I am so very sorry for my prolonged absence. I don’t want to turn this into a self-righteous rant, but Life has most definitely happened and in the worst of ways. I’ve had everything from a full blown return of my depression to a death of a close family member, on top of financial difficulties. In short, my life has been a fiasco for a couple of months, and that has not only led to little writing, but also to very little sex (depression = no libido).
However!! I am jumping back in, and full steam ahead!
There are a few kinky things I’ve been up to of late, which will be the subject of upcoming posts (because they deserve their own posts – but I promise, they will actually be up soon). Here are the topics you can expect to see covered in the upcoming weeks:
1. Le Salon de L’amour et de la Séduction a.k.a. The All About Sex Show
Taking place at the end of January, or beginning of February (depending on the year), Montreal plays host to the All About Sex Show, which has a long-ass French name to satisfy our loving, and not at all tyrannic, O.L.F. (French Language Office).
Hello bunnies – I am returned… exhausted, but with a story to tell.
I am aware that my online presence has been wanting of late. It has a lot to do with stuff I’ve had to deal with at home and work… everything from losing my dog to getting disciplined by management. I’m at the end of my rope… and sadly not the good, kinky kind.
So, I decided to take a break from all that crappy, unpleasant adulting stuff, and decided to take time off to attend one of Mistress Hell Kitty‘s amazing play parties. This one was number 24 in a series, though unfortunately the last one at its specific location (due to change of ownership – or so was my understanding of the situation, – the dungeon needs a new venue).
I was a last minute guest.
I had been invited to the event by Mr. Wildcard eons ago. I had intended to attend, but my generosity towards my colleagues at work was taken advantage of, and I ended up scheduled on the evening of the party (a crappy 3 a.m. to 8 a.m. shift) and would have to miss out.
Then, after an awful day on the Thursday where just everything seemed to go to hell in a handbasket, I asked a colleague who owes me a favour if she could help me out. She initially accepted, and so I contacted the event organizers and got my butt on that guestlist. I needed the respite from responsibilities and keeping my shit together as much as I do.
So I was having a normal Saturday which went south very quickly. First off, I woke up late. I was supposed to be somewhere at noon. I woke up at 11:50. Then, what normally takes me a 15 minute drive on the worst of days took an hour (yes, 60 whole minutes) due to construction and stupid fucking #!@%&!!#$@%&! who don’t know how to drive. I ended up being nearly two hours late for my meeting, feeling embarrassed and enraged.
(As I would later tell my husband, traffic is the worst! I was really starting to lose my cool… I was beginning to think that ISIS could go fuck itself; if anyone is going to cause a mass bombing, it’s a person who is rage-quitting being stuck in traffic.)
Then, to make a dreadful day worse, my colleague got back to me and told me my shift was too shitty and she didn’t want to take it anymore. Apparently, I should just bite the bullet and go to work. I told her that I knew this wasn’t the deal of the century, but we had an agreement – and I had helped her countless times in the past, even when I found her shifts were not to my liking. To which the little… urgh! … did not respond for over three hours.
I honestly didn’t know at that point if I should drive myself off a cliff, or run over a pedestrian (I am using hyperbole, but I was still pretty ticked off).
The Play Party at the legendary dungeon of the glorious Mistress Hellkitty, was no longer on the table for me…
Until my colleague finally took my shift. I had the Sunday off and, thus, could freely attend Play Party #24 after all.
I was jittery and anxious. It would be my first time going to such a very “public” play party. There were only about 60 attendees; but as someone who was only familiar with Miss Pearl’s play parties (which never have more than a dozen guests), I was terrified.
Social anxieties notwithstanding, I didn’t find out I could attend the party (which started at 10 p.m.) until shortly before 9 in the evening. Panic immediately set in!
What am I going to wear?
I may have flailed while asking myself that particular question. I had no ideas, no plans, and I looked like death warmed up (no make-up, etc.).
A fetish outfit?
No good – the ones I have from my modelling days won’t fit my stupidly overgrown chesticles. Besides, I am not sure I fit in any of them anymore. Breasts notwithstanding, I no longer have the lovely figure I had when I was twenty-one.
Pretty and Sexy Lingerie?
Well… yes, sure. But again, I am having a huge brassiere shortage in my dresser. All my bras are C-cups. I have grown to a DD-E cup about three years ago, but have been too broke to properly update my undergarment collection. And god knows that ill fitting bras look awful!
A Kinky Themed Outfit?
Sure – but what?! All my costumes are in boxes. We only moved a little over a month ago! What can I possibly…?
While running through my apartment like a chicken with it’s head cut off, I stumbled on a wonderful find. In my stocking and tight drawer (yes, I have a drawer dedicated exclusively to those – and no socks are allowed in it! – thanks to my job uniform requiring new tights about two-three times a week), I found these:
There were completely untouched: unopened and unworn. I had bought them years ago (about two apartments ago), and thrown them in the back of my stocking drawer only to forget all about them. Well, it was time they came out to party too. And, given their appearance, I knew what I would dress up as:
Last Saturday, I was invited to one of Miss Pearl‘s glamourous and sexy parties. I had every intention of attending it, but the universe thought otherwise and completely nixed my plans.
My body just hates me.
I have been ill with lightheadedness and dizzy spells for nigh on a week now, and there has been no improvement. I do not know if it is due to tiredness, or something else – but as I am also losing my voice at the moment, I certainly think I am cooking up something. In any case, I feel betrayed by my body that has decided that sending my brain on a vertigo-inducing merry-go-round is a good idea. [Fun fact: after getting diagnosed on Monday, it turns out I have Labyrintitis.]
My husband, on the other hand, is full of life, fit and able. He was also invited to the party. And there was no way I was going to let my body’s issues poop on his parade too. I encouraged him to go without me.
And then the envy kicked in.
Now, I have mentioned previously that subby-hubby and myself have been working on a semi-poly/open relationship type of arrangement (I realize that sounds convoluted, but I honestly don’t know what else to call it). By that, I meant that we play with different people, but always with permission and open communication between the two of us in case the situation changes. We also believe that, as long as we want to come home to each other, we are still in a healthy relationship.
In that case, why was the green-eyed monster writhing in my gut? Well, I suppose it had more to do with the fact that I was left out. I usually am at least an attendee at Miss Pearl’s parties, so hearing everything second hand just doesn’t compare. It’s like eating a frozen microwaveable-meal: full of expectation, but ultimately drab and disappointing.
But it is not the party that is the let down – oh no! It is my stupid fucking health. I wish I had the stamina to go through a normal work week without feeling as though I had been put through the wringer. Seriously – I couldn’t feel more dead if I’d been hung on the gallows this weekend.
So I sat on the couch at home, drifting in and out of consciousness, binge watching crime-dramas on Netflix (I ran out of the other stuff). My husband called, at my request, to relay some of the goings-on at the party, but that didn’t help me feel much better. He was clearly having a blast and I was missing out.
I sat at home, horny and eager to punish some naughty folks, but only wishfully thinking it. The worst thing is that Miss Pearl only lives four blocks or so from us. I could have sauntered over there in a heartbeat if my health had allowed me to. But I didn’t want to be the kind of party guest that sits sullenly in a corner and complains about feeling unwell.
Around 1:30 A.M. subby-hubby came home.
I sat him down and paused whatever Netflix was flashing at my retinas. I sat up like a lovesick puppy who just got his owner’s attention – not very Femdom-y, I know; but I am cutesy like that. I was happy he was home and I was no longer alone with my aches and fictional crime.
After we exchanged a kiss, I asked him how the party was. His response was typical: “Good.” Well, no shit Sherlock! He didn’t even want to leave the party until I texted him that I wanted to see him before I left for work at 2:00 A.M.
“Mais encore?” I asked him with a raised eyebrow.
“I got the spankies I wanted.”
“Okaaaaay…” I know I said that we communicate a lot and that this keeps our relationship amazing, but his communication with me takes a little encouragement. This was going to be a hard nut to crack.
I asked him to tell me more. He didn’t know what to say. “Who spanked you? Who else was there? Did the hosts do any fun scenes?”
“Yeah, they did. Mr. Wildcard played with Cheeky Pants in the kitchen. They did some wax play. Cheeky Pants giggled the whole time.” Okay, we were starting to get somewhere.
“And Miss Pearl? Was she the one that spanked you?”
“No. She volunteered to rope bunny for Pirate King who needed some practice with his knots.”
“And who spanked you?”
I can unfortunately not give a nickname to the spanker of my spankee husband, as I’ve not met the person and can therefore not label them with an appropriate moniker yet. But I intend to meet them before long.
The point of me writing down our conversation is that I had to literally pry the information on the party out of him. I wish I could tell you more about Miss Pearl’s party, dear readers, but as I was not there (and as my husband wasn’t exactly volunteering the information) I can hardly describe the setting, or the people. All I know is that it was starlight themed and that my husband returned covered in glitter – so clearly, there were fairy herpes floating in the air around Miss Pearl’s party.
We are finished with the Thirty Days of Kink (that I have somehow successfully stretched into, what, 50 days?). This is the last of the questions and answers. If there are any questions that remain, I welcome any and all mail with inquiries or personal accounts to discuss personally or on the blog. (Dare I say “fanmail?” No, no. I should not be so full of myself at this stage! Although… *grins*)
Anyway, here is the final installment of this uhm… series, I suppose. (I am almost getting tearful about being done… Almost.)
Thirty Days of Kink
– Day Twenty-Eight –
How do you dress for kink/BDSM play? What significance does your attire have to you?
Uhm… No… Yes… I mean… er…
Well, truth be told, I don’t have a pre-selected, pre-determined attire for my activities in the kink department. I wear a uniform every day to go to work, I would rather avoid the uniforms in my sex life (although I do have a military uniform fetish… but more on that in a future post). I don’t mean that I will not don a uniform if I find it sexy, I mean that I will not wear a certain item of clothing every single time. I do have certain things that appeal to me, but I really don’t need them to get my kink on.
I do wear different things in different situations in a way however, and I find it all depends on the image I wish to project overall.
In Public (Sexy Parties, Kinky Events and the like)
In events and parties, I like to dress to impress. I like to be lazy and slob around when I am at home and no one is around. However, I always want to prove that I clean up very well. This is due in part to the fact that I have enormous self-confidence issues and that I feel the need to prove myself.
I always try to outdress people, to be the most gorgeous, or to gather the most attention at an event. It is super selfish and arrogant on my part, but it is a strange coping mechanism I have developed over years of bullying and difficult times in high school. I am not proud of it. I keep feeling this urge to demonstrate to myself and others that I can be worth something, that I can be pleasing to look at.
As a result, if you meet me at a party, you will find me wearing anything from corsets, dainty lace, evening gowns, leather, jewellery, etc. Essentially, someone tells me casual, I go cocktail dress. Semi-formal? I try formal on for size. Formal? I will wow everyone with a vintage ballgown from Europe because I can. Seriously, I have a wardrobe fit to meet the Queen of England just sitting in my closet, waiting to be called upon. I also possess an arsenal of black/gothic clothing, pin-up dresses, corsets, dainty laces and lingerie, furs (real mink and fox, sorry guys – they were inherited), and period clothing. I am well equipped to flabbergast an audience.
I think it is my theatrical side. I’ve loved dressing up since I was a child and I adore being the most dramatic person in the room, even though I kind of hate myself for it.
Shit. This is more complicated than I thought…
In Private (at home, in the bedroom, where only persons privy to my personal life can see me)
I wear whatever happens to be close by. I am very lazy at the best of times, which is why I am grateful I have a uniform at work (I don’t have to pick and choose what to wear – dressing up for a party takes me hours!).
This means that, yes, sometimes I sex it up in my work uniform (think air hostess). I find the neck-scarf particularly practical in its alternate usage as a blindfold. *wink*
Tell us about a humorous BDSM/kink experience you’ve had.
Oh… I’ve had a few funny moments. Mostly because I am a Grade A Cluts (yes, with capitals at the start of every word – it’s that bad).
Seriously, I get injured on absolutely everything! For instance, in a non-BDSM context, at work I keep cutting myself on the paper we use. My fingers are riddled with cuts and band-aids. I think they keep the first aid kit stocked just for me, to be honest…
Back to the kinky stuff, you smut lovers.
Well, there was that time when I quoted a meme at Miss Pearl’s Beach Party, which caused everyone to get out of the mood and just start laughing uncontrollably. The particular quote was “touch da fishie!” But that is far too tame for your tastes, dear reader, I am sure. Continue reading →
I promise my absence these last few days was entirely a question of circumstances (life can be a bitch sometimes). More experimenting, personal stories and smut will be coming your way soon. But, as I have had a few requests to put in a post, I’ve decided to share Miss Pearl’s latest adventure.
Miss Pearl hosted an amazing indoor Beach Party, full of kinky hotness. I got a great deal of attention that evening, as the following will indicate. I am posting this to satiate your collective lusts. Take a guess at which of her guests I might be!
I will also post my own view of the events once I’ve finished writing it.
P.S. I know I’ve missed a few days of kink. I will make it up to you once I’ve gotten it into my head that double shifts aren’t healthy for me.
Inside the Indoor Beach Party
What did I do over the long weekend?
It’s blazing hot, with the temperature dancing around the high end of 20 C or even over 30 C and nasty humidity. The pools are full of screaming children and all my friends were mewling on their social media feeds that they were too hot to fuck. Never-mind, a little AC and the right theme, and I was all set for a great play party.
I hold these parties once every couple of months, inviting an exclusive group of my trusted friends to romp and explore and be our kinky, sexy selves. This isn’t your mother’s play party, with all the fetish protocol and no sex attitude that entails. You won’t find some person in a motrocycle cap doing Florentine flogging to show they are a Serious Master. Everything is fun, casual and rests on an absolutely no creeps policy.
Picture an elegant 1930s apartment, done up in paper lanterns and blue crepe bunting in undulating waves…
The guests are dressed in trunks, swim suits and loose, airy cotton dresses. Some go pinup vintage, some go chic and modern. There are soft bodies; hard bodies; hairless, smooth bodies; and sensually furred bodies. Men, women and people who dance in the middle, all are welcome. They know it’s a safe place to explore what they love. The atmosphere is perky and joyful, vintage beach tunes and silly movies (Lilo and Stitch) setting the tone before we take things in a much more adult direction. I don’t think there was a bit of black leather in sight, unless, of course, you count the mountain of toys I’d put out to share.
I told the guests an 8:00 PM start time, and on the dot, the first handful of people start trickling in. Early birds ask if they can help out, and I hand off a beach ball and balloons to blow. I have three rooms open- the kitchen with its vague Arabian nights feeling; the long, pillared living room decked out to hold the majority of folks, and my bedroom made more intimate by a black light. There’s snacks and drinks: a whole watermelon in wedges; brightly coloured popsicles; jubejube fish; chips and salsa; beachy drinks. Nothing to excess, everything just right to indulge and to remind you that we’re here to play.
But how do you go from friends to frolic?
Everyone arrives around the start time, first Peppermint Kitten and her man (they’re early birds, and like to help set up) and then guests in ones and twos. Every party starts like this, with people bunching up on the couch, a little shy where it’s just a handful. Everyone is at least passingly familiar with everyone else, but there’s a note of care in everyone’s posture. Nobody wants to be rejected, and nobody wants to overstep and make anyone else uncomfortable. We might be inveterate perverts, but how to make sure we honour enthusiastic consent? The guests are almost all here, but we’re all having social time.
My friend, Peppermint goes on a little walk about the apartment, looking at all the decorations. I’m admiring my own handiwork in the bedroom, looking at the glow sticks hanging from the fan and the bright stars on the wall.
I get the play party truly started when I grab and lift my friend onto the bed. Continue reading →