Conversations, Creative writing, Fantasies, Stories, Critical writing

A Professional Man

He was quite simply the picture of a confident, charming, successful, handsome man. Perfectly groomed, his nails cut and filed, every hair in place, his teeth straight and white and his eyes, beautifully deep pools of blue. He was sat opposite me, his suit crisp, his demeanour commanding.

Surrendering freedoms

I hate being arrested. I go through it because it is an “occupational hazard”, a risk you have to take if you want to change anything. What I hate is the police forcing me to give up my freedoms, of being so dominant and it is not my choice.

My darling girl

Her eyes were the only way she had left to worship me, but I had to blindfold her. She was tied to the bed; only silk and ribbons (too sweet for chains or rope, this one)- she wouldn’t struggle enough to loosen them. All done, I sat for a moment to admire my work, adore her; she couldn’t see my admiration, in any case she was lost in a sensory deprived world.

Direct action is sexy

There is something about being on an action that gets me aroused. Some of my favourite moments have taken place in fields and forest when our minds have been on other things as well. I'm talking of those spaces when you are lying in a ditch waiting for security or the police care to go by, watching their headlights sweep over the place where you are hiding; of the tension that builds up as you keep one ear on the radio to crackle the signal to start moving.

In conversation: an activist and pervert talk politics

Play!Fight! project facilitator and activist Nor is in conversation here with London Faerie, organiser of the After Pandora club, which hosts 'private pervy arty parties' in London. They discuss the cultural gaps between kinksters and anarchists, and how bridges might be built between these two communities.

A healing fantasy

Please note: this powerful fantasy describes scenes that some readers may find upsetting or triggering.

Am I too heavy for you?

Am I too heavy for you? You smile. Your arm, like a big kitchen spoon is spooning by breast. You are here and serious, I know, and my nipples somehow still here hope that you will stay. You will stay until I fit in your shoes, until they are the right size.

Preparing to pray

I enjoy touching myself. I touch myself. I touch myself once, twice, three times a day. I mostly like touching myself in the winter, when everything is frozen and my vagina so warm. I prefer touching myself with gloves on, so that it feels like it is someone else touching myself. Sometimes I caress myself first, to calm me down,

This time later

It is at this time that I like it more. When I am lying in bed at 6 o' clock and I pretend I am ill with fever and sweat. I am so sweaty that it is like I am throwing up or I have my period. I hate that I like these things, but I like them.

This room

This room is anonymous and unremarkable. It’s like any other. But a description of the room doesn’t matter. What matters is you and I are in this room. And what is about to take place. I blindfolded you until we got here, a surprise I said. Now I’ve taken the covering off, you are blinking and unsure. I like this, I don’t want you secure, you should be slightly worried. Your unease makes you more compliant, we all like rules, boundaries and routines.