Beware the tsunami of teenage angst that has infiltrated this blog with all the subtlety of a 16 year old goth's last bout of self-harm, because they "didn't realise the sleeves weren't quite long enough..."

The move is complete. I feel so much better. Harri helped me, Courtney helped me, other Leo who will be a new housemate even helped me, and he doesn't even know me. I always feel incredibly guilty at these moments, because I am so utterly feeble that I have all the lifting power of an asthmatic flea. This means that I carrry all of the useless things, whilst the fit, sturdy ones do the hard work.

More on this later...

Alas, I fear the previous entry is poorly crafted waffle and splurge.

Still, it's the day of the move, be still my beating heart.

I must confess, I am actually angry. Can you tell? It is, after all, quite a rare occurrence for me. I didn't reach this point until I had some alone time, time for the cogs in my head to begin to turn, and for me to realise what an absolute idiot pushover I am being.

For over a month I have been due to move house for the umpteenth time, on the last weekend of May. I have been grappling with a lot of turbulence in my life, and moreover, fear change and cannot drive. All in all, moving is never fun-time for me.

Alistair knew I was moving. When I was handed my notice, he was the first person I turned to. You go to the one who loves you, right? Even if they are not actually your boyfriend, and think that you don't realise that all they want is to win their ex back, and when they do, you will be history. Right? Right? Well, you do if you are me, paragraph one, absolute idiot/pushover, remember?

For the past several weeks, he has been very concerned to find out the ex's plans, as she never makes any time for him, and always has numerous men round, or is away on her frolics. Come to think of it, any time I have with him is invariably because she happens to be away, not because he has specifically decided to do something with me. It's all about her plans.

Some time ago, it seems that she had a little space in her schedule, so of course, he snapped it up. Right on the weekend when I was moving, and really, really needed his help. He said he didn't realise, until I pointed out that he had known for over a month. He said his timing was bad, but that implies that this was an accident. If he had forgotten, he would have been reminded, if only he was as concerned with my plans as he is with hers. What really hurts is the fact that he could have a weekend away with her any time. I have no choice but to move this weekend, and I can honestly say that I would drop everything to help him if he needed me. Idiot/pushover, remember? But of course, he has packed his bag of fetish gear, ever hopeful that she will wrap him up in latex, shove some poppers up his nose, and wedge his face between her buttocks. And hey, she probably will throw him the proverbial bone... they are staying with a kinky couple, and in such a small group of people, it is hard to resist the tide of play without appearing anti-social. It is not that I am jealous, we all play with lots of people, it's just that he always says that one of the major problems with the relationship is the fact that she won't play or fuck him. It is only natural for me to feel a little miserable at the prospect of her putting out.

After much thinking, I decided that I had every right to let him know how I feel. I could not call him, as he was not alone, so I texted. Not ideal, but I was as polite and adult as possible, despite the medium. I simply said that I was upset because I had been put in a really difficult situation, and I needed his help, and yet he was off for a weekend of play and partying. He responded by saying he felt bad and guilty, and had already said sorry, and that his timing was bad. He said he would make it up to me, and that he loved me. Stupid text tennis. I told him it was not poor timing, because he knew for over a month I was moving. If he had forgotten, he would have been reminded, had he concerned himself with what my plans might be, (in my head I added: "Instead of only considering what Her plans might be..." I said that I didn't want him to make it up to me. He knows I don't work like that. Buying me stuff is meaningless. Love, loyalty, friendship, this is currency that I understand. Again, I received more "love yous", "I don't want to rows", "the only thing I can think to do is think of something nice to make it up to you when I get backs". I ignored the last one, not because I was playing a game, but because I was that upset. Another arrived, telling me he had arrived and was exhausted, and offering me "hugs". I ignored it for the same reason.

I woke up this morning feeling just as bad, and yet another arrived wishing me the best of luck for the move, and that he hoped it went well, and that he loved me. I left it quite some time, because I didn't know what to do... I think too much... Because I am not someone who likes playing all those little games that people in these situations sometimes do, I replied. But again, I was at a loss at what I could say. So I simply said thank you, no little "x's", just the thank you. I received no response.

I wish I could say that he is probably troubled by all this, but I am pretty sure he is not. He is having dinner at some nice restaurant, followed by a little tipple or two, and then the narcotics will come out. Especially the GHB, because we all know how randy, or at worst, touchy-feely that makes people. Especially women, so he'll be using this to help increase the likelihood of getting some.

Meanwhile, I have found out who my friends are. Thanks to Harri for helping me at the last minute, because if he had not, I really would have been totally, and very awesomely, stuck.

I know I need to walk, despite having already tried it twice, and failed. And if I do, I need to mean it this time, can't go back a third time. And so I sit and worry about what to do. He says he loves us both, that we are both of equal importance to him. So why does he elect to have a weekend with her that he could have any time, when I really need him, and have no choice of day for when I move? I need to walk, and I am trying to be strong about it. I might not discuss it again with him, we have been through it. I might just build some distance, enough to help me stop caring.

It starts...

It is almost 10.30am, and I am sitting alone at the dining table of a man whom I adore, but who keeps me like a mistress. As I write, it is impossible to distract myself from the intrusive pain in the middle of my back. For here, the skin is somewhat missing, the wound somewhat infected, and the inconvenience somewhat high. Just like I was, the night before last. High that is, not infected. Oh, curse my paper thin skin, and curse synthetically fibred carpets.

Of course, I had not intended a weeknight all-nighter. If only I had not had that less than perfect date that afternoon... He was lovely and long-haired, but young. There was no chemistry. No one was to blame, of course. But one always hopes. I must confess, sometimes I mentally throw myself on my knees, staring up at the heavens with bulging eyes, shouting, "Oh lord, send me a long-haired, well-spoken, exceedngly clever pretty boy that I can exist with in a mutually adoring relationship. In fact, lord, send me a man just like the one I am in love with now, only better. One who actually wants to be with me, instead of lurking around the feet of his ex like a lost puppy, longing for her to have sex with him, get back with him, all the while grabbing a fistful of my hair and telling me he loves me. And that he loves her. And that this is so hard for him. Amen." Then I mentally wipe the foam away from my mouth, and continue to maintain a vague aura of a reasonably well-adjusted member of society. Oh, how I digress.

After the date, I made my way back to the Reichstag. I refer to it as such because I have tried every method I can to produce a positive, healthy situation out of this mess. That would be the loving relationship I desire, and, I might add, so richly deserve. I have failed every time, so whilst I may be rather uncomfortable with taking any leaves out of Hitler's book, I have taken to referring to myself as "Holding my nose, and entering the Reichstag." And at this point, I am probably sounding a little unhinged, so I am praying, dear reader, that you have the same morbid sense of humour as I.

So, back at The House, the ex (who now, of course, lives there... don't ask) was receiving some of her entourage of boys. I actually rather get along with her, which makes the situation more weird, both because of my position, and because I think she often treats Alistair less than well. This particular night, there were three boys, all clever, all interesting, some a little too young, but you can't have it all. And then Courtney, the boy that I am about to enter a houseshare with, stopped by too. We have not known each other very long, but we instantly hit it off, perhaps because I instantly threatened to abuse him... In a way I wish I hadn't, because despite being clever and very pretty, I have instant friend-chemistry with him. Not even really friends-who-fuck chemistry. Which made it all the more strange when he very quietly and discreetly propositioned me with both sex and narcotics. I'm just a girl who can't say no, as the song goes. Actually, I say no to most, which explains why I am perpetually frustrated. The wine flowed into their mouths, the gin flowed into mine. We ended up in the dungeon.

Alistair had to crawl up to bed, sulking that he could not stay up and party, due to work obligations. Kit had a pretty face and long hair, but at the grand age of twenty-three, had some developing still to do. And I found his habit of writhing around mewling in order to encourage someone to rough him up so utterly annoying, I really wanted to kick him in the head. So I did the only thing I could. I got vaguely wasted and danced to NIN. But then something happened. Something wrong. Something unexpected and wrong. And we all know how much I like wrong. Kit grabbed me by the hair and forced me over his lap. "Instant hilarity," I thought, and decided to go along with it for the sake of amusement. I abuse boys, but I don't get dominated by them... I need a man for that. How it pains me to write this, but whilst his spanking technique needs a little work, his attitude was surprisingly good. I might have to hate myself, because I actually found myself willingly entertaining him. When he dropped all of his cocky-young-man-with-something-to-prove act, he showed a hell of a lot of potential, and was quite sexy. He spent the rest of the evening trying to entice me into bed, which I would not do, because I was entertaining Courtney, and was already sexually booked-up, as it were. It was all very romantic. Shortly before Kit retired, he threw me on my back and plunged his fingers into my pussy... and then the unthinkable happened... I gushed/squirted, call it what you will. I am not a lady who produces much fluid of any kind as a general rule. To date, there are only three men who can do this to me, now including Kit. And he did it faster than any of them. I hate myself, it was awesome.

He went to bed, and I carried on the party with Courtney, we talked, we smoked... we had sex. It wasn't bad sex... but, and I do hope he feels the same, it was like having sex with a brother. And not in that hot incestuous fantasy kind of way. Chemistry is a funny thing. And now we have come full circle, because as I lay there on my back, with legs thrown over his shoulders, I knew, I just knew that I was wearing a hole in the middle of my back. It didn't hurt much, but then, nothing hurts much when I am fucking. I have lost count of the amount of holes I have worn. And it really doesn't matter whether I am fucking them with a great big strap-on, or they are rogering me senseless... I am infected and moist. Hey, referring back to an earlier sentence, it looks like I was infected after all. How we all laughed.

Next to Godliness.

On that Friday morning after you left, I was so exhausted that I crawled back into bed and shut my eyes and began to drift back to sleep. In that space between lucidity and unconsciousness, thoughts began to ebb in and out of my mind. I was back on my knees again, trying to hold your gaze because you had told me to do so, even though I find it difficult. My mouth was open, and I had momentarily fogotten how much I wanted you to grab me by the hair and fuck me, because I wanted the taste of you in my mouth just as much... And then your cum was dribbling down my chin, it was on my tongue and in my hair...I had that terrible and wonderful sensation of feeling utterly used and filthy. But then your expression hardened, you wound my hair tightly around your fist, told me I was a slut, and then dragged me out of the room. You pulled me into the bathroom and forced me into the bath, and with your cum all over my face still, you told me what a dirty fucking whore I am. As you spoke, you were switching the shower on, and I cried out as the cold water sprayed over me. In this half-dream I was having, there was a wooden scrubbing brush on the shelf to the side, and you immediately took hold of it and began to scrub my skin roughly until I was almost crying, all the while telling me exactly what I was, and all the while, the cold water was making me shiver.

Save me from myself...

On Friday night, I dressed in my black corset, little navy feathered hat and veil, with navy stockings and peep toe heels to match. I kept my hair loose more for practical reasons than aesthetics...

I must confess that I have never played so much at a party before, and I very much hope that this does not displease you, it was simply one of those occasions where the atmosphere was perfect, everybody knew each other, and I felt extremely comfortable. The first time I played was in the dungeon. My friend persuaded me that it was a good idea to let him strap me to a bench. I was flogged, spanked, and attacked with a violet wand...I love electricity, but people always turn it too low. My friend has a good memory, and spent a lot of time tormenting my feet. The sole of the foot is such a sensitive thing, and it doesn't take much to make a person squeal. When I was released, I looked around and realised that at some point, the dungeon had almost emptied of people, which left me somewhat irked. One of the few times that I feel happy enough to play in a prominent area, and everybody leaves the room...

Perhaps it was something to do with the powder on my nose, but I suddenly felt the need to charge upstairs and inform people that they had clearly missed out. This caused me to be threatened with molestation by other friends, and I may have responded with something encouraging, but I don't quite remember. All I know is that at some point later, I was quietly minding my own business downstairs, when I was set upon and whisked into a private bedroom. My clothes were removed and I was placed horizontally across the bed, they stretched my arms as far as they would go without breaking and secured them with rope. My legs were left free, but were repeatedly pulled so that at times my entire body was stretched painfully. I had never played with any of these men before, except for the one previously in the basement. I had seen one of them play with his sub several times, and knew full well just how severe he can be. He is also rather good at inspiring fear, and yet his voice is always soft and he never says anything unkind. I am sure he knew exactly what I was thinking, and at one moment, when my legs were splayed apart, he casually walked around the bed with a riding crop. Suddenly, he brought it down close enough to my pussy that it appeared as if it would actually hit me, and with such force that I thought it would take my clitoris off. I screamed. As it goes, I was not particularly hurt at all, but each time he was about to hit me hard, he would ask me if I was ready and I would have to look at him, and each time I was bracing myself for somethng much worse than I got.

Later on, after most people had left, Michael and another friend pulled me onto the floor of the lounge, bound my wrists and ankles, flipped me over and hogtied me. My hair was plaited and attached to ropes, and with every jerk I made, my hair was pulled. Michael was very gentle with me, but my friend is an experienced submissive with a sadistic streak and seemed to have a penchant for smothering my face for long enough to actually frighten me.

(25/05/09: How funny I did not say much about the friend in the paragraph above. Perhaps instinct was telling me something that I ignored. Now look at the mess I am in.)

The rest of the weekend was pretty much a chaotic orgy of chemicals and chit-chat, punctuated with short intervals of sleep and takeaway...