Touched

We lay curled up on the bed watching TV. His hand makes periodic raids on one's breasts... groping, pinching and squeezing. It is a sensation that sets the teeth on edge and He know it. A hand reaches out and strokes the hair. Now that sensation one just loves. It is short lived... a finger reaches down to stroke the eyebrow the wrong way. It moves further, down the bridge of the nose tickling as it goes, and on to explore the tip of the nose which evokes a strong urge to sneeze.

It is a game He plays to get a response. And it usually gets one. No matter how many times He does it one cannot just lay there and take it. Soon there will be a physical retaliation and one will turn round and swat the offending hand. It never ends well and one always loses... yet it never changes the outcome. Poke, poke, poke... retaliate.  It sets the teeth on edge just thinking about it L

Bastard!

See touch is a strange thing. Humans do not do well without it... apparently. There are times though that one craves to be touched in a nice way. Round here it rarely happens. For a while there He used to hit whatever was conveniently to hand the minute one bent over. And it is scary how fast that man is on his feet. It wasn't hard or violent, yet after a while one still flinched when He came near.

Over time it made one skittish and hyper vigilant. And very reluctant to pick anything up. It was like the time one had pneumonia and the collapsed lung, and He tried to take advantage of it and ended up with a trained cough response... which is still there for the record. See the body has ideas about what is good touch and what isn't... and at this stage they don't seem to coincide with His at all.

A bride thing?

A customer came in looking for the perfect shade of nail polish. Not a word of a lie, she had spent nearly $60 on nail polish in the hunt for that shade. Now what was the object of her lust you may be wondering? A shade of nude that would blend in and make her nails disappear.

That's right disappear. Now she had beautiful nails so why she wanted them visually gone was fascinating. And being nosy one just had to ask why she was after that effect. It turned out she didn't want anything to distract from her bling on "The Day". Even she had the grace to look a little embarrassed when she said that, and hastily went on to explain, somewhat defensively, that brides tend to get a little obsessive before the day.

Smiling reassuringly, one said that that there were so many things that had the potential to go wrong on the day, that people were probably more inclined to focus on the things that they could control. Smiling in relief, mainly because one didn't think she belonged in the crazy corner, she agreed that was probably right. She said I have waited for that man for 15 years and I want the day to be perfect.

Which left one to ponder a few questions that one couldn't ask her...

Fifteen years... what the hell happened?

Had she been the other woman and he had a dying wife?

Was he particularly slippery on the commitment stakes?

Did one of their incredibly rich relatives disapprove of them, and they had to wait so as to not be disinherited?

Suddenly the bride to be was six shades of more interesting.

A fine line

Greeting Him kneeling at the door, partially naked due to the encroaching winter, did not elicit the usual gleam his eyes. What are those He asked, pointing to the pyjama bottoms. Um protection against the cold one replied hopefully. They need to be gone. But it's freezing, and they were allowed last year. Well not this one, was the unsympathetic reply. Why do people always have to mess with systems that work just fine? Oh right because they can L

Later stripping again before the box one pointed hopefully at the socks. He smiled and shook his head in a negative motion. Reluctantly one took them off and knelt waiting for the flogger. Think we will try one of the others He said in a jovial tone. Any sense of relief one was feeling quickly fled as He started his warm up shots on an exposed cunt. Gods one just hates being hit there, even playfully.

That course of IPL hair removal He had done was the most horrible thing ever. Every freaking month one was escorted to a cubicle to be hurt by a professional. The bitches lied... it didn't get any better with repeated treatments. Mind you one did discover that the families lack of baldness extends to that area as well. As a family we are not particularly hairy... we just like to keep what we have. Oh the hair fell out... it just grew back, without missing a beat. Speaking of which...

When finished, with one extra thrown in for good measure... it was the socks wasn't it?.... He grabbed one firmly and worked his way up to his balls in one's arse. Fortunately there was still lube in place from the butt plug. Which was just as well because just as we can never remember to put tissues in a convenient location, the same issue seems to occur with the lube.  Honestly after the sock incident one figured one's chances of saying just a minute and scampering to get the stuff was... well... not good.

Later after a good breakfast, we repaired to the bedroom for a little put Master to sleep sex. He was most gracious and allowed one to cum. And as one lay there writhing in ecstasy one made the critical error of curling up. It was at that moment that the stomach muscles, that had a little workout yesterday, announced their annoyance by erupting into screaming pain. Which kinda killed the buzz 'cos some pain is not sexy or sexual.

Realising that the endorphins had hit an all time low He decided to make a move. Turning one over onto the knees, He grabbed one firmly by the collar and drove back into one's arse. No lube, no endorphins, no getting out of the foetal position... it hurt. When one informed him of this later, after He had cum and one had thanked him politely, He smiled. As one pointed out tartly it was such an inappropriate response, and made one less inclined to reduce his sadistic tendencies rating. He laughed out loud. Sighs you know sometimes one suspects He is starting to enjoy this way too much.

Aches and pains

Yesterday and today one made it back to the gym. To do mind numbing things like walkies on the treadmill. Honestly one watches the people striding along, often for what seems like hours at a time and there one is... 10 minutes... check clock... oh yaaay, 10 minutes and 26 seconds. It doesn't get any better, however far into the torturous half hour one gets. Now why is one small slave self torturing like this you may be asking.... ah well that is a sad story.

As some of you know one spends a reasonable amount of time in the gym offsetting the side effects of PCOS. Now when you have that, to date the most effective weapons are a high protein diet with moderate carbs and exercise. Weight training is excellent as it doesn't upset the hormonal balance (what little there is) in the body, and fat burning exercise over heavy cardio training... in other words walking over running. The small complication is the weights need to be high rep work because the increased male hormones in the body mean that one can bulk up like a small gorilla, which is not the aim.

Unfortunately the high rep work means that in the course of a week one is lifting almost as much as some of the big boys. And the body decided to stage a small rebellion by developing tendonitis in the elbows and right wrist. Those little puppies lose flexibility as you age like everything else. Now normally you will start to get twinges before this and if you are smart you stop, change programs and do something else so it doesn't get to this stage. Of course with a high pain threshold the body didn't do that. Oh no, it went straight to can't lift the bloody cast iron frypan, let alone a weight in one smooth movement.

So here one is plodding away on a treadmill seething with boredom, with no endorphin rush to smooth things over at all. This is probably how most people feel when they have to go to the gym... a profound sense of dragging your arse there and hating every fucking minute of it. Even a bit of leg and ab work didn't help. Sighs you know one is starting to get glimmerings of why He always looks at one with a particular sense of loathing, as one scratches at the door to get going on gym mornings L

Stockings

In this country it is very hard to find stay up stocking that don't assume that you have the thigh of an anorexic teenager. There used to be a great company called Schiaparelli, but of course as all things great they were bought out by another company. Sara Lee, of all people. They went the way of the dodo toot sweet. Ambra came along and finally there we were in stocking nirvana. Until the last few batches.

The bastards have changed the tops, that or they all shrunk at the factory. And although it could be put down to the weights, the bottom line is that the thighs have actually got a bit smaller. A fact borne out by how high they are now sitting on the leg as evidenced in this photo.

What is it with these companies? The fact is that nothing feels sexier than a stocking, and one would put money on some of those wearers being more mature. And guess what? As we get more mature we lose the thighs of an anorexic teenager. Stockings that roll because they are to small at the top do not make a woman feel sexy, and they will not stay up despite the endeavours of the best garter belt in the world (which kinda defeats the purpose of a stay up anyway).

The thing is we might be losing our thighs, but you stocking companies are losing your customers.

Remakes

Most people think that all 24/7 relationships are high protocol and that whips and chains abound. The sad reality is that some days look almost depressingly normal. Today, which is ironically the Labour Day holiday, was one of those days. We spent the day in geeky nirvana catching up on TV series watching. Of course things are done with a slightly warped looking glass logic.

He asks what do you want to watch and one replies with a definitive preference. He considers it for about a nanosecond and says we will do it alphabetically. Which is why we ended up watching "Being Human" instead of "Sons of Anarchy". Honestly the whole consultive process is so He can get insight into how to screw with one's preferences.

So we settled in with misgivings... no offense guys, but generally when there is an American remake of something you just sit there going WTF! Why did they do that? Well it is often more what were they thinking? Anyway one digresses... back to "Being Human".

While it doesn't have the charm of the original, and they have upped the aggression levels, and changed the characters names, and insisted that they are a different show based on the original (at least they have stopped doing things scene by scene when they remake), and inserted about 18 more episodes because the British have a sensible approach of six episodes per season rather than 20 something, it's not too bad. It kept us involved enough that He only threatened one with anal sex a couple of times during the 12 odd hours we were watching. Usually what happens is that laying next to him results in being reamed at regular intervals... mostly when there is something engrossing to one small slave.

In fact the most active we got was consuming takeaways. Though in fairness to our lazy arses we did actually get in the car to pick up rather than have delivered... OK they don't deliver, but the thought of exercise was there. Which is probably why the hip started to protest about midnight by producing excruciating pain every time one tried to hobble out for drinks. Oh yeah baby winter cometh L

Being retired

This area has a lot of retirees. Of course it does; it's right on a stretch of lovely beaches and cafes, with an easy commute to shopping centres. It offers a laid back lifestyle, sunshine for aching bones and endless views. In recognition of these natural and not so natural advantages one of the largest growth industries, other than luxury appartments, is retirement villages. The most recent of these is "The Village".

Now while many of you are too young to remember the show "The Prisoner", some of you probably do. It was one of those fabulous British spy shows from the 60's featuring iconic clothes, music and sports cars. The show itself was slightly incomprehensible, with inscrutable plot lines and imagery that always left you feeling as though you either didn't take enough drugs or perhaps had... it was an each way bet sometimes.

The story revolved around a spy known to us as Number 6, and his struggles against being decommissioned and debriefed, after his bosses decided to make his resignation more permanent. Each week you watched his endeavours to return to London and his life, and more importantly from his bosses point of view, his attempts to take them down.

Now the questions for the day are...

Was the designer of the complex that bloody young that they don't remember the show or are they planning on issuing each new arrival with blazers and a number, and filling them with psychotropic drugs? 'Cos if so, is there a way you can put a deposit down now with an eye to the future?