Tag Archives: Love

Wander I Go

I had a whole afternoon to myself. No one around to interrupt me. I can’t remember the last time that happened and I was in the mood for some personal playtime. And so I wanted to make the utmost of the situation.

Another week and another three days I had spent gallivanting away from my lovely man. Darned work taking me away from Mister.

It was a tiring, exhausting first half of the week in which I didn’t get much sleep on Tuesday night. Not for the right reasons either. Grr. (Ah..vague references to my super secret work identity). But return I did on Wednesday afternoon back to Mister’s loving arms. He carried the heavy heavy bag in those loving arms. Unfortunately I was unable to jump him as I had been dying to do right there and then as he had to depart for Band Practice in the next city. So I had to compensate. I showered and promptly took myself to bed to catch up on sleep.

Only despite my fraught and tired state, I was ultimately and undeniably very aroused. Sleep was not on the cards at that moment. More pressing matters needed to be addressed. We had not had sex for over a week and a half – when you are there living with your partner and you know you have regular access to sex, when you don’t have it, you miss it as much as when you live apart. Believe me. It had been the Monthly Visit and prior to that we went through a few days without and so I had spent most of the previous, sleepless night thinking about what I would do to Mister upon my return. What he would do to me. What we would do together. I keep in my mind’s eye a montage of images that keep me warm on cold nights. Usually saved for when we are apart, or if I have that private, alone time to myself. These began to stream through my head now. More a series of close-ups and long shots, really. It seems porn has affected my style of fantasising.

It usually begins with the two of us in the bedroom, or even when I give myself more time to construct a narrative, us meeting somewhere. We’ve been apart and this is the moment of our reunion. We catch eachother’s glance from across the room. Immediately, that fire rekindles and blazes anew. The butterflies float a little higher.

If the montage begins in the bedroom, it is me who takes the lead. He is already on the bed, waiting for me as I enter to look down at him – the visual dynamic already suggests that I will be calling the shots. But if we meet anywhere else, somewhere public, it is he who take the initiative, he walks over to me, pulls me into him making me elicit a slight gasp. If there is a wall, no doubt I imagine he pushes me back against it and stares deeply into my eyes with those penetrating blue eyes he possesses. The element of exhibitionism, the lack of care of who sees us, thrills me, excites me. In reality, he is generally restrained in public, but if we are at a location where we know there is no-one around we recognise, surrounded by strangers, then his dominant side will shine through.

These images, these stirrings of feeling, sensation, the thrills bubbles up inside me as I delve into my sensual thoughts. I never fantasise about anyone else but him and me (and the occasional faceless lady if that’s the fantasy I’m after). He is what gets me off, no-one else specifically really. What we do together and the possibilities of what we could do together in the future, the next time we fuck, gets me off. That ghosting memory of the first thrust he presses into me. The gasp it makes me emit every time. Not to bookend sex, but the first thrust and the final climax are two highpoints for me of equal merit.

I lost myself that afternoon this week. I had my toys, the favourite buzzing bullet that never leaves my bedside table as well as a few extras and the anal toy. I am still trying to push myself in that particular area and by God I came hard using that along with the bullet. I always smile to myself when I end up moaning and writhing and swearing under my own hand.

Mister came home a few hours later and found me curled up in the linen, hair fuzzed around my head slightly. He was mildly surprised to find me naked under the covers and soon joined me. I was still wet from my own excursions and gladly welcomed his hands to seek out that fact. After nearly two weeks without him inside me, I don’t think wild horses would have prevented me from screwing that man.

As we lay together after some tension-relieving, homecoming-reunion sex, holding me to him, he told me he had missed me.

No words needed to be said after that. Not for a long time. So we just lay there, drifting.

I’ll Tell You No Lies – VII

Those three little words. You know the ones. That sentence that will make your heart lurch up into your throat, give you butterflies, scare you to death – or all three of those options at once.

I find that from watching a lot of American TV (mainly the Friends episode wherein there’s the turkey on Monica’s head with the fez and the comedy giant glasses; Chandler professes his love, almost by accident, the phrase slipping out casually) that admitting one’s love for another can be a major Big Deal. Which it should, of course, as it is your heart being laid out in front of you. But it always seems too much of a big deal in those kind of programmes.

In view of this, I have one of my burning questions for you – I do hope you’ll oblige and answer and please please feel free to ask one of your own questions to me! I like the banter garnered from the comments box.

How soon have you professed love to a partner and how often do you say ‘I love you’ to your loved one?

This question I hope will be applicable to a few people. It is two-fold. How do you *know* that you’re in love and when do you communicate this verbally to your partner and after doing that, how frequently do you say it to one another?

I have spoken previously somewhere in the archives about when I first said ‘I love you’ to Mister – similar to Chandler (yes, can relate to a fictional character, ok?) it slipped out. It was early on in our relationship, during that blissful summer where I discovered what it was to tingle from the butterflies. He was dropping me home one afternoon and as I left the car I said it – ‘Love you lots, bye!’ Casual, cheerfully and completely unconsciously. As soon as I had spoken I realised what I had actually said, took stock of things and admitted to myself, that yes, I think I have actually fallen in love with this man without knowing it. I can’t be completely sure, as my memory hazes at times, but I think it happened after I had slept with him, but in the immediate few weeks following it.

Now, we say it all the time. We went through a phase of saying it probably about ten times a day. A knee-jerk reassurance perhaps, or merely the emotion wanting to be aired in the open again. Lately, we don’t say it as often as that anymore, but everyday, at least once, and always, always before we go to sleep, and after we have sex.

It it this need for emotional reassurance? I don’t like to think so. I say it and I mean it every time. Every Time. He is my world, emotionally. I not only love him, I lust for him, I need him, I want him, I worry about him, I care so much about him. Just those three words and all that is conveyed to him.

And when he says it to me – well. It floors me.

Every Time.

Masochism and Malevolence

I read a very interesting post by Elle recently. It got me thinking. How exactly do Mister and I run this ship of kink?

Since reading Elle’s post, I’ve questioned whether what we do is too focused on the pain. I don’t know if I should be worried that it is such a factor in our playing. It’s not as if we use it every time we have sex. But when we have the defined roles of dominant and submissive, pain is mostly how we express that distinction. I have seen an increase with how often we use pain. In the past it was always paired in with pleasure.

We switch. Yes, true enough. Whilst Mister has a perhaps 65/35% majority over who is in control in the bedroom, when I take the reins, I drive him hard. But how do I do it? What do I do? Is it really healthy for us? Is this what Mister wants or is it just me? And possibly most importantly, is pain too much of a force behind what we do?

I think I’ll break this down into my submissive and dominant behaviours.

Submissive

I find I need him to take things in his hands – take me in his hands. I have spoken before, and many other times, about just what it is that I dig about being submissive. The contradictory state of being restricted in your choices and will and having the freedom of mind to leave everything to your partner to steer. I will completely fall to his overbearing presence over me or his fervoured kisses on my lips, breasts or over my body. One stare from him and I melt under him.

But more than anything, I think, is the pain. It gets me off so well. Even the hint of it will get my sex yearning for him. The everyday light spanks he gives me at any given moment when we are alone. Sometimes when we are not. The other day for instance, going upstairs, him following behind he grabs my arse, misogynistically and deliberately and I jump in surprise and turn round to him in mock-disdain. Then there are the spanks he delivers in the bedroom. Deep and meaningful and carefully aimed. I feel myself getting wetter after each sting of his hand. Then there’s the tasseled whip or something wooden from the kitchen. Even writing about it and my toes are wiggling and I feel warmer. Hair-pulling, biting - more-so lately - everything I love about being submissive is linked to pain. Twisting against the cuffs/scarves/ties – I love that burn on my wrists or ankles.

Should this be so good though? Yes, he is always careful with me. He will never go too far and I let him know if things aren’t right. Although he at times will purposefully ignore my pleadings for him to stop when his form of torture is him fingering or licking me to distraction. He aims for me to pass out one day. I am not so sure.

Dominant

Not as often as I would like to be, when I am Mistress of all I survey – namely, Mister, the hold over him is strong. I use restraints to help things along. I’m a little thing really, and it aids for the menacing malevolent streak that I go for. Cruel, yet caring. Usually it involves alternating between giving Mister pleasure and pain in equal doses. A massage with spanks by various implements. Going down of him, easing him to the edge of his limits then backing down. Teasing, tortuously. Scratches. Although not as deeply as I would like – Mister isn’t keen on the idea of breaking the skin. Fair shout, really. The ice and wax games.

I feel myself pulled in by it. Drawn to him all the more because of what he is allowing me to do to him. The level of trust he gives me. It’s dangerously hypnotic.

We go down the non-ouchy route of domming. A remote control buzzy thing that Mister would be in charge of. But that was early on in our relationship. Recently, the body paint and marking him with that. I enjoyed that, fulfilling a fantasy of mine. The paint wasn’t that great unfortunately and we’ve not had another session yet. I need to find something that is the right consistency of fluid with a good colour (and possibly edible). We try things out, but if they don’t work first time, it can be months or in the buzzy thing’s case, a few years before we have another attempt. We stick to the same routine. Bondage. Spanking. The notion of ‘too much pleasure’ that he loves to exert over me. But something isn’t right. I seem to be itching for something else. Maybe it’s because it has become a little too regimented. Too predictable. I want to try more things.

So lately we have been. I bought the anal toy to explore and I’m overcoming my big mental block over that area. Mister is keen to test the waters with it on me, which is great. But I want to try something new for my dominant repertoire. Thing is, I’m not quite sure what. I’m stumped. I need inspiration. Something other than simply tying him up and using pain as the main controlling force over him. I want to get into the ‘mind-fuck’ way of thinking. Mess with his head. Toy with him. Once or twice I’ve set things up to make his mind whir with the possible things I may or may not do to him. I need to be more consistent.

I guess this is partly a shout out to fellow-minded ladies to find out what you do to you significant others and also a call out to any submissives to discover what your partners do to you that really ticks all the boxes.

I need help.

Understatement of the year.

Raising the Stakes pt. 2

For Part one, see post below. Oh, go on. I enjoyed writing it.

***

I was in a state of utter submission. Mentally as well as physically. He had so nearly broken me and there was little else left to hide. Or so I thought.

Still tied, face down with my limbs drawn out X-style to the bedposts, my breathing had become deep and protracted. It was the last vestige of any control I could have over myself as he imposed himself expertly with the tasseled whip and with his palm. And teeth. No, I mustn’t be forgetting his bites. On my neck; on my shoulders; on my buttocks. Once quite sharply that made me yelp a little. I had retreated into myself and my main focus was to channel my thoughts into breathing slowly so the sting wouldn’t become too much. It wasn’t pain. I won’t call it that. Pain, for me isn’t a good thing. Pain infers no acknowledgement of the other person. One-sided and purely sadistic. He knew what he was doing to me. He did it for mutual benefit.  He made me ache. He made my skin burn and glow. Tingle with desire. Pain, never.

What he did next was to remove that last, singular act of control I had. He made my breathing go wild. He, aptly, raised the stakes. Pausing in his actions, I was dimly aware that he had moved away from the bed. You have to understand that I was quite lost by now. My hands loosened their grasp slightly from the bedframe and I attempted to shift my head over in his direction only to be met with my dark hair clouding my vision. Peering through the strands I was just in time to see him return to the bed with something in his hand. I couldn’t tell what, although I was certain it was a toy. But which one? I felt him place it between my legs, resting there, not touching my skin. Just there for safe-keeping.

…what have you got there?

I managed at least to growl out a few words.

You’ll soon find out.

He had yet to take full advantage of my exposure. His spanking and whipping had had their desired effect and I was well and truly aroused. Twice the tassels had strayed to my pussy and caught my clitoris. *Eek!* that did sting. It was sharp and yes, painful. He recognised it was too much for me and didn’t go there again. Not content with the heightened state I was already in, Mister took things to another level by introducing some tingly lube to the equation. This was the Durex Play brand and, whilst mild, worked a treat. Its tingle took a few seconds to register after application and then I was right back there grasping at my restraints and twisting.

Here was the trump card. If he gets his hands anywhere near my clit, my breathing will start to change. It becomes stilted, uneven when he pushes me beyond my normal boundaries. He toyed, he played, literally had me wrapped round his fingers. He knows which movement will make me gasp this way, and which other flicks will make me moan deeply. When he got me to this stage, he brought in the little friend that was lying between my legs, waiting for its chance to shine.

I gathered as much that it was something to penetrate, but other than that I still was unsure. Then it clicked. It wasn’t hard, like my vibrator, and it was too long to be my little buzzing bullet. Other than that, all we have is….ah. Clever boy. He had brought out the New Toy. My heart leapt in excitement as well as anxiety. 

You see, the other month, I saw fit to explore a new avenue of toy. An area we hadn’t yet been to. I bought a few anal toys. To be precise, a butt plug, a little vibrator and a jelly-like pliable and soft double-ended probey thing. It was this third little beauty Mister had decided to break me in with. This is about 5 inches and at one end has four little nodules of ascending size with the other, longer end designed for something deeper. This end was currently being very slowly and deliberately thrust in and out of my pussy. And doing a damn fine job of it  (I am a bit of a cock-lover and anything that penetrates will have me in throes very quickly). My voice was low and purring, it was a nice change to the fast paced clitoral stimulation a few minutes ago. Then, of course, the devil, he increased pace with this until my body was awash with flowerings of intense exhilaration. I felt the tingling through my every fibre. To remind me of where things stood, every now and then Mister added a little spank.  

He stopped. I knew he was thinking, deliberating about the next obvious step. Noticeably absent, he had removed the toy from my wet folds. Then I felt it. Lightly at first, he began to run the other end up to where we had never really ventured properly with intention before. I was still a little tense, despite everything he had done to break my will, my head was still able to be in a place where I realised that, woah, this is new and different and do I really want to go there? Do I want him to go there? I mean, sure we’ve talked about it and thi….Oh yeah, ooh, that’s actually kinda nice, I wish he’d be a bit braver with it and push in a little fur…ah, there he goes.

Breakthrough!

Mister explored the anal with Pandorah. And It Was Good. Huzzah! Let the choir sing! I was flooded with mixed emotions – relief, excitement of the giggly kind (he’s stuck something up my arse! Teehee!) a tinge of humiliation as well as pure, utter warm and fuzzy loving pleasure. It swamped me. It floored me. Sure it was a little odd; unused to something being There. But it wasn’t bad. Oh No. To double up the happy place I was in, he added his fingers to the mix and carried on flicking my clit with his thumb at the same time as having his fingers inside me.

What I ultimately crave for is him, his cock, inside me. By the time he got round to it, we had been going for well over an hour and a quarter, maybe longer – which is a lot for us to spend on foreplay. Although is it really fair to say that what we had just been through wasn’t technically ‘sex’? From where I was lying, I had been pretty much fucked. 

Later, looking back as he held me, my shuddering frame trembling from interspersed aftershocks, I noted how, during our exploration, he on and off checked in on how I was, whether it was comfortable for me. Conscientious is a word I’m not overly keen on. It brings to mind school reports I had as a younger girl. But tonight it was a word that echoed in my head as I thought about what he had just done to me. For me. Mister is a passionate lover, a forceful and determined one too. He is also always, always caring of me and loving.

This is what makes the both of us Belong to one another. That trust I feel when I’m with him, what I can feel safe having done by him. What he feels comfortable allowing me to do to him, too.

It was a great hand he played there. I think I should go for the long game more often.

Must I Paint you a Picture?

Smile

Dipping the tip of the soft brush into the well of massage oil that the candle had created, I started by tracing out my initial on the centre of his back. Between the shoulder blades the massage oil swept over his skin smoothly to form my mark. It’s not a complicated letter so he guessed it fairly quickly. I followed this warm-up with his initial – he was pretty good at this game.

Holding the brush between my teeth as I rubbed over my first attempts, I took hold of it once again to replenish the supply of oil. Time for something a little more complex. A word this time. Letter by letter I spelt it out as he named each brush-stroke’s delicate formation.

M

I

N

E

That made him exhale in mild amusement. Sensing his playfulness, I quickened the pace of each letter of the next word to see if I could catch him out. Each time a word was correctly guessed, I praised him with a loving rub over his oh-so-yummy back. This was fun. I was enjoying myself. Wanting things to progress further, I spelt out my next command for him.

T
U
R
N

O
V
E
R

He quickly complied.
Good boy.

As he turned, his erection was plain to see. He is always so turned on by my massages, and he was enjoying this new experience at least as much as I was. My eyes always linger on that spot after he turns over. He looks so damn good when he’s naked and aroused. It was hard to keep focus. I brought the candle over and gently tilted it to test its dripping capabilities. Again, it was very mild in temperature and when he tried it out on me the following night I was surprised at just how mild the heat was – barely noticeable above body temperature, tepid if you wish.

The candle itself is held within a glass container and the screw-thread of its lid caused the oil to drip down the side of the glass, which was a little messy and didn’t quite have the effect of a proper wax candle. An unfortunate side-effect is that it habitually came into contact with the sheets/duvet cover and created an oily patch, so if you look into going down this route – be prepared for messy bits! But unless you’re retentive about making a mess during sex, this shouldn’t dampen your spirit of fun.

I played with the oil, letting it fall onto his chest, stomach and of course the nice temperature allowed me to drizzle a few spots onto his cock – a delightful sight, all slippy and slidey once my hand had been there. Honestly, my mouth was watering after this and a sneaky few light kisses and licks up his shaft and head may have escaped my lips. I’m proud to say I’m a lot more generous than I used to be when it comes to oral sex, having started out with a slight aversion to it, I am now finding myself yearning to go down on him sometimes. I think his compliments have helped mightily. Apparently I’m very good ;)

Anyway…

Mister showed his appreciation for my attention to detail by going and switching on me – as he usually does – fired up from the massage he manoeuvred himself over me and returned the favour of the massage with his own, wonderful talents on my breasts and then turning me over onto my back. Feeling the warm oil made a welcome change from the at times chilly stuff we’re used to. I do so hate the cold. Cheekily, he dripped the oil over my arse making me wriggle as it slid between my buttocks, following the liquid’s movements with his own fingers, trailing over my skin then down between my legs. My moans were low and guttural – the sound of a highly turned on LadyP. The heady mix of the oil’s aroma and Mister’s concentrated focus on my pussy led to a series of intense orgasms, leaving me gasping into the pillows and clasping onto the sheets.

All I can say is – if you haven’t tried it, go and buy a massage candle. They are wonderful. Really, really wonderful. It sets you at ease, relaxes you and leads into some very fun, sensual sex. And who knows, it may even lead to try out wax-play.

 

I Wonder Oh I Wonder

So, Blacksilk has posed me a question that I feel deserved more consideration than a comment box can offer. I’ll give it my best shot. If any readers have a question they would like to ask – go ahead. It may even lead to a post of its own as this particular one has done!

Do you ever wonder why you’re so submissive?

Taken Aback

I have a few ideas. There’s a general debate between nature and nurture. Are you naturally submissive due to your genes? Or has it been conditioned into you by your upbringing and/or treatment by others? It’s a fairly common theory that tars lots of different behaviours with the same brush (Spent an age discussing this theory in regards to Caliban in The Tempest - was he born bad, or was it Prospero that made him so?). Personally if I were to ascribe to this I would say it was my nurturing.

See, I’m the youngest in the family. The baby. The youngest of a large family, predominantly of girls. I was also the product of a second marriage for both of my parents – and possibly unexpected due to their being a little more mature in years when I arrived. Due to the fact that it was a second marriage, most of my siblings had fledged already and I was left in a curious situation of being brought up in an only child environment. This all left me to depend a lot more on those around me rather than to fend for myself as I imagine I may have had to fight for my individuality more if I had brothers and sisters around me.

Leading to me not having a terribly independent streak, only surfacing in the latter years of adolescence. Take that a step further into sexual maturity and it is, I feel, a strong explanation for the submissive that is inherent within me.

But, you say. What about the love of the scratching and dom-ing of Mister?

I lay down the card of childhood once more – The only child gets her way more often than not.

A second, different theory of why I and people are submissive is that of the world of work. You know the deal – All those executives in big wig jobs just love to pay those Dominatrixes extortionate amounts to lick their PVC-clad boots and whatnot because they seek it as a balancing in their mental scales. Or something like that. In relation to yours truly, this can apply to a certain extent also.

Where I work, I have responsibility. I have duties. It’s fair to say some of the people there look up to me. I like to kick back and leave that behind when I pass over the threshold back to my dearest, darling Man. The pressure at work is something I don’t like to bring home and being sexually submissive and leaving the keys firmly in Mister’s hand is a way to escape that. The fact that he naturally falls into it kinda helps. He knows the effort I put in and worry at times I go through and he looks after me. He sends me to bed when I come home exhausted. I catch him looking at me, forehead creased in concern after my eyes open from a tired, nose-pinching squint. The bear-hug welcomes and enveloping cuddles last thing at night. It all leads to a relationship where his ‘looking after-ness’ translates into to the bedroom as him being in charge and making the decisions for me. For the majority of the time, of course, not 100%. 75% perhaps. I don’t know – numbers have never been my forte.

But, of course, theories can be bunkum.

I am submissive most of all because I enjoy it. It gets me off. It gets him off too. And of course it has much to do with the man I am with. I wouldn’t know for sure, as I haven’t been with anyone else, but who knows, if faced with another partner, I may be the one calling the shots and then too, it would be because I would be having a bloody good time doing it. Sex is subjective. Each to their own. That’s why it’s so fun. No one good screw is the same as another. There are two people here that make up the balance of submission and dominance and whatever the weighting, neither would go through with any of it if uncomfortable.

When we play those roles, live the labels of D/s (eugh at all the capitalisation protocol that goes on, but hey ho) I feel I am being me when I am subbing. When we switch, I know that although I am having the best of fun, it is a rôle, a character I put on. Mantle of the Domme. It is part of me, but not who I am. I am ultimately the submissive. When he draws near me, he exudes the air of subtle dominance that melts me in moments. As when I am in control, and I loosen his ties (if that’s how we’ve been going), it can take him a millisecond in which to overcome me and I have lost myself to him.  And again note, I have to be in charge with the use of implements – the whip, the bonds, the wax. He needs nothing. Just him alone is all it takes. I give him everything when I am subbing. My heart. My body. My all.

I thank him once more for making me see what it is that makes up Me. Pandorah, the Inner Minx, Real Life Her.

Whoever I am, I am his. And that thrills me.

I’ve Written a Letter to Mister

I think to myself sometimes what exactly my purpose is in writing this blog.

Partly, it must be about exhibitionism. I am a show-off. Subtly. I may not dress provocatively in Teh Real World, nor may I act slutty around people. But you may catch me if you happen to walk past my window deshabillé from time to time, in various states of undress. You might even catch me moaning in unison with him through a wall’s partition, or just on my own perhaps…

In the guise of Pandorah, however, I am allowing that exhibitionist streak to surface more fully – the Inner Minx completely on show. In adopting this pseudonym I let her flourish in front of those who view my posts. Once in a while, when he can, Mister will read what I have written. He doesn’t have the best access to Pandorah when he’s at his parent’s place, but I know he checks in now and again. I want him to see me flourish before his eyes. See me write about how I feel about him – in ways I could never communicate verbally to him. I clam up sometimes – I can’t express my thoughts as well vocally as I can in words written down sometimes.

So, allow me to present to you, Mister, Exhibit A: My Letter to You.

I written to you before, as you know. I saw how you keep them by you in your bedside table. Mingling with your boxed cufflinks and our kinky collection that resides with you. My scrawls of clichés and longing written in biro, ink and emotion. I’ve written to you of our experiences – that time in the shower where you scalded your arm on a hot pipe; that day spent in the sun in a hayfield at our beginning – every one cherished and remembered. This is different. In this letter, I am writing to you not with clichés, nor with ink. I am writing to you with hope.

You see, this blog and its owner has come to realise that hope is actually much closer to the heart of Pandorah’s alter-ego in reality. You know her name. You know who she is, and what other names you call her. Hope is not only what was left in the box. It escaped into her world too and infected her. Coursing through her veins is the hope that you give her. Before I met you, I was a shadow of what I am now. You helped me to realise my potential, giving me the self-confidence that was there, hidden, but needed shining up.

You also allowed the passion to course through those veins as well. Awakening me to emotions and senses I had only, literally, read about. I still remember the first time we held hands, walking down to spend the evening together in our ‘local’ in my town. We really must visit there again – nostalgia demands it. You may not have picked up on it, but little things and moments like that first public interlocking of our fingers sent a shiver, a quiver through me.

I want to do things to you that my real persona could never mention. Even to you. You know about my quill fantasy…What you don’t know is what I want to inscribe upon your body. The Inner Minx adores how you flatter and stoke her fires. She/I cannot wait until we are truly alone in our own place so she can be released for you. That look in my eyes when we are alone and things are going my way. A mixture between desire, yearning and Machiavellian designs.

So this is a glimpse into how deeply I feel for you and what you mean to me. Lately, I know we have been too tired to fully explore one another. But you know how I love our Sunday morning rolls. And our last one was divine. ‘Thank you’ doesn’t quite cut it. Tomorrow I shall be seeing you in the evening. And you owe me that massage you’ve been threatening to give me. Perhaps I shall pack some candles into my bottomless handbag.

Well, honey. That’s about it. I’ll know when you have read this as you will have that look in your eye. ‘Never been described in such a complimentary light before’ is what you said when I began this little blog. Maybe you will feel the need to say something similar after reading this post. I hope so – Oh! There I go again with that four-letter word.

There’s another four-letter word in a three-word phrase I say to you often. I mean it every time. After our most intimate moments, in passing conversation and during our most affectionate and giggling ones also. I’m thinking of it now, and you know I’ll say it to you again tomorrow.

Sweet dreams, Mister.

I’ve Missed You…

Walking home in the rain – alas, no outdoor kisses today, it’s not quite the right time just yet – my excitement must have been palpable to him.

We had spent the evening in the company of some of my raucous sisters and their partners, giggling away at an adult version of Trivial Pursuit. Quite educational, actually. You’d think the plural of penis would be either peni or penises, but no – it is actually penes. See. Educational. I’ve also come away with a new word to use in my next slanging match. Ladies – don’t be flattered if you are called a drazel. Unless you go in for that kind of talk.

I thought I would dress relatively nicely, and rather than the usual jeans, jumper get up I would wear – tis family, they don’t care what I look like, as long as I’m having a nice time – I chose one of my preferred skirts and purple top thing. (I’m not one for detailed clothes descriptions. I’d make a pretty poor Horny Housewife Hotline phonegirl) Underneath I took care there as well by adorning my frame with a rather nice set of greeny-turquoise bra and French knickers. Finished off with some leg-warming but rather fetching over the knee sock things. Slightly Catholic school-girl.

I had made a bit of an effort. It was a big night. The first time in over a year I was planning on having nookie without a condom.

I was slightly worried we’d both be too knackered and tipsy to perform. We stayed at my sister’s until 3am and by the time we had walked back to my parents’ house and fed and watered ourselves (nighttime munchies are a killer) it was nearly 4am when we hit the sack. Was all my preparation and care to no avail after all?

Thank the heavens we were both as randy as two rabbits. Or bonobos. I hear they are randy primates.

We fell on eachother with a subdued, yet strangely urgent ardour. The juxtaposition of being in a tipsy state of sleepiness, but with the desirous need to have one another. Then and There. Immediately. Our kisses were tinged with wine and cider, making for smiled-through clinches with slight smirks. We quickly got serious as we undressed one another and began roaming our hands over every surface of naked skin we could touch. I was impressed by his state of awake-ness at that time as he proceeded to touch me up in that intimate spot, playing swiftly becoming searching, seeking out my response he loves. The arched back, the twisting body, the grasping of sheets he finds such satisfaction in seeing me perform. When given breathing space, I returned the favour. Hunting for his own gasps and caught breaths. He makes such good sounds when he’s being handled. Cross between a purr and a growl.

There is nothing hotter for me that him asking permission or wanting direction, and last night he did both. He wanted guidance to my G-spot. He found it. He asked to enter me without a condom. I granted him that permission. How could I deny him? I was longing for it. He pulled me over onto him and slipped inside me. It was blissful not having to pause and root around my bag for a few minutes. The subtle difference in feeling of having him within me with no barriers was indescribably wonderful. I can’t place words on why it felt delicious. It just was.

After we had reached our peak and were on the descent once more I whispered to him, his head lying on my chest in our embrace, ‘I’ve missed you so much.’

It was all I had anticipated, and much, much more. Isn’t is nice when that happens?

 

First Contact

Five.

The number that is most reflective to me this evening. It is the number of fingers on the hands I love to interlock with my own. Fingers that know my body so well. How to stroke, caress. How to hold. How to tickle. The tactile nature of those individual digits. How they become a hug when joined by arms around my back; over my shoulders. Holding my face in the palms stemming from the fingers. Bringing my face to yours in holy palmer’s kiss.

Five.

The number of toes on each foot. Feet I hold with care in my hands, teasing out the stresses of a day’s tension captured within. Starting with your toes I move my way up your body massaging every centimetre. Five toes connected to one of your most sensitive areas. The soles of your feet. Even a light tap of my little finger can send you jumping in shivers. Of delight? Of shock? Both I hope.

Five.

Five years today since we first met properly and had a confusing, repeated conversation in a club over terrible and loud music. Since you insulted the my love of Shakespeare to my face. Five years since our first and only true argument (that is still on-going by the way). No, Shakespeare is not crap. It is beautiful. It is Everyman’s literature.

Five.

The number of years we shall celebrate next weekend of being a pair, a couple, boyfriend and girlfriend. You and Me. Mister and Pandorah. Five years since our first date after the tireless effort you put into chasing me. After the waiting in a bar for a young, innocent and timid girl who never showed due to her nervousness of meeting up with a guy she hardly knew. Five years of me being grateful to you for persevering with that timid girl, knowing she would be worth the hassle and frustration of going after.

Five.

Five years since I discovered for myself the reason for fairytales, romances of trashy novels, poetry, song. That fluttering butterfly was awakened five years ago. She still floats a little higher each time she sees you. Each time she thinks about you, dreams about you.

Five.

Five years I soon will have spent having traversed the stage of adult mischief and naughtiness. Five years of nocturnal fun and daytime bliss in bed with you. Five years since that innocent and timid girl grew her wings and began to soar up to the dizzying heights of fragile happiness, holding your hand all that way. Knowing how precious it is up there. Five years soon since that innocent girl lost her innocence. She bit that apple and wanted more. And you handed her a whole bushel.

Five.

A number I can reflect on this evening. A number that sits comfortably in my head. A number I relate with happiness.