Sunday, 13 December 2009

Latest Drawing


For a fetish club flyer. Vampire theme.

Friday, 11 December 2009

Does he come free with that?


On Wedenesday, I went to visit Saladin. I am moving in with him. Any of you who remember way back to when I was able to write more regularly will now be saying "Whaaaa??!!" It's not exactly what you might think. We are not in a relationship, but we are still interested in each other. His housemate of two years is moving out, and he will leave an available spare room. I am in need of a place to live, and Saladin is in need of a civilised housemate. And yes, the four poster bed is a glorious bonus.

I did labour long and hard over whether it was wise to accept Saladin's offer, but when I finally did, it was as if a very tangible weight had been lifted off of my shoulders. The journey around there on Wednesday was to refresh my memory of how the room is, and to decide if I wanted it painting.

The room used to belong to Saladin's ex of a few years ago. Like me, she is a tall lady who generally wears black, and she liked her room the colour of imperial purple. If I were still ever so slightly more youthful, I would have requested it be left that colour. However, I have grown particular in my old age, and felt that the blood-red carpet was not a match, neither was the rosewood of the four poster bed. Moreover, now I am drawing more, I need lots of light. So the room will now be painted honey white, which is going to look very lovely.

But let's cut to the chase. What is more lovely is the fact that the bed has been customised for a lady of my persuasion. There are hooks and eyes everywhere, all the better to thread the ropes through, my dear.

I have a little gothic dresser in there, and a old spooky looking wardrobe... and the bed is kingsize, so I'll be able to fit a couple of boys in.

Even more important, Saladin is clean, responsible, dependable, calm... Everything I need.

But frankly, this is all by the by. I found I was hardly concerned about the room at all as soon as the door was opened by Saladin's housemate. Now, it is a well documented fact that I am one of the most impossibly fussy women when it comes down to men, boys, call them what you will. I hardly ever find anyone attractive. Ever. And when I do, they usually reveal some defective personality trait/lack of intellect/off-putting behavioural tick, and then it's ruined. So you can imagine what an unlikely event it would be for me to bump into a male of the species and think "I may have just met perfection itself". We are talking pigs flying, hell freezing over, and Jesus popping down to judge us all (remind me to hide).

I arrived at Saladin's, and this tall, beautiful boy opened the door. He had long, dark hair tied back in a pony-tail, pale smooth skin, high cheekbones, and an elegant face. But not only that, he was well-spoken, and had this graceful way of moving. Oh hell, he could have walked off the set of LotR, for Christ's sake. If he had had pointy ears, I may well have attempted rape there and then. But I am ruining a beautiful moment.

As I spoke to Saladin, this gorgeous creature poured me a drink, and played his guitar... What could have been very dodgy ground was not at all, because thankfully, he did not play like a teenager.

We then went out for dinner, and the boy revealed a vast intellect and a knowledge of philosophy, combined with a fairly wicked sense of humour, and the revelation that he is sexually dominant (though he does not like the label).

He leaves tomorrow for Poland. It's a three month trip.

I wish he came with the room.

Saturday, 5 December 2009

Bed, Breakfast, and dungeon.


It is hard to know where to begin. A lot of time has elapsed, a lot of things have happened. I have decided to ease myself in slowly, and introduce to the main project I have been working on.


As I have previously mentioned, the fetish B&B is now up and running, we had our first customer last weekend, and they absolutely loved it, and said that they'd book again.


Obviously, the idea is that guests receive luxurious, self-contained accomodation, including bathroom and kitchen, and the most important thing, a dungeon. Although in this case, they also get a medical room too. I am running the webmarketing side of things, and the general frou-frou maintenance of the place. i.e. I make things look beeee-yoooo-ti-ful, make beds, etc.


And to be honest, I have got to the point where I am not so concerned about hiding who I am anymore. Not that I am going to reveal myself in all my exciting glory to you right now. Simply that I want you guys to take a look at the establishment. My lovely friend and photographer did the pictures, and I dressed the rooms. Behold: London Fetish Studio.


Wednesday, 2 December 2009

Look what the cat dragged in...

Hello? Are any of you still out there? I know it has been a long time, too long a time, but I have been all over the place and my feet hurt. Time to kick off the heels and massage my feet. That's your cue. Well, I don't massage my own.

And I promised myself that today would be the day that I sat down to write, and it would be good. It would make up for my absence. But the day has been so long, and I am so very, very tired. I have so much to write for you, and now I can barely hold my head up.

Sigh and sigh and yawn. I promise to make my return more concrete tomorrow.

For now, briefly:

Alistair is still on the radar.
Saladin is still seducing.
I have had to move to Brighton to live with my sister.
Brighton has a rubbish fetish scene.
I flit to London a lot to help run the kinky B&B.
The kinky B&B is now up and running (rejoice).
I am learning to build websites for my art.
I am going to become a pro-domme.
I am doing the necessary research to start my own business.
Guess what it is.
I am still yearning to be treated right.
Oh, and it is my birthday on Tuesday.
I will be 29.
Still drinking gin, and still petting cats that smell of wee.

I have missed you guys.

Tuesday, 13 October 2009

Pets Win Prizes

Recently, I have been lucky enough to win three awards. What a lucky poodle I am. Now, I shall pass them on, but I am going to have a think about where I am going to send them.

For now, I shall thank the ever so mysterious mysterg, over at Meditations in an Emergency. He always has my full attention when he writes. He can run his hands up my seamed stockings any time he likes, I might even remember to wear panties. The devilish gentleman has given me this:


Over at Happily After Ever, the lovely ladytruth has awarded me this:

Please go and say hello if you have yet to stumble across her. She always cheers me up, and I am waiting on the edge of my seat to see how her new, and yet old, romance unfolds...

Finally Judearoo at Differently Wired... has handed me this:


This is a lady with a silver tongue. Well, more silver keyboard, I suppose. I highly recommend that you toddle on over to her and feast your eyes on her latest post. Nature rendered beautifully in words and photography.

The award requires that I list 5 obsessions of mine. I have decided to leave BDSM and sex out of this one, since it would really be stating the obvious.

So here we go:

1) Drawing and painting. I have recently begun to do more and more of this after a long, long break. It was always my talent when I was younger, and everyone thought I would end up as an artist. My confidence in myself thought otherwise. However, I am now making a go of it. You can see a couple of things here.

2) Knitting: Yes, it's true, I love to knit. Not only do I like it as a hobby, but when I am stressed and depressed, it focuses my mind so much that I don't think about the bad stuff. People are always amused when they see me doing this dirty little secret for the first time. As if being a sexual deviant and a knitter is incompatible. Hah. I'll have you know that at the last fetish market, before doors opened, I sat at my stall in 1950s polka-dot full-skirted dress made entirely out of rubber (except the frilly petticoat, which was not), knitting scarves as family Christmas presents.

3) Retro/vintage clothing and lingerie: I particularly like 1940s and 50s. I used to sway more towards the 50s, but have discovered that I am really a 40s girl. I adore fully-fashioned seamed stockings. I adore curling my hair into intricate styles. I love the shoes, I love the hats... etc.

4) Tornadoes: The weather phenomenon, not the plane. Since I was a little girl and I saw the twister in The Wizard of Oz, I have been absolutely fascinated by these things. To the extent where I often have dreams about them, which scare the hell out of me (yet are perversely enjoyable). I am desperate to see a real one. I am especially interested in the details of the great Tri-State Tornado of 1925. Look it up.

5) Animals: All kinds really. I am at my most happy and comfortable when I am surrounded by animals. I feel at peace. Maybe it's because there's no crap involved in relationships such as these. Well, except when you clean the litter tray.

Thursday, 8 October 2009

Spanking School


Earlier on in the year, I helped a friend deliver a class on fellatio, hand-jobs, and good things to do with your partner's penis.

Freya is an internationally well-known figure in the world of kink and beyond. She is an author, performer, artist, and columnist. Based abroad, she visits the UK about twice a year to give classes for an exclusive boutique of erotica, and to perform at clubs. Tonight, I shall be assisting her with a spanking class, and I will be the spankee. Of course, I can't wait to tell you how it goes, but for now, I shall leave you with the details of the JoyStick class from earlier this year...


These classes are mostly frequented by bored middle-class people with quiet sex lives, and money to burn. I am probably being a bit unfair here. This particular class was held at a rather nice private members club on the Portabello Road. It was all women, mostly giggling, with not a single male partner in sight.


The way Freya does the class is to go in on her own initially to give a 15m intro. She then tells the class that she is about to call her boyfriend in. "GASP," say the women, "Does she really mean to insert a man's erect penis into her mouth in front of us? Here? An erect penis? Her mouth?" But ha-ha, the joke is on them, and the middle-aged woman in the front row who just died of a heart-attack pegged it for nothing...


"Boyfriend, oh Boyfriend..." calls Freya. There is an excruciating pause, during which time none of the women know what to do with themselves, then in I stride wearing trousers, blouse, and a strap-on. Oh, and bunches. We thought the contrast between strap-on and bunches was amusing.


I strode up to the platform, thrusting my hips, my artificial manhood leading the way. Some colour was beginning to come back into the women's cheeks. Yes it was relief all round.


During the class, Freya demonstrated how to approach your man in a sexy fashion and perform an inpromptu blow-job. She explained how people should be prepared to loosen up more, that mussed-up hair is sexy, that makeup running down the cheeks is just about the hottest thing ever. I agreed whole-heartedly, and told them that it was just the other night when my man pulled me in front of the mirror so I could see the streaks down my face, and told me how hot I looked. Of course, he also told me I was a filthy slut, and the reason I had running eyes was because he had slapped me round the face several times. I left that part out. These classes are meant to be "accessible". But I had to wonder how on earth any of this stuff was new to these women. There was one moment where Freya was discussing the use of pelvic floor muscles during sex, and the clenching thereof... You'd have been forgiven for thinking that she had just discovered a cure for cancer, clenching the vaginal musles during sex: a revelation indeed.

That said, I must admit that, despite walking into the class thinking: "What could I possibly have to learn?" I walked away with a couple of new strings to add to my bow. And I owe it all to Freya, and the courgettes hidden under everyone's chair, including mine.

Yes, this was the "How to put a condom on a penis using only your mouth" part of the class. I had never attempted this before, and was not familiar with the technique. Freya told us her special secret whilst handing out condoms, and then we began putting what we had learned into practice. I am proud to say that I did it effortlessly, like lightening, like it was instinct. I like to call it talent. And as I smugly brandished my sheathed courgette, I surveyed the class from atop my platform of sexual righteousness, and wondered how I came to be here. How had my life led me to fellating a corgette, seated on a platform before a room full of sexually repressed posh women, all slobbering frustratedly over vegetables? These thoughts evaporated as my smile grew wider. They were replaced with feelings of pleasure and contentment. For all the difficulties and sorrows, there are some parts of my existence that I adore. For I may be overly sarcastic, at times downright derogatory, but the truth is that helping a bunch of mainstream women break out of their shells and enjoy better sex is awesome. The weird and wonderful situations in which I find myself keep me going. And it is a joy to help out at Freya's classes because she is amazing at what she does.


I should say that at the end of her class, she handed out latex gloves to everyone, and offered to demonstrate the fellatio techniques she had taught to us on our fingers, so we could actually learn what it feels like. During the session I had watched and listened, I had played "stunt-cock", and I had thought that Freya had some interesting ideas. After she had finished with the women, she came over to my gloved hand. All I can say is, sweet Jesus, I wish I was as lesbian as she is. Her wife is a lucky woman. If that's what it feels like on the hand, I can only imagine what she can do to a real penis...

Monday, 5 October 2009

Kink At Claridge's



About two weeks ago, I had the pleasure of enjoying champagne and afternoon tea at Claridges. And of course, I did it with a naughty twist.

I am sure you have all heard of this exclusive establishment, but if you haven't, this is for you.

Mistress Max contacted me some time ago to tell me about a wonderful sub she has, we shall call him Parker. Parker likes to play chauffeur, butler, manservant, and plays them to perfection. He even has a uniform, complete with cap and gloves. Mistress Max had arranged for us to have afternoon tea at Claridges with another domina. Parker would be there to stand to attention, and serve us where necessary. Afterwards, he would chauffeur us to the theatre to see a performance of Alls Well That Ends Well.

How can you resist an offer like that?

Unfortunately, when the day came, Parker contacted me to inform me that "Madame" i.e. Max, had had a personal situation, and would not be able to make it. Neither would the other mistress. He said that Max advised that I either invite some other friends, or Parker could chaperone me.

I was having a sad day that day, and I thought that meeting someone new and keeping things small and quiet would be a good idea. Besides, Parker was so well spoken, so respectful, and so polite that I thought he would be charming company. I said that I would like him to attend tea with me.

I chose to wear one of my favourite little jackets. It looks like it has just been lifted from an old American cheescake pin-up poster. Blue with little stars on like the flag, nipped in at the waist, and with a sweetheart neackline. It is lined with red and white stripes, but you can't see them when you wear it. I paired it with my tight little dark denim pencil skirt, with fishtail at the back, seamed stockings, and peep-toe heels.

I arrived to find Parker in his uniform, waiting in the foyer of Claridges. He was an older gentleman, maybe in his late 50s, and as charming as I imagined. He escorted me to the table, and waited until I was seated before he sat down. Conversation flowed very easily between us, and told me he was not used to being allowed to sit and eat. He said that I was very different to "Madame", and a lot more tolerant. I was amused by this. I said that men are often deceived by a smile and gentle tone.
Parker suggested that we order champagne tea, and I told him that he should remove his hat.

And so I had my favourite Assam tea, little sandwiches, a selection of beautiful desserts, and clotted cream scones. As we savoured these delights, a woman played a harp in the background.

When we had finished, we had some hours to kill. I was so enjoying being called "Madame", and was developing a taste for being waited on with such style. I said that I wanted to go shopping, and that Parker could carry my bags. There was just one problem. We were in a very exclusive part of town, and Maisie is poor as a church-mouse. There was only one thing I could do. I instructed Parker to take me to Top Shop on Oxford Circus. You shut your yaps, it's common knowledge that many celebrities happen to frequent it.

I strode in, rabid foam leaking from my mouth at the mere thought of new shoes, and hotly pursued by a posh man in a posh uniform, complete with hat and gloves. With a veritable gallop, we made our way to the Shoe Lounge. I began selecting shoes and handing them to Parker, so that he could find an assistant to get my correct size. From my seat, I tried more shoes on, and pointed to others that I liked, which Parker dutifully fetched. I noticed that the shop assistants were becoming more and more helpful, and ignoring other customers. And then a man with a walkie-talkie ran over to us, looked at me and said, "Madame, I think you'd be happier in our VIP Lounge." I did the only thing I could. I said "Absolutely!" And so were escorted to better climes.

I guess they thought I was someone rich, or someone famous. Who knows. Parker whispered congratulations in my ear at how convincing I was.

In the VIP Lounge, a team of women listened to the sorts of things I liked, before rushing off and bringing back armfuls of stuff to hang on my rail. As I drew the curtain, I thought "Fuck, if I don't buy something, I am going to look like an utter cock." I also cringed because in the lounge outside, I heard an assitant tell parker that he could take a seat, and I heard him reply by saying that he was not allowed to. "Great," I said to myself, "Now they think I'm a right bitch."

Eventually, they brought me a beautiful dress from their vintage section. It is a very convincing 1940s style day-dress. I think it must have been cut from an original pattern. It has slightly padded shoulders, and is black with beautiful flowers of pink, blue, and yellow. I can't wait to wear it out. There are a couple of 1940s nights in town that I know of, but I need to find a man I can convince to dress accordingly, and act the part. As you can tell, I bought the dress. How could I not?

With the shopping done, we had just enough time to get to the theatre. The show was quite good and the stage-design was wonderful. Unfortunately, the women usually cast as Shakespearean leads often seem to have the most annoying voices on the planet. This was no exception.

A good day indeed. Just what the doctor ordered.

Wednesday, 23 September 2009

Just a moment.

Good evening to you all.

This is just to say that I am taking a very short break from writing. the sads have got me quite badly, and it is quite hard for me to just get out of bed at the moment, let alone write.

I won't be away for very long.

Big hugs with inappropriate pervy gropes to everyone.

Back soon.

Friday, 18 September 2009

Pet Names


Pet names: Are they important to you? Do you invariably use them in your relationships? Do you hate them? Do they make you warm and fuzzy on the inside, or sick up your last meal?


The other day, I was chatting to Alistair on messenger. I told him that I loved him, and he responded by saying "I love you too, Poodle". He then went on to say "I've decided you're a bit of a great dane/poodle cross (with your pigtails in...)" We have already discussed the great-dane puppy thing. Because of my long limbs, and lack of coordination, I am apparently reminiscent of a puppy of this type.


However, upon the inspection of the above photograph, I think he may be onto something with the whole poodle thing. Long legs, teeny little ankles, huge ears/pig-tails, "alternative" dress sense. It's pretty much me.


So I want to know your opinions on pet names. I want to know what pet names you have for people, and what people have named you?


I must confess, I am a big fan, and was secretly all joybells when Alistair said that I was a poodle. In a way, I think pet names are a cementing force in a relationship. They are something that the two of you share, and you have to be comfortable with each other to use them. There have been moments when I have wondered whether the fact that Alistair didn't have a name for me was a bad sign... When we first started seeing each other, he used to call me "Kitten". A lot of people think I am rather cat-like when they meet me. Then they get to know me. "Kitten" died out rather quickly. It was replaced by "Puppy", this is how people see when they know me better... enthusiatic, eager to please, sometimes makes a fool of self... But "Puppy" more or less died out too. Though I am sure it will rear its head a few times more during certain kinky moments.


I have a semi pet name for Alistair that I sometimes use, which is "Posh Boy". It's not really a pet name, I suppose, but it amuses me. It's a name that needs no explanation. I also have two other names which I only store in my head. One to amuse me in more tense moments, and the other is a sweet one, but I fear that he would swot at me if I ever used it. He swots at my head in the morning everytime I tell him he is adorable as he peeps his sleepy little head over the covers. I shan't tell you the names.


However, my last partner, Axel and I (yes *the* relationship), were rife with little names. Mainly directed at me. I used to call him Pumpikin. My main name was Noodle. Also Super Noodle (it was one of those bizarre relationship idiosyncracies, we used to prefix everything with "super"). I was called Betty Boodle, which was a combination of Bettie Page, (who I reminded him of), Bettie Boop (who I reminded him of), and Noodle (who I was). Then we had Buttress (because of my much-celebrated rear), which became Buttress of Windsor on special occasions. I was sometimes Noodle Widebottom (1980 Noodle Widebottom, in full). Don't look so horrified. I love my backside, and he did too. But anyway, somehow we decided that he had bought me at a shop... not really sure if I was some bizarre automaton, or vehicle, but I was a 1980 model (reflecting the year of my birth). The 1980 Noodle Widebottom had an inbuilt "Klutzomatic Feature", which certainly explains my lack of coordination. It is also indicative of one of the character traits that all my menfolk seem to pick up on.


Well, I am not sure how one reacts to all that. I should say that Axel was far more "normal" than I, but I guess he used to get sucked up in the surreal Maisie Experience, and liked it. One thing that you could certainly say of us, we never forgot how to just be kids together, and we were never afraid of making fools of ourselves to make the other one laugh.


Before Axel, I was with Spike. We had one name each, and stuck to it. In fact, we still use them, even after all these years. He was Moo Moo, and I was Schmoo.


So, now I have opened a window onto a very private affair, it's your turn to spill. What are your names?

Thursday, 17 September 2009

Head Pills



How appropriate. Lustral sounds like a term used to describe a highly sexed lady. Until this evening, I had no idea that the brand name for sertraline was Lustral.
Fairly recently it dawned on me that I have been living with depression and anxiety my whole life. As a very young child, I used to be filled with blind panic over the most minor things, but I never told anybody because I was embarrassed. I used to suffer in silence. It was also a usual part of my existence to feel alone and outside of everyone else, and let's face it, I was always a bit different.
As my teens progressed, it got worse, along with my homelife (which has been previously mentioned). I used to refer to it as "my alien", because it often felt like I had something very tangible gripping onto my head and brain, like one of the crab-like creatures from the movie Alien. And everything was grey. I felt like a layer of film had been spread over my senses, preventing colours from appearing quite so bright, stopping me from appreciating the sunlight on my skin. And I was either filled with unbearable sadness, or I was numb. I would spend hour after hour after hour after hour laying on my bed in the darkness of my room.
But you deal with things. Eventually.
And there have been some big ups along the way, and some fucking deep, deep downers.
It was in April that I was prescribed sertraline. This was a very big deal, because I have always been very anti head pills, having watched Prozac fuck my mother up, a previous partner up, and turn me into a zombie during the brief time I took them when I was younger. But I had to get stuff done. I needed to find a place to live, I needed to finish my teacher-training, I needed to find the strength to walk away from my relationship with Alistair (which, of course I didn't). My doctor was wonderful, and surprisingly for the NHS, sympathetic and careful about what she gave me. And actually, it has really helped.
Sertaline reduces my anxiety to a manageable level, it tames the depression, and even reduces my OCD. Unfortunately, it makes it incredibly hard for me to reach orgasm. But I can live with that.
And my ability to deal with things improved a lot after I started taking these magic little head pills. This was helped on by the fact that I had managed to build up a degree of emotional distance from Alistair, thus removing some of the headfuckedness from my life. Perhaps foolishly, I have let myself fall in a bit deeper with Alistair. This has brought back some of the distress.
And last night I forgot to take a head pill. I did that last week, and clearly did not learn my lesson. If I do not take a pill, I am plunged into a pit of despair and anxiety. I have spent most of the day in bed, sleeping where I can, and just staring at the ceiling at other moments. And the thoughts go round and around and around in my head.
I just want to be held, but I am very conscious of inflicting myself on people. In any case, Courtney is in the next room having one of his lows. Alistair is out with the ex and her cousin. And even if he wasn't, I am uncomfortable being sad around him because he hates being around depressed people. He says he is not good with them, and ends up feeling depressed himself, and I don't want to be a burden.
Added to this is the fact that I am concerned he feels that we are spending too much time together. The other night, he told me that he was worried that we had bypassed the whole "dating thing" again. And he he said he wants some nights to himself next week, having intended on having them this week, but being unable to because stuff has got in the way. Tuesday night was one of the first nights where he slept in his bed by himself, without me, or the ex, or one of his harem. And he slept really well. I felt bad this morning, having spent the night with him, knowing that I affected his sleep. When I am ok, I don't have bad dreams, and sleep like a log, but when I am depressed, I am prone to nasty dreams, and I toss and turn. In the early hours of the morning, I woke Alistair up, he said I had screamed. And I remember doing that in my dream, but I guess I did it in reality too. He said my cries had become progressively louder. I remember the dream, but I can't describe it here because it was so weird and twisted, it wouldn't make any sense, but it was frightening.
So right now, my head is on a stupid irrational spiral. And I keep thinking about what is going to happen. Is this a sign that we are not compatible? Am I an idiot to be asking such a question? We have been seeing each other for a year... He is in love with the ex, and in love with me... Is this a sign that we wouldn't be able to live together?... We did for a couple of months at the beginning of the year, and we were happy... Should I even be having these thoughts?
I am so unsure of everything.
If there is a prince charming out there, I sure could use you right now.

Monday, 14 September 2009

Live From the Dungeon (Almost).




Hello Perverts.


Today, I am assisting Mistress Max with a client who has been in session with her since yesterday, and will remain so until tomorrow.
He is into heavy bondage, and has been spending most of his time gagged, hooded, and blindfolded. Nevertheless, I thought I would wear something a little nicer than my usual mid-week bag-lady attire. I went for a classic, slightly vintage look today. I love to fashion my hair in a 1940s style, and so have used this as an opportunity to do so. I have my little pink blouse on, and grey pencil skirt with a waist cincher, and my very lovely pink peep-toe heels. No, not all mistresses are permanently clad in thigh-highs and latex. See how I crush your dreams?
I am mainly here to watch over him when he is left tied up and "alone" to make sure he doesn't get into any difficulty etc. However, I have been taking part here and there. This morning, before Max arrived at the dungeon, she had dressed the client as a woman and sent him off to Harrods to buy a pen. She is in no desperate need of a pen, but it was to serve as proof that he had indeed ventured to Harrods whilst dressed as a woman. Meanwhile, she made her way here.
Obviously "here" is not my home, but Alistair's. For those of you that don't know, he has a dungeon in the basement, and rents the space to pro-dommes. It was early, and he was tying up some loose ends before going to work. I was tying up my hair, and was rather hoping he would be unable to resist me in all my retro glory. Not even so much as a "You look pretty." Still, Max thought I looked lovely.
Now, Mistress Max is a woman who can be one of the most hyperactive people I have ever met. And when a client books a 48 hour session, that is exactly what they get. This man had been repeatedly tied up in various extreme bondage positions all night long. Max makes sure she wakes up every two hours to do this, so when she arrived here, she had had very little sleep and was still bouncing around. She filled me in on his likes and dislikes, and possible things we would do to him. she also asked me to answer the door to him to worry him a little. (He did not know I would be involved.)
He phoned to say he was outside. I opened the door, said hello, and told him to come in. Later, Max said that I have to alter my tone, she said it was too "friendly". Personally, I thought it was a very level tone. I don't really favour the stern, severe thing. Oh, don't get me wrong, I do favour nasty, mean, cruel, etc, however, as I have said before, these things are best served with a more gentle manner. It makes them seem more wrong, and somehow nastier. At least I think so. Still, they are paying for a service.
Anyway, I opened the door, and a small, skinny little man came in, with a little blond wig on his head. A Harrods carrier bag hung in his hand. I told him to kneel down, and I put a blindfold on his head, and buckled a gag onto him. Then (heehee) I wrapped tape around the whole thing. I helped him up and led him down the stairs to the dungeon, where Max was waiting for us. He was told to undress, and it would seem that he had removed the butt plug that he was meant to be wearing on his shopping excursion. Apparently, it hurt. What a wimp.
Max lowered the swing-bed from the ceiling. She tied his wrists with satin (he has a real thing for satin), and draped some scarves on him for good measure, then we zipped him up into a leather body-bag, which was placed on the swing. I went and grabbed a book, and Max popped out to the shops. She had to buy some food-stuffs, because the client wanted to be pelted with food. Not that uncommon, but this man wanted to have a "garbage can" emptied onto him. Well, whatever floats your boat. We weren't going to empty the bin onto him (though he is so petite, I think we could probably have thrown him in the bin...) What we were intending on doing was covering him in smelly, paticularly unpleasant food. Max came back with asorted tinned fish (and the standard baked-beans type things.) Being involved in this sort of thing does make you contemplate humanity often.
Whilst she was away, it was my job to make sure he stayed alive and breathing, and to torment him a little. Essentially, I took a seat, and nudged the swing here and there. When I got a bored, I dug out the Hitachi Magic Wand and buzzed him through the leather. If he had not been secured, he would have jumped a few feet into the air.
**written next morning**
When Max arrived back, I went upstairs and she gave her client some more playtime. Unfortunately, it would seem that he was coming down with a virus, sniffling, and beginning to look rather unwell. Since he had not had any sleep, and had not yet been allowed to eat, she put him to bed on the matress in the cage in the medical room. Fear not, he had blankets and was warm and snuggly. Sadly, sleep did not help him very much. We went to check on him, and he requested some more nap-time, in the hope that he would improve. Typically, I was very concerned for him, and suggested that he might need a t-shirt to keep his chest warm, then I gave him some ibuprofen. Don't think I am not capable of performing some quite grotesque acts on boys, but what can I say, I am inescapably fuzzy.
In the end, he called things to a halt. This saddened me, because were going to dress him up in something silky, and I was going to be let loose with the makeup. (Here I must state that I do not do enjoy enforced feminisation. The pleasure would be merely that of dress-up and makeup. It is irrelevant right now, but in a nutshell, it irks me that appearing "feminine" should be something humiliating, or submissive.) No frills and spills fun for me. Though there was some amusement. You see, after Max had packed him from the hotel room to get a pen from Harrods, and then to make his way here, she cleared his room of all his possessions, leaving only one set of clothes, and his wallet. She took his luggage to another dungeon space in London that she works from, and left a note on the bed saying "Hah! You thought it was over, but if you want your stuff back, you have until 2pm to find me a suitable gift." He was meant to have stayed the night at Alistair's, have been abused all night long, then to have been thrown out in the morning with the impression that it was all over...
On another note, I cooked dinner for Max, Alistair, and Courtney last night. Courtney arrived to find me still in my forties finery, not a hair out of place, vigorously whisking gravy. It was a kodak moment. Max and Courtney believe I might find a suitable niche if I approach the whole domination thing from a domestic angle... You know, smacking boys round the head with a wooden spoon, my hands still coated in flour from kneading all that dough, and all the while having to contend with such naughtiness. Don't make me get the rolling-pin.

Tuesday, 8 September 2009

Just pick yourself up and dust yourself off.



And I have.
Thanks to everyone who left me such supportive messages. Don't you worry about me, I am fine. Promise.
I just let myself get a little too deep again. I am reminded that these are waters that it is wise to only dip ones toe into.
I used to be so good at the whole relationship thing. I suppose I still am, because as far as I can tell, I have been doing everything right. But you can't make someone adore you, and there 'aint no dignity in trying. You just have to accept that there are limits to where some things can go. I am pretty sure that this is one of those times.
I know that some of you are silently chanting "Ditch him! Ditch him! Ditch him!" But I don't think I am going to do that. Who among you could bring yourself to ditch reh-heeeeally good sex? Well you're stronger than I am.
No, I do believe I am going to follow the same advice given to me by several friends over the course of this whole fiasco: "Just enjoy it for what it is, coz that's all that it is."
Ok, ok, it's not just about the sex, but Alistair is not truly, madly, deeply in sweet mother-fucking love with me either.
Anyway, I am going away to Brighton on Thursday evening to visit my sister. Then, on Friday we are going camping. I am thinking that there will be not a man in sight... My sister is a turbo-lesbian, which is like a common-garden lesbian, but more potent. She tends to hang with other lesbians. The plan is to go pitch the tent (hehehe lesbians pitching the tent), and then go to this farm-like place where they make cider. We shall imbibe cider at a tasting event, and then purchase more cider, for the tent. I tend to prefer gin, or chemicals of a different kind. Still, when in Rome.
I am really looking forward to this. I hardly ever get to hang with her.

Sometimes I get love letters.


An ex of mine spies, no not spies, "keeps up to date" with me. He discovered my blog quite a while ago, and checks in every now and then to make sure I am still alive, and as sane as I ever was.

And it seems he toddled in very recently, because he emailed me something. I hope he doesn't feel too violated that I publish it here, because it is one of the nicest things anybody has ever written to me. He is an awesomely great guy, and I cannot thank him enough for the way he watches over me:

"Yeah, I do keep up with life in Maisieland via the magic of the interwebs. And, you know, I'm not sure I should write this - but I do adore you. No longer in the "I want to spend my life with this person" mode, but seriously - the mere fact you exist makes me smile. I know you don't feel comfortable with compliments - but you are smart, funny, pretty, and someone who I feel is worthy of love. Whatever love you accept from others, you return with highly polished knobs on, and you have a way of making people feel good about themselves.And you do, indeed, deserve to be with someone who counts waking up beside you as a reason to believe that all is right with the world.

Harri

x "

All I can say is thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster for men like you, my darling.


Monday, 7 September 2009

Arabic Poetry

My soul clung to yours before we were created,
Before we were weaned, before we were laid in the cradle.
Our love has grown and developed our selves;
Death cannot break the promises of this love.
It will survive all the trials of fate
And visit us among the shadows of the tomb, In the depths of the grave.

The above is something that Saladin posted up online, it is an example of Arabic poetry by Jamil al Udhri.

I am pretty sure he writes... I wonder if he'll ever write anything for me.

I am more wonderful than I feel.

Warning: Badly written. Lack of time, no lack of I don't cares.

It seems I was wrong. The ex has moved out.

Alistair is very upset and depressed.

We had a conversation on messenger the other day, and it was not a happy one. You see, over the past couple of weeks or so, I have slowly allowed myself to get a little closer again, emotionally speaking. This was a big mistake on my part, because once again it ensured that I feel secondary to the great Alistair and Ex Saga. Secondary to his feelings for her. This was what our conversation was about. In hindsight, it was a less than useful time, as his mind is somersaulting over the ex's departure, so in this sense, everything else is secondary.

I mentioned commitment. I asked if he was ever going to commit to me, that I thought he should really have some idea after a year of seeing each other. He said he didn't know, but that he hasn't ruled me out, and seemed to think I'd feel better with him pointing out that another one of his fucks has been ruled out. I am sure I don't have to spell out the fact that I was a tad upset over this. He said it was a bad time because he loves the ex and is messed up over her.

This is indeed true.

I do not feel very secure. So I am in love with Alistair. He says he loves me. He needs to get over his ex, or work things out. Whilst this happens, he continues to see people and "rule them out" for a committed relationship. Provided he does indeed get over the ex, one can only assume that if he doesn't find somebody else, I'll get lucky. Though there will probably be an extensive period of searching before he gives up. Or maybe he will find someone. I wonder how that conversation would go... But it's ok, because I apparently have the freedom to do the same.

The thing is, I seem to have this little thing called respect that I bestow upon people I am in love with (and most other people). This invariably means that whilst we are in the process of seeing where things go, I do not actively have my tendrils out for any other bits of "better" flotsam that might be floating by. This ensures that my beloved feels loved, valued, and wanted, with the added bonus that they are not left wondering what the next bit of flotsam will be like, and whether they are going to be traded in.

If the conversation was simply a matter of Alistair being in love with, and hurt over the ex, and thus unable to commit to me, that would be reasonable. But it wasn't quite like that.


Sometimes I think that there has got to be more than this.


I didn't feel very good about things over the weekend. Alistair was miserable, and it wasn't so much the sadness, as the reason why he was miserable. The fact that he is now going to be entering a period of missing her, of wishing she was still with him, and I daresay there will be moments where he wishes she was there instead of me.


He took me to London Zoo on Saturday. He didn't really want to go, but because I did, he bought tickets. He didn't look as though he was enjoying himself, which made me feel that I had forced him into something tiresome. Animals are a bit of a thing for me, and I get quite excited. Alistair made me feel like a silly kid.


I am tired of feeling like a foolish, clumsy, eccentric child whose only notable attributes are her pleasingly ample arse, and her ability to draw stuff.


And hey, what's the difference between me and his other fucks? I write love letters and bring coffee in the morning.


It would be nice to have someone who makes me feel a little bit adored, apart from my mother. I am hindered by the fact that I am someone who constantly laughs at herself, and doesn't mind being teased. People get used to that, and soon, that's all they do, until finally, even the compliments I receive are backhanded.


Although the weekend had its nice moments, I am not sure that I can say I had a good time overall. Obviously things were not ideal because Alistair was sad due to the ex. So it may have been better if the trauma wasn't going on.


But I can't help but think that I just don't "do it" for him enough. I mean he does love me in his own way, he certainly finds me attractive, but it doesn't seem to be enough. Would it be different if he didn't still have feelings for the ex? I don't know. His behaviour towards me certainly changed as things started to improve between them, and definitely after she moved in. I mean hell, there was a time when he didn't admit he was in love with her.


What I can tell you is that, regardless of how he feels, I am certainly not feeling the magic.


It's like I always say, I want to be with someone who can think of nothing better than waking up next to me every morning.

I have decided to keep an up-to-date list of the choicest Alistairisms regarding moi. New entries to be listed in bold.


1) "You're not classically beautiful, but you are pretty." - said in the early days of wooing.

2) "You look like a gnome. A goth gnome." - said to me recently when I sat on the hallway floor, waiting for a decision to be made about where we were going to that day.

3) "You have as much chance as anyone of having a child with me."

4) "You are like a great dane puppy, all limbs and no coordination." - variations said all the time.

5) (paraphrased due to stressful circumstance, and relating to the notion of a committed relationship with me) "I don't know. I have ruled [current play/fuck partner] out as relationship material, I haven't ruled you out." So everyone, it could be me, or it could be someone else. How exciting.

Friday, 4 September 2009

List of the Best


A new and regularly updated list of the words and phrases typed into search-engines that led to my blog. I suppose the content of my blog already tells you that some are... interesting. Newest entries always to be listed in bold.
1) "blogspot.com" double penetration fantasy.
2) "lowered myself onto his face"
3) alistair cock (do they want a specific alistair, or only the cocks of guys named alistair? Do they want the cock of my alistair? Well, lord, tell me who doesn't?)
4) crap fetish (I don't really have anything to say about this.)
5) girl cock (They have come to the right place. It's in a box beside my bed.)
6) uk porn star maisie (Now, some of you may remember my confession on the blog of a certain Teacup lady, relating to a certain episode of porn-making. Since this is not the only maisie porn search, I would like to know which of you perverts has been trying to find me? You think I went by that name? Hah. You are foiled.)
7) mistress iron my pussy to warm it up (Is my personal favourite.)
8) needle testicle domme photo
9) pegs on my labia (Yes, they were...)
See you next time.

Thursday, 3 September 2009

Caring for Your Maisie: Instruction Manual.


One of the problems with a traumatic upbringing is that, even if you were lucky enough to have turned out fairly well-adjusted, it will come back to haunt you.
I sometimes joke that I have a demon on each shoulder. I know at least one of them is asleep. Sometimes, he wakes up.
I feel better today, so I am not going to document my twisted childhood. The bare bones of it are that my father was not a good one. He was never physically violent towards me, but he was incredibly emotionally violent. He did many deliberately twisted things to my sister and I... Things that sound quite incredible. And when I was forced out of my home at 18-19 years of age, he began to be physically violent towards my little sister too. He fucked us up, and he controlled, oppressed, and emotionally crippled my mother for 23 long years.
And my sister and I dealt with it. Not sure I can say got over it, but dealt with it, in our very different ways. My little sister is very stereotypically masculine, from her short hair to her attitude. She seldom cries, and will be hard, abrupt, and cold when she needs to deal with things. And she is not too hot on physical displays of affection, nor with the voicing of feelings, except with her young daughter. I, on the other hand, decided when I was a kid that I would grow up to be all about sharing the love. Because of how things were, I was very awkward about the thought of telling someone I loved them, of holding them in my arms... But the concept seemed so deliciously appealing that I went with it. You see the product before you today.
Anyway, as time goes on, I suppose you just learn to exist with your damage, until it isn't a crippling bother anymore. If they know what to look for, other people can sometimes see evidence of it being there, in your behaviour. But all things considered, my sister and I are quite well-adjusted people. Unconventional, but well-adjusted.
We even see our father occasionally, strangely, my sister more than I. She says that she neither loves, nor hates him, that he just doesn't feel like family. Maybe it's all for my niece's benefit. I exchange very sporadic text-messages, and see him once in a very blue moon, for a birthday dinner or something similar.
And you think everything is fine fine fine.
But once in a while, something will happen, and BAM, you are that vulnerable little girl all over again.
My father sent an email to my sister. A can of worms was opened. She showed me their correspondence. It wasn't a fun-read. It was almost as if I could tangibly feel the old wound opening up. It must seem weird, but the only way I can describe it is that I feel like I am retracting into myself. Like I am becoming a smaller person, and that the colour is being drawn from my cheeks. Not that there is much colour there in the first place... And I feel like a little girl.
Thankfully, much like stubbing a toe, you know the pain will fade relatively quickly. I woke up today, and I am back to normal.
But I did go round to Alistair's last night. I know he is depressed at the moment (no kidding!) But I really needed to be taken care of. He cooked, put on a funny movie, and I am grateful for that. But as I sat on the stool in the kitchen, straining to keep the tears down to one or two on my cheek at any one time, I felt like I was a burden. And of course, he told me that he'd have completely severed contact with my father years ago, and felt better for it. That's very normal. People with reasonably ok upbringings always say these things, and they are correct, but they don't understand what it is like to actually be involved. I said to him that I would try to straighten up because he hates dealing with trauma and crying. And he replied in agreement, that he doesn't, and he is not very good at it.
Ouch.
At times like these, what I actually need is a man's arms around me, holding me tight, loving me, and reminding me why everything is ok. The memories of my childhood won't go away, so I need to be reminded of why things are still good, and I am ok despite it all. And in some ways because of it all. When I am sad about my father, I don't need "What you wanna do is this..." or "I'd have done this ............... a long time ago". I know all of the options, I over-analyse everything. I know each and every beneficial action I could perform, and why (rational or otherwise) I haven't done one of them.
I may suffer from a case of the ditz every now and then, but I tend to spend my time noticing when people are sad and need to be built up. I listen to them and try to make it better. Sometimes I need the same.
But I have slept on it, and these days, when I wake up, the demon has fallen asleep again. So I am going to give myself a verbal hug.
Things are ok in spite of everything because
I grew into a kind, warm, loving woman.
I don't repeat patterns and become involved with men like my father.
I am well loved by a few good friends.
Despite being brought up to be a racist bigot, I was always a natural Guardian-reading, sandal-wearing, muesli eater.
Despite my father being incredibly misogynistic, and being brought up in a household where my mother "Should respect my authoritai." (actually, Eric Cartman said that, but it's appropriate), I am an opinionated feminist.
Despite being pressured to leave school at 14 (I kid you not) because it didn't do my father any harm, I now have a first class degree.
And *because* of my childhood, I know exactly what not to do if I ever have a child.
Because of my childhood, I am rarely angry and seldom raise my voice. I know how destructive anger and aggression can be.
I wouldn't change the past, since it has shaped me, warts and all, I just would never want to repeat it.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009

RIP, Frank Milford.

[click]

Whilst 81 years might be many people's idea of hell, I am kinda sad that it won't be possible for me.

As you may have gathered, I believe in investing a lot in relationships. And I would love nothing more than to settle down, (in an unconventional kind of way), with a person I adore, who will be my companion until one of us toddles off the mortal coil.

Give me enduring passion and love, marriage, commitment, mutually satisfying sexual deviance, four cats, a great dane puppy, and a chihuaha.

Roun and round and round...

***Alistair: If you read this, you might not like it. It contains opinions.***

03/09/09: When I first published this, I immediately withdrew it, because I was worried it was overly hard-nosed and I wanted to shield Alistair from any upset. But I am not happy tonight.

I am afraid this one is going to be a vent. And for all you newcomers who haven't back-read me, a chance to have a better understanding of the nature of things. I admit, it won't quite be the same as a few months ago, because frankly, I am kinda desensitised. Don't really get that upset anymore.
I spoke to Alistair on Messenger yesterday. He informed me that the ex wanted to have another "chat" when he arrived home from work. They have been doing that a lot. Ben is still on the scene, causing Alistair much upset. The ex still lets Alistair down, causing Alistair much upset. Though one does wonder, in what way does she let him down, since they are not technically together?
In any case, the ex has recently made mention of the fact that she might move out. Yeah, right. Where is she going to find another man who lets her live free of charge in his house and pays for mostly everything? She could always move the tenants out of the house she actually owns and move in there... But doing that would mean taking in lodgers and receiving a cut to the money from said house... Which might mean she has to get a little job while she does her latest course... Noooooooooooooo...
And of course, the thought of her moving out distresses Alistair. He says this is because she will move and their unfinished business will not get finished. Hmmm... well it seems to me that their unfinished business has been lasting a fuck of a long time... I don't know, I think trouble was actually brewing as far back as 2007. Could be wrong though. The truth is that he can't bear to let it go.
But sometimes we have to. And I know this from bitter experience, and I am a very sensitive person, who finds dealing with emotional trauma incredibly hard. But sometimes we have to let things go. I did it with Axel, and he was a close to a soul-mate as my belief is willing to extend.
So, last night, more talking ensued.
You know what's really sad? There was not a single part of me that thought there was a chance that any headway, of any kind, would be made.
You know what's sadder?
That whereas before, I would be crying over this, I actually can't remember the last time I cried. Today, I only write out of frustration. I have accepted the situation, I don't believe it will change, therefore I don't look to the future, and know that my future most likely lies elsewhere. But I still love and care about Alistair, and his situation frustrates me.
I was just drifting off to sleep last night when I got a text from Alistair. It simply said "erg". I asked him if he was ok, and he told me he was confused and unsure. No change there, then, and I told him so. This made him unhappy. I said that I was sorry that things had ended up the way they are, and I am sorry for him... This made him unhappy. He told me he contacted me for a "boost" because he felt down, but that we probably shouldn't discuss it further. He said goodnight, and so did I.
Maybe if I hadn't been so depressed last night, I would have reacted differently. And just like anyone I love, I am there for him, to support him and take care of him. But really, this could go on forever. Alistair and ex talk, Alistair gets upset. Maisie says "There, there." There is absolutely nothing I can do to help on this one. And I am not the only one who has tried. Hell, not even the fact that he loves me is enough. He loves her too.
Alistair has always said that he waits until he has "all the information" before he makes a decision. Well Alistair, and I know you will be reading this, and I know you won't be liking what you read, but here it is:
Sometimes we have all the information, but we choose to ignore it. i.e. She has told you she is not in love with you, she does not have sex with you, she does not play with you, you fight all the time... What other information could you possibly be waiting for? Where can you possibly go from here? I mean yes, things change, but there is even a slim chance that the Flying Spaghetti Monster will plop out of the sky today and smite us for not worshipping it all these years.
And sometimes, we are faced with an incomplete puzzle. Sometimes we can never gain all of the information we need. When this happens, sometimes we still need to act, for our own good.
As a friend, I am telling you that you need to make a decision. One way or another. Decide whether you want to be with her or not, then find out whether this is compatible with what she wants. If it is not, there you have it. And if she simply refuses to come to a conclusion, then you must make a final one.
And I know that you always tell me that things are not that simple. I know that the human heart, the tapestry of human emotions, are not that simple. Often the decisions are. Simple does not mean easy. This is one of those choices which must be made, and made now. Your health is suffering, you are not sleeping properly (and when you do, you talk and moan), you are depressed, you are not as sharp as you should be (and you are usually very damn sharp). You need to muster some courage from somewhere. I think this is what fails you. You are afraid. Afraid of making the wrong choice.
The wrong choice means losing what might have been. But not making a choice is worse. Not making a choice means having nothing at all. Unless Limbo counts. You can't build fulfilling relationships in Limbo. Not with me, not with anyone. You say that you feel your age is against you, and that you have told the ex that you don't have time for this. You don't. Do something.

Tuesday, 1 September 2009

Alistair's Hall of Fame



I have decided to keep an up-to-date list of the choicest Alistairisms regarding moi. New entries to be listed in bold.



1) "You're not classically beautiful, but you are pretty." - said in the early days of wooing.



2) "You look like a gnome. A goth gnome." - said to me recently when I sat on the hallway floor, waiting for a decision to be made about where we were going to that day.


3) "You have as much chance as anyone of having a child with me."


4) "You are like a great dane puppy, all limbs and no coordination." - variations said all the time.

Sunday, 30 August 2009

Two examples of my drawing is all you're getting.

Anyway, a lot of the detail and impact is lost because these are crappy photographs in poor lighting. And I was stupid enough to wait until after the second was framed... So I had to do it through glass. Ignore the splodges where I have blotted out my name.



This can only meme one thing...


The very lovely ladytruth, mistress of the wonderful blog happily AFTER ever, (which I have fast grown to love, and urge you to go visit) has bestowed an award and meme on me.
Hey, thanks, lady, you make me blush to my bones.


And it goes something like this:
"This award requires the recipient to "list 7 personality traits exhibited by their writing."


So without further ado...


1) You want unabashed sexual deviance? Get it here:




2) Who said romance was dead? Breathe a sigh of relief, it lives here and at my mercy:


3) What I like to call "emotional splurging". Heart-wrenching romantic tragedy occurs, and I spew it out all over cyber-space. Rather like passing a car-crash, you are unable to resist...


4) Rapier wit. I'm hilarious. So hilarious that I don't even need to link to a post to prove it. So confident am I that you agree with me.


5) Sarcasm.


6) Quirkiness. Well let's face it. It just 'aint normal, is it? Blogging about some princely posh-boy that you love, despite him being hopelessly entangled with his ex, whilst you anticipate the next time he slaps you silly round the face, and dream of parties where you'll get molested and smacked with plastic lobsters.


7) Artistic temperament... And not just because I have just recently blabbed about my artistic endeavours. No, no. Just have a read.


I feel I have been a tad lazy on this one. Sorry you guys. I have stuff to paint...

Saturday, 29 August 2009

In case you were all wondering...

Relating to the love letter I recently wrote:
You all said that I should show Alistair, and of course, since he has now found this blog, he regularly checks in to see if he has been a good boy, or a bad boy.
Savour the twistedness.
He had mentioned very fleetingly that he saw the post, and thought it was very sweet.
But when I ventured over to his on Thursday, he mentioned it again. He had suggested that we smoke a cigarette on the sofa which backs onto the balcony doors. We opened them and leant over the back of the couch. He thanked me again for what I wrote, and told me that it was the nicest thing anybody had ever written for him, and that he had almost cried when he read it.
And after this moment of romance, and telling me that he loved me, he proceeded to lift up my skirt and fuck me over the back of the couch. Mercifully, every time a pedestrian passed by the street below (which is not that far down), he slowed the pace slightly, all the while telling me to be quiet. It is hard to be quiet in a situation like that.

Not that kind of girl...


I feel I must make a confession to alleviate my guilt. I am clearly not myself.
I have known one, two, three, four and more individuals who like to get stuff bought for them. And who doesn't. But really I am talking about a "I will have sex with you, occasionally wear a short skirt and you buy me stuff/support me" set-up. I should say that it pains me that this scenario usually only relates to women. But that is because of the conditioning we all receive from birth. Another post altogether.
On the fetish scene, there is also such a thing as financial slavery, which is different, but I still feel pretty darn uneasy with it.
And yet, here I am, now about to embark on my quest to become an artist, thinking:
"Gosh, it sure would be nice to have a rich man take care of, I mean sponsor me whilst I become an amazing artiste."
For shame.
But it's not like I wouldn't be working, I just wouldn't be bringing home any money.
For shame.
I feel the need for self-flagellation. And you can all shut-up, because it's not erotic if you're doing it to yourself.
How did it come to this, Maisie, you who try to avoid letting boys buy you stuff?

Thursday, 27 August 2009

Two for the price of... two.



I had a call from a friend last night. Not just any friend. It was Mistress Max, a pro-domme, and she was asking me to take part in a session with her in the next couple of weeks. Paid, of course. And of course, I said yes. So I guess that makes me a domatrix. Sort of.

Truth be told, we had already been making arrangements for something similar. I clean Alistair's house once a week. Yes, also paid! I am not about to crawl around on my hands and knees, scrubbing the floor, with a carrot up my arse just because he said so. I don't like carrots very much. Max will soon be working regular Thursdays in Alistair's dungeon. Regular readers will already know that Alistair has a dungeon in his basement, used both personally and commercially. I have been asked by Max to clean the house on Thursdays. and to remain in the house all day, so that I can assist her if she needs, and offer a double-domme service, so to speak.

How exciting.

And financially benefitting.

I am reminded of the time when I was overseeing the removal of a very large, very ripe pile of rubbish that had been heaped up in the yard at the back of Alistair's house. I had arrived there, had a quick shower, and then proceeded to deal with men and van, still with soggy hair and bag-lady clothes. And I was not a happy camper. I was as close to cross as I get. This is because none of the rubbish was mine, and the ex was in the house... But she was too tired to deal with the men, but awake enough to spend the whole time surfing the web. Yes, I am sometimes a fool. So, back to me, my mood, and the men.

They did a good job, I paid them, and was just making my way back into the house, when Max bounded down the hall. She had come up from the basement, and was mid-session with a client.

"Can I as you a favour?" she said, "I am sticking needles in the client downstairs, and he wants someone to watch me do it. Would you mind?"

Mind? Hah! It would be therapy. Jab them in, I thought.

I agreed, but lamented the fact that I looked like a soggy shower-creature. I told Max that, had I but known, I would have worn something more befitting. We trundled downstairs and went into the medical room. There, secured to the gynae chair, was a very hairy middle aged man, wearing stockings and silk (well, nylon) panties. Yeah, sure, it 'aint sexy, and I have strong opinions on the whole "feminisation" thing, but ya gotta laugh. Max peered at him and told him that I had been in the middle of something.

"Yes," I said in a pissy voice, "You disturbed my shower."

And as Max proceeded to push needles through the skin of his scrotum, pausing every now and then to ask me where the next one should go, I thought: You couldn't write it...


Now, there actually isn't all that much money in the whole domination thing. Especially in the saturated market of London. However, it may be something I explore just a little bit, because if I am going to be pursuing my art, I am going to need to make some money wherever I can. And to be honest, several people have been surprised that I have never tried, including a few pro-dommes. I am told I "have the look". Hmmmm, yes well, not on a Friday night, high as a kite, with Alistair's cock down my throat, I don't....


And yes, the phone box was fun.

Wednesday, 26 August 2009

Write More Stuff!


Hello filthmongers, trauma-monkeys, you who secretly fantasise about me shoving something up your butt, and those who fantasise about wining, dining and making love to me all night long (for you are my favourites...)


This post is a tad off topic, and does not relate to perversity, romance, or emotional splurging. Due to this fact, if you hold out to the very end, I have included an old photograph of my breasts. Don't you even think about scrolling down until you have digested every word, motherfucker.
I have been pretty quiet of late because I have been drawing and painting. My friend runs a fetish club, and I am producing some artwork for her flyers. I guess this is my first ever commission. At the moment I am working on a piece for the vampire themed night, and think it is going rather well.
When I was young, I always thought that I would be an artist, but I never fitted the necessary mould when it came to studying it. I quit art A level because on the first day, my teacher told me that I draw "photographically" and that that would not get me very far on the course. The thing is, I am much more of an illustrator than anything else. I just don't do abstract. Well, I guess I could, but it just isn't me.
Anyway, I have decided that I am going to, well, be an artist. Whatever that means. I am scared, but I know it is something I have to do. I thought I was always meant to be a teacher, and then I trained, and realised that it is not for me (nothing to do with the kids, or teaching in itself, but that is another post). One of the reasons I have been so depressed of late is because I thought I would teach, and when it became apparent I would not, I felt like I had lost my direction, and part of my identity.
I had forgotten that before all of that, since I was a very little girl, people have said "That girl's an artist." And I knew I was, I just forgot it. I got older, and lost faith in my ability. I have recently gained a little more confidence again... But it is a frightening thing. I am not quite sure how to go about this, and I know that I'll probably never be a roaring success... All I know is that I have felt more comfortable and "right" than I have in months.
If anyone has any advice, now would be the moment to chuck it my way.
Thank you for your time and patience in reading this tame, clean post. And now as promised...


Yes, that really is me. Didn't think I was serious, did you?
Though you can't quite see, I was blonde back then. We all make mistakes.

If you can read this, you are sick.


This is a quick post to say thank you to The Caped Tirader for the lovely award that he gave me. Sir, you make me blush to my bones. But that won't stop me from informing you that you are sick. Sick as a sick and twisted thing for enjoying my blog so much. Just like the rest of you. Yeah, you heard me. Does your mother know you are here? Off you go now to check the splendiforous Tirader.
What's that you say? You want me to pretend to be mother? You disgust me. Now go to your room and put my panties on your head, before I smack your face with this here wooden spoon.

Thursday, 20 August 2009

A Love Letter

To my dearest Alistair,

A few days ago, you said that I had never written you a love letter. And I suppose that in this day and age, the hasty text message has become a poor substitute.

Though our situation is difficult, though my position is at times torturous, and though your heart is complicated, I thought I would write this to you.

Darling Boy, at the beginning of last year, I would never have guessed that it would be your bed that I was occupying in the future. The best part of eight or nine years having been spent barely acknowledging each other's existence.

It was at the Gate that I knew that if I let my guard down, even for a second, I would fall for you. I remember being snuggled under a blanket with you in the dungeon, thinking how beautiful you were, and how much you made me smile. I breathed in the scent of your hair and skin, and I wanted you so very much. So I decided to act on that feeling, and a very subbie girl became less so... And I remember you looking at me (and of course, we were more than a little high), and wishing I could take that look and lock it away somewhere, so that I might keep it, and drink it in again and again. I remember saying to you that I wanted any man I was dominating to look up at me with utter devotion. And you said that I wanted them to look up at me with love. I made an extra effort to keep myself guarded, because I secretly wondered, hoped that one day you would look at me with love.

And despite the fact that I knew it was foolishness, I eventually did let that guard down. And I think I was in love with you even before I would be honest and admit it to myself. By the time I said it to you, it must have been obvious to all. And you made me break one of my rules again. I said it first. Now, I know you had said "Love you" many times to me at this point, but I had heard you say the same thing to all your friends and everyone you were close to. But that Friday Night, I waited until I was wasted enough, and I told you. We were sitting on the floor of the living room, cross legged, half-naked, and half-clad in latex... I didn't look you in the eyes... The floor was far more interesting. And I told you. And I felt so vulnerable. We had been living together for several weeks at this point, (in between homes as I was). You told me that I knew damn well that you were in love with me too.

Those weeks I lived with you, despite the few splurges regarding the complicated mess, were so happy for me. Being around you felt, feels, so natural. You laugh at my jokes, and sometimes you just laugh at me in my moments of ditzy and strange. And I love that. And I love that you make me laugh too. I never tire of the banter that we have, nor of the fact that you are clever enough to challenge me, and I never tire of letting you win ;-) .

I love the fact that you encourage me to behave with slightly more decorum than I usually would, though not always with success. I love the fact that sometimes, just sometimes, I can pull down your barriers just enough so that I get to see the little boy that wants to fool around. I love that we can just snuggle in silence on the couch and watch movies, and that we fit there so well. I love that we like to go to bed together at night, and I love the way you emerge from the covers like a sleepy creature out of its burrow in the morning.

And when we fuck, or make love, or play, there is that chemistry... Others have seen it and said they are jealous. You, dear Alistair, are trouble. Perhaps it is because I am as transparent as a pane of glass to you, or perhaps it is because you have just the right amount of arrogance... But you are not afraid of crossing any line I draw in the sand, and then carrying on a few metres, just for good measure. You have had the, (handshake to your heritage), chutzpah to do things to me that every other man has been terrified of trying. Moreover, things that I truly believed I would have been quite happy going to my grave having never done. And I am glad you pushed me. And I am glad you have made me cry. Several times.

Every time you make me cry, I feel more than a twinge of pain. This is because every time you make me cry, it is because you have reduced me to the point where I would do anything, give anything to you, and yet I know that you are not mine. Despite this, my pretty boy, I know that I will go there again.

I will go there again because of the look in your eye, your mischievous smile. And that voice... As I have said, I do believe that I could listen to you read the phone book and make it sound enjoyable. And I will go there again because you are Alistair, and I love you.

See, that is the thing about romantic love, there are so many things to be listed about that person... You fall in love with them both for the many reasons that you can articulate, and for that intangible, undefinable "because". Because they are who they are, and there is a spark between you that is beyond the boundaries of common language... But you know it is there, the two of you.

Wednesday, 19 August 2009

A Little Call at Night.



Alistair called tonight. He is away on business, but back tomorrow. He had gotten himself a little tipsy with his colleagues, and we exchanged a few text messages. I told him that I wished I was there because I love the smell and taste of fresh alcohol on a man's breath. He told me I was sick, and that he almost loved me for it. I said that he loved me for my arse, but that I hoped he loved my sickness a bit too. And then he said,


"No, not that either. Annoyingly, it's the sweet bit I like most! Yuch [sic]!"


And I smiled and wanted to hold him and kiss him.


He phoned on his way back to his hotel, and we had a nice talk. He was making half-joking little digs at the fact that I may have more than one date this week, one of them being with Saladin. I took them as they were meant, and responded affectionately. I told him I loved him.


We spoke about what we would do on Saturday, when we are seeing each other. I said that I expected him not to want to do much, because he may not be in the best of spirits. He has, after all, some discussing to do with Claudia, regarding their row-cum-likely break-up.


And of course, I instantly knew that they would not be breaking up, and it would all die down and continue as it has been.


And of course, I was not suprised in the least when Alistair told me that she has been being extra nice to him.


This has happened in the past when she has feared that he has really had enough.


It has confirmed what I am already doing is the right thing. Keeping my eggs well and truly to myself, and checking out the baskets along my way.


So I guess it's Me,




Alistair,




and the other man.