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The end (for real) February 5, 2012

Posted by Leah in Gallimaufry.
58 comments

Once upon a time (or two years ago) there was a young woman — let’s call her Leah, though this is not her name — who spent happy hours in pursuit of obscure bits of knowledge. Having acquired the notion that this would become her life’s work, Leah found it necessary to take leave of her family and her friends and the places that she knew. She traversed a wide ocean to live for some months in the bosom of a largish city on a small and perpetually wet island in a northern sea. This girl, it so happened, loved a boy, deeply and truly and madly. Though she kept faith with him in her heart, Leah wasn’t the type of girl who conceived of pleasure as an exclusive gift. She reasoned it thus. To lighten the spirit, in our daily social intercourse, do we not seek laughter wheresoever we may justly find it? What is an orgasm except an immense and multilayered explosion of laughter that arises from the depths, bubbles out and excites the nerves, extends to the extremities, and racks and convulses the whole body with a surfeit of pleasure, thereby exalting and elating and elevating the self while also compressing it within a timeless moment of utter and unalloyed ecstasy? Shouldn’t such exemplary delights be shared, for does not the joy that manifests in this manner magnify by means of finding its expression in the company of friends? Therefore, she concluded, having established we’re friends, let’s get naked and fuck, why don’t we?

As people do, she had contradictions, this girl who was not named Leah, and heterogeneous tastes, which included testing the limits of her experience. She thought it would be good to share the adventures she had in the place called London with the boy who remained at home with the key to her very being. Leah wrote these assorted sordid tales for him so that her London would become their city through common understanding despite the fact of a very great distance. While Leah was often lonely, she met special people, who made her new and temporary abode come to life for her, and she, in her turn, gave to them what she could spare of herself.

Just as she missed him terribly, the boy also missed Leah. He had adventures of his own as well. For a time, while she returned across the ocean, they were together and deliriously happy. Too soon, Leah flew away again for another sojourn of months on the faraway continent on the other side of the sea. Inevitably, it transpired that the three thousand two hundred seventy-five miles that separated them were three thousand two hundred seventy-five too many. They said a tearful farewell, and the lives of the boy and the girl diverged as the threads in a tapestry do. Despite good intentions and the best of wills, such things happen in this imperfectible world. It is no one’s fault.

Without the boy she had once loved as the principal intended audience for her writing, Leah persisted in committing to the pixelated page the exploits that she dared in London, which had become familiar to her as a place called home. In part, she did this to see the project she had started through. But she also enjoyed telling her stories and reliving her deeds in this way. Additionally, Leah felt she had things to say which were worth saying. On reflection, considering the readers she had accumulated, she could have exhibited a greater measure of boldness in her writing. Too late, for example, Leah essays the third person. There are as well things that remain unsaid, through neglect and indifference, or from indolence and a lack of application, or because of Leah’s inability to give expression to inchoate thoughts. She figured that there would always be adequate time to set things right.

Long ago and far away, on lazy summer afternoons when school was out, it seemed that time stretched far, and the hours in a day, though still finite in their number and their extent, were enough to read and gambol and play. It was then, in fact, that Leah acquired her first taste for setting her own words to a printed page and placing them to neatly fit. In the years that followed, she developed other interests, and the chief among these were boys and her scholastic passions. A decade and a half after those barefoot afternoons from a half remembered August, the time allotted to things on this earth, and more importantly, to its people seems unbearably meager.

Leah has loosed many words upon the world — one hundred thirty thousand of them, give or take, not including the various comments. Focused as they are on one thing only, these words sketch a monstrously distorted self-portrait. The proportions are askew. Yet it is an autobiography just the same.

And now it is time to stop.

The story continues, unwebbed. The middle chapters are still to be lived and savored. The final chapters remain even to be dreamed. With a sufficient quantity of good luck, the once upon a time with which this page commenced might pair with a happily ever after as its ideal bookend. It may be so. Who can tell?

These are the tales of many nights. After night comes the day.

We fade to brightness here.

Back to Blighty December 19, 2011

Posted by Leah in Bondage, Buggery, Craigslust, Cunnilingus, D/s, Electra complex, Fellatio, Fucking, Gallimaufry, Masturbation, Public, Random hookups, Repeated hookups.
14 comments

I am in the UK again from December 31st to January 17th. I will be crashing with my former roommate and her husband. They are renting a one bedroom flat near Hampstead Heath. I get the plush new sofa in the living room. I expect I won’t be at their place every night. After all, I have friends to see and be done by.

Amadeo has proven to be a generally poor correspondent. We Skype now and again. Frank writes a long e-mail every couple of weeks. These arrive unexpectedly. The letters are warm and funny and inevitably make me wish I had considered doing an undergraduate degree at Oxford or Cambridge. His missives and my replies are interspersed with frequent text messages. The salacious SMS exchanges happen when one of us endures an incomprehensible seminar. I like to think of Frank growing hard in his seat in public and hiding the erection in his pants with A4 paper. In the back of the auditorium, I squirm in my chair from arousal. My panties become moist. I miss these men.

For the past six weeks in Boston, I have been seeing someone. In his early thirties, David is a newly minted assistant professor. I like him very much so far. We are still in the process of discovering each other, sexually and otherwise. I have no expectations for how long the relationship will last. We aren’t exclusive. My colorful sexual life isn’t a secret to him either. He has seen the marks that other men have left on my body. He disapproves only on aesthetic grounds. He is especially proficient at applying pain without leaving bruises. David and I met through OkCupid. Like my own profile, his indicates an interest in casual sex. Naturally, in the bedroom, he gets off on his dominance and my submission. He is adept with rope. I am his bondage whore. He has made my body contort in positions I didn’t know were possible for me and taken me hard while I was tied. Sometimes he wants a brutally fast orgasm from a skull fucking. At other times he has me between his legs worshiping his phallus for most of a lazy Saturday afternoon. The Venn diagram of our kinks overlaps considerably, but there are also significant exclusions.

Because we have common friends, the ex-boyfriend and I run into each other socially. We haven’t fallen into bed. I have only been back to the old apartment once, to pick up my stuff. It’s over. I think of him less and less. But sometimes, when I am meandering through an art gallery, for example, I play the conversations we could have had in my mind. The abundance of memories I have makes me smile. He is happy. I am also, in my own way, content with the rhythms of my days and nights.

I hooked up with both of my regulars from before shortly after returning to the US. Though we do not play often, the most exciting sex I have had was a gang bang with five men organized by one of these fuck buddies. One by one, I sat on the men’s laps, naked. Wearing business suits, they kissed and touched me. The men toyed with my breasts and fingered my pussy. They affixed clothespins to my body. I brushed my ass over the erections that tented their trousers. We shared bottles of wine. Because I wanted to walk comfortably the next day, we decided that only three of them would fuck my ass. The men conducted a lottery for the privilege. I was doubled up, back and front. Once, briefly, I was tripled. My openings were made watertight. I held a penis in each hand and stroked the shafts. The men tied me to the sort of bench that is typically found in the locker room at a gym. The rope knotted my wrists beneath the plane of the thick wooden plank. It wrapped over my back to hold me in place. My tits were squashed flat. Knees on the floor, my legs were held apart by a spreader bar. My ass extended over the edge. They took my anus and pussy. My chest rode hard against the oak. Frequently, I fellated a man who straddled the bench and fed me his cock while another fucked me. The sex was continuous. It went on for two and a half hours. My friend had me first and last.

A few other encounters may be worth mentioning. I had bareback sex on a single occasion. At a bar, I picked up an eighteen year old, who looked like he was in his early twenties. I didn’t know he was a virgin until he confessed his virtue in my bedroom after we were already naked. Probably, I should have guessed his inexperience from the way he kissed. He departed my apartment having come in a woman. To start, I gave him a blowjob to take the edge off. He erupted almost at once, filling my mouth with the consummation of all of his adolescent daydreams and night tremors. Despite obvious inexpertness, I liked that I was his first taste of cunt. When we fucked, I squealed aloud in ecstasy before he expelled his seed. While I thought of introducing him to my toy box, I ultimately decided against it. I have long fantasized about training up the ideal dom starting from a tabula rasa. He isn’t the one. I haven’t seen him again.

At the other end of the age spectrum, I indulged my Electra complex over Thanksgiving. On Black Friday, I posted an ad on Craigslist and hooked up with a man in his mid-fifties. He is over twice my age and, in fact, said he had a son a year older than me. We met for coffee and then proceeded to a no tell motel at the outskirts of town. The clerk gave us a knowing look when he handed over the key. The man palmed my ass possessively. I never learned his name. I insisted that Daddy place his great, big cock in his little girl’s tight, wet cunt. Fucking and sustained cunnilingus drowned the bedsheets in my flood. I asked Daddy to sperm on me to close because I wanted to wear his semen. He straddled my chest and, punctuated by small licks over the glans, masturbated himself. He blasted over my tits to make them grow.

Lastly, I went to a conference in Pennsylvania at the beginning of October. I took a rental car and drove from Massachusetts. Around two thirty in the morning, I needed a pit stop, coffee, and a bite to eat. I stopped at a diner along the highway. A man seated alone invited me to join him at a small table. Rather than eating by myself, I accepted. He was a trucker and got to talking about life on the road. Intrigued, I asked for a tour of the truck. The living quarters of the eighteen wheeler were claustrophobic. A bunk bed occupied much of the space. Neatly stacked plastic storage containers lined the top bunk. The bed below was immaculately made. He didn’t wear a wedding band, I noticed. I took a chance and kissed him. His tongue dipped into my open mouth. He leaned his weight toward me; my back bowed backward. My fingers worked his belt buckle apart. I shed my jacket and divested myself of clothes. The cab was chilly. He turned the heat up for me. I sat on the edge of the mattress and sucked his penis to hardness. When I was satisfied with how it shined, I tossed the condom I unearthed from my purse at him. He nursed at my teats and lowered his weight atop my body. My arms wrapped his broad shoulders. I spread my legs in the air. The bedsprings gave a metallic creak. The floor seemed to shift slightly, but I may have imagined this. I sprawled in his arms after sex. We had breakfast in the same diner in the morning. I bought a fresh box of condoms from the convenience store at the gas station nearby, and we had a quickie for the road.

These episodes are exceptional. The majority of the sex during the past three months has been pedestrian. Craigslist is less effective than I remember. It has gotten me laid, yes, but the men I have met in Boston through the agency of the casual encounters board have exhibited little promise. Random hookups still happen, but the frequency has diminished since London. Ideally, I want more than another one night stand. The unrepeated fucks are temporary expedients and stopgap measures. Save for David, sex constitutes only a physical release. It lacks an intellectual or emotional connection. The dildo is sometimes more satisfying than a man. I haven’t been on the hunt as regularly as before. This is just as well. Research and grading papers have kept me busy this semester. Marking exams is a bitch. I expect to defend my thesis in May. The dissertation needs much work this spring.

I still play flute when I can with a chamber group. We don’t perform. We rehearse challenging music for fun. Nearly every morning, I spend an hour at the gym. On Friday nights, I go dancing — usually at gay clubs. Liz and Sophie, two close friends, like making out with girls. We have done a fair amount of kissing and fondling bodies through club wear. It hasn’t ended with tongue circling clit and my mouth imbibing cunt or thighs clamping a head in a viselike grip with fingers pulling the roots of hair and making indentations in the scalp as my pussy fountains against the touch of lips. We haven’t tribbed. Perhaps one day we shall.

I will most likely be in a new city next fall. Where? I don’t know. The job applications are out. I enjoy what I can of Boston while I am living here. I keep busy.

The end (for now) September 15, 2011

Posted by Leah in Gallimaufry.
19 comments

A conversation with myself

“You gonna go?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“For good?”

“Maybe. Nah. Maybe.”

“How come?”

“This semester is busy. My thesis clock is ticking. I need to think about jobs. I have been away for more than a year. I want a boyfriend. Not immediately. But soon. I’m gonna give this sex blog thing a rest for a while.”

“Was it fun?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then why don’t you keep doing it?”

“I don’t have the hours a week to spare. For sex, yes. For writing about sex, not really.”

“You don’t have to write about every single time, silly.”

“I’m not planning to do that ever again.”

“Do you have more to say?”

“About sexuality: yeah. About D/s: for sure. About sex itself: maybe. I worry the writing will become stale. Already, I feel like I am repeating myself constantly. I would rather end too early than too late.”

“You have an audience.”

“I know. Isn’t it amazing?”

“You’re going to miss this.”

“Probably. But there’s a lot of other stuff I want to do as well. Life’s short, ya know?”

“Seriously. You’re going to miss it. London, too. Fucking crazy sinks, crowded tubes, British cuisine, the infestation of tourists in summer, pints at the pub after work with your friends, the museums, the theater, the parks, all those orchestras including your own. Everything. You will miss it all.”

“I am going back at the end of December or in early January. I’ll see Amadeo. I’ll see Frank. I will be in the UK for a couple of weeks. I will write up whatever happens. It fits the theme of the place. Leah lays London. It will be like old times. This isn’t goodbye. I am coming back.”

“And then? Is it goodbye after that?”

“I don’t know. That’s an honest answer. I simply do not know. I have been pondering another blog. Something exciting and different. Fresh adventures. New friends. I have an itch to write. But I make no promises. Right now, I need a break.”

“The curtain goes down.”

“But the show goes on.”

“It always does.”

Loose ends September 11, 2011

Posted by Leah in Blogroll, Gallimaufry.
4 comments

Belated Blogroll

In addition to the ones I have highlighted, I wish I had the time to explain why I like these blogs so much.

A Feminist Sub

Bareback Grrl

Dark Gracie

Diary of a Kinky Librarian

Dirty Little Mind

Easily Aroused

Pieces of Jade

Quickies in New York

Random Rim Jobs

Remittance Girl

Sadie’s Open Marriage

The Naughty Secretary

The Sex Experiment

25 Things About My Sexuality

Wild Ride

Your Filthy Sex Secrets

Maybe you will have the time to explore on your own.

~

Tumblr

There is a page.

I thought about adding pictures to accompany the writeups of the various adventures that I have had. Posting photographs of myself and thereby committing them to the internet forever is not something I am comfortable doing. Finding a photo that works with a story is also not easy. I have tried looking a few times. Even if I were to succeed in finding a picture, I am concerned about copyright. Calling this fair use strikes me as a dubious proposition. So this is a project that never went anywhere. Perhaps one day, having made my fortune, I will commission the 122 illustrations that I need.

~

Formspring

I am no longer updating. The e-mail address still works. You can send questions there. I expect I will answer eventually.

Tempus fugit August 10, 2011

Posted by Leah in Gallimaufry.
8 comments

There is rioting in the streets of London. The part of town in which I live is, fortunately, unaffected by the chaos. Nevertheless, there is a tenseness in the air. I am wary as I cross the city by bus or tube. Friends are anxious. The day is pleasantly cool. I don’t want to be alone.

Amadeo is traveling this week. Frank, meanwhile, is in Oxford, where he has been for most of the summer. He tells me he will return home this weekend.

I haven’t had a new cock since my vacation. To rectify this oversight, I could pick some guy up at one of my familiar haunts. I could place an ad on Craigslist for a casual encounter or answer one and negotiate a play date with a man who is a stranger to me. Or if I prefer to keep my own company in bed — as I do — I could watch pornography on the laptop while I press a vibrator to my clit. I could call up a friend and, with fingers in my pussy, spin a phone sex fantasy.

The truth is I don’t feel like doing any of these things. Because I have nothing sexy to say, I have been avoiding the blog as well.

Instead of going in to the university, I stay at home during the day and work. I read and write. I meet my friend Mike for an early dinner. He walks me home afterwards, depositing an innocent kiss on my cheek when we arrive at my apartment building. Late at night, I sit with the roommate, drink wine, and talk about small things and big dreams until I go to sleep and dream some more. I do not remember the dreams that visit me in bed. I think none of them are hot.

In the shower, I wash soap suds from my cunt. I prop one foot on the side of the tub. My fingers push against the lips and turn a circle in the flesh. I begin to masturbate, then change my mind, shut off the water stream, and reach for my towel. In my bathrobe, I listen to Radio 3 over breakfast and, after that, am inspired to practice my flute for one hour.

When I sit at the rickety desk in my bedroom, the day spreads out before me as a blank sheet of paper does. Today, as yesterday, I will fill it from top to bottom with crabbed lines and write sideways, illegibly, along the margins to squeeze in a few extra sentences when I run out of space. My hand is crowded. The ink stains my fingers. On occasion a word shines through, but after I have written them, the scribbles are mostly impenetrable even to me and a complete cipher to anyone else. Once I turn the leaf over, I shan’t look back.

The future August 5, 2011

Posted by Leah in Gallimaufry.
27 comments

I just bought plane tickets. I am leaving London on Saturday, September 10. For the most part, the blog ends then. There may be a few more stories when I return to the UK in the winter. I plan to catch up with friends, and that may lead to sex, which I will report. But that’s it. I won’t be laying London anymore.

I don’t know about a new blog. If it happens, it probably wouldn’t start before 2012. The next semester looks to be quite rough; I don’t want the distraction. I expect also that a future effort will have a different shape than Leah Lays London. I don’t intend to document every instance I have sex the next time I do this. I may write more about sexuality and my views on D/s and less about fucking. There are a number of essays regarding these themes that I had planned to commit to pixels on a screen but never got around to doing. I will advertise any new blog here so that you, dear reader, can find me.

There is still a month and a bit of adventures to be had. Thank you for reading. I am grateful for the audience.

My summer vacation June 26, 2011

Posted by Leah in Gallimaufry, Repeated hookups.
5 comments

Since my last post, I have spent a night at Gi’s and a night at Amadeo’s. I didn’t blog because the work cycle has been heavy; quite simply, with deadlines looming, I haven’t had the time.

This evening, I am flying somewhere warmer and less wet than London for a conference. I will be there for a week. After that, I will bum around Europe for two and a half weeks. My sister is joining for part of this adventure. Internet access may be dubious. I expect that I will not expend the effort to stay connected during my holiday.

Till I get back: Be good. Be bad. Have fun! I know I will.

Search terms summarized February 15, 2011

Posted by Leah in Gallimaufry.
8 comments

“exert your power and dominance over me” yes, please!
do me rough
choke me with your cock
fuck my mouth slap my face spit on me
fuck me rough and pull my hair
“spank my pussy”
spank slap smack pussy cunt clit whip crop
be rough with me

i opened my legs for his cock 2010 not just in 2010

leahlayslondon guy at the gym Stephen or this guy?
“my panties” came “into me” “my clit” orgasm “under the table”
“blowjob without hands” not my best effort
xmas sex

“on her knees” “licking his feet”
“marked me” cock
my vulva on his thigh
“my stretched out cunt”
“i masturbated” “my skirt”
“i straddled him”
i pushed a lit candle in my cunt
candle wax on my clit HOT
spank my breast stories
“i worship cock” I so do!

leahlayslondon pics there aren’t any

her pee down my throat was drowning me it tasted lovely
“fill my pussy with urine”

how to deal with promiscuous women you fuck us

he would reach forward with one hand, cupping my crotch
he pushed his finger inside my butt
he placed a dental gag and face fucked me this hasn’t happened yet
he plunged his cock into me
he asked me to open my mouth and he spit down my throat during sex
he thrust his penis in my anus and i loved it always!

“minute man” shitty sex wordpress
kafka on the shore foreskin I miss Frank

i like sperm in my cunt

boyfriend takes his girlfriend from behind and pounds her in the kitchen
my boyfriend wants a double blowjob which guy doesn’t?
my boyfriend licks me clean I wish

london kinky and willing slut
pornographic scenes of sexual ecstasy

he gave me his powerful cock and made me his

A note of gratitude January 23, 2011

Posted by Leah in Blogroll, Gallimaufry.
4 comments

The Anti-Cougar has written me a lust letter. We have never met, but I think she and I would have a grand time over drinks and then a long and sleepless night.

I am not to speak, she instructs. But there is a loophole in the lady’s command. I can still type.

Yes, Anti-Cougar, I want your pussy so very much. I want to press my tongue in your cunt and slake my thirst in the waters. I want to close my eyes and take deep sniffs of your feline scent while I suck upon your clit. I want to touch you with infinitely knowing fingers and reach inside for that deep spot that makes you gush like a fountain. I want the flavors of your orgasm on my palate. I want the soprano notes you make as your hands clench the bedsheets that we have dirtied together. I want to lift my arms up to cup your breasts and pinch those pebbly nipples. I want to screw the dildo inside and fuck you the way your young lover does with a hard, thick cock. I want to deepthroat the false glass penis once you have climaxed and then come myself in the very same manner as you. I want to fall to slumber beside you with orgasm heavy limbs. I want this.

Thank you for the gift of your supple words and the lovely images. I shall dream of you tonight.

As well, I simply must add a yo-yo to the toy collection.

Intermission December 19, 2010

Posted by Leah in Gallimaufry.
10 comments

Weather permitting, I return to the US this evening. I fly back to the UK on January 14th. Over the next weeks, I’ll visit family in New York, then go home to Boston. During the Massachusetts period at least, I expect to fuck around, with the boyfriend for sure and probably with others as well. I don’t intend to relate the various exploits, whatever they may be. The title of my blog, after all, is Leah Lays London. More to the point, I need a break. I need the hours away from a computer. I need to decompress and recharge.

I hope my readers stay safe during the holidays. I hope the winter nights have their compensations: a bed bespeaking home, warm blankets, someone to share them with, and a massive wet spot in the center of the sheets. I hope 2011 is an excellent year for us all.

Take care of yourselves.

Be brave.

Make love.

See you in the New Year!