Alone

What’s a girl to do when her original plans for New Years get completely destroyed? Make her own fun of course.

I was lounging on the sofa, watching a movies and polishing off the last drops of a bottle of white wine when I was realise it was only 8.30pm and I was bored. My plans for seeing 2009 in with a good friend and a hearty orgasm had been squashed, so I was home alone and slightly pissed.

I got up and walked into my spare room. I use it as a dungeon and all my toys are in there. I switched on the lamps and picked up my medium butt plug, dug several pegs out the box, a ten metre piece of rope and a vibrator.

I took my pants off and I slid onto the well lubed butt plug; it stretched me and filled me making me quiver. Then I took the pegs, one on each nipple, my tight t-shirt holding them firm and pushing them down. Then I spread my legs and clipped the pegs to my moist lips, four on each side. The rope was threaded between my legs holding the butt plug in and looped round the pegs, holding me open. The ends pulled up and wrapped tightly around my torso, clamping my breasts tight.

I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the butt plug push deeper. I rocked from side to side, feeling the plug massaging me from the inside. The pegs tight on my lips, tugging at me. I reached down with my fingers, running them along the tight skin. Sensations heightened but the tautness of the flesh. I ran them over my clit, sending a tremor down to my toes. I fingered it again…the shivers going deeper until I was a shaking mess laying with a arched spine on the bed.

I was in bed and asleep by 11pm. I had a lovely New Years alone, not quite what I’d had planned, but they say the unplanned things are sometimes the best.

Daily Bondage

It’s the time of the year where I have to subject my feet to daily bondage.

The cloud cover is almost constant with the threat of rain, if it’s not actually raining, and the closed in shoes have been dusted off and polished.

I wore my Buffy Boots they yesterday, they are actually called that by the shop I got them from because they look like the boots Buffy wears in the telly show, black leather ankle boots with a one and half inch heel. It was raining and I now have a walk to the station so I need to keep my feet dry and warm. By the time I got home last night, my toes were screaming, I could just about hear them over the torrent of abuse my heels where throwing at me.

I have no broken skin, but it doesn’t look happy, in fact down right angry would be correct.

By the end of the season the skin will have toughened up again and be content to be covered, but when the thongs come out again you’ll hear the cheers of joy wherever you are in the world.

Nookyfest 2008

According to my Doctor I have to lay off the having of fun. I have a delightful little infection that is called Honeymoon Cystitis and it is very common amongst ladies who have never had nooky or haven’t have it in a long time. I fit into the latter category.

It’s not a sexually transmitted disease (but while I was there and had my pants round my ankles, she said she may as well test for everything that is) but a condition that is caused by simply having too much sex of the hard kind that may or may not involve elements of arse play.

This is something that had never entered my mind. I’m always careful, condoms, dental dams, gloves. You know, all the things that protect you from stray bacteria and virus, but can cause raised eyebrows if whipped out before being discussed. It never occurred to me that you could get a nasty from simply have too much sex and not peeing straight afterwards. This is the first time I’ve had anything like this, it’s kind of embarrassing

So there I am, a not inexperienced woman watching a Doctor draw a little cross section diagram of where all my ‘lady bits’* are and being told how easy it is ‘for germs to pass from the back fun area to the front fun area’*. Not that that is a problem according to the Doc, but when those germs come into contact with the ‘pee hole’* that’s when the problems start. 'Always leave the back fun 'til last.'*

‘Those little buggers love the urethra and work themselves into a frenzy until you are every time you pee.’*

It’s so simple really and a course of antibiotics ‘clear it right up and have you back in the saddle in no time, so to speak’*.


* Doctors actual words, I sh*t you not!

UPDATE 1934 11-8-08 : I was given the all clear by the doctor yesterday, no trace of UTI or anything lese that is nasty and catching.

Razors Edge

On Thursday 13th March at 12noon I’m having my head shaved for The Worlds Greatest Shave down to a number one.

Do I tell the first date that I’m meeting at 2pm?

Bad News

I got a phone call this morning at 4.30am. Not good news from the old country, my Mum is sick. After spending half an hour on the phone I returned to bed to find the Rubbermaid sitting up looking at me.

‘Is everything Ok?’ he asked.

I told him briefly the problem, leaving out all the details my Dad saw fit to tell me.

He patted the bed and told me to lie down, he then laid really close, leg touching leg, arm touching arm, shoulder to shoulder, took my hand in his, fingers interlocked and squeezed it tight. We lay there, looking up at the ceiling, holding hands in silence. He drifted back to sleep while I continued to stare at the ceiling. His soft snore was strangely comforting, as was the vice like grip that didn’t relax until his alarm went off at 6.30.

We had breakfast at my local café where we talked about inconsequential things for nearly an hour before he got his first job for the day. Before he left he embraced me in a bear hug and kissing me softly on the cheek and said goodbye.

I jumped on the bus and cried all the way to work.

Master Bates

As I lay in bed the other night feeling really horny, but too sick to do anything about it, I came to a realisation. I have never been watched while I masturbate.

Corsetry

I have lots of corsets.

Overbust, underbust, waspie/cincher, satin, PVC, linen, brocade, lacey, tartan, plain, spotty and pinstripe. I would say that these are as big a fetish as shoes if not more so.

They make me stand up straight, jut out my breasts and smooth the curve of my hips. In short they make me feel very sexy.

It gets attention, but not always the desirable kind.

I was out one night a couple months ago with a couple of friends at a pub. I was wearing a black satin waspie over a white blouse, black jeans and high black shoes. I was laughing and drinking with my friends when a girl who I didn’t know came up to me and said, ‘I can’t believe I’m seeing a woman strapped into a contraption of male oppression in the twenty first century.’

I was stunned and like an idiot asked, ‘I beg your pardon?’

She continued with, ‘women earned the right not to wear those when they burnt their bras and won the vote. You’re making a mockery of female rights.’

I was still stunned that this girl would be bold enough to spout crap at a complete stranger, but not stunned enough to say, ‘I choose to wear this corset and many others. This corset is about the males desire to submit to a strong woman, and until you have experienced a man begging at your feet to serve you because you are wearing one, I suggest you keep you opinions to yourself.’

She went purple in the face and puffed her cheeks before flouncing away.

I turned back to my friends who were also stunned, but not at the girl, at me.

‘Holy crap, LRB, I never knew you had that in you.’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘You’ve never seen me comforted while wearing a corset before. Now you know why I don’t wear them to work. I’d get into all sorts of trouble.’ Then I winked.

Modern Communications

Way back when I last dated (late eighties-mid nineties) the mobile phone and internet were in their infancy. They had been around for a while, but I didn’t have a PC at home. I was computer illiterate, I barely knew how to type. I was introduced to computers when I first started working in a office as a personal assistant and the mobile phone came a few year later.

Many years later and I live and breathe email/messenger/internet dating and you’d have to amputate a limb for me to give you my mobile.

I vaguely remember making dates in person (after meeting for the first time at random) or over the telephone. But once you’d left home there was no way to know if he’d still turn up. Now if you’ve been sat there a few minutes you just send a text, asking if he still intends to turn up Or if you are a real nerd (fyi - which I have a soft spot for), send an email via your blackberry.

There really is no reason to have a blind date anymore, because the sending of photos is so simple, often too simple. I really don’t need to see what his cock looks like before I see his face. I recently had a first meeting (with I guy I met online) where I told the guy I didn’t want any photos before and I didn’t send any. I told him what I’d be wearing and that was it. It was kinda nice, the mystery.

And of course something else new and excellent in my opinion is SMS flirting. Those short messages that say I’m still thinking about the naughty thing we did that come in at random times during the day and night, to give you a little flutter in your tummy. Now, that is a very good thing. Those flutters stop snacking.

Another use for the mobile is the booty call. That late night ‘I need a shag, buddy’ that we all feel like doing, but often don’t. I have a female acquaintance that has a code in her phone for booty calls guys. When she gets chatted up and phone numbers given to her by guys in bars (she’s tall, blonde and good looking, it happens often) she slots them into categories. Do Not Answer, Fuck Buddy and Potential Boyfriend. Maybe I’ll do the same.

How did we manage dating before mod comms?

Just for the Night

I started a new, part-time job recently (more about that later) and I was chatting with a couple of my new female colleagues about sex, as you do, and I realised that I have never had a one-night-stand.

There have been fellas that had the potential to be a one nighter, but always came back for more within a week. I’m going take this as a good and bad thing. Good because it nice to be able to say I’ve never had a one-night-stand and bad because I’ve got attached to everyone I’ve slept with which makes it harder when they don’t phone after the second bout of bed-wrestling.

They on the other hand had had multiple mono-encounters which they saw as practice for when Mr. Right came along. One, a young (22) back-packer has just decided to spend the rest of her visit to Aussie celibate because she doesn’t like the number of notches on her proverbial bedpost. The other, a not so young (29) French girl has a number close to the teens and would like to increase it so she can experiment more with strangers.

How do you feel about one night stands, Good, Bad or indifferent?

And I’m curios about numbers, so put a little poll in the side bar, tick a box please.

Sassy Shoes

Recently I counted my shoes. I only have 43 pairs.

My ex always accused me of being an Imelda I would like to refute that. For someone with a passion for shoes, I think 43 is a reasonable number. I understand that some may consider this to be an excessive amount of foot covering required by one person, but I would argue that at least five pairs don’t cover my foot at all, they just have a tiny strip of leather that barely holds them on!

I also have a few pairs that are what I class as sassy, not practical in any way (practical = being suitable for work wear). One such pair is my polka dots. They look fabulous with jeans and always draw the eye.

Shoe Fetish

Like a lot of women I have a shoe fetish (I’ve also spent a small fortune on corsets but that deserves its own post). This weekend I did something bad while waiting for a friend. I brought a new pair on impulse, no planning, no saving, I just did it.

I popped into a very large, but very bad shop for a little window shopping (I had an hour to kill) and I saw them, red, high, shiny and strappy. The brand has let me down in the past with narrow fitting and short ankle straps, but I thought I’d try my luck anyway. There was three of the same shoe sitting in a line next to a big sign informing me that there was 30% off.

I picked up the first, a size 36, too small.
I picked up the last, a size 41, too big.
I picked up the middle one, a size 39, just right!

I sat in the chair and took my foot out of my comfy sandal, pushing it to one side with my toes. I placed the red stiletto in front of me and hoovered my right foot above the gold lined sole. I lowered my foot and it slipped straight in. The one inch wide strip of red patent leather held my toes in its soft grip, perfectly.

I lent down and grasped the red strap, muttering that I would amazed if it was long enough. I pulled the strap through the buckle and pulled it tight, pulling until the strap was tight around my ankle, the holes in the strap easily fitted onto the buckle, releasing the pressure on my skin.

When the girl appeared with the box containing the partner for the shoe on my right foot she placed it on the chair next to me and pulled the left shoe and presented it me in both hands.

With the both on, I was only three inches taller, but felt much more than that. Everything about these shoes fitted. The colour, the shape, the size, I could stand AND walk in them…even the price. They had to be mine.

I paid the girl and because I was off to an all day event I had to leave my purchase there, in their care until I was able to return to pick them up.

I returned the next day to pick up my first pair of Malono Blahnik’s