Excess baggage: removed

This year, I have managed to rid myself of two people from my life.

I did so semi-intentionally — it’s all a part of the growing-up process (one does tend to wonder when said process will end, since I am already in my forties) to be able to accurately ascertain that someone is just plain bad for you.

I’ve never been one to burn bridges. To whit, my entire range of years in puberty were spent trying desperately to fit in with a crowd, with the vast majority of whom I had little to nothing in common. The more I was rejected, the more I pushed for acceptance. I freely admit that this is likely a tale with which many can identify — the years of puberty being the hormone-strewn classic nightmare that they are for so many. I did have some good friends in the crowd, but precious few, and I am in touch today with only a smattering of them.

But I’m “FB friends” with many of the original crowd. Why? Dunno. They friended me, mostly, likely to swell their friend lists. These are mostly those who didn’t dislike me, but with whom i was never particularly close, a fact borne out by the photos i see of old gang reunions to which I am never invited.

I don’t need them on my list to prove I had friends in the past — god knows, once i grew up and accepted that my lifestyle would be very different from these people and I therefore should waste no more time in futile pursuit of their grudging and patronizing acceptance, I began to blossom and thrive. I accepted their friendship s because in a way, I felt affectionately towards them. My own judgment, or lack thereof, aside, it was nice to say hi, and see how they are and where and what and all that fun stuff. I’m very happy with my life, therefore looking back nostalgically is largely a fun pastime.

The two people of whom I initially spoke were nothing to do with my former years as a freshfaced and eager youthful idealist.

One is a former Dom. The other is a former love of my life.

The Dom is an oddity in and of himself. He claims to be in recovery from a particularly unpleasant behavioral disorder, and for this reason is always truthful and very open about his behaviour and limitations as a result of the affliction. I told the Big Bad Cat about him from the beginning. I knew the Dom way before the BBC and I met and fell in love. The Dom pursued me for a year before we finally met in the flesh, we had a number of sessions, and in between them he made it very clear that I was expected to be his 24*7, and obey his whims regardless of non-proximity. This was OK, or at least, it was OK then, because I was just beginning to experience BDSM, and believed that “this was the one twue way to be a sub”.

One twue way my sizeable ass.

The Dom and I broke up when i realized that I was not happy with the arrangement. While I was doing everything that he requested of me, he was withholding communication from me, and leaving me feeling isolated and abandoned. When I broached this subject, he told me that he was no longer happy with our arrangement for various reasons not connected to me. We ended ostensibly friends, although over the following year, as I learned more and more about the lifestyle, I realized how things had been wrongly handled (to put it mildly) from the beginning. Over time, I communicated to him how I felt, and eventually we worked things out and became, for want of a better term, friends.

After a while, the subject came up of sexual arousal — specifically, ours — redux. It had never ceased to exist, we’d always been very sexually attracted to one another. However, in the course of trying to make it work, appointment after appointment ended up being cancelled. Basically, life got in the way — and he took this as a personal insult. And with his reaction of petulant, pram-toy-expulsion tantrum, so expired my feelings for him.

The former love of my life was the one who made the choice to depart from my life — but things had gotten to the stage where I couldn’t continue to be in his life without him understanding how difficult he made it to be around him.

He’d suffered a personal tragedy that we should none of us ever know about — the tragic loss of a child. It had profoundly depressed him, although it didn’t change who he was all that significantly. He was always a self-destructive, conflicted and manipulative man with wild mood swings and an innate sense of “pity me”. It took me a long time to realise how he was playing me, years and years in fact — but eventually, the penny dropped. I wrote to him, when I realised that I had to do something, and I asked him to face up to what he was doing to me. It was a long, carefully thought-out and constructed letter, that set out facts: what I could no longer handle in terms of his behaviour towards me, and how he made me feel. We are all of us responsible for 100% of our 50% of the equation, and I hoped he’d understand that.

He didn’t. He did not reply, and has dropped me from his mental list of friends — evidenced by his actions on various social networking sites.

And I’m OK with that. It’s such a relief to close a door that opens onto a yawning chasm of self-doubt and potential hurt. And unusually — since I am not a bridge-burner by nature — I feel stronger and happier.

Yes, it’s difficult to lose people in life, but it’s even more difficult to know when they need to remain lost. I cherish the people I keep in my life, even more so when I acknowledge that I keep them there intentionally. Some people will never be lost to me, and I will always be here for them. These two — they’re history.

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Sex eyes

Leaving the big bad cat after a rendezvous of particularly spine-tingling intensity, I view the world with different eyes.

Prior to stepping out of the magical world, in which no one exists but us two, I make myself ready with humdrum yet essential preparations, since walking the streets naked and glowing is not really an option.

Oh shhh. You know it isn’t.

I look in the mirror, and stifle a squeal of horror at the birds nest my carefully coiffeured thatch has become over the space of a few passionate hours. Working my much-practiced magic, using weapons of mass destruction, I manage to subdue and restrain the frightwig on my head until I once again resemble the ordinary, working mother so beloved of my vanilla acquaintances.

I turn to the Big Bad Cat, and ask him whether I still have sex hair.

He laughs.

“No, you don’t have sex hair, my darling, but you do have sex eyes.”

And it’s true. I know that to remove the sappy, happy, sated and blissed-out grin plastered across my face, it will take time and much concentration on matter of extreme mundanity. I’m floating above the earth, although my feet make contact with the metal, concrete or gravel that they encounter, but I’m still a passenger on the Sub-Space Express, and there’s not a lot I can do to change that.

Not that I would want to, as I’m sure you can imagine.

But from the inside — and I believe I have mentioned how the events that go on around me, and involving me, are all taken down and noted by the little man in my head, the quintessential documentor who is a constant passenger on my shoulder — the world from inside looking out is a very different place when I look out through sex eyes. I half-expect people to stop me in the street, ask me for tips on having their eyes glow tawny gold as mine feel as though they do, or tell me how blissed out I look.

 No one ever does, of course. Which is fine.  I’m quite happy to radiate the love and peaceful tranquility that I feel, with no specific payback.

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New rope, new hands

How strange.

Familiar rope,
Identical manner,
Different hands,
Different eyes,

Increased concentration,
No less concern,

Twinkles of —
if not love —
Then certainly affection,

How very familiar,

And yet,

How strange.

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Love, and vanilla sex

He stayed where he was in suspended animation, remaining poised above me, and looking down into my eyes.

I turned to suppress a small sob, but he wasn’t having that.

“No, look at me, Tabby. I need to see your eyes, and I need you to see mine.”

Ever the obedient submissive kitten, I did as I was told, even in the knowledge that the look in his sparkling baby-blues would be too much and I would likely dissolve.

Very quietly, he waited until my sobs had subsided, and then bent down gently and kissed me on the nose.

“I love you. I love all of you. I love fucking you. Your cunt, your ass, your mouth, your boobs…. your mind. I love every bit of you. What we have is ours. It’s special. Nothing that goes on anywhere else can ever touch what we have.”

I felt a tear wend its way down the bridge of my nose, and then fall sideways onto the pillow.

He continued.

“Look into my eyes. No, don’t turn away, look into them. What do you see?”

A trifle sheepishly I looked into his eyes again. It’s often said that the eyes are the windows to the soul, but I’ve never been very good at interpreting a “look”. As a trained actor, I’m far more adept at deciphering the strange convulsive ability of the facial muscles than the somewhat nebulous quality of pupil, iris and retina.

However, this time, to my astonishment, I saw love. In his eyes. Almost tangibly radiating out of them — I could see it, feel it, sense it.

“Well? What do you see?”

An all-purpose sniffle, a deep breath and then, very quietly:

“Love.”

“Yes. Know that this is true. That this has been true for… how long is it now? Since we met and fell in love? Know it. Internalize it. Believe in it. You are not a dalliance, you are not tertiary, you are my sub, my Pink Tabby, you are someone I care for deeply, respect enormously and love very, very much. Nothing else has any effect on that. Nothing, ever.”

Through my tears, I felt the sincerity of his words resonate somewhere deep inside me. Trite though it may sound, I felt a peace spreading through me, emanating outwards from where I imagine my soul to live, nestled somewhere snugly behind my heart and ribcage.

He finally lowered himself onto the mattress next to me, and gathered me close to him, stroking my hair until my tears subsided, planting tiny delicate kisses wherever he could find skin that wasn’t obscured by my tangled mane of pulled and disarrayed hair.

As tight as he held me, I held on to him even tighter, wanting to absorb his inner peace and calm into me, wanting to meld with him, wanting the moment to be endless. He held me tighter, winding his fingers through my tangles and pulling my head back, eliciting the requisite squeal of pleasure-pain that it always does, and causing a potential pool to collect down south.

We kissed, a kiss of intensity and love and pain and pleasure and longing and lust and meaning and feeling and deep, deep desire. And then, even more intensely than we had kissed, we fucked. Fucked hard, fucked long, fucked each other until we sweated, panted and cried out in ecstatic joy. A fuck, in other words, to write home about.

And a vanilla one at that.

Post-orgasmically, I roused myself from our tangled stupor to laughingly note this to him.

“We just had vanilla sex! That’s hilarious!”

He cackled in his most evil, rotten, flower-wielding feline manner.

“Not exactly vanilla, dear. There was kink.”

“If you say so, darling.”

“There was, definitely. And as you well know, once you kink you can never go bink.”

“Well, I’d hate to go bink at any rate.”

“Zigackly.”

There you have it, people. Once you kink, you can never go bink. In case that was your dread fear in life. 😎

(I love you, evil, rotten cat. <3)

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The Look

Time spent apart only increases the intensity when we re-connect.

On the rare occasions that the time between our special times together gapes wider than usual, the joy of re-connection is virtually tangible. Like two randy teenagers, our skin is always in contact; his body all over my body, entwined and intertwined, wound around each other like softly tangled strands of suede leather.

The passion rises, skin on skin, leather on skin, moulded kitchen plastic on skin, hair tugged, wrists and ankles cuffed, eyes covered, and then revealed — I reach my apex again, and again, and again. My body writhes and gushes, my inner child screams a release, and I soak everything within a four foot radius, then collapse in a heap.

The afterglow — the panting regrouping of our embrace that is part-cuddle, part-rest, and all about physically being as close together as we possibly can be — is one of my favourite rituals.

Pulling me up from cuddle-position, he peruses me from his lazy and relaxed stance, yanking my head back by my hair every so often to look at my eyes. Each time he smiles and says the same thing.

“That look, that wonderful look in your eyes. I love that look. Are you here, my sexy tabby? Or should I leave a message?”

Then he smiles that killer twinkly blue-eyed smile, and oh-so-gently kisses the top of my forehead, or the tip of my nose — with a gentle grace that belies his evil, flower-weilding nature.

“My gorgeous little perverted kitten.”

I raise my eyes to his, knowing that the look in them says much, much more than that of which I am currently capable. Speechless as I am, I can only be thankful that my eyes do the talking for me, and convey how I feel.

Diana Krall employs a more verbal method of communication, but she gets it. She understands. She knows.

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Cuddle-Music-Slut

Is there anything better than lying in bed, naked, spent, cuddled up to the biggest, baddest, rottenest feline in the yard, as he breathes softly into your neck and strokes your hair, and kisses teeny tiny butterfly kisses along your shoulder and up the side of your neck?

What’s that you say? No?

Well, there is, but the only differentiating factor is when you are doing this listening to the most fabulous music, that just happens to be one of the basic tenets of your connection — the common denominator that you discovered when you were first getting to know each other.

That is pure heaven.

So today, on the worldwide designated day for showing love and affection — which I confess I have no real need of because I show and am shown the depth of love and affection on a constant basis (and sorry if I sound like I’m bragging, I’m not, I’m just so happy with Purrrrvert) — I share with you the latter part of our last session.

No words are needed, since none were spoken, other than “Oh my god, I LOVE  this song!”

And “I love you so much.”

And “Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

Happy Valentine’s Day, angel. No massacres, only love.

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Who I am

This is what I am.

A pervert, undiluted, unabashed and unashamed.

It is what it is.

I realised this yesterday, as I attemtped to refill Purrrrvert’s drinking glass.

The difficulties were that my wrists were cuffed to my ankles. He, of course, regarded the whole scene with an amused smirk on his face, and accepted the drink as his rightful due, before rolling me back on the bed and having his wicked way with me again.

(Oh, poor, poor me.)

I accept who I am, what I am.

I’ve never felt so alive, or so free. Even when restrained; perhaps especially.

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Floggerversary

It’s been a year.

A wonderful, thrilling, exciting, exhilarating, amazing year.

Last week, the Big Bad Cat and I celebrated a year since the day we met and fell in love at first sight. Or, as he called it, “the Loverversary.”

This week, it was the turn of my ass to relive the experience of being flogged red and shiny for the first time by a flogger-weilding feline.

Not forgetting my arms, which celebrated the anniversary of the first time they held him close to me, naked, content, post-orgasmic and purring.

And especially, a celebration in homage to the first time he straddled me across the bed, arms akimbo, secured to the bed posts with leather cuffs and canvas straps, and delighted in causing me to gush over and over again with sheer and ecstatic pleasure.

One whole year of my life, in which I have found myself completed in ways I did not even know I was fragmented.

I am truly blessed.

*************

Removing my restraints, he settles himself into cat nap pose, and indicates that I should join him.

“Come here, my cuddle-slut.”

“Ha! Talk about the cat calling the kitten pink. Look at you — you’re as much of a cuddle-slut as I am!”

“No, no, Pinky le Tab — you are the cuddle-slut. *I* is a cuddle-aholic.”

“No fair, why can’t I be a cuddle-aholic?”

“You can, you just need to pass the ultimate test first.”

“And that test would involve…?”

“The usual. Probing.”

Ulp.

“Er, probing of where, exactly?”

He slides a finger into my ass, and holds it there, knowing how I am aroused by this.

“When all his (*significant finger-wiggle*) fingers join him. Then you can achieve the ranks of cuddle-aholic.”

Eeeep!

I’ll keep you posted.

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Why, How and Where?

I begin with a quote from that wisest of prophets, Douglas Adams (ז”ל):

“The History of every major Galactic Civilization tends to pass through three distinct and recognizable phases, those of Survival, Inquiry and Sophistication, otherwise known as the How, Why, and Where phases. For instance, the first phase is characterized by the question “How can we eat?” the second by the question “Why do we eat?” and the third by the question “Where shall we have lunch?””

Following on from my expose of the connection between “How I Got Into BDSM” and my fabulous (yet to the untrained eye normal-if-voluptuous) breastage, my aim in this post is to examine the How, Why and Where phases of me — Sapphire the Elegant and Eclectic Slut– in the world of BDSM.

Why am I here? Simple. I’m a pervert. It’s such a shame that the word has such a negative connotation, when in reality what it means is “alternate” or “different”. To pervert the course of justice, for example, is to take it along a very different path from that which it was intended. Thing is, I never thought I was a pervert. I thought i was a weird chick, with fabulous tits (that did nothing for her in any sexual context), and a penchant for strange rape fantasies.

I could never speak about any of this to anyone I knew because if I did they’d think I was certifiable, and send for the men in white coats. I realise now, what with retrospect being 20:20 and all, that the reason I had rape fantasies was because it was the only cultural frame of reference in which I could fit my innermost desires of pain, violence, and restraint in any positive manner.

And since anything even vaguely resembling kinksters, or S&M (as it was known in those days) or anything abnormal or weird-seeming was not something that nice good Jewish girls did or associated themsleves with.

Heh, how wrong can a person be?

How did I get here? Well, to cut a long story short, after an eight-year dearth of sex in any shape of form, my sex drive suddenly re-awoke and I fell in love for the first time, with a kinky transvestite who lived overseas.

And so I was introduced to the world of kinky sex, and I realised that I’d been holding myself back for years, because i was conditioned from childhood to be that nice Jewish girl… i’m still all of the things I was brought up to be — and also a raging pervert. In the nicest possible way.

🙂

That was how I got here, or rather, that was portal through which i started on a voyage of discovery, upon which I am still engaged — each day brings me something new to learn and at which to marvel.

The where question — well, how would you define that? Where am I going? Where indeed, Douglas my old mucker, are we having lunch? (I vote for sushi.) Fuck knows. All I know is that as the journey goes on and the path I follow develops becomes longer, and more exciting, so I become more true to myself.

Long may it continue.

(Probing questions in comments will be answered seriously and at length.)

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Superior Support Required

The Girls are as much a part of me as any other, but since they protrude somewhat more that certain other areas, they are more distinct and noticeable.

Well, they do protrude from my body rather, it isn’t exactly easy to miss them. 🙂

Not that I give people much opportunity to miss them. In real life, they’re out there, real and spectacular. In virtual life, they’re out there on camera — check out my profile on Fetlife, if you don’t believe me. They’re the stars of the show. They even make the occasional appearance on my little corner of the Fetlife blogosphere.

Heh.

What I realised today, in conversation with a friend and fellow pervert, was that it was the Girls who got me into BDSM. No, seriously.

I shall explain for you, gentle reader — from your puzzled look and audible “Uh, wha…?” I can tell that I have somewhat puzzled you, Fear not, all will be revealed.

I lost my virginity — the original one — at age 21. Prior to that I had been almost-sexually active since I was 16 — and prior to that there had been a lot of snogging but not much else. (This is what happens when you grow up a nice Jewish girl.)

However, there was always boob-feelage. The girls, in all their incarnations and all their bra types and sizes (I went through a phase of wearing sports bras for years — not the cool tops I wear now when i’m pyjama-ing it at home, but actual white bras, with little crossed tennis rackets in the middle-y area, instead of the traditional bow — they were comfortable to the point of being able to sleep in them, but they made me look awful) have always attracted attention, even when they weren’t dressed to their best advantage.

But then, that’s what boobs do.

I’ve watched men, with whom I was walking, or drinking coffee, literally do a 180 degree headspin and snap-back at an oversized pair of hooters walking by. It never bothered me, in fact it was something of a relief that for once it wasn’t my pair that was magnetizing stares all around. I remember one time laughing hilariously, when it took a while for the men in question to realise that they’d just witnessed a pair of falsies on a very attractive transitional transgender (it may have been a crossdresser, I don’t know, but he was gorgeous and had a stunning pair of titties, with a pants-bulge that did everything but complement them).

Thing was, it never did anything for me. Feeling up the girls, I mean. Licking them. Kissing them. Nothing, nada, zip, zilch.

And then one hot and sweaty occasion, someone grasped a nipple between their thumb and forefinger, and squeezed — and I nearly hit the ceiling with ecstasy.

And the rest, as they say, is history. 😎

I guess I owe the Girls a lot. More than just their own blog post. Maybe I should gold-plate them, or make images of them in plaster of paris… what do you think? Suggestions and comments in the comments area, please.

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