Back in the saddle

It had to be done. So today when He was due to go to bed one suggested He might like to bring the lube with him. He looked from around his computer screens and said do you think that is wise. Oh yes one affirmed, this is going to hurt like a bitch as it is. Definitely want lube. Then come and get it He said holding it out invitingly.

Now while one might be feeling masochistic one was definitely not feeling suicidal... one had no desire to get within such easy reach. Oh bring it with you, one said airily while going in the opposite direction. If you want it, you come here and get it. Damn caught between two forms of common sense. In the end the desire not to bleed won out and one skipped in and grabbed the lube in one quick dancing motion. He smiled.

Are you sure you want to do this He enquired again. No one muttered, but it has to be done. See with all this illness there has been no butt plug keeping things open and this was going to hurt. Even with the most gentle of handling. So taking the lube one went to bed feeling a little apprehensive... with a small pinch of martyr thrown in.

Touch yourself He says hopping into bed. Oh goody this was going to go the easy route... that right there was an erroneous thought in case you hadn’t guessed it. As the body started to scamper along the endorphin trail, one applied a generous serve of lube and assumed an arse up position. He slipped in and one whined like a noisy bitch... one with a good command of off coloured language.

Bite the pillow He said and as one did, He slapped hard and slipped in a bit further, sinking up to his balls in a matter of seconds. Being slapped like that has a peculiar effect on the body. It is like it can only concentrate on one pain source at a time and each slap distracted it from the pain that was going on in the arse. In the end it read it as alternating fiery pain from the slaps and a deep wrenching pain in the arse as it was forced open.

He reached down and grabbed a handful of breast, while giving the nipple a sharp tweak as one emitted stifled, muffled sounds into the pillow. Come for me He said, as He slammed harder into the body all the while slapping, pinching and twisting. We came together, one of us buried deep inside while the other screamed into the pillow. Bet only one of us was thinking this is going to hurt though...

The first time

The trouble with getting older seems to be that you lose so many little bits of memory. Things like the first time you had sex with a man... something you think would stick. Personally one started the whole sexual experimentation thing with girls and frankly one prefers them. They are far more of a challenge in some ways; no two are ever alike. At about 16 one considered the idea of boys... well everyone else was doing them so why not?

After selecting an unsuitable candidate (16 remember) one went about the whole process with terrifying speed. Well it seems that way looking back. At the time it all seemed so reasonable. He chased while one ran in a coquettish pattern straight towards him.

All of this culminated in the most boring night of one’s sexual life. See the moral of this story is don’t sleep with a virgin collector. They aren’t being careful as they claim; they are hiding a complete lack of talent that they are hoping you will be too naive to notice. Unfortunately one did, in fact the overwhelming thought was- that was it? Well that and to wonder is anyone could actually see that one had crossed the mysterious barrier into woman hood.

The very fact that no one noticed allowed one to embark on an early path to self destruction. Of course one didn’t see it that way at the time. In fact one preferred to think of it as having a good time. It was at this time that one started to not go to school (well one went, one just didn’t stay there) and to go out at night.

See at the time one didn’t sleep in the house as one had moved into the shed that Uncle had built as a cubby house for one as a child. He was very handy and so was Auntie for that matter. The place had a lounge, a table and a bed and other assorted necessities. It was close enough to the house that one could use the facilities and turn up for meals and far enough away that it was at the first gate to the back of the property.

That gate allowed access to the neighbour’s fence and their long driveway to freedom. It is fair to say that as a teen one was rarely home at night. There were always more interesting things to do like clubbing, going to see "Rocky Horror" at the Avon Theatre and driving around the miles of dark country roads that isolated one from the bright lights that one adored.


In fact one slept so little at night that one used to come home from school and crash for a few hours before dinner. It was at this time one perfected the afternoon nap. A skill that stood one in good stead later...

Reflections

Yesterday before going to the doctor’s one went and got a much needed haircut and colour. It was needed because not only was one looking, but feeling a little ragged round the edges. Besides if one couldn’t sit there for a couple of hours, then one figured going to work today was not a good idea... actually still not sure it is but... Getting a haircut is the most normal thing in the world, but round here it takes on that whole rabbit hole effect. Between Him and the hairdresser is one small slave.

Left to one’s own devices it would more likely be short and these days probably its natural colour which is not salt n pepper, but black and silver. Thankfully one is not taking after Father in that respect; he went the most god awful gunmetal grey and is only now going the family silver. Personally one started going silver in ones early 20’s. Looking up in an enormous mirror of a very posh hotel, while cleaning the teeth, one spotted the first interloper.

It made one realise that one had failed in what had always been ones main aim in life... to die young. In that moment one realised that one would actually have to commit to the process of becoming an adult.  Peter Pan was about to get little wooden clogs. The whole experience was depressing, just not for the reason of going silver. Anyway back to hair...

He likes it longer while she loves to do experimental colours; though they both like the deep violet reds she always returns to. So He drops one off... secure in the knowledge that she knows his preferences. Often when she is finished she grabs the hair with enough force to snap your head, and she smirks and says well there is enough for Him to grab hold of. Sighs everyone is a freaking comedian.

Quick update

Well back from the doctors again... and more happy snaps of the chest were taken. It seems on top of the pleurisy/ pneumonia combo one had a partially collapsed lung. Which might account for why one still feels less than perky. The doctor was most curious to know how the balloon therapy went... dear gods that man is a sadist! Anyway he concedes that one is on the path to recovery so hopefully the x-rays are all clear because this small slave is off to the mines again tomorrow for a short shift.

When you find yourself settling in to watch "Burn Notice" you know it is time to go back to work. It is that or one is going to have to kill someone to relieve the boredom...

Modesty be Blaised

For all that one enjoys the meeting of minds on Fet, there is just as much that makes one look, blink, reread and then walk off scratching ones head. Oddly enough it is not the things that usually make people pause for thought. More often than not it is the stuff that people do relate to that brings one up short. The most recent was a question posed by someone asking how to overcome modesty/ nudity issues.

As a person who was brought up by nudists and spent a large chunk of the later teens hanging out with strippers (when you work night clubs in a small city, the only people in after hour drink venues are cabbies, strippers, hookers, the odd punter and of course a smattering of vice cops keeping an eye on them all) modesty is a rather foreign idea. It is probably why one seems to have missed out on all those delicious squishy feelings of discomfort and humiliation that so many seem to enjoy. Maybe that is what is needed... more modesty.

How the hell do you grow that in sufficient quantity?

He did a bad, bad thing

Physiological responses are strange things and often the best ideas go sideways. He likes to fondle body parts unexpectedly and one often responds poorly to this. Having breasts and nipples played with, out of a sexual context, sets the teeth on edge rather like nails on a blackboard. Which is a strange response in someone whose nipples and vagina are so intimately intertwined. After some persistence He has got one  to the stage of being able to lay there for a few minutes before screaming, other times He takes a perverse pleasure in telling one to lay there to see how long it takes before one starts screaming, but other times (particularly if one is tired) the response is far more aggressive.

That is to say ahem one is inclined to just lash out physically and just hit the offending hand. This is better than hitting Him, which one would have done a few years ago. Nods oh yes there has been progress... He got rid of that annoying tendency by returning it all tenfold. There is no hitting, pinching or slapping allowed in this house unless He is the one doing it.

Anyway He decided to take advantage of the recent incarceration to use the body against itself in the form of a bit of aversion therapy. He figured with a little persistence the one would get to the stage of just laying there and taking it because the coughing that started when you moved was so bad, you would do almost anything to avoid it. Oh poor simple fool He knew not how contrary a body could be. The body had a much better idea and it plays to win.

Now, the minute the hand makes an appearance near the nipple the body starts to cough. Even if one had no conscious desire to do so, it manages a performance that should net it an award. Of course life being what it is this is an unfortunate bit of timing. You see while one is far from well yet, the body is starting to get better and the mind is starting to turn to more... romantic things. Yes that is right people, the libido is returning.

Of course there is not enough air supply or lung capacity (they still hurt like a bitch when you take a deep breath) for an orgasm, and there is this unfortunate little fear response that makes life complicated... but one is willing to see if this can be overcome with some positive stimulus. All in the name of science of course :)

Stepping back

On the last day of work, before all this illness began, a customer said something strange... well they often do. What made this strange is that in that split second one was transported back to childhood. In that flash one replied like the well brought up child that one had been. It was done without thought the way some genuflect.

What she said in parting was God bless. A quaint figure of speech one had not heard since leaving home 30 years ago. See like many agnostics (and probably many atheists for that matter) one grew up in a religious home. Well it was religious homes if we are going to be precise. And the homes and the religions were as far apart as you can get.

Mother was an eclectic seeker of the truth. Every time one went home for the holidays there was a new religion. There was everything from the Spiritualist Church to Zen to Christian Science. That last one was happily embraced because they didn’t celebrate birthdays... something one heartily approved of. You will probably notice that mother’s choices were hardly conventional... to say the least.

Her thirst for knowledge probably stemmed from the fact that her side of the family are Quakers. They are nice sensible, no nonsense people who regarded the eldest daughter with a degree of disbelief and discomfort. Mother was the family dreamer; artistic, temperamental and never content. She thought they were working class and they thought she put on airs. As you can imagine family get-togethers were a magical time.

Auntie (who brought one up and is no relation at all (which is a story in its own right for some later date)) was from the other end of the spectrum. She is staunchly Church of England. There is equal wall space devoted to pictures of Jesus and the Queen, though the Queen’s frames are a little more ornate. She believes firmly that when she dies, she will be reunited with her family. Personally one has always thought that sounded like one of the outer rings of hell, but each to their own...

Christmas n cream

One of the great joys of living in the family home is that things like Christmas meals are taken care of. All you have to do is unlock the door into the breezeway, cross what we think of as neutral territory and enter the main house, meander down the hallway and plop down in the lounge. To be honest it took a little more energy than normal this year, but there was presents and food so the incentives were excellent.

Now, one has a deep and abiding loathing of Christmas itself; something bad always seems to happen at Christmas and this year proves to be no different. On the other hand all the favourite food turns up on one table which goes a long way to offset the issues... wibble wobble flip flop. As a person one adores any meat that is roasted, glazed or stuffed. Anything with fruit in it is a winner so mince pies, plum pudding, Christmas cake are all loved with an equal fondness.

Unfortunately that was family Christmas food and that was done on Monday this year so His sister could attend. And one was too sick to care about any of it.... though one did nibble at a small plate of treats and rally for a large slice of Pavlova adorned with masses of whipped cream and strawberries. For the record pleurisy gives you one hell of an appetite unlike pneumonia. This Christmas we did the simple thing of salad, fresh baked bread, prawns and sand crabs followed by His grandmother’s tipsy trifle.

Her trifle is a thing of family legends mainly because when adding the alcohol to the sponge, by the time she has done one or two she can never remember which ones she has done. Being a person who enjoys a drink, her idea of two fingers of alcohol involves the index and the pinkie fingers, she is inclined to err on the side of caution. Needles to say some of the trifles go into the family like small macerating time bombs. This year we not only scored the drunken trifle, but some extra sherry in case she hadn’t added enough.

Santa’s elves were generous and thoughtful... His mother always comes up with something you didn’t know you needed. This year it was a tiny watch, shaped like a cat, that clips onto your bag (one never wears a watch) so you can find it. Santa was particularly generous in the form of a naughty girl .... See one wasn’t lying the other day in the letter to Santa. He also gave generously of himself...

Though one refuses to repeat the pun He used... let us just say it involved the words Santa and sac :(

The little things

Silly jobs that never get done...

On our wall we have some Beswick Ducks flying along. Now our flat is full of the kitsch and these ducks are no exception. One of the flying fuckers has been just out of formation since being put up. And it bugs the crap out of the both of us whenever we look at it. The trouble is that when we are looking at it we are doing something else... every single time.

So one is giving the other anal retentive in the house the best gift of all... moving the damn thing the 1cm (1/2 inch) that is needed. It’s not quite the gift one planned on giving, but it will give hours of pleasure nevertheless J

Well it will until He notices that particular duck's neck is on a different angle to the rest...

Merry Christmas to you all

Sharing the nonsensical

The doctor rang this afternoon to see how one was going and if there was any improvement. Also to reiterate that if there were no improvements or any worries, to not hesitate to call the surgery emergency number or go to the hospital. Yes he is a great GP and his main concern is that with Christmas here, he can’t see one like he would prefer to.  Mostly though, he rang to practise his special brand of sadism in the form of some helpful rehab suggestions.

He wants one, in addition to taking those deep breathes, to blow up the odd balloon. When one finished laughing (well it is more of a sharp barking, wheezing sound), and the coughing fit that followed finally subsided, one took a moment to point out that while one can run around the block one can’t actually blow up a balloon. And one has grave doubts that the doctor can either to be honest. Of course when He who is in charge finds this out, there will no doubt be a pack of the bloody things stuffed in the Christmas stocking with "blow me" attached to them L

Girls and boys if you want to find a real sadist look no further than your local doctors’ office... they are probably teeming with the buggers.

Sitting on Santa’s knee

The other day one sidled up to the portly gentleman on Fet and whispered very quietly into his ear what one would like from him. It was a purely indulgent list of girly things and there was not one owie, zappy thing in sight. Though one did look longingly at the latex kimonos which were just beautiful... if somewhat dangerous to a girl with latex allergies. Naturally being a secret squirrel one felt no need to share this list with anyone... including He who is in charge.

The other morning He hopped into bed looking smug. Now, one was running a hell of a temperature, and frankly one was too sick to ask why. This morning one had a little more air and was able to talk rather than pointing and waving feebly, so one enquired what He had been up to. Oh just using your name in vain was the evasive reply. Would you care to clarify one asked? Well if you must know I put in a list with Santa in your name.

WTF one had already done that. The system isn’t supposed to let you do it again. How the hell did that happen? I don’t know, but it did and it even printed out a little list for all your friends to laugh at was the calm reply. You can imagine the shock one received, when stumbling into the study chair (it is a convenient way station to the bathroom) and seeing His list.  In place of the interesting sex toys and velvet corsets were the trilogy of the unholy electrical appliances.

Scuttling back to the bedroom, much faster than one had left it might one add, and collapsing on the bed one managed to gasp out a why, before being racked with coughing. He peered at one the way you do a bug that lands on your furniture and said well it is my vote to do with what I want. But you had one of your own, was wheezed out between coughs. Yes, but this way I get two was the smug reply.

Dear Santa.

Having been a very bad girl this year, one feels it is only right that one should willingly relinquish any and all claim to presents on Fet. There also seems to have been an error with the system that shouldn’t happen. Honestly, in the interest of fairness, this is for the best.

Yours sincerely

Master’s piece

Still here, just

Well we spent a fun morning back at the doctor and have arrived home armed with an additional antibiotic, chest x-ray, an arm with a cotton ball attached to it with some incredibly sticky tape, and some Atovent puffers. Now the last ones are the problem. You need to expel all the air out of the lungs, depress the end and suck it down as you breathe in. Under normal circumstances it is complicated, when all your body wants to do is cough the minute you move anything, it is almost impossible.

He being the soul of helpfulness offered to choke one until gasping, jam it in and depress it as He let go. He thinks that should solve some of the major obstacles. As a former (well providing He stays away from milky treats) asthmatic, who is intimately acquainted with the sensation of fighting to breathe, you would expect a degree more empathy from your nurse. Honestly, Nurse Ratchet is starting to look like a peach.

Damn Santa’s bloody elves had better be bringing something to make up for this; no sense of taste, everything smells bad and no drinks due to being on antibiotics.... This sucks!

News just in... It's become pneumonia. Now it officially sucks donkey balls :(

A quick update

In the early hours this morning the dreaded yellow sputum appeared and I have been told it is a spectacular shade of yellow. So we are now waiting for the pharmacy to open to get the script filled. Hopefully it will bring the pleurisy under control and allow piece to be up in time to celebrate Christmas. (L&L)

Out for the count

She takes up a lot of space for "one small slave" doesn't she? (L&L)

Down, but not out

Yesterday one left work early, slept for 15 hours before waking this morning to do an assisted crawl to the doctors. After making one do deep breaths he asks where is the pain? All around the ribcage now that you made one do that, was the snarky reply. Hmmm he says, well you have the early stages of pleurisy. This is when your body fights it or succumbs to it.

So what happens now? Well you need to go home rest, drink plenty of fluids, take Panadol for the fever and sleep. Take this script in case it gets worse. Worse? Well yes if you start to cough up anything yellow he says smiling that nice professional smile. Oh and you need to keep taking deep breaths. The ones that make the cough start and the lungs feel like they are on fire one asked in a less than enthusiastic tone.

Small point one rarely gets sick and one is the worse patient in the world. All one wants is the food/ beverage fairy to make regular deliveries, bad TV and to sleep. He of course takes this as an opportunity to do a little aversion therapy. Every time one isn’t looking a hand snakes out and pinches a nipple. The automatic reaction is to slap it... which starts the coughing off again. Grumbling (did mention lousy patient right?) one suggests He might like to bugger off. To which He says if you stop moving you won’t cough.

Oh yes and the TV? His selection is a nice range of comedies that make one laugh and you guessed it... cough. It is to keep the lungs nice and clear. Apparently. Honestly it is like being looked after by Nurse Ratchet. A version that doesn’t cook....

To all those slaves out there; those that feel bad when your Master looks after you when you are sick, who feel guilty and all that stuff that he has to do it... Wanna swap? Stop laughing you miserable bitches...

Disclaimer; running a temperature and one takes no responsibility for the content of this post.

The big squeeze

Being on a bus allows a different view and one of the things that becomes more evident is the rise of gang tags in this area. Oh they are not serious gangs, more groups of bored teenagers with nothing else to do... and unless you like playing squash there is absolutely nothing to do round here except drink and hang out at the beach. In some ways though, it probably signifies the realisation of those teenagers that tagging is the only way they will ever own anything around here. It is a sad fact that what was once a sleepy little village by the sea, has escalated out of all proportion to the amenities available.

First a well known business man moved in and built two outrageous houses on the waterfront. Vastly different in style there is one each for himself and his then wife. They are massive houses that take up several blocks each. Houses that are complete with waterfalls, hand carved door knobs shaped like sharks teeth (in one case) and security cameras atop their thick walls. Their differing architectural tastes and styles turned out to be a metaphor for their relationship, but the damage was done.

First the mean price of the houses in the area skyrocketed and the average price of a home just shot up literally overnight. Of course rates then escalated in hot pursuit and before you knew it the elderly homeowners, who until then had lived modestly in their beach cottages and 60’s bungalows, were forced by rising costs to move out. Then the developers moved in with their big plans, smart townhouses and towers of luxury units.

All of this came to a screeching halt due to the sudden absence of buyers. The recession did hit that end of the market badly. So they sit those glass monuments to avaricious dreams with stark, empty fingers stretched out in mute appeal to the gods of greed. It hasn’t stopped the building... well it has in one or two cases and there are vast cleared blocks facing seaward in mute reproach. Large fences surround them, plastered with optimistic pictures of what the building will look like, if only enough people will place their money and faith in the builder.

Sitting on the bus one was privy to a conversation between two of the original locals... you can always spot them; scruffy, singleted and barefoot with permanent tans.... where one of them turned to the other and said they reckon this area will become too expensive for us to live in. To which his friend replied nah we will always be here. While one admires their sentiment, one suspects those buildings will encroach upon their lives until they have been pushed further from the sea.

Proof...

that there is no such thing as an original thought...

Published in "Punch Magazine"
Artist: Neil Bennett. Published: 9 January 1991.

Getting old

One of the things you notice about getting older is that more and more of your youth gets rehashed. TV shows that you loved get turned into movies... usually losing that innocent charm that made them appealing first time round. Music has been covered, sampled, and stolen in an endeavour to be cutting edge while paying homage to people who, due to financial inducements and financially crippling lifestyles, are still touring. Clothes have been deconstructed, reconstructed and regurgitated as we reach the point where nothing is new.

No place does this all come together more than in a gym. After 30 years one is still working out to the same songs rehashed, while seeing ads on the TVs for the latest release blockbuster (they hope) of a show one loved as a child. All of this is done in exercise gear that looks suspiciously like the stuff from the 80’s with its bright neon colours. Now all that is needed is the g-string leotard to make a comeback and we will have come full circle... albeit with a modern twist of course.

Paying the price

As a person, who ironically has a vast underwear collection, one prefers to go commando. It has always been a sad fact that they can get a man on the moon, but they haven’t been able to invent a pair of knickers that don’t end up migrating somewhere awkward.  When pushed to wear them, one favours a g-string or v-string simply because it is easier to have them already in the place they will probably end up. Only with a lot less fabric. Unfortunately with having to wear pants to work, one has also ended up having to wear underwear... it’s that or a clean pair of trousers every day which is kind of expensive.

Now part of the price of wearing the trousers is that He gets to choose the underwear. Of course He sees it as an opportunity to exercise his sense of humour. So one thought rather than bore you with stories of yet another Thursday morning flogging (which for the record went as well as expected and culminated in tears, painful sex and depressingly few marks), one would show you what one means... You just know where those are going to end don’t you L

On the bright side one suspects that the lack of marks is because one has been to the gym first the last two times and the blood is flowing elsewhere... It is sort of like the ultimate warm up.

The reality

On M/s boards the issue that got accusations of elitism more than anything, was our insistence that 24/7 was different from online relationships. And let one say once more... different. Not better or lesser or any other comparison. Just different. One whit in our group on Fet, when asked what is different, always says housework. While to an extent one agrees with her, what makes it different to one small slave is sex.

When you live in a 24/7 relationship there is no saying “not tonight honey”... well there is, but it just doesn’t seem to work.  Escape clauses of illness aside (and even then it is not a given) there is no “not in the mood/ too tired” because one way or the other, one is going to end up there. Sometimes He is nice about it, others one gets to play catch up... might one add the catching doesn’t always mean getting an orgasm. He just prefers it if one is a willing participant at some stage.

The other defining difference is being woken up to have sex. On Tuesday morning He came back to bed at 4am and decided an orgasm would help him get to sleep. The fact one was in a comatose state was irrelevant.... actually it may have lead to the incident. The sheet was peeled back, and warm, demanding hands were placed under hips as He helped one, what is known euphemistically in gym parlance as an “assisted lift”, into an obliging kneeling position.

As one swam towards wakefulness, the body responding faster than the logic part of the brain (why does that part always want to know what the time is?), He slid in. Thrusting deeper inside, He grabbed hold of the hips pulling one towards him, making any escape impossible. Those hands kneaded, grabbed and pulled, forcing one into full consciousness as He came, grunting in satisfaction. Leaving one arse up, dripping cum (which pooled in an annoying damp spot one got to sleep in), while frantically fishing for a tissue.

See that, one suspects, is the defining difference... wet spots.

Permission slips

As one has mentioned in the past we are not particularly ritualistic, but there are rules. One has to ask permission to do a lot of basic things that people take for granted. Some of them are a form of politeness; one can’t just make plans to do things without consulting Him first or run off to see a shop on a whim. Now these things have come about because one is less than thoughtful... historically one has just told Him one is off to do X, Y or Z without it even occurring He might have other ideas. And there might have been the odd time one has left Him chatting to himself because one has seen a spiffy pair of shoes in a window across the aisle, shop or street.  

There is no just orgasming (well there is occasionally) and things like using the bathroom to pee also need permission. Now that last one, though sometimes done because He does like to hear one beg while sounding desperate, is not for the usual reasons of control. It has come about because He likes watersports and as such He likes to watch. While He might make exceptions... say if one is in the middle of making a meal... He prefers one to use a method that has a more unrestricted view.

To this end a glass bowl is used or He makes one use the back yard. A thing one hates particularly when the grass is getting longer. Sometimes He puts down a pet mat and makes one use that. There is nothing like coming home from a drive busting and being made to use a mat like the family pet. It certainly keeps you in your place. It also makes you very grateful for modern conveniences.

The feminine construct

When we met one was living in a long term lesbian relationship. Here, at the time, the scene was rather sporty and blokey. Then fem girls who wandered in were regarded with suspicion... no straight/ bisexual girls wanted thanks very much. So if they were ever going to get laid they needed to adapt or assimilate. It was like peer pressure to be bland. Personally one used to get dolled up just to make them uncomfortable.

As time went on in this relationship, one was more inclined to wear jeans and a t-shirt if one did have to wear clothes. They were quick to pull on and comfortable... and if all the t’s are black, it makes choice so much speedier. It was an image He worked on steadily... oh He liked the naked bit, just not the jeans. When we switched to 24/7 He escalated the war on ones boyish ways. Jeans became a treat one had to beg for.

Now because of the foot things have reversed somewhat and one is starting to notice certain facts... In jeans one becomes a bit unfeminine. The posture changes, how one sits has changed, there is more slouching and sprawling on furniture. It is kind of interesting and one is starting to suspect He might have been right, and think that one is more feminine with Him in charge of the wardrobe. Reading this is just going to make Him unbearable...

Exercising power

As a person one loves to go to sleep with the curtains open, the windows open and the TV on. There is a whole raft of nesting rituals when He is not around. Of course life being what it is He hates it; all of it. Left to His own devices there would be no light, no air and no sounds whatsoever. He compromised on the curtains and the window, mainly because in this climate we will probably die of the heat otherwise and it is quieter than the fan option.

The issue of the TV is a little different. Sometimes He is too tired to care if it is on, or He is asleep already. Other times it goes more like a parental negotiation with a small child...

May one put on the TV?

No.

But ummm... wide awake here.

Then lay there, you will go to sleep.

Don’t want to in best petulant voice.

Tough.

Well may one get up?

No, it’s bedtime.

Which leaves one thinking WTF? While one might concede to be behaving like a child, one is an adult and it’s 9pm. So one lays there, listening to Him gently snore, cocooned in His beloved doona.

In a perfect world

T-day

Technology has a way of in infecting things and it particularly likes flat surfaces. Looking around the other day one realised it was time to de-tech those surfaces, and it is one of those jobs that needs a hand. There are some bits that one has no idea what they even are, and one suspects He won’t like the rather draconian measures one would be inclined to resort to... the round filing system. So in bed last night one mentioned how thrilled one was that we only had one more shift each to get through before we were reunited. We get very happy about last shift for the week; a thing one suspects is quite normal and shared by anyone who works.

Unfortunately one also took that moment to express that we needed to go through the flat like a dose of salts. See Geminis are like that... too many unrelated things going on and a tendency to blurt them out as related items. A cunning look flitted across His face and He said well in that case I can go to the pub and you can do the housework. That’s how it is done isn’t it? Contemplating the idea for a minute one suggested that was not the idea at all. In fact one rather needed His help... Though going to the pub was an excellent idea. So good in fact one might be tempted to join Him.

Smiling vindictively, He said unfortunately that won’t get the housework done and that’s not how the “I go to the pub” thing works. Yes, but you are the owner and what you say is how it works one replied. All that is needed is for you to say you can go to the pub Cinderella. Anyway one retorted you don’t drink, so the whole thing isn’t going to happen and you can play tidy up too. To be honest one doesn’t think He liked that idea because He proceeded to play little drummer boy on one small slave’s arse.  

He then flipped one over and dove in tongue first... which would have been good, except one got a massive case of that tickles. It happens sometimes and one is still not sure if it is the moustache and goatee combo, or that sometimes skin is just more sensitive than others. Squirming around like a mad thing trying to escape one started to laugh. Until He stopped and flipped one back over, pinning both wrists behind the back and spanking with sharp, heavy blows until tears formed in the eyes and one begged for mercy. Scorpios are such sore losers.  

It’s raining, it’s pouring

Sitting here in front of the computer, having been rescued from the bus stop by His mother, one is contemplating the rain. When we say it is raining here it is probably a bit different from what others call rain. Today it dumped 6 cm (2 1/2 inches) in half an hour and it hasn’t let up since. We live on a hill and even so one couldn’t get across the curb to the car without stepping in 15 cm (6 inches) of water. She had to drive into someone’s driveway so one could hop in, by which time one was absolutely soaked.

The street is flooded and there are great gushing rivers of water streaming down it. Some kids have got their boogie boards out to take advantage of the conditions and are merrily body surfing down the grassy hills in the local park. At home the indoor entertainment area is flooded and the cat won’t move off the chair it is currently marooned on. Though it did take the time to glare at one, thereby conveying in no uncertain terms whom it held responsible for this sorry state of affairs. A glare one reciprocated as one wondered how long it could stay there without food.

See most people love their cat. We do not. It is mean spirited, vindictive and vicious, and it manages to cram all of that in before breakfast. It developed a taste for human blood at an early age and time has not diminished nor mellowed it. We actually have to warn people to not pet the cat... and most don’t try it a second time. They get suckered in by the fact it is tiny and black and furry and yeah... it can shimmy around looking cute with the best of them. They just never seem to notice the maniacal, blood sucking creature that is peering out through its eyes.

Whispers we respect the cat... and we offer a daily prayer that today might be a good day for it to die.

Isolation

There is always stuff passing around the net about the dangers of isolation. How it is a tool for the devious and the manipulative, and that being cut off from family is a red flag and the slippery slope to Stockholm syndrome.  To be honest one remains unconvinced by the arguments. The realities are far more complicated.

In the beginning of falling down the rabbit hole one was isolated and it was bliss. You see not everyone has a great family, for some of us if we never saw them again it would be too soon. Some of us are naturally reclusive and find people and their endless capacity for drama, while often entertaining at the time, just makes us feel tired on a deep level. As a geek with hobbies, it was the best time of one’s life in some ways.

The house was spotless which made the anal retentive living inside so happy she hummed. There was time to do shit for oneself like gardening, exercising, quilting and later (as we stretched out a bit) being on the net, and most of all it gave one the clarity to focus on Him. It wasn’t quite Bento Boxes for lunch, but damn it was nice to not be tired all the time and to find joy in making Him happy, rather than feeling pressed for time. See some of us like our own company way too much.

To the extent that in some ways one doesn’t really understand peoples need for friends or why they are considered so important. Yes it is nice to go out and meet someone for coffee occasionally, but somewhere built into that is a raft of expectations for things one isn’t capable of doing to the level that most people find necessary. All the talk about their relationships, which they always seem dissatisfied with on some level, is just bewildering. The advantage of net buddies is that you can reach out and touch them, make them laugh and get pissed off occasionally, and they tend not to care so much if in the middle of a conversation you say gotta go He wants something.

Having said all that, one can understand why isolation makes some so uneasy. One of the reasons He thought it was necessary for one to go out to work, was that some of the critical skills needed for living in the outside world were diminishing; being tolerant of others was one of them. There is an inherent danger in making someone completely dependent on you for everything. Not only is it a huge responsibility should anything ever happen to you, but you become responsible for providing all the other persons world views. You literally become the portal to the outside that all things flow through.

Now if you are a person who has a particular belief system, the chances are your property will too.  This is fine, until they come into contact with the outside world and those views are challenged. Then all sorts of merry hell will ensue because the only response that will be open to you, as you attempt to restore order, will be to clamp down all the harder as you reassert control. Again if that is your thing more power to you... just don’t be too surprised if people tend to look at it and go no thank you. That is after all the joy of having choice.

Morning Mouse

White rabbit

This morning was the usual flurry of running late, getting ready for work, breakfasts, lunches and the Thursday morning flogging.  We used to have a ritual daily flogging that we both enjoyed... not sure what happened to that, but it was probably life... and the great thing about ritualistic beatings is that they don’t hurt as much as weekly ones. As one hopped up on the punishment box, He selected the nice flogger. It might make a non-masochistic girl twitch, but there are some horrid ones that could have been selected that hurt like the blazes.

So one was suitably grateful... a state that extended through the fifteen strokes, even though He was putting a bit more into it than last week. The gratitude even made it through the rather brutal arse fucking that He finished with, and one thanked him profusely when He was done with one small slave. In fact the gratitude survived right up until one was in the bathroom and He said turn around, I want to see the marks. There were only faint pink lines that appeared to give Him no pleasure at all.

What’s up with that? Well the day is warmer and one did have a shower just before you reminded one, strange how you can forget some things without any trouble whatsoever, that it was Thursday. Hmmm, was the dissatisfied sounding reply. It was at that moment that gratitude turned a little sour... it felt a lot like worry in fact. See the trouble with a voyeur is that they like to see a result and when they don’t get it, you can be damn sure they are going to try harder next time. That little voice is going this is going to hurt...

Why blog now?

After years of resisting the whole blogging thing here one is doing it. Frankly as a person who is reluctant to commit anything to paper, as the mind might change in the next minute, it is something of a surprise how enjoyable it is to write about anything one feels like. Which ironically was the very thing that one was so resistant to as an idea. To be honest one thinks that we are a rather normal couple...

Generally what makes good BDSM blogs are people with fabulous fetishes, people who are just out there on the edge of extremes, and those that are wonderful portals into the alien view point; People who are about as far as you can get from one small slave. Whatever one’s personal feelings on the matter may be... His are the complete opposite. He is one of those rare owners who actually reads what one writes on the boards and is always curious as to what is going on. For Him a blog was a portal into one persons mind and a chance to see things how one does... Not that He is always thrilled about being portrayed as the selfish, meanie that He is. Ahem.

It was also a wonderful opportunity for Him to exercise one of his fetishes. See on that silly little BDSM test He scored 93% exhibitionist/ voyeur... of course what the test failed to mention is that He likes exhibiting one small slave, not himself. He takes a perverse delight in shoving one in front of a camera and immortalising the moment. So here one is blogging away to His heart’s content... with Him as the art department.

Merry Fucking Christmas

This is a time of the year when people start getting desperate. Money is tight and frankly it is hard work finding the perfect gift for someone. One innovative thief found the perfect solution in Grandma's rose garden. They were not content with stealing some roses. Oh no, this thief had much grander plans.

Armed with a shovel in the night, they stole a rose bush; a rather nice red one, complete with roses in full bloom. They left the stake that was supporting it and a large, neat square hole in their wake. In one fell swoop they not only sorted out their Christmas, but managed to deprive a 90 year old woman of one of the few passions left to her. So merry fucking Christmas you cunt; may you experience the joy you have brought to others.

You couldn’t make this shit up if you tried could you?

The collar

Wandering in He says oh I found the most brilliant bit of jewellery. It’s a pearl necklace. Yeah so, is the reply from one small and frankly under-caffeinated slave. Yes, it is silver and shaped like a cum pattern. What a pity one has this on, one replies rattling the collar. It doesn’t have to be there He says smirking. One small slave perks with interest for the first time; really?

You see the truth about collars it that they are heavy, hot and too easy to grab. A fact He takes advantage of as He pulls one out of interesting shops to drag one into game shops. They clank when you are trying to sneak out of bed for coffee. You can’t wear anything else because it ends up in the land of overkill, and one hasn’t been able to wear any of the lovely antique silver collection in years. Last but not least, they make you the target of every customer who thinks they have a sense of humour... Honestly do you really think you are the first person to make lewd BDSM related jokes? A thing we will return to at a later date.

He smiles that nasty, lazy smile that shows all those small, even, white teeth and laughs a little as He says no. But I will give you a real one. And you can wear it with your collar.

You know there should be a way to protect small slaves from this kind of treatment before coffee...

Lazy Sunday Afternoon...

It is not really Sunday, but it is our Sunday in that it is the second day off for us. We have some treasured rituals... gym, grocery shopping, second breakfast, sacking out in front of the TV, sex and a snooze before going out. Well one of us does... He joins in on the odd selection of the above menu and to be honest, neither of us treasures grocery shopping. In fact that might be why He joined in the sex part armed and dangerous... clover clamps at the ready.

Now one has an ambivalent relationship with nipple clamps. They hurt like a bitch as a cold start thing, but once aroused they can be a lot of fun. Of course He tried them as a cold start first... which neither endeared Him nor made one inclined to reconsider His sadism rating. Those bitey little fuckers were designed for clamping fabric apparently and they do a very good job on skin. They are supposed to tighten up as you pull them, but to be honest they hurt so much anyway you don’t notice.

You do notice when they are pulling your whole breast up by your nipples though. And there was that memorable time that he shoved the chain in ones mouth, while pulling the head back by the hair as He fucked one in the arse, but one digresses. So He amused himself by torturing one until one begged Him for permission to come. Unfortunately He said no too late and that hinky little relationship between nipple and cunt kicked in... bad slave.

Of course He has amused himself torturing one by pinching and twisting the nipples, which are as sore as fuck, at every opportunity since. And He wonders why one is staying in the office typing this, as He nibbles on potato chips in the other room... He knows one will weaken... Bastard!

Beautiful one day

The day is miserable, grey, wet and warm. The weather makes you feel bleh at best and slightly depressed and grumpy... actually it makes you feel a whole lot of that. It is the sort of day that makes you want to eat junk food, stay in bed and nap amongst the crumbs. Well that last bit is not true because like all twoo princesses, one can feel the tiniest speck of a crumb and drives one up the wall. This is a shame ‘cos one does love to snack in bed and snooze... preferably without a flurry of decrumbing.

Of course being a woman of action we are not going to go that route. Oh no, we are going to be brave and give into those dormant masochistic instincts, and oddly enough for a person with an intimate relationship with pain one is not particularly masochistic. It is time to gird the metaphoric loins and experience the shopping centres as a consumer rather than a worker. Yes it is time, having put it off to the last minute, to go Christmas shopping.

So there we are with a mercifully short list of people, His family and a secret Santa for work, trawling around the shops trying hard to crank up any level of care above “we don’t give an obese rodent’s bottom”. As we wander along, with one small slave in His wake carrying the bags, one points out some great shorts covered in skulls saying aren’t you glad that one doesn’t shop for you. He turns around and says actually they’re not bad. Colour one surprised because in all the time we have been together, He has always hated ones taste in clothing... actually ones ex when she was alive was allowed to buy Him clothes... He liked her taste.

Good heavens, does this mean ones taste has finally started to align with your will after thirteen years one enquired sweetly. He looks at one speculatively and says it may be more a training issue. We could fit you up with an electric device, take you out shopping and make you chose clothes for me. Every time you get it wrong bzzzt. Glaring at Him balefully one reached out to fondle some rather brightly coloured sports shoes. Bzzzt, bzzzt sounded in the background. Yeah one is going to enjoy this game as much as Vlad's Castle one suspects.

AlienNation

When we started out we were sort of raspberry ripple, though it waxed and waned depending on how much life was impinging on us. Given a choice between bent sex and no sex, we would choose sex however we could get it. We then became an M/s couple, one of those strange freaky 24/7 crowd. For us it was easier than switching roles depending on what room we were in. Besides He discovered an enjoyment in all types of service outside of the bedroom. It’s nice having someone to take off your boots, fetch you a drink or make you the snack that you want.  Well one assumes that it is...

We joined in the online community as a way of finding guidance and for a while it was lovely... like minded people who spoke a shared language. The trouble is that we are a tiny minority in the BDSM scene and slowly we were overrun by people just like us. And we became the mean elitists who insisted that they weren’t. In the end the sheer overwhelming numbers won out and we withdrew to an assortment of private boards, finally ending up on Fet.

Many of us reformed under the O/p banner as it was the only way we could delineate ourselves from what, to us, had become a melange of styles that bore few similarities to how we conducted our relationships, thereby rendering conversations meaningless.  We became the home of the absolutists and the wayists. Often the only similarity between us is a commitment to be ourselves, but we rub along because we are marginalised. Usually by the very people who claim to be working to gain public acceptance for us all.

Now don’t get one wrong. Some of the organisations do an excellent job in raising public awareness, but their views on SSC, RACK and consent will never mesh with the views of the pedants who make up our numbers. Mind you we will happily debate what sane is until the cows come home. As a group we are unlikely to go scampering around in public wearing an assortment of fetish gear... at our age it is a kindness to the onlooker. Not to mention some of that gear takes forever to get on and it usually floats in the high 80’s (degrees Fahrenheit (32C for the rest of the civilised world)) here in summer.

No, we will stay in our rabbit holes and only peek out occasionally in an electronic medium. While this could be viewed as a form of cowardice, the real issue for many of us is that we are cynical. There is probably not one of us that have any desire to be the sacrificial offering on the altar of public acceptance.  Besides our only common ground would be mind your own business and stay out of our homes... a platform that has failed miserably for millions all across the globe.

The monster uncovered

The trouble with a blog is that they are one sided affairs and, having read a few blogs of BDSM relationships, the owner types can come across as mean, heartless monsters. Ones that no one in their right mind would stay with... whines it makes us look bad for staying with them. The reality is that they can be charming, witty people who just like to get their own way and have no compunction about manipulating you. Which means they are capable of random acts of kindness that help keep you off guard and compliant, and frankly He is no exception.

Due to those annoying allergy issues, the much needed protein and vitamin supplements you would normally take while weight training are next to useless. The only protein shake one can take is a rice bran one that is excellent, and if one can just stop throwing it up as soon as it hits the back of the throat life will be sweet. These little issues mean that after a workout when the body needs a protein carbohydrate top up, otherwise by the time you get home you will just eat the entire contents of the fridge, all that is available is chocolate milk. May one just take a moment to express how much one hates chocolate milk... not only is it chocolaty, it is repulsively sweet.

So upon opening the fridge and realising that a certain someone had drunk the milk, and not replaced it as promised, one was less than thrilled. On a Saturday morning one arrives at work too late to shop, leaves work with just enough time to catch the bus and arrives at the gym as the supermarket is shutting. This means the only option is giving up some of the miserably inadequate lunch break to scamper out. Half an hour is barely enough time to eat lunch under normal circumstances...

He rang this morning to see what time one would be getting to work and said He would meet one there with the milk. Considering He had just finished eight hours of graveyard shift and would have to drive out of the way to do this it seemed excessive... though fair. So as one was getting off the bus He hopped out of the car, gave one a big bear hug, murmured what coloured panties are you wearing, made a few lewd suggestions as to what could be done with them and left. Leaving one pleasantly dazed and confused, clutching chocolate milk. Mean? Yes. Monster? No.

Mating Rituals of the Lesser Spotted Geek

People who travel on buses are creatures of habit and one is no exception; in the front cuts down on the motion sickness while the back, because of the elevated layout, gives you a better view of your fellow passengers. Some mornings you have to make a choice others... some bastard has made it for you.  Either way travelling on a bus gives you an interesting view of the world and the people in it. It also makes you notice the aberrant behaviours of others.

First she got on and what caught ones attention was not that she was wrangling three backpacks, an ambitious undertaking on public transport, but her hair. It was long, curly and the most wonderful shade of blonde. It was also just dirty enough that the natural oils, something curls don’t usually have a wealth of in this climate, had started to turn it into a slightly ropey textured so that it looked like spun gold chords. In the light of the window she sat in front of, you could see the wonderful colours that some freakish combination of genes had conspired to produce, and that hairdressers struggle to emulate. She was rather pretty, very pale, spectacled and dripping technology that confirmed the geek status that the pallor had hinted at.

He got on a couple of stops later, a regular who travels on the back of the bus because it offers more room for the skate board, the laptop and assorted geeky accoutrement. Boarding the bus he marched past her, shot a look in her direction, started to move to his regular seat and stopped dead with one foot raised. He put it down hurriedly and backtracked to take the seat opposite her, planting the skateboard in the gap next to him and surreptitiously shooting her a glance. She studiously ignored him and glanced out the window.

Not put off by this lack of response he crossed his legs flashing his skate shoes, ankles and crotch in the same movement. No response came his way. Undaunted he shot the cuffs of his immaculately ironed business shirt a little higher to expose a brightly coloured tat. She looked further to the right of him. Unrelenting in the face of this much failure he struck several different poses, all of them aimed at showing himself in the best possible light.

Now from the back of the bus one noticed a couple of things about him that had passed one by. He is fastidiously groomed from the top of his shaved head, to the sharp crease in his trousers and how he manages this on a skate board gives one pause. But then one can get creases in clothes walking out a door so... As a bloke he is shorter than average and while many short men are disproportionate... legs too short, torso too long... he is perfectly proportioned. This brought one to the hands that were now propping up his dejected head.

They were the most dainty, small boned, white hands one has ever seen on a man. And while this may have been an indicator as to the reason for her lack of interest in his mating displays, the thought did cross one’s mind that if you were ever going to try that whole double penetration  thing... those were the hands you wanted. What a pity they are probably never going to get put to that use.

Thursday mornings ain’t what they used to be

Well one awoke at the obscene hour of 5am and decided that the gym would be a perfect way to start the day... OK it was more a case of you really need to get your lazy arse down there and pay penance for slacking off yesterday afternoon. So off one trotted to find oneself immersed in the land of the chirpy people. What is it about that hour... it is too bright and the people are equally intense.  This general feeling of malaise was not helped by tanking half way through the second exercise... seems one might have forgotten to eat dinner last night and the body was unimpressed.

He picked one up afterwards on his way home and we had breakfast, well second breakfast for one of us, but it goes with the second shower of the morning so one did achieve some symmetry for the day. As one was scampering around desperately pretending one didn’t have to go to work, no small feat while actively engaged in  getting work gear ready,  a voice gently enquired if someone had forgotten something. Quick check... shoes, trousers, work shirt, lunch, snacks, money, phone... No one replied cautiously. Let me remind you... the price of wearing trousers. Oh that... um no, might have slipped one’s mind. Well let me refresh it for you... go and assume the position.

So off one goes to kneel on the punishment box at the end of the bed, while He selects the flogger du jour. Count for me, otherwise I might not know when to stop. We got to ten when He stops, one says thank you, and instead of inserting himself into some orifice as one expected, He gets out the new toy so the moment can be shared with you all. To be honest He was a little premature as the real colour didn’t show up until about 5 minutes later when the marks turned to a deep cherry red.

A brisk reminder

Chronic Habitual Avoidance Behaviour (CHAB or CHABing)

It is grey, miserable and raining steadily here. Which is why one is sitting writing rather than at the gym... the thought of sloshing through the puddles and waiting in the leaking bus shelter was just... meh, even the most dedicated have off days. Besides, He offered one an orgasm (and very nice it was too) and an afternoon nap as inducement to play hooky. Anyway one can always get up early tomorrow morning and go before work.

The gym is an interesting place to visit at different times occasionally. The clientele change and morph as the sun travels across the horizon. Early mornings are the time of the super fit. You see men and women who look like whippets, all long lean muscle and agile speed, pounding away with effortless grace. It is when the serious competition level body builders come out; men and women with skimpy clothing, slightly freakish fake tans and fat levels so low that you have to check if that is a six or eight pack you are seeing.

Mid morning is the time of the yummy mummies and their fake nails, dazzling smiles and designer gear, clustering noisily on the X-Trainers while they wait for the real event, classes, to start. They give way to the assortment of stragglers, people who work odd times and days who are usually there to run or work out with personal trainers (PT’s) more than anything else. About three o’clock the site workers come in, some still in work boots and safety vests, to fluff up their biceps to better show off their tribal inspired tats.

They give way to the latest phenomena in the gym, the adolescent teenage boy. A recent addition to the gym and one often suspects the newest victims of The Beauty Myth as it casts its net wider. Personally one thinks it is admirable that they are taking an interest in their bodies, but one does wish the trainers kept a closer eye on them. They are reckless and bold, often over extending their young bodies as they push to get too big too fast, and some of them have the stretch marks to prove it. That last group one can’t help but look at and wonder what will happen to them as they age.

In the early evening you get the after work groups. They are squeezing in some running before a class or working out with a PT either singly or in small groups. It is in this time zone you will most likely find the women with their one kilo weights struggling to push it above their heads, while the men do strength and balance exercises nearby. It is also amongst the struggle for space there is that one woman who insists on doing her yoga poses and resting under her towel as people have to hop across her to get to the medicine balls.... see this is how you get injured doing yoga... you make like the family pet at dinner time.

Interspersed amongst these groups most often mid morning, early afternoon and on weekends are the most interesting group of them all; the peacocks’ one always thinks of as The Big Boys. As a group they are usually older and have been doing it a long time. In  a gym they are easy to spot as they often sport the most outrageous coloured sports shoes... bright canary yellow to complement the natural deep tan... it helps distract you from the fact that they have just added about 20% muscle mass to their frames. They are the ones that spend at least two hours doing a work out, of which only about 15 minutes is actually spent doing serious exercise. The rest of the time is spent lounging against machines artistically, while they swap diet and supplement tips and discuss the merit of cheesecake as a bulking aid with the younger members.

Of all the groups they are the most friendly and gregarious. How else are they going to be seen if not by parading casually around? They will come up to you to tell you your form is getting better, make suggestions on how to maximise an exercise you are doing and help move a bit of equipment if you are struggling. The Big Boys are also the ones who will let you nip in and use a piece of gear in between their sets as they rarely train in tandem with anyone, because despite the tendency towards friendliness, they never get too close to each other.

They know each other, talk to each other,  trade stories and gossip, acknowledge each other from the other side of the room with a friendly wave and a nod, but they keep a very large area of personal space from each other.  You never see them clustered in close proximity or spotting each other. In fact they go to almost ridiculous lengths to not get too close. But then as they have just added that much muscle mass, at that age, there is probably a reason for the high levels of cautious deference you see being displayed.