April 2008


Speaking of dirt . . . this is probably not the weekend for it, since we are staying in a moderately posh hotel, but I have been having increasingly urgent fantasies about mud. Muck. Dirt, flour, sand, oil, grease, leaves . . . whatever.

Covered in Mud

Good thing he lives in the country. These things are not in short supply. In the summer we are non-stop dirty without even trying.

But I want more.

I didn’t know, until I met him, how fetishistic I am. I think might be more “fetishy” than he is. A good sound spanking and face-fuck and he’s happy. That’s not to say he doesn’t have his own obsessions . . . but I think for him they are nice decorative touches and perhaps not as overwhelmingly arousing as for me. I have met few freaky things that didn’t hold some allure for me . . . whereas raw sex itself holds my attention less. Hard to explain.

Oh, I don’t know. All I know is that I need some mud. Luckily, May showers are not far away.

* * *

Moderately posh hotel or seedy, kinkster-friendly motel, wherever you go for your own dirty weekend, Monk and Hannah a few tips about creating hard points in your hotel room. (I could pun about hard points, but it seems like too much effort for too little return.) It’s a must see–put it this way–it was almost enough to make me change our reservations.

Image from the work of Fetish, thanks to fluffy Lychees . . .

(And aren’t the necklace and makeup, above, a perfect touch? Much better to defile a princess than a pauper.)

Hooray . . . we picked a place and almost a time, and we are going.

Dirty Weekend

I’m putting my mind on hold. I’d have to even if I didn’t plan to, because I know he’ll fuck my brains out.

Lucky me.

From the decadently gritty work of Marc Blackie.


Pale Green Knickers

This is not (merely) yet another post about my underwear. Amid much sexy talk of late, we have also been trying to figure out what we want from and with each other.

“I love you,” I tell him, incessantly, to the point where it sounds unbelievable even to me. I tell him because at distance, I am not as good at showing him.

Sometimes, it seems to register with him that I actually do. “I know,” he answers me then, laughingly, affectionately, “and that’s what scares the hell out of me.”

I’m not entirely sure what he means, but I do know that sometimes I feel his love so strongly that I freak out, and then he has to pick up the slack. The other night he asked me if I was trying to get rid of him. I’m not, but sometimes I’m scared he’ll want to get rid of me.

So we’ve been going round, like a couple of teenagers, for the past couple of weeks, both vulnerable and idiotic, each in turn getting hopeful and then discouraged by the other’s discouragement. A recent talk about when to get together sent him into a pout of disappointment and me into a nasty silence.

A lot of times love reminds me of that Dr. Seuss poem, “Pale Green Pants.” (Clicky to download the text of the poem.) On a series of odd errands, the Seussian protagonist keeps running into a pair of “pale green pants with nobody inside ’em”. The pants, being empty, and perhaps being green, scare the fuck out of him. Until one day, when creature and pants find each other trapped in the same thorny bush (ahem). Our hero narrates:

But then a strange thing happened.

Why, those pants began to cry!

Those pants began to tremble.

They were just as scared as I!

And realizing that the pants are, like himself, scared and unsure, the creature reaches out and holds them.

We are all vulnerable beyond belief when we begin to care, and the more we care, the more the door swings open to fear and fragility. I deal with this by brooding. Robbie deals with it, when he can, by laughing. I tell him about the pale green pants with nobody inside ’em, and he growls, “It’d be a lot better to have pale green pants with somebody inside ’em. Or at least, someone pretty nearby.”

Pantless but Nearby

More than any man I’ve known, Robbie indulges my navel-gazing–but he also laughs it off, fucks it off, growls it off, or works it off with hard, hard labor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Green Knickers

While browsing for images for this post I managed to discover the best sources of green (that is, eco-friendly) luxury underwear around. Lest this accidentally-won knowledge slip away into the ether, I’ll paste a few links in here.

The figleaves online store has a “dedicated department for green products”–greenleaves, they call it. They bring four major brands of British environmentally p.c. underthings to American consumers: Greenknickers, Enamore, Eco-Boudoir, and People Tree. For more green luxury there’s Viva Terra. The beautiful handmade panties in the first picture (which are actually technically yellow, not green) are from Luva-Huva. I’m sure there are zillions more and I’ll add to this when I stumble across them.

My favorite is definitely Greenknickers (advert pic above). Who can resist a pair of panties that say “eat organic” on them?


I’m running out of clean underwear and clean clothes–mostly because I usually do my laundry at his place on the weekends, and I haven’t seen him in a few weeks.

I am down to my pretty knickers, the ones I save for “important” occasions. That’s how I ended up yesterday wearing a thong he’d bought me as a present. My First Thong. Wow did it feel sexy.

“I knew it would,” he smirked over email; he is capable of e-smirkage.

I’m a convert to these too. Oh thongs, where have you been all my life? Lover man, where have you been?!

Andrew Blake Black Thong

I’ve been flummoxed about which black thong picture to choose . . . oh, the pressure . . .

For now . . . here’s this frame from an Andrew Blake film clip, found through Fluffy Lychees.

Either way, posts may be on the flimsy side side this month . . . a busy month.

Skimpy

Then again, I am feeling rather inspired, so who knows what might happen?

And if they are a bit light-weight, slight, slim, svelte, thin, transparent, gauzy, wispy, feathery, flaunty, whimsical, fluffy, frothy, foggy, hazy, immodest, lacy, flirty, flowing, flowery, sleepy, sunny, heavy-lidded, or hedonistic . . . maybe there is all the more to enjoy.

From the rather inspired work of unique, via afuckaday.

Two years ago, I decided to dress up for him for New Year’s entirely in red. Red bra, panties, stockings, garter, and see-through apron. The only thing was that I didn’t manage to find any red panties before I left to visit him for the holidays.

Red Boyshorts

We fixed that, together, stopping at a department store and grabbing whatever was in the budget bin. The pair of red lace boyshort panties went best with the rest of my outfit, I thought, and so I got them.

I discovered that New Year’s that some boyshorts have a strange “fringe benefit”. They cut so tight through the crotch that it’s like I’m in bondage, particularly through the ass. (Maybe thongs do this–I’m still naive enough not to know. Still, the phrase “butt floss” perfectly describes what those boyshorts did to me.)

I told him this sometime around October. It took me that long to 1) realize he’d want to know that they felt this way on me; 2) want to let him take advantage of the knowledge; 3) get over the embarrassment of having to describe it all out loud. My reward was a trio of boyshorts for Christmas (among many other presents).

I wore a white pair he’d given me yesterday, and was acutely aware of it, and of him. These are the kind of things that maintain my connection to him, and remind me of past and future submission.

They are not, however, assigned tasks. I have never succeeded at submitting at distance, but I circle around the idea, like a curious animal . . . and perhaps someday I will pounce . . . or it will.

* * *

I asked him for a specific kind of task last night; before giving it to me, he reminded me of my notoriously poor history at fulfilling tasks. I love the idea; I hate the reality. I complain that the tasks are too detailed, too burdensome, too complex . . . (Do Masters have some kind of OCD that makes them think of fiendishly, almost uncomplete-able fantasy-style assignments? Mine gives me quite modest ones, but I am far less organized than he, and they chafe.)

Cucumbers . . .

Most of all, I think, I feel bereft at his apparent lack of interest in “how it was for me”. Here I am, miles away, having a full, complete, intensely physical and sexual experience of his design. I want to tell him about it. For him, the act seems to be complete with the design–whatever benefit (or irritation) I get from it is mostly mine, and doesn’t need reporting in minute detail. At least, that’s my perception. When put that way, it makes sense to me. If I were to give him a task, I’d want him to just do it, and perhaps be appreciative, maybe, at most, tell me about any insights when we were together.

But for me at least it doesn’t work that way. When I am in a couple, a solo sex life is not exciting. Online submission doesn’t thrill. We want each other badly right now–and we want the real, full, three-dimensional thing. It has been too long. Tasks seem like they might fill the gap, but they never do. Only him, and his real-life domination, sates my need.


GraphicIt has occurred to me that the writing I do here is not very graphic, not particularly smut-filled– certainly compared to the hornifying (I know that is not an adjective) cock-and-cunt descriptions of many other (satisfying) blogs I read.

I keep meaning to get to the sex, I really do.

Partly I am busy and a post about something really hot I did recently, or, maybe, ever in my life, or, maybe, want to do, seems too time-consuming.

But like most of the world, I am not too busy to procrastinate, and this is where I do much (though not all) of my procrastination.

And so partly I think I am still shy, still feel a bit exposed.

It’s MY bear.

(It’s my bear, it says, for non-Francophones, or for those who don’t speak Picture.)

Maybe I want his permission; maybe I want it to be a requirement to write the kind of steamy things I used to write just for his eyes. Perhaps I feel they should be reserved for his eyes, unless he decides otherwise.

But I have asked him not to censor or control what I write here, so that it will be mine, mine, all mine. Although it’s hotter if we fold it into our game, at the same time, it’s much more dangerous.

He might say that I want it both ways, that I don’t know what I want, that I want to submit when I want to, that I chafe against his restraints. He might be right . . . I don’t know.

But anyway, smut to come–that’s my plan.

Sketches by the fantastical bengal, thanks to the ever-fantastic Sex in Art.

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