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,


and the other man.

There's No Place Like Home...

I have nothing further to add.

Tuesday, 18 August 2009

The Past Few Days...

The past few days have been both interesting and lovely, though I fear I have been more at peace than Alistair.

Friday afternoon was especially difficult. I had popped over to Alistair's for coffee. I found him in the office with Claudia (aka the ex). They were both at their computers. Alistair looked thoroughly miserable. I pinned most of this misery on the fact that Claudia was surfing, trying to find a hotel. She was going to Paris with Ben. Oh dear. Added to this was the fact that I had a date (which has already been documented here). I knew that Alistair was already slightly uneasy. I had been very honest with him when he was complaining about the poet. I told him, as kindly as I could that if he is going to worry about anybody, it should be the man I was about to see.

As you are gagging to know more about this mystery man who is hell-bent on treating me like a lady, even if it sickens me to my core, I shall tell you.

He is tall, trains in martial arts, and uses swords. As you can imagine, my slight frame is somewhat dwarfed by his, despite my height. He is of Indian and Arabic descent, but he looks far more Arabic... He has beautiful pale coffee-coloured skin, and long, thick black hair. His eyes are so dark, I think they must be almost black too. He is very softly spoken, very precise, and very smart. And he is oh-so-very chivalrous. He likes to spend much of his spare time either taking part in sword tournaments, or battle reinactments. Yes, yes, I know. Geek alert. However, the pictures are awesome, he looks hot, all of his friends look pretty fucking hot. See, it's ok to be a complete geek if you are hot. Just look at Alistair and I. Anyway, because of his swordfighting, chivalrous ways, and because of his genetic heritage, we shall call him Saladin. How romantic.
That Friday afternoon, round at Alistair's, Claudia made the mistake of asking me what I was doing that evening, and with whom. In hindsight, it was very inconsiderate of me, but at the time, I did not realise what I was doing. I spoke with unbridled enthusiasm about Saladin, and the date. And then I looked across at Alistair, and he looked so sad.
And it distressed me so much. The fact is, I love him, and because of this, his pain is my pain. And yet, this was not something I could alleviate. In fact, it related to me. And what was I to do? I have already told Alistair that if he wants me, I am his. (Sure, I will still have to iron out a few creases, and mould him into the absolute perfect boyfriend, but let's do it). But he loves me, and he loves Claudia, and it remains very complicated to him. But I cannot go on like this, which would amount to waiting an indefinite amount of time, at the end of which, there is the possibility of them working things out. If that happens, I am gone. Fuck all the secondary relationship stuff. I am gone.
And so I have been forced to pick myself up, sort myself out, and start looking around. Well, I have been quite lucky, quite quickly.
Shortly before I left to go on my date I was at home, with Windows Messenger switched on. After a long chat, which brought me no end of frustration, Alistair informed me that he had had an almighty row with Claudia, and that he thought it was now over (which has been said many times...) He said the row happened because I had really spooked him regarding the new man.
He wasn't particularly happy to learn that the date went really well.
However, I went round to Alistair's on Saturday, and since Claudia was in Paris, spent every day there up until this morning. And you know what? It was wonderful.
It was kinda like old times, when I was living there. Before I began writing this blog regularly, I lived there for almost two months whilst I was moving from my place in South East London, to a new one local to here. Although there were moments of angst regarding Claudia, she had not yet moved back in. Alistair and I took to living together very well, and when it came time for me to move out, we both cried. I more than him, but I cry more than anyone...
Over the past few days, we have relaxed, snuggled, fucked, laughed, and have just been together. Mistress Max was round on Saturday and Sunday, and made us two fantastic meals. And Alistair has been really attentive, affectionate, and fun. I have felt very loved, and he has told me so lots. Sometimes, it is the smallest of gestures that are the most important. Like in the early hours of the morning, when he stirred in his sleep, pressed himself up close to me, and whispered that he loved me.
And the fact that he gave me two orgasms in the space of a few hours is almost achieving the impossible. The headpills I am on make orgasm near impossible for me at the moment. So it's just as well that I enjoy a good hard fuck, no matter what the outcome.

It All Went Black: My Weekend Part 3

I was on that cold floor for a long time. Periodically, I would plead with Alistair to kiss me, but he was refusing until he was ready. For all the varied and depraved things that I like, the beauty of a kiss retains a special place in my heart. I would also ask simply to look at him. He has the prettiest face, and the prettiest dark brown eyes, and when I am high, I am not so bothered about gazing at him like an adoring puppy. I am generally not afraid of this anyway, but only when I am absolutely certain that the person feels the same, or that they are already gazing at me adoringly. If for any reason my position feels unsafe, I withhold these little pieces of romance.

There was a certain act that I had to perform in order to get Alistair to kiss me. Let's not talk about that for now.

I wanted him inside me so very much.

I we began fucking in the toilet, but it was too small, so we quickly moved to the lounge. He sat on the leather couch, and I straddled him. The french doors were open, and the two more sensible members of the party were outside at a table, under an umbrella. It was a beautiful, sunny morning, and they were enjoying toast, jam, and tea... and my sex noises.

Alistair periodically put his hand over my mouth to muffle me. He says I am too noisy. I can't help it. I do try to be quiet.Then Jimmy bounced back. I felt a bit bad, because I really only had eyes for Alistair at this point... Nevertheless, Jimmy was still trying to make me squeak.

It looked like it was about time for me to start abusing Alistair... he fleetingly looked receptive. And then something changed, and something happened that has never happened before. He had developed that look in his eye... this was not new. Alistair sometimes gets this absolutely vicious look in his eye, and then becomes especially sadistic.

And he looks so very, very hot.

Those of you who keep cats may understand. Have you ever seen the look in your cat's eyes, right before it is about to pounce on something, or playfully lacerate your hand? Well that is the look.

What was new is that I resisted, despite the great lack of physical strength that I have. And since I had somewhat over-medicated him, he was much less capable of pinning me down, or fighting me off. So we rolled onto the floor in a tangle of Maisie and Alistair, all teeth, nails, and hair-pulling. Alistair had a nasty little grin on his face,

"You fucking bitch!" was said to me at several moments.

If we were cats, we would have been hissing. We were certainly spitting...

And then, success! I managed to push him down and sit on his face. That'll immobilise him, I thought. Obviously, I was careful to allow him to breathe. Then I climbed off and pulled him up into a sitting position. He tried to take another playful swipe at me, and then passed out.

Like, really passed out.

For a moment, there must have been a look of surprise on my face. I turned to Jimmy and said,


We took off the collar and cuffs he was wearing, and put him in the recovery position. (Again, dear readers, he was fine. Just lack of sleep, and too much party and play). I stepped outside into the garden,

"You guys," I said, "I have broken Alistair..."

There was nothing left to do, but let him sleep it off. Well, almost nothing. I decided that, pretty as he was, he could be even prettier. And since he was in no position to give me his thoughts on this, I decided to press ahead. He could thank me later.

There was the added bonus of one of my friends being an exceptionally talented photographer.

So with out further ado, I give you the fruits of our labours (albeit with my name and friend's logo blotted out in a crappy fashion...)

I do so love Alistair's bottom.

Sunday, 16 August 2009

No Lobsters Were Harmed: My Weekend Part 2.

And I was probed and probed and probed. The noise must have been deafening. Oh no wait, that's right. I was gagged with penis. No one could hear me scream, but I am certain they heard my pathetic, muffled squeaks.

Now, I am not certain at which point, but eventually, the foreign object in my arse was removed. Alistair stood up and took it from Jimmy. I felt a sense of impending doom. It seemed that payback time proper was about to begin. I wish I could say that it all happened so quickly, but alas, it was veritable slow-motion. I find that words escape me as I try to articulate the horror that I felt as Alistair shoved the dildo, which minutes ago had been shoved in my arse, into my mouth.

Romance is not dead. It is alive and well, and occupies a small space of cold, hard floor in my friends' kitchen.

And after fellating arse-dildo, was I let be? Was I shown a degree of mercy? Hell no. I was pulled up to my feet and bent over so my hands rested on the windowsill. As Jimmy was handed a cane, I could see friends outside, enjoying the sunshine. It was decided that I would be dealt six strokes. I pleaded, but there was no getting out of this. And Jimmy is strong. He wields a cane with some gusto. I cried out after each extruciating swish. And then I just plain cried.

It wasn't the pain that did it.

I just wanted to be held by Alistair, because it had happened again.

It was one of those moments where my predicament dawned on me. Where I realised that once again, my mind had been well and truly infiltrated. That I would go wherever Alistair led me. And that is the surest way to make me cry. You see, for somebody who wears her heart on her sleeve as much as I do, in many ways, I am actually quite a guarded person. It's just that I am guarded in a way that most are never aware of.

Then I was manhandled into the kitchen, and there I lay on my back, with Alistair straddling my head, and his cock rammed into my mouth. Meanwhile, Jimmy spanked my pussy gleefully. In this case, "gleefully" means "hard as hell". Occasionally, there were brief interludes in which he slapped my face. And I was having none of it. As we have already established, I pretty much behave for Alistair, but I was not going to take it from Jimmy. I hurled as much cheek at him as I could.

And then Robert surfaced. So now there were three boys, a swollen pussy, and two red, sore cheeks. Scratch that. Four red, sore cheeks. And everytime I yelped and let go of Alistair's cock, I was threatened with more abuse.

The extent to which Alistair could have seen his threats through at this point is debatable. This is because at least a small proportion of his brain was in Lala Land, tripping as it was on MDMA. My face was not only "covered in snow", but was also decorated in all manner of Latin writings. As was the kitchen floor. It is not all that common to trip on MDMA, and whilst I hate tripping myself, if my pussy hadn't been so sore, I would have been more amused.

Little did I know that more treats were in store. Indeed, I truly believed that the gods were smiling down on me that morning. Not only was I assaulted with hands and canes, but now also with a plastic lobster. No one can say quite where he produced it from, but Jimmy seemed to have struck up an instant bond with the synthetic crustacean. Personally, if I never see its little orange face again, I won't be sorry. And I can honestly say that being spanked by fake seafood hurts like a bitch.

Friday, 14 August 2009

Both Cher and Courtney say it's in the kiss...

I had a date.

I have not been on many official dates.

I had my car door opened for me.

I had my car door closed for me.

The chair was pulled out for me.

I was wined, I was dined.

My feminist sensibilities endured it all... just about.

He made me blush, squirm, fidget, and eat mother-fucking octupus (I bleach my tongue)... nevertheless, out of mercy, he bit off all of the legs first...

He did not lay a finger on me until the very end of the meal, when his finger lightly brushed mine.

He drove me home.

Inside the car, I gingerly allowed my fingers to touch his coat.

Then, before I realised it, my hand was gently resting on his knee.

And then...

Then he took my hand in his.

We drove and spoke about lots of things...

And then we missed my flat, because I wasn't concentrating... We had to turn around... Then he pointed out that my street is one way only, which I have never noticed before... I sunk lower into my seat.

We pulled up outside my door.

I can never look him in the eye, and he knows it.

This is a man who cuts me no slack whatsoever. Any question, challenge, manipulation of any kind, he throws right back at me. Tenfold.

He remembers everything. You cannot say a word without it being stored and coming back to haunt you.

And he doesn't back down. Ever.

He took my chin in his hands, lifted my face, and he looked at me.

And then he kissed me.

Oh, how he kissed me.

The Bells, The Bells

Can't sleep.

Today's random topic: Marriage.

Many of the more typical members of society are shocked when they discover that, surprise surprise, I would like to get married at some point. As they process the idea, I can see them contemplating my appearance on the big day. (You know, the one that will never actually come, leaving me alone with my cats and gin). They imagine my princess dress, and it invariably goes something like this:

What bastards.

Of course, those who know me a little better, but who still think of me as a bit of a novelty, will usually picture this:

Yes, yes. I know. A predictable mistake to make. She looks like the taller sister of Morticia, so she'll be going for that classic wrist-slitting, watch-out-Dorothy-a-house-is-about-to-drop-on-my-head look. Awesome.

Others who know me for the hopeless romantic that I am will be confounded by my rock-chick ways, and will reckon I will try this one on for size:

All right, all right. What teenage rocker hasn't at least thought about it? The point is, we saw the folly and changed our minds.

There are those who know my partying ways, and most likely live in fear that someday, in a drug-addled stupour, I will pay homage to Britney and end up in a spontaneous ceremony which seemed like a good idea at the time. Only I will be wearing something like this

Again, understandable. But that is what friends are there to prevent. Let's ignore the fact that they have sometimes already passed out in my capable hands.

You, dear reader, will be imagining me in something like this:

And frankly, the only possible benefit I can imagine is the prospect of having one of the legal page-boys tucked under the skirt during the ceremony.

Some people on the "scene" will be disappointed I am not wearing this garment:

and even sadder to learn that it will not be incorporated into some pretentious "fetish wedding". What a shame. Who wouldn't want to stand there with one's head up one's butt? (Actually, I suppose some can be quite nice. Let us not all be tarnished by a few lame-arse individuals.) And the dress 'aint bad. Just not for my wedding.

Now this is a dress:

For me, it remains beautiful and elegant, whilst at the same time making a subtle statement of as to what might transpire on the honeymoon.

Nevertheless, perhaps I want something (shock horror) a little more conventional...

But, let's face it, the chances are... well the chances are I 'aint getting hitched. But other than that small glitch, the chances are that my groom will not be so conventional. And I am the kind of lady that dresses to please (because I am a crap, oh so crap, so ashamed, feminist.) I want to see a look of adoration on his face, and tears welling in his eyes. So I better wear something fucking fabulous. How about this?

Alright. It may or may not be the dress worn by Mina Murray in Bram Stoker's Dracula. Do you remember the scene where she goes to dinner with him, the hussy... Well the hot vampiric romance almost caused me to fall off my chair. And I have always loved the frock. And it is not white, thus appealing to the unconventional sensibilities of my future groom. Note also the bustle. These suit me because of my generous bottom, and little waist. A winner all round.


So I still can't shake that whole white-wedding "I have been dreaming of this for my whole conditioned childhood and adult life" thing. But it has bustle. Bustle bustle bustle. I am the kind of girl that when I ask "Does my bum look big in this?" you better make damned sure you say "Yes."

Oh, no, my train will be way-hay-haaaaaay longer on the big day. I have already given up the dream of a skirt so big, they have to knock down a wall of the building just to get me inside. I'll be damned if I'll give up this. Ideally, the guests would smell the Opium perfume 5 minutes before I even arrive, and still be looking at the hem 5 minutes after I have left. And unlike this poor unfortunate, I wouldn't misplace my flowers.

I have laboured over this one for a while...

and I still just don't know.

I actually really like this one, and I am not a sleeves woman. But I do love vintage, and this is a gorgeous example. I will be a tall, elegant flower of virtue.

But you guys so know that really, I'll turn up looking like Mina Murray.

Thursday, 13 August 2009

Blood, Sweat, and Tears: My Weekend, Part One.

This post is dedicated to a man you just know is going to be a filthy good time in the bedroom. And the kitchen. And the bathroom. And the car, hopefully whilst he is not still driving it at break-neck speed... or maybe whilst he is: Mr. Condescending.

I would also like to link to a previous post so that some of you do not think I am only about the sex and violence. Press Me.

There was a small party at the weekend at my friends' house in the countryside. There were three couples, including us. I was absolutely itching for some good playtime, the kind that turns over and over in your head for the entire next week or more. The kind that leaves purple bruises all over your body, and your muscles aching so much, that the next day, you feel like you have spent several hours in the gym.

I wore my short pink rubber babydoll with little white latex frills, at Alistair's request. There were pigtails in my hair, and white socks pulled above my knees. And of course, the matching pink mary-jane heels.

We all played a little here and there, and I had the pleasure of climbing inside the vac-bed. For those of you who do not know, this is like a large rubber duvet-case that you climb inside, and are zipped in. There is a breathing tube which you hold in your mouth so that you do not die horribly. Air is then sucked out, creating a vacuum. From the outside, this is gorgeous to watch, because as the rubber is sucked down onto the person inside, you can see every contour and curve of there body. Sadly, no pictures were taken so I cannot show you what I looked like. In all honesty, it isn't a terribly sexual experience for me, but one I love, nonetheless. Mainly because as the rubber closes in around you, the entire world falls away. You cannot hear or see, and the only thing that you smell is the latex. It is as if nothing else exists, and you have been cast adrift, floating away from reality.

After I had climbed out, more little moments of play ensued, as well as copious amounts of narcotics... On the whole, I am in charge of medicating everyone, good little girl that I am. Sadly, I appeared to have forgotten that, whilst physically extremely feeble, I could possibly out-party a warhorse. Alistair is somewhat more delicate. And he likes women to feed him drugs, as this potentially renders him slightly more helpless for them to abuse. And once he has had some, he thinks less and less about accepting more.

In many ways, that second dose of MDMA powder was a mistake. I had ended up naked, as I always seem to, and had gone to investigate Alistair's whereabouts. I found him with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, trembling uncontrollably in the toilet. At this point, for those readers of a nervous disposition, I must stress that he was fine, he had just overdone it. At first, I spoke to him soothingly, and stroked his hair. And then I leant in to kiss his head. I brushed away some of his hair and pressed my lips to his skin. It was warm and damp with a thin layer of sweat. Tendils of long hair of the darkest brown clung to his forehead, and his face looked pale. Through his lips, I could see his perfect little white teeth clenched, so as to prevent his jaw juddering.

And as I stood over him, and watched him there, shaking and helpless, my urge to nurse him transformed into something else. There was something so exquisitely beautiful, so irresistably satisfying in watching him... And I wanted him. I wanted fistfuls of his hair. I wanted to drag him onto the floor and use him, and feel him trembling beneath me. I told him how hot he looked, how helpless he looked. I told him that I was sorry, and that I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't help myself...

But then something happened.

He slowly lifted his head, the drugs had made his eyes larger, deeper. If ever there were a pair of eyes that could pierce right through me , it is his. He fixed his gaze on mine, and through gritted teeth, he said to me,

"You are so going to pay..."

I felt my throat tighten, and a shiver ran down my spine and finished between my legs. I both hoped he had not noticed, and prayed that he had. He said it to me again,

"You are so going to pay..."

And somewhere inside one of the darker recesses of my mind a layer peeled back to reveal a part of me I had not seen in years.

I wanted him to be angry at me.

Angry at me for getting him so high that the word "dignity" was fast losing any meaning for him.

And he was so very, very pretty.

Especially when his eyes flashed with viciousness,

"You are so, so going to pay." He swung at me clumsily, I ducked. The second time, his palm half hit my cheek. Then he promptly slid off the toilet-seat and crumpled in a heap on the floor.

I wanted him to be angry at me.

"What are you going to do?" I said to him, "You are so wasted, you can't even stand."
"You-are-so-going-to-pay," he said between gulps of air. I smiled with glee,
"You are so hot right now."
I must confess that my smile masked something very different. I needed him to retaliate. I needed that look to be real, and for every single word of his threat to be true. And even though I am no masochist, I wanted him to be violent towards me.

Having someone hurt you because they want to because they enjoy it, is one thing. Having someone hurt you because they want to because they are pissed at you, at that moment at least, was everything.

Rather like a child with a box of matches who can see the impending injury dance before her eyes, but feels compelled to press on, I did.

I climbed over him, sat on the toilet, and started playing with my pussy. Partly because I was so aroused, partly in an attempt to antogonise him, and partly because it seemed like an utterly wrong thing to do.

Wrong makes me wet.

No, really.

I stopped touching myself when Jimmy bounded down the hall and crouched next to Alistair. He is extremely tall, hyperactive, and a little subbie. But he had been trying to push me around all night. I had relented slightly, but only because Alistair had been (helping?) him.

I couldn't tell exactly what Jimmy was saying, as I was too busy goading Alistair. But I am quite sure it probably involved his penis in some way. Alistair was becoming ever so slightly more able to function. He grabbed a bunch of my hair and wrenched me down next to him. My head is particularly sensitive just above my neck. Pulling my hair is one of the surest ways to silence me. Alistair swung his hand back. In the few seconds he held it there, I knew from the distance, and the look in his eye, that it was going to hurt. His jaw tightened, and his hand landed square on my cheek, perhaps harder than he has ever hit me before. But he did not stop. He slapped me again and again and again, with such a force, that when he finally stopped, I felt dazed.

And it wasn't enough.

He still had my hair held tightly, and my face had been drawn close to his. He smiled his wicked smile,

"You are so going to pay for this."

I looked him straight in the eye, and spat in his face.

I do believe that for a fleeting moment, I saw a look of shock flash across him.

"That is it!" he said, "You are going to be licking cunt for the next five years," This was repeated several times. Alistair knows that there is one thing I hate more than the word "cunt", and that is the prospect of oral contact with female genitalia. I wish things were different. I wish I liked it. I just don't.

He dragged me out of the door by my hair. We were now on the cold floor of the hall that led into the kitchen. He started slapping me again and again. I thought I could feel my cheeks swelling, and they were certainly red.

A sense of delicious forboding descended upon me, because I knew I was slipping. I knew that, as I looked at Alistair's beautiful face, he had me again. And I both hated and loved him for it.

He pulled me onto all fours and said something to Jimmy. I cried out as I felt Jimmy pushing something a little too large into my arse. I think I asked Alistair not to. He told me to be quiet, and I could hear Jimmy behind me telling me to stop making so much fuss, as he fucked my arse harder and harder.

Alistair's favourite way to stop me making so much noise is to thrust his cock into my mouth. It is difficult to make much sound with ten inches easing its way down your throat. He told me to shut-up and suck his dick, just as Jimmy pushed another large object inside my pussy. Full and stretched, and being fucked mercilessly from behind, I felt that I would not be able to bear anymore.

This time, it was Alistair who spat in my face. I could feel droplets of his saliva rolling down my skin.

And I knew I would have done anything for him.

And I knew that we were very far from done.

Saturday, 8 August 2009

Come Fly With Me

So, this week has been busy, as has already been said...
Alistair took me flying. He had to renew his pilots' license, so off we went to Blah Blah Not Telling You Where Airfield. I had never flown in light aircraft before, and the inside is rather like sitting in a little car, just a lot noisier. This is why you have to wear headphones with a little microphone. And you know what the best thing is? Little planes rattle a whole lot more, and obviously feel a whole lot more flimsy. This pleases me.
When we took off I didn't make a sound, which Alistair has awarded me extra points for. But really, it was no effort, I was lost in the beauty of the world below me growing smaller and smaller. Though it was a fairly sunny day, there were rain clouds moving in from one direction, and this had bathed the land in that odd yellowish tinge that sometimes happens before a storm. It made the fields look so lush and green, and as the sun penetrated the holes in the cloud, there were isolated patches of illuminated ground.
One of the things that Alistair had to do up in the air was stall the plane. Apart from the breathtaking scenery, this must have been my favourite part. It was not so nearly dramatic as it sounds, but juddery enough to make me giggle where many would scream.
I think I would like to learn to fly.
The mere fact that someone can fly a plane automatically makes them hotter. Tell me I am wrong...

Friday, 7 August 2009

All tied up.

Look, I have been really busy, ok?

I have so much to write, so little time. So this is one of those watch this space useless posts...

There has been perving, flying, pretty boys, screaming children. reassuringly not all together.

I shall tell you all about it this evening.

And yes, the picture is me looking busy. Yes the clothes are questionable. Yes, I was wasted, and yes, I had either just done something appalling, or was about to.

Tuesday, 4 August 2009

The Boys in My Life

Still can't get enough of that boy. Last night, after dinner at Alistair's, we were alone in the living room talking and laughing. He said to me that he told his father that he'd marry me in the blink of an eye. I have said something similar to my mother. Such an odd relationship we have. Entirely Platonic, and naturally so from both sides. Yet I love him so much, and when he is away, at work, or a party, or an event, I miss him like crazy.
I am very happy though, because we have this thing where we help each other find a boyfriend/girlfriend, and after I introduced him to Mistress Max, sparks seem to be flying a little.
As Courtney and I say to each other, "Cop that shit."
There is only so long a woman like me can endure the situation I have been existing in. Being made to feel second best, unimportant, and having to regularly make the short journey home in tears is bad enough. But I have been being lied to. I have always known this, deep down, because whilst others may lie, my gut never does. The night we realised that there was a certain "thing" between us was the night that Alistair told me I could always trust him, and that it was important to him that I did. I do love him, but he has betrayed my trust, saying things to me which conflict with what he has said to the ex. And in fact, let us give the ex an actual name, because whilst I stand by the criticisms I make of her, she is actually a very fragile, damaged person. Moreover, blame cannot be heaped at her door, especially where I am concerned. We shall call her Claudia.
I will continue to see Alistair, but I do not know what happens now. I cannot exist in a relationship without trust. I believe that people deserve second chances, but I would also like to believe that when given such a chance, a person would actually start being honest, rather than more careful in hiding their lies. And how does one tell? Perhaps the gut.
In any case, apart from trust, I want as much love and tenderness as I give. I want somebody who can think of nothing better than waking up next to me every morning. I want to feel beautiful and special. I want passion. And actually, as much as I am up for a bit of fun with boys, I want longevity. I want a future with someone, the right someone.
I do love Alistair. The damage he has done upsets me more than the acts which caused it.
The Poet:
I have been exchanging the most gorgeous emails with the most gorgeous writer. No, I am not going to tell you all the details. But he does make me swoon, and he does have long black hair.
The Goth:
And yes, I may or may not have tumbled around with an exquisitely beautiful goth boy the other night. And one about to do a PhD in philosophy no less. (I studied philosophy too.)
The Blast from the Past:
Long hair, martial arts, knives, brooding demeanor. Dominant. Fantastic cook. A wonderfully twisted approach to play.
I shall leave you wondering.
I shall leave you with these cliffhangers.

Yes Miss.

Hello perverts, peeping toms, and the vaguely curious.
Today, I find myself at Alistair's house supervising one of Mistress Max's slaves. She had a session booked in a dungeon somewhere else, so I agreed to make sure he keeps on task.
Unsurprisingly, last years Christmas tree has been languishing in the front drive, untouched and unmoved (well, except by nature, for it is well and truly deceased). Slave boy is required to chop it up and bag it up. It's taking him some time... I periodically pop my head out of the door and say in my bestest, firmest voice that he is doing a good job, etc. The sort of domination he likes is really not my style. So many boys want the whole barking, "you are not worthy, worm face" routine. Pish.
Vicious nothings whispered in a gentle voice fuck you up far far better.
Besides, who wants a wormy sub? Yuck. I want a sub with a pretty face and some self-worth. Pretty faces are far nicer to sit on. Although, if they are ugly, at least you don't have to look at them.
And that's just dandy. Now I am getting aroused. But there is just something so irresistable about a pretty boy with big, watery eyes, laying beneath you and pleading with you to fuck him.
I am in severe need of a fuck. The other night, I was also in severe need. I texted Alistair, but he was out with a group of mutual friends, drinking. Since I live across the road, I would have appreciated an invite. Instead I was alone on a Friday night, without sex. All that remained was to bring out the toys. It is truly amazing how many toys one can use on ones self, despite having only two hands.
As I have related to others, I nearly did myself a mischief.
On went the recent (semi) kinky flick I recently downloaded. The Violation of Kylie Ireland is noteworthy for several reasons. Firstly, it stars Kylie Ireland. I can't believe I now have a favourite (kinky) porn star. This is Kylie. She rocks. She is slightly older than the usual batch of vacant 23 year olds, and she is a little more voluptuous. She can also speak articulate English, and fit some impressive sized objects in her orifices. Since I have a bit of a thing for fisting, this pleases me.
Oddly enough, The Violation of Kylie Ireland is an unusual piece for me to watch, since it is a sort of lesbian gang-bang. However, the vague storyline, and some of the lines in general are so hilarious that one instantly falls in love. Moreover, its rapey-violence kinda hits the spot.
So I laughed, I cried, I pondered. Then I serviced myself. Now I will admit, I was a bit ambitious regarding the size of the implement I tried to shove up my arse. Especially as I was running a little low on lubricant. But I was determined, even in the face of injury.
The lesson is: If thou perservereth, thou wilt reach orgasm. Even if your cursed headpills mean that it takes a couple of hours...

Monday, 3 August 2009

Honest Scrap

I am special. I know this because of the award that flirty the Mysterg gave me. Go read him now. He brings joy into my life.
1. “The Honest Scrap” award is not one to hold all to your self but it must be shared!
2. The recipient has to tell 10 true things about themselves in their blog that no one else knows.
3. The recipient has to pass along this prestigious award to 10 more bloggers.
4. Those 10 bloggers all have to be notified they have been given this award.
5. Those 10 bloggers should link back to the blog that awarded them.

The difficulty is thinking of any secrets... ummmm...

1. I once had a dream about my mother (who wasn't my real-life mother, but a creation of my warped mind), and my older brother (again, don't have a brother, creation of my warped mind). They tied me down and were sewing my labia shut. The dream arouses me to this day.

2. When it rains and the snails crawl over the pavement, I pick them all up and place them lovingly under a bush because I can't bear the thought of them being trampled.

3. When my sister and I were children, our father was an absolute tyrant towards us, so to get our own back, we wiped our snot around the rim of his glass when we had to lay the table for dinner.

4. I once woke up at 6am to iron a guy's shirts without being told to, and still got aroused.

5. I want to get married someday, and contrary to popular belief, will not be wearing some latex creation, but a big, white gown, with a big white veil.

6. If I fuck a guy and there is no chemistry, I fake an orgasm so he'll get off me.

7. My great, great uncle is Alfred Hitchcock.

8. I find Robin Hood from the disney movie oddly attractive, despite the fact that he is both a fox and a cartoon.

9. I like to drink leftover gravy from Sunday dinner out of the jug.

10. I am obsessed with tornadoes. The weather, not the plane.

And I nominate:

God damn it, Mysterg. I haven't been doing this blog thing for very long, and you nominated all the people I can think of!