Dare to breathe. Dare to feel. Dare to let your guard down.

Dare to acknowledge the difference between a one-off fuck, and real feelings.

Dare to believe that such a thing can happen.

Dare to have your head turned by compliments.

Then you dare to screw me over.

How dare you.


Originally written and published several years ago. Republished today just because.

It’s been over a year since Henry and I broke up, and I’ve said very little about the relationship that was, since that happened.

This is not me breaking my silence. Not exactly. But i feel moved to write, which happens less and less frequently these days, as I feel my world slowly crumble before my eyes — so I let the muse speak from within me, and I lay myself bare before you.

The nature of the connection between Henry and myself was incredibly real and intense, and the break-up shook me to my core. Having now — finally — achieved closure, due in no small part to him, I believe I can start moving on emotionally, and mentally.

Physically was never really an issue. Which is odd, and yet unsurprising. The physical aspects of sex, while utterly fabulous while they last, have a habit of being short-lived and fading to the level of distant if fond memory, causing a mysterious smile to play about the lips of the one remembering, and a knowing glint to sparkle in their eye. It’s the mental shit that screws you over. Yes, indeed.

Henry was my muse. My soul mate. He understood what I was thinking before I’d had the chance to articulate it to him. He knew how I worked, how I ticked, how I’d react to any given situation. He cared for me very much, in a manner that I was both unused to and blown away by… he loved me so much! He wanted to protect me from any and all harm, which, of course, he couldn’t do, but it was his wish that I should be happy. More than anything else, he wanted that.

At one point there were nasty horrible people who wanted to harm me. Henry wanted to banish them and all memories of them from my life. He was the Walter Raleigh to my Queen Elizabeth, as he gallantly, if metaphorically, laid his cloak over the shit-strewn puddles of the blogosphere so that I might walk without soiling my dainty feet. (And considering the size and heft of my ass, my feet are comparatively pretty damn dainty.)

He was the John to my Yoko. We were constantly together, always thinking each of the other, living only until we could be together again when separated. He would be with me at work, in the bottom corner of my screen and I frankly wonder how it was that I ever managed to achieve anything at work, since talking to him was infinitely preferable.

I missed him. Over the last year I used my experimentation to block out the searing pain of missing him. I met others, some who may even one day take his place in my heart. But no one replaced him because he’d not gone anywhere. I was angrier with him than I think I’d ever been at anyone before in my life — besides myself, against whom I had an ongoing viciously rude dialogue for many years, until therapy helped me work out that particular kink in my system. He had betrayed me in the worst way precisely because I relied on him more than I’d ever allowed myself to rely on another.

He hurt me more deeply than anyone else ever has — because he loved me more than anyone else ever has. As I loved him. As clichéd a qualification as it is, I loved him. Truly. Madly. Deeply. With all my heart and soul… with every creamy-skinned centimeter of my body and mind.

I loved him but I had to let him go. The reality was too much for him, the fantasy not enough. It took me a good year to get over him, and now, thanks to him and the honesty that always prevails with him (if occasionally somewhat tardily), he stepped up and took responsibility for what he had done, thus quieting my rage and soothing my deep hurt.

I miss him. I always will. I was June to his Henry Miller — yes, that is the source of our names. And in some way, the love I had for him will never be extinguished entirely. I owe him so much; were it not for him and his fabulously perverted mind I would never have been able to melt down the final barriers of my repressed upbringing; nor conduct such a carefully constructed sexual experiment.

I thank him publicly for everything, and acknowledge equally publicly that he will always own a corner of my bruised and battered heart.

Goodbye, my darling. I will only ever wish you well.

It’s an unspoken sense of understanding that so rarely occurs that when it does, it bears remarking upon — not to mention, documenting for posterity.

I mean, it’s not news to any of you that sex can be absolutely fucking awesome. Not always, it’s true. Sometimes, when the mood is wrong or the chemistry isn’t there, or even when the stars simply haven’t aligned for you that particular time, the sex can be utterly disastrous and downright depressing.


There are those who say that with sex, even a bad one is good — as Mel Brooks might say of a nectarine. Not me, but others. You know the sort. Those whom we refer to as “them”.

However, there are times, when the sex exceeds all expectations. When the sense of “holy FUCK that was amazing” is doubled, even tripled. The stars have aligned, the chemistry is A+, and it’s there. That indefinable  unspecifiable spark of something that converts great sex into a divine experience that leaves you googly-eyed and speechless for hours.

It’s when thoughts convey the deed to be done, and no words are required. It’s when the minds meet and concur and the bodies simply follow suit, like the good submissive entities that they are.

Following a protracted period of spent bliss, where his hands have stroked her skin until she can no longer breathe for joy, he moves himself oh so slightly, but enough that she immediately understands, and moves in harmony to meet him. Not a word, nor a look has passed between them, but they both know what this means.


He slides in from behind, and she shudders with repressed ecstasy. She doesn’t even need to tell him “Harder!” — he knows. She doesn’t need to push her nipple at him — he’s already there, pinching it to extract the sound from her that spurs him on yet further.

Man and woman, body and body — harmony personified.

When such an occurrence happens, which it tends to do with Dodo-like rarity, it’s one to be kept with the memories to be stored up for the old age home. I personally look forward to shocking the staff at the facility, as they wipe the leaks from whichever end of me to they are currently paying attention, with stories of fisting, anal sex and the panache with which I used to execute my world-famed blow job — not forgetting the jaw-ache that followed, and the rueful grin with which I then turned to the ever-grateful recipient.

But most important of all, I record said incident for posterity here.

Don’t tell me I never do anything for you. 😎

Dear Shit-for-Brains,

I’m not interested. Please stop contacting me.

Read that sentence again.

Now read it again.

Got it? Good.

This is the last email of yours I will bother reading — the rest will be deleted immediately. Since this is our last communique, please read and internalize the following:

1. My name is not a come-on, it’s the name of a character in “Blazing Saddles”.

2. You only get one chance to make a first impression. If you blow that, you’re pretty much screwed — but not in the good way. Asking me my rate? Are ya shitting me?

3. Repeated attempts to contact a person after they have politely but firmly requested that you cease and desist from said activity, only serves to make you at best a pest, and at worst, committing harassment  None of these attempts are seen as endearing, appealing or in any way likely to get your further then the email stage of things.

4. Behaving in this manner, and then calling yourself “quality” is highly ironic.

5. Finally, saying “it takes two to tango” about repeated attempts to get you to stop emailing me? Seriously? You look old enough to know much better.

Thanks for understanding… finally.


The thought of you is distracting me from everything I should be doing. As a result, everything I do is involving you in some way or another. My cooking especially. My chicken soup was made with desire for you. The garlic roasted potatoes are full of lust for you. Even the roast chicken is sighing over you in the oven.

I tell you, it’s food porn central, chez Juno this evening.

The anticipation is utterly exquisite. Like an amuse bouche before a meal, I want more and more. Having been awarded the delicate morsel you afforded me yesterday, I’m now slavering for more, the juices inside me flowing fast and furious, the swirl of excitement threatening to distract me from every purpose to which I set my mind, until we meet again.

You mentioned an element of fear at how all-consuming your ravenous hunger is, and the temptation it brings. I know that fear — I’ve felt it too. But the more I think about it, the more it seems like an exquisite excitement at what lies ahead, a deliciously tempting dish still covered over, awaiting the moment when the lid is lifted and all is revealed.

My imagination is running riot with all the how and what and when… how will your lips feel against mine… what will i do first — stroke the side of your cheek, or brush my hand through your hair… when will your hand touch my bare, quivering skin first — and how will I stop my legs from buckling and collapsing under me from sheer adrenaline?

To want someone badly is not new to me. But this is taking things to another level. And so to pass the time, I’ll continue cooking with unbridled passion — food porn is as good a substitute as any…


The first moments of 2011 were spent naked, panting and kissing. Traditionally, in other words.

The new year thing was by-the-by — it was a tryst much longed for by all parties concerned, and the new year was another excuse to get together and get naked. And you all know only too well how I loves to get naked.

There is a myth that with age, the sex drive wanes. This is simply not true. Separating us chronologically are 17 years, although you wouldn’t know it to look at him. Or to fuck him, come to that.

He calls me “jailbait”. I’m 42.

In terms of experience, we pretty much match each other, thanks to my often wistfully remembered slutfest. And then every so often I surprise him. Or he surprises me.

Yesterday was my turn to be surprised. A confirmed kinkster, although he refers to himself as “conservative”, he took vanilla and spiced it up to a level beyond anything that had gone before. He gave me an all-over body massage that rendered me speechless. I murmured as much, from within my stupor-like haze, and he giggled.

“Good to know. So if I ever want to shut you up, I now know what to do.”

I would have fired back one of my trademark smartass comments, but I truthfully didn’t care. If it meant that I got to experience this fantastic and sensuous hand rub again, I’d gladly remain silent.

At one point he lay down on top of me. I was face down, and so was he — but he held off from the obvious poke-and-prod-with-cock scenario — he’s classy like that.

“Is this what you mean by a full body massage?” I whispered into the comforter.


At which point he flipped me over, and grabbed me by the cunt.


We spent today apart — family commitments, prior engagements and so on. Yet all day long I could feel his touch on me. His fingers between my thighs. His cock in my cunt. His breath on the back of my neck. His legs entwined with mine. It was like an indelible print — it kept me in a permanent daze all day. Thank god for multi-tasking, or I’d not have achieved anything since this morning that didn’t involve sitting and staring blankly into space.

All in all, a most auspicious start to the new year.

I raise a glass to you all — to the new year, to new challenges, to new experiences and new forms of fun. May 2011 be a great year for all of you.

Juno x


8.00 am, under the station clock. Cold air whipping around my face, my gloved hands shoved deep inside my fleece jacket pocket to keep the cold out. Expectantly looking for the train that is supposed to draw in on platform 7.

Hearing my name, i look up, and there he is, arms outstretched, walking towards me. He envelops me within them, and kisses me softly but with such passion that my head spins, and I literally forget where I am for a brief moment. Automatically, I respond, one arm around him, one lifted so that i can feel his cheek beneath my palm as we endlessly kiss; and that he can feel my palm on his cheek.

Finally breaking, and setting off for my place, our bodies continually colliding sideways; we cannot bear to be separated. We half-hug, half-walk through central London’s crowded streets, bumping into pedestrians and obstacles alike. Every so often, I stop, and stand back to regard him carefully. He doesn’t object, and returns the favour.

I see an older, bearded man, with gentle and laughing blue eyes that readily meet my own. I see height and strength — broad shoulders with arms that held me tight only moments before; the feeling being a fusion of total security combined and complemented by raw, steaming desire.

I see the love of my life.

We arrive at mine, and pause to catch our breath before ascending the stone steps at the front of my building. Turning to me, he rests his chin on the top of my head (“Adorable!” squeaks the little man living in my head) and once again pulls me close to him. I feel myself held close and revel in the euphoria i feel swelling in my heart, before I grasp his hand tightly in my gloved one, and lead him inside.

Once in my room, we part to remove the various outer garments necessitated by the inclement conditions outside. My room is rather warm, and he looks on with little surprise as, instead of stopping the shedding of layers at coat, scarf, hat and extra sweater, i continue until I am standing before him, in my white socks and a warm, welcoming smile.

He draws an appreciative and audible breath and crosses the room in two strides, gathering me close as if he needs to engulf me with his body. I murmur at him, disapprovingly.

“You really need to be less clothed, darling.”

Obediently, he complies with my wishes, his laughing eyes meeting mine, and informing me silently that he loves the way my mouth moves as i speak. [He will repeat this fact later, in the dim, lamp-lit post-coital glow that surrounds us like an autumnal haze.] I undo his shirt slowly, my chocolate-brown nail polish in stark contrast against the pearlized buttons and brushed cotton, his eyes following my every move. My hands reach his waist and within seconds, he is evidently more naked than I.

We maneuver ourselves to a horizontal position on the bed; each lying on their side, resting their head on their upturned palm, regarding the other with unsuppressed longing. He sees my socks, and smiles a secret smile at me that only I could possibly understand. For months he has expressed a wish that the first time we fuck, I be wearing knee-high white socks… and I have complied.

He leans forward to kiss me softly as he takes me into his arms once again, and i realise that we have just been enjoying the calm before the storm. And what a wonderful storm.


We lie next to each other, naked apart from my white socks, which i utilize in causing a gentle friction on his skin, as i run my toe up and down the back of his calf. He strokes my hair, and kisses me, stopping every now and then to look into my eyes lovingly, and then kiss me again.

His hands feel strong and comforting around me, but they do not remain still. He feels my skin as if he were learning my body in braille, although for now he studiously avoids any of the more easily ignitable erogenous zones. I know he is holding back to increase the anticipation, not in order to tease, and i feel very relaxed and comfortable.

Our bodies melt into one another as we lie there, caressing each other as a prelude to hiking up the proceedings a notch. He takes my face in my hands, and kisses me tenderly, drawing back to look deep into my eyes.

“Juno, my love, I simply must fuck you now.”

I smile at him.

“Well, since you insist.”

We begin in basic missionary, as he pulls himself into me. My legs wrapped around his body, his arms supporting them from beneath them. I feel his cockhead press against my labia, his wetness mingling with my own, and i gasp as he slides right into me.

I mean it. He slides straight in. No fumbling, or “oh.. no, left a bit… yes, right a bit… yes!“. None of that. It is as though we have been built to fit together: jigsaw pieces, magnets, yin and yang, true connections… however you wish to describe it, that’s how it is.

He moves within me, as i tilt my hips to match his thrusts. My lips move along his collarbone, leaving butterfly kisses and delicate nips until I suddenly find myself flying up into the air, and landing astride him, looking down into his twinkling eyes through my tousled hair.

“That was a nifty little move there,” I say, admiringly.

I grind my hips against his, recapturing the momentarily-lost rhythm and increasing the intensity.

“I like this. I like watching your mouth as you talk, while I fuck you,” he says, looking into my face as he fucks me in a leisurely manner.

I lean my head towards his, and move my lips softly against his ear, whispering specific details regarding the other man i’d fucked not hours before; vivid descriptions of how he’d taken me, fucked me good and hard, left me spent and exhausted, full and satisfied.

The more lurid the description, the more aroused he becomes.

The more aroused he becomes, the more intense our fucking.

The more intense our fucking, the better he feels inside me.

And he feels so very, very good inside me.

We keep at it for nearly an hour… the orgasms mounting in their intensity for me, and his unswerving self-control keeping him focused.

“I love you,” one of us says.

“I love you,” the other replies.

“I could stay like this forever,” I whisper.

“What ever suggested to you that there was a statute of limitations regarding my cock in your gorgeous cunt?” he murmurs back, as he pumps and bucks beneath me, swirling me ever higher into my orgasmic haze. “My darling, you are the most unbelievably glorious fuck. Don’t ever leave here. Stay.”

“I’m certainly not going anywhere until you come, baby,” I assure him, redoubling my efforts to make him come. Damn, but he has amazing control. Then it hits me — and i move my hand to his chest.

“I’ll come when I’m damn well good and ready young lady, don’t you– ah! oh! yes! oh god yes! oh god, that’s good, that’s so good…”

I’ve shifted my hand to his nipples and am paying them some serious attention. I am back in the saddle, so to speak.

“Just for that,” he grunts breathlessly, “I’m going to come. Right. Now. Oh god!”

I lean forward again and kiss him as his body jerks and writhes in pleasure concurrently with my own. His soft, full mouth responds to mine, our kiss sealing our ethereal passion for each other with our mutual corporeal lust and desire.

He holds me on him, close to him, his lips against mine, as we both subside, shuddering quietly as we come down. I am speechless. No one has ever fucked me in that way before. I’ve never felt so euphoric.

I know this is the real thing. That connection we all search for. It. Love.

And so does he.

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