Complications

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in one foul swoop, he crushed me.

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

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

Trantric Domination

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

I feel compelled to give you a full report tomorrow.

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



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

Tuesday Morning Bizarre

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

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

Just another Tuesday morning.

*That* Session

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can confirm that romance is not dead.

A Date on Saturday

I have one.

Yes, I am still with Alistair.

Yes, he is still polyamorous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's Queen Mistress of the Universe to you!

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

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

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

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

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

New-Age Psychic Clap-Trap

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

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

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

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

Oh, it does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," said Alistair.

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

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

"We've never had sex!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Very fucking dodgy stuff.