Flash Fiction Friday - Knowing

She gripped the sheet loosely around her breasts, accentuating her nakedness rather than attempting to hide it.  “I have been waiting for you,” she crooned.

“I know,” the whispered response quiet but firm.

She turned, revealing more of her flesh.  Wild hair cascading down her back in a river of chocolate satin, her creamy skin curving around the shape of her spine, her shoulders, the top of her buttocks.  “I don’t like to wait.” 

 “I know.”

“I am not used to waiting for anything or anyone.”  Her voice was even, calm, low – deadly. 

“I know.”

She turned back, clutching the fabric close around her, gathering it tight, she stepped closer, a sneer curled her lip, her eyes flashed.  “You know.  You say you know.  You know and here you are.  You are not sorry?  I could have gone home without saying a word and you would have come to my room and there would be an empty bed, without a note, just the rumpled sheets where I have been lying waiting.”

“I know...but you didn’t.”

They stood for a moment drinking each other in, air charged, eyes locked.  Her dark eyes brimming with tears, she lowered her head as her words stuck in her throat, “I...I thought you would not come for me...”

“I know...but I have, my love.  I have.”  Advancing towards her, crooking a finger under her chin and lifting her face, kissing her tears.  A hand wound its way through her hair as the other cupped her breast and the sheet dropped to the floor.  “...and I will always come for you.”

“Now I know...” she said as she smiled softly.  They kissed then, hard, lips against lips, breasts against breasts, tasting, savoring - lovers at last.  Leaving their old lives and their husbands in their wake.


Flash Fiction - The Force

Her back screamed in response to being forced up against the brickwork.  With each thrust new gouges opened themselves on her shoulders.  Her legs wrapped around him, she clawed at his chest.  Tiny speckles of blood accented the long red lines she drew with her nails.  He let out a loud growl and came inside her.  She shuddered her response. 

How deliciously ironic that he cold bite of steel should link them for an act of such debauchery. 

He winked at her, “We could have used these earlier…”

She giggled as the police officer pushed them towards the waiting van.

Second Flash Fiction...still haven't figured out how to install the button...100 words though, yay me!

Thank you Panserbjørne at Insatiabear!!


Play Day - Monday Part 2

Realization descends on me like a bird of prey from the clouds. For the past few days Sir has been talking about his "filthy mood". She, she can take an absolute Not me! And now it is me, here, him in his already filthy mood made more filthy by virtue of the fact that she (the one who can take the beating) is not here...several things race through my mind at this point. We talk, chat laugh. He strokes my leg, pinches it a little. Then he says "lets go play" 


He slaps my arse as we walk towards what is now feeling like impending doom.

Our genial rapport is left scattered like our clothing which seems to find its way into quiet corners to watch.  Seamlessly, wordlessly, it is replaced with bawdy personification of our lascivious-selves.  

His hand slaps at my face, my arse stinging from his hands, his cane and I think the whip.  My back burning and I am splayed across the bed.  The cane is drawn again and it bites down at the top of my thigh. That really ouchy part where your buttock meets your leg, neatly he whacks.  I think the worst bit about the cane is that you hear it coming, feel the placement, know where it will land, hear the wind and the sound as it comes for you.  The struggle in not tensing is of course, magnified.  Then, most everything in TTWD is magnified.

There are tears and clamped nipples, begging, crying.  At one point I reached out to free my poor nipples.  There is always one the hurts more than the other.  I find it strange.  He looked at me, I knew the look.  It was a don't-you-dare-touch-those look.  I didn't and was soon relieved of the clamps.  For some reason every single time I think they will come off and I will feel better.  I always forget that it hurts like a motherfucker - always.  He never does.  I know he enjoys very much those few seconds of excruciating pain and the mixture of anticipated relief and shock on my face as the pain intensifies.  I love his fingers and hands on my nipples.  I hate clamps.  

I am lying on the bed and something makes me grin.  I don't know what it is.  Perhaps it was nothing.  Sir, I think, takes this as me not being serious enough.  That I am being disrespectful or not submitting.  Sometimes though, I just need to laugh.  It doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt or anything else he maybe making up stories about in his head.  It sent me into an uncontrollable fit of giggles.  The cane came out and whacked across the soles of my feet which sent me into further peals of laughter.  I am not a pain-slut.  Well sort of I am.  Actually I don't know.  I want it, I like it but it hurts.  Laughing was not making sense - even to me.  Then I was saying ouch and ending it with a laugh....then his whip came out.  I stopped laughing.  I don't even remember if he hit me with it but (I know I have mentioned this before) it hurts so much.  Giggles gone - pretty much.

I am standing in the doorway, fingertips crooked over the top of the frame, legs spread, on my toes, looking out of his room.  He is behind me somewhere, hitting me occasionally with something, a cane I think.  His voice moves around.  In front of me is a small unfurnished space.  Its far wall is a giant window.  A thin white curtain allowing me to see the outline of the squares of glass glows a pale yellow in the sunlight.  I am cumming, cumming, cumming.  He is calling, commanding, demanding my fingers stretch out over the door, that I am on my toes, that my body is taught and stressed and uncomfortable.  I feel the warmth of the cumming building in intensity.  "Cum now, hard" he says and I feel it trickle slowly down my leg, down the inside of my left thigh, snaking its way toward my knee.  Instantly he draws from me another and another until I can feel rivulets of cum sluicing their way down the inside of both thighs, down the inside of my feet, finally pooling where the balls of my feet touch uncomfortably to the floor.  There is a break for a few seconds.  I peak around at him lying back comfortably on his bed, just watching.  My head hangs forward, I am gripping the doorframe with my fingertips to relieve the rest of me.  He readies me.  I am begging for no more.  I have no more.  My head lolls back.  Last one.  Big one.  He pulls it from me slowly with his words and I feel it building in my belly.  I spray a neat little cum on the floor.  I have to admit to being quite impressed.  It was quite dainty.  I think about whether he can see the cum raining down, what it would look like in the intense yellow sunlight coming through the window and doorway.  I contemplate crawling to him, to the bed.  I don't remember getting there.  I know him well enough to presume that he helped me walk.

I collapse back onto the bed.  I suck at his cock.  I feel so spent, so gloriously spent.


Sick Leave + Old Man PornStar

I have officially put in for sick leave on my blog.  I know I could sit and write while malingering on the couch but it is not fun getting turned on while you feel awful - so I haven't.

Just caught up on reading this morning so back to writing tonight!

To keep you entertained while I bang away (at the keyboard, you dirty people) have a look at this link about a kinky old man....

Japanese Porn Star

I love it!

xx JaT


Getting Real

I am struggling at the moment, fair readers, with the editing of my blog.  I will let you in on a secret.  I play a little harder than what I write about.  I want to be honest, I really do, but there are somethings I skirt around a bit....and there are other things I skirt around a lot.  What I suppose would normally take half an hour to an hour to write takes me painful hours of deliberation trying to make sure you can understand why I am in the emotional headspace I am in without being too explicit...Don't for one second think I am anything less than honest.  Everything I am feeling and experiencing is real for me, it is just some of the physical stuff I am careful with - especially since I know some of the people who read...

So what do you think, guys?  For those of you who blog yourselves, especially the subbly bunch, what do you hold back?  Do you hold anything back?  Do any of your real-time friends read or know about your life?

I personally find the duality difficult.  I am not used to holding back anything from anyone.  I am about as much a what-you-see-is-what-you-get person as you can get.  Most of my close girlfriends know.  A few of my close male friends know.  My sister-in-law knows.  

The people I have around me love me and think I am crazy.  They have always thought that though, so this just serves to confirm it.  They shake their heads or say they always knew, even when I used to play back in the day, they knew.  None of them have felt it appropriate to even feign shock.  I wonder about that.  What is it about me that screams kink?  Not that it matters.  If I have always known, then why would everyone else have been oblivious?  I will say though that there was a bit of a murmur when I said I had a Sir.  It was expected that I have pup, but a Sir for you?   That has quite possibly been the most interesting part.  The reaction (especially some of my rabbidly feminist friends *waves*) to the idea of me submitting.  I have found that treatment of me is reflective of how people react to life in general.  Some of them read here religiously, some read occasionally, some don't read at all.  Some want details, want more from me, some ask and then don't ask, look and beg curiosity and then get squeemish - they are the ones who enjoy thinking things are terrible.  Some want to talk about the emotional side, want to understand the reasoning, the need, the desire.  Some want to talk about the physical.  As long as I am safe and happy they don't really care about TTWD. 

It makes me wonder how much of hiding and closeting BDSM really has to do with other people and how much it has to do with how we percieve ourselves.  People know there is 'kink' out there.  People, all people, have their fetishes.

I am not planning on handing out business cards with my blog-link to the other mums at my kids' new school, but really...this is part of who I am SO this is my warning to all you who look me in the eye.  I am going to start gradually being more honest on here.  You will be reading more of the physical realities of TTWD.  If you think there is even the slightest possibility that you will be uncomfortable - stop reading.  If you are reading out of morbid curiosity - stop reading.  If you think I am a terrible person - stop reading.  If you are a little turned on, you have my mobile number, give me a call....

I am good at keeping the pieces of my life whole within me and separate out of the necessity of life but that is something we all do.  You wear your daughter hat for your mum but it doesn't sit on your head at the office.  You wear your office hat at work, but not as a lover.  Your hats are all there, tucked away, to be pulled on when needed.  My BDSM-side is the same.  It is just a collar, not a hat!

So the questions were: 
For those of you who blog yourselves, what do you hold back?  Do you hold anything back? 
Do any of your real-time friends read or know about your life?
Why do you think we hide TTWD?


Flash Fiction Friday - The Siren

She leaned in to him and her breath hissed, hot in his ear. “Come walk with me.”  He followed her, this siren. He had watched her all night, everyone had.  He would have followed her anywhere.  He did not even know her name.

The early light wrapped around her in a golden haze.  As she danced along the track, her skirt flicked up, teasing, bouncing against the top of her thighs.  She looked back at him over her shoulder and laughed, pinching at her hem, tugging it out to the side, making sure he could see her arse.  She skipped away and then back she flitted towards him.  “Do you want to taste me?”  Without waiting for a response she knelt over him, allowing his tongue to probe her depths.  She gasped, her back arched, nectar dripping down his face.

“I told you, the fear makes it fun.  Can you feel the hum?  That is the train coming.  Don’t look so concerned.  I am sure I will have time to untie you...”  He heard the siren, heard her giggle.  He heard the siren and he could not turn away - he was locked between her thighs.

My very first flash fiction Friday peeps!  Thanks to Insatiabear! 150-200 words, phrase "in a golden haze"

Hopefully by next week I will figure out how to install the button...

xxx JaT


Play Day - Monday

I had been trying to get over to see Sir all weekend. For many reasons, one of which is I think his extreme pleasure in my desperation, it did not eventuate. There were plans for Monday....Oh yes, there were plans. I was to meet The Divine One at Sir's.

*sigh* give me a moment while my eyes glaze over

There were conversations over the preceding week. I have wanted to try something for a while and have only fairly recently been open about it with Sir. He had been unwilling to this point as he said I was not ready but somewhere last week he decided I was ready (squeee!).

So I waited - exceptionally impatiently. There were many, many texts. Many, many, many texts. (Did I mention that last month I sent over 1600 text messages? No that is not a typo. 1600.) I cooked, baked chocolate brownies. I went back to my Serbian-Waxing-Goddess. I made salad. I ate pizza with friends. I thought a lot. The weekend dragged by and I felt every minute. I jumped at my phone every time it blipped, hoping.

One of the rules I have is to not say "maybe" or "perhaps" to Sir. It has shown me exactly how many times I use this as the easy way out, a non-committal answer. His line is always " a yes or a no."

So I asked him Saturday night if, as he had alluded to, he would have me come over. His response "perhaps, maybe. LOL". So my snarky desperation ramped up. He had promised I could see him over the weekend. Well not entirely promised but this new thing...I wanted it. I was terrified but I wanted it. I was maybe a bit disrespectful, (swore at him) which he was quick to point out would earn me a punishment. I was apologetic, well a little. I also vowed and declared that I would never ever ever say to him again "maybe" or "perhaps".

Finally Monday rolled around. My exuberant previous car ride neatly replaced with the familiar, terrified, what-the-fuck-am-I-doing car ride. I drive and I think about it, this thing that I do. I think about the fact that I am knowingly choosing to drive towards the thing that I am scared of, the thing that I want but don't want. I am choosing this. Every second of every minute I am choosing it. Although I may question my sanity regularly, I rarely question anymore whether I will continue participating in ttwd because that choice doesn't seem available to me any longer. It is there but not one I would want to make or would feel capable of making with any intention of sticking to. In fact I take back the "want but don't want". I want it but it is a twisted want that does not make even vague sense no matter which way I turn it - and on days like these, I twist and turn it every which way but loose. (writing mid-sub-drop - sorry folks)

I pull up at his house, collect my things and wait at the door, unsure of whether to knock. I finally decide to. He strides over smiling, opens the door, ushers me in. I can tell something has unsettled him. We sit and talk and look at photos. The Divine One cannot come. I am disappointed. I wanted her. I wanted to taste her, touch her, watch her...


Realization descends on me like a bird of prey from the clouds. For the past few days Sir has been talking about his "filthy mood". She, she can take an absolute Not me! And now it is me, here, him in his already filthy mood made more filthy by virtue of the fact that she (the one who can take the beating) is not here...several things race through my mind at this point. We talk, chat laugh. He strokes my leg, pinches it a little. Then he says "lets go play"


He slaps my arse as we walk towards what is now feeling like impending doom.


Kinky Excursion Part Three - A Lesson on Shoes

Every pore of my body was screaming for more. I was getting pouty and petulant and sulky - playfully so but the undercurrent was very real. He was immovable. I love that as much as I hate it.

We moved downstairs to the smoking area. I could not think of anything but want. I begged him with my eyes, with my words. I lost count of how many times I asked to go back upstairs. His eyes were playful, enjoying my torment I think.

Interestingly talking with Sir afterward I remembered many of the same people as he had: the pretty little thing in the denim skirt with a huge mouth and gorgeous pouty lips. Not my cup of tea, though I did have one or two ideas of where I would like to see her mouth. The girl with long dyed-black hair, who was much more my style (despite her hair) and sat behind us talking loudly about true bisexuality - a conversation which did not go unnoticed by me...I actually would not mind going back to look for her one night. Another girl who was, as we were leaving, being spanked over the couch by two men...yes, much more my thing.

People moved around us, talking, laughing. There were couples pairing off, kissing and fondling, perhaps a lover, perhaps a partner, perhaps someone whose name they don't know. There were one or two people around I would normally give a second glance but really, I just wanted to cum endlessly, to feel some real pain. I was not interested in scoping. Sir would not have permitted it anyway so it just would have added to my torment.

Women swathed in too-short fake leather, cut-off shirts, plunging necklines and denim skirts that are only for this purpose - the purpose of picking-up. The different styles and choices of clothing suggesting different things.
The clothes are there mainly for everyone else, what they think others want. The truth of a woman is in the way she carries herself. It is about whether they lean in, or back, touch your arm, look over, smile, touch their face, catch your eye. You can tell what sort of lover a woman will be by looking into her eyes. Stare one time into a woman's eyes who is lusty as fuck, who is smoldering, brimming with need and you will never forget it and always look for it. The problem with most men is that they get so caught in looking at breasts they never find that out.

The men in their jeans and t-shirts with a little too much aftershave all looked the same - except for their shoes. You can tell a lot about a man by his shoes. Experience has taught me what sort of lovers they will be and though not all conform, it is quite accurate. There are three main categories, all were on display that evening.

There are the trainer-boys. My guess for the record - all single. These boys, wearing their "going-out" trainers, stood uncomfortably around outside talking to each other. They were leaning against the wall, pretending they didn't care they hadn't picked up and that they weren't still hopeful (they were). No confidence, just quiet and wearing their eau-de-desperation like a foggy haze - enough to gas any passing, equally desperate girl.

Trainer-Boys = immaturity but malleability.
As lovers they can be hit and miss. They are much easier to mold into what you want but ladies be warned, you will have to be very specific and patient. They need a map, a compass, GPS and will still get lost, however they make up for it in enthusiasm. Don't necessarily pass them by every time, but pick carefully. They are definitely a regular partner - takes a while to train one. One night is not worth it.

There are the Work-Shoes Guys. These ones are usually a little older, their shoes scuffed and worn, they are a little more forth-coming in terms of talking with women but with about the same success rate as Trainer-Boys. Downtrodden and reeking of selfish need, a few had come to the club with their wives, a few singles. I would hazard a guess that they are there most weeks with varying success. Their shoes beguile their lack of personal care, a need for someone to take care of them and somehow a lack of confidence. These guys won't talk to the other guys, except perhaps to retell an exceptionally bad joke for the third time and are exceptionally socially awkward (as opposed to trainer-guys who just lack confidence).

Work-Shoe-Guys = selfish and needy. Needing to be looked after (read as mummies boys) and wanting to have someone care for them makes them prime stalker candidates (of which I have had a few). One night stand means little to them because they are desperate for a carer. Their selfishness means that they can't find your clit and don't care if they do, and they don't believe in a g-spot. Two minute wonders, at best. They just want to get their end in and then for you to come over to their house and do their laundry. Steer clear at all costs.

Suave-Shoes-Man. Last but not least. This is the guy you need to look for. Actually, you don't. He will look for you. He will have good quality leather shoes, not the ones he wears to work. They can be exceptionally modern but don't have to be, they will be clean and not scuffed. He is the one that will stand back and watch for a while, he will talk to everyone. Once you have noted his shoes you can take in the rest of him, he can be younger or older but he has got-his-shit-together. He knows what he wants, he knows who he is. Not to be confused with the arrogant twin who is just a Trainer-Boy-in-Funky-Shoes. This guy is smooth and alluring.

Suave-Shoes-Man = fuck. This guy knows his way around the female form.
He is a Man-Whore. Man-Whores are hopeless romantics who love lust and fucking and women (not to be confused with the Trainer-Boy-in-Funky-Shoes who is just a player, out to get his end in and does not know what to do with a woman). Suave-Shoes-Man is calm, confident and knows what he wants. He knows how to make a woman swoon. He will please you - because that is his mission. Don't walk, run to your nearest hotel suite.

I thought about how I must look in there, in amongst the meat-market. I dress a little like a sassy-school-teacher, an art I have been perfecting. Walk past me on the street and you would think sweet house-wife, proper but with an edge.

We sat and Kate was talking about my cumming-on-command and asking about what the orgasms felt like and commenting on the faces I pull. Sir asked her if she would like to see another face. He pulled my shirt down, pulled my bra down and grabbed my nipples - hard and commanded I cum.
Gasping, breathy, desperate for more I was taking anything he had to give. I wanted it all and I loved it right there, infront of whoever was watching. I didn't care I just wanted what I wanted.


Kinky Excursion Part Two - Want

We headed inside and I filled out membership forms. My bid for ease, (emailing to ask under what conditions I am to apply for membership) thwarted by a lack of clarity, so, standing at the front desk with increasing numbers of people waiting to get in, I had to state to three different people that I wanted to apply for membership for myself and my husband but that this was not my husband, this was my Dom and that I had had email confirmation that as long as I didn't come with both of them on the same night then it would be fine to only have one membership...yes, this certainly was a discomfort I did not need...details sorted, membership granted.

Being newbies we were required to take the guided tour. This consisted of us being met at the door by a woman who opened the door, walked us through and pointed at things from the doorway. We were standing on one side of a smallish warehouse space. It was quite warm and inviting. The flooring was black and white tiles (unless you looked closely, in which case it was white tiles with the alternate ones painted black) with a few mirrors and some framed pictures of gorgeous people up on the walls. There were a few couches set up in two U shapes, a small (tiny) stage with a pole, a set of stocks, a red fixed table with bench seating, a bar and pool table. There was one set of stairs which lead up to the bedrooms and a smoking area where another set of stairs lead to the bondage space. When I turned back to face the entrance I noticed two small rooms either side, one was a cloakroom and the other contained a massage chair, a plasma playing bad porn and a horse sort of thing. I did not venture in to have a look.

There were not many people inside. A few couples and quite a few single men. It was still fairly early. We sat, talked, flicked through a lingerie brochure. I noticed the stocks sitting quietly beside the stage. Sir pointed them out (like I wouldn't notice) and said he had been thinking about
making some. (Yeah, because that sounds like a whole world of fun for me and my fellow collared sisters) We decided to head outside for a cigarette, eventually heading upstairs to check it out.

The BDSM area was small with not much equipment. Looking out over the main area, there was a saltire
which is like an X with anchor points at all four corners for cuffs or ropes. There was a swing, two beds, a few ropes, two massage tables and one or two leather paddles. The odd bit of suspension equipment hung from the cage (the whole area was in a sort of cage). Next door was a room set up for live video streaming and chat. All in all I was not particularly impressed....but perhaps at the same time relieved. It was afterall a swingers club, not a dungeon.

Sir had me stand on the platform of the saltire for a second. I could tell he was assessing everyone, everything, finding his comfort within the space, trying to find where mine was. I stepped down and Sir walked Kate around explaining pieces of equipment which were of no interest to me. I was interested in the saltire and wishing I had brought my whip....and glad I hadn't.

Kate disappeared into the video room to chat with her husband. I sat up on one of the tables. He ran his hands over my legs, up my thighs (shiver) and down again. I wanted it. I wanted him. Every bit of me that cared about anything else was gone. I wanted what I wanted. I don't remember if we were talking at all. At that moment I no longer cared who was there, who was watching. I wanted him to fuck me. I wanted him to tie me up and spank my arse. I desperately wanted him to rake his nails down my back until I came. I think as Kate got back I stepped back up on the saltire platform, still clothed. He moved to tie my wrists but decided to use the cuffs I had in my handbag instead (every girl should always carry cuffs, a ballgag and her collar wherever she goes). He unwound the paddle thonging from its hook which happened to be right in front of my eyes.

I haven't had one of those used on me before so I wasn't sure what to expect. I was not too sure what to think. It looked ouchies. It wasn't. Actually, I take that back. I reserve my judgement for a later time when I can have it thoroughly used on me.

He tapped it across my face a few times and I started that slow build to bliss where there is no one else, nothing else just the sensations and the words and his eyes. He tapped my arse. He whacked the backs of my calves. I wanted him to let loose. I wanted it harder. I wanted more - much more. I thought I was going to pass out with want. The sound echoed out over the space and I could see something was holding him back. There was something pulling him away from playing. He stepped in close, spoke softly landing the occasional soft whack. He was not comfortable. He stopped and hung the paddle. He bade me cum, until my legs were shaking but he was being so....nice.

He took me down and moved me over to the table where I sat egging him on, begging him for more, begging him to tie me up, to hurt me. He stood firm. Kate was there, somewhere, it didn't matter to me (sorry Kate). All I wanted was to be used.

I have decided I am not an exhibitionist - well a little but not much. I just didn't care. I wanted so badly to be fucked that he could have taken me out to the carpark and fucked me and I would have been happy. The other part of it is pride. I am proud to be with him, to be his. I want people to see it, to hate it, to be jealous, to be horrified, to be fascinated. He told me he could not. He said he was in such a filthy mood that he could not. He would be making me beg and he did not think I was ready for that in such a public setting. That he was making 100% sure that I would not do anything that I would regret.

He bade me cum, sitting there next to Kate, standing back, not touching me. He was just out of arms reach so I was clutching at the wall. My legs were shaking and I was gasping, wanting it, wanting him. He pulled them out of me, close together so that they were crashing over each other without a breath in between. I was there and he was nodding, commanding, quiet and then he was done.

pore of my body was screaming for more. I was getting pouty and petulant and sulky - playfully so but the undercurrent was very real. He was immovable. I love that as much as I hate it.


Last night I spoke with him on the phone. He wound me up so tightly it was all I could do to not melt through into cumming. He said no. I was not to cum until 12:01. Four hours! I had to drive to the airport to collect a heartbroken girlfriend. My thoughts of cumming and fucking and him kept me company on the drive. I picked her up and hugged her, dried her tears and made soothing noises as she unburdened herself on the car ride. All the while my imagination was devoted to playing with what he had set up in my head. We got back to her place, smoked and drank coffee until 11. I went to bed and rested fitfully, waiting. My alarm set for midnight, I woke every 5 minutes to check if I had missed it. The alarm went off and at precisely 12:01 I came. Relief.

Kinky Excursion Part One - Discomfort

So I underestimated exactly how much discomfort I would experience when two of the worlds I juggle collided. Quite a bit it turns out. I had arranged with a girlfriend to go to check out a local swingers club to see if it would be a suitable place to take our husbands. Sir decided to chaperon as he deemed it inappropriate for us to go alone. I was thrilled

I was totally excited at the prospect of going out with Sir and Kate, first to dinner and then to the club. Around about 4 hours from meet time I thought about what I was actually doing. Kate is a gorgeous person, a supersmart woman who is trying to understand my brand of kink and exploring her own. Sir...well he is my Sir. How could someone who does not get it, however openminded, possibly be expected to react when confronted with ttwd? While I had asked for, begged for, prayed for best behavior from Sir, the only thing I am assured of is my lack of capacity to predict anything. In that regard he certainly came through.

I spoke with Sir and with Kate and calmed down somewhat but in all of my talking had run out of time to go through the self-waxing procedure I had decided to try. I love going and getting waxed. I have a bit of a 'thing' for my waxing girl (Serbian-Goddess with nipples that beg for teeth...sigh...back in the room...) BUT I decided I would do it myself just because I wanted to see if I could. I got about halfway done (yes I CAN do it - go me) and it was down to the wire. I was going to be running a fine line getting out the door. I had to stop and....shave....eeeeewwwww. I HATE shaving. I should point out for those who have missed it at this point that I am not talking about waxing my legs....mmmmkay? Waxing one leg and not the other would be strange and you would probably feel self conscious going out but it's likely no-one else would notice. Waxing half your cunt...well...I guess if you had done it in such a way that you had a landing strip then you would be fine but probably having one side waxed and the other not would be a somewhat unique look....shaving it was quicker, necessary and I am going to regret it in a week...well half of me will regret it...

Anyway, I dressed-up and make-upped and made the decision to wear some of my favorite (highly impractical) shoes because they are HOT. I was sweating bullets, worried that they would be there first but I arrived dead on, followed by Kate. We sat and chatted while I drank water and tried to swallow my nerves. Kate was just saying to me that she thought it was him behind me but I knew. I could feel him there.

The introduction was interesting. I was some kind of superstar. I seriously should be a professional meet-and-greet-er. "This is my friend Lil or she posts as Kate and um. Yeah which name should I say?" she shrugs and smiles. "Sorry....umm and um, Lil, this is aaaah...this um....this is my Sir. Sir...." FUCK I can't even say his FUCKING name. What. The. Fuck. It isn't like I don't know it. Fuck. Kate smiled and laughed. I noticed that he was amused. I think my bashful discomfort amuses him at times. I also noticed that he let "Sir" hang in the air and was not forthcoming with a name.

We tried uncomfortable small talk for a few minutes until it turned into comfortable banter...actually they were comfortable, I was not...even now as I write I feel my face heat with remembering. I turned into this ridiculous, blushing, quiet, giggling, blushing (yes I said it twice but that is because it is not something I do) girl.

The food was good. I didn't feel much like eating, I was too nervous but I listened and relaxed as I ate. Slowly, slowly I started to feel a little less like my chest would explode and my ability to be coherent returned. He was wonderful and funny and charming and honest. He opened doors and pulled out chairs and was the perfect gentleman.

We strolled to the car (my shoes, seriously were made for sitting, not walking). I am complaining but I think the walk was all of 20 meters. Kate came in my car (her husband dropped her off) and Sir went in his. We met up at the club. Sir could see how nervous I was. He stopped me just as we were walking up. "Are you sure you want to do this?" "Yes, Sir." "No. Stop and think about this. Are you sure?" Deep eyelock. My shoulders release, tension gone, "Yes, Sir."

We headed inside and I filled out membership forms. My bid for ease, (emailing to ask under what conditions I am to apply for membership) thwarted by a lack of clarity, so, standing at the front desk with increasing numbers of people waiting to get in, I had to state to three different people that I wanted to apply for membership for myself and my husband but that this was not my husband, this was my Dom and that I had had email confirmation that as long as I didn't come with both of them on the same night then it would be fine to only have one membership...yes, this certainly was an added discomfort I did not need...details sorted, membership granted and we were IN!


Ruby at The Erotic Notebook

I don't usually do this but I read the most amazing piece of work today over at the Erotic Notebook.

It is so exceptionally beautiful that I had to share it.

It is called Celestial : A legend

A big thank you to all the recent contributors, emailers, commenters and listeners of my rambling and whinging. You know who you are and I am so grateful - my Twisted Family (Mick and the sub-sisters)!

xxx JaT


Fence Sitting or The Case for the Switch in the Affirmative

So Mick and the Sub-Sisters are at it again. SFP started talking about switching, which lead to Sin talking about switching, which lead to Mick talking about switching. As a bonafide Switch I could not pass the topic by and it has come up a fair bit for me recently.

Let me jump in to explain something first. I am arguably the Merriam Webster poster girl for Fence-Sitting: a state of indecision or neutrality with respect to conflicting positions. I identify as a bisexual, switching, sadist and masochist in an open marriage.

Lets start with Sadist and Masochist.

Well, while I am fairly certain that I could survive without inflicting pain on someone else, would life be as fulfilling? I think not. The power in your touch, in your physical being - that someone is willing to accept it, to take it, to trust you to take them there is nothing short of amazing. The feeling of a human being completely willing to give themselves over to you, to be bound and under your complete direction, to allow you to hurt them, to want you to is just an inspiration.

Why an inspiration? Because for all intents and purposes people have every reason not to trust each other. We are hardwired to recall more clearly every bad experience we have ever had. We are supposed to spend our time looking for danger and protecting ourselves from it. We should be spending our time trying to protect ourselves from hurt, to save ourselves from trusting in someone (both physically and emotionally). The fact that someone can give over so much of themselves amazes me every time; that I am able and willing to surrender that part of myself amazes me also. I do not think I could live without the masochism. I think I would wilt away. The feeling of pain in its varying forms is delicious. Really, how could I choose between the two?

I am married but I choose - we choose - to allow other people into what is presumed to be a sacred act between two married people. For me sex and emotion have never been closely intertwined. Sex is sex and if you have an emotional relationship you do and if you don't you don't. I am not sure why I am wired that way, I just am. I talk with friends frequently and (particularly when I am talking about women I would like to fuck, but men too) I realise I a man. I look objectively at a person, at what I want to take or have taken, my eyes glaze over and I sound like a horny old guy sitting at the bar nursing his eighth whiskey. Pick the one person you can sleep with for the rest of your want me to choose that? Seriously!?

Women, men - really how could I possibly decide? When presented with the prospect of a luscious pair of breasts and a juicy cunt with a perfect little clit to tongue and nibble or a thick hard cock and throbbing balls to ride and suck and tease and pound...Pass me a coin - I can't choose. Yes, I sit neatly and squarely in the middle of the fence.

Women and D/s for me are a different kettle of fish. The relationships I have had with women over the years have been far more balanced. I guess I have a much higher expectation for emotional intimacy in relationships with women. I don't really do high levels of emotional intimacy in my primary relationships. I know that sounds like a really strange thing to say....I guess it works in neatly with the above "sounding like a man" thing. I have had three relationships with women but I find it uncomfortable - that I give over too much of myself. I prefer to keep things purely sexual. As such I have had two significant relationships with women where I was more Dominant and one where we were on even ground. Purely sexual relationships are fun and light, the air passes between us. The relationship relationships are like suffocating fire and ice. All encompassing. I do one of two things, drown or run - so I keep my significant relationships with men where I am safe and controlled.

When I examine the idea of Mistress or sub, I think about my pup in his womens panties (yellow suits him), on his knees after being brought to the brink of cumming for four days with no release. I hear him beg "Mistress please may I cum". His pleading eyes cast down as directed. When I tell him to look up, to look at me, I smile and nod my head and say "yes, pup...cum for me now" and he cums, thanking me. I feel a surge of pride in him and in myself that I have brought this from him. This secret thing that he has kept locked away that he so desperately needed and I cultivate it, refine it, make it shine. That he is happy and fulfilled in his submission makes me happy. That I am happy makes him happy. Perfect circle, akin to nothing. Then I flip and look at myself, bound, gagged, whipped, pleading, begging...I see myself as if outside my body; up on the tips of my toes shaking and cumming until it is too much then being pushed to go once more, a little further, pushing the edges of myself. Offering my body and soul to be to be owned. Blissed in my submission, happy to serve, happy that he is happy that I am happy that he is happy....How could I possibly give up either? How could I possibly choose?

As a switch I do not switch within relationships. For my Sir I am his sub. He is my Sir and that is it. Not that I haven't on the odd occasion said to him "how about I shove that there on you and see how you like it!" Not that a little part of me didn't imagine tying him to the bed the other day during his massage...Neither of us would have it though. It would not give him what he wants or me what I want. I am not after playing at Top and bottom for the afternoon. I want his Domination to be real and enduring. I want my submission to be whole and complete surrender. Not for a minute but for the duration of the relationship. It is much the same in my role as Mistress. I cannot be what pup needs if he sees me for one second as less than his Mistress. Pulling in the reigns of control re-energizes me in much the same way as submitting does. Sometimes it gets hard. Probably not as much hard work as I am for Sir. I have met one or two switches I would play with. I would not consider it even close to a D/s relationship. It would just be play. Like a pleasant evening wrestling for the remote control. I want real D/s not this top bottom fun play. To go where I want to go and to take what I want taken I need real D/s. To me (I concur Sin, SFP) you cannot get that in switching - within a given relationship dynamic. I have thought about how I would feel if Sir had a Domme. The idea makes me laugh a bit. Not in this lifetime. To be honest I don't think he would be the Dom I need if he had that little bit of Switch lurking....

Finally tea and coffee, chocolate and vanilla, day and night, summer and spring. I like both in all cases. They are both fantastic for different, opposing, complementary reasons. You want me to choose to have one and not the other....I just can't. Perhaps it is greedy. Perhaps I should make some firm choices...I want it all - everything.

I have decided I am not a fence- sitter. I have decided to look at myself as an equal opportunist. It just happens that I see everyone as an opportunity!

Much love, JaT


Update! Back with a Vengence!

As much as I hate to do it I am gunna. Its my blog and y'all can't stop me! I will finish my Degustation Menu but I have to side line it while I work through it both in script and in my head. I have struggled writing anymore about my indulgent weekend because it is scrambled up and there are things I want very much to write about but that I don't because...well I just don' I have been trying to figure out how much I put out there and how much not to . I have another site that I post to that was intended to be for me to vent. Sir reads it too apparently - I swear he is like a CIA agent (and I secretly love it).

Update Update Update

I am sure you have all been dying to know. I was in a world of drop unlike I could possibly have foreseen. I had a big tantrum. I refused to contact Sir (because he should have been checking on me). Eventually my tantrum subsided and he was there to scoop me up. He did not get angry, just accepted and understood where I had been and allowed me to come back in my own time. Something about my submission being a gift freely given - not taken or taken for granted. I promised him that no matter what I would be in communication with him.

I have kept my promise of communication and honesty. I have written and bared my soul. I have told him anything I could possibly think of that he may find interesting - and some things that are not. I told him how my desires have evolved and shifted. I told him about new things I want to try. It would appear that once hard limits are now a bit soft around the edges.

Another interesting development is that I have arranged to meet a friend to check out a local swingers club this Friday - Kate who sometimes comments here. Sir will escort us. He tells me it is no place for me to go unaccompanied. Perhaps he is right. I am very much looking forward to it.. We are each (Kate and I) checking to see if it will be a suitable place to take our respective husbands.


I knew it. I knew I had this new shiny bit of sub-ness not available to me before. I wanted it. I loved knowing it was there. I was scared of what it would look like in real terms, splayed out there for him to see.

He had a sore back. I knew he would just be getting home from work so I text him and asked if he wanted a massage (subtle, no?) I told him I was serious and I would bring some oils over. He said sure - but you will bring your stuff too. Of course Sir.

The drive over was so fun. My music was cranked and I had not an ounce of the terror that had gripped me previous trips. I sang loud (no promises of talent though). I was excited to be going. I was excited to be seeing him.

Usually I am met there with the door half open and I creep in under his arm. He was not there so I waited (all of two seconds) and he appeared and opened the door for me - chivalrous as ever. The door was locked behind me. I had my bag in hand and went to walk up the stairs to his room. He went past towards the kitchen. He said something about having a cigarette first so I tried to back track but he laughed and swatted my arse and said Nooooo. Upstairs we went. I pulled out my massage stuff and he stripped down and lay on the bed. My what a turn of events! Here I was clothed (well I had a dress on and no bra or panties - I have deemed them to be somewhat of a waste of time now) and here was he naked on the bed. He kept chuckling and saying "you are loving this". I was.

I massaged his back and put some chinese white flower oil on it. I was worried about bringing the white flower oil because it burns like a motherfucker and I was a bit worried about where else it had the potential to end up. I stowed it back in my bag and kept that idea under my hat.

Then it started. I sucked his gorgeous cock for a bit. He asked if I had missed it. I had. He reminded me that I had missed the potential for another tryst with the Divine One (which I did not know until after and YES I was sorry about that but at that point I was still, mid-tantrum - what is a sub to do?) I knelt before him and he slapped my face and I loved it. In the past it has made me annoyed or shocked or submit just to make him stop but this time...He slapped me twice I think on each cheek and I just...wanted it...needed it. I needed to know, to remember - to be his again. I felt my chest swell with each whack. It made me dizzy and deliriously, happily his. He spanked me - again with the deliriously happy.

He pulled the whip out and started hard out. I cannot take too much of it. Pretty soon I was sobbing. I needed to sob. He would reach his hands out and rub my back, then THWACK THWACK. I tried really hard to stay relaxed, to not try to anticipate whether it would be his hands soothing or the whip biting. At some points I was more successful than others.

He walked me to the wall and I stood, legs spread, arms above my head, forehead on the wall. He started with the whipping. I wish he would start slower, softer and build in. He never does. He starts at where I can just withstand it and builds in from there. I did suggest to him at the end of our evening that he could just hit me softer and he laughed so hard I thought he would injure himself.

He pulled out a different whip and dropped it once across my back. FAAAARK! That is some serious pain! I do love the mark it left though...I want the marks without the whipping. He put the ball gag on me and whipped me some more until I was at the end and I could not take anymore.

He was there behind me and I could feel him breathing. He ran his nails down my back. It seriously sends me over the edge. He started right at the top and grated them down my back over and over and I wanted to cum so badly that I could not speak to ask permission. He bit me, bit into my back and it was fucking delicious. He stepped back and bade me cum. I came. Never one to disappoint he bade me cum again...and again and again and again...

It washed over me, cleansed me. Made me new again. My legs started to shake and give way, my arms started to fall. He demanded I keep my arms up and then told me to cum again. My knees started to buckle. He decided in his infinite Domly wisdom that at this point it would be a good time to have me get on my toes. Wow, yes. That is totally what I was thinking - not how about I just crawl on my hands and knees on the floor and dissolve at your feet. I was totally thinking how about I get up on the tips of my toes and cum some more. I love it how we sync like that! (I have heard somewhere sarcasm is unbecoming - I have yet to be presented with sufficient evidence to back that theory)

I was struggling. Every cum I could feel my knees pull in tighter, my back arch. The wall was cool on my head. I had sweat flowing in rivers down my back. My knees would start to give. My muscles burned and he was there, calm, "Again - now" and I did. Over and over. I was (I am sure) begging to stop. He told me at one point that if I moved my feet to the floor I would earn 50 whip strikes. That seemed pretty good motivation. I came and came and came while my calves burned like hell and my thighs shook - until I could not stand for one more second. Until I could not cum again.

Then he took me down (I swear to God I felt as though I had been tied there) and walked me to the middle of the room. He pulled my nipple and my eyes grew wide. Noooooo I just could not do it. He stopped me - held me up. He grabbed a nipple between each of his thumb and forefingers. "Look into my eyes, there is nothing but me. You can do this, you can take this." I looked into him. I am sure he was doing unspeakable things to my nipples with his fingers, pinching and pulling harder and harder. While I held his gaze I did not notice. Then the command came again "Cum" and I came - hard. Really hard. It was intense and amazing. As soon as I came my knees gave way slightly and I grabbed his shoulders, digging my nails in. My head lolled back a bit and as soon as I lost eye contact my nipples BURNED! "Look at me. Stay with me. You can do this." and I was back with him and there was nothing. Over and over we danced this twisted dance until I thought I would pass out.

Finally I was done, I sucked his cock and my lusty cunt was fed until I melted and gushed (twice he tells me) and I was permitted to lap at his cum.

We chatted for a while and shared a cigarette or two (yes, I am still convinced I don't smoke).

I have been on a very major blissed out high for a few days now but I have had cause to think. I have been asked a few curly questions by friends and family lately. What is a girl to do? My new standard line is to look them squarely in the eye, smile and say "I have recently implemented a don't ask, don't tell policy." Evokes a few raised eyebrows when there are teeth marks on your back...

PS I have missed you all very much and am enjoying catching up on everyone - xxx JaT

Degustation Menu - Second Course

...My hands start to explore her body, touch the shape of her breasts, slip between her thighs.

I am waiting direction but I will not wait long - nor as it turns out do I have to.

My mouth finds her nipple and sucks hungrily. We are kissing, petting, touching. We are told to explore each others cunt with our tongues. Eager (obviously to please Sir) my mouth finds its home, flicking between her wet lips, sucking, gently stroking. I run my tongue up and down building rhythm, dipping it inside her. I feel my stomach clench, the warmth in my belly brimming. She tastes sweet and salty and perfect.

How I have deprived myself of this for so many years I do not know.

My fingers slide inside her. I am soft then on her clit, swirling my tongue in little circles. I feel her tighten around me. Before she cums I am lying back feeling her tongue lapping at my cunt. I suck her from my fingers drinking in the moment.

I lie across the bed. She straddles my face, a knee either side of my head and we are at each other. Tongues, fingers, grinding hips. I am fairly certain I am under instruction not to cum as if I weren't I would have already. He walks around lazily landing blows with the whip. At some point the blindfolds are removed. Sir expects us to bring each other to orgasm together. My fingers dip inside her as I feel my cunt spread open. Sir is attentive, watching, instructing, demanding - deeper, harder, faster. I can feel her clenching. There is nothing but this. The room dissolves around me, sound is gone, time is gone, Sir is gone.

I feel the spot up inside her and work my hand in circles. I thrust in and out. She is pushing me to the edge. I want nothing more than to taste her right now, to suck her clit as she cums. The angle in which we are locked will not allow it. I know Sir is there somewhere commanding - deeper, harder, faster. I make a small circle once more and she shudders. Sir commands that we cum then, right then.
My muscles clench in response. Her back arches and she is releasing, gushing. I feel the warmth of her cum bloom across my breasts, drip down my sides, flow around my neck, then I am lost to another more powerful cum. I feel myself giveway. Cum spurts from me under the ministrations of her hand but is exponentially increased by the flow of her cum onto my chest. The only thing I wish is that I could taste her, drink it from her.

I am there locked in, reveling in the majesty of the moment. Marveling at this divine creature, at her cumming around my fingers. Over and over I am lost and reborn. She thrusts and rubs at my cunt as I feel her insides pulse around me. Pure, unadulterated bliss.

Sir commands we remove our hands at the same time. We do. She with a small 'yes Master', I with a grudging 'yes Sir'.

This is the moment I take to really look at her. If I could design the perfect pair of breasts, these are them. Milky-white with perfect pink nipples. They are full and gorgeous. She is petite and lying on her stomach now, facing the foot of the bed next to me as I do the same. We are looking out the door as our Master/Sir walks outside for a cigarette. I notice the pale pink skin across her back and thighs where the whip has plead its case. I smile at her and we both giggle as we look at each others eyes for the first time and
introduce ourselves. She has a fantastic, wild, curly, cherry-red bob and her lips....oh my. Her lips curve in an exaggerated heart shape and are a beautiful deep pink. We laugh some more. Sir calls out to us. We explain we are just introducing ourselves and dissolve into giggles again.

Each of us throwing on a black dress, we joined Sir on the balcony for a breather. We are (after all) settling in for a long night.

is a culinary term meaning "a careful, appreciative tasting of various foods" and focusing on the gustatory system, the senses, high culinary art and good company. (with thanks to wiki, full definition here)


So here I am quietly back from my week at the beach.

I have spent the morning washing, catching up on my favorite blogs and having coffee with friends.

I have to say I don't feel up to writing. I don't feel up to anything much. I am all melancholic and vague. Neither sit well with me.

I am tightly wound, inside myself, defensive. Interestingly I am not thinking too much. Usually I do but it seems to have left me somewhere, the thinking, analyzing thing. I am not sure where. I know at several points it has been forbidden. This cannot be the reason though. If it was I would know.

Yes, fwiw I do see the irony in analyzing the lack of analysis. You should understand though, at one point in time I would have been questioning everything inside out and back again; wondering where my crazy need to try and understand things has gone falls markedly short of true JaT analysis.

This is without the slightest hint at a shadow of doubt the worst, most enduring drop-through-the-epicenter-of-my-existence I have endured. I know it is bad because I made pizza dough last night and it didn't rise properly.

I don't need anything. I don't want anything. I don't want to talk with anyone. I don't want to see anyone. I want to sit by myself watching the trail of smoke spin webs through the air as it leaves my lungs. I want to keep everything to myself. I want to lie outside in the quiet at night, not sleeping. I don't want to think. I just want to be here, enjoying the nothing for what it is - temporary. I know it won't last long and as parts of me come creeping back (when they deem it is necessary to return) my thoughts will weave themselves into a fast swirly pattern and I will be dragged back down into reality, into thinking, into everything I strive to leave behind when I bow my head to have my collar buckled around my throat.

It doesn't suck. I don't hate it. It just is what it is. I am waiting it out. It is stalking me through my life, hunting me down, pouncing on me in waves. One of us will blink first and I am guessing it will be the drop - eventually.


Degustation Menu - First Course

Degustation is a culinary term meaning "a careful, appreciative tasting of various foods" and focusing on the gustatory system, the senses, high culinary art and good company. (with thanks to wiki, full definition here)

The phone rings. It is Sir. He is here. They are here.

I race downstairs and walk up through the garage, peeking around the corner. He is standing at the car and beside him is her. We are not permitted to see each other so I step back waiting. She has on a pair of black stilettos, stockings, I think a long coat and has gorgeous bright red curly hair. I do not see her face and do not try. I hear him stride towards me. He smiles and all at once all of my 'what the fuck am I doings' are gone, swept up in his cool, calm and collected wake. I hand him the keys and give him the room number.

I go back to the elevator and up to the room, waiting in the master bedroom. I hear the door. I call out to Sir. He comes in and bids me kneel on the edge of the bed. He is gone again to the other room. I can scarcely breathe. He is back again, speaking. He smacks my arse hard with his hand. The sound ricochets around the walls like gunfire. His hand finds its mark over and over. 'Stay'. He is gone again. I hear the same sound coming from the other room. I can not describe how much it turns me on. The familiar sound - thwack, thwack, thwack. I feel myself brimming with lust. I am trembling. He is back. I am undressed. I hear him speak to her. She is in the room. I lift my head and for a second I see her standing, face against the wall, her sweet, fair skin sheathed in thigh high stockings and a black thong, then she is gone - blacked out by the blindfold.

As commanded, we lay on the bed beside each other, face down. As if an afterthought he pulls our hands together. I am clasping her hand. He is wielding the whip. Now comes the nervy part.

I know she can take a hiding - 200 cane strokes in fact. Sir tells me this partly I think as an inspirational story, a "this too can be you" and I am sure in part because he is proud of her and his training. I hear the immense joy in his voice when he speaks of her - almost awe - and it is beautiful.

I am in my head trying to have a rational conversation with myself - who, I might add at this point, is not a very rational person. I think: I haven't been caned in a while and I kind of miss it. I don't like it particularly but I love the marks. I remember the ones I had after our very first session - across the top of my back and arse...sigh...I do prefer the feel of the whip but...anyway this is the hardly the time for contemplating cane vs whip discussions with Sir. I don't know that I get much of a choice anyway. No that isn't true. I do. Fuck. I am lying naked on a bed next to someone I don't know, I can't see and Sir is about to whip me. Because she is here, will he push me? I hope not. Fuck. Back comes 'what the fuck am I doing'. I am not sure where this is going. Why the hell do I keep doing this? All of this inundates my head in about 3.2 seconds.

I feel the leather bite into my skin and it is delicious. All thinking is done for the day. One, two, three, four, five. I am fairly still and quiet, (considering I apparently whine). I hear them raining down on her. I note they sound harder. I have gotten to know the different sounds the whip makes. She does not move, I do not hear her breathe. Her hand does not twitch. She is perfectly still. He is right to be impressed. I am amazed. He moves between us, according lashings as he sees fit. He is kind. They are none too hard to endure though one or two make me twist and complain. Perhaps I do whinge - just a bit.

"Kiss her." We blindly find each other and she is there and soft and warm, her tongue firm and searching. I have not been directed to but I take a chance and reach my hands up around the back of her neck, kissing her mouth with more fervor. Her lips are soft. Her tongue slips in and out of my mouth. I suck her lip. I want very much to pull her to me, to lie her back, to drink her in, slowly and with abandon. Sir is there. I am waiting for him to speak. I am waiting desperately for his direction. My hands start to explore her body, touch the shape of her breasts, slip between her thighs.

I am waiting direction but I will not wait long - nor as it turns out do I have to.


Oh. My. God.

So folks, I am struggling at the moment to paint an adequate picture of my weekend dalliances. My head is filled with fragments of time all rolling together then I get stuck in a moment.

Right now the kids are here. They got here early Sunday afternoon. My lovely little two bed unit instantly filled with the sounds of Scooby-Doo and squabbling. I went to have a shower last night, walked into my ensuite and stood on wet, salty, sandy jeans and t-shirts from their sand-castle building exercise. I felt a huge amount of joy watching my youngest career around the grass on his bike for the first time without training wheels. We checked out the cool toys in the garage, the two Ducattis, the jet-skis, the Porsche and a vintage Holden (my boys - sigh!). There is Sponge-Bob Monopoly layed out for hours of play on my dining table (I might add it is looking like my token - Squidward - is going to cop a beating). We had roast chicken by candle light on the balcony, drank water from wine glasses and got gelatos eating them out the front of the shop. We walked up the hill to the look-out and danced on the tables well after 'normal' bed-time in the crisp salty air and bright moonlight. I felt and feel truly present.

There are of course moments where my presence is compromised by a wistful smiling gaze into the distance. Fortunately my children just think I am mad and my husband just shakes his head.

I drove down to the beach with husband Friday night. We bought a pizza and sat looking out over the ocean. The moon sat full and low, the air still and cool. It was lovely and relaxing. We stretched out in bed and had slow, deliberate sex, taking our time. It is so nice to be removed from our usual mess and busyness for a time.

He left on Saturday morning at around 11 to collect the children and look after them for the night.

I went back to the unit to wait. I hadn't been feeling well. I had a migraine the day before. I read and slept intermittently, every noise roused me instantly. I paced. I drank copious amounts of water and had a couple of panadol. I was nervous and squeemish and excited. I salt scrubbed my freshly waxed legs which always relaxes me and then showered and bathed, brought myself to cumming twice (also relaxing) and showered again. I had a small "what the fuck am I doing" moment. I had a cigarette. I cleaned my teeth. I had a big "what the fuck am I doing" moment. I checked my phone. I cleaned my teeth again. I dressed and repositioned the pillows on the bed. At about three-thirty my phone rang. SHIT. What the fuck am I doing?


I got up Sunday morning at 7. The total silence of no-one else around was bliss. I went straight in to have a shower. I had thought about showering before I went to bed but I wanted to keep the smell and the taste of the night with me as long as I could. My muscles ached. My thighs burned. My cunt still throbbed. The warm water made all of the juicy fucking from the night before turn into a slick film on my skin. I felt it over my face and chest, my shoulders, my legs, my stomach. I reveled in it. The water ran through my hair. It is long, thick and dark brown. It takes all day to dry (best case scenario) so washing it is a task best left for mornings. I was running my fingers through pulling any stray whisps when I found a thin tendril, a curly cherry-red strand tangled in amongst my hair. My heart skipped a beat. My chest felt like it would burst. I dissolved into giggles and deep sighs. Then I leaned in against the wall and came.

The night before. Oh. My. God. She was like some sort of divine being.





We Are Not Real

We are not real.

My husband, my children, school runs, making dinner, laughing with friends, holidays, paying bills, running late, rainy-PJ-days, swimming-at-the-beach-weekends, grocery shopping, bathing the dog - that is real.

We are not real.

When my nails rake down your back, you borrow the lines for a time and then they are gone. When I speak with you on the phone - moments of time snatched away from my life, my real life. When you respond "Yes, Mistress" in desperate, strangled whispers. When you beg for more, for less, for something, for everything. I know your wife is in the other room - your wife is real.

We are not real.

When you pull me to you and I am on my knees, your hand wound in my hair, sweat and cum dripping. When I lay splayed across the floor, my back burning feeling the whip bite into my skin. When you are there with your cock inside me, driving me home, pulsing in my mouth.
When my eyes roll and I shudder and grab at you with my cunt and we are lost, I am lost, that is a fantasy - a longing. When your eyes lock with mine and we move in sync, we touch the core of each other and do not have to look away because we are there only for that moment. It does not exist before or after, only then and once you have touched it, it is gone

We are not real.

When you are with her and you think of me, tracing the lines of her face remembering mine. When you feel yourself slide into her and you can almost taste my scent. When I am with someone else I close my eyes and see you staring into me. When I feel that I am with you with them in that moment and that moment is gone - they are just imaginings.

We are not real.

When I see you stretched out above me, the curve of your breasts, your hair falling softly over your shoulders, my mouth over yours. When I watch you sleep and kiss your belly. When I wake I see your shadow has not etched into my wall by candle light, your arching back, your gorgeous thrusting hips, your lips calling my name. When I smell you on my sheets but you are gone I smile softly - a midnight apparition.

We are not real.

I will carve myself into your soul, burn my touch onto your skin, leave my taste on your tongue and you will cherish it, wrap it inside your mind and keep it safe. We hold our imagined-together-dreams and they sustain us. While you touch yourself you are there in those moments.

Then they are gone because we are not real.


Patience - a dish served cold

I was wanting to patiently (impatiently) wait until the weekend. I was wanting a quiet visit. I had no idea what patient idea at all...

He pulled them from me over and over until the floor was wet, my thighs wet, my cunt swollen. He grabbed my hair, pulling me to him, pulling it as I came. He thrust his fingers in and out then, intensifying my cumming. I was literally in a puddle. He had to get a towel to mop up. All of a sudden it stopped. I was not permitted to cum anymore. I was sucking his cock and had to keep stopping, bringing myself down, my begging to cum met each time with a no. I knelt between his knees, shaking, holding off the orgasm. I begged again and again and again. He cupped one hand under my chin and angled my face towards his. Eyes locked, I could not turn away.

He lifts his hand and brings it down, slapping my left breast. I try to be quiet. I know I am not. I am whimpering. Please, Sir. Whack. Each time bringing my orgasm closer to the surface. I push my breasts forward wanting more. Please, Sir may I..? Whack. I shake my head. I feel my eyes wide. My cunt is throbbing, dripping on the floor. I am going to cum. God what is going to happen if I cum having been expressly told not to... Please Sir? He shakes his head, eyes flash, NO. Whack. Whack. Whack. Oh God oh God oh God I have never been this close and not tipped over the edge. If I move I am going to cum. Tears roll down my cheeks, our eyes still locked. The tears are from the desperate need to cum. I want him to slap me again and to release me to cum with it. Tears tears more tears. He never lets me cum when I am being whipped or slapped. I needed it so badly. I am shaking, sobbing. He traces my face with his finger, drinking in my distress. My breath sticks in my throat. I have to look away. He stops.

I am sucking his cock again. Victorious. I did not cum. It does not feel victorious. Perhaps he will allow me to take my fill. Perhaps he will cum. He stands. No. I will not cum until the weekend. Until.....(I am still not spilling)....You though, I can see you need more. Sit over the towel and cum until I say to stop. The towel is thrust at me and I cum over and over. He leaves the room and comes back. There, that is enough for you. No more. I tell you it was not what I needed. It was far from it and he knew it. I needed in those moments to cum, not after. Fuck him. Fuck him and the goddamn horse he rode in on.

And that was how the true test of patience began.

He held out his hands and helped me to my feet. We walked outside and had a cigarette. The air was fresh and the wind ripped through me, cooling my damp and overheated skin. My dress was soaked through in sweat and cum, mainly cum - my cum. My hair washed fresh that morning was just dry and now stuck in thick, sweaty, teary chunks to my neck and face. I tied it back, loosely with some pins. I would have to wash it again and it takes all damn day to dry. I stand to leave and present him with the meals I had carefully packed, frozen and labeled.

I had prepared him a meal for each night of the week. All organic and every single thing was handmade, the pastry on the pie, the pasta sheets, the sauces. Everything was touched by my hands.

I pour everything I am into my food. Into my food and into my fucking but maybe moreso into the food.

He walks me to the door and hugs me. He wants me to really feel how grateful he is. I can't stand in it. I can't own it. I want to look away, run out the door. He holds me there and hugs me. " As a person to another person, I really want you to get it. I really want you to get what this means to me..." He is saying. I am nodding, looking at the floor mumbling "I get it" and dying to be in my car. Why am I so uncomfortable?

Finally I escape. I arrive home, shower, husband and I play a bit then we curl up on the couch to eat chinese and watch a movie. The weekend rolls on and is filled in with friends, family, birthdays, backyard soccer, food and laughing.

I know Sir is not alone when he eats because a little bit of me is there too. I get a message about the delicious food and a "good girl". Smiling, I send back a cheeky "aren't I just?" and get away with it too - because I am, aren't I?