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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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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Antici….. pation

I see him today.

The time between meetings seems to drag and fly by alternately — depending on my mood, the quantity of work I have to do, and how the world immediately around me is spinning at any particular moment.

I try to update here with the sparkles of joy that emanate from me after we meet, but I am sometimes somewhat tardy. Know, however, that I leave his embrace only to walk on air. Sub-space has nothing on how I feel. There are not enough words of a sufficient calibre to describe it — and I speak as one to whom words are bread and meat, blood and air, sustenance and breath.

The excitement of the build-up begins to increase exponentially around noon. Four hours until… three hours until… Idly i flip through the pages on the site looking for something to catch my attention and refocus myself. I work listlessly, or on occasion frantically — determined to leave the rest of my life nehind me so that my whole being is focused on him, on he and I… on us.

From the moment the door closes, and it is just us in the room, I’m in a different place altogether. Despite my external, bouncy and excited demeanour, I am solemn and focused on the inside. It’s time for that thing, that ritual ceremony to happen.

I take this ritual very seriously. It heralds the start of every session, and for me, it’s like passing through a mental gateway. I remove my clothing, and then kneel before him, naked and shyly smiling. He fastens my collar around my neck, and holds me close to him, breathing in my smell as I breathe in his. When we are apart, he misses me too, a lot. I am constantly gratified and touched by how he never fails to demonstrate this to me, physically, vocally and mentally. He enquires how I am, and I know that he means now, this second, with my every sense engulfed in the very essence of him, knowing how different it is from the day-to-day, and delighting in my enjoyment of my submission.

And this is how it starts, and how this piece ends.

I quote the late great Jim Morrison:

“Ladies and gentlemen, the ceremony is about to begin.”

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Release and Relief

Update! Fleshbotted by the lovely Always Aroused Girl, who, I daresay, was kept aroused by tales of my squirtage and so forth. Heh. Thanks babe!

Much of my time spent in the company of the Big Bad Feline is intense and wonderful. Well, all of the time spent with him is wonderful, but it’s the intensity upon which I wish to focus today.

He brings me release and relief. Not just when re-energising the Elegant Slut within, but also as a matter of course.

Here’s a great example:

The other day was a reunion, and consequent celebration, since i’d been away with the small people for a couple of weeks, sans feline.  It had been very tough to lock the elegantly slutty part of me away for a whole three weeks and concentrate on being “Mommy”, but I managed to do so, little realising quite how much it affected me. Until, when I came for the first time on that day, I burst into tears. The release, the very felineness of him, the love, affection, lust and passion that he showered upon me, and just being with him caused me to bawl like a baby, while simultaneously shuddering to a magnificent climax.

He has made a great impact upon me, what can I tell you? And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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

I call him a couple of hours ahead of schedule, on a day when we had planned to meet anyway, and  inform him that I feel the need to push a limit.

“I feel the need for intensity. I need a release of some sort, and I’m pretty damn amazed that I can even recognise and articulate that, never mind that I have a legitimate and flexible outlet in which to do so. Will you help me? Does that fit with your evil, mean and rotten feline plans for the day?”

There is a thoughtful pause on the other end of the phone, and then a question.

“Intensity, hmm? I’m surrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre I can think of something that will help you. Would you be willing to improvise with me according to whatever roleplay i come up with?”

I nod, and then, realizing that a nod is not audible, affirm this verbally.

“So, it’s OK with you?”

No answer, save an evil feline snigger, and a low, ominous purr. (I love when he gets ominous.)

Fast forward to later that day. As always, I have stripped to his command, and then lovingly and carefully removed his clothing, and we are naked and facing each other. After the usual preliminaries, and an extra hug or two, just because he wants them, he grabs me by the hair, and twists my face to look at him.

“You have been abducted by the Big Bad Cat from the Great Ship Feline. You are my captive.”

Our eyes met, and I smile widely.

“I’m your captive? OK. So you’re my captor.”

“That is correct.”

My love of wordplay gets the better of me. Captive? Captor? An abductee of an evil, mean and rotten feline? Surely it would better read a “Cat-piv” taken by a “Cat-por”, or, to stretch the rules of spelling completely, “Catpaw”. I mention as much to the man holding me by my hair, looking deep into his crystal-blue eyes, and am rewarded by the twinkling smile that makes my senses tingle.

“OK, then Catpiv — get on the bed. On all fours.”

Fastening leather cuffs around my wrists and ankles, he secures me to the bed with canvas tapes.

“We alien Felines need to probe you for information,” he purrs, sliding his fingers into me. I gasp — usually he’ll start with two or three and work his way up through four to a whole fist. Today, there are four fingers curling into me and i can feel his thumb exerting exquisite pressure on the nubbin of skin covering my clit, moving it gently up and down but not actually indulging me by stroking the clit itself in any way.

The pleasure factor is immense, and it’s so early on in the game! I asked for intense, and intense is what I’m getting.

Once he has worked my cunt into a bubbling frenzy, loosening and relaxing the muscles enough, he slides his fist into me, and begins to pound my G-spot. I gasp, and cry out, and it only increases his efforts. Leaning over me, he reaches underneath and pinches a nipple until the pain crackles through me from stem to… well, clit, and then I feel him nibble on my ear. I gush, hearing the splatter onto the quilt, amazing myself at the quantity — I sound like I’ve let loose the fucking Hoover dam!

I struggle to maintain my all-fours position, as his weight is entirely on me. He senses this and removes himself, only to untie two of the four restraints and flip me over, so he can access my soft, white, under-side with greater ease.

And then he really goes to town.

I lose myself. Initially, I lose my first two or three layers of reality, and slip into a subspacial haze of happy bliss. He flogs me, not so much harder than before, but more. Just more. Then the subspace engulfs me and I float away, aware of all that is occurring, and yet detached in the best kind of way.

He beats my lily-white (though fast reddening) ass with a bendy cane, real cane, not bamboo, and then applies lavender oil and caressing strokes to ease the effects. He holds me tight, and kisses me, and generally plays an appasionata furioso, using me as though my body were a Stradivarius violin, and he were Yehudi Menuhin.

Lovingly he leads me over to the bed, and gently rubs the tender spots. Then, with no time to even think he snaps me out of my subspace, and orders me to bend over.

“Like this?” I ask, feet on the floor, hands down on the bed.

“Almost. Spread those legs further. Yes. Wider… yes.”

I feel the ice-cold glass slide into me before i register what it is. My glass friend, the handmade glass dildo… and he’s frozen it, god bless his evil cattish heart. I never stand much of a chance around my glass friend. Three or four thrusts into me and I’m moaning, a further couple (pound, pound) and I wail as though I’m a banshee, and the girl-juice (“cunt-juice” as he likes to call it) hits the floor with an immensely splashy clatter.

A pause for effect, as the thrusting slows, then stops, and he hugs me from behind.

“I’ve wet the floor,” I murmur.

He smiles, and the blue eyes twinkle at me

“Yes, but at least that means that there will be a dry spot for us to lie on, on the bed.”

“You mean…?”

“Yes. Time to indulge in the Cat-por’s favourite ritual. The post-coital cuddle.”

Intensity doesn’t get any better than this.

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*Such* a pervert

I am *such* a pervert. You wouldn’t believe it. I certainly can’t.

It just never seems to properly sink in.

No matter what I do, or what I write — not just here but on Twitter, Fetlife, and various local sites, no matter where or what I write or discuss, the reality of the depth to which my various kinks, fetishes and perversions sink simply does not ever fully register.

It’s utterly bizarre.

Even my latest email from the Big Bad Cat which begins “Hello, my dear Pervert!” doesn’t help it sink in.

And then we meet. He takes me in his arms, and kisses me passionately, and then tweaks my nipple eliciting a high-pitched squeal from me, causing my knees to buckle, and my cunt to moisten.

And I say it. Every time, the same phrase.

“Dear lord, I am *such* a pervert.”

I think Purrrrvert sees it as some kind of a challenge, as if I were sitting there on the bed, nonchalantly tossing gauntlets in his direction.

He raises a hand and lands a plump thwack on my backside. I absorb the blow, squeaking with pleasure-pain. Though I was brought up to wish an end to pain when it happens, the knee-jerk reaction that flies impossibly through my head is always “Thank you, Sir. May I have another?”

I love how it feels. The sensation of the thudding palm against my softly reverberating ass. It always makes me shiver with delight and then angle myself slightly forward, to be able to absorb another.

When he reaches into his big black bag of toys and pervertibles and withdraws the little mesh bag of kitchen utensils, I know I’m in for some fun. The fish slice is a bastard. The ladle is a fucker. The stainless steel egg-whisk is a total bastard fucker. The spatulas — one red and flat and slappy, the other more aesthetically pleasing, purple and ergonomically designed, with a twin who lives in my kitchen — but I use it *as* a spatula, earning me the nickname of “true pervert” — both have ways to cause me to groan, gasp and even gush with sheer pleasure.

How do I reconcile the character image of the nice Jewish girl I was brought up to be, and the fact that kitchen hardware makes me leak cunt-juice all over the sofa? Philosophically, it’s quite a conundrum. I mean, I’m on the parents’ committee of my kid’s class, for fuck’s sake. I sit in meetings, discussing the end-of-year event, and whether we should have a barbecue or go to the beach, offering sage and sound advice about the safety of our children and how best to get the other parents to produce food marginally more exciting than a plate of devilled eggs, and other such deeply significant banalities — and deep inside I silently wonder whether anyone would notice if I had a crafty wank in the guest bathroom, and whether, if  I pinched my own nipple hard enough to make myself scream, I could resist the temptation to do so, and remain silent.

He ties me up, and I zoom so fast into subspace it’s a wonder I haven’t been diagnosed with whiplash. Last week, as previously documented, I allowed him to do a demo on me of breast bondage — after which my feet did not touch the ground for over four days straight.

This is not the reaction of a normal person, is it? Mind you, who the fuck ever wanted to be normal?

My constant refrain, when he arouses me with a word, an act or a specific command, is “I am *such* a pervert!” It’s very true… and I freely admit that I am proud to be so. It’s difficult to explain to people in the vanilla world — in an upcoming trip to my home town, i will have to explain to my sexually-liberated-but-very-vanilla-with-it BFF.

That’ll be an experience.

It is by allowing my inner pervert to rise up and embrace my outer, seemingly well-behaved, conformist, afraid of authority shell of a self who floated through eight years of control-freakism, that I become the real me and experience real life. I value that beyond belief, and now that I’ve discovered what it is to really live, I wouldn’t give it up for the world.

Normal? Maybe.

Necessary? You bet your ass.

Perverted? Totally.

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Attention slut in subspace

(That title sounds like a punctuation challenge — something like “eats, shoots and leaves” — don’t you think, gentle reader?)

Ahem.

Yesterday I attended my first play party.

Yes, my first. Forty fucking years old and while unarguably more than adequately experienced in the delights and possibilities of the varied and more notably BDSM-oriented ways of the bedroom, I’d never done it elsewhere.

I mean, I have been to a munch or two, and have even organised a couple. I went to an informal demonstration meeting where I saw some brave girl be set on fire by a certain mean and rotten feline.* 🙂

But never a play party.

I mean, this was *officially* a birthday party. My friend N organised a surprise 40th birthday party for her master. We became friends online, N and I, and only met in person recently, and I’d not seen her with her guy. And how sweet it was to do so — the love they have for each other is mutual and almost tangible in its intensity. It was a wonderful sight to behold, and i felt honoured to share the event with them.

There was, of course, another dimension to all this.

N had asked Purrrrvert if he would help break the ice a bit. Parties have this habit of being people standing around in clumps, mournfully nursing a solitary beer while discussing something mundane with the same people with whom they always stand. Purrrrvert, being the highly scene-experienced evil mean and rotten cat that he is, offered N a demo to get the party going. On me. Breast bondage. Le swoon!

Me and my boobs go back a long way. Almost as far as I can hoist them over my shoulder, in fact — heh. I’m big — between 38-40 DD/E. (Stop swooning, breast lovers, there’s more. And no, I am not posting pictures.) But from a sexual perspective, beyond having the ability to stop a person in their tracks and leave them drooling and wild-eyed, they never did anything for me. Gentle caresses, loving kisses — meh. Until someone pinched my nipple, and I leapt four feet into the air in ecstasy.

It was my first official milestone on the long road to recognition that — yes, I am a pervert. 😎

Back to the point. I stood in front of a bunch of people — they all lounged around on sofas and easy chairs, while i stood in the spot directly beneath the air conditioner (because I am a Pink Tabby and I can), and Purrrrvert wound a gloriously blue colored rope around, over and under the girls — and I incrementally zoomed higher and higher into sub-space.

I didn’t lose consciousness, or even self-consciousness — being an attention whore (AKA former Drama student, currentsinger, drama/comedy writer and director), willingly standing up in public and being looked at by people is just one of my raisons  d’etre. My sluttishness does extend to matters beyond the carnal; intelligence and intellectuality get me wet, for example, and humour makes me swoon. But yeah, I’m an attention slut. Hell yeah.

However, the attention to my half-naked person raised some initial self-conscious feelings even with me, and I found myself staring at a fixed point on the ceiling, not quite able to look my audience members in the eye(s). But I was smiling my head off, laughing with various people watching, and talking to N, who was over in the corner with her beloved master. He  was flogging her mercilessly with a fabulous new flogger she’d had made for him as a birthday present — it was adorable to watch the dynamic of  “Ow! Shit! That fucking hurt! OK, do it to me again”, (or to put it in cinematic terms, “Thank you Sir, may I have another?”) that went on between them.

But I was definitely in space. In fact, with each twist and kink in the rope, I soared higher and higher. He wound a bikini-like pattern around me, and it felt… fantastic. I love how he binds me — and he loves doing so. It’s a match made in heaven.

And when I’m with him, I always  feel safe and secure and loved and adored. This was no exception — I was undergoing bondage, in the company of friends, and I was very, very happy. Gradually the self-consciousness faded, and I became acutely aware of how natural I felt to be standing there, with this blue karada bikini around my chestage, laughing and talking with people.

Once he was done, and i’d elicited some enthusiastic applause for the paw-work of the Purrrrvert, an older woman came up to us, and greeted Purrrrvert enthusiastically — way back when, he had taught her certain bondage skills, and she wanted to show him how she’d improved. Purrrrvert turned to me.

“Would you be OK if someone else had a go at binding you? She wants to show me a technique she perfected — but only if it’s OK with you, dear.”

I agreed happily.  Actually, I was so ecstatic at that point that I’d quite possibly have agreed to being branded with a fire-iron at that point — but that’s the joy of Purrrrvert and a big part of why I love him so deeply. He wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me, ever. Had someone advanced on me with a big fire-branding iron shaped like a penguin, knowing my penchant for the waddling little Antarctic dwellers, Purrrvert would have been there to stop me making an addle-brained decision.

She partially unwound me, and then did this thing where she individually wrapped each boob with a length of rope, and then yanked them hard using the rope as a pulley mechanism, causing the girls to be pulled round, taut and closer together. A bit like a rope equivalent of the Wonderbra.

But that did it for me. I took off — mentally — and as a result am only dimly aware of the memory of Purrrrvert unwinding me, turning me round and around like a chicken on a spit,  then gently helping me replace my blouse over my unfettered cleavage, and sitting me down in a warm embrace, where I stayed, snuggled into his shoulder until my senses were somewhat restored to normal.

It was amazing. The whole experience. I’ve never felt so alive… so myself.

I love you, angel. Thank you so much.

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

*Fireplay is a risk accepted consensual kink, but should never be performed recklessly or without due regard to safety, sanity and — if it needs to even be said — consent. The point of that demo was to show how fireplay should be done, and what to consider, what instruments and material to use, and how to avoid pain, scarring and — heaven forbid — 1st, 2nd or 3rd degree burns, and it was very informative. (Catch me doing that — as if!)

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Transatlantic telepathy

He’s gone away, on holiday.

Gone to learn new rope tricks, and then come home and try them all out on me.

Gone to buy me something very personal and special that we chose together before he left. (He plans things, none of the last-minute rush for him.)

Gone to rest and relax from all the crazy of late.

And I? I wish him the most wonderful, relaxing, enjoyable time away. I genuinely hope he and Sub1 have a great time.

He promised he would be in touch as soon as he landed, and he was, in his way. I already knew he was safe, i could feel it. The phone call confirmed it.

Right now, the warm and fuzzy around my heart means I know he’s having fun. This both  calms and delights me concurrently.

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

I slept earlier, and an image of him straddling me, floated before my eyes.

“Again?” I’d asked him, as he secured my wrists to each side of the bed. “That’s the third time in as many hours that you’ve wanted to fuck me.”

He said nothing, merely sniggering in his cattish way, and smirking at me out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m not complaining,” I reassured him.

“I should hope not. Now, instead of all that talking, how about 25 words for me?”

“Holy shit. Now? Goddamn rotten, evil, mean feline.”

“Why, thank you, my dear.”

While considering the 25 words, I realised that he had upended the bottle of lube and was about to trickle it on me.

“No! It’s cold, it’ll be cold!” I squealed.

My protests counted for nothing, as he dribbled the lube over the girls (as he likes to refer to the expansive chest area with which I have been blessed). He then bent to kiss me, before starting to fuck the girls hard and fast.

His legs straddled me, squeezing me between his thighs. If ever there were an occasion where I felt owned, and restrained, contained and sublimated — this was it.

His cock glided smoothly between my breasts, hitting me on the chin every so often, as he reached forward to tug at my hair, never losing eye contact with me for a second.

It’s part of that natural connection we have — i can look in his eyes and read what he’s about to say, and I’ve not been wrong yet.

Suddenly he tensed. And came. All over my face and hair, on my lips, cheeks and eyelids.

And then bent to kiss me.

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

It was this image with which I awoke.

Rawrrrrrrr.

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Bare-Assed Cheek (1)

“What am I wearing?”

“Short pleated skirt, leaving nothing to the imagination, white blouse, fetchingly undone so that I can see your delightful cleavage, with lacy bra underneath — black, to enhance your true slutty nature. And a tie. It’s not your collar, but it will do for now.”

“And you, what are you wearing?”

“Cap and gown, of course. And holding a cane.”

“I hope I don’t get this wrong. Age play is an unopened book to me.

“Langsam, darling. Go with the flow. “

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

Today, I am a schoolgirl, and he is my professor. I am a good girl, always a good girl. I want to impress my professor and make him happy. And then, if I’m lucky, he’ll punish me by throwing me over the table and doing me until my eyes spin.

It’s bad, it’s taboo and it’s wrong. Which makes it doubly hot.

I’m a good girl but I crave punishment. O sweet contradiction.

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

He raps on the table at my suggestion that this might be his next move, making me jump, and bang my thigh on the corner of the desk.

“You should leave decisions of that nature to your superiors, young miss. And stop rubbing your thigh. What’s wrong with you?”

I remain mute. He whacks his cane on the tabletop. “I asked you a question!”

My eyes downcast, my knees and lower lip trembling, I mumble, trying desperately not to rub a modicum of comfort into my throbbing thigh muscle. “On the corner of the desk, you made me jump and I banged my thigh.”

“Speak up, girl, or you will not be punished at all.”

A pause, during which I remain still, holding back a sudden rush of unexpected tears.

He puts his face very close to mine. Lifting my eyes for a fleeting moment i catch a blue sparkle, and the unreleased tears subside.

“So, young miss? Was there anything you wanted to say?”

My eyes remain downcast. “I’m… sorry I only got an A-, sir.”

“And?”

“And that i dared to suggest that you decide something one way or another.”

He seems very slightly mollified, but glares down at me, trembling like a rain-drenched kitten.

“And how do you plan to mitigate these shortcomings?”

The warmth in his voice belies the stern tone. I am heartened, and incredibly aroused.

“I will do whatever i’m told, Sir.”

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

I look down at my shoes, and shift from one foot to the other. My lips tremble — both the visible set, and the pair which are less so — despite myself. I wonder idly whether his uncanny sense of smell can pick up the scent of my arousal — or if, in fact, it already has.

“Stand near the corner of the desk, young lady. Right now!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Closer, and facing it!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“That’s a very slutty length for a skirt, girl. Look, the corner of the desk even peeks beneath it.”

I pause. The skirt is short because that’s what he made me buy, for entirely his own pleasure. When we’re out in public, he loves to reach under the skirt and stroke me, sending us both into paroxysms of erotic frenzy while remaining poe-faced and seemingly innocent. Ordinarily I would call him on it, but for the first time, it feels inappropriate. This roleplay is all-encompassing and the flow is intense. Breaking character would be wrong, and possibly spoil the mood. I am suddenly and incredibly reminded of my time as a professional actor, and I smile to myself at the perverted and erotic similarities of roleplay to regular improv.

“It shrank in the wash, Sir. It’s not that i’m a dirty slut or anything… Sir.”

A stern glare in my direction, with the anticipatory sound of a cane thwacking the owner’s palm that sends my senses reeling into overdrive.

“Move closer to the desk, girl.”

“Sir, am I doing this right? The corner is pushing into me… right into me… it’s a little embarrassing.”

“Young lady, why are you mumbling? Speak eloquently, please… and describe in details what is that makes you blush.”

Silence.

“Now!”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. It’s the desk corner, it’s pushing into me. Into the space between my thighs, Sir, and it’s — well, it’s difficult to stand still, Sir, although I promise I’m trying, Sir, I promise. The thing is…

“Oh, spit it out, girl!”

“Well, that’s something you’ve never said to me before, Sir.”

I realise what I’m saying about a nanosecond before the words leave my lips, but I just cannot stop myself. Although I mutter them, the silence in the room is so voluminous that they are as obvious as if I’d screamed them in perfect pitch down a well-tuned microphone.

Thwack! The cane hits the back inside thigh and I yelp in pain.

“Ow!”

“Watch your lip. And don’t drift from the point, girl. You were telling me why you were embarrassed. The mood I’m in, this is no time to be cheeky. Finish what you started!”

OK, that i had heard many times, but in  an entirely different context.

“Yes, Sir. Sorry Sir. What I was trying to say was that however hard I try to stand still, the fact that the corner of the desk is placed at clit height is having quite an effect on me.”

“Be specific!” he thunders, and suddenly the penny drops, and I remember who and where I am.

He wants my graphic, erotic descriptions. He wants me to make it abundantly clear to him the effect he is having on me, because this in turn intensifies and pinpoints the effect on him.

“I’m very aroused Sir. In fact, I’m wet, Sir. Soaking.”

Slowly, he steps toward me — agonizingly slowly, he eyes not leaving mine for a second. His hand stretches out towards me.

“Give them to me. Your panties. Give them to me.”

I remove my by-now sodden panties and hand them to him, watching as he sniffs them, hums in satisfaction, and then finally pockets them, and wonder somewhere in the back of my mind whether I’ll ever see them again.

“Very well, girl. Now I will be testing your anatomy skills. As I touch you, you will name the body part — official and proper name first, followed by any more colloquial terms that you’d like to share with me.”

As he sweeps a finger suggestively along my slit, I gulp worriedly and hope to all that is unholy that my memory does not fail me in my moment of need.

To be continued…

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Purrrrrrrrrrrrthday blessing

My darling Purrrrrrrvert,

In honour of your birthday, I wrote you a poem (see below).

While my skill at creating poetry does not compare with Pablo Neruda, or Carol Ann Duffy, or Robert Frost or (ha, I wish) the wonderful Thomas Stearns Eliot, or any of the others we have discussed and love so much, it was, at least, written from the heart.

More than this, I cannot do.

Feliz cumpleaños. Ti amore querido,

Su gato de tabby rosado x

Time is an illusion
Lunchtime doubly so
Birthdays come but once a year
And very quickly go
It’s really not so easy
To put into a rhyme
How very much you mean to me
And do it all in time
To show you on your birthday
That very special day
That from within the cosmos
Your soul came here to stay
Such perceived insignificance
Or so some may have said
Brought thundering and mighty fruit
To bear upon my head
I don’t think I can find the words
To say how much I care
To adequately describe here
Your brilliance and your flair
Your wide and varied knowledge bank
Your sparkling blue eyes
Your evil mean and rotten ways
That take me by surprise
And make me grin so broadly
And make you purr with joy
How you can turn me in a snap
From tabby to fucktoy
Your warm and comforting embrace
Your softly dappled skin
That look that comes into your eyes
When I make your head spin
The expert way you tie me and
Restrain me to the bed
The joyous and exultant groan
Whene’er I give you head
How I love to submit to you
Be at your call and beck
How much I love my collar
When fastened round my neck
The feel of leather on my skin
Or whisk or spoon or smurf
I sing a song of love to you
On this day of your birth

(With apologies to Douglas Adams for shamelessly stealing his words as my opening lines. 🙂 )

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