Play Day - Monday Part Three

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

I am pulled out of myself or into myself depending on how you look at it. Floating and spacey, I lie back as instructed. My cunt is sopping wet. He works his fingers inside me until he is fisting me - hard. We don't play with this anymore. There is no gradual process of working into being fisted. It is expected that I open and accommodate his hand. I do....Oh God I do. When he has his fist inside me I lose my head. It draws out the most intense orgasms. Each movement he makes is magnified by a thousand. His hand twists and shifts and my whole body lurches and I am gasping. I don't remember him telling me to quieten down so that either means I was a. quiet (not likely) or b. he had other plans and he was allowing me to go off in my head so he could unwind his deviousness out to its fullest.

** Note **

Kendra at TBK "came out" last week (see how long ago I wrote this). I find her bravery and honesty refreshing and inspiring. She also did a gorgeous post on fisting . SO, dear readers (as promised) here I am being more honest with YOU! I have been a little reluctant to come out about fisting. It is something I thoroughly enjoy. If you sift back through my archives there are several spots where I talk about it, though not expressly. You may find it if you know what you are looking for. Now I am calling a spade a spade! Oh and for any my sub-sisters who may be a tad scared of the prospect - don't be...Being fisted is as close to God as I think you will get in this life and a goal well worth working towards!

** End Note **

He had other plans. I came. My ears were ringing with the intensity. Being fisted is like drowning in the shallows while waves keep pummeling you and you can not stop to draw breath.

I was in such an exhilarating combination of off in my head and totally present to my physical experience. Usually he is inside me deep and hard. I felt myself stretching and pulling. I have no idea what he was doing. I remember begging at one point for no more. Usually he pushes me through that. This time he did not. He stopped. He told me to lie back on the bed and rest while he went and had a shower. I lay back and did not move a single muscle.  I am not convinced I could have if I had wanted to.

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 beating...me? 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" 

*shiver*

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.

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.

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't...so 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.

SO

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

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 meant...no 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. "...no. 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?

Silence

So where were we before I got all distracted with my new trick? That's right, me tied to a spreader bar on the bed, cuffed and gagged with Sir wielding some deadly looking clamps.

He stares into my eyes and places The Mother of all clamps over my whole cunt, sandwiching my clit in the middle. He stares at me, watching my eyes roll back as it snaps shut. I have to say the feeling was exquisite in a very good way. I let out a small shudder. He proceeds to fix pegs where ever he can find spare flesh around the clamp. Then he comes at me with the two small clamps. The first one goes on my right nipple. It hurts but I can bear it. The second one goes on my left nipple and I can not take it. I am whimpering - Sir says I sound like a puppy. I kind of agree but am not in much of a position to comment. I am gagged, tied and in major sensory overload.

The twisted nature of these moments is that when he removes the clamps I look to him as my saviour. He says there will be a punishment for that later. In that moment I could not see past getting the clamp(s) off my nipple and it is gone and he has rescued me.

He walks over to the drawer and pulls out a long sharp white needle about the length of a ruler. He pokes me with it. Pokes my clit with it. I am not liking this game. He rests the needle flat against the top of my thighs.

I don't remember what happened next. I remember him standing beside me, to my right. I remember the look on his face as I lay on the bed, tied to the bar, hands cuffed to the bar, clamped and gagged. I remember I had to move my knees up towards my chest. I don't remember why. I can picture myself lying there and see the confusion spread across my face as my knees draw higher. I see my eyes grow wide, my head start to shake. I look over at him. I understand what he has done, what he is doing. He smiles, nods and chuckles a "MmmmHmmmm." I shake my head. He nods his head. I try to ease into it, looking to him to save me.

The thin white needle rests on my thighs and in the middle it is threaded by a loop to the clamp on my clit.

As my knees draw up, the clamp pulls. I am breathing faster, transfixed by the sensation but the fear is building. The fear is driven by the anticipation of pain. I know once the clamp pulls to a certain point the smaller amount of skin will make it excruciating. I look to him. He smiles and says nothing. I am like a trapped bug in his web. It is blissfully divine. I want to cum but know that if I do it will pull harder on the clamp.

I wish I could remember what it was that was making me draw my knees up. I have a feeling it may have been a cane. Just before I dive into real panic he yanks the clip from me.

I breathe hard.

OMG.

I ask for release but it is denied.

I am freed from my bonds while he uses his hand to bring forth the most intense orgasms. I cum over and over, trying to be silent as he insists. (He tells me later is because it intensifies the orgasm. This I can now attest to.) Holding my breath, I sit up as he is there with his hand in me. I stare into him, looking to him to guide me, direct me, keep me present. I listen and his words wash over me, his eyes locking me in. I am at his will in this moment more than any other. More than when I am tied up, bound, gagged. In this moment I breathe at his will. The word comes, "Now" My eyes roll back and I am spasming, brimming with sound which channels itself all into my cunt grabbing at him, pulling him in. I am thrown back on the bed, gasping. I feel the waves rolling through me from my middle out to my ends. Cum is dripping down my legs, pulsing out of me. The room is full of the smell of sex and fucking.

I am spent.

Eventually I am able to rouse myself enough for a cigarette (though I want it dually noted I don't smoke). The walk down the stairs was tough on my legs.