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Monthly Archives: September 2012

My Roland fantasies

“Baby boy not a day goes by/without my fantasies/I think about you all the time/I see you in my dreams”. Never were truer words spoken.

I fantasise about Roland spanking me and doing other things to me constantly, and I dream occassionally of him spanking me in his house, like I’m replaying the event in my mind. Anyway, because I can’t think of anything else to type, here are my fantasies – except my biggest fantasy, which has to remain secret for the time being. I’m the dominant in that fantasy.

1. Roland picks me up in his car and says we are ging to the studio where he will take pictures of me. Instead, he drives in another direction.I ask him why but he doesn’t answer. “Where are we going?” I ask. He reaches into the glove compartment, pulls out a blindfold and tells me to put it on. I refuse. Roland slows down for a bit, searching for a parking spot. After a few minutes, he parks, pulls out a flick knife and presses it to my neck. “Put on the blindfold,” he orders. I put it round my eyes and try to tie it, but he ties it for me, pulling it tight. Then he drives, though where we are going I have no idea.

Finally he stops, switching off the engine, gets out and helps me out of the car. I feel his hand guiding me to where he wants to go. Finally he removes my blindfold. We’re in the woods – or rather, a patchy bit of wooded area somewhere in Edinburgh. It is a secluded spot.

He makes me get down on my hands and knees and canes me. Then he pulls my jeans down and canes me. It hurts really bad but he won’t stop. He tells me to lean forward, resting on my elbows. I feel like I’m pushing my bottom up, like it wants more. I wish he would stop but he continues, the strokes even harder now. I begin to cry from pain, and the caning stops. Roland sits next to me on the grass and films me crying, a delighted smirk on his fat youthful Roland face. He takes out a small phial from the pocket of his trousers and holds it to my eyes to collect the tears (like the queen – then a rebel slave – did to the previous ruler in my dream, a scene that didn’t make it into Kemet 1). He laughs softly as I whimper and cry.

Then he drags me over his lap and raises a belt; he must’ve taken it off when I wasn’t looking. He thrashes me hard with the belt then puts it back on and uses his hand. It feels like a long time. Roland picks me up and carries me over to a fallen tree, bending me over it with my knees on the grass. He uses the flogger this time, until I’m bawling. Then he forces his large, slightly pudgy thumb up into my bum and it was sore. I squirmed. I couldn’t breathe. I could feel his fingernail deep inside scraping me. I didn’t want this pain. He suddenly withdrew his thumb, and I felt his thing pushing inside me instead, so I wriggled a lot to get away from him, put his hands on my shoulders held me down. I kept wriggling and kicking and then I felt his weight n me so I couldn’t get up, and I cried more until he was finished, which took a long time. Then he jammed a vibrating plug in there and gave me a piece of paper with an address written on it.

“Be there in half an hour, and I’ll take the plug out,” he said. “But if you’re even a minute late, you will be paddled and then I’ll give you an enema.” Then he drove off, leaving me stranded. I read the address and realised I’d never be able to make it in time; I’d need a bus to get there and it probably wouldn’t arrive in time. I didn’t have my bag, phone or any way of getting money out of an ATM, as my bag had been in the car.

I slowly started to walk to the address on the paper, feeling sore with every step. But I’d only been walking about 10 minutes when a horn sounded and I saw Roland’s car parked. I realised he must have deliberately ensured I wouldn’t make it and had no real intention of seeing me try. I got into the car, my bottom stinging as I sat down. Roland was leering at me. He looked intensely happy. He chuckled. “How was your walk? Did you feel sore when you moved? Were you trying to hurry so you wouldn’t have to suffer the consequences?”

“It hurts more now,” I moaned. “And no, I knew you’d set it up so I’d never have any chance. I just didn’t think you’d be waiting, I thought I’d have to walk for ages.”

Roland patted my leg. “No, I’d never make you walk for that long, especially without your handbag. And it would be a waste of time that I could spend humiliating and depraving you.”

“Looks like I’m in for a good night,” he said, as we drove off.

2. I have Roland naked and suspended from a ceiling. Next to me is an open fire and a rack full of torture instruments, some of which are iron and can be heated in the fire. I also have a car battery with four clips attached to it. There are more electric clips on the table, designed to give off a low voltage, but they are no match for the car battery. I also have some toys and body piercing needles. There are suspension hooks in the ceiling and plenty of rope and wire. I can make piercings in him and suspend him by those piercings if I choose. I hit him as hard as I can with the cane and he screams, begging me to stop. I wonder if it is time to stop; I’ve been torturing him for over six hours now.

The camcorder behind me on the shelf is recording everything but I worry the memory stick will soon be full. I bring out another cane from the torture rack. This one has little bits of glass stuck in it. Roland is already bleeding and I’m interested to see what this cane will do. I have been conducting experiments on him in between torturing, and have a detailed report of my findings neatly typed up; I typed it when I collared Roland and put him on a lead; it was an extension leash so he could go to the bathrom and eat the special Roland food I’d made for him out of his dog bowl, which says ‘Roland’ on it.

I hit him with the cane and he howls; it is so hilarious that I burst out laughing and can’t stop. But as I gradually stop laughing, I’m annoyed to see all the blood everywhere. To stop it falling, I lick it off Roland’s skin while he cries. But I can’t lick fast enough. I grab a bowl and collect the blood. There’s too much blood for me to want to drink it; it disgusts me. And the only blood I will drink is male blood, as it flows – not blood separate from the body, in a bowl. But I have to get rid of it or it will grow bacteria and make the room unhygienic. So I decide to make Roland drink it. He doesn’t want to, but that’s totally okay, as I just pour it down his throat.

Then I make piercings in his balls. I have been spanking and whipping for hours and my hand is tired. I grab a Black & Decker drill, plug it in and turn it on. Roland begins to cry which is really pathetic and funny. I change the memory stick. “Oh god, please no, not that, no,” he whines. I shove it in his ass and then I turn it on.

3. Roland fed me laxatives and gave me an enema and said if I could hold it I wouldn’t need to be put in nappies, but I crapped myself so he changed me into a nappy and baby clothes which barely covered me at all. He fed me in a highchair with more laxatives and diuretics and put me in a playpen. Every time I wet or filled the nappy he would spank me hard and change me. Sometimes he gave me an enema. He took lots of photos and videos. Then he put me to bed and read me a baby book.

 

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Debauchery on my driving license

I’ve just filled in the form for my provisional licence. I chose to put the purity ring on a choker-length chain and wear it around my neck in the photo booth so that the ring will be visible, even though barely, on my driving licence.

I intend to use the same photo for my full license. It will be barely noticeable, but I will know it’s there. This way, I’ll be reminded of my virginity sale forever, and if I ever feel down or like I’ve failed, I’ll pull out my driving licence and be reminded of how I once empowered myself and that I can be creative, strong and determined enough to get whatever I want. I’ll remember this blog, too, and the hundreds of hours I’ve put into it.

I think this proves how much I trust Roland, because if he did something to cause me distress I’d have to get the photo redone. Or not look at my license. Still, it’s only a provisional one so if he hurt me I’d only have the license for a few more months anyway.

 

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BEST post ever on anti-sex work radfems’ tactics in silencing sex workers.

Feminist Ire

The feminist movement really is in a pickle these days. It used to be a given that things like prostitution, pornography and stripping were bad, but nowadays there’s some resistance to these time-honoured notions. Women are increasingly coming out as sex workers and demanding rights. As feminists seek to shut down strip bars and criminalise clients, those women are complaining not just that they’ll lose their livelihood, but that they’ll be at increased risk of abuse and violence if their industries go underground! You can’t let such trivial concerns get in the way of your crusade, so below are some handy tips for discrediting these pesky meddlers. Remember: being an actual sex worker doesn’t entitle her to speak about sex work!

I don’t believe you; you don’t realise the harm you’re doing to yourself

This is generally your starting point. There you are, explaining that no woman…

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Posted by on September 25, 2012 in Feminism, Sex work

 

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The Starlight Crystal

Some of you may remember that, apart from this blog and doing other things, I (try to)find time to reread all of Christopher Pike’s books that I read aged 9-12, by buying them for a pound or two off Ebay.

Tonight I reread the Starlight Crystal, about a girl who voyages on a spaceship travelling at near lightspeed and so doesn’t age. She lives till the end of the universe and watches it begin anew. She lives for two Creations, the last part in the body of her clone who has inherited her memories, and works to fulfil her destiny by making everything come true that happened to her in the first creation – including creating an alien race that will nearly wipe out humanity. In the end she attains a sort of enlightenment and becomes Creation, able to finally spend eternity with the man she has repeatedly loved and lost.

I can see why these rather fanciful books, full of philosophy, metapysics, astronomy, murder, whodunnit, violence, science fiction, horror and the supernatural were able to appeal to my young and curious mind.

There is, I feel, a certain significance in rereading these books at the time that my wish is being fulfilled. I did reread two of Pike’s books a couple years ago – The Last Vampire 1, Remember Me, and Remember Me 2: The Return. But rereading the rest of them now, it is nostalgic and honestly I could cry for the nine year old with such powerful desires, such vivid fantasies; I could weep for her knowing of the long barren years that lie ahead when she will lay panting under the covers, lost in the world of the Village whee every day brings spanking, pants pooping/wetting, forced nappies and torture. And public humiliation. True, she never believed her fantasies would be fulfilled, that someday a version of her stronger and taller than she’d imagined her Asian genes were able to grow her, would stand in a man’s house while she caned him. And that he would allow her willingly, without the use of blackmail or bribing needed (which my nine year old self assumed would provide an opportunity for her to spank boys of her age.) Little Kali didn’t know why she wanted a man to spank her so badly, yet felt both desire and extreme embarassment, anger and disgust at the thought of her mother spanking her. But now I know the answer – my younger self was instinctively not incestuous, and perhaps also not bisexual.

Sometimes, reading those books, I feel like I’ve travelled back to that point as Little Kali; I’m still virginal, still filled with lust, still endlessly waiting. The only difference is, I have more hope that these fantasies will be fulfilled and I know I’m not the only one with them.

Lost years, wasted chances for losing my virginity. So many wasted chances. But I knew those men weren’t the one. That I would save myself for something special, for a kinky night of untamed lust and wild depravity. For that special someone. And now my God has given me to him. I have been rewarded for my chastity with £8,000.

I believe that some things are meant to happen; some people are meant for us to meet. That some ideas or goals we have are not from ourselves, but we have them so we can fulfil particular goals and what’s meant to happen can happen. Say you’re meant to meet your future partner in Mexico. But how can you meet them without having an idea or wish to travel, or to go on an exchange, or become an international student at a Mexican univesity, or to accept a job in Mexico?

Yeah, I know that belief is flawed from the ground up and I can think of two objections right off the bat; there are obviously many more objections on grounds of logic and the desirability – indeed, the risks – of such a belief system. But it’s what I think, and I make no pretensions as to its acceptibility.

So, although I thank the Universe for granting my wish to sell virginity and giving me the greatest gift I culd recieve, the only thing I have ever really wanted, and certainly the most meaningful thing I have desired; even as I thank the Universe, I wonder if, really, I should – if the fact that I wanted to sell my virginity wasn’t a predestined wish so that I eventually would sell my virginity. Perhaps before we’re born we know the main things that will happen in our lives. Maybe that’s why we have those wishes, because we know that’s what we’re meant to do. (Though obviously some wishes just come from our experiences, upbringing or culture. They’re the ones that don’t come true).

My belief gives me comfort, of course; I know that if I’m outed by a journo or Roland is violent to me that it was all meant to happen. I believe Brooke was meant to be forced to reveal her identity, and that her books were meant to be published. This means that laws are meant to be, too; if journalists were subject to better human rights laws they may not have been able to stalk Brooke enough that they’d find out her identity; or even if they did, they might not have been able to reveal her identity. You see why I’m not a fan of popularising this “it was all meant to be” belief – because you could justify any law, political action or crime by saying “it was meant to be.” (Though if all society believed everything was predestined, and justified laws accordingly, this disaster would, of course, be meant to be…) Heh heh.

Still, I thank the universe almost every day.

I feel even more fulfilled and happy since I began my prostitution. It gives even more meaning to my life, as does this blog. I feel at peace, and that is a new feeling. I also experience feelings of validation, self-love, great strength and power, as well as feelings of accomplishment and self-actualisation. It is incredible, and brings me joy and feelings of what I can only describe as honour or ‘glory’, though I’m not sure why. I am no good at analysing my own feelings, nor those of others; I can very easily pick up on what someone else is feeling but I’ll be at a loss to say why they’re feeling it. As for why I feel the way I do, that’s even more of a mystery. Emotions are inconveniences – at least that’s what I was taught as a child.

As for Little Kali, her kinks and fetishes are no different from mine. My sexuality was fully developed as a nine year old, a fact which matches the experiences of gay and trans people who typically claim to have felt that way since a very young age, often much younger than I was. Some parents also claim to have known their children were lesbian or gay from when they were toddlers.

At the age of 12 or 13, I casually picked up a teen fiction book – one of a series, this book was called ‘The Apprentice’, I think -in WH Smith at Glasgow Queen Street Station. The blurb on the back was about an imprisoned serial killer who, at night in bed, senses the presence of one of his own kind running around killing. He calls to me. He is one of my own kind. The killer decides to break out to join the other killer. Lying there in the dark, [imagining or dreaming of killing and the blood] and wake up, my cold imbs suffused in the sweat of sexual excitement… I put the book back. That last sentence – which may actually have been the first sentence I read – had described me perfectly. At age 12 or 13, I understood that my murder fantasies were sexual – I just knew, though I didn’t think spanking or pants-pooping was sexual. Was I destined to become a serial killer? I did sometimes fantasise about prowling the streets at night as a huntress, spanking, beating and murdering men, seeing them bleed, their mouths open. Making my blade dance over their bodies, punching their faces. Stabbing them in the heart. Slashing their throat. And drinking their blood of course. But now I know that being kinky isn’t the same as being sadistic. I am not doomed to be a killer. And serial killers are never kinky; they do not do BDSM with their partners. I don’t worry about murdering Roland in a fit of lust. I just worry about accidentally hurting his delicate, fragile body through overexcitement. But I won’t; I value him too much (£6,000) to put a scratch on Magda’s most prized piece of ass.

Back then, I was reading these books and fantasising about boys getting spanked, and about myself being spanked by a man and spanking boys. And now I’m reading them again and I’m still a virgin, but experiencing all this spanking at long last. If I was 11 when I read this particular book, another 11 years has now elapsed. Time goes full circle and then after much struggle there is a happy ending. Like The Starlight Crystal.

 

 

 

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How the abstinence cult harms women – even rape victims – and encourages slut-shaming.

Sacred Struggler

I grew up in the Christian church and I went to Christian school all but one year (which I was home schooled for). There is nothing in my life that hasn’t been defined outside of Christianity including my grasp on my own sexuality. When I was sixteen years old, I had boyfriend who pushed me to a breaking point.

It was July 4th. We went to a party with his family and I was allowed to stay the night with a promise from his aunt that I would sleep in her camper. My boyfriend’s dad got drunk though and wanted to go home instead. When Mike, my boyfriend, was driving us back; his dad said that I could stay at their house if I kept it a secret. When he said that, I knew where this was going.

And we were making out and he was everywhere. And things were…

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Posted by on September 24, 2012 in Abstinence

 

Marriage: priveleged in public discourse on rape, emotional health and childrearing

This is another post I’ve been wanting to write for a while.

Marriage. Sure, we accept it can cause problems, especially that the definition of marriage is problematic. We accept that domestic violence and rape occurs in marriage more than it does in relationships where the partners aren’t living together. But marriage is priveleged.

I’m going to start off with the example of rape, then move on to emotional and mental health, and finally childrearing. For this post, I’m only going to be talking about heterosexual women because it seems like most of the discourse and marriage-privelege is centered around this group. This post will assume some knowledge/sympathetic views (will not have references, statistics or attempt to prove points).

Rape/sexual assault

When a woman experiences sexual assault outside her marriage – especially if she is a young single woman – she may be blamed for it. She was out late, she was walking alone, her clothes were a certain length, cut, or showed a certain amount of skin, she wasn’t sober, she shouldn’t have trusted that man, she shouldn’t have hung around with those guys, she was flirting, she should have realised she was in danger earlier, she shouldn’t have led him on…

So, the social norms of socialising, drinking, flirting, dating, and even shopping (a shop sold her the clothes, why not criticise the designer or the retailer if you think the outfit is too short/tight?) are out of bounds for raped women. It’s okay to go out for a drink with your friends, but if you get attacked coming out of the bar, you shouldn’t have been out so late. If you don’t go on dates you’re a loser, snob, frigid or ugly, but if you go on a date and things go wrong in the car or at his place, you have only yourself to blame for being stupidly naive or a flirt who led him on. It’s always okay to do those things – until you get attacked. Then it’s your fault for being a normal person with a social life, errands to run, a life outside your kitchen, and clothes that aren’t hand-me-downs from Granny.

So, a woman’s lifestyle or even career (in the case of sex workers) is blamed for ‘causing’ the rape. You got raped because you were flirting/drinking/socialising/outside your home after dark, or because you are a sex worker. Your behaviour or your job is the culprit.

Yet, when a woman experiences sexual assault in her marriage, the institution of marriage is never blamed. (Note: I’m not saying victims of domestic violence are not blamed; sometimes, people and courts might not take them seriously compared to a woman who is assaulted by a knife-wielding stranger, because domestic abuse sometimes doesn’t seem ‘rape-y’ enough.) What I am saying is: women aren’t usually* blamed for marrying. People don’t say ‘it was her fault she was raped, she was living in the same house as the guy so it was really easy to rape her’ or ‘She should’ve realised he was a rapist before she married him’ or ‘What was she wearing?’ or even ‘She was alone with him in the bedroom at night, what did she think was going to happen?’.

Even though the fact that you’re living with a man makes it very easy for you to be sexually assaulted – close proximity, less chance you’ll call the police, etc.

But marriage is never seen as the culprit. Nobody ever says, ‘You were raped because you are a wife’ or ‘See, marriage causes rape,’ ‘Marriage is dangerous and degrading to wives’. But it’s not that uncommon to hear or see victims blamed: ‘She was raped because she is a sex worker’ or ‘See, sex work causes rape’, ‘Sex work is dangerous and degrading to sex workers’. Nobody tells wives to “Stop dressing like sluts” in front of their husbands (the comment that inadvertently launched the SlutWalks) or that they must restrict their freedom of movement and be on their guard against rape.

Some of this is because of practicality – it’s hard to be on your guard in your own home. But being on your guard in your own home is no more ridiculous than being told to be on your guard in your own neighbourhood,. And there’s no reason why bigots couldn’t tell wives to watch how they dress.

 

Emotional/mental health

Marriage is still thought of as a stress reliever, especially in the case of parenting. We all know marriage can be stressful, but if a woman has emotional problems, it tends not to be attributed to her marriage unless she tells us so. We tend to think of work or family issues as the culprit. Whereas a single woman having a breakdown is often asked about boyfriends or sex partners, and we more readily assume that her sex life is causing the distress, before we think about her family or career as possible causes.

Sometimes it is still assumed that a single woman is looking for that special someone to eventually marry, and only then will she find true happiness. Some people still assume that a string of casual boyfriends is not true happiness, or is just the prelude to a long-awaited union with Mr Right. Marriage is still, in some circles, seen as the key to a woman’s happiness. Womens’ dating and sex lives are reduced to a lengthy search for Mr Right.

 

Childrearing

 

When kids misbehave, get into trouble with the police or don’t do well at school, parents and not teachers are usually blamed. That’s a subject outwith the scope of this blog, which only deals with issues surrounding my Diary (a young single polyamorous woman selling virginity to a rich open-married polyamorous guy for fun and thrills). What is within the scope of this blog is the fact that, although all parents of criticised children and adolescents are blamed, marriage is never seen as the cause of the child’s failures. Divorce, single motherhood, polyamory, parental dating and problem marriages where the parents argue continually are all blamed. But a marriage where the parents don’t argue is never seen as a cause for the child’s problems. Why not, if single motherhood is sometimes blamed – especially in the media – for juvenile delinquency? If a one-parent or separated/nonmarried/divorced background can be a cause, why not a two-parent/married background? Studies show that single parents’ children do as well as coupled parents’ children (when poverty and educational status are controlled for, which wasn’t done in earlier studies – see my post ‘Lone mothers: the Government, the media and the law hate you. Get married!’ for references and statistics.)

 

*Usually, in media representations and other forms of public discourse. I’m not saying family members don’t do it, ‘Oh you should never have married him, I told you he had shifty eyes! Isn’t that right, Doreen? [nudge] Eh?’

 

 
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Posted by on September 23, 2012 in Feminism

 

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Roland pays me near my house

We were going to stop off where I lived and he would pay me there. It was wrong. It was exhilarating. And it was risky, because in this small area, a BMW is noticeable, and so am I; and my mum could be out walking the dogs. And she knows a lot of people in the area from walking the dogs, so what if one of them saw me and Roland and told her?

“Yes, what if you were seen getting out of a BMW when you were supposed to be in Edinburgh?” Roland grinned like a pervy shark.

I was trying to figure out what to tell my mum if she asked about my day; “She usually never asks me, or she just asks if I had a good time, but it’d be just my luck if she asked me this one time,” I explained.

“Yeah, you’ve got to get your story straight,” he said, savouring every word.

Earlier, I’d asked what his parents would think of this sordid affair.

“They’d think it was naughty, but then, boys are naughty,” he’d replied.

“So I’d be the naughty one? I’d be the slut?”

He nodded. “Yeah, they would think of you as a slut.”

Later, he’d taken his wallet off a shelf, and the wallet was hugely fat with all the money in it. The notes were bulging out. He looked at the money inside and stuffed some more wads in, all the time while driving. Then he told me to count it. I counted it 3 times and got a different answer each time, which is normal for me. This is why I always count money 4 times, so that 2 amounts will match. Like I said, I’m not good with numbers. Roland suggeted I fold a note around each hundred so it’s easier to count. I was dizzy from lack ofsleep when counting them. It was £740 or something. That’s what he’d thought it’d be. He said we coukl stop at an ATM where I lived.

Right now, I was happily fretting over being seen. What a thrill! Roland asked where there was a cash machine and I suggested we park at the supermarket, where there was less chance of my mum or one of her acquaintances spotting us. However, there would be few cars in the car park at this time, so if someone did happen to be coming out or going into the supermarket, we would be conspicuous. A BMW would be more conspicuous parked than it would be driving along, where it could just be passing through. (Most cars are old or cheap in this town/area).

Roland’s age would also cause more suspicion if my mum heard about it; if he’d been my age he could be a friend or another student.I wondered about saying he was my boyfriend if it was suspected, but decided no way. Roland seemed to agree, though to be honest I’ve no idea what he was saying because I was so wrapped up in my own fantasies of being caught. I know he rubbed my leg and said he wouldn’t say he was my boyfriend or that’s not what he’d call this relationship. Well, obviously; I don’t even think we’d qualify as fuck buddies or friends with benefits, as we’re not friends and money is being exchanged. I’m his prostitute and he’s my punter. If I was seen with him, and it was suspected I was sleeping with him, I would have to tell the truth about the deal. No way could I let anyone think this old fat guy was my boyfriend; I couldn’t bear the shame. Unless they knew he was a millionaire; maybe that would be okay. (I didn’t say this out loud, of course.)

“You must have been waiting for something,” he said, “You’re very pretty; you could have lost your virginity; you must have had many chances. But something was holding you back. And this Chastity character, you want to kill her, don’t you? Get rid of her?”

I understood what he was saying. “Chastity is a part of me, my sort of secondary personality? She’s been keeping me from losing my virginity and when I do, she will die?”

“Yes, that’s what I think. You’re part virgin and part whore. She’s the virgin and you are the whore. But it’s only now that you’re getting stronger than she is, and I wonder why.”

I was pretty stunned. “I think that might be true,” I said, “Yeah, I see it. How did you know?”

“I can just tell. Something was holding you back. You have all of these desires but something was stopping you.”

I felt it was all true. I know Roland is the personification of a part of me, too – the sexually adventurous, slutty, experienced, sadistic domme side. Chastity is the repressed, innocent and submissive side. Songs of Innocence and Experience – as a five year old I’d thought they should have been named ‘innocence’ and ‘evil’. But often it is experience or power that make us evil. And experience that makes us powerful.

Experience makes us formidable, changes us, makes the innocent easy prey for us. Before the Case I was innocent; a 9 year old still largely trusting even though I knew people could lie and be bad. Now I am experienced, trusting no-one, with an arsenal of tools at my side to challenge any libels and lies, to trick perpetrators into revealing their misdeeds, to win addendums clearing my name.

And prostitution will be much the same.

William Blake was right all along.

We took the shortcut we’d spotted on the way down, and Roland said he was a total pervert, and asked me what my mum would think of him – whether she’d think he was a pervert.

I said, “Well, you’ve got a PhD, so even though you’re a pervert at least you’re educated, so she wouldn’t mind.”

“I’m an educated fucking pervert. So that’s okay.As long as I’ve got a degree.”

“Yeah.”

Earlier, he’d been a little worried that Magda would find something – a hair, something– and I’d said, “Will she spank you if she finds out?”

He’d chuckled. “No, it’ll be much worse than that.”

Roland and I came out into where I lived, and I pointed to my house, fairly close as the crow flies but still half a mile away on foot. He looked at it (well, the whole street, as he probably couldn’t distinguish this particular house. Or maybe he could, because I told him which number it was from the side.) He’d said he needed yet another coffee despite having had three coffees already – “that’s like a drought! I need 10 cups of coffee a day”. He’d asked me where to get coffee here and I told him. That cafe was the local daytime/evening hangout for teens and young people because there was so little to do here. I’d been for a interview there once – ironically just after I’d got a Saturday job. It was weird thinking of Roland in there.

I suggested maybe he could stop on the high street, as then I wouldn’t have to carry the £1000 very far if he parked in front of the bank (we both have accounts in the same bank). The High Street meant, paradoxically, more chance of people who knew me walking by but less chance of sticking out like a sore arse (heh) in a nearly-empty carpark.

Roland glided the car onto the main street and parked right in front of the bank. He got out, withdrew the cash, came back and counted it out, then made me count it. He was paying me cash because the bank had queried the cheque.

“And did they query it?” he’d asked.

“No,” I’d said, “The lady just said ‘wow, I’d like £1,000’ and I said ‘I had to work very hard for it’ but she didn’t ask me anything.”

Roland giggled at that. “The bank did query it,” he said, and so his secretary had asked him to approve it/if he’d signed a cheque to one Kalika Gold.

“I said, ‘yes, she’s a lawyer’,” he’d reported. I’d asked if he’d had to think before replying or got nervous but he said he didn’t.

It was £1,000. I kept thinking I was seeing people I knew or my mum passing by but it always turned out not to be them. It was such a thrill and I was having so much fun.

I told Roland I didn’t want to wait that long before seeing him again.

I still hurt from the cane, and said so. It was really funny, but sore. He said he was sorry.

“Don’t be sorry; it was fun,” I said.

A police car pulled in front of us. We were talking for a bit – not the wisest thing to do as really I should’ve got out of his car quickly to avoid being spotted. Roland asked me to kiss him, which I don’t like doing in case he gets attached to me and vice versa. Snogging is different because it means power.

We were going to kiss when Roland says, “Oh there’s a police car. We’ll wait till it goes away.”

It left almost immediately and we kissed, which was kinda nice and I liked it more than last time at the bus stop. Only much later did I realise that neither kissing (even of under-16s) nor prostitution is a crime (unless you’re soliciting or kerb-crawling – ie streetwalking is a crime but not other forms of sex work). So we were pretty stupid to think the police would be interested. I’d wondered if the police had parked and left so quickly because they’d seen Roland come back from the ATM and hand over a wad of cash, and suspected prostitution. But of course not, as it wasn’t streetwalking; perhaps they suspected illegal activities or maybe the police car was just a coincidence. I think we were wary of the police because we knew we were doing something naughty.

Roland said to enjoy the money. “And I do hope your bottom gets better,” he added.

“You’re not as cruel as [fictional] Roland, you’re a lot nicer,” I observed.

“No, I’m not as cruel as Roland. I do hope it gets better.”

As I got out he said, “Watch out for cars. And mothers. Watch out for mothers.”

Two minutes later after waving him goodbye as he sped to the cafe just along the street, having asked me for directions, I was in the bank putting the money that had just been taken out into its old familiar home.

The End of this chapter

Awaiting the next part of my adventure…

 

 

 

 

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