Gloves are fun, quick, easy knits. My hands suffer worst in cold wet weather as the joints are very damaged, so I have a big collection of gloves to keep them cosy. These are a favourite pair – this badass red sparkly yarn keeps me warm and feeling sexy!
I close the door of the hotel room and lean against it, kicking off my kitten-heel shoes with a sigh. Conferences are always so exhausting once the high of getting my geek on wears off. My mind is racing; notes to make, follow-up emails to send, ideas, conversations, names, faces…it’s all too much to cope with right now. I reach for my phone and text Him.
While I await His reply, I lock the door and stretch out on the crisp white bedcovers.
The phone buzzes.
Just the firm tone of His message is enough to kick my heartbeat into high gear and settle a blanket of calm across my mind. I wriggle out of my businesslike dress, peel off my tights, remove my underwear and replace them all, carefully folded, in my suitcase.
“I’m ready Sir. Please tell me what you would like me to do next”
The response is almost instantaneous.
“Good girl. Now, I want you to bend over the the bed, face down and legs spread. Take a picture and send it to me”
I spend a few minutes trying to get the best angle to show off my position and compliance before sending the picture.
“God, you’re so gorgeous. Now, kneel upright on the bed and send me another picture. You’re making me so hard”
A thrill runs through me as it always does when I receive His praise, and I’m scrambling onto the bed before my eyes have finished taking in His message. All thoughts of the professional whirlwind downstairs have seeped out of my consciousness. Right now, there is only myself and Him, tethered together by technology and our mutual delight in my submission to Him.
“Stunning. What a good obedient sub you are. Are you wet yet?”
Wet? I’m almost the River Severn.
“I am, Sir. I’m aching for you”
And I am. Throbbing, aching, flushed and heavy-breathing with desire and delight.
“Then you may take your purple friend out of your case and switch it on. Do not touch yourself with it until I tell you.”
He’s talking about the app-controlled remote vibe I bought last month. I follow instructions with great excitement. It’s the first time we’ve used it for a virtual session and the thought of Him controlling my sensations from a hundred miles away is both deeply arousing and warmly reassuring.
My purple friend buzzes to life in my hand at the same time as my phone.
“Now, kneel up again and press it against your clit”
Suddenly the vibration switches to short, intense, irregular bursts. I let out a gasp, the unpredictability of the pattern heightening the sensations it brings.
I send another picture, without being prompted.
“You minx. Are you trying to earn yourself an orgasm?”
I love to push at the edges of His control, revelling in those moments when overcome by lust, He relaxes His strict denial and allows me to indulge myself. This way, it’s a treat rather than a habit; left to my own decisions, my orgasms would be frequent, fleeting and unfulfilling. By careful rationing and control He has taught me to appreciate the sensation more, to enjoy the whole journey rather than simply chasing the finale.
“Yes please, Sir.”
The vibrations of the toy smooth out to a slow steady him.
“Not yet, kitten.”
It’s a good thing He can’t hear me whimpering. Sir has a cheerfully sadistic side, and the more desperate I become, the longer He would delay my release.
The vibrations begin to rise and fall, from slow rumble to hard pins-and-needles buzz. Each wave shortens my breath and stiffens my posture. With my free hand, I send Him a series of emojis, conveying my appreciation. He responds by speeding up the intensity cycle, making me writhe and shudder.
I send him another picture. Me, naked and flushed with my hair awry, beads of sweat trickling between my breasts and my hand pressing the toy firmly in place.
“Mmmm very pretty yes, I think you deserve a reward for that” comes the response. “Lie face-down with your legs wide apart and straight. You may move your hand to position the toy as you wish, but every other part of you must remain completely still until you come. Tell me when you’re done”
I arrange myself as ordered. I have an intense immobility fetish; He knows this is not going to take long. Fighting to remain still against the ever-increasing urge to buck and writhe, keeping silent with my face buried in the duvet; I feel the pleasure gathering and building with the relentless vibrations until I come, yelling and spasming and humping furiously for minutes as the storm of sensation overwhelms me.
After a few minutes more, I am recovered enough to pick up my phone again.
“Done, Sir. Thank you!”
He sends me back a huge smile and a “Good girl”. The toy falls silent.
“Now, go and have a hot bath, get into your pyjamas and make a cup of tea. I’ll call you in two hours. I love you kitten”
Mind wiped clean of anxiety and tension, I move as though through treacle, an expression of dreamy contentment on my face. My colleagues can do without my presence in the bar tonight – I’ve got an important phone call scheduled.
Sadly, I never have enough time to do all of the things I want to do, and reading other people’s work is one of them. There is soooo much amazing stuff out there and when I win the Lottery I’m going to spend all of my time reading, sharing and celebrating it. For the moment, however, the day job and administration of my personal life mean that I tend to focus on creating my own work and miss out on a lot of others’.
Finding myself with some unexpected leisure time this week; I’m very pleased to be able to share some of the content that has brought me joy.
I’m not remotely susceptible to hypnosis, much to my bitter disappointment. Probably because of that, I find it fascinating and live in hope that it will work on me one day. I’d love to play with hypno-kink.
Her voice is a silk thread, reaching through my ears to tether me to this couch.
I am sinking, and floating against the cool leather.
Eyes closed, breathing deeply.
Her soft words slide across my skin; leaving ghost-fingerprints burning behind them. Sentence by sentence, she melts my tension and dissolves my anxieties.
Breath by breath, I coalesce around the heat that is building; feel the swelling and tingle of arousal.
She touches me with whispers, binds me with instructions. Under her command, I am free to feel, and know, and believe.
Ten. She describes how my nipples peak and harden between her imagined pinching fingertips; as she speaks, my body responds.
Nine. She strokes me with her tongue; finding all of my most sensitive places.
Eight. Word by word she builds aching tendrils of desire: sends them swirling out from my core to lick at my limbs.
Seven. Blood surges and throbs in my swollen clit; captured by her mouth, I am entirely at her mercy
Six. Breathing faster. Feeling deeper
Five. She weaves a rope of belief around me, holding me tight in her grasp
Four. My cunt clenches around each suggestion, her spell is around me and inside me
Three. There is a pleasure-fire building within me, fuelled by her softly-spoken command
Two. I am poised on the brink, teetering and twitching in agony of anticipation. Yes, I moan into the darkness between us. Please
She keeps me there, watching me writhe with urgent need. If I could open my eyes, I would see her smile; affection tinged with victory, fascination with a hint of amusement as she regards her favourite toy.
I wait, suspended over the flames, for her to unlock my orgasm.
“When I say the last number, you will come hard, screaming my name. You will not move. You will lie still until your orgasm has passed and then you will rise to full alertness”
Quinn Rhodes wrote a very sexy story this week involving girls and cake. It made me wet and urgently horny as hell. In gratitude for the inspiration, I dedicate this to her – she’s a great writer and a lovely person.
It was just a tiny nibble. A small corner of a small slice of choclate cake, the slightly-rounded edge my teeth had left barely visible except on close inspection.
But inspect it she did. She knows me too well.
“I told you not to touch that cake”
Yes, she did. Knowing full well that an instruction like that would only make me hungrier and the cake more tempting. I’ll admit, I felt a pang of guilt as I took that tiny morsel into my mouth and tasted its moist sweetness. Swallowed the crumbs defiantly and crossed my arms, telling myself that it was only the tiniest of pieces, it wasn’t as though I’d eaten the entire slice, all that remained of our weekend’s baking session.
Our weekend’s naked baking session. I allow myself to be momentarily distracted by the recollection of sucking salted caramel icing from the pink nubs of her nipples, before she brings me back to the present with a swipe of the riding crop past my ear. Swish.
“On your knees”
I’m already naked – she has me shed my clothes and put on my collar as soon as I return from work. I’m her pet, her toy, her head-over-heels-in-love girlfriend, and she is the sternest, most sadistic, most beautiful woman whose feet I’ve ever kissed. Unclothed, I am vulnerable, exposed. Just how she likes to see me.
She’s grinning down at me. That quirk of the corner of her mouth that says I’m thinking up something really special for you which sends both a chill of apprehension and a flicker of lust in opposite directions along my spine. The gleam in her eyes that speaks silently of her wicked joy in contemplating my punishment.
She taps the crop against her hand. Uses it to point to the polished wooden hallway floor.
“Go and kneel over there. Face the door. Hands behind your head. Knees apart”
From this position, I can’t see what she’s bringing with her on her return down the stairs behind me.
“Head up. Eyes front.”
I want to glance down, to see what she’s holding, where her hands are but I’m in enough trouble for the moment. The bite of the nipple clamps makes me gasp – she’s been keeping them in the fridge again – I want to squirm away from the chain that swings between them, touching my warm belly with cold licks. No. Must not wriggle.
She feels me tense, chuckles softly. “Oh no, pet. A bit of cold metal isn’t going make you nearly sorry enough. Raise yourself up now.”
Her hand is warm as it burrows between my thighs, slick with the lube that she has slathered onto her fingers. She pinches my clit, pulls at my labia, dips one finger delicately inside my cunt before sliding the jewelled clamp into place. As soon as I moan with pleasure, she pulls away.
“Uh huh. You’ve been greedy today, and you’re going to be punished. Don’t go making it worse for yourself by being a desperate little slut as well.”
I can feel her eyes burning into my skin as she stands and walks around me, surveying me in silence, before strolling away towards the kitchen.
I hear the kitchen tap running, wonder whether it’s the hot or the cold – and what’s under it. Anticipation and dread are causing my nipples to swell against their confinement.
It turns out to be a large silicone buttplug, and it was under the hot tap. Not hot enough to harm, but certainly enough to make me gasp as she slides it inside me and gives it a twist to start the bullet motor within. This is torture. I want to grind, to buck and squirm, and rub my clit. No chance.
She buckles the gag into position, filling my mouth with its soft leather, silencing me.
She presses into my hands the string of the delicate glass wind chimes that usually hang in the kitchen window. My arms are already beginning to ache. I can guess what’s coming next
“Don’t move. If I hear any noise from those chimes, I shall open that front door and let everyone who walks down the street see what happens to greedy little sluts. Is that what you want?”
Shaking my head without disturbing the chimes is a challenge.
“Are you sure?” she breathes into my ear, one hand flicking sharply at the chain between my nipples. “Don’t you want everyone to know how much you like to have your mouth filled? Do you think they’ll know, just from looking at you, how wet and hungry your cunt is right now? How greedy you are?”
The thought of being exposed, humiliated like this in front of strangers flushes my cheeks and floods my cunt. I whimper, half-hoping that the sound will inflame her enough to relent and take me upstairs to be forgiven.
She retreats to the kitchen, positions herself on one of the stools along the breakfast bar where she can keep an eye on me.
“And don’t you dare come” she says, replacing the clingfilm over the scene of the crime.
Moments pass. My work has shrunk to the hard floor beneath my knees, the throbbing of flesh against metal clamps, guilt and arousal and the serenity of enduring righteous punishment. As the drool drips from my lips onto my breasts and the cool breeze through the letterbox licks at my nipples, I hear her footsteps approach again. I have been good. I have not moved. The chimes are silent. I am sorry.
“Look at me” she says softly, and I turn beseeching eyes up to her, see hers soften in response.
“Oh my pet” she breathes “you look good enough to eat. But I’m not sure you’ve learned your lesson just yet.” She takes the chimes from my hands and raises the crop. Starting with gentle taps, soon progressing to stinging blows on my buttocks and my breasts, I am one breath away from tears and two heartbeats away from orgasm when she grasps a handful of my hair and pulls me to my feet. Caresses my face gently.
“Now little one” she croons “Your choice. You can have the rest of the cake…..or a good fucking. Which would you prefer? Cake?”
I shake my head, widen my eyes and say with them the words that are caught behind the gag in my mouth. Fuck me. Please Mistress. I’m sorry. I want you. Please, fuck me.
“Good girl” she smiles. “Lesson over”.
When we’ve both collapsed, panting and spent on top of the duvet, our limbs heavy and sticky with come, she gently feeds me the rest of the cake.
Why is she not afraid? Is it the reassuring presence of Elijah Blackstone, the man who has vowed to come to her rescue should she ask for surcease? He leads her by bound wrists through dark wooden passageways to his cabin, the largest room on the ship. Her tread is sure, her back straight; at a glance her bowed head would appear a stance of resignation or of fear. But no, it hides a wicked exhilaration – flushed and wide-eyed, there is an exultant smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.
How many will there be? Will they tear at her clothes, claw at her exposed skin? Pull her hair? These tendrils of wonder ease a ghostly hand between her legs, stroking with insubstantial yet powerful touch. She pictures herself naked, on her knees, bound at the wrists and ankles before the crew, and unconsciously quickens her stride.
Blackstone draws her into his cabin. There are five of them lolling idly on his desk, his couch, his bunk. Each is lean of limb and hard of muscle; there are no opportunities for indolence aboard a merchant vessel such as this. For them, at least. She has – until now – had no duties of her own. The prospect of servitude is a pleasing one.
“My brothers” he begins in ringing tones “we are indeed fortunate. For now that we are masters of our own destiny, we are men of property! This fine shop and her rich cargo are ours to harness for the betterment of our lives. And what finer way to celebrate than with the company of a beautiful woman?”
Snickers among the crew. Hopeful expressions tinged with lust turn upon her.
“This most splendid specimen of womanhood is the prize we have won by our strength and our comradeship!”
He tugs the rope to pull her forward.
“And this prize falls to you, the senior and most deserving of the crew. You may do with her as you wish, provided you refrain from causing her grave injury, for she is our valuable property.”
He winks at her as he turns to untie her wrists. She winks back – a vulgar expression which she would never previously have dreamed of adopting, but which in the face of her imminent ravaging by a troupe of low-born sailors, is hardly the least of her transgressions this day.
“My Lady. If you please. Remove your clothing”.
She hesitates over unlacing her corset. It would not do to seem to eager. Slowly, she shrugs out of her dress, sheds her petticoats, emerges shyly from the layers of silk and brocade that have been her prison. Unclothed she stands before them, her eyes fixed on the wooden boards beneath her while her nipples spring proudly forth as though entreating the hands and mouths of the men to fix upon them.
There is a hushed indrawing of breath from the crewmen as they behold in daylight her pale smooth skin, her heavy breasts. Their eyes move lower, contemplating the tangle of honey-blonde hair at the juncture of her thighs. Beneath its shadow she is plump and slick, filled with an aching, yearning need.
“Kneel” orders Blackstone.
The boards are warm against her knees. He comes to stand behind her, one hand releasing her hair from its pins, the other resting lightly on her shoulder. She has no need of reassurance but is grateful for it nonetheless.
“At your leisure” says the Captain, and moves aside to allow his crew to fall upon her.
They are hesitant at first, unable to believe their good fortune until the warmth of her flesh fills their hands, solid and undeniable. They touch, stroke, grasp her face and squeeze her breasts. The first to unbutton his trousers is a man she has glanced at many times above decks. Blond like herself, of a similar age, powerfully built – often she has wondered how it would feel to open herself to him.
He guides his swollen cock between her lips and groans as she moves her tongue against him. Her eyes are closed in ecstasy, here on her kneels with her mouth filled, her breasts cupped and pinched, her hair firmly grasped; she is consumed by desire.
His pulls away, is replaced by another man – one she does not recognise. Around her, the others are freeing themselves of their clothing, rubbing their proudly erect members against her face and hair. They do not speak, grunts and sighs of lust the only sounds in the room.
Blackstone watches with feigned aloofness as the woman is hauled to her feet, bent forward across his desk, legs spread. Hanson and Abel are pinning her arms at the wrist. Martins holds tightly to handfuls of her hair while Jones climbs up on the desk to lie sideways by her head, positioned to allow him to thrust lazily into her mouth as behind her, Wainwright plunges into her glistening cunt.
“She’s wet an’ slippery as the decks in a storm” he chortles and they all hear her moan with helpless arousal while he pounds himself into her.
“I think she likes it” observes Hanson, his eyes glazed with anticipation. He has watched her many times from his post, had never dreamed that her lush curves would be his for the taking. And with no murmur of protest, no struggle! This is the best day he has lived in twenty-one years.
They bring her to the floor, push her down on all fours. Seeing her ridden hard from front and rear, watching the heavy-lidded expression of pleasure on her face, Blackstone can barely contain his own urgent need. He waits, maintaining his posture of disinterested amusement as she is taken roughly by his shipfellows in their frenzy of lust.
It is not long however before they are spent, overcome by the titillation of feeling a flesh-and-blood woman after so many long weeks at sea. Their seed adorns her hair, her face, her breasts, seeps from her pink slit in lazy trails. She sits gasping and red-cheeked, thighs wide apart in the shadow of his desk.
“You all right missus?” ask Jones fearful that in their eagerness they have neglected to consider her comfort or will.
She nods. “Thank you” she whispers, so softly that Blackstone alone registers her words.
“And now, my Lady” he says, coming to his feet “I shall entertain you alone. Back to your posts, my brothers” he orders his crew “there will be time enough later for further appraisal of our bounty”. Laughing, they dress and depart in the easy swagger of men who have obtained the sweetest satisfaction that earthly pleasures can offer.
As the door closes behind them, Blackstone picks up the discarded rope.
“My turn” he tells her and observes with warmth the hunger that detonates anew in her eyes.
For about 12 years now, I’ve been planning to write a novel. It’s a political thriller, set in a dystopian colony on Mars. Finally, I have begun to write, finding that tackling discrete scenes as short stories first is much easier than starting with Chapter One and proceeding chronologically. Here’s an extract from the work so far – if it’s lacking in context or characterisation, I apologise; hopefully once it’s integrated into the end result those flaws will be addressed. If you’re just here for the filth, perhaps you can overlook other shortcomings.
CW: this is a fictional scene depicting a sexual relationship interaction that starts off coercive and non-consensual. If that’s likely to cause you distress, please don’t read any further. Always take care of yourselves and each other.
Claire and Tommy had an arrangement. She would do something she shouldn’t, and when he caught her at it, he’d do something he shouldn’t.
It had started last autumn when she’d been running a stash of buds over to Grendall in the North Sector. She’d started down the alleyway just a fraction too late as the patrol passed and it hadn’t quite been dark enough to obscure her movement from the patrol leader’s sharp eyes. He’d ordered a halt and investigated; found her crouched down behind a stack of empty plastic packing crates.
“What’s this?” he says, pulling her to her feet. She contemplates making a run for it, but there are too many of them waiting outside the alley. Even if she got away from this one, she’d never make it more than twenty metres before they took her down. She’s kicking herself for getting caught, one more arrest and she’s likely to lose her engineer’s license. She glares sullenly up at the bulky uniform looming over her.
“You’re out late”. There is a mocking twist to his lips, he’s no fool. No-one out this late with legitimate business would be hiding in alleyways. He’s bagged a live one and he’s going to enjoy it. He doesn’t expect her to answer; no hastily-concocted excuse could be persuasive.
She spits viciously, aiming for and hitting his boot-tips. So shiny this morning, they are now covered with a thin film of fine red dust. Her saliva tracks a trail of silver across the metal caps as it slides towards the concrete. She’s not going without a fight – she can’t win but any damage she can inflict is a bonus. First target is always their pride. Once you’ve injured that, the body hits are almost irrelevant. She clenches her fists.
He tuts, shakes his head. “That wasn’t clever. Anyone would think you were asking for trouble.”
As though she wasn’t in enough already
He grabs her wrists, spins her around until she’s pressed against the alloy wall of the alleyway; raises her arms, kicks her feet apart until she’s star-shaped, ready for the search. She’s sneering at him, at the sadistic amusement creeping across his rough-hewn features.
“Any blades?” he asks her directly, and she shakes her head.
“You’d better not be lying to me” he remarks mildly and starts patting her down. Perhaps his hands grasp a little more firmly than is necessary. Perhaps he’s just being thorough. Thorough enough to find the wraps she’d tucked into her underwear, certainly. He draws each out slowly, fanning them across his fingers like a hand of cards.
“Oh dear” he says “You’re really in trouble now.”
She knows it
Could she see, even then, the hunger in his eyes as he glared sternly down at her from beneath his peaked cap? She can’t remember, her memories of that day skewed by what has occurred between them since. She remembers his hot breath on her neck as he moves closer, recalls with perfect clarity the steel-fingered grip with which he held her wrists behind her. If the words he used have become indistinct with time, her shock – and intrigue at their intent remains as clear in her memory as though she were still leaning against that cold metal wall, listening.
“Drugs charges are a serious thing” he purrs into her ear. “Looks like enough here for an intent-to-distribute charge to stick”. She feels him shaking his head slowly. “That’s bad news for you sweetheart.”
She stays silent, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a response to his gloating.
“Probably you’ll be sent to the camps up at Acidalia. Some bad shit goes on up there, I’ve heard.”
She’s heard that too, and a shudder of fear runs through her too quickly to suppress. This asshole is playing hardball, what does he want; a commendation for fulfilling his arrest quota or something? She stares at the floor.
“I’d hate to see a nice girl like you sent up there” he continues, his tone regretful. Out come the cuffs, and he secures her wrists tightly behind her back.
“‘Cause, y’know, I believe in redemption for all souls”
What the fuck, is this guy trying to lay some kind of Jesus rap on her? She’s unable to stop herself from rolling her eyes; fortunately he can’t see her face from his position behind her. Then as he presses himself hard against her, she realises. He’s not talking about spiritual matters here.
His fingers trail lightly across the nape of her neck. “Such a waste of a young life. As soon as I file the report, you’re on a one-way track to a blue jumpsuit. I don’t think blue would suit you so much. Now, if you could persuade me that you’re worth giving a second chance…”
He’s offering her an out.
“I believe everyone deserves a second chance” she says, huskily, glancing over her shoulder at him.
He doesn’t smile.
“Redemption’s gotta be earned, lady. There’s a price to be paid.”
Somewhere deep inside her, a tiny flutter of hope. She can walk away from this.
That first time, did he cradle her head in his hands and thrust into her mouth with the abandon she has since come to hunger for? She recalls how he pushed her onto her knees and opened his trousers in greedy haste, his eyes locked on her upturned face. She’d licked her lips involuntarily and smiled her most inviting smile for him, a part of her observing indifferently that she ought to be afraid, she ought to be outraged.
Claire was never good at doing the things she ought to be doing.
Kneeling, cuffed and pinned against the wall with the seargant’s cock between her lips, Claire finds that she’s….enjoying herself. She’s always found this a pleasant pastime, and as an alternative to the prison camps – well, it’s practically a bonus, one she doesn’t deserve for being stupid enough to get caught. As she runs her tongue around the rim of his taut swollen head, she feels his breath catch and meets his eyes.
“Good girl” he breathes and starts to thrust into her open mouth. They watch each other, complicit in their crimes, spurred on by the evident pleasure they see reflected back at them.
Towards the end, yes, he’d grabbed her hair and pulled her down onto him hard, jerking his hips as the warm salty splash hit the back of her throat. She’d swallowed theatrically and licked her lips again, grinning up at him. What had he said as he unlocked the cuffs? Something like “now stay straight, or next time you might not run into someone as charitable as me”? Advice she’d taken to heart. She wouldn’t want to run into anyone else, next time. Finding out his patrol schedule had been easy, a matter of observation and deduction.
She’s out after curfew, a non-serious offence if backed by a good excuse (mission of mercy, sick friend living alone) but one which could earn her a reprimand and a docked paycheck if caught.
She intends to be caught. She’s bare beneath her grey engineer’s jumpsuit and wet already thinking of the ways that a second offence might be redeemed.
He’s surprised to see her, the stony expression narrowing to quizzical as she turns to face him.
She nods, head bowed, biting her lip. Hoping. Anticipating.
“Are you taking the piss?”. She hadn’t noticed last time but there’s a trace of Terran Eastern Europe in his accent. Authoritative. Sexy.
She shakes her head.
“So. Perhaps you have not learned as well as I thought.” he muses. “Is it that you are in need of another lesson?”
She glances up at him, eyes wide.
“Please, what?” His harsh tone belied by the amusement in his eyes
He twists her arm up behind her back, marches her into the alleyway – the same alleyway – and throws her against the wall.
“Undress. Bend over those crates. Arms behind your back.” Snaps the cuffs on.
As he enters her roughly, a sigh of pleasure escapes her.
He slaps her exposed buttocks, hard, chortles. “You’re a bad girl”
Leans in, pulls her hair so that she must arch her back as he whispers into her ear.
“Bad girls get punished”
He’s known all along that the sentence for ‘fraternising’ would be as stern as – if not worse than – those for the misdemeanours by which she baits him. It crosses his mind occasionally, am I being set up? Surely not, her willing acquiescence to his demands, the look of glazed pleasure in her eyes as he fills her cunt, the wicked grin with which she departs after their trysts all point more to carnal collaboration than to blackmail.
Tonight, he is patrolling the commercial district again.
I’m reviewing a few lubes for www.thefetishfairies.com, and one of my standard tests is to coat my longest, chunkiest dildo (the Fun Factory Tiger) with the test substance then deep-throat it to the point of gagging, to see whether the lube burns me when I choke (hey, I’m a masochist – what do you expect?!).
CW: This post contains details of a sexual assault and some rather unpleasant reactions to my reporting of it. If that will cause you distress, please don’t read any further. Always take care of yourselves and each other.
Back in May, I was at a professional event in my vanilla life, and there were drinks at the bar afterwards. I was standing, chatting to a friend when I felt someone grab my bum hard as a man walked past me. He didn’t look at me, didn’t speak to me but just let go and walked off. I later confronted the man, who admitted grabbing me. He was completely unrepentant, protesting “but you looked really hot”, and when I started having a go at him about women’s bodies not being there for his personal gratification, he became angry and stormed off.
I heard from other women at the event – girls much younger and more vulnerable than I – that he had done the same to them but they didn’t want to come forward and make official complaints because they were afraid of the impact it would have on their employment with the event organisers.
At the time it happened, I was shocked, outraged and furious. I have been through so many worse experiences at the hands of self-entited abusive men, that it seemed to me to be a trivial experience in the context of my own life, yet obviously a significant one in terms of how [some] men think that they can treat women.
I reported the man to the police – and I also posted about it (without identifying him) on social media, to highlight that there is still a real problem with harassment and inequality in the industry I work in. I was comforted that the response to my posting was largely similarly-outraged supporters confirming that groping was an unacceptable thing to do, and offering their sympathy. However, there was the inevitable posse of [mostly] men who told me I was over-reacting, said I should have just punched the man and forgotten about it, accused me of attention-seeking or simply dismissed my story as being a fiction.
Even my mum thought it was a trivial thing, told me I should have hit the guy and left it at that.
Should I have just hit the guy and left it at that? Here’s why I didn’t.
I don’t think that committing an assault in response to an assault is the right thing to do. We have laws and law enforcement exactly to prevent the sort of vigilante responses that can so easily become disproportionate or misdirected. I chose to put my faith in the process of civilised society rather than make myself a criminal by taking matters into my own hands.
Also; he was clearly stronger than me – what if he had hit me back? This is the dilemma that “just smack him one” fails to address. If a woman is assaulted and fights back, she will likely still be violated and maybe badly injured. It also puts the onus onto the victim to take action to prevent or deter sexual assault, which lets the assailant off the hook.
Turning it into a sit-com moment for others to chortle at (“haha, she just clocked that bloke for grabbing her, he’s got his just deserts”) downplays the serious issue that apparently [some] men feel that their gratification is more valid than a woman’s right not to be interfered with.
Was I attention-seeking by telling my story on social media? In a way, yes – but the attention I was seeking was not for myself as some kind of truth-and-justice crusader but for the wider issue of how women are treated, particularly within a specific professional community. Also, writing about stuff is how I process it. If no-one had seen or commented on the post, it would still have been worth writing, for the insights it gave me.
Was reporting him to the police disproportionate?
Here’s where I struggle – even though I have been reassured by many (including the nice constable who took my statement) that this is not a trivial thing, that groping is sexual assault, that I have a right to expect that this behaviour is dealt with officially….advice I would give to anyone else in my position.
A large part of me believes in standing up for what is right, and following the right procedures for when something goes wrong. I still feel that as the only victim of this guy that night with the confidence and professional standing to take action without fear for my job, it was my responsibility to do so. The other girls were clearly too intimidated and vulnerable to do so themselves. What if I said and did nothing further, and he assaulted someone in a worse way next time? I would feel partly-responsible for not having done my best to prevent this (even though I know of course that he is solely accountable for his own actions).
But a little voice nags at me….am I making a storm in a teacup? Am I bolstering my own self-image at the expense of a clueless guy who just hadn’t been raised right? Am I hijacking a moment of drunken misjudgement in order to be strident about my feminist principles? Am I just being spiteful and wanting revenge for being made to feel so devalued and humiliated? This little voice won’t shut the fuck up, no matter how much reassurance I get from my friends and acquaintances. I doubt my motivations – but, if the outcome is the right one, does it even matter why I am doing it?
So I reported him. I went and gave a statement in a bare little police interview room, re-lived the experience, answered questions and waited.
He was arrested and charged with sexual assault. No doubt this was shocking and traumatic for his wife and children, will negatively impact his professional life and will damage his reputation. All for a little drunken groping?
Because alcohol is not an excuse for deliberately violating someone else’s boundaries. Because women’s bodies are not men’s property. Because he clearly didn’t see anything wrong with his actions, and was hostile to me for calling him out. Because it’s the principle of the thing, not the degree of damage caused by the specific incident.
Because the way he went about the groping, his responses since and the history of his other activities which have come to my attention indicate that this is not just some clumsy flirtation, but the actions of a practiced and intentional predator. Someone who views women as disposable, interchangeable meat for his appetite, who knows what to do and say to cover his tracks, who has been able to get away with it up until now because he’s picked on the vulnerable and naive. I am neither of those things. I don’t feel like a crusading heroine. At first, I felt like a fraud – I was paid a compliment and responded with an attack, what a bitch I am. I suffered nothing more than indignity, yet here I am making a big issue of it at the taxpayer’s expense. I told the guy off, what more punishment do I want for him? I still have so much toxic social conditioning to shake off.
And yet…. I now get attacks of the shakes when I talk about this, and every time I get news of the development of the court proceedings. It seems bizarre to me that I, who spent seven years in a relationship with a sadistic abuser, I, who have been raped and hurt and fought back to reclaim myself from all of that, could be traumatised by what was apparently intended as a gesture of appreciation for my physical charms. But this is why I am taking a stand – because when you add up all of the abuse, exploitation, humiliation, and entitlement that [some] men subject women to; the result is trauma, loss of trust, fear and helplessness. I may not have been physically injured by the squeezing of my buttocks, but it had a damaging effect nonetheless. I’m going to continue in spite of that, because I believe in what I am doing and I’m doing it for all of us who have been harassed, assaulted, exploited and treated badly by selfish, self-entitled men.
The hearing has yet to happen, so I don’t know if he will plead guilty or if it will go to jury trial. I am hoping for the former, but preparing for the latter. Because pursuing this is the right thing to do