Posts Tagged ‘Life’

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:


“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.”


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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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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Wordless, self-gagged

When I do not have the words, I look for those of someone else to assist me.

Below is a song by a group I’ve never heard of. I don’t even know the melody. On a freebasing search across the internet, I stumbled across it somehow, and it resonated with me, very deeply.

In a way, it seemed to explain how you ease my soul. How you hear me, and enfold me in your warm embrace and hold me close, soothing the tears, calming the shudders, reassuring me, and taking care of me better than I can myself — at the moment.

I am blocked, I cannot write. Everything I put down seems trite and unworthy, and I hate it and immediately delete it. Is it likely that this is the reason for my current stormy frame of mind? Highly likely.

From within my head, the outlook is horribly fogged and viscous. Mentally, i wipe the windscreen from the inside, leaving smeared imprints of my hand — only for the glass to cloud over almost instantaneously.

When I hurt, you help me heal. You catch my tears. You gently absorb the sadness that overwhelms me.

And each time I catch my breath anew at how generous and loving you are. How much you care. How you cushion me in warmth and kindness.

You wrap me in your soul, and I nestle there, hiding from the universe until I can gather myself and face them again.

I love you. Do you know how much?

long day fall
long day beneath an angry sky;
we talk about the life we share.
I pour myself into you,
you drain the day’s wild energy.

falling, falling, falling into you.
falling, falling, falling into you.
falling, falling, falling into you.
I fall…

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Driving to work, early morning, and the bright Spring sun dazzles her. At first she shades her eyes with her hand, then, realising the impracticality of doing this and continuing to drive, she pulls down the eye-shade, and suddenly and oddly surprisingly, her world is transformed. The traffic signal ahead remains the same steadfast red that it had been a moment ago, during her bedazzlement, but now with the serious advantage of shade, it seems to be better defined and easier to identify.

Of course, nothing has changed in reality. The act of slotting the eye-shade into place has merely allowed her to better perceive her world.  Was it caffeine deprivation or genius realisation? Who knows? Either way, the significance of this sudden flash of understanding of how perception is everything leaves her untypically at a loss for words.


Embarking on a voyage of self-discovery is a combination of blessing and curse in varying ratios and quantity. Much introspection is required — self-examination, self-questioning, self-doubt… even sometimes eventual self-proclamation. The arduous overhaul required in order to sort out the tangled mess of feelings, philosophies, needs and requirements that hide themselves deep within the psyche, refusing to stand up and be counted without a good bout of batch processing, can be too much for some. (And even more so for those who often associate with those some people — the tedium of hearing a conversation that begins “I discovered… I feel… I now know…” can, without due care and diligence, alienate even the closest of friends.)

It’s a matter of time, place, availability, consideration and thought. A mature attitude always helps. And the ability to take responsibility for one’s actions even more so. Although there are those who would argue that true friends, even if alienated, do not stray far, and will always come back. A bit like bad pizza. Personally, I stand by that. The tired maxim about setting something free to see if it ever truly loved you is only tired because it bears repeating that often.

We live in a world of no real absolutes, but a strong undercurrent of tendency to adhere to them as if they truly existed. We impose upon ourselves absolute standards, according to how others perceive us — or to be more accurate, how we would like to be perceived. Rare is the person who says “I don’t give a fuck what people think of me,” and means it all the way down deep into the darkest and most secret recesses of their soul.

And yet we expect love to be absolute — and indeed make every effort to make it so, proving that, when it comes to ourselves, there is nothing that cannot be achieved, if approached in the most effective manner.

Life is hard. Being an adult is fucking hard. But being an adult has its own rewards, which is what makes it worthwhile. It’s simply a question of how you look at things — by allowing the sun to dazzle us instead of warming us through and enlightening us, we are clearly missing out a valuable section of the picture.

So there you have it. Use an eye-shade, it’s the new “42”. And that’s an absolute.

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I have written before of the opening ceremony that begins our time together.  He always asks me how I’m feeling, and I usually say “I’m fine,” or “Very happy to be here,” but it always assails me how mediocre my answer is, at best, and inadequate in the extreme, at worst.

Yesterday, in a burst of combined pre-session inspiration, emotion and an unexpected pocket of free time, I wrote a letter to Purrrrvert, and printed it out. At that crucial moment, when he asked me that customary question, I reached behind me for the folded piece of paper, and handed it to him.

He has told me that he fell in love with me initially because of my words. He calls me his Cunning Linguist (among other creative and adorable terms of endearment), and he loves when I write for him. But nothing prepared me for the clear and honest reaction that streamed between us as our eyes met, once he raised them from reading.

The eyes are the windows to the soul. I saw straight into his, and he into mine.

And I cried, for sheer joy.

When I am with you, you always ask me how I feel.

How I feel to be with you?

How do I find the words to cage the butterflies of feeling that well up inside me at the thought of being with you?

How much more so their siblings, glitter-coating me when no longer is it a matter of thought, but a warm and soft reality?

An accurate description is never something I can accomplish as I stand before you – naked both in body and soul. This is the time when I am focused only on being. The words come later.

Now is later. Now I describe.

I feel transported from the daily grind to an island of oblivion. Population: 2.

1. Purrrrvert

2. Pink Tabby.

No one else lives here; in fact none but us exist. This is our world.

So how do I feel?

There is no one emotion to encompasses the bubble of joy that encases me. It’s so much more than “happy”. I feel:












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Update: Fleshbotted once again by the lovely and super-sexy Always Aroused Girl. Thank you so much!


It had been touch and go whether we’d meet. A combination of industrial work issues raising their ugly heads, and allergies affecting the delicate sinuses of a particular evil, mean and rotten cat, had conspired to stop us from meeting.

However, meet we did. Conspire away, corrupt industry and evil dust. You’ll never take me alive!


It occurred to me, at one point, that I was losing my grip on reality. Which is fine in the context of a session. Slipping into subspace is, while not exactly de rigeur, certainly a desired effect. Purrrrvert loves watching me lose my usually demure and mature attitude as I dissolve into a small cuddly heap of ecstatically sighing happy kitty.

And i love having him watch as I do.

I remember lying on my front, facing away from him, as he relentlessly thrust his hand into me. Managing to hit both my G-spot and my clit simultaneously, I alternately sighed, moaned, yowled and screamed as he coaxed orgasm after orgasm out of me. It almost felt as though it was too much, but then as that thought began to flit across my mind, another peak hit. I shuddered to the most earth shattering climax yet, and wondered incredulously at myself. 

How could it ever be too much?

“Turn yourself around, Tabby le Pink. Come and lie next to me.”

“Are you going to move your fist from inside me?”


Which meant that turning around suddenly required a great deal of twisting and unsually balletic movements. I pride myself on my ability to execute the occasional vertical less-than-graceless dance movement, regardless of how I may appear as I perform it. But horizontally, all bets are off.

But I did it. He has that kind of effect on me.

He continued to tease and probe me incessantly to my sheer delight, except now he was looking into my eyes. Then he leaned forward and kissed me — tenderly at first, soft and sweet, then blossoming into levels of passion and excitement that excited me yet further.

How had I even considered thinking that it was too much? What was wrong with me?

Breaking from the kiss, he stroked my hair off my face as he gazed down at me lovingly.

“You look so lovely.”

I blushed. He continued.

“I love being with you. I love fisting you, I love fucking you. I love you, my Pink Tabby.”

I sighed happily, and reached up to kiss him again. He accepted the gesture lovingly. Appreciatively. I love kissing him. I love fucking him. I love everything about being with him, whether physically, spiritually or mentally.

I sighed.

“I love you too. So very much.” And he held me tightly.

A couple of nights later, I had an epiphany. I realised that I was being a fool to myself to focus on the negative things in life, when i had this wonderful, positive thing going on for me.

Too much indeed. Who was I kidding?

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