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Sir 2.0 Episode 3

You inhale the oils in the water, carried across from the steam. You can no longer hear the ambient murmurs of the audience. A quiet relief blunts your discomfort to a degree where it becomes part of the burgeoning arousal within you. Your acceptance has unlocked the first stirrings of a wild, terrible power within you. Your need for ritual, seen perhaps as discipline to the unknowledgeable gives you permission to participate and now that you are aware of the memory block, you no longer feel powerless in the face of Sir and the guards. You take a breath in deep, to alleviate the trembling in your fingers.

One of the guards takes your arm and leads you to the table. He drops into a squat and starts to lift the hem of your hospital gown, you squirm away and there is a sharp, displeased intake of breath. Your skin tingles with disquiet and anticipation, making your nipples harden, visible through the cotton of the gown. The guard steps backwards, and Sir’s voice booms out from the darkness.

‘They act on my authority. Please do not incur my anger.’

You lower your chin to your chest, fighting the creep of blood to your face. The resistance is part of this for you, a show of defiance before the surrender in the same way that a bird flaps its wings as it takes flight. Your need for this resists the rational, and your body speaks to its power with an eloquence that your words never will. You go to remove the gown yourself and Sir speaks up to interrupt you.

‘I want him to do it. Autonomy must be earned here, little girl.’

His vocal relish in speaking aloud the title he’s assigned you sets sparks in your stomach, a slow, inexorable warmth that has waited for affirmation. You put your arms up, give the guard a stare of mock-defiance that you can comprehend but not quite feel and he comes forward. He has brown eyes, warm with interest, flecked with motes of a lighter brown within the iris. You notice a small shaving nick on his cleft chin and smile to yourself, relieved that there are small signs of humanity within the scenario. He hides his smile with a small degree of practiced care, but interest animates him, and in turn, you but you are both subject to a higher authority at this point in time.

‘Undress her.’

His expression becomes neutral, hiding behind the shield of authority as he comes towards you. You do not resist, and as he lifts the cotton gown over your head, your pulse sounds in your ears and the rush of chill air to your bare skin raises goose pimples all over. Your vulnerability, your self awareness are as much instruments in your submission as any number of toys or implements. You go to cover your breasts and pudenda with your hands but the guard tosses the gown to one side and grabs your wrists to draw your hands away. He looks at you with a second of open, primal appreciation and you enjoy how he loses himself within that for a brief amount of time before he leads you to the station. You are arranged on the board, the leather underneath is warm and your buttocks sit ably in the cut out section, leaving you exposed there.

The guard adjusts the cuffs and slips them onto your wrists and then moves the stands into play. His rough fingers dance against the soles of your feet, but you are too suffused with feeling to laugh. You test the restraints and find they resist your struggles with ease. The guard looks out into the darkness, then walks around to the bowl and picks up the natural sponge, placing it into the bowl and you turn your head to watch him.

Unable to move anything more than your midsection, the spotlight’s glare forces you to close your eyes. You hear the sponge being squeezed out into the bowl and then the rough-wet drag of it against your skin. The water is hot and you give a small cry of surprise as the guard washes you in small, deliberate circling motions of the sponge. Where he has washed you, the air caresses your damp skin. Each breath carries the scent of lime and coconut, diffused by the steam. Without the means to resist him, he draws the sponge over your breasts, and the slow drag of the sponge’s fibres makes your nipples harden, tender and electric with sensation. He runs the sponge down your stomach and you twist, involuntarily against it.

‘Does my little like being washed like this? I like how you wriggle.’

His voice bypasses your resistance, and although the guard is carrying out the task, in your head, his touch and Sir’s words combine into a thrilling whole. Supine in your constriction, you arch your back when the sponge returns, swollen with fresh water and starts to wash you over your hips. You push your knees together but the guard shoves them apart and sweeps the sponge against the tender skin of your inner thighs.

‘If she does that again, pinch her.’ Sir’s voice has a playful harshness.

You do it again, and good to his word, the guard takes a section of skin on the inside of your right thigh and pinches it with a clinical expertise. The pain travels upwards and you fight tears and hiss at how sharp and clean it is. Without ambiguity, the control asserted is a route to the most divine liberation.

You do not recall choosing this, but your decision reflects your wants like a mirror.

He carries on washing you, and you feel the blunt tips of his fingers parting your labia and the sponge applied there, pressed with an enthusiasm against the tender, pulsing flesh.

‘I see there’s hair there. I think we need to get rid of that, don’t you little girl?’

The pain has started it’s work, aided by the knowing yet uncaring touch against your throbbing clitoris. His fingers are either side of it, tweaking and pulling at the hood to ensure that you are both entirely on display to him and clean.

You must be clean for Sir.

You gasp out an affirmative and hear the click of fingers.

‘Now, let’s see what we can do about that, shall we?’








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What Do Women Want by Daniel Bergner



In this headline-making book, Daniel Bergner turns everything we thought we knew about women’s desire on its head. Drawing on extensive research and interviews with renowned behavioural scientists, sexologists, psychologists and everyday women, Daniel Bergner asks:

– Do women really crave intimacy and emotional connection?

– Are women more disposed to sex with strangers or multiple partners than either science or society have ever let on?

– And is ‘the fairer sex’ actually more sexually aggressive and anarchic than men?

This is a book that paired well with The Sex Myth by Dr Brooke Magnanti, in that it uses actual science to challenge certain presumptions in the realm of sex and sexuality. That sounds a bit pretentious but it’s actually really important. In this case, Daniel Bergner meets with scientists, researchers and therapists who are exploring and cataloguing women’s sexual identities, and the desires they have.

Bergner offers up the evidence that women are held back, restrained by societal and cultural prohibitions whereas their physical desires are aroused at a depth, range and intensity that is more polymorphous than we have been led to believe. That women are not hard wired for monogamy and that a degree of institutional sexism has emerged to stymie women. That women do not need comfort, wooing, intimacy but that their desires are fed by rawer, more primal instincts and attractions.

It speaks to the truth: that we have denied women their inner animal, male sexuality is traditionally allowed to be more rapacious but Bergner shows us that the data, collated over time and across a broad spectrum of volunteers, is that women have needs that are as base and immediate,they are as keen to find pleasure in novelty and want an intense, authentic sexual experience. One woman, for instance, is propositioned in a kitchen cupboard by a handsome waiter, instructed to perform oral sex on him, she refuses but admits to indulging the fantasy privately for months afterwards.

I have two books that the evidence presented here cheerfully discounted and I could not be more pleased. It’s an ambient tragedy that so many women have been conditioned to believe that their impulses are abnormal, that they like the pursuit of someone, something new as much, if not more than men do. Books like these should be better known, we can stop pretending in harmful, repressive ideas and level with one another. That women want with as much invention and intensity as men do, that their imaginations and desires, once awakened are oceans of individual, expansive fantasy.

It’s an exciting, informative book, bold and passionate, with a delicacy to the writing that is studied enough to blunt any potentially cringeworthy doggerel. I would recommend this without hesitation, even if you disagree with it’s findings (as is your right) but if you’re a woman reading this, who wants external validation of her inner truth, or  a man who is interested, or wants to confirm/deny their own experiences, then I could not think of a better book to do this with.



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Like a key

Give yourself


To play the game

Of testing me

Until seduction

Becomes a need

Like a key turning

My heart opens

With a raw surge

That makes my fingers

Bite into your skin

To show you

My passion until it

Shakes the earth

And the restraint as I tease

Out of you the same want

With languid, knowing


As your thighs clench

At my shoulders

Pinned beneath

My mouth until

Your breathy sighs

Like you’ve been pinched

Giving voice to an ache

That haunts you

Searching out the throbbing

It’s rhythm is a code

That I solve

With the animal lust

Harnessed to my attention

Until with a wounded cry




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No wolves in the forest

I would make
A delicious ruin
Of you the way a wave
Ruins itself as it dashes itself
Against the rocks
And I hold doors open
Not from chivalry
But anticipation
And my kisses
My touch scalds
And I revel
In being clear eyed
A storm of fur and muscle
Blood as fuel to charge
A hair pulling rasping
Fucking animal
This is not
a wolf in your forest
But a man
Who tosses your clothes
Into the fire
And tells you
that you no longer
Need them
But my kind eyes
Tell you that this
Is from respect
And I am never done
With you

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Thunderstorms with the door closed

Even with the brutish
Way that my fingers
Sink into your hips
I fuck you with
A sense of awe

The tender curves
Bear a sweetness
That makes me
Want to crush you
Like hot heavy fruit
I want to smell
You on my skin

For hours after
Cupping my fingers to
My nose and mouth
So you’re
All I breathe
I want to be matted
With you

I know you
And as you try to
Break yourself
Against me
Your eyes shining
And a hidden smile
Feeds the fire

I hold you firm
Because I know
That you’ve held
In this storm
And I am raising
My face as you
Soak me

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Dirty Little Angel

Soft, repeated bursts

Of thunder,

Cutting through

The affliction

Of self

A pulsing in our bodies

Like fever

You answer

With a wavering trebly cry

Each thrust inside you

Is an affirmation.

I want to mark you

Have you feel me

Splash against

Your skin.

Creamy, gelid ropes

Of my love.

There is so much

Love within me

That I








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To resist the call for speed

I go to war

With the urge

To plunge deeply

To yell for



A minute here

Feels different

Swollen and slow

With the greed

Of discovery

But as your

Eyes grow wide

Your thighs

Clench the way

Flowers clench towards


I hurtle over the edge

Falling with a smile

That chases away


A moment later.

You join me


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You breathe my name

The slick
Whisper of
Silk underwear
Against my hands
I dress you
To undress you

We move one
Another to where
We are most needed
Sometimes you
Want my fingers
Parting then filling

And sometimes
I want to see
That shining face
Between my dark
Hairy thighs
Robbing me
With your

You were my
And unwrapped
I am drunk
On the juices
You give
When crushed
By my lust

You breathe
My name
Like the universe
Ringing a call
To remember
My face before I
Was born

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I Am Undone

The shameless

Simplicity of

My mouth

Easing the swollen

Ache that opens up

Like a rose at sunrise

Your birdlike coos

Urging me on


The frowning creases

The bulges

The spots

Raking my nails down

The inside of

Your thighs

I playfully

Linger until you

Beg me to

Show you

The insinuating




You’re not made

Of china

And as your fingers

Curl around me

I gasp

At the

slithering simple


As you 


To stroke







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Taking you by the hand

Leading you from sunlight

Into shadow.

This initiation,

Sourced in a pleasure

So complete that you

Believe you might die from it.


A breeze blesses your

Bare skin,

As the rasp of my tongue

Slick and muscular

Gentle lapping as the

Damp heat builds

Building charge,

Until you are

Swollen with potential

Passing a threshold

Without leaving the bed


A pang, an ache

Crackling up your

Spine as you feed me

Rubbing yourself

Against my mouth

Hungry to feel

To take me deeper

Letting that need

Strip you of


Making guttural names

Into birdsong