Pik-shers!

So, I realized recently that I have neither a camera (loaned it to USB) nor any recent pictures of myself. Since I'm months behind in HNTs, and the Marines that I write to in Afghanistan and Iraq have been requesting pictures.... any local photographically-inclined followers want to take Some HNTs and some G-rated pics of me?

Life is good

Sure, it's still hard right now. I desperately need to find a $500 loan to get my motorcycle back. The boy is still at my house, still moody and clingy. Jack is still out of work.

But.... today I added weight and a set to every machine at the gym, and time to my run on the elliptical machine. I shared a bacon cheeseburger with my lover, and had a short day at work. I came home to this house that I absolutely adore, and made a wonderful cream tea (blackberry chocolate chip scones FTW!!!) with real, homemade whipped cream, made-from-scratch scones, and the highest-quality loose-leaf tea and spent the afternoon with one of the most amazing women in my life. She's strong and vulnerable, beautiful and wise and little wild. Younger than me and with twice the accomplishment. We reconnected, and I laced her into my corset. Now, I'm curled up on the couch in my home, listening to Pandora and happy with my life.

Life just doesn't get much better than this.

Peach cobbler

There are grains of rice scattered on the floor, a trick Lucivar told me about.

My kitchen is stone tile, and the corner where he kneels is liberally sprinkled with sharp little grains of rice.

You never think of rice as sharp, until you kneel on them for a while.

I'm happily flitting around my kitchen, ignoring the boy who kneels in silent agony nearby. I'm making peach cobbler, one of my favorite desserts.

First, you blanch the peaches, letting them sit in hot water for a few minutes to loosen the skins.

Then you peel them, and then you cut them up.

Normally, I'd be making the boy do the menial labor of blanching and peeling the peaches, but I'm in the mood to draw out my cooking today.

He shifts once, and I shoot him a single, level look.

His immediate resumption of proper posture amuses me, and I smile as I return to my work.

I'm cutting the peaches into wedges now, their sweet-tart juices running messily over my knife, over my hands as I slice through soft-firm flesh.

Every few moments, I lift the knife to my lips, sucking slowly between my lips and licking the sweet juices from the sharp blade.

I know he's watching me do it. I know he's cringing and hardening at the same time.

I don't bother to look, though. I'll hear it if he moves.

The peach wedges are in the bowl now, and I'm drizzling honey and brown sugar over them, with a hint of pumpkin pie spice. Needless to say, this necessitates much more licking of fingers, with appreciative sounds for my culinary talents.

I take my time removing my sweet, wet fingers from my warm mouth.

Tossing the peaches with the honey-sugar-spice mixture, my breasts bouncing behind my apron in time with the fruit in my bowl. I can hear small keening noises from the boy now.

Layering them in the casserole dish, chopping small cubes of cold, salted butter with a santoku knife, watching him cringe from the corner of my eye. I love this knife. It's a sushi knife, originally a gift for Jack but he never uses it.

I do.

It's sharp as a razor, with a lovely ergonomic design that fits perfectly in my hand. My hands fly every time I use it, and I know he's cringing at the speed with which I bring the blade down. He know the fantasies I have about using this knife on him.

It's time for the batter now, flour and buttermilk and egg and raw sugar and spices... I'm moving quickly now, half-dancing. Baking is truly one of my great pleasures in life, and it's clear in my every movement.

He knows how pleased I am when a dish comes out well, how alive it makes me feel.

And how cruel my liveliness can be.

As I whip the batter, I watch him fromt he corner of my eye. He's not foolish enough to squirm, but there are small tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

Excellent. The grains of rice will stick to his skin when he rises, embedded so deeply that they'll leave little red marks for hours.

I hum as I pour the batter over the peaches, ensuring that it snakes through every crack and crevice, the better to sweel and rise with the heat.

With a last smile, I set the oven timer for 20 minutes, then turn and beckon to the boy.

"Come, boy, we've just enough time to apply some heat to your ass as well as my cobbler."

He whimpers as he staggers to his feet.

Interlude

He is still dressed in the rubber he wore at the party.

His arms, chest, ass, and back are bruised, and he moves carefully but the grin on his face is unmistakable.

It's been a hard few weeks for my lover, and I'm pleased to see him so relaxed.

I'm exhausted, still a little sick. I had to leave the play area to keep myself from playing while sick... so tempting. An array of beautiful bodies laid out on a variety of playstations. I could play so easily, there are plenty willing to take the risk, but I'm too lightheaded from decongestants to trust myself.

Except with him.

He's walked me up to my room, and stands there now, looking like a fallen angel, wickedly innocent, in his Nasty Pig rubber and little-boy smile.

He's turning to leave now, turning to return to his Mistress, but I don't even remember moving and my hand is at his throat and I'm bending him over, pressing him into the bed. He still has his wide collar on, and my fingers are hooked into it- small fingers, they fit without choking him- too badly. I'm bending him back up to me until he's arched like a bow, his beautiful little ass offered up to me.

I want it.

I always want it.

Near him, I'm like a guy. I can't be within arms' reach without wanting to bend him over the nearest surface and fuck that pretty little ass.

As always, my beautiful little slut is making pleading noises, his ass grinding back into my hips.

Why don't I have my strap-on? I sigh, and shove him away from me.

I'll see you in the morning, boy.

Life catches up

I leave tomorrow morning for NYC.

SELF was amazing, but because I was sick I couldn't play. There were a few interludes I will try to write about soon, though.

On the upside, I'll be having dinner in NYC with the delectable Troy Orleans and the adorable Unspeakable Axe, as well as the darling LeatherD and possibly the amazing Catherine Gross :)

My life? It kinda rocks sometimes.

Meanwhile, I have 7 people in my house, and I still haven't packed for the trip!

Don't give up

Don't give up on me, guys. I'll write more eventually. 

Right now, my plate is even more full than usual and I'm doing a remarkably good impression of Atlas. 

Wish me luck, my friends. 

Necklace/stomach HNT

Yep, you read/saw that right :) 

This is the last of the chainmaille HNTs, so I did it against my stomach to better show off the pretty weave.

Rainbow choker HNT

I love Mouse's rainbow stuff. Maybe it's because I indentify so strongly with the gay community, I don't know. Either way, I adore her rainbow stuff, especially this one.

Teeth

'Do you want the blood spatter powerpoint?' he asked.

My eyes went wide, and I started licking my lips. 

He laughed. 

I like USB- UberSadisticBastard2.0. He's a sick fuck, and we get along beautifully. 

'Then I want two things,' he told me. 

I nodded, warily. He scares me a little, so I wasnt about to jump into that particular snake pit. 

'Throw me another of those chocolates, and bite me.' He said it casually, but I was instantly salivating. He's yummy, too, by the way. 

My forebrain intruded briefly, and I gave him an, 'are you sure?' look as I tossed him another chocolate. 

We're sitting in my kitchen. He and Jack are a little drunk, and they've just watched the hockey game, high on their masculinity trips for the evening as we all swap stories of hurting people. We sit in the points of a triangle, Jack and I on the counters on each side of the stove, framed by blond wood, and USB leaning next to the sink, the sage-green wall and darkened window giving his face an evil cast. 

He just grins. 

Instantly, my mind is made up. He's a big boy. He can make his own mistakes. 

I cross the room, almost a stalk. I know the bloodlust is clear in my eyes, and I love this man I barely know for simply grinning in the face of it. 

Even my darling Lucivar cringes when the color of my eyes is the color of this particular insanity, but USB merely smiles. 

Right this moment, I love this man. 

He lifts his arm to me, and my eyes lock onto it. I no longer know him as person, as friend, as shoe-whore and hockey fan. He is meat, and he's lifted a piece of the meat closer to me. 

Again, my forebrain intrudes, reminding me that he will likely wear short sleeves sometime in the next month, guiding me to his upper arm, where the shirtsleeve will hide any mark. 

I can smell him. 

Right this moment, this man smells divine. 

I have no idea where the attraction ends and the bloodlust begins. 

I doubt it matters. 

I almost don't realize it when my mouth touches his flesh, so wrapped up in the scent of his skin am I, but the shock of taste is 10x stronger. 

His skin is salty-sweet, a little like blood already. I spare a moment to wonder if he's sweating in my cool house before my teeth close on his flesh. 

This moment. This moment is divine to me. I love the taste of flesh in my mouth, the resistance of my teeth sinking into flesh. 

There is cannibalism in my lineage somewhere, I know it. Because right this moment, I want nothing more that to shake my head savagely, rip a piece of him away, and swallow it. I want the taste of blood and flesh, coppersweet in my mouth. 

But I restrain myself... slowly... carefully.... and I bite down. 

There is nothing I can compare it to. There is nothing with the texture of flesh except flesh. Nothing with the taste of flesh but flesh. 

The resistance of it, sweetly stubborn, and my teeth are sinking, sinking, and my hands are cradling his arm almost tenderly and I can taste his pain. It's changing the flavor of skin, giving it a sharper taste like adrenaline, and I can hear him cursing, "Fuck! Fuck that fucking hurts! Fuck!" and I am moaning my joy and arousal and the taste of his flesh as my teeth continue to close on his body. 

I realize suddenly, just as he taps me, "enough!" that I have sunk nearly to my knees, dragging his body with me as I bite into it. 

Dragon scale necklace HNT

This is one of the coolest things I've ever seen! It looks like dragon scales!

(The store)

(This one isn't listed yet, but you can email her if you like it. Gypsy is thinking about getting a belly dancing outfit made mostly in this... I will SO be borrowing it to post if she does!)

Hands

He is stretched beneath me, making small pleading noises behind the black leather mask. It covers his eyes and nose, but I've left the gag out for this first playdate. I want to ensure he's able to call safe, and I'm just on the edge enough to consider pushing him into doing so. 

He is plugged, and his body is quite lovely beneath me as I straddle him. I can feel the buzzing of the plug through his thighs and against my own skin as he whimpers and squirms. It's cute, and I tell him so. My voice is sticky-sweet, as I inquire after his well-being. 

He grits his teeth, but responds properly, "I'm fine, Miss."

"Oh, good," I coo, and begin. 

He doesn't like sharp pain, he told me. Most toys are a sharper pain than he likes, and he doesn't like toys in general. I listened, nodding, smiling inside as he tries to tie my hands and prevent me from hurting him as I want to.

Poor, deluded boy. He's obviously never played with someone who has struggled through months of physical therapy, or trained in massage. 

I tell him that I'm going to do him a favor, going to release some trigger points. I do my physical therapist's favorite trick of skin rolling... rolling his skin beneath my fingers and looking for redness which indicates a trigger point. 

And when I find them, I dig my fingers beneath them and press until I feel them release. It's almost like finding a ridge in the sheet of muscle, and ironing it out with your fingers.

It hurts like a sonuvabitch.

My physical therapist is nicer about it, but I don't feel like being nice tonight. I find easily a dozen, digging in while his face contorts in agony beneath the mask. It's beautiful, and I'm dripping above him.

I show him my favorite trick of Lucivar's, pressing my knuckles into his breastbone and twisting back and forth. His head snaps back and forth in agony, wanting to fight my hands but unable to. I know this pain, have felt it myself from Lucivar's hands. It feels like bruising the very bone, and it is. I lean down, whisper to the boy that isn't he lucky I'm creative enough to play without the toys he dislikes? He grunts, and I giggle. 

I whisper to him that this won't leave a single mark, but that he'll feel it for days. I tap his sore chest, hard, one last time and tell him that it will be something to remember me by.

Curled

We are curled together, on his couch. His body still curves around me as perfectly as it did so long ago, and his skin is the same combination of oil, soap, and male that I have found irresistible since the day we met.

His fingers are gentle in my hair, brushing through it as we chat about inconsequential things. The conversation is irrelevant- it is this, this touching, this sharing, that we are here for. 

No one knows him as inside-out as I do, and yet loves him anyway. No one else touches him with the same knowledge of who he is, flaws and strengths and fears and passions. I know this, not because he has told me, but because he hasn't. 

And so I stroke the line of his jaw, and I let him touch me.

He does not know me, not as once he did. Nor is it me that he still loves: it is the memory of a 17 year old ingenue. But for the sake of that ingenue and her love for him, I accept that, accept the memory of his hands hot on my body and his lips tender on my skin.

My own heart belongs to another now, but his body still fits to mine, and his arms still give me the safety that I crave, if only briefly, terribly briefly.

Drape necklace HNT

Another pretty piece of Mouse's :)

This is so cool! It's little silver aluminum rings, and the black ones are rubber, making the whole necklace just stretchy enough to be comfortable. Get a better look here

Beltaine

Today is Beltaine, my favorite holiday. I will spend the morning fulfilling my obligations, and then this afternoon and tonight will be for me. I will read, and I will sunbathe, and I might just take a long, hot bath. I don't know yet. 

It will be the first Beltaine that I've spent without my lover around in 5 years. 

I will fill my altar with flowers, and I will touch my own body as my lover would if he were here.

Silver/copper anklet HNT

The next several HNTs will be Mouse's awesome jewelry. I highly recommend taking a closer look at this piece, which is silver and copper, and looks just decadent. Of course, it's bracelet-sized for most people... I'm just tiny :)

Playdate

He is standing in the middle of the room, naked and shivering a little. His face is a study in agony as I hold out the bright pink lace panties.

"Put them on," I tell him. 

He shivers, fidgets, groans a little, and gives me pleading eyes. 

I tap my foot. He's already wasted an hour of my time by being late, and I'm not impressed by the current dilly-dallying. 

Well... my mind isn't, but my cunt is wet, dripping down my thighs beneath my skirt, in fact. 

He finally drags them over his hips, starkly neon pink against his pale, pale skin.

Next, the black lace garter belt, and another long session of pleading with his eyes, his little whimpers of humiliation.

Finally, I hand him the black thigh-highs, and he bites his lip, face crimson in an agony of embarassment as he shifts his weight back and forth, .

My eyes are cold. "Stop fidgeting, and just be glad I was nice enough to leave the camera in the other room."

His head jerks up, eyes wide. "Yes, Miss," he whispers. 

Exactly!

Said better than I could have myself:

Sweet and Lowdown, "Prince Charming is Submissive"

New layout

I finally sat down and created a custom header... took me long enough, didn't it?

What do you think of the new layout and colors- opinions, please! 

New jewelry HNT

This is the beautiful new set of jewelry that Mouse made for me, to match my purple and gold corset. 

As always, her jewelry is available here 

Tea Date

He is sitting across from me in the dimly lit restaurant, its Persian rugs only barely softening the wooden seats. I like watching him shift his weight in discomfort.

The copper earrings my sister made for me are heavy in my ears, and I welcome the slight discomfort because it keeps me grounded, keeps me from sliding into the fear into his eyes. 

Those eyes are darting all over, looking voer my shoulder, down at the table... anywhere but at my face as he describes the things he loves to hate, hates to love... as he describes the way that they send him slipping under. He glances, quickly, fearfully, at my face every few minutes, as though gauging my response. 

It takes him longer to look back at my face each time: it is clear in my eyes, in my smile, the pleasure that I take in his discomfort, his humiliation at discussing these things in a public restaurant in the middle of a major city. 

Occasionally I prompt him, make him elaborate on some point that makes him squirm and look determinedly over my shoulder as he answers, face pinkening with humiliation. 

And it makes me smile.

 

I had a tea date with a potential new boy tonight. It went well, and I'm hopeful (with a few reservations). He has yet to meet Jack, but hopefully there will be some sexy new stories coming soon! 

No HNT yesterday

I spent all day on the road, driving more than 300 miles, all told and spending the day taking care of my adopted mom. 

I promise I'll post two next Thursday and try to get something sexy written over the weekend ;-)

His hair

His hair is a silken curtain around us. I've never had another man with such long hair, or even a woman. It cascades, soft and sweetly scented, around our faces, tiny strands tickling my cheeks and making me smile involuntarily. 

His face is relaxed, smiling, and I realize how much that I want to kiss him. 

His lips will still taste like stale tobacco, completely unacceptable on anyone else but simply the price of kissing him. 

As he leans in to me, seeming to read my thoughts, I take the iniative and brush his lips with mine, gently. 

There is so much pain between us, so much hurt and anger. For 7 years I have nursed my rage and my pain, but right now he is offering me a gift that he is one of the only ones who can: a few blessed moments of safety, of the assurance of being wanted and loved. 

Tomorrow I'll go back to hating him as much as I love him. 

Tomorrow I'll remember why I shouldn't do this. 

Tomorrow. 

But tonight... tonight I will breathe in the softly scented silk of his hair, and I will let myself feel safe, and wanted.

War stories

Her hands are tender now, on his olive skin. She can feel the pain just beneath the surface, the festering wounds on his soul. As her hands pass over each scar, she feels his memory of how it was gained: here, the comrade he couldn't save.  Here, the terror of the heat and fire around him. Here, the secret fear of having let down his men. Each of his wounds cut her as she feels them, but she welcomes this pain, letting it wash through her and bring a new understanding of this man she loves and the experience of not only him, but others whom she loves as well. 

Pain is the price of this kind of wisdom, and she will pay it gladly for the knowledge of how to help him and wisdom to apply it well.

She strokes his skin gently. 'Who heals the healer?' she asks him, a question her hands offer the answer to.

Slowly, carefully, struggling with the urge to push, to pull, to force the wounds open, she gives him love in exchange for his pain, caring in exchange for his fear, acceptance in exchange for his guilt.

She knows this pain now, feels it in her own soul as an echo of his and she lets her heart guide her hands along his still body. She finds each scar, each wound, and presses it, gives him the space to gasp and whisper its origin. 

'Wounds of the soul are no different than those of the body,' she whispers to him. 'When covered and hidden and kept from light and air, they close over but fester beneath. Only when they're opened, exposed, and cleaned with tears do they heal.'

Each wound that she finds she shows him, loves him, gives him a safe space to be vulnerable in the ways he couldn't there, with them, with those for whom he is responsible. With each wound he opens to the air, he bleeds tears which clean the memory, the wound.

With each baring of his soul, she holds him through the tears and she kisses him tenderly. The brush of lips less an invitation than a reassurance that she loves him no less for this vulnerability, admires him no less for this pain, respects him no less for these wounds. 

And slowly, slowly, they heal together.

Kinesio Tape HNT

Ok, so evidently I don't know how to walk. I bounce up on my heels with ridiculously long strides... a little like a horse, actually, which is funny since I learned to walk by holding on to my pony's mane. (Yes, I'm that much of a redneck)

So my amazing physical therapist has taped my legs to force my muscles to move the way they're supposed to. 

It's amusing and mildly humiliating, and I'm sharing the joy with you!

(Yes, the tape is outlined in purple sharpie, so this weekend I can keep putting it on myself and remember where it goes)