30 April 2009

Silver/copper anklet HNT

The next several HNTs will be Mouse's awesome jewelry. I highly recommend taking a closer look at this piece, which is silver and copper, and looks just decadent. Of course, it's bracelet-sized for most people... I'm just tiny :)

29 April 2009


He is standing in the middle of the room, naked and shivering a little. His face is a study in agony as I hold out the bright pink lace panties.
"Put them on," I tell him. 
He shivers, fidgets, groans a little, and gives me pleading eyes. 
I tap my foot. He's already wasted an hour of my time by being late, and I'm not impressed by the current dilly-dallying. 

Well... my mind isn't, but my cunt is wet, dripping down my thighs beneath my skirt, in fact. 
He finally drags them over his hips, starkly neon pink against his pale, pale skin.

Next, the black lace garter belt, and another long session of pleading with his eyes, his little whimpers of humiliation.
Finally, I hand him the black thigh-highs, and he bites his lip, face crimson in an agony of embarassment as he shifts his weight back and forth, .

My eyes are cold. "Stop fidgeting, and just be glad I was nice enough to leave the camera in the other room."

His head jerks up, eyes wide. "Yes, Miss," he whispers. 


Said better than I could have myself:

27 April 2009

New layout

I finally sat down and created a custom header... took me long enough, didn't it?

What do you think of the new layout and colors- opinions, please! 

23 April 2009

New jewelry HNT

This is the beautiful new set of jewelry that Mouse made for me, to match my purple and gold corset. 

As always, her jewelry is available here 

22 April 2009

Tea Date

He is sitting across from me in the dimly lit restaurant, its Persian rugs only barely softening the wooden seats. I like watching him shift his weight in discomfort.

The copper earrings my sister made for me are heavy in my ears, and I welcome the slight discomfort because it keeps me grounded, keeps me from sliding into the fear into his eyes. 
Those eyes are darting all over, looking voer my shoulder, down at the table... anywhere but at my face as he describes the things he loves to hate, hates to love... as he describes the way that they send him slipping under. He glances, quickly, fearfully, at my face every few minutes, as though gauging my response. 

It takes him longer to look back at my face each time: it is clear in my eyes, in my smile, the pleasure that I take in his discomfort, his humiliation at discussing these things in a public restaurant in the middle of a major city. 
Occasionally I prompt him, make him elaborate on some point that makes him squirm and look determinedly over my shoulder as he answers, face pinkening with humiliation. 

And it makes me smile.

21 April 2009

I had a tea date with a potential new boy tonight. It went well, and I'm hopeful (with a few reservations). He has yet to meet Jack, but hopefully there will be some sexy new stories coming soon! 

17 April 2009

No HNT yesterday

I spent all day on the road, driving more than 300 miles, all told and spending the day taking care of my adopted mom. 

I promise I'll post two next Thursday and try to get something sexy written over the weekend ;-)

15 April 2009

His hair

His hair is a silken curtain around us. I've never had another man with such long hair, or even a woman. It cascades, soft and sweetly scented, around our faces, tiny strands tickling my cheeks and making me smile involuntarily. 

His face is relaxed, smiling, and I realize how much that I want to kiss him. 
His lips will still taste like stale tobacco, completely unacceptable on anyone else but simply the price of kissing him. 

As he leans in to me, seeming to read my thoughts, I take the iniative and brush his lips with mine, gently. 
There is so much pain between us, so much hurt and anger. For 7 years I have nursed my rage and my pain, but right now he is offering me a gift that he is one of the only ones who can: a few blessed moments of safety, of the assurance of being wanted and loved. 

Tomorrow I'll go back to hating him as much as I love him. 
Tomorrow I'll remember why I shouldn't do this. 

But tonight... tonight I will breathe in the softly scented silk of his hair, and I will let myself feel safe, and wanted.

13 April 2009

War stories

Her hands are tender now, on his olive skin. She can feel the pain just beneath the surface, the festering wounds on his soul. As her hands pass over each scar, she feels his memory of how it was gained: here, the comrade he couldn't save.  Here, the terror of the heat and fire around him. Here, the secret fear of having let down his men. Each of his wounds cut her as she feels them, but she welcomes this pain, letting it wash through her and bring a new understanding of this man she loves and the experience of not only him, but others whom she loves as well. 

Pain is the price of this kind of wisdom, and she will pay it gladly for the knowledge of how to help him and wisdom to apply it well.

She strokes his skin gently. 'Who heals the healer?' she asks him, a question her hands offer the answer to.
Slowly, carefully, struggling with the urge to push, to pull, to force the wounds open, she gives him love in exchange for his pain, caring in exchange for his fear, acceptance in exchange for his guilt.

She knows this pain now, feels it in her own soul as an echo of his and she lets her heart guide her hands along his still body. She finds each scar, each wound, and presses it, gives him the space to gasp and whisper its origin. 
'Wounds of the soul are no different than those of the body,' she whispers to him. 'When covered and hidden and kept from light and air, they close over but fester beneath. Only when they're opened, exposed, and cleaned with tears do they heal.'
Each wound that she finds she shows him, loves him, gives him a safe space to be vulnerable in the ways he couldn't there, with them, with those for whom he is responsible. With each wound he opens to the air, he bleeds tears which clean the memory, the wound.
With each baring of his soul, she holds him through the tears and she kisses him tenderly. The brush of lips less an invitation than a reassurance that she loves him no less for this vulnerability, admires him no less for this pain, respects him no less for these wounds. 

And slowly, slowly, they heal together.

09 April 2009

Kinesio Tape HNT

Ok, so evidently I don't know how to walk. I bounce up on my heels with ridiculously long strides... a little like a horse, actually, which is funny since I learned to walk by holding on to my pony's mane. (Yes, I'm that much of a redneck)
So my amazing physical therapist has taped my legs to force my muscles to move the way they're supposed to. 
It's amusing and mildly humiliating, and I'm sharing the joy with you!
(Yes, the tape is outlined in purple sharpie, so this weekend I can keep putting it on myself and remember where it goes)

07 April 2009


Frolicon is this weekend, and I'm sharing a room again with the beautiful Terry and her wonderful Lucivar... and, of course, my darling Jack. 

I'm finally getting excited about it again :) 

06 April 2009

His eyes

Empty. Scrubbed clean by pain and penance, body bearing the marks and heart the healing. 
It had hurt, and she'd considered crying, "Mercy!" but always, the look in his eyes stopped her. One part madness, one part rage mixed with pain... and one part love. 
It was the love that undid her, the love that made her offer her throat to his hands, her wrists to the rope. 
The rage she could have fought, the madness feared, the pain lamented... but the love... it was the love that undid her, and brought her to her knees for him as she had never knelt before. It was the love that reminded her to breathe through the pain he gave her, let her accept the penance without anger or retribution. Let her welcome it.
It was the love that made her hate herself for hurting him, and love him the more for forgiving her.

The chain around her neck, drawing tighter until air was a struggle.
The hands slapping her thighs, until she gritted her teeth in pain and the need to twist away.
The knuckles in her breastbone, making her writhe in agony.
Part of her wanted to fight, wanted to struggle, wanted to hurt him for bringing this pain to her... but even that part quieted when she looked into his eyes. They paled in his madness, in this grip of sociopathy, of love. Wide as they were when she hurt him, but different somehow.
Still beautiful.
And still filled with love. 

It was the love that undid her. 

05 April 2009


Her fingers shook with excitement, with arousal, as she caressed him, and she shuddered with pleasure when he flinched.

The bent position was awkward, his elbows and wrists bound tightly together, and secured to a hook in the ceiling. It forced him to bend forward, the pressure on his shoulder joints painful, but that was the least of his worries.
She smiled, gently, and he shuddered. The terror in his eyes was a feast.
She ran the back of her hand down his cheek and he whimpered. Her fingertips traced his lips and he opened them obedient, eyes closing tightly in fear but more afraid of not obeying. 

It was her very tenderness that was the warning. 
Only when she was the most tender, the most loving, did her eyes hold the most madness.

04 April 2009


Restless... somewhere near angry, violent. 
Aching for hair clenched in my fist, for tears spilling over big eyes watching me in terror. 
The satisfying muscle spasm of shoving a face into the floor; lips soft on my feet, eager to appease the temper rampaging through me. 

I am aching tonight to hurt someone, to send him on impossible tasks: clean my house on your knees, boy, in my pretty, frilly apron.
Rub my feet, cunt, with your hands tied tightly behind your back. 
Please me, you useless piece of shit, while my temper rages through me for no particular reason. 

Safe harbor

We have hurt one another again. 
What is it about this boy, that we wield words like unintentional knives, slicing deep into one anothers' souls, retreating with Parthian shots meant to soothe but which only slice deeper?

Again, my heart aching and sharp with guilt and pain; his eyes shadowed, haunted with fear and the shame. 

Once, we came together in a dance: an orchestrated symbiotic dementia of the soul, but now we circle one another warily, neither quite predaors this day but nor quite prey, cautious. This dance is no less graceful, despite the arms length we keep from one another... an artificial distance, so plainly a construct that any watching might sigh in sympathy for the obvious fear. We circle one another, steps measured, watching. Our eyes hopeful, but neither of us willing to take the one step that will bring first contact, first possible rebuff, first possible rejection. 

Circling, eyes holding one another as arms are yet unwilling. Circling, hearts straining across the walls our fear has built.
Perhaps we will circle forever, wary and afraid, neither willing to risk another wound.

And then... almost as one, neither certain who moves first, a cautious half-step in. 
A half-step would not be enough to bring us to touching, not from either of us. 
But we both move...

the shock of contact, of the warmth of the other, missed like the sun after a season of monsoons, missed like rain in the desert. 
The blessing of contact, of touching, and then we are in one anothers' arms without conscious thought of moving, heart to heart and head to head. Eye to eye and arms wrapped tightly, the touch healing, wholing, holy. 
Drinking in the touch like rain in the desert, like sunlight in the deep forest, like warmth at the end of winter. 

 safe harbor again at last. 

02 April 2009


Today is going to be insane, so here's an old pic taken by Kat when we went white water rafting.

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I am just your ordinary average every day sane psycho supergoddess