Let the Memory Live Again
Firstly, apologies.
My last post was not as well written as it should have been. It’s just that I felt it had to be verbalised as the escapade was bursting to be told and so I *may* have thrown cohesion, grammar and correct syntactical choices out of the window. But, it is nice to loose a little coherence once in a while! Whether it be in the bedroom or on the page, as long as you have good reason. Which I, of course, did.
Anyways…to today’s musings. Memory recall. Or rather, sensory memory recall. I often find myself drifting off at certain points in a day. Walking along to somewhere, it is easy to switch off and let your mind wander. Mine usually drifts into songs I heard in the morning whilst getting dressed. Hence an auditory memory. Another occurrence is when I’m bored rigid having people talk at me. Not to me, at me. This is when my mind – not deliberately you must understand – enters into thoughts of the previous night’s frolics, or if lucky, that morning’s. I think about my lover’s hands roaming across my skin…and in this case, nibbling gently at my neck; coercing me into a conscious state from my morning slumber.
At this exact moment I have a jolt run through me which stirs me from my reverie back to my present situation of being talked at. I sit upright, try to shake the memory from my head and pay attention once more. Yet the memory, or rather the sensation of hands seem to surround me…the memory’s ghost perhaps, haunting me. I begin to feel flustered. The room’s temperature seems to have risen a notch or two. My palms start to feel moist. I take the pen in my hand to try to focus my attention on something other than the memory, anything to cool the flush I feel on my cheeks.
Yet the memory niggles away at me and I have to close my eyes for a few seconds to let it wash over me. The feeling of his hands on my thighs, his teeth on my back. The sound of my voice in the half-way stage between a yawn of awakening and an aroused moan. His scent of our intermingled passion from the night before. A sensual memory, literally. I allow him to disrupt my concentration and the memory shivers over me.
Even when we are apart, he is still with me, and I revel in it.
Spoilt Rotten, or: Dancing barefoot, heading for a spin
Oh. My.
Every once in a while I am shaken into a frenzy through a mixture of surprise, spontaneity and too much wine. Mister was round these past few days and he certainly made his presence felt! I told him about my blog a couple of days previous and whilst it’s always good to hear positive feedback, apparently my ‘Inner Minx’ blog got a very ‘ascendant’ reception from him. 
Not only did I have a visit from him, but I was a very lucky girl indeed to have him for a whole two days’ worth of mischief! After our first little escapade between the sheets on Sunday night Mister suggested taking me out for Sushi the following evening – took me wholly by surprise as I would have been equally happy curling up with him with a bottle of wine in front of rubbish TV (easily pleased and contented, me). But he was in a ‘treating LadyP’ mood which is always welcomed with warm arms and a good slow, sensuous kiss in return. Probably a little extra too.
Yet despite all the control over me, Mister continued to be gentle. He supported me when I buckled, he held me to him as he sent me over another wave. He led me carefully to the bed, leaned me forward for him to get down to it. This is part of why he means so much to me. He can do some wicked things to me – refuse my pleadings to touch him, ignore my begging for him to stop after just one too many climaxes, administer punishment for rebelling, questioning or fighting against him – but I know he will always be there for me when I buckle. Both in this instance and in life’s moments of bitchiness toward me.
But still, I shall have my revenge this weekend when I see him next. Oh, he shall be made to beg too.
Release of the Inner Minx
As it was Friday today I thought I’d treat myself to a bit of personal naughtiness.
I find there’s naught more sexy and ego-boosting than doing something that makes you feel that little bit of a minx in an everyday situation. So today as I was getting dressed at god-knows-what o’clock this morning I peeked into my underwear drawer for something a little more exotic than the usual black underwear I usually plump for. Not only did my pretty turquoise bra say to me ‘Please oh gorgeous one, wear me today’, but my suspender belt also was looking at me in a despondant light. Now I have somewhat neglected my stockings and suspenders of late, and as it was Friday and a special occasion (last day spent at a particular point in my course) I got myself dressed in the full garb: stockings, suspenders, pretty bra and my skirt get up. Teehee!
It really puts a spring in your step if you go to work/evening out etc.. knowing you’re wearing something that’s considered very kinky and alluring these days. Add that to the fact it makes you feel oh-so feminine with a slight sense of empowerment in the knowledge that no-one else knows you’re wearing stockings and suspenders and you are really set up for the good few hours ahead of you.
So I was walking around during the day with the occasional smile emerging from my lips – people must have thought I’d finally cracked under the pressure – saying hello to everyone I passed on the stairs. A really lovely day was had today.
I believe my inner minx was quite sated by the time I got home. I do so love to get her going. Not many people get to see her. The privileged few I could probably count on one hand. And then, Mister has been the only one to see her in the full light of discovery. She’s a tricksy one, our inner minx. She loves to come out to play, and gets upset when she’s not taken out often enough – possibly why Tuesdays are hard! (see earlier post) I have come to the conclusion she must be released every 4-5 days or else things start to get a little…tense, shall we say?
Now. Inner minxes are not to be confused with sex-drive. Minxes in this sense refer to the mischievous sides to our sexuality. I do wonder what the male equivalent would be called…answers on a postcard please!
Well…anyway. Day spent in stockings would have been absolutely perfect, except for getting a bloody hole/small ladder in them at about 10.30am. Bugger. Ah well…who cares…the slightly dishevelled look never hurt anyone. And it was a quite sweet/sexy little ladder too! Maybe I should rip my stockings more often…I did have a pair of fish-nets that turned into something that would have let a whale through in the end…but even they had their uses.
So, gentlemen. Take heed whenever you see a lady with a smile to herself – especially if she appears to be in tights. Maybe, just maybe she’s in something a little more exotic and your complimentary salute will mean the world to her inner minx.
Hounded
I really feel sympathy with those loveable characters.
No, I’m not talking about some cartoon rabbit or cat and dog duo. Today I’m talking goths. Check this article. Basically, the bus company deemed they were of a health and safety ‘risk’ to others in case the bus braked suddenly and were asked to get off the bus. The reason? The girl was attached to her partner by a dog lead. Health and safety? Bollocks.
Now, I may not fully understand the whole ethos of gothicism per se, and they kinda look out of place and give some people the creeps, but this couple seem to me like a pretty normal relationship. Obviously devoted to one another (arguably moreso than most socially acceptable pairings) they choose to display this closeness through the physical aid of a leash. Good for them. If they have the tenacity to stand up for their emotions in public, fabulous. Goths seems to get a pretty harsh press wherever you find them, but on the whole they’re peaceful, intelligent, fellow human beings. It’s society that seems to me to be weird. Especially the West. So jumped up are we to keep up with the Joneses we’re forgetting our innate ability to be individuals. ‘I think, therefore I am’, not ‘Baaa, where’s the herd heading to now?’.
It’s this kind of self-denial that tends to get me down. Relationships through the ages have relied on displays of power or dominance…You don’t have to travel far in your time machine to find eras when physical displays of the proprietry of women were visibly flouted (and still are today in certain places/cultures). The difference with this case is that it is truly cooperational and consensual. Unlike other ages or traditional approaches towards the bond between a man and a woman, both partners in the goth relationship here have such a dedication to one another it’s sickenly sweet. I mean, the guy does everything for his fiancé – cook, clean etc… That’s not subjugation, that’s pampering! Mister tries his best in this respect – he’s much more dedicated to the washing-up than I am, so he washes, I dry. Plus he makes the best bacon sandwiches in the world!
I have a slight soft-spot for the goths in this world. I know that if I were that way inclined I’d make an absloutely drop-dead fabulous looking lady goth. Shame I don’t have the guts to go for it. Our couple here deserve more than the cynical and quite frankly stereotypical treatment that they receive. They’re a shining dark star for all of us to remember.
Yearn (v.) to desire earnestly; to experience a strong desire or longing for.
Being apart from your lover can be a mixture of two things – liberating, and yet one seems to be in a state of quiet mourning and longing for that which is absent.
And I hate being a nomad in the desert of separation! Hate it, hate it, HATE IT! *stamps foot petulantly*
It’s all my fault, you see (as it usually is. Mister has a fiddly knack of always being right in petty ‘disputes’ - except when he got mixed up between what comes first on a pizza, cheese or tomato; and apart from that I can’t think of when he’s been wrong since and that was about 2 and half years ago).
When I was away doing my brainy bit at university we were quite a distance apart. We survived the three years, but only just – seeing your partner only once a month is an utter nightmare on your heart-strings. So now I’m on my post-grad course, I’m at a place much closer to home and we see each other pretty much once a week. Fabulous.
Except when it comes to Tuesdays and Wednesdays, that is. I get to go home at the weekends or he’ll visit me and we have such an amazing time together. We both thoroughly enjoy long lie-ins on at least one of those days with plenty of naughty bits and pieces. Saturday nights are wonderful and have come to be our nights of kinkiness where we take a little visit to the drawer of wonderment and surprise! I hear other people have boxes of wonderment under their beds, or a cupboard shelf of surprise…we have a drawer. Each to their own.
But after the weekend and I’ve returned to wherever I am studying, Tuesdays are rubbish. Monday is fine as it acts as a little breather and a chance to catch up on sleep after the late night frolicking. But come Tuesday, I’ve usually had a long, tiring, mentally exhausting day and all I want and desparately need is a release and a cuddle! (I’m such a softy on these days I’m practically spitting feathers). Not much I can do about feeling like this so I batten down the hatches and weather the storm. By Wednesday I’m on the phone with a plaintive cry for him to visit me. He can’t turn me down – that would practically be mutiny!
And so I get a visit mid-week. Delicious. Wednesday nights have become ‘looking after LadyP night’, and last week was one of the best! Not only did I enjoy one of his best massages, we had the candles going – the most flattering of lights for any figure, wrinkle or blemish to be softened out – and we started early so we both had a good night’s sleep ready for my 7:30 alarm. The worst sound in the world is the alarm. ‘Mornings are murder’ as Mister quite rightly puts it.
So all is well in my world and I’m set up for another absence until the weekend. Wednesday night specials see me through until Friday night and I’m fine and dandy.
Until next Tuesday. Which it is today. 
I must remember a lovely quote I came across in these times of need ‘that to divide is not to take away’….Oh to hell with that…*dials frantically*
No peace for the wicked
That’s another fraught weekend passed, thank the gods for Sunday afternoon rolling-arounds!
An emergency visit home was called in this weekend, but any way that I can see my Mister and that’s fine by me. I won’t go in to the details because it’s family stuff and it’ll make no sense to you voyeurs at all – families are the most complicated things in existence. Suffice to say it’s been emotional, guys and gals.
But enough of that, you don’t want to read about it, trust me. So, down to the nitty gritty – time spent with Mister 
(not a reference to marital status, just a pseudonym!)
I find that Sunday afternoon friskiness has to be one of the most lovely times to spend with your guy or girl (or inbetween). After a big lunch, nothing better than retiring upstairs/on the sofa for a bit of a nap. Although if you’re anything like me any close proximity to him and it will send your lust radar up a few notches and so not much napping occurs.
Personally, I like at these times to initiate things. He’s just eaten (and preferably had time to digest too!) and his guard is down – perfect for sneaking up on him and giving him a quick ‘hand up the T-shirt’ trick. This develops into the move downwards and maybe a little grope for him to get the message. By this time he’s begun to respond, well, correctly…
So now he’s noticed that I’m bloody horny and has got the idea that I want things to run my way and so he lets me do what I want – This could be construed in two different manners. He’s either a) too tired to do much himself and in his lazy sleepy state is going along with things, or what I like to think of, b) knows that afternoon sex is when I take charge and he better not disagree or rebel against me otherwise there’ll be repercussions he won’t enjoy (my own rebellion in the evening sessions, that or no sandwich suppers made by yours truly). Either way, we get down to it and it’s that kind of sex that really gets the heat going…it’s afternoon the house is stuffy from the roast dinner anyway, and things are heating up in the bedroom now. It’s good sex. It’s always fabulous in those moments. Staring into each other’s eyes with the raw passion and understanding that we need this release – you know what I mean. Visceral (One of my favourite words).
So that all being done, we’re happy and satisfied as two fed, watered and sexually tended-to people can be…time for that nap I was talking about!
Have a good week all! And happy Burn’s Night on Friday! ‘My love’s like a red, red rose’ and all that. I quite like ‘To a Mouse’ that includes the line ‘The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley’ (often go astray). 10 points for the first person to tell me which author uses it for a major work of fiction. Enjoy
How did that get there? ‘I didn’t do it!’ he says innocently
Don’t you just hate it?
I know I do. I wake up in the morning, have a shower etc and as soon as the water hits your skin you get that familiar stinging sensation…
No, I’ve not stepped into the acid rain shower we keep in the spare room, I’ve found another one…A mysterious scratch. Now how did that get there? You must have the same thing. It can’t just be me, can it?
Two possible explanations (or 3..?) Number One: I’ve had a restless night and in the process caught myself unconsciously. Simple. Pretty annoying though if you get one in a conspicuous place – cheeks especially. You think people are staring at you because you’re a looker..nope it’s because you’ve got a bloody great red line across your cheek and chin!
Number Two: If you’re with a partner, perhaps, just perhaps in the heat of the moment things got a little carried away. Now I love all the clawing of shoulders and backs and stuff, but then, how would you get a scratch all the way across the back of your hand which is how I woke up yesterday morning?!
Which leads me to the mystery of Number Three: You’ve got a pesky little imp/mouse/creature of the night (delete as applicable) scurrying about with needle-sharp implements.
What I want to know is, where do they hide? Because I want to get the exterminators in…
The Box has been opened…
Well well well…
Never thought I’d see the day when I’d be starting my very own little blog
Welcome anyway, I guess a bit about me would suffice for the first snippet of nosiness some may want to look at here.
I’m a 22 year-old post-grad student, busying myself with more student debt and chagrin for the future times ahead. From Devon originally which has to be the best county to live in the UK – any disagreements, we’ll take it outside and I’ll beat you hands down on any top trumps type battle!
In a relationship with a glorious man with mutual adoration on both our parts – and any chance to get him in the sack and I’ll grab at it, can’t blame a girl for having a bit of friskiness in her! We’re into the usual exploration and open to new ideas – as long as it’s just for two! We switch from time to time, but mostly he takes the charge in the bedroom, and I’m not complaining at all! We’re on a pretty level standing outside the bedroom.
I assume that this blog will be filled (if I can spare the time in my busy schedule) with any exploits I come across and general shenanigans here and there…
Thanks for reading! Comments welcome! LadyP
