Tag Archives: Work

Ice Queen

I sacrificed watching Flight of the Conchords to tie up, take advantage of and use Mister. I think it was a better choice of events the other evening. Definitely worth it. Yes. I’d been meaning to get to grips with him lately – he has been missing out on being on the receiving end of some kinky goings on.

Some days present themselves to me and I wander along in a slight daze. Not due to tiredness or anything, but because my head is filled with him in my mind. Things we had done the night before, a few days ago, or ghosting memories that linger, distracting me from what I should be focusing on. And when I return – I return to see those thoughts made flesh and blood and bone in his beautiful form before me. So I can’t keep my hands off him. If he picks me up from work, I will brush my fingers against the underside of his palm as it rests on the gearstick whilst we wait at the traffic lights. I will run a finger along his thigh, making him jump a little; making me smile more.

I passed a day like this on Tuesday (seems to be a running weekly event – kinky fun on Tuesdays – see previous post if bothered) and once home my hands continued to wander. One of my favourite things to do as we eat dinner is to casually stroke along his hip-line, along the hem of his jeans as he sits next to me. His skin feels so soft, inviting, smooth and lightly cool from exposure as his shirt lifts up. Small things like this mean the world to me.

In the kitchen, too, I find him irresistable. Walking up behind him as he washes the crockery, I wrap my arms around him and hold him as best my small frame can manage. Tactile is my nature. I want to touch him always.

And so my thoughts ran to when the moment would come when I could grab him and have him. I had even laid hints, but he doesn’t always pick up on them. Time to initiate, I thought. Almost mechanical – that thought?

I drew him to the bedroom, leading him by the hand. At once an image of innocence and debauchery. I like ambiguity. I was still in my work clothes and my skirt began to ride up as I pinned him to the bed and staddled him. I hitched up the material further so I could move more freely. I think it was at this point I told him to take off his shirt. I adore that look of a topless man. My own personal weakness. I will often lose myself in staring at his creamy skin, poring over his chest and back. When he walks in from a shower, he will dress himself in his jeans before strolling back to the bedroom to find a new shirt and that just-washed-man look with the wet hair and the odd stray drip of water down his neck will cause me to place a great deal of self-restrain on myself. Especially if I’m still in bed. Wanting to dirty him up some once more.

Back to this evening, though, and it was my turn to become a little more déshabillé, shall we say? I was wearing my skirt with a black sash ribbon around the waist – and a spark ignited. I want to tie you up tonight. His eyes at the same time sparkled and faltered at those words. I had started the light clawing already, and I wished to make things more clearer in the fact I wanted to play with him tonight. I don’t think I have bound him as quick as that before. The bow behind me was loosened and removed from the loops at rapid pace. A simple hook around the metal bedhead left the two ends free for me to bind his wrists at either side of his head. I grinned. Then removed his trousers. Things were looking up – for me and for him, it seemed…

Coming back to sit over him, I took off my top and eased off my skirt completely now to remain only in my underwear. There was a strange glint in his eye and I bent forward to rest my chin on his chest, looking up into his eyes playfully.

He looked at me oddly as I stared at him. What are you thinking? I asked. He refused to answer. I asked him again, punctuating slowly with a tone of light threat. Again, he didn’t respond. Well. That’s not playing the game.  So I stormed off and fetched the ice.

He heard me clatter furiously in the kitchen as I got the cubes. Returning with the bowl of freezing ice, I asked him again, What are you thinking? Nothing was said back. He just continued to look up at me, silently challenging me.

Now the game began once more. Level Two.

I took up one of the cubes and placed it between my fingers. I let the ice melt as I hovered my hand over his beautiful and hard cock. Still no response on his thoughts. The first few drops didn’t seem to phase him, but as he saw I wasn’t going to relent and the drips came in rapid succession, I saw him wince and wriggle. His expression changed - still the challenge, but now with more uncertainty creeping in.

Remnants of the cube now in my mouth, I trailed chilled kisses over his chest up to his jaw. Kissing him with chilled lips and a cool tongue; light, small and wet kisses from the ice water, he was tender and deliciously meek in his own lips’ movements. I shot him a direct look into his eyes this time, unblinking and millimetres away from his face. Voice low and quiet, alomst a growl. What are you thinking? 

That you’re bad.

But you like me like this…

Forced

A lot of the time we have sex in the bedroom. Whilst it’s always very, very good, I do wish we played more outside of it. I guess because it’s warm and we can slink right into bed that factors largely among the reasons why and also because most of our sex happens before we go to bed.

But it is good to get out once in a while.

Like the other night in the bath. Not all the way, but nicely toying with each other. Feet slipping up against skin. Hands moving up thighs.

I have a couple of memorable times within our flat that were outside of the bedroom. One was a delicious and much-needed interruption. The second, which I will tell you of, undesired-of at first, forced upon me against my better judgement, but still I needed it.

A weeknight.

Tired from work and simply wanting to do nothing on the sofa. That was me.

He had other ideas.

I had been feeling that we were in a slight rut with the kink.

He didn’t see the problem.

I was in no mood for anything remotely sexual, but he had tunnel-vision. He wanted me. And He Would Have Me.

He pawed. He stroked. He pandered.

I twisted. I complained. I escaped.

Clearly, realising he’d have to work harder if he wanted to get his way with me, he switched tactics. Moving, adjusting, he entwined my legs around him and shifted my work skirt a little higher. Continuing his strokes, he changed his attention from my arms to my thighs.

I pulled the hem of my skirt back down. I frowned at him.

He stared right back with a determined look.

He shifted again. I wriggled against him, trying once more to escape.

No. That seemed only to make his access to me easier. Try again. Still, somehow my usual trick of wriggling away wasn’t working. I blamed the tiredness.

Things stepped up. He got up, crouched before me and pinned my legs apart in some manner with his legs and arms. Dragging me to the edge of the sofa, the angle I was now in, reclining, I found it difficult to move in any direction but towards him.

I got mad.

if thy mistress some rich anger shows,  
  Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,  
    And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

I raved. I squirmed. This time from his hand right up on my pussy this time. Showing no mercy. And he was staring right back into my furious eyes. My hand was gripping his wrist to drag it away, but his obvious strength was always going to win out. His determination fuelled him further. He moved toward me. He straddled me.

He unbuttoned his jeans.

I was in no position to argue at that point, really. He’d won. I was lost.

I licked his shaft and the around tip of his head with a mixture of petulance and desire for this man who was forcing me to suck him off. This aggressive streak I don’t usually find in him. I felt him pushing in to me, but it was still careful, still gentle, despite all the brutality behind its origins. I drew him into my mouth and looked up, the fire burning still from my anger. The flame a different shade, though. Not as white hot. More crimson. Scarlet.

A hand was in my hair. Clasping and tangled. The other was steadying his frame by being placed on the back of the sofa. His knuckles were whitening. My eyes, they smiled for a glimmering second before remembering how this came to pass.

***

Isn’t it nice when you enact mini-fantasies without ever uttering a word to your partner about them…

Feeding the Minx

I sometimes spend my day at work lost in my thoughts. That is, when I have those rare quiet moments of breathing space in which I can find those minutes of private solace. Then I dream of him. I softly conspire in my mind of what I would do to him if I had enough energy that evening. What I would want him to do to me. These snippets I collect and catalogue away in the inner scrap-book I keep. This library of mine, for me only, serves me well. I dip in and out of the mental images, movements and emotions stored within. The overriding feeling I get when I do take a little trip away from my present physical location is one of burning desire. And it builds inside. Builds up and begins to smoulder, sizzling away beneath the cool surface of my appearance. The calm and collected individual I have been told I assume the guise of. If only they knew.

The adrenaline kicks in and feeds the Minx. She starts to stir and to move underneath my skin. She prickles at the back of my neck and the pit of my stomach. Calling, purring subtly to me. She will support me through a tough day at work, whispering to me that it’s only a few more hours before I can be back with him once more and all will be well then. The thought is at once soothing and electrifying. Placating and riling.

When I do arrive home, he awaits me. Always with a smile, always with a kiss. He picks me up from work on occasion and I see him smile as he pulls up to the kerb. I melt in an instant. His once again. The exterior of restrain slips away to be replaced with the softened edges of warmth towards another. Saving me. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job, it’s the best thing I could be in, but there is that certain distinction between who I am at work and who I am with him. Work feeds my mind; he feeds the Minx beneath. The instinctual part of myself. All desire and rage, passion and need. Stoking the fire that powers me.

And he knows the mood I am in when I get in this state of Minxiness. My movements are slow and heavy, but at a different mode than from mere tiredness. More deliberate in my connections between he and I. Each touch meaningful. A clear message to his inner Rogue. We smoulder together for the hours the evening presents us with. The tension increasing. My hand will creep under his clothes, swooping up his back, over his stomach. To feel his skin with the very tips of my fingers, the raised portions of my fingertips becoming extremely sensitive to any point of contact. When we first were dating in those years past and I was discovering the beauty of the male form for the first time, this simple act of touch would transform me into something of quiet ferocity in arousal. I like to revisit this way of trickling my hands over him, spidery in fashion, twisting and spreading their incantations of lust. Then it is his turn to purr.

When we haven’t set ourselves up for a planned session, it is mainly in his response that will decide whether I will fall to him or rise above and take the reins. In most cases, I want him to make me fall. Taking me over. Subsuming to his rule. The Minx, at heart, desires to be tamed. His natural dominance will emerge. His hand goes to clutch my hair and when it pulls back, I know. I know when he too moves his hand up under my work clothes, that corruption of who I am at work I know he adores. Taking the pillar of responsibility from under me and bringing me crashing back down. To the darkness where there is only me and him and that is all that matters. Who I am in the day is being ripped from me and I am left torn and his alone. His to use. His to misuse. The Minx flexes her muscles in satisfaction and in the knowledge of what will follow. Sated, but not quite.

That is what I live for. At times at least. Just something I like to muse on.

January is the Cruellest Month

(as is April, but that’s another story)

It’s been pretty bleak these last couple of weeks. The wind is blowing and the rain is falling. Walking in to work this morning a cyclist skidded at least a good 10 feet on the iced road right in front of me. A cheerful greeting on Monday morning acknowledged that that day is the most depressing in the year – just after Christmas, in the bleak midwinter, cold, rainy, budgets tight and to top it all off a Monday Morning.

I also did my back in on Monday evening so all hasn’t been too great (how? you ask…oh, silly me trying to prove that I have muscles somewhere and attempted to lift up Mister from the ground. Yes. I know. I iz an iddyot).

Yet all is not lost. Light is at the end of this dark tunnel. Literally – the evenings have started to pull out and lengthen in their precious minutes of daylight. Sunbeams – albeit fragile and watery – have been shining through my window at work making me smile. Mister continues to be marvellous – being all worried at my poor back (feeling a little guilty, no doubt, for being so manly and heavisome as I like to imagine). Kneading out the knots I have incurred all along the left-side of my spine with gentle, warm and effective fingertips.

Seriously – I was not a happy Pandorah. It took me the whole of four minutes to turn in bed from one position lying on my back to lying on my side, the pain was so ouchy. I’m just about better with minor twinges if I overstretch.

Anyway, despite the sharp pain I was experiencing if I moved a millimetre, he was undeterred from making sure we were both fully relaxed and in the right frame of mind for sleep. By bedroom friskiness with fingers.

Naturellement.

His usual approach of go at it all guns blazing and make me writhe and jolt had to go out the window as the slightest back movement made me yelp with an unforced ‘oh!’ of stabbing ache. Instead the softly, softly method was adopted. Not his normal choice, but one I like as it draws out the process allowing me to really savour what it is he is doing with his fingers on me, concentrating all on the feather-light touches on my clit and thighs. I prefer it at times to the frantic scrambling to grab onto anything to attempt to contain myself – in vain usually, deliciously.

Here the pleasure/pain idea was really being explored. Each time I drew near to a peak, my back naturally wanted to arch and jolt, but that induced the vivid aching twang. I was focused on reducing my movement to a bare minimum.

Consequently, something of a little game I play with myself, when I play with myself. A kind of challenge I set myself, scenarios in my head to see if I can restrain my movement. I always lose, though. Can never stay motionless.

So that night, Mister and I played that little game (although he didn’t knew it’s one I know the rules of already)

It worked out nicely, in the end. A beautifully langourous time spent on one another, him teasing me and I, him.

Maybe I shall pull the other side of my back next week. It did have some benefits.

Or maybe not. It wasn’t that much fun walking around twinging and cringing every 10 paces. I shall just have to be more assertive and tell him not to take the ‘guns blazing’ approach every time. Yes.

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 been an Awful Good Girl…

It’s Christmas time, no need to be afraid..?

Why, yes. Now is the perfect time for you to be afraid. I am now on recharge mode from the last few months of working my stockings off and I’m coming out to get ya! [insert evil laugh of choice here]

My first weekday morning off work and you saw fit to take advantage of me?!  Well, that’s all very well and good (you know I will very very rarely refuse you) but now it’s my turn. [insert evil grin of choice here]

*****

Readers, I am feeling frustrated. It is no good thing. Yes, yes, we’ve been having lots of the yummy, I want more, more, more sex but none of the kinky stuff. Apart from the occasional spanking. But then, that’s only to spur me on and not for its own sake. And I am missing that. I hate it that I get so sleepy in the evenings after work that I can do diddly squat on my list of kinky things to do to Mister.

All work and no kink makes Pandorah angsty.

This morning, for instance – this was a perfect time for me to jump up in an energetic state and roll around with him. Unfortunately he is not a morning person and wasn’t switched on to realise I was gagging for it. Then, after I had grown snoozy once more then he decided he’d take advantage of me. I mean, seriously! I felt so used.

I loved it.

I want him to be like that more often. Take me when he wants it, there and then. I don’t care when, how, where, why or whatfor. I just want him to be all grrrrr and use me, á la Eurythmics…no?

Do not fear – this is all going to be directed at him as well. I will not let it stand unheard by his oh-so biteable ears.

I’m feeling the need to be dominated. I want him to tell me what to do to him. Generally we’re not a very verbal pair, but the other night I felt so thrilled and something inside me jellified when he was fingering me whilst I was on top of him. Writhing together, I heard him in a muffled voice by my ear speak to me.

Come.

That one word, four letters. Such a simple act of speech. It held so much for me. That fluttering, adrenaline rush of desire filled me instantaneously and I was in my throes within a few seconds of him uttering that word. 

I’m feeling all mixed up again. I don’t like it. I want things to return, or rather develop into a regular happening of kink.  Not merely a one-off thing, at a special occasion. It’s something I want regularly in my sex-life. I need it. I love it.

[Edit: This post is being published as a work-in-progress. I am probably going to add to it, but I really feel I want to have this out there. Not quite sure why. I need to air out my dirty laundry or something. meh.]

No Rest For The Wicked

Pandorah is excited. (Jumps around in a little dance of her own designs)

Tomorrow is my last day at my training placement! It has been the definition of a rollercoaster ride, this placement. It’s given me the tortures of Hell and it’s given me the delights of Above. It has been a steep learning curve on the job, but I have endured, overcome and emerged out on the otherside smiling.

I said goodbye to some of those I have been working with today and yesterday and I caught a slight lump in my throat – even for those I haven’t enjoyed working with for most of the time. More of that I guess when I’m qualified (I never know whether to talk about my profession – I probably shouldn’t, it’s not the best of places being a naughty, sometimes risqué sex-blog, if that’s what I can term these ramblings as).

I’m going out to celebrate in a graduated process over the next week: tomorrow with Mister to La Tasca – possibly my favourite eatery in the last two years, ever since discovering it in Swansea during the degree years. Mmm Tapas for a Tenner it is definitely to be! Then Thursday shall be the obligatory meal with my course colleagues and out tutor – our treat: meal plus a few goodies she shall (hopefully) appreciate. Friday is the actual passing out parade. It’s not technically a graduation, but we will be handed our certificates in front of family and friends; Mum and Dad will be there. This is going to be followed by a rather British Cream Tea party. How spiffing! I fancy some fizzy pop!

Friday evening and I will be moving back to deepest darkest Devon for the summer to my parent’s house. Not that I shall have a minute’s rest – Straight to the wonderful Veggie Café I adore working in, and have done for the last four summers (they love me there; boss asked way back in March when I would be back to work with them! So nice to feel wanted!). 

But it doesn’t stop there, my lovelies, no no – House hunting with Mister and driving lessons need to be sorted out.

Once more I am thrilled, excited and soooo looking forward to moving in with him. We’re slowly collecting bits and pieces for the place (having a large family has finally proven useful) and we’re all set to start the ball rolling for checking out houses/flats. By the sea! How fantastic! I have a job lined up after the summer in a beautiful seaside town which is ultimately what I was hoping and praying to find. I may not like getting wet in the rain, but I need to feel the presence of the water nearby after growing up down here by the coast. My Inner Hippie, I guess. Blacksilk – you must understand where I’m coming from?

So…busy busy Pandorah. I can’t wait to close the front door to the world for the first time with Mister in our house. The first thing I shall probably do is giggle like an excited schoolgirl who’s just made out with the cutest guy in the year above. And has just scored an A* in her exams.

The second thing I shall probably do is jump into our bed with him and make a lot of noise christening our bedroom. Eeee!

Hell yeah!

 

~ Edit: I’m *so* excited about my last day at placement tomorrow, I’m going all out and have decided to wear me ol’ stockings and suspenders! Yippee!! Photos to follow, maybe…I’ll see how awake I am at 7:15 tomorrow morning - whether or not I can operate a digital camera. ~

Emotional

Today has been tough.

Hard day was had today at work. Yesterday was fine and dandy. I even felt more energetic despite not returning until 6:40pm. Usually I am whacked out from my day – on the go from 6:45am until 5pm practically – but Monday was a Good Day.

Today was not. Alot was achieved, planning wise. But putting it into practice in the afternoon, not so triumphant. Well, at least it was better than last Tuesday. That was horrific.

Rollercoaster Course. Seriously. Ups and Downs galore. My insides are churned regularly with the loops they go through. I feel sick somedays, and my heart sinks. But the highs are wonderful and make it all worth it. I am so thrilled and exhilarated after a Good Day, and it makes the Downs seem not so bad. After all, the bumps will work themselves out at some point. I hope. I still have Hope in my box.

Finger’s crossed for a better rest of the week.

And on the plus side, only about 33 working weekdays until I qualify. Something to smile about.

Also, it’s our Five Year Anniversary in two weeks’ time. More of that to follow. Mister reminded me today during my emotional phonecall (Tuesday Pandorah feelings again – You know how these days are). He always has something up his sleeve to cheer me up when I least expect it or feel I can’t be cheered up.

I love that man. I’d be a broken Pandorah without him and probably have quit the course months ago. He keeps me going.

Keeping a weather eye on the horizon where the sunset lies at the end of this seemingly everlasting day

Tuesday is now Pantsday*

I’ve had a shite day today. Sorry, but I have. One of those, ‘Oh, it was going fine until…’ days.

 So I’m going to have a little moan. But not a good sexy moan, unfortunately. I need to exorcise this day.

I have spoken before about how I can struggle on Tuesdays and Wednesdays from Mister Withdrawal symptoms and today is one hulluva Cold Turkey. Not only has the weather here in Devon been all stormy – making my hair all kinds of tangled – but on top of that I had a bad day at work. So much so, I broke down after ‘it’ happened. I can’t go in to it, due to anonymity stuff, but suffice to say it was mentally and emotionally draining in a negative way. My face went all blotchy as it is wont to do on these occasions much to my disgust, and I was not a pretty sight.

Add to this the fact that there is no Mister to come home to so I could at the very least have a long, exhale-into-his-chest hug, and I’m feeling low. No Mister to look up at with eyebrows creased and to move in to his neck to kiss it – I find this has a oddly calm effect on me. I think it has something to do with his smell. He always smells fantastic there – his spray wafting up from his shirt, mixed in with that fantastically sensuous Man Smell. Mmm. At these rare times when I am not my usual happy, cheery self it would be amazing to be living with him and to know he would be there if not when I got home, then at some point in the evening to console me if I needed it. This time next year…..hopefully.

But, every cloud….

We are meeting up tomorrow evening to go to the theatre. I am really looking forward to this. I have not been for over a year (Lady Chatterley’s Lover – There was nudity; it was right at the front of the stage; I was entertained). Which is very very good. He’s coming in to the City from his little seaside village. He’s so sweet like that. Coming all that way just for a night (although I’m not completely sure if he’s staying. Bloody hope so. I’ll make it worth his while).

So, time for Pandorah to pull her socks up, have a good shower and go through it all again tomorrow.

But without the tears this time, please.

    

*For any American readers, I don’t know if it’s the same there, but in the UK, ‘pants’ is used as an adjective to denote an expression of rubbishness e.g. ‘I had a pants day’ :)