Evolution

Click here and stop looking through the key-hole.

I have adenovirus in my eyes...

Whilst I am no where near as bad as the poor lady above, this is where the virus can take you. I caught it from Alistair, as I nursed him through three weeks of hell, and three trips to the hospital. It really, really hurts. I can't see very well, and I don't look very nice. I can't work, and I can't really go out and see people, as I am contagious. Oh so contagious.

Question

And does it fall to you to rescue me? Will you put your hands around my little waist, encased in metal bones? Will you kiss my lips and breathe in every secret that I long to speak, but can't? Oh, I could tell you all the thoughts that visit me at night, but do you think that I would rest under your boot so easily?

Dacryphilia

It is a very difficult thing indeed to want to cry, to be made to cry, but to resent each single tear that is shed. To feel the most protected corners of your mind, the ones which you guard so jealously, laid bare. Like a bird with broken wing, helpless in the palm of your lover, it is these moments where the tears come most freely, tracing their inky black lines of mascara.

Does your lover ever ask you why you cry? Does he whisper softly in your ear, force your lips to shape the words? Does he realise that every time he makes you weep, you lose a part of yourself to him? Perhaps he is a collector, perhaps one day he will make you whole.

It is a very difficult thing indeed to want to cry, to be made to cry.

*Should probably qualify this as being unrelated to Alistair. It's a kinky thang.

My Friend, The Knight.

I can count my real friends on one hand, and perhaps not even make it to five. Oh, I have plenty of acquaintances, but real you-can-call-me-at-4am-because-you're-distraught friends, it's a one-hand job.

And this post is dedicated to The Knight. Apart from some of his values regarding masculinity and femininity, (if you're reading this, Knight, you know what I mean), apart from those, he is what every man should aspire to be, and frankly women too. He is honourable, loyal, loving. He is there for me no matter what, even when he is going through a bad patch himself. He puts up with the way I sometimes retreat because of my depression, and tells it like it is when I need to hear that too.

You are an awesome man, "The Knight". I am loving you and your wife too.

Thank you for everything you do for me.

The Alistair Update

We spoke.

He had a tantrum from down the other end of the phone. I smile now, because sometimes I even find his tantrums endearing. This wasn't one of those times.

My boyfriend is a foot-stomper, literally. (I secretly find it sweet when he does that, which might be one of the keys to our longevity).

He almost always knows what is occuring inside my head. I am as transparent as a pane of glass to him. But I am a creature of extremes, and so it is either that way, or we are speaking foreign languages to each other.

The update from yesterday's post...

He was cross because he believed he was doing the right thing by texting me to ask me. He was filled with rage and frustration because he has never asked for permission from anyone to do anything in his life. (Please don't hold that against him, he is an only child). In his mind, he did something of huge significance.

When I enquired as to what he would have done had I never got the message, this angered him, as he saw it as another example of my mistrust. I was angered because his response to my question was that he might have done as he wished anyway.

After much quarrelling, he admitted that it was a very stupid thing to say, and was probably born out of his anger that I do not trust him. He says that this is the thing he finds most difficult in our relationship.

And I have to admit, he is right. I still find it incredibly hard to trust him. He has lied to me so much in the past. The worst example I have not even documented here because it is too upsetting.

And yet, he has been behaving very well over the past 5 months. He has tried to play by my rules, as he puts it.

Are my rules too severe? I suppose you will have to decide. I have tried to create a compromise whereby a mostly monogamous person can succeed with a polyamorous person. I would just like to be informed about playdates, and told whom they are with. I would at least like to have met the person, and to like them myself.

Alistair is not quite there yet. He is being extremely honest and open. Usually the asking element is missing (not always). But often, I am more told about exploits, or informed they are happening, "ask" doesn't come into it.

And yet he is much better, I cannot deny.

Back to the topic. Alistair felt that I had no right to question what he would have done if I had not been around to give him permission to play in that way with our friend. He says it there is no sense in dealing in maybes and what ifs. He also banged on about me being a philosopher and speaking in abstracts all the time.

But I am a fucking philosopher.

Love me, love my philosophy (even if you don't always agree with it).

But he also said that he loves me to distraction, which is why he was so upset. And more than anything else he said, this made an impact on me. Alistair refuses to say he is in love with me. He tells me he loves me all the time, but that it's all a continuum. He loves me like he loves all his friends and lovers, he just loves me more.

And I think that is bull. Of course he knows what being in love is. The human brain is built with the ability to fall in love. It's all chemical reactions (wonderful ones) and we all know. I put it to him that if love is all the same, "Duhs he love me laahk his mama?"

Still he refuses, after two years to say he is in love with me.

But yesterday he did say he loves me to distraction. And despite the fact we had spent most of the time arguing, my heart melted.

Complications

It's been a long time since I have spewed my emotional trauma over this blog.

In fact, those who have been with me from the start will notice that it has been a while since one of *those* Alistair posts. You'll remember them, though. The ones where my heart gets nailed to a wall and then spat upon.

The truth is that a lot of good stuff has happened during the past year, and I have always intended on expressing my warm, delicious satisfaction, but as so often happens, I spent my time enjoying the sensations, and enjoying the joy. I didn't have time to tell you about it. And now, I am returning to you with the usual usual.

I am predominantly monogomous. He is polyamorous. He needs to see other people, and I accept that. Things have been difficult in the past, because he has had a bit of a forked tongue. In other words, he has lied to me. Over recent months, his behaviour has been improving, and he has been much better. In fact, I am pretty damn sure there have been no lies.

All I have asked for is this: that he has the decency to tell me, and ask, when he is about to slut it around. Not much to ask.

The other thing relates to a particular form of play that is especially intimate to me. I wanted it to be kept between us alone. I knew this could not work for him. So I suggested that he ask my permission to indulge in it with others, and ideally, I choose whom he does it with, and occasionally pack him off to do so. He wasn't sure. Most forms of committment freak him out. He decided that he would think about it, and then come to speak to me. Until then, he said he would not indulge in it with anyone else.

I am at my mothers because he needed some time apart from me to play with other people.

I had even had a very nice evening, and went to bed happy and at peace.

At 2.31 am, I get a text telling me that his play partner had mentioned that she wanted to do this particular type of play to him, wondering what I thought. It woke me up, which made me irked. In my irked state I called him, he apologised and said he didn't actually think I would have woken up and seen the text. So I asked him, if I had not woken up, what he would have done. Would he have done it with her anyway? He said he didn't know. Possibly.

And in one foul swoop, he crushed me.

I got upset. He got angry. He said he felt he could not do anything right, and that he was trying to make me happy by telling me what was going on. He told me how he was feeling so comfortable with the relationship, and now we had taken a big step back. I cried, and hated myself for doing so.

I just don't understand how asking me if he could do something that is really important to me with someone else, and then potentially intending on doing it anyway, regardless of whether I managed to answer, is designed to make me happy.

Trantric Domination

This evening, I have a session with a Scandinavian couple. I will be seeing them at my dungeon from 5pm until 7pm, then they are taking me to dinner in the West End. From there, we shall go back to their hotel room until 1am. From what they have said to me, they are into tantric domination, which I have no experience of. (Not usually one for new-agey clap-trap)... It's all about the senses and the art of loving domination, apparently.

I feel compelled to give you a full report tomorrow.

And I must tell you about bandage man. Whoever thought that being gently wrapped in bandages could be so erotic?



And tonight, I am also missing the fetish club night I work. The theme is School Days. Still, I was there the last time they had a similar theme. Here is the proof:

Tuesday Morning Bizarre

It's Tuesday morning, I have just gotten out of the shower and been greeted by one Mistress Max, clad in black rubber catsuit and corset. She has informed me that she has finished with one of her slaves, so if I need him to perform any household tasks, he will be awaiting my word in the kitchen.

Upon arrival in the kitchen, I have discovered a rather petite man in a red and black rubber gimp hood. The outfit is completed by the fetching apron depicting a muscled male torso, sporting Union Jack pants, that gimp-boy is wearing.

Just another Tuesday morning.

*That* Session

Mistress Rouge had Trauma Man in the other night. So called because of the way in which I traumatised we him last time we sessioned. He is characterised by a need for every session to be ever sicker and more extreme. My friend sometimes runs out of ideas, so much has been done. But this time, she called in the big guns.

Jeanie is hairy, overweight, was possibly christened Barry, and is Rouge's maid. Jeanie also boasts the prestigious title of Miss Trannyshack 2010. This was awarded to her by Boy George, hopefully with tongue firmly in cheek. Cocksucker is Rouge's driver and slave, not to be confused with slave-driver, which is something entirely different, and quite inappropriate. He is skinny, with long greasy hair. Their purpose was to sit in the dungeon and keep their mouths shut.

Trauma Man is straight. During the session, he was kept bound over the spanking bench, with blindfold firmly in place, blissfully unaware that a bloke, and a hairy bloke in a maid's dress were witness to the rape of his arse. I visited the dungeon to sit and watch for a while.

Eventually boredom took us, and we quietly packed the beautiful assistants off into the next room. We then spent a while inserting more things into the Trauma Man, whilst informing him that we had been extra kind and arranged for a stripper. As she poked his backside, Rouge asked me to put some appropriate music on. I did the only thing I could. Madonna's Like a Virgin. As the opening bars sounded, we leapt up and screamed "And now to perform a strip-tease, Miss Trannyshack 2010," tore of Trauma Man's blindfold, and descended into crazed whooping. I think part of Trauma Man died that night.

As I sat on my throne and watched Jeanie gyrate and remove her clothing, I think a part of me died too. Especially as I felt compelled to suggest that she "rub her booty" into Trauma Man's face.

Meanwhile, in the corner, Cocksucker bopped along to the music, naked, penis erect. Rouge beckoned him over, grabbed our victim's head, and forced it onto his cock.

I can confirm that romance is not dead.

A Date on Saturday

I have one.

Yes, I am still with Alistair.

Yes, he is still polyamorous.

No, I am not really into the multiple thang, except at the occasional chemical-filled filthy party.

But, hey, there are always those times where you know he's shagging such-and-such, and you feel a bit left out.

So I set up a date with a guy on the London scene who has been around some time, but who I have never met in the flesh. We have emailed here and there on the net, but nothing more.

He is very, very handsome. A dancer, acrobat, fire-eater... and a switch. He seems pretty darn clever too. So whilst Alistair is screwing on Saturday, I am going to pretend I am not monogamous.

And the funny thing is that, whilst I would love for us to click and indulge in super-good kinky play-time, I find myself wondering if there will be that tense little moment before the kiss. That first kiss, it's all there.

If it happens, will it be slow, gentle, and laced with promise? Will it be filled with fire as I am slammed up against the wall? Switch that he is, perhaps I will be the predator and lock my fingers in his hair.

That's Queen Mistress of the Universe to you!

The other day, I saw a very lovely gentleman in my school-room. It was a first time meeting, and he brought me wine, which is always a superb start. I got to dress up in my robe and mortar-board. My mother and her partner bought it for me when I got a 1st in my degree. I always knew I would put it to great use...

My client was called to the Headmistress' office for six of the best, and he got them and much more. We had a lot of fun.

He texted me afterwards to say this : "Well all I can say is bravo! What a lovely young lady you are - the mistress with everything - education, beauty, personality and above all, you put a lot into your work. Thanks so much."

It's always nice to be appreciated, and to see my efforts well-received.

I am off to his very, very nice hotel to see him again tonight, and will tell you all about it shortly.

New-Age Psychic Clap-Trap

The night before last, I had a dream about an acquaintance that I have not seen for at least a year and a half.

I was in Alistair's office, and heard noises out on the street below. I hung my head out of the window and saw Sylvester on the opposite pavement. He looked upset, so I shouted down to him, asking if he was alright. He looked up, said he was fine, just a bit wasted, and promptly sat down on the kerb with his head in his hands, muttering. Then he was on his feet again, bleating something about being immortal, I called for Alistair, but it was too late. He stepped in front of a car.

Alistair and I ran out onto the street. Alistair told me not to worry, that I must be mistaken, that Sylvester would not do something like that. Then we noticed his body that had rebounded off the car and into the gutter on the other side of the road. We ran over to him. He lifted his head, a bit battered and shaken up, but otherwise fine.

As soon as I woke up, I told Alistair about the dream, and said I was oddly concerned. Exacerbated by the fact that half the degree is in Philosophy, and I consider myself to rational, and moreover, an atheist. I don't do new-agey-psychic-phoneline-crap. And yet, weird shit always seems to happen to me.

Oh, it does.

I went out shopping. When I returned, Alistair waited until I had sat down, and said,

"Now, I don't want you to panic..."

Of course, this is the fastest way to ensure someone panics, and I did. Especially as by now I had forgotten about the strange dream.

"I have just been on the phone to Mistress Max, and she said something very strange..."

My mind immediately started concocting the very weirdest, and very worst things I could imagine,

"She's in love with you and wants to be with you?" I said. (Of course, this is the worst thing by far that could ever happen in the history oof the universe).

"No," said Alistair.

"I need a moment!" I bent double, breathed, and tried not to sick up my poor little racing heart. If you have ever watched Frasier and seen Niles have a panic attack...

Sometimes I am an anxious person. "She is pregnant with your child?" I asked,

"We've never had sex!"

"Well, you said it was really weird!" I said.

"I just got off the phone with her, and Sylvester has gone missing." My jaw flopped open, and I just stared at him in disbelief. Then I laughed a little bit in that nervous way people sometimes do. "He was meant to meet her to go to The Secret Garden Festival, she contacted him in the morning to ask why he was late. He said he was waiting for his friend to arrive with his tent. That was the last she heard from him."

The whole day and evening passed, with still no sight nor sound of Sylvester. Eventually, after I finished a session in the school-room, we decided we had better drive across London to his flat. When we arrived, the lights were off. He has two cats, so I was also concerned for their welfare. I bent down and peered into the letter-box.

"Syyyyl-veeees-teeeeeeer?" I yelled. Nothing stirred from within. We tried calling again and again. We questioned his neighbour and the neighbour's fat poodle. They had not seen him for a couple of days. I was beginning to get very worried. He had been really looking forwards to the festival, and this was not like him.

Eventually, we went home, indulging in a dirty little secret of ours along the way. In polite company, Alistair waxes lyrical about the disgustingness of McDonalds, and is known for ever-so-slight food snobbery. Will that be a gourmet quarter-pounder with cheese for you, sir?" Nothing was heard of Sylvester until late afternoon the next day.

As it turned out, he had been his flat all along. He hadn't wanted to see anyone, as he was licking proverbial wounds. On his way to the station to meet Mistress Max for the Secret Garden Party, he had been stopped and searched by the police. Unfortunately, they found certain illegal substances on him, and he was arrested and charged. What makes my blood boil is that, as well as calling all the hospitals to enquire about latest admissions, we also called police stations. We called the very one he had been taken into. They claimed that there was no record of our friend having been taken in. Moreover, it turns out that they also denied him his phone-call.

Very fucking dodgy stuff.

The Entirety of Sold as a Slave-Girl

I saw a new client last night for a switch session. For the most part, he would be dominant. At the end, the tables would be turned. You never know what to expect with first-timers, and there is only so much you can gather from them on the phone. He seemed nice enough. He said he had no desire to leave marks, and that it would be much more of a "tie and tease" affair.

I opened the door to a fairly small, fairly quiet, very nervous man. We sat on the bed in the room above the dungeon to discuss the session, and get better acquainted. There was nothing objectionable, nor out of the ordinary about him, but he was not the sort of man I would fantasise about. He quickly informed me that he envisaged a scenario whereby I had been bought as a slave-girl, and that he would train me for about forty minutes, at the end of which, I would be released for good behaviour. At this moment, I would trick him, restrain him, and give him a taste of his own medicine.

Despite the fact I do not fancy most of the clients I see, there are some elements of some sessions that hold appeal. Unfortunately, because there is no fancying involved, I do not get off (no matter how much I may look like it), but the theory of the thing remains with me. Tweak a bit here, substitute man there, and voila! Me, my hand, and I.

This session was a similar experience. There were elements of comedy and boredom, punctuated with a bit of wank fodder.

We went downstairs. I was ordered to strip, he sidled up alongside me and tried to disguise his nerves with special-authoritive-voice.

"I have to inform you that you have been bought as a slave girl..."

Tweak: A tall, refined man with a voice like velvet approaches behind me. He gently lifts my hair, and places a small, leather collar around my neck. He speaks in a gentle whisper, but his words are filled with menace. "You wear this because you are mine, do you understand?" He moves around to face me. His fingers brush across my lips, "These are mine," they reach down, and I feel nails graze across my nipples, "these are mine," they fall further still, inviting themselves into the cleft between my legs, "and this is mine."

But remember, you can't have it all, so back to reality.

My client has a love of shackles and chains. Real slave-girl harem stuff. Again, much potential there. Once we had found the keys (important), he locked my wrists and ankles into the metal cuffs. The ankles were attached to each other by a short chain, as were the wrists. Get the idea here. I looked at myself in the mirrored wall opposite, and noted that I should suggest them to Alistair. I looked hot.

He had me do several laps of the room, shuffling as I went.

Then he had me do several laps on tip-toes.

Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.

Mercifully, I was then released, and my wrists were winched up to the ceiling. Special lotion was applied to my nipples, or as I like to call it, bottle-of-lube-from-shelf. He then told me he could see how sensitive my nipples were becoming, and how frustrated I must be. Funny, I thought, I hadn't noticed...

After being lowered, I was then ordered to kneel across the whipping bench. I heard him disappear, presumably looking for a new toy. I found my thoughts drifting off towards the devilishly handsome man who was about to prise my buttocks apart, and thrust his cock roughly into my arse.

And then my client walked in.

Back to reality.

I felt him tie rope around my ankles, and raise them on the winch slightly. This caused my legs to be held further apart. It was another one of those moments, filled with potential, but ultimately dashed because I don't really fancy my clients. But wait, what was that? Special lotion on the vibrating device? Well, what can I say, I am not getting enough sex at the moment, and I have a good imagination. Those two of those combined, and I almost came. Sadly, the vibrator was removed from between my legs, and I had to fake it later.

Eventually, I was released for my good behaviour. Master has a penchant for massage, so I immediately set about oiling his back and rubbing away. Being the diligent slave-girl that I am, I asked him if he had seen the special massage device that targets all the pressure points on the body. Yes, I know those look like leather straps that are going to hold you prisoner and render you useless, but don't be deceived. Pressure points. Honest. What's that you say, Master? You'd like to experience this very specialised kind of massage? Well let me show you.

Hahahahahahahaaa, I am evil slave-girl, and you are now at my mercy, but there will be no mercy, hahahahahaaaaa.

I squeezed a healthy dollop of special lotion onto my finger, and my client actually said "Oh, no, not the sensitivity lotion!"

Hahahahahaaaaa, yes the sensitivity lotion, for I am bad, bad, bad slave-girl, High Priestess of the Harem of Horrid. I probably didn't say all of that.

The man did well, after all, he had to endure so much. I had no choice but to test my large purple vibrator on him. I held it against his cock, and I feel I must comment on the bucket of cum that landed at my feet. It was inhuman. A lesser woman would have needed waders.

The Champagne Incident

Before Alistair and I toddled off to Cyprus, he asked the ex if she wanted to house-sit. (Oh, yes, regardless of what may or may not have happened, she is still around). She agreed, and said she would mind the kinky B&B too. I usually do this job. It's pretty straight forward... you do everything you would if you were preparing a regular hotel room. Make it clean and beautiful before the guests arrive, and then in the morning, go deal with the carnage. Although, I have to say the guests are usually very clean, and very tidy.

The ex did not show up to mind the house. In fact, it seems that the only times she was there was to prepare the B&B, and for the dinner party she threw in our absence, (we'll come to this later).

The guests arrived on the Friday evening. Alistair got a call on Saturday afternoon. I am not sure whether it was from the guests, or from the brand new Mistress who has never rented our dungeon-space, but was due to on the Saturday afternoon. In any case, Alistair had misunderstood the amount of time the guests wanted. They wanted the whole weekend. Alistair had only booked them in for Friday night, and the new Mistress had booked a session in with a client on Saturday. Of course, all of this could have been discovered before any real damage was done. Had the ex been there, instead of fucking off to a party, she would have gone down in the morning to discover the guests still there. She could then have offered for them to relax upstairs whilst the new Mistress had her session, and then they could have returned back to a nice, clean, ready to go B&B. (The guests would not have minded this, because they are regulars and friends). Instead, what happened was the Mistress walked in on the guests, and was understandably angry. She cancelled her appointments, and Alistair lost the money from them. The guests did not return for the full weekend, and Alistair lost substantial money there, too.

Still, bless the ex, she can't do much wrong in Alistair's eyes. If only she had received the text message he sent her in time, she could have rushed wastedly back to the house from the party across London. All would have been well.

The ex had also agreed to pick us up from the airport. We were due to land at 2.30am. During the course of our last day in Cyprus, we get a little message informing us that there had been a big party in Brighton, which had gone on for ages, and she might not be in any condition to drive, and due to highness, no sleep had been possible. I knew instantly we were going to be stranded at the airport. It was of no surprise when we then received a message telling us that no one would be coming to fetch us. I blinked in disbelief when Alistair tried to blame the situation on the fact that there was a party in Brighton. Indeed. How dare our mutual friends throw a party, and tempt the ex away from fulfilling her promise of a lift from the airport. Frankly I wouldn't have minded half as much, if it was during the day. We could have caught a train. Instead we had to arrange for an expensive cab.

But, bless her, it's not her fault.

When arrived home, I scanned the kitched. Imagine my delight as I discovered that I would have the privilege of clearing up yet another of her dinner parties. In fact, I do believe that I have cleared up at least the previous five parties she has had, even the ones I did not attend.

And lo, I would get to feel even more special, for what is that brown substance all over the bath? It is professional wax from the professional waxing kit, and it has set, and it may only be removed with solvent. A real treat.

Lucky, lucky me.

And lucky, lucky her. Use Alistair's house to host a party whilst we are away, and not actually bother to give anything back at all. Even if it means stranding us at the airport at 2.30am.

Yesterday, I set about clearing the kitchen. As I looked at the line of bottles by the bin, I saw an empty bottle of Tattinger Champagne. My eyes narrowed in suspicion. I had bought one of those for Alstair on his birthday... we were saving it to drink together. Before I even opened the refrigerator, I already knew it had been drunk. I got a bit shouty.

This is rare for me.

However, rather than see my (I think rather fair) point of view that all this was just a bit too fucking out of order, Alistair thought I was grossly over-reacting, and was only upset because I have a chip on my shoulder about the ex. Hmmmm. Well, he could be right, but let's just re-cap this page of events, just in case. I'll let you all decide for yourselves, shall I?

So angry.

You get him on a good day, and it has to be very, very, very good, and Alistair will admit that he defends the ex when often he really shouldn't. Mostly, just like now, he smiles a little smile, and says she's been a bit naughty.

He did mention the Champagne to her on the phone, and the state of the kitchen. After the conversation, I asked if she had at least apologised. He said no. This did not seem to bother him. Moreover, she had blamed the birthday Champagne on mutual friends who had raided the fridge. So her guests at her party had drunk my birthday present to Alistair. This seemed to make it a bit more ok for my absolutely bumfuck-crazy beloved. Apparently the ex has said she'll replace it. Watch this space, but please, oh please, don't hold your breaths.

Sex in a Recession

A few weeks ago, a well known professional switch passed on a couple to me. She is no longer able to see them, as she has recently entered into a new relationship, and marks on her body have become an issue.

Before my visit, she told me that the couple were about 70, looked younger, and saw her in order to spice up their sex lives. As it turned out, we really hit it off. He is a musician and author, and together, they sell antique jewellery and handbags on the Portobello Road. This immediately endeared them to me, as I love writing, and retro.

He wanted to play with me first, then fuck his wife in front of me. It turned out he liked to play hard, but was very respectful of my limits. It was really a process of exploration for us both, since this was a first meeting. It quickly became obvious that I was never going to be able to take the cane to the degree he would like. 100 strokes? You have got to be joking. And I bruise very easily. He went hard enough, but not as severe as it could have been, and my tender flesh was very definitely marked. This does not concern me at all. In any case, he was pleased with me, because I am quite a find for one particular reason. I like face-slapping, and whilst I can't take much of a caning on my backside, smack me silly round the face, and I am happy. And remember, it's not romantic unless you cry. Apparently, most girls don't do that kind of thing. So maybe I'm not a "nice" girl, after all.

I can't say that any of this thrilled me in an especially moist way, but my love of the bizarre ensured that this was time well-spent. So I simply bent over the cushions on the bed, marvelling at my life, and considered how it came to pass that I found myself on a strange bed, being caned by a man in his 70s with a strong New Yorker accent.

I was then sent out to fetch his wife. And I can confirm that old people do it in pretty much the same way young people do, so there is hope for us all.

When I returned home, I found an email from them, informing me how much they liked me, how perfect I was, and how I had a job for life...

Fast forward to this week.

I receive a call informing me that I am perfect, and they love me, but the dealer who buys the majority of their stuff has gone bankrupt, owing them a substantial amount of money... They will be living on their savings now, and can only afford to pay me £100. My fee is £200, and indeed usually higher than that, but I gave them a discount because a friend referred them to me, and that was what she charged.

I am oddly consumed with guilt that I am going to have to refuse them, but £100 for what I do just isn't going to cut it.

Midnight Snorkelling

As you know, I have been learning to scuba dive. As soon as I had completed my first dive, I immediately enquired as to whether it would be possible to dive at night. After all, think of all the nocturnal creatures that could be seen at night. Think how much more alien an already alien environment would seem.

Sadly, you need a few lessons, and to have completed a few more dives to dive at night. I have only had time for two, plus a skills session in a villa pool.

However, I was determined to have a taster of the night sea, and so I suggested to Alistair that we might go for a night snorkel, armed with diving lights. We went to St George's Bay, which is only up to 5 metres deep at some points, and enclosed by rocks, which form a nice barrier from the crashing waves of the open sea.

It was an experience I highly recommed. We swam under a new moon, and the sea was warm. Slowly, we shone our torches across the sea bed, rocks, and nooks. Hovering throughout the water were thousands of little fry, fast asleep, seemingly to young to be woken or bothered by our lights. The glare from our torches illuminated their transparent bodies, and I thought they looked rather like tiny ghosts. And then down below, in a deeper section of the pool, we saw something I thought I'd never see. There beneath us was a huge conch shell, presumably housing a very large hermit crab. It must have been 8 or 9 inches across, and was the kind of thing most people only ever see decorating people's bathrooms. I also discovered that sea-slugs, or sea-cucumbers come out at night. They really do look like large, fat cucumbers, and though I couldn't, I had a strong desire to squish one in my hands to see what it would feel like. Fire-worms also like the night-time. We saw an astonishling large one. One mustn't touch these. Ouch. However, if you disturb the water a few inches in front of them, they ripple. At one point, we shone our torches towards the surface, whether at day or night, this is often a good idea, as you'd be surprised how many fish lurk near the surface, and are rendered almost invisible because of it. We disturbed a large shoal of fish, old enough to panic, and their bodies darted and flurried in all directions, but I quickly called a stop to this, as I am not in the business of frightening creatures needlessly.

We swam for an hour or so, then made our way up the sandy beach. Our bags had been left beside sunbeds and sunshades that had been deserted for the night. The only noise were the sounds of breaking waves, and the buzzing of crickets in the distance. Alistair reached into our bag, and pulled out the largest towel. As we stood beneath the moon and all the stars, he took the largest towel from our bag, pulled me in, and wrapped it round us both. I nuzzled into his soft neck, still slippery with sea-water. And then he lifted my chin, looked into my eyes, told me how much he loved me, and kissed me. And it was one of those perfect kisses, long, lingering. And it was one of those moments where you feel as if you could almost breathe in the soul of the other person.

Except for one minor detail. When we climbed onto the beach, we made our way to our bags. Alistair pulled out the largest towel and pulled me in close. He asked if I had had a nice swim, and if I thought it had been romantic. I said yes (although that was more in reference to what was to come, rather than the swim itself, because we had been underwater with tubes, and focusing on trying to find interesting animals...) I kissed him, but he ensured it was short, and more like a peck. I kissed his neck, and made my way up to his mouth. I attempted to gently coax the kiss I wanted. I failed. I masked my disappointment and suggested we dress. He asked me why I was so eager to do so, so I told him that he did not seem particularly taken with my kisses, so we should get ready. He said something about snogging being inappropriate in such a public setting. I looked around, but there was no one else in sight, and the distant windows and balconies of hotel rooms were so far away that binoculars would be needed to see us. And what the hell is wrong with one snog in public at the beach under the stars?

Snapshot

Cyprus snaps:

Wandering donkey at the shelter.

Kitten in box at the shelter.

Comedy donkey head at the shelter.

Baby donkeys!

More baby donkeys. It's all too much.

Sea of cats at the shelter.

Me with the kitten that loved me.

Me at my happiest.

The view from the winery on the mountain-top.

The entrance to the winery.

The view from our villa.

Jealous?

It 'Aint Half Hot, Mum...

Whatever happened to Maisie and Alistair? Did she finally leave him, never to speak to him again? Did he see the error of his ways? Did they elope and live happily ever after in a bubble of perverted bliss?

I am not telling. Yet.

Suffice to say, they are currently in Cyprus, and it is very, very hot.

Obviously, things can't carry on in too normal a fashion, so just to add a bit of spice, Alistair took me to his ex's father's place to stay. He lives in Cyprus with his partner. I must say that they are very lovely, caring, considerate, hospitable people. I was worried that the weird factor would be too much for me, but I have been having a blast, largely because I am getting on so well with the ex's father's partner. She is a straight-talking Scottish lady, with a wonderful sense of humour.

Alistair is spending most of the time working. We got our flights on the cheap, and this was all intended as a bit of a working holiday for us. An opportunity to do what must be done in a beautiful environment. The villa is perfectly placed, so one can sit and work on the verandah, with a view of the mountains, which sweep down to the town, which sweeps down to the sea.

I have been snorkelling, which I had never done before, and even better, I have been learning to scuba dive. The ex's father, let's call him Robert, is an assistant diving instructor. I am loving every minute. For me, it's all about feeling as if I am in my very own wildlife documentary. Those who know me are well aware of my obsession with the animal kingdom, and scuba diving has given me the opportunity to explore a world that I thought I would never see for myself. And it is breathtaking.

In addition to all of this, Robert's partner, Pearl, has taken me to see the animal shelter and sanctuary. I was so impressed with this place. Cyprus is not famous for its appreciation of animal welfare, and so the tiny, dedicated team have the odds stacked against them. In their small, rather barren plot of land, they manage to care for horses, donkeys, goats, dogs, and cats. The cat shelter is awesome. Most of the animals never get rehomed, and so they have come up with a good idea to cope with this problem. The cats have a large, immaculately clean hut, with bed, food, and toilet facilities, from which they can come and go as they please. Only the very young, or sick, are kept locked in. The cats never leave, because they receive such good care. The only trouble is that all are a little thinner than I would like. This is because the shelter struggles for money, and has just enough to keep all of them running. When we visited, the cats evidently miss human affection, because when I sat on a rock to adjust my shoe, about 6 of them jumped on me, purring, and snuggling, and refusing to budge. I was in heaven.

The Shelter is in Paphos. Please visit their website, http://www.cyprusanimalwelfare.com/ www.facebook/paphiakos

I am still around, and it's about to start up again...

I don't know if there are any of you guys still bobbing around out there, but it's time to warm up the keyboard again.

Whatever happened to the tragic tale of Maisie and Alistair? Well...

It's a scream, baby!

My apologies, as this will be a quick check in.

Stay with me people, as I have much to say. I am now a professional submissive, and recently had my first really real, as real as it gets session. If you expect a troll, things can only get better... He was tall, handsome, educated... *sigh*. Stay with me, and as soon as I have time, I shall tell you a story.

This entry is designed to be a quick hello, and a rant. I am a creature of extremes, but sometimes I hate that my life follows suit. Alistair is either practically Prince Charming, or a total arse who completely takes advantage of me.

Oh, do stay with me. I haven't been able to retell the great betrayal... and now we have part deux.

And yet, he manages to pull it all back in there.

And yet, here we go again. He is in dire straits, running out of money, the mistress of the porn site he is co-running is insane, and has tried to quit, he has spent every penny on making this work. I agree to help him make a go of it, working for free. Yesterday, he got up really late, whilst I had been busting a gut all day. He is meant to get up today to help me (over the internet, of course), because I cannot progress without him. I get a call at 13.30. He stayed up all night partying. He is off to bed.

I am an absolute, pure, complete fool.

This has been poorly written. I am ashamed, and my usual finesse spits on me.

Call me old fashioned, but...

Friends, there are some things that one simply does not do in polite society. In fact, I would wager that even those with the most dubious of upbringings would balk at what I am about to share with you...

Tonight, I switched on my laptop and opened up what I believed to be an innocuous little file, well, as innocuous as a file full of pornographic material could be. But imagine my surprise, (and I really want you to try here), when I was confronted with an image of my friend, rubbered up, jumping on what can only be described as the kitchen counter, and pissing into what can only be described as the kettle. Yes indeed. It appears that civilisation somehow bypassed her little town, so close to the robust decency of London, and yet so far.

I was at her house only a few days ago. As an atheist, I feel no compulsion to thank god that I did not accept an offer of tea, however, I am once again reminded that my love of gin is a worthwhile pursuit. Had it not been for the bottle of Bombay Saph perched provocatively on the counter, my palette and mind might have been traumatised beyond repair.

Cheap prosecco and Ann Summers do not the kink ball make...

It wasn't a bad night, but it wasn't all that. And frankly, the fact that I had been promised free champagne, but given cheap prosecco was outrageous. And I love prosecco, I really do, but this was fizzy, alcoholic sugar.

The one in the middle, that's me. On the left of the picture is a lovely friend, who showed up unexpectedly, and on the right, well, that's Alistair. I went a little heavy with the smudge tool on those guys. Those of you who have been with me long enough will remember the fateful day when Alistair found my blog. Whilst I have refused to pull any punches, whether he reads it or not, I still feel the need to smear his face beyond all recognition, it's only fair.

Do you like my gown? That be 100% pure silk, with train, the whole shebang. It was given to me as payment for modelling at a show for these guys.

I am surprised we made it at all, considering Alistair left it until about an hour before the cab arrived to finally accept that he needs some fetish clothes to go to clubs in. Don't get me wrong, he has a truck load of gear, but most of it is either useful only as part of a session, or is a little too skimpy to go to an "exclusive" fetish ball in. Truth be told, the man hardly ever leaves the house, preferring the endless conveyor belt of women to come to him. Actually, I must be fair, he does attend and throw private fetish house parties. These are convenient, since he can wear both of his uniforms, i.e. the only fetish wear that he ever wears: upon arrival: leather trousers and black top, an hour later: little leather thong (butt plug if he's lucky).

I digress.

He left it as late as he could to have a hissy about the lack of clothes, managing to produce only an old black rubber catsuit, and an old pair of black rubber chaps. I favoured the chaps, since his backside is of epic cuteness. However, some bastard guests had pinched the polish from the fetish B&B that he runs, with my assistance. I have the patience of a saint, so I managed to smile through adversity, despite the fact that I hadn't been laced into my corset, and the cab had arrived.

But we got there, and he looked lovely. But I always think that, which is one of the reasons I just can't put him down. But he did.

We got there early, as he didn't want to miss out on the champagne. It was fucking prosecco. Nonetheless, it was served to me by one of the hottest, buffest (can't believe I just said that) bits of crumpet that one is ever likely to see, wearing only a pair of tight shorts. Nice.

The venue really wasn't very "exclusive". I was expecting marble, and plush furnishings, and a really nice loo. I always say that you can tell the quality of an establishment by how chic its loos are. Regarding this establishment, I have graced worse toilet seats, but I have graced a hell of a lot better too.

And the people started to arrive.

Hmmmmmm.

Young crowd. Young oh-my-darlings-aren't-we-being-edgy crowd. They were hot, no doubt about that, but it became apparent that each one had only just bought their riding crop at Ann Summers, and after tonight, it was in danger of never being brought out the closet again. And there was very little good conversation to be had.

Call me old fashioned, but even if they are mind bogglingly, angels-weeping-tears-of-joy hot, I just can't kiss 'em unless they're clever.

Eventually I made my way to the dungeon, I noticed it was a dead end, and then I noticed a horny tranny and her mistress making a bee-line. I fled.

However, Alistair and I did meet one extremely lovely, genuine woman. I really liked her, and we are keeping in touch already. More on her later.

Eventually, after a failed after-party at someone's house, Alistair and I reached home on Saturday morning. It was only 9am... shockingly, nay, disgustingly early for us. And so we had our own little party. 8 hours of play in the dungeon.

I cannot begin to describe the things we did, suffice to say that if I told you, you'd probably end up running away. And for once, Alistair subbed to me, and looked at me with those burning eyes of his. The eyes that make me want to be cruel, the eyes I want to see cry... They almost did, I think, on Monday night, when we revisited the weekend. It's a compelling, addictive, and entirely unhealthy game we play. It's a game that horrifies him, disturbs him, and yet makes him so hard... And as I push him, force him into doing things of nightmarish proportions, I am waiting for those moments where the desire takes him over, and he begs for more, and for me to hurt him.

Belle Epoque

I am attending this event tonight with Alistair. Apparently, upon arrival, I will be confronted with an "upmarket" kinky, burlesque-ee ball. There will be free champagne for the guest-list early on in the evening.

Alistair says the idea behind it all is to attract rich perverts, who want to socialise and play in more expensive, exclusive environments... In other words, the place is will probably be packed with beautiful arse-holes who think they are oh-so-edgy.

I wonder if I will be inspected for attractiveness on the door?

Hmmmm. I can do attractiveness, but am also quite capable of letting my makeup run in the name of having a good time.

I also have one very big, very huge, very large reservation about attending tonight (though I am still going to do so, and get just a little high,) and rather than detail my worry, let's just see if I am correct.

It will motivate me to write you.

Until tomorrow.

Scent

Those of you who have been with me for a while will know of Alistair. You will probably have asked yourself why I still have anything to do with him. It's a fair question. I could flop down on the floor like the proverbial doormat, list the lies, the hurt, the times when my needs have been completely ignored, and then add: but he's actually a wonderful man...

And he does have the capacity to be very wonderful indeed, which in some ways only makes bad misbehaving Alistair seem worse.

But I digress.

Why am I still fraternising... especially as I technically left him a while ago? (And no, I am still not ready to document the great betrayal). It could be one of a few reasons... For example, try as I might, I just can't do without the sex. It's not just good sex, it has been consistently fucking amazing sex since we first started this circus, over a year and a half ago. It could be that I am in love with him, and so I want to see him, even though part of me always feels as if it has been a little damaged when I do. But, hey, the sex is that good, that I can live with the damage.

Oh god, maybe I am that much of a pervert that I am aroused by men who fuck me up.

But there is another very important reason I continue to fraternise with Alistair. He smells irresistable to me.

Never under estimate the power of scent. And I am not referring to his perfume/cologne/deodorant/eau de frou frou toilet, no, I am referring to the simple, nothing added, nothing taken away, as god intended, natural Alistair smell.

Different people react differently to various smells. But to me, few things smell as wonderful as that fucking, cursed boy. One whiff, and it is as if all the oxytocin valves in my brain explode simultaneously. He has a smell that is sex, love, comfort, safety, all at once. Which sounds insane, because very often when I have been buried in that smell of his, my heart has ended up somewhat crushed.

But it doesn't matter. His hair and skin smell sweet and soft and inviting. I want to smother myself in it, and drift off to the warm, soft, happy place. I swear sometimes the smell of his hair almost makes me high. I am only glad that the fact I make no attempt to disguise my creepy sniffing of his hair doesn't bother him.

Scent is a very powerful thing. It can make or break relationships. It might even keep a flame burning long after it should have been extinguished.

But who the hell knows.

Not me, that's for sure. I only came here to wrap myself in long, fragrant boy-hair.

The Dance

My housemate, Saladin (see older posts), came home tonight. I hardly see him because he is dutifully looking after his ailing mother. He did not stay long.

We were in the kitchen, inspecting the damage that the leak from the flat above had caused. It flooded us a week ago, and things have been slowly drying out. There was banter, the usual kind, the kind where I feel as if I am disadvantaged because he unnerves me.

He informed me that I have got off lightly because he has not been around very much, but as soon as he is able to spend more time in the house, he will resume patrolling around, making sure everything is just so. He is the only person I know who is more OCD than even my mother. I am a tidy housemate, but no one is ever immaculate enough for Saladin.

I admitted to him that perhaps I am not the best there is at washing up. I squirmed as I found myself confessing that all the previous men in my life have complained about my appalling incompetance at the kitchen sink. It's not that I don't do it- I do- it's just that no matter how hard I try, I never seem to shift all of the dirt.

That won't do in Saladin's house, oh no.

He casually leant back against the counter-top, but stared at me intently.

"Have any of those men actually shown you the correct way to wash up?"

I answered in the negative, and then smiled slyly and told him it was all simply because they had not put an effective reward/punishment system in place. He agreed and began mentioning something about a cane, I became flustered... I am not quite sure what was said, but it ended in the description of his latex coated cane.

I protested. I would not entertain such a thing. Far, far too painful. And I was quick to point out that I am a purist, it's the biting kiss of bamboo for me. But Saladin never listens to my complaints, and left the room, returning seconds later with a fairly thick cane, thinly coated in black rubber.

He told me to hold my arm straight out to the side, so that my hand was level with my shoulder. I was about to decline, but he flashed me a look and repeated his order. I obeyed. He stroked the cane across my palm, and a battle of wills began, as he taunted me, repeatedly raising the stick as if he was about to strike. I refused to flinch, and looked away. He instructed me to look at my hand, and so I did, and still, I refused to flinch.

All the while he was speaking to me, calmly, matter of factly.

His words made my cheeks burn. Very few men make me blush.

He brought the cane down on my hand, but not unbearably hard, so I teased him.

He began speaking to me again.

He brought the cane down again, and I squealed in pain.

I began to complain, but he cut my words off with talk of scattering rice on the floor of the living room... I blushed harder than I have in a long time. I actually hid my face in my hands. I said,

"I am going to my room now,"

and I ran away.

Rice? Well, that's a story from some time ago. Back when I began this blog. One of my first entries related to what Saladin described to me around two years ago, when we went on a date.

We have been on three dates now over a period of two years, and then three weeks ago, I moved in as housemate. Over two years, we have kissed but once, and he has smacked my palm with a cane.

This is a long, slow dance...

An Officer and a Gentleman

I recently went to dinner with a man I have known of for about 2 years. Known of but never met. Over time, he had sent me an email or two on a fetish community site. I remember having received them, yet I cannot remember why I did not respond. The first may have been because I was with the then love of my life, (a love which was not to be), the second may have been because I was newly consumed with lust for the thorn in my heart that is Alistair.

I am still not yet inclined to discuss that boy's betrayal of me.

And then, out of the blue, there was another message from The Officer. It was on another fetish site, and seemed to be prompted simply by the fact that he had discovered a face he knew, at least online. And suddenly, I found myself responding. Partly because I should have done it a long time ago, and partly because I know that somewhere out there, there is a man who will love me passionately, treat me honourably, and protect me quietly. And I know that if he is out there, he probably won't come to me, I need to help things along. And so just like that, I asked this man to dinner, and just like that, he accepted.

In some respects, he is just my type. An Oxbridge educated intellectual, tall, funny, and a complete pervert. He is in fact a rare breed, a male pro-dom who women do indeed pay to see. And yet not my type at all. He is handsome, but very definitely masculine. Refined, but masculine. His hair is short and red, he has a small goatee... Frighteningly new terrain.

He lives only ten minutes drive from my home, in a famously vibrant part of London. Because of this, we agreed to meet there for a drink, with the intention of moving on to a restaurant for dinner. It was a blues bar that specialises in bourbon. I had never been there before.

I wore black stockings and suspenders, and a long tight black skirt, with a slit outlined in a flamenco ruffle, cut high up the back. Modest from the front, and provocative from behind. And I really wasn't all that nervous, until the bus closed in on my destination.

I walked in and immediately saw him seated at the bar. He had warned me he would be in his work suit. I adore good suits, and he wears good suits. He has a well paid job, and is very driven, a workaholic, really. Filled with ambition and a desire to be the best, and yet all in a quiet, almost understated way. He said hello, leant in and kissed me lightly on the cheek. I was already wondering whether I would be able to keep up with Mr. Oxbridge. He handled his intellect the same way as the other elements of himself, with an understated self-confidence. And it is instantly likeable. I find wealthy people who make a grand show of splashing their money everywhere extremely distasteful, and I find clever people who do the same with their mental capacity just as objectionable.

And he never once placed all of his cards on the table, but never once appeared guarded. This is a very pleasing quality in a man. He was very funny, and made me laugh. He was flirtatious without seeming to be already mentally occupying my knickers (something I am not used to, after spending so much time around Alistair... I don't judge, I am often the same). We spoke about many things, and I looked at him with disgust when I discovered he drank beer. Still, I suppose he is a Yorkshireman.

He laughed when I told him he was like a real life Sharpe. He was born into a working class family in Yorkshire, and educated at the local comprehensive... That alone makes it even harder to get into Oxbridge, but he did, and studied physics. Despite being the eternal artist, I am always ending up with science/IT bods. He then became an engineer in the army, and left as an officer with two tours of Iraq under his belt.

I eagerly listened to his stories.

I eagerly insisted he should drink cocktails with me, and picked a flouncy sounding one for him.

I kissed him, he kissed me... And suddenly all thought of moving on to a restaurant evaporated, and we propelled ourselves to the large, grand wooden doors of his apartment block. Along the way, I asked if he likes ladies who smoke, he replied that he prefers for them not to... And I am such a good girl.

He has a beautiful flat. Part home, part dungeon, all at once. There is both regular and dungeon furniture in the living room, and it all works very well together. And he has two darling cats, which is always a sure way to endear me to a man...

I can't recall at what point we went from speaking to him grabbing my neck and forcing me face-down into the couch. It all happened rather quickly. I do remember him whispering into my ear what a slut I was, coming back to a stranger's house on a first date, with that piece-of-northern-rough accent of his. I felt his hand between my legs, but barely, never enough to satisfy.

He told me to undress, and dragged me into another room. There, he put a soft leather hood on me. I often think hoods look unappealing, fun as they are, but this one was different. Tiny holes were punched across the leather that covered my eyes. By tilting my head and squinting, I could just about make out my reflection in the mirrors that covered the entire wall. He was behind me, pressed agaisnt me, his arm snaking around my throat. I looked and felt fragile against his wiry frame. It made me hot. And my black lingerie looked good with the hood.

There was so much more to come.

But if it counts for anything, and right now, nothing counts for much, I fell asleep in his arms.

Was it good for you?

Yesterday evening, at half past seven, I climbed the stairs up to Sir's beautiful London apartment. This would be my first time flying solo, and having previously been the one wielding the crop, this was my first time offering my services as a submissive. I was required for two hours, and my tribute was enough to put a smile on my face. Enough to help me control my nervousness.

And it was not the thought of submitting to strangers that made me anxious, not the removal of clothes, nor the vulnerability. It was simply that I was offering a service, and it needed to be good. I needed to be good. If either one of the couple had been smacked with the ugly stick, it would be harder to be good.

Sir had already mentioned to me that they were absolutely gorgeous... But my tastes are not everybodies'.

And yet, I was greeted at the door by the woman, the Mistress, and she was gloriously beautiful. But being straight as a line, her gorgeousness was wasted on me. She spoke very little English, and beckoned me inside. We went into the living room, which is also half of the dungeon (executed perfectly, not one piece of mundane, or kinky furniture looks out of place), her partner was seated on the sofa, looking apprehensive. I had already been told via email that he was not convinced by the idea of this session, but was doing it to please her.

I tried to act natural, like I had done this one hundred times before. The voice in my head was wondering what is considered polite in these circumstances... It's different when you are the dominant, you take that and run with it, but if you are the submissive, well... I wondered if I should say hello, have a little chat, possibly even tea and biscuits. In the email, she seemed to want me to just get down to business, and they didn't have much to say... I indicated that I needed to go into the bathroom to put on my long, latex gloves. Pulling them on seemed to take and age.

When I returned, the Mistress told me to take off my clothes. She left the room, and I found myself stripping in front of a strange, but handsome man, who looked like he wanted to be somewhere else. When I was down to only my stockings and gloves, I approached him and ran my gloved hand down his face. She had told me that he loves the smell of latex. His partner quickly returned, and she indicated that I should undress him, and so I obeyed. His body was as beautiful as his face, smooth olive skin and lightly muscled. She remained corsetted in leather, and she knew so few words of English, most of her communication with me was with a gesture of the hand, or a look in the eye. She showed me that she wanted me to tease her partner, to pleasure him, but only a little.

I should say that many who are involved in this kind of work do not offer sexual favours... I am not one of those people. I am a deeply sexual person, and for me, BDSM is a deeply sexual practice. And who wouldn't take a bite, when confronted with a man like that?

After I had begun to excite him just enough that he had relaxed into the correct headspace, she took him and bound him to the St Andrews cross, she had me suck his cock as she whispered something I could not understand into his ear. Then suddenly she took me, pushed me down onto the spanking bench, and tied me there. I felt her hand between my legs, and then she began spanking me, gently at first, but then harder. And I could feel his eyes burning into us, watching as he hung there...

Before the two hours were over, she forced me on him a few more times, and him on me. She tied him to the spanking bench, and asked me to fetch her a glass of water. She watched me struggle with the task, as she had left my hands still bound. Then, I was to stand in front of her partner, so that his head was pressed into my pussy. She indicated that I should hold the glass out towards her, across his back, so that she could drink from it when she chose. In Spanish, she told him to lick me, and she began to fuck him with her strap-on. The more I felt his tongue, the more difficult it became not to spill the water. The harder she fucked him, the harder it became not to spill the water...

When she was finished playing the girl who was playing rough with her dolls, she had me kneel on all fours in the centre of the living room, and had her partner fuck me there, as she reclined on the couch, and watched.

They asked me to see them again, 3 days later.

Job well done.

It went well. And, luckily for me, they were both hot stuff. Model hot... I bet that hardly ever happens.

Anyway, forgive me, I am tired, and I need to snug in my bed. Tomorrow morning, I shall launch myself from under the duvet and reveal all.

Smack My Bitch Up

It's been a long time. Too long. I am sorry for my absence.

After the passing of so much time, I am sure that you are all eager to hear what became of Alistair, of the Ex, and so much trauma. And as you might expect, there is a veritable banquet of angst, awkwardness, and sheer "no fucking way-ness", all delivered with laughter in mind. Because if you must endure the lows, you may as well learn to laugh at them.

But I shall save the story of that naughty boy later.

I have been a very busy lady indeed, and my life has been veering down all sorts of surprising paths, and almost all in a good way. I have so much to tell you, and a nice big slice of it consists of kinky antics and general showing-off... And some tall handsome strangers, here and there.

For now, I shall say this: I am sitting on my beautiful four-poster bondage bed, in my new home. I am all alone, and calming myself in preparation for the night ahead of me. At 7.30, I am about to handed a nice wad of cash to submit to a well-known Spanish Dominatrix and her husband. Did ya see that coming? Did ya?

It will all happen in the dungeon of a man I went on a date with a few nights ago. He is well known on the London scene, though we never had a chance to meet before now. His apartment and equipment are fantastic...

And lordy, I am nervous.

If they like me, we will have another session tomorrow.

So, ladies and gentleman, a new career beckons.

And for those of you who are slightly horrified right now. Firstly, don't be, as I am doing this for no other reason than because I want to. Secondly, I have a more mundane venture to report back to you next time you check in. Although maybe check back later tonight, because I will try to give a report, post-play.

I am still here...

And I will be back, as soon as I can, which should be soon... So much has had to happen, so much still to do...