Emotional
Today has been tough.
Hard day was had today at work. Yesterday was fine and dandy. I even felt more energetic despite not returning until 6:40pm. Usually I am whacked out from my day – on the go from 6:45am until 5pm practically – but Monday was a Good Day.
Today was not. Alot was achieved, planning wise. But putting it into practice in the afternoon, not so triumphant. Well, at least it was better than last Tuesday. That was horrific.
Rollercoaster Course. Seriously. Ups and Downs galore. My insides are churned regularly with the loops they go through. I feel sick somedays, and my heart sinks. But the highs are wonderful and make it all worth it. I am so thrilled and exhilarated after a Good Day, and it makes the Downs seem not so bad. After all, the bumps will work themselves out at some point. I hope. I still have Hope in my box.
Finger’s crossed for a better rest of the week.
And on the plus side, only about 33 working weekdays until I qualify. Something to smile about.
Also, it’s our Five Year Anniversary in two weeks’ time. More of that to follow. Mister reminded me today during my emotional phonecall (Tuesday Pandorah feelings again – You know how these days are). He always has something up his sleeve to cheer me up when I least expect it or feel I can’t be cheered up.
I love that man. I’d be a broken Pandorah without him and probably have quit the course months ago. He keeps me going.
Keeping a weather eye on the horizon where the sunset lies at the end of this seemingly everlasting day
Saturday Mornings
Lying here next to you – my favourite place to be. I don’t care if it is in a bed, on the beach, even on the hard floor of a ferry overnight on the way to France; being next to you I am at my happiest.
Multiply by a factor of a hundred if it is a Saturday morning.
We drift on these mornings, you and I. Drift in and out of consciousness. The memory of the night out previously is fading fast and melting into the dream-stasis of Saturday morning. One moment I lift my head and the numbers tell me it is 7:36. The next time, an eye-blink’s time away, the numbers tell me 10:43. Time is irrelevant and folds in on itself on Saturday mornings. It does not follow the usual rules of the week.
At one shift in my slumber, I open my eyes to see you staring intently at me. I have no idea how long you have been doing so. I smile that slow, langourous smile of sleep and move over to your waiting frame. Heavy arms run over your skin as I rediscover the warmth that keeps me drawn to you. The cat that seeks out the sunlit patch, I sink into you. My hair dishevelled and wild from your twisting last night. Hands stretch out to smooth it down, placate it, sooth it. Soothing me.
We stay in this position for a little while before finding our own space in the bed and returning to sleep. I enjoy these times when we reconnect fleetingly. We have our separation, our own time, but always return to one another. Such is life for us. Our weekly, monthly routines echoed in sleep.
Eventually the time arises for that other preoccupation of life and one of us goes to fetch sustenance. Saturday mornings and we allow ourselves the small luxury and transgression of breakfast in bed, together. That being completed we return once more to one another. Your arms around me, holding me to you. My head on your chest. Listening to your rhythm. Listening. Legs, feet entwining. Encircling. Your rhythm quickens and I know your thoughts are running similar to mine.
Saturday mornings mean Morning Mischief.
I roll over to my side and you follow, pressing against my back. You bury your head in my hair and I feel you inhale. A morning aroma surrounds the pair of us, pheromones, hormones, sleep and lust. Kissing my neck, your wildness shows in nipping my skin, awakening me not just to the morning but to my senses. I twist and catch you full on the lips with my own. The first kiss of the day and it promises so much. Deep and long, a sleep-filled kiss mixed with passion. Our movements are slow, deliberate. There’s no need to rush. We have all the time in the world. This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.
I place myself on top of you, move my lips and fingers up your chest, to your neck, to your ear…
“Good morning Mister”
“Yes, a very good morning, now,” you reply.
Do Post-Grads ever have sex?
Everyone knows about the bucket-loads of sex that students have. I can speak from experience. Living in a student house with two other girls and sometimes the house just reeked of naughtiness. Myself and one of the girls I lived with were in long-term, long-distance relationships and every weekend Friday nights were always the noisiest when one or both of our Boys were over. Our other housemate, well…she was with a guy, but after that ended (he was a twat) she went through the Thank fuck I’m outta that stifling, controlling relationship; let me loose on the guys and gals! phase. So the house was never quiet. Unless we has exams. We had some limits. And we loved eachother to bits so we didn’t want to piss the others off too much with noises!
But since moving University back home to Devon and starting my Post-Grad training course, there hasn’t been all that much lovin’ going on. Hmm. Slightly worrying. Well, at least actually *in* our student house on the campus (which unfortunately is where I am currently typing from – I don’t get along with the Undergraduates next-door. The Noisy Boys). I’m getting plenty at the weekends, don’t worry there, my dears! Sometimes during the week too if Mister pops up on occasion.
(oh, haha, just noticed my pun there! I do amuse myself. At least I amuse someone…)
Although I do worry about my fellow housemates. We are all Post-Grads and so we have done the whole go crazy drinking all night, playing loud music til 5am thing and we have a helluva load of work to get done in our year here. The thing is, they are so quiet! They, like me, have long-term boyfriends; one which is here lots, the other not at all. It could have something to do with the fact that I am upstairs and am conscious of creaking floorboards, bangs and thuds against walls/floor. Oh, and almost-screams too nowadays. But never do I hear even a squeak, the slightest of ‘oh’s at all. Either they’re the quietest shaggers in the existence of students, or they can’t be having any! Something is not right. We can’t all be that overworked? I know it’s a tough course, but come on, too tiring to have sex – All The Time?!
I better make up for them, just in case. Have to keep the balance, right? Karma and shit. They might not be getting it, so someone else should: i.e., Me. Got a big day on Thursday which should mean lots of Pandorah spoiling! Failing that, weekend definitely. I fancy some playtime. With Scarves. Candles. Wax. Ice. Mmm, not done that for a while. Pandorah’s treat.
This time, let’s see how he likes to squirm.
Face Painting
I had forgotten how much I adored being a kid. They have face paints there!
Spent the afternoon with a mini-Pandorah the other day - one of my nieces in the LadyP clan – and we got out the face paints. Teehee! Much fun was had with my painstaking concentration to turn my little darling into a scary werewolf (her choice). Turns out I have a knack for this. It looked kick-ass after I had finished. Took pictures and everything. Her talents are, shall we say, improving…But I had such a fabulous time with her. The complementary pictures of me are somewhat humorous. Instead of the alien I had picked out, I looked more like a green and black sneeze.
Anywho, what has this got to do with my blog? Well, apart from it being highly entertaining for me I felt the need to share, it got me thinking about alter-egos and how we wear masks. Both literally and metaphorically. Day-to-day women all over the place declare that they can’t step outside their front-doors without ‘putting their faces on’. When in fact of course they are putting on the make-up mask of their projected self-image to the viewing world around them. I do it, if you are a lady, I’m sure you do it too. As do some men, of course. Unless you are annoyingly beautiful already and are one of those people who look perfect all the time. One of my sisters is like that. Love her to pieces, but still - Grr!
I never used to care about make-up when I was younger. I was not really bothered about it until I reached the age of about 17 or 18. Funnily enough that was about the same time I started to be interested in boys. Late starter, me, but see how I blossomed! The only time previously when I wanted to put make-up on was that typical scene when I dressed up like a grown-up in the high-heels (yellow stilettos) and handbag get up culminating in raiding mother’s dressing table and drawing lipstick all over my innocent mug so the end result is more like a clown. I reiterate – the mask of a grown-up I placed on myself.
So it continues into adulthood with the mask of make-up we paint each morning before work. In the evening before a night out on the town. These faces we place on ourselves are to appeal to potential lovers, to make outselves more attractive than the competition. Above all I think it is for confidence. These are not our real, true selves we parade in public. Our true faces are those to be found on Sunday mornings curled up in bed with a tub of ice-cream, reading a really good book/trashy novel. Or watching a favourite film we don’t like to admit to anyone else (Mine is Legend. I can’t explain why. Legend and/or Labyrinth). These faces we will save for those special few in our lives. Those few who recognise that our real face is more attractive than the painted face for the fact we have allowed them to see it. The brush-stroked confidence absent. It is here that we receive the real confidence boost. That moment when your lover says to you, ‘I didn’t even notice you weren’t wearing make-up’ in completely honest terms. Then you know you have a keeper on your hands.
I am probably not making a lot of sense, but these are just some ramblings off the top of my head here. I could go on about Halloween and I have a few things to say about Masquerade balls which I could link back to their Venetian origins of overt and nicely brazen frolics sans visage. I could also go on to mention Eyes Wide Shut, but I would start to get lost in the naughtiness and go off topic. As usual. Instead I shall draw to a close my cluttered thoughts by saying that at last year’s Halloween I was sorely tempted to go all Goth-esque after discovering my made-up appearance as a Vampy Lady Pandorah was muchly good. I liked that face and persona I put on. Vampy LadyP has her Inner Minx permanantly on the outside.
Say What?! How Many Days?!
I used to think Facebook was an escape and a procrastination device.
I have just been proved wrong as I now want to motivate myself into working after reading my course Group Page today instead of lurking around old classmates’ pages with whom I was never really that close friends.
One of my fellow stress-magnets today posted a message informing us that we shall all be fully qualified from our training course at University in only 38 days’ time. I shall officially be a pro. Not that kind of pro, you lovely dirty minded deviant. A professional Pandorah? Now *that* is bloody scary…
Also, Facebook is making me work. How twisted is that?
Aftershocks
“I am going to make you scream tonight”
Those words always send a shiver down my spine, along with the retracting movement of my head in anxiety and excitement as it contemplates that sentence’s possibilities.
Those words were murmured close to my ear last night accompanied by that devilish glint from Mister’s eye.
It has always been a impassioned desire for him to make me scream from his administering attention to that centre of orgasmic bliss that lies a little below my navel. He’s got very close a few times before. And it’s not from his lack of prowess that he has been unable to achieve this – good god no, that man is exquisitely talented and knows how to play my body so well - but rather the onus lies on me. Not because I don’t want to. I would love to scream out his name, or just plain screech the house down, but there’s always the thought of the other people in the house that runs through my head. Either my or his parents, or University housemates. Conscientiousness has always been a comment made of me – “Pandorah is such a conscientious pupil in class” I think I counted about six individual reports in one year mentioning that bloody word once.
I wish I were more selfish sometimes. Then I would not give two hoots about whether I woke up the neighbours across the street, let alone those slumbering in the room across the hall. Mister would appreciate that. Though he may have a need for some earplugs.
What Mister did to coerce my yelpings was to diddle me to distraction whilst tied up by my favourite silky red scarf (I’ll get a picture of it sometime for you all – it could do with an iron, the knot creases are numerous.) He’s a canny one. Not only does he know to tie me up for our bondage delights, but it also gives him less restricted access. The danger of me pushing him away having been removed so he can *really* test my limits. Did I tell you how much I love this man?! 
Consequently, I experienced another favourite of mine – aftershocks. Mmm. Ladies, I really hope you have also shared in this experience, and it must be such a nice proud moment for the respective partner to be giving your gal an orgasm without having to touch her at all. I usually have the pleasure of aftershocks, as I call them, after having a series of multiples and after the main event. You’re lying there, exhausted, as is he and all of a sudden you spasm once more unexpectedly. Out of the blue. No one is touching anything and you go *snap* all over again. Love ‘em.
I am afraid to say Mister’s threat wasn’t completely achieved yet again. But I got tantalisingly close! Possibly three quarters of the way to a fully loaded scream-so-loud-your-voice-goes-hoarse-afterwards scream. Which is further than no Pandorah has screamed before. Even Mister was impressed with how far I managed to get. Admittedly I felt the need to drown out one ‘almost-scream’ by burying my head in the sheets and pillows, but the second I was ‘out and proud’. I am getting there. Slowly. When we have our own place I am thoroughly looking forward to letting loose my vocal chords.
I have no intentions of making friends with the neighbours.
Regrets? He’s had a few
I’m concerned.
Okay, I guess diligence is due when you live with your parents and your girlfriend has started up a naughtyesque blog which she really wants you to read (You know…get into her filthy mind and see what she is truly like. The debauched harlot) and see what you’ve turned your girlfriend into after popping her cherry those few years ago.
But seriously. Keep up, Mister!
It seems I am having to remind him to read my little literary exploits here. I was over at his last night and *made him*, yes, I actually had to sit there and make him read through about my last ten posts to catch up with the present.
Am I being pedantic? I might be. But if you encourage your girl to start writing – which he did, ok it was meant to be actual written fiction, but every step counts and I’m working on Part Three, honest – you should at least read what she writes!
I understand it can be difficult for him to make sure his parents are either not in or have gone to bed to avoid unexpected walk-ins in the computer room. I understand that Mister could be a bit sleepy by the time the latter is achieved.
So why do I feel slightly, erm, *miffed*, shall we say?
Maybe I’m getting hormonal again. (Note to self – Really work on getting your arse in gear to visit Mr Doctor Man for Magical Pills) Maybe I’m just being the irrational incarnation Pandorah who occasionally appears causing confuzzlement and annoyance in abundance. Maybe Mister isn’t too keen on the reality of hearing about my darkening thoughts, or the travails of our relationship that are now being aired in public.
I hope not. These writings are for him just as much as for the blogosphere. Probably more. Definitely more for him. In fact, these writings are for him. He asked for them. Now he has them. Deal.
But the most likely thing is that I’m going through the paranoid couple of days in this month of mine. It’s so taxing on my nerves, mind and emotions being off the pill. I really will get this sorted out soon.
~ Oh well. Love ya, Mister. See you soon. I think some Inner Minx time is overdue, honey x And just ignore my wittering here – I’m only having a mini-rant. You know not to pay much attention to those! ~
(I know. Overkill on the links. But I like revisiting them myself. Give them another turn yourselves!)
Sexy When Wet
**Lady Pandorah has returned from her much needed break away to the Continent. Partly due to nostalgia and partly due to the incredibly heavy rain she experienced (and walked five miles through without an umbrella whilst on holiday) her memories have been reawakened.**
(Yes. Five. Miles.)
When we started dating many moons ago, I kept my relationship with Mister secreted away from my family. Mainly because this was my First Proper Relationship and I wasn’t sure where it was headed. (At first I thought it wouldn’t work due to me leaving for University in two months’ time, but then Love came along. I like that. Complicates things and makes Life interesting)
I digress.
During our ‘courting phase’ I would meet him on a weekend, go to a secluded pub where I was sure none of my family/friends of family would be there and hold hands…giggle terribly girlishly…flutter eyelashes…play with the condensation on my glass…(all those little tips I head read in magazines – well, they worked didn’t they?) This is where I discovered my predilection for touch – I had never known my fingertips were so sensitive until this point, to the extent that it really started to turn me on to lightly brush the back of his hand, around his wrist, trailing up his forearm.
We would conclude our evening by visiting our local cattle market club to make the most of the time I had with him in the evening. He would then do the gentlemanly thing and walk me back to my home in the early hours of the morning. It would be about this time that the evening would become more focused on the kissing side of things with me playing the innocent virgin and holding back from his advances (but always succumbing to his charms – so persuasive my Mister can be)
It was now at this point of the Summer, at three in the morning after the heat of the day had time to cool down, we would begin to experience a light Summer rain.
Not dolloping heavy raindrops in which it is hard to even breathe, nor the spearing rain that slashes. But more of a light mist that placed itself on our skin, clothes, in-between our lips as we kissed. It would adorn my hair and return the straightened tresses back to their natural light waves with loose ringlets toward the front. We would walk down the lane by my house to the babbling brook (yes – they exist!) and let our lust, hormones and hands take over.
I associate water with sex. Or at least liquid. Be it the heat of the moment making our two bodies sweat together; Ice and wax play or massage oil; shower sex or simply the fluids involved in the act itself, the intermingling of our two selves completely is shadowed by the constant awareness of moisture.
In our relationship there has always been that elemental presence of water. In all relationships it exists. Aqua vitae they say. Or sexy when wet as Mister says.
And I do so love to read into the double meanings of much of what he says.
Holiday, Celebrate!
Right my little chickadees. (Note to self, never use that phrase again)
I’m off on my Spring Break slash Easter Holiday slash Half Term holiday tomorrow. (Due to Easter being unusually early this year, it seems like we’ve had two sets of time off)
So, I am off to the much sunnier Continental climes of Portugal. Personally I think I quite deserve some time off to unwind and relax. I know I’ve defintely worked hard enough! Plus it allows me to realise my fantasies I have been having increasingly frequently!
This of course means that I won’t be posting anything for a little over a week. So no deserting this little sanctuary I’ve got going on here. That means You too!
Bon Voyage, dear readers.
