Sunday, 30 August 2009
Saturday, 29 August 2009
Thursday, 27 August 2009
Wednesday, 26 August 2009
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...)
Though you can't quite see, I was blonde back then. We all make mistakes.
Thursday, 20 August 2009
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
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.
Tuesday, 18 August 2009
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
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
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:
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 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.OK...
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
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.
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,
Saturday, 8 August 2009
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
Tuesday, 4 August 2009
Monday, 3 August 2009
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!