“Turn round and get on all fours.” My mind will still occasionally drift back to my first experience of doggy, on a futon mattress in a flat in Acton, more than half a lifetime ago.
I love flashbacks. Moments become a library of visual stimulation I flick through when I’m alone, settling on the one that’s right for right now. The memories most frequently pulled from the shelf almost always involve fucking from behind.
Me, pushed over the bed. Him, his arse to my bedroom window. “Are you thinking about your neighbours watching us?” Yes, yes I am.
Crack. A new lover’s hand meets my arse, and my face is pushed further my pillow. He later comments on how hot my sound of appreciation was at that first smack. There’s nothing like the first time you realise someone is good with their palms.
“Watch this,” he says as he chucks his phone down in front of me. The sensations overwhelm me as I simultaneously feel him and watch us.
3am on a too-hot summer night. We are still awake. My lounge windows are low and knelt in front of them I can lean out of the window and grip the outside window ledge, biting my lip so I don’t let my sounds echo in the silent street.
Fresh from afternoon tea, I’m dressed like a lady. In the toilet near his office he bends me over and pushes my flowery frock up over my arse. I sit on a packed commuter train home with my knickers in my handbag. The next time I wear the dress is to a wedding and I smile at the memory as I sit in the church.
On my knees in front of my mirror, watching his hands on my hips and expressions of pleasure dance across his face.
Our eyes lock over her back as he fucks her, her face between my legs.
Ping. An email arrives moments after he leaves. A photo to add to the memory bank…
When I started this project a month ago I didn’t really imagine that I would contribute to any meme other than Sinful Sunday, but when Molly posted this week’s Kink of the Week prompt it sparked a memory so connected to the essence of Exposing 40 that here I am.
In Stepping Out I mentioned the night out with my “soul sister” friends. There are a lot of nights out with these three women – actually they are more often nights in – but either way they are always hilarious, rejuvenating, and heavily seasoned with prosecco.
On this particular evening, about 18 months ago, one of them rocked up with her Rigby and Peller corset. On a previous night we’d all ended up prancing round her living room wearing her ludicrously high sex shoes, taking photos of our feet and giggling like teenagers. Actually, prancing is a lie. I think we wobbled on the spot. Ever since, she’d been promising to bring along her corset.
Fast forward a couple of hours, dinner is done, and I am being strapped in. Two of them embarked on this mission with gusto. The look on the host’s face as she walked into her living room to find me flanked by one friend who’d rolled up her sleeves and another who’d removed her top completely and was working in just her bra, such was the effort they were putting in, was priceless.
I loved feeling each tug as the laces were tightened and the giddy anticipation of wondering what I would look like. The photos of that night are not great ones – they are shot quickly on iPhone, many are grainy and out of focus. The corset clearly doesn’t fit me very well – I think it’s one thing to accentuate your chest and another altogether to have it exploding out in strange distorted creases. But I love these photos. I still look at them occasionally and smile at the memories of the evening.
Shortly after, unstrapped and breathing again, I sent a series of the photos to a guy I was chatting to but was yet to meet. “And this is my favourite,” I said, attaching the photo below to my last message. “Is that because you look fucking gorgeous?” came the quick response.
I don’t think of myself as fucking gorgeous. That’s not me fishing for a compliment – when I set the bits of me I don’t like against the bits I do, on balance I am generally content with what I’ve got going on – it’s just ‘fucking gorgeous’ is a pretty bold statement.
But I did feel like that for half an hour wearing that corset: my boobs were up and my belly was under control in a way that, as this week’s Sinful Sunday shows, neither are naturally wont to do! I couldn’t believe this shape that had been created.
One day I will buy a corset of my own and create that shape all over again.