Hide and Seek

If you secretly publish your guts on the internet, they will eventually be discovered. I have nothing to be ashamed of, in the sense that I have only spoken the truth. However, I feel rather sickly in my stomach, because I am afraid of the pain I may have caused, and moreover, of any potential loss of friendship.

And I am sure that other intrepid explorers will uncover me soon enough, if they haven't already. To be honest, I have every intention of continuing writing, as this little space is my emotional outlet.

So much is on!

I am so sorry for being relatively quiet lately, I have had so much to do. Axel is now speaking to me again, and he has had some heartache, so I am taking care of him. Last night, we went to a industrial/rock/fetish night... I danced to some grinding industrial that reverberated through my entire body. It was exquisite. I am out tonight at a small fetish party for Alistair's birthday, and when I return, I promise to give a full report, both of the first club, with it's smoke and alien creatures; and of the party with, well, it's filth...

A ray of sunshine:

This blog is supposed to be about kink, romance, relationships, and the traumas and joys that flow from them. However, everything has been packed so full of trauma of late, that I have decided to deviate from theme in order to relate a joyous event from today.

I have been working on an illustration for Alistair, as it is his birthday on Friday. When we started fraternising last year, he always said he wanted me to draw him something for his birthday, and a promise is a promise. The picture is of a reclining woman clad in a black latex catsuit. I finished it but a few hours ago, and had asked Courtney if he knew a good place to get it framed. It turns out that an acquaintance of his has a gallery just down the road, and so I trundled off there, picture in hand.

When I arrived, I pulled out the picture and asked what would be the best kind of way to present it. It was a really cool gallery, with some rather fine works in the window, and really professional inside. I did not introduce myself as Courtney's friend... I didn't really think to. The owner looked at my drawing and said it was the best pencil work he had seen in a long time. I was really taken aback, because I have never shown my stuff to anybody who knows anything about art before. In fact, I haven't seriously picked up a pencil in a long time. He commented on my ability to draw hands, and really loved the piece. (Incidently, I hate drawing hands, it scares the crap out of me, but I kept this to myself). He showed me a lovely frame, and it would cost me £80, but I am a poor student and could not afford this, so I asked for something cheaper. It seemed to be because he really liked my work that he offered me the framing for £50, and he told me that I must bring more of my stuff in. In fact, as he was filling out the forms, he told me that it should really have cost £120. He then said that I should bring some pieces in to place in the window, because he thinks he may be able to sell them for me.

I was so surprised, and it made me feel utterly wonderful about my abilites (which I still don't truly believe are that great). I have always wanted to be good enough to be able to put stuff in a gallery, and now I have been told that I am. It really was the boost I needed. Since realising that teaching is not for me, I have been so lost... friends have said that I should try to make it as an artist, or writer, but I have always seen this as foolishness, never believing it would be possible to earn a penny. But now, though I might never make a living, maybe I can. Maybe I have lost part of my identity in failing to want to teach, but regained an old part that I should never have left behind in the first place.

Unhappy

I am back. Saturday night, I danced under the stars with a red feather boa... Friends tried to pull me on the stage to perform a number. The horror. I did not get wasted, but was high as a kite by the end, because I love dancing so much.
Nonetheless, there were moments of trauma. Last night after we got back was no exception. I am too sad to write about it today. In fact I am too sad to do anything. My room is a mess, everything is a mess.
I am so unhappy, and everything seems hopeless and dark. I don't want my life to be this way, and I just don't have it in me to save myself. Or perhaps I do, and I am just being useless. And you know what, I know it is wrong, but I just want someone to come save me, and sadly, Alistair is no knight in shining armour. And even if he was, I'd prefer silk stockings.
To be frank, far too often, I wish I had an off-switch for my life. If no one would be damaged by me not being here, I think I would have pushed the button a while ago. That's not to say I am suicidal, or that I am going to do something stupid. I would never ever do that because I would never ever want to cause anybody that I care about so much pain. And I don't always feel like this, just most of the time. I am wishing and wishing that things will improve soon.

Never say never...

It has always been common knowledge amongst my friends that I have a powerful aversion to watersports. Piss to the innocents out there. The very idea of playing with "waste products", as I would romantically term it, filled me with both dread and disgust. I didn't judge, each to their own, but it would be a cold day in hell before I touched the stuff.

Even as I write, I am transported back several years, when I was around the age of 23. I was attending a fetish party with Axel. When we arrived, I strolled into the kitchen, only to find that they had erected a children's paddling pool. This could only mean one thing. At some point in the night, pissing would ensue. Clearly, the kitchen is not an ideal place, but it did have a wipe-clean floor. I attempted to forget all about it, and made my way into another room.

I was having a fabulous time, but then, I heard the commotion from downstairs. Rather like a person passing a terrible car-crash, who doesn't want to look, knows they shouldn't look, will be horrified if they look, I went and looked. There was my friend in the paddling pool, his pigtails still in his hair, and a mistress friend of mine towering over him. She had a cigarette in one hand, a glass of champagne in the other, and she was saved from the offending liquid in the pool by her platform, crystal stilettos.

My friend was rolling around jubilantly. People started to form an orderly queue so they could all have the experience of pissing on him. Reassuringly, nobody was taking it too seriously at this point, and it was in the British vernacular, a bit of a piss-take. Axel gleefully joined the line, ignoring my feeble attempts to forbid him from taking part. I had the last laugh, because when it came to his turn, he was so high that he couldn't pee. And then the worst thing that could have happened, happened. My friend in the pool flailed his arms a little too passionately, and splattered me with several people's wee. I ran out of the room screaming "Get it off me! Get it off me!"

Oh, how things have changed... more later.

But what will the toilet facilities be like...?

I am off to a charity music festival tomorrow, and so will not be blogging until Sunday/Monday. I am attending with Courtney, Alistair, and the ex.

I know. I know.

Anyways, years ago I went to a one day only festival, so this'll be my first proper one. And my first ever time camping. 28 years old, can you believe it? I am hoping to find the man of my dreams, and so will be packing lots of wet-wipes because I don't even know if people wash at these things. It's really small, and probably quite poncy... they like rich people at these exclusive charity event thingies.

Friends

This post is for Adam and Artemis.

I told my two dearest friends about this blog. They do not move in the kinky circles that I do, and so are somewhat outside the zone of trauma. They are also a little outside because I have not been telling them everything and keeping myself to myself. Partly this is due to the fact that I did not want to worry them, and partly because I knew what they would say. Lastly, it's because I am sometimes a less than perfect friend.

They are the best friends that I have ever had, and no matter how much I fuck up, or hide away, they are always there for me. I don't have an excuse for the worry I am causing, nor for not always being there for them as much as I should. When I am deeply unhappy, I often stick my head in the sand like an ostrich girl, and pretent that reality does not exist. I can only say that I am very sorry.

So, they read my blog, and are understandably concerned for my well-being. I know that I should not let a man treat me like this, and I know that this is not the way to help myself. I know I am not yet able to just tear myself away from Alistair, and yet I know what I would be telling a friend who was in the same position as me. I feel like I must be one of those women who allows herself to abused, and not in that hot good way that I like so much.

And I know that if Adam reads this, he might be a tad cross and frustrated, and want to tell me to stop writing about it, and just do something.

All this is really just to say that I am sorry for the upset and stress, and I love you guys.

GOTH

Last night, I made a decision not to sit and fester in my room. Which essentially would involve sleeping again, which is my preferred method of dealing with my depression. No, Maisie, I thought, put on your red lipstick and short black dress. You are going out. Yes, I made an executive decision to go out drinking alone, my mission: to find the man of my dreams. Courtney applauded me on the way out, and gave me one of his pep-talks. If you recall from earlier posts, he is rather good at "the game". I am a poor student, but have still learned much. "Remember, they will be afraid to talk to you," he said, "You are tall, look intimidating, and clearly know 'stuff'." He told me to perform a quick room-scan upon arrival. Pick out the ones looking at me, select my prey, and pounce.

Off I went, to a well known rock bar in the centre of town. I got off the train, and realised that I had not eaten all day. I promptly tried to maintain the glamour whilst shovelling Burger King fries down my neck on a street corner. And then off I went. Off to the venue of men with long hair. It was almost empty. Tuesday night. Nuts. Nevertheless, I scanned. In the group of smokers outside, there was one very pretty boy. The only one for me in the whole bar, it transpired. But, oh wait, hold your fire, he was with a girl. It's ok, Maisie, I thought. She may be a friend, a sister. They kissed. Bollocks.

I went inside and tried to look hot as I sipped a G&T. I am not sure who I was aiming my pitch at, since there was practically no one to see it. And then a solitary, rather sorry looking goth walked in, he had the look of someone who couldn't remember his last shag. Something inside me said that eventually he would make a beeline for me, and treat me to some soul-destroying conversation. Oh god. I moved outside and tried to look busy with my phone. He came outside and planted himself down on the bench next to me. "Hello," he said, "Were you at (whoever's) funeral?" Great, I thought. We have only just started speaking, and we are already talking about funerals. He then moved onto what "gothic" establishments I frequent, and then poured scorn on the modern architecture being built around us, because her preferred the "older, more gothic sort." I smiled through gritted teeth, but even I have to admit that part of me was laughing. We're in typical Maisie country, I thought.

But wait, hark, what is that? Praise be, it was my friend (who we shall call Artemis) phoning me. I am saved, I thought. And indeed I was, for a time. but alas, the conversation turned to sex and fetish. The time came for me to end the call. I placed the phone back in my bag, and gothic man looked at me. He smiled his gothic smile, and he said "Do you want to go home and do fetish with me?" I am afraid my usual diplomacy escaped me at this point.

"No!" I said, rather too loudly and forcefully.

He didn't look surprised, and really, he had probably heard it a million times before. I made my excuses, visited the loo, and left. I went back to the station, walked through the tunnels, came to the platform, settled myself down onto a seat, looked up. Imagine my surprise, because there he was. I know not how, nor why... actually, I know why. But really, how was it possible?

Thank god he got off at Waterloo.

Letting go of the fairytale.

During the weekend, I spoke to a friend who is fast becoming a big sister to me. I am the eldest of two girls, and it is with affection that I say that I often feel like the emotional janitor to my immediate family. I am extremely adept at dealing with the world's problems, just not my own. Because of this, it is so nice to have somebody to talk to, who can dish out advice, support, hugs. Someone who has been there and done it.

Izzy is in her early forties, petite, and dyes the tips of her dark, spikey short hair a variety of colours. It would be an understatement to say she has had an eventful life. I have known her since I first started out on the fetish scene, about ten years ago, and though we have only just begun to get closer, I always liked her because she saw and liked me for who I was. I was around the age of 18/19 years old when I went to my first clubs and parties, and I was in a very dark place, way darker than the one I am in now. Every weekend, I would consume as many pills as possible in order to get as high as possible so I could be happy and just forget the pain. Added to this was the fact that I was so unhappy with myself that it was impossible to be myself at parties. I became this over the top, loud, (although always kind), peroxide blonde, who never let her intelligence and the depths of her personality shine through. Alistair knew me back then. I would go to his house for parties, and we would barely speak. He has admitted that he thought I was a drug-addled bimbo. But Izzy always saw something that most people didn't. She tells me now that every time she sees me, I just keep getting better and better. The peroxide is gone, and the hair is now long and black. That alone is an improvement...

I have told her about Alistair. She thinks he is a narcissist, and that I should attempt to erect some emotional distance between us whilst taking what I can get from the "relationship", (obviously, we are not talking in material terms here). I wonder if can. She has also told me that I need to let go of the fairytale and accept that nothing lasts forever. As she spoke, I found myself desperately searching for examples of couples I knew who had been together for a long, long time, excluding older generations who may have stayed together because of convention. I can't think of many, and most of those that I can are experiencing difficulties. My relationship with Axel leapt before my eyes. I have yet to speak of him here. The love of my life.

Five years we were together, separating finally at the end of last year, though technically it happened in the April. I may not be in love with him, but I love that boy with all my heart and soul, and right now, I would give anything to feel his arms around me. And I really, really believed we would be together until death parted us. I don't believe in love at first sight, but it was as close as one could get. I shall save the story for another time. It involves drugs and nudity, but that aside, the moment we met, the world seemed brighter, happier... In a way, nothing seemed real, because I had never experienced such powerful force of emotion. But it was real. And it ended.

Should I listen to Izzy? Is she correct? She says that in order to find something lasting, one must give up the dream, for it is only then that you stand a chance.

Alistair will never feel for me what he feels for the ex. And I will never have a bond with him like do with Axel... But I will never have a bond with anyone like I do with Axel. At first, despite his protestations that he is, in fact, terribly romantic, I did not believe Alistair. But then I recalled the story of when he was travelling a lot for work. He was not able to see the ex very much, so he booked a hotel, paid for them to blanket the room in rose petals, ordered champagne and strawberries. He flew her out there, knowing that she would reach the hotel first. Apparently she did not say anything... When I heard that story, I wanted to cry. Now when I think of it, I want to cry for different reasons. It is not that he is not romantic. He just doesn't feel it with me. He does for her, and does not get to express it properly because of her rejections. But I see glimmers. In the way that he calls her his "darling girl", the way that he sometimes uses her pet-name... I also know because before she decided to come back into his life, he was beginning to be like that with me. The way he would hold me, the things he would say, the way he would be excited to see me. He doesn't use his pet-name for me any more. I was briefly reminded a few nights ago of how things were, or could be. I detailed them in an earlier post, and now I wonder, was he really making love to me? For all his flaws, could he really be so callous? Perhaps it was untrue, but he had convinced himself of what he was saying. Perhaps it is simply true. But how can that be when I am reduced to the sidelines?

I am not allowed to see him for the whole of this week. Nor is Ben allowed to visit the ex. They are to have a week alone together, with the intention of "sorting things out". The ex has now told Alistair that she is not in love with him. He is aware she has said that she does not want to be with him. I truly wish I could bring myself to inform Alistair that she has lately said that she moved back in with him in oder to live according to the manner in which she has become accustomed. Since it was told to Ben, I keep silent, lest I scupper Ben's chances of ultimately being with her... I am sure she would not appreciate his confessions to me.

And still, still, there is this tiny little niggling hope that I wish I could be free of. For surely, if that were to be removed, I would have no reason to stay?

Two crap feminists sitting in a tree...

Alistair was feeling sick on Friday. He came home early from work, and I was still there surfing. Still no internet at home. He went straight up to bed for a couple of hours sleep... a playmate was meant to be coming over later. Before I left, I offered to return later to make him dinner if he felt too ill and had to cancel his date. He seemed pretty indifferent, and when I arrived home, I decided to think of myself for a change.

I called up a female friend from the fetish scene who I have only ever spoken to at parties. I heard she was going through a rough time with her man. We arranged to meet at a rock bar in town, and I texted Alistair to say that I was going out drinking. He immediately asked with whom, and I must confess that I neglected to answer.

I know. I know.

Red is a little younger than me, very cyber-goth, and looks like a voluptuous pixie. She is fiendishly clever, and a rather good artist. Her adhd means that she is constantly full of energy, and as I am tend to amble along, I found it quite refreshing. We discovered that we have so much in common, our interests, our warped and paranoid little minds, the fact that we both have men who are treating us in very similar ways, in comparable circumstances. It was wonderful to have someone to talk to who understood, both the nature of the situation, and how difficult it is to just walk. We both have terrible low self-esteem. We are both feminists, and spent a great deal of the evening analysing society... but we are crap feminists who are compelled to throw ourselves at the feet of men who treat us badly. The joke is that if we really believed we were half as good as people say we are, we would be formidable women indeed. I think we shall end up being extremely good friends, I really hope so. We plan to go clubbing soon to catch pretty long-haired boys. She likes them blonde, I like them dark. She is dom, I am (generally) sub, so watch out boys, here we come.

In other news, Alistair was far too ill on Saturday to party, so I had to run the show by myself (and nurse him). Sadly, I didn't get to have any fun. It was a small party, and I didn't feel like playing with anyone who was there. Great friends, but I just wasn't feeling it. Still, I zapped Red with the violet wand once or twice, and another boy was trussed up in a latex straightjacket, so it wasn't a total write-off ;-) .

On Sunday, Alistair and I spent a really nice evening curled up together watching The Fringe on his laptop. He was being quite snuggly and sweet with me (apart from when he was a bit irritable due to his illness). I think the niceness was due to the fact that I never did say who I met on the Friday. When I initially arrived at the beginning of the weekend, the first thing he commented upon was how happy I looked. This was genuine, and brought on by the wonderful time I had with Red. He had texted at the time to ask again who I was seeing, and asked if it was Kit. I responded by saying that it was more of a "cat". So, he thinks I was seeing a boy. When pressed on Saturday, I simply said that I had been with someone that I met a while ago, which was the truth. He immediately asked if I was going to fall in love with them. I said that I didn't know. Sad that it comes down to this. I actually partly wish that I would meet somebody else to fall utterly in love with.

Wrong and Bizarre.

(The background: On Monday, he met me for a drink to let me know how pissed off he was at my behaviour. Not the way to treat someone you love, he said. Then he asked for distance, but would call me before the end of the week.)

Tuesday arrived. I needed to pick up a package of school books that had been delivered to his address. Alistair would be at work. I went in and greeted the ex and the friends that she had over. She asked me if I would go and get a coffee with her. It sounded like a good idea to me, I am a huge fan of openess and honesty, largely because my warped and paranoid little mind is saved from unnecessary gymnastics that way.

We never reached the cafe. We got wine instead. And as I have mentioned before, I get along extremely well with her, despite her behaviour, which I often find appalling. We talked. She told me Alistair loves me, and that she has said to him that she thinks he treats me badly. I voiced my concerns that he is losing interest in me, for which she had no answer. I admitted how deeply I feel, though it is obvious for all to see, and told her that if it would really bring about Alistair's happiness, I would back away. The ex thought this was silly. She sees no reason why we can't all exist together, since her and I get along so well. She is bisexual, and I am not, but we would be doing a platonic girlfriend thing. I would be fulfilling the areas she could not, and it would all be dependent on whether he could treat us equally. We were tipsy. It seemed to make complete sense.

She also told me of some of the terrible ways in which he has treated her, of which I have heard the bare bones already. However, if what she says is true and unexaggerated, then I am horrified at the callousness. I will not give any details of that part of the conversation here, lest anyone involved ever stumbles across my writings. I am not here to reveal the private affairs of others that do not concern me in any way. When she related events, she became teary eyed several times, as she also did when we dicussed some of her sexual/play issues.

Although I am useless at managing my own emotional affairs, I am rather good at helping and advising others. She told me a few things. She told me that sex just does not work between them, which left me wondering what she likes, because I have a rip-roaring filthy good time with the boy. She told me she has good sex with Ben, that he has much of what she wants and needs. I asked her if she is in love with Alistair, and she told me a very definite "no", but that she loves him... I am pretty certain that she has never told Alistair this.

As a sideline, I spoke to Ben yesterday. Not only has she revealed to him that she is not interested in Alistair, but she has also said that she needed to move in with Alistair whilst she did her course in London in order to live in the manner that she is accustomed to. i.e. Going it alone would mean a more frugal existence.

Back to Tuesday. As I said, we were tipsy, so when she said that she wanted to go for cocktails, well that sounded just dandy. I paused. I said to her that I knew that Alistair was planning to have a "chat" with her tonight, and so perhaps we should not go out. Especially with each other. Somehow, she ended up calling Alistair at work and asking him to come too.

I know, I know.

Before I knew it, we were planning to both wear our tartan mini-skirts, and the Mary-Jane shoes we have that turn out to be matching. She wears a black top, I wear a white top (which is odd, because I am the one usually all in black.) We take the bus to the bar. We order cocktails. Alistair arrives.

I know, I know.

He is a little tired and crabby at first. He takes the nearest seat, which is next to the ex. And of course, most of the body language and eye contact is directed at her. I was prepared for this. We chatter, and I think he feels as if he is involved in a plot, since we are getting along so very well, but he does express gladness that we have spoken. Eventually she brings up the topic at hand, phrasing it like we have sat down and decided what he wants. This makes him bristle. I smooth things over. They bicker somewhat. He makes light, she gets cross, and then she begins the insults. He never insults her. I begin to feel upset.

So I think to myself that there is probably no hope for Alistair and I. That I should give up and just try to help them improve things between them. I start to mediate, counsel, if you will. And I did a good job, and this made me feel sick. And then the ex disappeared to the loo for long enough that I thought she must have bowel trouble. We have more cocktails and go to a restaurant for dinner.

More of the same ensues. Moments of progress, a lot of bickering, her insults. I fliched as she called him fat and flabby. He may have put on some weight, but really, it 'aint that bad. I am pretty damn shallow, and so fussy I hardly ever get any. The boy is hot. She clearly no longer fancies him. After we had finished eating, she disappears to the toilet again. She is gone a very long time. I go out for a cigarette, and when I return, she is still gone. I lifted my eyes to look at Alistair, "Where is she?" I asked,

"She will be in the loo talking to Ben," he looked sad, disappointed, angry. I felt disbelief. I had spent the evening trying to make everything better, first with this whole menage a trois thing, which is essentially a method to keep him sweet so she can live with him (and if it is not, then I am extremely sorry, but it sure as hell looks like it to me), and then by stomping all over my own heart in hobnails for the chance that they could be happy. And what does she do? She goes to talk to the guy that she is falling for, the guy that is ripping Alistair apart, during our evening of fixing things.

She arrived back from the loo, and Alistair said to her, "Where were you?" she shrugged and brushed the question off. "On the phone to Ben," he said. She was forced to agree. Arguing ensued.

I slowly got up from my chair, and slid out of the restaurant. I am pretty sure that they did not even notice. My original intention was to smoke outside and wait for them, but something in me propelled my feet back to the bustop. I stood there for a short while, and in the distance I saw Alistair approaching. He was alone. I paid him no heed, and since there was a crowd he did not notice me as we got on the bus, which is no mean feat, since I am extremly tall and had my bunches in. I went upstairs, and he did not surface, so after a while I descended the stairs to seek him out. He was seated right by the foor of the stairs. He seemed to indicate that he had finished it with her and he had certainly left her there. He said he understood what I had tried to do, but that he thought it was stupid. Though I was not crying, I was in so much pain that I simply told him that if he must end it, he should do it right there. I did not want this to go on any longer. But he refused, I am not sure why, he muttered something about being drunk, but also something else that I did not catch. We got off the bus, and I told him what she had said about not being in love with him. He said he would call me the next day, that he wanted to be tucked up in his bed, and that he loved me. I waited until I was some distance before I allowed myself to cry. And cry I did. In fact, I sobbed, and was thankful that there was nobody to see or hear.

Back at home, Courtney said that I had come out of this smelling of roses. The trouble is, their sweet perfume is not ennough to win and keep the hearts of pretty boys with long hair. When I checked my phone, I discovered that I had a missed call from Alistair. I returned it, he thought I had deliberately not answered, and just wanted to check that I was alright. I told him how upset the ex had made me, that I felt like I had been used, and some other things that I cannot remember. And then I cried, I did not mean to, but could not help it. Before we said goodnight, he told me to fetch my heatable lavender bag, and be sure to put lots of the lavender oil that he had bought me on it. He knows that lavender soothes me when I am distressed. It's my thing. He said he loved one last time, and then goodnight.

(I am told by the staying friend that they spent much of Wednesday locked in coversation. Later, Alistair called and I asked him where things stood, and he said that he has no idea. Business as usual, then. I asked him where I stood and if he still wants to see me. He simply said that nothing has changed, and told me he was free on Thursday night.)

What on earth do I do with this? I do not know what to think.

The Full Picture, or, I am going to splurge on you now...

Hello to all you devourers of dysfunction, you connoiseurs of calamity, lovers of car-crash TV, and readers of blogs of excruciation. I bid thee welcome.

I must apologise for these few days of silence, the internet in my household is not working, and Courtney has yet to fix it. But with his boyish good looks, and loveable manner, I have yet to shout at him.

So, what has happened?

As you know, we arrived back from the cottage early on Sunday evening. Many, many people were in the house. Of Her entourage, we had Kit, Timmy, Sally, and a close friend of Alistair's, Mistress Max. Max was back from a stint abroad, and it was a shame he could not give her the attention she deserved. And of course, Ben was there... Can you hear the alarm bells yet? I was already apprehensive, but very tired, only having had five hours sleep. I tried to snooze in the bed upstairs, but the feeling of impending doom kept me awake. I wandered downstairs, glass of red in hand, (yes, I took a glass of red up to bed, and yes I know that this was a bit sad. It should have been gin). Kit asked me to snuggle on his lap and be stroked, and as you may have read in earlier blogs, Kit is very pretty, much too young, and will be a fine thing in a couple of years. I snuggled down. Meanwhile, Alistair scampered underfoot of the ex in the kitchen, and I focused on the stroking, so as not to feel neglected. Alistair and the ex were quarrelling, so we all carried on awkwardly in the lounge.

Eventually, I became aware that Ben, Alistair and the ex had disappeared. This was at about the same time that I felt the cloud of impending doom actually erupt. I went to investigate. Upstairs, I found poor Ben sitting alone in the office, in the dark. I sat down and ask him to tell me what had happened. It transpired that Alistair had approached him and told him that if he wanted the ex, he could have her. Much trauma. The two of them were now upstairs engaged in their regular dramas that go no where. I comforted Ben, who is a well adjusted, good, sweet boy. He should never have been caught up in this mess in the first place.

I took him downstairs. All the while my already breaking heart was shedding further fragments. Alistair's love for the ex moves him to such acts of passion. These are acts that I shall never see. Again, I began to question this love he says he has for me. How can he love me and be so consumed with his love for the ex, especially as she clearly never reciprocates? But then my thoughts became more concerned with the fact that we were all about to crowd around the dinner table for a lovely pork roast. It was particularly special, because some of us new what had just occurred, and some of us were totally unaware. How interesting it was to watch the uncomfortable glances of those who could clearly detect a certain something in the air, but could not quite put there finger on it, and those who knew very well what was afoot and either tried to avoid eye contact, or deliberately make it in the most pathetic pleading ways possible. You could tell how on edge I was. I leant towards Max, who was sitting next to me, and asked her to take me down to the dungeon and give me a good therapeutic beating. I have to be severely stressed to ask a woman to fix me, but at that point it is not sexual, so I suppose it makes sense.

We never got to the dungeon. I had some more private time with Ben, and he confided in me that the ex had made it clear to him that she did not want Alistair, that she is having good sex with Ben (not the "I only do it to please them but I am not into it" kind that she always harps on about). At this point I had had enough. I thought that if I did not march right on upstairs and tell Alistair it was over and that we could not go on, I would never do it. Up I went. All the while, the voices in my head were telling me how selfish I was being, and that I should not kick him while he was down. But then something else told me how selfless I usually am, and how much I was suffering, so on I went.

He was about to go to bed, so I went upstairs and told him. This was a bad thing to do. He was very displeased at the moment I chose. When he calmed down, I put him into bed, and kept telling him how sorry I was. I also told him that I knew that she had said she did not want him. I did it because I believed that it was the right thing to do. It was a pointless exercise, because I am inclined to think that even if she were a homicidal maniac whose soul purpose in life was to rip out Alistair's toe-nails, dip them in Tobasco, then make him eat them, shortly before cutting off his dick with a rusty knife and watching him bleed to death over his expensive lilac carpet, he would still be scuttling around her.

Anyway, he said he loved me, I said I loved him. I left. On the way out, he sent a text telling me he never meant for me to get hurt like this when we first started seeing each other. I said that the situation is destructive, but I'd like to think there was still hope, and he should call me the next day. He said he didn't know what he thought. Blah blah.

And then I did something foolish. After I arrived home, I was consumed with a fit of romance and passion. You know, the kind I wish I could ignite in him, but which he reserves only for the ex. I spoke to Courtney. He did a rubbish job of sitting on me. I flew back out the door and ran all the way to Alistair's. Granted, I can practically see his house from mine, but I did it in flip-flops. I bounded up the stairs, and there are a lot of stairs up to the top, tip-toed into his room, knelt down next to the bed, and whispered: "You must be feeling like nobody cares right now," (the ex had gone off with Ben to drop him home), "But I want you to know that I love you, and I don't regret any of the things we have done". He said he loved me, but had already fallen half asleep, and was slightly crabby. You could offer him a million quid at that point, and he'd grinch at you. I went home crying at my silliness, he texted me again, saying that he did not regret anything either, but that the situation is hurting me, and that he'd call tomorrow.

Courtney, and the woman I live with, Violet, poured me gin.

The next installment, i.e. Tuesday's events, are absolutely wrong and bizarre on so many levels, and make this look like a night in with the Waltons.

Fragment of smut.

I simply am unable to retell events at this point, it is too difficult for me and I am trying not to think at all. Due to this fact, I am going to post the beginnings of some general smut.

The boy has a pair of eyes like dark pools of lust that you could just imagine falling into and happily drowning. But you don’t want to show him that, oh no... Not yet anyway. Not before you have taken him to the point where those pools of lust become pools of devotion. That’s the fix. That’s the look you can ride on, just as high as any drug that you care to name.
Sometimes I like to pull a latex hood over that pretty face, the kind that has an attachable “blindfold” to be fixed on with studs. The obvious attraction is that it renders him a little more helpless, and aside from this, we can never underestimate the element of surprise. But I enjoy it all the more because when I finally pull the whole thing off, I get to see the tendrils of hair that are plastered to his face with sweat, and more importantly, the look that he gives me.
But I never release his head before I have knelt over him and worked his face into the crack of my arse. I revel in the little muffled moans he gives. The sound he makes vibrates through me as he dutifully pushes his tongue inside. I like to have him stick it out, so that I can bounce myself up and down and fuck it. He writhes underneath me, helpless, wrapped up in a latex straightjacket. I don’t have to torment him like this for very long before he comes, so it is always wise to cut this game short. I am rather taken with the sensation of his warm, wet tongue plunging into my arsehole, but am more than happy to crawl off of him in order to prolong our playtime.
It is at this point that I unlock the cuffs around his ankles. Hauling him to his feet, I hook my finger into the ring of his collar and tug him in the direction of the stairs.

Epic fucked-up mess, or, Where have all the adults gone?

This will be brief. Alistair took me away to a well known fetish/BDSM cottage in the countryside. We came back on Sunday. I now know it was as much about getting him away from having to see the ex with Ben mas it was about taking me away. We arrived back on Sunday, and the ex had her entourage round for dinner. There were lots of people. Lots.
And then the epic fuck-up occurred. Alistair walked up to Ben and told him he can have her. This unleashed a whole world of pain and trauma. It was a long and bad night. It is 2pm in the afternoon, and I am tucked up in bed as I write, the thought of climbing out is a bit too much at present. I am going to snooze, and when I wake up, I hope to relate the entire disaster. Eventually, it would be nice to give you some of the smut of Saturday night in the dungeon, but that 'aint gonna happen right now.

Put on your happy face and make like a slut.

Going away with Alistair for the weekend. Leaving at 1730, surprise destination. Had dinner with him last night, and PMS ensured that I could not keep my yap shut. He is an emotional cripple, and likes me to keep my yap shut. Told him the situation is excruciating, and that if he thinks I am treating him differently, no shit, Sherlock. He is not my boyfriend, so he can hardly expect the full Maisie-beating-herself-unconscious-against-his-wall-treatment. He is growing more and more jealous of Ben, the boy the ex is fraternising with, and loses interest in me by the day, I fear. Especially when I can't keep my big yap shut. I am beginning to feel sick just looking at him. Spent last night not wanting to go away. Just popped round there to pick up some stuff to preen with. He seemed a bit distant. Mentioned Ben to me again. Apparently the ex asked him if he still has a problem with Ben, and he said no, he has a pronlem with her. (She once left him for a guy in a situation like this.) Apparently it is ok for him to be with me in what ever way he is, but not for her to be with Ben. I can't help feeling that I am some sort of bizarre tool to get at her.

I told him I don't want to discuss any relationship shit with him this weekend. We will go away, and I will make out like none of this awful mess is happening. He said he wants to do the same. Obviously the concern is not for my wellbeing, he just doesn't want to think about Ben. Even as I write, I wonder if I have the strength to enjoy this weekend. How do you look into the face of a man who is tearing you apart inside. I begin to loathe myself for behaving like a puppy who gets kicked in the teeth, yet goes back for more, and I begin to resent him for being so awful to me.

Sunday 27th April 2008

Part Two

We arranged to meet at an upmarket bar on the same street as his apartment. I was told to wait for him there and order a drink, and that he would pick up the tab when he arrived. (Space for feminist disgust at myself). He said he would drink and converse with me, and then it would be time to make a decision. To leave or to stay. If I chose to go back with him, I would be indicating that I accepted and understood all of his conditions.

I sat at that bar with my G&T, ice rattling away in the glass because my hand was shaking so much... I was so nervous. I tried to focus on my book, The Second Sex by de Beauvoir, as best I could. I didn't notice him until he was right beside me, I can't remember if I felt his hand on my hair, although I think that I might have. Something had changed, something that I couldn't place, something in him. I don't know, but as soon as I saw him, I wanted to give him whatever he asked of me.

Luckily, I can occupy that headspace and not lose myself enough that I am perfectly able to enjoy good conversation. As we spoke, he occasionally said the odd thing that made me blush, or look away, nothing explicit, but it was indicative of how the dynamic had changed. I was not so confident now, a powerful thing indeed. He asked me about the book, we spoke of other things, and then I finished my drink. I froze in my chair. I had already made my mind up, but now, it was a matter of physically propelling myself forward. Eventually I said yes, and we left. As we walked down his very well known street in the heart of Angel, he teased me about the fact that I let slip that I hadn't had a fuck in five months. I gripped onto his arm. I didn't just want to obey him, I wanted him.

He opened his front door. There was no hallway or doors, just some coat pegs on the right, and some fresh, bright looking wooden stairs leading up. I looked at the hanger hooked on one of the pegs. I said, "That's for me, isn't it...?" And he said yes, and then he was upon me. He pushed me against the wall and pressed his lips to mine, slipping his hands inside my coat. My breath caught in my throat, and I thought I would be driven mad by desire. I am 27 years old, and whilst I have felt passionately desired before, never like this. This wasn't simply "I want you," but "I will have you, you are mine." And the feel of his lips... the way he kisses.

Despite the space being very limited, somehow, I ended up sliding down the wall, onto the floor, and yet still, he was on top of me. Eventually, he got up, told me to undress and said he would be upstairs. I did as I was asked, and began to ascend.

More to come...

Sunday 27th April 2008

To hell with the hormones. Sleeping hasn't worked, so I thought I would relate a happy memory. And yes, it contains smut. It is the story of when I finally met up with a man from Texas, after a stint of emails and texts. I documented it at the time, and this is what I wrote:

Part One

How did we ever get here? One minute I was withdrawing because I feared he liked me much more than I him, and now I sit here worrying that I like him too much. Oh dear, how are we going to deal with this one?

David's emails have always had me enthralled, as he writes so beautifully. When we met at CCK, I liked him very much, had great conversation and a good time. But the banter we exchanged left me wondering if the person I saw in the emails could ever really come to the surface. At CCK, I teased him mercilessly and made him fidget in his chair like a little boy. Towards the end, I sat on his lap and he pulled my hair and nipped my ear. I wanted to get out. There was no way I was kissing him. Stupid girl. I now know that kissing David makes you melt.

Over the past week, we have exchanged several emails, talked online, but mostly texted. During this period, I have slowly come to see this other "facet" to David's personality. And piece by piece, I have begun to long to explore further.

On Thursday night,. around midnight, I knew for sure that I would be sleeping in his bed by Saturday. He told me that I was allowed to bring one toy into his flat, I responded by saying: "One toy, one garment." I was so taken aback when he calmly told me that I needed to learn that there was no room for negotiation, and that I had half an hour to write a page detailing why women who speak out of turn should have their faces fucked. I was immediately at the damn laptop, tapping the keys. He was pleased, and in the morning, emailed me to inform me of what was to be expected, should I go home with him. He told me about the hanger by the front door, which was for my clothes, only lingerie and uniforms are permitted on the upper levels. I would dress and undress at the foot of the stairs. He told me that he was not their for my entertainment, and that I was there to please him.

More to follow...

When PMS and trauma collide.

I promise that I shall deliver a packet of filth, debauchery and kinky sex-joy to you over the weekend. But for now, I inflict this...

I woke up at 7am to the sounds of building work. It had been a sleepless night, punctuated with dreams so weird and draining that even I could gain no joy from them. I eventually realised that I have a case of the monthly suicides. Thankfully, I do not get them every month. Some months are more potent than others. Sadly, it is more difficult to ride them out when already dealing with emotional turbulence.

I got up and decided to cart myself round to Alistair's early. I had reservations, because last night I left there on a "Oh, the futility" low. But then I realised that he would be at work, and she may very well be out on errands. Yes, I would be alone. I would get writings of essays done. The kind that I should be doing now. Hah! Foolish child, the universe laughs at you.

I arrived, climbed the stairs, and at the top was Alistair. He looked like someone had shot his puppy. Hmmm... actually, he is not that much of an animal person. He looked like he had just found out that his life has been a lie, and that in fact he is working class. Now, obviously, I am a bit sensitive and fragile right now. I don't get the angries, just the suicides. He was making breakfast, and it took him a while to think to offer me any. I asked him what was wrong, and he said "Life," which is his euphemism for "The ex and I have had another almighty dispute, and I am now languishing in despair... Why won't she love me and treat me right. If I just keep on scampering around at her feet, doing my best to dodge the kicks, she will love me eventually." It transpired that he had gone to bed late again, due to the fact that she refuses to go to bed early, and he refuses to go to bed without her. This was worsened by said almighty dispute before they hit the covers. As he was cooking, he phoned upstairs (two floors up) to offer her breakfast. I almost sicked up. I didn't ask what it was about, but I am sure it was one of the standards.

I felt my mood plummet further, so I decided to get the fuck out of there. There was an almost tangible storm cloud hovering above the place, she would be up soon, and I did not want to be around. I told him I would finish my coffee and go. He kept repeating that there was no need, and getting more and more tense. Though he was doing his utmost to restrain it, he seemed to be getting cross. Not in that scary grrrr kind of way, he never does that. He is more of a foot-stamping hmph prissy tantrum kind of guy. He kept muttering that nobody understands what he says. Essentially, she has upset him, and I was getting the fall-out in relation to this. I calmly informed him that as they had been fighting, they could do with the day to themselves, and of course, more muttering ensued about her not spending any time with him.

Sweet fucking bejeezus. Idiot boy. I know it is not part of "the game" to admit this, but what am I, scotch mist? I always make time for him, I always make him feel loved, I always try to make it better when he is sad. We both think it is a good thing to go to bed together and snuggle. I don't insult him, for example, calling him fat (which she does, and he really is not... I mean he is beautiful, and this is not a love is blind thing, many women are of my opinion.) They say that bad boys always get the girl, well it works both ways. Play the game, Maisie.

I am so fed up, I am inviting you, dear reader to suggest the next course of action. In fact, lets do that for every new entry. It will be like the SIMS, only even more perverse than the time when you bricked your character up in a windowless room until they shat themselves and died of starvation.

It's still on-topic.

Had a night of fitful sleep. Got up with sad thoughts in my head. Sat in hall at table, because that's the only poisition in my new place I get good wireless reception. Heard this weird trembling cooing from outside the front door. I could not tell what it was right away, because it was combined with the noise of the building work. I got up, opened the door, and there were two pigeons making love on the stairs. Do pigeons make love? Whatever. Anyway, before I realised that I had stumbled in on a private moment, my little mind was jolted into: must save pigeons trapped in my block of flats mode... Then I saw that they were fucking, and then I watched as they calmly fluttered up to the open windows and sauntered out. Well, they'd got what they came for.

Prince Charming? Not even a frog in sight.

Hello you consumers of rampant tragedy.

Back At Alistair's today, the building work is still too noisy at my place. I didn't see him yesterday, as I had left by the time he got home. He arrived at the usual time today, and has now popped out to pick up the ex. She was out meeting yet another of the entourage, and now requires that she be picked up from the station. Not even the local station. I can't tell if that irks me because it is selfish, or because I would never dream of asking for such things, yet secretly wish I could. Well, it can be both, I suppose. Anyway, I thought I would steal this moment to document what happened, and to pour out my latest boo-hoos.

He came into the office and there were brief hugs and kisses, then he went to get some cigarettes... He doesn't really smoke, but he keeps a supply of lovely, slender, elegant cigarettes for the ladies. Such a cad. I smoke a little, and whenever I am around, he uses the excuse. He likes to puff on it as I hold it for him. It is better to do this when alone, because if she sees him smoking with me, she berates him.

He discussed what we will be doing on Saturday, and also informed me that one of our friends asked him out on a date (one he has yet to play/fuck, but has been intending to do so since January), but that he refused her because he was seeing me. Bravo. Gold star. Applause. A medal for doing the right thing and not acting like a cock. Am I being unfair here? Come on boys, let me know.

He still wants us to go away for the weekend, but denies this is because he feels bad for going away with her my hour of need... He says it is because he would like to be alone with me. No kidding, because this Saturday, the ex will be spending a large chunk of time in the house with an entourage of four. And she will want to use the dungeon with them, because she just isn't into sex and play anymore... Well, she justifies this by saying that she does it to please men. She may speak the truth, but I am inclined to wonder why such an assertive, uncompromising woman who doesn't suffer fools (and actually rarely suffers anyone), would do this? So how wonderful. We will go away. Would we have gone away if our plans mattered, and others had to work around us for once? I say : nay, nay, nay. Please tell me I am being unfair.

And of course, we fucked.

As we sat on the sofa underneath the window, he eased up my skirt. At this point, I wish I could say that I was wearing knickers, but alas. I tried to maintain our conversation as he gently rearranged my bosom so that my breasts protruded out of my bra and over my vest. Before I could blink, I was straddling him, and he was inside of me... And I have to say that this was one of the few moments where I think I just wanted a hug. Very unusual for me, but every now and then, we begin to touch and I get a wave of romantic futility wash over me. Where is this all going? Where can it go? If I was not an atheist, I would pray to god to stop me loving him... (Shhhh, on the off-chance I am wrong, I may actually have already tried that...)

There was, however, a brief window in the hurt caused by some physical hurt... Of the right kind, but unintentinal. As I rode his cock, Alistair was biting my nipples, and I jerked away playfully and caught myself on his deliciously sharp teeth. I yelped, and he was much more bothered than I, and repeatedly apologised... Then I saw why. Blood had been drawn, and a droplet fell on my arm. A wide smile played across my lips. Hot, hot hot. Please let him lap up the blood, I thought. Please oh please oh please. Incidently, we have both been tested and are perfectly healthy. Sadly, he told me to go get a tissue. How utterly disappointing. Insult was added to injury when he expected me to clean my juices off his cock. I voiced my displeasure, but he told me not to disobey him in that voice of his. And well, we all know how this one ended.

And we all know how it is going to end overall, and it 'aint good.

I would say that in two days I may well be writing this from a delightful weekend destination. Sadly, I have a feeling that nothing will be arranged, and we will end up locking ourselves in his room so that we won't be disturbed, and they can have their Saturday just as they planned it, culminating in the dungeon. I feel so important.

Newsflash: Twit.

I am at Alistair's. He is at work. I had to come because I have mammoth deadlines, and the flat downstairs is being refurbished. I couldn't concentrate with the noise.

The ex came into the office. Oh lord, why do we get along so well? I can honestly say that while I find some of her behaviours unethical to say the least, I genuinely interact with her swimmingly well. I do hope she feels the same, and that this is not part of an intricate game of chess.

We chatted about the scene, about the entourage lined up for Saturday, and about how she doesn't enjoy playing and sex anymore. She feels she would, if only she could find someone to top her, this would give her a break from the boredom of topping others, realise some apparent secret fantasies that she dare not share, and eventually make the thought of dominating people fresh and new again. She really wants a girlfriend to play with. (Maybe she is gay, and this is why it is all not working...?)

Typically, I gave her advice on what her sexual issues and issues with play could be, and how they could be helped. And as we all know, if they are solved, she and Alistair can ride off into the sunset. If we want to keep in theme, maybe she could ride him off into the sunset. That's right, Maisie, help the competition. If Darwin had his way, you would have died out by now.

Interestingly enough, she hinted that what Alistair had always referred to as good kinky sex was hardly kinky at all in her eyes. It seems her mind was never in it. Should this make me feel good? Does it give me reason to feel good? If I did feel good, would Buddha send the karma police to make my life even more turbulent than it already is? Still, I'm not sure I'd notice...

The fantasy that escapes me...

Of course I intended on not returning to Alistair's for at least a couple of days... But come on, who can resist the temptation of a summer night's barbeque? I am not made of stone, for Christ's sake. The food was superb, and some of the conversation got me thinking...

There were five of us, Alistair, the ex, two of the ex's entourage, (both extremely nice boys named Isaac and Robin), and last but not least, me. At some point, Alistair made mention of the little "date" that we have for Saturday night. This is a break with tradition, because they are usually "Friday Nights With Maisie and Alistair", and they are now practically an institution. They tend to consist in lots of filthy, depraved, utterly wrong, disgusting play and sex, combined with generous use of narcotics. Last time, we began in the lounge, then the stairs, then the office, then somehow back to the stairs, then the dungeon... We often end up in the bathroom, which is highly convenient because we usually need a good scrubbing. Back to the point.

We are holding this event on Saturday, however, when Alistair brought this up, we discovered that the ex will be attending a fetish club and returning with some of her entourage to play, and they will be requiring the dungeon. (I always wonder how she can tell Alistair she is not interested in play, before promptly carting a boy over to molest). She told us not to worry because by the time they came home, we would be done. I allowed myself some secret satisfaction when Alisatair proudly pointed out that we play all night long, and then some. We also do rather appreciate privacy when we indulge ourselves, but it appears we shan't be getting any, unless we lock ourselves in his bedroom, which is damned inconvenient.

Later on in the conversation, I asked him if he had purchased any blades. I am sad to say that he has not, and does not intend to. He says I will get addicted. I think he simply finds the idea of cutting me unpleasant, but won't say so. I am so disappointed, I have fantasised about it for so long...

There was one particular Friday night when he had me sitting on the sofa, wearing the cute little red rubber apron that he has me put on. He had blindfolded me and dashed off to the dungeon. I had no idea of what he was about to do, but when he returned, I felt the alcoholic wipe on my breast. I became very afraid. My hands were secured behind my back, so I had no way to push his hands away. I thought that he was about to stick a needle in me, and I am so terribly phobic of needles. He told me that it was not a needle, and I instantly guessed that he intended to cut me. My heart felt like it would beat through my chest, and my head was rapidly spinning into that place where I will do anything. Nobody can take me there but Alistair, I almost resent the way he can effortlessly work himself inside my mind. I whimpered, and told him I was afraid (and indeed, a large part of me wanted to stop), and he spoke to me with that silken voice of his, purring to me that I was a good girl, and that it would be ok. Alistair can quite easily reduce me to a quivering wreck without ever laying a hand upon me, he only needs to whisper into my ear. And then I felt the blade cut into my flesh, it was very superficial, and no real damage was caused. It was the most indescribably wonderful and horrific experience. It is not quite the cutting that I seek, it is more the fact that I could ever be put in a position where I would relinquish my body and mind enough that a person could do that to me. The thought of being cut into is horrifying, but the feeling of being under somebody's spell to that degree is exquisite.

The fact that it was revealed to me afterwards that the dungeon had run out of sterile blades some time ago, and that he had in fact been using a sterile needle to scratch his initial into my skin, almost added to the wrongness. Rock on, Friday nights. Suffice to say, ever since that experience, I have been desperate to replicate it, prolong it, revel in it. And now I cannot, because he will not.

When I led him up to bed to be tucked in, (another ritual of ours when I am not able to stay the night), he began to discuss plans for Saturday. He kept saying that he wants to go somewhere and do something with me. I kept my mouth shut, because it almost felt like he wished to take me away because he had taken her away, and that this would put right a whole heap of wrong. I would rather be taken away in my own right, independent of the treats that others have already received. Still, I am sure the intentions are fairly good, so I shall keep quiet on this one. In any case, we both have so much work to do, we will have to spend most of the time studying etc. He thinks that it would be a good idea to work away, but can't think of where. I find it hard to work in strange places, largely because I am slighlty OCD and fear change. I think he would ideally like a place to work that could be then used for private play-time. The more I write, the more I resent the fact that again, it is all working around her plans.

"You were right, that was perfect..."

Please note: The reference to a "first kiss" is due to the fact that I felt that I had been given the chance at a second first ever kiss after my braces were removed. The real first kiss at 17 years old was technically brilliant, but a charity kiss nonetheless. I was more geek, less chic back then.

So much has happened, so much to say, but there is only one thing I can talk about today. I have a feeling that if I look in the mirror across from me, my cheeks will still be flushed with that warm, luxurious glow that can only mean one thing.

The last leg of the weekend saw me in fairly high spirits, partly because I was happy to have now moved into a friendly environment, and also because my friend and new housemate, Courtney, is teaching me how to play "the game". I hate the game, I am rubbish at the game, or at least I was, until I was shown how easy, and hell I'll say it, rewarding it is.

I did not respond to Alistair's texts, and if I did, always with short responses, no kisses (oh, the modern times we live in...) Sure enough, his texts just kept coming, and coming, and coming... I suppose lack of self-confidence and fear of rejection has hampered me in the past. I have never dared to behave in this way before, always believing that they would never care enough to hang around, or want to please me. Alistair has spent the last two days becoming more and more worried, and Courtney has spent them instructing me to give a little bit here, withdraw a little bit there.

I gave a little last night and popped across the road for dinner. He had told the ex that he wanted to spend the evening with me, so she promptly invited a mutual friend of all of ours, Ben, for dinner too. I am going to form a support group with him, since he is hopelessly in love with her. It's almost poetic. I arrived, and I was magnificent, never giving too much away, but always knowing when to extend my arms when he became too sad. And yes, all of this makes me sound like a manipulative bitch, but I love him. I have tried everything, and this is all I have left.

Alistair sat with me on the sofa, leaned into me, and told me how sad he was that I had not told him I loved him since he went away. That knowing he had made me so angry upset him so much because he was in love with me. "Love you's" are uttered often enough, but I had to work to maintain my composure as I heard him whisper that he was in love with me.

I went to find cigarettes, and she was annoyed at him in the kitchen, apparently because he had stopped paying her attention when I arrived, and for a fleeting moment I was reminded how much of a damned headfuck all of this is. I think they have been arguing lots over the past few days. I almost walked out at that point, or at least gave the impression that I would. I also smoked the cigarette that we were meant to be sharing because he took so long in the kitchen with her, which I thought was a nice touch. (You learn well, young jedi).

Dinner was very good, as usual. She may have many 'ssues, but a bad cook she is not. Although both mutual friend Ben and I could have done without the moment when she looked up at Alistair and said "So are we ever going to have kids, or what?" I would say you couldn't write it...

But all of this matters little. It was almost midnight, and I offered to tuck Alistair into bed. I led him upstairs, never intending to stay, all the way, stealing my nerve, because that boy is irresistable to me. And, of course, I had absolutely refused to kiss him properly. I was still holding onto that. I pushed him onto the bed and straddled him, raining soft kisses down upon his face and neck, and relishing the fact that I could now bite the pale skin of his throat and hear his soft moans. I held fistfuls of his hair as I gently brushed my lips to his, withdrawing everytime he tried to gain more. Though we were both still dressed, his hard cock was pressed into my groin, and I was no longer sure how I was going to leave...

As the thought of leaving was fast becoming impossible, I decided that if we were going to go down this path, I would be calling the shots, and I was fucking nobody. Alistair was now naked, and I pushed him down again, turned my back, straddling him, and worked my way up his body. He writhed underneath me, and emitted those tiny little moans that I adore. With my hands I slowly parted my arse-cheeks and lowered myself onto his face. I told him to fuck my arse with his tongue, and my breathing quickened as I felt him work his way in. I fed him poppers as I reminded him what an awful weekend I had had. I pressed my arse down onto his face hard, and as I spitefully played with his nipples, his cock looked so rigidly hard that all I wanted was to feel it inside my mouth, fucking my face. He has a beautiful ten inch cock, and it has spoilt me...

But still, all of this matters not, because somewhere between the face sitting and tormenting, something changed. Suddenly, I was on my back, and he was on top of me, his beautiful hair falling down his face. I lifted my head, kissed him quickly, gently, and turned my head in frustration, still unwilling to give him my first kiss. Still determined that when it happened, it would be perfect. He whispered softly into my ear "I know, I want to kiss you too". I could feel his cock brushing against my pussy, and I wanted it inside me more than anything. Nevertheless, I continuously moved my hands down to cover myself every time he tried to push into me, and all the while, we moaned, sighed, panted, as we exchanged our tantalisingly short, shallow kisses. Occasionally, my tongue would flick across his lip, or his mine, until finally I could bear it no more. I looked up into his pretty, brown eyes, and withdrew my hand. He returned my gaze and thrust inside me, as he did so, a moan escaped his lips and he fell against me. I could feel my heart beating fast here, and fluttering there... and a warmth and tingling pulsed through my entire body. And it was different, this wasn't simple arousal and satiated lust, and this time, he wasn't pinning me down and fucking me so hard I screamed. He moved in and out of me as gently as our sighs, and as he did so, he lowered his face down next to mine and whispered, "I am not fucking you, I am making love to you," and although this was perhaps the first time we had had sex without any element of power exchange, I felt helpless, exquisitely helpless. I took his chin in my hands, and moved his face to kiss him, I think at first he was not sure that I wanted him to, because he hesitated, but then he kissed me, slowly, tenderly, and it was everything a first kiss should be. When his lips broke away from mine, he lowered his head and softly said, "You were right, that was perfect..."

Beware the tsunami of teenage angst that has infiltrated this blog with all the subtlety of a 16 year old goth's last bout of self-harm, because they "didn't realise the sleeves weren't quite long enough..."