Thank *you*

Thank you for making me feel so relaxed and welcome. Thank you for liking so many of the same things that I do, and concurring on so many others. Thank you for the tea with milk, and for then rendering said tea irelevant as my mouth was busy elsewhere.

Thank you for stroking my skin, and playing with my hair. Thank you for being so much fun to be with.  Thank you for being a wonderful kisser. I could kiss you for hours, days even. I might end up looking something like Mick Jagger, but it’d be worth it.

Thank you for taking me from zero to tsunami in under 10 seconds — a feat hitherto only ever achieved (speedwise) by my glass friend. Thank you for taking me from behind; it’s my favourite position (see above “liking the same things as I do”).

Thank you for hugging me and holding me close. Thank you for making me laugh, and then laughing at my attempts at humour. Thank you for being so damn sexy. Thank you for making me feel so natural and happy.

Thank you for letting me pleasure you. Thank you for getting hard for me. Thank you for telling me to suck your balls — I’d have sucked them anyway, but I really enjoy being given, and following, (certain) orders in the bedroom (from specific people).

Thank you for the one for the road. It did indeed last the whole way home, the rest of the day, all of last night and is still going — not so much in terms of orgasmic buzz but in terms of glowing from the inside out. Were I to walk past a Geiger counter, I’d be surprised if it didn’t light up and dance all over the surface on which it stood.

Thank you for everything — and in particular, for thanking me. I can’t think of a higher compliment. As you said to me, it was wonderful having you, and I couldn’t agree more.

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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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*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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Belonging

My dom does not call me bitch, nor slut nor cunt, nor whore.

The collar that I put on when I’m with him — or more accurately, that he puts on me — is part of the beauty of our connection. I am not his bitch — I am his.

When he holds the leash, it is indeed a sense of “belonging”, but it works in both directions.

I belong to him as much as he belongs to me — the leash is that which binds us.

Yes, we each have our own role to play in this equation, and yes, our roles are clearly defined — my role is completely different to his.

But the equality and weight of the two parts to be played are exactly the same — which is what makes the “us” of what we have work so well.

The collar and leash are merely one part of the circle that we form. The circle also consists of our hands, and our hearts — no beginning, no end, simple and complete.

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One from the Vaults

Something I wrote a long time ago, and thought I’d take out and dust off for your entertainment. Enjoy!

I came for you

I suddenly found that i would be alone at home… Had you been available, i would have called you and given you the on-the-spot report, and panted and moaned and wailed your name into your ear.

As it was, i was unable to, since you were — for reasons best known to yourself — unavailable.

You were in my head, though. Just as sure as your hand was in my cunt earlier, so your face, your image was in my head. I kept replaying what you said this afternoon, about how you didn’t want to live your life without seeing me, without kissing me, touching me, fucking me. That this fact, despite being concerned that you weren’t the kind of person who could do “that” again, was obliterated at the thought of not being with me again.

That you said that endeared you to me more than ever.

As i replayed it, i pictured the look that i saw in your eye today, when you finally caught sight of me. That glorious combination of lust and desire, and the almost-certain realization that your hopes of satisfying one or both would be granted in the very near future.

As i touched myself, i remembered the feel of your hands on me. The whispered sound of your voice as you described myriad series of wild fantasies running through your head. The way you looked into my eyes as i softly, slowly and deliberately stroked your upper thigh, bringing your thought processes to a crashing halt. You caught my gaze so intensely because you were incapable of anything else — and you were right to surmise that i liked that. I did, I really did.

As i slid my ever-faithful Rabbit into my cunt, still so slick and moist from your touch hours earlier, i remembered how it felt to be held close to you, to feel your hands run through my hair, and your breath caress my neck. To feel those butterfly kisses across the top of my cleavage and a cool hand slide between to stroke and fondle my breast. I recalled the warmth of your hug, and how wonderful the breadth of your shoulders felt as i lay my cheek on them, and kissed you softly up the side of your neck. Then later, when your wandering hands had distracted me to the point where i had lost the focus to do anything at all, how i sighed and moaned into the soft skin in the corner between your neck and your collar bone.

I love that spot on a man, and i especially love it on you.

The buzzing of my trusty vibrator stimulated me until i moaned aloud — surprising myself. My apartment has very thin walls, and usually my long and feverishly abandoned self-love sessions are guardedly quiet. Today however, it simply wasn’t an option. The pent-up arousal and desire and frustrated, held-in orgasm erupted forth from me as though a dam had burst.

And as i shuddered and came, and felt the juices leak out of me like molten gold, i called your name. I saw your face. And pictured everything I’d do to you as soon as the opportunity arose.

The opportunity, yes… and you.

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Singing disco and squealing with (good) pain

Foreword:
I was all set to write my latest post — and I will, I promise — but then a stat of mine caught my eye. I had a good number day the other day (god bless you Sugasm, you keep my ego afloat) and i noticed one of the hits came from The Perverted Negress, where I often read and lurk, and have done for some time.

She wrote about a time when fucking a FWB and how he was not fazed by her menstruation, and how she’d not appreciated this attitude when she first encountered it, way back when.

And I sat there open-mouthed. Purrrrvert is exactly the same, and my post for today happened on just such an occasion. Small fucking world, huh?

At the beginning, before those devilish pink paws had even touched my lily-white skin, or pulled my pink tabby mane of hair, when Purrrrvert and I went through through an extensive BDSM checklist of things we both enjoyed, or liked the sound of, or had done and wanted to do again, or had done and would really rather not do again, thank you very much — you may recall that i mentioned this list when describing the needle-play demonstration of last week. During this elongated and comprehensive discussion, the subject of menstruation came up.

Up until now, i’ve met with various reactions to the natural function of a woman passing an unfertilized egg once a month, ranging from the “Ugh, you’re unclean and you smell funny, don’t come near me,” to the “Well, I’ll fuck you, but I won’t go down on you,” to the “Who gives a fuck if you’re bleeding… I love you and want you however you present yourself.”

This last attitude being the one held by Purrrrvert, I’m blushingly happy to say.

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

The last time we met was the first time I’d been in full-on flow mode. Previously, he’d caught me a couple of times on the end or tail end of my cycle, but this was the first time I’d been with him, naked, in full force — so to speak. The only difference it made was that I was even hornier than ever — as I usually am during my period.

And is that ever a bad thing? I think not. 😀

Lying face down, after a flogging that had zoomed me at warp speed (his description) to some subspace place out there beyond the realms of conception, he took my glass dildo and began to fuck me with it expertly. Above my groans  of arousal and pleasure, to my astonishment, I heard him singing a little ditty.

“D-I-L-D-O…”

Despite myself, I giggled and then gasped, “I could… be close… to coming… soo–n.”

“Oh no, no,” he sang. “First you have to find me the words for the chorus of the song. And then you may come.”

“Frasher, rasher, hhnnnhhh! masher, rotten, evil, sodding cat.”

“Thank you, my dear!”

I knew I had to come soon, or i might explode — not something one ever wants to do, least of all when bleeding. My mind raced, but the words that usually spring to my ear with such ease and grace failed me. (Bastards.) I started singing, hoping that the muse might come upon me as i did so.

“D-I-L-D-O.. he is D-I-L-D-O.
He is D — desirable
He is I — er… incredible — OK, OK, i stole it from the song, i admit it.”

I was rewarded by hearing Purrrrvert snicker, then by feeling him thrust the glass dildo harder into me, grinding on my g-spot, and giving me cause for alarm that i might release the flood of orgasm that I felt building up inside me — before i was permitted.

I would  never wish to disobey my wonderful Dom.

I continued.

“He is L — er… er… libidinous (phew)
He is D — deep inside me
He is O — my god!”

Purrrrvert burst out laughing. “I love how you amuse me, my pink tabby cunning linguist. You may come.”

I groaned my orgasmic ascent and shuddered uncontrollably as the waves of bliss crashed over me.

Instead of relenting and allowing me to catch my post-orgasmic breath, he merely pushed into me harder, stroking my back and ass, winding his fingers into my hair and pulling, and occasionally dealing me a mild swat, just so he could hear me sigh in the way that i do at the feel of his hand on my skin.

“Do you have another one for me?”

Oh dear GOD.

“He is D — desireous
He is I — inside of me (another laugh from Purrrrvert at this point)
He is L — long and licky (I was grasping at straws, I tell you, my mind was a blank.)
He is D — Dammit, I can’t think of one!
He is O — orgasmic! yes!

“Come for me, my Pink Tabby.”

I came with an enthusiasm i find hard to eloquently express, and within seconds had gushed all over him.

This time he allowed me to catch my breath and calm down, putting his arms around me and holding me as i subsided. It’s something I love him to do, which he knows, despite it not featuring on any fetish or kink list of which I’m aware. 😉

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

Post-coitally, some time later, he began idly playing with a nipple, squeezing it at the tip. Lazily, I looked up at him.

“Would you mind grabbing it from the whole aureole instead of just the very tip? Whenever you pinch or pull the tip, i worry that it’s going to come off. ”

“Like this?” he demonstrated.

“Exactly.”

He continued to pinch, squeeze and pull my nipple, apparently oblivious to the desire it aroused within me, although I knew he knew only too well the effect of the cause.

I began babbling.  “It’s funny — when i was first discovering sex, i could never get why women made such a big fuss over tits and sex. I mean, they’d stroke, and play, but it did nothing for me. Until someone bit my nipple, and sent a jolt of electric arousal directly to my cunt… and that was when I first realised I might be a pervert.”

“Might be…?” he said, extending the grab circumference of his hand to my entire breast (no mean feat, i might add). “I think you passed “might be” a while ago.

I lay there, speechless but for the occasional gasp of (good) pain, and writhing in arousal, as he squeezed and smushed my boobs. Subtly, he nudged my hand down to his cock — apparently hard again so soon after we’d fucked.

I love the feel of his skin. I swiveled my head so my eyes could meet his, holding and stroking him in just the way he likes.

“You’re so bad, darling. It really does it for you, when you cause me pain, huh?”

“It’s not about the pain or causing you pain. I’m not a sadist. It’s the effect, it’s what it does to you. That’s what I love, as much as I love fucking you — and you know I do — I love to watch you melt into a puddle of desire.”

I love it too.

Le deep et happy sigh….

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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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Dog complex

Yesterday i attended my very first more-than-three-people-in-a-room gathering-of-perverts.

To say I was nervous beforehand would be an understatement of epic proportions. Not only was I poised to meet a room full of bona fide kinksters, but i was also due to meet for the first time Purrrrrvert’s wife — known to you, gentle reader, as Sub1.

Terrified much? Me? Ha.

In addition, Purrrrrrvert was due to demo the very dangerous and skilled art of fire play. I knew this, although most attendees didn’t prior to the evening, because I’d helped him prepare for the demo by editing and formatting the one-page fact sheet he wanted to hand out.

I’d discussed my discomfort and feelings of unease with him extensively. He had countered my worries about not being approved of, or feeling inadequate, or whatever by kindly and firmly reassuring me that (i) nothing could happen in any way to me, or to him and me as an item without discussion involving at least the two of us, and (ii) wasn’t i forgetting that tiny yet undeniably salient fact that he wanted to be with me and didn’t want to to stop seeing me?

Er… well, yes, I had been. Good point, Purrrrrrvert.

As a result of this discussion, my feelings regarding the meet had been much tempered, and i was less nervous than i had been — only the regular anxiety about walking into a room of people whom not only had i not met before but some of whom i’d had a few heated topic exchanges with on the local BDSM forum, and all of whom belonged to the area of my brain that had been established when i was young with a large glowing neon sign of it that read “Things I Do Not Do” that had only dissipated a couple of years ago.

And I’m 40, people. That was one well-established clump.

Of course, I needn’t have worried. I met a lot of people and talked in depth — and laughed and joked and enjoyed myself with — a large number of them. I felt accepted and not like a freak, which is odd, because deep down i think most of the assembled congregation would happily admit to being freaks.

In the nicest possible way.

I also found that the flow of sub–textual feeling between Sub1, Sub2 and myself was nothing like how I had imagined it would be. It was so cool. It was how I described it in a previous post — that what he and i have together exists between us, in a Beeblebrox-brained sort of way; in no way — somehow — does this intrude upon anything that he has with anyone else. It did not make me feel insecure or threatened or jealous to see him talk intimately with either of the others, because we all exist in synergy and harmony. I know it sounds a bit Salt Lake City’s version of the Hallmark channel to be true, but I ain’t shittin ya, gentle reader. This is, as I have said before, polyamory as it should be.

Purrrrrvert was not the only person to give a demo. Another man demonstrated, very ably, and safely i might add, needle play.

I am not a fan of needle play. In fact, it is listed in my-and-Purrrrvert’s Checklist O’ Kink for me as NN — (never done it, never will). But I’m up for watching someone else demonstrate their skill — I have so much to learn, after all — so i stayed and watched. For a while at least.

Now I know many of you have no idea what i look like, so I will preface my next comment with some contextual description. I’m blonde (naturally, yes they do match, thank you for asking) and very fair. VERY. So fair, in fact, that leg-waxing makes my legs look red and blotchy for days (and hurts like fuck). I’m a tad anaemic also, which means that my face is usually quite pale. Not sickly pale, but certainly not ruddy and “healthy-looking”. Call me an English rose, if you will. It is with this in mind, that i tell you that about two minutes into the needle-play demo i was green as lettuce and my knees were knocking so loudly i was concerned that they might drown out the murmur of the crowd. I tried to get a hold of myself and after a minute of composing my thoughts, rose unsteadily to my feet and walked uncertainly to the drinks table to get a cup of something not artificially sweetened.

Purrrrvert and Sub2 immediately noticed that something was wrong, and made it their business to divert my attention from the demo. The couple demonstrating were helpfully blocking the exit with their demo, and while i could have fled as though the hounds of hell were on my scent, it would have appeared mighty rude. I didn’t know any of these people before tonight, and while public exhibitionism ranks on my Checklist O’ Kink as an NY5 (Never done it but would be more than happy to, given half a chance), public displays of chicken-heart and rudeness are not included in that title. Sub1 told me that her first time seeing needle play, she had had to leave the room, helping me feel much better by doing so.

Other than this, it was an amazing evening. I really enjoyed meeting the new people, and conversing with them and the people I had known before I arrived.

One thing I did notice about the three demos (there was another given by the owner of the place, demonstrating the equipment he builds, and showing how safety is the number one priority not only in the manufacture, but also the use of same) was the way in which they were given. Purrrvert managed to sound authoritative but not patronising, and I say that truthfully if not objectively. However, I noticed a tone in the voice of the other two that was somewhat holier-than-thou, and high-handed. It’s an attitude I’ve noticed quite often with various Dominant types  — both in person, and on sites such as Fetlife. Add to this the fact that every one of these people made a significant point of saying that the most important part of any kinky play session was knowing with whom you were dealing, or to put it another way: knowing before whom you stood.

I found this very interesting, and not a little amusing. Being a Jew, a Jew who was brought up to be a nice Jewish girl (which, as you can tell, worked brilliantly ;)), the one thing i know about a synagogue is that over the Holy Ark are written the words:

Know Before Whom You Stand

God complex much?

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Poetic license

“I cannot think of a poem to recite. Please, please, please may I come?”

He thrust his fist into me further, as my plaintive mew unfurled weakly into the dusky half-light of the evening.

“No.”

“Rotten, mean, evil sodding cat!”

“Why, thank you!”

This was on the verge of the eighth orgasm of the session.

Number eight followed hard on the heels of the three previous caterwaul-inducing, knee-tremblers — all of which were great, although the one immediately prior to those three was the one which caused a tsunami-like effect on what Purrrrrvert had originally referred to as “your rainforest of a cunt”.

He had a point. After all, it was hot and very wet.

And every single fucking one of those orgasms was earned. Seriously. He started light: ten words for cat. We progressed through the alphabet backwards and other mindfuckable evil missions, until he came up with the brilliantly cruel idea of reciting a poem backwards.

I flailed — physically and mentally.

“What happens if i don’t do it? I cannot think of a poem to recite.”

His eyes gleamed with an evil glint I’d not actually thought possible from such adorably blue and loving eyes.

“Then, my darling bratty pink tabby cunning linguist, you…. get…. punished.”

Eeeep!

“Er…” (very tentatively) “What kind of punishment…?”

A turn of his head, and a small cough. (Incidental? Unclear.)

“You do not wish to know. I can assure you. Bratty is as bratty does, but bratty also pays a price.”

I gulped. And then it hit me. Bratty! Of course! Who else, but Lewis Carroll?

“Because he knows it teases
He only does it to annoy
And beat him when he sneezes
Speak roughly to your little boy”

Phew!

Through my blindfold I could hear the pleasure in his voice as he benevolently gave me permission to come. I could also feel the enthusiasm in his fist as he sent me over the edge into another quilt-soaking paroxysm of ecstasy.

A few moments of warm relaxation, enfolded in his adoring embrace, jointly catching our breath, and admiring my bound, round breasts, protruding from their brisket perma-tie surrounds. And then the whole thing started again.

As you know, he has made requests of me to write for him in the past, and further drilled-down those requests by specifying the number of words in each piece. Apparently, we’d moved beyond the realm of request-by-remote.

“You want to come, kitty-cat?”

A mute moan, and a whimper as I focused my mind on random traffic junctions in order to take my mind off the fact that I was perilously close to climax, but was not yet permitted to let it rip through my body.

Purrrrrvert has but two rules for me — that I notify him when close to orgasm, and that I do not come without permission. Naturally, I obey them both, although sometimes it really is by the skin of my teeth.

“What must I do this time?” I asked as civilly as I could through gritted teeth.

“Write me a piece of… oo, let me see — twenty-five words.”

“Twenty-five?”

“Yes.”

Which brought me to this.

“It’s twenty-eight words,” I confessed humbly.

He smiled — again benevolent.

“This time, I’ll let it slide. Call it poetic license.”

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