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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 has 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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If you’re a happy hooker you must be in denial: my rambling thoughts

I just really need to post this before I get onto posting the next part of the Diary. And after that, I’ve got an ex-call girl’s blog to read. It’s important to me that I read it, as she regrets sex work and if I’m to regret it, at least this is a last-minute chance to stop it, though of course I doubt I will. But it does pain me to know there are others who regret it, it always did even when I studied prostitution at uni. And she sounds quite like me – formerly proud to be a prostitute and charging up to a thousand or two for a few hours.

Anyway, this post is not directed at anyone; that much will hopefully be obvious by the general/non-specific nature of the writing, but I just want to get that out of the way before some random person comes along and thinks the post was aimed at them (which has happened to me in real life, with talking). This post only contains my thoughts and is not meant to be factually-based, reasonably argued or carry a message unlike other posts on this blog, nor does it represent my views on anything.

The post

I’ve seen some shit in my time – stuff I can’t tell you guys, because you wouldn’t believe it. Professionals – teachers, social workers, police – I’ve seen them lie. I’ve seen them surveillance, make up horrible accusations behind peoples’ backs and write them down and tell other professionals, discriminate certain family forms, and nobody can stop them because there are no laws to stop them. It’s all council or department policy. The Ombudsman, MSPs, the General Teaching Council, the police complaints commission…you can complain but you can’t do much to stop it happening. I’ve seen them do it to others. And to me. My life wasn’t sad or tragic. It was happy and fun. But it was more unbelievable than the most tragic stories I’ve read. Speaking of tragic stories, read the wordpress blog ‘Bipolar for life’ if you’ve got a strong stomach and some tissues handy…and yes, it’s triggering.

So, yeah. I’ve seen stuff. I’m tough. Bad stuff is just normal to me. I grew up with it. I had a loving family and a wonderful childhood, but I knew there wre evil people out there – people I should’v been able to trust. But even with the constant monitoring, observation and lies, there was one thing that remained inviolate: my personality. My sense of self, my experiences, my emotions, was never touched. It was never cast into doubt. Oh, my intelligence was – I was autistic and had learning difficulties, they lied, even though I was top of the class. But they never said I was depressed or attacked my personality. And it was a unique personality. Yeah, I’m bragging, but I’m not asking anyone to read this. This is for me, written for me because I don’t know if anyone else understands or wants to know.

Anyway, it was a unique personality. I’ve never been like other people; people say I think outside the box, am quirky or crazy, and will do anything. And I know I don’t react to things in the usual way; I don’t feel sad or stressed very easily, for one thing, and I’m weirdly confident. I sometimes have to mimic emotions, because although I’m capable of more empathy than most people, I do not naturally show it in facial expressions. And I’m tough because Asians don’t have much emotions; they don’t feel as sad. I was raised by an Asian mother and taught not to cry or be cowardly. And I’m tough because of what was done to me by those professionals. Once you’ve been through the fire, the flames are powerless to burn.

They couldn’t harm me, because I had a family who loved me. But the last few hours, for me, have been stressful – something that does not happen to me often. Usually, things are just irritating. A few things are annoying. I am not my usual carefree happy self, and it was to be expected; I knew this journey might make me a bit weirded out or stressed. I thought it would be the sexual stuff, or my friends’ reactions, or religious people hating my blog, but it’s none of that. It’s people being so sure that I’m a victim, or in denial, or not doing this by choice (and these statements didn’t come from the same person, so please nobody comment claiming I’m talking about them. I’m not even going to say whether the statements were tweeted, texted, comments, Facebook messages, emails, whatever. Because, you see I’m not talking about these particulat individuals. Who they are doesn’t matter even 1%, and I’ll tell you why: it’s the whole attitude that’s damaging. When you think that just because some sex workers didn’t choose it, or regret it, and force that story into the mouths of all sex workers, you take away their personality. You devalue and eradicate their story. You make their job, blog, views, writing, sex activism, etc worthless and meaningless.

And there are far too many people out there doing that. That’s why it doesn’t matter who these individuals are – one was going to come along someday. Brooke Magnanti got a lot of flak from the radical feminist and the anti-sex work crowd – and no, they’re not the same thing. I know that. It’s just that at the political level, their interests overlap. Like how in Sweden sex work is criminalized for feminist reasons (and recently a student sex worker was suspended from college for sex work even though it was legal as only clients are criminalised, not the sex workers.) (Story on the Harlot’s Parlour, WordPress.)

I guess I was prepared in a way by following other sex workers on Twitter – I realised that their lived experiences were often silenced by anti sex work NGOs and activists wanting to present all sex workers as trafficked sex slaves. And I have been reading Glasgow Sex Worker’s blog since before I started my own, and in it she does express a lot of frustration at this. But I didn’t realise how bad it makes you feel until tonight. Well, I guess I’m a real sex worker now – once you’ve had your story taken out from under you, all your vivid, precious experiences (good or bad) dismissed as denial, as future therapy fodder, sexual slavery, a short-term happiness that will later turn to regret – and (apparently) all for a deal that isn’t a good deal anyway because I’ll get £4k for virginity but other sex workers make £4k in a night – (not that I’ve ever spent the night with Roland or performed a sexual service lasting more than 20 mins, so getting £1,000 each time for a few hours of spanking and 20 minutes of oral seems good to me). And not that I was trying for the best deal (for reasons described in my posts ‘Kalika’s Q and A’ and ‘Selling Virginity: 25 tips’.)

I don’t see myself as a sex slave and even if I did in the future, it doesn’t make me feel good that people call me a sex slave now. Wait till I see myself as a slave before telling me that. When people put words in others’ mouths, they are attacking their personalities, lives and memories – not just the stories. It would be unthinkable to tell an unhappy drug addicted sex worker that they are really happy and enjoy sex work; that their unhappiness and desire to leave the industry is an illusion. You wouldn’t tell a rape victim they weren’t raped. Yet it’s totally normal and accepted for people to tell happy or neutral sex workers that they are really in a bad situation, that they’re victims, not happy or neutral at all.

I heard the other sex workers getting upset and raging over this but I didn’t know it feels so bad, worse than anything, than the professionals’ lies, than being bullied at school. Ironically, sex work made me happy – well, I’m always happy, so maybe it had a neutral effect – but it is their comments that make me feel sad. I felt fine and proud of it until they said their stuff, casting doubt on my emotions, that I’m not really proud, just in a bad place. That later on I’ll regret it and won’t be proud. Which isn’t true, as other ex-call girls don’t regret it, including two of my “favourites” who provide fascinating information – Maggie MacNeill and Dr Magnanti herself. They quit decades and years ago respectively, but they don’t regret it. And lots of other ex- sex workers on the web and Twitter don’t regret it either.

And there are lots of things to regret in life, anyway. Marrying the person you’re divorcing. That one night stand with the fat guy who now won’t stop following you around. Having an abortion or not having an abortion. Dumping your boyfriend. Cheating. And lots of other non-sex related things.

I do feel really bad for those who started streetwalking when underage, or who were pimped out by relatives as young children (it happens very occassionally in America) or do it to feed their drug habit, and all the other situations. But that doesn’t mean all sex workers have the same sad story. Some stories are happy, some sad, most neutral. The same sex worker can have good, bad and neutral experiences. The story of a 15 year old junkie streetwalker isn’t going to be the same as the story of a career woman who does sex work on the side from her house, or a student who works with an agency, or a graduate in a massage parlour. The happy hooker isn’t representative, but the sex slave is not representative either.

Where’s the blue WKD and chocolate when you need it??

Why is the world so complex anyway, and why does it happen? They blamed Brooke for telling her story – for ‘glorifying’ sex work, but all she was doing was telling her story. Freedom of speech. Then she was offered a book deal. And suddenly that was bad. It wasn’t just a book or a blog made into a book, it was an enemy of women. Where’s the line? If I’m just deluding myself, but she’s glorifying sex work, is it because my blog is obscure but her book was a bestseller? Is it how successful your writing is that determines if you’re a gender traitor or merely a sad sex slave?

And when a story about bad sex work experiences is told, it’s ‘raising awareness’ and ‘dispelling myths’. But if it’s a happy or neutral experience, it’s ‘playing the happy hooker’, ‘being a Belle de Jour’ or, in my case, being in the honeymoon phase of my descent into trauma and drug addiction.

I need chocolate. Chocolate makes everything go away. I think if Roland were here right now, he’d write ‘sex slave’ on my chest. I’ve been so horny all day, all the days since two weeks ago. I was going to check out kinky dating sites today. Sometimes I feel like banging my head against the wall out of sexual frustration. I wonder if it’s as bad for boys.

Ok, I’m going to stop now. Diary time! The next installment coming up now…

 

 

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An audience with a pervert

We were in Frankie and Benny’s and I was feeling very happy, even though it was terribly obvious how chubby and 25-40% bald Roland is. I felt even more pretty by comparison. I had battered fish and chips. Theoretically I should’ve been starving by now – I hadn’t had anything to eat after lunch the previous day – but I didn’t eat that quickly. I amused myself by thinking how none of the other diners knew my thrilling secret. They might be wondering what a pretty young girl was doing with a lump of lard like that, but they would never guess! They might think he was a work colleague or family friend, maybe; hopefully they wouldn’t think I was banging him but I don’t think so, because we don’t do the sort of body language that would make others think that. But whatever they thought, they would never guess! I looked at Roland and thought he was cute in his own way. Sometimes he loks good if the lighting is right or if I think about how much worse a man of his age could look. I wanted icecream or a coke float for dessert (which is the favourite part of a meal for me).

We were talking about next time, and the enema bag he’d shown me. I said I wouldn’t bring the knife next time because I could tell he wasn’t into it.

“I really thought you’d like it,” I added.

I said I’d get some supplies off Ebay for next time.

Roland: “Yes, but we have to make sure that it’s something we both want.” Sometimes I hate that law that says you can’t fuck people without their consent. Then again, as a woman I am not legally capable of rape*, so…

“Oh,” I said in a disappointed voice, “So no drilling?” I said it with a totally straight face. I really wanted to see his expression when I said it.

He looked at me for a few moments.

I could imagine drilling him right there as he was sitting, the fat slut. He was totally asking for it, acting like a whore, going with any woman who was nice to him, and his perverted ways. Like he’s been around the block, one more time wouldn’t count. I bet he secretly wanted it anyway, he’s such a pervert.

“I won’t,” I said, “I won’t do stuff you don’t want. You can trust me.”

We carried on talking about stuff. At one point when we weren’t talking Isaid, “Roland?” using his blog name, literally ‘Roland’ and he looked up and I asked him something – it was sonething I wanted to know, or say. Then after he’d answered and I’d gone back to my food, I went “You answered when I said ‘Roland’! You are Roland!”

I was nearly finished when he said we’d have to “go after this,” because he had to drive up to Aberdeen or Glasgow or somewhere to meet the lawyers.

“I thought you could maybe show me the sights in Newcastle,” I said, in a whine worthy of Anastasia Steele. “I never got to look around the city.”

We were talking about Newcastle and he sid there’s over a million people in Newcastle, and way more if you count Sunderland. He looked it up on his Blackberry and said there’s 3 million in the region, and I said, “So you’ve got a pound or every person in Newcastle.” Boy did he suddenly look more attractive!

Roland looked at me and said “You like money, don’t you? Some people might value other things but you see a lot of money in a bank account and you think, ‘that’s good’.”

“You think I’m superficial,” I said, pretending to be a bit sad. I enjoy putting on emotions to see how others react. They always fall for it. And Roland is an excellent psychological study.

“No,” he said, “No I don’t think that you’re superficial.”

After a bit he said “I don’t think we’re gonna have time for you to have a sweet, Kalika.”

I was worried he’d be late so I said we could go now, but he said I could finish it, so I ate more quikly. It was pretty good.

Roland paid, and the waiter chatted to us about what we were doing in Newcastle, and Roland told him we’d come from Edinburgh. After we left the restaurant I giggled about “imagine if we’d told him the truth about what we were doing!” and “What would he think? What would he think about you, if he knew!” and “He could never have guessed!”

Roland said “I think that you think it’s naughty. So you get a thrill out of it.”

“It is naughty. What would your employees and colleagues think, if they knew you’d skived off work with a hooker to take nude photos of two girls tied together?”

“Well, I think that everyone is entitled to their private life.”

We found the car and drove out of Newcastle, Roland driving the wrong way and passing the place whre we’d done the shoot. I read him the directions from memory, going backwards, as we left Newcastle.

We stopped for gas at the Newcastle Airport and I read his book on women in antiquity that he had in the glove compartment; he had shown me it once.

*It is prosecuted as sexual assault. Legally, there is no age of consent for male children, so in theory a woman could rape a male child. Obviously, as you’ll know from the news, the courts do prosecute female paedophiles for having sex with boys below the age of 16, though this is not a recognised offence. It is often prosecuted as ‘lewd conduct’ or similar offences, as it cannot usually be prosecuted as ‘having sex with someone below the age of 16′. Sadly, in Ireland the age is 17 for girls and 14 for boys – a reverse sexism which leaves male minors vulnerable to sex predators and suggests that their bodies/virginity aren’t as valuable as female minors’. It also harms girls by ‘protecting’ them more than boys, suggesting that their bodies/virginity is more precious and perpetuating the idea that women are harmed by sex but men aren’t. This only fuels the double standard. On a lighter note, I once told Roland that if I raped a man (i.e. him) I couldn’t be prosecuted for it. He saw through this very easily though, and instantly said it would be sexual assault. Roland, at other times, has said “I think you want to be raped” and “I could have raped you [at the photoshoot]”. It’s lucky I’m not in love with him, as he thinks, or it would be a very dysfunctional relationship.

 

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This blog’s weirdest/funniest search terms of all time

Honestly, I sometimes toy with the idea of writing down the craziest and most hilarious search terms that lead unsuspecting innocents to my den of sin. Just now I discovered the WordPress all-time search stats feature, so here are the ones that I think are the weirdest or funniest, for various reasons:

 

how to act dress and makeup like a whore or slut (Well, that’s easy – OTT makeup and slutty clothes. Cue Snog, Marry Avoid.)

redesign penis so that sperm and urine does not come out the same hole

the cleanest virgin pussy on earth video

peter griffin has sex with his boss angela porn video

the whore roland has sex with in dark tower (What?? A reference to Browning’s epic poem, but WHAT?? It was not a sexual poem!)

spanking queen nefertiti (As a legendary beauty, she must’ve had lots of guys from all different kingdoms wanting to spank her.)

tied virgins, may 28, 2012, tied sluts (hmmmm…specific…wonder what the story is there.)

nadine dorries prostitute (She did have a boyfriend while trying to enforce abstinence education on girls.)

spanked for prostitution (Roland did spank me for prostituting myself to him).

should daughter spank her mom survey

pee in those pink panties and youll be otk

naughty lttle girls who wet their knickers deserved to be spanked by mommy

Kristen Stewart fucking everyone (One boyfriend and one colleague isn’t everyone. Calm down.)

Sarah Palin whore

Gumtree porn jobs

I want to 50 Shades my boss

Is there a market for selling gay virginity

japs with panty poop remote

nadine dorries spanked (She does deserve it)

need phone number of egyptian girls spanked (? I don’t think you can get phone numbers this way. Anyway judging by my blog’s country stats, they like spanking there and often view my blog, so you’re certain to find a girl to spank.)

lolo jones spanking (Well, anyone who is abstinent needs a spanking for bad judgement in some people’s eyes)

stay virgin until marriage diapers

Bristol Palin slut

sell your self to shemale

virginity for sale (wasting no time! This person REALLY wants to buy those boys or girls!)

young teen sell your virginity (hope he or she intends on selling to someone of the same age or, if not, telling his/her client if s/he’s underage so they don’t end up in trouble for something they didn’t know about).

she was so humiliated with her bare red ass up in the air

selling virginity to sugar daddy

adults embarrassing peeing his pants accident and spanked for it (Does anyone else have a gut feeling this is going to happen to Roland sometime soon? No? Just me, then.)

gumtree jobs like porn actor in london

indian goddess kali handjob

queen tut spanking (A weird search, as Queen Tut is my original character. Maybe it’s a search from someone who already read the Queen Tut stories.)

husband made me cry on my wedding night while he was deflowering me

50 shades of slut

copy sex contract 50 shades

tips for having sex with a stranger you met online if your female an a virgin

facebook sell virginity

abstinence is sexy

sugar baby monthly allowance

vagina dententa (3 searches, all spelled differently)

call girl etiquette

dry humping situations

mum caught me reading her diary and spanked and fucked me

which pornsex  (The new ‘Which?’ Best Buy catalogue for porn)

lisa simpson slut

she howled, clutching her glowing red,well- spanked behind

 

And every day, there are between 1 and 3 searches about how to sell virginity. The commonest search terms are ‘sell virginity uk’, ‘sell my virginity tips’ ‘how do I sell virginity’ ‘sell gay virginity’ ‘sell yourself to a gay person’ etc. Sometimes terms such as ‘dating sites’ or Craigslist or adultwork are added. It makes me glad that I made the ‘Tips on selling virginity’ page, but also makes me worry that I didn’t include enough information in it or have missed out something important. But at least it’s there. Also, the number of people who spell ‘virginity’ wrong surprised me. Searches for SeekArrangement.com and porn featuring Family Guy and The Simpsons characters are also very common.

The country stats show that people in the USA followed by Britain consistently give the most views, and that people in Saudi Arabia, Bahrain and Libya (amongst several other countries in the Middle East and North Africa) view it too, so I guess you just can’t keep people from searching for porn. Or prostitution diaries, as the case may be.

 

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Rolandanny

I just applied online for a provisional driving license, just before midnight. I didn’t get one before as I know 5 people who either couldn’t afford regular lessons and therefore have never taken the test despite having had their provisional for 2 or 3 years, and any skills they learned are now rusty, or who did pass their test but with little opportunity to borrow siblings’ and parents’ cars and so have had very little practice and are now nervous drivers. But I’ll have a career soon, so it seems like the right time now.

With relevance to this blog, when we were driving to Newcastle Roland we were talking about me not having a provisional licence/going to get one soon, and he said I should get one and I’m like, yeah, I will soon. Then I went, “If I get a provisional, can I drive this car?”

“Ummmmm….no,” said Roland, grinning, “Next you’ll be saying ‘If I get a provisional will you get me a Ferrari’!”

Heh. He’s cuddly because he’s fat 🙂 I like him more now 🙂

I think I should not have pranked him; he’s a real human being with feelings, not my sex toy slash ATM machine. And old people have feelings too.

Anyway, I was watching the modelling and walking around, taking photos of his bank statement and one of the studio to put on the blog. Roland came over to where I was on the bench and said it wouldn’t be long. He put his camera on the bench and I tried to look at the photos he’d taken of me – this was before he took photos of the models – but he came over and took it back; I think he was afraid I’d accidentally delete them or drop the camera…but if he’s rich it wouldn’t matter if the camera got broken, so I bet it was the photos. He asked if I was texting my friends “that you’ve been abducted”, and I giggled and said no as I didn’t want a repeat of the ‘suicide’ thing.

“So what are you texting?”

“I’m not texting now,” I replied,”I’m just taking pictures of the Luxor bank statement.”

“And what makes you think that was Luxor?” he said with a devilish grin.

“Because you drew out £500, so it’s an account you control,” I said.

He smirked but didn’t have anything to say to this.

Towards the end of the shoot, he tied the models to each other with bondage rope and took lots of photos.

“I can’t believe you would tie two people together,” I said, for dramatic effect. The models were my audience. “I can’t believe you’d do that.”

Later, as the shoot wound to a close, Roland/Danny slapped my bum as I walked over to the bench. The models totally saw it; they were at the other side of the room, behind him, but they were looking at us. I dunno if Danny knew that or not. Maybe he didn’t care. He told me in the Tower that he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks of him. Actually, he’s told me that a few times. It’s an admirable attitude in today’s commercialized and socially-policed world, where trivial choices cause deep cultural divides and political rifts, and we’re all incessantly worried about what others think of us, a trait exploited by corporations sending us to the clothing stores and makeup aisles in our droves.

Roland paid them – £100 each I think – on top of hiring the studio. Danny told them he had to get back to his other job.

“Yeah, your wee, unimportant job on the side,” I said.

We said our goodbyes to Valerie and Daphne outside the studio.

“You still have to pay me for the photo shoot last night,” I said, for the sole reason of it being a delicious thrill to say this in front of Valerie and Daphne, who were still near enough to hear it.

A minute later I told him how thrilling it was to call him Danny and say those things. I said he forgot to lie about us being in Newcastle yesterday.

“Yeah, I forgot to lie.  Itold the truth,” he said. Hilarious. And the man has a PhD and all.

He asked me what I’d been doing with the photos I’d taken of the shoot – though actually I’d only taken one photo, not showing either him or the models, which you can see on Twitter.

“I thought you’d been tweeting photos the whole time,” he said. (Well, I did now!)

I said I would never take photos of him and put them on the internet because he could be identified. And generally I get people’s permission before taking photos and before posting them online. I have never secretly taken photos of anyone, nor posted photos to Facebook of people who weren’t my friends or acquaintances.

“Why did you think that?” I asked.

“Because you’re you,” he said, smiling.

I said, “You think me capable of anything.”

“I know you are.”

It’s probably good that I’ve kept my darkest fantasies hidden from him, then. I won’t reveal them to him until I’ve gained his trust and understand his personality more so I can manipulate him into acquiesance. Sometimes quite honestly I fear for him; I like him, and I would never want to see him get hurt by my depravity. And of course he is Magda’s property and I would no more damage another woman’s possessions than I would wreck her house or rip up her bag or clothes.

However, I am restraining myself a lot for the moment; that’s why I didn’t bring any other toys the last time apart from the bodystocking, anal beads, knife and needles. I have thought of a way to combine mental and physical torture, but I won’t ever do it; I don’t want to scare him off. I will be a good, doccile prostitute.

I think the hardest part of prostitution is pleasing the client and not (necessarily) yourself; taking care of his/her/their needs and not yours. That’s what makes it work, not leisure.

We went to Frankie and Benny’s – Americanized ‘Italian’ food.

 

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Someone else gets photographed nude by Roland for a change

It was cold in the multi-storey car park; I had the black fake leather crop jacket over the red jumpsuit. The purity ring was turned round on my finger and I had black dolly shoes on. To think we were in Edinburgh such a short time ago, drinking sweet coffee, and now we were across the border in Newcastle. That’s why I love travelling; even travelling relatively short distances, as in this case, is nice. I’d read the directions well despite feeling dizzy from lack of sleep.

While driving, I’d suggested that instead of fining people for speeding, the police should spank people instead because that’s less upsetting than being fined or having your license taken away. And they could make it a choice – a ticket or a spanking. Although, I added, in my case it would not really be a deterrent.

“I think you would speed just to get spanked,” Roland said with certainty. “‘This is the forty-second time this month, Miss Gold, that you have taken a spanking!'”

Roland came back from paying the meter and wow did he look more ugly when he wasn’t talking about spanking or semi-nude or giving a spanking. I was pretty awed at the power of my brain chemicals to make me see him as less ugly when I was aroused. I realised I’d have to make him talk about spanking again soon if this day out in Newcastle was going to be in any way visually bearable.

He was smiling as he came back.He’s always smiling, like me. It’s slightly weird; now I know why people say my constant smiling is weird. I also notice that he smiles every time he sees me or looks at me (if he’s been looking in another direction first). Perhaps that’s because he’s mentally undressing me.

Anyway as he came towards me I was all, I did THAT last night? God. I mean, yeah, he’s okay looking and looks younger than he is, but still…THAT?? How on earth could I…Oh yeah, £1,000. Cool.

Which reminds me that on the drive down, the radio said that one dumb celeb or another had spent $1,000 on his girlfriend in one night, and with the usual irritated envy I instantly went that’s so not fair, how does anyone get 1k spent on her in a night, etc, but then I remembered that I had! And it was £1k, not $1k, which is more like a bit over £500! I was pleased! Even though I had to earn it, unlike her. Roland seemed amused by all this. The drive had been fun and I felt relaxed with him by this stage in the transaction – actually, it seems like I’ve always been relaxed and never embarrassed or nervous around him. He gets slightly embarrassed occassionally, though he hides it really well. I’m utterly incapable of feeling embarrassed around him; dunno why. It all feels so natural. Anyway, on the drive we were singing along to the radio and chatting about stuff, or trying to guess the answers to radio quizzes.

So, we were in the street in Newcastle and I was cold. I was delightedly happy. It was like espionage; I was supposed to be sleeping at Kelly’s flat in Edinburgh and here I was wide awake in England with a pervert.

I was hungry but Roland said we didn’t have time to eat; dunno why I couldn’t just have bought some chocolate and juice, though.

At a street corner, I goes “I know where you live, I know your address now. So I could tell the papers if you didn’t pay the £8,000. That would be naughty, wouldn’t it?”

“That would be blackmail,” he said, “And that would be bad, not naughty. And bad girls don’t get spanked, they go to jail.”

We got to the place eventually and a guy came out and said “Just the two of you?” and took us up in a lift. When we got out he told us we couldn’t use the lift unless he was with us’ there was a sign to that effect. I realised I was trapped here with Roland. This really was like an abduction (we’d joked in the car about him abducting me to Newcastle).

We’d agreed on a story to tell the two models about why I was there – that I was at a shoot with Ro the previous night in Newcastle and missed the bus. I was introduced to the two models, who were good looking but not as pretty as me, and they must’ve worked with him before because they greeted him calling him “Danny” which is a name he uses for his photography so people can’t Google his name easily.I suspect he rents the studio under this name, too; they probably wouldn’t need to see ID. I’m not going to describe the models as they were dropped unwittingly into this adventure/blog/story. It was a thrill remembering to call Roland ‘Danny’ all the time as we chatted with the models. One of them made us coffee. Roland started setting up for the shoot; I helped. I thought he was carrying a whole brick wall which really surprised and confused me, until he said it was polystyrene.

Then he started taking test photos and made me stand there so he could take more test photos. Then I got talking to one of the models – let’s call her Valerie – and she was really nice. We talked about how schoolgirls and the general public think of modelling as glamourous, but it involves a lot of waiting around. I learned that she goes on tours around the UK, modelling in a few towns; she does it on the side while the other model, Daphne, does it professionally; they often tour together. She asked about me; I said that I was a student who modelled sporadically on the side and I had little real experience. She asked if I’d worked with Danny before and we were talking about him, and she said he was one of the nice ones who was good to work with, because very occassionally you’d get men who were looking at or touching you inappropriately and then you wouldn’t model well; one time she just left. She said she really liked working with Danny and had done a few photoshoots with him, as had Daphne. She asked me about the last time I’d worked with Danny, and I said it’d been yesterday evening in Newcastle but the shoot had gone on a little longer and –

“I did a photoshoot with her in Edinburgh,” Roland/Danny said hurriedly, clasping a huge silver-foiled disc, “I was just telling Daphne,” he added, for my benefit, “But Kali missed the bus and I couldn’t get her home at the right time for her so I said she could just come here and I’d drop her off on the way back.”

It was pretty obvious it was a lie.

Then the girls stripped naked and Roland started the photography. I sat with my legs up on a bench, listening to music and eating a Milky Way Crispy Rolls that I’d bought in the student shop shortly before Roland pulled up in Buccleuch Place. They made amazing shapes and I appreciated how light and shadow as well as angles of the body work and combine in photography. Roland was right that I don’t have small breasts and that most models hardly have any – these two didn’t have any. They were very slender, though. I tried to work out if they were skinnier than me but gave up; I didn’t want to distract or stress them by looking. Like the bigshot models, they had athletic/straight up and down/boyish builds, not an hourglass figure like me. It makes sense – though hourglass is the best figure and the easiest to dress as you can wear anything, if it’s on the catwalk then athletic builds look better; the clothes hang off them better.

I wanted to go and buy some crisps or a burger but I was worried I wouldn’t find my way back especially in my sleep-deprived state. And I didn’t want to ask the guy to accompany me in the lift. I felt quite content with my back and a bit of my side against the wall(s), feet stretched in front of me on the bench, listening to songs; probably I was sleepy. Roland asked if I was okay a couple of times. I told him I was. The way he looked at me whenever he glanced in my direction, with that smile of his, I’m sure the models would’ve suspected something if they’d seen it, though I don’t know if they saw it or not.

 

 

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To Newcastle

Unusually for me, I wasn’t dreaming of what I’d done during the day, or everday activities, travelling, car chases, being shot at by police or knife-fighting – which is usually what I dream about. One time I dreamed of gun and knife fights in a brothel which I infiltrated, taking out every escort until I killed my enemies and their daughter, then I wasted a load of other brothel girls as I escaped. Joyriding and nicking cars to get away from murderous police are frequent dreams, but usually I dream of mundane stuff.

What I was dreaming of that night was unusually materialistic (though I have had dreams of owning several hundred pieces of jewellery all stored in one place, or furniture made of gold, or a private plane. It was red.) I really liked that plane. Anyway, to get, at long last, to the point: I was dreaming of buying designer heels in Harvey Nichols. And I don’t even usually wear heels, especially high ones. I’ve never had anything designer cos of being a student and, more importantly, preferring to have lots of clothes instead of a few designer ones, so I can easily express my own style. If your style is eclectic with elements of Goth, Egyptian and steampunk, you will find it difficult to shop designer. There are not a lot of designer corsets (for the steampunk look) or Goth-esque clothes. The rest of steampunk is easier, as it is basically Victorian + utility with a dash of military. Cue military jackets, combat trousers, white shirts, tailored silhouettes, empire lines, buckle boots, ruffles and waistcoats.

*Although I don’t wear an Egyptian-, Goth- or steampunk-inspired look every day. Sometimes it’s just eclectic. But the cinched-in waist and layering are always, always there, and I never wear clothes that aren’t form-fitting; I like to look elegant. And the styles are subtle, not costumey.

Anyway, to get back to the Rolanding adventure:

I was dreaming of taking a pair of gold strappy heels off the shelf, looking at them. Then the blankets came down off me a bit, exposing my arms. I felt it, and knew they had dropped off. Then I felt pressure on my forehead from nowhere. I realised a large fingertip was pressed onto my forehead; then it rubbed in tiny circles. I slowly woke up, and thought it can’t be quarter to six already!

“How are you?” asked Roland’s voice.

“Good,” I murmured, my eyes still closed. Hearing his voice had made me remember where I was, and why – a good thing, as sometimes my brain panics when I wake up after staying over at someone’s house, as I don’t remember where I am or how I got there.

I opened my eyes after a bit, asking him what time it was. Then he switched off the light and left, saying “Fifteen minutes.”

I lay there, having had two or three hours’ sleep, and felt oddly refreshed, considering I’d slept just 5 or 6 hours the night before seeing Roland, too, because of general excitedness. I thought of all that had happened the previous night, and smiled happily to myself. Who knew I’d enjoy it so much? He’d said he’d pay me today; I would have to make sure of that.

He came in again and said “five minutes.” It was exactly how my mother used to wake me up for school.

I got up, showered, applied the Bio Oil I’d brought, checked for texts, changed into a red jumpsuit and went down to kitchen, which, as I’ve said before, is a nice kitchen. Magda really has a good sense of style, or perhaps one similar to my own – others may not have liked the style.

Roland got me a coffee. He was doing work stuff on his laptop. I said I’d never been to Newcastle, which is true – I’ve travelled all over the Highlands and (some) Islands but not been anywhere in England apart from a few places.  Incidentally, I got the sauce from Ann Summers in Carlisle. Didn’t think much of their spanking implements though, they seemed too light and thin to use. Maybe it’s what vanilla people think counts as BDSM. I have never understood the attraction of vanilla sex.

I’ve always loved long drives. I like looking out of the window at the landscape, which is usually beautiful in Scotland and a lot of England. As a child and teen, we’d drive 100 miles away every Saturday, to a few favourite spots and some other places anything from 70 to 170 miles away. And I love visiting new places, and taking photos of scenery, buildings, etc. So that might have factored in to me tagging along with Ro, where others might see a drive from Edinburgh to Newcastle as really boring. I said I wanted to eat something but he didn’t have anything that could be prepared in such a short time. BISCUITS, people! Always keep biscuits – or cereal – handy.

“Last night was really fun,” I said. That made him laugh.

“Well I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said. After a bit he said we had to get going, and I felt that his haste was not purely motivated by a desire not to be late for the photoshoot, which he’d said he could easily cancel if he didn’t manage to get enough sleep. I knew Magda would be back sometime this morning, and I suspected he was eager to be off before she returned.

I quickly did my make-up in less than a minute – eyeshadow, liquid eyeliner, mascara and lipstick. I don’t wear foundation, primer, concealer or blusher. I ditched the foundation aged 14 because I felt I was getting dependent on it and couldn’t go out without foundation.I honestly think that if you’re young, you don’t need a foundation except temporarily to cover spots, dark marks from spots (which I had as an early-mid teen) or uneven skin tone. If you don’t have these problems, focus on getting your skin to be healthier so you don’t need foundation, concealer etc. You can use the money you would’ve spent on foundation to buy a product that makes your real skin look great! ( Did I mention Bio-Oil?) Then I plugged in my mini-straighteners, which I always carry if I stay over, and did my fringe but didn’t straighten any of my other hair.

Roland was running around making sure there were no traces of my presence and that I’d got everything; he worried about my necklace as I couldn’t find it, but I assure him I must’ve just stuffed it in my bag, which turned out to be true. I let him keep the anal beads as long as he promised not to use them on anyone else, so I wouldn’t have to stuff that many things in my bag next time. He kept the Pike book, (The Last Vampire 5: Evil Thirst) to read. He’d asked me to bring it so he could read it and see how we came to be here having this adventure. He thinks the book affected the 10-year-old Kalika and the fact that it’s my favourite means it could reveal things about me which led me to this point/being who I am today.

Then we were off, going down the A68 as rain pounded and the car automatically scanned through available radio stations. I found out he didn’t have a yacht, either. I said “You’re not doing the millionaire thing properly. You should live in a mansion and have a Ferrari and a boat like a proper millionaire.”

He laughed and said, “Well, do you know what happens if you do that? You don’t get to be a millionaire!” and laughed his head off.

My bum hurt after sitting for a while. I told him, and he said he was sorry; I’d expected him to be pleased or amused. Later, I asked him why he’d thought I didn’t like giving him a blowjob when I gagged, and he said it was because I had a disgusted expression on my face. But that’s just because I was gagging.

He told me about the book/film Dangerous Liasons, about a virgin driven mad by having sex with five men, which results in the death of one of them and the public ruining of another. Which is very unfair, as it’s hardly their fault, is it? Incidentally, the day before, in the studio, we’d been discussing the video of the consummation in the brothel and I’d told Roland that it might be better/more dramatic with some other guys in it too (I’d draw the line at 9 others and Roland/10 in all), as long as I get paid 9 times more (whether by him or those guys) but we didn’t reach any conclusive decision on this. Lochlan thinks I’m not ready for it emotionally. I’d need to know that they had degrees, so there might be practical difficulties, too. (Yeah, I’m a snob.)

Roland told me about a time he was on fire from having a BBQ in the back garden, which sounded scary but he hadn’t been scared at the time. One time my hair was on fire from a candle, but I didn’t feel scared, I just rolled and banged my head on stuff. Maybe people keep cool when stuff actually happens. He asked if he could keep my purity ring now that I was debauched and depraved, as he’d asked before and I’d said yeah. I said that he still hadn’t taken my virginity yet. Like I paid £8 for that ring, I wouldn’t give it up after wearing it for a day.

He’d said in the house that my job was to read the AA directions to Newcastle, which he hadn’t been to for four years but he used to go there…so why couldn’t he remember the way? I can remember the way if I’ve been somewhere once or twice, but I’m terrible with numbers or patterns. Eventually we arrived and parked and stuff. I got out of the car and, because of sleep deprivation, I suddenly wondered what was I doing in Newcastle so early in the morning? Roland had gone away to pay a parking meter so I’d forgotten about him. But then I remembered.

 

 

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In the bedroom – ironically, this post is the cleanest!

We were in the bedroom which is pretty big, but again not really really big. It had an en suite. I stripped to change into this red cami thing and then I saw the full length mirror and went to look at myself instead. Although I have a full-length mirror in my room, it isn’t wall-mounted so I have to stand really far away to look in it. Roland’s mirror was free-standing. I looked at myself and liked what I saw; I have a narrow waist and my broad shoulders – they’re as broad as some mens’ – and wide hips made it look even narrower. Although I used to think I had a small chest, now I don’t, and looking in the mirror I felt that, compared to my waist, my chest was large. I’m skinny* too.

Just then Roland came in and saw me looking in the mirror.He’d gone to check he’d locked the door or whatever. He made some comment at me admiring myself. I couldn’t help it, though, because seeing my whole body nude made me realise I looked good – you could see my figure and I looked better than with clothes on. And to think I sometimes wish I could lose a pound or two, that most women – even 12 year olds – do. Stupid corporations, blinding us to how fabulous we look when we’re not androgynously skeletal. I said, “It’s just that – wow, I’m gorgeous. I think I look stunning. Like no wonder someone would pay £8,000 for me. I totally get it.” Roland laughed. (Yeah, this makes me look very superficial, arrogant and shallow, but I promised to tell the truth in this blog. It’s a true story, and in real life there are few heroes and heroines, only humans with all their flaws and inadequacies. And since he’s a pervert and I’m a slut*, this isn’t exactly a values inspiration or a guide to living a fulfilling life or whatever.)

A minute later I was near Roland and he was just looking me over in the usual Roland way. He touched my front teeth, and asked whether I’d ever had braces cos they stick out (not quite the Bugs Bunny effect, but still noticeable). This was quite a powerful moment for me because at school I was laughed at and made to feel unattractive for having buck teeth; though in fairness to the bullies, they were sticking out more at that time and have become less noticeable as I’ve matured.) It was powerful because I’d proved them wrong – I am still desirable even with sticky-out teeth; I’m good enough to pay for while they’re all in dead-end jobs living together and having babies with their first or second gf/bf they got with when we were at school together. Roland made me open my mouth to check the rest of my teeth and ran his finger around all my teeth, in a coincidental imitation of a scene that didn’t make it into Kemet 1. He seemed pleasantly surprised and said that my teeth were in really good condition.

“I should’ve added a few hundred more onto the price then,” I said, and he laughed as only Roland can, sincerely and totally absorbed in the humour.

Anyway how can he criticise my teeth when his teeth look like they’re engaged in a shoving match which has resulted in the maiming of a couple of them, all the while trying to look as yellow as they possibly can?

A minute later I got to see Roland with his top off, and I was so relieved!! There weren’t any jiggling lumps of fat jostling under his skin, or an obscenely bloated belly. He was thinner less fat than I’d thought he was. I prodded him in the side. My finger met with mounded flab, but not a lot of it; underneath was hard muscle like my own body. He felt more familiar than alien.

“Wow, you’ve got a nice body,” I said, impressed.

He asked what did I think he was going to be like.

“I thought you’d be like a blancmange, wobble-wobble,” I confessed with a straight face, “But you’re gorgeous, Roland.”

(I’ve never actually seen blancmange, but I’m told it’s like jelly, only more wobbly, damp and sticky. And almost tasteless. And lumpy. But maybe blancmange isn’t wobbly so the simile might not make sense. I still don’t know if it’s that wobbly or not.)

As I prepared to get into bed, he asked if I’d ever been in bed with a guy before.

“No,” I said truthfully. “Virgin, remember?”

He chuckled and as I lay there he switched off the light. I felt him get into the bed, and realised how heavy he was – over double of my own weight. I couldn’t see him at all which was eerie because I knew he was right beside me.

“Okay, this is what happens,” he said, and slid his arm under me so it was wrapped around my shoulders. It was snuggly. We were talking a little bit. I reached out and ran my hand down his back/whatever bit of Roland it was. The skin felt as smooth as my own, and baby-soft, which surprised me as the skin on his face is rough (not dry skin, just rough). He turned over so he was on all fours over me. I knew without being able to see. He ran his hand over my thigh.Just like when I’d held the knife to his balls, the feeling of absolute rightness hit me. He kept stroking, even as he said “But we can’t do anything more, because we need to get some sleep.” I thought, Goddamn it Roland, then why are you touching my thigh?! Don’t you understand what that DOES to me? It needs to be fulfilled, you can’t start it and not finish it!! Well, maybe boys can. I wouldn’t know. I’m quite ignorant/naive when it comes to this stuff.

I actually forgot to write that when I was holding the knife to Roland’s balls, I asked him if I could slap him and I did, twice, just before snogging him.

So, we tried to sleep, but couldn’t. We had to be up at 5:45am to arrive at 9pm in Newcastle where he was doing a photoshoot. I’d asked to tag along because being dropped off in Princes Street at 6am didn’t appeal. Yeah, there’d be a bus for me at 7am so only an hour to kill, and I had my mp3. I’ve waited for 4 hours for the 7am bus before, after leaving a club once, and it honestly flew right by because I had a meal, got talking to people, including a guy who wanted me to come back to his flat and whose parting shot was, “I would love to take you back to my mattress.” He was good looking, went to engineering college, and I was considering it but went with the thumbs-down. Obviously God was saving me for £8,000 Roland. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes: that waiting an hour for the bus didn’t bother me, but it wouldn’t look plausible to arrive home that early. My mum knew the bus times, and I love sleeping in so waking up at dawn would be an implausible story- I’d have to wander till the shops opened and head for the bus at 10am or later. Roland had offered to drop me off in my area/town, but since a car would arrive much earlier than a bus, this would only seem more implausible – in fact, it would be obvious I hadn’t taken the bus, as Roland reckoned he’d drop me off at 7am, which is the time the bus would leave. Telling her that my (student) friend had a car (and more importantly, that much petrol to burn) also didn’t sound plausible, and would still mean that we had got up at dawn.

So, it made more sense for me to go to Newcastle with Roland and be dropped off on his way back, up past Edinburgh to meet some lawyers.

Anyway, we couldn’t get to sleep. For me, maybe because it was all new, having someone next to me and wrapped around me. For him, maybe because I wasn’t Magda. We tried different (sleeping, you dirty readers 🙂 ) positions. When he wasn’t holding me I felt more sleepy but still couldn’t get to sleep. I also found out that Roland snores when he’s awake, which I thought was impossible. Maybe it’s just a Roland thing. Dunno how Magda copes with it, though. Maybe she just puts him in a cage at night, or a kennel with “Roland” on it. He would make a good doggie. But I know he’s not into it.

Roland suggested we sleep separately and “since you’re comfortable here, I think it’s fair if I leave you here and sleep in another room.”

It wasn’t as snuggly with him gone, but I had a double bed to myself – it might’ve been a king-sized bed, actually – and it was fun thrashing around in it. I was asleep in about half an hour.

*Skinny in terms of a normal, healthy person…i.e. still fat if I was put in a TV ad.

*Shame-words such as ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ are always used ironically or in a non-serious way in this blog, as they are sexist and illegitimate concepts created by the patriarchy to repress women.

 

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The 100th Post

This is my 100th post. Thank you, Followers and people who randomly chanced upon my little bit of the interwebz. This blog now has 66 followers and the record for views per day was 181, two days ago.

So far I have remained faithful to blogging about issues surrounding my adventure, and not strayed onto tangents. Those issues so far have been: feminism in general; liberal feminism, the double standard, slut-shaming, victim blaming, the virgin/whore dichotomy, sex education, the abstinence cult, politics, abortion, sexism, misogyny, BDSM, Fifty Shades of Grey, the Spanner case, stigmatisation of lone mothers, stigmatisation of ‘teenage pregnancy’, whorephobia, sex work, and how to sell your virginity. And portrayals/instances of all these things in film, media and literature – though I haven’t written as much on this as I’d hoped. I also included some spanking stories, especially the ones mentioned in my Diary.

During and because of writing this blog, I have followed BDSM blogs, feminist blogs and sex work blogs (I cannot recommend The Harlot’s Parlour {USA} and GlasgowSexWorker {Scotland, but applicable to all UK} enough – not as sex diaries, but as well-referenced political sources on sex work, policy, media portrayals, political discourse and feminist oppression of sex workers.) I now know more about BDSM, feminism and sex work, though interestingly most people’s views do not differ from what I learned at university (support of liberal as opposed to radical feminism, and sex workers agreeing on decriminalization of sex work – as opposed to legalization or criminalization- being best for them). I have honed my ideas and arguments. I have created a Facebook profile for Kalika/this blog and joined Twitter a few days ago, which led to me following other sex workers and sex work organisations on Twitter. That has been an education in itself. The creation of this blog has been an adventure and learning experience in itself, like a microcosm of the adventure that spawned it.

That adventure started at 12:30ish on May 7, when I made the deal in the Tower and we drove to Roland’s company where we had (Borat accent) sexytime. This blog started on May 9. Now it’s a day to four months later, and who knew this blog would’ve kept being updated this long? I certainly didn’t. It’s pure chance, really – Roland happens to be going through a time where he has less time for hookers, so has to ‘spread out’ our (his company being sued, buying a new office building, being sued over an addition to the building, etc).

I leave you all with some Fun Facts (I so loved Fun Facts as a kid), a couple of exclusive never published photos!! (Imagine this on a hysterical TMZ, OK! or Sun webpage/front cover). And some songs that remind me of my adventure, and that I’m a virginwhore.

Fun Facts- learning is FUN!

*I don’t like kissing Roland because I feel it is too intimate. I also fear it will make him get attached to me and vice versa. However, during knife play I snogged him of my own accord because snogging/winching/kissing with tongues/French kissing is incredibly sexy and not intimate at all to me; it also makes me feel dominant.

*In the Tower, Roland said about the Kemet 1 story that he felt “that the authoress was hiding something” – that either Queen Tut knew she had done something to deserve being forcibly publically spanked by the Emperor, or she had secretly enjoyed it; or why would she accept compensation? I asked Roland what he’d do in her stead, and he said he wouldn’t accept compensation but instead do the same thing back to the Emperor because that would be “the most symmetrical”. I said he could get compensation and then get revenge, but Roland told me “people would say, ‘ah, but she has accepted the compensation!'”.

*As a person who thrives on thrill and drama (of the non-gossipy, non-trouble-making kind), the reactions of the very few friends I’ve told about this were disappointingly anticlimactic. Why is nothing shocking anymore? Why is it that Prince Harry can be the undeserving target of a neverending, ennui-inducing international scandal over a non-story as trivial as playing strip billiards for God’s sake – a piece of trivia too small to even be called ‘celebrity gossip’ (especially since we all know he’s done more than be naked in front of a lady – he’s had girlfriends, people. That means S-E-X. Duh.), and nobody blinks if I whore myself out to a rich pervert? Am I not going to get my story (anonymously) in some worthless rag (here’s looking at you, The Sun and the Daily Mail) because of my unseemly conduct?

*Roland looks more chubby with clothes on than off.

*In Roland, I have finally met someone who laughs and giggles more than I do.

*I honestly fear being outed by journalists, which is pure paranoia as hardly anyone even knows about this blog and no virginity sellers who went to the press have ever been outed. The press also might not be that interested in interviewing me when they can just get all the details off this blog and print them; it would be easy to make an article-length story from this blog which does, after all, have 100 posts by the time you read this. Maybe it’s because I’ve a long-held distrust of the news corporations, who I’ve always seen as destroying our privacy and our freedom just to make money. (Certain tabloids in particular – I’m sure I don’t need to name and shame). I’ve always admired other countries where criminals’ full names and photos aren’t published, just a shortened version of their name and an age range. Recently, the media corporations’ frenzied assault on Kristen Stewart and Prince Harry, as well as the NOTW fiasco, has not created for me any faith in – or respect for- journalists. Indeed, they have been acting as moralists’ tools of late, condemning ‘sexual’ (perhaps it would be more appropriate to say ‘naked’ or ‘naturist’) activity in Prince Harry’s case and, in Kristen’s case, promoting the double standard by leaving married father-of-two Rupert Sanders alone and blaming the much younger, unmarried Kristen.

*After the first time at Roland’s company, I didn’t shower until the second day because I loved what I’d done and wanted to feel like the material from the sofa (in tiny particles) and atoms from the implements or his skin flakes were still on me. When I showered, I had a bath afterwards just to make sure I was clean (as I’d missed a day) and suddenly had a really clear image of him sucking my nipples, probably because my upper body was in a similar position to that time. The image was really clear and I saw it 3 times; then I decided it was annoying and stopped it. I told Roland about this and he could offer no explanation for it, just asked me how I felt when the image came up (happy, as usual).

*The story Kemet 1 was based almost wholly on one dream, and a bit on two other dreams. However, most of the first dream is not included in Kemet or it’d be even longer. Themes not included/not explored as much in the story are: collecting tears, worshipping someone as a god, the emperor attempting to buy Fiera as his slave during her slave days, and Fiera biting his hand; her violent takeover of Kemet, her abolishing of slavery and reforming laws; her popularity with the public.

*Last time I saw him, just before he drove off he asked me to kiss him. We were sitting in the car. Then he noticed a police car parked in front of us, said “oh, wait, there’s the police” then after a few seconds when the car had left, we kissed. And of course that was totally unnecessary because even if I was under 16, kissing someone under the age of consent isn’t a crime as it is not a sex act! And prostitution isn’t a crime! But we both totally felt that we didn’t want to be seen by the police. It’s just so funny. I think it’s because we knew we were doing something naughty so we acted guilty.You couldn’t make it up.

Exclusive photos:

Me twirling the purity ring on my thumb, shot in weird lighting conditions to darken skin tone for identity purposes.

Roland’s bank statement that he printed for me out of a Leith ATM. (He asked if I wanted a statement showing millions. I did. He also withdrew £500.) It’s impossible to read at this size, but it shows well over 1 and a half million.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I told Roland I’d upload his statement to the blog. I can’t believe he withdrew £500; my ISA only has 500 in it, and that’s only because I transferred a bit over into it when Roland gave me the first installment. I also spend like crazy so I try not to carry over £50 cash because the more cash I have, the more I spend. I don’t splurge so much with cards.)

Songs that remind me of it – because of theme, title, or the song happened to be playing when I was travelling to do my whoring or with Roland:

Roxanne, Moulin Rouge version.

Beyonce’s Naughty Girl.

Pussycat Doll’s When I Grow Up.

Belinda Carlisle’s Heaven is a Place on Earth. That’s how this adventure makes me feel.

Britney Spears’ Criminal. I did a spoof of this on the blog.

Queen’s Fat Bottomed Girls.

The Wanted’s Glad You Came. It played twice on the drive down to Newcastle, once on the way back up.

Pussycat Dolls’ Beep

Pussycat Dolls’ Buttons

I know Where I’m Going – soundtrack to The Wicker Tree

Mika’s Lollipop

Pink Floyd’s Just Another Brick in the Wall

Rihanna’s S&M

Britney Spears’ Hit Me Baby One More Time

The Sucker Punch soundtrack, for some reason. Maybe because some of it takes place in a brothel and the main character tries to escape the selling of her virginity to The High Roller? And after this act is carried out through symbolism, she ends up “in Paradise” (like my fictitious Paradise machine in the UK Gov’t Torture Act? Oh I just realised, I will sell my virginity to Roland in a brothel (“massage parlour”) too! He wants to video it there because of his ‘virgin in the whorehouse’ thing.

Lemar’s Don’t Give It Up

Nelly Furtado’s Promiscuos Girl

Nickelback’s Rockstar

Big Brovaz’s Favourite Things

Gwen Stefani’s Rich Girl

Shakira’s She Wolf -maybe because ‘lupa’ in Latin meant a she-wolf, but was also slang for prostitute. Which throws into doubt the myth that Romulus and Remus were suckled by a she-wolf – it could have been a woman. In several European languages, words meaning a female wolf, fox or dog are used to slut-shame women or describe inappropriately sexy women. In English we have ‘foxy’, ‘fox’ and ‘vixen’; the American use of our word ‘bitch’ is equivalent to our word ‘slut’.In Spanish the words for she-wolf, female fox or female dog also mean ‘slut’, while in German schlampe can correspond to English ‘bitch’ or ‘slut’ in different contexts. In modern Italian, female dog or wolf still means slut.

Beyonce’s Baby Boy. Because it’s all about wanting a boy to fulfil your fantasies.

Beyonce’s All the Single Ladies, as it’s about no man being able to stop you going with other men if he isn’t married to you.

Filo and Peri’s The Anthem, because it mourns and cries out about lost chances and dreams long gone, but I’m fulfilling my dream.

Scissor sisters’ Filthy/Gorgeous

Lady Marmalade

Modjo’s Lady Hear Me Tonight

Ain’t Nobody

 

Caning, hot forks, and beads. And defamatory blogging.

Roland was spanking me more gently than previously.

“I’m worried about what you’re going to put on your blog,” he said. “I think you’re going to make it look like I forced you to do it.”

“What would it matter? The blog doesn’t have your name on it,” I pointed out, “And anyway, I’m going to write the truth. If I wrote that you forced me people wouldn’t want to read the blog. I mean, they want to enjoy reading it. They want to be happy – it’s entertainment.”

Having a sudden, deliciously malevolent brainwave, I added: “Anyway how do you know you didn’t force me to do it? Maybe I only did that because I had to.”

“Because,” said Roland, still giving me taps with his palm, “You didn’t make me get the five answers. And you came prepared.”

“Because the spanking hurt too much,” I said, “And the sauce was just in case of a worst case scenario, so that it would at least taste good.”

We both giggled. After a bit of thought, he added: “And you didn’t try to leave the house or call the police.”

I had to think about this one. “…Well I couldn’t leave because I was naked.And I tried to stall you by saying I needed the bathroom [he laughed]. And you had a knife so I couldn’t call the police.”

Roland laughed. “So what are you going to write on your blog then?” He started a monologue:

“He abducted me and drove me to his house. He told me that I would be spanked until I revealed five answers, then I would have to give him a blowjob. I tried not to give him the answers but the spanking was too painful. So I tried to stall him by saying I had to go to the bathroom, but then I realised it was impossible to withstand the torture and I would have to give the blowjob. He threatened me with a knife and I realised it was impossible to escape. I tried to run upstairs but he caught me. Realising I had no choice, I followed him into the livingroom. I didn’t want to be spanked any more, and, feeling that I should get this torture over with, I had no choice but to use the sauce I had brought in case of this worst-case scenario. So at least it tasted good.”

Roland spanked me for a long time with every implement. I was looking occassionally towards the cane. Then he was sitting on the sofa again and we were talking about stuff. I was on the floor. I said I needed the bathroom, found a fork, and came in with it behind my back.

“What are you going to do with that knife?”

“What knife?” I says.

“The one you’ve got hidden behind your back.”

I brought it out, “It’s a fork.”

Roland heated the fork in the fire and let me jab and scrape him in the balls with it. I scraped it over his cock, too. Then he made me do the same thing to myself, and it felt great – warm scraping over the lips of my pussy and not sore at all. Then Roland took the fork and dragged it around over my labia and seemed surprised it didn’t hurt.

Then he put me over the arm of the sofa and, using the sauce as lube, stuck the anal beads into me and it hurt. He slowly pushed them all the way in, twisting them as they went, moving them in and out and then turning on the power so that they were vibrating inside of me as he was turning and pushing them in. Once they were all the way in he continued to twist them, then move them in and out.

After this, I asked if he wanted to cane me. He gave me six hard strokes, letting me control the hardness of each one. Every single one made me go backwards out of position over the sofa arm, so I’d end up crouched on the floor holding my butt. For the first few seconds I’d feel nothing, lying there gripping the cushion, then a wave of stingig pain wouls hit me. The sound was really loud too – even the swish. Roland was telling me about men he’d seen (possibly while shooting porn movies, which he has done professionally, possibly in the London SM clubs) who could take really hard strokes. I asked him to give me a boy stroke, but then I worried about the pain, so he said he’d give me a stroke in-between a girl and a boy one. That was the seventh stroke, and it hurt a lot and made me cry out.I felt it break the skin, and a few minutes later I felt a crust on a little spot where it had landed, which stayed for 3 days and came off. Roland’s face remained impassive and sometimes slightly worried. He didn’t get turned on by my pain much – if at all, something I find remarkable and quite mysterious. I get SOOOO turned on by the idea of him in pain! Yum!

I stood up and asked if I could cane him. He lay over the sofa like I’d done. I took my time walking around him. I made a few practice strokes, in the air and on him. There are two kinds of men: those to spank – young, skinny, look in-between boy and man – and those who spank, who are bigger and more old like Roland. So Roland wasn’t in the right category for me to spank, but any arse will do; all men are the same anyway. I couldn’t do it immediately, because this was my dream since age 9. I’d never dreamt it’d come true, that I wasn’t the only one in the world interested in spanking. Yet here it was. The cane felt right in my hands. I felt powerful. The 9 year old girl who fantasised of spanking every morning and night, rubbing her bottom and getting wet, was now dizzy with appreciation and power. She was me. I was her. I haven’t changed all that much in 13 years. I raised the cane and whacked him with it. He yelped even though I hadn’t done it hard. But then, I always suspected millionaires were crybabies. I gave him another one and it was lighter but he still went ‘ow’ even though it totally wasn’t as hard as the ones he gave me. And I thought men were supposed to be tougher than women. Roland said I was doing it hard and he didn’t want me to do it anymore in case I left marks that Magda would see (they have a no polyamory in the house rule and she’d be back tomorrow morning so might guess he’d done it in the house).

I went, “…oh…You should’ve said…I already left marks..” There were two raised red lines, but the lines were only a few inches long, not all the way across. He said it was fine cos he could hide it for one or two days but not longer than that and the marks would fade in that time. He stood up and let me touch the welts. They felt hot and raised.

Then we went to the hotel, it was past 2am and we couldn’t get in so he drove us back to his house and said we can sleep there and hopefully Magda wouldn’t find a hair. He’d been worrying about me dropping hairs all night because apparently Magda can spot hairs really well. (He was right about this, she did find a sequin, a fingernail/toenail, and a hair).

 

 

 

 

 

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