Proud Maisie

Evolution

2010-12-02T12:50:00.002Z

Click here and stop looking through the key-hole.

I have adenovirus in my eyes...

2010-10-06T11:46:00.002+01:00

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

2010-09-15T10:56:00.000+01:00

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

2010-09-14T20:16:00.001+01:00

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.

2010-09-13T18:26:00.002+01:00

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

2010-09-13T10:10:00.003+01:00

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

2010-09-12T13:19:00.003+01:00

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

2010-09-04T13:44:00.004+01:00

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

2010-08-17T11:58:00.004+01:00

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

2010-08-12T15:30:00.004+01:00

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

2010-07-28T17:31:00.005+01:00

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!

2010-07-28T16:09:00.005+01:00

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

2010-07-24T10:25:00.008+01:00

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

2010-07-22T13:57:00.006+01:00

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

2010-07-21T11:02:00.005+01:00

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

2010-07-20T21:46:00.003+01:00

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

2010-07-18T09:17:00.005+01:00

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

2010-07-16T07:03:00.004+01:00

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...

2010-07-15T09:58:00.005+01:00

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...

2010-06-30T18:57:00.003+01:00

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!

2010-03-28T14:15:00.002+01:00

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...

2010-03-09T03:43:00.004Z

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...

2010-03-03T21:01:00.007Z

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

2010-02-26T13:59:00.003Z

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

2010-02-24T23:38:00.005Z

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

2010-02-23T00:31:00.005Z

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

2010-02-20T22:01:00.006Z

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?

2010-02-12T10:28:00.004Z

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.

2010-02-11T22:59:00.002Z

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

2010-02-11T15:19:00.002Z

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...

2010-01-19T01:02:00.001Z

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...

Latest Drawing

2009-12-13T15:50:00.002Z

For a fetish club flyer. Vampire theme.

Does he come free with that?

2009-12-11T10:45:00.004Z

On Wedenesday, I went to visit Saladin. I am moving in with him. Any of you who remember way back to when I was able to write more regularly will now be saying "Whaaaa??!!" It's not exactly what you might think. We are not in a relationship, but we are still interested in each other. His housemate of two years is moving out, and he will leave an available spare room. I am in need of a place to live, and Saladin is in need of a civilised housemate. And yes, the four poster bed is a glorious bonus.

I did labour long and hard over whether it was wise to accept Saladin's offer, but when I finally did, it was as if a very tangible weight had been lifted off of my shoulders. The journey around there on Wednesday was to refresh my memory of how the room is, and to decide if I wanted it painting.

The room used to belong to Saladin's ex of a few years ago. Like me, she is a tall lady who generally wears black, and she liked her room the colour of imperial purple. If I were still ever so slightly more youthful, I would have requested it be left that colour. However, I have grown particular in my old age, and felt that the blood-red carpet was not a match, neither was the rosewood of the four poster bed. Moreover, now I am drawing more, I need lots of light. So the room will now be painted honey white, which is going to look very lovely.

But let's cut to the chase. What is more lovely is the fact that the bed has been customised for a lady of my persuasion. There are hooks and eyes everywhere, all the better to thread the ropes through, my dear.

I have a little gothic dresser in there, and a old spooky looking wardrobe... and the bed is kingsize, so I'll be able to fit a couple of boys in.

Even more important, Saladin is clean, responsible, dependable, calm... Everything I need.

But frankly, this is all by the by. I found I was hardly concerned about the room at all as soon as the door was opened by Saladin's housemate. Now, it is a well documented fact that I am one of the most impossibly fussy women when it comes down to men, boys, call them what you will. I hardly ever find anyone attractive. Ever. And when I do, they usually reveal some defective personality trait/lack of intellect/off-putting behavioural tick, and then it's ruined. So you can imagine what an unlikely event it would be for me to bump into a male of the species and think "I may have just met perfection itself". We are talking pigs flying, hell freezing over, and Jesus popping down to judge us all (remind me to hide).

I arrived at Saladin's, and this tall, beautiful boy opened the door. He had long, dark hair tied back in a pony-tail, pale smooth skin, high cheekbones, and an elegant face. But not only that, he was well-spoken, and had this graceful way of moving. Oh hell, he could have walked off the set of LotR, for Christ's sake. If he had had pointy ears, I may well have attempted rape there and then. But I am ruining a beautiful moment.

As I spoke to Saladin, this gorgeous creature poured me a drink, and played his guitar... What could have been very dodgy ground was not at all, because thankfully, he did not play like a teenager.

We then went out for dinner, and the boy revealed a vast intellect and a knowledge of philosophy, combined with a fairly wicked sense of humour, and the revelation that he is sexually dominant (though he does not like the label).

He leaves tomorrow for Poland. It's a three month trip.

I wish he came with the room.

Bed, Breakfast, and dungeon.

2009-12-05T11:39:00.004Z

It is hard to know where to begin. A lot of time has elapsed, a lot of things have happened. I have decided to ease myself in slowly, and introduce to the main project I have been working on.

As I have previously mentioned, the fetish B&B is now up and running, we had our first customer last weekend, and they absolutely loved it, and said that they'd book again.

Obviously, the idea is that guests receive luxurious, self-contained accomodation, including bathroom and kitchen, and the most important thing, a dungeon. Although in this case, they also get a medical room too. I am running the webmarketing side of things, and the general frou-frou maintenance of the place. i.e. I make things look beeee-yoooo-ti-ful, make beds, etc.

And to be honest, I have got to the point where I am not so concerned about hiding who I am anymore. Not that I am going to reveal myself in all my exciting glory to you right now. Simply that I want you guys to take a look at the establishment. My lovely friend and photographer did the pictures, and I dressed the rooms. Behold: London Fetish Studio.

Look what the cat dragged in...

2009-12-02T23:15:00.002Z

Hello? Are any of you still out there? I know it has been a long time, too long a time, but I have been all over the place and my feet hurt. Time to kick off the heels and massage my feet. That's your cue. Well, I don't massage my own.

And I promised myself that today would be the day that I sat down to write, and it would be good. It would make up for my absence. But the day has been so long, and I am so very, very tired. I have so much to write for you, and now I can barely hold my head up.

Sigh and sigh and yawn. I promise to make my return more concrete tomorrow.

For now, briefly:

Alistair is still on the radar.
Saladin is still seducing.
I have had to move to Brighton to live with my sister.
Brighton has a rubbish fetish scene.
I flit to London a lot to help run the kinky B&B.
The kinky B&B is now up and running (rejoice).
I am learning to build websites for my art.
I am going to become a pro-domme.
I am doing the necessary research to start my own business.
Guess what it is.
I am still yearning to be treated right.
Oh, and it is my birthday on Tuesday.
I will be 29.
Still drinking gin, and still petting cats that smell of wee.

I have missed you guys.

Pets Win Prizes

2009-10-13T16:44:00.007+01:00

Recently, I have been lucky enough to win three awards. What a lucky poodle I am. Now, I shall pass them on, but I am going to have a think about where I am going to send them.

For now, I shall thank the ever so mysterious mysterg, over at Meditations in an Emergency. He always has my full attention when he writes. He can run his hands up my seamed stockings any time he likes, I might even remember to wear panties. The devilish gentleman has given me this:

Over at Happily After Ever, the lovely ladytruth has awarded me this:

Please go and say hello if you have yet to stumble across her. She always cheers me up, and I am waiting on the edge of my seat to see how her new, and yet old, romance unfolds...

Finally Judearoo at Differently Wired... has handed me this:

This is a lady with a silver tongue. Well, more silver keyboard, I suppose. I highly recommend that you toddle on over to her and feast your eyes on her latest post. Nature rendered beautifully in words and photography.

The award requires that I list 5 obsessions of mine. I have decided to leave BDSM and sex out of this one, since it would really be stating the obvious.

So here we go:

1) Drawing and painting. I have recently begun to do more and more of this after a long, long break. It was always my talent when I was younger, and everyone thought I would end up as an artist. My confidence in myself thought otherwise. However, I am now making a go of it. You can see a couple of things here.

2) Knitting: Yes, it's true, I love to knit. Not only do I like it as a hobby, but when I am stressed and depressed, it focuses my mind so much that I don't think about the bad stuff. People are always amused when they see me doing this dirty little secret for the first time. As if being a sexual deviant and a knitter is incompatible. Hah. I'll have you know that at the last fetish market, before doors opened, I sat at my stall in 1950s polka-dot full-skirted dress made entirely out of rubber (except the frilly petticoat, which was not), knitting scarves as family Christmas presents.

3) Retro/vintage clothing and lingerie: I particularly like 1940s and 50s. I used to sway more towards the 50s, but have discovered that I am really a 40s girl. I adore fully-fashioned seamed stockings. I adore curling my hair into intricate styles. I love the shoes, I love the hats... etc.

4) Tornadoes: The weather phenomenon, not the plane. Since I was a little girl and I saw the twister in The Wizard of Oz, I have been absolutely fascinated by these things. To the extent where I often have dreams about them, which scare the hell out of me (yet are perversely enjoyable). I am desperate to see a real one. I am especially interested in the details of the great Tri-State Tornado of 1925. Look it up.

5) Animals: All kinds really. I am at my most happy and comfortable when I am surrounded by animals. I feel at peace. Maybe it's because there's no crap involved in relationships such as these. Well, except when you clean the litter tray.

Spanking School

2009-10-08T10:47:00.008+01:00

Earlier on in the year, I helped a friend deliver a class on fellatio, hand-jobs, and good things to do with your partner's penis.

Freya is an internationally well-known figure in the world of kink and beyond. She is an author, performer, artist, and columnist. Based abroad, she visits the UK about twice a year to give classes for an exclusive boutique of erotica, and to perform at clubs. Tonight, I shall be assisting her with a spanking class, and I will be the spankee. Of course, I can't wait to tell you how it goes, but for now, I shall leave you with the details of the JoyStick class from earlier this year...

These classes are mostly frequented by bored middle-class people with quiet sex lives, and money to burn. I am probably being a bit unfair here. This particular class was held at a rather nice private members club on the Portabello Road. It was all women, mostly giggling, with not a single male partner in sight.

The way Freya does the class is to go in on her own initially to give a 15m intro. She then tells the class that she is about to call her boyfriend in. "GASP," say the women, "Does she really mean to insert a man's erect penis into her mouth in front of us? Here? An erect penis? Her mouth?" But ha-ha, the joke is on them, and the middle-aged woman in the front row who just died of a heart-attack pegged it for nothing...

"Boyfriend, oh Boyfriend..." calls Freya. There is an excruciating pause, during which time none of the women know what to do with themselves, then in I stride wearing trousers, blouse, and a strap-on. Oh, and bunches. We thought the contrast between strap-on and bunches was amusing.

I strode up to the platform, thrusting my hips, my artificial manhood leading the way. Some colour was beginning to come back into the women's cheeks. Yes it was relief all round.

During the class, Freya demonstrated how to approach your man in a sexy fashion and perform an inpromptu blow-job. She explained how people should be prepared to loosen up more, that mussed-up hair is sexy, that makeup running down the cheeks is just about the hottest thing ever. I agreed whole-heartedly, and told them that it was just the other night when my man pulled me in front of the mirror so I could see the streaks down my face, and told me how hot I looked. Of course, he also told me I was a filthy slut, and the reason I had running eyes was because he had slapped me round the face several times. I left that part out. These classes are meant to be "accessible". But I had to wonder how on earth any of this stuff was new to these women. There was one moment where Freya was discussing the use of pelvic floor muscles during sex, and the clenching thereof... You'd have been forgiven for thinking that she had just discovered a cure for cancer, clenching the vaginal musles during sex: a revelation indeed.

That said, I must admit that, despite walking into the class thinking: "What could I possibly have to learn?" I walked away with a couple of new strings to add to my bow. And I owe it all to Freya, and the courgettes hidden under everyone's chair, including mine.

Yes, this was the "How to put a condom on a penis using only your mouth" part of the class. I had never attempted this before, and was not familiar with the technique. Freya told us her special secret whilst handing out condoms, and then we began putting what we had learned into practice. I am proud to say that I did it effortlessly, like lightening, like it was instinct. I like to call it talent. And as I smugly brandished my sheathed courgette, I surveyed the class from atop my platform of sexual righteousness, and wondered how I came to be here. How had my life led me to fellating a corgette, seated on a platform before a room full of sexually repressed posh women, all slobbering frustratedly over vegetables? These thoughts evaporated as my smile grew wider. They were replaced with feelings of pleasure and contentment. For all the difficulties and sorrows, there are some parts of my existence that I adore. For I may be overly sarcastic, at times downright derogatory, but the truth is that helping a bunch of mainstream women break out of their shells and enjoy better sex is awesome. The weird and wonderful situations in which I find myself keep me going. And it is a joy to help out at Freya's classes because she is amazing at what she does.

I should say that at the end of her class, she handed out latex gloves to everyone, and offered to demonstrate the fellatio techniques she had taught to us on our fingers, so we could actually learn what it feels like. During the session I had watched and listened, I had played "stunt-cock", and I had thought that Freya had some interesting ideas. After she had finished with the women, she came over to my gloved hand. All I can say is, sweet Jesus, I wish I was as lesbian as she is. Her wife is a lucky woman. If that's what it feels like on the hand, I can only imagine what she can do to a real penis...

Kink At Claridge's

2009-10-05T09:54:00.002+01:00

About two weeks ago, I had the pleasure of enjoying champagne and afternoon tea at Claridges. And of course, I did it with a naughty twist.

I am sure you have all heard of this exclusive establishment, but if you haven't, this is for you.

Mistress Max contacted me some time ago to tell me about a wonderful sub she has, we shall call him Parker. Parker likes to play chauffeur, butler, manservant, and plays them to perfection. He even has a uniform, complete with cap and gloves. Mistress Max had arranged for us to have afternoon tea at Claridges with another domina. Parker would be there to stand to attention, and serve us where necessary. Afterwards, he would chauffeur us to the theatre to see a performance of Alls Well That Ends Well.

How can you resist an offer like that?

Unfortunately, when the day came, Parker contacted me to inform me that "Madame" i.e. Max, had had a personal situation, and would not be able to make it. Neither would the other mistress. He said that Max advised that I either invite some other friends, or Parker could chaperone me.

I was having a sad day that day, and I thought that meeting someone new and keeping things small and quiet would be a good idea. Besides, Parker was so well spoken, so respectful, and so polite that I thought he would be charming company. I said that I would like him to attend tea with me.

I chose to wear one of my favourite little jackets. It looks like it has just been lifted from an old American cheescake pin-up poster. Blue with little stars on like the flag, nipped in at the waist, and with a sweetheart neackline. It is lined with red and white stripes, but you can't see them when you wear it. I paired it with my tight little dark denim pencil skirt, with fishtail at the back, seamed stockings, and peep-toe heels.

I arrived to find Parker in his uniform, waiting in the foyer of Claridges. He was an older gentleman, maybe in his late 50s, and as charming as I imagined. He escorted me to the table, and waited until I was seated before he sat down. Conversation flowed very easily between us, and told me he was not used to being allowed to sit and eat. He said that I was very different to "Madame", and a lot more tolerant. I was amused by this. I said that men are often deceived by a smile and gentle tone.

Parker suggested that we order champagne tea, and I told him that he should remove his hat.

And so I had my favourite Assam tea, little sandwiches, a selection of beautiful desserts, and clotted cream scones. As we savoured these delights, a woman played a harp in the background.

When we had finished, we had some hours to kill. I was so enjoying being called "Madame", and was developing a taste for being waited on with such style. I said that I wanted to go shopping, and that Parker could carry my bags. There was just one problem. We were in a very exclusive part of town, and Maisie is poor as a church-mouse. There was only one thing I could do. I instructed Parker to take me to Top Shop on Oxford Circus. You shut your yaps, it's common knowledge that many celebrities happen to frequent it.

I strode in, rabid foam leaking from my mouth at the mere thought of new shoes, and hotly pursued by a posh man in a posh uniform, complete with hat and gloves. With a veritable gallop, we made our way to the Shoe Lounge. I began selecting shoes and handing them to Parker, so that he could find an assistant to get my correct size. From my seat, I tried more shoes on, and pointed to others that I liked, which Parker dutifully fetched. I noticed that the shop assistants were becoming more and more helpful, and ignoring other customers. And then a man with a walkie-talkie ran over to us, looked at me and said, "Madame, I think you'd be happier in our VIP Lounge." I did the only thing I could. I said "Absolutely!" And so were escorted to better climes.

I guess they thought I was someone rich, or someone famous. Who knows. Parker whispered congratulations in my ear at how convincing I was.

In the VIP Lounge, a team of women listened to the sorts of things I liked, before rushing off and bringing back armfuls of stuff to hang on my rail. As I drew the curtain, I thought "Fuck, if I don't buy something, I am going to look like an utter cock." I also cringed because in the lounge outside, I heard an assitant tell parker that he could take a seat, and I heard him reply by saying that he was not allowed to. "Great," I said to myself, "Now they think I'm a right bitch."

Eventually, they brought me a beautiful dress from their vintage section. It is a very convincing 1940s style day-dress. I think it must have been cut from an original pattern. It has slightly padded shoulders, and is black with beautiful flowers of pink, blue, and yellow. I can't wait to wear it out. There are a couple of 1940s nights in town that I know of, but I need to find a man I can convince to dress accordingly, and act the part. As you can tell, I bought the dress. How could I not?

With the shopping done, we had just enough time to get to the theatre. The show was quite good and the stage-design was wonderful. Unfortunately, the women usually cast as Shakespearean leads often seem to have the most annoying voices on the planet. This was no exception.

A good day indeed. Just what the doctor ordered.

Just a moment.

2009-09-23T18:49:00.002+01:00

Good evening to you all.

This is just to say that I am taking a very short break from writing. the sads have got me quite badly, and it is quite hard for me to just get out of bed at the moment, let alone write.

I won't be away for very long.

Big hugs with inappropriate pervy gropes to everyone.

Back soon.

Pet Names

2009-09-18T09:29:00.002+01:00

Pet names: Are they important to you? Do you invariably use them in your relationships? Do you hate them? Do they make you warm and fuzzy on the inside, or sick up your last meal?

The other day, I was chatting to Alistair on messenger. I told him that I loved him, and he responded by saying "I love you too, Poodle". He then went on to say "I've decided you're a bit of a great dane/poodle cross (with your pigtails in...)" We have already discussed the great-dane puppy thing. Because of my long limbs, and lack of coordination, I am apparently reminiscent of a puppy of this type.

However, upon the inspection of the above photograph, I think he may be onto something with the whole poodle thing. Long legs, teeny little ankles, huge ears/pig-tails, "alternative" dress sense. It's pretty much me.

So I want to know your opinions on pet names. I want to know what pet names you have for people, and what people have named you?

I must confess, I am a big fan, and was secretly all joybells when Alistair said that I was a poodle. In a way, I think pet names are a cementing force in a relationship. They are something that the two of you share, and you have to be comfortable with each other to use them. There have been moments when I have wondered whether the fact that Alistair didn't have a name for me was a bad sign... When we first started seeing each other, he used to call me "Kitten". A lot of people think I am rather cat-like when they meet me. Then they get to know me. "Kitten" died out rather quickly. It was replaced by "Puppy", this is how people see when they know me better... enthusiatic, eager to please, sometimes makes a fool of self... But "Puppy" more or less died out too. Though I am sure it will rear its head a few times more during certain kinky moments.

I have a semi pet name for Alistair that I sometimes use, which is "Posh Boy". It's not really a pet name, I suppose, but it amuses me. It's a name that needs no explanation. I also have two other names which I only store in my head. One to amuse me in more tense moments, and the other is a sweet one, but I fear that he would swot at me if I ever used it. He swots at my head in the morning everytime I tell him he is adorable as he peeps his sleepy little head over the covers. I shan't tell you the names.

However, my last partner, Axel and I (yes *the* relationship), were rife with little names. Mainly directed at me. I used to call him Pumpikin. My main name was Noodle. Also Super Noodle (it was one of those bizarre relationship idiosyncracies, we used to prefix everything with "super"). I was called Betty Boodle, which was a combination of Bettie Page, (who I reminded him of), Bettie Boop (who I reminded him of), and Noodle (who I was). Then we had Buttress (because of my much-celebrated rear), which became Buttress of Windsor on special occasions. I was sometimes Noodle Widebottom (1980 Noodle Widebottom, in full). Don't look so horrified. I love my backside, and he did too. But anyway, somehow we decided that he had bought me at a shop... not really sure if I was some bizarre automaton, or vehicle, but I was a 1980 model (reflecting the year of my birth). The 1980 Noodle Widebottom had an inbuilt "Klutzomatic Feature", which certainly explains my lack of coordination. It is also indicative of one of the character traits that all my menfolk seem to pick up on.

Well, I am not sure how one reacts to all that. I should say that Axel was far more "normal" than I, but I guess he used to get sucked up in the surreal Maisie Experience, and liked it. One thing that you could certainly say of us, we never forgot how to just be kids together, and we were never afraid of making fools of ourselves to make the other one laugh.

Before Axel, I was with Spike. We had one name each, and stuck to it. In fact, we still use them, even after all these years. He was Moo Moo, and I was Schmoo.

So, now I have opened a window onto a very private affair, it's your turn to spill. What are your names?

Head Pills

2009-09-17T17:54:00.003+01:00

How appropriate. Lustral sounds like a term used to describe a highly sexed lady. Until this evening, I had no idea that the brand name for sertraline was Lustral.

Fairly recently it dawned on me that I have been living with depression and anxiety my whole life. As a very young child, I used to be filled with blind panic over the most minor things, but I never told anybody because I was embarrassed. I used to suffer in silence. It was also a usual part of my existence to feel alone and outside of everyone else, and let's face it, I was always a bit different.

As my teens progressed, it got worse, along with my homelife (which has been previously mentioned). I used to refer to it as "my alien", because it often felt like I had something very tangible gripping onto my head and brain, like one of the crab-like creatures from the movie Alien. And everything was grey. I felt like a layer of film had been spread over my senses, preventing colours from appearing quite so bright, stopping me from appreciating the sunlight on my skin. And I was either filled with unbearable sadness, or I was numb. I would spend hour after hour after hour after hour laying on my bed in the darkness of my room.

But you deal with things. Eventually.

And there have been some big ups along the way, and some fucking deep, deep downers.

It was in April that I was prescribed sertraline. This was a very big deal, because I have always been very anti head pills, having watched Prozac fuck my mother up, a previous partner up, and turn me into a zombie during the brief time I took them when I was younger. But I had to get stuff done. I needed to find a place to live, I needed to finish my teacher-training, I needed to find the strength to walk away from my relationship with Alistair (which, of course I didn't). My doctor was wonderful, and surprisingly for the NHS, sympathetic and careful about what she gave me. And actually, it has really helped.

Sertaline reduces my anxiety to a manageable level, it tames the depression, and even reduces my OCD. Unfortunately, it makes it incredibly hard for me to reach orgasm. But I can live with that.

And my ability to deal with things improved a lot after I started taking these magic little head pills. This was helped on by the fact that I had managed to build up a degree of emotional distance from Alistair, thus removing some of the headfuckedness from my life. Perhaps foolishly, I have let myself fall in a bit deeper with Alistair. This has brought back some of the distress.

And last night I forgot to take a head pill. I did that last week, and clearly did not learn my lesson. If I do not take a pill, I am plunged into a pit of despair and anxiety. I have spent most of the day in bed, sleeping where I can, and just staring at the ceiling at other moments. And the thoughts go round and around and around in my head.

I just want to be held, but I am very conscious of inflicting myself on people. In any case, Courtney is in the next room having one of his lows. Alistair is out with the ex and her cousin. And even if he wasn't, I am uncomfortable being sad around him because he hates being around depressed people. He says he is not good with them, and ends up feeling depressed himself, and I don't want to be a burden.

Added to this is the fact that I am concerned he feels that we are spending too much time together. The other night, he told me that he was worried that we had bypassed the whole "dating thing" again. And he he said he wants some nights to himself next week, having intended on having them this week, but being unable to because stuff has got in the way. Tuesday night was one of the first nights where he slept in his bed by himself, without me, or the ex, or one of his harem. And he slept really well. I felt bad this morning, having spent the night with him, knowing that I affected his sleep. When I am ok, I don't have bad dreams, and sleep like a log, but when I am depressed, I am prone to nasty dreams, and I toss and turn. In the early hours of the morning, I woke Alistair up, he said I had screamed. And I remember doing that in my dream, but I guess I did it in reality too. He said my cries had become progressively louder. I remember the dream, but I can't describe it here because it was so weird and twisted, it wouldn't make any sense, but it was frightening.

So right now, my head is on a stupid irrational spiral. And I keep thinking about what is going to happen. Is this a sign that we are not compatible? Am I an idiot to be asking such a question? We have been seeing each other for a year... He is in love with the ex, and in love with me... Is this a sign that we wouldn't be able to live together?... We did for a couple of months at the beginning of the year, and we were happy... Should I even be having these thoughts?

I am so unsure of everything.

If there is a prince charming out there, I sure could use you right now.

Live From the Dungeon (Almost).

2009-09-14T13:45:00.002+01:00

Hello Perverts.

Today, I am assisting Mistress Max with a client who has been in session with her since yesterday, and will remain so until tomorrow.

He is into heavy bondage, and has been spending most of his time gagged, hooded, and blindfolded. Nevertheless, I thought I would wear something a little nicer than my usual mid-week bag-lady attire. I went for a classic, slightly vintage look today. I love to fashion my hair in a 1940s style, and so have used this as an opportunity to do so. I have my little pink blouse on, and grey pencil skirt with a waist cincher, and my very lovely pink peep-toe heels. No, not all mistresses are permanently clad in thigh-highs and latex. See how I crush your dreams?

I am mainly here to watch over him when he is left tied up and "alone" to make sure he doesn't get into any difficulty etc. However, I have been taking part here and there. This morning, before Max arrived at the dungeon, she had dressed the client as a woman and sent him off to Harrods to buy a pen. She is in no desperate need of a pen, but it was to serve as proof that he had indeed ventured to Harrods whilst dressed as a woman. Meanwhile, she made her way here.

Obviously "here" is not my home, but Alistair's. For those of you that don't know, he has a dungeon in the basement, and rents the space to pro-dommes. It was early, and he was tying up some loose ends before going to work. I was tying up my hair, and was rather hoping he would be unable to resist me in all my retro glory. Not even so much as a "You look pretty." Still, Max thought I looked lovely.

Now, Mistress Max is a woman who can be one of the most hyperactive people I have ever met. And when a client books a 48 hour session, that is exactly what they get. This man had been repeatedly tied up in various extreme bondage positions all night long. Max makes sure she wakes up every two hours to do this, so when she arrived here, she had had very little sleep and was still bouncing around. She filled me in on his likes and dislikes, and possible things we would do to him. she also asked me to answer the door to him to worry him a little. (He did not know I would be involved.)

He phoned to say he was outside. I opened the door, said hello, and told him to come in. Later, Max said that I have to alter my tone, she said it was too "friendly". Personally, I thought it was a very level tone. I don't really favour the stern, severe thing. Oh, don't get me wrong, I do favour nasty, mean, cruel, etc, however, as I have said before, these things are best served with a more gentle manner. It makes them seem more wrong, and somehow nastier. At least I think so. Still, they are paying for a service.

Anyway, I opened the door, and a small, skinny little man came in, with a little blond wig on his head. A Harrods carrier bag hung in his hand. I told him to kneel down, and I put a blindfold on his head, and buckled a gag onto him. Then (heehee) I wrapped tape around the whole thing. I helped him up and led him down the stairs to the dungeon, where Max was waiting for us. He was told to undress, and it would seem that he had removed the butt plug that he was meant to be wearing on his shopping excursion. Apparently, it hurt. What a wimp.

Max lowered the swing-bed from the ceiling. She tied his wrists with satin (he has a real thing for satin), and draped some scarves on him for good measure, then we zipped him up into a leather body-bag, which was placed on the swing. I went and grabbed a book, and Max popped out to the shops. She had to buy some food-stuffs, because the client wanted to be pelted with food. Not that uncommon, but this man wanted to have a "garbage can" emptied onto him. Well, whatever floats your boat. We weren't going to empty the bin onto him (though he is so petite, I think we could probably have thrown him in the bin...) What we were intending on doing was covering him in smelly, paticularly unpleasant food. Max came back with asorted tinned fish (and the standard baked-beans type things.) Being involved in this sort of thing does make you contemplate humanity often.

Whilst she was away, it was my job to make sure he stayed alive and breathing, and to torment him a little. Essentially, I took a seat, and nudged the swing here and there. When I got a bored, I dug out the Hitachi Magic Wand and buzzed him through the leather. If he had not been secured, he would have jumped a few feet into the air.

**written next morning**

When Max arrived back, I went upstairs and she gave her client some more playtime. Unfortunately, it would seem that he was coming down with a virus, sniffling, and beginning to look rather unwell. Since he had not had any sleep, and had not yet been allowed to eat, she put him to bed on the matress in the cage in the medical room. Fear not, he had blankets and was warm and snuggly. Sadly, sleep did not help him very much. We went to check on him, and he requested some more nap-time, in the hope that he would improve. Typically, I was very concerned for him, and suggested that he might need a t-shirt to keep his chest warm, then I gave him some ibuprofen. Don't think I am not capable of performing some quite grotesque acts on boys, but what can I say, I am inescapably fuzzy.

In the end, he called things to a halt. This saddened me, because were going to dress him up in something silky, and I was going to be let loose with the makeup. (Here I must state that I do not do enjoy enforced feminisation. The pleasure would be merely that of dress-up and makeup. It is irrelevant right now, but in a nutshell, it irks me that appearing "feminine" should be something humiliating, or submissive.) No frills and spills fun for me. Though there was some amusement. You see, after Max had packed him from the hotel room to get a pen from Harrods, and then to make his way here, she cleared his room of all his possessions, leaving only one set of clothes, and his wallet. She took his luggage to another dungeon space in London that she works from, and left a note on the bed saying "Hah! You thought it was over, but if you want your stuff back, you have until 2pm to find me a suitable gift." He was meant to have stayed the night at Alistair's, have been abused all night long, then to have been thrown out in the morning with the impression that it was all over...

On another note, I cooked dinner for Max, Alistair, and Courtney last night. Courtney arrived to find me still in my forties finery, not a hair out of place, vigorously whisking gravy. It was a kodak moment. Max and Courtney believe I might find a suitable niche if I approach the whole domination thing from a domestic angle... You know, smacking boys round the head with a wooden spoon, my hands still coated in flour from kneading all that dough, and all the while having to contend with such naughtiness. Don't make me get the rolling-pin.

Just pick yourself up and dust yourself off.

2009-09-08T19:53:00.003+01:00

And I have.

Thanks to everyone who left me such supportive messages. Don't you worry about me, I am fine. Promise.

I just let myself get a little too deep again. I am reminded that these are waters that it is wise to only dip ones toe into.

I used to be so good at the whole relationship thing. I suppose I still am, because as far as I can tell, I have been doing everything right. But you can't make someone adore you, and there 'aint no dignity in trying. You just have to accept that there are limits to where some things can go. I am pretty sure that this is one of those times.

I know that some of you are silently chanting "Ditch him! Ditch him! Ditch him!" But I don't think I am going to do that. Who among you could bring yourself to ditch reh-heeeeally good sex? Well you're stronger than I am.

No, I do believe I am going to follow the same advice given to me by several friends over the course of this whole fiasco: "Just enjoy it for what it is, coz that's all that it is."

Ok, ok, it's not just about the sex, but Alistair is not truly, madly, deeply in sweet mother-fucking love with me either.

Anyway, I am going away to Brighton on Thursday evening to visit my sister. Then, on Friday we are going camping. I am thinking that there will be not a man in sight... My sister is a turbo-lesbian, which is like a common-garden lesbian, but more potent. She tends to hang with other lesbians. The plan is to go pitch the tent (hehehe lesbians pitching the tent), and then go to this farm-like place where they make cider. We shall imbibe cider at a tasting event, and then purchase more cider, for the tent. I tend to prefer gin, or chemicals of a different kind. Still, when in Rome.

I am really looking forward to this. I hardly ever get to hang with her.

Sometimes I get love letters.

2009-09-08T09:41:00.006+01:00

An ex of mine spies, no not spies, "keeps up to date" with me. He discovered my blog quite a while ago, and checks in every now and then to make sure I am still alive, and as sane as I ever was.

And it seems he toddled in very recently, because he emailed me something. I hope he doesn't feel too violated that I publish it here, because it is one of the nicest things anybody has ever written to me. He is an awesomely great guy, and I cannot thank him enough for the way he watches over me:

"Yeah, I do keep up with life in Maisieland via the magic of the interwebs. And, you know, I'm not sure I should write this - but I do adore you. No longer in the "I want to spend my life with this person" mode, but seriously - the mere fact you exist makes me smile. I know you don't feel comfortable with compliments - but you are smart, funny, pretty, and someone who I feel is worthy of love. Whatever love you accept from others, you return with highly polished knobs on, and you have a way of making people feel good about themselves.And you do, indeed, deserve to be with someone who counts waking up beside you as a reason to believe that all is right with the world.

Harri

x "

All I can say is thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster for men like you, my darling.

Arabic Poetry

2009-09-07T17:28:00.003+01:00

My soul clung to yours before we were created,
Before we were weaned, before we were laid in the cradle.
Our love has grown and developed our selves;
Death cannot break the promises of this love.
It will survive all the trials of fate
And visit us among the shadows of the tomb, In the depths of the grave.

The above is something that Saladin posted up online, it is an example of Arabic poetry by Jamil al Udhri.

I am pretty sure he writes... I wonder if he'll ever write anything for me.

I am more wonderful than I feel.

2009-09-07T10:33:00.007+01:00

Warning: Badly written. Lack of time, no lack of I don't cares.

It seems I was wrong. The ex has moved out.

Alistair is very upset and depressed.

We had a conversation on messenger the other day, and it was not a happy one. You see, over the past couple of weeks or so, I have slowly allowed myself to get a little closer again, emotionally speaking. This was a big mistake on my part, because once again it ensured that I feel secondary to the great Alistair and Ex Saga. Secondary to his feelings for her. This was what our conversation was about. In hindsight, it was a less than useful time, as his mind is somersaulting over the ex's departure, so in this sense, everything else is secondary.

I mentioned commitment. I asked if he was ever going to commit to me, that I thought he should really have some idea after a year of seeing each other. He said he didn't know, but that he hasn't ruled me out, and seemed to think I'd feel better with him pointing out that another one of his fucks has been ruled out. I am sure I don't have to spell out the fact that I was a tad upset over this. He said it was a bad time because he loves the ex and is messed up over her.

This is indeed true.

I do not feel very secure. So I am in love with Alistair. He says he loves me. He needs to get over his ex, or work things out. Whilst this happens, he continues to see people and "rule them out" for a committed relationship. Provided he does indeed get over the ex, one can only assume that if he doesn't find somebody else, I'll get lucky. Though there will probably be an extensive period of searching before he gives up. Or maybe he will find someone. I wonder how that conversation would go... But it's ok, because I apparently have the freedom to do the same.

The thing is, I seem to have this little thing called respect that I bestow upon people I am in love with (and most other people). This invariably means that whilst we are in the process of seeing where things go, I do not actively have my tendrils out for any other bits of "better" flotsam that might be floating by. This ensures that my beloved feels loved, valued, and wanted, with the added bonus that they are not left wondering what the next bit of flotsam will be like, and whether they are going to be traded in.

If the conversation was simply a matter of Alistair being in love with, and hurt over the ex, and thus unable to commit to me, that would be reasonable. But it wasn't quite like that.

Sometimes I think that there has got to be more than this.

I didn't feel very good about things over the weekend. Alistair was miserable, and it wasn't so much the sadness, as the reason why he was miserable. The fact that he is now going to be entering a period of missing her, of wishing she was still with him, and I daresay there will be moments where he wishes she was there instead of me.

He took me to London Zoo on Saturday. He didn't really want to go, but because I did, he bought tickets. He didn't look as though he was enjoying himself, which made me feel that I had forced him into something tiresome. Animals are a bit of a thing for me, and I get quite excited. Alistair made me feel like a silly kid.

I am tired of feeling like a foolish, clumsy, eccentric child whose only notable attributes are her pleasingly ample arse, and her ability to draw stuff.

And hey, what's the difference between me and his other fucks? I write love letters and bring coffee in the morning.

It would be nice to have someone who makes me feel a little bit adored, apart from my mother. I am hindered by the fact that I am someone who constantly laughs at herself, and doesn't mind being teased. People get used to that, and soon, that's all they do, until finally, even the compliments I receive are backhanded.

Although the weekend had its nice moments, I am not sure that I can say I had a good time overall. Obviously things were not ideal because Alistair was sad due to the ex. So it may have been better if the trauma wasn't going on.

But I can't help but think that I just don't "do it" for him enough. I mean he does love me in his own way, he certainly finds me attractive, but it doesn't seem to be enough. Would it be different if he didn't still have feelings for the ex? I don't know. His behaviour towards me certainly changed as things started to improve between them, and definitely after she moved in. I mean hell, there was a time when he didn't admit he was in love with her.

What I can tell you is that, regardless of how he feels, I am certainly not feeling the magic.

It's like I always say, I want to be with someone who can think of nothing better than waking up next to me every morning.

2009-09-07T08:55:00.003+01:00

I have decided to keep an up-to-date list of the choicest Alistairisms regarding moi. New entries to be listed in bold.

1) "You're not classically beautiful, but you are pretty." - said in the early days of wooing.

2) "You look like a gnome. A goth gnome." - said to me recently when I sat on the hallway floor, waiting for a decision to be made about where we were going to that day.

3) "You have as much chance as anyone of having a child with me."

4) "You are like a great dane puppy, all limbs and no coordination." - variations said all the time.

5) (paraphrased due to stressful circumstance, and relating to the notion of a committed relationship with me) "I don't know. I have ruled [current play/fuck partner] out as relationship material, I haven't ruled you out." So everyone, it could be me, or it could be someone else. How exciting.

List of the Best

2009-09-04T08:20:00.002+01:00

A new and regularly updated list of the words and phrases typed into search-engines that led to my blog. I suppose the content of my blog already tells you that some are... interesting. Newest entries always to be listed in bold.

1) "blogspot.com" double penetration fantasy.

2) "lowered myself onto his face"

3) alistair cock (do they want a specific alistair, or only the cocks of guys named alistair? Do they want the cock of my alistair? Well, lord, tell me who doesn't?)

4) crap fetish (I don't really have anything to say about this.)

5) girl cock (They have come to the right place. It's in a box beside my bed.)

6) uk porn star maisie (Now, some of you may remember my confession on the blog of a certain Teacup lady, relating to a certain episode of porn-making. Since this is not the only maisie porn search, I would like to know which of you perverts has been trying to find me? You think I went by that name? Hah. You are foiled.)

7) mistress iron my pussy to warm it up (Is my personal favourite.)

8) needle testicle domme photo

9) pegs on my labia (Yes, they were...)

See you next time.

Caring for Your Maisie: Instruction Manual.

2009-09-03T09:26:00.006+01:00

One of the problems with a traumatic upbringing is that, even if you were lucky enough to have turned out fairly well-adjusted, it will come back to haunt you.

I sometimes joke that I have a demon on each shoulder. I know at least one of them is asleep. Sometimes, he wakes up.

I feel better today, so I am not going to document my twisted childhood. The bare bones of it are that my father was not a good one. He was never physically violent towards me, but he was incredibly emotionally violent. He did many deliberately twisted things to my sister and I... Things that sound quite incredible. And when I was forced out of my home at 18-19 years of age, he began to be physically violent towards my little sister too. He fucked us up, and he controlled, oppressed, and emotionally crippled my mother for 23 long years.

And my sister and I dealt with it. Not sure I can say got over it, but dealt with it, in our very different ways. My little sister is very stereotypically masculine, from her short hair to her attitude. She seldom cries, and will be hard, abrupt, and cold when she needs to deal with things. And she is not too hot on physical displays of affection, nor with the voicing of feelings, except with her young daughter. I, on the other hand, decided when I was a kid that I would grow up to be all about sharing the love. Because of how things were, I was very awkward about the thought of telling someone I loved them, of holding them in my arms... But the concept seemed so deliciously appealing that I went with it. You see the product before you today.

Anyway, as time goes on, I suppose you just learn to exist with your damage, until it isn't a crippling bother anymore. If they know what to look for, other people can sometimes see evidence of it being there, in your behaviour. But all things considered, my sister and I are quite well-adjusted people. Unconventional, but well-adjusted.

We even see our father occasionally, strangely, my sister more than I. She says that she neither loves, nor hates him, that he just doesn't feel like family. Maybe it's all for my niece's benefit. I exchange very sporadic text-messages, and see him once in a very blue moon, for a birthday dinner or something similar.

And you think everything is fine fine fine.

But once in a while, something will happen, and BAM, you are that vulnerable little girl all over again.

My father sent an email to my sister. A can of worms was opened. She showed me their correspondence. It wasn't a fun-read. It was almost as if I could tangibly feel the old wound opening up. It must seem weird, but the only way I can describe it is that I feel like I am retracting into myself. Like I am becoming a smaller person, and that the colour is being drawn from my cheeks. Not that there is much colour there in the first place... And I feel like a little girl.

Thankfully, much like stubbing a toe, you know the pain will fade relatively quickly. I woke up today, and I am back to normal.

But I did go round to Alistair's last night. I know he is depressed at the moment (no kidding!) But I really needed to be taken care of. He cooked, put on a funny movie, and I am grateful for that. But as I sat on the stool in the kitchen, straining to keep the tears down to one or two on my cheek at any one time, I felt like I was a burden. And of course, he told me that he'd have completely severed contact with my father years ago, and felt better for it. That's very normal. People with reasonably ok upbringings always say these things, and they are correct, but they don't understand what it is like to actually be involved. I said to him that I would try to straighten up because he hates dealing with trauma and crying. And he replied in agreement, that he doesn't, and he is not very good at it.

Ouch.

At times like these, what I actually need is a man's arms around me, holding me tight, loving me, and reminding me why everything is ok. The memories of my childhood won't go away, so I need to be reminded of why things are still good, and I am ok despite it all. And in some ways because of it all. When I am sad about my father, I don't need "What you wanna do is this..." or "I'd have done this ............... a long time ago". I know all of the options, I over-analyse everything. I know each and every beneficial action I could perform, and why (rational or otherwise) I haven't done one of them.

I may suffer from a case of the ditz every now and then, but I tend to spend my time noticing when people are sad and need to be built up. I listen to them and try to make it better. Sometimes I need the same.

But I have slept on it, and these days, when I wake up, the demon has fallen asleep again. So I am going to give myself a verbal hug.

Things are ok in spite of everything because

I grew into a kind, warm, loving woman.

I don't repeat patterns and become involved with men like my father.

I am well loved by a few good friends.

Despite being brought up to be a racist bigot, I was always a natural Guardian-reading, sandal-wearing, muesli eater.

Despite my father being incredibly misogynistic, and being brought up in a household where my mother "Should respect my authoritai." (actually, Eric Cartman said that, but it's appropriate), I am an opinionated feminist.

Despite being pressured to leave school at 14 (I kid you not) because it didn't do my father any harm, I now have a first class degree.

And *because* of my childhood, I know exactly what not to do if I ever have a child.

Because of my childhood, I am rarely angry and seldom raise my voice. I know how destructive anger and aggression can be.

I wouldn't change the past, since it has shaped me, warts and all, I just would never want to repeat it.

RIP, Frank Milford.

2009-09-02T15:28:00.002+01:00

[click]

Whilst 81 years might be many people's idea of hell, I am kinda sad that it won't be possible for me.

As you may have gathered, I believe in investing a lot in relationships. And I would love nothing more than to settle down, (in an unconventional kind of way), with a person I adore, who will be my companion until one of us toddles off the mortal coil.

Give me enduring passion and love, marriage, commitment, mutually satisfying sexual deviance, four cats, a great dane puppy, and a chihuaha.

Roun and round and round...

2009-09-02T10:23:00.012+01:00

***Alistair: If you read this, you might not like it. It contains opinions.***

03/09/09: When I first published this, I immediately withdrew it, because I was worried it was overly hard-nosed and I wanted to shield Alistair from any upset. But I am not happy tonight.

I am afraid this one is going to be a vent. And for all you newcomers who haven't back-read me, a chance to have a better understanding of the nature of things. I admit, it won't quite be the same as a few months ago, because frankly, I am kinda desensitised. Don't really get that upset anymore.

I spoke to Alistair on Messenger yesterday. He informed me that the ex wanted to have another "chat" when he arrived home from work. They have been doing that a lot. Ben is still on the scene, causing Alistair much upset. The ex still lets Alistair down, causing Alistair much upset. Though one does wonder, in what way does she let him down, since they are not technically together?

In any case, the ex has recently made mention of the fact that she might move out. Yeah, right. Where is she going to find another man who lets her live free of charge in his house and pays for mostly everything? She could always move the tenants out of the house she actually owns and move in there... But doing that would mean taking in lodgers and receiving a cut to the money from said house... Which might mean she has to get a little job while she does her latest course... Noooooooooooooo...

And of course, the thought of her moving out distresses Alistair. He says this is because she will move and their unfinished business will not get finished. Hmmm... well it seems to me that their unfinished business has been lasting a fuck of a long time... I don't know, I think trouble was actually brewing as far back as 2007. Could be wrong though. The truth is that he can't bear to let it go.

But sometimes we have to. And I know this from bitter experience, and I am a very sensitive person, who finds dealing with emotional trauma incredibly hard. But sometimes we have to let things go. I did it with Axel, and he was a close to a soul-mate as my belief is willing to extend.

So, last night, more talking ensued.

You know what's really sad? There was not a single part of me that thought there was a chance that any headway, of any kind, would be made.

You know what's sadder?

That whereas before, I would be crying over this, I actually can't remember the last time I cried. Today, I only write out of frustration. I have accepted the situation, I don't believe it will change, therefore I don't look to the future, and know that my future most likely lies elsewhere. But I still love and care about Alistair, and his situation frustrates me.

I was just drifting off to sleep last night when I got a text from Alistair. It simply said "erg". I asked him if he was ok, and he told me he was confused and unsure. No change there, then, and I told him so. This made him unhappy. I said that I was sorry that things had ended up the way they are, and I am sorry for him... This made him unhappy. He told me he contacted me for a "boost" because he felt down, but that we probably shouldn't discuss it further. He said goodnight, and so did I.

Maybe if I hadn't been so depressed last night, I would have reacted differently. And just like anyone I love, I am there for him, to support him and take care of him. But really, this could go on forever. Alistair and ex talk, Alistair gets upset. Maisie says "There, there." There is absolutely nothing I can do to help on this one. And I am not the only one who has tried. Hell, not even the fact that he loves me is enough. He loves her too.

Alistair has always said that he waits until he has "all the information" before he makes a decision. Well Alistair, and I know you will be reading this, and I know you won't be liking what you read, but here it is:

Sometimes we have all the information, but we choose to ignore it. i.e. She has told you she is not in love with you, she does not have sex with you, she does not play with you, you fight all the time... What other information could you possibly be waiting for? Where can you possibly go from here? I mean yes, things change, but there is even a slim chance that the Flying Spaghetti Monster will plop out of the sky today and smite us for not worshipping it all these years.

And sometimes, we are faced with an incomplete puzzle. Sometimes we can never gain all of the information we need. When this happens, sometimes we still need to act, for our own good.

As a friend, I am telling you that you need to make a decision. One way or another. Decide whether you want to be with her or not, then find out whether this is compatible with what she wants. If it is not, there you have it. And if she simply refuses to come to a conclusion, then you must make a final one.

And I know that you always tell me that things are not that simple. I know that the human heart, the tapestry of human emotions, are not that simple. Often the decisions are. Simple does not mean easy. This is one of those choices which must be made, and made now. Your health is suffering, you are not sleeping properly (and when you do, you talk and moan), you are depressed, you are not as sharp as you should be (and you are usually very damn sharp). You need to muster some courage from somewhere. I think this is what fails you. You are afraid. Afraid of making the wrong choice.

The wrong choice means losing what might have been. But not making a choice is worse. Not making a choice means having nothing at all. Unless Limbo counts. You can't build fulfilling relationships in Limbo. Not with me, not with anyone. You say that you feel your age is against you, and that you have told the ex that you don't have time for this. You don't. Do something.

Alistair's Hall of Fame

2009-09-01T16:25:00.006+01:00

I have decided to keep an up-to-date list of the choicest Alistairisms regarding moi. New entries to be listed in bold.

1) "You're not classically beautiful, but you are pretty." - said in the early days of wooing.

2) "You look like a gnome. A goth gnome." - said to me recently when I sat on the hallway floor, waiting for a decision to be made about where we were going to that day.

3) "You have as much chance as anyone of having a child with me."

4) "You are like a great dane puppy, all limbs and no coordination." - variations said all the time.

Two examples of my drawing is all you're getting.

2009-08-30T21:41:00.004+01:00

Anyway, a lot of the detail and impact is lost because these are crappy photographs in poor lighting. And I was stupid enough to wait until after the second was framed... So I had to do it through glass. Ignore the splodges where I have blotted out my name.

This can only meme one thing...

2009-08-30T21:01:00.002+01:00

The very lovely ladytruth, mistress of the wonderful blog happily AFTER ever, (which I have fast grown to love, and urge you to go visit) has bestowed an award and meme on me.

Hey, thanks, lady, you make me blush to my bones.

And it goes something like this:

"This award requires the recipient to "list 7 personality traits exhibited by their writing."

So without further ado...

1) You want unabashed sexual deviance? Get it here:

"And I can honestly say that being spanked by fake seafood hurts like a bitch."

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

2) Who said romance was dead? Breathe a sigh of relief, it lives here and at my mercy:

"He moved in and out of me as gently as our sighs, and as he did so, he lowered his face down next to mine and whispered, "I am not fucking you, I am making love to you," and although this was perhaps the first time we had had sex without any element of power exchange, I felt helpless, exquisitely helpless."

3) What I like to call "emotional splurging". Heart-wrenching romantic tragedy occurs, and I spew it out all over cyber-space. Rather like passing a car-crash, you are unable to resist...

4) Rapier wit. I'm hilarious. So hilarious that I don't even need to link to a post to prove it. So confident am I that you agree with me.

5) Sarcasm.

6) Quirkiness. Well let's face it. It just 'aint normal, is it? Blogging about some princely posh-boy that you love, despite him being hopelessly entangled with his ex, whilst you anticipate the next time he slaps you silly round the face, and dream of parties where you'll get molested and smacked with plastic lobsters.

7) Artistic temperament... And not just because I have just recently blabbed about my artistic endeavours. No, no. Just have a read.

I feel I have been a tad lazy on this one. Sorry you guys. I have stuff to paint...

In case you were all wondering...

2009-08-29T11:18:00.002+01:00

Relating to the love letter I recently wrote:

You all said that I should show Alistair, and of course, since he has now found this blog, he regularly checks in to see if he has been a good boy, or a bad boy.

Savour the twistedness.

He had mentioned very fleetingly that he saw the post, and thought it was very sweet.

But when I ventured over to his on Thursday, he mentioned it again. He had suggested that we smoke a cigarette on the sofa which backs onto the balcony doors. We opened them and leant over the back of the couch. He thanked me again for what I wrote, and told me that it was the nicest thing anybody had ever written for him, and that he had almost cried when he read it.

And after this moment of romance, and telling me that he loved me, he proceeded to lift up my skirt and fuck me over the back of the couch. Mercifully, every time a pedestrian passed by the street below (which is not that far down), he slowed the pace slightly, all the while telling me to be quiet. It is hard to be quiet in a situation like that.

Not that kind of girl...

2009-08-29T10:07:00.002+01:00

I feel I must make a confession to alleviate my guilt. I am clearly not myself.

I have known one, two, three, four and more individuals who like to get stuff bought for them. And who doesn't. But really I am talking about a "I will have sex with you, occasionally wear a short skirt and you buy me stuff/support me" set-up. I should say that it pains me that this scenario usually only relates to women. But that is because of the conditioning we all receive from birth. Another post altogether.

On the fetish scene, there is also such a thing as financial slavery, which is different, but I still feel pretty darn uneasy with it.

And yet, here I am, now about to embark on my quest to become an artist, thinking:

"Gosh, it sure would be nice to have a rich man take care of, I mean sponsor me whilst I become an amazing artiste."

For shame.

But it's not like I wouldn't be working, I just wouldn't be bringing home any money.

For shame.

I feel the need for self-flagellation. And you can all shut-up, because it's not erotic if you're doing it to yourself.

How did it come to this, Maisie, you who try to avoid letting boys buy you stuff?

Two for the price of... two.

2009-08-27T09:49:00.004+01:00

I had a call from a friend last night. Not just any friend. It was Mistress Max, a pro-domme, and she was asking me to take part in a session with her in the next couple of weeks. Paid, of course. And of course, I said yes. So I guess that makes me a domatrix. Sort of.

Truth be told, we had already been making arrangements for something similar. I clean Alistair's house once a week. Yes, also paid! I am not about to crawl around on my hands and knees, scrubbing the floor, with a carrot up my arse just because he said so. I don't like carrots very much. Max will soon be working regular Thursdays in Alistair's dungeon. Regular readers will already know that Alistair has a dungeon in his basement, used both personally and commercially. I have been asked by Max to clean the house on Thursdays. and to remain in the house all day, so that I can assist her if she needs, and offer a double-domme service, so to speak.

How exciting.

And financially benefitting.

I am reminded of the time when I was overseeing the removal of a very large, very ripe pile of rubbish that had been heaped up in the yard at the back of Alistair's house. I had arrived there, had a quick shower, and then proceeded to deal with men and van, still with soggy hair and bag-lady clothes. And I was not a happy camper. I was as close to cross as I get. This is because none of the rubbish was mine, and the ex was in the house... But she was too tired to deal with the men, but awake enough to spend the whole time surfing the web. Yes, I am sometimes a fool. So, back to me, my mood, and the men.

They did a good job, I paid them, and was just making my way back into the house, when Max bounded down the hall. She had come up from the basement, and was mid-session with a client.

"Can I as you a favour?" she said, "I am sticking needles in the client downstairs, and he wants someone to watch me do it. Would you mind?"

Mind? Hah! It would be therapy. Jab them in, I thought.

I agreed, but lamented the fact that I looked like a soggy shower-creature. I told Max that, had I but known, I would have worn something more befitting. We trundled downstairs and went into the medical room. There, secured to the gynae chair, was a very hairy middle aged man, wearing stockings and silk (well, nylon) panties. Yeah, sure, it 'aint sexy, and I have strong opinions on the whole "feminisation" thing, but ya gotta laugh. Max peered at him and told him that I had been in the middle of something.

"Yes," I said in a pissy voice, "You disturbed my shower."

And as Max proceeded to push needles through the skin of his scrotum, pausing every now and then to ask me where the next one should go, I thought: You couldn't write it...

Now, there actually isn't all that much money in the whole domination thing. Especially in the saturated market of London. However, it may be something I explore just a little bit, because if I am going to be pursuing my art, I am going to need to make some money wherever I can. And to be honest, several people have been surprised that I have never tried, including a few pro-dommes. I am told I "have the look". Hmmmm, yes well, not on a Friday night, high as a kite, with Alistair's cock down my throat, I don't....

And yes, the phone box was fun.

Write More Stuff!

2009-08-26T22:20:00.005+01:00

Hello filthmongers, trauma-monkeys, you who secretly fantasise about me shoving something up your butt, and those who fantasise about wining, dining and making love to me all night long (for you are my favourites...)

This post is a tad off topic, and does not relate to perversity, romance, or emotional splurging. Due to this fact, if you hold out to the very end, I have included an old photograph of my breasts. Don't you even think about scrolling down until you have digested every word, motherfucker.

I have been pretty quiet of late because I have been drawing and painting. My friend runs a fetish club, and I am producing some artwork for her flyers. I guess this is my first ever commission. At the moment I am working on a piece for the vampire themed night, and think it is going rather well.

When I was young, I always thought that I would be an artist, but I never fitted the necessary mould when it came to studying it. I quit art A level because on the first day, my teacher told me that I draw "photographically" and that that would not get me very far on the course. The thing is, I am much more of an illustrator than anything else. I just don't do abstract. Well, I guess I could, but it just isn't me.

Anyway, I have decided that I am going to, well, be an artist. Whatever that means. I am scared, but I know it is something I have to do. I thought I was always meant to be a teacher, and then I trained, and realised that it is not for me (nothing to do with the kids, or teaching in itself, but that is another post). One of the reasons I have been so depressed of late is because I thought I would teach, and when it became apparent I would not, I felt like I had lost my direction, and part of my identity.

I had forgotten that before all of that, since I was a very little girl, people have said "That girl's an artist." And I knew I was, I just forgot it. I got older, and lost faith in my ability. I have recently gained a little more confidence again... But it is a frightening thing. I am not quite sure how to go about this, and I know that I'll probably never be a roaring success... All I know is that I have felt more comfortable and "right" than I have in months.

If anyone has any advice, now would be the moment to chuck it my way.

Thank you for your time and patience in reading this tame, clean post. And now as promised...

Yes, that really is me. Didn't think I was serious, did you?
Though you can't quite see, I was blonde back then. We all make mistakes.

If you can read this, you are sick.

2009-08-26T21:37:00.002+01:00

This is a quick post to say thank you to The Caped Tirader for the lovely award that he gave me. Sir, you make me blush to my bones. But that won't stop me from informing you that you are sick. Sick as a sick and twisted thing for enjoying my blog so much. Just like the rest of you. Yeah, you heard me. Does your mother know you are here? Off you go now to check the splendiforous Tirader.

What's that you say? You want me to pretend to be mother? You disgust me. Now go to your room and put my panties on your head, before I smack your face with this here wooden spoon.

A Love Letter

2009-08-20T17:32:00.004+01:00

To my dearest Alistair,

A few days ago, you said that I had never written you a love letter. And I suppose that in this day and age, the hasty text message has become a poor substitute.

Though our situation is difficult, though my position is at times torturous, and though your heart is complicated, I thought I would write this to you.

Darling Boy, at the beginning of last year, I would never have guessed that it would be your bed that I was occupying in the future. The best part of eight or nine years having been spent barely acknowledging each other's existence.

It was at the Gate that I knew that if I let my guard down, even for a second, I would fall for you. I remember being snuggled under a blanket with you in the dungeon, thinking how beautiful you were, and how much you made me smile. I breathed in the scent of your hair and skin, and I wanted you so very much. So I decided to act on that feeling, and a very subbie girl became less so... And I remember you looking at me (and of course, we were more than a little high), and wishing I could take that look and lock it away somewhere, so that I might keep it, and drink it in again and again. I remember saying to you that I wanted any man I was dominating to look up at me with utter devotion. And you said that I wanted them to look up at me with love. I made an extra effort to keep myself guarded, because I secretly wondered, hoped that one day you would look at me with love.

And despite the fact that I knew it was foolishness, I eventually did let that guard down. And I think I was in love with you even before I would be honest and admit it to myself. By the time I said it to you, it must have been obvious to all. And you made me break one of my rules again. I said it first. Now, I know you had said "Love you" many times to me at this point, but I had heard you say the same thing to all your friends and everyone you were close to. But that Friday Night, I waited until I was wasted enough, and I told you. We were sitting on the floor of the living room, cross legged, half-naked, and half-clad in latex... I didn't look you in the eyes... The floor was far more interesting. And I told you. And I felt so vulnerable. We had been living together for several weeks at this point, (in between homes as I was). You told me that I knew damn well that you were in love with me too.

Those weeks I lived with you, despite the few splurges regarding the complicated mess, were so happy for me. Being around you felt, feels, so natural. You laugh at my jokes, and sometimes you just laugh at me in my moments of ditzy and strange. And I love that. And I love that you make me laugh too. I never tire of the banter that we have, nor of the fact that you are clever enough to challenge me, and I never tire of letting you win ;-) .

I love the fact that you encourage me to behave with slightly more decorum than I usually would, though not always with success. I love the fact that sometimes, just sometimes, I can pull down your barriers just enough so that I get to see the little boy that wants to fool around. I love that we can just snuggle in silence on the couch and watch movies, and that we fit there so well. I love that we like to go to bed together at night, and I love the way you emerge from the covers like a sleepy creature out of its burrow in the morning.

And when we fuck, or make love, or play, there is that chemistry... Others have seen it and said they are jealous. You, dear Alistair, are trouble. Perhaps it is because I am as transparent as a pane of glass to you, or perhaps it is because you have just the right amount of arrogance... But you are not afraid of crossing any line I draw in the sand, and then carrying on a few metres, just for good measure. You have had the, (handshake to your heritage), chutzpah to do things to me that every other man has been terrified of trying. Moreover, things that I truly believed I would have been quite happy going to my grave having never done. And I am glad you pushed me. And I am glad you have made me cry. Several times.

Every time you make me cry, I feel more than a twinge of pain. This is because every time you make me cry, it is because you have reduced me to the point where I would do anything, give anything to you, and yet I know that you are not mine. Despite this, my pretty boy, I know that I will go there again.

I will go there again because of the look in your eye, your mischievous smile. And that voice... As I have said, I do believe that I could listen to you read the phone book and make it sound enjoyable. And I will go there again because you are Alistair, and I love you.

See, that is the thing about romantic love, there are so many things to be listed about that person... You fall in love with them both for the many reasons that you can articulate, and for that intangible, undefinable "because". Because they are who they are, and there is a spark between you that is beyond the boundaries of common language... But you know it is there, the two of you.

A Little Call at Night.

2009-08-19T23:26:00.005+01:00

Alistair called tonight. He is away on business, but back tomorrow. He had gotten himself a little tipsy with his colleagues, and we exchanged a few text messages. I told him that I wished I was there because I love the smell and taste of fresh alcohol on a man's breath. He told me I was sick, and that he almost loved me for it. I said that he loved me for my arse, but that I hoped he loved my sickness a bit too. And then he said,

"No, not that either. Annoyingly, it's the sweet bit I like most! Yuch [sic]!"

And I smiled and wanted to hold him and kiss him.

He phoned on his way back to his hotel, and we had a nice talk. He was making half-joking little digs at the fact that I may have more than one date this week, one of them being with Saladin. I took them as they were meant, and responded affectionately. I told him I loved him.

We spoke about what we would do on Saturday, when we are seeing each other. I said that I expected him not to want to do much, because he may not be in the best of spirits. He has, after all, some discussing to do with Claudia, regarding their row-cum-likely break-up.

And of course, I instantly knew that they would not be breaking up, and it would all die down and continue as it has been.

And of course, I was not suprised in the least when Alistair told me that she has been being extra nice to him.

This has happened in the past when she has feared that he has really had enough.

It has confirmed what I am already doing is the right thing. Keeping my eggs well and truly to myself, and checking out the baskets along my way.

So I guess it's Me,

Alistair,

and the other man.

There's No Place Like Home...

2009-08-19T15:58:00.002+01:00

I have nothing further to add.

The Past Few Days...

2009-08-18T19:14:00.007+01:00

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

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

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

He is tall, trains in martial arts, and uses swords. As you can imagine, my slight frame is somewhat dwarfed by his, despite my height. He is of Indian and Arabic descent, but he looks far more Arabic... He has beautiful pale coffee-coloured skin, and long, thick black hair. His eyes are so dark, I think they must be almost black too. He is very softly spoken, very precise, and very smart. And he is oh-so-very chivalrous. He likes to spend much of his spare time either taking part in sword tournaments, or battle reinactments. Yes, yes, I know. Geek alert. However, the pictures are awesome, he looks hot, all of his friends look pretty fucking hot. See, it's ok to be a complete geek if you are hot. Just look at Alistair and I. Anyway, because of his swordfighting, chivalrous ways, and because of his genetic heritage, we shall call him Saladin. How romantic.

That Friday afternoon, round at Alistair's, Claudia made the mistake of asking me what I was doing that evening, and with whom. In hindsight, it was very inconsiderate of me, but at the time, I did not realise what I was doing. I spoke with unbridled enthusiasm about Saladin, and the date. And then I looked across at Alistair, and he looked so sad.

And it distressed me so much. The fact is, I love him, and because of this, his pain is my pain. And yet, this was not something I could alleviate. In fact, it related to me. And what was I to do? I have already told Alistair that if he wants me, I am his. (Sure, I will still have to iron out a few creases, and mould him into the absolute perfect boyfriend, but let's do it). But he loves me, and he loves Claudia, and it remains very complicated to him. But I cannot go on like this, which would amount to waiting an indefinite amount of time, at the end of which, there is the possibility of them working things out. If that happens, I am gone. Fuck all the secondary relationship stuff. I am gone.

And so I have been forced to pick myself up, sort myself out, and start looking around. Well, I have been quite lucky, quite quickly.

Shortly before I left to go on my date I was at home, with Windows Messenger switched on. After a long chat, which brought me no end of frustration, Alistair informed me that he had had an almighty row with Claudia, and that he thought it was now over (which has been said many times...) He said the row happened because I had really spooked him regarding the new man.

He wasn't particularly happy to learn that the date went really well.

However, I went round to Alistair's on Saturday, and since Claudia was in Paris, spent every day there up until this morning. And you know what? It was wonderful.

It was kinda like old times, when I was living there. Before I began writing this blog regularly, I lived there for almost two months whilst I was moving from my place in South East London, to a new one local to here. Although there were moments of angst regarding Claudia, she had not yet moved back in. Alistair and I took to living together very well, and when it came time for me to move out, we both cried. I more than him, but I cry more than anyone...

Over the past few days, we have relaxed, snuggled, fucked, laughed, and have just been together. Mistress Max was round on Saturday and Sunday, and made us two fantastic meals. And Alistair has been really attentive, affectionate, and fun. I have felt very loved, and he has told me so lots. Sometimes, it is the smallest of gestures that are the most important. Like in the early hours of the morning, when he stirred in his sleep, pressed himself up close to me, and whispered that he loved me.

And the fact that he gave me two orgasms in the space of a few hours is almost achieving the impossible. The headpills I am on make orgasm near impossible for me at the moment. So it's just as well that I enjoy a good hard fuck, no matter what the outcome.

It All Went Black: My Weekend Part 3

2009-08-18T12:42:00.004+01:00

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

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

I wanted him inside me so very much.

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

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

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

And he looks so very, very hot.

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

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

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

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

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

Like, really passed out.

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

"Ooops."

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

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

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

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

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

I do so love Alistair's bottom.

No Lobsters Were Harmed: My Weekend Part 2.

2009-08-16T01:32:00.003+01:00

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

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

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

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

It wasn't the pain that did it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-08-14T23:39:00.006+01:00

I had a date.

I have not been on many official dates.

I had my car door opened for me.

I had my car door closed for me.

The chair was pulled out for me.

I was wined, I was dined.

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

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

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

He drove me home.

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

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

And then...

Then he took my hand in his.

We drove and spoke about lots of things...

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

We pulled up outside my door.

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

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

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

And he doesn't back down. Ever.

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

And then he kissed me.

Oh, how he kissed me.

The Bells, The Bells

2009-08-14T12:07:00.017+01:00

Can't sleep.

Today's random topic: Marriage.

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

What bastards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now this is a dress:

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

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

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

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

OK...

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

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

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

and I still just don't know.

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

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

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

2009-08-13T09:50:00.008+01:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then something happened.

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

"You are so going to pay..."

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

"You are so going to pay..."

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

I wanted him to be angry at me.

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

And he was so very, very pretty.

Especially when his eyes flashed with viciousness,

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

I wanted him to be angry at me.

"What are you going to do?" I said to him, "You are so wasted, you can't even stand."

"You-are-so-going-to-pay," he said between gulps of air. I smiled with glee,

"You are so hot right now."

I must confess that my smile masked something very different. I needed him to retaliate. I needed that look to be real, and for every single word of his threat to be true. And even though I am no masochist, I wanted him to be violent towards me.

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

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

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

Wrong makes me wet.

No, really.

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

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

And it wasn't enough.

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

"You are so going to pay for this."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I knew I would have done anything for him.

And I knew that we were very far from done.

Come Fly With Me

2009-08-08T15:09:00.004+01:00

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

All tied up.

2009-08-07T10:21:00.007+01:00

Look, I have been really busy, ok?

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

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

I shall tell you all about it this evening.

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

The Boys in My Life

2009-08-04T13:57:00.004+01:00

Courtney:

Still can't get enough of that boy. Last night, after dinner at Alistair's, we were alone in the living room talking and laughing. He said to me that he told his father that he'd marry me in the blink of an eye. I have said something similar to my mother. Such an odd relationship we have. Entirely Platonic, and naturally so from both sides. Yet I love him so much, and when he is away, at work, or a party, or an event, I miss him like crazy.

I am very happy though, because we have this thing where we help each other find a boyfriend/girlfriend, and after I introduced him to Mistress Max, sparks seem to be flying a little.

As Courtney and I say to each other, "Cop that shit."

Alistair:

There is only so long a woman like me can endure the situation I have been existing in. Being made to feel second best, unimportant, and having to regularly make the short journey home in tears is bad enough. But I have been being lied to. I have always known this, deep down, because whilst others may lie, my gut never does. The night we realised that there was a certain "thing" between us was the night that Alistair told me I could always trust him, and that it was important to him that I did. I do love him, but he has betrayed my trust, saying things to me which conflict with what he has said to the ex. And in fact, let us give the ex an actual name, because whilst I stand by the criticisms I make of her, she is actually a very fragile, damaged person. Moreover, blame cannot be heaped at her door, especially where I am concerned. We shall call her Claudia.

I will continue to see Alistair, but I do not know what happens now. I cannot exist in a relationship without trust. I believe that people deserve second chances, but I would also like to believe that when given such a chance, a person would actually start being honest, rather than more careful in hiding their lies. And how does one tell? Perhaps the gut.

In any case, apart from trust, I want as much love and tenderness as I give. I want somebody who can think of nothing better than waking up next to me every morning. I want to feel beautiful and special. I want passion. And actually, as much as I am up for a bit of fun with boys, I want longevity. I want a future with someone, the right someone.

I do love Alistair. The damage he has done upsets me more than the acts which caused it.

The Poet:

I have been exchanging the most gorgeous emails with the most gorgeous writer. No, I am not going to tell you all the details. But he does make me swoon, and he does have long black hair.

The Goth:

And yes, I may or may not have tumbled around with an exquisitely beautiful goth boy the other night. And one about to do a PhD in philosophy no less. (I studied philosophy too.)

The Blast from the Past:

Long hair, martial arts, knives, brooding demeanor. Dominant. Fantastic cook. A wonderfully twisted approach to play.

I shall leave you wondering.

I shall leave you with these cliffhangers.

Yes Miss.

2009-08-04T13:13:00.003+01:00

Hello perverts, peeping toms, and the vaguely curious.

Today, I find myself at Alistair's house supervising one of Mistress Max's slaves. She had a session booked in a dungeon somewhere else, so I agreed to make sure he keeps on task.

Unsurprisingly, last years Christmas tree has been languishing in the front drive, untouched and unmoved (well, except by nature, for it is well and truly deceased). Slave boy is required to chop it up and bag it up. It's taking him some time... I periodically pop my head out of the door and say in my bestest, firmest voice that he is doing a good job, etc. The sort of domination he likes is really not my style. So many boys want the whole barking, "you are not worthy, worm face" routine. Pish.

Vicious nothings whispered in a gentle voice fuck you up far far better.

Besides, who wants a wormy sub? Yuck. I want a sub with a pretty face and some self-worth. Pretty faces are far nicer to sit on. Although, if they are ugly, at least you don't have to look at them.

And that's just dandy. Now I am getting aroused. But there is just something so irresistable about a pretty boy with big, watery eyes, laying beneath you and pleading with you to fuck him.

I am in severe need of a fuck. The other night, I was also in severe need. I texted Alistair, but he was out with a group of mutual friends, drinking. Since I live across the road, I would have appreciated an invite. Instead I was alone on a Friday night, without sex. All that remained was to bring out the toys. It is truly amazing how many toys one can use on ones self, despite having only two hands.

As I have related to others, I nearly did myself a mischief.

On went the recent (semi) kinky flick I recently downloaded. The Violation of Kylie Ireland is noteworthy for several reasons. Firstly, it stars Kylie Ireland. I can't believe I now have a favourite (kinky) porn star. This is Kylie. She rocks. She is slightly older than the usual batch of vacant 23 year olds, and she is a little more voluptuous. She can also speak articulate English, and fit some impressive sized objects in her orifices. Since I have a bit of a thing for fisting, this pleases me.

Oddly enough, The Violation of Kylie Ireland is an unusual piece for me to watch, since it is a sort of lesbian gang-bang. However, the vague storyline, and some of the lines in general are so hilarious that one instantly falls in love. Moreover, its rapey-violence kinda hits the spot.

So I laughed, I cried, I pondered. Then I serviced myself. Now I will admit, I was a bit ambitious regarding the size of the implement I tried to shove up my arse. Especially as I was running a little low on lubricant. But I was determined, even in the face of injury.

The lesson is: If thou perservereth, thou wilt reach orgasm. Even if your cursed headpills mean that it takes a couple of hours...

Honest Scrap

2009-08-03T11:58:00.003+01:00

I am special. I know this because of the award that flirty the Mysterg gave me. Go read him now. He brings joy into my life.

1. “The Honest Scrap” award is not one to hold all to your self but it must be shared!
2. The recipient has to tell 10 true things about themselves in their blog that no one else knows.
3. The recipient has to pass along this prestigious award to 10 more bloggers.
4. Those 10 bloggers all have to be notified they have been given this award.
5. Those 10 bloggers should link back to the blog that awarded them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

7. My great, great uncle is Alfred Hitchcock.

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

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

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

And I nominate:

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

Pish.

Girl Cock

2009-07-26T16:01:00.009+01:00

Prompted by a comment left by the lovely girl with the pink teacup, today I thought I would discuss with you why fucking a boy with a strap-on is one of my very favourite ways to make love. And for my opinions on love-making, please see here.

I am sure that when most people visualise a woman fucking a man with a strap-on, they picture some amazonian dominatrix and a weedy little man bent over something. But that is not the way. Not the way at all. Well maybe for the unenlightened.

And I haven't always included this particular activity in my list of favourites. There was a time when I too thought it was all about bending him over and sticking something up his arse. However, one night at a party, I had to fulfill a promise I had made to Alistair. A time before, when we were particularly wasted at another party, he had pleaded with me to fuck his arse. And I had declined because I was too high, it was time to go home, and the concept wasn't quite working for me. Despite this, I left with the promise that the next time around...

Next time around had arrived. The party had wound down, most people had left, and we were alone in the living room. As I recall, I had him on all fours on the floor, with a rubber-gloved, lubed finger in his arse, and a cock strapped to my groin. And this is how I began fucking him. "This isn't too bad," I thought to myself.

"This isn't too bad" isn't good enough, where sex and I are concerned.

And somewhere along the way, Alistair stopped me. He turned himself over so that he was laying on his back looking up at me. As I pushed inside of him, I could see the look in his eyes, see his lips move as a moan softly escaped them. As I lowered myself to kiss him, I felt his soft, naked flesh brush my breasts, and I felt enveloped in one of the most intimate experiences that one might have. There is something quite intoxicating about each little noise made by your lover as you slowly slide inside and out of them.

And I wondered, is this how it feels to fuck me like this? That night, I obviously did not learn what it was like to have a cock. But I did learn what it feels like to penetrate someone, to watch their face, their eyes change, to feel their legs wrap around my back. Being penetrated is qualitatively different to penetrating, and a person's reactions to one or the other follow this. And I liked swapping places with my lover. A lot.

Though we were not in love at the time, were high on MDMA and oxytocin, which amounted to a rather good simulation. So this is how I know that strapping on my harness is one of my very favourite ways to make love.

Would you be a guest at Ms. Maisie's?

2009-07-21T13:01:00.016+01:00

"I would like to know a few very important things about you, along with some photographic evidence preferably. If you were going to allow us to spend a night at YOUR home, I would like to know the following:
What books are on your favorite shelf?
What DVD's are on your favorite shelf?
What are your TWO favorite cookbooks.
Select 1-3 recipes you will cook for your special guest.
What will we be drinking that is available?Feel free to add pictures/descriptions of anything else you want. I think we will be able to learn a lot about eachother, simply by seeing what we like to read, eat, drink, etc..." said Mr. C

Generally, unless somebody is already a pervert, or knows me well enough to realise I am adorable, any offer of a night at my place is greeted with a look of trepidation.
Still, let us press on.
I am going to assume sex is not on the cards. This is out of kindness to those of you who are nervous, and because I am fussy.

I live in London, close to the centre, in a very desirable part of town. This amuses me, since I am a poor student. As has been mentioned in previous entries, I live with three other friends, most notably, my beautiful boy (yes, it's platonic), Courtney.
We don't have a lounge in our flat, so this is really more of a tour of my room... For dinner, we would be popping over to Alistair's. His house is big, and has a dungeon.

Let's get the DVDs over with. (I like 'em, but books are better...) Actually I now realise Courtney has pinched several.

South Park is a big part of our lives. I favour Butters. LotR are my favourite movies of all time, and not just because I want to be gang-raped by elves. David Attenborough is a god, and I like to draw with him playing in the background. We have lots of horror. Favourites from my childhood (i.e. Carebares). And Twister. I have a tornado obsession.

I am drowning in books, this shelf is quite representative:

A bit of darkness, much philosophy (I love you, Wittgenstein), women's history, early modern history, feminist literature, much stuff on sex, and the Forgotten Storm, documenting the Tri-State tornado of 1925.

There's more:

Lots on vintage clothing, burlesque philosophy, childhood books (I never throw away books), knitting books (oh, yes...)

Wall of books:

Under my leopard-print bed:

more...

I am nursing Courtney's Umbrella plant back to health. The previous inmate, I mean housemate, attempted to kill it. See how it is now sprouting anew. I am pretty much more comfortable with animals and plants, despite being so outgoing. And note the rainbows, the colour. You just can't keep a clinically depressed goth-girl down.

I suppose we ought to get onto dinner...

So we'd have to sprint across the road to Alistair's.

I would be serving:

Pan-fried scallops on a bed of leaf salad, with mild chili salsa.

Fillet steak with a wild mushroom sauce and thick duck gumbo, with rice.

Key-lime pie.

If you don't drink alcohol, I could offer you lavender tea, with lavender sugar:

I love lavender. I have my microwaveable lavender bag here. When I am stressed, depressed, and feel alone, I heat it and hug it. Kinda like Linus and his blanket.

If you do drink alcohol, as the notice-board says:

The gin would be Hendrick's, served the correct way. Marks for knowing what this is. (Note the little heart at the bottom, written by Axel ages ago, when I was really down. As has been mentioned: love of life, no longer together. I refuse to rub it off the board. Not saying no-one will ever be so important to me again, just that they are going to have to prove themselves before I let them quite that close).

After-dinner mints?

Well, you didn't think I'd be able to resist, and how right you were. We have plugs, pegs, clamps, duct-tape, vibes, strap-on harness, etc. To be honest, we would probably just go to the proper dungeon over the road...

But see how subtley all of that hides under the yellow scarf beside my bed. You'd never know, and it is easily accessible.

So here is the door. Thank you for coming...

Mystery Illness

2009-07-18T20:10:00.002+01:00

I have a mystery illness. It is not the swine, but it 'aint pleasant.

This is why I have fallen so quiet.

Making Love

2009-07-16T14:02:00.007+01:00

As you may have already gathered, even ladies like me like to be made love to. Yes, that's right, and let me say it again: made love to.

You may very well be able to whisper those vicious nothings in that dulcet tone, and how wonderful it is that you aren't afraid to slap my face so hard that my eyes water. You should be giving yourself an extra-special congratulations if you are a man who has ever managed to make me cry. No, not by bludgeoning me with that big stick, you dolt, by getting into my head. My head is awful hard to get into. And if you do, it's not always the most comfortable of places to be. Some of my penchants for emotional fucking are a little out of most people's comfort zones. Nevertheless, you don't have to convince me that I am the worst person in the world, or that you have just killed my kitten to make me cry. All you have to do is take a part of me away. Because I promise you, every time a man truly penetrates those barriers, (the ones that are so invisible, most people don't even realise they are there), the tears will fall. Everytime I am taken to that place, the one where the line between consensual and non-consensual becomes questionable, I lose a little of myself.

So, you may have been there, done that, but can you make love?

And here's the thing. I don't do one-night-stands. When single, I'll occasionally fuck a friend or two, and I'll fuck a regular play-partner, if I have one (though, that kinda counts as a friend too). When in a relationship, I'll fuck my boy/man a lot, and depending on the nature of the relationship, the rest of the fucking still applies. The point is, almost all sexual activity that I engage in involves an expression of love, fondness, affection... whatever you want to call it. In short, I need a degree of emotional exchange to get off. In that sense, you could say that I am always making love.

Nuh-uh.

Firstly, making love = in love. We have to be in love with each other for this to be working. Secondly, and this is not a rigid requirement, I like my love-making served up unadorned, nothing added, nothing taken away. No whips, chains, impossibly large insertables.* In the past, my love-making has been notable by its complete lack of power dynamic. I am not dominating him, he is not dominating me. (Truth be told, even when engaging in the most normal sex, there is usually some sort of subbie/dommie spin I am creating in the privacy of my head). But I find the sheer wondrousness of the art of love-making so arousing that I don't need my kinky little foibles to have an orgasm. And please note, the lack of power dynamic is not deliberate, it just happens naturally. I should also make it clear that it would be impossible for people to do certain kinky things to me unless I loved them. And indeed, (as has been said), those acts are an expression of love.

But there is something inherently different about the way a man looks at me when he is making love to me. And I am fairly sure that he can see it in my eyes too. It is a look that is difficult to put into words. One that speaks of a want, need, not just for your lover's body, but for their mind and everything that they are. As if, for those fleeting moments, (before animalistic passion takes over, as it often does...), you could absorb, or breathe, the other person into yourself. After all, they are inside you, all over you.

And the eyes are so very important here. Your eyes should not break with mine. As you slowly push inside of me, I want to feel your eyes penetrate me as well. In addition to the word "eyes", another key word is "slowly". I am aware that this may shock some of you who know me well. After all, I am the girl that it seems impossible to fuck too hard and too fast. But may I remind you, we are not "fucking".

Nobody is saying that we can't speed things up a little in a moment. Slower is better for now. It allows one to fully appreciate the non-verbal exchange that is taking place. And this is another surprise. I am a great lover of aural sex (one of the quickest ways inside my head, if you do it right). However, due to my artistic temperament, I am highly emotionally charged, so when this love-making business occurs in just the right fashion, I am pretty much lost for words. And there are only three I have a need for at this point, "I love you".

*Important clarification: Obviously, if I am making love to a man, I do actually need an insertable strapped to my person, but it does not have to be impossibly large.

Food for thought...

2009-07-16T12:43:00.001+01:00

http://bitchyjones.wordpress.com/2009/07/03/whos-a-pretty-boy-then/

Some boys are too good for this world.

2009-07-15T17:49:00.005+01:00

Did you ever meet somebody who seems to exude goodness and warmth, strength and frailty? Somebody, who, when you look into their eyes, you see something there that sets them apart?

It was during March that I first laid eyes on Courtney. Alistair and I had thrown a party, and one of our friends had asked to bring someone with him. Alistair had met this person once before and recalled him being nice enough, but not that "fetishy". I was apprehensive... our friend had brought people along before, and I had wished he hadn't.

I took a little longer to get ready than is usual, and people had started to arrive by the time that I made it downstairs. As I recall, I was wearing my pink rubber baby-doll, (which has no relevance to the story). I walked into the living room, and there, sat at the table, was this slender yet wiry man. Apart from his boyish, very good looks (if Alistair has a picture in the attic keeping the wrinkles at bay, Courtney must pop to Never-Never Land each night... And these seem to be very appropriate comparisons. If faced with the question of whom best fits either Dorian Gray, or Peter Pan, the answer is very obvious). As I was saying, apart from his boyish good-looks, Courtney stood out due to a distinct lack of fetish-gear. He was wearing slightly baggy jeans, and a t-shirt, and was carefully rolling a spliff. I said a fleeting hello, and our paths did not cross much for the rest of the evening.

Until the dungeon. This was the night where Alistair had ever so slightly forgotten that it is rude to ignore the lady you are "with", whilst spending the whole night feeling up/abusing a newer girl. When faced with a situation like this, I did the only thing I could. I grabbed the pretty Courtney, put some eyeliner on him, and basked in his cuteness. I then proceeded to electrocute him with a violet wand, and later, attempt to fuck him in the medical room with a strap-on. Having never been "seen to" in this way, and given that we were both severely wasted, it was more a painful semi-rape. Courtney and I still look back on it wistfully, as he backs out of the room. To be honest, I didn't get very far, his little arse was way too tight.

Prior to the raping, we had spent some time getting better acquainted, and continued this, post-raping. We had an instant rapour, and that night/morning, I became friends with a very remarkable young man. It is quite disarming to have somebody who looks so young, and at times, innocent, speak as intelligently and profoundly as Courtney does.

Around this time, I realised that I could no longer go on living in the place that I was, as the people were driving me insane. It transpired that Courtney had a room that would soon be vacant in his flat, and the rest, as we say, is history.

In the time that I have lived with him, I have come to know a boy who is both extremely damaged, and extremely strong. In one of our conversations, I have said to him that some people seem to be touched by life more. Are more sensitive to the brutality of the world. Not that the world does not have its beauty. Courtney is one of those people. He is intensely smart and artistic, he has a studio and works in the sound industry. He is extremely "spiritual", and has achieved that rarity of speaking about such things, and not producing either a smirk or look of disdain on my atheist face. In fact, sometimes when he speaks of such things, I find myself wondering.

He is perhaps the most empathic person that I have ever met, and seems to be able to penetrate to a person's core, and know what they are thinking, feeling, what motivates them. He certainly knows exactly what to say to me, and when to say it. He sometimes seems to realise my thoughts even before I realise I am having them myself... And he has been wonderfully supportive of me throughout this twisted romantic soap-opera.

Courtney is an amazing, fascinating individual. I am lucky to know him, and live with him.

South Park Me

2009-07-15T17:45:00.002+01:00

An ex and good friend of mine has captured my likeness. Since I am not especially eager to flaunt the whole face, this will do nicely. Note the carefully chosen elegant living space behind me...

I see you...

2009-07-14T16:46:00.002+01:00

Sooner or later...

2009-07-14T11:53:00.002+01:00

It was obvious that, eventually, there would come a point where I would not be able to write what I wanted to. For reasons, see earlier post about intrepid explorers.

Therefore, I have decided to write certain installments in draft only, with a view to feeding you at a more appropriate moment.

In the meantime, enjoy this little representative image, and pretend it is me. I know I will be...

Interesting times... often in the Chinese sense...

2009-07-12T12:51:00.003+01:00

Last night, was a first. For almost its entirety, the ex and Ben were very much "together", and Alistair and I were the same, (though I felt it was slightly by default).

Dinner was good, and afterwards, we made it through a quarter of the second Harry Potter movie. Lucius or Severus, Severus or Lucius... Oh lord, why must you present me with such difficult decisions. Both at the same time? When the film was switched off, we made our way to bed, she with Ben, and I with Alistair. Happy happy.

In the morning, Alistair was very snuggly with me, curling up against me, and snaking his arm over me. For once, I think he had enough sleep, because he was the first to suggest we get up. I trundled downstairs to fetch the coffee, as is my ritual. Sometimes I marvel at what a great catch I am, and the fact that Alistair never scampers around my feet in sweet adoration. I brought him breakfast in bed yesterday afternoon, because he was too tired to get up.

Anyways, I am tremendously excited by this evening. We are having a large roast, with several friends invited. Among them is one of my favourite men whom I have yet to mention here. Not only is he a fantastic dom, but he is intelligent, kind, attentive, and a hoot. And he always knows the right things to say to make me smile.

Live from the Reichstag

2009-07-11T20:28:00.004+01:00

I am sat on the sofa beside Alistair. We must look like bizarre twins, with our laptops resting on our knees, our dark attire, and our matching long, dark hair. Opposite me, the ex and Ben are snuggled on the other sofa in each others arms. Outside of everything that has happened, is happening, or will come to pass (I love dramatics), they are a sweet pair.

It's at times like these that I wish that they could be happy together, and Alistair and I could be happy together. And then, we could all link arms and skip into the sunset. Sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows everywhere.

It all sounds very nice, but I am not particularly certain that Alistair would want a "proper" relationship with me. I don't really bother to ask, because I don't think it would get me anywhere.

21.47 GMT: It's a couple of hours since the last post, and for the past hour, the ex and Ben have been absent. Having just come back from the loo, I can confirm that they are not upstairs. This means they must have gone downstairs, and even more likely, they are in the dungeon. Alistair has been looking increasingly more peeved. I am sure it is a mixture of the usual Ben/ex issue, and the fact that she was supposed to be roasting a duck for us tonight. I think we may be eating at the witching hour... I am always grateful when I am cooked for, and she has a marvellous talent for it, but my tummy is grinching at me. And besides, I would not dream of disappearing off for mutual molestations with Alistair and leave them sitting upstairs. It's a bit of a faux pas, isn't it?

Cupid Gets the Point

2009-07-10T12:09:00.006+01:00

It was 6 0'clock on Thursday evening and I had made my decision much earlier in the day. No, I would not be going out to that London singles meetup off the internet, no I would not be wasting my makeup, and yes, I would be preserving my dignity. So it was inevitable that I would throw down my art pencil, and proudly exclaim, "Singles, here I come." Well, I have never been to one, and I am always looking for new levels of wrong. Not that all similar groups are wrong, but my spidey-sense was twitching.

On went the meticulously applied eyeliner and trademark red lipstick. I decided that my usual level of sexy would seem plain desperate in this environment, so I decided to show off the legs, (which at 35" on the inside, are one of my best features), and cover the top.

And she's off...

No, no she's not. Where is her appropriate coat? Bollocks, it's a Alistair's.

Call Alistair. Odd - no answer. Alistair recently told me that I did not need to ask to go round. Despite knowing that this is one of the silliest notions ever, I really needed my coat...

So with that, I strode purposefully, yet sexily out the door, (ignoring the cigarette hanging out of my mouth). I teetered up the steps to his house, punched in my access code, and upon entering, launched myself up the stairs. "Hello...? Alistair...?" The house seemed empty. I made my way up to the office, and there he was. With a face that had "bad time" written all over it, and a little storm-cloud hovering above his head. I asked if he was ok, and he shifted awkwardly. I said I needed my coat, and walked into the office. The ex was in one of the chairs, scrunched down, with her face buried into the back. She must have been crying, and she's the type who likes to feign invulnerability. Personally, I am all for bawling in public.

I grabbed my coat, refused to divulge my rather sad destination, and got the hell out.

We were told several million had been spent on the decor, we were told it was exclusive. It sits in the heart of Mayfair, so why shouldn't it be? As it transpired, Singles Night was held in a basement club consisting of two levels. Both designed to look like a 1980s nightclub from the Essex suburbs that thinks it's extra decadent. I basked in the splendour. Think cheap pink chaise-lounge with gold trim... think ornamental giant gold phallus in corner, think plastic perspex dancefloor with television screens underneath, connected to a camera filming the whole room... And then the overwhelming glory dimished when I surveyed the various life-forms surrounding me. Actually that makes it sound like the place was packed. To be honest, I was looking at a smattering of males with various degrees of social ineptitude. There was a small female contingent, which, apart from mad-mature-lady-in-floral-frock-and-brown-leather-bum-bag, seemed attractive and well adjusted. One by one, they departed rapidly.

Gin in hand, I decided to avoid eye-contact by staring at the large photo-slideshow on the wall. My suspicions were confirmed. This was a strip-joint. The curtained booths kinda gave the game away. Oh, the glory. The club proprieter clearly fancied himself, featuring in every other picture. He was old and round, and looked like a cross between an extra on Eastenders and a seaside-resort comedian from the 70s. He was resplendent in his vibrant pink suit, which was quite the most aggressive shade of pink that I have ever seen. What followed were several pictures of him with celebrities. As I sipped my gin, I pondered how he had come to be opening a car door for Cherie Boothe.

My train of thought was interrupted by a vacant looking man in a sports t-shirt and denim jacket and hat. He looked like he collected dolls. The kind that have convenient holes, and need a good wipe. We were surrounded by posters that shouted "Sexy and Single!", and I wondered if they could be prosecuted for false advertising. It became very clear why this man was still single. He proceeded to spend the next twenty minutes talking at me in monotone about the structure of the dancefloors of London. I was dying inside. I ran to the security of the loo.

It was bejewelled and punctuated with hearts. The sink was a heart. The lights were hearts. I threw open a cubicle door and was confronted by an odd shaped toilet seat lid, with a giant conch which had been made to look even more vagina-like. I stood and stared, and the woman in there with me told me to open the other doors. One contained a giant rhinestone egg, which one had to open the front of to reveal the toilet-seat. Another contained a giant plump, red mouth, where you could sit on the lower lip, and lean back on the upper. My loo of choice was a giant toad-stool, with Alice all the way from Wonderland looming over it.

During the evening, there were three men who were notable for their conversational skills. I mean to say that they could actually hold a coversation. One was a fairly cute black guy from Atlanta. He was around my age and had a gorgeous accent. He was nice enough, but not for me. He told me that the table of guys he was sitting with had been "checking me out", apparently thinking I was attractive enough, but too tall. I am used to this.

Rudy was the club photographer. He kept following me out to smoke and to tell me about all his amazing photographic escapades. I told him I frequented unusual clubs, and he leant in and whispered that he had done pictures at a fetish club once. He refused to allow me to leave without first taking my photo, and on our way back in, my heart leapt for joy. There, seated by the bar, was Mr. Pink himself. I was almost blinded by colour. "Rudy, make sure you take a picture of this beautiful woman," he barked. Rudy did. Sadly Rudy also tried to tempt me into the back room under the pretence of the privacy necessary to pose naturally.

As I left, Mr. Pink offered me a drink, asked me if I modelled, and promptly invited me to a sex party next week, which in his own words would be "A real one".

Oh, and man-who-collects-dolls was seen leaving with brown-leather-bum-bag-lady.

One last thing...

2009-07-09T17:44:00.002+01:00

I have finally decided that I will go and attempt to pick me up something pretty tonight.

I wanted to leave things on a slight positive. I popped over to the Reichstag yesterday in a fit of the suicides. Alistair was quite sweet to me. Included in this sweetness was the moment when he came over to the sofa to share my cigarette. I was perched on its back looking out onto the balcony. He gently ran his fingertips up and down my back. I could feel the faint pressure of his nails. I love to be touched like this, it always gives me goosebumps. After a time, he smiled his mischievous smile, and pushed my hand against his crotch, and told me I was exciting.
Long live the small victory. My life pains me to distraction, and I generally look like a wreck. And in this particular instance, I looked like a wreck. Yet, I Miss Maisie, (that's Ms. to most of you), can still tighten pants, even when looking like a bag-lady who has just climbed out of a bin.
And actually, that does provide me with some comfort.

Sigyn

2009-07-09T15:40:00.006+01:00

You should pronounce it "Sigün".

This is Sigyn:

The gentleman in chains, (if you could call him that), is her husband, Loki.
It struck me that Sigyn's name was mentioned in recent conversation, which has led to another train of thought.
Though relatively minor, she is my favourite of the Norse deities. Not only is she married to the mysterious, enigmatic, amoral, and at times, down right naughty, Loki, (obviously the god I'd most want to shag), she has one of the most touchingly beautiful myths surrounding her.

After Loki murdered Balder, the gods took their revenge. Thor prised three rocks out of the cavern floor of the underworld, and set them up on edge. A V-shape was split out of the top of the rocks. It was obvious that only magic bonds would hold Loki, and so Odin ordered the capture of Loki's two sons, Vali and Nari. The Gods charmed Vali into the shape of a wolf and he immediately set upon his brother, savaging him to death. Nari's entrails were collected and used to bind Loki so that he lay prone along the three rocks standing on edge: one stuck under his shoulders, the second under his loins, and the third under the hollows of his knees and ankles. Finally he was also bolted down with iron.
Skadi the giantess, daughter of Thiazzi and wife of Niord, caught a poisonous snake and trapped it by the tail so that it writhed above Loki's head, dripping its venom into his eyes. Each drop threw him into such terrific convulsions that the whole of Midgard shook.
Loki's faithful wife, Sigyn, vowed to the gods that she would sit with him forever, if only they would allow her to hold a basin under the poison drops. And there she now sits patiently beside her husband. However, every so often, her basin becomes full, and she must hurry away to empty it. In those moments, the snake's poison falls into Loki's eyes, and Midgard is once again shaken by earthquakes.

I know some Aphrodites, I know some Artemises, but I fear I am a Sigyn. Gah.

I almost snarfed my tea through my nose when I learned today that Sigyn means "victorious girlfriend". Oh, sweet laughter.

(Oh, and another thing, Loki once indulged in a spot of crossdressing in order to retrieve Thor's stolen hammer. And the parallels ride on...)

Snuggs

2009-07-09T13:43:00.004+01:00

As I have said, I am way behind in documenting recent events. Especially the more explicit ones, which are probably what you want to read.

After the most recent party, Alistair "negotiated" with the ex, so that I could go to sleep with him in his bed that night. A proper weekend should always end tucked up in bed with the person you are with. Kinda sad though, isn't it, that if I want to do something as simple as fall asleep next to a man I love, it has to be "negotiated"?

It was almost as if he knew that on the other Sunday, I cried all the way home. Thankfully, I live within spitting distance, as I was dehydrated to begin with. From behind his closed door, Courtney sensed the upset, and came into my room. I remember spluttering something about my efforts to make his birthday special, but still not meaning quite enough to him that he'd ask me to stay the night. Despite this, I did not do or give anything to gain anything, and even with hindsight, I would do the same again. It's just that every once in a while, reality punches.

But we were discussing the most recent party, and the fact that I got to stay the night. The longer this drama goes on, the more I am afraid that men and women really are different, something I have always disputed with a passion. I say this because when I told Courtney about the "negotiation", and how it gained me a pillow, he grinned and said "Result! You must be pleased." And I responded with saying that it would have been nice if it had been done because Alistair wanted to spend the night with me, not because he thought I would be irked if I did not spend the night with him. Is it a woman thing? You see, I want to be made to feel like he wants me, not reminded that I want him... Courtney gave me a playful, verbal smack. He said it was a good thing, and an acknowledgement of my needs... and I had to agree. Since it is the thought that counts, one must try to understand the intentions behind the thoughts.

In any case, for whatever the reason it was done, it felt good to be under the covers in his arms.

Never one to miss the opportunity to tease me, he told me that he looked forward to my next blog entry. What followed was a quiet discussion of the blog and the situation. Instead of being riddled with angst and frustration, it was oddly tender. And, whilst I am a woman who thrives on consensual abuse, the best way to soothe my mind is through tenderness and love. Being told you are loved, being hugged, they are both wonderful, but anyone can do that. It's those moments where you can really feel it, believe it, that's the good stuff. A previous entry contains one of those moments (in fact, it's the most read one). This wasn't quite the same as that, but I felt calm and warm.

I apologised if anything he read had offended or upset him. He told me it hadn't because everything I wrote was the truth, though some areas were my own particular take on things (naturally). He said that the only thing which had upset him was the amount of hurt he had caused. I fell silent. It felt as if I was sinking down, down into the bed. He held me a little tighter and kissed my head. As I write now, I wonder how it feels inside his head. What he felt at that moment. I asked Alistair if he realised that the ex is in love with Ben. He said that it was pretty obvious, but that she grows bored of people quickly. So I suppose he means to do what he did last time she was with someone else. Hang on, hoping that the other man will eventually go away. I told him this. It all seems to point to the fact that he wants to be with the ex, (which is supremely inconvenient, because if he gets his wish, I shall have to think of another name for her on this blog). He always simply says that he doesn't know what he wants. Alistair told me that he doesn't know what will happen. He said that he knows that she loves him, but is not in love with him, and he knows that I am in love with him. And we all know where this conversation led.

I asked him if he was in love with me. What he said was this. "I think am. I mean, I have all the same feelings as when I am." I was expecting one of two answers. Either that one, or "Why must you always differentiate between types of love?" Courtney had an interesting take on it, and here we are back again at the men are from Mars crap. Courtney thought it was a good answer. For had it been a resounding yes, it stood a 50-50 chance of being a lie. As Courtney saw it, Alistair was honest with me... According to him, love is a confusing thing for guys, and they're not always sure, it's up down and all around. Is it? Or, perhaps Alistair is not in love with me, and this response was the gentler "get out of jail" alternative.

I wonder, if the situation was not complicated, (and even with the situation like it is), does he see any possible longevity between us? And I am not looking for an anything is possible Flying Spaghetti Monster type answer here. I want sensible.

And I have to congratulate myself, because assuming he will read this, (by the way, hi Alistair), I have done an excellent job of still writing as I would have anyway. If nothing else, we can enjoy the fact that an extra sick twist has now been added. The wronger, the better, I always say.

2009-07-09T00:06:00.001+01:00

Failure and small victories.

2009-07-08T23:43:00.002+01:00

Failure because I failed yet again to write a decent blog entry due to unmanageable depression. Success, because in spite of this, or maybe because of this, I managed to have my first orgasm in I can't remember how long. The head-pills prevent me reaching orgasm, like any drugs relating to seratonin. But I gave it my best shot, and victory was mine. I was, however, left with the rather uncomfortable fact that my despair aided my arousal.

I spent most of the day laying on my bed, my brain metaphorically oozing onto the floor. This led me to want to go back to sleep, as this is my favourite method to shut down the horrible feelings in my head. And the circle goes round, because sleeping my life away and accomplishing nothing only makes me loathe myself more.

I stared at the ceiling and thought of interesting physical ways I could be hurt which could produce some tears, thus making me feel better. Which led to me thinking of non-physical ways. Which led to me thinking of various methods of degradation. Which led to the extremely weird headspace of absolute desolation and rampant horn.

But at least I came.

Bravo.

2009-07-08T13:42:00.002+01:00

Now the news is reporting on a sex-ed program to cut pregnancy among at-risk teenagers. Apparently, it didn't work. I wonder if it had worked, would they have reported it? In any case, background is so important. If these kids had been brought up with opportunity and ambition, something to strive towards other than a quickie behind the bikeshed (whoa, do they still have those?), perhaps they wouldn't have fallen pregnant.

Good Grief.

2009-07-08T13:33:00.002+01:00

They make a sperm in a test-tube, and already it's all about the outrage of "removing the need for a man". Because obviously, men are defined by there ability to impregnate women.

Now how am I supposed to write with honesty...?

2009-07-07T14:34:00.004+01:00

It was always easier when I could pretend that Alistair was not reading my blog, but he had to go and make it Crystal Tipps clear, didn't he? How on earth do I write exactly what is on my mind now? No matter how hard I try, on a subconscious level at the very least, things will be affected.

I have decided that I will attempt to press on. I can't help wondering if reading this has altered how he feels about me, us, all of it? Mostly, I am not actually that bothered, since I stand by all that I have said. To be sure, some of it was written in the heat of the moment, but it was real at the time. He says he looks forward to my next post, but I have to go rearrange the kitchen cupboards first.

Poor time management.

2009-07-04T16:27:00.001+01:00

So I still have to tell you about Club Antichrist, and Alistair's birthday party, (and I really did have an awesome time playing with him...) I will get round to it.

Hide and Seek

2009-06-30T10:24:00.002+01:00

If you secretly publish your guts on the internet, they will eventually be discovered. I have nothing to be ashamed of, in the sense that I have only spoken the truth. However, I feel rather sickly in my stomach, because I am afraid of the pain I may have caused, and moreover, of any potential loss of friendship.

And I am sure that other intrepid explorers will uncover me soon enough, if they haven't already. To be honest, I have every intention of continuing writing, as this little space is my emotional outlet.

So much is on!

2009-06-27T17:04:00.003+01:00

I am so sorry for being relatively quiet lately, I have had so much to do. Axel is now speaking to me again, and he has had some heartache, so I am taking care of him. Last night, we went to a industrial/rock/fetish night... I danced to some grinding industrial that reverberated through my entire body. It was exquisite. I am out tonight at a small fetish party for Alistair's birthday, and when I return, I promise to give a full report, both of the first club, with it's smoke and alien creatures; and of the party with, well, it's filth...

A ray of sunshine:

2009-06-24T18:16:00.003+01:00

This blog is supposed to be about kink, romance, relationships, and the traumas and joys that flow from them. However, everything has been packed so full of trauma of late, that I have decided to deviate from theme in order to relate a joyous event from today.

I have been working on an illustration for Alistair, as it is his birthday on Friday. When we started fraternising last year, he always said he wanted me to draw him something for his birthday, and a promise is a promise. The picture is of a reclining woman clad in a black latex catsuit. I finished it but a few hours ago, and had asked Courtney if he knew a good place to get it framed. It turns out that an acquaintance of his has a gallery just down the road, and so I trundled off there, picture in hand.

When I arrived, I pulled out the picture and asked what would be the best kind of way to present it. It was a really cool gallery, with some rather fine works in the window, and really professional inside. I did not introduce myself as Courtney's friend... I didn't really think to. The owner looked at my drawing and said it was the best pencil work he had seen in a long time. I was really taken aback, because I have never shown my stuff to anybody who knows anything about art before. In fact, I haven't seriously picked up a pencil in a long time. He commented on my ability to draw hands, and really loved the piece. (Incidently, I hate drawing hands, it scares the crap out of me, but I kept this to myself). He showed me a lovely frame, and it would cost me £80, but I am a poor student and could not afford this, so I asked for something cheaper. It seemed to be because he really liked my work that he offered me the framing for £50, and he told me that I must bring more of my stuff in. In fact, as he was filling out the forms, he told me that it should really have cost £120. He then said that I should bring some pieces in to place in the window, because he thinks he may be able to sell them for me.

I was so surprised, and it made me feel utterly wonderful about my abilites (which I still don't truly believe are that great). I have always wanted to be good enough to be able to put stuff in a gallery, and now I have been told that I am. It really was the boost I needed. Since realising that teaching is not for me, I have been so lost... friends have said that I should try to make it as an artist, or writer, but I have always seen this as foolishness, never believing it would be possible to earn a penny. But now, though I might never make a living, maybe I can. Maybe I have lost part of my identity in failing to want to teach, but regained an old part that I should never have left behind in the first place.

Unhappy

2009-06-22T15:14:00.003+01:00

I am back. Saturday night, I danced under the stars with a red feather boa... Friends tried to pull me on the stage to perform a number. The horror. I did not get wasted, but was high as a kite by the end, because I love dancing so much.
Nonetheless, there were moments of trauma. Last night after we got back was no exception. I am too sad to write about it today. In fact I am too sad to do anything. My room is a mess, everything is a mess.
I am so unhappy, and everything seems hopeless and dark. I don't want my life to be this way, and I just don't have it in me to save myself. Or perhaps I do, and I am just being useless. And you know what, I know it is wrong, but I just want someone to come save me, and sadly, Alistair is no knight in shining armour. And even if he was, I'd prefer silk stockings.
To be frank, far too often, I wish I had an off-switch for my life. If no one would be damaged by me not being here, I think I would have pushed the button a while ago. That's not to say I am suicidal, or that I am going to do something stupid. I would never ever do that because I would never ever want to cause anybody that I care about so much pain. And I don't always feel like this, just most of the time. I am wishing and wishing that things will improve soon.

Never say never...

2009-06-19T14:02:00.003+01:00

It has always been common knowledge amongst my friends that I have a powerful aversion to watersports. Piss to the innocents out there. The very idea of playing with "waste products", as I would romantically term it, filled me with both dread and disgust. I didn't judge, each to their own, but it would be a cold day in hell before I touched the stuff.

Even as I write, I am transported back several years, when I was around the age of 23. I was attending a fetish party with Axel. When we arrived, I strolled into the kitchen, only to find that they had erected a children's paddling pool. This could only mean one thing. At some point in the night, pissing would ensue. Clearly, the kitchen is not an ideal place, but it did have a wipe-clean floor. I attempted to forget all about it, and made my way into another room.

I was having a fabulous time, but then, I heard the commotion from downstairs. Rather like a person passing a terrible car-crash, who doesn't want to look, knows they shouldn't look, will be horrified if they look, I went and looked. There was my friend in the paddling pool, his pigtails still in his hair, and a mistress friend of mine towering over him. She had a cigarette in one hand, a glass of champagne in the other, and she was saved from the offending liquid in the pool by her platform, crystal stilettos.

My friend was rolling around jubilantly. People started to form an orderly queue so they could all have the experience of pissing on him. Reassuringly, nobody was taking it too seriously at this point, and it was in the British vernacular, a bit of a piss-take. Axel gleefully joined the line, ignoring my feeble attempts to forbid him from taking part. I had the last laugh, because when it came to his turn, he was so high that he couldn't pee. And then the worst thing that could have happened, happened. My friend in the pool flailed his arms a little too passionately, and splattered me with several people's wee. I ran out of the room screaming "Get it off me! Get it off me!"

Oh, how things have changed... more later.

But what will the toilet facilities be like...?

2009-06-18T16:53:00.002+01:00

I am off to a charity music festival tomorrow, and so will not be blogging until Sunday/Monday. I am attending with Courtney, Alistair, and the ex.

I know. I know.

Anyways, years ago I went to a one day only festival, so this'll be my first proper one. And my first ever time camping. 28 years old, can you believe it? I am hoping to find the man of my dreams, and so will be packing lots of wet-wipes because I don't even know if people wash at these things. It's really small, and probably quite poncy... they like rich people at these exclusive charity event thingies.