Everything I've Written: 2011

by Matt Triewly


All my stories, memories and blogs. And for adults only.

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...

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