And now for something completely different.

The stocking.

Kara and her mother are making coffee. Urchin #1, Kara's delightful 10-year old daughter, comes down and nibbles on a cookie from the table where I'm typing.

Urchin #1: "Did you look in your stocking?"

Me: (peering from over he laptop screen) "No, baby... I've seen it, and I think it's great, but I haven't looked inside it yet."

I go back to typing. The room is quiet for a brief moment as Urchin #1 sits on the couch and stares at the stockings.

Urchin #1: "... I think it was Rod's stocking..."

blink

I stop typing. I look up.

Me: "...Why do you say that?"

Urchin #1: "Because your name is on it in marker where Rod's name was and all the other stockings have our names sewed on them."

blink blink

Me: "...Honey, are you telling me that I have the Current Boyfriend And Let's See How It Goes stocking?"

The parlour smells like fresh coffee. She munches on her cookie. The snowy morning sun makes her lovely little face radiant and charming as she, without a flinch or expression, her eyes as bright as jewels, slowly nods her sweet little head.

Living shamelessly: The year in review.

It's been an interesting year. I would have posted this for the fourth anniversary of the blog back in October, updating you on what's been happening with some of the glorious women that you've been reading about, but still being largely puterless, finding time to do some decent writing has been a challenge. But, determined as I am, I'll be in this Toronto internet cafe, surrounded by kids killing one another on World of Warcraft, until I finally put this post to bed. So to speak.

I never really intended to see this blog continue for as long as it has, but it pleases me that since the days when it first appeared on LiveJournal, many of you have become regular readers. Some online friendships with some of you have developed too, and I think that's very cool. I also value your comments, emailed questions, and the assorted hotnesses that some of you share back with me. Most excellent.

I was single again at the outset of the year, although (because of someone's consistent inconsistency) an ambiguity surrounding that kept both my head and spirit in a centrifuge. It was very annoying, but of course the solution was to take a breath and go forward.

Hannah, the control-freak clown, and me didn't really plan to stay in touch after our last date. There wasn't much of a spark then, although I enjoyed her anecdotes about threesomes with other guys, her thigh-harness dildo, and her "roadside assistance skills." We parted on friendly terms after a casual date or two, saw one another on the street on occasion, and then she dropped off the map. Months later, and very recently, Kara and me ran into her during a local cabaret night popular with the clowning, grassroots theatre, and burlesque communities here. It was surreal, but kinda pleasant; I sensed a lot of "date comparison" going on as I shook her (geeky, uncomfortable) date's hand and as she met (radiant, playful) Kara and gave (amused, slightly tipsy) me twinklyeyes. Both ladies having a clowning background, which gave them territory to share stories over. We made kiss-kisses with those vague kind of foo-foo promises to 'meet up together again sometime maybe yeah.' Hannah squirmed as she smiled, and I enjoyed it. Still, I like her, and I could see us being friends, or double-date cabaret buddies. I still smirk when I remember how she kept glancing at my crotch when she was in my car.

I ran into Redhead Carla in a coffee shop recently. We spoke cordially, warmly, but she was utterly stressed out about something at the time and didn't stay very long. She volunteers at a local community shelter and is in a relationship now. I hope it's healthy for her, because she needs the healthy.

Biting Tina pursued me relentlessly through Facebook for a long while after our last date, but her refusal to follow basic boundaries ruined any chances that might have existed. She's still single and spends a lot of time playing FarmVille. Kill me now.

Sexy, articulate Morgan and me remain friends, although we're still not in touch nearly as much as I'd like (though that's probably more because of my damned schedule than hers). She eventually left the man she was unhappy with, the husband who never satisfied her craving for a solid, oldfashioned, over-the-knee spanking, and I understand that she recently began a blog of her own. I would love to have her over my knee again, and if I ever found myself hosting spanking parties with Kara, would definitely put her on a guest list. Meow.

We talked about it once or twice, where she shared that she was happily surprised to have heard from me, but I never managed to reconnect with Stacy. I understand that she dropped out of, or at least took a break from, graduate school for family reasons. I have excellent, hot memories of her exquisite, round ass and how readily she enjoyed being fucked hard and deep there.

Little has changed for the Tomboy. She's still with the unemployed yoga instructor, and we're still friends who see one another every rare once in a while. We've talked about getting together more often, as friends, and last summer I helped her out with a landscaping project. Between shovel-loads of soil as we sweated under a hot sun, she shared with me that I had been a staple in her fantasy life for a very long time after our relationship ended.

How can you not smile when a ex-girlfriend tells you, to your face, that she jills off to memories of you?

Delightfully geeky, always lighthearted, cock-loving Molly has been in a long-term, poly, lesbian relationship with a brunette BBW partner while also dating (read: fucking) at least one dude. We haven't seen each other in forever, but I know she's happily active with the local polyamory clique. Her life seems to be going just the way she wants it, which is terrific.

Bubbly Lee and me remain friends, although we've never talked about the one little suck 'n fuck we shared as I was driving her home one night. Perhaps she got what she came for. Perhaps she didn't. It hasn't become a topic, and I'm at peace with this. The same might be said for statuesque Lauren after our tender kiss, but we were always part of slightly different social circles anyway.

"Check out my new piercing" Tari became a flight attendant. We continue to flirt casually over Facebook, and I definitely regard her as Good People. Years ago though it was, I have fond memories of her pert, small ass (deliciously similar to Kara's) from summer skinnydipping in New England and spanking parties in Maryland. Yum.

Dean is enjoying a new relationship, and apparently has been exploring more of the regional BDSM scene, making new friends, and having a grand time. This is excellent, and I'm so pleased that she's doing well.

Jez expressed interest, over textmessage, in getting together again, had invited me to Top her, and even suggested a threesome between us and her girlfriend. A dream cum true, right? You may wince in pain now when I tell you that I didn't go... and the reason was because I couldn't afford to. Not that I'm completely sure I might have. Jez, you see, had turned pro.

Despite trying and trying again, Diva simply cannot find the kind of guy she's looking for. Her landscaping business tanked because of the recession, and she's about to embark on a new career as a corrections officer.

Heidi developed breast cancer. I suspect that this severely curtailed her new career as a boxer (which, frankly, I always thought was incredibly sexy for her to be doing), but I really don't know. Now, Heidi previously had thyroid cancer, which she always surmised had to do with her retaining "a lot of unspoken anger." At the risk of sounding smarmy, and given her sexual predilection for knowingly betraying the trust of her lovers, I have to ask myself how she metaphysically rationalizes this terrible ailment for having emerged in her tits.

Yes, yes, I know: it's a reprehensible thing to even think about. But, you know, if you knew Heidi... just sayin.

Almost two years after we stopped being fuckbuddies, I ran into the Panther recently outside a market. She had completely dropped off the face of the earth, but thanks to Facebook, I knew she was engaged to a young mutual friend, the cradle-robbing MILF that she is. smirk Her boytoy is a longhaired, low-key Johnny Depp type who once amazed me with his skill at producing hashish resin with coffee grinders, and he's a fine, fun guy.

She explained that her dropping-off-the-face-of-the-earth wasn't personal, and was part of a Bigger Picture she was taking to make changes in her life. I wasn't offended, but appreciated the explanation; she looked happy, which is really everything one can hope for for a friend, no?

I haven't the faintest idea of what's happening with the Grrl, and neither do most of my friends. She's been living in a magnificent house in Pennsylvania with mutual friends, but that family is selling the place, and I don't know what her plans are. She has never written or called me to ask about her cats. Recently, I thought I saw her in Toronto, and it shocked me at how strongly I emotionally, inwardly responded when I thought I had. I suspect she's continuing to do what she does best: be artistic with what elements are around her, do Reiki, be on the road, chastise herself, suffer her fybromyalgia, and continually seek out peacefulness where and how she can. I miss her.

Bootblack Boi and me have yet to reconnect, and the momentum may sadly need to be restarted if we ever would. It's always possible that we'd run into each other during a fetnight.

Chantel got fired.

Stefany and me phoned one another casually for a short while. Once, she asked me for money. Once, I asked her if she'd be interested in a friendly fuck. Neither of us hooked up with the other for either reason. I think about her on occasion, hope she's improved her world, and sometimes enjoy the memory of her excellent blowjob skills.

Since recently moving to a new pad, the Women Upstairs are history now. During a patio barbecue last summer, the straighter of the two women was lamenting the loss of her boytoy, the very one I would enjoy listening to pounding the daylights out of her. Seems Boytoy simply couldn't handle how sexually interested Straight Woman Upstairs was for him, so he called her a "slut" and left her. Yeah, I know. Go figure. So as I flipped bison burgers over the flame, it took Lesbian Woman Upstairs, Lesbian Woman Upstairs' Partner, Kara, and me to offer condolences and assure her that having a hot sense of sexuality wasn't a bad thing. And Lesbian Woman Upstairs apparently became an aunt recently.

Not long before Kara and me connected, there was the Schoolteacher. We've not kept in touch, but that's just our lives being in different circles.



In the end, Shayne got exactly what she wanted: to be rescued.

"Thank you. Thank you for finding me. Thank you for helping me. Thank you for being patient with all of my faults," she wrote to me last holiday season. "Thank you for showing me what romantic love can be and helping me to open up to more of the gifts this world offers. Thank you for supporting me so thoroughly... for your generosity which moves me to depths I didn't know I had. You fill me up in ways I never expected. You are the most amazing gift I have been given in a long, long time. From you I learn about how to keep gentle and open in the face of trials. You amaze me, even from afar."

By the summer, she had completely (and inexplicably) cut herself away from me. There was no discussion. There was no preamble. There was no closure.

There is a lot that I could write concerning Shayne, and no matter how much meditation I put into it, I'm never completely satisfied. And why be ungenerous?

I want to be able to write that we remain close friends, that she occasionally still calls me for counsel or for the phonesex that she would boast to her friends about getting from me. I want to be able to say that while we're with new partners, we still share a resonant bond. I was supposed to be able to say this.

I know that she loves me, that she worries about what I'm going to think about her, because she's told me so. But she's moved on to another man, an ex-sailor with a Neanderthal sense of gender politics and a penchant for frequenting sex workers, and seems deeply happy to be with him. She's uprooted herself from Chicago to start a new life with him in Seattle.

Now, this is fine. Really. I genuinely, honestly want her to be happy.

Shayne believes that I'm not at peace with the ending of our affair. She's mistaken. (God knows I had enough practice.) What I haven't been at peace with is the loss of our bond, our friendship. But then, Shayne has always been a little selfish, self-admittedly fickle, and quick to run away from any real observation of consequence.

Don't get me wrong: I love her. But, for her sake, I do hope she learns, grows, becomes wiser. When she's not running, she has a lot of potential.

I miss you, you fucking pain in the ass, though probably not for the reasons that you likely imagine.



And I am with Kara, and things between us are superbly good. As I finally close this post, head to the market, and make a family traditional cake for yet another holiday celebration, I breathe deeply with a heart full of memory and pleasure. It's been a challenging, surreal year, but also a year full of newness, passion, play, and laughing until the tears streak the cheeks.

I adore each and every one of these women, though in varying ways, and remain ever grateful for Aphrodite's gifts.

Season's beatings from Rogue.

Love you, baby.

She fantasizes about being taken and ravished. She has the most edible nape. She has a delectable little mouth.

She enjoys being a fucktoy, her hair pulled as she's feeling my girth spread her open.

She loves being spanked, and she makes the most satisfying little gasps when she's submitting to one. No smart-assed lip from this one, baby.

She climaxes quickly, and easily, when I'm holding her against me and curling my fingers down and between her thighs, gently but rapidly circling my moist fingers around her gorgeous little button.

And she's the most together, intelligent, genuine, straightforward partner I've known in years. She's achieved her goals. She's socially conscious, spiritual, and has the courage to See and then really, actually Work Through whatever has deterred her in her past.

And she has the cutest little bubble butt.

As you read this, Kara and I are enjoying a casual dinner where we went on our first date, and she'll be opening a little gift to celebrate our first six months together. For me, this transition from summer to winter has been full of adventure, courage, adaptation, and opening. Kara's been an ideal companion throughout it all, and I'm privileged to be the man she leans her naked form close to at night for warmth and laughter.

Yum...

In the rough.

What alarms me the most about the current Tiger Woods drama has much less to do with his extracurricular affairs than it has to do with the way the matter is being handled by the media. Granted, Woods marketed himself, his "brand," with a squeaky-clean (read: monogamous) posture, but I suspect that this only set himself up for a larger, heavier fall once his humanity became evident.

On the face of it, Woods achieved what probably would be a dream for men (hell, anyone) all over the world: success, popularity, financial independence, the capacity to do what he largely wished and how he wished to do it. True liberty. Should we really be so surprised to learn that he employed staffpersons to assist him in coordinating his social (read: sexual) schedule? Who wouldn't, given the capacity, enjoy such decadence?

Some will argue that he betrayed his spouse. Certainly, if there wasn't prior mutual understanding concerning the sexual dynamics of the marriage, he did. But would any betrayal rest on the grounds that he was extracurricularly sexual, or because he was dishonest, if in fact he was?

In my view, the entire situation just further demonstrates how monogamy is fundamentally flawed, especially when it isn't coupled with clear-headed, intimate discussion about a partner's needs and desires. I'll argue that this ultimately conflicts with our genetic code, ultimately leads to sexual unhappiness. But because so many of us are socially conditioned to believe and accept that one-partner-forever is the One True Way to live out one's life, we reject other paradigms as "illegitimate," "subversive," "wrong," or simply unworkable.

And here is where the media finds its foothold in making this front-page news. Because we're supposed to be goosestepping to the dominant, monogamous paradigm, it becomes newsworthy when one of the fold steps out of line. Letterman avoided it because he shared his humanity immediately, and took the punch out of the story. In the past, so has Madonna and Mae West.

In perpetuating the story, the media further entrenches this failed idea by illustrating that those who are ("found" to be) not entirely monogamous are worthy of public inspection and ridicule. Would Woods have felt compelled to take an indefinite leave from his profession had his marital problems been left alone as a private, family matter?

An honest openness about one's sexuality is far more defensible, in the face of self-appointed Thought Police, than all the pleadings and post-coital confessions of the disgraced. It saves relationships because it is clear, and any relationship lacking in clarity cannot hope to last.

That being said... dude's got a thing for blondes, huh?

Beep. Slrp. Zzz.

I'm at work when my cellphone makes its familiar crow's cawing sound. I'm receiving a textmessage again.

Kara: Thinking of sliding my tongue along the underside of your cock... Sucking your balls into my mouth ... :p

Oh, yum. Kara's become quite the fellatrix over these last few months, and I'm enjoying it immensely. It's been clear that past lovers haven't been nurturing to her, and I think she's been enjoying the space (and pace) where we've been taking things. Me, I'm throughly enjoying watching her explore previously unshared depths to her sexuality... part of my love for corrupting innocence, most likely.

There's something spectacular about gradually watching, experiencing, a woman discover that she really does like sucking cock 'after all'...

Kara: I'm kneeling in front of you ... I haven't decided yet if I'm playing with myself or not ...

Me: Mmm. Tell me more...

Kara: I can't help but moan as I slurp your entire length into my mouth ...

Kara: Would you like to cum in my mouth or fuck me from behind?

But on this day I was in a lecherously playful, teasingly annoying kind of mood.

Me: I'm so pleased that you're well aware of your place. Neither. You'll serve Me, suck My cock until I'm ready to burst on your pretty face.

Kara: Explode on my face then you shall ... If that is what you desire today ... I'm happy to have you decorate my face with your exotic make-up ...

"Exotic make-up?" I had to smirk. Isn't she cute?

Kara: lick ... :p

Me: ;)

A long amount of time passed by. I started to ask myself if my playfulness may have somehow burst a fantasy she was enjoying. I texted again.

Me: :) You're fun. Miss ya. You ok?

Kara: I fell asleep ... Oops ...

I had to laugh again.

Me: ... You had sex with me and then you fell asleep? You sure you're not a dude?? ;)

And now for something completely different.

68.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The skin, the skein, and the stillpoint.

I'm standing on the deck of my new pad, a dirty martini in my hand as I look over the treetops to the southwest and enjoy the scramblings of the black squirrels amid the gradually baring branches. A gibbous moon is faintly visible in the late dusk, and I can smell a neighbour's fireplace through the faint autumn breeze. The calicos mewl around my legs. The kingsnake tightens her coiling grip around my forearm, her tail slowly fluttering at my wrist as she nuzzles her head under my shirt, under my arm, up my shoulderblade, and around to my warm neck.

Both of us have recently shed.

My schedule is normally very intense, and meditative moments such as this don't always come as often as I'd enjoy. Tasting olive brine and Italian vermouth, it occurs to me how much I'm letting go of, channeling through, reincarnating with. Moving my previous pad has been a struggle, as if shadowy, wraith-like hands did their very best to keep me rooted and captived and burdened. I am convinced, as was the Grrl before me, that Something Amiss had happened in the place. Perhaps the scrawled words STOP StOP stop on some of the exposed brickface was our first clue?

Not long after the move, my beloved iMac finally gave out, and I'm still largely without reliable online access. Certainly, it's affected the momentum for this blog, but it's also true that the resulting stillness has allowed me to go even deeper into my sense of renewal. Without cyberspace, I'm finding more time to enjoy the subtleties, like my martini in the slowly enshrouding autumn darkness as I ponder where, and with whom, I've been and where, and with whom, I intend to go.

It's what the Grrl would have called my stillpoint.

My new bed is one of my futons, and I'm enjoying being closer to the floor on its polished, light wooden frame. Kara was on her taut belly, but her hands were pressed to the floor and she gasped aloud, crying out as I held her deliciously small faerie ass while I fucked her from behind, her voice carrying through the hardwood floor. We broke the new place in.

And, it would seem, inspired my neighbours in the space directly below. A pair of delightfully jovial, zoftig, earthycrunchy, lesbian earth mothers, I could hear their cries of ecstatic bliss not long after Kara and I were gasping and quetly laughing with limbs akimbo.

Things are so good. I'm not used to this much good. I'm still shedding skins, still enjoying the Fates' gifts, and still in elements of stillness, but I also know that all is part of a growing kundalini coil.

The snake burrows further under my shirt, and she's coiling too, wrapping her body around my chest and abs, seeking warmth away from the evening breeze. An olive dances along my tongue as I raise the glass to my lips, looking at the moon and the constellations above and around me. I give thanks to the luminous moon. I face directions and offer blessings to those whom I love, present and not. I pat the serpent under my shirt affectionately and go back inside.

Sunday comics.

And now for something completely different.

Happy Halloween.

How many secret nooks in copse or glen
We sained forever with our wild embraces,
No man shall know; though indeed master poets
Reckon one such for every eve of the year,
To sain their calendar.

But this much is true:
That children stumbling on our lairs by chance
In quest of hazelnuts or whortleberries
Will recognize the impress of twin bodies
On the blue-green turf, starred with diversity
Of alien flowers, and shout astonishment.

Yet should some amorous country pair, presuming
To bask in joy on any bed of ours,
Offend against the love by us exampled,
Long ivy roots will writhe up from beneath
And bitterly fetter ankle, wrist, and throat.


- Robert Graves

Sunday comics.

Attachment and revolution.

It's been a long time coming.

I've been in my current pad for six years. When I think about how deeply, how resonantly, my world has changed over and over again in that time, I'm left somewhat awestruck. It's a large ("palatial" by New Yorker standards) 2bedroom-plus-den "lower-level" in the heart of the Toronto arts district, somewhere within walking distance of some the best clubs, pattiseries, galleries, and parks in the city. I came here after living with some pretentious, weed-dealing goths following the breakup of my marriage, and by and large, it's been a place where I've embraced (and been embraced by) a lot of transformation. But it's had its problems, and when the opportunity to trade it in for a bright, cheerful 1bedroom on the doorstep of Toronto's equivalent to Central Park presented itself to me, I couldn't resist.

I believe that enacting personal change is a step toward creative revolution. I believe that when we consciously shatter those things which hinder us, prevent us from achieving that which we would otherwise celebrate, keep us from strengthening our greatest potentials and making dreams come true, we connect with the personal heroes in the mythology of our own lives. Like Sigurd, we slay dragons, and in the eating of its heart we finally understand the speaking of the birds. We break free, and finally recognize how to hear the words of freedom in the process.

I have an awful lot to let go of. In making this move, I find that I'm doing more than simply changing an address. As I winnow through six years' worth of goods, property, and echoes from the past, I've been facing ghosts on a daily basis for the last few weeks. It's healthy, but it's also fucking with my unconscious sense of attachment.

The Buddhists believe that attachment is the root of all suffering. Understanding that has helped me persevere through many undesired changes, and now that I'm at the threshold of a desired change, it's helping me break open some vestiges that have lingered on. Perhaps it's my earth-sign nature, but I have this tendency to retain.

The fact that I write a blog about past and current lovers probably demonstrates that, huh?



I'm finding old love letters. I'm finding the kissing stone I shared with Diva when we first met. I'm finding the little notes that The Grrl would leave for me, telling me how she loved the way I fucked her and how she was dying to reveal her bare ass to me again. I'm finding the pair of Shayne's panties that she slipped off from under her tartan skirt on the afternoon I introduced her to submissive protocol. I'm finding memories.

As I pack boxes and whisper to my cats about the changes that are coming our way, I pause in the hall and remember. There's the spot there where The Grrl, she who moved me in so many ways, gave me head when I got home from work, and the place where she did it after we got high together, and the place where I last kissed her before she said goodbye forever. I would later kiss other lovers there just to prove to myself that I could do it.

There's the spot where I spiralled my lubed index fingers deeply inside Morgan's tight anus, corkscrewing them after I had given her a thorough spanking on her lovely ass for her birthday. That's where Dean squirted on the walls as I violently jilled her, and there's where Molly did the same on the freshly-mopped kitchen floor.

I'm typing this entry on the futon of my parlour, one of cats sleeping and purring contentedly at my thigh. It was here where Steph blew my mind with her cocksucking skills and amazed me with the copious possibilities of her ejaculations when she gushed over my jaw in spigot-quality volumes. At this spot, Shayne rested her head as she knelt on the floor before me, her ass high in the air, as I fucked her hard two Decembers ago amid the strewn needles of the decorated tree. Stacy felt (and loved) a man in her ass for the very first time in this room. It was in here where Kara first experienced a hint of my Top self, standing on a chair as I paddled her gorgeous little behind as the room thundered with the strains of Conjure One. The woman whom I dated once and, looking upon the gothic stone sculpture on the wall with horror in her eyes, asked me incredulously if I'd ever had sex in here.

"Uh, yeah."



Sometimes I find myself measuring the scope of my life in terms of my relationships. Perhaps I do this because being with women teaches me so much about myself, about my interactions with the world around me. Each changing relationship (and they are all a source for change), teaches me something new and gives me markers for the directions in life where I'm choosing to go, to develop, to both conquer and be embraced by. It isn't just the memories of the sex and with whom it happened, as if I was counting coup or making hash marks on the bedpost. It's about looking back upon myself, who I was, what I did, where I triumphed, where I fucked up, where someone else fucked up with me, and with whose kiss I can value remembering the moments. In this way, the lovers I've known have been my psychopomps as I've traversed through the various levels of my own personal underworlds. For some of them, I`ve likely been the same in return.

From Jan, the blonde journalism student who lived with me briefly when I first moved to this place and enjoyed her jock boyfriend in the adjoining bedroom with her quiet little squeals, to Kara, with whom I feel so much possibility as she bravely ventures into sexual vistas of herself as she gets to know more and more of me, this Place has known many cries of ecstacy in the dark.

But it's with the Grrl that I'll most associate this pad that I'm moving from. We lived here together when she came up from the States, and to which she moved back after our final night shared in this very room where I type right now. While there's been plenty of closure since we ended, I also know that moving from here is like another lock on that closed door. That`s ok, despite how I sometimes do still miss her presence, as she`s good people. But when I finally cross the threshold of this pad for the final time, I`ll have walked away from many echoes and resonances.

And with Kara in my world, as I progress toward a much more upscale and psychologically healthier space, I`ll be consciously reincarnating and nurturing more of a life that I deeply seek.

I expect to move my futon into the new pad today. There`s good chance Kara and I will share it, our footsteps making their own echoes on the hardwood of the almost entirely empty rooms, tonight. I wonder how her cries will sound against the walls as I take her from behind, her pert and beautiful ass smacking loudly against my pelvis as I tug her from her hips.

There's beauty, and revolution, in moving forward. So many of us keep ourselves from our happiness because of fear and doubt and worry. To consciously break from that removes us from the pessimistic paradigms that our drama-laden culture would have us perpetually participate in. When we choose to perceive our actions as personal rites of passage, challenge the dragons that threaten us, we open ourselves up to the song of birds, in and out of the egg. We win.

Coitus interruptus.

Kara was absolutely sensual, fun to play with, and immensely courageous as she experienced her very fist semipublic bdsm playparty recently, and I'll be sharing details about it all in short order. I regret that I haven't posted much lately; it's been a little busy around here between workand life and moving to a new pad.

But it's also true that my trusty ol' iMac, itself an echo from my days with The Grrl, finally pooched on me. I expect to replace it with a nifty laptop this month, but until then, postings from me may be a little sporadic for a bit.

And it's driving me crazy too. There's so much worth writing about these days: the ridiculous post-Puritanical judgement that David Letterman is being subjected to for simply being an open, upfront, sex-positive male; the so-called "uproar" that Lizzie Miller has supposedly caused by baring her non-anorexic body (not to mention the utter balls that the Globe and Mail newspaper has to call her "plus-sized" when she isn't); Shane being, well, you know, Shayne; and, for when we're both in the mood for something more directly stimulating (and better), the way Kara's saucy li'l mouth awakens me in the early morning when she leans close to expertly suck my cock at 5am.

Mmm. And she's really quite good at it, you know.

Sunday comics.

And now for something completely different.

Sunday comics.

Ritual.

My parlour is misty with frankincense, the walls thrumming with brilliance, my black suit jacket waiting on the bed for me to select what else I will include in the evening's headmaster ensemble. A 2008 Duboeuf beaujolais swirls in the glass I hold to my lips. My cats swirl also, although they are around my ankles.

Soon, I would be selecting an arrangement of tools, toys, and other items of titillating torment. I intend to have fun tonight. My choices will go into a charming little backpack, that being so suitable for the evening's theme and my pet's attire.

It's fitting that the wine is young. Soon, my pet would appear likewise after she arrives here, makes herself up, and dons her new schoolgirl uniform for its intended use.

Before she met me, apart from a less-than-ideal experience with another, bdsm play was little more than a fantasy for her.

Kara attends her first playparty tonight.

"Hey love," she emails me earlier today, "I have just finished spending about a half an hour carefully ironing my skirt, shirt and ties for tonight. It felt ritualistic, this preparing for my Man, preparing for an initiation into a new world.

"I am very nervous, very excited, very turned on! I am thinking out the day ahead: I'm treating myself to a spa day, getting my hair cut, shopping for new make-up since it has been forever since I've had a reason to do a "full-face." I will wax my legs ... and groom other more intimate places ... a day of pampering and ritual."

My pet has a lovely tuft of black fur upon her saucy mound. Within it, her beautiful clitoris stands like a proud pillar to Isis when erect, and her cushions swell like wild fruit around her. She's always well groomed, her dark tuft always a perfect triangle under her navel. In a word, Kara's treasures are breathtaking. For me, she has the perfect cunt.

I wonder: will I slither my fingers between her soaking folds between spanks as her bare little ass is spread across a horse tonight? Will I stroke her to cum before a crowd of fellow kinksters, my ribald friends and comrades at arms? Will the scent of her possessed quim add to the enjoyment of my drink as I raise it to my lips as easily as I raise this wine I enjoy whilst I enter this post to you?

We shall see.

Maybe tonight will be too much for her.

We shall see.

"It has been YEARS since I have been to a party that was not a family-event. This evening is different: it has a theme, it has stations, it has YOU, your sinful body and your wicked mind. I think I will have fun ;) "

You will, pet. We will.

Oh yes.

Eager to enroll.

Delightful.

At the risk of sounding like Humbert Humbert, I smirked to myself when, recently, the afternoon downtown rush hour found me in a sea of bobbysoxed, tartaned young ladies freshly released from various local parochial schools. It wasn't their age bracket that spied my wandering eye (I enjoy my wine with a few notable years within it as well, thank you), but the fantasy thereof and its relationship to innocence, submission, and proper training protocol.

That is to say, the uniforms, and in observing the sway of wool over tight, cotton socks and with classy, crisp white shirts, my thoughts drifted to Kara's recent and tawdry efforts to please her man. This is what made me smirk.

She'd done some shopping, you see. She's realizing how much fun is possible with Us. She likes it.

With her previous background in theatre, she tells me how sh's thoroughly enjoying fashioning "her new costume." I had intended to buy this for her, and as she cutely apologizes for "taking the wind out of (my) sails," it's clear to see that the little waif is having her fun. Now how could I deny her?

Standing with a sly smile and giggling eyes, she modelled the plaid skirt, the smart little steel clasp pin, and a tight white top. At my instruction, she bent over her stairwell to reveal the lace-trimmed white panties she wore underneath that so delicately framed her amazing little ass.

The same amazing little ass that I made certain to spank a blushing red later that evening. And the same amazing little ass that I intend to bare and punish during an upcoming playparty as she experiences her newfound wardrobe. A few days later, she modelled a pair of Mary Jane shoes that so aptly worked for the ensemble.


Her innocence melts before me. Truly delightful. I am having so much fun corrupting her.

A demanding pet.

Date: 15 September 2009 06:11
Subject: Re: gmorning, sexy
From: Kara
To: Rogue


Something I had never thought of before: that once a moment of ours is blogged about, not only can I see your "spin" on it, but I can re-live it over and over. There are so many more things I want to share.

You know, I have to admit when we first met, when I was toodling around online, dom/sub posts definitely caught my eye. I was beginning to wonder what kind of head-space I would have to be in to TAKE that kind of a suggestion seriously, and, not finding an answer to my musings, I let the idea go as just an internal fantasy ... not to be acted upon.

But what excites me with you, and binds me TO you, is and will always be the "headspace". You wooed me in my greatest erogenous zone: my head... and continue to do so, with safety and love and excitement and expectation ... and it has ALL caught my interest and imagination and, uh, well, my libido.

At the risk of sounding like a demanding pet, winding myself around your legs, trying to trip you with my enthusiasm ... I am looking forward to playing more.

Teneramente.

She has secrets deep within her. There are shadows, smooth as rich chocolate, sultry as black silk, wicked as a deerskin whip, that slowly swirl within her breast and in the unawakened fissures of her not-so-dormant imagination. These are places she rarely had opportunity to go, rarely had opportunity to delve within unto herself, and almost never had been able to breathe life into with another whom she cares for and is cared by.

This is fragile like a blackbird on the wing. Fragile like the flicker of a freshly lit candle. Fragile like trust caressed with fear and excitment. Discovery. Epiphany. Fecund, feral illumination.

And for the satyr, the psychopomp possessing the privilege to escort a tender faerie such as this into a delicious underworld of unseelie sensation... blissfulness attained. Responsibility. Mentorship. Possession. The making and the shaping of the mythic dimensions to another's sexual self in such a way and manner that can never be forgotten, regardless of whatever else may come. The power possessed is given freely only after the earning of trust and love, and must be wielded with the best interests of the pet in mind for these reasons.


She was kissing me. Her tongue swirled across my lips and into my mouth in the way that is so unique to her, so wanton in its feel. Her tiny waist thrilled my caressing hands as I pulled her closer, tighter against me, my palm at the small of her back. She groaned into my mouth and her lips crushed against mine even firmer than before, snaking an arm around my back. She tasted like wine. She was warm. She nudged a leg between my own, her thigh pressing against my own as I raised my arms to hold her lovely head in both hands.

I tugged her closer still, my fingers gripping gently at the small hairs at the nape of her neck as I returned the kiss. I lifted the shirt over her head, revealing her small breasts for my view and touch. She began undoing my belt as I pulled my own shirt off as well. Pants followed between kisses until we stood in the darkened parlour, aglow with candles and resonant with trance music, during this sensual evening not long after we had just begun to date.

My sense of kink intimidated her. My sexual openness was new for her. The kind of communication I had become accustomed to, and insist on in my relationships, was still something sought for and yet to be found for her. Yet here she was, and yet, things were beginning between us. I liked it, and I saw potential. I think she did too.

And so when our kiss was broken for a moment, I knew I was taxing on the sense of trust I had begun to build when I winked, pecked her on the cheek, and departed briefly to my bedroom as I asked her to "hold that thought."

From my toy chest, I returned to the parlour with my leather ankle restraints and few other naughty items. This evening, I had decided, would be about sensations.

"Do you trust me?" I had pulled a chair from another room and set it in the centre of the parlour. Nude, lithe and beautiful in the golden glow of the room, she took my hand to help her stand upright upon it.

"Yes."

I smiled and kissed her taut abdomen that beckoned before me while slipping the thick, heavy leather restraints around each of her ankles. A metal clamp clikked into place as I secured them together. Looking up and into her slowly widening green eyes, I tugged and yanked on the clamp like a magician demonstrating the effectiveness of his equipment. She kept her balance and I kept my smile.

"Your hands to the ceiling. Do it."

She hesitated, and I punished her with a look. Later, she would tell me that that was when she felt a pang of fear and came close to aborting our little game. But she persevered through it and, much to her surprise, was glad she did.

As am I. I may have never sought to play with her in this way again. For us both, it was a test. We passed.

Fingernails grazed along her ribcage as I walked to stand behind her, taking in the delectable sight of her pert little derriere. A pet should have an excellent derriere, not only capable but prone to enjoying whatever torment I can muster, and her ass is delightful. I caressed a peachy cheek with my palm, squeezing her as she began a faint shudder. I cranked the music up. I sipped some more wine. I smacked her oh-so-available ass that was delightfully presented to my eye-level with a smirk of appreciation. And then I smacked it again. And again, enjoying the slightest movement under my fingers that bespoke of her firmness. I parted her shamelessly, exploring and inspecting her nethermost treasures in a way that surely left her feeling utterly exposed.

I slithered moistened fingers past her thighs and sawed them gently through the swelling folds of her darkening, lovely cunt. She was hot. She was soaked. She gasped aloud.

Holding her hip with one hand, I began a series of spanks with the other until her cheeks just began a shade of pink. I caressed her thighs with rabbit fur. I reached around her to run my nails along her tummy, up to her faerie tits, pinching her nipples. I jilled her lengthening, engorged clit betwen my fingers as she struggled to keep her hands to the cieling above her.

Inspired, and with a sense of indulgent come-uppance, I reached for my most recently-acquired slapper, a token from ribald days and nights in Chicago. I enjoyed an irony. With a self-indulgent smirk I returned the mental gesture that the loss of one becomes the gain of another. It was a subtle, personal return on a theme, fully warranted and enjoyed from the lesser deamons of my nature. And it left lovely, loud red swats on my fabulous, healthy, joyful new lover's exquisite ass.

Both this spirit and the spirit of escorting her through these newer sensations then had me at my kitchen freezer where I reached not for ice, but for clusters of frozen strawberries that had been waiting for attention since last autumn. With fistfulls of the hard, gooey fruits, I laughed aloud as I caressed her legs, abdomen, tits, and face with pink pectin.

By the time I was done, she had been through multiple experiences as she wobbled on happily unsteady feet. It was time to let her cum. Reaching again between her thighs, my fingers returned to exploring her, and at the risk of entirely compromising my Topspace, I indulged in giving her my tongue. She began to quake and suffer, now uncomfortable standing on the chair as orgasm eluded her.

I showed mercy. Wrapping an arm around her waist, I hoisted her up and tossed her into the parlour futon in one rush. She screamed aloud as I roughly parted her thighs and sunk my cock deeply into her drenched, quivering, strawberried pussy, her ankles high and around my neck as I fucked her fast, hard, and deep. I held her legs up by gripping the clamp betwen the restraints, the steel clacking loudly with each demanding thrust of my cock. Her knees framed her face as she gasped aloud. Her nails raked down my back as she came.

I removed the ankle restraints. I carried her to my bed. I threw her down. I raised her lovely, reddened ass into the air to fuck her from behind before we coiled together and drifted into sleep, fruit still on our tongues.

Kara was introduced to kink, and was intimidated no more. She's begun exploring her secrets.

Playing with experienced partners is always a pleasure, but I cannot think of a more rewarding privilege than to succesfully introduce someone to heretofore unexplored nuances of their sexual selves. It transcends the tenure of relationships, and makes priesthood to Aphrodite's temple out of those who have the opportunity to know its joys and responsibilities.

Love you, Kara. Dacquiri?