From the heart, musings of pixie heart.

A biker through and through.

It hit me this morning while I was sat feeding the babies, I have been a biker in one way or another for 33 years this year. It made me think about what a big part of my life they have been and hopefully continue to be. Then it hit me I have never really talked or shared much about my love of motorbikes with you lovely lot. This is something I feel that needs to be fixed as soon as possible, so that is what this post aims to do.

I guess you could say that motorbikes are in my blood. My Granddah was a biker, my daddy and all his brothers are bikers. My daddy is a hard core, old school biker. He was very much a rocker growing up and has always had a motorbike. He can, due to his mental health problems, be a little obsessive about things and is very much an all or nothing sort of person. He and my mother always wanted a son, so when they had me, and my mother found out she could not have more children, they were left heart broken that they did not have the son they wanted. My mother resented me for it, but my daddy didn’t. no, I may not be a boy, but I could still do ‘Boy’ things. So, I was the one he took fishing with him, taught how to climb trees, encouraged to get muddy at every opportunity and passed his love of motorbikes on too. Much to my mother’s outrage. I was a true daddy’s girl and a tom boy.

Some of my earliest memories involve motorbikes. Dad would go and tinker with bikes at my Granddah and nana’s house. His brothers and Granddah would all be there, tinkering, drinking tea, and talking about life. I was about 3 when dad started taking me. I would be sat on the work bench, sitting on a biscuit tin, Sippy cup of milk and allowed to pass spanners and bits to who ever was passing by. I also remember my Granddah taking me for rides on his old James. They were stationery rides, with Granddah sat behind me and he would tell me all his stories about his adventures in as a boy in Belfast and his war time antics in the mild-east.

When I turned 6 my daddy bought my first scrambler and taught me to ride it. When most girls were doing ballet and gymnastics, I was learning how to fall off a motorbike. I decided to learn trials ridding and with in a few years I was competing and loving it. I don’t think I was ever going to be a graceful dancer or a talent musician, but I could ride. It is the reason me and my daddy were so close. My mother hated that I had a love of bikes and ridding, but even my nana stuck up for me when she tried to make me stop. Having to sisters who shone in everything they did, this was my way of being good at something they weren’t.

As I got older I kept up my love of bikes, but also developed a love of the whole culture that goes with them. When I turned 18 I jumped feet first in to the world of Bikers and the festivals that go with them. It is weird, but I never felt unsafe or disrespected once. The guys I hung out with always excepted me as one of their own. I guess I was lucky.
I started going to drag racing meets and road races, then I started to help in the pits and then I started to test the bikes. I one day got asked if I wanted to do a timed run and jumped at the chance. That was the start of me racing, it was one of the happiest times of my life. It was one of the only places I felt relaxed and safe enough to let down my guard a little.

When I split with my ex and all the fall out from that happened, I sort of lost touch with my biker friends. Not due to them not wanting to know what had happened, but it was more a way to punish myself. Bikes were my happy place, and I felt that I did not deserve to be happy. Stupid I know, but I was sick at the time. After treatment maîtriser encouraged me to start to get back in to it. A biker and he went to a thing at the Ace café in London with me on a date. It was there that I refound my friends and feel back in to biking.

Now I ride whenever I get the chance. I take more care now, as a mother I will not run any chance of my little ones not having their mother around. But I still ride, and I will tech them to ride when they are old enough. I have my little side now and I have become a lot more girlie, but I am still the same biker at heart, just in lilac and Disney now. (my crash helmet has tinker bell on it). The guys I ride with know about my D/s side, and except it, as they do pretty much anything.

So that is me and my biker side!


Pixie x
ps – Written For the best biker ever, my Daddy.

bdsm, From the heart, Uncategorized, Writing comp

Something this wicked this way comes…. Deadline moved!

Hi all,

Well I seem to of done a bad job of getting the word out of the comp! (self-doubt and self-reproach time!) So I’m extending the deadline to Thursday 7th of December in a hope people decided to get writing!


Pixie x x x x

Something wicked this way comes…..


musings of pixie heart., Uncategorized

Pixie prompt , Sir beasty's pick.

A Woman’s work is never done.

Photo 05-11-2017, 20 23 25
I had told them so many times to pick up after themselves and leave things how they find them. Is that too much to ask? I mean I know it’s my job as a wife and mother to take care of them and to run the home, but I am only one woman and I can’t do everything, all the time.
The day had started out badly. Towels on the bathroom floor, clothes tossed all over the bedroom, dirty coffee cups on the dining room table and a sink full of dirty dishes. Then he comes down demanding to know where his coffee is, and have I got the paper in off the front step. ‘Breath, just breath’ I say to myself. He’s just a silly man, who can’t do things for himself, he would be lost without me.
Then the children come stomping down the hall, in to the kitchen, dragging book bags behind them. ‘where’s breakfast mum’ and ‘have you ironed my football kit’ from Johnny, so like his dad. Sally is glued to her phone, but manages to hold out a coffee mug. Bless her, its such hard work being little miss popular.
I pour their coffee, serve up breakfast and fetch the paper. I find homework, run an iron over a football shirt and finish packing lunches. Just 10 more minutes and they will off out the door to work and school. Then I can get down to some light house work and then start to think about what to fix for dinner.
Then it happens I hear a loud mew at the back door and He yells ‘for Christ sake Susan let the cat in, or do I have to do everything for you’. what was I thinking, stopping to sip me Luke warm coffee? Instead I scurry of to the door and open it for the cat. In she comes and jumps up on the beautifully clean counter top and drops a dead and stinking mouse next to the coffee pot. That’s when thing get I little fuzzy …
I seem to recall picking up the coffeepot and swinging it at Bret’s head, then bringing it down repeatedly, the blood splattering all over the kitchen blind. The was a scream coming from somewhere and a gagging sound. Next thing I remember is the door slamming, me turning around to see the shocked faces of Sally and Johnny. Then the is shoe flying, the heal in baling Johnny to the fridge by the hand.
Next thing I recall is a retching sound coming from Johnny and me standing in a pool of blood, with a knife in one hand and sally’s tongue in the other. Her lifeless body at my feet, bloody and her pretty little head off in the other side of the kitchen.
Johnny was trying to pull his hand free, but I seem to of done a good job of keeping it in place. Now I know why those shoes cost quit so much! Walking slowly towards him, I feel a sense of calm and relief wash over me. only to be shattered by a high-pitched scream, then the sound of a knife hitting flesh and bone and then a soft thud and splash as his insides hit the floor.
At last the house is quiet and still, as I sit at the kitchen counter, sipping my coffee and servicing my handy work. The lifeless body of my husband, slumped in his chair at the head of table, his head and face a pulpy mess. My beautiful daughter lays on the floor, in a puddle of her slowly congealing blood, phone still in her hand, and her head clean off her shoulders. Johnny’s body hangs from the fridge by his hand, his guts at his feet.
I shake myself from my little day dream and breath a heavy sigh. ‘come on Susanne, time to get on’ I tell myself. ‘look at this mess, someone needs to clean it up’. I stand up stepping over sally’s body, thinking ‘I’m never getting the blood out of my dress’