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