What’s In a Name? Part Two
*LadyP updates!*
Bet you’re all excited to know about this(!)
I’ve changed my blog’s name from Ladypandorah’s Weblog that was the default WordPress setting.
I’m now known as Lady Pandorah’s Sanctuary of Sensuality. As mentioned in my ‘About’ page.
Any good? OTT?
Feedback desired.
Canterbury Rimming
I think I’ve come across something here – Pervertible Literaure. Although, in this case, it’s pretty perverted already.
Ah…I do love Chaucer. Just came across that lovely passage of great fabliau in The Miller’s Tale. Thought I’d share it with you in good old unadulterated Middle English:
Derk was the nyght as pich, or as the cole,
And at the window out she putte hir hole,
And Absolon, hym no fil no bet ne wers,
But with his mouth he kiste hir naked ers
Ful savourly, er he were war of this.
Abak he stirte, and thoughte it was amys,
For wel he wiste a womman hath no berd.
Find a translation to this here.
You have to love Chaucer. Even more so as it involved rimming.
(As the lovely Alison from the tale would say:) ‘Tehe’ and goodnight dear readers. Don’t have nightmares.
Unwinding
I imagine:
It’s Friday night, the weekend has started.
I’m still in my work clothes. My skirt is slightly crumpled from spending the evening watching a kick-ass DVD. My shoes I’ve removed and are lying on their sides at the end of the sofa, feet indulging in the sweet escape from a week’s worth of tight, toe torturing heels. Hair, well, in a dishevelled unbound mass of strands about my shoulders having shaken out the pincer clips that hold it in bureaucratic order during the daylight hours of the week.
I’m unwinding in every sense.
He enters with my refilled glass. The wine is chilled and washes down my throat very nicely indeed. I murmer in appreciation. The cool glass is fogging up as I hold it languishingly in my hand over the arm of the sofa. Absent mindedly, I draw my finger over the mist and run it around the rim of the glass. Work is the last thing on my mind now.
He takes hold of my feet which have been resting on the edge of the coffee table in front of us. He swivels them round onto his lap and begins to rub them. Having replaced tights with my long black over-the-knee stocking socks for warmth, my feet are snug and soon contented after a few minutes of light massage. Running my toes between his thumb and forefinger he eases out the week’s stress and worry. I close my eyes as he continues up my foot, resting momentarily on my heels before working his way to my calves.
I am snatched out of my reverie suddenly as he places his fingers behind my knee, in that certain place he knows will make me jolt. My eyelids flash open and a gasp is drawn from my lips before it is joined by the small giggle illicited by such a tickle. He doesn’t want me to fall asleep. Not at this moment. Not when his fingers are edging ever higher up my thighs.
I feel a familiar stir. A mix of adrenaline, desire and butterflies. That is the feeling of being turned on. For me.
Shifting in my seat, I place my head against the arm of the sofa and slowly sip my wine. I do this whilst looking into his eyes deeply, longingly. We both know where this will lead. He smiles at me in that way I know he’s up to something. But what he does next I was not expecting. Instead of continuing his hands’ journey up under my skirt to my thighs, he moves so that his head is placed against my belly. A natural response, my right hand goes to cradle his head in my lap. I lose my fingers in his hair, toying with his short waves, curling them around my fingers. But his fingers are not idle. In this brief interlude they have wandered higher and are now brushing against the hem of my underwear.
This is it. This is what sends me over into complete abandon. Ever so subtly his hands move closer to their goal. He presses against my sex making me shiver inside. He senses these flutterings and places another hand on my leg. Just the warmth from its presence there is enough to awaken my loins fully. My hand in his hair tightens its grip on his strands as he delicately kneads the dampening fabric. One finger finds that nub and my breathing immediately changes. I inhale sharply as a short rush sweeps over my body from that single touch.
Twisting his hair so that his head turns up toward me, I speak in a voice altered from earlier in the evening. A voice that hearkens from an instinctual need for my man. I look into those clear eyes and say, “Take me to bed.”
He returns my look of lust and desire and replies, “No.” Despair fills my eyes. He can’t surely mean that, not after all he has done. He continues:
”I want to have you here. Now.”
My smile returns and my unwinding is complete.
Tagged: ‘Ouch…That hurt!’
Right. So it appears I’ve been tagged by Tom Allen.
Cheers for that.
So, here we go, my attempt at the round robin Meme: My own six word memoir
Curiosity? Hectic Pandorah indulges inbetween paperwork.
Well, that’s my current memoir for my life as it is this week…it could change by next time I write up a post! Who can tell…? Hope you like the picture.
BadBadGirl, LaceStockings, Tag! You’re it! Mwhaha
Why don’t you try it yourself and leave me your six-word comment? More if you dare.
Flakey
Flake adverts were always sexy.
Soaking in hot, steamy baths; or within a boat on a river, a sultry lady having her Flake and eating it…the obligatory crumble down the side of her mouth…
Until bloody Joss Stone got hired by Cadbury’s.
I don’t know why I find her annoying. Maybe it’s the bare-feet on stage thing. Maybe it’s because I’m jealous of her voice. Maybe it’s because she actually *is* annoying.
But she has single-handedly ruined my perception of Flake adverts now. Even the gorilla would have had a better job at selling it for me.
The dark, lustrous hair-covered hand sweeps over his chocolate-dusted lips and….No I can’t finish that…it’s just wrong.
The generic conventions are all there:
Lady taking a moment to herself alone: Check!
Lady eating flake: Check!
Flake crumbling onto body: Check!
Flake crumble swept off body part: Check!
Yet for some reason, the sexiness of the previous adverts is missing. Perhaps I’m just a little biased when it comes to Miss Stone, but I can’t warm to it. It is too convoluted. The past adverts all had a sultriness to them that is noticebly absent in the new one. I could just be having nostalgia pangs for the old ones, but there’s certainly a sense of ‘lacking’ here.
It’s, simply put, flakey.
Pandorah’s Current Crush: Classical Fetish & BDSM
I do love a good period drama.
Always a fan of historical fiction – especially anything echoing a bodice-ripper – I jumped at the initial series of ‘Rome’ produced by the BBC in conjunction with HBO. Both these institutions hold a certain gravitas in their own leagues. BBC – stalwart of well-acted dramas such as ‘Pride and Prejudice’ in the early ’90s (Oh, Mr Darcy!) and recently came up trumps with ‘Sense and Sensibility’ (Oh, Mr Ferrars!) joined forces with the rambunctious reputation of HBO (sorry, been watching the ‘Romeo and Juliet’ director’s commentary and the word has stuck in my head) with a previous record including, of course, ‘Sex and the City’.
So, with ‘Rome’, what we get is a hybrid. A ‘Sex in the Classical City’ if I can get away with such liberties. And my, my; the Romans knew how to have a good time. Cue fantastic blood-thirsty fights, brilliantly acted bitchy sequences between aristocratic ladies, and of course, a multitude of sex scenes. Yum. I was instantly hooked.
I recently purchased the second series and I’m working my way through it in my spare time. (So it’ll take me a while I guess, not having much spare time currently) There is much more torture taking place in this series, and I know that there’s a highly charged torture/sex scene which I am sure has had much written about it elsewhere. It’s a good one. It got me thinking, as these things usually do…Firstly along the lines of…‘I wonder what it would be like to be gagged and taken from behind…’ before changing tack and considering the power that the woman in the scene holds.
In it, she is supposed to have been whipped for insubordination, but she’s such a wily one, our Gaia, and she ends up having it off with her persecutor, Pullo. The sexual tension between them had been brewing for a while and it bubbled to the surface in this instance of physical punishment. Through the very fact that he was unable to resist her he had relinquished the control into her hands.
She is the ultimate Minx. She has used her sexuality to her advantage and quashed any semblance of control he had over her in the act of fucking her. Bravo. But at what cost has this little skirmish taken place? She has goaded on the man by humiliating him – he couldn’t even flog the damn woman without shagging her – his lack of control in a split second is what plays it into her hands forever.
Sex has always been used as a weapon of control. And to give in to carnal desire is associated with being weak. Sexualised women in the past have always been looked down upon – ‘They have no *control* over their lust’ being the stereotypical Victorian view. So it is nice to find that in this Classical fiction by the BBC and HBO, that they have portrayed various women, both plebs and aristos, as having that sexual dominance over the men even back then. Their lust and desire is what gives them that control, not takes it away.
Mister, Pandorah and a Hotel Room…
I daydream:
It’s a humid Tuesday morning and we don’t have any reason to be up early. The Spanish sun is glowing through the closed curtains, its increasing warmth forcing us awake.
I lazily look at the clock by my bedside and notice it’s almost 11:30. ‘What bliss!’ I think to myself and sink back down under the sheet. It seems like a lifetime ago when I last looked at a morning clock that did not say 6:40am.
With eyes closed, my hands reach out to find him there beside me, shifting. Half in dream, half awake. I run my fingers over his chest and stomach, moving towards coarser terrain.
I side track down to a thigh. Feeling his warmth soothes me, calms me. The knowledge that he won’t be going anywhere fast. I feel him moving closer towards me and we embrace in a relaxed hold. Him behind me. Comforting. Protecting. Reassuring.
I open my eyes to see his arm around me, keeping me close to his body, despite the temperature of the room. We feel the prickles of moisture build between our backs as he starts to kiss my neck, shoulders, jawline.
In return I move my hips, swaying slowly against his front.
****
And then, reluctantly, I am brought back to the present. Back to the 6:40 wake up calls.
I can’t wait until our holiday.
Our first holiday together, alone. Just me, Mister and a hotel room.
‘She that makes me sin awards me pain’, Part Two
‘Now, move over to the chair, and sit with your hands behind your back,’ his girl now said to him. A definite switch from the syrupy tone previously to a more directorial one. One he knew from past experience not to dither with the instructions it held.
He walked and sat on the chair as told, eagerly awaiting her next move.
‘Good,’ was all she said. She knew now that her unexpectedly early arrival had placed him in a state of complicity. Still clad in her long coat, she motioned to slip it off her shoulders to reveal her dark bra straps to give him a hint of what lay beneath. As soon as his eyes caught sight of this, he realised that she had planned this all along, and her façade of a dinner date was merely a ruse. He wondered what else she had in store for him and his eyes sparkled with anticipation.
His wet hair still glistened from the shower and there were still a few missed droplets running down his neck. ‘You didn’t dry yourself very well, did you?’ His girl began to step towards him. Slow, deliberate steps. She moved around him so she was directly behind the chair. Leaning forward she brushed her lips against his right ear and whispered, ‘I’m just going to have to finish you off myself, aren’t I?’ before taking a quick nip of his lobe. She started to gently kiss the side of his neck, lapping at the watery droplets that had been carelessly overlooked. He tried to turn his head to catch her lips but she placed her hands either side of his head and steered it back to centre. ‘No, my love, just stay as you are. You’re not going to move an inch. Not just yet,’ she cautioned, her lips quivering over his skin as she spoke. To strengthen her words, she swept her fingers firmly through his scalp, dragging her nails back down towards his nape then continued to trail her lips and tongue over the droplets.
Confident that he was not going to leave his seat, she stood up and dropped her coat to reveal a deep blue lace bra with matching French knickers. A new purchase, she wanted to impress her lover, even if he was not going to spend much time admiring the view. She had coupled these with her black suspender belt and seamed stockings. Upon hearing the fabric of the coat hitting the floor, he attempted to twist his head around again to see what he was missing only to be remonstrated once more. ‘Tut tut, that’s not what I said was it?’ She hissed into his left ear, this time pairing it with a single nail’s sharp clawing of his neck.
She moved so that she was in front of him and slowly knelt down to crouch in between his open thighs. Now he was given the view he had wanted to see in close-up detail. From his seated vantage point, he was able to look down past her dark, shadowy eyes, past those sumptuously skilled lips, down to her breasts. Upon seeing the new bra, he lifted an eyebrow in approval which did not go unnoticed by her. She allowed herself a quiet giggle as she saw that her appearence was having the desired effect. Staring down towards his crotch, she found things were shaping up nicely and placed her hands halfway up the inside of his thighs. Tantalisingly close.
‘I think it is time you lost some of those clothes, don’t you?’ She didn’t look at him, her eyes were transfixed on his prominence, but she felt his rapid nod through the movement of his body. Her hands moving up from his legs, she quickly unbuttoned his shirt, wanting to touch that luscious, smooth skin underneath. Her hands ran over his chest to ease the shirt past his shoulders, once more dragging her nails gently across his skin making her man inhale sharply. Two faint red arcs appeared within seconds and he glanced at her with a sudden look of anxiety. She had never been as scratchy as this before, and he wondered how far she was preparing to lead him down this route.
In tune with his thoughts, she bounced up from her kneeling position to her bag she had brought with her. With a smirk, she brought out a length of red satin. Running the cold material through her fingers, she returned to her man and proceeded to trail the scarf up his body, draping it across his skin. The coolness made his nipples react immediately. He knew what was coming next and shuffled in his seat. Stepping behind him she placed the scarf around his head and blacked out his sight.
Once completed, she swiftly unclapsedhis belt and hauled it into her hands in one fluid movement. This was one of her most cherished sounds to hear – his belt slapping against his contours as she removed it. Now she had the perfect tool for her purposes. Bunching it in her hands, she left just enough of its length free to make a good impact against his skin.
The next thing he heard was the ’swish’ of the belt rushing through the air. In that split second he tensed up his body, expecting to feel the result. But nothing happened. He thought to himself, ‘What is she up to?’, and immediately realised she was testing it out; he then heard a second ’swish’ followed by a murmer of approval, ‘Now, it’s my turn,’ his mind thought, ‘I hope she doesn’t take it too far’.
Her thoughts were entirely different.
‘I want to make you scream tonight, scream out like you never have before.’ She stood over him with the belt in her hand and slowly began to raise it above her head.
~ Part Three ~
And now for something completely different…
To cheer myself up, I went through my holiday pictures of last summer. Thought I would share my findings.
We were in Northern Spain, in a small town by the sea and these two bars were placed right next to one another. Either their humour is more warped than I had previously thought, or no-one had decided to check up on English translations.
Bar one:
Plus bar two:
= A Giggling Pandorah 
Tuesday is now Pantsday*
I’ve had a shite day today. Sorry, but I have. One of those, ‘Oh, it was going fine until…’ days.
So I’m going to have a little moan. But not a good sexy moan, unfortunately. I need to exorcise this day.
I have spoken before about how I can struggle on Tuesdays and Wednesdays from Mister Withdrawal symptoms and today is one hulluva Cold Turkey. Not only has the weather here in Devon been all stormy – making my hair all kinds of tangled – but on top of that I had a bad day at work. So much so, I broke down after ‘it’ happened. I can’t go in to it, due to anonymity stuff, but suffice to say it was mentally and emotionally draining in a negative way. My face went all blotchy as it is wont to do on these occasions much to my disgust, and I was not a pretty sight.
Add to this the fact that there is no Mister to come home to so I could at the very least have a long, exhale-into-his-chest hug, and I’m feeling low. No Mister to look up at with eyebrows creased and to move in to his neck to kiss it – I find this has a oddly calm effect on me. I think it has something to do with his smell. He always smells fantastic there – his spray wafting up from his shirt, mixed in with that fantastically sensuous Man Smell. Mmm. At these rare times when I am not my usual happy, cheery self it would be amazing to be living with him and to know he would be there if not when I got home, then at some point in the evening to console me if I needed it. This time next year…..hopefully.
But, every cloud….
We are meeting up tomorrow evening to go to the theatre. I am really looking forward to this. I have not been for over a year (Lady Chatterley’s Lover – There was nudity; it was right at the front of the stage; I was entertained). Which is very very good. He’s coming in to the City from his little seaside village. He’s so sweet like that. Coming all that way just for a night (although I’m not completely sure if he’s staying. Bloody hope so. I’ll make it worth his while).
So, time for Pandorah to pull her socks up, have a good shower and go through it all again tomorrow.
But without the tears this time, please.
*For any American readers, I don’t know if it’s the same there, but in the UK, ‘pants’ is used as an adjective to denote an expression of rubbishness e.g. ‘I had a pants day’
