bowl empties.

I open the door, immensely relieved in more ways than one and immediately a young woman grasping her crutch rushes in.

When I get outside Jeremy is waiting for me. He says calmly: "I hate to say this Matt but not only could everybody hear you, you have also completely stunk the whole house out. I think it may be best that we go."

"You're probably right."

We walk out and I wish everybody left there a cheery goodbye. Few respond and the rest just stare disgustedly at me.

Another night to remember!

Sunday 9th August 2009: Hurt Me! - Explicit Memoir

Sunday morning is still Saturday night.

I'm drunk and staggering up Ryde High Street on the way home.

I've reached the junction with Star Street where the precinct ends and the 'Old Town' begins.

"Oi! You look a bit like Steve Collins. I like him!"

I turn and see two fat slappers dressed in leather jackets and jeans loitering in a shop entrance. They are probably early twenties.

They put me in mind, for an instant, of the bloated spiders, you see in autumn, patiently straddling their webs hoping for a fly to stumble blindly in...

"You mean Steve Collins the 'Celtic Warrior', the boxer?" I respond.

I don't think I do resemble him, and I'm ten years older too but add: "You like boxing then? Lennox Lewis is fighting Andrew Golota tonight, pity I haven't got Sky, or I would have watched it."

"We've got Sky. Come round ours!"

Fuck me, you're forward, I think, or rather what passes for thinking when you're pissed.

"Where do you live?" I don't want to trawl halfway across town.

"Mount Street."

Fuck! I live in Mount Street and I've never seen them before.

"Yeah. Thanks. I will."

"We're sisters you know," one of them says.

"You do look a bit alike."

They both have round flat fat faces and dark lank hair. You couldn't call them pretty, but then you couldn't call them ugly either. Still, I have been drinking a lot of lager.

The younger one of the two grabs hold of my hand and we turn right into Newport Street, left into Station Street, along Green Street and then into Mount Street.

We wander past Willow Cottage where I live and tucked in the corner of Mount Street and Little Arthur Street is their house - just three fucking doors away from mine. That could spell trouble.

We enter the surprisingly expansive lounge and I plonk myself down onto the large sofa.

One of the sisters gets me a can and I pop it open.

The telly is switched on and tuned onto Sky Sports. I look forward to the big fight.

The preliminaries, fight clips and discussion seem to go on endlessly. The older bigger sister disappears off to bed and I'm left on the seat with the younger one, Mea.

After a bit I'm aware she's gone too, perhaps I had dozed off.

I feel a bit awkward sitting in a stranger's house all alone watching their telly and using their electric but the fight will be on soon.

I become aware of footsteps and see Mea standing at the door in her nightdress.

"Are you coming to bed with me or what?"

The 'or what' option seems the least promising of the two so I say, "Okay."

She clicks the telly off and turns off the lights.

"Try not to make too much noise or you'll wake my mother up. She won't be too pleased to find you here."

I follow her up the stairs to her bedroom which remains unlit.

As my eyes adjust, the darkness becomes a gloom and I can just discern why she doesn't want it to be illuminated - the room is a complete and utter tip.

I strip off and slip under the covers beside her.

I give her a cuddle and French kiss her, gradually working round to caressing her skin under her nightie.

"Why don't you take your nightdress off?" I purr in her ear.

"I'm fine just the way I am thanks."

Eventually I penetrate her, but something seems amiss - nerves perhaps?

I do not climax myself and fall into a drunken sleep.

Suddenly I'm awake, and very hard - I think it is she that has woken me.

She is leaning over me intently.

"Hurt me. I want you to hurt me!"

I resist the initial, cruelly witty, urge to call her a 'fat ugly slag' but instead say, "Have you got a hairbrush or a shoe?"

This is definitely my kind of female. I briefly fantasise about her pale fat naked body in the moonlight tied firmly to a tree with twine and me whipping her back and buttocks with a cat 'o nine tails, every lash echoing through the woods and bringing forth thin lines of blood...

"I would really like that, but the noise will wake Mum up. Scratch my arms. Hard."

She whips the nightgown over her head - suddenly the shyness has evaporated.

I gently take her chubby left arm in my left hand and then rake down it hard from the forearms to the wrist with the prominent nails of my right hand.

I can feel her tense, but she says nothing.

I repeat the action but this time even harder.

Her breathing begins to deepen.

Again, I rake her.

I switch to her right arm - I do not start gently.

Four times I run my nails with force down the bare flesh of her arms.

Her deep breathing is becoming gasping now.

I return to her left arm, faster and faster, deeper, and deeper, I rake her.

She seeks blood. And so, do I.

My hand becomes warm and sticky.

I stop.

"Do you want me to fuck you now, have you had enough?"

"Yes. That is good. Very good."

I mount her, slipping in easily, and my penis is broom handle stiff.

I get her to rub my nipples gently whilst I pinch hers tight.

Within a few minutes I feel little ripples of spasms play along my shaft like the first drops of rain prior to the downpour as she begins to climax.

Her obese frame suddenly shudders, and she utters a mute groan. I continue to pump and after a few seconds I too experience the sweet release of orgasm.

Spent, I withdraw and then collapse to the side of her. Slumber beckons.

"You can't fall asleep; you'll have to go. Mum will absolutely kill me if she finds you."

I clamber out of bed and struggle not only to find my clothes but also to put them on.

Eventually I succeed, wish her a good night, and then sneak out of the house.

I stroll the few yards home and let myself in.

I do not feel guilt yet, but I know I will when I sober up.

I must keep this from Sharon who I really love.

I vow never to speak to the sisters again.

As I get into my bed, I wonder how the fight went...

Wednesday 19th August 2009: Cheese Gives You Bad Dreams - Memoir

Many years ago, before I worked for The Bus Company, I was employed for a while at Tesco on the Wines and Spirits department. It was hard work, humping heavy boxes of bottles around all day, but compensated for with some great laughs.

The fellow who was my supervisor possessed a wicked sense of humour and he resembled John Thomson the actor from Cold Feet, though he was probably shorter and also a bit 'camp' too. His name was Albert.

One of the things that amused Albert was the bit in the Staff Training Manual that stated: The customers are not interested one little bit in your idle gossip...

"Yes, they are, most definitely," Albert would counter, and he would prove the assertion wrong on several occasions too with staged little incidents.

One quiet day Albert rushed out onto the shop floor looking a bit flustered and said to me loud enough to be heard: "Matt, can you lend me a fiver as my sister, who works for Tate and Lyle, has just phoned me to tell me there's going to be a severe and long sugar shortage."

"Bloody hell, Albert, I'll give you a tenner and get a whole load for me too!"

In the background was a middle aged woman pretending not to earwig. We knew different of course.

I handed Albert the tenner and he disappeared out the back. In the meantime I quietly watched the woman wheel her trolley out of the aisle.

A few minutes later Albert returned and we carried on stocking the shelves but keeping a sharp lookout in the direction of the pallet at the far end of the store where the bags of sugar were stacked.

Sure enough, after about ten minutes, the woman approached the sugar pallet.

I nudged Albert and we both looked on, trying to contain our laughter, as she placed bag after bag of sugar into her trolley till it was totally full.

I imagined her later at home and her husband asking her why every cupboard was full of sugar and she tapping the side of her nose and replying knowingly: "I have inside information that there is going to be a worldwide sugar shortage soon..."

That was over twenty-six years ago. They've probably just about got through it all now!

Albert and I scripted a few other 'wind ups' though that was probably the funniest but there was another weird incident...

One morning I was in the warehouse putting boxes away when I heard a thump followed by a gasp and then the sound of a body crumpling to the floor.

I came out to the main corridor to see this fellow in a suit lying unconscious at the door of the dairy refrigeration stock room surrounded by fourteen pound blocks of cheese. The First Aider was called and after a bit he revived and was well enough to go home though clearly shaken.

It turned out he had been counting the cheese which had been stacked precariously high when he had inadvertently nudged the pile for it to collapse with one landing on his head rendering him unconscious for a few minutes. Fortunately he made a full recovery.

After, there were a few jokes going round about cheese giving you bad dreams...

Funny enough, I attended, a few weeks later, the annual staff party which was fancy dress and was asked by the Dairy Manager why I hadn't come in an outfit.

I responded by lying on the floor with my eyes closed and saying, wittily I thought: 'I've come as a cheese rep!'

"Very fucking funny, Matt!"

I've got a few other amusing tales of my time at Tesco which I'll get round to posting some time.

Tuesday 1st September 2009: Two Tales about Snakes - Blog

I'm sat at a table in The Bagel Shop in Ryde High Street with Juki and Calamity when Bridget comes in with her little girl. But a little background first:

Calamity is thirty, tall, blonde and kind of resembles Joanne Lumley when she used to be Purdy in The New Avengers but not as good looking if I am to be honest. I have known Calamity for about three and a half years and for a short while, whilst I was with Della, we had an affair which was as much exciting as it was good for my middle aged ego. We also had a suicide pact at one time too - a story for another day. Calamity has just completed her first year at University and is currently on the Island till she returns to her studies at the end of September.

I'm very fond of Calamity but I know that tragedy stalks her, still, live for the day eh?

Calamity is sipping from a latte. Juki you already know - a regular coffee for her. Me? Dodgy blood pressure, racing pulse, high cholesterol, over weight, well, what else but a hot chocolate topped with cream.

Bridget is Jeremy's ex and she lives in Jeremy's house with her delightful little girl who she had by the fellow after Jeremy and who she has no contact with. Jeremy is now married to Amanda and resides at Amanda's former marital home. Bridget, Jeremy and Amanda all get on really well and Jeremy used to be my best friend. I should have mentioned that earlier. We still are friends but I don't see that much of him now sadly.

The snake.

About a month ago as it was my birthday Jeremy and Amanda insisted on treating Juki and I to a curry. Now Jeremy is quite slim, even slimmer a few years back, but he can certainly pack away the food - I have witnessed him gobble down two large curries in a row in the past. Anyway, we were talking about the amount Jeremy can eat at one sitting and I said, to much hilarity, that he was like a snake in that he could totally gorge himself and then not need to eat for ages. Jeremy then put on a mock expression of hurt and said: "Are you calling me a snake, that's not very nice!" Amanda and Juki found it highly amusing.

Now, as it was Jeremy's birthday yesterday Juki and I bought him a wooden segmented toy snake in a gift shop, wrapped it up and popped it through his letterbox. I hasten to add we long ago gave up giving each other useful presents.

Jeremy had told Bridget about the snake remark and I ask Bridget if she had heard from Jeremy. She tells me that Amanda has taken him away to Center Parcs for his birthday weekend.

"Talking about snakes reminds of another story about them. A true one," I pipe up.

Everybody gives me not-another-one-of-your-long-and-boring-tales-Matt look. But I start anyway...

"I can't remember the exact details but I read somewhere about this Island in the tropics where there lived this tribe. The Island was also home to a large number of good sized pythons. One day this native found a python slithering through his hut searching for prey so he took up a club and bludgeoned it to death. Now, because it was a female snake he knew that the male snake would come looking for it - not a good prospect because these fuckers were known not only to occasionally eat humans but were also vengeful. He decided that the best thing to do was get his revenge in first so he made his way to the snake colonies lair, a cave, a little way off. He waited outside for one of the pythons to emerge and he would attack and kill it assuming it was the male searching for his female, the one he had killed. Unfortunately for him the male was smarter and was already lying in wait for him in a tree outside the cave. As soon as the man moved under the tree the snake dropped onto him and immediately wrapped his coils around him tightening every time he breathed out - the effect of which would slowly crush the life out of him. The poor man in his desperation found the recess in which the snake's penis was retracted and in a last attempt grabbed hold of it and twisted with what little strength he had left. The snake in agony momentarily loosened its coils just enough for the fellow to throw them off and make his escape. Unfortunately he had little breath for running and he could hear the python slithering after him. After a bit the exertion was too much and he collapsed fearing that he would once again be caught - and this time he wouldn't get away. To his surprise he woke and the snake was nowhere around. Realising that he had a lucky escape and didn't want to tempt fate he decided to leave the island and become a fisherman. Tragically the boat he was on capsized and he drowned on his first trip."

Juki laughs but nobody else does.

I pick up my hot chocolate and the world spins round - I'm having a vertigo attack. I manage to control it but I have to get home. I tell everybody that I have to go - they understand.

It's crap this condition. Once again my thoughts turn to Dignitas...

Wednesday 17th September 2009: Charade - Blog

Yesterday: Wednesday 16th September 2009. Time: 1830.

Billy-No-Mates sat at a round table in Hong Kong Express. Billy-No-Mates waiting for his Sweet and Sour Chicken Balls served with Egg Fried Rice. Billy-No-Mates supping from his chilled lemonade served in a clear Coca-Cola glass. Billy-No-Mates periodically glancing out at the dual carriage way across which lies the entrance to Ryde Pier. Billy-No-Mates contrasting the onset of windy autumn that lies just beyond the glass partition of the restaurant's front with the blown up wall mounted photos of Hong Kong's Victoria Harbour taken on a clear but sultry night from, so the caption says, The Peak.


Billy-No-Mates is not alone in the restaurant - there is another Billy-No-Mates on the opposite row of tables.

Billy-No-Mates number 2 is older and bigger than Billy-No-Mates number 1 and is about sixty with a pleasant wide ruddy face. Billy-No-Mates number two is wearing winter denial clothes: sandals, shorts and a tea shirt.

Billy-No-Mates number one suddenly remembers that on the way down to The Esplanade he was beeped by Louise. Billy-No-Mates likes Louise - a lot.

Louise is forty six but looks thirty six and is dark haired, blue eyed tanned and pretty - she's a sexy bitch and intelligent too.

Billy-No-Mates had been out with Louise, her daughter and manic dog last Sunday for a walk around Firestone Copse.

Billy-No-Mates had liked the comforting domesticity of it - he had been reminded of happier times in his life.

At the end of the day, after calling in at her parents, Louise had suggested a dinner with just the two of them. Billy-No-Mates had felt, for the first time in a while, a little optimistic and Billy-No-Mates visualised himself in a cosy monogamous relationship with her: meals together, trips out, bonding with her daughter, good films, great conversations, gratifying sex but then Billy-No-Mates concluded it that it would be a charade - a charade like all his other relationships that would crumble with each slip of his carefully constructed mask. Because all of his relationships with women had gone the same way but he seemed destined to pursue them all the same - an unending and unenviable series of unhappy endings.

Billy-No-Mates picks up his mobile and phones Louise.

Louise: "Hi, I've just got in. How you doing?"

Billy-No-Mates: "I'm fine, just treating myself to a Sweet and Sour at Hong Kong Express. Do you fancy meeting up over the weekend?"

Louise: "I would love to but I've got friends over, they go back Sunday afternoon, maybe we could squeeze in a cuppa then?"

Billy-No-Mates: "That would be good but don't worry if you can't. Look, I would like to take you out for a meal. What do you say?"

Louise: "That would be nice, just the two of us. I've got to go now but will look really look forward to it. Bye darling."

Billy-No-Mates: "Bye, and take care."

The waitress places down his meal.

Billy-No-Mates number 2 is no longer a Billy-No-Mates as he has just been joined at his table by two women and a man - they are two couples and he was just the first to arrive.

The genuine Billy-No-Mates tucks into his food and remembers again that it is his son's twenty second birthday.

Billy-No-Mates hasn't seen or heard from his son today but his son had popped in yesterday for his card and present of money.

Billy-No-Mates feels that he has been a less than perfect father but what can he do now?

His son had spoken of his future plans to enrol on a college course so he can support his stepson and partner, and maybe have a child but Billy-No-Mates reckons that it is probably a charade as his son is actually facing prison for an alleged assault. Billy-No-Mates tries not to think about it - maybe he will get off.

Billy-No-Mates finishes his meal, gets up and pays.

As he exits the restaurant Billy-No-Mates feels the need to walk - he has been inside most of the day whilst the electrician upgraded his electrics, and then he fell asleep for the latter part of the afternoon waking just before six.

He strolls past the coldly illuminated bus station and then along to the tunnel entrance.

Between the gap in the buildings between Planet Ice and LA Bowl he espies a distant hovercraft about halfway across the Solent heading backing to the terminal at Ryde - he decides to watch it arrive and turns into the Quay Road coach and car park over the twin tracked railway tunnel.

He hears his name called.

He looks to see an old driver he used to work with leaning out of his coach window.

"What you doing? I haven't seen you for years!"

He recognises 'Mason'.

"Hi Mason, I'm just going to watch the hovercraft come in and then I'll come back for a chat."


Billy-No-Mates wanders down to the seawall adjacent to the terminal. It's around about half seven now and dusk. It's quite breezy and the sea a tad choppy.

Billy-No-Mates wonders if he will be hit from the spray from the craft as it passes.

The pilot of the hovercraft throttles in the engines as he glides it skilfully up the gently inclined concrete slipway prior to landing.

Satisfied, Billy-No-Mates walks back to the coach - he can't really be bothered to speak to the driver as he has little in common with him now and also because he feels a little uncomfortable him - uncomfortable with his repressed homosexuality. No. Uncomfortable with the fact that he feels that Mason once fancied him and he doesn't want to have to tell him, awkwardly, that he's not interested.

"Come in and sit down, it's warm in here. So tell me a quick potted history of what you have been doing."

"Well, I'm not with the bus company anymore - I was paid off due to losing my license because of vertigo. I may go for disability and I am still undergoing tests..."

"That's bad news. What about your love life? I can't get anyone at all. I expect you can because you've still got a good head of hair."

"I don't know about that Mason, it's thinning a bit, shrinking like the icecaps with global warming."

Billy-No-Mates underneath believes that man-made global warming may be a scam - a charade? - in which scientists seek to attract funding from politicians who in turn present climate change as a global problem which requires a global world order which really exists for the enrichment and empowerment of the global elite.

Billy-No-Mates believes that it is as important to understand not just what a person says but to also understand why they are saying what they are saying.

"So, are you going out with anyone?" Mason enquires.

"I've got a female friend whom I'm very close to but we're not an item as such. I may be going out with someone else soon, she's really nice-"

"What about you and Sharon?"

"We split up about six years ago. After her I went out with Claire then Lulu followed by Della who dumped me a year and a half ago."

If he hasn't got the hint that I am straight now he never will after all those names, Billy-No-Mates thinks.

"You're really lucky when it comes to women as I can't get anyone."

Billy-No-Mates wants to tell him that it is because he is gay or bisexual and refuses to come to terms with it and females will pick up on it, but Billy-No-Mates is into BDSM and not that many know about that - another charade.

"I've got some pictures of you when you were my conductor all those years ago. You used to have lovely hair, like a girl's. I'm going to scan some photos of you and post them on the net."

"Thanks Mason, I've got to go as I'm meeting my friend at half eight. We're going to watch a film. Take it easy."

Mason presses a scrap of paper into Billy-No-Mates hand with his website handle on.

"Bye!" Mason calls out, almost plaintively, as Billy-No-Mates lets himself out of the warm vehicle.

Billy-No-Mates makes his way round the back of LA Bowl and then phones his female friend, Juki.

"Do you fancy watching 'Moon'?"

"Yeah, that will be good. Thanks."

"Okay, I'll see you in the foyer of The Commodore at about a quarter past eight."

Billy-No-Mates reflects about his friendship with Juki - it's platonic though he did get her to strip off once so he could mildly cane her but she has told a lot of her circle that they were an item - another charade.

Billy-No-Mates wanders out to the end of the harbour and takes in the view of the pier, the town rising gently up on the slopes, the floodlit parish church - it's a good place to think.

Billy-No-Mates ponders about the charades he has encountered recently: his son and his future; Mason and his sexuality; Global warming; Juki and her fake relationship with himself; the possible coming charade with Louise.

He wonders if charade is indeed the right word, perhaps façade.

Billy-No-Mates looks at the sea and the constant motion of it. He looks at the endless stream of cars passing along Ryde seafront. He wonders about the tides, the spinning of the planet, the energy being expended in street lights. Nothing is at rest - all is change whether it be slow or quick. He realises that his own body is changing each second - changing for the worse, slowly deteriorating. Every minute somebody is born and somebody dies and in that moment he understands what the greatest charade is of all: that life, his life, has lasting value.

He turns back and heads for the bus station.

As he boards the Number 3 to take him up to the cinema it occurs to him that the engine of his life is now switched off and that it is only momentum now that is keeping him going - but for how long?

Friday 2nd October 2009: Meaningless Meanings - Blog

We have sprung from a causeless cause at the beginningless beginning of time to seek meaning in a meaningless existence.

Better to believe in a lie than nothing.

Life is just death deferred.

Health is just illness postponed.

Happiness is just depression masked.

True freedom is the freedom not to be.

Pleasure is the discharge of tension and the greatest tension must surely be life itself therefore the greatest pleasure must be the relinquishing of life.

There is no such thing as a happy ending, only happy memories.

Everything of value is left at the gates of oblivion.

We are just a dream in the mind of God - a God that has eaten too much cheese before bed.

Give up all hope and your life will be so much better...

Looks like I'm having one of my dark moments again folks still at least my son didn't go to jail today - his case was adjourned till November.

How the fuck did it all go so fucking wrong?!!!

Good Night Everyone!!

Cheerful Fucking Charlie.

Monday 9th November 2009: Wanton Pain Slut - Blog

Cougar (Charlotte) Visited me Friday Night - this is the account:

Ryde Harbour. Ryde Harbour at night:

I talk of Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Ayn Rand. She talks of the artists.

Her auburn hair blows gently across her elegant features in the chill November breeze - she is beautiful. And she is wanton.

I want to be kind to her, protect her...

The yachts rock gently against their moorings, the water rippling.

Beyond lies the old pavilion now a bowling alley and beyond that the town rising gradually up on the easy slopes.

She kisses me catching me unawares. And I in turn catch her hand.

I see the yachts tugging gently against their moorings. I see the dark water rippling in the sodium lights. I see it all, the town and everything as on canvas, but not as an artist would have it, frozen in time but rather as alive and dynamic painted in moving colours upon the canvas of oblivion.

I look at her. Tall and willowy. Her blue eyes are plaintive.

I press my mouth softly against hers.

I want to be kind to her, protect her...



She says nothing, merely obeys.

I want to be kind to her, protect her...

I grasp her fine breasts and maul her roughly.

I pinch her nipples.

"Come with me."

I want to be kind to her, protect her...


She is naked face down on the bed.

She had told me - defied me - that she would not cry.

She did not say that she would not surrender.

I wanted to be kind to her, protect her, protect her from myself but that was never to be. The cane is in my hand, power. Absolute power.

Her pale legs are long and her back is liberally spotted with moles - a myriad of beguiling islands upon an exquisite ivory sea.

I raise the cane and bring it down like the first drop of rain in a summer shower lightly upon the twin peaches of her cheeks. She says nothing and hardly stirs.

Again I guide it down, harder.

The drops become a shower.

She begins to twist and gasp. And the shower becomes a storm.

She writhes and squeals but does not sob and her beautiful white buttocks are now a palette of crimson.

I cane her hard, very hard and with cruel intent once more.

She pulls her long legs up to her quivering body and pushes herself up onto her elbows - the pain is over.

She throws herself at my body in her moment of surrender.

I can be kind now.

I take her fine head in my arms and stroke her long hair. She is mine now.

I comfort her and then lower her to the mattress.

Her blue eyes are sad.

On her back now I make her grip the supports of the frame such that her sexy arms are stretched out.

I pull her legs apart and force my head betwixt her thighs. She is shaved.

I thrust my fingers into her cunt and suck and lick her clit. I squeeze her tits roughly.

I pump her slowly at first then gradually faster - I keep my tongue in time.

Steadily I increase the pace.

I feel the sudden contractions of her cunt grip my fingers. I merely thrust more strongly.

She cries out as though in pain - cries out my name.

I do not stop. I cannot stop.

Time after time she comes. Time after time she screams.

She is a wanton woman and I am addicted to her. Utterly and absolutely...

Sunday 15th November: I Treated the Slut Like Shit, and She Took it! - Slut Fiction

She's a minger and she knows it: forty with a wonky eye, overweight and with an abundance of moles on her arms - and a large one on her stomach. Her personal hygiene leaves a little to be desired too - but, she has big tits and nipples though.

She absolutely adores me...

The thing is I just don't give a damn about her: she is just a sexual object to me like the majority of my women, and I have had loads, fucking loads.

On the plus side, she is a tad kinky - it's the only thing the ugly bitch has going for her.

It's Wednesday and my day off - I know she is at home waiting for me to call, desperately waiting for me to call. I'm too good for her and we both know it. After a while I will tire of her and dump her - it will break her heart but what do I care, shit happens, live with it bitch. Still, I will have a bit of fun with her today.

I pick up the phone and dial her number. She answers meekly and all excited. I can't stand all this sweetness and light, it sickens me so I get to the point. "Strip naked and walk round to mine, just wearing your cheap fake fur coat and boots - you've got fifteen minutes so don't fuck around!"


The door buzzer sounds in my hallway. I check my watch: fourteen minutes - not bad, but then she knows not to displease me.

I pick up the intercom phone.

"It's me!" she proclaims in an irritatingly gleeful tone.

"Yeah, surprise, surprise. Right, you are going to do exactly as I say, understand? - or it's all over between us!"

There's never anything to be gained for a man like me, or any man if truth be known, in being soft with a slut, and if ever there was such a creature as an über slut then she was it!

"When I release the outer door you are going to enter the hallway and remove your coat and boots. You will be completely naked. You will place your clothes in the utility cupboard out of sight."

I can just make out a faint 'yes' - the prospect of being single terrified her and besides if she did get another man she would never get a fellow as good as me, not in a million years.

"You will crawl up to my flat and beg to be let in!"

I visualise the two long flights of stairs and the four doors - any of which could be opened at any time - she will have to crawl past. If that happens then I'll just deny I ever knew her.

I release the catch to the communal door on the ground floor...


I reckon she's just started on the last flight - I can just make out the satisfying sound of naked knees and elbows scuffing on the worn stair carpet.

I smiled a wicked smile and then discern a gentle knocking on my flat door - I am in no rush to open it.

"Please let me in." she requests plaintively.

I think of her flabby nude body with all its blemishes waiting outside and wonder if she is aware that the occupants of the house next door can peer, if they choose, into the landing outside my flat - I cannot help but smile again.

I allow three minutes to pass.

"I beg you to let me in!"

She's getting distressed - how sweet.

I allow another sixty seconds to pass then slowly open my door.

"About time, you bitch, what kept you?" I may be a cunt, some say, but I do possess a sense of humour.

I get the impression she is rather pleased to see me.

"Get to my room - I'm going to fuck you, it's all you are good for!"

She pads off meekly along my hall. I strip, throwing my clothes upon the sofa in my lounge and stroll to my bedroom.

She is standing by the bed - awaiting me. I turn her round roughly and without warning viciously rake the top of her expansive back with my nails. She winces and shudders with the pain but she has to take it till I have had enough, not her, the slut.

Her nipples are engorged and the odour from her moist fanny hangs heavy in the air. I notice tiny little droplets of blood have begun to form along the cruel scratches I have inflicted - it is time.

I throw her down roughly onto the mattress and thrust my seven inch cock into her cunt. I make her rub and suck my nipples - she exists purely, like all women should, for my gratification.

It feels fucking good and our rhythm is synchronised. We reach the crescendo of our coupling and climax simultaneously - it is a unique attribute she has, and she is fortunate to possess it as I do not concern myself with a slut's pleasure.


She is lying next to me now all relaxed and clingy, radiating ugliness.

"Matt, what would you have done if someone had opened their door just as I was crawling past all naked?"

"I would have disowned you, and laughed when you were arrested and bundled into the police van. But it wasn't very likely to happen as two of the flats are holiday homes and the other two occupants were at work - unless they happened to have been ill or taking a day off."

"You're a bastard you know that, a kinky and exciting bastard I admit."

"I know," I say matter-of-factly. And shortly I will confirm that for her when I dump her.

I grab hold of her and give her repulsive body a cuddle then kiss her - I want her to feel that she is special to me for now as it will make her hurt just that little bit more when the time comes to callously discard her...

Tuesday 17th November 2009: The Fight - Memory

I clock him across the smoky and crowded dance floor of the Prince Consort discotheque. He is six foot, a couple of inches taller than me, blond with an athletic build and would be good looking were it not for the permanent sneer twisting his features. He's eighteen. I'm nineteen.

His mates call him Barney and he's a cunt, quite literally, from the wrong side of the tracks across town and he's from a rough family whose reputation he lives off.

He's heading my way because about an hour earlier he had been giving my mate Jeremy a bit of hassle. I had told him to piss off. And he had.

It's been eating him since, he has lost face, I can see that, and now with a few more beers in his belly he has come to even the score.

I watch him get closer. I shut out the thumping beat of the music and the dancers and focus, though pissed, on what I am going to do, have to do.

He's about three feet away and his eyes are angrily staring into mine. It's a mistake as he should be looking at my hands. I smile slightly to deceive him into believing that it is he who is in control and that I am no threat.

"Anytime you-"

I smash my right fist as hard as I can into his face with the intention of pushing his nose into the back of his head and as I do an electric shock of pain shoots up my arm. He reels back in agony bringing his hands up to his face and turns away.

One hard punch and the cunt's had enough. I kind of feel good about that.

"Okay cool it lads, just stay cool everybody," says the DJ who has had a grandstand view. He also kills the music.

The dancers stop dancing and slowly realise that something has happened. Barney is over in the corner and one of his mates has his arm round him. Another one of his pals, quite short and probably underage comes up to me and says menacingly, "If you want trouble mate we'll give you fucking trouble!"

I want to laugh, though it is swiftly dawning on me that I could really be in deep shit, because the line sounds right out of a badly scripted gangster movie. I decide to brazen it out - they don't know me and maybe I really am useful, besides I took their mate out pretty easily and he was supposed to be tough.

"Look Shorty, it was between him and me, but if you want some of the same then feel free to have a go."

He says nothing and sidles off. The problem is my hand is really hurting and I'm wondering if I've broken a finger. I'm fucked if there is to be any more fighting.

I decide to get out but I have to do it coolly, if I show any weakness then I've had it. I nonchalantly push another one of his mates out of the way and make for the back way to the cloakrooms where Jeremy is attempting to chat up the cock-tease of an attendant. I've got to get him out in case they start on him. At the far end of the club by the entrance I just see one of the black suited burly bouncers begin to walk down, presumably called by the DJ.

I'm really shitting it now inside but I if I can keep my composure I stand a good chance of getting away with it.

As I step off the dance floor a big blond fellow with a petite brunette hanging on his arm says to me, "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

I just ignore him and carry on walking. And pray he doesn't come after me. I stroll down the corridor fairly confident that nobody is following me. I see Jeremy leaning on the door frame of the cloakroom and he is trying to impress the flirty peroxide blonde of an attendant. He looks a bit annoyed that I am about to interrupt him but he hasn't got a cat in hells chance of pulling her anyway.

I take him by the arm and out of earshot.

"Jeremy we have to get out of here. And quick. I've just smacked Barney and we could be in big fucking trouble!"

"Uh, right," he says, suddenly realising the seriousness of the situation.

"I want you to act completely normal till we get out of here," I whisper to him. He nods.

We make our way the ten yards or so to the exit. There is only one bouncer there; the other two are probably on the dance floor questioning people. I still can't hear any music. Not good.

As I approach the door I fear that at any moment a member of Barney's little group could just appear. And we still have to get past the doorman.

The bouncer sees us and to my amazement swings open the reinforced glass door. "Early night lads?"

"Well there's not a lot going on and I've got to work tomorrow. Good night!" I respond breezily.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I step out into the late evening air and walk up the stone steps to the pavement, the Prince Consort nightclub being below ground level.

As we reach the top of the steps I turn to Jeremy and say, "I think it will probably be a very good idea if we sprint back to mine and wait for the furore to die down."

We're both pretty quick but we have only gone about seventy yards when I hear a shout in the distance.

"That's him. After them, lads!"

We get to the top of St Thomas's Street and then turn into Spencer Road. We're both badly gasping and as we get to my parent's house I look for my pursuers. But we have left them behind and more importantly they haven't seen where I live.

I open the front door and we let ourselves in. It is quiet. My Mother and Grandmother have gone to bed.

"That was close Matt, what happened?"

"I punched Barney in the face before he hit me. I never realised he had so many mates and what's really bad is that I may have damaged my hand. It really hurts. I meant to punch him in the nose but I think I missed and hit him on the cheek. I think I'll leave it a while before paying another visit to the Prince Consort."

We suddenly hear a group of noisy lads pass by outside the window and exchange knowing smiles.

"Fancy a cup of tea Jeremy?"

"Yeah, don't mind if I do, Matt."

I fill the kettle and then place it on the ring of the cooker before lighting the gas...

Friday 20th November 2009: 23 Lashes for the Defiant Slut - Memory (written later)

"Strip to the waist, it is time for your flogging," I command her.

I do not want to punish her rather would I be tender with her, protect her, but with a slut to be cruel is to be kind; it is, sadly, the only language they understand.

She lowers her blue eyes submissively then, without uttering a word, lifts herself up from the sofa. She is silent because she fears the pain and loathes the humiliation but she has no one to blame but herself - she chose to disobey me.

She unbuttons slowly her pin-striped shirt and I watch as strands of her long auburn hair fall around her face partially obscuring her pretty features. Her shirt unfastened she slips it off and places it neatly upon the back of the arm chair.

She is tall for a female, perhaps five feet six, and willowy.

She gazes at me forlornly for a second - it will not save her - as she casts off her black bra.

She is topless now, as is required for a whipping, and her delicious firm breasts exposed.

I stand up, move behind her and grasp the tops of her bare arms. "I am going to take you to the place where you will receive your punishment," I inform her gently but resolutely.

"Thank you," she responds in a hushed and resigned tone.

I guide her out of my flat into the chill landing. I know she hates it but she has no option other than to submit, and I order her to stand facing the wall with her arms at her sides.

I return to my flat and retrieve the flogger from my implement drawer. I then walk back slowly onto the landing. She knows that shortly, very shortly, she will be wracked with pain.

"You will press your chest and stomach hard against the wall and raise your arms above your head laying your palms flat also against the wall. You will stay in this position till I am done with you, unless you relish extra strokes?"

"I understand," she acknowledges meekly.

I observe her comply with my instructions and wince slightly as her bare flesh makes contact with cold white plaster.

I walk up behind her and place my hands, with flogger in my right hand, gently upon her hips. I put my mouth to her ear and whisper to her, "I do not want to do this but you force it upon me. Did I not say to you last weekend 'Do not smoke more than twenty cigarettes from Friday morn to Monday morn because I will lash you for each one over' and did you not defy me, how many was it my dear?"

"I smoked forty three, twenty three over. I am sorry, truly sorry."

"I am sorry too my love, but it will not save you," I whisper back detecting the trembling of her body now taut with fear.

I bring the whip round to the side of her face. "What tastes better? The taste of a cigarette? Or the taste of leather? Kiss it!"

She turns her head and kisses the tails of the whip. I take it away and move back. She is just seconds away from savouring the true taste of the whip.

I glance at her elegantly formed naked back, her pale unmarked flesh and her slim legs poured into her long black trousers and see her writhing in agony, her skin laced with ribbons of crimson.

I draw back my arm and with the flogger gripped firmly in my hand bring the first of twenty three lashes, delivered without mercy, down upon her bare back...

Saturday 21st November: Freud and the Art of Caning - Memory (written after)

"Strip." Her voice is husky, her tone, uncompromising.

I strip.

"Kneel down across the foot stool."

I stretch my naked form across the blue padded top of the stool. I am compelled to obey her though I tremble.

I sense her move lithely across the room. I feel the pressure of her scarf around my eyes, feel her knot it securely behind my head with her strength, a strength greater than mine.

"Can you see?"

Her breath is warm and smoky. I like that.

"No, it is black. Totally black."

A tingle of fear runs through my testicles...


The wind howls and throws out cold invisible tentacles to probe the vulnerable overlaps of our clothing. She shivers, her long shiny brown hair blowing across her elegant features, and I catch hold of her hand as though to stop her being swept away.

Culver Cliff: the most easterly point of the Island. And for many the tragic point of departure.

A bunch of flowers propped up forlornly against a fence post with a card flapping in the wind. I walk up to it and attempt to read it but the ink is already fading.

I have been here myself in the past. I may yet end it here. But not today.

Seagulls wheel above us in the grey November sky screeching as they do. It is time for us to go...


She brings the flogger down upon my bare back. It does not hurt. It does not need to hurt yet for she is merely teasing me, softening me up.

Rachmaninoff: Piano Concerto No.2 plays in the background and as my submission deepens she begins to probe my psyche...


A single track road to nowhere now but nearly a century ago it had been the main road to Blackgang till a landslip on a rainy night.

The rain beats down hard but we still leave the car. I show her the cliffs towering impassively above us, the primeval cliffs, and imagine pterodactyls gliding down. Time has stood still here.

We discern the tinkling of running water from the hidden stream below us. There is magic here, the spirits of water and rock.

Knowles Farm, and nearly the most southerly point on the Island. About a mile out is St Catherine's Deep, rich fishing grounds but perilous at times to shipping as the coast is littered with the rotting skeletons of ships long ago come to grief in squalls.

I have not visited this place for over seven years and I was in love then. I do not share this with her...


She flogs me harder, the pain begins to reach into me. I feel myself travelling in the darkness, but where?

"You are fortunate indeed to live here, it is very beautiful," she states then draws hard upon her cigarette, the coals glowing in the fading light.

The Needles jut out defiantly into the English Channel perhaps dagger-like to the Dorset Coast. I watch the choppy waves batter themselves relentlessly against the base of the giant chalk outcrops.

"I wish you could see it in the summer. We could take an open top bus along the sides of the cliff, descend to the beach by chairlift and have a boat trip around the lighthouse. It is truly spectacular."

I am talking as though I am in love. I care not...


Pavane pour une Infante Défunte: Ravel.

She does not strike me hard with the cane yet each stroke stings and then the pain begins to blur and dull. It is a long time since I have experienced this. I yearn for more but then I begin to cry, cry like a baby. Buried memories you see...

"What is it darling?" she soothes.


"Egypt Point. We are at the most northerly point of the Island and it's a great place for viewing the liners as they swing out of Southampton Water. Can you imagine the Titanic passing through all those years ago? Look, why don't we drive to Cowes Parade, we can have a drink in The Fountain and I'll show you the biggest Union Jack in the world. Maybe we'll even catch a liner going by."

It's dark now though only about half five...


She is holding me in her arms. "What do you need to tell me?"

I am not a man anymore - I have regressed.

"I don't want you to hurt me, I want you to love me. Why do you want to hurt me?" I sob out.

"You're safe now."

She holds me tighter and I keep crying but the crying is good, cathartic.


We leave The Fountain and as soon as we do I spot a liner with lights burning brightly navigating its way to the eastern approaches of the Solent. I point it out to her but she seems slightly distracted. Suddenly I feel the need to express something. "The dynamic has altered between us. You're different and it's not authentic anymore."


"How did you know that there was something in me that needed to be released? I felt that all those years ago and I couldn't verbalize it. I feel so much better. Thank you, thank you."

I give her another cuddle.

"I just... knew."

And I knew now that she was the stronger and smarter one. And that made her dangerous, dangerous and exhilarating...


We are in my flat and getting ready to walk down town to Michelangelo's Italian Restaurant on the seafront. It is her last night with me. We have had a good day sightseeing. On impulse I turn to her and say, "I will let you hurt me later."

"Will you now, will you now..."

Sunday 22nd November 2009: The Day my Mother Died - Memory

It is twenty one years ago to the day since my mother died: Tuesday 22nd November 1988. Twenty five years, coincidentally, to the day prior to that John F. Kennedy was assassinated.

That's by the way really.

The last time I had seen my mother was on the Sunday previous. She had dropped my little baby boy off, who was a little over a year old, at the maisonette in Alfred Street I shared with my wife, Leanne, at the time. We had spent the afternoon at the Luccombe Hall Hotel in Shanklin taking full advantage of their swimming pool and sauna suite whilst my mother, who had retired eighteen months previously, babysat my son.

The last thing I ever did was kiss her before she returned home, a home I thought she was going to spend many years in enjoying her retirement - and deservedly enjoying her retirement because she had worked hard as a psychiatric nurse before becoming a sister for over two decades. Her life, like many others, hadn't been easy.

She had nearly died as a baby only being saved by her father, who had tragically lost his first wife whilst she was giving birth to twins, taking her home from the hospital which he had said didn't really care.

At the age of thirteen she had boarded at a Convent in Kent - her father having landed a job as a storekeeper in Nigeria and taking her mother with her - and found the experience to be extremely harrowing: frequent canings for the slightest misdemeanour, constant chores and longing for the warmth of normal family life. I sometimes think that that had made her slightly cold, cold to me at times.

Towards the end of the war she had become a land girl and had been employed on a fruit farm in Kent - she had worked along a German prisoner of war, his name was Helmut, and they had been lovers for a while. If it had lasted perhaps I would be six foot and blonde! He had been the only soldier to survive in his company after an Allied assault - I wonder how that affected him, and what happened to him?

After the war she enrolled at Salford College and started an Art's Diploma which she never completed. Whilst there she submitted some work to Lowry and he sent her back a very complimentary letter. I still have that.

She then went to Austria and taught English in a convent there - she told me it had been the happiest times of her life. She also became fluent in German and spoken with an Austrian accent naturally.

In 1955 she came to the Island for the first time to live with her parents who had bought a shop to keep them occupied during their retirement, but they soon found it too hard work, sold it and then moved to St. James's Street.

For a year or so she had drifted round mixing from time to time, with what I call, the Ryde Bohemians who were an odd mix of failed artists, anarchists, homosexuals and early hippies - many of whom are still around to this day.

In 1956, the year of the Hungarian uprising, she had become pregnant by my father who lived next door with his parents. My mother had told me later that he was the cleverest man she had ever known, but he was an alcoholic and had emotional problems, so the relationship was doomed.

In 1957 I was born, out of wedlock, and, now thirty, she was forced to accept her responsibilities.

In 1958 the family moved to Spencer Road. My mother went from one low paying job to the other and I would be looked after by my grandparents whilst she was at work. But in 1965 she enrolled as a Student Nurse. The job had its ups and down but I think she got a lot out of it. She once told me that people became a psychiatric nurse for one of two reasons: They either wanted to help people or they joined in the hope of resolving their own issues. I had asked her to which category she belonged. "The latter," she had instantly replied. I never pursued it.

After the split from my father - I spoke on the phone to him once and corresponded with him briefly many years later but never met him - she never settled down with a man though she had a few flings including one with a Zen Buddhist Monk.

Despite working hard she always had time for travelling and never lost her interest in Architecture, Classical Music and Fine Art. I have to admit, at times, though I am sure it wasn't true, to feeling unwanted or a burden.

In her forties she managed to obtain an Open University Degree in Arts and Humanities which really impressed me - and taught me that it is only really by hard work and application do we ever get to achieve anything in life. I hasten to add that, being a lazy bastard, I never followed her example.

In her early fifties she looked after her increasingly frail mother at home, her father having died suddenly in 1968, who eventually passed away in 1982.

When she was 59 she had collapsed, to everyone's surprise at work, suffering from high blood pressure. She was slim, didn't smoke, didn't drink, hated fatty foods and walked regularly. She had been put on tablets and when she had retired the next year had been given a clean bill of health and had come off the tablets - it had been a false alarm.

I had made her a grandmother at sixty and life for all of us, though not perfect was pretty good. Leanne and I had a lovely property, we were okay for money and Leanne also had a part time job. Her parents and my mother would look after my son when both of us were working and we were thinking about getting a larger property. I felt quite happy despite the job being tiring and looked forward with optimism to the future. Leanne had lost a baby that summer, on my birthday, but it was only a matter of time before she would fall pregnant again.

But, it wasn't to be.

That Tuesday I had been driving Service 4's to East Cowes, Cowes and Gurnard. I finally got back to Ryde Bus Station at about eleven to be met by the Inspector. He had come up to me taken my ticket machine and cash bag off me saying: "I'm really sorry to tell you this, Matt, but your mother has died, get off home. Your uncle and auntie are there waiting for you. I'll sort out your money."

My first thought was that it was a mistake, surely it was my uncle, my great uncle, who had died as he was ten years older than my mother and had had health problems himself.

It had only taken about seven minutes to walk up the hill to the house. I let myself in to see my uncle and auntie there. I could see both of them had been crying and when they saw me they both wrapped their arms around me. I was in a state of total disbelief.

"We've been trying to get hold of you for the last of couple of hours, but you don't have radios on your buses. They've taken her away now. The next door neighbour had come in to look after her dog for the day, as she was off to London, and found her stretched out half-dressed on the bed. She looked as though she was reaching out for a glass of water. She called for an ambulance but it was obviously too late. Doctor M left about an hour ago. He was sobbing like a baby," My uncle had told me in a quivering voice.

I remember at this point looking at the crockery and cutlery she had left on the drainer from the night before. I then went upstairs to her bedroom. I still couldn't react, it seemed unreal. The bed was tidy, there was a paperback book with bookmark halfway through it on her bedside table. A black jumper and skirt were poignantly hung up in preparation for her day trip to London to meet her friend Mary from Tamworth. I then went downstairs.

"Shall we all have a cup a tea?" my auntie had suggested.

"Yes please. I'd better phone Leanne," I had said.

Whilst my aunt had put the kettle on I had phoned Leanne at the bookies where she had worked. She had immediately burst into tears - Why wasn't I doing that, I thought - and told me she would get round as soon as possible.

"We think she may have let the dog out in the garden and then returned to upstairs to get fully dressed, felt unwell, tried to get back into bed and then suffered a massive heart attack. Doctor More reckoned she would have died very quickly..." Uncle was saying.

Everything after this moment became very surreal, as though it was happening to someone else. I had to inform the police and all her friends and relatives. Mary had phoned from a box in London to see why she hadn't turned up. Leanne had turned up...

That evening after the initial turmoil I had returned to the house - I now had a dog to look after as well. I had gone upstairs and on a shelf was a small present in silver paper, for Christmas, for my son. It was at that point I broke down and couldn't stop crying...

Sunday 29th November 2009: I Shag, Dump and Slap the Minging Slut - Slut Fiction

I'm just on the way round to see the Minger; and it'll be for the last time because once I've shagged her gross little body I'm going to dump her. Naturally she doesn't know that. In fact I've really been quite nice to her recently, well nice by my standards, built up her hopes that we will be 'an item', perhaps get married one day.

Me married? That's a fucking laugh, show me a 'happily' married man and I'll show you a fucking loser and I'll tell you why he's a fucking loser - it's because he's a liar, a liar mainly to himself. The marriage thing probably starts out alright but after a bit - my mate reckons about six weeks - it's all downhill. After a few years the geezer isn't getting any sex and when he does he's thinking of some other tasty bird who hasn't piled on the pounds like his missus or he's fantasising about kinky sex which either he's too embarrassed to ask his missus to indulge in or if he does she tells him to piss off. Of course by that time it's too late, he's mortgaged up to the hilt with a couple of spoilt brats and stuck in a dead end job, which he calls a career, working long hours. Of course he can't afford to divorce the fat and extravagant bitch as he'll end up kicked out of his own house living in a seedy bed-sit handing over eighty per cent of his hard earned cash to her and the CSA. So what does he do?

He lies. He lies to others and he lies to himself. He tells everybody he loves her that the well-being and happiness of the family are well worth the sacrifice when all he's thinking about is spanking his twenty year old secretary and what he'd do if he won the lottery. Loser, fucking loser.

Of course I saw through all that shit from a young age, and it's kind of funny because I'm not book smart or anything, I haven't got any degrees or fancy diplomas, but I'll tell you what I have got that a fucker like him hasn't got: I see what women are really like: money grabbing and demanding, lying bitches, and only good for shagging. And I've got the charisma, charm and confidence to pull them too. Underneath all the middle class pretension, weak twats like him admire real men like me, and whenever I get the chance I rub their turned up noses in it... by shagging their wives!

And I'll tell you something else too: the only woman who truly loves you, unless her name is Rosemary West, is your mother and the only woman who you really know where you stand with is a prostitute. Don't say I haven't warned you.

So, what I do is shag women, sluts mostly if the truth be known, and when I get bored with them I dump them. Works for me...

"Here you are mate!" the taxi driver tells me as we pull up outside the Minger's shabby little house in Ingram Street.

"I won't be a mo, I'll just get the cash, hang on a sec." I say as I step onto the pavement and walk along the smelly alley to her front door.

I let myself in, it stinks of dog shit and I feel a little sick. And there she is, all smiling sweetly.

"Hi Matt. I've missed you, I've got a present for you..." she oozes all lovingly.

I feel doubly nauseated now.

"Gee thanks. Have you got the tenner for the taxi, he hasn't got all day. And didn't I tell you to be waiting naked for me?"

"Oh yes..." she picks up the ten pound note off the dining room table and hands it to me.

I nip back outside and hand the cab driver the tenner through his wound down window.

"Four quid please, mate."

"Just give me a fiver back." I like to look generous.

He fumbles around in a cloth cash bag before producing a screwed up fiver which he presses into my hand. I then stuff the note into my trouser pocket and walk back in.

She's topless now, with her big pale tits drooping down, and got what looks like to be a reddish box in her hand.

She approaches me. "It's for you Matt. It's Chinese and you can keep all your valuable little coins in. I spent ages looking for it."

She hands it to me gingerly and I look at it. It is quite nice: hexagonal, carved out of rosewood, varnished and a charming little oriental scene of a fisherman by a lake carved into the top - probably quite expensive.

"Thanks. I thought you were heavily in debt, despite all those benefits you were claiming. 'ere have you put some more weight on since the last time I saw you, you look like you've porked out even more!"

I place the box down on the table. She looks a bit uncomfortable - she knows I hate fatties.

Suddenly I become irritated with her. I grab hold of her lank and unkempt mousey brown hair and drag her to the bottom of the stairs. "I've got to get back for the electrician in an hour's time, we've wasted too much time already. That's why I wanted you stripped and ready!"

"You're hurting me!"

And I'm going to hurt you even more in a minute when I dump you, I think.

I pull her up the stairs. She misses her footing on a couple of occasions which I wonder is to do with the fact she is blind in her wonky eye and can't see too well on the interior darkened stair well; fortunately her hair is quite firmly attached so she doesn't slip. I pull her into her damp smelling bedroom and let go of her.

"Get your jeans and knickers off and lie face down on the bed - you know what to expect you fucking slut!"

I rip my clothes off and toss them over a chair hoping that the fleas won't take up residence in them.

She's on the bed now with her podgy legs apart and her fat, even fatter recently, arse sticking up in the air.

"I love it when you take me from behind Matt."

"It isn't about what you like, it's about what I like - or rather what I don't like, and what I don't like is looking at your ugly mug whilst I'm shagging you. Puts me right off it does at time. How come your face is all lopsided anyway - difficult birth?"

I clamber on top of her and shove my erect cock into her cunt which is really wet and pongy. I fuck the minging slut hard and fast and within a few seconds we both climax together.

I roll off her and catch sight of the time - I'll have to be gone soon.

"Thanks Matt. That was really good. You're such a considerate lover."

I recoil as she gives me a kiss on my cheek.

I stand up and wipe my prick, which is laced with spunk and fanny juice, onto her duvet.

"Actually, I've decided I don't want to see you any more - you're just too ugly and boring."

I watch her malformed features transform from bliss to disbelief and then burst into tears. I just love watching the effect I have on a slut when I dump her - it's almost like a second orgasm.

"Please, please, please don't dump me, I really love you. You're the only man who ever made me feel good about myself-"

"Shut up will you and pass me your phone. And hand me another tenner - I'll need it for the taxi back."

She gives me the cordless phone by her bed and delves into her handbag pulling out a twenty pound note. "I haven't got anything smaller," she chokes out between sobs.

I take the phone and the note and dial the number for the cab firm. The wailing just increases. She gets off the bed and throws her flabby and blemished naked body, which puts me in mind of those pale slugs you sometime see first thing in the morning, around my feet.

I hear a tinny voice answer but can't quite make out what is being said because of her howling and pleading.

"Shut the fuck up will you - I'm trying to order a fucking taxi here!"

I put the phone in my left hand and slap her face hard with the right hand, I then catch her with the back of my hand on the other cheek. She stumbles back on her heels and ends up resting with her head against the side of the bed - she is stunned and silent.

"Yes... about five minutes... you can't miss the place... it looks like a squat... yeah all run down... fascia boards unpainted and hanging down... slates missing, uncut grass in the front with dog shit on."

As I get dressed I notice all the beauty products on her dressing table. No wonder she's got money problems wasting her benefit money on that; and it's not like it'll do her any good, unlike some women, because quite frankly you can't polish a turd.

"I can't live without you," she mutters in a dreamy manner.

"Don't talk crap you stupid bitch, there's always some desperate fucker out there who'll have you. Right I'm off now, I think I heard a car pull up outside. See you around."

I walk down the stairs open the front door and espy the taxi there. It's a woman driver - and quite tasty too. I hear a very loud wail from inside the house - has the slut no consideration for the neighbours?

"Hang on a minute darling, I've forgotten something." I smile pleasantly at the blonde and rather pretty face at the wheel.

I walk back into the house and pick up the Chinese box from the dining room table I then notice that the slut, still naked is in the kitchen which is adjoined to the dining room. She has a carving knife in her right hand and it is clear to me that she is attempting to sever the artery in the wrist of her left arm.

"You're doing it all wrong," I shout to her. "You need to cut along the veins not across them - much quicker."

She drops the knife and it clatters to the floor.

Make up your mind you stupid bitch, I think.

"I'll be off now." This time I walk out of the door for what I believe is the very last time - I should have dumped her ages ago I conclude.

I get into the cab and make myself comfortable in the back seat. The female taxi driver, who looks late thirties, before she pulls away, turns and says to me, "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

What she, of course, means is: You're a really attractive bloke and I wouldn't mind surrendering my body to you. She then adds: "What do you do for a living?"

"Me? Oh, I'm a marriage guidance counsellor..."

Tuesday 1st December 2009: Another Fat Slut gets a Flogging? - Fantasy for an Unknown Submissive Woman

As she swung open the black painted wrought iron gate, enclosed with the stone archway, she heard the taxi she had just exited from pull away and for the first time experienced fear; real fear.

She was a worthless slut, and he had promised he would punish her for it, punish her as she had never been punished before, because that's all sluts were good for.

She felt his eyes upon her; he knew she was here. She did not dare to look up to the top of the old Victorian building where she knew he was waiting; waiting for her with his whip. Instead with legs like jelly she walked the last few fearful paces to the foreboding black door with its frosted glass panel...

She ran through her mind how she had contacted him, had offered her unworthy self to him to do with as he pleased, recalled pleading for him to flog her hard.

"Why should I waste my time on you, you fucking made-up little slag," he had contemptuously replied initially. She had begged and begged for him to beat the sluttishness out of her, to make her dirty little life have some worth. Then he had reluctantly consented. "It will be on my terms you piece of excrement."

She hesitated for a second then pressed the door buzzer for Flat D. There was no going back.

"Enter slut. You know what you have to do."

His voice sent shivers down her spine - it was the first time she had heard his voice, all communication of his orders up to now having been relayed by text.

She opened the heavy door, heard it bang loudly shut behind her bringing to mind the uneasy notion of entering a dungeon, and found herself all alone in the musty, cold hallway with its high ceiling.

She slipped off her boots first and then with increasing nervousness removed her coat - she was totally naked; he had ordered her to strip whilst on the boat over in the toilets and put her clothes into the sports bag she had travelled down with and only wear the overcoat and boots for the last leg of the journey: the journey that would end with her being severely beaten for being a slut.

She left her boots by the cupboard and then stuffed the coat into the sports bag, leaving it on the top of the table. She felt cold and wrapped her bare arms around herself in a vain attempt to warm herself up before getting onto the floor on her hands and knees as he had commanded.

She crawled uncomfortably along the corridor past Flat A and then started on the first long flight. She wondered how many sluts of his in the past had traversed these very steps.

Her knees were aching on the thread bare stair carpet as she reached the first floor landing. Even though she had been ordered to keep her eyes lowered she could see the doors for the other two flats - and heard movement from within. Panicking, she quickly scuttled to the last flight which was steeper but shorter. As she slowly ascended it became lighter.

"Keep your eyes lowered you podgy bitch or it will be all the worse for you, not that it can get that much worse for you, you fat slut," she heard him sneer from above.

She clambered onto the level surface of the landing slightly out of breath aware that this was the just the start of her ordeal.

"Lie down with your arms by your sides and your eyes closed you ugly old cow. Do not move a muscle till I return," he hissed at her menacingly.

Cold and frightened she began to shake - she desperately wished to be anywhere else but here with this cruel man. But it was too late now.

"Keep your eyes closed and get up."

She rose unsteadily from the floor and felt his strong warm hands upon the naked flesh of her lower arms guide her to where she would be shortly flogged cruelly for being a dirty little slut whore.

He pushed her roughly against the cold, so cold, wall and snarled in her right ear, "I'm going to fucking hurt you then I'm going to hurt you fucking because you're a no-good slut. Now, raise your arms and press your fat tits hard against the plaster so that I can whip you with full force."

She braced herself for the terrible burning pain upon her bare back as the leather tails whistled like banshees...


She opened her eyes. And found herself slumped down in front of her lap top; she had dozed off. She remembered now, she had been reading his blog entitled: 23 Lashes for The Defiant Slut - it had turned her on, really turned her on. Her knickers were soaking and now she was debating whether she should memo him or not memo him. She wondered if he was dangerous. There was only one way to decide.

She took the shiny two pence piece out of her purse and tossed it...

Sunday 13th December 2009: Angry and Humiliated Sharon Tamed by the Hairbrush - Spanking Fiction

About eight or nine years ago Sharon and I were on the beach. It was a fairly secluded spot - we were the only ones there - and the time was about half five on a sunny August day. I was ready to go home but Sharon had fancied a swim first - she'd wanted to make the most of what was left of the weekend.

"I'll nip off now and start preparing tea, by the time you get back it'll be on the table," I'd suggested.

"That's fine," she had responded.

She'd then stood up and slipped off her shorts - she was already topless - and I'd studied her superb naked body as she'd waded out into the surf.

The beach had gently shelved so she would have had a few hundred yards or so before it became deep enough to swim.

I have to tell you that Sharon was sometimes exhilarated by the prospect of exposing herself in public, or rather the risk of being caught nude out in the open.

We had shagged the year previous under the Worsley Monument on an Autumn Sunday afternoon and it had been extremely exciting as we could have easily been caught totally naked by hikers - she had been absolutely soaking and I had been rock hard too. Happy memories.

Sorry, I've gone off on a tangent.

Anyway, as I gathered up our belongings and intending to leave behind for her just her towel, shorts and vest an evil thought entered my mind, an evil thought I just couldn't resist.

I picked up... everything so that there would be no clothes, or towels even, for her to cover herself up. It was mean. It was fucking mean.

Just before I'd turned to leave the beach I'd glimpsed her swimming strongly in the turquoise water - and oblivious to her fate.

I'd then started to laugh - it was hard to stop.

I then trudged up the sandy slipway and headed home.

We didn't actually live that far from the shore, about a third of a mile and only a ten or so minute walk; but that day I daresay it would have seemed just a little longer for Sharon than normal...


About forty minutes later I was home having put the joint in the oven and also tidied away the gear from the beach.

I'd been reclining on the sofa in the lounge skimming through Men are from Mars; Women from Venus when a shadow had hurried along the window. The front door had then been angrily drummed.

"Fucking let me in, you... bastard."

I had let her in, totally naked with her long chestnut hair still matted by the salt water - and she had appeared a tad upset.

She'd immediately slapped my cheek hard with her right hand before beating her fists against my chest repeatedly, all the time mouthing obscenities. "You fucking, fucking nasty bastard, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"

"Calm down, dear, you're not at work now!"

This was a sarcastic reference to her having successfully recently completed an Anger Management module as part of her training.

I had then grabbed her wrists at this point but it didn't prevent her from attempting to kick then knee me in the nuts.

Then she tried to head butt me.

"You have totally fucking humiliated me!" she had sniffed.

At this point I'd visualized her running naked, in that ungainly fashion that women do, through the pleasant residential thoroughfares with one arm across her breasts, the other protecting her modesty, whilst all the time sobbing.

I'd also wondered, in addition, if her boss had seen her, since he lived on the route - what a satisfying prospect that would have been!

"Our relationship is... over. I want the bungalow on the market... tomorrow."

At the time I had thought that that would be sad since the relationship had suddenly started to get... interesting.

"Let go of... me," she had said a split second before spitting in my face.

Now that had been a red rag to a bull and I'd flipped - enough was a fucking enough!

I then twisted her bare left arm up behind her back to which she had squealed with the pain. I then roughly manhandled her such that she ended up across my lap on the sofa and then proceeded to spank her on each buttock hard synchronizing each smack with a word:

"Your," , "problem," , "is," , "that," , "OW, that *really* hurts!" "you," , "can't," , "OW! OW!" "take," , "a," , "fucking," "OOO!" "joke!"

I gave her an extra hard smack for the last word.

"Let go of me or I'm going to call the fucking... police!"

I then parodied every word of what she had just said, accompanied each with a smack.

She had screamed really loud and struggled but I had managed to hold her down - and thanked God that the double glazing was soundproofed.

I had then espied the hairbrush just out of reach on the coffee table - she had left it there before we had gone out - and she was very shortly going to rue not tidying it up.

"What are you doing now?" she had exclaimed.

With great difficulty - Sharon had nearly broke free - I'd managed to stretch across and grab the brush.

"I'm going to teach you a lesson you won't forget!"

I'd meant it too - nobody, and I mean nobody, spits in my face!

"You'll be taught a lesson in... court," she had retorted with spirit.

I hadn't of cared I'd been so mad.

I then beat her hard with the wood of the brush, once again across each very red buttock.

"Please, please stop."

But I'd merely thrashed her harder and had added, "I've had enough of your selfish manipulation, your little mind games, your contrived moods to get your own way. Report me to the police and have me prosecuted - I really don't give... a fuck."

After about twenty swats I'd become aware of a change in her - she'd ceased hollering and the crying had reduced to a gentle sniffing. Her unclad body had become 'pliant' too.

I then felt compelled to loosen my hold of her.

She'd then twisted with some effort her flushed, perspiring and good looking face round and her large baby blue eyes had clamoured for release, surrender.

She then spoke softly and contritely. "I'm truly sorry. Take me and use me as a sexual object as I deserve nothing less."

At this point I became aware of the dampness on my thighs - and it wasn't seawater.

I then propped her up.

"Get in the bedroom. I'm going to fuck you - hard."

She'd rubbed her badly bruised buttocks and then meekly padded in the direction of the master bedroom, which was kind of aptly named!

A few moments later I'd followed her into the room to be met with the sight of her lying naked and spread-eagle on her back. Her thick and lustrous hair had spread out from around her head still appearing moist from the Solent.

She'd made no effort to resist, none at all, as I'd affixed first her arms to the head rest and then her legs to the footings of the King Size bed with cord.

She'd merely let out a sigh as I'd penetrated her damp cunt.

I'd then thrust hard with my erect penis, the base of my shaft pushing close against her swollen clit - I'd hadn't of cared a bit whether she'd come. But within a minute I felt her strong internal muscles begin to spasm and seconds later she was crying out and gasping.

I had continued to thrust.

Again she had gasped.

I then shafted her with even greater frequency and force.

And for a third time, she had orgasmed.

Seconds later, I had blissfully felt my hot spunk shoot out and instantly satiated, I had rolled off her and to the side...


Later, I had realised that something had changed between us, but it was subtle and our relationship was not the same. I had speculated that it was because we could never top that one violent explosion of passion?

I don't know - we had split about eighteen months later.

Nevertheless, I remember that evening when we had settled in front of the television I had picked up Men are from Mars; Women from Venus and in front of Sharon had thrown it in the bin.

"Guess we don't need that anymore?" I had said.

"Guess not," she had replied casually...

Tuesday 22nd December 2009: Ho, Fucking, Ho - A Festive Tale

Rudolf the red nose reindeer plays merrily in the background.

"Pae-doh!, Pae-doh!"


"Look, just clear off, will you?"

"You tried to touch my friend, you dirty old paedo!"

"No, I didn't. What's all this about?"

"Has he been trying to interfere with you boys?" A concerned middle aged woman with grey hair and a bleached complexion, wearing an olive green parka with a Greenpeace badge on one sleeve and a Save the Children patch on the other, lowers herself to head height of the juvenile chavs a few yards away.

Where the fuck has she materialized from?

"Yes, he has Miss."

"No, I fucking haven't!"

She straightens up swings round and thrusts her face in mine. "Men like you, well you're not even fit to be called a man, totally disgust me, abusing your position to fiddle with young innocent children..."

"Let me explain-"

I just see the handbag arcing towards me but too late to dodge it - the impact stuns me and sends me spinning to the deck. As my senses de-scramble I realize she is standing over me with her legs wide apart...

"I don't believe it, now the pervert's looking up my skirt!" she screams.

She attempts to kick me in the face but I manage to take most of the force out of the blow by turning away at the last second. I get to my feet but she starts to rain more blows down upon me...

"I'm dreaming of a White Christmas," Bing Crosby croons in the background.

In desperation I head-butt her in the face. She staggers back with crimson blood pouring out of her nose before bringing up her hands to her head and collapsing to the ground.

"OI! You, you fucking bearded woman beater, I'm going to teach you a fucking lesson you won't fucking forget!"

"It's not what you think..."

He's a big fellow and just as he is about to chin me, I pick up the Christmas tree to my left and ram it into his guts. He doubles up and I smash the tree over his head knocking him unconscious - a silver bauble flies off hitting an elderly lady in the cheek - but then notice that one of the original gang of kids is attempting to get his hand under my coat and pinch my wallet. I drop the tree then catch hold of his throat with both my hands. "You little cunt, I'll-"


It's the police. Thank God for that. I breathe a sigh of relief. "I don't think you understand exactly what has happ-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

Through the blinding pain I see the twin wires of a Taser attached fang like to my chest. I'm thrashing around on the floor praying for the pain to subside, which it does after a few minutes. I do not notice that I have been cuffed until the copper lifts me to my feet. "You'd better come along quietly Sir."

I nod in a subdued manner.

As I am led to the van aware of a hundred hostile eyes upon me, I vow that I will never, never ever, agree to being Santa Claus in a department store again. Never.

Ho, Fucking, Ho!

Monday 28th December 2009: Coconut Surprise - Blog

About two hours ago I'm sat in the Ryde Tandoori with Calamity...

Calamity is thirty, looks a bit like Joanne Lumley when she played Purdy in the New Avengers; but not quite as pretty. She's at college studying archaeology and I haven't seen her since the summer.

I've known Calamity for about three years now and we've both been through our ups and downs - we had a suicide pact at one time which is still discussed. We also had a little fling too when I was with Della.

Calamity is funny, intelligent and attractive with a great body. She is also daring...

So, we get to the end of the meal and I'm just hollowing out the coconut ice cream which is served in half a coconut shell and I say jokingly to her: "If you had ordered coconut ice cream too you could strip off and I could take a photo of you with the two shells protecting your modesty, could end up an iconic poster in decades to come!"

"Okay, I'll do it," she says, calling my bluff.

The bill is paid and we leave. We have another drink at Joe Daflos then come back to mine hand in hand. I feel excited - this is what life is about.

We get back to mine and she drops her knickers. I take a photo on my phone of the coconut shell over her fanny, and it's a very nice fanny: shaved and also having had a labiaplasty in the last couple of years. We have a giggle over it and I ask her if she minds if I keep it on my phone.

"That's fine," she says.

I once again compliment her on the adorable condition of her fanny and ask her if it's alright to touch it and kiss it. As you do.

"Well, you'd better take your clothes off then, Matt."

I take my clothes off.

"I really do love oral..."

I do not look for any hidden meaning behind this statement and immediately go down on her. Within about thirty seconds she has climaxed.

"Matt, you haven't lost your touch have you. That was really good and I def needed that. So what do you want me to do to you?"

I mull it over for a nanosecond and get her to rub my sensitive nipples whilst I wank myself off. It feels bloody good.

So, all in all, not a bad Christmas!

Sunday 10th January 2010: The Devil's Bitch - Short Horror Story

"Master of Pain. Master of Blood. Master of Death. I surrender to you my body and soul for all Eternity..."


She ran the blade firmly but steadily across his throat. She observed the pleasure transform to terror, the horror to pain. She bathed in the crimson fountain of his blood, peering deep into his bright blue eyes as the light of life dimmed never to shine again, and then with abandon, embraced the sweet rapture of his slaying...


"Mary Lesley Walker you have been found guilty of the crime of multiple murders. You will be taken to a public place where you will be stripped naked, secured to a whipping post and lashed fifty times. Thereafter you will then be hanged by the neck till you are dead. And may God have mercy upon your soul."

"I do not seek the mercy of your God. There is only one I serve - the Devil!"


Sarah Jane: pretty, young, petite and brunette. She had viciously whipped her naked restrained body, blindfolded with clamped nipples and labia. She had choked her to orgasm - it was what she had paid her for - and then choked her to oblivion whilst her bladder emptied in her death spasms. They had almost come together. She laughed...


She was totally naked and felt the warmth of the May sun upon her bare back. It had been a while since she had experienced that and reminded her briefly of her childhood sunbathing on the beach with her father. She was firmly secured to the whipping-cross - her arms, pale and bare, were outstretched and fastened by thick leather restraints to the oak cross member. Her torso was similarly secured to the upright forcing her breasts out each side of the narrow beam. The bottom half of the whipping-cross was in the shape of an upside down 'V' and her legs strapped firmly to the supports - her smooth shaved genitalia vulnerable both to eyes and shortly, very shortly, the 'cat'...


She dangled the severed black penis with blood dripping from its shaft in front of its agonised wide-eyed former owner, John Onogo, screaming mutely behind the ball gag...

She had been 'The Queen of Sheba' to his 'Nubian Slave'. He had been on the point of coming, his well-proportioned member quivering, when she had sliced it off in one swift movement with the sharp blade of a Stanley Knife...

She gazed into the dark abyss of his terrified dark eyes, dark eyes from the Dark Continent - how apt, she thought. He took a while to die, finally twitching as the last of his blood drained from his muscled blue-black frame as she climaxed rubbing her engorged clit with his, now flaccid, cock...


She was at the northern end, behind where the goalposts would normally be, of the Solent Stars football stadium. The rest of ground was full to capacity of those that had paid good money to see her suffer and then die - they were sick ghouls, but she kind of understood that. About ten yards behind her was the temporary scaffold with the noose awaiting her slender neck. Cameras had been strategically placed to capture every angle of her flogging and execution along with giant television screens around the stadium. She could also see the flag of the PNP - The Progressive Nationalist Party - fluttering from the awnings of the stadium. It was a compelling design she pondered - a golden yellow swastika with three curved spokes upon an Azure blue circle enclosed by a green rectangle. Its leader, Eric de Wolff and now Prime Minister, said it represented the sun in a blue sky shining down upon a green and pleasant land - a symbol of hope. Next to the flag was a giant portrait of the man himself, Eric de Wolff - flowing yellow hair, strong Nordic features and sporting a Viking moustache. Beneath the portrait was a banner with the words emblazoned across it - Justice Will Set Us Free.

She did not seek freedom herself; she only strove to serve one, the one - the Master of Pain, the Master of Blood, the Master of Death. And soon she would be kneeling in front of him.

She heard the tails of the flogger whistle through the air then rivulets of agonising pain sear into the flesh of her back...


A moment earlier he had said, trying to conceal the growing fear in his posh voice: "I'm actually a psychiatrist and I can help you-"

She had interjected and responded coolly, "You can neither help me. Or yourself."

He was a grey-haired man with grey eyes and a grey pallor - she found him repulsive and pathetic. He was tied firmly across a school gym horse and his buttocks were crisscrossed with crimson stripes where she had caned him hard - it was a re-enactment from his public-school days, and he had paid her handsomely. It only remained for her to sodomise him with a strap-on for his fantasy to be complete.

She picked up the red-hot poker in her gloved right hand and thrust it hard into his rectum...


She orgasmed and cried out both in pain and release as the forty second stroke of the 'cat' lashed across her bare buttocks. The crowd bayed now for her death.


The policeman flashed his credentials. "May I come in?" She let him into her dungeon. "Interesting place you have here. We're looking for a James Mayhew. He went missing three days ago..."


Strong arms guided her across the turf, up the steps of the scaffold and onto the platform. Her head was swimming and her back and buttocks were numb - she was beyond fear. Her wrists then her ankles were pinioned firmly before she was ushered onto the trapdoor. She felt the coarse rope of the noose tightened around her throat. A strand of her blonde hair blew briefly in front of her blurred vision before a momentary sensation of weightlessness that culminated in choking and a terrific pain in her spine. She struggled to get her legs back onto the platform to alleviate the horrendous agony that racked her naked body...

"Dance you fucking murdering bitch!"


The point of light began to grow, soon it had suffused her being. The pain dissipated. She felt blissful.

She was kneeling in His presence now.

"Surrender me your soul, Mary, and I will grant you every wish of your dark and deranged lusts. You will live for all time in the Rhyming Eternity, and so will The Dark One through you but know that these so called 'Men of God' will call you to account, for that is woven into the Fabric of All Infinities and cannot be undone. And they will punish you as you have punished, and for that time we will be apart, and you will be alone. But when it is done you will once again be mine. Now, bequeath me your soul, my child and let the night become your day."

"Yes, Master, Master of Pain, Master of Blood, Master of Death, I surrender my soul, it is yours."

She threw her unworthy naked body upon the cold granite slabs of His Temple and as He took possession of her spirit, she cried out in ecstasy...


She opened her eyes. She was back in her lounge and back where it had all began. She understood now, understood that each manifestation of The Rhyming Eternity would be changed ever so slightly from the one before. She realised that to serve Him was to serve her self - her soaking cunt was testament to that.

She picked up the local newspaper by the side of her sofa and turned to the 'Property to Let' section - she needed to have a dungeon as soon as possible. She knew she would do well as a Mistress with her statuesque figure, blonde hair and elegant features even though she was only just twenty.

She suddenly fancied a coffee, it was just seven, and stood up to go into the kitchen. On impulse she clicked on the television. Channel 4 News had just started, and John Snow was addressing the audience: "Tonight we ask how long the Conservative government under David Cameron can survive after Eric de Wolff, the charismatic foreign secretary, resigned both his post and the party today..."

Friday 15th January 2010: Zen and the Art of Rudeness - Short Story

"Value is the true meaning of life, if indeed there is such a thing as a meaning to life."

Having stated that, I stretch across the table, pick up a poppadum, break a bit off and then dunk it in the lime pickle.

I'm in the Ryde Tandoori and it's Saturday evening. There are seven of us, including yours truly, sitting round two tables pushed together. On the opposite side from left to right is Lena Zavaroni, Jeremy Irons, Amanda Donohoe and Carol Vorderman. To my right is the Auto Pilot from Airplane and to the far right is Arnold Schwarzennegger. I'm directly opposite Lena Zavaroni.

Okay, they're not the real celebrities but they are real people and I'm identifying them with the famous individuals they most resemble. It's also a kind of a game I play. Indulge me.

I munch into the poppadum cupping a hand underneath in case a bit breaks off and falls onto the clean white tablecloth, and if it did it would land chutney side down. I seem to be getting clumsier with every passing year, and I'm only thirty-three. Perhaps I'm turning into Frank Spencer. Remind me to tell you about the toilet block later.

"What do you mean by value exactly?" Jeremy inquires of me. Jeremy and I often have these deep conversations about life, the universe and everything, to borrow a title from one of Douglas Adam's books. Actually, neither of us are Einstein's but we can certainly hold our own among the pseudo-intellectuals. In fact, Jeremy has got some rather interesting speculations about time himself. I'll get him to talk to you about it, some time.

Apologies for the digression - it's one of my idiosyncrasies.

"Well," I respond before breaking into my rehearsed spiel, "we all agree that the universe sprang into being by a causeless cause at the beginning-less beginning of time, but for what reason?"

"How can you have a causeless cause and a beginning-less beginning? It doesn't make sense," Arnold interjects.

Arnold owns his own building and scaffolding firm - he's doing some work for Lena and Jeremy - and he is quite personable. He likes to project himself as a likable rogue, but he possesses a temper and has been convicted for assault in the past. Jeremy had confided to me that he was on a suspended sentence and had to be careful or he would be looking at six months. Physically, he is about five foot six and of slight frame but he's extremely strong and pretty useful apparently. His sandy hair is cut to a grade four, presumably to lessen the effect of encroaching baldness on his crown, and his eyes are an intense blue-grey - the eyes of a psychopath? His features do resemble Arnold Schwarzenegger, but I suppose he's more of a sawn-off version of him. I think he is thirty-two.

"To answer you Arnold, the universe couldn't just have started because one would have to ask what preceded the beginning and what caused the first cause. The alternative is to say that the universe has always been there, but that doesn't make sense either because an 'infinity of time' would have had to pass before we got to the present which is a bit like waiting for the end of eternity - it just can't be done or conceived. Since we are in the present the only illogical statement that makes sense, or half sense, is the theory of a causeless cause and a beginning-less beginning. There is nothing wrong with reality, just our failure to construct a mental model of it," I expound.

Carol catches my eye and her gaze lingers just a little too long. Carol is thirty-one, I think. She has long dark hair that tumbles onto her shoulders and I suspect she has a hint of Latin blood. She's not beautiful but she's attractive, and as I have already stated, has a similarity with Carol Vorderman. She's got lovely big brown eyes and a dazzling smile. She's wearing a sleeveless black top which displays her tanned bare arms which are slightly hairy but not enough for me to find them off putting. I find myself fantasizing about being spanked by her before shagging her, the doctor having recently advised me it was a good idea to pursue an outside interest.

Arnie looks across - I think he may have picked up on something - so I look away. A 'spanking' from Arnie just doesn't quite have the same appeal.

"So, Matt, what is all this 'value' about?" Jeremy probes me.

Jeremy is six foot and the tallest here. He is well spoken but not posh and you can always rely upon him to look smart. He works in IT, doesn't everyone nowadays, and is well paid. I sometimes wonder if that's the main attraction of him to Lena, his partner - or am I perhaps being too cynical? Jeremy is darkish and has a good head of well-groomed hair. He is thirty-two.

Jeremy and I have been friends for over twenty-five years - perhaps that calls for a silver anniversary of some sort. We spent a lot of time together as we grew up. We played soccer, Subbuteo table football, table tennis, chess, and even wrestled. We've also been little rascals at times too - knocking on peoples' doors then running off and smashing windows with catapults - and we never got caught.

The other thing we did but aren't really proud of is torturing woodlice. We burnt them with magnifying glasses, boiled them alive and on one occasion electrocuted them by holding them across the terminals of my model railway transformer. I can remember their little legs waving as the current passed through their bodies, then we would reverse the polarity and their legs would wave in a slightly different direction, like cornfields in a changing wind. We were cruel.

I'm not like that now of course. Perhaps one day Jeremy and I will be hauled in front of a 'Court of Creature Rights' and charged with 'crimes against species'.

Lena, Jeremy's partner, is dressed in a white blouse and a dark knee length skirt - perhaps a bit sensitive of her rather large thighs. Her hair is cut to her shoulders and her eyes are grey. Her complexion is also a bit pale and I wonder whether that is to do with being a vegetarian. She puts me in mind of a grown-up Lena Zavaroni, if you can remember the child prodigy.

I am not convinced she is that keen on me because she can be ignorant and quite rude to me at times. I have to tolerate her because Jeremy is my best mate and for some reason he loves her. Lena is twenty-eight and I hasten to add not married to Jeremy which I suspect is a bone of contention between them.

Once again, I have gone off on a tangent - back to 'value'.

"Well, Jeremy, the universe has gone to all this trouble to create itself - Big Bangs, expansion, cooling, gas clouds, the precipitation of galaxies, stars, planets and life - but for what? My answer is that must be value in it. Everything we do, we do because we gain, or hope to gain, value from it. There is value in breathing, drinking, eating, sleeping-"

"What value is there in suffering and death then?" Arnie breaks in.

It's a good question.

Immediately to my right is Auto Pilot and I'm getting the impression he's not really interested in the conversation at all. I have to say, perhaps I'm being cruel, that he really does remind me of the Auto Pilot in the spoof disaster movie, Airplane as he's chubby with a wide face and got side brushed light brown hair. I think he's overdressed for the evening because he's turned up in a pin striped suit - but Jeremy is also in a suit though his is Navy Blue and at least he hasn't turned up in a pilot's uniform. Okay, I jest, he's actually a sales rep and on good money and not averse to swanking about it along with his wife Amanda.

Auto Pilot is alright, but I find him a bit immature at times, like an overgrown schoolboy. When he's had a few to drink he sometimes thinks it's amusing to grab testicles which makes me wonder if he's not a bit latent.

His wife, Amanda, has come out in a longish floral-patterned dress - I quite like it. She's a quietly determined woman and is astute with money - not really surprising as she works in a bank. She is not ashamed to admit that she is quite ambitious and covets the material things of this world. She has two children with Auto Pilot but don't ask me how old or what their names are - I'm just not that interested. I do know however that she is twenty-nine and Auto Pilot is thirty-one.

I'm still going to respond to Arnie's question, be patient, but you may be wondering what well known person I resemble, well, I'm not going to tell you-

"Marty, can you pass your dish over?" Lena asks me with a mischievous grin spread wide across her face as waiter collects the last of the starter dishes.

Marty? My name is Matt.

Then it registers and with the exception of Jeremy all the other diners look a bit quizzical.

"Jeremy and I were wondering the other day who you reminded us of and both of us in unison said, Marty Feldman." Lena looks sideways at Jeremy for support as though perhaps she had gone too far this time and needed to shoulder the blame with her partner.

Okay, I admit I have got a Roman nose, but I've grown a neat little goatee beard to balance it out. I've got thick curly dark brown hair with a hint of red in and I also have large brown eyes. I'm of largish build though of average stature - five foot ten. I'm not handsome but I don't think I'm a minger either otherwise Carol wouldn't keep looking over. It's beginning to unsettle me just a little.

Lena knows she's being rude because Marty Feldman is generally accepted as being an ugly man though I certainly wouldn't mind his talent and money. I have a feeling he is dead now. It could be the truth that I resemble Marty Feldman - we have it drummed into us from a young age as how important it is to tell the truth - but in this world you don't just consider what a person says it's why they say what they're saying.

So, why has Lena chosen to mention it? Well, underneath she doesn't like me and it's her way of getting at me. She thinks I'm a bad influence on Jeremy, that he may see my 'single' life as more desirable and fun than his 'henpecked' existence with Lena. She wants me out of his circle of acquaintances so she can control and shape him more for her own purposes.

I choose not to rise to the bait.

"You have to admit you have a got a big nose, Matt." She was in her stride and so far, I had never been rude back to her for fear of upsetting Jeremy - I really did value him as a friend.

"It's just nature's way of compensating for a small penis!" I retort.

Everybody around the table laughs - and relaxes. I have handled what could have been an awkward situation well.

The smart looking waiter had now wheeled the serving trolley with the main courses alongside the table. He lays out the dishes and then places the warming trays in the centre. He distributes the portions of Pilau rice and carefully places the metal serving bowls containing the curries on the warmers before withdrawing. I feel that I can now continue with my lecture on value.

"We cannot really define value, Arnie, we can only experience it-

"I think you have read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig. He called value, 'quality'. It was a good book though I didn't fully understand it."

Arnie was smart - I would have to be careful not to underestimate him. And even more careful not to cross him.

"Yes, I have but I see things slightly different to him. Pirsig postulates that value or quality is a positive thing, he talks a lot about the good, but I believe that it is more useful to think in terms of the less bad-"

I scoop up a spoonful of Chicken Dhansak and rice and, as I feel that I am about to present them with something deeply profound, I want everybody here to feel that this moment of enlightenment will be etched forever in their memories, kind of like a slice of classic cinematography - the waterfall in Zulu or the halted panting steam locomotive in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid just prior to the posse emerging from the cattle wagon...

I start to bring up the spoon, slightly slower for effect, but then notice too late that my sleeve, partially rolled up, has slipped down and caught the side plate to my right, causing it to tip up such that an onion bhaji is starting to roll off. I bring my left arm across in an attempt to grab hold of it but only succeed in knocking my right arm and depositing the contents of the spoon onto my chin. The onion bhaji rolls off the plate drops under then out from the table and into the path of the waiter who unknowingly squishes it underfoot.

Okay, it's still a classic cinema moment, if you're a fan of Laurel and Hardy!

I mop up my beard as best as I can and wait for a witty remark in response to my clumsiness.

Strangely it doesn't come.

"For example, we eat not because it is good to eat but rather that it is bad to starve. We wear clothes because we don't want to freeze to death - and pleasure is merely the release of tension. Pirsig says, in Lila, that elements chemically combine because there is value in them doing so at certain times and there is also value in them detaching themselves at other times. To summarize, value is more negative than positive, it's relative in time and space, and it's subjective. You asked me, Arnie, what value was there in suffering and death, well if we are in extreme pain, imagine been burned alive, then the attainment of oblivion, death, couldn't come soon enough though if you were fit and well and happy in life then oblivion would have little value. That is one example of the subjective and temporal nature of value. Of what value is suffering? Well suffering can sometimes be of value if it takes us to a higher state of value, fighting for freedom perhaps or just studying hard to improve our quality of life. There is something else though, it may be that our suffering and death serves a higher value, a transcendent value beyond our own narrow sense of being. I can't really answer that..."

I tail off because I'm close to concluding that value is God and God is Value. I also notice that there are quite a few glazed expressions round the table - I'm boring everybody. I wonder if my beliefs really matter anyway. What will be, will be.

We are all close to finishing the main course - you can't beat a Chicken Dhansak, a sweet and sour curry. Whoever thought of that needs a medal.

"Thanks for that Matt, you have somewhat lost us though." Jeremy takes it upon himself to respond for the others.

"I'm not certain that you aren't full of shit!" Arnie adds with an ambivalent smile.

Lena turns to Amanda and Auto Pilot and says, "How are you settling into your new house, you two?"

I finish the last of meal and lay my utensils down on the plate. I knew I had talked too much - I would keep quiet for a bit whilst Amanda and Auto Pilot bragged about their newly acquired upmarket residence. I look up, but not too late, to catch Carol quickly turn her alluring brown eyes away. She was becoming ever more attractive to me. I take a swig of Cobra lager.

The dirty plates are removed, and the waiter then returns with the sweets menu. Meanwhile, Jeremy and Arnie have got into a discussion about the Ian Huntley case. Arnie has just aired his opinion that Huntley should have been publicly castrated and then hanged. "He'd never do it again and it would serve as a deterrent!"

Jeremy was taking the contrary position - perhaps he was still feeling guilty about the woodlice. "We don't want to lower ourselves to their level and beside what if his conviction is overturned in the future as so many have recently, do we really want to hang an innocent man? Life imprisonment is surely punishment enough."

"He's as guilty as fuck, Jeremy, and the money saved could be ploughed back into the health service. As for so called 'miscarriages of justice' they're normally only technicalities. I mean are we going to ban cars just because of a few accidents-"

"Dying in a road traffic accident is the most likely cause of death up to the age of forty-five," I throw in.

"So, what's the main cause of death after the age of forty-five then?" Auto Pilot queries.

"Heart attacks, brought upon by the stress of all those near misses!" I retort wittily.

"Televise the executions like they used to do in Iraq." Arnie is not to be deflected.

Ali arrives with the desserts. I wonder, him being a Muslim, what he thinks about our conversation.

Lena, Amanda and Carol are engaged in a conversation about plants - I notice that Carol seems a bit out of it. Lena and Amanda are quite good friends though not above a bit of competition when it comes to who arranges the best dinner party - dinner parties to which I am not invited.

We commence to tuck into our desserts. I'm having coconut ice cream served in one half of a coconut shell as is Lena. Amanda had ordered what looks like to me a Knickerbocker Glory and is just about to plunge a long-handled spoon into the tall glass-

"Lucky you never ordered that Matt because you'd probably get your nose stuck in the glass, and then we'd have to get the fire brigade out to free it!"

Out of the blue Lena insults me yet again, but she's only just got started. She then tops it by putting a forefinger to her nose and then exaggeratedly traces the outline of my nose upon hers - repeatedly.

I decide not to lower myself to this kind of crass behaviour - I'm beyond this and others will see her for what she is. But then something takes over me.

"Well, actually Lena you have a large unsightly mole on your cheek which resembles a bit of discarded chewing gum flattened into the pavement, and your nostrils remind me of inflamed torpedo tubes!"

Have I really just said that?

Suddenly it's kind of quiet around the table. Lena, I can see, is seething inside. In her hand is the coconut shell from which she had been scooping out the ice cream. In my mind is the maxim, 'Revenge is a dish best served cold'. Should she elect to throw the shell at me then it would be, 'Revenge is a dessert best served cold'. Actually, now I think about it, it wouldn't be revenge - she fucking started it.

Lena smiles thinly and carries on eating. Jeremy silently breathes a sigh of relief. I get the impression she won't be taking the piss out of my nose again. Arnie gives me a knowing look and as for the rest of them, they all maintain straight expressions.

The waiter, impassive as ever, duly collects the empty wine bottles and glasses - it's time to get the bill.

Auto Pilot nips to the loo ushering Amanda out of her chair and I notice that Jeremy's eyes meet Amanda's. Sly bastard, he's knocking her off. I just know it. Well, well.

But, I'm no better as I'm surreptitiously ogling Carol - we'd be good together.

We work out what to pay and then chip in accordingly.

"Does anyone fancy going down to The Balcony?" I inquire hopefully.

The waiter takes the bill along with a wad of notes and pound coins - we leave him a generous tip.

Auto Pilot returns and we all get up in preparation to leave the Ryde Tandoori. It was a great meal - and fun.

"I'm off home Jeremy. You go if you want to." Lena places her arm around Jeremy and gently kisses him on the lips. What she means is, if you don't go then you're on a promise and if you do go then you can just forget about a fuck when you get back!

"I'll just have a couple then come back about twelve." Jeremy treads the middle path of wanting to have a few more beers but not wanting to upset her. Lena feigns a hurt expression.

"Matt, your aftershave is rather interesting," Lena throws in with a wry smile.


In a rush to get out of my place earlier on time I had inadvertently got confused splashing mouthwash on my face and gargling with the aftershave. The spicy meal had fortunately taken away the taste of the aftershave but obviously, despite repeated hurried rinsing, the chemical odour of the mouthwash lingered. I would have to nip back home, rinse yet again, and then apply a very liberal application of Aramis before going on to The Balcony.

"Lena, perhaps us girls could pop round yours for a night cap and then wait for the boys to get back?" Amanda suggests.

"What a splendid idea Amanda!" Lena retorts.

We are now outside the Ryde Tandoori in Union Street. "I'm going to nip back home, and I'll meet the rest of you down there in about twenty five minutes!" I shout out.

The others turn round and Jeremy shouts back, "Okay!"

I walk up Union Street and notice that it has become quite chilly - I can see the vapour of my breath. And smell the alcohol upon it too.

I let myself into my basement flat in Lind Street and then head straight for my bathroom where I wash out my mouth with Listerine, lather my face with soap, run a brush through my hair and then splash my cheeks with more Aramis.

Back outside, I walk swiftly along Lind Street then turning into Union Street - effectively retracing my steps. I pass Wetherspoons and clock a sexy pretty young blonde in the window - skimpy black dress with shapely golden tanned legs and arms. I really must get a woman. Soon.

I pass outside The Ryde Tandoori again then down to The Esplanade and along to the Balcony Bar night club. The time is ten thirty.

The entrance to the club is 'guarded' by two beefy bouncers - black suits, black bow ties and white shirts. They swing open the toughened glass doors for me. I idly wonder how Arnie would fare in a tussle with them - probably get flattened I conclude - and then hand over the four quid entrance fee to the girl on the desk. I enter the dimly lit, noisy and smoky atmosphere of the club.

The Balcony Bar consists of a largish dance floor with two semi-circular bars located to the north, sea facing end of the club. The DJ's box is raised slightly and faces the western end of the dance floor. I espy my friends propping up one of the bars, and I'm surprised to see Carol with them. But also secretly pleased.

Jeremy asks me what I fancy to drink.

"Pint of Fosters please, Jeremy."

Everybody else's glasses are full, so it looks like Jeremy has already bought a round. Jeremy attempts to attract the attention of the barman.

"Jeremy, I hope I haven't got you into trouble with Lena."

"No worries. Matt, to be honest, things haven't been going that well between us recently. I can see us splitting up."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Jeremy." I'm not sorry in the least but strangely feel the need to make sympathetic sounds.

Jeremy finally gets hold of the barman and orders my lager. Carol wanders over whilst Arnie appears to be in deep conversation with Auto Pilot. Auto Pilot looks quite pissed and unsteady on his feet. I can just make out Arnie talking about adding on an extension to his house and what the work would actually entail.

Carol suddenly presses close to my body and whispers seductively, "Glad you could make it. I like a man with something to say."

I certainly would be a man with something to say if Arnie was to glance across at this exact moment - the word would be, 'Help'.

Despite the increasing effects of intoxication, I feel my penis begin to swell. It's just at this moment that I notice Auto Pilot, with an inane grin upon his face, reach for Arnie's groin area before closing his fingers around his genitals.

Fucking hell, I think.

There is a kind of silence and then Arnie smashes his right fist in Auto Pilot's face. The Terminator versus Auto Pilot - no contest really. Auto Pilot reels back knocking into a girl who screams shrilly when she realises what is happening. The Terminator follows up with a left hook to the cheek and then rapidly with a right hand to Auto Pilot's ample belly - I half expect him to pop and whiz erratically around the place before dropping deflated to the ground like a balloon.

Okay, it's not funny.

Auto pilot, completely stunned, drops to one knee then keels over. Two doormen appear, as if from nowhere, and attempt to grab Arnie who manages to head butt one. Number two bouncer grapples Arnie and puts him into some sort of judo lock - and it's all over.

We rush over and try to assist Auto Pilot to his feet. He still doesn't know has happened to him. He's got blood running down his chubby face from a cut beneath his eye and a large swelling already on his cheek. He's also wheezing heavily from the last blow which knocked the wind out of him.

It's funny what you think at a time like this. Only a few minutes ago Auto Pilot was a pretty smug fellow with his attractive wife and pretentious lifestyle, and now he's just a pathetic twat on the floor. I wonder how along it'll be, after the public humiliation he's just undergone, before he feels like making love to his wife. But perhaps Jeremy has already done the job for him?

I'm a wicked bastard at times. Still, I don't reckon he'll ever grab anybody by the bollocks again.

Carol has gone over to the doormen who have Arnie well and truly pinned down. The bouncer he nutted is holding up a handkerchief soaked with blood to his face. Over by the main doors I see the police arriving. The main lights flick on.

In this moment I realize that all of our lives are changing - some undoubtedly for the worse but some for the best - after tonight. It looks like Arnie is going to be indisposed for a while, and that is good news - I look across at Carol. I also reckon that Jeremy has seen the light with Lena, so I get my friend back, and he gets his life back.

All in all, a rather interesting evening don't you think.

Oh, yeah, nearly forgot, I was going to tell you a little tale. About three weeks ago I was off to visit my uncle and auntie and just freshening up in readiness to go. I had just visited the lavatory and had gone into my bedroom to lace up my shoes when I had this sudden urge to lie back on the bed. It was lucky I did because I felt something press into my lower back. When I examined what was pushing into me, I discovered a toilet block hooked to my belt. It must have attached itself when I had pulled my trousers up. Can you imagine me strolling down the street with that hanging onto the back of my trousers? People would have remarked: "He must have a fucking bad B.O. problem if he's got to wear one of them!

Fucking hell.

Friday 22nd January 2010: Fucking Freaky - Blog

I have just experienced one of those spine chilling moments that shatter your perception of reality.

Last night or morning I dreamt about a former conductor, P who used to work on the buses. I also dreamt about meeting another former employee, Roy. In the dream I was in Shanklin and I bumped into P who looked younger and quite sprightly. I told him that he looked good and he told me that he'd kicked his alcohol problem and had got over his emotional trauma. I felt pleased for him. Also in the dream I met Roy but then the dream fades out.

In reality P had left the Company several years ago. He lived with his father for many years till his father died. After a bit P took his PCV and transferred to driving buses, which he never really got on with. He also came out of the closet and confessed to being gay for which everybody held him in respect. Unfortunately his mental problems began to weigh heavily on him and as a consequence he began to take increasing refuge in drink. He suffered two minor strokes from which he fully recovered but lost his job in his mid-fifties. His behaviour became increasingly erratic and he could be violent. He got into a few scrapes with some of the employees and was banned from travelling for a bit. But the last time I spoke to him he seemed okay...

Anyway, I have been in most of the day sorting out my stories and catching up on chores. About half three I decide that despite the weather I'm getting out for a bit. I make myself a flask of tea and prepare a roll with the idea of having a leisurely stroll along the seafront. By the time I get down to the Esplanade the rain is getting quite heavy. I see a train at the top of the pier and think: I'll get on that, I have free travel, keep out of the rain and maybe drop off at Lake, walk along the cliffs and perhaps have my food and drink in a shelter.

Bad move. Having got off at Lake I discover there are no shelters so I walk all the way in the wet to Shanklin and finally have my tea on the seafront in a shelter there.

I then walk back up the hill to the railway station and catch the 1718 back to Ryde. At Ryde St John's Road station Roy gets on and sits next to me. Roy worked for the Company for many years but got out early as he is fairly well off. He is an 'anorak' who has written several books about the Island buses. Not to be outdone I have written a humorous short story about him. Coincidentally Roy and P are the same age: sixty-one.

Roy informs me that several bus staff have passed away recently, and then says: 'I got a phone call from the police this morning. They told me that P had been found dead in his flat and mine was the only phone number they could find. I went round and visited him a few weeks ago. He was in a bit of a state. He also confessed to me that he made a complete mess of his life. What could I say?'

What indeed could he say?

But what I couldn't say was that I had dreamed of P within the last 24 hours, instead I just had one of those scary moments when you realize that maybe there is more to this world than meets the eye. I have never dreamed of the fellow before so why now on the very day that he dies?

I couldn't tell Roy because he'll think I'm either crazy or bullshitting, but fuck me this is weird.

Of course it could all be coincidence...

Sunday 24th January 2010: Just Thrashed Juki - Blog

Just thrashed Juki. I've been 'promising' her a good beating for ages and did she get one!

20 with the cane. 20 with the 'obedience' spoon and 20 with the leather paddle - that hurts the most.

I have uploaded the photos and I am just waiting for them to be approved.

It has also cured her headache!

Friday 29th January 2010: Voodoo - Horror Story

He woke with a start in a bed that was not his.

He reached out and switched the bedside light on - it was not his bedside light. And the woman sleeping next to him was not his wife.

He looked down at the muscular dark-skinned arms - they were not his arms.

He then slipped out of the bed in the room that was not his and walked to the door. And the woman that was not his wife stirred.

He walked across the landing in the house that was not his house and swung open the door to the bathroom that was not his.

He urinated in a toilet that was not his toilet with a penis that was not his penis.

He then flushed a toilet handle he had never flushed before.

He washed the hands that were not his hands in a sink with gold plated handles. He peered into the mirror and the face that stared back was not his - it was the face of his nemesis.

He then walked back out of the bathroom - he needed to dream another dream.

Without warning there was shouting and the sound of gunfire. Men rushed out of rooms and went to his side. He did not know these men, but these men knew him.

Then the men around him began to fall as if in slow motion. And when they were all still and bloody on the floor another face appeared around the door. The face was smiling, and the face was his.

How had he done it? How had the 'Master Criminal' swapped bodies with the Chief of Police?

"Voodoo," the Master Criminal mouthed before blowing his brains out, the brains that weren't really his, with a single shot...

Saturday 30th January 2010: My Life is a Fucking Mess - Blog

When you look in a mirror at yourself there are two things you cannot see: one is the glass and the second is your soul.


Before I woke late this morning I had been dreaming of Sharon yet again. In the dream we were going to have coffee and then go jogging together.

It is quite clear that I still love her. When you truly love someone you never stop loving them.

As I lay in my bed with the sun streaming through my window I finally surrendered to the fact that everything is a mess in my life: The flat is in a mess; I'm in a physical mess; I'm in an emotional mess; I'm a sexual mess; My son's in a mess.

It is all likely to get worse.

A voice in a dream once told me: "You cannot win in life but at least put off losing for as long as possible."

Sound advice?

Ronan: An optimist is merely someone who isn't yet in full possession of all the facts.

Sometimes I wonder if surrender isn't really victory...

Yesterday I decided that I would stop writing short stories and fantasies for a while - it was making me weary. I collected what I considered to be the best of my works and self-published them on . I also submitted several tales to online competitions.

I do not expect to sell a single copy nor win a single penny - that is how pessimistic I feel about things.

Once again I am reflecting about my charade of a life: My kinky desires; My unconventional values; My wish to conform though underneath feeling very different from the majority; My awe at the achievements of individuals yet my contempt for the mass of humanity; The lies and fabrications fed me as a child but worst of all the lies I told myself.

On the news yesterday I watched Tony Blair answer questions at the Iraq Inquiry and realised that the man actually believes his own lies. We will never really know though. It is an interesting state of mind.

Tomorrow I will begin the story of my life on here - plenty of deceit in that too. I hope you find it of some interest.

Monday 1st February 2010: It will be Getting Dark Soon - Blog

Yesterday I spent too much time again on the computer - what am I doing now? - composing my autobiography. The flat definitely needs a good tidy and there are other things I ought to sort out. In the morning though I did nip out and have an all-day breakfast at the Wimpy before doing some shopping at Somerfield.

Should I been indulging in a fatty all day breakfast in my state of health?

Well, my theory is that because I didn't eat originally crap, and exercised regularly also, and still ended up with high blood pressure and cholesterol then diet is very little to do with it; if it didn't cause the condition in the first place then it isn't going to make the condition any worse. I can't say I am particularly bothered now whether I die or not; I've pretty well had enough of life where I often feel unwell anyway. Also despite all this rubbish about coming out of recession the country is well and truly fucked so there is nothing for anyone to look forward to anyway.

Enough moaning.

Anyway I finally went out for a walk about five and ended up strolling around the harbour and then round the Canoe Lake. I stopped outside The Bombay Palace and decided that rather than cook I would have something to eat there. I phoned Juki up and she caught a taxi down.

The Bombay Palace is a really nice place - good food and very polite staff, though still think Ryde Tandoori might serve the tastiest dishes. I shall go again.

I told Juki about how I had a chat with TH from the buses on the way down and how he had told me that not only is ED ill again with cancer but that GC, Lulu's son, had a lump that was found to be malign, and that it has spread to other parts of his body. I was completely shocked as GC probably isn't thirty yet and he always looked fit and well - I remember wishing I could swap bodies with him at one point. His mother, who not only did I go to primary school with her but also went out with for two years a few years back, will be at wits end - I feel so sorry for her. GC also has two kids who absolutely adore him. I really do hope he can get through this.

When we got back Juki and I watched Intacto - it was okay. I will also be giving her a good beating later during the week. I bought a nice little wooden paddle in a sex shop in Brighton last Thursday. I shall look forward to that.

Early this morning, I wanked about thrashing a naked Juki and then getting her to rub Calamity's nipples whilst I licked Calamity's sexy fanny. I also imagined them naked together and cuddling.

Another strange thing out of the blue was getting a text from Lena saying: it will be getting dark soon. This is a reference to a story about Claudia's grandmother from years ago who was going gaga and kept saying that phrase to me over and over again whilst I was waiting to go out with her. Claudia that is. Funny enough, I reckon Lena could be interested in spankings - though she wouldn't admit it - because she loved hearing about my encounters.

Talking of which I will be hopefully getting to the Isle of Wight Munch on Saturday.

Wednesday 3rd February 2010: Deleted Profile on IC - Blog

I deleted my profile on Informed Consent yesterday because I was wasting too much time with it - I've got all I want out of it and I think I may be getting a bit too old for it all though I shall continue to spank and cane Juki every couple of weeks. She's getting quite addicted to it now and I'll be beating her in the next couple of days - full description of it when I do.

Once again I didn't do a lot yesterday but the electric did cut itself off just before nine in the evening. I finally managed to get hold of the electrician and he sorted it out - turned out to be dampness in the socket next to the sink probably from drying cutlery dripping into the plug.

I watched the end half of Survivors which despite the cringe inducing political correct message wasn't too bad. I also managed another episode of Cold Feet.

Today I am going to tidy up and try and get a few things sorted out.

Friday 5th February 2010: Saw Two Ex's - Blog

Today is the 8th anniversary of Vanilla Sky Day - eight years since that fateful or fantastic day. The funny thing is I nearly forgot till the reminder on my old phone sounded.

I also dreamt about Sharon's daughter and my son last night - sad fucker still.

Went up to the bank and sorted out my finances for the next year - fuck work!

Whilst up town I popped in and saw Lulu at work. She told me about her son and how he has got Hodgkin's disease. The clear up rate for this form of cancer is very high but it must still be an awful time for them all. We're going to meet up for lunch during the week which will be good.

Funny enough I bumped into the Minger on the way back. She told me that she had split up with the fellow she had been with since she had dumped me. Apparently he had an affair with this woman who took him for eight thousand quid - and then she dumped him. All the time I was talking to the Minger I was thinking about the times I shagged her, and whilst I was with Lulu too - I'm a bastard. I wondered whether to suggest meeting up but then decided against it - let sleeping dogs lie.

Juki texted me to ask me to spank her - she may regret that tomorrow at half seven!

Cooked dinner and then spent rest of evening watching Cold Feet before checking my views on - they're rising quite fast and I now have five fans in just two days.

Sunday 7th February 2010: Another Beating for Juki - Blog

Yesterday, I went shopping in the morning and then popped down and along the seafront to take some photos whilst the sun was out. I was going to walk to Puckpool but didn't bother in the end and had a flask of tea whilst sitting on a bench at the swimming pool end of the Canoe Lake.

When I got back Brosnan phoned to let me know that he and Farrah would be on the Island Friday for a short while. They'll be in the Castle in Newport High Street if we want to pop in. Brosnan then enquired about my sex life - I told him that I was into S & M and about a few of my recent encounters. He wasn't that surprised, in fact he seemed quite interested. I also told him that I punished Juki on a regular basis too. Anyway, it was good to chat to him and hopefully I'll see him Friday.

Portsmouth lost to Man U by five goals to nil. It looks like my £100 is safe on them to get relegated provided the club doesn't get wound up - I would get my stake back in that event anyway. If they do survive and get relegated I will clear £250.

Juki duly turned up for her punishment at half seven. I made her strip, profess her love and obedience for me before ordering her to prostrate her naked body across the punishment stool. I then gave her thirty strokes with the junior cane followed by thirty strokes with the obedience spoon across both buttocks. Some of the whacks were really quite hard which made her cry out and flinch but all credit to her for taking them so stoically. I then decided to try out the wooden paddle I had bought in Brighton - it snapped on the second stroke and will teach me not to buy cheap implements in the future. I then gave her eighteen swats, some very hard, with the leather paddle. I could see she was in absolute agony at times but once again she did herself proud by taking them.

When the punishment was completed I gave her a long cuddle and told her it was okay to cry which she did. Most of the tears were down to the fact that she had had a stressful time at work the previous week. Once we had wiped away the tears she thanked me for the beating as it had taken away a lot of the stress. She also told me that she was close to her limit but wanted to see how much she could take. I may buy some nipple clamps for her. We settled down for the evening and watched Natural Born Killers - great film.

Juki left about half ten and I went off to bed. I read quite a bit of A View from the Foothills by Chris Mullin and then decided to have a wank. It's annoying because over the last year I rarely get proper erections but I can still climax okay - I think that may be down to all the tablets I take. I wasn't quite sure what fantasy to play in my mind but opted for the one of Juki tensing herself and then crying out as I landed the leather paddle hard on her bare buttocks.

Monday 8th February 2010: A View from the Foothills - Blog

Yesterday I got out and took some photos of East Cowes and the house I used to live in with Sharon. I also took some of Red Eagle the Red Funnel car ferry.

Jeremy popped round later and we had a chat about my stories and also about sex in general.

Getting into A View from the Foothills and it just reinforces my belief that the country survives (for the moment at least) in spite of government not because of government. I also read that Gordon blubbered over the death of his baby son in the interview with Piers Morgan. Message to Gordon: Please don't bother with trying to look like you are emotional as it won't fucking wash. Everybody knows you don't give a damn about all those young men being maimed and killed in foreign wars that don't concern us or the grief you cause those families. And also Gordon using Remembrance Day as a photo opportunity was absolutely disgusting. You convince nobody when you put on a sombre expression to express regret at the latest avoidable casualty in Afghanistan - it is as false as that smile you interject, on advice from your image consultant, periodically during interviews. In short you are a second rate actor, a third rate prime minister (unelected) but a first rate cunt!

I had a weird dream last night - aren't most dreams bizarre? - in which I was in America when the earth began to get very hot and then turned into a volcano erupting. I couldn't get away from it and it was quite scary. I also had this young lad keep trying to steal my wallet. I then got bitten by two venomous snakes and passed out - it was kind of a relief.

Tuesday 9th February 2010: Bitter and Twisted - Blog

Yesterday I bumped into Dee outside the house. Dee is probably early to mid-forties of average build with dyed blond hair and quite tanned - I fancy her. She is also quite bigoted and I suspect has a temper. She seems quite bitter about how life has turned out - I got on well with her. She told me that she hadn't got a job and was finding it, after being a housewife for most of her adult life, difficult to get employment. We both had a good moan about the state of the country. I then went off shopping.

As I wandered off a wicked thought crossed my mind: I wonder if I paid her she would cane me every three to four weeks? I visualised her with a skimpy top and her strong suntanned arms whacking me hard and then getting her to take her top off and rubbing my nipples whilst I wanked myself off ogling her tits. I also thought I would like to see her punish Juki too.

I pondered this all the time I was shopping but I wondered 1. How I would broach the subject and 2. What if she went off on one and called the police.

I decided to leave it for now. The funny thing was that I bumped into her again on the way back. She always seems in a hurry when she sees me so probably not a good idea.

I was a little bit concerned when I saw on the news that there is a possibility of a hung parliament even though the Tories are about ten points in the lead - how can we call ourselves a democracy with that kind of system. Five more years of Brown, Harman, Darling and co. will just about bankrupt and destroy the nation - something that Hitler, Napoleon and Philip of Spain all failed to do. The problem with Cameron is that he is just another slimy career politician and probably the lesser of two evils. We have no leaders of any calibre anymore, even John Major would be better. I shall either vote for UKIP or the Green Party not that either have the remotest chance of getting in but it may make the arrogant bastards start to realise that they are actually paid to govern for us - not starting wars to impress Washington or fiddling their expenses. Of course at some point they will have to introduce conscription because the armed forces are seriously short of manpower - you won't see that in the manifestos though. MP's sons will naturally be exempt from serving in the same way that Prince Harry was quietly taken out of harm's way in Afghanistan.

My views on have gradually started to rise which is quite satisfying. I have also come to the conclusion that my writing is considered good enough to read but not quite good enough to be bought - C'est la vie. 'Jeremy' posted a comment on my story Zen and the Art of Rudeness which was rather amusing.

I have also been reflecting on what kind of a person I really am and this is what I concluded:

I like simplicity; Thinking stresses me out unless it's for pleasure; I'm conservative with a small c; I like routine and familiarity with the occasional spontaneous event; I'm kinky though not depraved; I like to be in control of my own destiny as much as possible; I have 'anorak' tendencies; I believe in boundaries in real life and respecting the rights of others; I have no boundaries in fantasy and nor should there be; I believe in living within one's means and not scrounging off others; I do not care what happens in the rest of the world so long as it doesn't affect me; I care about some people but not others and I accept that now; I believe that we have been created to create not only value for ourselves and others but for a transcendent value beyond our comprehension - some may call that value, God or the Tao.

That is enough thinking for today - time to carry on tidying up and divesting myself and the flat of junk.

Wednesday 10th February 2010: Dumping Shit - Blog

Yesterday I dumped, I mean donated, a load of old books to the Heart Foundation shop in the High Street. I also got a tenner from P for a dozen old DVDs. I have decided each day to get rid of a small pile of my junk and hopefully in a few months' time I will finally attain my aim of living a life of minimalism. My intention is to have just one rack for CDs, one rack for DVDs, two bookcases, one box of photos, three pairs of trousers, ten shirts, ten pairs of underpants, ten pairs of matching socks, ten vests, two sets of clean bed linen for each bed (two), one coat, one pair of gloves and one woolly hat, five towels, four tea cloths, one wardrobe, one bedside table, one tool box... and maybe one model train set!

Okay, that's enough dreaming.

Yesterday afternoon I caught the bus to St John's Road Railway Station. As the bus swung round the roundabout on the Esplanade I noticed some kite boarders in the sea which was annoying because I could have got some good shots of them - maybe another day. Anyway, I took some photos of the trains at the station and then caught it to Lake where I got off and captured some pretty views of Sandown, the Pier and Culver Cliffs. I then got the same train back and cooked dinner for myself.

Later, Juki popped round and watched Survivors which is becoming rather predictable now - I'm finding many of the characters rather stereotypical and the, we-may-be-all-different-but-we-will-all-stand-together message rather cringe inducing. I shall stick with it though.

Jeremy texted me to tell me that Amanda (his wife) had read my story Zen and the Art of Rudeness and had really enjoyed it. He then went on to say that he thought I resembled John Thomson from Cold Feet - this was in reference to the fact that my short story employed celebrity look-a-likes. I wasn't sure that I did because my eyes are dark brown and his nose was a lot smaller than mine. We both have a goatee, similar shaped eyes and the same kind of head shape. I reckon I'm bigger than him but our builds are alike too: short legs and broad shoulders with stocky arms. I suppose we could be cousins. The interesting thing is that one of Calamity's friends was good at associating certain types of faces to regions in the UK and also the continent. She reckoned mine was seen a lot in the Midlands, Sharon's from Scotland, Juki's in Ireland and Calamity's in Denmark. Just recently I underwent a DNA test to establish my heritage and it will be interesting to see what my lineage is. My mother reckoned that her father's family had some trace of Latin blood - we will see.

After Survivors I let Juki give me a moderate beating - I needed it and it was a chance to get her own back on me. I stripped off and took about thirty with the junior cane and about twenty or so with the studded leather paddle. Juki reckons that the paddle is worse but I think the cane is far more painful. Whilst I was lying on the bed being caned I thought of the prisoners in Malaysia who must really suffer when they take a really brutal judicial caning. I also gave a few whacks to Juki when the coin we tossed to see if she should came up tails. I also put some pegs on her nipples to see if she can endure nipple clamps. She is also going to shave her fanny and I shall be taking some more photos of her naked which she quite liked. We also talked about Calamity because I think Calamity may be bi-sexual and I would love to get the two girls playing together but that will probably remain just a fantasy. Juki would not only like to punish another woman but she would also submit to being beaten by one too - interesting.

Another thing is that I still keep wondering whether to invite the Minger round one night. I would love to give her bare back a really hard scratching (she quite liked blood being drawn) which she relishes. She's as ugly as hell but there is something sexy about her. God I'm weird.

Okay, time for a shave and a shower as it is Wednesday.

Thursday 11th February 2010: A Dream about Hitler - Blog

Woke up this morning after having had a dream in which I was sitting next to Hitler in a cinema. He was accompanied by skinheads on either side who were hanging on to every word he said. Out of the blue I turned to him and said: "You're not Hitler, you're doing a very good impression of him and I don't know what your motives are, because Hitler turned fifty in 1945 and that would make you a hundred and fifteen years old!" Hitler just smiled back at me. I got up out of my seat and ran down the aisle. As I did so I heard something drop - it was my gun and the bullets were spilled out everywhere. I didn't stop but the thought came into my mind that if I had to continue to fight it would be with a bow and some arrows. It was at this point as I ran out onto the street that the dream ended.

Changing the subject I popped into town yesterday and had a chat with a woman who used to be a regular passenger when I drove minibuses round Binstead. She told me that she had left her husband of twenty three years because she was fed up that his life revolved around the pub (agree on that one) and that she was forever at his beck and call. This all happened six months ago. We had a really good chat and I got the impression she would have liked to have met up for a coffee some when. She's reasonably attractive though does smell very strongly of stale tobacco - I don't mind women smoking but too much can be off putting. Later on I wondered what her naked body might look like, whether her fanny was shaved and also if she enjoyed being licked off. I don't change.

Whilst I was watching Cold Feet last night Ronan texted me to see if it was okay to pop up Sunday and go back home Monday as his wife is away. I told him it was okay but not sure whether Juki will be up to another beating by Sunday as I promised him, he could watch me cane her at some time. We'll see.

Friday 12th February 2010: Fantasies about Willow - Blog

Yesterday afternoon nipped out and took several photos of the town and seafront. I was disappointed not to catch any kite surfers but did get some good shots of St Cecilia's Abbey and the Appley Tower. I didn't realise how cold it was and even opening a thermos full of tea on a bench overlooking the Solent wasn't the usual simple pleasure. When I got back I loaded up the photos onto the computer and then did dinner. Juki texted to see if I wanted some company, but I declined as I felt rather weary. I shall probably catch her later today.

After dinner I made the mistake of putting on the news. It was really depressing. I can see us ending up in a war with Iran for starters but not only that it looks like we are going to end up bailing Greece out when we've got enough debt of our own thanks to greedy and irresponsible bankers and that profligate prick Brown. The other thing that really annoys me is that I've worked, with few breaks, since I was sixteen and now that I've left work through illness the fuckers don't want to give me a single penny. The best of it is they even had the audacity to tell me I may have to pay tax on the two hundred quid they reluctantly gave me. I suppose someone's got to pay for moat cleaning and the upkeep of duck houses! I'm okay for money for a good while but it still rankles with me that we reward the financially reckless and penalise the prudent. I'm still convinced that we have yet to see the worse of the recession and possibly another financial meltdown. Another trick I suspect 'Bankruptcy' Brown will try to pull is to dip into the pensions funds again, bonds (which will turn out to be next to worthless) will be issued against them to con us out of our nest eggs. In China they would have stuck the corrupt and incompetent cunt up against a wall and shot him long ago!

Talking of pricks I woke up with a really hard one this morning - not often that seems to happen nowadays. I was thinking and fantasising about Willow. Willow used to be a regular passenger on the buses years ago when I was with Sharon; when I was happy-ish and monogamous with Sharon. For some reason Willow really took a shine to me and one New Year's Eve, down the Cellar Bar, she attempted to snog me even though I was with Sharon at the time. I nearly weakened but Sharon dragged me away. Looking back I wish I had shagged her though she was married to a really nice fellow - and still is. Willow was a very attractive woman. She was tall, around about five foot eight, and facially resembled a younger version of how Twiggy looks now - if that makes sense. She was blue eyed, dark blonde, long limbed and quite slim. Her flesh was very sexy being golden tanned, slightly freckled and blessed with an abundance of small moles which I can find quite beguiling. I still see her around town from time to time with a couple of kids and still married to the same fellow - and yes she is still quite horny even though she must be middle to late forties. I sometimes wonder what would have happened had I responded to her advances. Would I have married her and had kids by her? It's all speculation but the funny thing is that I never fantasise about sadomasochism with her, it's all vanilla with her: giving her oral, massages and simple penetration. The last time I saw her was in the outside drinking area of the Black Sheep Bar in Union Street - ironically over the old Cellar Bar - when she was passing by and spotted her sister, who is the wife of an ex colleague, I was chatting to. She joined us and we both said hello. I wondered what she was thinking, perhaps: Thank fuck I never left my husband for him. He's turned into a right fat ugly cunt!

Saturday 13th February 2010: Brosnan, Bugner and Frazier - Blog

Yesterday Jeremy and I caught the bus over to Newport to meet up with Brosnan who was over on a flying visit to the Island. We set out early as Brosnan and Farrah, his wife, were intending getting the nine o'clock car ferry. Whilst on the bus Jeremy told me what he thought of politicians and governments: that they were all in it for themselves, were corrupt and were for the most part useless. So, I'm not the only one who thinks so highly of our honourable members.

Anyway, the two grumpy old men got to the Castle which is a lovely 'olde worlde' pub at the Carisbrooke end of Newport High Street, just after six. Brosnan was there with one of his mates Pel. Brosnan bought us a drink and then explained that Pel was getting divorced, though I'm sure Pel could have told us himself. I felt very sorry for Pel because underneath I could see he was hurting as he was definitely the quiet, stay at home, family type of man. Whilst we were standing at the bar I momentarily felt odd so suggested we all sit down. I feared that I was going to collapse and the last thing I wanted was the embarrassment of having an ambulance called. I didn't tell anyone that as I hate this condition. We all had a good chat about a range of subjects before Pel shot off to pick up his daughter. The topic then turned to relationships and step-children - both Jeremy and Brosnan have them. Both of them handle that minefield, in my opinion, very well as neither of them pretends to be a dad. When I was with Sharon it was one thing I could have handled better. Sharon used to moan about Sophie and when Sharon couldn't cope anymore I would sometimes intervene but then all of a sudden Sharon would then accuse me of interfering. I couldn't win. Ironically I got on really well with Sophie in the end.

Brosnan then reckoned that all three of us were predators who if we thought we could get away with it would shag around. He did say that he thought that if I had met the right one I would have stayed absolutely faithful - he's right as I would have done. Underneath I believe infidelity to be wrong though not my business to preach to others. Funny enough I don't believe Jeremy will stray as he and Amanda are really well suited. I hope not anyway. I get the feeling that Brosnan and Farrah will last too but not without the odd crisis as we're all getting too old for all this fucking around.

Farrah picked Brosnan up at about half eight so Jeremy and I made our way back to Newport Bus Station.

As we ambled down the street, and after the rather disconcerting episode in the pub, I looked at all the buildings, the night sky and the street lights and wondered how long I would be experiencing this construct of my mind - will it all soon be the free floating of nothingness?

The bus station was full of noisy chavs and 'chavettes' and as luck would have it most of them were getting the bus to Ryde. I said to Jeremy: "I can understand why the Muslims think we are decadent and that our society is ripe to be taken over."

Jeremy replied with a sigh: "How bad is it going to get?"

We boarded the bus but then moved seats shortly after it departed as the racket was horrendous. Whilst we were chatting this young girl in front of us turned round and agreed with us about the noise: "They're giving me a fucking headache, you used to be a bus driver, can't you say nuffing to 'em?"

"I'm not a bus driver anymore. Probably best to put up with it for now as there is a load of them and they may duff us all up!"

"They wouldn't duff me up!" she responded with bravado.

I wondered if there was going to be trouble, with me half hoping there would be. But instead we ended up chatting quite pleasantly with the girl who turned out to be actually twenty one. She was also very pretty with dark hair and lovely blue eyes and will be a heartbreaker - if she isn't one already.

We got back to Ryde and Jeremy and I opted for a quick pint in Wetherspoons before calling it a night. Whilst in 'Spoons we saw an old colleague, Bruce, in there with a few other work mates. We exchanged pleasantries and agreed to meet up for a meal sometime which I doubt will ever happen. The truth was that I wasn't paying much attention to the conversation as the two girls from the bus were sitting across from us. They had both removed their coats to reveal bare skin, sexy bare skin. The dark one had very pale flesh with some very beguiling small moles on her back and the strawberry haired one, though less pretty, was blessed with a very freckly complexion. I would have loved to spank either one of them naked. I can dream.

Whilst there I used the toilets and afterwards washing my hands I looked at myself in the mirror: grey thinning hair, tired looking and fat. What a state. I used to have a full head of curly auburn hair and was about four stone lighter, was quite toned and pretty fit and strong. I hate getting old and hate even more looking old!

Jeremy got himself a doner kebab and walked back to mine where we parted ways. I was back home at half nine.

Once in I loaded up my photos onto Flickr and when that was done logged onto YouTube. I watched a couple of music videos and then clicked in Joe Frazier versus Joe Bugner - the complete fight was on there. I have always been a fan of Joe Frazier, and Joe Bugner for a while too. I had never seen the whole fight, only clips, but what a contest it was. The twenty three year old Bugner stood toe to toe with one of the most fearsome boxers in history and gave him one of his toughest fights. We all know how good Frazier was but Bugner really was quite nimble with a very fast left jab, fit and durable - he could have been world champion. Frazier was given the decision but it was very close. The seventies really was the golden era of heavyweight boxing with Larry Holmes eventually reigning supreme. With the exception of Tyson at his peak and maybe Lennox Lewis there are very few since who could seriously challenge them.

This morning I put money on Southampton to beat Pompey, Wales to beat Scotland and France to beat Ireland. I shall probably dip out but it will make the afternoon more interesting.

Ronan is coming up tomorrow so it'll be good to see him. I'm hoping Juki may be up for some punishment as I think Ronan would like to see some action.

Tuesday 16th February 2010: Juki Beaten Again - Blog

Ronan travelled up from Brighton on Sunday and arrived about half two. We had a good chat and then walked to Quarr before catching the bus back to Ryde.

Just after six Juki turned up for her beating. I made her strip, blindfolded her and then ordered her to lie across the punishment stool. Ronan was not only there to witness but to learn because if anything happens to me I want somebody to take over her regular beatings. As she had only been punished at the beginning of the week I decided to be lenient. I gave her twenty with the leather paddle and fifteen with the cane. She got an extra one with the paddle after she cried out which is in breach of the conditions of the punishment. She took her beating well and after I gave her a cuddle. Ronan was also impressed with how stoically she took her chastisement.

Amanda and Jeremy turned up about half six and we had a meal at the Bombay Palace. The food was good but not as tasty as the Ryde Tandoori. We had a pleasant get together and a few laughs. Jeremy dropped us off at our houses around about half nine. Ronan and I watched the French film Camping Sauvage which was very good and then turned in about midnight.

Monday morning we had bacon sarnies and then watched another French film: Au Revoir Les Enfants. That was also good and worth watching too. We went up town and had some lunch prior to strolling along to Appley for yet more coffee! Ronan caught the catamaran back at 1445 - he'd had a good time and especially enjoyed watching Juki's beating.

In the evening though quite tired I walked round to Juki's for a roast beef dinner. It was delicious. She told me that she really needed a severe beating towards the end of the week as the one on Sunday wasn't quite enough. I will of course oblige. She also showed me her bruises which weren't that bad. She also showed me a little piece she had written about the thrashing I had administered previously and intended to post on IC. It was quite enlightening to see what was going through her mind whilst undergoing a caning.

When I got to bed I had a quick peruse through Gordon is a Moron by Vernon Coleman which Ronan had returned to me. It was written prior to Brown becoming PM and the financial crisis. It was really prophetic.

I got up this morning and felt quite tired so going to take it easy for a couple of days.

Wednesday 17th February 2010: Crying, the Scream and Death - Blog

I had lunch with Lulu yesterday. I wasn't going to as I felt weary but as I had to nip up town changed my mind and called into her shop where she is manageress. I have known Lulu since I was about seven as we attended the same junior school. It was quite a strict little school and we have often talked about the slipperings that were meted out on a regular basis - I thought they were excessive but was also fascinated by them.

That's all in the past.

Lulu has got quite a lot to worry about because not only has her partner lost his job recently but her son, Ray, has been diagnosed with Hodgkin's disease which is a cancer of the glands. The clear up rate for this form of cancer is very high but for some reason I feel very gloomy about his prospects and naturally I conveyed the exact opposite of what I felt to console her. I filled her in on the gossip in my life but not all the details which took her mind off things and I also took a photo of her. Lulu is quite a pretty woman but I never felt I had the chemistry with her. I could never love her. She's nice natured and can be fun to be with - she'll also do anything in bed to please a man. Whilst we were eating I thought briefly about the times I licked her out but it didn't do anything for me. When she dumped me, during extra time of the 2006 cup final, for Lennox, I felt far more relief than sadness.

Hopefully Ray will make a good recovery and in a few years she can retire to Jamaica with Lennox who is originally from there and enjoy her retirement in the sun. I walked her back to work and then popped into Somerfield to get some bits and pieces.

I spent the afternoon watching the remaining episodes of Cold Feet and ended up crying because it was so sad. In fact I ended up crying about everything: Mum, Sharon, James (I can't get hold of him). I was in a right state but fortunately I got a phone call from Tallulah which shook me out of it - she's so interesting and intelligent. We talked about the picture by Edvard Munch: The Scream, which has always fascinated me, and she speculated that the figure has much of a cadaver about it - interesting. I shall have to peruse it again.

I made the mistake of watching the news after Survivors - which I am rapidly getting bored with - to hear about more tragic loss of life in Afghanistan and the fact that inflation is rising - surprise, surprise. I wonder if that's a consequence of printing money. What do you think Gordon, you fucking warmongering, profligate, incompetent, lying, expense fiddling, arrogant, hypocritical, charisma challenged prick?!

I finally went to bed thinking about suicide. But I'll never do it, though the thought of death and oblivion bizarrely comforts me.

Thursday 18th February 2010: Going Bonkers over Strawberries and Cream - Memory

I am twelve years of age. I am sitting in a tea garden in Godshill Village on the Isle of Wight and I am going quietly bonkers. I am going quietly bonkers because I don't want anyone to know that I am going bonkers and because I've kind of got used to repressing weird and shameful thoughts.

I am surrounded by people who aren't bonkers though my mother does occasionally go bonkers from time to time; which is ironic because it is time, or the thought of time, that is making me go bonkers.

It is a sunny day in June and in front of me is a bowl of juicy strawberries with a large dollop of clotted cream on them. I am not eating them just yet because I am bathing in their reality.

"Don't you want them Matt? They weren't cheap you know."

The words slip into the river of time and begin to recede. I dig my spoon into the strawberries making sure that there is cream on them. I place them in my mouth and eat them as slowly as I can to slow down time though I know that it is futile - and they are delicious. I look at the bowl and realize that soon it will be virtually empty. The passing of time is driving me bonkers but maybe time will also release me from being bonkers too eventually.

"You're quiet. What are you thinking about?"

"Um, nothing, Mum."

I can't tell her because she'll think I'm bonkers but what I'm thinking is that there are all these people here in this tea garden and milling round the street and that not one of them is thinking that it is all bonkers. You see, it is the fact that everything, pleasant or unpleasant, passes. It means to me that nothing, good or bad, has any ultimate value and that to me is completely bonkers. What is the point of the world if nothing lasts? It's all completely bonkers.

I finish the bowl of strawberries and cream. Their reality is gone now.

We walk to the car park and I get in the car. I know that this moment in time is lost for ever.

My mother starts the car and we drive out of the carpark and onto the main road. As she does, I look ahead and focus on trees or bushes and attempt to slow down time so that we will never reach them. But we do, and then they too are in the past. I cannot hold onto the present. It is all bonkers.

I look across at my mother - she is completely oblivious to the fact that the passing of time is all bonkers. I ask myself a question: Is it me that is going bonkers or is it everybody else? I also ask myself another question: Why am I me and not somebody else? But then I realize that if I was somebody else, I would still be me.

We get home and I try not to think about time. I know the battle against going bonkers will be long and hard...

Friday 19th February 2010: Sordid Liaison with the Minging Slut - Slut Fiction

She is lying on my bed with her ugly face pushed into the pillows. Her fat and unsightly body is naked.

I am raking her bare back with my uncut nails - the minging slut craves that. Every time I run my nails hard along her pallid flesh she flinches with the pain but lets out ever increasing grunts of arousal. I intend to draw blood - I like to see little beads of crimson whether it is from nails, studded paddles or canes. I do not need to see rivers of blood, just a trickle for me to whet my appetite.

People think I am a nice person but it is merely a front to protect myself; and a ploy to lure the unsuspecting in. I love to see females suffer physically but there is also the exquisite gratification of watching them in emotional pain like dumping them the day after they have fallen in love with me - ecstasy! I build their little egos up with false attention and insincere flattery then, like a bored infant knocking over building blocks, I pull out the rug and watch them tumble to the ground savouring every last drop of their anguish. I am a cunt.

She is bleeding now and her back is becoming smeared with her blood. I suck my finger and taste the metallic tang.

"Turn over on your front."

She obeys.

She is the ugliest female I have ever fucked. Her features are lopsided and her left eye is opaque and blind. Her complexion is jaundiced and she has several age spots on her cheeks. Her nostrils remind me of a pit viper's and her lips sit at an odd angle. She is overweight and flabby too.

It is at this point that I want to slap her misshapen face hard but I resist the urge, instead I thrust my fingers into her soaking and smelly unwashed cunt. She gasps and momentarily arches her back. I then grab her tit roughly squeezing it till she asks me to stop - it makes me smile when she registers pain across her uneven features. I begin to circle my thumb around her clit - she likes that - and knead the nipple of her large saggy left breast. Her lips are slightly apart and bring my head down to kiss them. Her breath is rancid so I do not linger but instead suck and bite her right nipple. Her breathing intensifies till she finally heaves and gives herself to orgasm. I feel the contractions of her cunt and thrust hard, thrust hard to hurt. She cries out and then slumps exhausted back onto the mattress.

I look at her with a kind of contempt and speculate that this is as good as her pathetic little life gets; she is an ageing single mother on benefits living in a shit hole she can't afford to repair and the only fellow, who had convinced her that 'beauty is only skin deep' but maybe not himself, betrayed her with a gold digger who subsequently took him for his savings. I guess I'm no better: a sad middle aged bastard in a run-down town preying on vulnerable woman.

"Do you want to fuck me?" she offers.

"Na, just rub my nipples whilst I wank myself off."

She twists into my body and brings her fat moley arms across my chest. I grab hold of my cock and start rubbing it. She briefly snogs me and then pulls back a little. As I become more turned on I become aware of the pungent cocktail of her body odours: her bad breath, the fishiness of her cunt, and perhaps a trace of stale urine from her unchanged and holey knickers. Her over-large tits hang over me and I notice the stretch marks for the first time. I glance down at her pot belly with the large unsightly mole on it and her unkempt pubic hair that is the colour of a sewer rat; she really is fucking repulsive but I really do need to climax.

I quickly reach the point of no return - the slut knows to how to massage my nipples I'll give her that - and I 'whiteout' with orgasm with my last vision of her fat white arm across me, and then fall back spent onto the bed.

I thank her but all I want for her to do is go; she has served her purpose now.

She brings her face into mine and as she does her unattractive rust dyed hair falls into my eyes making them water. She sweeps it back and then gently kisses me on the lips. I feel briefly like vomiting but manage to fight the impulse.

"Just like old times eh, we should do this more often. I've often thought about you over the years."

"It was good to see you too, never thought this was going to happen. See you next Friday?" I reply. It's kind of a Homer Simpson moment.

We have a cup of tea before she goes. I quickly write the account up of our sordid little encounter and then post it on a website; it excites me to do so, to let people in on my dirty little life and my weird sexuality.

I close the computer down and then walk up town to go shopping, a sad and perverted middle aged man in a downbeat little town extracting all the depravity he can whilst his life, money and health run out like the grains of sand in an hourglass...

Monday 22nd February 2010: Juki's Harshest Beating Yet - Blog

Saturday evening and just after half past seven.

Juki is naked in front of me and very apprehensive - she is to receive thirty hard whacks with the studded leather paddle followed by thirty strokes of the cane.

A part of me does not want to do this. A part of me does not like hurting women - a part of me. Sometimes though one has to be cruel to be kind.

I attach a peg to each of her pink nipples. She flinches.

"I'm going to wash my hands and then I'll be back to punish you. If you remove the pegs I will give you two extra strokes with each implement. I see you have shaved your fanny. Good."

I instructed her to do that over a week ago and if she hadn't then she would also have received extra strokes for that small act of disobedience too.

I return to the room and remove the pegs. She lets out a little sigh of relief. But the real pain is just about to begin.

"Do you love me?" I ask, matter-of-factly.


"I do not love you."

"I understand."

I move closer to her and hiss in her ear: "I am really going to hurt you now."

Do I detect a tremor?

"Lie across the punishment stool."

She complies and I slip the leather blindfold over her eyes. She is ready now for her chastisement.

I pick up the leather paddle and savour her pale unmarked buttocks for a moment before bringing it down hard upon her left cheek. A loud 'thwack' echoes around the room and I notice that the flesh is already reddening - how satisfying.

I have elected to allow twenty to thirty seconds to elapse between each stroke such that the pain will not have fallen away completely before the next agonizing blow - her suffering will be exquisite.

She takes another twenty nine delivered alternately on each cheek. I watch her naked left leg rise briefly from time to time as she struggles to come to terms with the pain. She only cries out once - she fears extra strokes as I have commanded her to suffer in silence - when I hit her with full force. I begin to admire her courage.

Her buttocks are red and sore and I espy two pinpricks of blood - but that will not save her from the cruel bite of the cane.

I listen to the whoosh of the cane and the crack when it lands on bare flesh and wonder how it must have felt for miscreants in the old days to hear the cane swish split seconds before the agony seared into them. I wonder also what must be going through her mind, what I am impacting into her mind.

She is stoical but I suspect close to breakdown - I know she is counting down each burning blow.

I reach twenty nine and for the last one I hit her as hard as I can - she yelps.

"Okay darling it is over."

I help her trembling and naked body to her feet and remove the blindfold.

"Thank you," she says, her voice breaking.

I take her in my arms and cuddle her. She begins to sob. I stroke her hair and hold her tight.

"Is it the pain?"

"The pain releases repressed memories. Crying helps me."

I say nothing and just hug her for ten minutes till the tears begin to subside. I guide her into the bedroom where she lies face down on my bed.

"Rest a while."

After a bit I get her to turn over and then cuddle her again. I massage her and feel genuine concern for her.

"I needed that. I really did. You make me feel wanted. I feel so close to you when you beat me. As though I matter. It is so hard to explain."

"I do not love you, but I am very fond of you and care about you. I want to take some photos of you now, of your buttocks and cunt."

"I love it when you do that too."

"One day I will take you out to the Long Stone and beat you naked in the open air with the risk of being caught. Are you up for that?"


She will do anything for me - it will be hard for me now not to push her to the limit, maybe over. But for tonight a coffee and a film beckon...

Friday 5th March 2010: 52 Hard Strokes for Juki - Blog

As I compose this Juki is recuperating on my bed. I have just given her 31 hard whacks with the leather paddle and 21 strokes of the new cane.

Punishment was commenced at 20:15 when she presented herself naked for correction. She was ordered to kneel across the punishment stool after inspecting her body to make sure she was shaved to my satisfaction - extra strokes would have been administered had she not.

I elected to play Rachmaninov: Piano Concerto No.2 for the session.

She received 31 swats with the studded leather paddle alternately pretty much on each buttock - it was clearly painful but she took it well with only mild whimpers and could also remember the correct number of strokes.

I then administered another 21 strokes of the new cane - I ensured that each stroke 'whooshed' to ensure the requisite level of pain.

Despite outward registration of pain she managed to stay composed during the beating.

Once the beating was over I helped her to her feet and then gave her a cuddle - there was only a brief moment of sobbing and I conveyed to her how brave she was. She thanked me for beating her. I then took her out on the landing to cool off whilst I took some photos of her abrasions.

I then put my arm round her and guided her to my bedroom where she is lying down and reflecting about her submission to me.

ETA: She has returned to the lounge having had a little cry and feeling a lot better for being punished.

Friday 12th March 2010: Why Can Clever People be So Stupid at Times? - Blog

Intelligent people scare me - they always have. Deep down, maybe not that deep down, I don't trust people as sooner or later they will either shaft me or hurt me. It's not a good way to go through life and I've modified it to an innocent-till-proven-guilty strategy as that seems to cause less friction. I have in the past adored, worshipped and totally trusted several women - none had my best interest at heart and it destroyed what little faith in humanity I had. What I craved for more than anything was a woman who loved and understood me and for me to love her back with all my heart. I thought I had that for a while and it made me very happy to walk, as it were, through the 'Valley of the Shadow of Death' and fear no evil. I am now, as you know, shivering in the penumbra again.

I also take no pride (though sometimes an inexplicable twisted delight) in admitting that I have let down and hurt others who have trusted and loved me. I can be dangerous.

I have digressed. Sorry.

So, I am wary of people to say the least and my philosophy is to get hurt or ripped off as less as possible - there is no final victory in life so postpone losing as long as you can. But who are the people most likely to do you the maximum of damage?

Is it the burglar or car thief? Having your property broken into or your car stolen isn't nice but most people have insurance and get their lives back pretty quickly.

Is it a murderer? Your chances of getting murdered are very tiny, so horrible but highly unlikely.

Or is it the lawyer who charges you the earth and still manages to lose most of your house?

What about the National Health dentists who decades ago performed totally unnecessary fillings on children to claim millions off the taxpayer?

What about the global warming scam? Is that money going to be paid back?

Perhaps the hacker who siphons thousands out of your account?

What about somebody like Tony Blair who has made millions out of his position yet his policies have bankrupted the nation and cost the taxpayer billions?

The scientists and technologists who develop weapons of mass destruction?

And what do all these people have in common? Answer: they're intelligent, educated, articulate and fucking dangerous.

Most people would run a mile from a Del Boy or an Arthur Daley but we all fall for the 'integrity' and 'sincere' tones of the man in the suit in the practice with the professional qualifications on the wall in gilt frames.

I think I have kind of made my point but there is something else I want to draw your attention to.

How can clever people be so stupid at times? I mean, why could a twat like me see the financial crisis coming years ago and yet someone like Gordon Brown who apparently has an awesome I.Q. and an in depth knowledge of economics couldn't?

Why could a twat like me see that global warming was a scam?

Why could a twat like me see that the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were going to be a tragic disaster yet John Reid - Doctor John Reid no less - claim that no lives were going to be lost?

Why could a twat like me see that these wars were going to lead to terrorism and yet Tony Blair highly educated with again an awesome intelligence couldn't?

Why can a twat like me see that we are heading for times of great hardship when all the politicians are claiming we are out of recession?


Okay, time for a couple of tales.

I'll be honest I struggled at school even though I passed the 11+ exam. I always performed poorly and in the first two years at Grammar School the best I ever achieved for term work was second from bottom and for exams, twentieth out of twenty seven - Gordon Brown, hot house; Matt Triewly, dog house.

In 1970 the school became comprehensive and they stopped reading out the results in assembly - about the only good thing I can say about the comprehensive system. Anyway the only subjects I found interesting were Chemistry and History though I sometimes used to like composing essays for English Language. The education system seemed to be largely a waste of time for most children and an even bigger waste of money for the taxpayer. I still think it is now.

Because the only subject I was good at was Chemistry I decided that the best career (note how career sounds so much better than job!) for me was in the Civil Service as a Scientist. I struggled to get five O'Levels after two attempts and then after a bit I managed to land a position as an Assistant Scientific Officer.

For a while I had visions of a slow but steady rise through the ranks. I also used to imagine me coming in to start the day in a smart blue suit greeting the junior staff with a cheery 'morning' before pushing back the frontiers of mankind's knowledge, which would of course lead to Utopia...


The actual position entailed analyzing engine oil samples from helicopters. Basically we determined the amount of wear metal by using an Atomic Absorption Spectrometer. If the wear metals began to rise too fast then it would suggest that vital bearings were about to break up. It gave advance warning of catastrophic engine failure which not only saved pilot's lives, it also saved millions of pounds for the taxpayer.

I was quite proud of my job and I thought I was good at it. I was good at it in actual fact because I was conscientious and accurate. But the head of department took me aside one day and informed me that I wasn't going anywhere because I lacked ambition and drive. I responded that I did everything I was asked to do. He then told me that I didn't show enough interest in the rest of the department. I explained that I was taught to respect boundaries and not to poke my nose in where it wasn't wanted. It was to no avail.

The boss was a highly educated man who only failed to attain his PhD because a fire destroyed his work before he could submit it. He was basically a decent fellow but he didn't suffer fools gladly. He was also a bit of a snob and looked down on the working classes. Naturally he was a socialist and voted Labour.

The upshot of this encounter was that he wanted me to undergo an I.Q. test - the other members of the department had taken it so I couldn't really refuse. I took the accursed test and my I.Q. was measured at 105. It was higher than the man in the street but the lowest in the department. Shades of Grammar School and end of term assemblies.

I felt humiliated and my confidence never recovered. I also failed an exam at college. In truth my career was over before it had even started but what could I do? I soldiered on and tried to make the best of things. I was not yet twenty, unable to get a girlfriend because I was plain, spotty, big nosed and skinny, and to boot my professional dreams were shattered. I did think about suicide.

I eventually left the establishment much to my colleagues' relief but not before a few rather satisfying incidents which consoled me a little.

As I explained earlier my job - which a trained monkey could do according to my immediate boss - was to analyse oil samples from helicopter engines to pick up excessive wear and prevent system failure. One type of engine was prone to aviation fuel seeping into the lubrication system. If too much did then an engine fire was a possibility. It was due to a design fault on a seal which was being looked into. In the meantime we were to sniff each oil sample and then determine how much fuel as a percentage was in the system - if it was more than ten percent then the oil system was to be drained and then replenished with new oil. After a while one could guess just by sniffing what the level was. If not, we would distil some of the oil and determine it more scientifically.

One day I came into work and the boss was absolutely incandescent. An engine had burst into flames and it was thought the cause was fuel seepage.

"I want to find out who analysed these samples and didn't check for contamination. What are we doing paying good money to these retards who can't even be bothered to do the job properly!" the boss had ranted before storming into his office slamming the door behind him, and probably more concerned about how this would affect his career rather than any safety issues.

I said to the fellow who worked with me analysing oil samples who was even lower than me in the hierarchy: "I don't think we're retards, and I know you are conscientious just like me. Something isn't right here."

A few minutes later the boss emerged and ordered me: "I want you to dig out every oil sample from this engine, determine how much fuel was in each, and more importantly I need to know who was responsible. I'm considering disciplinary action."

Sure enough I rechecked the samples and discovered who had analysed them - not one had me or my colleague been responsible for. They all had above levels of fuel in with the last one being well over the safety level. The last one I had real trouble in finding out who had done it because the record card had gone missing - surprise, surprise. I persevered in my search and eventually found it - the last oil sample had been analysed by the boss's blue eyed boy. Result or what!

Because we were a seven day a week facility other staff member of the lab would work weekends analysing samples - 'trained monkeys' on double time and expenses. In the rush to get away for sailing or golf they had failed to perform the job to the standard of the 'retards'. I felt totally vindicated. Of course no disciplinary charges were levelled against the blue eyed boy but for the sake of appearances we were all called in to listen to the boss give us a pep talk on the importance of vigilance. At the end of the talk the boss turned to me and said: "You look like you have something to say?"

"Yeah, I was just wondering what we are doing paying good money to these retards who can't even do the job properly."

The boss looked daggers at me and then stormed out. I felt like I had just scored the winning goal for England in the World Cup.

Not so long after the boss challenged me to a game of chess. We went through a phase of playing chess during the dinner hour and had a chess ladder. Despite my low I.Q. I could hold my own and while never top I was never bottom either. The boss possessed a very high I.Q. and obviously felt he could thrash me - the 'retard' remark had rankled with him and it was only fitting that I be put in my place. I agreed to the challenge and looking back it was Mensa versus Denser.

We commenced play and there was no doubt that he was very clever - he set up some very subtle traps for me which it took a lot of concentration to suss out and then avoid. In fact he spent all his time scheming on them whilst I carefully set up my attack. It was a real shock to him when I announced, "check mate".

"That was a fluke. I'll play you again!"

He played me again and it was the same pattern - I won. This time he was absolutely livid.

"Put your lab coat back on and get back to work - NOW!"

He spent the afternoon in his office sulking. I had now equalled Geoff Hurst.

His weakness of course was that he couldn't see the bigger picture - depth reduces field of view. Is it more desirable to have less resolution and 180 degree vision or to be focused with tunnel vision? I'm putting it simplistically but I think there may be something in it. I have another speculation about this but I will leave that for another day. Okay, one more World Cup goal...

The fellow who was my immediate boss wasn't that keen on me and he often treated me like shit - dressing me down in front of others when he should have taken me to one side. I really needed to get him back. And I did.

The main laboratory was the largest section of the establishment with the smaller offices radiating round it. There was a lot of equipment humming with cooler fans and ticking over. We would finish work at a quarter to five and just a few minutes before that time I would switch everything off. The boss wouldn't allow it to be turned off too early so as to create the impression with his superiors that we were an establishment always ready for everything. I noticed that as soon as I turned everything off my boss, like Pavlov's Dog, would get into his motorcycle waterproofs, put his helmet on and then shoot off. My boss if the big boss was away would come in late and go home early but the week previous, he had been driving out of the yard only to be caught by the big boss - he had been bollocked, and everyone knew he had been bollocked too. This one afternoon I waited for the big boss to go and visit some big wig and when he did I clicked off all the instruments - it was twenty past four. My boss fell for it, put on his wet weather gear and left the lab about twenty five minutes before he should have. Once he had gone I switched back on all the instruments. A few minutes later the big boss returned and asked where my boss was.

Dishonesty isn't really a part of me. "I think he's gone home," I said.

He was called into the big boss's office the next day first thing. I didn't laugh. Much.

Sunday 14th March 2010: Four Letters and an Apostrophe - Short Emotional Tale

Four letters and an apostrophe...

The thought began to tragically take form in her mind...

The ramp of the Chain Ferry, also known locally as the Floating Bridge, clattered and scraped metallically as it lowered onto the concrete slipway. Immediately a handful of passengers hurried off the vessel and stepped onto the land of West Cowes. She heard the engine of a car rev up and then pass her as she made her away along Bridge Road. Two other cars followed and then there was a kind of pause. She heard a seagull shriek and then listened to a pennant flapping from the mast of a distant yacht. She discerned the faint footsteps of people on the pavement as they walked towards the centre of the town.

She glanced up. The sky was a beautiful blue. She felt the gentle breeze tickle her face and softly blow strands of her hair across her forehead. On this day she was more aware of what it was to be alive than any other day. She attempted paradoxically to conceive the inconceivable: nothingness, oblivion.

She reached down into her coat pocket - the photo was safely still there.

Four letters and an apostrophe...

Three quarters of the way along Medina Road she halted. It was the spot where the photo had been taken.

She slipped the picture out of her pocket and turned to face the road she had just walked along. The picture was dog eared and had been taken nearly two and a half decades ago. She held the photo in her right hand at arm's length - she needed to see what he had seen all those years ago.

Four letters and an apostrophe...

The photo showed a young woman in a halter neck top with a short skirt on a sunny day. The woman though smiling looked serious. She was an attractive, though not beautiful, woman with long curly auburn hair, neat featured with big blue eyes. She was slim yet large breasted, and she could understand why he would want to take a photo of this woman. It was of course, her.

She remembered him standing outside the entrance of the drawing office, where they both worked, camera in hand. He had been waiting for her, waiting for her in the early morning summer sun. She hadn't stopped to pose for him but had carried on walking. She had been flattered but had felt a little uncomfortable with his attention; she dressed to attract attention but not his attention.

She recalled him as being nice, mildly witty, kind - and harmless. He was friendly and only ever asked her out once, but she had politely declined and he had taken it on the chin. She had felt a little bit bad about hurting him but they had become friends and would sometimes meet up for a coffee.

Four letters and an apostrophe...

Physically he was average looking, of average build, of average height. His features were neat but boring, his views conservative with a small c. He could be funny and generous, but he never did anything for her; he was the kind of guy a husband or boyfriend never minded you meeting. She sought more. And she got it.

Rob was tall, dark and in possession of smouldering good looks. He was fiercely intelligent with a buccaneering approach to the world. He had set up a small engineering consultancy fresh out of university, taken on and taken out some of the big boys; he wasn't just going places, he was the place.

He had picked her up in the Ryde Queen - an old paddle steamer converted into a nightclub and moored along the River Medina - swept her off her feet and married her in six weeks. He had taken her around the world as he negotiated contracts and secured work. He borrowed recklessly but the risks always paid off - handsomely. When they had returned to the Island it wasn't just with suntans - she was pregnant. He rented out a quaint little cottage near Osborne House for her and then took off to take on the rest of the world again.

He was away when she gave birth to his daughter. He came back two weeks later; and something had changed. She plonked the baby in his arms.

"It's not mine, neither of us have red hair."

She thought he had been joking but he handed her back.

"I'm leaving you, and you'll have to move out. I've lost everything. I'm bankrupt," he added flatly.

He then walked out pulling the door quietly behind him. She then placed the baby - which was his - in the cot, sank to her knees and cried till the early hours. She was just twenty, and now a single parent. She would never see Rob again, and nor would her daughter.

Four letters and an apostrophe...

The council set her up in a house in Vectis Road; she hated it there but what could she do? She struggled to get by on benefits and would sometimes help at a bar for cash in hand whilst her parents would baby sit. It was a miserable existence and she would constantly think back to when she travelled the world...

Then one day she got a knock on the door. It was Tony from the drawing office, the drawing office she had left when she had married Rob. She had been genuinely pleased to see him; he was a nice man. She didn't fancy him and never would, but she felt fondness for him. He started popping round on a regular basis and would take her and the little one out in his car at weekends. It kind of surprised her when they ended up in bed; she never thought she could sleep with a man she neither loved nor fancied but with her eyes closed, she could imagine it was Rob, wildly passionate Rob...

Four letters and an apostrophe...

It had made sense when they had brought a three-bedroom house in Hefford Road. Tony had steadily progressed at work and was on a good income. He had been kind and perhaps more importantly patient, with her daughter as she grew up. They had got married after three years but despite Tony's desire to have children together she had refused. The problem was that she couldn't stop thinking about Rob. She had made discrete inquiries about him from time to time; apparently, he had got through his bankruptcy and was now in employment. He also had another wife and a couple of kids. That had hurt.

The years became decades and her daughter left home to train as a nurse. She now had a job in the local hospital as an administrator and Tony had progressed to a career in Computer Aided Design for which he was remunerated generously. They were on the face of it quite comfortable.

She should have been happy; but she wasn't. Underneath she still craved to be swept off her feet, shown the world and shagged senseless by a gorgeous man: a man such as Rob had been, and Tony wasn't.

Four letters and an apostrophe...

The problem was that despite his loyalty, his generosity, his reliability, Tony bored her. He was never spontaneous in his actions and never passionate, even his surprises were predictable; she always knew what he would buy her for a birthday, always knew where he would take her for a celebratory meal. Sex was the same.

Sometimes she would stroll past her old council house in Vectis Road to view the 'scrap heap of society' as she condescendingly referred to it and convince herself that she was a lucky person to have escaped that fate by meeting Tony. After a while that didn't work; she could still have got out of it she rationalized.

This slow death by boredom had prompted her to question the marriage; she was forty-four and felt eighty-four.

Four letters and an apostrophe...

It had all come to a head.

"What do you want from me? I've been totally faithful; I've always provided for you. I don't knock you around, I don't drink, I'm careful with money and I've looked after your daughter as though she was mine." And for the first time he raised his voice to her: "WHAT IS THE PROBLEM?!"

She hesitated before dropping the bombshell.

"I don't love you."

Four letters and an apostrophe...

His mouth had dropped open and she thought he was going to speak but instead he had soundlessly swivelled on his feet and walked out into the cold February evening. It was the second time a man had walked out on her.

After forty-eight hours he still hadn't returned; she had become concerned for him. From the day they had moved in together he had never spent a night away; it was two nights now. She phoned the police. And within thirty minutes an officer was at her door.

"Earlier this morning a yachtsman discovered the body of a man washed up on the sides of the River Medina by The Folly Inn. We believe the body to be that of your husband."

For some reason she had remembered the photo taken all those years ago by Tony - she had kept it in a drawer because shortly after she had met Rob. But now, but now she realized with tragic insight that Rob was just a fantasy; her feelings for Tony had never percolated into her thoughts. She had been blinded by an impossible dream.

I don't love you.

Four letters and an apostrophe had murdered a man. A good man. A kind man. A loving man. She had wielded that word, consisting of four letters and an apostrophe, as effectively as an assassin with a knife.

"I do love you," she mumbled dreamily in the street.

She slid the picture back into her pocket and saw that the sun was low in the sky. It occurred to her that if she kept walking west then the sun would never set on her. She turned and headed west towards the town. Once through the town Gurnard would be next, Yarmouth, Lymington, Bournemouth, Devon, Cornwall, America...

Four letters and an apostrophe...

Tuesday 16th March 2010: Star Trek: the Next De-Generation - Piss Take

Captains Log (Picard Voiceover): The Enterprise is on a routine mission to the Planet of the Clangers which is a planetoid sparsely populated by humanoid type life forms. Star Fleet's wish is to welcome the peace loving and gentle Clangers into the Federation and offer them a lucrative contract for them to supply chicken soup to passing ships. Perhaps in time we will establish a permanent cultural mission on the planet. Obviously in these early tentative approaches tact and diplomacy are paramount but the task is well within our professional capacity... mind you... I'm a little worried about some of the crew... for instance there's Wesley... so obviously besotted with Deanna Troy on the one hand but exhibiting mild hostility to Worf on the other - I'm concerned that his previously high standard of work is going to suffer. Then there's Riker, he's so petulant and he doesn't think I heard him whisper after I'd accidentally walked into one of the sliding doors yesterday whilst entering the bridge: "To BALDLY go where no man has gone before... fills you with fucking confidence when you're travelling at seven times the speed of light." Still, never mind, I'm above all this... I think I'll nip down to the holo-deck for a bit of intellectual stimulation. End log.

The holo-deck about fifteen minutes later: Picard's face is a picture of contentment. The view-screen flicks on. Data's face appears - he looks anxious.

DATA: Sorry to disturb you Captain but a strange energy field is obstructing our course.

PICARD: (business like) Say no more Data, I'll be with you immediately.

DATA: Captain... uh, is that (screen blinks off) quite wise?

Captain Jean Luke Picard strides purposefully through the fluorescently lit and gentle curving corridors of the ship. His expression is one of practised grim determination however, passing crew members, initially astonished, struggle to stifle giggles.

The Bridge: The automatic doors slide open with a characteristic hiss. Picard emerges in true dramatic fashion and then bewildered as the bridge personnel strain, and some fail, not to break into laughter.

PICARD: (Turning to Riker) What is the source of all this mirth Number One?

RIKER: (With a smirk on his face) You've left your bondage gear on sir.

PICARD: (Reddening rapidly) Yes... um... uh.

DATA: (Interjecting in a factual tone) Bondage: A peculiar sexual deviation whereby gratification is derived...

PICARD: (Breaking in) That's quite enough Data... thank you.

DATA: (In full flow and not to be denied showing off his encyclopaedic knowledge) ... by the wearing of restrictive clothing commonly fabricated from...

PICARD: (angrily shouting) SHUT UP DATA! (returning to normal authoritative mode) Now then, what's this unknown force?

DATA: (Unfazed) Quite extraordinary sir, the energy field appears to consist of millions of tiny heliocentric particles which are gradually drawing us to the core of the effect.

PICARD: Enlarge the image Data.

The screen expands to reveal countless thousands of dancing, pulsating, golden swastikas bathing the bridge in an eerie yellow glow.

PICARD: (Gasps) My God! It's a Nazi metamorphic force field... like the one that engulfed parts of the Earth during the nineteen thirties... and we're being sucked in... I want the engines maximum warp speed in reverse... NOW! ... this is an emergency.

A large clank resounds throughout the ship as the engines falter and then grind to a halt.

GEORDIE: (In futile desperation) The engines... I can't believe it... they've failed.

PICARD: (Through gritted teeth) Fucking Skugos... I told Star Fleet they were crap but no they wouldn't listen... (Collects himself and adopts a Churchillian posture and addresses crew) We must all steel ourselves for the dark period that lies ahead. To stand alone, once again, resisting the evil of Fascism is our duty... nay... our cosmic destiny. Let us not be found wanting.

Stirring rhetoric, imminent danger - not one word is uttered, the bridge is silent and still. A whizzing sound punctuates the quiet. The crew swivel to see a nipple clamp, having worked itself loose from the Captain's garb, fly through the air, strike Riker on the cheek and then drop tinnily onto the deck.

The Enterprise is irrevocably drawn into the zone. Strange malevolent forces transform the ship and all contained within.

The star ship is now liveried in Field Gray and blazoned across the superstructure is the name, RICHTOFEN. Within the vessel the stirring and stridency of German Marching Music has become all pervading. The crew have all taken on Nazi personas... except for Geordie who by a quirk of Chaos Theory has assumed the form of Stevie Wonder.

PICARD: (Resplendent in the uniform of a Field Marshall turns to his Science Officer and speaks in a German accent) Herr Data, how long can ve expect this magnificent effect to last?

DATA: I estimate a minimum of vone hour before ze effect wears off sir! (clicks heels together)

PICARD: Let us hope there is yet sufficient time to carry out the aspirations of our Glorious Fatherland... yes... the complete annihilation of Planet Clanger and its parasitic, veak and sub human species. (Addressing an out of frame subordinate) Get me Von Worf!

The Richtofen (Enterprise) speeds to Planet Clanger and then places itself in orbit.

The Bridge: Field Marshall Picard can be seen consulting his trusty security officer, Von Worf.

PICARD: Vorf, ve have it is estimated no more than twenty minutes to vipe out ze vermin...

WORF: (Matter-of-fact) Redirecting all available power into ze lasers and proton torpedos and then systematically sweeping the planet... I calculate fifteen minutes.

PICARD: (Rubbing his hands gleefully) Excellent, excellent... (Catches sight of Geordie, sporting dark sunglasses and clutching the Stevie Wonder Song Book, in the process of manoeuvring a piano into the lift)

PICARD: (Suspiciously) Vot are you doing Engineer?

GEORDIE: (Thinking quickly) I thought perhaps a little Wagner to inspire us all?

PICARD: (Completely taken in) Ah... how appropriate for an occasion such as this... (Sighs contentedly)

GEORDIE: (Muttering under his breath) Hope there's enough power left for the speakers.

On the small planet's surface destruction rains down upon the stunned Clangers and between explosions and high pitched shrieking can be discerned the cheerful tunes of Stevie Wonder - for many of the inhabitants their last recollection, before a fiery vaporisation, is that of 'You Are The Sunshine Of My Life' or 'Isn't She Lovely'.

Swiftly all is reduced to a smouldering charred mass - surely not a living creature could have survived: genocide is complete, absolute.

The Bridge: Picard surveys his handiwork and that of his loyal Nazi crew through the view-screen.

PICARD: (Exuding twisted satisfaction) Wunderbar, Wunderbar...

The Marching Music begins to fade; the uniforms revert to those of Star Fleet and the Teutonic accents are lost. Wails of remorse begin to rise and then self-recrimination as the crew realise the enormity of the crime and their complicity in it. How could it happen? Other voices ask. Have we learnt nothing? More questions.

PICARD: (Sombre, picks up the mike and broadcasts throughout the Enterprise) You are all aware of the terrible atrocity we have just committed against innocent beings...

Everywhere heads are hung low.

PICARD: (Continues with gravitas) Their blood... the blood of our fellow creatures will forever stain our hands... the guilt... that oppressive and unrelenting millstone... I will turn the ship round and surrender ourselves to the authorities... (He sees himself in the dock sentenced to life imprisonment... no more holo-deck stimulation... ever)

PICARD: (Mumbles almost imperceptibly to himself) No more holo-deck... (Collects himself) ... right... let's get the hell out of here before anyone realises it was us... we can blame it on that Romulan ship that was in the sector... and I'll lynch any fucker who breathes a word of this to anyone outside.

Virtually every crew member nods in assent.

PICARD: (To ensign) Warp Factor nine!

The Enterprise accelerates smoothly and effortlessly.

PICARD: (Turns and addresses Riker who is distractedly probing a tender area on his cheek) The old Nazis may have had a bit of a bad press when it came to human rights but, let's be honest, their engineering skills were second to none... just listen to those engines purr...

An hour later:

COMMUNICATIONS OFFICER: Captain Picard, there's an urgent message from Commodore Wright of Star Fleet Command.

PICARD: (Still in bondage gear) Put him on screen.

COMMODORE WRIGHT: (Screws up his face in puzzlement for a moment and then speaks strongly with a voice not dissimilar to Gene Hackman) Good God Picard! What on earth are you wearing?

PICARD: (Stuttering) Ah... yes... um... it's a special support for my slipped disc... sir.

The bridge staff, as one, raise their eyes skyward.

COMMODORE WRIGHT: Anyway, I haven't contacted you just to check on your dress code... Picard, we have unconfirmed reports of a massacre of genocidal proportions on Clanger Planet. You were heading in that direction on a minor mission... did you see anything? Can you shed any light on what happened? Why on earth would anyone want to slaughter the peace loving gently Clangers? What kind of sick and deranged mind is out there?

PICARD: We did pass a Romulan ship...but then we broke down... Geordie managed to fix us.

COMMODORE WRIGHT: (With an expression of I-know-you're-bullshitting-me) Hmm... well let me know if anything comes to light. Now then, something more important has come up - a time hole has opened up close to earth. We have sent some ships to investigate but it may help if you attend... you never know in a situation like that.

PICARD: We'll set a course immediately sir.

COMMODORE WRIGHT: You sure you don't know anything about this massacre... be just like you bunch of clowns to loose off a proton torpedo by mistake.

PICARD: I can assure you sir we had nothing to do with it.

As the Commodore cuts off the communication Picard turns to the crew - they are all pulling rictus grins.

Just below the razed surface of Clanger Planet a pile of rubble begins to tumble. A head and neck emerge from the debris - it is the Soup Dragon. He surveys the dreadful carnage wreaked by the Enterprise and its crew. His friends, his only friends, are all dead. He vows revenge and like his chicken soup it will not be a dish served cold...

Monday 22nd March 2010: I've Been Sold a Fucking Lemon - Blog

Today, I believe in God.

I have too much time to reflect yet I fear that there is too little time. I have wasted my life. I have hurt too many - far too many. I am wracked with guilt. I do not and cannot believe what others believe.

This is what I believe: Happiness is an illness and depression is enlightenment, the first step to true freedom: the freedom not to be.

I believe that health is merely illness deferred and that life is death postponed.

We live in the vain hope of a tomorrow that never arrives: the future is today; tomorrow never comes.

We love in order to lose and the greatest curse is the will to live.

Trust nobody and you will save your wealth but lose your soul. Trust everybody and you will still lose your soul.

Everything is borrowed in this world; ownership is merely control.

It has been said that all property is theft but whom are we thieving from but other thieves?

No desire can be truly satisfied; the Buddha was right all along.

Do not love and do not hurt. Do not love and do not live. How exquisite is the dilemma.

Suffering or oblivion: the final choice.

Life. I want my money back. I have been sold a lemon.

And I was never given a choice to buy or not to buy.

Wednesday 24th March 2010: Juki to be Beaten Friday - Blog

At 8 o'clock for those that are interested.

It's actually going to be a really tough one for her because the number of strokes is being upped from 52 to 60 and each one is going to be administered with full force.

It will be: 20 with the leather studded paddle, 20 with the 'obedience' spoon and 20 with the cane.

She will of course be naked and blindfolded.

I suspect she will opt for our old favourite Rachmaninov Piano Concerto No. 2 to accompany her suffering.

I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

Results of Genealogy Test - Blog

Found out the results of my DNA testing today and though I need to study it in more depth I discovered that the greatest number of people who were closest to me genetically lived in the Netherlands... with ze vindmills and ze clogs.

The nations that followed closely behind were Norway, Sweden, Denmark and Germany - not many in England or the UK as a whole.

There was a slight trace of Turkish but that was it really.

Mymother was wrong about the Italian connection despite me having brown eyes - my lineage is heavily Northern European.


Thursday 1st April 2010: The Day my Grandfather Died - Memory

I'm skipping along narrow Crown Street in Ryde between the Crown Hotel and the newly constructed National Provincial Bank. I have just finished school and I'm on my way home. It is snowing, not hard or cold enough to settle, and it fascinates me. It is also April Fool's Day and a Monday - the year is 1968 and I am ten years old.

I cross busy Lind Street and then run down St James's Street to the family house in Spencer Road. I patter down the stone steps, the ground floor is slightly below the level of the street as it is constructed on an incline, and let myself into the hallway. I open the door to the kitchen where I see my mother looking serious and my grandmother sniffling.

"Grampa died today, Matt, this afternoon," Mum informs me. I must look blank because she adds: "You will never see him again, never. Do you understand that?"

I don't know whether I do...


Just over three months previously I had experienced the happiest Christmas ever. I remember him warming himself up in front of the log fire in the lounge with a cigar in one hand - he had given up smoking many years before but would occasionally indulge in a cigar for special events. That Christmas he had bought me a Triang-Hornby electric train set - I had loved it. He had also let me have a tumbler of Woodpecker Cider too.

He wasn't a tall man, but he had a presence about him - I respected him. Mum thought he looked a bit like Ernest Borgnine the actor, and perhaps he did. He had been born in 1893 in Forfar, close to Dundee, on the eastern coast of Scotland. Throughout most of his life he was employed either as a book-keeper or stock-keeper - he was meticulous and good with numbers. He was also fluent in French, Swahili and Persian - he worked abroad often; including upon the heightening of the Aswan Dam. He was also a Freemason (I still have his tin with his regalia in) and I have photos of him with fellow members of his lodge abroad. During the Great War he served as an aerial observer and was shot down over German lines where he was treated in hospital before spending the rest of the war in a POW camp - before that he was in the trenches. He was wounded twice: shot in the arm (he described the pain as similar to having a red hot poker thrust into your skin) and once having a bullet graze his nose. He also recounted the tale of how one of his comrades had been wounded and stranded in No Man's Land - the enemy fire was too intense for anybody to attempt to rescue him. They heard him moaning all day and it wasn't till nightfall that he was picked up - he should have bled to death, but he staunched his wound with mud and that saved him. On another occasion a German soldier who had surrendered was told to go back to his lines but unbeknownst to him a long delay hand grenade had been slipped into the pocket of his great coat - he got about fifty yards before been blown apart. My grandfather had been quite horrified by that.

After the war he married but lost his wife during labour along with the twins she was carrying - tragic. He then met and married my grandmother in 1926 with whom he had my mother in 1927 but my mother had become ill as soon as she was born. It looked as though she was going to die having never left the hospital. My grandfather's response was to remove her, despite the protests of the staff, from the hospital. "Underneath these people don't really care, a baby needs to be with its mother," he had told everybody. He was right - my mother survived.

He spent the next three decades working for oil and construction companies across the world: Nigeria, Egypt and Persia amongst others. He made certain he was out of the country for the Second World War. "One war is enough for any man and planned by those who don't do have to do the dirty work," he had muttered tersely when I had spoken of it.

In the late fifties he had settled down to retirement on the Island - where I come in. I recollect him working part time preparing accounts for a local garage owner (who was mentioned in the book: Babycham Nights) and also running a beach kiosk on Ventnor seafront. He was a terrible driver too having been given his license before compulsory tests. On one occasion he left the handbrake off on his Ford Popular and had to chase it down a hill, jump on the running board stretch in through the window and pull the handbrake on before it crashed into a wall - I think he was in his early seventies then.

As I was a child I never spoke deeply with him but he had a couple of outlandish views - I believe he read Omar Khayham and other mystical poets in Persia which may be where he derived some of his philosophy from. My mother was once bemoaning the fact that she was unsuccessful in life (she was deeply ambitious underneath) and my grandfather had merely replied: "Tens of thousands of swimmers swam for the solitary place on the lifeboat - you made it and they all perished. Is that failure?"

I also recollect him saying on New Year's Day (1968) in front of Nana and I: "We are closer to the end of time than we are to last year." I knew what he meant but Nana didn't.


The last time I saw him alive was in St Mary's Hospital - he had suffered a heart attack a few days previously. Mum had driven Nana and I up to see him. He was in good spirits and looked to be recovering. He told us how he had a very vivid dream of driving round a lake in Africa and how wonderful and tranquil it was. We know now that the lake represented the Great Unknown. We had all gone home expecting him back - it never happened as he suffered a massive fatal coronary at about three o'clock in the afternoon on the 1st of April 1968.


I am in the lounge at home. I am throwing catkins into the log fire and watching each one burn brightly before merging into the flames. I am repeating this time after time.

My grandfather's funeral took place this morning. He was cremated and for some strange reason I need to recreate it repeatedly.


I am thirteen years old and in bed. I am thinking about Grampa. I am thinking about what it must be to be oblivious for all eternity. For a split second I comprehend it, and then it is gone. I will never grasp it again.


"Well, he certainly fooled us all, dying when we thought he was on the mend," my mother states as though he did it on purpose.

I just nod. I don't really understand.

Saturday 17th April 2010: "See Ya" - Blog


"Oh, hello, sorry, I was in a bit of a dream world. How are you?"

I recognise her now - she sometimes helps out at the café off the roundabout by the pier.

"You're not on the Dotto Train anymore then?"

"No, I've finished with the Company now, I'm not allowed to drive because of my illness so I've been paid off. I'm in limbo, the Social say I'm not ill enough not to work and even if I was they still wouldn't give me anything as I have more than sixteen thousand in the bank. The longer and harder you work, the more you put in, the less you get in this country. The sooner we get rid of Brown the better."

I resist the urge to rant further.

"Yeah, you're right, the country's in a state. You still getting the vertigo attacks?"

"Now and again. I've been to see a specialist and he thought it may be due to a condition called Migraine Associated Vertigo, but I've had a letter from him since telling me that it may be that but it could be due to the progressive hearing loss in my right ear. The attacks may also be caused by elevated blood pressure or a slightly enlarged heart, which I also have. Oh, and I have a very small scar in my brain which again may cause these symptoms. I'm not optimistic so I just take one day at a time. It's a toss-up as to which will run out first, my health or my money."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Everybody in the long checkout queue shuffles along one place and I'm suddenly reminded of the scene from the Full Monty in which the fellows unconsciously start practising their dance routine whilst waiting to sign on.

"Busy in here, I thought now it had been taken over by the Co-Op they would have got some more staff."

She nods and then asks me: "You still with that girl then?"

"Do you mean Juki?"

"Yes, is that her name?"

"Sort of, we don't have a conventional relationship as such. If you're not in a rush do you fancy a coffee? And I've forgotten your name..."

"Marlene, Matt isn't it?"

The coffee shop in the Co-Op, previously Somerfield, is surprisingly empty considering the numbers in the store. I'm studying Marlene, who has her hands cupped around the mug and realize that if I end up in bed with her it will be the first time I've ever shagged a woman with grey hair. The problem is that the longer I talk to her the more attractive I find her. She's probably mid-forties but she's rather good looking in an understated way. Her skin is tanned yet smooth and her eyes are a rather alluring olive brown; it wouldn't surprise me if she had a Turkish or Greek lineage.

I also wonder if the opportunity does present itself whether I will be able to rise to the occasion. Maybe.

"You were going to tell me about you and Juki." She places her mug on the table.

I take a deep breath...

"We don't have a normal, vanilla, relationship as such. We don't have sex but I'm very fond of her, very fond, however we do have a D/S relationship-"

"What's a DS relationship?"

"Dominant Submissive, I beat her every two weeks, it's something she needs, and something I like doing. I don't love her, in fact I can't love her, and I can't love anybody anymore. The last girl I loved, Claire, dumped me and broke my heart, yet I crave to love and be loved."

I stop. I have said too much. Too much.

She stretches over and gently touches the back of my hand. "It's okay, I understand. My husband left me two years ago, we fell out of love, it was all very amicable and the worse kind of split as we didn't even have the passion to row. I haven't made love in four years..."

"But you must have had offers, you are after all a very attractive woman."

She fields the compliment with the nonchalance of a Brian Lara swing to a soft ball.

"I am." She smiles wistfully.

"Do you know what, when I first saw you on the Dotto Train I thought you were a bit of a big headed twat with all your banter and showing off, but underneath you're quite a kind person, and rather damaged too. You've grown on me, I really quite like you, have done for a while. There's something else about you too, and you've just confirmed it for me, you have a controlled sadistic yet caring side, and it's something that I need and crave."


"I want you to take me home, force me to strip, tie me to the bed, spank me till I can take it no more and then to shag me hard till I bleed-"

"See ya."

"Huh, yeah, good to see you too. Take care."

She picks up her bags and strides off to the exit - back to her loving husband and happy home. I have been so lost in my depraved fantasy I can't even remember placing my items on the conveyor belt. I'm getting worse the longer my life goes on. I am becoming the last chapter of a Philip K Dick novel. And soon I will be unable to return...

Tuesday 27th April 2010: Fuck You - Blog

"It's good we never split up. I really love you."

Sharon is to the left of me, naked, in the single bed in my spare room which I have been using whilst I sort out a lifetime of accumulated junk in my main bedroom.

"I love you too," she responds before bringing her bare arm over to lie across my chest.

I feel good. I feel happy. I feel secure.

Her fingers begin to knead my nipple - she knows I love that and it is a prelude to sex. My penis begins to swell and I relish the moment when she mounts me.

I suddenly look down at her arm and realize that something isn't quite right - on her left arm are the constellation of small moles she should have on her right arm.

"What's the matter? Did you not know that in a dream everything is laterally inverted like the reflection in a mirror?"

"Fuck you!"

The phone rings.

Listening. Talking. Not listening. Listening again. Talking. Still not listening.


Thinking. Thinking: thinking is bad for you. Thinking of death. Thinking of suicide. Thinking of a suicide.

Late evening, 30th December 1971. Pete Duel, naked and drunk, places the revolver against his right temple. He squeezes the trigger and, quite literally, blows his brains out.


Young - thirty-one, good looking, well off, famous and with a string of women after him.

Suicide. The ultimate 'fuck you!'

There's a reason why I had to go back nearly thirty-nine years, and then return. Something was said today about tomorrow. There was a parallel and I understand now. I have been fucking blind.

Lateral inversion. Now what the fuck does that mean?

Tuesday 18th May 2010: Dress Like a Slut - Blog

Dress like a slut. Sleeveless top, low cleavage, no bra, short skirt, no knickers. You know what you have to do.


Those were my last instructions (by text) to her this morning.

I hadn't heard from Lizzy for a year - not since she'd 'accidentally' locked herself out, got her nightie 'trapped' in the front door and had had to knock on her elderly neighbour's door totally naked for help.

Lizzy craves humiliation. She loves the taste of the slipper on her bare bum too.

I had been editing Juki's latest video for our forthcoming website when she had instant messaged me - I hadn't expected to hear from her again.

We had exchanged pleasantries but I knew what she really wanted - a scenario that would end in her being totally embarrassed and humiliated. I didn't intend to disappoint.

I suggested she go down town scantily clad and that if anyone ogled her she would have to self-slipper when she got back. She replied that she had to be back quickly because a man was coming to repair her washing machine.

A light-bulb in my head switches on - a show for the repairman.

I want him to catch a glimpse of a nipple or your pussy. Make it look like an accident then I want you to go in the next room whilst he's working and leave the door very slightly ajar. I want you to masturbate. I want him to just discern the sounds of you coming. It'll be exciting, very exciting. You only live once Lizzy. Do it.


I have to go now, Lizzy. Bye xx

I click the close box.

A last message flashes up: What do you want me to wear?

Dress like a slut. Sleeveless top, low cleavage, no bra, short skirt, no knickers. You know what you have to do.

She may have done it, she may not have done it. Still it's good to catch up with long lost acquaintances.

ETA: She carried out my instructions but she didn't think the repairman heard her come!

Wednesday 19th May 2010: You're a Cunt - Short Piece

"You're a cunt."

It's been a long time coming, too long, but now we're face to face.

I want to believe that this is the final confrontation, but Fate is a tricky opponent.

"You're a cunt," I say again - I need for him to react

He looks at me. Impassive.

He appears stronger than me and exudes a confidence I lack, yet I know I am the one with more substance.

"You're a cunt."

He looks back at me with disdain, diminishes me as he always has.

"You could have been a nice person. You could have made my life less hard. I have lost friends because of you. I have lost love because of you. I have lost money because of you. And I am not quite nothing because that would be too merciful. You leave me a shell, a hollow empty shell echoing only with angst. You cunt."

I watch a faint ripple of a snide smile run along his lips, lips that may have once been sensuous and kind.

I feel the magma of my repressed anger rise up and vent. "You, you cunt and your fucking ego, you've ruined my fucking life. I hate you!"

I smash my right fist hard into his smug countenance - his features fragment in a violent crash and fall away. Jagged shards twist and tumble in a momentary shower of crystal and my hand burns with pain and crimson blood drips languidly upon a crimson covered floor.

Seven years bad luck they say.

Is that all?

It's a bargain. Bring me the contract, I'll sign for that.

"Cunt. Fucking cunt."

Saturday 12th June 2010: Cruelty and Compassion - Blog

At about half seven on Thursday evening I finally got around to giving Juki a fucking hard thrashing - the beating had been postponed due to her first being bitten by a horse fly and her leg becoming infected, then me feeling rough and finally her having to go away for a couple of days with work. The delay had led to tension because we are both very much addicted now to pain and the infliction of pain; along with the emotional charge.

Prior to her punishment - her only 'crime' is to know me - she was extremely scared and excited because I had promised to use the flogger on her for the first time. Nevertheless I made her strip and then walk the short distance to my bedroom.

She got onto the bed and then knelt as she was instructed. I then switched the camera on to record her agonies. I kissed and embraced her naked form because once again I was enthralled to the heady mix of sadism blended with compassion for her imminent suffering - and my God I can be cruel.

I requested her to assume the punishment position which she did immediately. I then picked up the leather paddle and administered twelve very hard blows - she was sobbing after about five and her feet rising and lowering poignantly (is that the right word?) in response to the waxing and waning of the pain.

A part of me wanted to stop hurting this poor woman but I knew she craved the agony.

I then gave her eleven strokes with the cane - I knew she could hear the brief swish of each stroke before the searing impact upon her reddening and bruising buttocks - and savoured both the sound and the reaction upon her exposed and vulnerable frame to each one.

The second phase of the beating over she complied with my wish for her to lie flat. As I grasped the flogger in my right hand I could both sense her fear - and her inner strength. I lashed the leather falls of the flogger across her tender buttocks seven times - each one harder than the one previous and the last one with all my strength to which she folded up her bare legs for the final time during her cruel ordeal.

I assisted her back into the kneeling position and she threw herself crying into arms. I kissed and stroked her then broke away to stop filming. I then cuddled her for far longer than I had beaten her. I asked her if she had needed it.

"Yes, I did, very much so. Thanks."

After a while she ceased sniffling. "Would you like your massage now?" I asked her gently.

"Yes please."

She then lay down on the covers as she had a few minutes earlier but this time to relish the warm glow of bliss. I watched her close her eyes and drift away to a faraway place as I softly applied the scented body cream to the smooth skin of her back...

Monday 28th June 2010: Twilight Encore - Weird Tale

Could the cleverest mathematician or the most powerful computer, given every possible variable, model and predict the pattern of the myriad of waves breaking relentlessly upon the small stranded beach beneath me?

It is a question I have pondered many times before. It is also irrelevant because if I was to know the answer then it would leave me little or no wiser.

You see, I have come to the conclusion that I am in a coma and that everything around me is some sort of mental construct. I have arrived at that inference because always I find myself peering down at the sea and entertaining the same speculations. I also know that in a few minutes I will walk the short distance across the pier entrance and place my right foot on the platform of a bus that will never take me home.

I watch the seagulls screech and wheel down, briefly touching the seaweed strewn beach in their search for morsels.

The mid evening breeze picks up momentarily to waft the stench of rotting seaweed and decaying sea creatures into my nostrils and as if on cue the lamps spaced evenly along the pier click on and flicker into an orange glow. I observe dispassionately the tidal current as it flows east, forever flows east, creating mini whirlpools in the wake of the corroded iron stanchions supporting the half mile long pier - the complexity of the illusion never ceases to enthral me.

I cast my eyes skyward to the wispy clouds hued crimson by a sun that has just slipped beneath the horizon - a sun I have never seen in this domain. I am condemned for all eternity, or so it seems, to a poignant twilight yet I am not dead - how can it be?

I sometimes see a lorry careering towards me on the wrong side of the road - terror, numb terror. I can recall nothing else of the life I must have once possessed.

I imagine myself upon a bed in a darkened hospital room attached to drips and monitors. I wonder if I am on a ventilator and I speculate as to how along it will be before that ventilator is switched off.

Shortly I will turn away from the chest high stone seawall and watch a middle-aged lady with two Scottie Dogs walk past. She will cast me a polite half smile and then dissolve into the ether at the periphery of my vision.

I hear the diners across the road in the Chinese restaurant and I wait for a plate to be dropped, broken a thousand times before. I glance across at the warmly illuminated King Lud public house with patrons standing just outside on the pavement smoking and raising glasses periodically to their lips.

I watch a two-toned green double-decker bus roll into the bus station, the bus I will never quite catch.

I stroll predestined across the entrance to the pier as a reluctant actor in this short endless loop of a film spliced by who-knows-who out of the few remaining fragments of the memories of, what must be, a massively mashed brain - I guess I should be grateful.

A sluttish looking girl with tattoos on her arms lounges slovenly against the window of the Travel Office in the bus station and looks me up and down - it still makes me shiver after all these times.

The passenger door of the vehicle hisses open and the friendly young spectacled driver beckons me on. I put my right foot on the platform...


Could the cleverest mathematician or the most powerful computer, given every possible variable, model and predict the pattern of the myriad of waves breaking relentlessly upon the small stranded beach beneath me...

Tuesday 29th June 2010: 'Dempsey' - Blog/Memory

I was just past the Liz Earle shop on the right-hand side of bustling Union Street when I had recognized her, recognized her after all those years. I was strolling down, and she was marching up in the early June sun. She wouldn't have acknowledged or greeted me because she didn't know me, I think, but I knew her. Kind of.

She was probably middle to late forties now, but she hadn't lost her film star looks, though I was far more interested in what her thoughts and reflections might have been. I must admit, she had looked composed and at ease. But then she always did...


About thirty years ago we used to frequent a bar, the Ocean Breeze, on Sandown sea front. It was only a road's width from the sandy beach and the English Channel and aptly named.

In those days I worked nine to five with weekends off and weekends meant drinking, socialising and occasionally, very occasionally, getting lucky with a female. Most of my chums were now paired up and I was beginning to feel a little out of it. About ten months later I too 'paired up' and in retrospect feeling a 'little out of it' was a hundred times preferable than being 'fully in'. But that's another tale.

Still, I had a couple of mates who I could phone and persuade to accompany me out and we would normally start the weekend on a Friday night. On the Island in the late seventies and early eighties most people looking for nightlife would head over to Sandown and Shanklin which was effectively one stretched town along the coastline of Sandown Bay since the boroughs merged into each other.

There were a lot of great establishments to enjoy: The Crab Inn, Holliers, The Chine, Keats Inn, The Eastcliff Club, The Beachcomber Bar - which kept young alligators in a pool separated from the clientele only by a low pseudo stone wall, The Bird Cage discothèque - so called because extremely scantily clothed ladies would be hung tantalizing above the dance floor in a cage, The Jolly Sailor, Colonel Bogey's nightclub and The Yaverland which we found at later was a gay bar. There were numerous other pubs and hotel bars all crammed in the busy summer season and more so at weekends.

Being only about fifty yards away from Colonel Bogey's, the Ocean Breeze, along Culver Parade, was normally the last regular bar on the reveller's itinerary as you could park your vehicle in Colonel Bogey's car park before it got busy and then walk to the disco's entrance. It also wasn't a bad idea to divest yourself of the car prior to the police turning up at about eleven to make their presence known as we all used to drink and drive in those days.

The Ocean Breeze was a single storey affair with a glass frontage bisected by a door normally hooked open. It was probably about twenty-foot-wide with roughly carved wooden tables and bamboo backed chairs each side of a central aisle - to allow access to the bar at the far end - and about fifty feet deep. It was low ceilinged and illuminated dimly and cosily with low wattage red bulbs. The walls were clad with a faux bark in, what looked like, an attempt to recreate the interior of a Polynesian hut with a few garish murals hung up of Pacific Islanders fishing and sailing to strengthen the effect - I rather warmed to it, but then I'd never been there during the daylight hours or when sober.

Beyond the single bar would be the storage area and modest living quarters, the exclusive domain of the owner and manager, Dempsey. Dempsey wasn't his real name - I did know his real name for a short while but I have forgotten it now - but I labelled him that because it kind of suited him.

Dempsey was middle-aged with thick black hair slicked back across his crown and around about five eleven in height; he was possibly only a little overweight. He had a round florid complexioned face from an excess of alcohol with puffy eyes and a slightly flattened nose; at first sight the word 'pug' would come to mind, but he was a gentleman.

We knew he'd been a boxer and that he'd been in the Royal Navy - the black and white framed photos on the side of the bar told that story. One picture showed a wiry young handsome man in a singlet holding a trophy up in a ring amongst his entourage and another was of him in a petty officer's uniform in front of a warship in a foreign port; Singapore? Gibraltar?

Those days were over now, and so I guessed was his marriage. He would have been okay money wise with a good pension and a pay-out from the selling of the marital home though I am joining the dots now as I don't really know. He was obviously well off enough to buy a bar and a profitable bar at that.

He was an affable man and would always address you as sir, or madam, but you knew if you gave him serious hassle, he'd knock you cold, clean out. He had a style about him: Rick from Casablanca or Maurice Allington, played by Albert Finney, in The Green Man; though I never saw him don a white dinner jacket. He would wipe the tabletops and empty the ashtrays whilst he left his staff to serve; he wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. He was socially adept; always said the appropriate thing and took the right actions. I sort of admired him. And now I must explain something.

I have always hated the idea of getting old, and now I am old, I fucking hate it. I never relished the prospect of going grey, wrinkly, flabby and losing my health and sanity. I always vowed that I would kill myself before I reached that miserable condition; I guess there's still time to minimise the suffering. The human condition to me doesn't really make any sense, I mean nature brings us into being and at the same time gives birth to an ego that rebels against the ways of the very agency that created it in the first place. The 'oneness of nature' - pah!

I have digressed - sorry. As I have just stated I always hated getting old but when I used to observe Dempsey, I would be early twenties then, I started to think that if you could cultivate a style such as his then maybe it wouldn't be too bad ageing - maybe. Naturally, I never revealed my inner thoughts or fears to any of my friends; that's another of my problems: repression.

Anyway, one evening a beautiful young woman came into the bar, ran up to Dempsey and threw her arms around him.

"Lucky old fucker. How did he manage to pull a gorgeous creature like her?" my mate had waxed enviously.

"I think it's actually his daughter," I responded, correctly as it happened.

I reckon she was about eighteen and she did indeed have film star looks: naturally blonde, very pretty, perfect complexion and stunningly proportioned figure. Well out of my league.

We saw her quite a bit after that - she was regularly down at Colonel Bogey's - and I was infatuated with her, so infatuated with her that I could never pluck up the courage to approach her. She was constantly surrounded by admirers though I never saw her with a boyfriend. I would fantasize about being with her and having Dempsey as a father figure. I'd sometimes wonder what they would say if they knew what the quiet, skinny and plain lad was imagining. It's odd how we become obsessed with people we only know on the outside; and really don't know at all.

When I look back there was no doubt that she was a daddy's girl; there was a strong bond between them.

About three months later Dempsey had committed suicide; he'd attached a hose to the exhaust pipe of his car and gassed himself. I read the report a dozen times in The County Press. I couldn't believe it. He was only forty-nine. Only.

I thought a lot about her; and cried for her sometimes when I was alone. It also struck me that his whole persona was a mask, a carefully constructed mask to conceal his deep depression, magnified by alcohol, perhaps because of the break-up of his marriage. I wondered if he too feared the onset of age.

I stopped thinking about it all after a while because I met the person who was to become my wife; and she wasn't too dissimilar physically from Dempsey's daughter coincidentally...


I'd let her pass me in the street but really, I'd craved to introduce myself and blurt it all out. I'd wanted also to know how her life changed after that terrible tragedy, but I'd never had the courage; just as I had lacked it three decades previously.

Enough said.

Saturday 3rd July 2010: Do You Ever Really Know Anyone? - Blog

For the last couple of weeks - since pretending to be a macho man and carrying the spanking bench upstairs single handed - I have been suffering from a bad back. By last Saturday the worst of it appeared to be over so I took a bus over to East Cowes in order to take some photos for one of my stories I intended to upload to YouTube and ended up walking the length of the River Medina.

Not realizing that the old fart had overdone it I was back to square one with the back when I woke Sunday morning - typical! Touch wood, but I now seem to be on the mend.

Anyway, yesterday I nipped into town for a spot of shopping, occasionally having to stop when the back gave me a twinge. When I got to The Crown, Angel rushed out. Angel is about forty five, blond, full figured with a Cockney accent and is one of those what-you-see-is-what-you-get types. She also possesses a heart of gold.

"Have you seen Blue recently?" she seemed uncharacteristically serious.

"I haven't seen him for about two weeks, not since we all had a drink with him in The King Lud."

Blue is fifty-six, slim and bearded - he reminds me a little of a Bee Gee. When I was on the Dotto Train we used to wave to him as he used to regularly walk along Appley to Puckpool - he was always cheerful and seemed a nice fellow.

At the beginning of this year I bumped into him in town and ended up having a coffee with him. He told me that he had retired early after working in an operating theatre - I wasn't sure whether he was a doctor or an anaesthetist. He told me how stressful and emotional the job could be at times and that he had probably got out at the right time as his blood pressure had begun to rise. We exchanged mobile numbers and agreed to meet up again.

The next time I had seen him he was in a state of shock - his identical twin brother had dropped dead after suffering a massive stroke. We had a long chat and I warmed to him even more. A few weeks later I had seen him with Angel who was as lucky with men as England are with penalty shoot outs - yet they seemed really good together. I suggested we could all have a drink sometime (drink in my case implies two Magners at most!)

As I have already said, the last time I saw him was to have a drink with him in The King Lud - strangely, for a man who claimed to be of independent means, he had no money on him, so I bought all the rounds. He regaled us with tales of operations, some very tragic, and enlightened us about procedures. Then suddenly he announced: "I've got to go." And with that jumped up and left the establishment.

Returning to Angel.

"What's happened to him, Angel?" I feared for a moment that he may have had a stroke like his brother.

"He's stolen my father's wedding ring."

"He's what?!"

"About two weeks ago he was round mine and I showed him some of the things that had sentimental value to me. I really trusted him, Matt, and believed him to be a nice man. I let him try on my father's wedding ring, and it got stuck and we couldn't get it off. He told me that his finger had probably got swollen with the heat and that the best thing to do was for him to go home, get to bed and when he had cooled off remove it then. I trusted him, but I haven't heard from him, and his mobile is turned off. People say they have seen him but all he has to do is pop in and give me the ring. I can understand if he doesn't want to see me anymore, but that ring means everything to me."

She looked like she was going to burst into tears. I felt really sorry for her and placed my arm round her.

"If you see him, can you ask him to bring the ring back? If he doesn't then I will have to call the police."


I left and carried on walking up the town. If it's true what she said then I have a feeling Blue is not what he seems at all. And I'm wondering if any of what he says is actually true.

In this world you never truly know anyone.

Tuesday 13th July 2010: I Punch Ugly and Fat BNP Slut in Face... - Violent Tale

... before kicking her in the cunt...

As I listen to her pathetic whimpering in the corner punctuated only by her desperate panting I ask myself from whence did the red rage come from? I need time to think - "Shut the FUCK UP unless you want my fucking boot in your eye socket!" - and a bit of quiet too.

She isn't going anywhere, she's well tied up, and so well tied up the cord is biting angrily into her pale flesh.

The thing is, I'm not going anywhere either, well not for a while. I can't let her go, can't let the fat bitch go running to the cops.

"Please, I beg of you, let me go. I'm really, really sorry I upset you..."

I don't want to kill her, but what choice do I have?

I bend down close to her, her pale blue eyes register terror and she recoils away as much as her bindings allow her.

"Don't worry my little maid of the master race, I'm not going to hurt you, anymore."

I dip my finger into the blood that has pooled to the side of her, blood that has dripped from her broken nose, and write the word SLUT on her expansive back.

I straighten up and step over the spreading pool of her urine before walking up the steps of the cellar. I afford myself one look at her obese and trussed, trashed body in the stark illumination of the naked light bulb - her matted pubes, her bruised and grazed flesh.

It must be quite cold for her on the flag stones, I think before pushing up the heavy wooden trap door.

I stroll causally into the kitchen. I pull open the drawer and select the carving knife, the blade glinting in the cold light of the fluorescent strip light.

I make my way back into the hall-

The chimes for the door play. Fuck! It's Joshua, the first black policeman to grace our parish, and a truly decent man. Truly decent.

I have to let him in - he saw me in the kitchen. The business in hand can wait. I open the door.

"Evening Vicar, how is it tonight at the Manse, that little oasis of tranquillity?"


I remember now not putting the six-inch-thick trap door back down.

"Oh, it's just champion. I'll turn the telly down and we'll have a nice cup of tea, Joshua."

I clutch the long-bladed knife behind me and prepare to plunge it fast and hard into his neck...

Wednesday 21st July 2010: Breezy Beach Rendezvous - Weird Short Story

He found himself standing on the beach. He was naked yet curiously he experienced no shame or embarrassment and he was at the shore's edge impassively observing the wavelets break relentlessly upon the rippled sand.

The sea was green, the sky was blue and the sand yellow. It was like a child's crayon drawing - primary colours in a primary world.

He had alternately swum and sun bathed here many times in the past. It was his home town, the town of his birth and childhood.

Something suddenly came to mind that he thought he had long forgotten...

He was fourteen again and lying on a towel spread over the powdery sand. His eyes were closed as he had felt the sun's rays warm the flesh of his chest and torso. He had thought of his body changing, changing from boy to man.

A part of him had sought to become a man, he craved the power a grown man had. Yet another part of him had sought to remain a child.

He had lazily opened his eyes and cast a glance down at the golden tan of his tummy. It was a part of him that was still soft - and feminine. He liked that, to be the female he wished to possess.

His gaze had slid further down to his strong legs, masculine limbs now hairy and he had felt reassured by the sight of them - they were the legs of a man destined to be rarely bested...

"Contradiction, conflict, paradox, oh, the delicious irony of existence, darling."

The honeyed voice had startled him and he had twisted round but only the breeze was there.

"I will always be behind you - and never seen," she teased.

He felt her lips, lips composed only of a gust of sea air, kiss him tenderly upon the nape of his neck.

"I am going to give you what you so thirst for, and deserve."

She ran her ethereal fingers across his nipples and he surrendered to her intangible embrace.

"What is it that I so desire?"

"To be a woman, but blessed with a man's yearnings."

"How do you know this? I have told no one."

"Have you not guessed yet my sweet?"

He imagined her pouting her lips.

Yes, it was all coming back to him. Him diving into the river to rescue the lad on the bike who had taken a tumble by the bank and fallen in.

"I'm drowning, and this is all some sort of hallucination or illusion brought on by oxygen starvation. I'm at the bottom of the river-"

"Not quite dead dear, but close, which is why you are here with me and I'm your friend. Call me Luci."

"I get it. Hal-LUCI-nation, LUCI-d dream, LUCI-fer. So, you're just an illusion, Luci, the body making my death a comfortable death."

"An illusion is just an extinct reality, is it not Douglas? Surely you have guessed who I really am now?"

"You're God - and a woman."

"Exactly right, honey."

He opted to play along, he had no other option.

"That's okay, you play me along," she responded patronisingly, reading his thoughts.

He stared out to sea and fixed his gaze upon the distant coast of the mainland. He did indeed feel tranquil. Dying wasn't so bad after all.

Her invisible fingers caressed his thighs. Aroused him.

He waited for the last few seconds and anticipated the curtain of descending darkness as his awareness ebbed away.

"The boy is going to live, you saved him. Just thought I'd let you know."

"Luci, I have some questions for you."

"I'm sorry but there isn't time."

She pressed her soft lips against his...


Greg removed his mouth from Douglas's. It was the first time he had been called upon to utilise his resuscitation training.

"He's gone. I did my best," he explained to the small throng of onlookers on the bank.

Greg gently pulled the eyelids of the corpse down, the cold gaze into infinity chilled him, and reached across to pick up the coat he would place over his face.

"The boy's fine though a little shaken up, and cold. He would have died had he not dived in. He gave up his life..." Greg's colleague explained to the small crowd.

"He may have suffered a heart attack, I don't think he drowned though he had water in his lungs." Greg talked distractedly over his colleague from River Front Auto Services before noticing a young, and rather attractive, dark haired woman hurry along the walkway. In the distance the banshee wail of the ambulance sirens drew ever nearer...


Maria slotted the key into the lock of her door, pushed it open and entered her flat which had been converted tastefully into luxury apartments, Holland Mill House, from an old warehouse overlooking the river.

On the mat was an envelope with the single word scrawled on it in black biro: Maria. She picked it up and then placed it down on the small table in her small hallway. More correspondence from the Residents' Association she suspected.

She slipped off her expensive Italian leather handbag and removed her coat with the image still fresh in her mind of the rather disturbing incident on the river path a few minutes earlier in which it had looked like a man had died whilst rescuing a young lad from drowning. She recalled the drenched and shivering boy, with a coat draped over him, sitting on the grass with his knees folded into his body. He had appeared only to be shaken but not hurt and she was relieved by that, relieved for those that loved him.

The man, in tragic contrast, of whom she only stole a brief glimpse as she had hurried by, looked as though he was indeed dead - glassy eyed and slack jawed, such that his mouth gaped open. He was middle-aged and overweight.

The macabre tableau had quite shocked her and she was looking forward to talking about it later, talking it out of her system with her gay partner, Jayne, of four years whom she loved deeply.

She entered her kitchen and realised she wasn't that hungry yet, it wasn't quite half five, so she emptied her shopping bag, placing the perishables in the fridge-freezer and the rest in the cupboards. Anxious to get out of her work garb Maria ambled out of the kitchen and into the bedroom.

She paused in front of the full length mirror and then stripped completely naked, she liked what she saw, and was mildly and guiltily excited by it too.

Reflected back in the soft bedroom light was a slender female of five foot seven inches, tall for a woman, with wavy raven hair tumbling onto bronzed shoulders. Her round face was pretty with large brown eyes, a small nose and full lips. Jayne had remarked once, whilst they were watching an early film in the Pink Panther series that she thought she half resembled the actress Claudia Cardinale.

Her breasts were of modest size but firm and her dark nipples were quite prominent and sensitive, though she occasionally relished them being lashed with a small flogger. Her arms were long and quite toned probably from carrying books around all day in her job as manager in a bookstore and she noted the just perceptible shadow created by the fuzz of tiny black hairs on her forearms. Her tummy was tidy and the neat slit of her close shaven cunt quite visible. Her legs were long and shapely.

Maria felt that her skin and complexion was good - she developed a deep tan during the summer months which only faded very gradually through the cooler ones. She suffered from very few imperfections - a small mole on her upper right arm and a slightly larger mole on the mound of her left breast. But that was it really.

Not bad for thirty four, she concluded with some self-satisfaction.

Maria, still nude, moved over to the bed and flopped down onto it. Head on the large lemon coloured pillow, hands behind her head, and eyes unfocused, Maria replayed in her mind the last time Jayne had beaten her without mercy her unclad body on this very bed just ten days ago.....

"Hands by your side and head down.... NOW!" Jayne barked in her South London accent.

Marie immediately complied like a trooper on the drill ground yet couldn't resist sneaking a glance at Jayne in her leather boots, shiny leather micro skirt with leather cap atop her flaxen haired head.

"You will receive twenty strokes with the paddle, twenty strokes with the cane and twenty strokes with the cat. Get onto the bed and assume the correct position for your punishment."

Meekly, Maria clambered onto the mattress, knelt down and then rested her forearms on the covers allowing her head to sink down in an attitude of resignation.

She heard Jayne pick up the paddle, imagined her weighing it in her right hand, visualised her more than ample breasts, her fair complexion with light freckles dusted upon her arms and shoulders. She saw her pretty face with arctic blue eyes, thin but strong lips and straight nose-

The heavy blow of the leather paddle rocked her nude frame simultaneously as the pain spread like fire across her left buttock. She gasped and clenched her teeth - the first one was always the worst. Till the second one.

The sound of the impact reverberated around the room and she let out a small gasp, yet already her cunt was flowing with juice.

Blow after blow landed on her reddening cheeks, and each one only served to deepen her submission to Jayne, to worship her...

The last cruel cuts of the cane broke her skin, she could feel it yet she asked for no let-up, and the last phase of her beating with the flogger was nearly upon her.

She discerned Jayne place the cane on the glass top of the bedside table.

"Lie flat on the bed with your limbs spread out."

Though her posterior still burned she obeyed without question. Limp, she allowed Jayne to cuff her wrists and ankles to the bronze frame of the bed. She knew it would be hell.

She heard the momentary swish of the leather tails a split second before what felt like a thousand blades callously bite into the tenderised flesh of her buttocks. She began to sob - and she still had to suffer nineteen more...

Finally it was over and her body was awash with a mind blowing cocktail of endorphin and hormones.

"FUCKING FUCK ME JAYNE!" she screamed.

Still restrained, Jayne, with the help of a double headed strap on, penetrated simultaneously her cunt and anus. Within seconds she cried out as her body arched and her cunt squirted.


The last spasms of her orgasm faded away - she hadn't intended to pleasure herself as she wanted to save herself for Jayne. And where was Jayne? She would have normally texted by now. She glanced across at the bedside clock - seven o'clock.

Actually it wouldn't matter if she was a little late as it would give her time to prepare a meal as she felt hungry now. She slid off the bed and wrapped her robe around her before crossing the hall and noticing the envelope.

I suppose I'd better see what it's about.

As she slid her finger along the envelope to open it she thought of the man who had drowned - and how tragically unlucky some people were. She realised in contrast how lucky she was to have Jayne, Jayne who wasn't just kinky but was kind and generous, and funny. What would she do without her?

Maria pulled out the note, unfolded it and read:

Dearest Maria, I am so very sorry that it all has to end this way, I know how much you love me and how heartbroken you will be, but the truth is that I have never loved you and never will. I only wish I could.

This is the hard bit, I didn't know whether to tell you or not, I have met someone else and I think I could fall in love with them. Time will tell. We only live once and everybody deserves at least one shot at love. Please try to understand.

Don't get me wrong Maria we had some great times but underneath I always felt something was missing. I don't know why because you are great looking with a fantastic figure and good company too. I really admire your talent for drawing and painting. You should do more!

Maria, please don't try to contact me, it will be less painful that way. I have left Marketport for ever, left the job and vacated my room. I have told no one where I have gone, not even my family, and changed my mobile number.

Once again, I am very sorry Maria. I will never forget you and the good times we had. In time you will move on yourself.

Thinking of You

Jayne xxx

Ashen and shaking, Maria's arms dropped to her sides. The letter slipped out of her fingers and like a mortally injured butterfly fluttered to the floor...


She screwed the tap off - there was more than enough water now. It was two in the morning and she would not live to see the sun rise for another day. There was no point in carrying on - she was gone, gone for good...

I have never loved you and never will...

I have never loved you and never will...

I have never loved you and never will...

She had rushed round earlier to The White Castle Hotel where she had lived and worked for the last five years. The manager did not know where she had gone - she had collected all her belongings, ordered a taxi at nine this morning, and then just left. Her mobile wouldn't even connect to Jayne's voicemail. She had gone, gone for good - Who's good?

She watched a tear drop into the water of the bath, watched the ripple expand out. She felt woozy from the sleeping tablets - she couldn't delay any more.

Naked, she stepped carefully into the bath and lowered herself down. The water level remained below the sides.

She submerged her pretty face and with an incredible act of will, in defiance of nature, breathed in a lung's full of warm water. She coughed violently and her body fought to expel the water. It wasn't easy dying...


Douglas spluttered and vomited.

"Fucking hell, he's alive!" Greg shouted triumphantly and tossing the coat away he was going to cover his face with.

Douglas rolled over onto his side and vomited again spewing bile and muddy river water onto the grass.

"What the fuck is going on?!"


Maria slotted the key into the lock of her door, pushed it open and entered her flat which had been converted tastefully into luxury apartments, Holland Mill House, from an old warehouse overlooking the river.

On the mat was an envelope with the single word scrawled on it in black biro: Maria. She picked it up and then placed it down on the small table in her small hallway. More correspondence from the Residents' Association she suspected.

She slipped off her expensive Italian leather handbag and removed her coat with the image still fresh in her mind of the rather disturbing incident on the river path a few minutes earlier in which it had looked like a man had died whilst rescuing a young lad from drowning. She recalled the drenched and shivering boy, with a coat draped over him, sitting on the grass with his knees folded into his body. He had appeared only to be shaken but not hurt and she was relieved by that, relieved for those that loved him.

The man, in tragic contrast, of whom she only stole a brief glimpse as she had hurried by, looked as though he was indeed dead - glassy eyed and slack jawed, such that his mouth gaped open. He was middle aged and overweight. There was also something vaguely familiar about him too.

The macabre tableau had quite shocked her and she was looking forward to talking about it later, talking it out of her system, with her husband, John of seven years whom she loved deeply.

She strolled into the kitchen to prepare the evening meal for them both - John would be home just after six. She clicked the kettle on and remembered the letter.

As she slid her finger along the envelope to open it she thought of the man who had drowned; and how tragically unlucky some people were. She realised in contrast how lucky she was to have John, John who wasn't just hunky but was kind and generous, and funny. What would she do without him?

The letter was from Eve, the self-styled spokesperson of the building.

Maria, I don't know whether you are aware but it appears that one of our residents is 'entertaining' gentleman. Well, I don't know how you feel about it but many of us here are outraged by the prospect of prostitution amongst our upstanding little community. The lady in question resides in Flat 5 and her name is Jayne Marshall...

Maria let her arm fall.

Yes, that was where she had seen the drowning man before - he must have been one of her clients. She recalled that she had once bumped into him on the landing, he had seemed quite nervous. But he wouldn't be visiting her again.

Jayne Marshall, why doesn't that surprise me, bit of a Cockney slapper, she thought.

She recollected Jayne trying to engage her in conversation once but she really wasn't Maria's type - too rough.

She heard the door open. It was John and he was early.

"Hi darling, I've got some rather interesting things to tell you."

Maria threw her arms round the only man she had ever loved...


Douglas lay in the hospital bed, his mind was still spinning though he had just been given something to help him relax. According to the doctor he had been clinically dead for a very brief period and he was a very, very fortunate man. He was also a hero for saving the life of the boy who couldn't swim.

It had been decided that he would be kept in overnight for observation. He felt drained but otherwise okay.

Penny and his youngest lad had been in to see him - he loved his family dearly. And that was what was troubling him. Penny his wife of twenty three years, though lovely and loyal, did nothing for him anymore. He had also harboured a secret craving to be a woman at times, it was something he had desired since childhood. And he also needed to be punished as a woman.

About six months ago he had contacted a local prostitute and she had agreed to allow him to dress as a woman and then cane him on a regular basis. He had felt dirty but it satisfied his needs and provided he was discrete he rationalised there would be no need for Penny to get hurt. However the bag of clothes he was carrying on his way to Jayne's today had got mislaid when he had dived in to save the lad. Where were they? With the police? With the hospital?

He could just visualise the headlines in the local rag - River Hero Who Plucked Boy from Death Was Cheating Sadomasochistic Transvestite!

He really didn't need that.

With a bit of luck his clothes were at the bottom of the river, where they would stay.

Then there was the lucid dream. It was so real, and exciting. Strange that he had become Maria the manageress from the bookshop, transforming himself into her and even incorporating the drowning into her life - weird. He also cringed at the time he had bumped into her on the landing where Jayne lived and worked. He didn't think Maria knew him though - and he couldn't really tell anyone about the hallucination either.

He yawned as sleep beckoned...


He found himself standing on the beach. He was naked yet curiously he experienced no shame or embarrassment and he was at the shore's edge impassively observing the wavelets break relentlessly upon the rippled sand.

The sea was green, the sky was blue and the sand yellow. It was like a child's crayon drawing - primary colours in a primary world.

He had alternately swum and sun bathed here many times in the past. It was his home town, the town of his birth and childhood...

"It was exciting today wasn't it?"

"Yes it was Luci. Exciting and dangerous."

"It felt good to be someone else didn't it, Douglas, and kind of ironic that in order to live life fully one first had to die."

He felt the gossamer touch of her fingers run up his spine.

"I liked it too, I was Maria, and you and Jayne. You see I can be anyone I want and it would be fun just the two of us, Douglas, don't you think, hmmm?" she purred seductively in his ear. "Let's do it again, what do you say, it'll be fun."

"Yeah, Luci, you may be just a dream but what the hell, let's go for it."

"That's my boy."

She took him by the hand...


In the subdued light of Douglas's hospital room the regular trace of the heart monitor suddenly flat lined...

Friday 23rd July 2010: The Beating Heart of a Nationalist - Short Story

In the little church hall crammed full of supporters the clapping and cheering reduced to a respectful murmur. The imposing figure of Eric de Wolfe rose to his feet and prepared to address the adoring throng...

"I can only express my heartfelt thanks to each and every one of you who made my release possible - thank you. And remember this day, savour this moment, for it is the day the National Freedom Party of Great Britain was born And yet it is also a day of great sadness, tragedy, for today three more of our brave soldiers have died, their blood soaking into the sand of a faraway land in a futile war, sacrificed so that our beloved Prime Minister can suck up to the American President whilst supping cocktails on the White House lawn and crow about the Special Relationship. Oh, they talk of freedom and democracy but where is that freedom and democracy now for the good people of The Falklands, our people, now under the jackboot of the Argentine Junta, all pledges torched, with relish, like the Union Jack. And what happens today in The Falklands, now Las Malvinas, will happen tomorrow here, in this once green and pleasant land."

He paused - silence had fallen upon the congregation - before taking a deep breath and continuing.

"It may be our destiny to fail, to be stripped of our rights, second class citizens in a third world state, confined to reservations, to shuffle along in the queue for the gas chamber. Yes, it may be our destiny to be wiped out. But it is not our destiny to go down without a fight - let the traitor and invader alike never forget the taste of his own blood."

He brushed back a strand of his thick flaxen mane of hair that had fallen across his strong Nordic features, his piercing blue eyes still mesmerising the audience who hung upon his every utterance...


"He thinks he's some sort of Mandela figure when he's nothing more than a bigot with the gift of the gab and he's going to undo all our good work to make this truly a diverse nation of equality and opportunity - though we still have a long way to go to get more women and ethnic minorities into employment and government..."

Joe McNab wondered if James (call me Jimmy) Black, and Prime Minister of Great Britain, would actually be prepared to practise what he preached and give up his own position to a woman or a member of an ethnic minority. He chuckled inwardly. Of course not and that was why he had been called in - to smear a potential rival (more often than not a member of his own party), to level false charges against more blatant threats (as had been the case against de Wolfe) or to actually liquidate a really dangerous individual (the last one being a weapons expert who had threatened to spill the beans over the veracity of a weapons dossier used to justify an illegal war).

"Joe, are you listening? This de Wolfe character is dangerous - he could be another Hitler, and cares nothing for the democratic will of the people. He has to be stopped and I mean... STOPPED."

"Yes of course, Prime Minister, I understand." Joe nodded and noticed that the Prime Minister's pallor was greyer than normal. Rumours had it that he was suffering from the early stages of heart failure.

"Good, for a moment there I thought you were in another world. Naturally I shall deny all knowledge if anything does go wrong. But then, you have never failed me before." James Black treating Joe to one of his trademark practiced grins.

"I shall attend to this de Wolfe character a.s.a.p."

"And Joe, before you go could you just drop this down with the Speaker - thanks."

As he left the office, he glanced down at the slip of paper Black had passed him - it was a claim for a new mobile phone having smashed the previous one after throwing it at the wall in temper.


A red dot briefly manifested itself on de Wolfe's forehead before blooming into a scarlet smudge. Eric de Wolfe pitched forward, as though pole-axed, into the crowd. For a second nothing happened. Then pandemonium ensued.


"Your husband was a fascist, a Nazi, a racist was he not Mrs de Wolfe - he deserved to die."

Silence descended upon the press conference - surely the reporter had gone too far.

"My husband was NOT a racist, he always claimed that it was the colour of a person's heart not their skin that counted. This corrupt and hypocritical government sanctioned his assassination, we all know that. The story that it was one of his own supporters is a lie, a DAMNED lie..."

She let her blonde head drop into her arms, sobbing - and then lifted it again, defiantly proud. "If he was such a bad man then why did he donate his organs, to anyone, of any race and religion? Tell me that, you callous bastard."


James Black sat up in his hospital bed - a private hospital bed paid for by the taxpayer - and read the Times. There were only a few column inches devoted to his admission for 'minor surgery'. Although he was still quite sore he actually did feel a lot better - the procedure had gone without a hitch - and he could stay in power for another ten years - there was nothing or no one to stop him, especially now that ghastly de Wolfe was out of the way. Still he could have done with some of de Wolfe's charisma, he thought.

He would also have liked to have thanked the family of the donor who had furnished him with a new heart. In addition, it would have made a great photo shoot. But he had to keep his condition quiet and besides even the surgeons wouldn't reveal who it was...

But for you the reader all I will say is that for the first time in over three decades it would be quite accurate to state that within the chest of the Prime Minister of Great Britain there truly was the beating heart of a nationalist...

Wednesday 28th July 2010: Charlotte Cougar's 'Mayhem's Messenger' Blog - Response

Juki and I have no desire to injure Charlotte Cougar with our comments over this blog but we feel that we have no choice but to challenge her over the veracity of this piece as it is indirectly critical of us.

The first point to be made is that she suggests her slave was loaned to us - this is not the case. I offered, in the role of a friend, to get her out of a tight corner because her slave was in a very low state mentally and needed company. She couldn't put him up because her family was staying with her at the time. It was the first time in my life that I agreed to allow a stranger to stay with me for a couple of days. I knew very little about him but I trusted her.

I met her and him at Portsmouth Harbour - paid for his ferry fares (a return ticket) and took him back to the Island. We did not expect to play but she asked us to punish him by proxy - we obliged, and he loved it but it was us who called a halt to the session, not him.

The next day her slave composed a blog on my computer entitled: Symphony of Pain. The blog waxed positively about his session. However, Charlotte Cougar ordered him to hide it, but there are a few on IC who recall it.

We warmed to her slave as he was intelligent and entertaining and we were unaware (not told) of certain problems at this juncture. We treated him with hospitality and generosity and he cleaned my flat in return. Everything seemed great and my reservations melted away.

That afternoon, the following day, he sought to be punished again. He relished it. I wasn't so certain but thought that it may take his mind off his worries and I agreed.

Because I had been previously invited to a party with some recent friends from IC I asked them if he could also come along as I didn't want him to be alone and brooding. They kindly agreed.

That evening I took him across with me to Portsmouth so that we could be picked up and taken to the party - again I paid for his ferry fares, and remember I'm unemployed too with only my savings to live on.

At the party he disgraced himself and highly embarrassed me. I am not going to go into details but those people there know what happened. The evening was ruined for all those nice people who had invited me, so much so that I deleted my profile. If that was BDSM I wanted no part of it.

I think his behaviour was due to his alcohol problem which I knew nothing of - I wish I had, but even if I had I'm not at all sure I could have controlled him as my health and fitness is not what it once was - he was a strong, younger and fitter man.

We got back to the Island - I apologised profusely to the host - and whilst waiting at the catamaran for the last sailing I was concerned that he may have kicked off and got us banned. Fortunately he didn't and we got back to the Island. I really had had enough of him at this point.

Early next morning he left - that had been agreed. I had even sorted him out cheap tickets to get back to London. I hasten to add that he had a return coach ticket to Leeds - there was no way that I would have left him without money to get home despite everything.

He left a lovely note thanking me and Juki for our hospitality which seemed so out of character for the mayhem he had caused at the party the night before - to be honest I was just relieved to be rid of him.

I'm aware that Charlotte Cougar met him in London but little else surrounding the circumstances of their meeting, in the same way that she knew nothing of the events that took place whilst he was with us.

He was a lovely fellow in so many ways but he really had some problems, problems which can only, in my opinion be dealt with professionally. Juki and I really do wish that he can get over them - we thought he had for a while.

Also, in the blog it was suggested that Juki and I had a full relationship at the time. This was untrue though we had experimented with corporal punishment, and Charlotte Cougar was fully aware of that. Our relationship has changed since.

I'm sorry that I and Juki have had to air this in the arena of IC, but the insinuations have to be challenged.

Once again, we do not seek to fall out with Charlotte Cougar - I regarded her highly as a friend - but what choice do I/we have?

Friday 13th August 2010: I Fell in Love with Juki - Blog

This morning I dreamt that Juki was swimming in the sea and that her head kept dipping beneath the waves. I was on the shore and I knew that if I didn't run into the sea and get her then she would drown. As I stumbled across the rocks I woke up and realised that I had fallen in love with her after all this time.

Tuesday 21st September 2010: And You Thought the Collection Money Was For Repairing the Roof - Blog

I was chatting in the High Street on Saturday to a friend of ours, who happens to know what we are into by the way, and he then recounted this rather enlightening little tale after we were discussing the Pope's visit.

Some years ago he was doing some repair work to one of the Island churches when he became aware of some faint hollering. A little concerned he traced the disturbance to a small room at the other end of the church. He very discretely peered through the keyhole and could see this teenage lad with his trousers down over the knee of the priest who was administering him an almighty (guess it would have to be almighty) hiding.

Not knowing quite what to do for the best he stole off and pondered his course of action.

A few days later he saw the lad and told him what he had seen - and would he like him to be a witness if he went to the police?

The boy replied: "Don't do that for fuck's sake, he gives me a fiver each time!"

My friend was a bit taken aback and ended up doing nothing.

So, now you know why you still get dripped on whilst praying...

Friday 24th September 2010: Sadness - Blog

Sadness at the loss of a kind and generous lady who welcomed me and my son into her family over seventeen years ago without prejudice. Some background:

I was born in 1957 on the Isle of Wight. My mother's name was Shirley and my father's was Jack. They weren't married which makes me officially a bastard, and strange that when I was a bus driver so many passengers and fellow road users also seemed to be intimately aware of my family circumstances! Anyway, the relationship was doomed for many reasons and they drifted apart. After a couple of years my father met a nurse at The Chest Hospital in Ventnor after he contracted TB - possibly due to his heavy drinking - and had a relationship with her which ended up with the arrival of my half-sister. They tied the knot and then moved to Exeter in 1960 leaving me for over thirty six years with just a couple of black and white snaps and a hazy recollection of being cradled in a man's arms with a fag hanging out of his mouth.

Over the years I was curious to find out what happened to my father but life got in the way and I never conducted a serious search but after my mother died suddenly in 1988 I became rather more interested to see what had become of my father and half-sister. Once again the pressing demands of day to day existence took over and it wasn't till I had a period of sickness in 1994 that I finally made the effort to have them traced.

To cut a long story short I discovered they were all living in Devon. My sister was married with two young children and to my surprise I also had twin half-brothers (fraternal rather than identical) fourteen years younger than me - the information having been furnished to me by my father's wife. I then wrote a letter to my father but heartbreakingly he didn't feel he could cope with seeing me - he did write and spoke to me once on the phone. I didn't push him, believing that in time, his curiosity would get the better of him - it never did and he died without us ever meeting.

His wife, who incidentally was German, couldn't have been more welcoming and over the years I not only grew close to my half siblings but also to her. She treated me as her son and my son as her grandson. She didn't have a lot of money, was in poor health, but was always generous and kind, and full of insights. To be honest, I don't think I loved her but I did have strong feelings for her along with a whole load of respect.

A week ago last Sunday she passed away.

Wednesday, just gone, Juki and I travelled down to Devon for the funeral which was on Thursday morning (yesterday). The service was a simple affair with no more than about a dozen mourners but it was moving and at one point my eyes dampened - it's not what she would have wanted because she believed in living life to the full in spite of obstacles.

Afterwards we all went to the pub, which had laid on a good spread, and had a raucous couple of hours.

Juki and I caught the 1518 train and arrived back on the Island about twenty to nine - worn out. When we got back to the flat Juki handed me the sheet for the service, so forgive me for concluding with this poem from Sylvia Lewis:

Although you cannot see me

I am not far away.

I'm in your mind and memories

Today and every day.

So dry your eyes and weep no more

Treasure what we had before

Smile when you remember the times we had

Try not to feel lonely or sad.

Life will go on without me

That's how it's meant to be

So make the most of it my family

For life is precious you see.

Let my love be your strength and anchor

Each and every day

To help you through this journey

That you take, come what may.

Be glad for the time spent together

The love that we shared through the years

Be happy now my family

And wipe away those tears.

Monday 4th October 2010: Juki and I Are Getting Married - Blog

Today, Juki and I arranged our wedding for Monday 25th October 2010. Just thought I'd let those that know us on here know.

Saturday 16th October 2010: I'm a Viking - Blog

I have just received my Certificate of Ancestry and I belong to Y-chromosome Haplogroup I1 which is found predominantly in Viking/Scandinavians but has its origins in northern France.

I guess that explains a lot, including the recent urge to cruise along the Fjords of Norway.

Sunday 24th October 2010: Just to Say Thanks to Everyone - Blog

And I mean everyone, who posted and memo-ed their good wishes for our wedding tomorrow.

We are both extremely excited about it and hoping there won't be any hitches. We are also hoping to both have some marks under our clothes too.

Thanks again!

Matt and Juki

Monday 25th October 2010: Bus Ride to Oblivion - Blog

I have a little time before I have to get ready for our wedding but I just have to share with you how helpless we are at the fickle hands of fate...

Yesterday Juki and I had a lazy day and didn't get out till about half three when we had to go shopping. After picking up a few essentials from the Co-Op I suggested, as it was a sunny day, a bit of bus surfing which means getting on the first bus that comes along and going for a ride.

At 1555 we boarded the Service 8 which goes from Ryde to Newport via Bembridge and Sandown - it's a very scenic route passing by St Helens Harbour and along Sandown Bay.

We managed to get the front two seats on the right hand side of the upper deck and were thoroughly enjoying the passing vista. Just after Whitecliff Bay I was looking out the right-hand window when I saw a small plane whizz pass before it touched down on the runway at Bembridge Airport - not an unusual event till Juki turned to me and said: "That plane just missed us by about a couple of feet!"

"What do you mean?"

"It passed at the same height as us but only about three feet away. We're really lucky, if we'd been only a few feet closer it would have crashed into us. He must have been lower than normal preparing to touch down."

Reflecting it on this morning we can't say for definite that we would have been killed but a light aircraft smashing into the top deck of a bus is going to lead to serious damage and injury - probably would have knocked the bus over at the very least. The other strange thing is that I was looking in the opposite direction so wouldn't even have seen it coming - one second, happy and content, the next, possibly dead and oblivious.

Can you imagine the headlines: Couple Planning to Wed Next Day Killed in Freak Accident!

Mind you the papers the next week might display different headlines: Sadomasochistic Riddle of Tragic Death Crash Couple...

Thursday 13th January 2011: Abuser? - Blog

Running. Running. Running.

I run into the house - I am scared. The house is abandoned yet I can still feel the presence.

Something has gone wrong - terribly wrong.

I'm in a kitchen and furniture is stacked up everywhere. Claustrophobia - my enemy of old. I have to get out.

"I want OUT!!!!"

I see a window half open. I climb onto a pile of chairs and tables beneath it. I attempt to squeeze through the window but I cannot. I'm trapped.

Panic. Fear.

I clamber back down - I have to risk going out the way I came in even if it means facing the 'Fear'.

The front door is shrinking.

Run, run for your life! The voice in my head screams.

I run.

I dive through the door, before it closes for all eternity, and into the sunlight, back into the 'Fear'.

I scan the Esplanade - not a soul in sight.

"God, what is happening?!!!!"

"You'll have to swim across the river," a voice cackles evilly from behind.

"What river?"

A swathe of clear rushing water has materialised in front of me.

I can see the bottom, it's not deep, I can wade across.

I sink up to my waist.

"Damn, damn and fucking damn"

My mobile is in my trouser pocket and now useless - I cannot call for help.

'They' have seen me and They' will cut off my escape. I am lost - lost forever.

"Perdue, perdue."

Why am I speaking in French?

I pull myself onto the bank, my drenched clothes weighing me down.

I stagger out. I realise I'm drunk, and no better than 'They'.

All around me are drunks and sluts and yobs - scum.

A hand from nowhere pushes me harshly.


"Abuser... Abuser... Abuser."

The single common voice becomes a chorus and a chant.

I break free and run.

Running. Running from the 'Fear'.

Out of breath I slump against a deserted shop window. I pat my pocket to feel my wallet - it is gone. Stolen by the scum.

What am I going to do?


The light of hell becomes dark, the dark of our bedroom.

I reach out and put my arms round my wife. She stirs.

I love her so much, love her so much.

I can never hurt her, never hurt her.


"Beat me, I need a beating," she had implored.

She had stripped and knelt on the bed, her vulnerable white buttocks thrust out...

I whack her hard, very hard with the leather studded paddle.

I watch her sway, savour the weal bloom.

I smack her hard again.

Her naked feet lift with the pain, her toes curl.

I feel unease - something is wrong.

I run my hand along her bare back to comfort her and drive the paddle without mercy onto her left buttock.

She rolls onto her side, crying, crying like a baby, vulnerable like a baby.

"I can't do this anymore. I can't do this anymore."

"It's over my darling."

I throw my arms around her.

"I love you; I love you, I love you."

The voice in my head whispers: Abuser.

The voices in my head rise to a crescendo: Abuser.

I cradle her head in my arms and listen to her sob.


"I will never hurt you again. Never."

"Don't blame yourself, I asked you."


I'm walking into town; I still feel like an abuser. I expect people to start chanting, I expect to start running but the town is as it is always: placid and disinterested.

In the light rain the metamorphosis begins, the metamorphosis that had initiated a year ago, in jumps and starts.

Hormones maybe, the biochemistry of age, the vision of the abyss at journey's end. Or the final healing over of an open sore...


"I can't beat you again, I can't hurt you. I've felt like an abuser for the last twenty-four hours... suffered nightmares about it." I explain.

She puts her arm around me: "You've done nothing wrong, nothing, but I understand."

I want to cry - I don't.

"I'm not a switch anymore. I'm submissive, always have been, underneath I've always craved to be the person I've punished, been thinking about it a while, asked those that know, if anybody really knows. Last night was the catalyst. I have to serve you, worship you, and be punished by you harshly. I need you to humiliate me." I pause, this is the difficult bit, and add: "Like I was when I was very young, it's the only way I can accept and give love, total love. I guess I am damaged after all."

I let my head fall onto her shoulder and sob like the child I have never really stopped being, the little boy that knocked on the door for love and acceptance, and waited on the porch in the cold for five decades for the door to be finally fully opened...

Tuesday 8th February 2011: Blue Day - Blog

"Hi" she smiles.

"Hi" I respond and smile back politely.

We pass at the end of the meat aisle and for a second or two I cannot place her.


She's behind me in the queue at the checkout now - we're in the Co-Op.

I remember that a few years ago I kind of fancied her in an unattainable way - she was married - but though she was an 'older' woman there was just something about her: well spoken, assured, handsome, well presented, the kind of attributes that grow on you. But something had changed and I no longer found her attractive.

"Steve died, died about two weeks ago. We were on holiday on France, massive heart attack."

"I'm really sorry to hear that."

I touch her shoulder - as if I really think the gesture will take away an ounce of her pain.

I visualise Steve the last time I saw him before he sold the shop, a chemist's, on the Esplanade. I see him old yet still vital, tall, bald with white wild tufts of hair at the sides and animated about retirement.

I think of all the knowledge he once possessed - now gone.

"My mother died just before," she adds. She seems shocked that life could turn out this way yet tragedy is always the penultimate chapter. I want to shake her and say: "How could you expect it to turn out any other way?"

I don't.

Instead, I touch her longer on the shoulder again.

"He was a good bloke, you'll miss him."

She smiles again.

I pay for my shopping and simply say "bye", leaving her with her sorrow, her loneliness.


I'm walking along Spencer Road on the way home and the sky is a luminescent blue, a mesmerising blue. Only I understand that. Only I know what it invokes in me: a transcendent serenity beyond the suffering of existence - it makes me at one with the cosmos.

I just wish I could impart that to her, but I know that she wouldn't understand, just wouldn't understand what I mean by a 'blue day'.


I get in and phone my son - it's great to hear his voice. I love him, and miss him dearly.

Wednesday 9th February 2011: The Devil's Whisper - Short Story

I am Him. I had been stripped naked. I had been stripped naked and whipped cruelly. They had placed a crown of thorns upon my head. They had jeered me. They had spat upon my blood smeared body. Step by agonising step they had made me bear my instrument of torture and death to the place of execution. They had bid me to lie upon the cross, wedded me to it with nails then raised it.


Naked. Naked and bleeding. Naked, bleeding and slowly suffocating to death.

They are witnessing my death, relishing my agony and humiliation yet I forgive them because I love them.

I am the Son and I come to save them, save them from the cruel justice and wrath of Our Father.

They do not understand that they have made of me a sacrifice to placate the All Powerful One, to atone for their sins.


I begin to drift blissfully towards the Light but as I do I discern a rustling like the sound of a gentle breeze blowing through the leaves of a tree. The rustling becomes a hiss, an evil hiss, and the hiss becomes a whisper. It is an eternal whisper, and it is the whisper of the Devil, my Father's Brother: "Vanity, vanity, all is vanity..."

Friday 26th February 2011: What Are Dreams For? - Blog

I am walking up to McDonalds from the bus stop for Tesco. It is a clear day and in my arms is my son - he is about six years of age. I look up and see several military helicopters flying over the town of Ryde about a mile away. The craft are not British as they are adorned with the markings of a foreign power - I speculate that they may be Iranian or Chinese. For some strange reason it does not really concern me that the country has surrendered without a fight. "Bloody New Labour, I knew they'd sell us to the highest bidder," I say to my son.

I feel him grab hold of me tight and say: "I love you Dad."

It makes me feel warm inside and my worries dissipate because that's all that really matters to me.

"I love you too, Son, the thing is though it's all a dream because this is the future, and you can't be six in the future because in reality you are twenty-three now. Dreams are strange, where do they come from? What are they for? What do they mean?"

"Well, Dad, sometimes dreams aren't dreams, sometimes dreams are true."

It's getting interesting because the sub-consciousness is now communicating through my son and soon, I will know the meaning of life-

An angry and persistent bleeping propels me into the waking world and all I am left with is a half answered question.


Tuesday 1st March 2011: Just Another Grey Day - Blog

Grey day. The furthest point along Ryde Harbour. The incoming tide. Choppy waves. A veil of rain over Stoke's bay.

I feel the chill wind blow across my cheeks - it will rain soon.

I listen to the plaintive calls of sea birds. Grey day. No. Grey mood.


Alone with my thoughts, my mood, my grey mood.

I think of the past and I wonder what the future holds: for me, for us, for all of us.

All of it: my memories, my plans, everything I see, everything I hear, everything I feel, and everything I know is held within a razor's thickness of the present, a razor's thickness. That's all.

I feel a drop of rain on my forehead - time to get back.

I put my umbrella up.

I stroll past the yachts leaning against the jetties on the mud and I read the names on the hulls - names of significance to their owners, but not to me and forget them just as quickly.

I leave the Harbour behind as I set foot upon the Esplanade but it is not so easy to leave my mood behind, my grey mood.


"Hi Mo, how are you?"

I'm passing through Ryde Bus Station now and on my way home now - Mo is the mother of one of my old school chums.

"It's certainly cold today, Matt, you still a 'kept man'?"

"There are no jobs around but we're okay for a bit, a little part-time position will help till I get my pension in about eighteen months."

Mo is mid to late seventies, smart and always chipper despite her husband leaving her in her early thirties with two young lads and her second husband dying a couple of years ago - she also has health problems.

"You're looking well, Mo."

"I've just been to the Doctor as a matter of fact to tell him about my two latest episodes - he didn't seem concerned at all."

I wonder if that's because he can't really do anything about her condition, but I say nothing.

She continues: "I've collapsed twice recently but the most peculiar one was when I suddenly started walking backwards before falling over a small garden wall. I was lucky that I only landed on soft grass."

"Haven't they diagnosed your condition yet?"

"Yes, it's something called atrial fibrillation, and to do with my heart racing. I've tried all sorts of drugs and at one point they were going to take me into hospital, stop my heart and then restart it, but on the day they decided not to."

I know now that she is going to die soon - I visualise her lying on her back in the kitchen, her mouth half open, her beady brown eyes glazed over, her glasses smashed by her side.

I think of attending her funeral, my friend and his brother in black suits sobbing - I see myself offering my condolences to them-

"What about you?" she asks.

A driver, who I know passes by, and makes a slightly witty comment about me having my umbrella up under the cover of the bus station - I respond back out of politeness.

"They still don't know what caused my vertigo attacks, Migraine Associated Vertigo... Ménières Disease... Hypertension. If I knew maybe I could do something about it. I just take it easy."

Perhaps it will be me who will just keel over.

The driver opens the door for her bus.

"Good luck, Mo... take it easy."

"Bye, Matt."

I watch her walk over to the vehicle, board it then show her pass to the driver before finding a seat.

I wonder, morbidly, if this will be the last memory I have of her.

I wonder, even more morbidly, if this will be the last memory she has of me.

I make my way out of the bus station and into the rain.

Just another grey day.

Thursday 17th March 2011: Tranquillity, Apocalypse and a Caning Fantasy - Blog

This morning I woke up remembering having dreamt about driving buses again (a nightmare?) and another one in which my son was young again and needed my love and help. Since dreams are often messages from the subconscious I guess that means I should think about getting my PCV back and phoning my son to see how he is.

Changing the subject, yesterday after shopping I went into the Library to see if they had anything on Alexander Selkirk whom Daniel Defoe based his character Robinson Crusoe on - they did. The book was titled Seeking Robinson Crusoe and written by Tim Severin. I withdrew it and, as it was sunny and warm, then walked down to Ryde Harbour where I plonked myself on one of the benches and commenced to read it whilst periodically dipping into a pack of cashew nuts and sipping from a bottle of apple juice. I felt quite tranquil there listening to the gentle lapping of the waves upon the incoming tide and the cries of the seabirds. Occasionally I would look up when a train trundled along the Pier or a hovercraft arrived or departed with its propeller blades loudly gnawing into the air like a buzz saw. Across the harbour entrance I could just make out some of the youth of Ryde practising their moves on the curving ramps of the brightly painted skate park - everything seemed to be so peaceful and not even the subdued roar of the constant traffic along the Esplanade could disturb my serene state - I truly felt at one with the world.

After a while the feeling wore off - Naught endures but mutability: Shelly. Having read on and off I looked around at the few other individuals along the harbour wall: A young, dark haired, pretty-ish woman dressed all in black stretched out along a seat and apparently asleep perhaps having drank too much - what was she thinking or dreaming about? An elderly man with a lost look pacing up and down - a lonely and sad widower perhaps? A bald middle aged guy taking photos of his pride and joy - a vintage scooter.

At this point a hovercraft had attracted my attention and I thought of all the fuel that was being burned. I thought of all the oil running out and I knew that if that happened then it would be the end of our world as we knew it. Looking down at the book in my hands, a historic account of man surviving at the most basic level, I realised that the past could indeed become the future. A bleak vision sprang into my mind of the Pier derelict and falling into the sea, the buildings of the Hovercraft Terminal abandoned and boarded up, the town deserted. I wondered if the scientists and technologists could save us but the reality is that, what will be, will be.

Despite the sun a sense of gloom had once again descended upon me so I packed up my glasses, book and litter and made my way home stopping only once to take my camera out to capture the beautiful, drifting, dry yellow sands off Cornwall Slip. Once home I had lain on the bed listening to relaxing New Age music only to nod off for a while. When I had woken, partially refreshed, I had set about preparing a meal for Juki.

After dinner Juki had asked me if I needed a beating. I wasn't sure so I tossed a coin - tails yes, heads no - to decide. The result was heads so my beating was postponed for another day. In the event we both stripped off and I gave her an all over body massage which led to her straddling my face whilst I licked her clit. The session ended with her rubbing my nipples whilst I wanked myself off to the fantasy of having to be severely caned naked during assembly in front of the girls' sixth form, after which I never gave a fuck about the oil running out.

Thursday 7th April 2011: Kicked in the Balls for Masturbating - Submissive Fantasy

Naked. Head bowed, legs together, arms by my side. Fear. Rising fear.

"I'm going to ask you this only once?"

My Mistress. Petite. Cruel. Strong.

I gulp.

"Have you masturbated without my permission and not in my presence?"

I hesitate, I know I should lie, most men do-

She slaps me hard around the face three times - there is a ringing in my ears and a metallic taste in my mouth.


"Yes Mistress, I did. I am very sorry. Very."

"You know the rules. Did I not make you aware, very aware of the rules: you only climax once a week, in my presence, with my name upon your lips - did you really think you would get away with it?"

"I truly am sorry Mistress; I will never do it again-"

She thrusts her face into mine and hisses: "Did you think of me when you came?"

"Yes Mistress, only you, because I love you."

I fear, more than the pain that is to be surely visited upon me, the fear that she does not believe that I truly love her, worship her.

"That is at least something," she sneers, "but I am still going to punish you - rules are rules."

A part of me seeks to turn away... to run but I cannot, a 'slave' just cannot.

"Open your legs, put your hands behind your back, and close your eyes."

I comply. Agony, necessary agony, is but seconds away.

"I want you now to tell me how sorry you are for masturbating without my permission and promise never to disobey me again".

"I am very, very sorry for masturbating without-"

A crushing wall of pain slams into my testicles as a hollow nauseating sensation instantly inflates within my stomach. I double up and grasp my balls in a vain attempt to alleviate the intolerable pain. I fight the urge to surrender myself to the floor and roll into a foetal position, I must take my punishment stoically, must not disgrace myself further in front of my Mistress. The agony begins to wane ever so slightly.

"Your punishment is over. Take your hands away from your genitals now and go and make me a cup of tea."

"Thank you for punishing me Mistress. I deserved it."

"That's okay," she responds matter-of-factly.

I walk naked and uncomfortably into the kitchen and click the kettle on - I feel the luckiest man in the world knowing that I have a Mistress who really cares for me.

Wednesday 15th June 2011: I Humiliate, Beat and Fuck a Middle Aged Slut - Spanking Fiction

"I absolutely despise you; you know that don't you?"

She lowers her head in shame and replies, just audibly: "Yes."

"You've let yourself go over the years, you used to be pretty, very pretty, and slim. Now look at you."

Standing before me next to the bed, in the hotel room, is Claudia and she is naked. She wants me to fuck her more than I want to fuck her and because there is no such thing as a free lunch in this world she is going to have to pay with a beating - maybe blood too.

"I'm sorry, I attempted to lose some weight for you, and I really did-"

"You didn't try very hard did you, hmmm? Okay, I want you to stay absolutely still whilst I examine you."

I move closely and lower myself a little so that I can scrutinise her from toe to head.

"Your toes are chubby but kind of cute - I approve of your choice of nail varnish, vivid red," she barely restrains a smile "as befits a slut, which you are and know you are."

I cup my hands round her calves and run them up to her groin.

"Your calves and thighs are far too fat; you need to do some exercise. In fact, your legs remind me of piano legs, maybe you could donate them to a piano mender when you die, probably be the first truly useful thing you've done in your life, which can't be that long either in your unhealthy state."

I glance up at her face for a moment which has reddened as a result of my cruel jibes - good.

Carefully balanced on folded knees I now thrust my face about six inches away from her cunt.

"It's lucky for you that you shaved as I'd be walking out the door if you hadn't, not a bad job, though I can still make out some bristles you missed-"

"I'm sorry for that."

"When was the last time you had an orgasm, and it had better not have been with your pig of a husband?"

"A week ago. I was thinking of you."

"Correct answer - you're learning."

Her cunt is soaking, and I can almost see her juices bubbling - it's an effect I have on all my women, my growing list of women.

"Your tummy is too big, you're getting a pot, you'd better start doing sit ups."

I can sense her hanging on intently to my every critical word.

I grab hold roughly of her breasts, taking her by surprise and she gasps. I am not the gentle type.

"Your tits are still a good size even though they're a bit flabby, and sun bronzed too - nice."

I cup my mouth around her left nipple and bite it.


"Your pain threshold is a bit low, and I shall be attending to that shortly."

For the first time in the evening her expression betrays fear - I am evil, truly evil and revelling in that evil.

I place the index finger of my right hand beneath her chin.

"Look up straight."

I study her features: round face, olive brown eyes, a short turned up nose, full lips. She was indeed pretty when she was young, kind of like a porcelain doll but her chin is fleshy now and her hair once long, curly and raven is shorter, dyed blond and curled, almost like a 'bubble perm'. She is middle aged, and fucking looks it too.

I glance down at her arms which are flabby from the elbow up: they are tanned deeply, she is half Italian, as is the rest of her flesh.

"I don't know whether I want to fuck you or not, you've really gone to seed, you were beautiful all those years ago, and now you're shit, just a slab of meat yet, I loved you once..."

"I love you, Matt, I never stopped loving you. Do you still love me?"

I slap her hard across her left cheek with my right hand, the sound resounding around the cheap hotel room.

I curse myself for my admission of weakness.

"No. I stopped loving you years ago. I only agreed to this so that I could use you, abuse you, and you, you contemptible female still pine for me, still entertain hopes that I will take you away from your useless, fat cunt of a husband. I hate you, all I want to do is hurt you then fuck you, and then I'll forget you."

A tear rolls down her cheek, the truth hurts, but she is addicted to me, addicted to a fantasy of us together.

"Get on the bed you slut and kneel on all fours."

She obeys.

"I'm going to beat you very hard now. You will take every stroke and when I am done, I will fuck you."

I take out the leather studded paddle from my holdall - she is clearly trembling.

I line myself parallel with her so that the swats will impact with maximum force. Her legs are slightly apart and the slit of her cunt clearly visible between the backs of her fat thighs.

I bring my right arm as far back as I can then drive it down upon her left buttock with a loud 'whack'. She cries out and for a second looks as though she will roll over on her side - but she doesn't. A red mark about the size of a hand has appeared already.

"Turn round and face the end of the bed."

She shuffles round keeping her head down.

This time I use my left hand to bring the paddle down onto her right buttock - it's not as hard but she arches her back with the agony and cries out again.

"Get back in position. Do not piss me off by moving."

I discern her sniffling and think pathetic bitch.

Again, I swipe her right buttock hard with my left arm - I'm trying to break the skin but to no avail - and she takes it well, for a 'pathetic bitch'.

"Okay, the last two strokes were soft. Turn back round again facing the wall."

Predictably she complies with my request - the things a slut will do to get a shag, I think then chuckle out loud.

Back in her original punishment attitude I congratulate myself on my 'work' so far - both buttocks are extremely red and appear "grazed".

For the fourth stroke I take a couple of paces back then launch the blow such that the force from my arm is added to the momentum of my sixteen stone frame - the whack is louder than before. Curiously, she does not yell out, the shock must be too great, though she continues to sob.

I decide to administer the fifth stroke exactly as the fourth one and this time she screams and falls sideways onto the mattress clutching her backside.

"Get back into position - NOW!"

Whimpering she reluctantly assumes the punishment position and I can see why she reacted so: little beads of blood have manifested themselves on her abrasions - I am fully erect too.

This time I smash her right arse cheek with my right hand - I can't get the leverage, but it still smarts, really smarts.

I feel now that I have 'broken' her. One more for luck, as they say.

She is crying now like a baby - she doesn't care. I want to tell her that pain, extreme pain is a kind of liberation - it frees you from the charade of everyday life because you can be you, really you, when you are in agony, but the fact of the matter is that she is too thick too understand that.

I bend down and whisper in her ear: "One more bitch, just one more bitch, and then I'll fuck you hard. You'll like that won't you?"

"Yes, yes, I love you."

She doesn't see me smile sadistically nor does she see the last swat which I administer so hard that I almost spin round on my feet.

She pitches face forward onto the sheets writhing around clutching her left buttock which is thinly smeared with blood.

"Right, your beating is now over. I want you in the doggie position with your legs apart."

I drop my trousers before joining her on the bed. I don't bother with a condom as I am certain neither of us have infections. If she gets pregnant then that is her problem. 'New Age' man I am not.

As I shift around on the bed the springs creak ominously.

"Don't reckon these beds are constructed for porkers like you, Claudia." I tell her as I guide my cock into her accommodating and damp cunt.

I start to thrust and as I do she starts to groan and this is the moment she has been waiting for all those years, mind you, moment is the right word because I shan't be holding back - once I've come, I'll be going.

After about twenty powerful thrusts I climax - she too gasps, and we both fall down onto the bed with me on top of her.

"Matt, that was wonderful. I love you so much."

"Well, it was good, but I don't love you, Claudia. Never will."

I wonder if she did have an orgasm after all - I can't say I'm bothered one way or the other.

She wraps her saggy arms around me before kissing me on the lips and saying: "I wish it could be like this all the time."

"Yeah, well it can't as I'm happily married with a loving, faithful wife who isn't an embarrassment like you."

"I'm going to have a shower now, Matt. We can have a cuddle and watch TV for a bit after."

For fuck's sake, I think.

I watch her lift herself off the bed and then walk over to the cubicle. Within seconds I hear the water running. I quickly dress and then stuff all her clothes into my holdall. I then walk over to the shower cubicle where she is soaping herself all over - I can't help but stare at her bruises.

"I'm just going to nip down to reception and order us a couple of bottles of wine. Won't be long."

"Thanks darling."

I inwardly cringe at her use of 'darling' because that is the one thing I am not, as she is about to find out.

I survey the room for one last time, doubly checking I have left nothing of mine behind then exit out onto the landing before making my way down to the lobby, past the unmanned reception desk and out through the glass fronted doors into the car park.

The evening is cool, fresh - I feel good. It's about nine and despite the glow from the town lights I can see the stars - it's good to be alive.

About fifteen feet away from my car I press the button on my car key to release the locks.

I settle into my seat, take the paddle out of the holdall, the holdall with all of Claudia's clothes in, and then place it beside my car on the gravel surface of the hotel car park. I pull my seatbelt across me and then start the engine. Reaching into the breast pocket of my suit I bring out my mobile phone. I compose a message: Your clothes are in a blue holdall at the far end of the hotel car park :-D and send it to Claudia's mobile. I wait for the phone to say 'message sent' before turning it off.

I imagine the look on the stupid bitch's face when she realises that not only have I gone but that she's got to walk out naked or with just a towel wrapped around her obese little body to get her clothes back. Also, she's going to have to pick up the tab for spending the night in the hotel alone - probably in tears.

As I pull out onto the main road, I find I have difficulty steering the car where I can't stop laughing. I admonish myself to be more serious - I don't want to have an accident.

I look at my watch: ten past nine. Good, I reckon I'll just about pick up the last ferry back to the Island. It'll be nice to see the wife...

Wednesday 20th July 2011: Transcending the Transcendence - Weird Fiction

I am beyond life


Not dead.

I am beyond death


Not corporeal.

I do not breathe;

I do not hunger;

I do not thirst


I cannot touch.


I can see







The Transcendence:

The curved is straight; the straight is curved.

Substance is void; void is substance.

The end is the beginning; the beginning is the end.

Being is life and not-life.

Five dimensions:

Up and Down;

Left and Right;

In and Out;

Relative time


Absolute time.

The dreamed, dreams; the known, knows.

Through a glass, not darkly, my life is presented to me... raw, uncut.

I have witnessed my death a thousand times.

I have savoured my small victories.

I have ached over my losses


Cringed at my foolishness, my cowardice.

To live for me you must live for yourself


I am you and you are me.

The dreamed, dreams; the known, knows.

In glorious Technicolor and frozen like the default frame on a video clip I see a man attired in bus uniform of average height, broad shouldered with short auburn hair walking briskly.

He is at the point where West Street meets Spencer Road and the early morning sun has cast of him a long shadow.

The man is me


It is weird.

The dreamed, dreams; the known, knows.

It is the exact midpoint of my life for I am twenty seven years, ten months, three weeks, three days, eighteen hours and twenty minutes from my birth


Twenty seven years, ten months, three weeks, three days, eighteen hours and twenty minutes from my death - a lonely death.

I can use my will to fast forward or rewind my life, to zoom in and out. I can hear all that I said and all that was said to me. I can relive my dreams... my nightmares


Nothing prior to my birth or after my death is revealed...


A figure stirs under the blankets and rolls towards me. I zoom in on the features: Roman nose, grey goatee beard, large brown eyes now watery appear frightened. A grey pallor has replaced the lightly sun bronzed complexion and a thin film of sweat now covers the skin.

The figure naked, overweight and flabby throws off the covers and staggers desperately towards the door. His right hand flails out for the door handle but falls short as the body crumples towards but never quite reaches the floor.


I do not know the cause of my death - coronary? Stroke?

I do not know how long it would have been before my body was found.

I do not know how many would have wept for me - or for how long.


The one lesson not learnt:

To live your dream is to live the dream, the dream dreamed by the dreamer.

Oh that I could live again...

I transcend the metaphor.

I transcend the Transcendence


The glass through which I see, not darkly, yields and melts away...


I feel the warming rays of the early morning sun upon my face as I walk briskly to work. I am twenty seven years, ten months, three weeks, three days, eighteen hours and twenty minutes old.

I stop, slip my diary out of my jacket whilst observing curiously the phenomena of a rapidly fading shadow of a man emerging from my chest before travelling a few paces and dissolving into thin air.

I take out the pen from my top pocket and scribble in the inside cover:

To live your dream is to live the dream.

It is all clear to me now...

Thursday 25th August 2011: Yeah, Funny That - Blog

White clouds drift leisurely across the blue sky. Vanilla sand. Turquoise sea.

Children play and laugh under the watchful eyes of mums and dads on the beach below the seawall.

Appley Park.

I'm sat on a bench with an old friend, Hopkins, and for want of a better term, we are chewing the fat.

I spot another acquaintance: Rachel.

She walks closer and stops.

She's in her mid-fifties, bobbed dyed blonde hair, overweight and a chavvy tattoo on her forearm exposed where she has rolled up the sleeve of her denim jacket.

"Hi, how are you doing?" she addresses me.

"Not too bad thanks, just taking in the sea air with an old friend."

I had intended to cycle to Puckpool then on the way back stop off, get a book out and have a drink of tea from my flask, but I had ran into Hopkins, who had had a similar idea, and we had ridden to Seaview and back.

"Ronnie's been diagnosed with bowel cancer. He's got five weeks of chemo, radiotherapy, and then an op," she informs us matter-of-factly.

I attempt to imagine nothingness.

"I'm really sorry to hear that, he's a nice bloke. I saw him not so long ago, he was out on his bike and seemed so relaxed. It's hard to believe."

"Yeah, he lived healthily, didn't drink, didn't smoke and took everything in his stride."

She looks awkward for a moment.

I remember him on his bike. I remember chatting to him about his retirement. And then I see him hollow cheeked, sunken eyes, emaciated... dying.

"I'm sure he'll be alright; they've caught it early-"

"I'll be off now."

"Send him my best wishes."

She strolls off in the direction of Puckpool and we both say goodbye.

"Funny that, we are born, reproduce, then die. All on this rock hurtling round a star in the middle of space," Hopkins muses.

"Yeah, funny that," I respond dreamily.

White clouds drift leisurely across the blue sky. Vanilla sand. Turquoise sea.

Children play and laugh under the watchful eyes of mums and dads on the beach below the seawall...

Friday 26th August 2011: I Want a Baby - Blog

"I want a baby... I'm serious," she tells me.

We're just about to get a hot dog each from the barbecue at an ostentatious gathering, held in an old farmhouse and converted barns, transformed by new money with a nod to Posh and Becks, to celebrate the GCSE results of one of Mrs Triewly's friend's daughters.

I say nothing for a second.

"I am serious. I have been thinking about this for a while now. I want a baby."

My thoughts run into each other like a motorway pile up: I'll be seventy when the kid is just finishing its GCSE's - Juki will be close to sixty - my health is fucked - what will we do for money - I'll have to work full time again - that nearly killed me before - sleepless nights - what if it's handicapped - I failed as a father before - I hardly see my son now, except when he wants money - the country is fucked - the world is fucking up - oil crisis - food shortages - social inequality - working your balls off just to survive - wars - tragedy - heartbreak.

"Okay, I'll see what I can do," I respond whilst squirting some tomato ketchup onto my hotdog...

Saturday 27th August 2011: True Love and the Curse of Vanilla Sky - Blog

"...I'll be there in a hurry you don't have to worry..." Tammi Terrell croons seductively to Marvin Gaye in Ain't No Mountain High Enough.

As if on cue I stretch across the table and take both of Juki's hands in mine.

We're in the Simeon Arms: Saturday Evening, Bank Holiday Weekend and the town is chocker with Scooterists.

I look her deep in the eyes: "I don't want to be anywhere but here, with anyone but you. I really love you."

She gently squeezes my hands.


"I love you too, I'm just so happy."

"Let's finish our drinks and have a walk along the Esplanade."


"Do you fancy watching a film, the Commodore's open late, we don't have to get back soon. It's a great atmosphere in town, everybody's enjoying themselves and why shouldn't we?"

"Yeah, why not, Matt?"

We walk up the red carpeted stairs and into the foyer which is full of small groups of Mods milling round and chatting.

"I'll see what's on," I say to Juki.

As I make my way to the counter, I spot a fellow, Virgil, I used to play with as a kid. He catches my eye but doesn't seem too happy to see me. Or maybe he has failed to recognise me.

"Don't come near me," he growls.


"Don't come near me, you used to bully me. You ruined my life."

"I didn't bully you, you're imagining it, and we've all grown up now-"

"You all bullied me, you never tried to stop it. I was just a laughingstock." He looks like he is just about to burst into tears when a Mod pushes him. "YOU"RE ALL FUCKING BASTARDS!!!"

The Mod punches him in the face and he falls to the ground.

"I think we'd better go home Juki."


We're standing outside Brigstocke Terrace when Juki starts walking towards one of the doors.

"Where you going Juki?"

"Home, where do you think?" she responds quizzically.

"But we don't live here, we have a flat much further along Spencer Road." I'm genuinely bemused.

"Well, you might live there with your nineteen-year-old floozie, but I live here."

"I haven't got a "nineteen old floozie"-"

"Don't play the innocent with me? Take me for a fool do ya?"

"I haven't got anyone else. I love you and only you."

"Yeah, right," she sneers like a teenager.

"What's got into you? We were so happy just a few hours ago, you know I really love you-"

"Just leave me alone Matt. I trusted you."

She turns on her heels and before I can stop her, she enters through the communal door for the flats and disappears.

I follow her and attempt to pull open the door but it's locked. I get my phone out but when I try to access the menu all the digits and characters in the screen become an indecipherable jumble.

"What a time for my phone to fuck up" I curse and then head back along Spencer Road to use the landline from the flat.

As I pass the old family house, I grew up in I suddenly find myself attempting to push my way through a crowd of people.

Where the fuck did they come from? I think.

"You created them."

Fuck me! It's the Technical Support guy from the film Vanilla Sky.

"You created them just like David Ames did in the film, and you can get rid of them just as easy."

"I couldn't have created them, every one of them has a unique face - I just don't have the imagination."

"I don't think, Matt, you quite realise the power of the subconscious yet. And you don't know as of yet who the subconscious really is-"

"Please don't give me the God crap, I know I'm just in one of my weird dreams again, and in a minute I'll wake up."

"Try and wake up then, you'll need my help to do so."

I will myself to wake - the crowd are all staring at me and daring me to make them vanish.

I concentrate again but to no avail - I'm still asleep and dreaming.

I'm getting scared - what if I never wake up. What if I'm dying?

At the edge of the crowd, I see Ronan, my old school friend who's always calm and always knows what to do.

I shout to him: "RONAN, I NEED YOUR HELP."

He turns to me and as he does so I can see he's glassy eyed, drunk and covered in vomit.

"It's me that needs your help, Matt."

A cold shiver runs through me...

I become aware of something flesh coloured - it's Juki's bare back.

"Thank God, it's all a nightmare." I breathe a sigh of relief and as I do Juki stirs.

"You okay?" she says.

"I really love you darling."

"I really love you too, Matt."

I kiss her and then roll onto my back, relieved to be awake, glad to be alive.

Saturday 17th September 2011: The End of Time - Blog

We're in Frankie and Benny's on Gunwharf Quays in Portsmouth and sitting opposite me is my wife, Juki.

It's about five o'clock and busy, very busy - we'd just got a table.

I scan around: Families. Lovers. Friends. Children's birthday parties. Staff rushing round with plates and glasses.

I listen to the hubbub: Snatches of conversation. The sound of cutlery upon crockery. The footfall of the waiters and waitresses as they rush past our table.

I pick up a slice of garlic bread, tear a bit off with my teeth and place the remainder on my plate - it tastes good.

I look directly at Juki - her eyes are still a bit red from crying and she has been crying on and off since this morning.

Bill Hayley's: Rock around the Clock strikes up which is kind of ironic because for the last few moments I have been speculating about time when I should have been comforting and reassuring my wife that everything is going to be okay, but life isn't always about 'shoulds'.

Out of the blue, the kaleidoscope of images, the discordant symphony of noise overwhelm me - I surrender to the power of Universe and become both its lens and image, forever at the end of time.

For that brief instance I feel that I am not me but as swiftly I return to the structure of reality, the 'security' yet the notion of forever being on the edge of time, a reluctant passenger on the 'Juggernaut of Becoming' grinding relentlessly forward, at once scares and excites me...

I lean across the table and take Juki's hand in mine.

"It'll be okay, sometimes it takes time, and it'll all work out for the best, I'm sure."

She squeezes my hand and smiles warmly at me for the first time since this morning, this morning when much to her disappointment and anguish, with the arrival of her period, she realised she wasn't pregnant - yet.

Friday 23rd September 2011: I Really Want to Kill the Ugly Bitch - Slut Fiction

There's a part of me that really wants to kill her and there's a part of her too that really wants me to beat her into oblivion. I know, just know.

Naked across a footstool, knees drawn up to the edge, flabby white arms supporting her fat upper body which appears more slumped than resting on the blue cushion.

Middle-aged. Pale. Overweight. Ugly. Lonely. Depressed.


We'd got chatting in a bar after I'd accidentally trodden on her toe - both drunk but she more drunk than me - and admitted towards the end of the evening she'd had a rough time when she had been younger, hinted at abuse.

Damaged and vulnerable, I'd concluded as I'd given her my mobile number - my kind of female.

I'd met her the next day for a coffee in town and she'd been uglier than I'd recalled: beady little brown eyes too close together set in a pudgy round face with a snub nose and flared nostrils with a prominent chin. Her hair was a mousey brown, badly styled and touched her shoulders. I can't remember what she was wearing because she was so ugly, too ugly to fuck, but maybe, just maybe, ugly enough to hurt.

She'd talked too much about her job in the local library, her love of literature, tried to impress me, but to no avail - it was a charade and she knew that I knew it.

I'd cut to the chase: "You're damaged. Tell me about it."

Anyone else would have walked out on me, a relative stranger, if I'd said that to them but not her. You see, I can kind of smell it on them, it's a 'hormone' they give off.

She'd opened up about it, relished recounting the sordid brutality yet the details were irrelevant because she needed to live through it in a variety of ways again and again and again - Freud's compulsion to repeat.


"I'm going to fucking hurt you, you worthless, fat and ugly bitch."

She says nothing so I bring the flogger down with full force across her expansive pale back.

She flinches with the pain, but doesn't yell out, and red fingers from the falls appear across her flesh. I feel good, very good - I like hurting females.

I raise the flogger, savouring the momentary hiss before I bring it down a second time hard upon her skin. This time she cries out and shifts slightly on the stool. I start to become aroused and fear that I may not be able to stop.

I deliver ten lashes, all hard, in swift succession.

She screams and cries, twists but remains in position.

Angry welts rise but all it does is make me thirst for more. More pain. Blood.

I whip her now without respite - her screaming and sobbing become merged into a constant wail interrupted only by the faltering catching of her breath.

"Daddy," she chokes out, "please stop hurting me...why... why?"

I lower my face to the left of hers and hiss cruelly: "Because you're worthless, and deserve to die, die in pain."

"Kill me Daddy, beat me to a pulp. I am nothing. I am ugly and no man will have me," she sobs.

"You are so ugly you are an affront to nature!"

I stand up again then thrash her buttocks caring not that the thongs wrap around her midriff - I observe, with perverse gratification, as I bring forth beads of blood that become lines and smears.

Frenzied I beat her harder and without respite - her cries become a low moan and then stop.

She is still now, her head hangs down, her elbows slack - I wonder if I have indeed killed her, killed myself because I would rather be dead than serve time in prison.

I kneel beside her and pull her head up by her sweat and blood matted hair - her eyes are half open and gluey but she is still alive.

"I am going to fuck you now you ugly lucky bitch."

I let her head loll back, drop my trousers and then penetrate her from behind. The sight of her bloodied back heightens further my lust and after just five thrusts I climax, feeling the spunk shoot into her slack cunt.

All the time she lies there inert like a slab of meat.

I fasten my trousers, place the flogger on the bed and walk towards the bedroom door.

I know that she is going to live. I know that she would have let me kill her. I know that at one point I desired to kill her, and I know she would have let me. But not today. Maybe next time.

I place my hand on the doorknob and hear her gulp.

I turn around and she is attempting to raise her head, moving her saliva smeared lips.

"Th-thanks," she forces out through her lips.

"My pleasure, bye," I respond.

I walk down the stairs of her house, let myself out of the front door and into the bright daylight.

Funny how I ended up fucking her after all what with her being so ugly - women can be just so manipulative at times, I reflect and then chuckle out loud.

Saturday 24th September 2011: Embers - Blog

Thornton's, Newport.

I hear a chair scrape along the floor and turn my head, as you always have to, in the direction of the disturbance. A tallish, slim and quite shapely female, with straight blonde hair falling to just below her shoulders, and with her back to me, is preparing to leave. My gaze lingers a little longer than it should because, from behind, she reminds me of my ex-partner, Sharon, but younger, and then it all floods back: the laughs. The passion. The lust. The love. The frustration. The game playing. The betrayal. The hurt. The anger. The fights. The separation. The pain, oh the pain. The guilt. The regrets.

The woman, who I think resembles Sharon turns round - and is Sharon.

A tingle runs through my body, as it always does when I see her, even after all these years.

I lean across to Juki and whisper: "It's Sharon."

Sharon walks towards us, she has no alternative if she wishes to leave, and then sees us, sees me.

"Hello, Sharon."

"Hello," she responds sweetly - perhaps deliberately so.

I feel a lump in my throat - why?

She passes close by and her friend following her, dark haired and plain, shoots me a hostile glance.

I watch her as she makes for the door.

I know that she knows I am watching her. I also know that Juki is watching me watching Sharon.

She exits into the High Street but before she disappears behind the edge of the glass front she casts a quick sneaky glance in our direction - she's looking at me to see if I'm looking at her. I am.

I wonder where she is going, what she has planned for the evening, and I wonder what I and she would have planned for the evening if we had still been together...

I turn back to face Juki, Juki who I really love, love more than Sharon, Juki who understands me like Sharon never did. Or maybe, just maybe, Sharon did really understand me...

I smile, reassuringly, at Juki who knows that when you truly love someone, truly love them, that that flame though it may wane can never be completely extinguished.

I guess the embers still glow and I guess too that that is something I will have to live with till the day I die.

"Let's get our shopping now Juki, get the next bus back home, have a quiet night in. You know that I really love you Juki, don't you?'


I lean across the table and kiss her because I really do love her. More than anyone.

Sunday 25th September 2011: Rage and Guilt - Blog

I check my watch, 0805, twenty minutes to get dressed before I have to catch the bus to work. Plenty of time.

I walk out of the lounge naked and into the bedroom. I yawn. I feel tired but I can't not go to work, can't allow a blip on my record.

I slip my pants, socks, vest and navy-blue work trousers on prior to taking an ironed white shirt off the hangar out of the wardrobe.

I button up the shirt including the cuffs with difficulty - I must be putting weight on again - before realising that I can't tuck it in to my waist because my braces are over my vest but under my shirt.


I remove my shirt, unhook my braces, struggle with the buttons again, tuck my shirt satisfactorily into my trousers and then slip my braces over my shirt.

Ten minutes before the bus is due and just a five minute walk to the end of the road. I'm ready to go.

I pick up my watch in order to strap it round my wrist and realise, infuriatingly, that I have the wrong fucking white shirt on - the work shirts are white too but short sleeved with the organisation's logo.

Fucking idiot! The little voice in my head sneers.

I glance at the clock on the television - seven minutes to get along the road and catch the bus.

I start to unbutton my shirt for the second time.

You're going to miss the bus you twat, people will think you are unreliable, you won't get your job back next year, you thick bastard, the voice in my head berates.

The buttons seem to be taking an eternity to unfasten.

Useless fucking twat, you never were any good, all those pretensions, all those ideas that you had the answer for everything. You are a useless, deluded, cunt!

I fight the urge to rip the shirt off but am unable to contain my rapidly rising internal rage.


I throw my shirt across the bed before storming over to the wardrobe and finally getting the right shirt out.


Juki pokes her head round the bedroom door. "Are you okay, what's the matter?"


Juki retreats from the room. She looks concerned.

I finally get the right shirt on, stamp out of the bedroom, put my tie and jacket on. I have less than five minutes now.

I quickly divert into the lounge - Juki is sitting quietly, too quietly, at the table. I can see she is scared - she has had enough of uncontrolled violence in her life. I have let her down, let her down badly, and the guilt is kicking in.

I put my arm round her and kiss her.

"I'm n-not angry with y-you darling. It's me. I'm so useless at times, despise myself for it."

"I know, I know, but you have frightened me."

"I'm sorry, really sorry."

And I am really sorry. She doesn't deserve this, my sweet Juki.

I leave her pensive in the lounge before exiting out of the front door.

I run along Spencer Road and wonder, anxiously, as I become rapidly breathless if I will have a heart attack and that the last enduring memory Juki will have of me is as an old bad-tempered cunt...

I arrive, puffing, at the bus stop and check my watch: 0826. I haven't missed the bus.

I take my mobile out and begin to type Juki a message: Really, really sorry. I love you so much...

I become aware of a presence, it's Juki and she's on her way to meet her mother. I had forgotten.

"I'm just messaging you before the bus comes. God Juki, I'm really, really sorry to scare you like that."

"It's okay, you're tired and frustrated, but yes, you did scare me-"

"I reminded you of your father. I'm so sorry."

The double-decker bus rounds the corner and I raise my hand.

As the vehicle slows I kiss her, but I sense a reluctance.

I then watch her walk off up the road at the same time as the doors of the bus open. I step aboard. "Morning," I say cheerily to the young female driver as I show her my pass pretending that nothing is wrong. I take a seat downstairs and turn my head to gaze out of the window as the bus picks up speed.

I wonder, worry, if my behaviour, my failure to control my rage will eventually drive my wife away because I am behaving the very way her father did and she doesn't deserve for that to happen a second time.

We pass over Wootton Bridge and I observe the tranquil water of Wootton Creek - tranquillity, everything I'm not. And maybe never will.

At times I loathe myself in so many ways: guilt, guilt, guilt.


It's about half seven now and I'm just about to wash up.

"Do you still love me Juki? Still want me?"

"Yes, of course I do. But you did scare me, did remind me of my father. I'll never leave you but promise me one thing - don't let yourself get over-tired, it's not good for you."

"I really love you Juki and I'm really sorry. I would never hurt you. Never."

"Never hurt me?" she laughs. I laugh. We laugh. She continues: "We're sadomasochists, we live to hurt each other."

We laugh again, move close to each other, then embrace and kiss.

Monday 26th September 2011: Sex with a bit of Violence - Blog

I am sitting on the sofa - the sofa that has clearly seen better days - watching the news.

She walks past me, totally naked, having put her clothes out for Tuesday morning, turns to me and says, "I want you to really scratch me in a minute, really scratch me... hard."

I catch hold of her hand whilst my attention is drawn to her freshly shaved cunt and respond, "I'll be with you in a second."

The prospect of shortly inflicting pain on her begins to arouse me.

She pads out of the lounge.

I switch the television off - what do I care if Greece defaults on its loans, fucking EU - and follow her to the bedroom.

She is lying nude on the covers reading a book. Or, perhaps, rather, going through the motions of reading a book.

I strip off and throw the bundle of my clothes on the floor - there's a time and a place for tidiness. I guess it isn't before depravity.

She takes her reading glasses off then hands them with the book to me so that I can place them on the bedside table.

I lie down on the bed next to her and take her in my arms.

"Really scratch me Matt, make me bleed."

I squeeze her tight and pull her to me such that her back is exposed. I make my hands into claws and rake her flesh hard.

She gasps - I know it must have hurt.

Again I rake her but this time I travel down to the back of thighs.

She yelps and I begin to feel aroused.

Again and again I scratch her.

She winces and struggles but I hold her even tighter - I know she likes the idea of being forced to suffer.

This time I smack each of her bare buttocks hard - the sounds of the impacts resound around the room and wonder if the downstairs neighbour can hear; but what the hell if he can.

I manhandle her onto her front and scratch over her nipples and breasts. She cries out in pain. I repeat the actions. She screams again, before I roll her roughly over onto her front.

I run my untrimmed nails even harder down the skin of her slightly freckly back and watch, with increasing arousal, as the flesh breaks in places and fine threads of crimson appear.

I smack her backside even harder - she needs to be broken.

"You can fuck me now," she gasps.

I throw my legs across hers and penetrate her, penetrate her hard whilst she roughly rubs my nipples.

In between the panting I force out, "You love being abused don't you? It exhilarates you, doesn't it, and you want more, don't you?"

"Yes, slap me across my face."

I pause my thrusting, rest myself on my left arm and strike her across her left cheek.

Her face jerks with the blow.

I smack her again.

"God, that feels good, hurts, but is good."

I return to fucking her.

"Let's really hurt each other soon, we need it, makes our lives full," she adds.

I begin to climax and as I do I imagine myself naked being kicked in the balls by her.

I spasm, and spent, totally spent, collapse on top of her before rolling to one side.

"That was good, really good, thanks," I say.

"It was. You know that we are completely weird, completely weird," she responds.

"We are, totally. Night, night darling." I cuddle her, kiss her and then turn out the lights. I know that sleep won't be long in coming.

Saturday 1st October 2011: The Serial Killer - Short Story

I settle myself into the backseat of the cab and in that instant know that I am going to kill her. Kill her slowly. Agonizingly.

I feel the juices begin to ferment.

She turns to me. Young, blonde, blue eyed, good looking.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Mansion Place, please."

She smiles at me and I can tell that she is a kind person because I am a psychopath and I can read people. It's what we do.

"Sure." She continues to smile.

She turns back, indicates and pulls out into the night traffic.

I see her bound and naked, covered in blood, her eyes wide with fear, pleading with me...

I can barely contain myself, but I must maintain my façade, lull her into a false sense of security.

We drive through the city and I observe the revellers but knowing the revellers won't observe me, won't remember me passing by with my prey. Gratifying.

I look at the scum congregating beneath and bathed by the sodium lamps, drawn to the neon lights of the bars like cockroaches to putrefying leftovers.

I hate them. Hate all of humanity.

"Had a good evening?"

She wants to converse.

"Just been to see my Auntie. She's all alone since my Uncle passed away. Nobody else cares about her, not even her son. I guess it's because she has no money."

"Not many like you nowadays. I can tell you're a decent man."

I laugh inside. I had been to see my regular girl, a pro, but she hadn't been working and maybe, just maybe, if she had then I wouldn't have needed to kill. But it's too late for that now. Well, too late for Miss Sweetness and Light here.

"Nobody seems to care anymore. It's a world without values."

"Oh, I don't know, I meet a lot of nice people," she says cheerily.

"You're probably right. Perhaps I have grown a little cynical over the years."

I mustn't let her suspect anything - anything.

She concentrates on negotiating the roundabout before taking the exit north, north to where I live where I will overpower her, strip her, tie her up, play mind games with her, and whip her till she bleeds. Then watch with extreme satisfaction as she slowly strangles, legs kicking futilely, to death naked at the end of a rope whilst I wank myself to orgasm.

I feel my erection strain against the inside of trousers - I am sixty and have lost nothing of my drive.

"Are you married? I hope you don't mind me asking. I like to talk to my fares, can be a bit lonely driving a cab at times."

"I was married but my wife died, in a car accident. I still miss her; she was the best. The very best. Over twenty years ago..."

I tail off as though about to choke with grief - I'm an accomplished actor, have to be.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to drag up unhappy memories."

"It's okay, you weren't to know. I've had offers but-"

"I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

I can tell she's a really nice person - caring, loving, kind and generous - and it won't help her a bit.

I manoeuvre myself out of the cab, making a meal out of hanging on to the door, whilst grabbing my metal crutch.

"Could you open the boot for me, I need to get my suitcase."

"That's fine. Do you need me to bring it in? It looks heavy."

"Would you? You really are kind. It's full of my Uncle's old clothes. My Auntie, she's ninety now, wants me to donate them to charity. How could I say no?"

She smiles in an understanding and sympathetic way.

"Look, why don't you go ahead, open the front door and I'll bring your suitcase in. You can maybe make me a cuppa. We can have a nice chat. I hope that's not too forward."

This is just going to be so easy...

I slip my key into the lock; the moon is full and it's nearly midnight.

I hear her footsteps behind me and hold open the door - the fly is nearly in the web.

"Thanks," she says, and enters plonking the heavy suitcase down over the threshold.

I will make her a tea and then from behind render her unconscious by applying a rag soaked with ether to her nose and mouth like taking candy from-

A brilliant white light explodes within my being, a metallic taste in my mouth. I'm crawling on the floor. What the fuck?

I roll over on to my back, I must be having a stroke.

"Help me please, get an ambulance."

"I really don't think that would be a good idea, do you?" she smiles with a cruel gleam in her eyes.

I feel something warm and sticky run down over my forehead and in her hand, she is holding a wheel brace which is dripping with blood, my blood.

I attempt to raise myself, but my body feels as though it is composed of lead.

"Pathetic little man, all kindness, clinging onto his dead wife's memory, looking after his aged Auntie who should have been left to rot in a nursing home years ago. I despise you-"

"It's not like that, really it's not, honest," I splutter out.

"I'm going to put you out of your misery. I'm doing you a... favour."

She raises the brace high above her head and as she arcs it down upon my skull I laugh...

Thursday 6th October 2011: Guilty

In a criminal justice system based on twelve individuals not smart enough to get out of jury duty, here is one jury to be proud of.

The defendant was on trial for murder.

There was strong evidence indicating guilt, but there was no corpse. In the defence's closing statement, the lawyer, knowing that his client would probably be convicted, had a strategy. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I have a surprise for you all," the lawyer said as he looked at his watch. "Within one minute, the person presumed dead in this case will walk into this courtroom." He looked toward the courtroom door. The jurors, stunned, all looked on eagerly. A minute passed. Nothing happened.

Finally, the lawyer said: "Actually, I made up the previous statement. But you all looked at the door with anticipation. I, therefore, put it to you that you have a reasonable doubt in this case as to whether anyone was killed, and I insist that you return a verdict of not guilty."

The jury retired to deliberate. A few minutes later, the jury returned and pronounced a verdict of guilty. "But how?" inquired the lawyer. "You must have had some doubt; I saw all of you stare at the door!"

The jury foreman replied: "Yes, we did look, but the defendant didn't."

Thursday 20th October 2011: Abusing my Slut - Blog

I enter the bedroom to find her on the bed but under the covers naked. She has her glasses on and is reading her book well, looks like she is reading her book as she knows now what to expect - abuse.

I take my clothes off and place them in the linen basket - she'll be washing them in due course, it's her duty and she does it well, which is fortunate for her, because the cane can really 'educate'.

I lie down next to her. She is breathing heavily and seems a tad nervous - as she should.

"Hand me your glasses and book, you slut."

She complies with my request and I place them on the bedside table then turn to face her.

"You're my dirty little slut and the only language a slut understands is pain, the only thing a slut can expect is abuse. I'm going to really hurt you now," I hiss out through gritted teeth just inches away from her face.

I throw the covers off exposing her naked and, do I detect trembling body?

I pull her over roughly close to me - my erection is swelling - and hold her tight so she can't twist away.

I rake down hard with nails along her freckly back - it is my intention to draw blood - and feel her tense with the pain.

"You're a dirty slut and all you fantasise about all day is being fucked. Admit it!"

"Y-yes, I do," she confesses breathlessly.

I slap her hard on both cheeks. "You dirty, dirty slut with your filthy thoughts. I'm going to have to punish you even harder!"

I manhandle her so that she is face down on the mattress and smack each of her buttocks as hard as I can in turn, the sound of the impact resounding off the walls. Fuck it if the neighbours can hear - a lesson for a slut is a lesson for us all.

I spank her buttocks five or six times - each times she cries out and twists her torso but to no avail as my grip is too strong.

I claw down the pale flesh of her back, again raising angry and scarlet weals. With gratification I observe pinpricks of blood, the slut's blood.

"Are you still thinking dirty and sinful thoughts? You fucking little slut!" I shout.

"No. No."


I slap her face, two, three, four times, her eyes blinking shut instinctively with each stunning blow.

"You're a dirty, filthy slut and all you are good for is being a receptacle for spunk. Admit it... slut."

"Y-yes, I admit it."

"And whose slut, are you?"

"Yours, and only yours, forever, to be punished, to be abused, to be fucked, whenever you want."

I grab hold of her left arm, force it behind her head then bring my right hand down to her freshly shaved cunt.

I press my three longest fingers firmly upon her engorged clitoris and circle round with increasing rapidity - she commences to moan and I feel her muscles tauten.

"I'm going to make you come now... whether you like it or not."

"I mustn't, I'm dirty!"

"Think only of me, kneeling down at my feet worshipping me, sucking my dick, fulfilling my every whim-"

Her back arches and she screams out: "Oooooooohh, my God".

And then as swiftly she slumps down onto the bed spent, totally and absolutely spent.

We both laugh and laugh.

"We're growing old pretty disgracefully, aren't we? Do you think he heard downstairs?" she smiles.

"We certainly are, good wasn't it, and I don't give a fuck if he did hear, he watches too much telly as it is, make a change for him. So, time for me to fuck you now, you slut."

She grins in that impish way of hers then rolls compliantly on her back. My turn now...

Tuesday 8th November 2011: Fear, Pain and Love - Fiction

I hear the lash of the flogger as it impacts hard upon my bare back yet the fiery pain has now reduced to a mere sensation, almost pleasant, almost. I am beginning to 'drift'.

I am face down naked on her bed and she is beating me as is her whim.

She brings the leather falls down with maximum force across my exposed buttocks but the 'bite' is now dulled - I speculate that the natural opiates of my body are now kicking in and wonder distractedly what it would be like to be beaten to death. Perhaps one day she will, and I will not fight it, will not defy her, and cannot defy her - ever.

How many strokes has it been? A hundred? Two hundred?

I have lost count...

"Your punishment is over, Omega, you had gone still. You can get up now."

I do not feel like getting up, the relentless beating, the pain has drained me but I slowly drag myself up into a kneeling position.

"That was fun wasn't it Omega? In fact I'm quite damp. You can lick me off now."

My wellbeing, understandably, is of little concern to her - I'm just her toy.

I watch her first replace the whip in the wardrobe, remove her shoes then pull down her black lace knickers which she dumps in the wicker linen basket in the corner of the room.

"Get to the bottom of the bed."

I shuffle to the far edge of the mattress. The fabrics feel rough upon the large areas of my chastised, deservedly chastised, flesh.

She clambers onto the bed and lies with her back upon the covers. She hitches her skirt up exposing her beautiful shaved vagina - she is naked from the waist down.

"Get on with it then," she barks at me.

I wriggle up, placing my head betwixt her strong and pale thighs, flick my tongue out and commence to lick her clitoris in the way she relishes - slow and light at first then with steadily increasing frequency and pressure.

I hear her breathing deepen and wonder what, or who, she is thinking about - not me, that's for sure, but, I am thinking about her and desire to make love to her though she has told me, even though I never had the temerity to ask, that that would never happen and rounding off the statement with a cruel derisory chuckle.

Her frantic gasping suddenly ceases, her back arches violently as she simultaneously lets out a short scream before shoving my head reflexively away and then slumping spent to the bed.

"Hmmm," she purrs. "That was rather satisfactory, you do have your uses after all, Omega. Now go and make me a cup of tea."

I slide off the bed, the salty savour of her juices still upon my lips, get to my feet, pull open the door and head obediently for the kitchen...

Thursday 10th November 2011: Whoops! - Blog

"Where's your sister, Juki?" I say to her after returning from the bedroom.

"She's just nipped to the loo," she replies.

"You do remember what's hanging up behind the bathroom door don't you?"

"Oh shit, the canes."

I meet her sister (who is unaware of our little 'hobby') as she comes back into the lounge to say goodbye after just popping in unexpectedly for a coffee, and she seems to be having trouble suppressing a grin.


Wednesday 23rd November 2011: Terribly Sorry - Horror Story

"Terribly, terribly sorry," she gushes over the phone to me.

I'm terribly sorry too. In a way...


I had first laid my eyes on her, about a year ago, when she had started as a counter assistant in the hardware shop where I worked. At first, I hadn't really been that struck by her but as time had gone by and I had got to know her I kind of became addicted to her, maybe obsessed and I don't really know why because underneath I was a cold fish. A very cold and calculating fish.

I have to admit that I'm an enigma, at least to myself, because though there's a part of me that's extremely fucked up I'm also very shrewd about people, which is why I am also an accomplished actor on the stage where it really matters - the stage of life.

Hypocrisy, fear, cowardice, ego, greed, lust - the pillars that prop up civilisation, a loose term or handle for a barely managed anarchy in which we all wittingly or unwittingly participate and that teeters along unsteadily like a drunkard on a cliff ledge. I have no illusions. I have no illusions about life and people because out of what many would view as a disadvantaged start, I fashioned into a way or philosophy to deliver me what I sought and craved. Perhaps now is the time to say thanks to the double standards of the priests, the thinly veiled sexual sadism of my teachers, the schoolyard bullying, the verbal and violent abuse of my mother, my mother who spent the last years of her life in a state of guilt as to her treatment of me as a child, a guilt I cultivated to extract money and finally a large house out of her when she died. Oh yes, I learnt well, and what I have learnt I am now teaching... you.

You see, the priests with their dirty little secrets taught me that there was no god, or at least no good god, that liberation from the fear of god's wrath was the true liberation, that one should only fear man, nature and fate. Thanks, and god bless...

I must also thank my teachers who beat me for my 'own good' and not of course for their own barely repressed sado-sexual urges which in turn shaped my own fantasies that would so enrich my adult life.

Thanks also to the schoolyard bullies who could make a victim believe they deserved and were the cause of their own persecution - brilliant and so enlightening, so useful.

Last, but no means least, in this 'dark award ceremony' of my life, a life that will shortly no longer be, is my mother, my violent, aspiring mother, torn ultimately between her maternal instincts and her ego. Yes, I must be truly grateful for her rages, berating me between blows for my stupidity, my uselessness, my laziness. Yes, thanks mum, and because of your desire to make me something I wasn't - cultured, career minded and middle-class - in order to gain the approval and acceptance of those you judged superior I took deliberately and defiantly an alternative path to 'enlightenment'.

You have to understand that in a world shorn of illusion there is only pure reality and once exposed it becomes an uncut drug: Powerful. Intoxicating. Dangerous.

The scriptures lost their hold of me and 'nature' now became my 'prophet' and nature preached clearly that existence was about fighting, feeding, fucking, deceit, desire and death. What else did one need to know?

I eschewed a career, prestige, respectability and threw myself into attaining practical skills and traditional crafts. I learnt carpentry, brick laying and decorating along with some basic plumbing. I was self-employed for many years, a jack of all trades, and made a good living which infuriated my mother who would say on the odd occasions that she would visit: "You could have been so much more in life..."

Of course, by this time I was also honing my 'act' - a regular church goer, quietly spoken, law abiding citizen - just like all the other hypocrites I had encountered, only I intended to do it better, and I did. Over the years I became liked and respected, I gave freely to charity, publicly forgave the bullies who had contributed to the hell of my school days, befriended those who had fallen on hard times. Yes, I was Mr Perfect, Mr fucking Perfect...

Underneath though I despised humanity, bunch of fucking grasping, whingeing scumbags, and I could see that they held utter contempt for me, barely disguised, believing me to be weak and an easy touch. But that's exactly what I wanted them to think, misdirect them in order to lure one in - a female to be honest - when I could no longer rein back my 'hunger'.

As should be clear to you now, I am a pervert, a highly dangerous pervert and into extreme sadomasochism - extreme. After a bit, when I had purchased a modest property, I dipped my toe into the waters of S and M by subscribing to a spanking contacts magazine. I was careful, very careful, making sure no one ever knew my real name or where I lived. It made it difficult at times, but it was better to be safe than sorry. I also kept my property free of any suspect material. Over a few years I had had a dozen or so encounters with males and had administered some very severe beatings whilst respecting 'limits' and though gratifying what I really sought was a female because I adored the female form, and what I would do to that female form.

I was nearly thirty when my mother confessed out of the blue one day that she had begun to feel very guilty for the way she had treated me as a child. "What I did was wrong, I realise that now. It wasn't always easy bringing up a child on my own. I do hope you can forgive me, and if there is anything, I can do to help..."

There was something she could do, actually.

My mother's guilt was now an opportunity - I felt nothing for her except a tenuous biological connection at best - for me to capitalise on. I told her that I had a large tax bill to pay, that work was scarce, that my health was beginning to suffer. I really milked it. And her.

In the end, before her end, I had not only extracted a fair amount of cash from her but I had also guilted her into leaving me her house.

I was just thirty-two when she died from a heart attack - served the bitch right - and left me her house and some money. I put on an act of grieving for those present but underneath I was quite elated. I sold my small property and moved into my mother's four-bedroom house. It needed a lot doing to it and I sank a fair amount of cash, effort and time into renovating it.

After a couple of years, it was completely up to scratch; and I had also pretty well eradicated all traces of my mother's pretentious style and décor. And then there was the cellar - what to do with that? I knew exactly what I wanted to do with that - I wanted to convert it into a dungeon. But that could be risky. What if anyone found out?

As it happened, I did turn it into a dungeon - and I made everything myself: St Andrew's cross, spanking bench and pulleys, though I did have to purchase the whips and canes etc.

By the time I had finished my funds were seriously diminished and pissed off with being self-employed I got myself a job in the local hardware store - and that's where Lee came in.

In fact, her real name was Lesley, but she hated that and insisted everyone call her Lee. As I say, at first, I hadn't been that interested in her, but she had a nice way about her - she was easy going, kind (weak). She was thirty-four originally from Liverpool and divorced with a teenage daughter who spent a lot of time with her father. As was my way, I didn't flirt with her like the others, rather I became her friend. In time she began to trust and confide in me and eventually I took her out for a meal. At first, I had thought she was a bit plain with her straight shoulder length blonde hair and neat but uninteresting features. However, after a bit I began to see her, differently.

About a month after the first date I had stayed the night with her and had fucked her. I had also fantasised about beating and killing her just prior to climaxing.

We became an item and a few at the shop speculated that we may get married one day which irritated me privately - what business was it of theirs?

Things got a bit more interesting though when we were at the back of the shop one day when she had picked up a length of cord and had playfully whacked me with it before I had taken it off her and responded in kind by gently swishing her shapely arse with it. I had then jokingly promised to tie her up and whip her with it if she continued to misbehave. Her teasing response: "I may like that."

Well, you guessed, one thing led to another and it wasn't long before I was restraining her and administering measured floggings and whippings to her. Afterwards we would have sex, even if she climaxed during a session.

It was good, fucking good and for the first time in my life I felt, well, happy.

It wasn't to last though.

Recurrent stomach pains with loose stools had led to me making an appointment with the doctor who had then referred me to the hospital for further tests and naturally, I told no one, not even Lee.

Three days later - the bombshell. The doctor called me at work and when I had seen him, he had looked grave. Stuttering he had informed me, "I'm afraid the cancer is malignant, and there's nothing we can do. You have maybe a month."

Bombshell number two. The next day: "Lee is having an affair. She is bored with you and she wants someone who's going somewhere."

"How do you know?" I had asked the manager.

"It's me she's having an affair with."

I'd wanted to punch the cunt but the counsel of my inner voice to 'leave it for now' had prevailed.

So, that was that, I'd got terminal cancer and the one woman who I might have loved was two-timing me. Un-fucking believable.

A lesser man might have cracked, but not me. There was only one thing to do - kill her and deny Doug, my manager, the happiness he relished with Lee.

Fucking bitch. No better than my mother. All the same, women. What a fool I've been.

So, I say nothing to Lee about the cancer nor what Doug had told me. It also occurred to me that maybe Doug is lying and then I knew that it didn't matter if Doug was lying, I'm dying anyway, and I had nothing to fear from god. Nothing at all.

Lee had come over this afternoon, Wednesday, as though nothing was out of the ordinary. My guts for some reason were giving me no trouble. She had sought a session and we had descended to the dungeon.

She had stripped off completely naked before I had secured her arms to links and attached them to the overhead pulley such that she would be on tiptoe. I had then cuffed her ankles together.

I left the cellar-come-dungeon to close first the trapdoor in the kitchen and then the outer door of the dungeon itself. It was highly unlikely that anybody would hear but why take an unnecessary risk?

"Why have you closed the outer door, you don't normally?" she had queried.

I had moved close to her before gripping her chin and whispering in her face, "I'm going to whip you to within an inch of your life, and then I'm going to kill you, you two-timing... bitch!"

She had laughed nervously - she hadn't been sure whether it was a game or not.

It was a game but only one that I would 'enjoy' - and win.

Her nude body was taut and before I laid into her I allowed myself a moment to savour that exquisite vision that is the female form: fair hair just touching lightly freckled shoulders, the pale flesh of her upper arms, the just perceptible glint of light reflecting off her blond arms hairs, the small delectable twin moles on her tummy, her trimmed light brown hair of her fanny, her toned thighs and calves. Her arctic blue Slavic eyes, her small straight nose, the thin lips...

I couldn't help but become erect.

I had whipped her hard across the expanse of her back, listened to her scream, observed the angry welts begin to weep scarlet.


I had smiled at the mention of god.

I had then picked up the cane, swished it once or twice in the air then laid it with venom across her lovely firm buttocks, livid crimson ridges appearing almost immediately.


She had attempted in vain to pull away but I had driven the bamboo again and again into her skin.


I had hissed into her ear: "No one can hear or help you. I am going to kill you. And it's going to be hell!"


I had laughed, laughed like never before.

And then I had whipped her sweet firm and modest breasts, whipped them bright red.

Her face was flushed with screaming and crying, saliva rolled down her chin, her eyes widening incomprehensible with the agony.

Time after time I had swung my arm with full force against her restrained and swaying frame - and then suddenly without warning she had sagged - she had blacked out. But she wouldn't get out of it that easily.

Moving swiftly and deftly I had released her arms from the cuffs and cradled her inert frame in my strong arms whilst I now handcuffed her wrist around her back. It was time for the finale. I then affixed the noose to the end of the pulley.

Within a minute she stirred and for a second appeared bewildered, as though waking from a nightmare instead of to a nightmare. Giving her no time to struggle I had lifted her up and slipped the knot around her neck then hoisted, with some effort, her up about two inches off the concrete floor.

She immediately began to gasp, her legs kicking. I picked up the whip and continued for a few seconds to lash her but soon stopped when I observed her eyes bulging and tongue protruding. She was close to unconsciousness and death.

I had been close to orgasm and had quickly unbuckled and dropped my trousers.

Just before her bowels evacuated, I had shot a line of spunk that landed upon and then smeared the top of her thigh. Release - for both of us.

She was now still. And I was spent.

I had never experienced anything so satisfying and exciting in my life, my life that was just about to end too.

I had then needed to get out of the dungeon as it stunk of shit. And time to prepare for my suicide.

As I had passed the phone in the hall it had rung...


"Terribly sorry, you say. About what?"

"There's been a mix up. We can't understand it. It's never happened before, Mr Triewly. We really are sorry about the distress we have caused you. If there's anything we can do-"

"What the fuck are you on about woman?"

"The blood tests were switched. You haven't got cancer after all. You're going to live."

I slam the receiver down into its cradle.

You're going to live. I replay the words in my head. No, I'm not. No, I'm not.

I guess I am terribly sorry too myself, terribly sorry that I hadn't tortured and killed females right from the beginning and all along. It really is the biggest buzz ever.

I look at my watch, half four - probably got a good few hours before she is reported missing.

Maybe I'll have a curry before I have to kill myself...

Sunday 11th December 2011: Dirty Little Fucking Slut - Blog

"You're a dirty, fat, ugly and worthless slut and I'm going to really hurt you!" I snarl with menace in her ear.

She is naked and I have her left arm pinned behind her head - she is going nowhere, absolutely nowhere till I am done with her.

"All you think about is cocks: Long cocks. Fat cocks. White cocks. Black cocks. Crooked cocks. Smelly cocks..."

"Yes, I do. I'm a worthless slut and only good for fucking," she gasps out.

I have her where I want her, and I can do absolutely anything I want to her. Power, the power to hurt. Intoxicating. Corrupting. Exhilarating.

"I'm going to spank you now, hard. Turn over, you fucking bitch!"

I release her hand and she meekly shifts her body such that is now lying face down with her lily white posterior thrust up. I bring the flat of my hand down with force repeatedly upon her buttocks, the sharp sound of the smacks echoing off the walls of the bedroom. Sometimes I alternate between right and left cheek, sometimes not, whilst all the time berating her and synchronising the words to coincide with each blow: "You're a dirty, dirty, dirty, dirty, little slut. You've fucked everybody, your colleagues, your bosses, your best friend's father, your lecturer..."

She yelps and twists with the pain and I observe with cruel and perverse satisfaction as the flesh of her arse reddens and abrases.

"You don't care where you're fucked either, do you? Up your slack and permanently dripping cunt, shoved in your tight little arsehole, in your mouth. Maybe all three at the same time. Fucking ugly and fat SLUT!!!"

I throw her over onto her back and slap her across her face - she takes it well, but I know it stings then thrust my face into hers and hiss: "Not the first time you've been slapped across your ugly mug, is it? I bet a few wives and girlfriends have hit you, beaten you up. I can imagine you with your scarlet lipstick and mascara smeared, your tarty clothes ripped, your tits hanging out. And you would have deserved it, YOU FUCKING SLAG!"

I rake my nails over her breasts and nipples. Raised livid lines appearing instantly and causing her to suck breath suddenly through her clenched teeth.

"I bet you're still thinking and dreaming about cock now, aren't you? Cos" that's all you live for. Worthless, worthless, that's what you are. Only good for fucking, fucking behind the bike sheds, fucking at work, fucking from behind, up your behind, with your short little denim skirt pulled up and your knickers pulled down, pissed and in the gutter with whoever will have you, you fucking, FUCKING SLUT!"

She shudders briefly so I rub her swollen clit harder and faster.

"I'm going to scrawl SLUT in lipstick across your cleavage and write FREE FUCK above your cunt with arrows pointing down to your slit."

I feel her begin to tremble; she is about to climax: "What are YOU?!"

She begins to pant but just gasps out: "I'm a DIRTY, UGLY AND FAT WORTHLESS FUCKING SLUT!" before screaming, arching her back and then slumping exhausted onto the bed.

We both laugh out loud and I kiss her gently on the lips.

I love her, really, really, love her...

Friday 6th January 2012: Mrs Shit-Shit - Memory

Many years ago, when I was a bus driver, there used to be a passenger who for reasons about to become obvious we called Mrs Shit-Shit.

Mrs Shit-Shit was retired, tall and in many ways quite respectable, unfortunately she suffered from Tourette's syndrome, and also because she was extremely self-conscious about her condition she tried to control it, which merely exacerbated it - bit like attempting to hold a fart in.

A typical encounter with her would go something like this:

Mrs Shit-Shit: Morning driver, <stepping onto platform of bus> a half to Binstead please... SHIT!

Me: That will be twenty-five pence please.

Mrs Shit-Shit: SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SHIT! Here you are driver...<hands me coins> SHIT!

Me<attempting to be professional>: How are you today?

Mrs Shit-Shit: I'm absolutely... SHIT!... fine, thank you... SHIT!

I have to admit at first I did find her quite amusing but after a while you got used to her and didn't think too much about it although you never forgot she was on the bus since you would hear the occasional 'shit' as you drove along.

Anyway, one day I was at Ryde Bus Station and on Service 10, which served Binstead Estate and was operated by minibuses, and behind time, when Mrs Shit-Shit ran down at the last moment through the bus station.

"Hang on a SH-SH-SHIT! Minute, driver, SHIT, please," she had shouted at me as I had been about to pull out.

Being a nice person I had hung on for her but by the time I had departed I had been about eight minutes late, and because the timings were quite tight it was going to be a bugger to get back on schedule. I decided to put my foot down, I also wasn't in the best of moods either!

I left the bus station like a bat out of hell with the engine screaming and by the time I got to the roundabout at the end of The Esplanade I was going a 'tad' too fast. Realising this I threw the vehicle down a gear and entered the tight curve. It was scary and to this day I think we may have been on two wheels for a brief instance, but fortunately the vehicle remained upright. However during this moment of near disaster all I could hear from the back was this long drawn out:"SH-SH-SH-SH-SHIT!!!"

I believe, now, it may have been the first time in a long while her swearing couldn't have been attributed to her condition...

Saturday 7th January 2012: Blockbusters and the Ghost of Bob Holness

Ghost of Bob Holness: "Ed, what T describes the current leader of the Labour Party?"

Monday 9th January 2012: I'm a Grandfather Again - Blog

After two grandsons, I now have a Granddaughter!!!!

Thursday 2nd February 2012: Slut Flogged and Branded in the Town Square - Bedtime Story

"Your head is bowed and your long and lustrous chestnut hair falls down in front of you like roughly drawn curtains half obscuring your features. Your bare and faintly freckled arms hang loosely by your sides and beneath the coarse scarlet robe, as befits a scarlet woman, a filthy whore, you are nude."

"You have been brought to the town square in an open cart and in front of you is a small gathering of the good and law abiding folk you sought to corrupt and dishonour, and they are there to witness that justice is done, because you are a dirty slut without morals, without shame."

"The magistrate having now finished reading out your sentence now orders his sergeants-at-arms to proceed with your punishment. They remove the robe to leave you completely naked and vulnerable. You are accompanied to the whipping cross where strong hands secure you tightly to the oaken beams with leather straps, your arms outstretched along the cross section and your legs strapped tightly to the upright. You can hardly move and you feel the unforgiving grain of the timber press against your flesh. Turned away from the townsfolk you attempt not to listen to their jeers: 'Look at her fat arse, who'd want to fuck that?' 'She's so ugly.' 'All she's got to offer is her cunt, and I bet that's slacker than a wizard's sleeve...' "

"You hear the tails of the flogger hiss cruelly through the cool air a split second before they agonisingly bite into the flesh of your exposed back, and then a second later across your buttocks. 'Lay it on hard, make the bitch bleed,' you hear one of the crowd shout."

"You cast your mind back to just before you were arrested, on all fours in the gutter with your short denim skirt pulled up and being fucked from behind with your tits exposed and being groped. You remember feeling the spunk running down your leg as you were manhandled into the police van but you had never cared because all you had craved for was cock, big juicy cocks, thrust up your cunt, rammed up your arse, and taken in your mouth, sometimes all three, because all you were - and are - is a dirty, fucking, ugly, worthless slut."

"Your back and buttocks are a sea of pain now, but that is only the first phase because now you are going to have your breasts whipped hard to teach you to flaunt them, to tempt good men into sin. Your bonds are loosened, you are turned round and through the blur of your watering eyes you now face the throng. Your shaking arms are once again drawn out and fastened to the cross bar, your legs and ankles to the upright."

"The first stroke lands across both your tits and nipples feeling as though you had been stung by a thousand jelly fish. You scream out in pain but the crowd bay for more: 'Whip the flesh off the dirty harlot!' "

"You are broken now, your body is numb, almost numb. But there is just one more chapter of agony to go. You smell the coals from the brazier, you just discern the footsteps, and then the searing, blinding, pain as the near red hot branding iron is thrust onto the shaved pale triangle of flesh just atop your slit with the words SLUT burned forever into your skin-"

She arches her back, gasping and crying out whilst gripping my left hand then slumps back down onto the mattress laughing. My spunk is already in her, though some of it has already seeped out, but perhaps there is still enough to fertilise her.

"You rather like the 'Town Square' fantasy don't you?"

"Yes, it really turns me on, though I also like the idea of being abducted."

"I'll have to come with something then won't I?"

"Yes, please. I quite enjoy a... bedtime story."

We both chuckle before I switch off the bedside light...

Thursday 23rd February 2012: National One Finger Day - Blog

A mate of mine reckons we should all travel up to the Houses of Parliament on the Ist of May and at 1 o'clock stick one finger up for one minute at all the politicians and their banker friends for all the years they've been sticking one finger up at us. What do you reckon?

Sunday 26th February 2012: Fat, Fifty and Fucked - Blog

Fat, fifty and fucked. I've been thinking about that for a few days, thinking about what I'm going to do for the rest of my sad little life.

Anyway, yesterday we had a pretty lazy day: I snoozed for a few hours during the day and when I woke up, I asked Juki if she fancied a shag. She agreed, naturally, so within a few minutes she was naked on the bed with me holding her arm firmly behind her head - she needs to feel pinned down. Whilst rubbing her clit I recounted her favourite 'Town Square' fantasy in which she is stripped naked before being publicly flogged and branded for being a slut. She didn't last long before she arched her back in ecstasy - only as far as the part where she is secured to the whipping cross. We hadn't had sex for four days as she had only just finished her period, which sadly means she is not yet pregnant. As soon as she had climaxed I had clambered on top of her and within a few minutes I too had come - she had been telling me what to expect when she punished me next.

By this time it was nearly three o'clock so decided it was time to do a bit of shopping and get something to eat. We wandered up town and eventually ended up in Coco's (it's called something different now, but I can't remember what it is). Juki had a sausage roll and I plumped for Country Vegetable soup with some hot bread - tasty.

We then went back up town where I collected an application form for a job before nipping into Thornton's for a hot chocolate.

Needing a bit of fresh air, I persuaded Juki to take a stroll along the Esplanade where I took some shots of the beach and pier. Whilst there J, who was cycling past on her way to watch the ice hockey at the Arena, espied us and came over to tell us that her partner/friend had passed away. I never really knew the fellow but tendered her my condolences anyway. Considering how much he had suffered it seemed to me that death was probably a blessing.

After J had gone, I said to Juki that I now intended to make the most of what life is left to me - I have wasted too much time on airy fairy ideas and projects which ultimately come to naught, and I just can't be arsed with it all anymore. So, from now on I am going to eat what I fancy, gamble, travel, play games, maybe even go to bingo one day and act out our fantasies. Juki agreed.

So immediately after we strolled up Union Street and popped into the Malaysian Restaurant, Yan Woo, where Juki ordered a Lemon Chicken and I had Sweet and Sour - it was delicious, and I really don't care if it is bad for me with high cholesterol. I just don't give a fuck anymore.

Back home I transferred a hundred quid into my Ladbrokes account, with Juki's assent, and promptly placed 10 quid on Nathan Cleverly - I won 40 pence!

This morning I turned the computer on to discover that someone had purchased 4 of our clips from Spanking Library, though I have to confess that all we made was six quid, but it's good for our egos if nothing else. In fact, the main reason we uploaded videos of our sessions to Spanking Library was so that we would have copies of our beatings should we lose them.

Okay, it is off up town again to buy us some dinner and then when I've done that I have to complete yet another job application form before preparing for an interview on Tuesday.

Monday 27th February 2012: The Really Popular Cunt - Dark Humour

Just me and her now. Well, just me.

I gaze into her steel blue eyes to try and see her soul. I see... nothing.

She blinks once.

I slap her hard across her left cheek with the palm of my right hand.

She sways and nearly over balances onto the bed.

It feels good to hit her. I like hitting and brutalising females - it's the only thing that really turns me on. I guess I'm a real nasty cunt.

She brings her hand up to her face to massage her cheek bone. I would like to believe it really stung.

"Why did you do that?" She appears stunned, bewildered. And sounds hurt.

"Because I can... you bitch. You fucking bitch!"

I can feel the fury now.

I smash my right fist into her nose. I feel the bone structure just under her flesh crumple with a satisfying 'crunch'.

She screams and falls back upon the mattress bringing her arms up to her face.

I watch the scarlet ooze through her fingers and launch myself at her.

On top of her now she writhes and screams and attempts to makes a fight of it. But I know I will prevail.

"You fucking bastard," she screams.

Good. Very good.

I grab hold of both her arms and force them behind her blonde head and I can see that her nose is busted and has been dislocated. She's still pretty after a fashion, but not for long.

I head butt her in the nose and more blood spurts out. Oh, such fun!

I punch her in the jaw, and she emits a low animal groan as her bare tanned arms flail.

"Stay still bitch... if you want to live."

I laugh at that one.

I rip off her skimpy sleeveless top to reveal small white breasts with pert nipples - delicious and perfect, just what I crave.

I punch her hard in her stomach. She grunts and doubles up pleading for me to stop - exquisite, really exquisite.

I'm so hard it hurts now.

I pull my trousers and pants down before throwing my shirt off.

Panting and broken on the bed she regards me through desperate and terrified eyes as I desire all women to see me: the woman-hating cunt.

I can't resist beating her one more time. With a whirlwind of fists, I smash her face and pound her body. I watch the crimson patches bloom upon her once perfect skin.

I pull her mini skirt off before tearing off her black knickers, her thighs visibly trembling.

Naked on the bed I force myself into her and she knows not to resist.

I thrust hard into her cunt, like a spear penetrating flesh.

She cries out in pain, in anguish.

God, this is good, so good.

I climax like I have never climaxed before and I feel my spunk shoot out.

I slump down on top of her. And nearly thank her...

There is a tentative knock on the door.

But I have no need to worry.

It takes me less than a minute to put on my clothes and straighten myself.

I feel good, really fucking good.

A muffled male voice behind the door enquires as to whether everything is okay.

I catch on the handle and swing open the door - I care not that they can see her naked, gasping and heaving upon the mattress.

Two men in suits with folded arms face me.

"How was it, I mean she, sir?"

"Fucking brilliant, fucking brilliant. Just like the real thing, I mean, I could imagine it being just like the real thing, maybe better. Not that I have done the real thing. of course."

The two men in suits chuckle.

"So, how much do you want for her?"

There's a pause and then one of them says: "We can do you a contract for five thousand a month."

"Five thousand?"

It's a lot, a lot of dosh.

The man in the suit adds: "Well... they're not cheap... we have to pick them up... repair them... re-program... recharge... deliver... that's the cheapest we can do."

He doesn't want to negotiate - I understand.

"It's fine... I'll sign on the dotted... you don't do a shares option... these are really going to take off."

He passes me the contract and a pen.

I sign it.

"Thank you, sir... you won't regret doing business with the Fetish Android Corporation of Korea... or FACK for short."

We all grin at that one.

Before I go, I say to him: "I bet that's your biggest seller?"

"No, funny enough, it's not," the lead suit says.


"Pray tell me, what could outsell a pretty blonde who takes a beating?"

"You're not going to believe this, Sir... really you're not."

"Try me."

"It's... it's the Tony Blair model... in fact they come back more battered than any of them... it's the ultimate irony... kind of popular... for being unpopular."

"But he hasn't been Prime Minister for more than twenty years now... unbelievable."

"Yes, Sir... unbelievable..."

Fat, Fifty and Really Fucked

I am sat naked in front of my pc. I am sat naked in front of my pc because I have just had a cold shower - and I have just noticed that there is some blood on my thigh which is due to me nicking myself whilst shaving around my genitals which I normally do weekly.

I don't know why I mentioned that, why would anyone want to know about that?

Actually, I do know why. It's because there's a part of me very much into 'ritual' - I relish carrying out specific duties at a set time, and the more intense the act the greater the gratification derived.

Why am I now talking about ritual? Why am I so conflicted and confused? Why, why, why, why, why and why?

God does not distinguish between good and evil, only man does that but God creates man and man apprehends 'reality' subjectively. Destruction and creation are all the same to God - Science is the how of things and God is the why of things.

Am I a sane man going mad or a mad man becoming sane?

Crazy thoughts buzzing round and round in my head like a swarm of flies. A coalescence of craziness.


"You need a job," Juki had counselled me yesterday in a matter-of-fact tone. "You have far too much time on your hands, thinking, dwelling on things, reflecting on the past..."

She's right, I guess.

Tomorrow, at half ten, I will sit down - more anxious about landing the position than not landing it - in front of two guys in suits and I will, for want of a better term, lie. I will tell them I am passionate about what the organisation stands for - in reality I am lukewarm. I will wax eloquently about my achievements for my last company when all I cared about underneath was sticking out each day and getting paid. I will let them believe that I relish challenges. I will pay 'homage' to health and safety, equality and diversity whilst secretly despising political correctness. I will 'welcome' the opportunity to 'grow' within the organisation. Firm hand shakes, smiles, charm... bullshit.

Bullshitting the bullshitters - that's what it's all about.

Bullshitter or bullshittee?


"You think you're working class, but in reality you're far more middle class." - That's another thing Juki told me yesterday.

I think I need a caning.

Apologies for the rambling. Anyway, wish me luck for tomorrow, and more luck for the company should they choose to hire me - they'll need it.

Wednesday 29th February 2012: Fat, Fifty and Lying Again - Blog

Sitting here at the keyboard this morning with a cup of sweet tea by my side I kind of feel flat, deflated. Juki has long since departed for work - stressed, tired and somewhat pissed off, and I fear that I may be in some small way a cause of her discontentment - maybe.

Anyway, about yesterday...

Yesterday, I attended an interview for a job, and I am not at all certain that I can indeed do the job but as someone once told me: "So long as you are good at interviews you will never be out of work for long, in the short-term style will always trump substance."

So, Monday evening, I polished my shoes whilst Juki washed and ironed my best white shirt. She also made certain that my black jacket and trousers were clean and presentable - all I needed was a tie which Julie selected for me. I was as prepared as I was ever was going to be.

When I had got up Tuesday morning, after a night of fitful sleep, I had felt absolutely knackered though the cold shower did revive me somewhat. After a bowl of porridge and a cup of tea I had got dressed and then gone to catch the bus, with plenty of time to spare. In fact I had time to take a couple of photos and short clips before my interview. However, whilst walking past a shop window I caught a glimpse of my reflection: an old, rather plain, fat guy who not only looked totally out of place attempting to look smart but was also, to top it off, sporting a ridiculously short tie, and it was at this point that I thought: I don't have a fucking hope in hell!

I then had a vision of me walking into the interview room and the panel bursting into such hysterics at the sight of me as to put the Cadbury's Smash Robots to shame!

Despite this sudden collapse in confidence, I knew I couldn't pull out.

Having said that when I had entered the interview room I became a completely different person: confident, amusing, driven, 'on top of my game', sincere. It was weird. I couldn't believe what I was saying, in actual fact I felt that I fair impressed them, so much so that I now believe that I may indeed land the position - we'll see.

As soon as the interview was over I realised that I needed a drink - I haven't felt like that in a long time as I am virtually teetotal nowadays. So I phoned up a fellow whom I'd promised to meet up some day for a drink and by chance he was free so we agreed to meet up in The George in Newport.

As we had gone up to the bar Pat had assumed that I was going to have a cup of coffee, and he was quite surprised when I had ordered a bottle of sweet cider. And a little while later, another. And another.

I wasn't pissed, merry more like, and it felt good, really good. Pat (who was 64) was a really interesting fellow, a raconteur, who had lived life to the full, was still living life to the full, and I enjoyed every minute with him.

We stayed in the pub till gone five when Juki had joined us from work, she was really stressed, and Pat got her a gin and tonic. After a bit she relaxed and got into the flow of things. We then struck up a conversation about interviews and I said that in general I found them quite stressful-

"But" Pat had interjected, "spare a thought for the members of the panel. I've conducted a few interviews in my time, and it's bloody draining. In fact, a strong candidate will almost intimidate you."

"Hmmm, that's an interesting point," I had conceded.

"So, Pat, how do I come over then?"

"You're full of yourself. Very confident."


It's at this juncture that Juki throws in: "It's all an act with Matt, underneath he has real confidence problems..."

I say nothing for a moment but then wonder if indeed deep down I am brash, and that I try to dampen down that with self-deprecating remarks so as not make myself unpopular and create enemies who can harm me. I think of my son and my half-brother who possess similar but not identical traits and wonder if I am more like them than I care to admit, with the power to make others cringe at the time with my words and actions only for myself to cringe later on reflection.

Maybe I should just be myself and say 'fuck it!'

The conversation then moved on to other things before we had all decided to call it a day.

Juki and I had then caught the bus down to Ryde, and because I hadn't been shopping, had plumped for a curry in the Tandoori. Afterwards we had both concluded that the standard of the food had gone down and had speculated as to whether they'd hired a new chef - be a shame as they used to be really good.

So, today, I have a lot to think about, and possibly not a lot of time to do that thinking in - if I have lied to a high enough standard!

Can't be arsed to write anymore.

Friday 2nd March 2012: Fat, Fifty and Landing the Fucking Job - Blog

A couple of hours ago I received a phone call to tell me that I have landed the job!

Friday 23rd March 2012: St Hamicle: to Serve is to Suffer - Dream

"This is where you belong," a calm and authoritive, yet disembodied, female voice informs me.

"Where am I?"

"Saint Hamicle's"

Before I can ask more I realise that whoever it is that has delivered me here has disappeared.

I survey my surroundings - a high and imposing wall constructed of granite slabs confronts me. It does indeed look a bit like the outside of a monastery.

A plain wooden wicket door swings silently open in front of me and beckons me, without words, through it.

I am standing alone in a courtyard and become aware that I am totally naked. I am bewildered and disorientated.

"You are here to serve and suffer, that is your purpose."

The voice that seeks to command me is male with a rich and appealing timbre and it originates, I suddenly understand, from within not without.

"To serve and suffer," I soundlessly mouth.

Without warning I am lifted by a supernatural force and powerless to resist I find myself bent over a small wall. I fear that I am to be punished.

Once again acutely aware of my nakedness I await the agony...

"Tell me that you love me, and then, only then, can I return my love - to love me is to love yourself."

I attempt to straighten myself but to no avail.

"I-I d-don't think I can do that," I respond tremulously.

My bare back is lashed and it feels like a thousand tongues of fire have licked my flesh.

Again, I taste the agonies of the unseen cat o'nine tails, for that is what it must be, and yet I know that my will is strong enough to endure, to prevail.

I suffer countless strokes yet I refuse to surrender and soon the pain begins to wane, fades to a dull sensation.

"So be it," the voice booms.

I am raised up and transported to some sort of a dungeon.

I see nude women and men, manacled to the wall, being whipped by devil with my eyes drawn first to a young woman twisting and turning with the pain as her ample and firm reddening breasts are painfully flogged.

I then wince as I observe a man screwing his face up in agony as his genitals are whipped with regular frequency before witnessing the pitiful sight of a bloodied back in the process of being thoroughly scourged by a multi-tongued whip accompanied by the fearful and ear piercing screams of the unfortunate.

"To suffer and to serve, that is my gift to you. Take it before it is too late."

"No. No. NO. NO!"

I am outside the wall; the wicket door is closed and I am empty - I should have taken his gift.

Fool. Fool. Fool.

I bang on the rough wooden slats but the door remains closed, for all eternity.

I awake.

Sunday 25th March 2012: No Need to Worry - Blog

I think I'm okay but this morning, for a while, I couldn't remember what happened yesterday, or the date.

Juki, because she worries about me, has insisted we go to the hospital in case I've had a stroke. Of course it could be heat stroke also since we were out in the sun for a long time yesterday - though I don't normally have probs with that.

I'll keep you updated.

Friday 30th March 2012: Why is Genital Mutilation Legal in this Country?- Blog

Why is it legal to mutilate an infant's genitals in this country?

I am talking about circumcision of course.

Day after day, well, year after year we are subjected to self-righteous politicians (aka greedy, war mongering, egotistical, hypocrites) banging on about human rights all over the world and always on about protecting the vulnerable, well, what could be more vulnerable than an infant unable to resist having parts of its penis removed?

Personally speaking I would retain circumcision for politicians, only I would keep the foreskin and throw away the rest!!!!

Thursday 19 Apr 2012: A Break From Writing? - Blog

And further, by these, my son, be admonished; of making many books there is no end; and much study is a weariness of the flesh: Chapter 12:12 Ecclesiastes.

It's true.

Earlier today I spent the best part of four hours editing and re-editing a short story of mine in order to print it off and give to a colleague to read in the hope that he would say nice things about it. I can't deny it, with me it's all about vanity,ego.

The thing is, after all the effort I put into it, the piece didn't actually read any better and having got to two o'clock I realised that I had wasted the better part of the day, to accomplish what? A feeling of being drained, failure?

Sooooo, I have decided, at least until the end of October when I finish work for the winter, to give up attempting to write creatively because quite frankly, I can't be arsed anymore.

Let me say that again: Quite frankly, I can't be arsed anymore.

Yep, feels kind of liberating.

However, I have decided to keep a journal which is far less taxing in the meantime, and probably rather boring too

But, you know what, I don't care because it's for me and Juki, though if you really want you can read it too - I'm kind like that.


Yesterday afternoon, I cycled to Seaview in the drizzle - having being shopping first at the Co-Op - and before returning home I called in for a hot chocolate at the end of Ryde Pier. I spent about half an hour there with an old history book reading about Queen Victoria - it's a period of history that I am beginning to find rather fascinating.

I probably would have stayed longer but I knew Juki was finishing work early and would want to see me so I mounted my 'faithful steed' and made my way back up to the flat.

When I got back Juki was watching Doctors on her PC. I asked her if she fancied a kip only for her to inform me that she had already dozed for a bit. I then persuaded her to have a lie down with me in the bedroom.

Well, one thing led to another and after a bit we were both naked. I held her down and whispered in her ear that I was going to write 'filthy, ugly, fat, slut' in lipstick over her torso and then cane her so hard in public that she would scream and cry. Whilst I was doing this I was rubbing her clit really hard too. It didn't take long for her to climax strongly and then collapse into my arms totally satiated.

It was now my turn but because she was still having her period she rubbed my nipples and allowed me to wank myself off fantasising about caning her hard.

Whilst lying on the mattress after Juki told me that she would like to be tied up some time and be photographed. I said I would make discrete enquiries and hopefully find someone who could instruct us in rope bondage.

That was last night, today I have done very little except go for a walk on the beach, and tomorrow I'm back at work.

Nearly time for Coronation Street!

Friday 20th Apr 2012: Eating Roast Potatoes with Talking Gorillas - Blog

So, I'm in Union Street and it's full of gorillas. Everywhere I look - gorillas. I'm kind of concerned, what if they turn nasty? Anyway I look across the road only to see a gorilla with a giant oven next to him full of roast potatoes - what?!! The gorilla sees me and much to my surprise, says: "Fancy a roast potato?" Feeling a little relieved I wander over to the gorilla, who seems a rather nice fella, and say: "I don't mind if I do." So I pick up the roast potato, which is golden brown, and pop it into my mouth. To my delight it is the most delicious roast potato I have ever tasted in my life. I go to pick up another one - and wake up!

This was this morning, and I'm not even going to hazard a guess as to what the dream was all about, however last night I went to bed with mild toothache and ended up, being a clumsy fucker, applying clove oil to every part of my mouth except the troublesome molar. After a fair while of failing to get comfortable I got up and took two paracetamol. That did the trick; the ache faded and I dozed for a couple hours, until I woke up in the middle of the night with heartburn. I thought that if I just left it a bit the indigestion would pass. Nah. So, more tablets. And now thinking about it, I took five different tablets in about two hours. Hmmm... no wonder my dreams are strange.

The good thing was that when I got up, though feeling a tad tired, the toothache had gone and I didn't need to phone in sick.

Changing the subject, whilst on the way to work I thought wouldn't it be fun to start a new religion, perhaps one with barely disguised sadomasochistic rituals - I could invent a deity, prophets, saints, rules, prayers, design religious symbols, sacred holidays, rituals.

Something to ponder eh?

Okay, that's enough rabbiting for today...

Saturday 21st April 2012: Lost in Ventnor - Blog

Haven't been in that long. Topped the day off with a meal at Yan Woo, Juki fancied a Lemon Chicken.

Anyway, I did the shopping this morning and when I got back I persuaded Juki that we needed to get out and about as it was a really nice day, so we caught the bus out to Ventnor taking along our thermos flask (whom Juki christened Fellatio) and some cakes.

Whilst in Ventnor I discovered much to my annoyance that I had left my mobile phone on the bus. Using Juki's phone I contacted the bus station and the inspector reassured me that he would search the vehicle when it arrived at Newport. In the meantime we took a stroll along the seafront, stopped off for a drink in The Spyglass, and then walked along the cliff path to catch the 6 to Newport - whilst at the Spyglass I had phoned the bus station to be told that they had found my phone, which was a relief.

Having collected my phone we then caught the bus up to Cowes and popped round to catch up with AngelVixen and Master Hawk who had invited us over for a buffet. We had a very enjoyable couple of hours and felt as welcome as ever - many thanks.

One more thing, as we were walking back Juki turned to me and said: "You're a crafty bugger, it was your turn to have a good beating today, and you've got out of it - for now. However you're not getting out of shagging me when we get to bed!!!"

Oh dear...

Sunday 22nd April: Romance is not Dead - Blog

As I compose this quick blog Juki is washing up so I can update you all on our extremely exciting life...

Last night I was informed by Juki that she was expecting a shag... and what Juki wants... Juki gets... resistance is futile and all that. Anyway... after getting undressed and cleaning my teeth ecetera I entered the 'royal' bed chamber to be confronted with Juki bespectacled and head stuck into A Night to Remember...

"So... ready for a good fuck then?" I say to her... and no point in beating about the bush... not that she's got a bush anymore.

She puts the book down and takes her glasses off before handing them both to me to place on the bedside table - I guess that would be a yes.

I pull the duvet off revealing her pale and naked body. I then pull her left arm behind her head, snog her, call her a dirty filthy slut and tell her that I'm going to scrawl SLUT across her tits in lipstick before slippering her REALLY hard over her short denim skirt and that I'm also going to film it and put the clip on the Net so that everybody can see it. I also squeeze each of her nipples so tight that she squeals. At this point I check that her cunt is damp enough for penetration. It is so I clamber on top of her and stick my cock in before wrapping her legs between mine.

Now in position I start to thrust whilst she commences to rub my nipples. I immediately fantasise about her bending over the footstool while I whack the slipper as hard as I can across her quivering buttocks... mmmm. Within a few seconds I climax.

I dismount and then grab hold of her left arm and once again bring it round the back of her head... she loves the feeling of being overpowered. I don't waste anytime and immediately start rubbing her clit whilst saying to her: "Where are you and what are you?"

"I'm in the Town Square... and I'm about to be punished for being a slut... a dirty fucking slut."

"Yeah... that's right... slut's have to be flogged and then branded publicly to teach them a lesson... what are you again?"

"A slut... a dirty, ugly fat slut who thinks all day about cocks."

"So... what does the magistrate order you to do?"

She's breathing rather heavily now but manages to gasp out: "He makes me take off my scarlet robe... and then orders me to be taken to the whipping post..."

"And then what?"

"I'm then tightly secured with leather straps to the post with my tits pointing out so that they can be flogged really hard..."

"And that won't be the end of it will it?"

'No... they will brand me across my cunt...'

"And what will it read?"

"SLUT... ohhhhhhh.... aaaarrrr"

She arches her back and squeezes me tight as she climaxes before slumping back and laughing.

"That was a good one." I say

"It was." She agrees.

I switch the light off, cuddle her and wait for sleep...

That was last night...

Monday 23rd April 2012: Camping Sauvage - Blog

Totally and absolutely knackered, and was glad to get home today. Juki was knackered too!

Last night we had a quiet evening in and ended up watching Camping Sauvage, a strange and compelling French film which stars Denis Lavant and Isild le Besco, in fact it's one of our favourites. Good sound track too.

This morning I took a quick shot of St Thomas' Church in the rain before catching the bus to work and though not really busy my legs are really aching now - must be getting old!!!

Have just washed up after cooking Cumberland Sausages, mash and beans and we're now looking forward to a night of telly, and yes, Coronation Street.

Tuesday 24th April 2012: Behold the Man - Blog

Well... it's been a pretty boring day... sorted out paperwork... went shopping... sorted out paperwork... washed up... put dinner on... kissed Wife... cooked dinner... listened sympathetically to Wife moaning about job... served dinner... told Wife that I'd filed everything... ate dinner... Wife informed me that she'd be expecting sex either today or tomorrow... response from me not quite as enthusiastic as was hoped... wife repeated her request... response satisfactory... Wife then says: "You can slipper me at the weekend"... I respond: "Three hard ones with the plimsoll?"... Wife: "Okay then"... "Good I'll look forward to that... be just like being back at school for you!"

Soooo... in a minute it's more washing up then maybe a film... and at nine it'll be the last episode of the Syndicate... which we've been thoroughly enjoying... and after that... well... probably a couple more chapters of Behold the Man by Michael Moorcock which I've read before and is an interesting take on Jesus and the crucifixion... or should that be cruci-fiction.

Time to die... I mean... do the washing up... for a second there I thought I was the android Roy Baty out of Blade Runner.

Wednesday 25th April 2012: She's Dangerous - Blog

Sat here composing this I'm wondering if there's trouble in store for me, probably not, but I'll get to that later.

Anyway, the day started okay even though the weather was wet and windy. I caught my bus as usual for work and on there was an ex-colleague. I asked him how he was and he told me that he was going over to Southampton for chemo and later radiation treatment if I remember right - I knew he'd had a battle with cancer but had assumed he had fully recovered since he had returned to work - obviously not. He's not had a lot of luck over the last couple of years since he lost his wife suddenly yet despite that he is always cheerful - I doubt that I would be. I'd felt a bit bad going upstairs - he was on the lower deck - because I know he would have liked a chat but I sometimes need time to myself, especially as I have to put on a bit of an act at work which can be quite wearing.

I have to say that I had a pretty good day till about twenty minutes before we closed up when one of supervisors said to me: "Do you still hear from Calamity?"

I am now working where Calamity used to - she'd left for another job, screwed up... and when she'd applied for her old job back, they wouldn't have her.

"No, I don't really want anything to do with her, I think she's dangerous."

"You're right Matt, she falsely accused a fellow here of sexual harassment, caused a lot of trouble for him, and it was totally unfounded."

"I can believe that,"I respond

"Not only that she contacted the higher management to accuse me of unfairly giving overtime to my son - I never did."

"I'm sure you didn't," I say, and I believe her.

"As a result of that I decided I couldn't give her a lift to work anymore. She then started sending me abusive texts - I wish I'd kept them as evidence but I deleted them because they were so horrible. The other thing I have to tell you is that she was constantly talking about you all the time: 'Matt says this' 'Matt says that' 'Matt is my best friend' "

At this point in the conversation I'm thinking: Shit

She then continues: "She gave everybody the impression that you and her were an item, were you? I hope you don't mind me asking?"

"I had a brief fling with her, but that was all," I reply, and feel a bit awkward.

I then add: "It wasn't long because I got bored with her, she was only interested in me when I got a girlfriend, she didn't really want me but she was jealous. I think she begrudges other peoples' happiness. She also had an affair with one of her lecturers from university, and went to the authorities, to report inappropriate behaviour, when she'd had enough of him - that's why I think she's dangerous."

"She's quite a clever girl, Matt, but she's not right in the head, makes up nasty stories about people."

"That's why I don't want anything more to do with her."

The conversation ends but now I'm wondering what Calamity has told my work colleagues in the past about me, and I'm also wondering what trouble she could rake up for me if I ever piss her off.


Saturday 28th April 2012: Suffering and Vanity - Blog

Last night (between Corrie) I submitted myself to a severe beating. Prior to stripping, clambering on the bed and kneeling with my head bowed I felt extremely apprehensive; a part of me hates pain, it really does. With the camera rolling and me now face down on the mattress clutching the headboard, Juki laid into me with an assortment of implements: cane, flogger, shoe, leather paddle, wooden paddle and wooden spoon.

The first few strokes of the cane weren't too bad, they stung but were bearable, but soon it became an ordeal because apart from the shoe everything else hurt, and the wooden spoon was the worst, I think because the long handle enables a higher velocity to be attained and, in addition, wood seems less yielding than other materials. At one point I wanted to cry but I didn't, couldn't - log jammed emotions? As I gripped the rails of the headboard I buried my face, which I could feel was flushed and perspiring, at times into the pillow. I remember, at one point, turning my head to one side to see my bare right arm taut, and wondering what it would be like to be judicially punished, a Malaysian style caning, and what hell that would be.

The paradoxical thing is that the longer and more she hurt me, the more I loved her, sought to surrender to her - it was almost religious - almost.

Suddenly, it was over and it took me a couple of seconds to adjust to that, and I got to my knees. She then took my head in her hands and told me how much she loved me, how proud she was of me. It all then seemed so worth it. She then went over and turned the camera off.

During the evening I uploaded the first three minutes to SpankingTube because, because, even in suffering there is vanity...

Sunday 29th April 2012: Thoughts about God and a Postponed Slippering - Blog

Back at work today. It wasn't too bad, and nobody mentioned Calamity - thank fuck!

On the bus this morning however I was thinking about the parallels between religion and sadomasochism/submission. You see, after Saturday when the more Juki hurt me, the more I loved her I suddenly thought: isn't that the way most of humanity react, I mean, the more disasters and tragedies 'God' puts us through, the closer we become to him. And when we surrender to an individual or agency more powerful than us then surely we are hoping to become a part of that which conquered us, kind of a 'if you can't beat 'em, join 'em' strategy. And is this the true message behind 'The meek will inherit the earth'?

I need to think about this more.

Thursday 3rd May 2012: The Fucked up Fuck-up - Blog

Weary. Weary. Weary. That's how I feel today.

The dream:

I am in a lagoon. Around the lagoon are tropical, perhaps primeval, trees and vegetation. There are people milling around - holidaymakers? I do not feel I belong here (do I ever truly feel that I 'belong' anywhere?). A blonde middle aged plain-ish woman, who I am half attracted to, suddenly appears at my side.

"Do you know how you got here?" she asks me.

"No. Truly, I don't. I am aware that it is all a dream, but I can remember nothing, absolutely nothing, before I began to dream."

"Hmmm, follow me," she commands.

I attempt to follow her but she soon leaves me behind. I give up trying to keep up with her and decide to rest awhile. I sit down. The ground is giving and upon closer inspection consists mainly of old bark. I do not feel at ease. I discern movement under the carpet of rotting wood to see a long oily looking centipede emerge. Terrified, the creature crawls across my legs - I know I must keep absolutely still, and wonder if there are venomous snakes here too. I look up and see people gambolling at the water's edge without a care in the world and feel the need to warn them that they are in great danger. And then chillingly realise that it is not them who are in peril, it is me.

That is the point at which the dream ends.

* Yesterday, I fucked up. I let Juki down. I upset her and I didn't mean to.

She had said to me, "I need you to be with me at the dentist's, you know my phobia about them."

"I will darling, I will."

But I wasn't because Mister Smart Arse reckoned he could just get over to Sandown and back before Juki arrived back in Ryde for the dentist and save himself a job for later. But he miscalculated and ended up meeting Juki after she had been to the dentist.

"You don't think things through, do you?"

"I'm sorry, really sorry."

"Sorry isn't good enough. I could have asked my sister to come instead. I was petrified being there just by myself."


"I'm not happy about it..."

Things are fine now, she's forgiven me but I've let a lot of people down in my life, disappointed them, especially my mother (whose birthday it would have been yesterday too had she lived), my son. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

Fuck it. Let's do the whole fucking gamut of the feelings and emotions that are running amok in my head most of the time: Guilt; Sadness; Thwarted ambition; Lust; Vanity; Greed; Repressed anger; Sadism; Masochism (self-directed sadism?); Fear; Confusion; Weirdness.


Friday 4th May 2012: Britain and Juki are both Fucked - Blog

Britain is finished. Britain is finished as we know it because in the final analysis the rest of the world isn't prepared to buy our goods at the price we have to sell them. To live with China one has to compete with China and to compete with China one has to be like China. And that means long hours, low pay, shit working conditions and low taxes. But because the majority of the electorate aren't going to stomach that they will vote for the party that promises the opposite: the Labour Party.

So, this is what I fear will happen:

Because of free trade the British Public will continue to purchase cheaper foreign products thereby reducing the profits and viability of British Companies that employ British Workers and both pay the taxes that in turn pay the benefits of those already out of work. But as more and more British Companies fold then the remaining British Companies (along with their workers who are increasingly buying comparatively cheaper imported goods) have to pay more and more tax to support the swelling numbers of the unemployed which has the knock on effect of making them even less competitive

Of course, the situation has also been exacerbated by four terms of a high spending New Labour administration (primarily to bribe voters) and the bail out of the banks (who are legally licensed to print money yet still fuck up) along with additional 'Green' taxes and regulations promoted by politicians who not only travel everywhere by greenhouse gas spewing chartered jets and petrol guzzling 'Limousines' but also wage constant wars, which aside from the human and financial cost, also result in large volumes of noxious substances being released into the environment.

So, what do I think will happen (I can't be sure to be honest)?

Well, I reckon, that as the economy collapses, whatever bunch of clowns is in power will print money (they believe that'll be the less worse option since the 'crash' of 1929 was caused by the shortage of money) till rampant inflation brings down the financial system which in its turn could lead to riots, the breakdown of law and order etc. In desperation, governments will turn to successful and powerful countries like China for assistance who will name their price and that price will be the land, and the people. Game over. The end of Britain as we know it.

The above scenario has been gelling in my mind for the last couple of days and now, reflecting upon it, I think the dream I shared with you yesterday was saying to me, 'Even though we're all going to be in the shit soon there's nothing you can do to prevent it, so, look after yourself.'


Anyway, yesterday, after I had posted the aforementioned blog and phoned my friend up, I went for a bike ride to Puckpool accompanied by my flask and an old history book. On the way back I cycled down the Pier, bought myself a hot chocolate at the cafe, read for a bit and then captured a short clip of the town and beach from there.

On the way back to the flat Juki phoned to inform me she was on the bus so I cycled straight to the bus stop to meet her off the bus. Whilst waiting for her, and watching the constant stream of traffic, I speculated as to how long it would be before the oil ran out, and how we would deal with it.

When Juki got off the bus she told me that she reckoned it was possible that she only had another year in her job. Not good.

After an Uncle Ben's Coconut Curry we settled down for the evening to watch a DVD of Curb Your Enthusiasm followed by Coronation Street. Because she was tired we postponed her slippering and instead we retired to bed early where I first shagged her (climaxing to the image of her caning and kicking me hard in the balls) then frigged her off whilst recounting the tale of her being flogged naked in the town square for being a dirty slut and cock whore.

Sleep was not far behind...

Tuesday 15th May 2012: Taxi Driver Died - Blog

Around about half six Juki and I popped down for a meal at Bob's - we couldn't be bothered to cook. After we'd eaten - the time was about half seven - we decided to be lazy and get the bus back to the end of our road. As we did there seemed to be a bit of a commotion and I noticed that a taxi had ran into another car at the entrance to the pier. At this point I saw a guy bent over in pain by the shop moaning about his back. A few seconds later this youth ran up shouting: "The police and ambulance are on their way." A bus driver, who we knew, who was walking back from the toilets came up to us and said: "I think he's a gonna."

Whilst we were waiting an ambulance drew up. The paramedics got out and went to the taxi. After a few minutes they lifted this guy out, who was tallish with curly blond-grey hair and wearing shorts and dumped him, rather casually I thought, onto a stretcher. It was obvious he was dead.

It looked like he had suddenly died and crashed his taxi injuring his passenger - the guy curled up in pain.

Fucking hell. One minute you're here, the next you're gone.

Monday 16th July 2012: Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men - Blog

The best laid plans of mice and men eh? After I'd given Juki a good tit flogging yesterday evening I was more than ready, she more so, for a good fucking but whilst preparing for bed, idiot head, moi, managed to a get a blob of shaving gel in his right eye. It was agony despite repeated rinsing and still hurting when I clambered into bed and just what you need! Anyway, the upshot was we postponed the fucking much to Juki's chagrin, though she was understanding about it.

Also last night I came across a documentary about the Marquis de Sade which had been uploaded to YouTube. I only saw the first couple of segments but they were really interesting.

Okay, time to get dressed and go to work. Also, for some reason I can't stop thinking about having to bend naked for Juki and her kicking me hard from behind in the balls...

Tuesday 17th July 2012: I Could have been a Serial Killer - Blog

I was just about to compose my journal when Juki, looking over my shoulder caught the tail end of yesterday's entry about my fantasy of being kicked in the balls by her, said: "You'd better get me pregnant by the end of this month or it'll be happening in reality."

She seems quite serious about this, and she has just informed me she is due on a week this Saturday. Still, I did fuck her last night, so fingers crossed she could actually be pregnant as I type.

Moving swiftly on, I had a very interesting and candid chat with a young (and, yes, quite pretty) female colleague yesterday about anger and violence. She said she can become very angry to the point of violence, though you would never guess it because she seems so sweet and gentle. The conversation then moved onto discussion of psychopathy and serial killers with me admitting that when I was a young boy I used to get a real kick out of torturing and killing insects and small animals, though now I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing, in fact I go out of my way, literally, not to tread on insects. Having said that, I do kill bluebottles because they are a health hazard. When I recounted this to her she replied, "Sadistically killing animals is one of the first stages in becoming a serial killer or mass murderer, and psychologists look out for that kind of thing. Still, it looks like something turned you around, you seem a well-balanced and nice individual now."

Hmmm, wonder what she would say if she read some of my stories?

Wednesday 18th July 2012: Christ and BDSM - Blog

Just treated myself to a cooked breakfast, and a lazy day beckons. Surf the net for a bit. Casual stroll to the shops. Gentle bike ride to Seaview and back - if it's not raining. Cook something tasty for dinner. A film this evening. Bed and maybe, a shag.

Sounds okay, but is it, what could go wrong? Maybe today is the day that something horrible happens: I suffer a massive heart attack. I get knocked off my bike and horribly mangled. Or maybe today is the beginning of anarchy. The banking system collapses. Runaway inflation. Mass unemployment... I can't help it, contentment and happiness, make me twitchy. And the more I attempt to dismiss such thoughts, forebodings, anxieties, the more I dwell on them. And to recall what my mate quotes, "An optimist is just someone who isn't, as of yet, in full possession of the facts."

I don't seek these terrible things to happen so why do I immerse myself in gloom a lot of the time. Why? And why am I drawn, excited, also to fantasies and images of pain, humiliation and degradation?

I have some ideas forming, out of the darkness that passes for my mind, and when, if, they crystallise I will share them with you, but now, here is something, highly contentious, for you to think about. Christ and BDSM.

As a child I was brought up to believe in God, a good God, who would right all wrongs, defeat evil and reward the individuals who obeyed him if not in this life but in the life hereafter. I also recall my Mother counselling me, "Matt, this life is a test. Don't fail it." I remember the exact spot where she had told me this too: above the tunnel entrance on Ryde Esplanade; which was also kind of significant because a few years earlier a stranger had saved my life (he had turned me upside down and struck me hard between the shoulder blades apparently) after I had started to choke when a boiled sweet I had been sucking on had become lodged in my windpipe. Looking back, I wonder if that was a deliberate, and quite subtle, ploy on the part of my mother to associate a real life 'second chance' with a spiritual one. That, stuck with me for quite a while, and it had also chilled me because, even at that young age, secretly I had been entertaining some rather 'evil' thoughts.

However, a few years later (I was about nine) I was in church with the primary school to celebrate Easter when the words from a hymn, 'immortal, invisible, God only knows...' had triggered something in me to suddenly transform my image of God from being a deity in human form to an agency, an energy, an energy, like a furnace, that sustained and supported the cosmos 'invisibly' - I was too young to understand the concept of transcendence (more about my views of transcendence another day). That 'revelation' coupled with the increasing awareness that many of the religious types I encountered were not only uptight but didn't practise what they preached led me in due course to become an atheist; my mother's stratagems and efforts to gift me with a sense of peace and purpose were in vain.

Having rejected Christianity but still searching for a meaning to life, over many years, decades, I read and researched Buddhism, Zen Buddhism, the Bahai Faith, Arthur Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Ayn Rand, Anton LeVay, amongst many others, and the result of which has left me considerably more knowledgeable yet no wiser or happier. However, in the background was always the powerful image of Christ and the Cross. Why couldn't I relinquish it? Why?

Now, when you look at the story or moral message of Christ it doesn't make any sense; why would a good and all powerful God sacrifice his only son in the most cruel, degrading and agonising way for someone else's sins?

However, what could make sense, possess value, is if God is not omnipotent or all powerful but rather 'more' powerful and that the only way he can increase his (or its) power is to absorb us, and that the only way he can absorb our energy or essence is to destroy our form, like releasing the energy from fuel by burning it. Right, if it is the case that our essence in some sense is indestructible then by merging with God one becomes more a part of something more powerful, more intense - to surrender to God is to become God, and, 'The meek will inherit the keys to the Kingdom of God' (I forget the exact words) actually begins to make sense.

I don't know whether I'm explaining this at all well, but I think you can see what I'm leading to: that submission is about sacrificing choice in order to gain power, advantage.

So, does BDSM actually reconcile something we thought couldn't be more far apart: Christianity and Darwinism?

Hmmm, I think that's enough heavy stuff for today - gone off on a tangent again.

Anyway, feel free to post comments.

Thursday 19th July 2012: Games and a Thrashing - Blog

Feeling a bit subdued as I write this - a couple of hours ago Juki gave me a painful beating, but I did manage to endure it.

Been kind of a strange day anyway as this morning on the way up town I bumped into an ex-colleague, K, and her male friend, D. she looked okay despite her ongoing battle against cancer. I have to admit that I never really know what to say in situations like that; I tend to try and be positive, which may come over as false, but what else can you do? Still, she seemed relatively cheerful, though as I left her I wondered, morbidly, if I would ever see her again.

After lunch Juki and I went for a stroll along the Esplanade and ended up buying a couple of ice creams from the Appley Cafe before plonking ourselves down on a bench to eat them. It was funny as the more I observed the view across the water the more the colours became primary colours, as though 'crayoned' onto a large curved sheet of paper: yellow sand, green sea, blue sky, white clouds... And then I imagined peeling it all back to reveal 'things' as they really were, as if it what was that simple; not so much surreal as sub-real. Odd.

The 'weirdness' didn't last long, and I never mentioned it to Juki who seemed totally content beside me.

When we finally walked off and set back I thought about my forthcoming beating, began to feel anxious about it, and then I remembered K, her ordeals, her fear, and it prompted me to ask a question of myself: what kind of a crazy game am I really playing with myself? And then a further question: what kind of a game is the universe secretly playing with us?

Still, the beating was much needed, made me feel alive...

Friday 20th July 2012: The Morning after the Night Before - Blog

The morning after the night before. It was good last night. Very good. Very gratifying. And as I write this, I still smell of sex, juices blended together, 'fermenting'.

But it won't be for long as I will soon be showering, in cold water as it happens which to me is more purifying, more bracing.

I can hear Juki running the shower now; last night's passion, now, just the morning's sluice...

I guess I'm talking crap already.

But, it was good. We got to bed quite late last night as we were chatting to my son, who is with us for a while till he gets his love life sorted, and when we finally retired it was about half eleven; late for us.

Juki was already in bed reading by the time I had cleaned my teeth and stripped off. In fact we both read for a bit, I'm currently engrossed in The True Story of Bonnie and Clyde, prior to Juki putting her book and glasses down and nipping out to the loo. When she returned we didn't waste any time. Both naked, we cuddled and talked about beatings; she admitted that she was still turned on from the prolonged thrashing she had administered earlier to me and also asked me to punish her at the weekend; I suggested an over-the-knee hairbrush spanking to which we both began to mentally salivate over. Fully erect, well, fully erect for me, I grabbed hold of her and forced her onto her back. I then clambered on top of her, all the while, savouring her firm breasts and pale, freckled, sexily, in areas, flesh before thrusting my cock into her freshly shaved cunt. She then placed her legs between mine, and whilst she rubbed and squeezed my highly sensitive nipples, I began to pump strongly. Within seconds the, scary and also extremely exciting, image of me having to bend naked prior to submitting to a hard kick in the balls from behind forced itself into my mind, and it didn't take long for me to be gripped by a powerful and highly satisfying orgasm.

I then rolled off her, took her left arm in mine, pulled it back hard behind her head and began to frig her roughly whilst whispering in her ear: 'Where are you?'

To which she responded: "The Town Square..."

It wasn't too long before she was moaning and arching her back in ecstasy, deep sleep soon following...

Saturday 28th July 2012: An Anxious Day - Blog

It's going to be an anxious day, no point in pretending otherwise. For the benefit of those who don't know, we have been trying for a baby for the last year, and so far, no luck. Juki is due her period, so we will be keeping our fingers crossed for the next few hours that she doesn't come on. In order to take her mind off things Juki wants us to go out for the day; I don't think it will work though.

I have to admit that I'm more 'philosophical' about the whole affair: if it happens, it happens, and if it's not meant to be, it's not meant to be. Mind you, I already have a son and three grandchildren; and possibly more as my son admitted recently to having somewhat sowed his oats wide and far! However, I believe every woman should have the right to have children if they so desire and my wife is no exception: I will do my best (I do not masturbate at all now), and to further prove my commitment I have volunteered to submit to a sharp kick in the balls should she not be pregnant on this occasion in order to share the pain, as it were. I hasten to add that I am not looking forward to that experience at all, but I love her, and that is the least that I can do.

Okay, that's all for now. I will keep you updated.

Wednesday 1st August 2012: Juki isn't Pregnant - Blog

The wife isn't pregnant; her period started Monday. She was quite upset by it as she wants a baby more than anything. I felt really sorry for her and comforted her as best I could, and although we do not know the reasons as to why she is failing to conceive I am beginning to feel a little bit inadequate (or rather, more inadequate if I'm to be honest). On the plus side she told me it wasn't, now, necessary for me to have my balls kicked, the original reasoning behind that being for me to share her pain with her... however, instead, I will be shortly having a 10 stroke penis whipping followed by 50 full-force swats of the bathroom brush on my naked buttocks.

As I compose this blog an image of me dying during a beating has just forced itself into my mind, and I wonder, is this how I would like to die, not just in extreme pain (as most probably do anyway) but also in a deep state of submission, surrender. I also recall reading Freud and his assertion that 'pleasure is the discharge of tension', realising, shortly after, that life itself is the greatest tension and that perhaps dying is indeed the sweetest pleasure, perhaps.

More likely though is that the process of dying (unless instantaneous) is just a ghastly cocktail of bonds of love and attachments being ripped apart, agonising pain and severe disorientation, and here I am once again becoming 'dark', immersing myself in gloom.


"You believe you don't deserve to be happy... it frightens you... if your life is gloomy and miserable it can't get any worse... if you allow yourself to be happy then it can all go wrong... and that's where the fear kicks in... it's a defence mechanism." The wife's words from behind my shoulder as she reads my blog, she adds: "It was a similar thing for me... when I was single I wasn't unhappy with my life... I had lots of good things in it... but now I have had better times with you and if we were to split up and I had to go back to that life it wouldn't be as good because I've experienced something much better... cynicism is a protection."

Enough said.

Thursday 2nd August 2012: Grey and Sunny - Blog

Looking out of our lounge window as I type I can see it's grey, but also sunny, and in a way I feel that kind of sums up this weird thing we call life: grey and sunny, grey and sunny. I like that, still, I now want to share with you some of the events of the previous day, which were mostly grey...

So yesterday being my first day off after three days in a row at work (what a hard life I lead!) I decided to have a quiet and loafing day, recharge the batteries and all that. After a lazy morning Juki popped up town to do some jobs, she also decided to catch the bus over to Sainsbury's afterwards in Newport because they had some laptops on offer, and mine, I must say, is getting pretty knackered: keys issing.... keys jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjamming etc. Around about two o'clock I got a call from Juki: "The credit card won't work, what shall I do? I'm at the checkout now."

"Just pay with it using the bank card, the credit card will have 'maxed' out, we've got enough money in our bank account to cover it, remember, I had a good wage packet and we also got the tax back, don't worry."

"Okay, see you later," she had said before ending the call.

At this point I had realised how close we had been sailing to the wind, we owe a fair amount of money, however, in a couple of weeks I shall be getting my work pension early, and that comes with a lump sum, a lump sum we will utilise to pay off all our debts. I hasten to add that though we will never be rich, we should be comfortable from now on; provided we both keep our jobs.

Also, as I sit here, I am reflecting on how my circumstances and attitude with regards to money (and this life thing) has changed over the last few years. Although I have never been a financial whizz I have always believed in living within my means and keeping a pot of money for emergencies. I have also always been on reasonable wages and been able to get overtime if needed, and, in short, I have never had any serious money worries. In addition, when I got to my late thirties I started to consider my retirement plans, I didn't want to work till my mid-sixties, so I started paying into an AVC and also took out a couple of life insurance policies too: I wasn't going to be one of those who worked till they dropped - no way.

But, then gradually my opinion changed. I recall a conversation with a former colleague, who had also paid into AVC, who had told me that the extra amount he received from them was merely taken off his pension credits."I would have been better off hiding my cash under a bed," he had ruefully added.

I was also influenced further by the fact that two colleagues had died just short of retirement and another fellow who I knew who had had to spend all his savings (a fair amount) when he had fallen ill and become unable to work about three years before his sixty-fifth birthday. Hmmm, I thought and increasingly began to believe that: the longer and harder you work, the more you put in, the more responsible you are, the less likely you are to get anything. And linking that to the fact that my parents both died relatively young I thought: fuck it, don't get into debt, just live for the day.

After I split from Sharon late 2003 I ended up with a large cash sum from the proceeds of the house sale, and because I had been diagnosed with high blood pressure and cholesterol I knew I wasn't long for this world, and def wouldn't reach retirement; I thought I would be lucky to live another ten years (it's nine now). My thinking at the time was that one day I would most likely just drop down dead one day, and that would be that. But that didn't happen ( I guess it could still), but what did happen was that I kept getting vertigo attacks (cause still unknown despite extensive tests) which led to me losing my driving license and hence my job; though I did get a good pay-off. That was May 2009. As you could imagine having been an honest and hard working individual, and having more than 16k in the bank, I was entitled to nothing, that's right, all that tax and national insurance, zilch (not that I'm bitter about it of course).

The 'fuck it' attitude strengthened with the belief that I wasn't long for this world just led me not to care, I spent money like there was no tomorrow, and in a way it was liberating. Also, because my health seemed to be deteriorating, if I did run out of money I could simply commit suicide (more about my suicide pact another day). But things started to swing the other way, imperceptibly my condition seemed to improve, I fell in love with Juki, married her. And gradually I began to regret having been so irresponsible - life's a bitch eh?

I have digressed somewhat, back to yesterday afternoon...

Anyway after Juki had phoned about the credit card I decided to have an afternoon nap. I stuck a CD of Enigma on and was soon asleep. About an hour later I woke up... Juki was back. I got up and walked into the lounge, I kissed her, and as I did she said: "One of the drivers told me tell you that 'L' has died."

I was totally shocked, I'd only seen him a couple of weeks ago at work - I knew he was having chemo, but thought he was responding positively to it.

Shortly after I cycled to Seaview and back... savoured the feel of the wind in my face... breathed in the odour of the rotting seaweed... felt the strain in my muscles... gazed in wonder at the waves... the sky... the clouds... and thought of L... I remembered him years ago telling me his 'life story'... how his father had left his mother... how she shortly after had thrown herself under a train... on a line he had worked as guard... and how just a few months later his father had died of cancer - tragic. Despite this he had survived and just when when we thought he would never marry he met a woman who became the love of his life... and he did marry her. They had a son... and I was pleased for him.

But, it wasn't to last, he contracted cancer, and whilst he battled that, his wife died, she'd been suffering too from cancer, and nobody knew, not even she, till it was too late.

The one light at the end of the tunnel was that he had got the better of it, till just recently, and the one thing I admired about him was his spirit; he was always positive about things, cheerful even, and now he is gone.

I can't believe it.

Sat here wondering should I go back to 'fuck it'?...

Monday 13th August 2012: I Lose her Forever - Blog

We are in some sort of a warehouse. She is walking ahead of me; maintaining her distance.

There is something wrong; I have made her unhappy.

Without warning, unexpectedly, she breaks into a run. I attempt to catch her up but she is too quick for me.

"Wait!" I shout out desperately.

She spins round, still running, with her eyes reddened and damp with tears: "It's too late."

She disappears out of view.

I make my way to the railway station. I see her there on the platform. Her back is to me, but I know it is her; I recognise her long, full and wavy chestnut hair, the familiar blue jacket, and her jeans.

I feel a little relieved.

I approach her from behind and when I am close enough I softly whisper her name.

She turns and it takes me a second to realise that it is not her. The woman, who looks as though she could be foreign, effects a puzzled expression and says nothing.

"I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else."

I feel momentarily uncomfortable, foolish, before I take a step back and begin to cry. I realise, chillingly, that I have lost her, lost her for ever...

The light is subdued, pearly, and I am in bed. I feel anxious; the dream has disturbed me. She is next to me, lying on her side with the top half of her pale and lightly freckled back, not quite covered by the duvet, facing me. Her long brown hair, with just a hint of red, flows over the pillows and covers. She is breathing heavily and rhythmically and I wonder what she is dreaming about. I gently place my right arm over her shoulder, draw myself close and then kiss her on her head. I do not intend to rouse her but she stirs nevertheless and queries drowsily: "You okay?"

"I dreamt I lost you."

She shuffles round, reassuringly cradles my face between her warm hands, and quietly says: "I will never leave you, I love you my darling."

ETA: A little while later I realised that today is the second anniversary of falling in love with Juki.


A pleasant looking elderly fellow wearing a white shirt with sleeves rolled up and beige coloured trousers strolls along the westernmost jetty; shrill screeches of seagulls piercing the briny air; "...you'll probably only catch crabs" - the tail end of a conversation of a father to his young son, as they amble in front of me.

Ryde Harbour:

I am sitting on a bench looking towards the shore. The tide is receding and most of the fifty or so yachts and small craft are now resting on the muddy sand.

The wind momentarily picks up causing what little water left to break into ripples, grey clouds lazily drift across the sky.

To the landward side of the harbour entrance an overweight middle-aged couple paddle with their even more overweight teenage son at the edge of the damp sand.

I observe a seagull swoop low across the water.

The sun isn't making an appearance and it's kind of blowy, yet I feel quite relaxed. It's good to be alive and I now desire to be around, God willing, a little longer; I wonder if that will be so?

I suddenly remember that I will be beating my naked wife over my knee later with a wooden hairbrush and a delicious tingle briefly runs through my loins; I relish hurting her as much she likes, needs, to be hurt...

I just discern the barking of distant dog, the muted roar of the traffic along the Esplanade.

Life is good.

For now...

Saturday 18th August 2012: I Take 300 Lashes of the Flogger - Blog

"You seem to have got out of it again, don't you?" she sneers in a playful way.

I have indeed, for today at least, 'got out' of a beating, a thrashing, at her hands yet it was not my intention to do so; events have just overtaken us, and yes, I feel bad about it.


I am lying upon our bed when I hear my twenty-four-year-old son call out from the hallway: "I'm going out, I'll be back late."

I glance up at the illuminated red digits of the clock: 21:20 and realise that it is not too late to present myself, my unworthy self, for a beating: a beating I am due; a beating I deserve; a beating I need.

I get up, walk into the lounge and simply, say to her: "You can punish me if you want."

You see, I also need her to know that I am not a coward, that I can take as much as I can give, though that is only the half of it.

"Alright then, go to the bedroom and strip off, I'll be with you shortly. What do you think you deserve?"

"Three hundred lashes of the flogger."

"Three hundred, you've never had that many before, you know I won't hold back, it'll hurt, really hurt."



I am kneeling on the bed, facing her, with head bowed and feel afraid - it will not be pleasant, not pleasant at all.

"Time for your punishment... look at me," she orders me flatly.

I raise my head, she looks, well, like she means business.

The hard slap across my left cheek smarts but doesn't quite stun; I deserve it too because, in my own mind at least, I do not live up to her expectations of a being a good and dutiful husband.

"Lie face down on the bed," she adds coldly.

I obey and lower my naked body onto the covers making sure my tiny penis is flat between my body and the mattress.

For a short moment there is silence, then a fleeting awareness of a soft hiss just prior to a stinging, almost burning pain, barely endurable, flaring across the upper half of my exposed back. I cry out, as the all too familiar feelings of wretchedness and worthlessness are once again thrust to the surface of my mind...

Another lash. And another...

I drift back, retreat within, as the pain, incessantly waxing and waning, rips away the carefully crafted mask of my persona starkly revealing me, to me, for what I truly am: a let-down to my mother and grandmother, a pathetic coward, a hypocrite, a crap father, ugly and repulsive, a big-mouthed fool, inadequate, a fraud, vain...

The agony switches to my buttocks, my fat buttocks, and the suffering intensifies, the 'scourging' continues, and it is kind of good, cathartic, cleansing; it is only too fitting that I must be thrashed, thrashed severely, for my faults, my 'sins'.

I desperately need to cry, but I cannot...


"That's it, your punishment is over."

Hot and perspiring, exhausted, sore, a wave of relief gushes through me. I unsteadily get to my knees and thank her for punishing me, adding that I deserved it...

Thursday 23rd August 2012: Cruel Caning for Sobbing Wife - Blog

She is on all fours, naked on the bed, drawing in large gulps of air between sobs. The twin half-moons that are her buttocks are cruelly and roughly barred with livid, rising, slowly purpling scarlet wheals.

Grasped firmly in my sweaty right hand is the cane and I'm pausing, hesitating, deliberating because a feeling of overwhelming compassion has abruptly, out of nowhere, welled up within me, and now the guilt, the guilt.

Moments ago, my wife who I love and care about, should care about and look after, was happy and cheerful, and now she is hurt, and weeping, wretched, damaged, I reflect agonisingly.

Yet, yet I know that she desires, craves, needs to be punished, thrashed, and if it wasn't me, it would be someone else, and besides, and besides...

I gently place my hand upon her back discerning a slight dampness and noticing a light film of perspiration as I do.

"Just a couple more, darling, then it will all be over," I softly counsel her.

I draw back the cane, thin, whippy, and prepare to swing then deliver it as hard and as accurately as I possibly can upon her thrust-out, vulnerable and trembling buttocks...


"Tell me you don't feel bad about it, because if you do, then so do I."

"No... no... I'm okay... it was g-good... very good," I stutter out.

"I wanted to take more, could have taken more, I need to cry, it releases things, pent up emotions." She adds: "I think you] need to cry, one day I'm going to make you cry, you know that."

"Yes, I do believe you're right, it will be good for me." I change the subject. "It was really intense wasn't it, the agony, the emotions, the sex after."

"Well, we don't want to leave it too long, we don't want life to become boring, do we?"

I wander over to her and without a word kiss her on the lips before saying: "I'll go and cook dinner now."

I then exit the lounge before wandering into the kitchen, pulling open the cutlery drawer and selecting the sharp, black-handled knife I use for peeling potatoes. As I do, for a brief instance, I kind of understand the 'purpose' of existence, that to live it fully one must embrace yet transcend, smash through, consume, the paradoxes: life and death; past and present, void and fullness; meaning and meaningless; good and evil, and then it all slips away, recedes, frustratingly, out of my grasp.

I pick up the potato in my left hand and slice the shiny blade into its skin...

Wednesday 29th August 2012: Make Me Scream - Blog

"Roll over onto your stomach please."

Eager to obey, excitedly, in a not-quite-quick-enough fashion, she swiftly complies.

"Good," I say.

I run my eyes over her nude body: the backs of her strong thighs (she used to be a runner); the firm twin, almost gleaming, ivory hemispheres of her buttocks; the curiously alluring hollows scooped and sculpted of her lower curved back; her upper back, gently arched and lightly freckled reminding me of the shadows of leaves in the autumnal sun...

She is resting upon her drawn-in elbows, head hung low... waiting... waiting for the taste of pain... feverish somewhat...

I reach out, without warning, and grip her upper left arm then, gritting my teeth in sadistic gratification, I rake the untrimmed nails of my left hand, pressed hard upon her vulnerable flesh, fully the length of her back.

She gasps and fights the urge to pull away.

I rake her again... savouring the infliction of pain... and again... and again.

She cries out now... without inhibition.

I bring the flat of my hand down, without mercy, with relish, full force upon her buttocks in turn several times.

"Ooooo... aaaah"

"You can get on your back now."

Silently she obeys.

I catch hold of her bare left arm and twist it behind her head, her long hair flowing across the pillows then bring the fingers of my right hand to her freshly shaved and moist crutch.

"Can you still recall the dreadful pain when I caned you hard recently?"

I know she can...

"Yes... I could have taken more... I need to take more."

"Well... next time I am going to make you write a letter detailing why you deserved to be caned... then, with your head bowed in shame, you are going to read it out... and I am going to film it so that everybody knows that you are a dirty filthy slut... and that the only answer is to punish you cruelly and publicly..."

"Yes... I am always thinking about cocks... and being fucked... I'm a dirty and sinful whore."

"That's right... but because I care about you... and want to save you I must beat you... beat the slut out of you. How many strokes should I give you?"

"Twenty... really hard... make me scream with the pain... make me bleed... I deserve it... truly I do."

The 'voltage' begins to rise; I continue to frig her.

"I want you to imagine that you are naked... that you are kneeling in front of me, arms by your side. I ask you to bend over... and then you discern the swish of the cane... the line of fire across your buttocks..."

Her body suddenly goes into spasm... she cries out... grips me... then relaxes and slumps back onto the covers.

We laugh... it's my turn now...

Thursday 30th August 2012: The Swimmer

I am swimming in the sea


I feel strong, powerful


Not as strong and as fit as I once was.

Long ago I had hope for the future, long ago.

I draw myself through the water, against the current


Know that I can choose, at any moment, to turn and drift with the flow. Anytime. Easy.

The wavelets splash in my face, I can taste the salt.

I turn my head to the beach:

Golden sand, golden hair, golden flesh, golden people, golden ice creams, golden sun, golden times, ah yes, I remember them.

So near the shore


So far.

So near the shore


So far.

So easy,


So easy, just to turn, to drift with the current.

I bring my arms together, pull them apart, feel the tension in my biceps, kick out


Move forward against the flow.

You see, I can do that, I am strong


Not as strong as I once was.

Fragments, whispers.

It would be so easy, just to turn, to drift, with the current, become the current, so easy


No one would see, no one would care.











Can you see what I see? Can you?

The whispered invitation, soft and subtle, of the sea...

So easy, so easy.

I turn, surrender to the current, as I knew I would

Then, then

Turn again, for the shore, the golden beach, the golden people.

It was good to tease, the tide, the current, destiny...

Saturday 8th September 2012: Money for Violence - Spanking Fantasy

She is not a nice woman, not nice at all, she hurts people, seriously hurts people, especially males, and I, trembling with fear, am awaiting her arrival... her imminent arrival


I need her... crave her.


Without her I would be worthless... totally worthless


With her... I am not quite nothing.


That, like it or not, is the way it is - understand?

I am naked, by the door (I mustn't delay her in any way for her time is precious) and quivering with the sweet and sour tang of rising terror waiting for Her to buzz... the buzz that signals the advent of my near destruction.


Maybe, just maybe, she will elect, as is her wont, today, to totally destroy me


I would allow that.


I surrender my unworthy self to her absolutely... absolutely.

She is a psychopath... no doubt about that... she had recounted, once to me, almost salivating, how she had smashed her husband's nose with her bony fist... watched the blood gush and smear across his face then kneed him hard in the testicles... and had then spat upon him as he writhed and groaned upon the ground: "I taught the dirty fucker not to shag another woman... to lie to me... after, I took the fucker for every penny I could."

Delicious... delicious.

Money and violence....

The buzzer sounds in my hallway as an unpleasant tingle momentarily grips my freshly shaved balls... She is here... to hurt me... to inflict severe pain on me.

I press the button on the intercom to let her in...

I open the front door of my flat ever so slightly and listen to her footfalls become louder as She ascends the double flight of stairs to my flat - I must be there to let her in... I must not fail her... displease her in any way.

Suddenly she is in front of me... shoulder length straight flaxen hair... tanned face... slight frame... faded denim jacket... jeans.


Those cruel blue-green eyes... soul-less, sadistic.

I swing open the door for her... let her in... then close it behind her.

"Get me the money... you pathetic and perverted prick."

I quickly rush into the lounge and pick up the brown envelope containing a hundred pounds and hand it over to her.

She says nothing and, without counting it, slips it into the top pocket of her denim jacket - she is a mercenary bitch... and I worship her more for it.

"Right... let's get on with it... crawl into that shit-hole you call your bedroom whilst I get the cane from the bathroom... you have been soaking it in salt water as I instructed?"

"Yes... y-yes," I stutter out.

Naked and on all fours, I drag myself, scuffing my knees as I do, into the bedroom before prostrating myself on the carpet.

A couple of seconds later I hear her enter the room - I dare not glance up without her permission... dare not.

"Okay... you pathetic worm with your tiny cock, big nose and flabby body you can turn round now and kneel in front of me... I want you to see what I am going to beat you... beat you to a pulp... with."

I do as she says and as I do, she slips her jacket off and lays it across the back of a chair. Underneath, she is wearing a simple sleeveless white top and her uncovered arms, unblemished apart from a couple of small black moles on her right forearm, are deeply tanned and smooth.

Shortly... very shortly... she will be employing those very arms to visit severe pain upon me.

She picks up the cane... about eighteen inches long and whippy... and swishes it in front of me.

For the first time since her arrival, I detect the first trace of a smile run along her glossed thin lips.

I gulp.

"Get on the bed and lie face down... don't scream too loudly and remain in position till I tell you it's over."

I immediately comply.

Tense, extremely tense, I wait for the first searing stroke... and then I discern a swish just prior to a searing line of fire igniting across the vulnerable flesh of my buttocks.

I cry out and twist with the pain... and over my shoulder I can hear her laugh... laugh out loud.

Again, and again, without respite, without mercy she brings the cane down across my buttocks... the pain... the pain... the agony.


Yet I take it... take it because... 'taking it' is all I'm good for.

My senses dull... blur... and it is though the thrashing is happening to someone else... distant... far away.

I hear someone guffawing... I think it might be me... why?

"Get up," she snarls into my ear. "Think it's funny, do you?"

I remember who I am... who she is... why she is here... collect myself.

"No... no... I would never laugh at you... never."

"Get up," she repeats with increasing venom.

I drag myself to my knees, put my hands to my bottom... they are sore... very sore... and sticky... then clamber off the bed.

"Bend over the bed... legs apart... I'll teach you to mock me!"

"I didn't... honest... honest...."

The pain detonates between my legs and I am dimly aware of sinking to the floor... grasping my groin... I again make out laughter... almost manic... but this time there is no doubting whose it is...


I slowly, tentatively, rise to my feet... my genitals ache and my buttocks still smoulder. She has gone now... I never noticed her leave....

There is a hint, just a hint of a fragrance hanging in the air... and already I miss her... miss her... terribly...

Tuesday 6th November 2012: Casey and the Drunken Tramp - Amusing Memory

As many of you know I worked quite a bit as a conductor on the Ryde Dotto Train over the last couple of years.

The regular driver was Casey.

One day, whilst waiting our time on the Esplanade, an old drunken tramp turned up and plonked himself down on one of the many benches.

He was bearded, dirty and in possession of a few cans of cider.

As the afternoon wore on and we completed trip after trip the old bugger was still there on the bench dozing on and off with the soporific effect of the alcohol.

Suddenly to our amazement and disgust he took out his willy, whilst lying on the bench, and just started urinating - the public toilets were just ten yards away.

Casey says to me: "I'll teach the dirty fucker!"

Within seconds of relieving himself Mr Drunken Tramp was snoring on the bench.

"What you going to do?" I asked Casey.

Casey picked up his lunchbox and took out some leftover sandwiches and then tore them into small pieces.

"Where's the CCTV pointing?" he asked me.

"Away from us."


He wandered quietly over to the tramp and carefully placed a whole load of the bread around him.

Within seconds hundreds of seagulls where wheeling around and on the tramp.

I was reminded of The Birds by Alfred Hitchcock.

The tramp soon woke up and was quite agitated by all the commotion - I could see he was quite disorientated. And I could imagine him thinking: Fuck, this isn't the normal delirium tremors hallucination. What's happened to the bats?

At this point Casey and myself drove off, just as the CCTV swivelled round - I wonder what the operators thought when they saw the tramp being 'attacked' by the flock of seagulls.

When we returned about forty minutes later he was gone.

It was very funny to watch.

Tuesday 6th November 2012: Dotto Train Passenger Abducted by Aliens? - Amusing Memory

As many of you are aware, I worked for a few seasons on the Isle of Wight Road Trains. They operated in three seaside towns - Ryde, Sandown and Shanklin and I have driven and been a conductor on all of them at one time or the other. In the absence of anything deep and meaningful it is probably the best job you can have. You're out in the open, by the sea, meeting pleasant and at times interesting people, you've got regular hours and you're not rushing around. What more could you expect from a job; apart from anything deep and meaningful that is?

You might at this point wonder why there is a need for a conductor. Well, it's a legal requirement for any road train that operates on the public highway and the conductor is as much there to ensure safety as he is to collect fares.

That said...

Back in May 2008, I was asked to drive the Sandown Train. The weather was overcast, and we weren't busy; just ticking over.

My conductor was 'Mini Me' and he was the son of one of the managers. He would fill in for the regular conductors when they were sick or on leave.

Mini Me was actually sixteen but looked twelve. He had thick curly blondish hair and a face that would make a choirmaster weep. He was also quite short - he may not have even been five foot - and the passengers would sometimes look bewildered when they heard a voice requesting their fare but couldn't pinpoint where it was actually coming from, as he stood at times, depending on the camber of the road, often below the level of the train's sides.

Character-wise he was fairly shy, but he possessed a dead-pan sense of humour at times. He was in addition quite creative and artistic - he posted short animated films on YouTube which I felt showed great promise. I liked him. He was a nice lad.

Anyway, we were waiting our time at Eastern Gardens when three, remember three, passengers got on. Mini Me collected their fares and I asked him where they were all going. He told me that were all just having a trip right the way round. This meant that the only place I would need to wait time at would be The Isle of Wight Zoo, though I would keep a lookout and listen for the buzzer should anyone change their mind.

I jumped into the cab started the engine and set off. We trundled past The White City Amusements, Sandham Gardens, the Canoe Lake (in a poor state of disrepair) into Dinosaur Isle and out again re-joined Culver Parade past The Grand Hotel and then stopped on the concrete apron outside the entrance to the Zoo where I'd killed the engine and had got out of the cab. I then casually observed Mini Me help two passengers out of the carriage.

Two passengers?

I was absolutely certain there were three passengers and we hadn't stopped anywhere so that anyone could get off.

So, I'd gone up to Mini Me and had said: "I could have sworn that we had three passengers on when we left Eastern Gardens."

He'd replied, matter-of-factly: "Well, there was one man, one minute he was there and the next time I had looked he had disappeared."

I'd thought: Is this a wind up?

I'd then responded, extremely sarcastically: "But, where's he gone? Has he been fucking abducted by aliens? Maybe he's spontaneously combusted?"

Mini Me had just shrugged, and I'd seriously wondered if I was losing it.

Then across the car park a family had run up to me. The father, out of breath, had said to me: "Some old fellow has just thrown himself out of your train just before you got to the hotel. He landed on the road flat on his face. He had blood on his nose, and he started scrabbling around on the road picking up the money that had fallen out of his pockets. We asked him if he was okay and he said 'yes' so we let him get on with it!"

I'd thought: How the fucking hell did I miss that? I must have been checking the offside mirror at exactly the time he threw himself out of the nearside and landed behind the train out of my vision.

Mini Me had been sitting in the front carriage facing forward - officially he's supposed to sit at the back so he can observe the whole train - and wouldn't have seen him.


I'd phoned the police and informed them of what had happened - I think they were trying not laugh.

I then took the names and addresses of the witnesses and had started off on the return half of the trip.

As I had passed along the section of the road where he had apparently fallen out, I had scrutinised the surface for signs of blood or coins, but I'd seen nothing. I'd also looked out for old men with bleeding noses; again nothing.

The rest of the shift had passed without further incidents.

When I'd got back to the depot I'd filled out an accident report, which another driver I'd entrusted to deliver to the inspector at the bus station had failed to do, leaving it in the rest room overnight for all the other drivers to read; and laugh their fucking heads off!

I'd never heard any more about it but I did wonder what had happened to the chap who was most likely over here on holiday. I imagined him getting back to his guest house or hotel with his nose caked in blood, a couple of black eyes, maybe his trousers torn, and the owner asking him if he had had a good day.

"Well, I had a little trip on the Dotto Train..."

Tuesday 6th November 2012: Dying in the Drizzle - Weird Memory

Unrelenting drizzle. Tuesday. 9th October 2007. Puckpool Park. Isle Of Wight.

I'm the conductor on the Ryde Road Train or Dotto Train. Every seaside resort seems to have one. It's orange and yellow. It's so kitsch you can't help but like it.

It's nearly the end of season: Grey, grey sky and damp. Hardly a punter all morning. Not worth running but we do.

We're stopped at Puckpool Park. Waiting our time. Casey, the driver, is leaning against a post. He is drawing heavily on a cigarette.

A slight middle-aged woman hurriedly approaches us. A potential passenger?

"Have any of you two fellows got a mobile phone?" she says, and a bit out of breath.

"Yes," we say in unison.

"There's a man on the sea wall. He's surrounded by bottles of drink and pills. I can't wake him. I think he is attempting to kill himself."

We swing into action. Casey and I leap into the Dotto Train like Starsky and Hutch and head towards the exit where the sea wall begins. When I say speed, I mean about ten miles per hour.

We stop the train on the sea wall.

We get out and all walk along the wall in the direction of Seaview. The drizzle continues to fall.

The first thing we come across is a large motorbike. Casey notices that the tax disc is expired. He's observant like that.

Then we come across him. He's lying across the path. He's got long dark hair dressed in jeans and a leather jacket - he looks like a biker.

I think he is tall but you can't always tell when an individual is prostrate. He's on his back and snoring loudly - he's out for the count.

Casey phones the emergency services.

The guy is surrounded by half drunk bottles of spirits. I notice on the bench in the nearby shelter a load of pills - he's consumed a fair few of those too.

It's at this point that it hits home that I could be watching the last few minutes of a man's life; dying in the drizzle...

Casey, on the phone, tells me we have to place him in the recovery position. I want to say: How do we know he is going to recover?

Casey manages to get him in position and also places a cushion under his head. At least he is going to die in comfort!

Next to the pills on the bench is a mobile phone. I pick it up and notice a large number of missed calls. As I have it in my hand it rings. I answer it. A frantic male voice asks if that is Pete? I tell him: "No, it's the conductor on the Ryde Dotto Train." I suddenly realise how stupid that sounds. Another voice, calmer, takes over: "It's PC Dixon here. We're looking for Pete What's-his-Face. Can you tell us where you are and how he is?"I tell him. I'm informed that people are on their way.

Within five minutes four police cars and an ambulance turn up. The ambulance initially goes the wrong way.

Matey meanwhile snores away oblivious in the light rain.

The medics don't seem to think he's consumed enough to be in serious trouble. It looks like a cry for help. Or a form of emotional blackmail. I learn from Rambo, the gardener, later that he had just been dumped by his wife.

The tablets are anti-depressants and ironically I muse that their effectiveness is only really guaranteed if you take them all in one go - permanently.

The police and medics take over. We decide to get back to Ryde.

I have to laugh when amongst the flashing blue lights and vehicles of the emergency services I espy the flashing orange beacon of the Dotto Train. It just seems so absurd. The Dotto Train... Orangewatch... the fourth emergency service. I fantasise, Billy Liar style, a road accident and somebody shouting out: "Call for an ambulance... no, call for a Dotto train... they're quicker!"

Police, Camera, Action. Alistair Stewart: "If it hadn't of been for the quick thinking of the Dotto Train crew then these robbers would have got clean away!" Aerial camera footage of an orange Dotto train slewing across the highway and blocking the path of a getaway car.

On the way back to Ryde as I pass Appley Tower I'm suddenly aware of a lump in my throat: What if the guy does die? What a tragedy for his loved ones.

As far as we know he didn't.

Back at Ryde we treat ourselves to a hot chockie. We deserved it!

Tuesday 6th November 2012: Playing Cruel Mind Games with Claudia

I had been reflecting about all the mind games females have played on me. And then I remembered Claudia, and the 'games' I played on her not so long ago and realised that not only am I a hypocrite, but maybe I'm not as nice a person as I would have you believe.

I have already blogged about Claudia - I swatted her really hard with a table tennis bat, and it was the first exciting time I spanked a naked female.

What I didn't tell you was that the last time I saw her was on my 21st birthday, and the last time I ever made love to her as well. I dumped her callously a few days after because I didn't feel we were compatible enough

To sometimes remind me of her, in my kitchen cupboard is the pewter tankard she bought and had engraved for me. I guess it does make me a little sad...

The story:

Shortly after I finished with her she met another chap on the rebound and after a bit she married him. My friend was invited to the wedding as he was mates with Claudia's brother. I hasten to add at this point that Claudia was now living on the mainland. I have to confess also that I did begin to miss her; my first, and not last, taste of heartache. It took me about a year to get fully over her.

Anyway, our lives diverged and though occasionally I would wonder what had happened to her I moved on. Okay, I sometimes used to fantasise about the time I spanked her with the table tennis bat.

The years passed and I was now living with Sharon in the bungalow - about 24 years later - and we had just connected to the internet and I had joined Friends Reunited.

One day when I logged on I had received a message from a friend of Claudia's asking me if she could have my mobile number just to catch up. I said okay and gave it to her.

A day later she texted me to tell me that she was still married and had four children. We exchanged details about our lives and then she landed the bombshell: I love my husband but you broke my heart and I still love you after all this time. I have thought about you every day.

I was amazed. And also a bit flattered.

I was polite but told her that though I did love her at the time I now loved Sharon. What I didn't tell her was that the relationship between Sharon and myself was crumbling.

She then asked if it would be possible to meet up sometime as just friends. I wasn't sure about it but I did agree, wondering if perhaps I would regret it. The thing is I was curious to see her.

A few weeks later we arranged to meet in Lymington. She met me off the boat with her mother, of all people, who then drove us down town.

I'd felt uncomfortable, and if Sharon had found out then that would be definitely been the end of my relationship there and then.

Within a few seconds of seeing Claudia I knew that I neither fancied her nor loved her; I regretted agreeing to meeting up. Nevertheless we wandered around and had a pleasant drink together.

Character-wise though she hadn't changed: loud and crass.

I kissed her goodbye at the end and vowed that that would be the last time.

Sharon was none the wiser as to where I had been, and in actual fact it made me felt quite fortunate in having Sharon.

I messaged Claudia later during the week explaining that I couldn't reciprocate her feelings and that perhaps it would be best if she just texted me once a week. She complied with my wishes.

Time moved on to the inevitable and traumatic split with Sharon but still Claudia texted me.

Then Claudia told me that she and her husband were leaving Lymington for good and moving to Lincolnshire for a fresh start - I thought that she had finally got me out of her system.

Will you meet me in Bournemouth for one last time, please!


I agreed to rendezvous at the station.

When I arrived I espied her on the far platform - she hadn't seen me - and I'd had this urge just to get back on the train. I remember watching her across the tracks put her mobile up to her face and call me. I answered though I didn't really want to.

We strolled around Bournemouth, had something to eat and then had a boat trip. Whilst on the boat she gave me a necklace. "I've kept this for twenty-five years to give to you."

I thanked her but underneath I felt nothing for her.

We eventually parted, and she was tearful.

"I'm happy just to be friends, please keep in touch."

"I will."

But I didn't really want to.

Curiously Claire texted me whilst I'm on the train home - now she was a woman I coveted.

Time rolls on, and so do the relationships. First Claire then Lulu. But every week without fail Claudia texts me.

Then I get a message: Me and my husband have decided to buy a guest house on the Island then you'll have to see me whether you like it of not!

Fuck! That's stalker talk.

After about a week I convince her that it is a bad idea.

Then she invites me up to stay with her and her husband in the same bed. We have an open marriage now.

I decline the kind offer and I am then plagued with messages.

Finally I get Lulu to text her. She stops. For a while. I ignore the texts for several months. Then I snap.

Fuck it I'm going to wind her up, I'm going to play mind games again, I think one day.

It was wrong I know.

So, I make her my phone sex slave. I get her to send me pictures of her cunt and tits. I make her phone me and then come so I can hear her.

Then I stop contacting her for several months again.

She persists in messaging me but I ignore her and know it's hurting her badly. I have become a callous bastard.

Then one day I text her.

I knew you still loved me, she responds smugly.

I don't fucking love her.

At this point in time I am single - between Lulu and Della - but I lead her to believe that I am now seeing someone else and having an affair on the side.

It's all a complete fucking fabrication.

I tell her the girl I am going out with is a drug addict and I am besotted with her. She 'advises' me to be careful with problem women. And misses the irony.

One Saturday night Claudia texts me to ask me if I will be seeing Tracey (my made up girlfriend).

I can't resist it - I send her a text as if Tracey has picked up my phone and read the message, then sent one herself in reply.

It goes something along the lines like this: Who the fuck do you think you are trying to get off with my boyfriend. You fucking slag. I can't stop laughing as I press send.

Three days later I receive a text from Claudia: I don't think your girlfriend is very nice. Is she really right for you. Not my business I suppose.

I tell her that it was unfortunate that you texted whilst I was in the loo.

I also inform her to make her feel really guilty that Tracey took her an overdose shortly after just when she seemed on the point of getting her life together, her daughter had even recommenced phoning her from jail. I also add that at least she isn't going to be prosecuted for assault after hitting a nurse when they were pumping her stomach out.

I can't stop laughing about all the lies I'm telling - it's really fun.

I then, a couple of days later, tell Claudia that I go round to Tracey's with some flowers unexpectedly and find her in bed with another woman.

I tell Claudia that I can't abide infidelity and am so disgusted with her that I pop round to the other woman and shag her for comfort. Once again the hypocrisy eludes Claudia.

A couple of days later Claudia accuses me of making up stories: I think you should see someone - you're ill.

Actually I've had enough of you Claudia? Good Bye!

And that was that. I have never heard from her since. And I have got her to hate me which is kind of what I wanted.

Thursday 8th November 2012: Cunt

So, I'm sat down the Harbour with my Kindle (a free gift with my smart phone, not that I'm fucking smart enough for a smart phone) reading a free sample from De Sade's Justine. The light's failing and I've just poured myself a drink of sweet tea from my thermos flask when I notice an electric scooter turn onto the harbour wall.

I discern straightaway that it's the 'cunt' of Ryde, or rather just one of the many 'cunts' we seem to be blessed with; a disproportionate number for the town's size now I think about it, or perhaps I shouldn't think about it!

Anyway, I hate the cunt. Cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt. See, he really does bring out the worst in me, and the reason? Well, he used to be a bus passenger (I used to be a bus driver) and every time he got on he was a pain in the arse: threatening to report you for this that and the other, attempting to intimidate you, winding the other passengers up - I hated him, and was also a little scared of him too as he was big and powerful, nasty. Cunt.

Anyway, he's got older, and now he's got a mobility scooter, cunt, probably not entitled to it, cunt, and all he does nowadays is attempt to sucker people in, unwitting passers-by (people who are already contributing through their taxes for his benefits, and fucking mobility scooter too!) to do his bidding, cunt.

So, as I watch him get closer, and I'm the only sad fucker on the harbour wall, I have this feeling that the cunt is going to slow down and attempt to engage me in small talk, and do you know what, that just ain't going to fucking happen, no way. No. Fucking. Way.

I put my head down and continue to read Justine, try to read Justine. The thing is despite the fact that my hearing ain't what it fucking used to be all I can make out is the whirring sound of his (well, ours, since we all fucking pay for it) mobility scooter getting closer and closer. At this juncture a terrible thought occurs to me: I could probably push the scooter attached with cunt into the harbour, and because there's only me and him (the cunt) I'd most likely get away with it, and with luck the mobility scooter (I just love the potential irony of this) would land on top of the fat cunt, rendering him immobile whilst he sucked in the muddy water of the harbour.

Cunt-icide, that would be the name of it, or should be, a minor offence, perhaps a fine, community service, criminal damage to a mobility scooter, nothing worse than that, should I get caught for it, cunt-icide.

Finally as the cunt got nearer, I thought: just say 'hello' you cunt, see what happens, and do you know what as the cunt passed by the cunt said nothing, absolutely nothing, cunt, cunt.

A few minutes later I packed everything away, got on my bike and headed for Hong Kong Express (the wife's late home tonight as she's on a course) and as I cycled along the Esplanade I could see the cunt at the end of the harbour looking out to sea. I wondered if he realised he was a cunt, or that most of the town thought he was a cunt. And then I speculated that maybe, just maybe, he was observing me as I cycled off, and he was thinking exactly the same about me, that I was a cunt.

Hope his battery's gone flat and he's now stranded in the dark and the cold at the end of the harbour.


Friday 9th November 2012: I Really DON'T Need to Understand This


Well, it's winter now, I've been rained on, can't argue with that, but success, well, that seems as far off as ever.

That, anyway, was the message, the 'pearl of wisdom' I found screwed up in my pocket a few minutes ago, and it was inside the fortune cookie I was given after I paid my bill yesterday evening at Hong Kong Express; I also got two mints as well, mustn't forget them.


What the fuck does that mean?

Actually, I don't care, this is my problem: I am always attempting to find answers to questions that I know I haven't got a snowballs chance in hell of satisfactorily answering, I mean, I can't even operate a smart phone (have I mentioned this before?), am always fucking up the computer, can't solve crosswords, am virtually useless practically, yet I have the arrogance to try and fathom out the 'meaning of everything', what a prick I must be. Memo to self: write out fifty times: I don't care anymore.

I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore. I don't care anymore.

Well, that was a pointless exercise (still reading are you? I would have clicked off this page long ago.)

The thing is, I can't change the way I am, the way I think, my daydreaming, fantasis(z)ing: I am what I am.

Okay, let's move on.

Last night the wife got in late and, as was expected, was pretty tired after a long day so we decided upon an early night, okay, she decided upon an early night; I'd already had a kip in the afternoon and wasn't particularly fatigued (what a good writer I is for substituting 'fatigued' for 'tired', I'm sure I should become a professional scribbler or even an English Teacher).

Anyway, after the usual preparations we both got into bed and commenced to read for a bit, before sex, let's not beat around the bush. And that's another thing, Juki was reading a real book, made out of felled and pulped rain forest trees, whilst I was reading from my environmentally friendly Kindle (a free gift with my smart phone, have I mentioned that I now have a smart phone?) Actually, I have to admit I wouldn't have been reading from my Kindle (a free gift with my smart phone) had it not been for Juki, you see, I had got to the end of my sample of de Sade's 'Justine' and had decided to purchase, for the grand price of seventy seven pence, the complete novel, but, I couldn't manage to connect to the internet despite tapping in all the codes. In exasperation I had then handed it to Juki who within a few seconds had connected to the net and downloaded the book; she also managed to delete the sample to free up space - I would have probably managed to delete the novel and just been left with the sample...

Okay, back to the tale.

After a few minutes of reading we heard my son go out and that was the cue for a bit of naughtiness: turn the wife over, scratch her back, smack her hard, call her a 'slut' prior to frigging her whilst recounting her favourite 'Town Square' fantasy' to her - she only got to the fifth 'breast lash' before arching her back in orgasm. I had then mounted her, all the time imagining I was having to obediently polish her black boots in preparation to her kicking me in the balls with aforesaid black boots, and had climaxed swiftly and strongly myself.

After that, sleep followed pretty quickly, and that's where it all got weird, because when I woke up I remembered my strange dream - all dreams are strange I suppose - but this one left me feeling odd, quite odd.

In the dream I was back at the depot, outside in the car park, where I used to work and I was standing there looking around not quite understanding why I was there when a moment ago I had been in bed with my wife. Also when I turned my head to observe my surroundings my vision seemed to be 'compressed' and would only spring back, like elastic, to its normal perspective once I had settled my gaze on a distant object - weird.

I had then heard a voice, a concerned voice: "Still suffering from the compressed vision?"

When I had turned in the direction of the voice I had been startled to see it was my ex, Sharon, and even more shocked to realise that I still loved her.

I had then kissed her, embraced her, before a pang of guilt forced me to pull away; it was Juki I truly loved now.

I had then told her that I had to go home to my wife, yet I felt sad, terribly so.

"You can run, Matt, but you can't hide from the truth - it will pursue you," she had counselled softly.

I then found myself in bed with Juki, and I was fucking her, it felt good, and it felt right; my ex had been wrong.

As I had looked up I had then been shocked to see that it wasn't Juki after all; it was a woman I had never before seen in my life, and then, gripping my naked shoulders, she turned to face me: "There's something you need to know: just as a word can carry meaning but isn't meaning, and just as a wire can carry electric current yet isn't the current itself, so is it for a woman: she is a carrier, a conduit, of love, but not love itself - you really need to understand this..."

I had then woken up abruptly feeling perturbed. To my left was my darling wife, asleep, breathing gently, tranquilly. I had then kissed her on her forehead, and knew that I loved her dearly.

I then recalled the last words of the 'Platonic Female' in the dream: "you really need to understand this" and countered in my thoughts: I really don't need to understand this.

I'm still pondering it now.

Memo to self: write out fifty times: I really don't need to understand this...

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