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.