Your Favourite Things – Places to Canoodle
Just an excuse to use the word ‘canoodle’, really.
Today I’m looking for you all to share your thoughts once more. I like to be nosy and find out a little about those who drop by my site. The theme for this week’s voyeuristic post is:
Where is your favourite place to get laid?
Whether it be in a nice, cosy bed with fluffy linen or face down in the dirt of your local woods, I’d like to know!
When it comes to me and my preferences, I think the time of day and mood has a lot to play in this. Most of the time sex in my bed is the most wonderful thing ever. It’s warm and familiar and has lots of space to roll around in. The weekend mornings when we both do not have to get up to go to work and we laze around til the afternoon and the canoodling just, you know, happens – that’s always a favourite. I think many people don’t give bed sex enough credit. Sure, it may be unadventurous in terms of location, but believe me, alot of adventurous stuff happens beneath, over and around those sheets. Yet there are the times when one of my most memorable sexual encounters with Mister has been in the front seat of his car parked up by the beach under a full moonlit sky of stars. Not necessarily a favourite, but it defnitely sticks in my head for all the right reasons. So I invite you to share either your favourite place, or your most memorable place which isn’t a bed.
Right then, spill the beans you naughty guys and kinky gals! I’m dying to find out!
Make a Wish…
It was getting late. It was Sunday and she had to be up for work at 7:30 the following morning. They both realised precious time was slipping away and they made motions toward the bedroom. Excitement was in his eyes and she could see it sparked through his body. He knew the routine. Tied, bound and spanked. He just didn’t know how far she would go this time. Whether her will could be broken today after his wrists were released. She had spirit in her, that’s for sure. There was nothing he enjoyed more than a good tussle for control.
But that was a long way off. The here and now was what mattered most. The immediate threat of her actions. Would she favour the tassled whip? Was she to use ice? Her disappointment was tangible when she discovered the keys for the handcuffs were missing. He knew she savoured the thought of him squirming against the cold, hard metal of those rings. Leaving the marks for her to see. She was always proud when her work left evidence behind.
Securing him with the red silken ties, routine, she rustled about in the cupboard for some unknown articles. Within a minute she had found was she sought and slipped out, away from him to the next room. That was out of routine. He expected her to get on with the deed as soon as she was sure he wasn’t going anywhere fast. Hearing her movements through the walls, he was curious to her designs for the night ahead. Patience, he thought, it’s part of her act, putting me off guard like this. Making me wait. How right he was. He knew her well.
Patience surely a virtue, he was rewarded with a sight to melt the iciest, coolest of hearts. Hair flowing down around her shoulders, she stood at the foot of the bed, her arms held out at each post, a pose that showed she meant business. Wearing the pure black silk nightdress that was sorely neglected in her lingerie collection, the white trim around the neckline and hem hinting at a certain Continental nature. Paired underneath with a basque and her favourite stockings with the ribboned tops, she enhanced this theme further when she held the small feather tickler in her left hand, she certainly wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Parisian establishment of disrepute.
Your final request tonight before everything is in my hands… Speaking quietly, he wasn’t sure at first to what she was referring to until her raised eyebrow and eyes pointed towards the blindfold in her right hand. Shaking his head, he refused this option presented to him. The last for a while. Indeterminate.
Walking straight to the prepared bag of goodies at the side of the bed, she took out her instruments. The tassled whip, of course. Oils and massage bars – but would she be using them? He watched her remove each item one by one from the bag, pondering over what she would use to warm him up tonight. Not that he needed much more prep, he was already on fire.
Turning over onto his front at her orders, his beautiful, cream-skinned back was exposed to her merciless glance. She took a moment to gaze at the sight before her. Good boy, she murmured at his prompt obediance. She would reward him later, but now it was time to play.
She grasped the nearest implement, the whip, and showing no sign of giving him an easy time, she raised it high in the air, taking careful aim before bringing it hard and fast down over his smooth buttocks. The sound of impact, his reaction – the physical recoil paired with the illicited moan – that was what she lived for in these moments. She drank it in as she repeated the action once more in the exact same spot, reaffirming her position above him. Following this with a slap with her hand on the other cheek, she was lost over to her role. He saw her eyes glaze over slightly with the obvious kick she was getting as he twisted round to watch her in her element.
The flogging continued, and that was what it indeed was, a flogging. He had never had such harsh treatment from the offing of one of their sessions of this calibre. He braved it all. Over his thighs, his back, shoulders and chest. Even through her cruelty of turning on the bright light to stare at the marks she had made. Without warning, the stark, blinding electric lighting caught him off-guard after the glow of clandlelight.
He of course thanked her, profusely, for his birthday gift, his wish. Granted. She merely smiled and whispered, Good boy…
Stationary is not what it used to be
The other week when I was last in ‘In Charge’ frame of mind I went for a wander after tying him down to the bed.
I went over to the kitchen to retrieve the ice etc. and thought I’d add a ruler into the mix. As I was walking back to the room, to prepare him for what was to come, I thwacked the plastic across my palm just so he could hear what was coming. It wasn’t even a hard thwack and it broke. Split clean through the middle.
I was thoroughly disappointed.
I of course vented my frustration out on his back. With the ice and the wax.
And the tassly whip.
And my hand.
I don’t like it when things don’t go my way.
The Trouble With Long Hair
I need a haircut. My hair is just that little bit too long. The problem is, I have a slight phobia about visiting the hairdresser’s. Past memories of me as a Mini-Pandorah being dragged to the salon by my mother to have my hair hacked back to the obligatory 90s bob that Mother decided I should wear. I looked like Mowgli from The Jungle Book (via Disney). Poor little me, all I ever wanted was long, lustrous locks. But this was Forbidden. Mostly because I would scream when said locks were being brushed into school-style neatness.
But now it is a different story. I have free reign over my tresses! Huzzah! Since I was about eleven, my hair has been long. Well, longer at least. No shorter than just above the shoulders. At the moment it is currently on a level with the bottom of my shoulder blades. I love my hair. It’s so shiny and dark. Not black however, as many are mistaken in thinking. But a deep, rich brunette. People always comment about its good condition, despite the fact it has been blow-dried to within an inch of its life and straightened on and off since I got my wonderful ghd’s at the age of 18. If only they knew the truth!
The natural kink inside me extends into my hair too. Normally a light wave is to be seen. Unless it’s been braided up into work-mode, fastened by the pincers. Give me some spectacles and call me Ma’am and you’d have a good image in your head at what I look like at work. But, like Rapunzel, I like to let down my raven hair when outside of work. I can’t abide to have it imprisoned a moment longer than needs be.
The thing is, now it’s become too long and needs shearing back again. It gets trapped under Mister from time to time. We will be in the heat of the moment and I will suddenly yelp in not-so-good pain after stray stands have been left behind from rolling one way on the bed. Then there’s the question of going down on him. So impractical. I like him to see what I’m am doing o him down there, but my hair falls all over the shop, annoyingly, so I have to use one hand to hold it in a coil to the side. So that hand is not able to fondle. And I do so love to fondle.
My hair is an extremely potent element in the mixture that results in my arousal. He need only lightly brush his fingers against it and I am like jelly in his capable hands. If he were to venture his fingers deeper in, that tingling, warm tickle will run straight to my core and the switch will flick on instantaneously. If those same fingers were to go that one step further and to grip, tug and pull…well…there are no words to describe that feeling apart from purr….. It makes me tremble in anticipation at the mere thought.
I will admit, my hair looks fab when I’m riding him and I catch myself in the mirror I have surreptitiously placed at the opposite end of the room to the bed. All flicky and wild. But then when I bend down over him to kiss his neck, chest, nipples or whatever, it again gets in the way. I have to be careful I don’t catch him in the eye, or choke him with a mouthful.
But then, that’s part of the fun I guess. And there’s always the threat of those fingers grabbing hold.
Then pulling.
Leading to screaming once more. But of a completely different nature. It’s funny how things come full circle, but are subverted on the re-visit.
Intent
Life is a balance. A set of scales, always weighted in the favour of one or the other of two opposing factors. Rich and poor. Hot and cold. Left and right. Equilibrium and chaos. Yin and yang. Men and women (as a general rule. I acknowledge there are in-between statuses in all of these). This balance is delicate. A feather-light touch will upset the status quo. Sometimes for the good – democracy from tyranny. Sometimes for the bad - misogyny from equality.
Sometimes the balance hovers, undecided. Here lie my thoughts currently. In the middle; opposed yet content. This little musing was brought into being after watching The Secretary. On Channel 4 last night was this curious film. Curious in the fact it is a relatively mainstream film, both in sense of popularity and the actors’ pedigree. If you are unaware of its existence, look to it if you care to. It is an exploration into the relationship between a secretary (duh) and her lawyer boss. No, not the usual lark, but a very different approach. The subject is power, control. Dominance and submission. Sadism rendered most harshly upon the receiver. Those glistening eyes of Maggie Gyllenhaal are used to splendid effect as, in one scene, she is shocked by the behaviour of her boss, James Spader as he elevates their relationship up one notch into the humiliation-soaked masturbation onto the back of her shirt. She was expecting merely a spanking. Albeit a rather bruising one she has become attached to.
There are two main elements about this film that keep my interest. For, you may be surprised to hear, I’m not all that fussed about my titillating films. I usually find them dull and prolonged. This movie, however, catches me with the portrayal of how the lawyer comes to terms with his behaviour, the awakening and realisation of the secretary to her predilection for being treated in this way and the dependence of the two of them on one another. They complement eachother, making the other whole and complete.
The character development from the self-harming, shy girl into the determined and content woman peaks for me when she drops her little box of iodine, razors and so forth into the local river. That the lawyer has identified this problem of his more-than-an-employee and takes it upon himself to order her never to do this to herself again because he knows she will obey him implicitly is just so sweet and delicate in its touching emotion and endearment. Of course many will argue to the contrary. That is why films are nicely subjective.
Mister did notice that my eyes were glued to the screen, and may possibly have seen the shift in my breathing at certain, spanky, moments. I noticed too that we were both equally being affected by the images presented to us on screen. In that moment, we were on the balance together, tipping over into the more heated side. Things moved quickly after that. I don’t know what it was, but the two of us had some extremely passionate clinches. The ones where we’re hold eachother tightly with firm, directed strokes over the skin. Those that include biting and scratching. His hand heavy on my bottom. Such a good sound. Such a good feeling. I can’t help myself from being turned on by it. The warmth from the impact flowing through me. Melting me. Heavy breathing and deep, long eye contact to see who will break away first, and therefore lose.
The games we play. We always win, it’s just in another form from the other.
I play upon the balance. At once submissive, and then dominant. Real World Pandorah has a position of authority and responsibility at work. I cannot be seen to crack or falter (for the majority of the time. All the time would make me inhuman). But then there is the Pandorah of Mister’s life. She may have her moments where she calls the shots – in the kitchen for example. But in the bedroom, I have come acknowledge he rules the roost. Oh, I have my moments where we switch and I relish and revel in them. So fun. But for the main stay of things, the everyday, regular sex we have, Mister is in charge. Although, of course, it is Never everyday, regular sex. It is always exceptional. I am always in wonder at him. And myself 
I don’t begrudge the fact he is the dominating partner. To be honest, I need it. Or that is how I see things. I need him to take care of me by directing me, pushing me to my limits and then breaking them anyway. That is where my scales are balanced. All the responsibility and pressure I carry around with me at work is removed and all I need to think about is the immediate, the here and now. Him. Me. The look in his eye when he is pushing me too far, making me twist and turn and wriggle in the sheets. Contorting my body and worrying me whether he’s going to make me do my back in. The unknowingness of it all. The not knowing because I am not planning anything. It is all on his say so.
He balances me out. If I didn’t have him, I think I would fall over into chaos. Then I would certainly break, and not in a good way.
