Next year will be better.
Next year I shall lose weight.
Next year I shall find a boyfriend.
Next year I shall go on a wonderful holiday.
Hmm, I see a pattern here. Always deferring happiness to the future - a future that never materialises.
There is an old adage: whatever you do on New Year's Eve will be what you do throughout the year. I tried to influence the forces of the universe once. Held a party for a few select friends hoping the New Year would be full of laughter, joy and togetherness. It was the night that he and she came together. It was the beginning of the end for me. That was 7 years ago.
Life is not perfect, but it's the only one we have; so, my friends, try to live for the moment and not for the future.
Thursday 30 December 2010
Tuesday 28 December 2010
The Way Things Should Have Been
She didn't like the idea of her child sleeping over at a friend's house. They had hardly been separated from each other since birth and it was the holidays. But the little one was so excited... how could she refuse?
She lamented about the situation to her friend J., instead. Her friend said he'd come and keep her company. It wouldn't have been the same, but at least her mind would be occupied.
As the sleepover day drew closer, her heart sunk lower and lower. The night before they cuddled up in the sofa and reassured each other that they would be brave and try to have fun - the child at the sleepover, and the mummy at home.
The day dawned and the first words out of her child's mouth were 'Sleepover Day!' She bit back the tears and helped make the overnight bag. Where was he? Would he come before the kid went or just after? And should she warn him about all the ice outside?
She waved to her child through the taxi window, blowing kisses in the air. The little one clang to the car window and stared at the mummy whose eyes had welled with tears. Then the car pulled out of the kerb and disappeared around the corner taking Tania's joy away from her.
Tania waited for his arrival. She sat motionless in her chair, devoid of emotion. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked the hours away. It was getting dark outside. 'He is not coming,' her inner voice told her. 'That's alright; I didn't really expect him to show up,' she lied to herself.
She got online, trying to find some consolation on the Internet. Most people were celebrating the holidays with family, so there were very few souls online. She checked her email. Nothing; not even junk mail. Did junk generators take a holiday, too? she wondered.
She made herself some dinner - leftovers from the big day - and took it to the living room. No point eating at the table alone. She set her plate on the coffee table, next to the laptop. A ping notified her of an incoming email. It was from him. Maybe to apologise for letting me down, she thought.
She read the email with eagerness, but soon realised it was a fantasy that he had written involving him and her. A cold shiver ran through her body. Et tu Brutus? she wanted to ask. It couldn't have been a more wrong moment to reveal one's fantasies. Still, she responded to his email, pointing out some glaring mistakes in grammar, syntax and reason. Yes, reason was a big one for her. She couldn't lose herself in a story unless it made sense.
He was hurt by her candid response. He did not see the positives: that she has spent time to read, evaluate, and respond to it, despite her being in the worst state of mind and missing her kid like crazy.
'Why didn't you come as promised?'' she asked.
'I was expecting you to give me a time slot that would be appropriate to visit,' he replied.
'I thought you'd just tie up loose ends and come as soon as you were ready!'
Bad communication, but there was still time to salvage the day. However, Tania felt so vulnerable that she knew she'd have no control of herself.
'It's best you don't come now or we'll end up having sex for all the wrong reasons,' she discouraged him.
His response showed a man of understanding.
They both agreed to be chaste that night. Tania proposed he joined her for breakfast. She licked her lips in anticipation of the sweet taste of sugar ring doughnuts. Wouldn't that make everything alright? Bit of food to drown one's sorrows in?
She waited by her laptop for his response, but none came. Eventually she got fed up staring at a blank screen and turned the computer off. She knew he had her phone number, so he could ring or text her his response.
The morning came. Tania rubbed the sleep off her eyes and stared at the clock. 9.45 am. She had no idea what time she had turned in, but it had been hard to fall asleep in the empty house. Her only consolation was that the little one was having fun with friends.
She wrapped her tattered gown around her body and plodded into the kitchen to make herself some coffee and toast. Then opened the laptop to check her emails. Surprise-surprise, there was one from him saying he had waited till 1 am for her to tell him what time he should bring breakfast and mentioning that doughnuts were too fatty and unhealthy, even for him that had a slim figure. She sighed, then fired off a response telling him that he should have used the phone - it was a wonderful invention after all, and very handy!
The email ping pong continued and he suggested he visited for lunch. She shuddered at the thought because there was nothing left, and without a child in the house she had no reason to cook and it was too late to come up with something worthwhile. If there was one thing about Tania, she never wanted to be caught unprepared. So she refused his offer and told him to go visit his relatives instead.
She didn't hear from him till the following morning. He wrote her a passionate email, probably fuelled by alcohol, that explained a lot of things about his behaviour. He was complaining why she had turned his offer of lunch down and she was surprised to read he had wanted to bring lunch in along with flowers - he certainly had given no indication that he had such in mind, and she was not used to him being proactive.
She tutted at her laptop scrolling back up to the email. It all felt like a scene from the Theatre of the Absurd.
Tania sank back in her chair. Oh if only things had been different! She closed her eyes and played out different scenarios.
In the first scenario, J. had actually picked up the phone and asked her what time it would have been best to visit. 'The sooner the better,' she had replied. So he had come prior to the child's departure - the child was strangely fond of this awkward man, and the departure was a happy occasion, instead of a sad one. Then the two adults had sat together in the sofa, his hand on hers, his words consoling her, his tales entertaining her, taking her mind off her worries. He might have spent the night in her bed and she might have sought comfort in his arms; however, he would have been strong and refused her sexual advances, knowing that she was too fragile to make sound decisions and not wishing to take advantage of her.
In the second scenario, J. had gotten fed up of waiting to be told a time to arrive, so he had taken things in his hands. He rang Tania to tell her - not ask her - to be ready in half an hour as he was coming to take her out.
'What? Where?' she'd ask, totally thrown off. 'I can't go out!'
'Sure you can,' he'd respond. 'You are free today, remember?'
'Yes, but I am not ready.'
'Duh!' he'd laugh, 'that's why I am being kind and giving you half an hour to get yourself ready.'
'You can't do this to me!' she'd protest looking at her sorry state in the big mirror.
'Can't I?' he'd smile. 'We'll see about that.'
She'd hop in the shower, angry with his insolence. How dare he disturb her cloud of misery! She had planned to spend the day in her old, tattered clothes, not make herself look beautiful for someone. But now he was coming and there was no disputing this fact. She couldn't have him see her at her worst. FFS! she'd say out loud, who does he think he is! But the walls of the house would not respond and the clock by her bedside would say 'hurry up!'
Then J. would show up at the door and compliment her on her appearance. She'd frown, not wanting to show she was secretly pleased by his comment. He'd ignore her frown and lead her to his car. Then he'd take her for a drive in the snowy countryside. She'd relax, despite her intentions not to. And by the time they stopped in that pub, she'd be enjoying herself once more. Nothing like a bit of fresh air and a roaring fire to mend one's spirits up.
In the third scenario, J. had not made it on the day of the child's departure but had picked up the phone and confirmed a time that doughnuts would have been required. Tania would have slept peacefully that night knowing that tomorrow would be a happier day and she would not be alone. At 8 am, J. would have given her a quick call to say he was on his way. She'd rush into the shower to scrub herself clean and wash away the tears of last night. She'd welcome him with a big smile and would scoff down the fresh doughnuts, her need for food being stronger than her restraint. They'd spend the morning talking as he rubbed her feet and soothed her mind. Then he'd leave just before the housekeeper was due to arrive.
Then there's the fourth scenario, where she agrees to him coming over for lunch although she has nothing worthwhile to feed him. Never mind, her self reassures her, we've all eaten too much these days, he'll be happy with a cheese omelette.
The housekeeper is busy cleaning when he rings the bell but puts her duster down to open the door. 'Tania, there's a nice surprise for you!' she calls out from the entrance hall. Tania gets up from her chair and is met by a smiling J. who is holding a large bouquet of flowers and a shopping bag.
'What is all this?' Tania asks, delighted to the core.
'What? Did you think I'd let you cook on a special day like this?' he responds feigning offence.
They'd spent the rest of the afternoon together listening to music and drinking some wine. Then the child would come home to a happy mummy and all would be fine in the world.
Which scenario would you have chosen if you had been the author of your own life?
She lamented about the situation to her friend J., instead. Her friend said he'd come and keep her company. It wouldn't have been the same, but at least her mind would be occupied.
As the sleepover day drew closer, her heart sunk lower and lower. The night before they cuddled up in the sofa and reassured each other that they would be brave and try to have fun - the child at the sleepover, and the mummy at home.
The day dawned and the first words out of her child's mouth were 'Sleepover Day!' She bit back the tears and helped make the overnight bag. Where was he? Would he come before the kid went or just after? And should she warn him about all the ice outside?
She waved to her child through the taxi window, blowing kisses in the air. The little one clang to the car window and stared at the mummy whose eyes had welled with tears. Then the car pulled out of the kerb and disappeared around the corner taking Tania's joy away from her.
Tania waited for his arrival. She sat motionless in her chair, devoid of emotion. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked the hours away. It was getting dark outside. 'He is not coming,' her inner voice told her. 'That's alright; I didn't really expect him to show up,' she lied to herself.
She got online, trying to find some consolation on the Internet. Most people were celebrating the holidays with family, so there were very few souls online. She checked her email. Nothing; not even junk mail. Did junk generators take a holiday, too? she wondered.
She made herself some dinner - leftovers from the big day - and took it to the living room. No point eating at the table alone. She set her plate on the coffee table, next to the laptop. A ping notified her of an incoming email. It was from him. Maybe to apologise for letting me down, she thought.
She read the email with eagerness, but soon realised it was a fantasy that he had written involving him and her. A cold shiver ran through her body. Et tu Brutus? she wanted to ask. It couldn't have been a more wrong moment to reveal one's fantasies. Still, she responded to his email, pointing out some glaring mistakes in grammar, syntax and reason. Yes, reason was a big one for her. She couldn't lose herself in a story unless it made sense.
He was hurt by her candid response. He did not see the positives: that she has spent time to read, evaluate, and respond to it, despite her being in the worst state of mind and missing her kid like crazy.
'Why didn't you come as promised?'' she asked.
'I was expecting you to give me a time slot that would be appropriate to visit,' he replied.
'I thought you'd just tie up loose ends and come as soon as you were ready!'
Bad communication, but there was still time to salvage the day. However, Tania felt so vulnerable that she knew she'd have no control of herself.
'It's best you don't come now or we'll end up having sex for all the wrong reasons,' she discouraged him.
His response showed a man of understanding.
They both agreed to be chaste that night. Tania proposed he joined her for breakfast. She licked her lips in anticipation of the sweet taste of sugar ring doughnuts. Wouldn't that make everything alright? Bit of food to drown one's sorrows in?
She waited by her laptop for his response, but none came. Eventually she got fed up staring at a blank screen and turned the computer off. She knew he had her phone number, so he could ring or text her his response.
The morning came. Tania rubbed the sleep off her eyes and stared at the clock. 9.45 am. She had no idea what time she had turned in, but it had been hard to fall asleep in the empty house. Her only consolation was that the little one was having fun with friends.
She wrapped her tattered gown around her body and plodded into the kitchen to make herself some coffee and toast. Then opened the laptop to check her emails. Surprise-surprise, there was one from him saying he had waited till 1 am for her to tell him what time he should bring breakfast and mentioning that doughnuts were too fatty and unhealthy, even for him that had a slim figure. She sighed, then fired off a response telling him that he should have used the phone - it was a wonderful invention after all, and very handy!
The email ping pong continued and he suggested he visited for lunch. She shuddered at the thought because there was nothing left, and without a child in the house she had no reason to cook and it was too late to come up with something worthwhile. If there was one thing about Tania, she never wanted to be caught unprepared. So she refused his offer and told him to go visit his relatives instead.
She didn't hear from him till the following morning. He wrote her a passionate email, probably fuelled by alcohol, that explained a lot of things about his behaviour. He was complaining why she had turned his offer of lunch down and she was surprised to read he had wanted to bring lunch in along with flowers - he certainly had given no indication that he had such in mind, and she was not used to him being proactive.
She tutted at her laptop scrolling back up to the email. It all felt like a scene from the Theatre of the Absurd.
Tania sank back in her chair. Oh if only things had been different! She closed her eyes and played out different scenarios.
...
In the first scenario, J. had actually picked up the phone and asked her what time it would have been best to visit. 'The sooner the better,' she had replied. So he had come prior to the child's departure - the child was strangely fond of this awkward man, and the departure was a happy occasion, instead of a sad one. Then the two adults had sat together in the sofa, his hand on hers, his words consoling her, his tales entertaining her, taking her mind off her worries. He might have spent the night in her bed and she might have sought comfort in his arms; however, he would have been strong and refused her sexual advances, knowing that she was too fragile to make sound decisions and not wishing to take advantage of her.
...
In the second scenario, J. had gotten fed up of waiting to be told a time to arrive, so he had taken things in his hands. He rang Tania to tell her - not ask her - to be ready in half an hour as he was coming to take her out.
'What? Where?' she'd ask, totally thrown off. 'I can't go out!'
'Sure you can,' he'd respond. 'You are free today, remember?'
'Yes, but I am not ready.'
'Duh!' he'd laugh, 'that's why I am being kind and giving you half an hour to get yourself ready.'
'You can't do this to me!' she'd protest looking at her sorry state in the big mirror.
'Can't I?' he'd smile. 'We'll see about that.'
She'd hop in the shower, angry with his insolence. How dare he disturb her cloud of misery! She had planned to spend the day in her old, tattered clothes, not make herself look beautiful for someone. But now he was coming and there was no disputing this fact. She couldn't have him see her at her worst. FFS! she'd say out loud, who does he think he is! But the walls of the house would not respond and the clock by her bedside would say 'hurry up!'
Then J. would show up at the door and compliment her on her appearance. She'd frown, not wanting to show she was secretly pleased by his comment. He'd ignore her frown and lead her to his car. Then he'd take her for a drive in the snowy countryside. She'd relax, despite her intentions not to. And by the time they stopped in that pub, she'd be enjoying herself once more. Nothing like a bit of fresh air and a roaring fire to mend one's spirits up.
...
In the third scenario, J. had not made it on the day of the child's departure but had picked up the phone and confirmed a time that doughnuts would have been required. Tania would have slept peacefully that night knowing that tomorrow would be a happier day and she would not be alone. At 8 am, J. would have given her a quick call to say he was on his way. She'd rush into the shower to scrub herself clean and wash away the tears of last night. She'd welcome him with a big smile and would scoff down the fresh doughnuts, her need for food being stronger than her restraint. They'd spend the morning talking as he rubbed her feet and soothed her mind. Then he'd leave just before the housekeeper was due to arrive.
...
Then there's the fourth scenario, where she agrees to him coming over for lunch although she has nothing worthwhile to feed him. Never mind, her self reassures her, we've all eaten too much these days, he'll be happy with a cheese omelette.
The housekeeper is busy cleaning when he rings the bell but puts her duster down to open the door. 'Tania, there's a nice surprise for you!' she calls out from the entrance hall. Tania gets up from her chair and is met by a smiling J. who is holding a large bouquet of flowers and a shopping bag.
'What is all this?' Tania asks, delighted to the core.
'What? Did you think I'd let you cook on a special day like this?' he responds feigning offence.
They'd spent the rest of the afternoon together listening to music and drinking some wine. Then the child would come home to a happy mummy and all would be fine in the world.
...
Which scenario would you have chosen if you had been the author of your own life?
Sunday 26 December 2010
Ma Vie
As the year draws to its end, I feel compelled to re-evaluate my goals. What am I looking for? And how long will I keep on looking?
The sure thing is I am not looking for someone to degrade and abuse. Why would I want something like that? I want someone I can share my life with. Someone who will enhance my life with his presence and allow me to do the same.
I feel I ought to apologise to any men I have unwittingly led on and whose fantasies I shall never be able to fulfil. I am no longer a pro Domme, so I do not have to do things I don't want to do. Furthermore, my life is not the life of a single person with no dependants. I have a young child who needs me and must always come first. So tying naked men to my kitchen sink is not an option. My ideal relationship would be filled with love, art and music; not violence, butt plugs and pain.
Truth is I am too damned romantic and old-fashioned to not want the usual things that any woman desires.
Sorry for being an ordinary woman and not the stuff that fantasies are made of... .
The sure thing is I am not looking for someone to degrade and abuse. Why would I want something like that? I want someone I can share my life with. Someone who will enhance my life with his presence and allow me to do the same.
I feel I ought to apologise to any men I have unwittingly led on and whose fantasies I shall never be able to fulfil. I am no longer a pro Domme, so I do not have to do things I don't want to do. Furthermore, my life is not the life of a single person with no dependants. I have a young child who needs me and must always come first. So tying naked men to my kitchen sink is not an option. My ideal relationship would be filled with love, art and music; not violence, butt plugs and pain.
Truth is I am too damned romantic and old-fashioned to not want the usual things that any woman desires.
Sorry for being an ordinary woman and not the stuff that fantasies are made of... .
Missing my baby
My baby is away tonight and although I should be celebrating this unexpected freedom, I feel a huge void inside that nothing can fill.
Saturday 25 December 2010
The Sound of Musicals
Fiddler on the Roof is my favourite musical of all times. I am listening to the soundtrack now and it is so deeply touching that I am crying. My child does not understand how music can touch you so; ah! the innocence of youth.
Two musicals have been known to reduce me to tears: this and Les Miserables.
Fiddler on the Roof reminds me of my father. The way Topol played Tevye when he asks his wife if she loves him - it could have been my dad pestering my mum to say she loves him! Tevye's daughters drive him nuts, but he still loves them; he even forgives the one who elopes with a Christian boy (at least it is hinted he will come round to it.)
The things we put our parents through! I never knew what love meant till I had a child of my own.
In Les Mis, there is a scene where Fantine is singing about Cossette, the daughter whom she had to leave with some innkeepers thinking that this was for her girl's best interest. When she sings, I know she is destined never to see her child again and I feel the pain of separation so strongly that it rips my heart. I also cry at the policeman's realisation that all this time he had been persecuting a good man.
Some people do not enjoy musicals. I don't know why. It is just a step away from Opera. How better can you express human emotion other than with a song and a dance?
Time to dish up Christmas lunch now.
I hope you are all enjoying yourselves and don't worry about me crying. It's cathartic.
Two musicals have been known to reduce me to tears: this and Les Miserables.
Fiddler on the Roof reminds me of my father. The way Topol played Tevye when he asks his wife if she loves him - it could have been my dad pestering my mum to say she loves him! Tevye's daughters drive him nuts, but he still loves them; he even forgives the one who elopes with a Christian boy (at least it is hinted he will come round to it.)
The things we put our parents through! I never knew what love meant till I had a child of my own.
In Les Mis, there is a scene where Fantine is singing about Cossette, the daughter whom she had to leave with some innkeepers thinking that this was for her girl's best interest. When she sings, I know she is destined never to see her child again and I feel the pain of separation so strongly that it rips my heart. I also cry at the policeman's realisation that all this time he had been persecuting a good man.
Some people do not enjoy musicals. I don't know why. It is just a step away from Opera. How better can you express human emotion other than with a song and a dance?
Time to dish up Christmas lunch now.
I hope you are all enjoying yourselves and don't worry about me crying. It's cathartic.
Chocolate 2
As promised to PateInduced, here is a pic of the Christmas log I made yesterday. Doesn't look as fancy as the shop bought ones, but it is my very first attempt. I had a bit of a mishap with the painting. Seems the food colouring one buys at the supermarket is not thick enough to paint with, as can be seen by the two holy leaves. Eventually it dawned on me to mix the colouring with some icing sugar to thicken it so it stays in the design and does not run off.
Happy Christmas, everyone!
Friday 24 December 2010
Christmas
I never thought I'd say this, but I hate Christmas. I've decided this today and there is nothing anyone can say or do to make me change my mind.
I hate how this holiday makes me feel lonely and vulnerable and how I strive to make things perfect when no one really appreciates my efforts. I hate the greediness of kids who think they are entitled to presents when they have done nothing to deserve them. I hate the commercialism and the pressure to do things, to have fun, to be Merry.
This Christmas we will be all alone. My blind friend could not make it down from Scotland after all. It's the weather, you see. So there really isn't anything in Christmas for me. No presents for me. No adult conversation. No hugs. No one to say thank you, this is lovely. No one to listen to music with. No one to share jokes with. Just a kid with its nose glued on the telly who will refuse to eat most of the food I so lovingly prepared and frustrate me every minute of the day.
Don't get me wrong; I love my kid. But I need some me time, an opportunity to relax and be looked after instead of always looking after others. And I want a little escape from reality now and then.
J. wrote to me yesterday: "I wish I could make you happier but I seem to fall at the very first hurdle all the time and I make things worse!!! Sorry, my good intentions do not outweigh my incompetance." This was a reply to my complaint about him contacting another Mistress on my behalf without me even asking him to.
J. ... it is easy to make me happy: just visit! I need human contact more than anything else in the world, don't you know that? Fix the problems in your life and find some time for me. Simple, isn't it? If you would only listen to sound advice... but you get yourself deeper and deeper into trouble because you are not methodical. Nobody is perfect but the clever ones tend to let people who are better at something do it for them instead of trying to do it all themselves.
Can't wait for the holidays to finish so we can get back to our routine.
Apologies for the outburst. I know there are loads of people worse off and I am grateful for what we've got, except for the new carpet stain... and the chesty coughs.
Enjoy tomorrow!
I hate how this holiday makes me feel lonely and vulnerable and how I strive to make things perfect when no one really appreciates my efforts. I hate the greediness of kids who think they are entitled to presents when they have done nothing to deserve them. I hate the commercialism and the pressure to do things, to have fun, to be Merry.
This Christmas we will be all alone. My blind friend could not make it down from Scotland after all. It's the weather, you see. So there really isn't anything in Christmas for me. No presents for me. No adult conversation. No hugs. No one to say thank you, this is lovely. No one to listen to music with. No one to share jokes with. Just a kid with its nose glued on the telly who will refuse to eat most of the food I so lovingly prepared and frustrate me every minute of the day.
Don't get me wrong; I love my kid. But I need some me time, an opportunity to relax and be looked after instead of always looking after others. And I want a little escape from reality now and then.
J. wrote to me yesterday: "I wish I could make you happier but I seem to fall at the very first hurdle all the time and I make things worse!!! Sorry, my good intentions do not outweigh my incompetance." This was a reply to my complaint about him contacting another Mistress on my behalf without me even asking him to.
J. ... it is easy to make me happy: just visit! I need human contact more than anything else in the world, don't you know that? Fix the problems in your life and find some time for me. Simple, isn't it? If you would only listen to sound advice... but you get yourself deeper and deeper into trouble because you are not methodical. Nobody is perfect but the clever ones tend to let people who are better at something do it for them instead of trying to do it all themselves.
Can't wait for the holidays to finish so we can get back to our routine.
Apologies for the outburst. I know there are loads of people worse off and I am grateful for what we've got, except for the new carpet stain... and the chesty coughs.
Enjoy tomorrow!
Tuesday 21 December 2010
Chocolate
I feel lonely and unfulfilled tonight. Cadbury's chocolate must be adulterated because it hasn't corrected my serotonin levels. From now on it will be Thornton's continental selection for guaranteed results.
God, I wish I had someone to talk to instead of pouring my feelings into a blog!
God, I wish I had someone to talk to instead of pouring my feelings into a blog!
Melomakarona
My method of using a sugar syrup instead of a honey syrup worked well. This biscuit is made using oil, sugar, brandy, orange/clementine juice, cinnamon and flour. The syrup is made by boiling caster sugar and a bit of water with the zest of an orange. I can't begin to describe how lovely the aromas are!
Prep, baking and glazing all done in under half an hour. Jamie Oliver eat your heart out!
To Be There for Her
The following story was inspired by a Greek slave's fantasies and it is told from a slave's point of view. Although Sotiris never made the jump from fantasy to reality, he enjoyed reading stories that featured him.
To Be There for Her
© Contessa dei Fiori
‘Sotiriiiii!’
Her voice boomed like a bell piercing the quietness of the house making me jump. Mistress was not happy and I wondered what it was that I had done wrong this time. I rushed to the bedroom and found her in a state of panic.
‘I can’t find my shoes!’ she said frantically going through the wardrobe. ‘What did you do with them? I need my shoes!!’
‘You will find them by the entrance, where you last left them.’ I replied and bit my lip.
‘What?’ She looked at me, her eyes like burning daggers. I realised I had spoken without thought but it was too late to do anything about it. I felt sweet fear rushing through my body as she approached me and grabbed me by my hair.
‘What are you saying, you worthless piece of scum?’
‘I.. I am sorry, Mistress! I – ouch! – didn’t mean to say –‘
‘You didn’t mean to say but you did infer it, didn’t you? You suggested that your Mistress is a lazy bitch who leaves her shoes here and there!’
‘No, no Mistress, you are not a lazy bitch, I did not, please Mistress my HAIR!’ I cried out, overcome by pain.
I loved it when she forced me to my knees by my hair. I loved every minute of pain and humiliation she gave me, as I was her slave and she was my Mistress.
‘So what are you saying now, you filthy piece of shit? Are you saying that I am not a Bitch?’
It was our favourite word play game. No matter what I said, she’d outwit me. She’d lash out on me verbally and sometimes she’d do more than pull my hair. Sometimes she’d kick me and I’d lose my balance and fall on the floor. I ached for her to kick me. I had fantasies of having my genitals mashed to a pulp under her spiky shoes. I want her to kick me mercilessly and spit on me and burn me with cigarettes and use me as her toilet but she is a responsible sadist and most of the times she just uses me and then discards me.
‘Get my shoes, NOW!’ she yelled at me and I scrambled to my feet and rushed out of the bedroom. I grabbed hold of the shoes and run back to her like an obedient dog.
‘Here, Mistress, I got them for you!’
She sat on the edge of the bed and offered a black stockinged foot to me. I kissed her foot lovingly, envying the man that would be performing foot worship on her that night.
‘Don’t do that!’ she said pulling her foot away. ‘You are slobbering all over my clean stockings! Just put the shoes on, all right? Not a difficult task, is it? I am not asking for too much, am I?’ she said sarcastically.
‘No Mistress; sorry, Mistress.’
‘What an idiot! If it weren’t for the goodness of my heart, you’d be out in the streets living rough and offering your ass to strangers to fuck for your drink money!’
I blushed. It was all a fantasy of course as I had a very good job and a good standing in society. Mistress used to threaten to take me to a bridge and whore me to strangers to make me pay for my keep. I have often wondered how I would react if she did more than threaten me… what would it feel to be fucked by a stranger. To this point I had only been invaded by Mistress’s finger and a few small toys. Although I had bought her a strap on, she refused to use it on me, saying that it was too good for the likes of me and that when she decided my ass was ready for a full invasion, she’d get a man to do it properly, possibly a well hung, 6’5’’ black man. The thought always made me shudder with excitement.
‘Well, how do I look?’
She stood towering over me in her high heels, her ankles just showing under the hem of her slinky skirt, a white lacy blouse and a jacket completing her dress. She wore a double set of pearls along with matching pearl earrings. Her hair was pinned up with a couple of strands sensually framing her well made up face.
‘You look stunning, my Lady!’
She leant over me and I could peek inside her blouse, her large breasts bulging from a white demi cup bra.
‘Do I smell nice?’ she asked me with a twinkle in her eyes.
Did she smell nice! She smelled divine, her signature perfume stirring my senses each time I smelled it in a shop, invading my dreams when I was home alone as it lingered on the pillows.
I pressed my legs together to hide my erection and she laughed.
‘I see by your reaction that there is no need for me to ask. Come, we’ll be late!’
We got in the car and I drove her to the Park Lane hotel where she was meeting one of her clients for dinner. I waited in the underground car park, like a good chauffer, thinking about what might be going on in there. My mobile was switched on in case of emergency but it did not ring once. Mistress must have been having a good time. I figured that dinner would be over within two hours max and she was already gone four. Was she in his suite? What were they doing now? How long does it take for a man to worship a Mistress’s legs? Did she allow him further worship? What were his fetishes? Was he dressed in women’s clothing, acting as her maid? Was he lying in a bathtub drinking her champagne? Or were they perhaps making love?
I found the last thought to be very disturbing. I felt very possessive of my Mistress, which did not make sense, as I was just her slave and had no rights on her whatsoever. Still, when we lay in the same bed the nights that we spent together, me listening to her even breathing as she slept, I ached to put my arms around her, to kiss the soft contours of her body and ... yes, why deny it? Go beyond and claim her body for myself. The man in me ached to make love to her, whereas the slave in me felt unworthy of such an honour. But I lived in hope that one day… perhaps… Miracles do happen, don’t they?
I heard female footsteps on the concrete floor and saw Mistress approach the car in my rear view mirror. I hurried to get out and open the door for her. She sat in the rear seat and turned towards me, spreading her legs.
‘Clean me!’ she said simply.
I slipped to my knees in the empty car park and lifted her skirt above her knees. I could smell her excitement and could see the glistening juices on her pubic hair. I pressed my face between her plump thighs and began licking her, experiencing both her and possibly the other man, my hands massaging the soft skin above her black stockings. Oh how sweet my Mistress tasted that night! How arousing her little moans of pleasure were! How proud I was for the honour she did me and how calm I felt that night when she turned round in bed and nested into my waiting arms!
I don’t expect people to understand our relationship and my deep need to serve this Lady. My parents nag me to get married and produce an heir to carry on the family name. I can’t get married. I can’t let anyone get between my Mistress and I. My destiny is to live and serve her. To be her guinea pig, her outlet for life’s frustrations, her protector and most devoted fan. To be there for her…
Monday 20 December 2010
Quiz
Question: What can you make with vanilla, brandy, and rose water?
Answer: Greek Christmas cookies! (a.k.a. kourabiedes)
I used to buy them from a Cypriot grocer, but they are a bit expensive, so I decided to make them myself using a recipe I found on the Internet. I baked a batch this morning and the aroma filled the house. They are so melt-in-the-mouth, so decadently buttery and almondy. Ah! I don't think they'll last the night... much less make it into gift baskets for friends.
Now what shall I make next? Melomakarona? They are nice, but I am not too fond of honey. Would it be a sacrilege to substitute honey for sugar syrup? Hmm... we'll see. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as they say. :)
Answer: Greek Christmas cookies! (a.k.a. kourabiedes)
I used to buy them from a Cypriot grocer, but they are a bit expensive, so I decided to make them myself using a recipe I found on the Internet. I baked a batch this morning and the aroma filled the house. They are so melt-in-the-mouth, so decadently buttery and almondy. Ah! I don't think they'll last the night... much less make it into gift baskets for friends.
Now what shall I make next? Melomakarona? They are nice, but I am not too fond of honey. Would it be a sacrilege to substitute honey for sugar syrup? Hmm... we'll see. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as they say. :)
Sunday 19 December 2010
Frustration. Help!
I really can't keep up with technology and I do not understand Blogger. I want to move the stories to a separate tab so that only day-to-day thoughts are left in the home page. But despite reading the Help section, I cannot figure out the process. Maybe I am tired and my brain is unable to process information. It is 1.48 am after all.
I miss Geocities. Creating a website was so simple those days and you had full control of it. I tried other free hosting providers, but they seemed over complicated and they wanted to impose their templates.
Can anyone please help me sort things out?
I miss Geocities. Creating a website was so simple those days and you had full control of it. I tried other free hosting providers, but they seemed over complicated and they wanted to impose their templates.
Can anyone please help me sort things out?
Saturday 18 December 2010
Mercy! he cried
This is a journal entry from 2004 when I travelled to Athens, Greece to conduct a professional session with a Greek masochist. I made a few alterations to the story to make it easier to read. I hope you will enjoy it.
I tied him up on a chair with the vibrator attached to his cock. I sat on the chair opposite with my knees apart and watched him struggle as the vibrator did its work. I placed my hand on my crotch and felt the wetness seep through the fine material of my G-string. Damn you! I cursed and pulled my hand away. As usual, the mere act of controlling a man had made my juices flow. The guy’s eyes were observing my every move till suddenly they closed tight as he gave in to his silent orgasm.
Mercy! He cried
© Contessa dei Fiori, 2004
I met this client recently who had been in contact with me for quite some time. He kept saying how experienced he was and how hard he liked to play. Darn! I thought. If he likes to play as hard as he claims, then my toys will be too soft for him. So off we went to a sex shop to buy him some more appropriate toys.
Ever been to a Greek sex shop? It is an experience on its own! This particular one near Omonia Square was run by two skinny widows with grey hair and faces like dried up raisins. The store was packed solid with dildoes and vibrators of every conceivable size, lots of DVDs/videos piled up high on the floor, a small amount of sexy lingerie and a limited array of S/M tools. It was not like Soho, but it would have to do.
I selected a hard leather flogger with a dildo handle. For some obscure reason the ladies had covered the dildo with a condom but by the time I realised what I was touching, my hand was already smeared with lubricant. I did the only sensible thing: I wiped it on my client’s sleeve.
Slave wanted a vibrator as well, but for some reason all vibrator sets were sold without their batteries. Lady told me the batteries are no good anyway as they wear out with time. 'Oh that doesn't say much about your stock movement!' I commented lightly, but my humour was lost on the sour faced woman.
I threw some pink Thai beads on the pile after discussing the pros and cons of moulded beads vs. beads on a string with the lady. Slave was red as a beetroot and kept staring at the points of his shoes from a safe distance. I think he found the humiliation aspect of his fantasy hard to swallow. Made him pay and we were at the door when the lady called after us. 'Don't you want to take your purchases?'
Somehow we got to his place and I was shocked to be met by piles of books and documents strewn all over the place. He is an academic, you see, and these types are not known for their organisational skills. I needed a wee rather badly, but his bathroom was tiny with the toilet stuck in a corner between the bathtub and the wall. I hate tight spaces so I ordered him to strip and lie down on the floor so I could wee on him.
'But Mistress, what about your shoes?' he asked staring at my lovely stiletto heels with abject adoration. 'Don't worry, if they get spilled on, you'll just have to lick them clean,' I replied as I hiked my skirt up and pulled my underwear aside. With a sigh of relief I released an endless stream of hot urine over him. It pooled into the natural crevices of his body like his bellybutton and the groove in his chest and the rest of it trickled down the floor and flowed towards his head.
‘Did you enjoy that Mistress?’ he enquired and I laughed. ‘Of course I did, you silly sausage, why else would I do it?’ I responded and wiped my right shoe on his calf as there was a suspicion of a droplet of pee on it.
The deed done, I went to set up whilst he had the task of disinfecting the bathroom floor and purifying himself.
‘Five minutes!’ I shouted from the lounge as I pushed some books away to make space for my toys.
‘There is no hot water in the tank!’ his voice responded from inside the bathroom.
‘Too bad, you still need to shower!’
I struggled to get into the black PVC catsuit that he had bought me from my wish list. It hugged my curves snugly.
He appeared in front of me in all his hairy naked splendour, his beer belly nearly hiding his erection from view. His hair was matted with water and he smelled of shower gel.
The session went under way with a few hiccups. First he had forgotten to lock the front door and was worried that someone might just walk in. As he was tied down with his hands behind his back, I went to lock the door. I began using the paddle on him, but he became worried the neighbours would hear us, so I went and put some music on. Then he realised he had left the water heater on and it might overheat and explode. I switched it off from the mains. It was impossible to concentrate with such frequent interruptions!
I paddled him to vent my frustration, but the guy cried mercy, so I stopped as pre-agreed.
Not knowing what to do with him, I ordered him to undo the zipper of my catsuit to reveal my buttocks and asked him to read my G-string. He did not speak English well and had trouble doing it. Eventually he managed to make out the words Kiss Me. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ I said impatiently. He buried his face into my plentiful behind and planted respectful little kisses all over its surface.
The interval over, it was time to get serious again and flog him. I began gently, merely caressing his back with the long leather strands. He moaned and wiggled. The lead on his collar and his wrists were attached to a hook on the door frame and he couldn't escape. He was wearing cloverleaf nipple clamps attached to a ring around his genitals. Every slight movement he made was sheer torture for him.
I flogged him with a bit more intensity. I was getting hot and excited. He wriggled more and moaned louder. Then he cried out: ‘Mercy, Mistress!’
‘Mercy?’ I enquired in disbelief, ‘you the seasoned masochist and you beg for mercy with a mere lick of the flogger?’
‘Please Mistress, Mercy!’ he repeated. I stopped.
I grabbed his hair and forced him to look at me. I was very disappointed. I lectured him for misbehaviour, for lying to me and claiming to be more experienced and resilient that he was. ‘You are robbing me of my pleasure!’ I complained.
‘Please, Mistress, tell me how else I may please you,’ he begged.
I sat on the chair and unzipped my catsuit. It was too hot and I was sweating in it. I let him stew for a bit before releasing him from the hook. ‘You are such a pathetic whore,’ I told him. ‘Come suck my cock!’ I trapped the dildo part of the flogger between my knees and taught him how to give head to an imaginary cock sometimes holding his face in my hands and guiding him down on the dildo and other times pulling him back by the hair when he got over enthusiastic. I could tell he was being turned on by his humiliation, but I did not like him stealing glances of my flesh through the open catsuit, so I slapped his face hard and took him by surprise.
‘Don’t be so insolent!’ I scolded him. ‘Get me the Thai beads!’
He walked on all fours and fetched them in his mouth. He knew I had disinfected them carefully prior to play. Out came the glove and lubricant from my play bag. He laid over my knee as I sought out his orifice. He was very tight, but I suspected he was playing the virgin. I smacked his buttocks and told him off. I teased his anus with my finger and slid the beads in, one by one, but with great difficulty as he kept fighting me all the way.
‘You are such a worthless slave! You are doing everything in your power to defy me and rob me of my pleasure’ I complained.
‘Sorry, Mistress,’ he responded. I felt tempted to push the beads in without concern for his comfort, but I recalled the Hippocratic Oath (the closest to a code of behaviour for Mistresses) and restrained myself.
Eventually I ran out of ideas. Everything he had asked for (intense pain, anal play and bondage) seemed to cause him distress instead of pleasure. I removed my catsuit and remained in my black balcony bra and red and black G-string. He nearly fainted with excitement.
‘May I please please you, Mistress?’ he asked.
I gave a brief sarcastic laugh. ‘Please me? You’ve done everything in your power to displease me so far!’
He indicated towards my crotch, insinuating he could perform oral worship on me.
‘You want it?’ I asked him softly with an alluring smile on my face.
He placed his hands on my hips and nodded with enthusiasm. ‘Yes, please!’
‘Well, you are not having it!’ I retorted cruelly and kicked him back.
I tied him up on a chair with the vibrator attached to his cock. I sat on the chair opposite with my knees apart and watched him struggle as the vibrator did its work. I placed my hand on my crotch and felt the wetness seep through the fine material of my G-string. Damn you! I cursed and pulled my hand away. As usual, the mere act of controlling a man had made my juices flow. The guy’s eyes were observing my every move till suddenly they closed tight as he gave in to his silent orgasm.
‘Clean up that mess!’ I ordered him and retired to the bathroom to get cleaned and dressed.
………..
I went home that night wondering what had gone wrong in the scene. This man had asked for severe sadism and backed away as soon as I touched him. He told me he had enjoyed the session, but I was not happy about it. Later on we chatted on the internet and he made the following shocking revelation:
‘Mistress, why did you listen to me when I cried mercy? I wanted you to go on despite my protestations!’
I tried to explain to him that I am not an abuser; that I abide by the safe, sane and CONSENSUAL adage, but it was wasted on him. Same as the importance of a safe word had been wasted on him.
Can’t help wondering though how another, perhaps more seasoned, Mistress would have handled this situation…. Would she have given him what he wanted, i.e. abuse, or chosen not to complete the session?
........
The guy remained in touch and we met a couple more times socially. We both came to the realisation that for him the fantasy of submitting to a cruel sadistic Mistress was enough; he didn't need the reality. He later got his kicks out of seeing his photographs on my website and reading about himself.
Even though the years have passed, I still remember him every time I look at my profile picture. I remember all of my men and it is these memories that keep me warm inside. You'd think that a Mistress would be important to subsm but the truth is they were important to me. Every single one of them!
Monday 13 December 2010
You little hussy!
Seems I am getting a bit of reputation as a tease, and not unjustly. I get a huge buzz out of tease and denial, almost as much as with being in control (or losing control; I am not fussy.)
A couple of years ago I had this date with a musician. By sheer coincidence my friend R. came to visit me that same afternoon, so I got him to help me get into my red lacy basque and black nylon stockings. Then the phone rang. It was the musician trying to locate my home. When R. realised what was happening, he cried: 'You little hussy! You got me to come all the way here to get you ready for another man!'
Despite his protestations, R. was intrigued; I could see it in his eyes.
The two men met at the door and regarded each other with suspicion like two animals vying for the alpha spot. I think the musician felt a bit intimidated by R. because he behaved impeccably all evening and did not even try to kiss me. Perhaps he thought R. was my man and due to come back any time - who knows!
Another time, another house. I am waiting for a stranger to come give me a massage and R. is there for safety. Then the guy arrives with his lotions and potions and bags of enthusiasm. We have tea and R. grills him. The man seems friendly but is not too bright. We go upstairs and I get on the bed. R. is leaning against the bedroom door watching this stranger undress me slowly . The stranger's hands are trembling. I feel the mattress give way as he climbs over my legs; oil is being poured on my back. Then the man's hands begin kneading my flesh. I am putty in his hands. I moan ever so reservedly. I don't want to scare my masseur with my intense reactions to his touch. When the guy's hands reach between my thighs, R. retires downstairs. Later on he reveals to me that he got turned on but was unsure of what to do. 'Silly, boy!' I admonish him, 'you should have listened to Mother Nature and taken part...'
And a last anecdote from my time with R. He's visiting me, I am very horny, we start petting and we end up with his hand inside me. Then the doorbell rings. It's a delivery. R. quickly withdraws, wipes his hand on some tissues and opens the door to sign for the package. Then proceeds to shake the guy's hand being all polite, whilst I am choking on the sofa with suppressed laughter.
A couple of years ago I had this date with a musician. By sheer coincidence my friend R. came to visit me that same afternoon, so I got him to help me get into my red lacy basque and black nylon stockings. Then the phone rang. It was the musician trying to locate my home. When R. realised what was happening, he cried: 'You little hussy! You got me to come all the way here to get you ready for another man!'
Despite his protestations, R. was intrigued; I could see it in his eyes.
The two men met at the door and regarded each other with suspicion like two animals vying for the alpha spot. I think the musician felt a bit intimidated by R. because he behaved impeccably all evening and did not even try to kiss me. Perhaps he thought R. was my man and due to come back any time - who knows!
Another time, another house. I am waiting for a stranger to come give me a massage and R. is there for safety. Then the guy arrives with his lotions and potions and bags of enthusiasm. We have tea and R. grills him. The man seems friendly but is not too bright. We go upstairs and I get on the bed. R. is leaning against the bedroom door watching this stranger undress me slowly . The stranger's hands are trembling. I feel the mattress give way as he climbs over my legs; oil is being poured on my back. Then the man's hands begin kneading my flesh. I am putty in his hands. I moan ever so reservedly. I don't want to scare my masseur with my intense reactions to his touch. When the guy's hands reach between my thighs, R. retires downstairs. Later on he reveals to me that he got turned on but was unsure of what to do. 'Silly, boy!' I admonish him, 'you should have listened to Mother Nature and taken part...'
And a last anecdote from my time with R. He's visiting me, I am very horny, we start petting and we end up with his hand inside me. Then the doorbell rings. It's a delivery. R. quickly withdraws, wipes his hand on some tissues and opens the door to sign for the package. Then proceeds to shake the guy's hand being all polite, whilst I am choking on the sofa with suppressed laughter.
Sunday 12 December 2010
Shameless copycats!
Someone mentioned there was a woman going around calling herself the Countess and they asked if this was me because her website sounded a lot like mine did when it was operational. So finally I found the time to do a bit of research and found this Essex Mistress who has copied my alternative persona:
My story is late 17th century; her story is 18th century.
I am an Italian countess; she is a French countess.
I ended up in London because of persecution; she did the same.
I wrote: "Leave the mundanities of real life behind you and follow me to my private inner space where you can be whatever you have always wanted to be, without shame, without remorse*. " (*in updated version of my website, the word was changed to 'fear'.)
She says: "Escape the drudge and stress of your world and come into mine. Leave your worries behind you, come and PLAY!"
Well, I should feel flattered. This is person no. 2 drawing their inspiration from my writings. The other one was a Greek-American escort who used my text word for word on her website. Luckily they don't use my photographs. Nobody likes to be a fatty. LOL
Still, despite the essence being similar, there is a big difference between the two websites: quality. Connoisseurs will always be able to tell the true original and that is enough for me.
My story is late 17th century; her story is 18th century.
I am an Italian countess; she is a French countess.
I ended up in London because of persecution; she did the same.
I wrote: "Leave the mundanities of real life behind you and follow me to my private inner space where you can be whatever you have always wanted to be, without shame, without remorse*. " (*in updated version of my website, the word was changed to 'fear'.)
She says: "Escape the drudge and stress of your world and come into mine. Leave your worries behind you, come and PLAY!"
Well, I should feel flattered. This is person no. 2 drawing their inspiration from my writings. The other one was a Greek-American escort who used my text word for word on her website. Luckily they don't use my photographs. Nobody likes to be a fatty. LOL
Still, despite the essence being similar, there is a big difference between the two websites: quality. Connoisseurs will always be able to tell the true original and that is enough for me.
Wednesday 8 December 2010
What I do
Contrary to popular belief, I do not spend my days dressed in fetish clothing and dominating men. I have other interests in life, like cooking and baking or doing craft.
As we are coming up to Christmas, I feel the need to try out new ideas. I am currently working on a stuffing for the Christmas pork, for example, juggling cranberries, apricots, dates, and a few more secret ingredients. Whilst the food is cooking, I am doing Christmas crafts to give to friends. There is not one surface free at home these days, but I am happy. I am even thinking of knitting a scarf over the holidays. How kinky is that!
I like activities that are relaxing and often find myself humming to carols that are playing in my head, or to music playing on Classic FM.
As we are coming up to Christmas, I feel the need to try out new ideas. I am currently working on a stuffing for the Christmas pork, for example, juggling cranberries, apricots, dates, and a few more secret ingredients. Whilst the food is cooking, I am doing Christmas crafts to give to friends. There is not one surface free at home these days, but I am happy. I am even thinking of knitting a scarf over the holidays. How kinky is that!
I like activities that are relaxing and often find myself humming to carols that are playing in my head, or to music playing on Classic FM.
Monday 6 December 2010
December LFF
I've just realised this Sunday is the Christmas LFF. It's been years since I last went to it and I am wondering what it is like nowadays. I hear they have a play area in the venue.
I want a special someone to ask me to it. I want him to turn to me and say 'You know, Contessa? I think you need this!' and then to give me a passionate kiss that will make my stomach somersault and my toes curl with pleasure.
Who says that dominant women don't need to be surprised once in a while? It's Christmas, after all. Everything is possible. And the great thing about this is that if one makes the nice list, he'll be in heaven; if he makes the naughty list, he'll have lots of exciting tortures to look forward to in the New Year. It's a win-win scenario, no?
Back into my dream world...
I want a special someone to ask me to it. I want him to turn to me and say 'You know, Contessa? I think you need this!' and then to give me a passionate kiss that will make my stomach somersault and my toes curl with pleasure.
Who says that dominant women don't need to be surprised once in a while? It's Christmas, after all. Everything is possible. And the great thing about this is that if one makes the nice list, he'll be in heaven; if he makes the naughty list, he'll have lots of exciting tortures to look forward to in the New Year. It's a win-win scenario, no?
Back into my dream world...
On a positive note
I have invited an old friend to spend the holidays with us. He is going through separation and I did not want him to be all alone for the festive season. He said he will try to come. He has gone blind since the last time we met and has some mobility problems.
This friend I am talking about was the first one to worship me as a Goddess and show me that not all men were cruel-hearted bastards. I recall the day he bought me my first pair of fetish shoes; how he and the salesperson were fighting over who would fit the shoes on my feet. It was such a novel situation to find myself in and I thoroughly enjoyed it! I have both tears and a smile on my face as I am remembering this.
I recently sent him a copy of my book that is yet to be published. He is mentioned in it a few times and I was interested in his feedback. Would he be upset or flattered? Turns out he was able to give me some really good and honest feedback. He described my book as a 'psychological drama' with 'erotic fiction' and a 'diary' all in one. Gosh, I've got so much editing to do! As you can imagine, when a subject is very personal, it is really hard to divorce yourself from it and treat it objectively.
Anyway, all is well when you have friends who care and who allow you to care back for them :)
This friend I am talking about was the first one to worship me as a Goddess and show me that not all men were cruel-hearted bastards. I recall the day he bought me my first pair of fetish shoes; how he and the salesperson were fighting over who would fit the shoes on my feet. It was such a novel situation to find myself in and I thoroughly enjoyed it! I have both tears and a smile on my face as I am remembering this.
I recently sent him a copy of my book that is yet to be published. He is mentioned in it a few times and I was interested in his feedback. Would he be upset or flattered? Turns out he was able to give me some really good and honest feedback. He described my book as a 'psychological drama' with 'erotic fiction' and a 'diary' all in one. Gosh, I've got so much editing to do! As you can imagine, when a subject is very personal, it is really hard to divorce yourself from it and treat it objectively.
Anyway, all is well when you have friends who care and who allow you to care back for them :)
Saturday 4 December 2010
Normal service will resume shortly
Today was the Christmas Fair of the local school and my child was going to be singing with the choir. J. came to support us - he promised he would, and he did. Bless! But the day ended up with tears and frustration.
First of all, I don't know about you, but when I ask for a Coke, or Pepsi, or Sprite or 7Up, I mean just that. Not a Diet Coke or other sugarfree drink. I got issues with sweeteners, alright? And I am not dumb to say I want one thing when I want another, so please subs out there, don't try to second-guess me, just open up your ears and listen to what I am saying. I am very clear.
After going back and forth a few times, J. brought me some kind of nameless lemonade which was of course warm. How can a person drink a warm soft drink? I was angry at the organisers for not putting drinks in the fridge from the night before. Anyway...
The time for the choir came, but it was so disorganised that most people did not realise there were children singing in a corner of the gym. The choir Mistress did not arrange the kids according to height with the result that the little ones were buried behind the older children. My child who lacks confidence anyway virtually disappeared. Could not take a photo or video to remember the day. This of course reminded me of all the wasted years that I was struggling with health and other problems and, although I should not let it bother me, it hurts! I thought of the dad/slave who has not been around much and blamed him for his child's lack of confidence - there is only so much I can teach our offspring and real confidence springs from having two loving parents around you.
I feel so down. Christmas is almost upon us and everyone will be celebrating with their families and friends, but we'll be all alone. Do you reckon if I put out a big enough stocking, Santa will fit a nice man in it for me? Someone who will want me for me and not for the kinky stuff I can do to him? Someone who will embrace my child and fill in that huge gap?
First of all, I don't know about you, but when I ask for a Coke, or Pepsi, or Sprite or 7Up, I mean just that. Not a Diet Coke or other sugarfree drink. I got issues with sweeteners, alright? And I am not dumb to say I want one thing when I want another, so please subs out there, don't try to second-guess me, just open up your ears and listen to what I am saying. I am very clear.
After going back and forth a few times, J. brought me some kind of nameless lemonade which was of course warm. How can a person drink a warm soft drink? I was angry at the organisers for not putting drinks in the fridge from the night before. Anyway...
The time for the choir came, but it was so disorganised that most people did not realise there were children singing in a corner of the gym. The choir Mistress did not arrange the kids according to height with the result that the little ones were buried behind the older children. My child who lacks confidence anyway virtually disappeared. Could not take a photo or video to remember the day. This of course reminded me of all the wasted years that I was struggling with health and other problems and, although I should not let it bother me, it hurts! I thought of the dad/slave who has not been around much and blamed him for his child's lack of confidence - there is only so much I can teach our offspring and real confidence springs from having two loving parents around you.
I feel so down. Christmas is almost upon us and everyone will be celebrating with their families and friends, but we'll be all alone. Do you reckon if I put out a big enough stocking, Santa will fit a nice man in it for me? Someone who will want me for me and not for the kinky stuff I can do to him? Someone who will embrace my child and fill in that huge gap?
Wednesday 1 December 2010
Winter cabin
It was just a little wooden cabin bursting through the whiteness of the landscape with its blue walls, white windows, and red front door. Inside it was decorated sparsely with reclaimed furniture that had been stripped and white-washed. It was strange how in the country that had given birth to IKEA there was not a single flat pack in sight.
We stomped our feet on the wooden decking to dislodge the snow from our boots and walked into the living room. It was cold and smelled of emptiness, but the stove in the far side of the room was a promising sight.
'Right, you go get some logs,' I instructed my slave as he was helping me remove my boots, 'whilst I pack the groceries away.' I went into the little kitchen with its rustic cabinets lined with white and red check vinyl and watched him chop some logs in the back yard to make some kindling. I would have loved for it to be summer and for him to be doing this job half naked, sweat running down his torso and back, but we were in the middle of winter and it was no use longing for what you could not have.
I packed the percolator with ground coffee and put it on the fire. Soon it was bubbling away, filling the top part with aromatic coffee.
'I started the fire - lucky the wood hadn't been wet,' slave commented. I passed him an enamelled mug of hot coffee whilst I added a heaped spoonful of sugar and lots of milk in mine. We had brought some pies with us and I put them on top of the stove to warm them up. Slave pulled two cushions off the sofa and set them close to the stove. Normally I don't like sitting on floors (I'd rather sit on slaves) but today I made an exception. He supported my back with his body and closed his arms around me in a loving embrace.
'This is nice,' I purred. 'A whole two days to ourselves!'
'Mmm, two days of uninterrupted play!' he agreed.
'I have so many plans for you, my dear,' I smiled.
'Do I get to hear them?'
'Pass me a pie first. A hungry Mistress is a useless Mistress.'
I ate in silence, deep in my thoughts. My brain was full of practicalities, like where to find some clean bedsheets, warm them up (maybe there was an iron in the cottage?) get the bed made, heat water for the shower... His brain was full of D/s images; I could tell by the way his fingers were massaging the fleshy bits on my sides and by something hard rubbing against my back.
'Why are you not eating your pie?' I asked.
'I'll eat it in a while,' he replied.
'Too late! I am having it!' I laughed and grabbed it from the top of the stove. He sighed, but I knew he loved the idea of Mistress eating up all the food whilst he starved.
'Is it nice, Mistress?' he enquired.
'Mmm, yes, it's lovely, better than mine. I don't know why your food always tastes better than mine. Lucky you don't need much food to survive. I think these crumbs are enough for you,' I said between mouthfuls and dusted the crumbs onto the floor.
'Thank you, Mistress,' he said with a smile and bent down to lick the crumbs off the floor.
'Who needs a hoover when one has a good slave like you, eh?' I joked.
We went upstairs and he showed me where the linen was kept and got the ironing board out for me then stood aside and watched whilst I got to grips with the controls of the iron.
'What! Aren't you even going to offer to do the ironing? What a lazy slave you are!' I chided him.
'But, Mistress, you women are much better at everything,' he responded cheekily.
'I'll show you what we are best at, you nasty little so and so!'
I pulled his pullover up together with his blouse and T-shirt and turned everything over behind his head so that his clothes were still trapped around his shoulders. I scratched his hairy torso with my fingernails and pinched his nipples causing his knees to buckle. I unzipped his jeans and pulled them to his knees together with his long johns. His penis stood to attention.
'Ah you impertinent boy! How dare you threaten your Mistress with a weapon like this?' I slapped his cock and he smiled with satisfaction. 'This won't do. This won't do at all,' I mumbled as I looked through my toy bag and pulled out a studded leather parachute. I fastened it around the base of his cock and brought the chains with the nipple clamps to his chest. 'Brace yourself, this is going to hurt,' I warned him. He took a sharp breath as the claws of the clamp shut around his left nipple. The process was repeated with his right nipple. The chain was short so he was slouching a bit to ease the pressure. But I was not having any of this.
'Straighten your back! Put your arms up and touch the sides of the doorway,' I ordered him. He complied and winced as both his nipples and genitals experienced the pull. I smiled and turned the iron on. The bedsheets just needed a bit of warming up to take the damp away. I kept an eye on him whilst I ironed, and tut-tutted each time he slacked and slouched. 'I don't care if you get pins and needles,' I said softly, 'you are going to stay in that position till I say you can move. You have to learn to listen to your Mistress, otherwise she will be very displeased and you'll find yourself sleeping in the store room instead of in her arms.'
I made the bed and then ordered him to present himself naked to me. He pulled his clothes off and set them neatly on a wicker chair whilst returning the torture implements on the dresser. 'You are a good slave,' I said as he was kneeling on the floor with his face pressed against my socks inhaling the intoxicating aroma of sweat, rubber and dust that they gave off. I made him lie in the bed then wrapped the duvet tightly around him before lying on top of him, thus imprisoning him completely. He moaned with pleasure.
'Do you like being squashed?' I asked him.
'Oh, yes, Mistress! oh yes!' he panted.
'Is it nice and safe in there?' He just groaned. 'You'd better not be masturbating under the bedsheets,' I warned him, 'or you'll be sleeping on the wet spot.'
'Too late!' came a breathless response.
'Bad boy!' I scolded him, 'bad, bad boy!'
Of course he knew that a punishment would ensue. But this punishment would be all to my benefit: a very long massage after which I would take a nap whilst he got on with preparing dinner. Well, he had had his fun, now it was time for me to have mine!
We stomped our feet on the wooden decking to dislodge the snow from our boots and walked into the living room. It was cold and smelled of emptiness, but the stove in the far side of the room was a promising sight.
'Right, you go get some logs,' I instructed my slave as he was helping me remove my boots, 'whilst I pack the groceries away.' I went into the little kitchen with its rustic cabinets lined with white and red check vinyl and watched him chop some logs in the back yard to make some kindling. I would have loved for it to be summer and for him to be doing this job half naked, sweat running down his torso and back, but we were in the middle of winter and it was no use longing for what you could not have.
I packed the percolator with ground coffee and put it on the fire. Soon it was bubbling away, filling the top part with aromatic coffee.
'I started the fire - lucky the wood hadn't been wet,' slave commented. I passed him an enamelled mug of hot coffee whilst I added a heaped spoonful of sugar and lots of milk in mine. We had brought some pies with us and I put them on top of the stove to warm them up. Slave pulled two cushions off the sofa and set them close to the stove. Normally I don't like sitting on floors (I'd rather sit on slaves) but today I made an exception. He supported my back with his body and closed his arms around me in a loving embrace.
'This is nice,' I purred. 'A whole two days to ourselves!'
'Mmm, two days of uninterrupted play!' he agreed.
'I have so many plans for you, my dear,' I smiled.
'Do I get to hear them?'
'Pass me a pie first. A hungry Mistress is a useless Mistress.'
I ate in silence, deep in my thoughts. My brain was full of practicalities, like where to find some clean bedsheets, warm them up (maybe there was an iron in the cottage?) get the bed made, heat water for the shower... His brain was full of D/s images; I could tell by the way his fingers were massaging the fleshy bits on my sides and by something hard rubbing against my back.
'Why are you not eating your pie?' I asked.
'I'll eat it in a while,' he replied.
'Too late! I am having it!' I laughed and grabbed it from the top of the stove. He sighed, but I knew he loved the idea of Mistress eating up all the food whilst he starved.
'Is it nice, Mistress?' he enquired.
'Mmm, yes, it's lovely, better than mine. I don't know why your food always tastes better than mine. Lucky you don't need much food to survive. I think these crumbs are enough for you,' I said between mouthfuls and dusted the crumbs onto the floor.
'Thank you, Mistress,' he said with a smile and bent down to lick the crumbs off the floor.
'Who needs a hoover when one has a good slave like you, eh?' I joked.
We went upstairs and he showed me where the linen was kept and got the ironing board out for me then stood aside and watched whilst I got to grips with the controls of the iron.
'What! Aren't you even going to offer to do the ironing? What a lazy slave you are!' I chided him.
'But, Mistress, you women are much better at everything,' he responded cheekily.
'I'll show you what we are best at, you nasty little so and so!'
I pulled his pullover up together with his blouse and T-shirt and turned everything over behind his head so that his clothes were still trapped around his shoulders. I scratched his hairy torso with my fingernails and pinched his nipples causing his knees to buckle. I unzipped his jeans and pulled them to his knees together with his long johns. His penis stood to attention.
'Ah you impertinent boy! How dare you threaten your Mistress with a weapon like this?' I slapped his cock and he smiled with satisfaction. 'This won't do. This won't do at all,' I mumbled as I looked through my toy bag and pulled out a studded leather parachute. I fastened it around the base of his cock and brought the chains with the nipple clamps to his chest. 'Brace yourself, this is going to hurt,' I warned him. He took a sharp breath as the claws of the clamp shut around his left nipple. The process was repeated with his right nipple. The chain was short so he was slouching a bit to ease the pressure. But I was not having any of this.
'Straighten your back! Put your arms up and touch the sides of the doorway,' I ordered him. He complied and winced as both his nipples and genitals experienced the pull. I smiled and turned the iron on. The bedsheets just needed a bit of warming up to take the damp away. I kept an eye on him whilst I ironed, and tut-tutted each time he slacked and slouched. 'I don't care if you get pins and needles,' I said softly, 'you are going to stay in that position till I say you can move. You have to learn to listen to your Mistress, otherwise she will be very displeased and you'll find yourself sleeping in the store room instead of in her arms.'
I made the bed and then ordered him to present himself naked to me. He pulled his clothes off and set them neatly on a wicker chair whilst returning the torture implements on the dresser. 'You are a good slave,' I said as he was kneeling on the floor with his face pressed against my socks inhaling the intoxicating aroma of sweat, rubber and dust that they gave off. I made him lie in the bed then wrapped the duvet tightly around him before lying on top of him, thus imprisoning him completely. He moaned with pleasure.
'Do you like being squashed?' I asked him.
'Oh, yes, Mistress! oh yes!' he panted.
'Is it nice and safe in there?' He just groaned. 'You'd better not be masturbating under the bedsheets,' I warned him, 'or you'll be sleeping on the wet spot.'
'Too late!' came a breathless response.
'Bad boy!' I scolded him, 'bad, bad boy!'
Of course he knew that a punishment would ensue. But this punishment would be all to my benefit: a very long massage after which I would take a nap whilst he got on with preparing dinner. Well, he had had his fun, now it was time for me to have mine!
Tuesday 30 November 2010
Rant about Body Scanners
I had an option to travel this Christmas and it would have been better than staying home alone BUT I could not face the ordeal of travel.
First of all, you got to report early because of increased security measures and of course airports see more traffic than usual. The pat down does not bother me because the officers here explain what they are going to do and why and do it in the most professional way without causing me offence.
Once you've cleared security, time to repair yourself with a nice breakfast (or meal) but oh no! you can't cut the dried bacon and hard sausages with that plastic knife. The server explains they can't use real cutlery because of security risks... and I am wondering what damage can a food knife cause when it has a rounded edge.
So you give up on the idea of eating and you plan to have some biscuits with you and a bottle of water (this way you save on the horrendous markup of airport outlets.) But oh no, you are not allowed to pass your water through - it may be bomb material! But you are welcome to buy a nearly £2 bottle from the shop past security. I ask myself... can a terrorist not make a water delivery to the shops with some doctored bottles amongst the shrink wrapped ones on the palette? Of course they can! But it helps the economy if they force you to buy things after security.
Then you have to squeeze into tiny spaces they call seats and eat your microwave meal on your chest. (We are talking business class here, eh? BA actually served micro meals out of a black container that they had to peel the plastic off in a recent flight, I kid you not.)
You can't hydrate your hands or face because lotions and potions are limited - forget about perfume, toothpaste, etc. It is too much hassle trying to squeeze things into little containers and being questioned what they are. If you are lucky, you might find some lotion in the business class torture chamber which they call W.C., but more likely they wouldn't have restocked it because of a strike or another.
Of course if it is chilly (and it usually is this time of year) and you've managed to secure one of the few blankets, you are stripped from it one hour before landing because you might be preparing a bomb under its cover!
Then you arrive at your destination without mishaps, apart from that sauce that landed on your blouse and the bruises you got trying to negotiate the seat and aisle space. And you have to wait for ages for your little suitcase to arrive on the conveyor belt because you were not allowed to take it on board as you have a nail file, a pair of nail clippers, a pair of cuticle scissors, and that thing you use to pluck your eyebrows plus numerous bottles of essential liquids/creams that you can't live without and you don't want to have to buy locally and then discard barely used.
But you are safe.
In the meantime, somewhere around the world, somewhere where the average person wouldn't be able to pinpoint on an unmarked map, somebody is dying because of our countries' politics. A soldier or a civilian, it doesn't matter. It is a human life ended before its time. But hey, we are safe! Just close your eyes, cover your ears and sing a tune. No need to fight for civil liberties, no need to question the establishment.
Just walk through that body scanner. It is for your own good. Trust the people you have not voted to represent you wisely. How dare you suggest it is for the scanner manufacturer's benefit and for the politicians who approved its use? Preposterous!
First of all, you got to report early because of increased security measures and of course airports see more traffic than usual. The pat down does not bother me because the officers here explain what they are going to do and why and do it in the most professional way without causing me offence.
Once you've cleared security, time to repair yourself with a nice breakfast (or meal) but oh no! you can't cut the dried bacon and hard sausages with that plastic knife. The server explains they can't use real cutlery because of security risks... and I am wondering what damage can a food knife cause when it has a rounded edge.
So you give up on the idea of eating and you plan to have some biscuits with you and a bottle of water (this way you save on the horrendous markup of airport outlets.) But oh no, you are not allowed to pass your water through - it may be bomb material! But you are welcome to buy a nearly £2 bottle from the shop past security. I ask myself... can a terrorist not make a water delivery to the shops with some doctored bottles amongst the shrink wrapped ones on the palette? Of course they can! But it helps the economy if they force you to buy things after security.
Then you have to squeeze into tiny spaces they call seats and eat your microwave meal on your chest. (We are talking business class here, eh? BA actually served micro meals out of a black container that they had to peel the plastic off in a recent flight, I kid you not.)
You can't hydrate your hands or face because lotions and potions are limited - forget about perfume, toothpaste, etc. It is too much hassle trying to squeeze things into little containers and being questioned what they are. If you are lucky, you might find some lotion in the business class torture chamber which they call W.C., but more likely they wouldn't have restocked it because of a strike or another.
Of course if it is chilly (and it usually is this time of year) and you've managed to secure one of the few blankets, you are stripped from it one hour before landing because you might be preparing a bomb under its cover!
Then you arrive at your destination without mishaps, apart from that sauce that landed on your blouse and the bruises you got trying to negotiate the seat and aisle space. And you have to wait for ages for your little suitcase to arrive on the conveyor belt because you were not allowed to take it on board as you have a nail file, a pair of nail clippers, a pair of cuticle scissors, and that thing you use to pluck your eyebrows plus numerous bottles of essential liquids/creams that you can't live without and you don't want to have to buy locally and then discard barely used.
But you are safe.
In the meantime, somewhere around the world, somewhere where the average person wouldn't be able to pinpoint on an unmarked map, somebody is dying because of our countries' politics. A soldier or a civilian, it doesn't matter. It is a human life ended before its time. But hey, we are safe! Just close your eyes, cover your ears and sing a tune. No need to fight for civil liberties, no need to question the establishment.
Just walk through that body scanner. It is for your own good. Trust the people you have not voted to represent you wisely. How dare you suggest it is for the scanner manufacturer's benefit and for the politicians who approved its use? Preposterous!
Sunday 28 November 2010
Stats and Comments
Either I have a lot of fans in Tanzania, or a very dedicated fan who keeps visiting my blog.
What I cannot understand is why with so many hits no one put a comment on, just to say 'hi' or something nice anyway? I'd love to hear where people are from and what they have thought of the stories/anecdotes of my life. I sometimes feel like a castaway* floating on a lifeboat with ships passing her by but nobody stopping to ask 'are you OK? Do you need anything?' or heaven forbid... 'can we offer you a lift?'
My only consolation is the PMs I am getting on some websites which link on to here.
*Alright, I do not really feel like that, but I love drama - what can I say? :)
What I cannot understand is why with so many hits no one put a comment on, just to say 'hi' or something nice anyway? I'd love to hear where people are from and what they have thought of the stories/anecdotes of my life. I sometimes feel like a castaway* floating on a lifeboat with ships passing her by but nobody stopping to ask 'are you OK? Do you need anything?' or heaven forbid... 'can we offer you a lift?'
My only consolation is the PMs I am getting on some websites which link on to here.
*Alright, I do not really feel like that, but I love drama - what can I say? :)
Saturday 27 November 2010
RACK and other crap
I had a sleepless night. Many things have come to my attention, lots of emails exchanged with various people, lots of threads read. The realisation that people are getting more and more hardcore is shocking. The Internet is suddenly full of clips of women being debased and abused, not only by porn sites (which of course you would expect to keep up with the times in order to make a profit) but people who practice BDSM at home. I have serious doubts about the emotional and psychological stability of the people involved. But then I have been a victim before, so of course I pass everything through my own filter and some things disturb me more than others.
There was a thread on IC about an elderly couple (she 68, he 75) who ran a professional dungeon (though probably unregistered) from their suburban home. Their client died whilst in suspension bondage. The Dominatrix was unable to get him down, even with the help of her husband. You can read more details here: http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/3172491/-Tragedy-at-OAP-SM-dungeon.html
What can you say about such tragedies? Of course the blame lies with the Dominatrix. She underestimated the danger and overestimated her powers.
Which reminds me of a session I organised for one of my lifestyle subs some years ago. It was with a fairly well-known professional Domina at her dungeon near the M25. I chose her because of her ethos and experience. The session started off well. My sub was excited. The Domina had a fully equipped dungeon and understood that subbie was inexperienced and promised to take it at his pace. Then at some point she strapped him over a kneeling stool. His knees were on a padded surface, his belly on another (higher) padded surface. His wrist and ankles were in restraints. There may have been a belt around his waist too, but it's been so many years that I cannot recall every single detail.
I sat at a safe distance whilst she flogged and paddled him. Then I noticed his face had gone red and beads of sweat had gathered. 'Are you alright?' I asked, slightly concerned as the level of his head was lower than the level of his heart because of the position and the fact he had a bit of a belly. 'Yes, I am fine, Mistress,' he replied.
The Domina continued to whip him using a variety of implements. Either she was having too much fun or she was deep in her thoughts because she failed to notice that the sub changed from lobster red to straw yellow. I jumped up in alert and halted the session. She immediately released him and made him sit down on a chair. He kept apologising and we told him there was nothing to feel ashamed about but he should have called his safeword. 'I was ashamed to use the safeword,' he panted, 'didn't want to disappoint you.'
The Domina fetched him a glass of water and little by little he regained his colouring. We decided that it was best to avoid positions that would put him in strain and instead opted for the examination table with a nice pillow to support his neck. Then we did some sensory play and he enjoyed it much more than the pain he had savoured earlier. You see many men (and women) will dream of losing control and experiencing pain, but once it starts, they realise pain is hard to handle.
An hour later we were at a Harvester having lunch and talking about the events of the morning. He had a small glass of red wine along with his meal. Then the desert came - a lovely platter of strawberries, marshmallows and chocolate brownie with vanilla ice cream. I studied the platter trying to choose what to taste first whilst expecting an answer from him to a question I had asked. He did not reply, so I raised my eyes and looked at him. The sight I beheld freaked me out. He had gone ashen yellow again, his face had dropped, his eyes had a vacant stare, and a bit of saliva had just began escaping the edge of his lip.
I called his name in panic, asking him if he was alright. The serving staff turned to look and realised there was something wrong. But the sub suddenly regained his consciousness and asked what the fuss was all about. When I told him, he waved my fears off saying he was drooling over dessert and he had been momentarily absent-minded. The staff kept asking me if they should call the paramedics and I was in turmoil. I offered to drive his car back, but he refused. He was a very proud man. I agreed to let him drive on the condition he would drive slowly and the moment he felt bad, he'd pull over and have a rest. It was a very long drive back...
So what was the lesson learnt from that episode? That you can never-ever expect a sub to take responsibility for his/her well being. They have handed that responsibility over to you when they agreed to a play or pay session. If a Dominant decides to play God with another human being's life, then they should make damn sure they are prepared and able to take on that role.
Imagine the horror of someone dying on you and multiply it by 10, if that happened under unusual circumstances, to get the dread I experienced when he had the mini stroke. What do you tell the family? We practised Risk Aware Consensual Kink so he knew what he was letting himself in for?
But more on the subject of RACK later. I feel quite drained now. The icy conditions outside mean I have to brave the weather and the crowds to ensure we do not get snowed in without adequate provisions.
I hope you are prepared!
There was a thread on IC about an elderly couple (she 68, he 75) who ran a professional dungeon (though probably unregistered) from their suburban home. Their client died whilst in suspension bondage. The Dominatrix was unable to get him down, even with the help of her husband. You can read more details here: http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/3172491/-Tragedy-at-OAP-SM-dungeon.html
What can you say about such tragedies? Of course the blame lies with the Dominatrix. She underestimated the danger and overestimated her powers.
Which reminds me of a session I organised for one of my lifestyle subs some years ago. It was with a fairly well-known professional Domina at her dungeon near the M25. I chose her because of her ethos and experience. The session started off well. My sub was excited. The Domina had a fully equipped dungeon and understood that subbie was inexperienced and promised to take it at his pace. Then at some point she strapped him over a kneeling stool. His knees were on a padded surface, his belly on another (higher) padded surface. His wrist and ankles were in restraints. There may have been a belt around his waist too, but it's been so many years that I cannot recall every single detail.
I sat at a safe distance whilst she flogged and paddled him. Then I noticed his face had gone red and beads of sweat had gathered. 'Are you alright?' I asked, slightly concerned as the level of his head was lower than the level of his heart because of the position and the fact he had a bit of a belly. 'Yes, I am fine, Mistress,' he replied.
The Domina continued to whip him using a variety of implements. Either she was having too much fun or she was deep in her thoughts because she failed to notice that the sub changed from lobster red to straw yellow. I jumped up in alert and halted the session. She immediately released him and made him sit down on a chair. He kept apologising and we told him there was nothing to feel ashamed about but he should have called his safeword. 'I was ashamed to use the safeword,' he panted, 'didn't want to disappoint you.'
The Domina fetched him a glass of water and little by little he regained his colouring. We decided that it was best to avoid positions that would put him in strain and instead opted for the examination table with a nice pillow to support his neck. Then we did some sensory play and he enjoyed it much more than the pain he had savoured earlier. You see many men (and women) will dream of losing control and experiencing pain, but once it starts, they realise pain is hard to handle.
An hour later we were at a Harvester having lunch and talking about the events of the morning. He had a small glass of red wine along with his meal. Then the desert came - a lovely platter of strawberries, marshmallows and chocolate brownie with vanilla ice cream. I studied the platter trying to choose what to taste first whilst expecting an answer from him to a question I had asked. He did not reply, so I raised my eyes and looked at him. The sight I beheld freaked me out. He had gone ashen yellow again, his face had dropped, his eyes had a vacant stare, and a bit of saliva had just began escaping the edge of his lip.
I called his name in panic, asking him if he was alright. The serving staff turned to look and realised there was something wrong. But the sub suddenly regained his consciousness and asked what the fuss was all about. When I told him, he waved my fears off saying he was drooling over dessert and he had been momentarily absent-minded. The staff kept asking me if they should call the paramedics and I was in turmoil. I offered to drive his car back, but he refused. He was a very proud man. I agreed to let him drive on the condition he would drive slowly and the moment he felt bad, he'd pull over and have a rest. It was a very long drive back...
So what was the lesson learnt from that episode? That you can never-ever expect a sub to take responsibility for his/her well being. They have handed that responsibility over to you when they agreed to a play or pay session. If a Dominant decides to play God with another human being's life, then they should make damn sure they are prepared and able to take on that role.
Imagine the horror of someone dying on you and multiply it by 10, if that happened under unusual circumstances, to get the dread I experienced when he had the mini stroke. What do you tell the family? We practised Risk Aware Consensual Kink so he knew what he was letting himself in for?
But more on the subject of RACK later. I feel quite drained now. The icy conditions outside mean I have to brave the weather and the crowds to ensure we do not get snowed in without adequate provisions.
I hope you are prepared!
Thursday 25 November 2010
Cuckolding
Some men are good to love and some men are good to turn into cuckolds. Over the years my interest in cuckolding has blossomed and I have often used men in the manner described below. The story you will read was posted elsewhere some years ago, but I retained the copyright.
***
The following was taken from an email I wrote to one of my admirers. One of his foremost fantasies was cuckolding... Read on and draw your own conclusions about this unusual practice!
"I do not let men use me, I use THEM to satisfy my cravings. I get what I want and then I kick them out of the house without even allowing them the luxury of washing themselves. Once they have fulfilled their usefulness, what good are they to me?
The most cruel thing I have done so far is to ask a man over to clean the house for me and prepare me to receive another man.
Whilst he is cleaning the house he thinks he must be a fool to let me use him as a domestic when there is nothing in it for him. He seethes secretly but is strangely turned on to think of himself as an object.
Then he helps me get into my sexy lingerie and brushes my hair, his hands trembling with desire, but my cold steely gaze prevents him from kissing or fondling me.
The doorbell rings and he eyes his contender with hatred. He is a young stud who will probably give me a lot of pleasure tonight. I hand my cuckold his jacket and show him the door. The other guy asks 'who is that?' before the cuckold has moved out of hearing range. 'Nobody!' I respond and close the door.
That word stabs him like a dagger in his heart. He sits in his car wondering what to do next, feeling lost and envious. He is a nobody in my eyes, just a thing. And why not, he thinks, of course I am nobody, what do I have to give her that she can't get from other men? I am not that virile any more, not handsome, not rich - of course she is right to think of me as an object when she is so young and beautiful and bursting with life.
He begins rubbing his aching cock and the rubbing turns into frantic masturbation. Right there, in my street, where everyone can see him and call the police. The danger of the situation turns him on.
He imagines me crying out in ecstasy as my stud pushes the right buttons. He knows how long it takes me to cum, so he regulates his release to coincide with mine. And, when it is the right time in his mind, he lets his cum spurt all over the steering wheel, a bit of saliva drooling from his mouth as he jerks uncontrollably in the throes of orgasm.
He stares at his hand, all smeared with thick cum. He has no tissues and he knows what I would command him to do if I was there, so he proceeds to licking his hand clean, tasting his own semen and enjoying his humiliation.
Oh well, that was a fantasy, of course, but somehow I suspect you will enjoy it... very-very much!"
***
The Highjack
Found this story I had written in 2004 which, as far as I can recall, never made it to the publishing stage. Enjoy!
The Unbelievable Adventures of Contessa dei Fiori
© Contessa dei Fiori
Chapter 1 - The Contessa Foils an Air Piracy
It had been one of these gruelling weeks when the jet setting Contessa had to fly from London to Rome, then Athens and Cairo to visit some clients. She was on her way back now, anxious to get home in time for her pet’s birthday.
Cairo airport was busy and hot. The flight was delayed by over an hour due to some security alert. When finally they were called to the gate, everyone had to go through the X-ray machine and their hand luggage was also examined. The officer manning the security monitor gave a chuckle when he saw the contents of Contessa’s little suitcase. She shot him an icy glance and the laughter froze on his lips and shattered into a million little pieces.
She made her way to the waiting area and found herself a seat. She glanced at her watch, then at the people around her. There was some commotion at the gate as two armed guards escorted a man in. They spoke in Arabic and their short sharp tone of voice betrayed their agitation. “Yala, yala!” they kept saying as they accompanied the man into the airplane. There was a lot of speculation about who this man was and people whispered amongst them wondering whether he was a prisoner of sorts.
Contessa was one of the last people to board the aircraft. She hated all the squeezing and pushing and as she had a business class ticket she did not have to scramble to secure some space in the overhead compartment for her little suitcase.
As she went through the economy class to reach her seat at the front of the plane, she noticed the man from before, seated on his own in a 3-seat row. He was reading a newspaper but you could tell he was aloof by the way he sat. I hope he is not a terrorist or dangerous criminal, Contessa thought to herself.
She stole glances at him as she took her time storing her luggage in the overhead compartment and taking off her straw hat with the flower decorations and short white lace gloves. The man had the typical criminal face, no wonder the guards had to escort him onto the plane! He was tall and lean, had a full head of curly black hair and a 5 o’clock shadow on his face. A nasty scar ran from his right eyebrow to his cheek. He wore jeans and a white shirt open at the chest revealing a long gold chain with a miniature Koran. A fundamentalist! Contessa determined as she took her seat.
The plane took off and shortly after the man got up from his seat and made his way into business class. Contessa nearly choked on the mouthful of water she was sipping from the little bottle she always carried with her. Oh my God! she thought. Quick, someone, do something! But nobody seemed to share her sense of alert. The air hostess was wheeling her trolley up the corridor getting ready to dispense drinks to the passengers. The man said something to her in Arabic and tried to go past her. She refused to move her trolley and sent him back to his seat. Contessa sighed with relief. They were safe thanks to the stewardess.
The meal served was typical for an airline serving a Moslem route: chicken in a white sauce, beans and carrots. Alcohol consumption was not allowed and no matter how much coca cola she downed, Contessa’s meal still tasted bland. She ordered another can of coke hoping to chase the taste away from her mouth. She had consumed a lot of liquids and was feeling their pressure on her bladder. She got up to go to the toilet and noticed that the man was making his way towards the cockpit. She glanced around and saw that all the stewardesses were busy collecting trays and the man had managed to escape their attention. He was walking down the aisle with a very determined look in his eyes now and slid his hand into his pocket. She saw the gun outline and gave a silent cry of sheer terror. Unless somebody did something, this man was going to hijack the plane and take them hostages!
Contessa knew it was up to her to stop him. So as he went past her she reached her hand and grabbed his elbow. The man turned around, his face registering surprise and indignation. But the Contessa had dealt with many men in her life not to feel intimidated by his height and looks. She held onto his arms and used her knee on his groin. The man collapsed in pain making unintelligible sounds. Contessa swiftly sat on his chest eliciting another cry of pain and held his arms down under her knees. The man struggled to get free but she had perfected her technique of body sitting so much that nobody could escape her 28 st. of weight.
“You bastard, you thought you could take this plane by force and get us to some God-forsaken part of the world to attain your terrorist group’s demands, hey? Well, think again, scumbag! Nobody messes up with the Contessa and interferes with her plans!” she almost yelled at him, overtaken by the rush of adrenalin in her body.
The stewardesses run to her aid. Contessa beamed with satisfaction as they helped her up. She was a heroine! Tonight she’d be in every newspaper in the world and everyone would learn her bravery helped foil the terrorist plot. She was already mentally preparing her answers to the journalists, embellishing her story to make it more sensational. She turned and had a last look at the hapless terrorist who got overpowered by a mere woman. Her eyes were full of contempt as she spat straight into his eye.
Chapter 2 - Contessa’s Interview
- Your name, please.
- Contessa dei Fiori.
- That’s not what it says on your passport!
- No, but that is what you are going to put down in that little notebook of yours.
- Who are you working for?
- Myself.
- Stop lying! Tell us who you are working for!
- I told you: My Self!
- Which groups are you affiliated with?
- Groups? Ermm…. Weight Watchers and the Society for the Preservation of British Coastlines.
- You think you are funny, don’t you?
- You know for a journalist you are some sad arsed bloke!
- Journalist, what journalist?
- Which newspaper are you working for? Can’t be The Times because they don’t hire morons like you.
- Moron? Who are you calling a moron?!!!
- Look, you’ve had me in this little room for so long and you haven’t even offered me a drink or a sandwich. Is this how you treat people?
- Oh excuse me your Highness, where are our manners……
- I am a Countess. You don’t address me as ‘Highness’. Anyway, why are you tearing at your hair? You know, you ought to calm down a bit; all this stress can’t be good for you. Oh my God, you are foaming around the mouth! What is wrong with you? Hey! where are you going? Come back!
***
It took a while for the kind Contessa to realise that instead of being hailed as a saviour she was being questioned as a terrorist herself. Apparently the man she had immobilised on the flight to Rome was a member of the Egyptian government travelling to Italy for a summit. At first she did not believe it. Why would an MP travel economy class? But it seemed the Egyptian government was making cutbacks on expenditure and required all MP’s to observe the new policy. Which still didn’t explain why the man looked like a ruffian.
Contessa was assigned a legal counsellor. She had committed assault and battery and it was almost certain that the politician would sue her as soon as he had recovered from the shock he was in. She suddenly felt very dispirited and looked like a wilted flower in the little cell she was being held in at the modern Milan Malpensa airport. She had utilised her free phone call to call Gian-Carlo, her Italian client. He had arrived a couple of hours later in his business suit, having left an important meeting and having battled through the traffic.
She told him what had happened and he found it quite entertaining so from tears she went into laughter and they laughed so much that the guard had to come to the door and check in on them. Gian-Carlo had a few words with the guard and arranged for some refreshments to be brought to them along with some food. It is amazing what connections will do for you, even in the strangest of places and situations. Her spirits being lifted, she was able to resume her haughtiness and deal with the politician’s visit whilst Gian-Carlo waited outside. The politician (which cannot be named for legal reasons) was at first very angry with her. She let him vent out his frustration, sitting quietly at her chair whist he paced the room and shouted insults at her in broken English mixed with some French. Then when his wrath was spent and he collapsed on a chair looking positively drained, she picked up the pitcher of cold water and poured him a glass. She offered it to him, looking at him straight in the eyes.
“Look, I am terribly sorry about what happened earlier today. But you have to admit that you did behave suspiciously and then there was the case of the gun in your pocket…”
“What gun, I have no gun!” he protested.
“Then what is that?” she asked with mock innocence staring at the bulge in his trousers.
He blushed as he followed her eyes down to his erection.
“Isn’t that a weapon of mass destruction?” she asked him with a grin.
He blushed some more and was lost for words.
“Look, let’s be sensible about it, alright? What happened has happened and there is no way of undoing it. So far, it has been kept under wrap and although I have suffered the indignity of being questioned as a common criminal, I am willing to let it pass if you promise not to pursue a legal suit against me.”
The man seemed to drown in indignation. How dare this woman suggest that her suffering was a greater indignity than his being attacked? He wanted to yell at her and shake her hard by her shoulders till she realised the gravity of what she had done to him. But her close proximity excited him no end and the smell of her perfume kept him a prisoner of lust.
The MP was not a fool. He did realise that if wind got out about today’s incident, he would be made to look like an idiot instead of a victim. He would probably be called into Mombarak’s office and be told off for causing a scandal. Let alone becoming the laughing stock of his international counterparts at the summit tomorrow... Still he couldn’t let her go without punishment. His male pride was hurt. No woman was ever allowed to get one better on him. And she would be no exception.
He took a sip of water and met her eyes. “I am willing to forget it, but -”
“Yes?” she encouraged him.
“But you will come to my hotel room and give yourself to me for the night.”
“You gotta be kidding me!” she exclaimed incredulously.
“It’s your choice, Madam. You can come to my room and be friends, or you can sleep in prison.”
Contessa’s mind was in turmoil. This could not be happening to her. It was absolutely unbelievable. Surely she was dreaming! She pinched her arm hard and jumped from the pain. This little shit, she thought, how dare he assume that I am going to whore myself to him, in exchange for my freedom!
The MP uncrossed his legs and she caught glimpse of his persevering bulge. Great Scot, there must be at least 10 inches of sheer male power in there!
She felt a familiar warmth spread in her loins. And now that she looked at him more carefully, she could see the charm of his dark brown sparkling eyes and his wide smile.
“Just one night?” she enquired.
He nodded and jotted something down on a piece of paper. “Bring your bag of tricks with you and don’t be late.”
Chapter 3 - Contessa Honours a Pact
It was just after 8 pm when Contessa arrived at the five star hotel near the Via Veneto. Gian-Carlo seemed very concerned as he opened the door to let her out of the car.
“Are you sure you are going to be alright? You know you don’t have to do this… it is blackmail and he has more to lose than you.”
“I know, don’t worry. I have a little plan.”
“Do you want me to wait for you?”
“No, sweetheart, you just go home and rest, it’s been a long day for you. I’ll grab a cab when I am finished here.”
“I don’t know what’s more dangerous, you spending the night with this man or you using a Roman cab!” Gian-Carlo joked.
Contessa caressed his face and gave him a fleeting kiss on his forehead.
“Thank you for coming to my rescue.”
“I will keep my mobile phone switched on in case you need me. Please do not hesitate to call me, ok?”
“Ok, go now. I’ll be fine. Buona notte!”
“Buona note, Signora.”
***
The room was well appointed and had a balcony overlooking the Vatican City. The table was laid for dinner and there was a cooler with a bottle of champagne.
“Champagne?” Contessa enquired raising her right eyebrow.
“For you. I had a look at your website and noted that the issue of champagne comes up often. Of course I don’t drink, but I thought you would enjoy a glass or two.”
“Compliments of the Egyptian State?”
He laughed uproariously.
“You are a very clever lady,” he commented.
“What makes you say that? Obviously I was not clever enough not to mistake you for a terrorist.”
He shrugged. “It happens.”
“So I was not the only one to think you were an evil man?”
“You would be surprised how many people look at an Arab or a Moslem today and think we are all bad.”
“I am sorry. Honestly I am sorry for what happened today.”
“No problem. Now you must make me forget that bad experience.”
Contessa smiled and took a sip of champagne.
He pointed towards the view.
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
She nodded.
“Just like you, my dear,” he added and sat next to her.
Contessa blushed and for the second time today she thought that this man was not half bad looking. He was now wearing stone-coloured trousers and a baby blue Polo shirt, which accented his shiny hair and eyes.
“I like it when you get red in the face. It is so nice for a woman, like a small girl. You are gamilla. That means beautiful in my language.”
He placed his hand on her knee and she felt a sudden jolt of electricity. She got up and picked up the room service menu from the table.
“So what are we eating?” she asked.
“You choose.”
She studied the menu for a while and selected a couple of dishes that would not offend a good Moslem.
While they waited for room service, she found out a little more about him. His name was Abdu (not really) and he was in his early forties. He was one of the youngest MPs of the NDP and the great-grandson of a distinguished general that had been killed by his French mistress’s jealous husband. It seemed that scandal and intrigue had always plagued his family as proven by the number of little anecdotes he had to recount.
“But no one had a fat woman sit on his chest, did they!” the Contessa commented with tears of laughter in her eyes.
“No, you are unique!”
Dinner arrived and they remained silent while the waiter served them. Then between starter and desert he found out about the woman behind the façade.
“Tania, do you like me?” he asked her unexpectedly.
“You are OK” she replied not looking into his eyes.
“Do you like me enough to go to bed with me?”
She took a deep breath and stared at him.
“No, but if this is what it takes to avoid being sued, I will do it.”
“I am not a bad man…”
“I know.”
“I like it when a woman gives herself to me freely.”
“I can’t do that. I don’t love you. I can’t make love to a man I don’t love. With us it would be just sex.”
He threw his towel on his plate and got up and walked away from the table.
“I like you Tania. I don’t know why, but I like you. When you attack me in the plane I lost my mind. First I was angry, very angry. Then I like you. You have something. I never see a woman be like a man before. So strong, so clever, so brave. And you are also very beautiful. I want you, Tania, but you are telling me I can’t have you. I hate this day!”
“I am sorry Abdu, I don’t know what to say. I am flattered of course, but I can’t be your girlfriend. It is just not me. I am used to being in control in life, does that make sense?”
He stared at her, his bottom lip quivering but no words came out of his lips.
She got up and went up to him. She placed her hand on his shoulder and he turned and faced her. She took him in her arms and stroked his silky hair.
“It is not you, Abdu. It is me. It is me who can’t get involved with any man. I told you about my past relationship and how it ended. I just can’t go through this again. And anyway, you hardly ever know me.”
“But I do. I was waiting for you all my life!” he protested.
She smiled. “You don’t know me!” she repeated.
“I will do anything for you, Tania, just ask me anything you like. I will give you anything for a night with you!”
“And where would that leave me?”
He placed his arms around her waist. “I love you Tania, ask me for anything, I will do it for you.”
“Anything? Anything at all? Now be careful before you answer me! You have no idea what I may want from you. And I must warn you: I am voracious. I will take and keep taking from you until you have nothing left, neither emotionally, nor financially. Are you sure you can you handle that?”
He grabbed her hand and placed it upon his crotch. “Feel this Tania, feel how I am burning for you!”
“Enough!” she cried. “Get down on your knees and show some reverence!”
He obeyed instantly.
“Follow me into the room! On all fours.”
When they were inside, she closed the balcony doors and drew the curtains for some privacy.
“I want you to understand something. I am your Mistress, that is Mistress with a capital M. You don’t own me, I own you. You will do everything I tell you to do and will never ever say no to me. If you disobey me, you will be instantly dismissed. If you are good and obedient, you will always have a friend and mentor in me as well as a sweet Tormentress. Is that understood?”
“Yes, it is.”
She slapped his face. “Yes, Mistress, is the correct response!”
“Yes, Mistress,” he said trembling with the effect the face slapping had on him.
“May I kiss you, Mistress?”
“You may kiss my shoes.”
He began kissing her white sandals and painted toenails. She kicked him away and told him off for daring put his lips on her flesh. He apologised. She ordered him to strip. Then followed a couple of hours of him squirming under her weight as she sat on him and trampled him both with his arms and legs tied and free. She spanked his skinny ass till he cried out that he was a nasty little tart that craved punishment as she had asked him to. It was not easy as he was very assertive and did not want to submit fully. She got the feeling that he was pretending to submit, hoping to get closer to her. But she would have none of that. By the end of the two hours he was spent, both physically and emotionally. She held him in her arms and stroked his hair. “You have done well, my pet,” she whispered soothingly to him. He fell asleep. The Contessa rose and rearranged her hair and makeup. Then as an afterthought, she pressed her painted lips onto a clean tissue and left it by his pillow.
Epilogue
While riding in a cab to her hotel, she texted Gian-Carlo the following message: Safe + sound, no sex. Got new slave. C u soon. She then phoned her pet back home and woke him up. He was pleased to hear her voice. Gian-Carlo had contacted him earlier to give him the news. Contessa gave her pet her new flight details before turning in for the night. She only had five hours to sleep and needed all her strength to give her pet his birthday surprise!
¨¨¨
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