Tremble
Are there moments in your life when you get that trembling feeling?
Do you ever feel weak at the knees because of your lover’s actions? Literally falling to the floor.
Do you ever find that quiver appearing from the mere thought of things to come? The promise of the realisation of his/her capabilities? You know what they can do to you; the distance, depth and lengths they will go for you and they have let it be known tonight is all for you. Do you know that recognition of anticipation? Shuffling through your body, from your toes to the tips of the strands of hair on your scalp. To the nape of your neck.
Have you, like me, experienced what is like to shudder, quake and shiver at that special someone simply being next to you – lying, sitting – and a finger, thigh or even their exhalation brushes against your body. An inner electrical storm raging. Bridging the synapses. Have you?
I still jump when he touches me. Maybe not visibly, but my heart, diaphragm and butterflies – they all leap inside my chest. Am I alone in this? Years together and he can still ignite that spark. A touchpaper aflame. A renewal in emotion, phoenix-like.
I love the moments when he pushes me past my limits, testing my boundaries. How many multiples can he make me have. My breathing trembles. It shudders. A quick succession of breaths. If I were not in this intimate situation, I would surely be classed as hyperventilating.
Do you ever make your partner tremble? Do you watch as I do their eyes roll back in reverie to be sharply pulled back into focus on you, on the ceiling, anywhere, just eyes opened wide in shock at an unexpected turn. Do you, as I do, smile to yourself in these instances – not at your partner, but to yourself in pride, passion, enjoyment at your own skills and hold over your lover? Have you made your man/woman shiver and shudder in that soul-wrenching movement of pleasure?
Well, have you? Or is it just me? I hope you do too – it is one of the most exhilarating experiences.
He makes me feel so alive when I tremble before him, as I also do when I make him tremble before me.
Pandorahism #1
I ocassionally come out with some profound-ish statements.
Usually inspired by something alcoholic.
Today I came up with this whilst celebrating the end of our course with my fellow students in the pub:
A life lived without regret is not a life lived at all.
Not too shabby, eh? So, go on! Go and do something you’re not too sure about – live life to the full, to Hell with the consequences, or what other people think.
Retrospect is something grand. You can always look back on your mistakes to sum-up how far you have grown since that fateful point, rather than looking back and reflecting on the ‘What if?’s of what might have been.
I know, vague. But you all get my drift.
Wednesday’s Inner Minxyness
Yippee!! Placement finished! Just two final days back up in college and then I shall have finished my Post-Graduate course! I shall be a Qualified Pandorah!
My last day was spent with lots of mushiness through cards, cake and flowers from an unexpected source.
But I have a feeling you are wanting to know about my other, more private celebrations – did I wear my stockings and suspenders? Well, short answer to that is: Yes, yes I did. I wore them with pride, excitement and energy. I know I would stumble about in the morning so pre-prepared the hooks from the garter belt to the top of the stockings last night before I went to bed – and that took me nearly ten whole minutes – goodness knows how late I would have been if I’d left it until the morning to affix said hooks.
Anyway. Off I trotted in my work heels and naughty hosiery and had such a smily, bittersweet day – an end to my time there, but looking forward to the future kinda thing.
I came home a little earlier and had a play with my camera. Hope you like.
Looking at my knees…
Quite like this one. I might use one of these as my avatar – y’know, obligatory stocking avatar. Just for a little while perhaps.
Any who, enjoy! I shall be enjoying myself tonight in celebrations of the flesh and of the tapas. Mmm.
Thrill
My Inner Minx came out to play last night. She was ravenous from lack of exposure.
My man, when he wants something, will ask for it. Boy, he was asking for it last night. And he got it of course. Such manners will not pass by my notice easily.
I like it when he asks. For permission, for admittance, for allowance. Permission to do something – tie me up for example. Although I love it even more if he tells me he’s going to do that. Puts a more realistic spin on the scenario in my head. Admittance into me (Gosh, that sounds like I’m some fairground ride – not great connotations there, Pandorah!). To be allowed to enter me, ‘Can I be inside you?’, at once so very sweet in its politeness, its innocence, yet so damn hot at the undertones of need, desire, want; a pleading undercurrent with how the words could be spoken.
Last night there was need in his tone. There was desire. God, I felt the want in him.
‘Will you spank me tonight?’ he said. I smiled when he said this – and my heart jumped at the thrill it sent through me. A warm fluttering. Descending and settling just below my navel.
‘Of course, honey’ I said. Anything you say…I’m such a doting girlfriend. Yet it was myself I found saying words of gratitude and thanks afterwards.
Last night after work I was feeling a little jaded. Fraught, yes, that’s the word that can best describe my evenings lately. Usually on Sundays and Tuesdays. Monday evening began fraught but ended exhilarated. Not a bad turn around. After lazing around I had a shower and perked up immensely by freshening up and the fact that Mister decided to stay over an extra day. That’ll cheer a Pandorah up no end. Having her man there to keep her company. I’d have been happy with just vegging out, but as there was crap TV on, we made our own entertainment.
A few hours before I went for my shower he made the first mention of spanking. He’s quite an insistent man when he wants to be, and I was quietly impressed with his subtle manner last night. He mentioned it once, in passing – I thought just to make me smile and giggle. He sometimes makes nawwty comments now and again in conversation to keep me on my toes and mock-chastise him for his crudeness (I love it really). But then he mentioned it again, just after dinner. Then again after my shower. That man, once he has a craving, won’t give up – like in his chasing of me when we were getting together – I like his persistence.
‘So he wants a spanking? I’ll make it something he won’t forget in a hurry’ were my thoughts after the third time. I went to lighting the candles. Man, he looks even more stunning in candlelight. I returned to the bed to find him de-socked and de-watched – he was serious. We fell on eachother more or less and I quickly had him lying on his front, his behind exposed wonderfully. A blank canvas. Needing colour…I kept his belt by my side. I intended to paint a pretty picture after all.
I began of course with my hand, fingers trailing over his skin and nails lightly scraping over his back, thighs and the nice, fleshy buttocks. He dared me to bite him. That was fun. I didn’t need much coaxing. Second time and he flinched – the fluttering returned to my stomach. It didn’t leave until this morning.
I don’t think I have ever been as turned on during ‘womans’ week’ (as he terms it) before. I’m normally horny during this time, mainly because of the fact I can’t get any. But yesterday, the spanking, the clawing, biting and most of all – the belting sent me almost into a delirium of ferverous feelings. Just the sound of the leather in my hand was enough to thrill me. That scrunching, tightening sound as you clench your fingers around it *sigh*
I have a slight OCD about me. Last night it was visible in my desire to have symmetrical welts to his skin. If one side of his backside was lined, I simply had to have the other to a matching shade of crimson. I progressed to one welt on his shoulder blade, which he wasn’t expecting and caught him by surprise. I had to plead with him briefly to allow me to have a second, mirror-image on the opposite shoulder. He warmed to it though. I have my own talents in persuasion.
I finished off our session with some wax-play. Dripping the tea-lights on either buttock then peeling off the dried wax. So pretty. I want him to do that to me in his own time. But it was my time yesterday and after I had kissed and licked the post-peeled area, the heat radiating off his skin, I realised that this was as much a treat for me as it was for him. Turning him over, he was so turned on it didn’t take me long before he climaxed – woman’s week for Pandorah = oral week for Mister (Don’t think I just go down on him then – I do it more often than that, just more frequently in this particular time).
We lay together sated, although I would have liked his hand to have snaked under my knickers – I was turned on as hell down there, but instead I allowed him to come down from his high, held him in my arms, before switching into the reverse. I whispered to him, ‘Thank you’, and he wasn’t quite sure why. He is the sweetest guy ever, I don’t think I shall ever tire of him.
Last Tango In Blogland
Hmm, not as poetic a title as Last Tango in Paris. Answers on a comment card for a better Tango-related title. Win a prize.
I’m no dancer. Along with two left feet I also have a chronic lack of rhythm when it comes to attempting to dance. But I do appreciate the art form. I’m too self-conscious when it comes to dancing. I can wiggle a little at the appropriate moments when called for and tipsy enough though.
I adore the music for certain dances. I have a secret passion for Strictly Come Dancing. There you are, my TMI for the week. Some dances I can’t get on with. Sure the Jive is cute, as is the jaunty Quickstep. Watching the feathery floating feet of the dancers is all well and good. But give me passion any day. Give me a Tango. Oh Yes!
I think I can pinpoint the moment I fell in love with this dance. Moulin Rouge – El Tango de Roxanne. Need I say more?
The proximity of the couple in a Tango along with the storyline is just exquisite. One guy. His girl a lady of the night. The jealousies he holds for the clients she sees. Her death at his hands. It’s to die for. All those intricately placed feet – his displacing hers to result in the foot flicks the dance is infamous for. The long, languorous sweeps to the floor in which she extends her neck so far you would think something should go *pop* or *crick*, only to be snapped back up to his eye-level.
My thought processes this evening went along the lines of this leading me to my musings here:
Oh, I must go and buy Beowulf at some point…It could come in handy for the future…Hey, I wonder why they made Grendel’s mother have weird feet like high heels…Damn, Angelina Jolie is scrummy…Hmm, Angelina films? Girl Interrupted, Tomb Raider, Gone in Sixty Seconds, Ahhh…Mr & Mrs Smith…Damn, Angelina Jolie is scrummy…Hey, isn’t there a delicious scene in that film where she dances a violent and fucking hot Tango with Brad Pitt…I wonder if I can YouTube it…Ooh, this would make an interesting and vague blog post about the Tango…Link to other films…Moulin Rouge…True Lies…Yes, maybe I’ll do that.
Along those lines. I think it’s her attitude more than anything else that appeals to me. And those eyes teamed with those eyebrows. Personally, I think Mr and Mrs Smith was a big old hyper-inflated film. The Meeja blowing out of proportion and the amount of writer changes in the script showing painfully obviously when you watch it. Some of the dialogue is cringe-worthy. Still, you have to admit it’s pretty to look at. Mostly because of the protagonists. Easy on the eye. I also quite think Eva Green has beautiful eyes and an interesting voice, but I digress again. Back to Tango.
The Tango in this film is brutal. They have the passion. They have the pain – oh yes – the hitting of the back of Jolie’s head against a mirror, her expression is gorgeously revengeful. I want my head pushed into the back of a mirror/wall/cupboard. Oh wait…done the cupboard…one down, two to go!
There have been times when I thought to myself, ‘It would be so hot to do this dance with him’ but I know he wouldn’t. He doesn’t dance any more when we go out, unless we’re both quite tipsy. And his definition of dancing was founded and then cemented in the Nirvana Grunge Jumpy Dancing Dayes of Yore. We have danced once or twice together in a club. The first time was in our first few months and it was very hot. We’ve danced in the kitchen of my student digs to Green Day when we came home early one night out to mess around when no-one else was in (We managed sex in the cupboard at the end of the halls that night. Not as bad as it sounds). That was fun. I want to do that kind of dancing again when we have our own place.
I shall leave you to my incoherent babbling with a final image:
I bet his hands were nice and warm…
Play on, Give me Excess of It
A wonderful short post by Lace Stockings has prompted me to write my own musical interlude.
I was reminded of just how lovely it can be in relationships when you get to a stage of mental intimacy that you begin to pick out songs that mean something to you both. Music holds such a sway over all of us that it’s no surprise really that couples end up having songs that come to represent their entire time together, usually chosen around the beginning of the relationship. Some songs are timeless – ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ is one of ours – whereas something more anchored in the time you started dating can hold a special meaning and memories of that night. Jet’s ‘Are You Gonna Be My Girl?’ is another of ours that relates to this point.
In Scarlet magazine they have a regular mini-feature where they interview contributors to discover their ‘Best Fucking Song Ever’. Whether this means the Best song for fucking to or just the best song for them I can’t decide as some choices are peculiar; I like the ambiguity, although it’s more probably the former in regards to the publication it features in.
A recent fucking song for me was ‘Dancing Barefoot’ by Patti Smith. I wrote about it previously, and as it was such an awesome night spent with him and I feel it deserves another mention. This tune is full of beautiful refrains such as ‘She is sublimation/She is the essence of thee’ and also explores the drive that music delivers into our veins: ‘Some strange music draws me in/Makes me come on like some heroin/e’. Check it out if you can. I’m not one to usually have music playing whilst we are making love (I feel it makes it a little fabricated and cinematic to have a soundtrack playing along with us), but this was a new album purchase at the time, and it just felt right for the mood and moment.
‘This Is Love’ by PJ Harvey is another with direct and powerful refrains. ‘I can’t believe life’s so complex/When I just want to sit here and watch you undress’. Simple. To the point. Sums up economically the pissing about in relationships that goes on when really all you need to remember is this. I love poetry, I can harp on about it forever. The guitar in this particularly draws my desire to it. The video is pretty hot too – Sexy white suit thing she wears.
As with anything in coupledom (gosh what a horrid term that is) subjectivity is never distant. What works for one partnership could hold its antithesis for another. There are particular songs that I will switch off immediately for they hold painful memories. I guess that’s it really, when we come to some sort of conclusion. Music links so strongly to the memory – places, people, images, emotions. It’s all encapsulated within a three minute bubble. As with so many things, the Bard holds court over quotations of relevance:
If music be the food of love, play on.
Don’t ever stop hitting the repeat button.
Coochie Coochie Coo! *Bleugh!*
Don’t you agree that sometimes things are taken just a little too far? I do. Limits are breached, and not in a good way. There are certain lines in place for a reason.
I don’t own many toys of the adult variety. I have a couple of different vibrators including a fun remote controlled one for ‘indoor use’ which was ever so much fun when we first tried it. We went on a night out with my friends and Mister would trip the switch making me giggle and jolt unnanounced. Very entertaining for us both.
I digress. Easily. Ahem.
I would probably own more if it were not for two main factors. Firstly, the cost. Some of the most wonderful looking items and best reviewed toys are almost always the most expensive *Sigh*. This leads me to the second factor which is the look of them. Some of them are hideous. I don’t like the ‘real-look’ of certain dildos – It just creeps me out to think there is a dismembered member lying in wait in my drawer. *Shudder* I know that some people do prefer this which is fair enough – the skin-like feel etcetera – but don’t get me started on some of the male sex-aids about – I know that they have a hard time anyway in finding good toys, but if I were a guy, I’m not sure I’d want to have a pair of tits randomly stuck in front of me to wank over/amongst.
Then we have the other extreme in the aesthetic department which really gets my goat. (what another lovely cliché – this time I imagine goat-nappers making me angry. How dare they nick it!)
There is a cutsyfying of sex-aids which I find utterly annoying. I’ve seen butterflies, rabbits, dolphins, caterpillers and worms – There’s even one (I think to be found reviewed in Scarlet) with a cute little smiley face on what is essentially the head of the dildo. ARGH! WHY?! Even the Rampant Rabbit has a smiley face on what is ultimately a clitoral stimulator. What am I meant to make of that? That it’s really chuffed to be there, servicing me? Anthropomorphisis to the extreme, no?
I guess some people like the cute thing. It’s a pandering to the stereotypical feminine urge to be all little girls and pigtails. Innocent ones can’t possibly want to use something called ‘Giant Goliath Monster Cock!’(TM) and so we are given ‘Dolphin Delight’ or whatever. Come on! We’re looking for a means to an end here, not something we would want to mollycoddle a toddler with. Fine, some attempt to make the thing looking nice is ok, but to take things to that level is ridiculous. I would rather not diddle myself with something that resembles a worm, thank you very much. Just too odd. Unless I have maggot fantasies. Which I don’t.
I assume that whoever designs these products must have some skewed ideas. But then, people are buying them. So I am puzzled. Yes, it’s all rather sweet to place a butterfly over your lady garden…pollination metaphors buzzing now…but when it comes down to it, to the nitty gritty, an electric toothbrush would do the same job just as well, surely?
Like I say, a means to an end, but we’re all led by the eyes. So we buy the pretty version. I know I’m prey to it, but at least I don’t go in for the animals.
