Bob had been a contortionist in his youth, until his body gave up, leaving him with just enough strength and flexibility to function like a completely ordinary person, and also to self-fellate. Now he manages his own circus, and gives himself blowjobs back stage. That’s how we met. I was 17, I’d just left school, and Bob’s Strangely Magical Show was passing through town. I’ve always loved the Circus. Partly of course, it’s the lights, the smell, the thunderous applause, just the sheer joy of it all. But also, for me it was a place where it was okay to be weird. I come from a small town. Two main streets, two pubs, five churches, 60% retirees and 40% people who wished they’d left but hadn’t managed it. I never felt as though I belonged. Even when I got out of town, drove into the city, I still didn’t belong. City people seem just like country people to me, only moving faster. The circus though – the circus is full of people who don’t belong. And that’s why I like it.

The show had finished, and I was poking around backstage, when I saw him. He was in a sort of headstand pose, with his arse in the air and his knees resting on the floor, over his head. I realised, after a few seconds, that adopting this pose enabled him to suck his cock, which was exactly what he was doing, with noisy exuberance, his balls slapping wetly against his face. I’d never seen anything quite like it, and having paid a fiver to watch a Strangely Magical Show, I rather forgot that this wasn’t part of it. Feeling entirely entitled to the view, I crept closer. And, with all the natural finesse that I was born with, I tripped straight over a pile of rigging that one of the aerialists had left out, and fell full length nearly on top of him. Bob leapt to his feet like he’d been shot out of a cannon, grabbing my hand and pulling me up with him. He looked me straight in the face and said “you’re one of us, aren’t you”, and from that moment on, I was.

He gave me a job in logistics, and I’ve been here ever since. Bob’s not his real name, incidentally. It’s how he discovered the innate flexibility in his spine. Bobbing for apples.

Even after five years in the circus, I haven’t developed any special talents. I’m not fearless, like the aerialists, or flexible, like the contortionists, or strong, like the acrobats, and I don’t know any magic tricks. I did work briefly as the magicians assistant, but I gave it up because he’s a total cunt. Sometimes, I wonder that I don’t fit in here either. Sometimes, feel like I’m not normal enough for the rest of the world, but not quite strange enough for the circus. But, there is one thing about me that is a little freakish. I like to watch. No, no, not the show, although that’s great too. I like to watch the performers, after the show. I watch them getting dressed. I watch them getting undressed. I watch them making love. I think they know, you know, I think each and every one of them have caught me at it at some point. And it’s not peeping, is it, if they know. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m a pervert.

There’s some people, that I like to look at more than others. There’s this girl, well, woman really. She’s an aerial hoopist. You know, she does acrobatic moves hanging from a giant hula hoop that floats in mid air. She’s one of the few performers who performs alone, instead of in a duo or troupe. Doesn’t mix much. And she always wears a full, bathing suit style costume, always lightly coloured, a pale metallic silver or gold. Most of the other girls, they wear eye popping outfits, frilly knickers and bra sets, sequins, all trash and flash, sex and sass. At first, I thought, maybe she doesn’t really like herself. Women are like that, even gymnasts and dancers, especially gymnasts and dancers. But she had a certain strut to her, a jut to her jaw, a quiet confidence that made me curious. That’s why I wanted to watch her.

I was in the dressing room one night, changing after the show, when she came in. She didn’t see me. I hugged the shadows, partially obscured by costumes. She stood directly in front of the full length mirror, right under the only spotlight in the room, about five feet in front of me. The air was thick, and hot, maybe it was just me getting nervous, but I swear you could have served a slice of it on a saucer with tea. She was short, about five foot two, tiny. She was strong and lithe, but oddly, for someone who did so much work with her arms, lifting herself around the hoop, she had a very slight top half, almost no breasts at all. From the waist up, she could have been a twelve year old boy. But she wasn’t tiny all over, she had a small waist, and then her hips jutted out abruptly, and she had thighs like the flanks of a pony. Her bottom was solid muscle, but much larger than you might expect. The small of her back curved into her arse like a ski jump. Her complexion was utterly pale, and again, unlike the other girls, the acrobats and the dancers, she didn’t use fake tan or bronzer. Her skin was the colour of milk with a drop of cream, it glowed. Her hair was slicked back in a very tight bun, that made her cheekbones seem higher, like a cat. She stared at herself in the mirror for what felt like an age, and I stood soundlessly behind her, watching her from the back, and the front. Then she locked eyes with me, in the mirror.

She’d seen me, for sure, but she didn’t look surprised, or disturbed, or disgusted, or frightened. She met my eyes in the mirror, and then hooked a thumb through the top strap of each arm of her suit, and then she slowly pulled it down, right the way to the floor, and then kicked her suit away, and stood naked in front of me, still meeting my eyes in the reflection. She wore a look that said, ‘go on, look, drink it all in, swallow me up’. She had the smallest breasts I’d ever seen on a woman, barely even a bulge, but she had enormous aureole. The effect on someone so flat chested was beautiful, in its unexpectedness. She had tiny, totally erect nipples. I wanted to touch her, but I didn’t. There wasn’t more than two or three arm lengths between us, but it felt like a chasm, the distance between one possibility and another. So I didn’t move. But she did. Not towards me, though she continued to look at me, right in the eyes. She ran one hand from the space between her breasts down to the space between her legs, and she began to masturbate. Well, if I’d thought there was tension in the air earlier, now it fairly crackled. You could have popped corn on the heat between us.

She was moaning now, and under the bright spotlight, I could see the moisture glistening on her fingers as she played with herself. I began to do the same, but I couldnt keep up with her. She was standing at a slight angle to the mirror, and holding her left leg over her head. She had at least four fingers in her vagina, and then, I think her entire fist. She continued to penetrate herself, until she nearly doubled over, her face clenched in orgasm. As she came, she gushed. A stream of liquid burst out onto the mirror and over the floor. Then she lifted her hand, looked at me in the mirror again, and slowly licked her fingers. And then she gathered her clothes, and left.

As she pushed the door open to go, she turned, looked me straight in the eyes, and grinned.

“Welcome home”, she said.

You tell me to undress; before ‘hello’, before you so much as touch me. Shakily, I do as told. Struggling to control my fear and insecurity, I strip down to just my panties. My stubborn attempts to hold eye contact result only in blushing and my staring at your feet.

Grabbing me by my hair, you tilt my head to kiss my lips, and neck. Your initial, relative gentleness, is both soothing and unnerving. Your scent and touch is familiar, even after so long. I slide my arms around you and plant my palms flat across your back, pulling you closer. We hold each other for a moment. A grounding gesture, a surrender, though we both already know that my body will arch into your every touch. Gentle, or otherwise.

You push me down to my knees and unbuckle your belt. It occurs to me that I don’t think I’ve looked at you without wondering whether you were wearing ‘that’ belt, since the day we first met. I toy with telling you that you left me with bruises that first time, how much I treasured them, but you unzip and I brush my lips against your cock.

I start slowly, as I know you like; just tracing your length with my tongue and drawing circles around your head, never really taking you further than just between my lips. Your muscles tense a little when I find a sensitive spot, but you don’t rush me and your hands never leave my hair. I continue exploring and play with taking your balls into my mouth and kissing and lapping at the inside of your thighs. When I feel your patience is wearing thin and the warm insistent throbbing between my own legs begins to get distracting, I run my lips over the full length of you; burying my nose into your body and filling my throat with you. You begin to thrust with long, slow strokes; pulling out almost entirely and slipping back as deeply as you can. I measure my breathing to accommodate your rhythm and feel myself giving in to arousal, and that heavy, untamed desire just to be used by you. As you get rougher my chances to catch a breath become fewer, I’m lightheaded and consumed by the smell and taste of you.

After a time and without warning you pull me sharply to my feet by my hair and slap me. It’s not that hard, but the shock still knocks me sideways. You command me to lie prone on the bed. Flustered, I bury my face in the duvet to hide my blushes and listen intently for sounds that indicate your movements.

You pull down my panties and roughly plunge two fingers inside me, finding me soaking wet and needy. I lose somewhat of a grasp on reality about now, to a conflicted world of wanting and not wanting, and being terribly embarrassed and ashamed at it all. But while I am forcing myself to keep breathing and to stay still, my mind is racing and hoping. Hoping you’ll fuck me, hoping you’ll fuck my ass, hoping for your mouth on me, and dreading what you’ll make me do for it.

When you pull your fingers from me and tell me to get the lube, I both want and don’t want what’s coming. Yet I do, and I’m on my knees inviting you to fuck my ass. I hate myself, I’m ashamed at my eagerness. You make me ask for it, and I hate you then, too.

You’re as careful as you need to be. No more. You take me roughly with an entitlement you haven’t earned, yet just as I start to relax into the gentle pain, you pull away from me, flip me over. I see your expression and my hands instinctively begin to rise to protect my breasts, I catch myself just in time. Still, you notice. You always notice. Your smile is predatory but you touch me so gently, the sensitivity of my nipples never fails to drop my guard. Though I know what is coming I can’t help but relax into the sensation, and then when your touch inevitably turns cruel my body screams at me to fight you.. but I don’t want to win. My hands curl into tight fists in the duvet. It hurts. It really hurts, and I don’t like it. (I don’t think?). I don’t know anymore. I just want you to fuck me.

But I’m not begging yet.

My instincts override the understanding that I’m not to block you and my hands try to cover my chest again, but with shocking force and speed you pin them back. I freeze, the expression on your face chills me. I shouldn’t have done that.

When your response is to take me over your knee, I am relieved. Falsely so. Maybe it’s the physical closeness or the odd sense of comfort, but I never really think it’s going to hurt. I am utterly wrong. My fists and toes curl into the covers as I try not to react to the fierce blows. I have to remind myself to breathe, force my muscles to relax, and try and navigate to the headspace where It all becomes easier. Between sets of spanks, you dip a finger into my cunt. The embarrassment makes me shiver and feel nauseous. I know how wet I am, now I know you know too. I hate being so exposed to you, worse still, the unavoidable way I respond to you. Yet the sickening humiliation of having this so clearly evidenced only increases my arousal. I’m lost.

So when you tell me to stand, what else can I do?

Unnervingly gently, you lift my head and position my hands down by my sides. You step back, watching me intently. I’m panicking but I try to empty my mind. My internal monologue, damn incessant narrative, is not useful here. When you hit me.. It silences. I steady myself, keep my hands lowered. When you hit me again, harder, I can feel my ears ringing. I blink back my sight. I want to cry.

The weight of your body over mine as you guide me back down onto the bed is needfully grounding. When you slide your cock into me, I cry out. I hold no imaginings that my stubbornness is a match for how much I want it. I don’t have the self control to censor myself. My hands grab hold of your shoulders and my back arches against you..
I’m close to orgasm.

..You wanted me to beg you? I think you probably got it..

There are very few people who know everything there is to know about me, because… well, they don’t all need to know. Vanilla friends know the vanilla stuff, kinky friends know the kinky stuff, and both groups know about the burlesque. My burlesque shows are the only time when both worlds collide, and I will admit there are certain vanilla folk who I would not invite along for that very reason. They might get a bit of a shock.

I have much I could be more open about. I am bisexual, kinky and non-monogamous, but no everyone knows this about me. Much as I would perhaps like to be more open about all of those things, I realise that there are a lot of differences between each of us in the adult world and prefacing everything I say to people with a long explanation about what it means is perhaps asking for trouble. Or just a bunch of hassle that I could really do without.

If it comes up in conversation, I will tell some of my colleagues that I’m bisexual. Being a woman in a long-term relationship with a man has meant that I am one of those pesky invisible bisexuals, so it doesn’t come up in day-to-day chatter as often as you’d think. If the chance arises, I will also tell people I’m polyamorous. Both of these are things that most folk I like to spend time with should hopefully be OK with, even if they don’t understand them.

However, I personally think that BDSM falls into another category entirely. Perhaps because it’s not something that’s especially ‘worksafe’? It’s easy enough to explain orientation and relationship preferences to people who don’t talk about sex with anyone they don’t know well, but anything more intimate has the potential to offend. Would you ask a friend’s mother if she likes anal? Probably not! I reckon that discussing kink in some situations is perhaps a similar case of TMI.

When you only hang around people who share your life views, it can become tricky to forget that there are certain things that some of us just can’t come out about. If all your friends are kinky, they you have no reason to hide things like that from them. However, if some of your friends are vanilla or you are invited to events where a kinky mate’s vanilla family will be in attendance, it is often wise to reign it in a little. Not everyone is fully ‘out and proud’, so why insist on pushing boundaries when someone might get upset? It can sadly be a way of losing friends.

So I guess my main question is; do people really need to know? Being kinky is not necessarily something that affects the way I live my life – after all, many people go out clubbing and to parties – whereas my orientation and choice of relationship type do. In my mind, this means that people who aren’t themselves kinky just don’t need to know that about me. In much the same way that a friend who is never going to cook for me doesn’t need to know that I dislike carrots.

Much as I envy people who are open about everything in their life, I do think I have got the balance just right for my own life. After all, we’re all quite different and it’d be a pretty dull world if we were all the same.

Meet Dolly Doppelganger and Ana Stasia. Two Alter Egos who roam the internet in search of young men to tease. We hate the amount of cocks on Chatroulette, so we decided to create something different!

Amongst the cucumber sandwiches and street parties,
You’re signing up for something far more sinister than love
Have you thought through for goodness sake, really considered what’s at stake
It’s a lifetime of curtseys and empty hand shakes
And prince Charles, prince Charles will be your father in law!
What would you want to do that for?
And Kate you can kiss goodbye to Bourbons and Jaffa Cakes, make no mistake
Only Duchy Originals biscuits will be fit for hoardage in your right royal storage.
Anything to keep daddy happy Wills will say, as he lobs the Custard Creams away.

And Kate it’s detail and you’re welcome to ignore me,
But you told me you were allergic to Corgis
And Christmas dinner with the family is always a rough one
Without having to sit through granny addressing the nation
Before you’re even allowed to put Eastenders on

Kate don’t get me wrong, its up to you,
But have you really thought it through
I don’t want to go on and on, become a bore
But Prince Harry will be your brother in law,
Maybe you have the patience of a saint
And are a much better person much better than me,
But every birthday and anniversary spent with Harry pothead and his latest totty,
Would drive me completely and utterly potty
Carelessly parking helicopters and limousines on your veggie patch and my runner beans
With no due regard for the environment or your lovingly tended allotment
Kate, I know you hate for me to go on dear
And of course do prove me wrong dear
But but are you sure this is the right year
For the tourists and the sightseers?
Are you proud as you stand in front of the crowd
And waft the royal bling, while the government puts the boot in?
To waltz down the aisle with a smile to distract the British public from the cuts
That will rip the guts from the welfare system
And destroy your so-called ‘united’ kingdom.
I just wondered, like.

But it’s your decision completely, you are welcome to be
The face that launched a million brands, steroids pumped into the economy
A flagging retail trade made good by a boost of right royalty
Raise your glass to the new upper class, pin up girl
In a social whirl of garden parties and high teas
Plastered over magazines and the TV to remind us constantly
To spend money crafting ourselves into this stereotype of beauty

Kate, dear Kate, was your lifetime ambition always
To be the wank fantasy of undersexed public school boys
Did you always dream of being some sort of Queen?
Or have you settled for a future with the future ruler of our nation
Because they turned down your Big Brother application?

Look, I know the royal wedding brand needs pepping up a bit
After Diana and Fergie both made such a mess off it
And cancelling now would send granny into a fit
But I still would advise you to get the hell out of it

The day off is great, and I thank you for that
But there’s no need to go through with marrying that twat
We’ll all love and respect you if you go and say no
Sell you story to the folk at OK and Hello
It’s gone a bit far and there’s pressure we know
And the royals would find it a bit of a blow

But it really and truly isn’t too late Kate
I’ve got the receipt for my commemorative plate Kate
I’ve got the day off tomorrow, let’s go on a date Kate
Tell that bloke Will he’ll just have to wait mate

Well go out for dinner and bask in relief,
That you didn’t sign up for a lifetime of grief.

(This poem was written and performed by Alison Brumfitt at After Pandora’s Royal Wedding Cabaret, Thurs 28th April 2011)

A Member wrote this in a sleep-deprived haze on a train back to where he came from, still reeling from the notorious After Pandora Voyeur party.

Audio Erotica 1: Probing Investigations by London Faerie
Created for After Pandora Play Party “Probing Investigations”, April 2010

Beast by Clare Adams
Clare will perform at The Great Social Evil in March

For one strand of the project, nor invited After Pandora members to share fantasies via a website. A selection of fantasies were then performed by other AP members. The sound recordings were presented at an audio booth at the Voyeur party in May 2010.

My Little Boy
By Anon Member

now
Written by Poulaki
Performed by Mia http://miaontop.com/