I was just passing Boots on my way from my Welsh class when I suddenly thought about indigestion – as you do. I am lucky that I do not require the Big Guns of serious medication – just a bit of chalk. But I’m fussy about my flavours. ‘Tums’ were my brand of preference until they disappeared from the shelves. I found them online but they were not the same… I was very happy to find orange-flavoured own brand antacids at Boots – a good compromise. Are you bored yet?
And then I remembered Boots was also a source of very nice wooden paddle hairbrushes – a rather perfect spanking implement in my humble opinion. I used to keep one downstairs for those spontaneous moments as well as one in the toybox.
I love the jokey name for everyday objects that can be used for such fun – pervertibles.
I also love the sting of a hairbrush – enough to cause a serious squirm without the thuddiness of a heavier bath brush. Hairbrushes, like hand spanking, can hover around the seriously erotic ‘mmmm – more, please’ to the ‘Ouch – stop it!’ and back.
Now that I have limited experience at the other end of my hitty toys I love the hairbrush for it’s domesticity and nuance – although I did seriously whack him with the old one last time and worried about the effect on the poor old hairbrush! – which is also why a spare one seems like a good idea!
The Spinster's Exploits
Sex, sensuality and possibly spanking after seventy…
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So – I knew how to wank for my own pleasure. Don’t remember that I bothered much, but when I did – it was always to spanky fantasies. I was curious about dildoes and was familiar with banana and cucumber nudge, nudge, wink, wink stuff. Out of curiosity I did try inserting cylindrical objects, but they did nothing for me so clitoral rubbing was it – when I bothered.
Back in the seventies and eighties there was no Internet, no Anne Summers, condoms were below the counter in chemists and barbers only and sex shops were strictly men only it appeared – and absolutely terrifying. The seventies were also the days of magazines such as Cosmo discussing sex and possibly ads for vibes – but I’m a bit hazy. I think I may have seen an ad for a vibe called the “Non doctor”.
So – I was in my twenties, living in Cardiff, reading racy women’s mags and also Forum the “magazine of Human relations” so pretty knowledgeable, and curious. I was in a relationship, and we decided to get me a vibe. The only possible place was a shop in a Cardiff arcade selling “marital aids”, so we screwed our courage to the sticking place and went for it. I remember being absolutely terrified, but we did it. We went in and said we wanted a vibrator. So we were shown the famous Non Doctor – all black and sleek and not at all dildo-like.
I was trying to be very cool and adult about it all and I think my then-boyfriend saying very little. The purveyor of marital aids then set the thing going, commented on the vibration or speed and held it out towards me. I touched it, felt the buzz in my fingers and made what I hoped were knowledgeable sounds of approval – a bit like a car engine or washing machine demo. And so I became the quite secretive owner of my first vibe!
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So – I wasn’t seeing my lover this weekend as he had other plans. And I knew I’d miss him, but I liked the idea of an indulgent weekend.
I had decided to go to my Friday tai chi – I’d missed quite a lot due firstly to a cold, then annoyingly, to the embarrassing hacking cough I’d been left with. I got to my gate, and it was frozen shut! I’d not noticed it being particularly frosty but obviously it had been. A jug of warm water soon solved that problem – and then I noticed my icy windscreen. When I notice Jack Frost has done his rounds, I leave early and defrost in plenty of time to get to my destination. As I’d not noticed, I decided that destiny or the Goddesses/Gods had decreed another duvet day, so happily acceded to the Universe’s wishes.
I had shopped the day before, so decided that today was a good day for leek and potato soup so spent some happy time making a batch. In between, I caught up with my news podcasts, my daily dose of online Scrabble and my Duolingo Welsh. And then my lovely cleaning ladies arrived and I sloped off with the latest Thursday Murder Club story.
It’s nice having a clean house, but I hate cleaning! I don’t have high standards, so a four-weekly vacuuming and dusting suits me perfectly. And disciplines me to have at least one tidy a month, although I of course sometimes resort to just shoving things into cupboards and drawers! And I have been known to hide a washing up bowl of dirty dishes in the side passage – but less than half a dozen times so far…
And then I decided to go and see Hamnet, so booked a ticket for the afternoon after a lovely chat with my lover. We booked for a celebration of the Chinese New Year in Swansea and decided to make a weekend of it, so off to the theatre as well. Should be fun. We’ve not been to a hotel together before.
Hamnet was amazing. I shared the back row with a bunch of sobbing 20-something women which was quite funny and an odd accompaniment to the sadness of the film. Don’t think I’ve ever heard such open sobbing in a sad film before. As I came out of the loo afterwards, I saw a bunch of red-eyed young women there so just grinned and said “Hamnet?” and got nods…
And so followed a weekend of indulgence and of boring domesticity, but all very satisfying. I have caught up with a backlog of laundry, made more soup – lemon and cress – rearranged the freezer to make room for soup, finished my murder club book and watched lots of TV and done the admin for my friendship group as well as some blogging….
Just wondering at my next read. I was thinking of going back to Austen after the murder club antics, but now want to reread Hamnet, but my copy is lost somewhere in the shelves or among piles of books I consider my décor – all pleasantly bohemian but very frustrating!
And so, my weekend has been wonderfully spinsterish but immensely satisfying despite lack of intimacy, sex and the fun of my lover’s presence. I do have plans though… At my request he bought a cock cage before Christmas and we’ve not done anything with it yet – it’s outside my experience, but learning and new experiences are so good for us oldies… And he is rather good as a sex slave and getting better at receiving compliments, so hopefully he will enjoy this spoiler…
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Ok – so my gorgeous lover and I are “polyamorous friends with benefits who are sort of dating” and we’re very happy with that. And we both like being honest, but both like our privacy. In the past I have patiently explained to a Social Worker that the lovely man in my life at the time was not my partner but my FwB. But somehow despite the nods he was labelled as my partner anyway. And in the past I have caused a frisson in my social circles by declaring my lovely companions as FwBs rather than partners or [cringe] boyfriends. And – let’s face it – lover sounds fabulous, but somewhat dramatic – especially at 70!
So today in my Welsh chat group my fabulous polyamorous friend…(etc) was off partying elsewhere and “explained” to a newcomer to the group by the group leader as “fy mhartner/my partner” I was all ready to put them right – although pretty sure I can’t do that in Welsh(!) – when I thought – is this how I want to present myself to a new person who’s only here to improve her Welsh skills? Honesty, openness, labels, privacy and boundaries are complex…
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I was very excited to hear Women’s Hour discussing older women and sex. And their amazing guest was the fabulous Miriam Stoppard. I have admired her for common sense approach to life and sex but not heard from her for a while. And here she was encouraging older women to have sex and do it for themselves! Interestingly she seems a great advocate for dildoes. I have nothing against them, and my early vibes were definitely penile, although usually smooth and matt or shiny rather than a full-on phallus. Anyone remember the Non Doctor? Just me…?
As Miriam made the point that most of us are clitoral, I was surprised at the emphasis on the dildo for solo and shared pleasure. I have nothing against dildoes – and perhaps I should be more open-minded… That said – I wonder if I was the only woman to feel intimidated back in the day when I actually bought one of the fabled rabbits – other well-endowed scary vibrators are available…
As loyal readers will know – I am very fond of bullet vibes. They are designed for clitoral stimulation and are very neat and work for me. I would advise single or two-speed only though. There are a lot of ten-speed ones out there. Sound quite good – but they’re a bit like those multi-display fairy lights – you have to go through every bloody setting until you come to the one you want – and then continue through the cycle to switch the thing off! I discovered this when I bought my lover his own vibe as he liked me using mine on him.
And later today I learnt that the amazing Molly Parkin had died – I think of her as the campest woman I have ever seen – a fashion icon, early queer ally, brilliant writer, painter and icon of female sexual positivity! She wrote the most amazingly funny and sexy short novels with names like “Fast and Loose” and “Up and Coming”. I remember getting the giggles on the bus and in a solicitor’s office as I passed my time with her amazing heroines in the eighties. I was also shocked to learn one of my friend’s Mum’s also read her! A reminder of my earlier ageism!
And when I was trying to navigate life as an ex-virgin/good girl wanting love and sex and not a reputation, but wanting to widen my horizons – her outrageous adventures with her “young husband” in Forum magazine fascinated me. And her later autobiographical fiction on the struggles of such a relationship touched me – as did her later honesty about the reality of her life and alcoholism in her autobiographies and in person. I was lucky to see her perform in “An Evening With…” many years ago.
And I was delighted to learn in later years that she did not choose the male-pleasing, sexist covers of those wonderful novels. And loved the fact she ended up very happily in a council flat and having another phase as a painter. I think of her every time I drive through Pontycymmer. R.I.P. Moll!
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As my lover and I are quite nice people and – I believe – very considerate in the bedroom -we do enjoy each other’s orgasms. And when he’s driven me wild with various attentions, he does like to watch me cum. And there’s something very sexy about asking his permission to use my trusty bullet when I’m in a subby place.
And I love knowing when he’s about to cum when he’s inside me. And I also really enjoyed him cumming over me recently. I loved knowing and encouraging the orgasm and the feel of him spurting over me.
So there we were in bed, where he’d got me very excited – it’s become a joke that he can totally control me through my breasts – but that doesn’t make it less true! And as so often, I had an amazing orgasm, and he had a very eager erection that we both played with casually. And somehow the hottest idea was for me to watch him wank himself to orgasm and to cum all over himself while we both concentrated on his cock and I encouraged him to the point of no return,
It was hot and also played with my mind, as it was his pleasure but felt at my command, although no idea where it started or by whom. The joys of switchy spicy vanilla!
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Officially a duvet day is “an unscheduled day’s leave from work taken to alleviate stress or pressure and sanctioned by one’s employer”. I’m not an employee, but a retiree who believes days of doing little and nesting; lolling; watching rubbish TV; or whatever floats your boat but doesn’t sap your energy are brilliant!
When I was a worker, my workplace didn’t do duvet days, so when I struggled, my body gave me a blinding headache or diarrhoea to make me stay home. And being quite morally bound – I found it hard to lie. When my body didn’t give way and desperation forced me to lie, I would actually become ill, so I couldn’t get any pleasure out of my misery – no wonder I am fascinated by the amazing links between the brain and health!
Now – I’ve done my research on the science of happiness and how to feel fulfilled and mentally well – I read magazine articles and have radio, TV and the internet – and know that retirement has to be more than hedonism, so I do have commitments. I am learning Welsh, am a member of several social and interest groups, I volunteer, do tai chi qi gong and attend some exercise classes. I am very aware that I choose to do these things, and when I don’t have a commitment to a task or to people I actually remind myself that “there is nothing I have to do, today” and it feels wonderfully liberating. So, each day I am deciding whether to have my planned day, or wallow under my real or metaphoric duvet.
And when I have things I feel I ought to do, or feel time pressure or a commitment to do something, I can get a real pleasure out of a minor illness or inclement weather that keeps me at home with a legitimate reason. At 70, I am lucky to be quite strong and fit but I have never broken a bone, and don’t fancy starting now! So, I have decided to avoid going out in icy weather unless I feel I have to do so.
So having celebrated Christmas with friends, myself, my sister and my lover I had five days to myself with absolutely no external commitments, But of course, everyday stuff and various tasks that have accumulated had to be considered alongside the hedonism. And I settled into enjoying this time as outlined in my Old and New Year activities.
And then my Friday evening was disrupted wonderfully by my sister and plans to star gaze down the coast with a bunch of astronomers! It was great, though cold enough to make me worry about ice, although chips in the car before watching “Traitors” together was fabulous.
I had a restless night and awoke on Saturday with a “scratchy” throat and little energy and decided while not ill enough for a real day off if I was working, it was duvet day territory. And snow and ice prevented even a trip to the shop. So after a lemsip I settled down on the sofa and under my heated blanket for some serous telly-binging. It was great.
To my surprise I got a return of energy and my Christmas tat started calling me and reminding me of the approach to 12th Night – officially the 5th – the Eve of The Epiphany. So I de-Christmased my living room and did some sorting and boxing and felt very virtuous. So – a duvet day where I got a bit of stuff done – all very good as I wondered if scratchy throat was just a passing thing.
Nope! Sunday started with alternating blocked and runny nose plus violent sneezing fits! So once again – although no plans – an excuse to do nothing – not even get my Sunday paper as it was icy again. And – very groundhog day – despite the violence of my symptoms, they stopped quite quicky as I settled for another day of indulgence. And when I was in danger of sofasores, I did some more de-Christmasing and sorting!
I had decided it was definitely a strange blip but over, until I got the return of the scratchy throat at bedtime – Oh, well…
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As a spankee the thoughts around knickers and the very word caused me many a happy shiver – especially when I was in the closet and didn’t dare discuss my weird thoughts and fantasies.
For someone who is so often commando I see a certain irony. When I first met a lovely ex – my first proper spanking relationship – I actually put some on when we first met, although we both behaved impeccably. And I later learnt I’d given him an unintended flash, rearranging myself on the beach!
When I finally found the so-called “spanking community” on-line I was amazed at the love of what I consider “gym knickers” – an unattractive garment I wore only to P.E. with a gym skirt. Others wore them under their uniform for modesty/security and I guess helped foster a fetish… Spankos into the whole school uniform thing took it very seriously with “proper” uniform including the dreaded gym/regulation knickers.
Before I understood about paedophilia, I saw the whole schoolgirl look as a fun and easy fancy dress option. I did however, aspire to the older St. Trinian look of short skirt and flashing stocking tops, naturally teamed with the pretty and somewhat scanty scraps of nylon my friends and I favoured in the seventies.
I have fond memories of shopping trips at the beginning of the college term when I was a student. If we couldn’t find anything else to buy, we would add to our collection of “scanties”. I seem to remember BHS or CA doing an amazing line in such wispy pieces of nonsense – very saucy, but surprisingly robust with a proper cotton gusset, despite the sometimes sheer nylon and daring side-ties.
I hate the word “panties” which just sounds American and mealy-mouthed – especially when used to describe all such garments including the most sturdy and triple-gusseted! I can just about cope with it being used to describe the cute wispy things of my youth but still hesitate to accept it.
I love knickers, drawers and even pants when such items are under discussion in a sexual or spanking scenario. And I love describing clothing when writing erotica. I have great fun with historic scenarios where bloomers, French knickers or directoire ones can add to the fun.
And although so-many of Ms Austen’s characters could have featured in a spanking scenario, my understanding is that they too went commando!
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I was enjoying some Doctor Who specials last night and was very amused at the regenerated Mr Tennant’s delight at his footwear, which he described as “daps”. This is a dialect word I know to be common in South Wales and the West Country – and the word I know for plimsolls. I thought it a nice nod to the fact he was filming in South Wales and reminded me of one of my short stories that featured said footwear.
It’s a situation arising from a dodgy human sale for charity – in my defence – these used to be quite common, and this one features very posh politically incorrect non-woke toffs!
The dap – An extract
“Is there anything I can do to make you change your mind?”
Silence.
“I admit I’ve behaved badly. I’d like to make it up to you and I’d like you to pay the agreed sum to the charity.”
And still silence
“Spike! What else can I do?”
And of course she knew. And Spike knew that she did.
“What do you think, Isobel?”
“Tell me what I can do to make amends that will ensure that you pay the charity the agreed amount.”
And so Spike told her.
“As you so rightly deduced I have a favoured method of dealing with bad behaviour. You, Isobel, were late, unapologetic, sneering and surly. I agree there was some provocation for the slap, but I simply told you the unpalatable truth about yourself and my decision. It was inexcusable but I believe in appropriate punishment and pardon. If you agree to make amends I’ll pay up and say no more about your behaviour.”
Isobel realised that despite her rage against him and her darkest suspicions he had not made a move she could honestly challenge. Against her desire to see him as a scoundrel her instincts told her he was a man of his word – and a smug, self-righteous bastard!
Hands on hips and breathing deeply, a defiant black-clad and booted Isobel faced her nemesis. “What is my punishment?”
The handsome young man faced the impossibly vibrant and sexy maid of his dreams and imagined the delights of lifting her skirts and lowering her knickers.
“I shall take a dap to you for your lateness, beat you for your lack of apology and for your surliness and spank you further for the slap.”
Isobel trembled in horror but how could she be surprised? What else could she have expected? She knew she had foolishly put herself into his power. The thought of Spike doing those things to her filled her with dread. Somewhere, though, she knew he wanted her and was too proud to admit it. The power was not all his. In her humiliation she could still deny him. She wondered about his intentions towards her skirts and silk knickers. She knew instinctively that she would be denied the protection of her skirt and layered petticoats. She wondered if he’d dared take down her knickers… She was tempted to negotiate for their continued protection but that would mean discussing them with him…
Isobel realised the absurdity of risking having her knickers lowered rather than discussing them with Spike but her illogical pride denied her the possibility of such plea-bargaining. And what fiendish device was a ‘dap’? And how would he beat her? Or spank her? What had she let herself in for? She knew she could walk out.
She was unwilling to risk his negative report on her ‘services’, she told herself as despite her anger and contempt she again felt instinctively that the smug, smiling toad was actually a man of his word. And that smug, speculative smile of his! Of course it wasn’t sexy! She found younger men crude and uncouth. It was a challenge! How dare the whippersnapper! He thought she was afraid of him and his silly bargain? She’d show him! Breeding would out!
“Very well, then, ‘Spike’,” – drawled and delivered hands on hips, fully aware of her long booted, nylon-clad legs, the rise and fall of her provocative breasts and the second skin of her bodice. Only Isobel could put such a sneer and question into a man’s name. Her attitude might get her beaten harder but she’d be damned if she’d let him intimidate her! – “How do you want me?”
And they both knew that he longed to spank her and fuck her and had done so from the moment he first set eyes on her. In his own way, Spike was as cool as Isobel. He knew he’d earned the right to spank this impossible, provocative woman but only with her agreement and that would be enough. Like Isobel he wasn’t into begging. If she chose to walk out – fine – a pity and a waste – but fine.
“Id like you to stand in front of the workbench, quietly and politely while I fetch the dap. Thank you”
Again, Isobel performed her long-legged laid-back swagger to the bench; now clear of Spike’s neatly sorted pictures and paraphernalia. She leaned nonchalantly against the sturdy table, smiled and raised her eyebrows as Spike grinned back; then equally casually sauntered out of the room…
Oh, hell! What was a fucking dap when it was at home? Now that Spike was out of the room Isobel’s smile felt like a death rictus as she fearfully contemplated her unknown in detail, but otherwise sealed fate. She was glad of the table behind her as her legs went weak and she leaned her bottom against the comfort of the wood, safe in its protection at least until Spike’s return.
His casual but suspiciously speedy return was greeted by an apparently relaxed and slightly bored Isobel nonchalantly leaning against the workbench where he’d left her. He was not fooled. The slight tremble to her lip and the flush of her gorgeously restricted but displayed breasts denoted excitement or fear. He was happy to take either or both. He was amused by her double take at the old-fashioned black plimsoll in his hand.
“What were you expecting?” he asked unable and unwilling to hide his amusement. Didn’t you know I had a Welsh upbringing? This, sweet Isobel, is a dap. I thought you lived in Wales…Obviously impervious to the local culture up at the Grange…. It was used on naughty children in Welsh schools when you were a girl. This is your chance to test its efficacy, sweetheart.”
How dare he! The nerve of the man! Isobel’s fury at his familiarity mingled with relief as she viewed the ‘dap’. After years of horse riding, she wasn’t scared of that thing! As her smile bid him to do his worst her relief was short-lived as she realised that he would be getting a very undignified view of her while ‘doing his worst’. The reality sunk in at his words.
The Spinster's Exploits 