Thursday, 30 December 2010

The truth behind heroine hair.

i have been growing my hair out for months, it's something i have blogged about before. i'm doing it for my Master and i also would like to feel it touch my shoulders.

The reason i blog about hair is that i am interested in how other women achieve a lot better hair do than i can ever get even with a blow dry, (i let mine dry naturally and then cool dry it with my hair dryer for minimal damage?), a vent brush, a round brush and rollers. After 5 minutes,it goes flat again though it's an improvement to how it looks when it naturally dries apart from the one good hair day i have a month. Literally that's correct! i have very thick hair but that means it weights itself down, it's not volumised and fluffy in the right places thick hair. Darn it.

i have avoided putting any products in my hair as i'm told i definitely don't want to weigh it down more than it naturally is already. And i'm given different information every time i look up keeping hair in good condition or tips to encourage growth.

Hair and nails are two things i can never quite achieve the look i want to achieve with, unless i visit a salon every three times a week. Last time i asked for a tidy up and not a cut, it cost me 15 pounds without a wash or a blow dry, just a dry cutting off split ends. In most places where i live a manicure costs 20 pounds. i want to look good but i'm not willing to pay this much unless it's once a while, i draw the line!

Then there's things like lingerie, clothes and sorting your shoes out when they get scuffed to mention but a few. It takes time, effort, patience, going back and forth and a lot of money to look like a heroine let alone Angelina Jolie not that i want to look like her as i'm me and no one else.

i personally would love to have long thick glossy hair, doesn't matter if it's wavy or Nicole Scherzinger (she's so lucky!) straight not because i want what i don't have but that i have always wanted that.

And long nails..but they chip really easily! They break so i have to keep them short..i have three broken nails and they're short!

So i am far from the heroine in romantic novels and shows and movies and the truth behind heroine hair is a REALLY good trustworthy stylist. As for nails, i guess i should just be happy with good teeth.

MSN has shown a few before and after hair do's, some comments are complaints about women chopping their hair off and that the ladies looked better before. And that they shouldn't interfere with mother nature..well, no one wakes up looking like pic 2

i have posted my own little analysis below. Full steam ahead!

pic 1 Taylor Swift- looks better after!

pic 2 Scarlett Johansson- looks better after which i know men will disagree with, i don't mean that bitterly, i can just imagine them disagreeing. i actually LOVE her new look on her. There's an idea that women love it when other women cut their hair because they're less competition, that idea was made up by pigs. Moving on..

pic 3- i think Rihanna looks sexy with her tall lithe body and a mop of hair on top and that colour is vibrant and daring and her make up brings her natural beauty out more.

pic 4- Drew Barrymore. Looks better before. An example of longer hair length which i think maybe due to hair extensions not suiting everyone. i prefer the soft volume of the before to the lankness of the after.

pic 5 Emma Watson, looks better before. Was she "following the herd" before or after? And who else is tired of that expression?

pic 6 Hayden Panetieere. Looks better before, but after would look cute as an updo.

pic 7 Jessica Stroup. Looks better after.

Sense a theme? A good stylist. They know what suits a woman. Whilst i strongly and firmly believe in looking good for a man, tough if you find that offensive, i also think women should be able to express their femininity differently should they or a man want them to and that no one can accuse Audrey Tatou of not looking as feminine with her short hair as with her long hair.

Sunday, 26 December 2010


S'cuse the title.

I've had a few things that I wanted to blog about and one of them includes botox. I personally find it very very creepy. I find it creepy that people want to look younger, as a woman I'm so used to hearing, well doesn't every woman want to look younger? No! I'm happy to grow older, okay if I had skin dangling down I would consider a procedure but I look my age, I take care of my skin but I don't have that many products and I don't obsess. If someone said have botox I guarantee you'd never get a spot ever again, I have to admit I may then consider it only if I don't look in any way frozen! Not even a little bit, 1 percent frozen! I HATE that. It's robotic, clone like and that's why I findit creepy and actually think it should be banned. It's ordering with a firm loud voice and finger point (YES I'm making the Hitler comparision!) YOU MUST LOOK A CERTAIN WAY.

‘I have a bit of Botox now and then because I’ve developed two frown lines between my eyebrows.’

Oh my God?

"I have had Botox. I was constantly frowning in the sun. I noticed crow’s feet and that’s when I had it. I don’t know a single person who has not had something done.’

Wear sunglasses? And again, what's the problem with crow's feet?

I'd love to see a celeb who hasn't had it done, I never believe those who say they don't, it's so obvious and they tend to say an awful lot whilst they're pictured looking frozen in time.

I think people can do what they want provided it's not harmful and I think robotic and clone like seeking is, "perfection" they're calling it. The procedure, the injection, whatever may not be harmful in itself but the concept is. What's next, botoxed babies? Don't be surprised, it could happen.

The other thing I wanted to blog about was burlesque. I happen to find it quite glamorous and exciting. I'm not one of those people who frown on stripping but strippers themselves have to have a certain look and I don't agree with stuff like Playboy that promotes a clone type of one look whereas burlesque whilst I'm sure the dancers are not averse to tummy tucks and boob lifts and defnitely not fake eye lashes and hair, it seems more fun and yes empowering.

Plus I love the nipple tassle things, it's a playful tease and I personally think stripping can be quite sensual (with all my experience of course- joke, thought I'd better stress the fact I'm making a joke!) but I like the idea of say Dita Von Teese in a glass, it's just playful, cute. Of course it offends people, you can't call it an art! It's just stripping! It's SOOO sexist. But I can see the art in it and I also know that if you have a scantilly clad woman a man will look, it's a fact of life so you can call it whatever you want, it's not going to go away and neither is a woman's sexuality and a woman's sexuality does depend on men. If that's politically incorrect, I say sex was never supposed to be politically correct anyway and it's more fun when that is acknowledged.

Nearly Happy New Year!

Saturday, 25 December 2010

Have a peaceful holiday everyone xxx

Picture taken from

Tuesday, 21 December 2010


You've heard of the words, coming home? When I smell certain scents they remind me of a place where I am happy, content, at peace and at home.

When I used to come back from holiday it was mostly really cold and snowing here in England and I remember what we called the utility room in our house which we had to walk through all the time, it had a very specific smell and at the time I used to think, oh great I'm home..but I've always remembered that smell and now I enjoy the memory and I want to be around that smell again just for a minute.

When someone close to me used to come to our house to stay for months, I was always happy and I remember when she opened her handbag, there was a specific smell..she made our house more homely.

Today I was just looking through a wardrobe and I picked up a scarf which reminded me of the smell of my Master. It comforts me, it makes me happy and it excites me. This scent was like Him, it wasn't Him but I'm thankful for it.

Scent is specific. It's unique. Artificial scents whether perfume, sometimes fabric conditioner or anything man made man, when they are mixed in with one's natural scent, the natural scent can't be beaten, you can still smell it.

Maybe scent isn't reliable but it beats visuals and noise for me. It's pure coming home and there's no better feeling than that at all.

When I watched the movie Scent of A Woman, I used to think really he's not thinking about her (any woman's) scent over eyeing up her legs or whatever though with all his "hoo ahing!" he's probably mad enough to be the one person who finds scent so powerful, however it's no lie, a person's scent is as important as their beauty, their scent is part of their beauty and allure.

There's no picture good enough as the feeling I got when I smelled that scarf today. But this picture which I found on does sum something up.

And I like this song!

Sunday, 12 December 2010

Christmas number ones, pictures and nine and half weeks.

It's a pretty nonsensical post even for me because it's a quick one.

I do have views on the Christmas number one song- I would like Katy Perry's Teenage Dream (because they covered it in Glee to huge love from me) to be a contender as it's a fun song and I'd like Christmas to be as fun as possible instead of " a time of reflection." This isn't happening and yeah I know she has a new song out called Fire boobs or whatever and Teen Dream was yonks ago. Something that may be a possibility is Ewan Macgregor's version of Your Song which I much prefer to the Ellie Goulding's version played over and over and over and yes over and over and over again advertising John F. Lewis.

So I watched Nine and A Half Weeks. The cheesy Kim Basinger/smiley Miley Rourke movie and I've been thinking about it. I didn't expect to like it, I'd seen the "food scene" on 100 sexy movie moments lists probably a hundred times- yes I watch those, leave me alone. However, I got to see a man who really in my opinion didn't know what he was doing and was intentionally and unintentionally on a destruct mission to me. There were elements of BDSM but he was not a Dominant. He was not a good Dominant and by good, I mean someone who knows himself-Mickey Rourke's character did not know himself. The ending confirmed that for me. And I liked the ending. I'm still on the fence about Kim B's character being submissive in her sexuality, I don't agree that all women are- or maybe a certain aspect in me doesn't agree, regardless, I think that Rourke could no way dominate her. He could only break her..and break her completely, with no new formation, no metamorphisis. I better sleep soon, I'm talking shit.

The best part of the movie is where he tells her the days are hers but he will look after her during the nights with him, he will feed her, he will brush her hair, I think he picks out her clothing but he doesn't truly own her- it's a shallow ownership and it's a romantic myth that some readers of BDSM and erotica buy into. A handsome man owning you. A sense of being young again. Listen, I want reality. I do not want fantasy. I read books for the insights into character but I don't need the author to make up some movie star look a like falling in love with a) an attractive but misunderstood woman or b) the "frumpy" secretary/librarian. Know what I mean? I don't need the fairytale, I just want to know more about how she feels say having her clothes chosen for her. What's going through her mind. You don't get that in blogs, or in articles, you get that in a story with a plot, thought out personalities, someone drawing back in their own experiences or really imagining and going with their gut on what it would be like to be in a situation.

Another thing I liked about Nine and A Half Weeks was the strain in the friendship between Kim B's character, Elizabeth actually,!, and her best friend, it starts off as stereotypical "hot blonde" (she is gorgeous but enough with attractive and blonde going together like two peas in a pod) and her funny jokemaking best friend. Yuck. Then in one scene I get an insight into the best friend's character. She's at a dinner table and she tried to get someone's attention, wears a sexy dress and then Kim B speaks and all eyes are on her with her hair and dress very very casual and the friend gives up. It's real. It's a truth yet to be universally acknowledged that all "ugly" and by that I mean normal people are as primary without conditions and limitations a character than the more model-y ones.

Monday, 6 December 2010

Nine And A Half Weeks A Memoir Of A Love Affair.

"Nine and a Half Weeks is a true story so unusual, so passionate, and so extreme in its psychology and sexuality that it will take your breath away.

Elizabeth McNeill was an executive for a large corporation when she began an affair with a man she met casually. Their sexual excitement depended on a pattern of domination and humiliation, and as their relationship progressed they played out ever more dangerous and elaborate variations on that pattern of sadomasochism. By the end, Elizabeth had relinquished all control over her body -- and her mind.

With a cool detachment that makes the experiences and sensations she describes all the more frightening in their intensity, Elizabeth McNeill deftly unfolds her story and invites you into the mesmerizing and dangerous world of Nine and a Half Weeks -- a world you won't soon forget."

Bring it on.

“The worst part was when she’s tied to the table leg while he eats.”

“The worst part was when he makes her crawl around on her hands and knees.”

“The worst part was when she was hanging to the wall.”

“The worst part was when she robs the man at knifepoint.” (Does he make her do this?)

“The worst thing was what it left her with – lasting dissatisfaction with sex which, for her, never again reaches that fever pitch.”

“Amazing that in the whole nine and a half weeks, with all that sex, they only came at the same time once.” (Get real).

“The worst part was when he made her masturbate in front of him.”

“The best bit is when he changes her tampons.”

Quotes are from

Like I say, bring it on.

Sunday, 5 December 2010

Oh yeah lots of people like Glee, lots of different people like Glee

There's about 500 pages of Glee in places where you wouldn't expect. I'm awaiting to see Glee on X Factor and I just heard their version of Teenage Dream today. I've made a list of ten Glee videos that I really like, including Teenage Dream which I love.

Guilty Pleasures by Kitty Thomas.

As you know I'm the hugest fan of Ms Thomas' Comfort Food, so I want to post the excerpt for her next book which I have taken from her blog

"Vivian Delaney leads a life of privilege, but behind closed doors she feels isolated and trapped in a gilded cage. Unable to achieve sexual pleasure with her husband, she finds herself in the capable hands of Anton, a massage therapist intent on awakening her to her full sexual potential. By any means necessary.

As their secret meetings progress, she falls farther down a rabbit hole where the line between rape and illicit affair grows increasingly blurred. Anton will accept nothing short of her complete surrender as he molds and shapes her to be sold to the highest bidder."

The book will be out soon!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And Kitty has posted a BEAUTIFUL cover

Saturday, 4 December 2010

Bondage and books.

For the cakes, use your imagination x

I have a book recommendation as well. I'm not going to do a review but basically Stripped Bare by Lena Matthews was one of the first books that got to me. Over the years I have discovered authors that are on my must buy list but when I read the excerpt of SB, I remember waiting a month before the book came out and getting very excited on the day of its release, I was there buying it as soon as it came out!

The book is about posession and ownership. Back then BDSM was S and M to me, it was whips and leather and those things in itself didn't excite me but posession and ownership always have.

Another thing that Stripped Bare is about is body acceptance and esteem related to appearance. Missy the heroine is plus size but body acceptance is hardly limited to plus size. It seems a big issue amongst a lot of women even those you think, okay yeah right she can't have issues with that body. And when I read this book, it was passionate about body acceptance.

The book that I bought had a really cute cover, a heroine with glasses, hair pulled back and a lovely smile. The new book cover is sexy but I have to say I miss the old one, it's what drew me to the book but I can imagine the heroine evolving into the woman on the new cover. Or that is her in the bedroom or simply when she is with the hero.

I also had read a different excerpt in which the hero commands the heroine to "come for him" right now in his office...

Anything can happen when jokers are wild.

When visiting an adult bookstore for a bachelor party, Professor Brody Kincaid is shocked to see his former student Missy Haddan working at the counter. He’s had his eyes on Missy since she’d been his student several months ago and has been waiting for the perfect time to approach her. Fate has just slipped her into his path. Her warm personality and full-figured beauty holds him captivated, and he is determined to have her no matter what the cost.

Missy sees all kinds at her job, but never expects to see her former professor. She knows he’s out of her league, but when Brody offers to teach her to play poker, Missy can’t resist the temptation to learn, or her desire for him.

Their simple games goes further then even she could have imagined. When the ante is upped and her heart is on the line, Missy is willing to risk it all on a game of chance, but anything could happen when jokers are wild.

Copyright© 2007 Lena Matthews
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication

It wasn’t like her to be so free with her body, not that Brody had given her much say in the matter. He came, he saw, he conquered. Okay, so she came, but he had definitely conquered. She had been such an easy target. He had just swooped down and pounced, and all of her free will had vanished. Not that he’d done anything she hadn’t wanted, it was just that he was so overpowering.

Brody’s sexual prowess far outweighed the meager bump and grind she had experienced in her past. And after Tony, her ex, she was a little gun-shy. Which, mingled with her regular shy personality, left her feeling like an invisible mound of mush. There was no way Brody could ever be interested in her. The cute, great guy only fell for the homely, fat chicks in bad TV movies.

The door swinging open wildly sent the bell into an epileptic seizure. Glancing up, she watched in surprise as Brody strolled into the store. In form-fitting blue jeans and a gray short-sleeved shirt, he appeared as if she conjured him out of her fantasy. Every time she watched him move, she heard hot jazz music playing in the back of her head. As if she was mentally playing a song for him to strip to. The thought of him naked and shaking his moneymaker made her blush from the sheer vision of him.

“I would say a penny for your thoughts, but the way you’re blushing, I’d be willing to pay a hell of a lot more,” he teased, strolling up to her. His stormy blue-gray eyes twinkled in merriment.

Blushing brighter, Missy cringed at his knowing laugh and wished the ground would just open up and swallow her whole. The scent of his cologne drifted up to her and doused her senses with a direct hit of pheromones. The aroma, rich and spicy and with a hint of his own unique scent, soared around her, forcing Missy to grip the feather duster to prevent herself from attacking him and dragging him to the floor.

“You know stalking is illegal in the state of California,” she quipped, once she was able to gather her ability to think.

Grinning, Brody replied, “Well, if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad…”

“Comparing me to a mountain won’t get you far, Muhammad.”

“Sounds to me like someone is trying to call herself fat in a roundabout way.”

“No, I wasn’t,” she denied. “But if I wanted to, I would.”

“I wouldn’t advise it if I were you,” Brody threatened softly. His commanding tone caught her off guard, as did her urge to obey him. Something about his presence stilled her automatic response sensors.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, walking around the counter. Missy wanted to put as much distance between them as she could.

“I came to see you,” he answered, leaning against the counter. “We have some unfinished business, you and I.”

“Look, this afternoon I wasn’t myself.”

“So who was it that squeezed my fingers like a vise-grip in my office this afternoon?”

Missy’s eyes widened. She flushed, feeling the heat spread up from her breasts to her cheeks. Looking over his shoulder, Missy glanced around to see if any of the few customers who were nearby heard him.

Leaning forward, she whispered hotly, “Don’t talk about that here.”

“I can’t talk about sex in a sex shop?”

“We didn’t have sex and no, you can’t. This is my place of employment.”

“My purpose isn’t to embarrass you, Missy,” he chided softly, “but to try to get to know you better.”

“Know me better?” she questioned in shock. “You don’t know me at all.”

“Oh, I beg to differ, little one. I know enough.”

“Because I took your class?”

“No, because I tasted you.” Running his hands over the counter, he brushed the tips of his fingers against the soft flesh of her arm. “I want more than a taste now; I want the whole damn meal.”

Pulling back her arm, she looked at Brody, not quite sure what to say. There was no use trying to act blasé with him. She could no more pull off the seductress act than he could act like a choirboy. Missy was way out of her element, and she knew it.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he said, reaching over the counter for her hand. Pulling it forward, he caressed her palm as if he was trying to calm a skittish mare. “What are you afraid of?”

“You,” she said stiffly. “You’re going run all over me.”

“That’s not my intention.”

“But you’ll do it anyway. I’m not equipped to handle you.”

“What do you mean?” Brody tilted his head and smiled gently at her.

“You’re going to try to turn this into a sex thing.”

“And that would be bad, why?”

“Because look at you and look at me.”

“I am looking, Missy.”

Frustrated, she yanked her hand away and stepped back from the counter. “No, look at me, Brody.”

“I am looking,” he said firmly. “And I like what I see.”

“You’re confusing me.”

“What’s confusing about me wanting to get to know you better?” Brody asked, shaking his head in bewilderment.

“You’re going too fast.”

“I’ll slow down.”

Missy tried to read his intent with a slight frown on her face. He appeared to be sincere, but she couldn’t be sure. She was still waiting for her bullshit meter to start going off. When something appeared to be too good to be true, it was normally because it was.

“Really.” He laughed at her disbelieving stare. “We can start off as friends.”

“Well, I normally don’t let my friends finger me in their offices.”

“Where do you let them finger you?”

“I didn’t mean…” She flushed, feeling foolish and embarrassed. “I don’t let them finger me at all.”

“Damn,” Brody teased. “And here I was looking forward to the benefits of being your friend.”

Jane Eyre. More than a good gothic wood land fuck book. Not that there is anything wrong with those.


I'm not going to post so much now I think, taking a break from writing even more so, maybe just a few odd notes about Owned and Owner and some piccies from the tumblr site I loves.

Today I was reminded of something that I'm passionate about which is anti bullying. From the start, I had too much self respect to think it's okay for someone to have so little. I had to think long and hard before and when I went into BDSM, before and when I became a submissive, about abuse. About BDSM and spanking, whipping, objectification and abuse of a human. And I still maintain that in Owned and Owner she is dehumanised, some would say she is abused but I don't believe she is bullied. So far, maybe I might on a later read. I wonder though about being bullied by someone who isn't just a bully to you, there's more in a relationship of some sort between you. If you have ever seen the movie Dead Poets Society and you think about Neal and his Dad, no doubt his father manipulates him, I would say he bullies him but he does love him. So we can talk about definitions and right and wrong but the fact is I may not jump to conclusions straight away. All I can say is bullying should not happen and we should help those being bullied.

A while ago I posted this, I'm glad I did and I'm happy with what I wrote. I wonder sometimes how I can help? Is all I can do give money because I'm happy to make donations and keep up with progress but I have a passion to actually see someone change, education and knowledge making their intolerance and ignorance break.

How many posts have I read about bullying where the person starts off, I was a weird kid. What are the bullies then? What are people who pick on someone and show no humanity towards them? They're normal? Their behaviour is acceptable? In my opinion, it's these people who are weird. They're not being assertive or proactive by them thinking they are "putting someone in their place" and "acknowledging social status." They're not showing survival of the strongest or fittest.

And if they happen to be popular..whether in school, at work, in a club, that doesn't make them a proactive and good person straight away and if people find them proactive and good, they lose any of those qualities in bullying someone whether it's "just one" person. So they may be great to other people but if they're making someone else's life hard, then they're not great at all.

No more excuses.

No more this is just the way it is.

Bullying doesn't make people stronger. The people who are bullied work their damned hardest to make themselves stronger.

It's not tough love.

It may make for some drama on Glee but in reality, people lose lives and if someone is "only" being kicked a few times or called names, things which are referred to as "minor" it is still bullying. You know when you are just gently teasing someone and you ought to know the difference between that and seeing your actions and or words have caused them harm. Even the most seemingly self confident person.

No one "deserves" to be bullied. It's an ego trip for the bully perhaps and if so it's the weirdest most delusional trip. Being a bully is not a qualification or something to be proud of. "Oh I used to bully the boys at my school." What a magnificent way to assert yourself, making people call you a bitch or afraid of you.

Know what bullying is. It's not standing up for yourself. It's not giving your opinion. It's putting someone down.

No one is perfect. I was called a hyprocrite and the girl who called me that knew what I went through on a daily basis. I was being bullied in 3/5 classes in the day every day, I was also bullied at lunch, teachers didn't know where to look. I didn't deserve the bullying but that doesn't mean I haven't been guilty of saying things about people. The difference and it's a huge difference, is that I didn't make toilet and animal sounds every time that person entered the room, whereas I got those melodic sounds for no reason when I came into the room in every class the bullies were there. I was picked on for every detail and I noticed that whilst the bullies disliked my appearance from the start, they started picking on it after some time and also the voice, the words, it goes on and on, they got everything. To this day I can't make proper eye contact with someone, it's either too much or too little and I can't look around a room without my heart banging in my chest. I never had that problem before being bullied and I got that problem from having every little thing scrutinised by the bullies. It was a hobby for them to torment me, it was like stalking, and torment is something I could never be accused of towards anyone. I'm not justifying my words about people by the way but thinking that I deserve what I got and not knowing when it's become extreme, is something I will never forgive that girl who called me hypocrite for. If I ever meet her in this lifetime, I will treat her the same as those bullies and it's not some revenge act I get delight out of.

Wednesday, 1 December 2010

& some Snow White fun.

Because it's snowing and I need cheering up and maybe you all do too x

"The sight of a bound woman is terrifically, almost unbearably erotic to me, even if only bound in play. It’s been that way ever since I can remember, even before I knew what sex was!"

I may start writing another story in the future, which I'd like to make into a sort of Man Woman or Boy Girl simple idea, set in the present. I work best when I have clear ideas for characters as opposed to actions, I may combine this story with my unfinished ones like Hogtied and Sold and take away the auction and kidnap part as a starting point. I'll see.


He never noticed her much before but occasionally saw her glance his way, but she would avert her gaze. During the next few days, he started to look her way and she would never look back, in fact she kept her gaze down. When studying her, he discovered that she had one of the prettiest faces he'd seen and that there was no part of her small body that he wanted to leave free. He wanted to tear her open.

Wednesday, 24 November 2010

I love this quote a lot.

"So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more dangerous." Into The Wild.

Maybe to some it's a romantic idea but I find it curious.

Owned and Owner by Anneke Jacob.

Now, this book is very simple in its theme actually. The plot is that a woman goes to another planet because she wants to be a slave. She chooses slavery. The thing about this woman on her own planet, is she is isolated and like Maia in As She's Told, also written by Anneke Jacob, who felt her body was not her own, the legs moving like she had to force them, she leaves her family, her sister, and goes into full time 24/7 slavery. But unlike Maia, it's more extreme, she doesn't have contact with her family once a slave, I've not read any contact.

Her Owner, I remember his name clearly it's Garid but I don't remember the woman's name because it's mentioned only very early on in the book and then probably never- (I looked it up again, her name is Etrin) so her Owner is a man who basically wants pure submission and he wants it all the time. He wants to own all the time. He lives on a planet where being attracted to a woman is like being attracted to a man, it's not the norm and women from the other planets, there are no non slave women on his, are objects and would be pets to him and his men. The owned is to be his slave all the time but in such a way that she, his pet woman is living the way he wants also.

The key words are pet woman. I'm reading the book very slowly, I'm not finished with it yet, I intend to read it twice as I want to have some understanding of what I am reading.

The slave, the owned woman is a pet human. She is on a leash, poos like an animal and used as a pony.

The book is a little disturbing, to me, because it is total dehumanisation. She wants to touch his face but she won't and it would seem from later in the book she can't unless he says and she doesn't speak for a long time. She describes reacting and acting like she's in an animal state.

If she does anything wrong, anything that is not as she is told then she is punished and it's punishment she won't forget. However I don't actually find that disturbing despite the fact it makes me wince because of the pain element. The Owner -and the other men who punish her and the other pet humans that are in the book, know what they are doing in terms of the physical and they seem to have a grasp on the pets' mentally. With regards to HER mentally, we as a reader get to read her thoughts, I get that she needs the punishment they give and to me, it is fair. With regards to other pet humans, we get their Owners telling us about them a little.

The author has mentioned about Garid, making him more open in her revised copy of this book. I'd like to read that but I'm happy with the Garid in the book. You see, he gets what he wants and Etrin has got what she wants and what she needs. Yes, some of it is conditioning, I mean in the sense how could she possibly know that she needs such and such exactly when she hasn't experienced it, she's fantasised about it sure, but conditioning is a part of BDSM and there is a line between conditioning and brain washing. Abuse where it is beat, beat beat, I'll slap you if you move, cruelty. Owned and Owner is not about that. It's about doing EXACTLY as you are told to be owned. If you don't do as you're told, you will be punished. This is ONE dynamic, not the general rule for ownership, Master slave, Dom sub, BDSM.

Like I say the theme of the book is very simple.

Something that I have been thinking about, relating it to myself is the power being totally on the Owner's end. There is a power transfer, the owned is giving Him all the power over her but there's less digging into her psyche here compared to other books and movies. Garid does ask Etrin a few questions but it's straight up action from the start. He may already know enough but there is little if no conversation between them especially later on. Now, that's of course because she becomes his pet human and that's the deal that is to happen and it's about submission through actions but He expects those actions and I suppose when his pet human is left to sleep in her cage or on the floor, that's when she is given time to think about her actions, emotions, thoughts.

And there is the orgasm control. She doesn't get to orgasm very often which could be seen as cruelty, neglect, I don't think it's those but I think it's about control and dehumanisation. She is a pet woman, his pet woman, she is not a woman anymore. Her orgams are his totally, they are not hers. Like I say she doesn't get to orgasm very often but if she had it her way, she is aroused and in touch with her sexuality enough and without control enough to orgasm very often.

The book is really about a pet human's discipline and life. And to me it's unfair to say "what life." It's not a life we all desire or agree with but I feel strongly about the each to their own philosophy when it comes to this. It's not a book that you are going to think oh that's nice, it will provoke a strong reaction. I think the author wrote a story and that's just what this is. Of course there is pony girl training but Owned and Owner will be a story for me and something to remind me just how lucky I am to have found a Dominant that matches the submissive that I am.

Owned and Owner is about two people, different to my life and situation, finding each other. The book is also escapism although I am someone who is reading it to understand more about BDSM. Not about my BDSM but themes in this book.

As She's Told, the author's previous book is such a strong book and Owned and Owner has similar themes of pet, no games, 24/7 but it's a different type of book.

I will do another post on this later once I've read the book again and I'll be blabbering on about sharing of the pet women with other men.

Sunday, 21 November 2010

It's like Oprah meets Deepthroat on here isn't it.

Two excerpts, a blurb & some pics from Pink Flamingo Publications.

"Eden cannot contain her unquenchable desire and her need to submit... even when its to a man she despises, the Master she's trying desperately to leave.

Jacob stared in the window at Eden Rose from the patio outside her back door. Her apartment was easily accessible from the street, up the fire escape.

Midnight, Eden was at the piano playing music, looking melancholy. A bottle of scotch sat on the edge of the baby grand, a shot glass beside it. One hand played a melody while the other held her head in her hand. She hummed as she played, words beginning to trip through her brain, but not yet put on paper. She was strangely methodical in her manner of writing music, though it was a method only she understood. It didn’t matter that anyone else did, only that she was getting attention in the music world for what inspired her.

When Jacob slipped into the room through the unlocked door, Eden was so immersed in her work that she didn’t hear the silent footfalls of his approach. Not until he was at her back and she jumped feeling his hands clutching her shoulders did she realize the intruder was there.

“Jacob, no!” she shrieked, but then his hand was over her mouth. She tried to bite his fingers, but he slapped her face and then clamped his hand back over her lips with a bone-crushing tightness.

“Don’t say a word,” he whispered. “Not one word.” To ensure her obedience, he pulled a ball-gag from his pocket and opening her mouth with his fingers pressed it inside. The strap was fixed behind her head. She was at his mercy.

He extinguished the single lamp in the room as he dragged her from the piano bench, her arms flailing as she tried to pull away. But with his large hands and strong grip, the fight was useless. Stripping her of her robe, it was easy work to have her wrists bound behind her. Jacob knew where to find the leather straps and harness, the playthings that would raise her body heat. Pushing her toward her bedroom, he chuckled knowing he had her won. She wasn’t resisting at all. Eden was so easy.

“You think you can get away from me, bitch,” he chortled in her ear as he undid the wrist cuffs from behind and then fastened them to the rod swinging over head. “You are so naïve and foolish.”

He slapped her ass with his hand, then buckled the collar around her neck tightly so she could feel the constriction in her throat. She had to gasp for air.

“Relax, slut, you’ve got a long and welcome night. That Femdom uptown doesn’t hold a candle to me. Why she didn’t even leave marks.”

Eden was sinking into him, intoxicated by words. Dizzy from the constraints, she let the surging in her abdomen turn erotic, her hips undulating against his hand.

“That’s it,” he purred. Pressing his palm over her pubis, he held it tightly in his fist and pulled down. She squirmed and cried with the shot of pain. Fingers in her vagina teased the syrupy concoction of sweat and juice.

A clamp came down on one nipple and the pain sparked. She jerked and he slapped her face. A second clamp on the second nipple, more pain, another jerk and slap. Preordained, ritualized, but yes, very welcome. She didn’t want to tolerate the abuse but the jolts were too severe for her sex to ignore. The wild rush was as sweet as words of love, and she let her head fall back as he began with the whip and crop, one in each hand. She was traveling light-years in seconds, joyriding through a wave of delicious heat and pain. It was exhilarating pain turning her insides out as he turned her outsides into raw, scorched flesh.

The multi-taloned leather whip flailed on her breasts and belly, sensation streaming like ocean swells crashing as breakers on hard sand. The crop cut. He was erratic and sporadic, mocking her as he stalked her quivering body, going eye to eye with her so she could see the vile expression of triumph on his face. The laughter, the scorn, the jubilance of his sadistic mien shot right through her. When she closed her eyes, he slapped her face.

“Don’t do that again. You’ll see me, bitch, and remember who I am. How I’m the champion of your greatest cause—this perpetual sex machine. He gripped her cunt and shook it hard, then fixed a clamp over her clit so she screamed a muffled scream into the gag.

From behind, he let the whip fly fast and hard, not a second between the strikes. On her back, then to her ass, so they were heated and hot. Then the crop again, that horrifying one with the thin end and the little tied tail that bit viciously into roughed-up skin. She’d feel a trickle of blood down her thigh before he finished. A terrifying reason to rejoice.

She was losing it by the time he burnished her thighs and lay into that tenderness creating another horror. Her mind simply vanished and there was nothing but pain, and then nothingness, and then nothing at all … she’d disappeared without a trace … gone … flown away and lost forever.

Eden came back to the room with the feel of Jacob’s hand between her thighs, his fingers pressing her to climax … a long mellow jolt and sensation afterward … softly swooping here and there.

“I’m so good to you, darling Eden. You treat me like shit trying to fend me off. You suppose you’re going to tell your attorney about this little caper? About how easily you give in to me? You going to try and change your name again? Try to hide, maybe? If I didn’t think you were so scrumptious for my own needs, I’d find you pathetic.”

He was undoing her from the bar overhead, but he left her hands manacled together at the wrists. Removing the gag, he pushed her to the floor and pressed her head against the wood with the heel of his boot.

“You look good like that, whore, don’t you?”

She didn’t reply.

“Don’t you?” he pressed harder, angrily.

“Yes, sir,” she answered.

“And you’re mine, isn’t that so?”

“Forever and always, sir,” she replied without thinking.

“I will always own you,” he swore.

She did not reply.

“I WILL ALWAYS OWN YOU!” He let the crop rip against her upturned bruised butt, the narrow end landing in her ass crack.

“Ah, nooooo!”

“Say it bitch!”

“You’ll always own me, sir,” she spit out loud and clear.

“That’s better. Now suck my dick.”

He helped her to her knees, and pulled her toward a chair where he sat back and she remained between his open thighs. Her hands couldn’t play with him easily, but her lips could and they covered the erect stalk. With his hand at the back of her head, he pressed her down on the organ and fucked her mouth. It made her gag, but he made her relax. Opening wide for him, her lips and tongue worked hard bringing him off. Pulling her head back, he shot on her face, on lips and hair and down her chin. The smile on his lips was reminiscent of times before when he was ecstatically jubilant mastering her.

“You fire Adam Cady tomorrow,” he said looking down at her. “Tell him it was a mistake. Don’t tell him you belong to me, just tell him you patched things up. That you love me and that you always will. You understand that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’ll do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now go to bed.”

“What about the collar and cuffs?” she asked.

“Wear them to bed. Be glad I don’t chain you to the headboard all night.” He threw her a key to the cuffs. “In case I’m not back to let you go,” he chortled.

Jacob picked her up as he rose from the chair and gave her a mean swat on the behind as she padded off toward the bedroom.

“You won’t spend the night?” she asked him peeking out.

“No, I won’t spend the night. You don’t deserve me.” He was about to leave. “But you will. You’ll be moving into the brownstone with me for a little corrective training. So I can get you back to being the gentle submissive who’s never heard the word rebellion.”

“I want to stay here, Jacob,” she pleaded with him.

“But you won’t. I think I already have someone that will sublease the place. He stared around at her beloved walls. “You did a nice job fixing it up. Too bad you couldn’t behave yourself. Still, some of these things should bring a decent price.”

“You’re going to sell it all?”

“Yes. Like I did before. You’re not going to need it for a long time. And I can’t be bothered with your ballast.”

Melanie remembered her Aunt Daisy serving tea to her garden club, in the once elegant backyard. In her memories, she remembered her Aunt as an older woman, well past the youthful romantic she liked to imagine—the young woman that used to wear the flowing flowered dresses that were packed in her trunks.

Leaning forward in the chair, Melanie pulled her favorite trunk closer to her, and jiggled the familiar latch until it at last gave way. Opening the creaky lid, she gazed admiringly at the dresses inside. Melanie was about to pull out her favorite, when she noticed that the inner lid looked strangely cockeyed. Tapping on the upholstered piece of wood with her hand, she tried to push it back into place; but instead, it suddenly gave way, spilling the contents of a secret compartment onto the dresses below. Melanie’s eyes widened as she discovered a packet of letters and a book. They appeared to her like buried treasure, suddenly unearthed from a different time. The letters had been written on some fine tissue paper stationery, and now tied with a faded blue ribbon, she thought them too fragile to touch, let alone open. The book, on the other hand, was bound with a leather cover, and appeared in good condition. While the inside had yellowed some at the edges, and the paper crackled softly when she turned the pges; it seemed resilient enough to withstand some inspection.

Opening to the first page Melanie read:

Daisy Markham—1939

The words were neatly printed with a fountain pen. A quick look revealed that this was a diary filled beginning to end with Aunt Daisy’s flowing penmanship. From the center of the book dropped a photograph, a black and white on hard cardboard backing, with two young faces staring back at Melanie like ghosts. Melanie recognized Aunt Daisy’s soft blonde curls, neatly tied back with a ribbon. Behind her was a young dashing man with dark eyes and curly black hair, his arms wrapped around her then svelte female frame.

Aunt Daisy’s sailor, Melanie immediately thought, seeing the neat uniform the young man wore. Melanie had heard of her Aunt’s beau, only in whispers and half phrases, the man who’d claimed her heart, and whose mysterious disappearance had haunted her family history for years thereafter. Melanie had only known that her Aunt’s beau had been a sailor; and though she’d gone on to marry another man, she’d secretly pined for the sailor until the day of her death. Melanie often imagined Aunt Daisy thinking of him, when in later years, she found her Aunt gazing off into no where with a winsome smile on her face.

Cautiously turning back to the front page of the diary, Melanie’s hands were actually trembling, thinking of what Aunt Daisy might reveal about her life before Uncle John. Perhaps this book would explain what was behind the hushed gossip about her scandalous past. Melanie felt a little guilty reading the personal words, but then who could it possibly hurt with Aunt Daisy, Uncle John and no doubt the young sailor, long dead.

Excited about what she might discover, Melanie began to read.

I hesitate to even write these things, but I am compelled to do something with the private thoughts I have, especially those I hold of my dear Joseph.

“Ah yes!” Melanie exclaimed aloud. The sailor’s name was Joseph!

How strangely different our friendship is from anything I’ve ever known, or even heard of. Even the magazines I get from the East Coast do not tell of such things, but when I think of the bliss I have with Joey, I cannot imagine life to be any other way. He’s able to make claims on me in ways I never believed possible. Not that I’m such an experienced woman, I am older than so many friends who rushed off to marry after high school. Those high school boys were so silly, with their anxious eyes and easy grins. Oh yes! Some made me blush, especially Victor Hodges, but he’ll never be anything but a farm-boy. I can’t imagine dusting off farm dirt from my shoes all my life!

Joseph is different than all of them, so calm and reasoned. He makes me feel like a woman, like a real woman, not a giddy school girl from a small town—which I fear is exactly what I am. He makes me shiver so when I’m with him.

That first dance, he was the only man I could even look at. He stared at me from across the room. I was laughing so hard at Gracie’s joke, when his eyes caught mine. He made me stop laughing with just that once glance. His broad shoulders, that curly dark hair and his olive skin. It’s because he’s Italian. I’ve never known an Italian man before. He says his parents were born in Italy, that’s so romantic in itself. He’ll take me there some day to ride on the gondolas in Venice. I think of him like a movie star, that’s how different he is from the other boys I know. He’s so worldly, coming from New York; to me that’s like coming from a foreign country.

I felt so foolish when I fell down in my fit of laughter. I really just stumbled over Gracie; but then Joseph was there offering me his hand, as I looked up at him through my giggles. He was so serious, almost like I was a naughty girl having done something terribly wrong.

But then he smiled at me, and I thought the whole wide world was opening. Joseph is always like that, one moment almost threatening, the next surrounding me in his broad arms and smiles. It makes me blush to say how I feel when he holds me. There’s a knot in my stomach, and a sensation that seems very carnal.

But I’m digressing to avoid why I’m really writing. I know I have to tell someone and these blank pages are the only listener I have. It’s such a strange story, I still don’t know what to make of it. I thought that writing it down this way would help me make sense out of this tale.

I suppose this came about with Joseph, because I’m so often stubborn and pigheaded. And of course, I have such a temper, it’s often gotten me in trouble. Daddy’s always said, I would be one miserable handful to any man that would have me.

Anyway, it all started yesterday when Joseph picked me up at the dress shop at 5:00, as he always does. My day had been a hectic one, and I was already out of sorts; though I didn’t realize how much so, until Joseph told me that we were going to his Uncle Zito’s house before we had dinner.

“Oh, please, no,” I whined at him. I couldn’t bear the thought of an evening in that smelly old apartment, with Uncle Zito and his pipe, and his loud voice blaring some stupid thing in my ear.

“Daisy?” Joseph looked at me surprised. I’d never countered him on anything, I’ve never had reason to.

“I don’t want to see your Uncle Zito,” I said, trying not to sound too angry with him.

“Oh? Why not?” he asked.

“I’m just so tired, couldn’t we just have dinner?”

“It won’t take but a minute,” Joseph said, and taking me by the hand we walked in silence the three blocks to his uncle’s apartment.

By the time the “minute” turned into an hour I was fuming. As we were out the door and on the way to the restaurant, I heard Joseph whisper something about not being such a whining brat.

“I am not!” I said, indignantly.

“Oh?” he said, looking at me with one fixed eye. Sometimes Daisy Markham, you act more like a twelve year old than a grown woman.”

Melanie shivered reading those words, as they reminded her of Tony’s accusations about her.

Joseph led me to a small diner just down the street, while I smoldered in my incensed state the whole way. In the restaurant I refused to talk to him, and that only made him look at me all the more irritated.

“Would you settle down, so we can enjoy our dinner,” Joseph said.

“What do you mean settle down, I’m just fine.” There was a very deliberate snarl in my voice. Sometimes I’m so foolish, the little things that bother me end up being so small.

Joseph looked at me as if he didn’t know what to say, he was appalled that I was acting this way with him. Usually my childish moods vanish in a few minutes, but this one was lingering on dangerously.

“Would you please talk to me?” he finally said, when my bristling silence had bothered him enough.

“If you don’t like the way I am,” I said, “then I’ll leave.” I grabbed my purse and started toward the door.

“Oh no you don’t!” Joseph said, pulling me back. “We just ordered dinner. You’re not going anywhere.”

“You think you can treat me like a child,” I said. I was very angry, and my raised voice was beginning to draw attention to our argument.

Joseph flashed those dark eyes at me, and I should have realized how upset he was then, but I HAD to stamp my foot, and pull away from him. I walked out leaving him with two uneaten dinners to pay for. I can see now why he was so upset. Then, I thought I was perfectly justified in my attitude.

When Joseph caught up with me, he grabbed my hand and held it tightly, so there was no way I would get away. He didn’t say a single word, all the way home, but when we got to my bungalow his next measures stopped me cold.

Following me into the house, he stood for some seconds in the midst of the living room.

“Do you have a hairbrush, Daisy?” he asked. His question took me completely by surprise.

I told him yes. Of course I have a hairbrush.

“Go get it,” he said. The tone of voice was so demanding, but I was still too naive to realize what he planned to do with it. I ran off to my room and retrieved my hairbrush, thinking that Joseph simply wanted to brush his hair. But when I handed the black lacquer brush to him, he took it in his hand and walked toward the dining room where he pulled out one of the dining room chairs.

“Come here,” he ordered me.

I was flustered, as it dawned on me what he had in mind. I felt just like a little kid again, as well I should, the way I was acting.

Joseph didn’t wait for me to respond, but closed the several steps between us and pulled me by the arm toward the dining room chair. I’m sure I shrieked out loud, but I remember now so little of what happened. I do remember that Joseph was more serious than I’d ever seen him.

“You behave like a brat with me, I’ll treat you like one,” he said.

I was trembling all over; but it was so strange, I didn’t have the courage to offer a protest. I was simply stunned. No one, not even my father has ever stood up to me this way. I still don’t know what to make of it.

“What are you going to do,” I asked, as if I didn’t know.

“Spank you,” he said quite calmly. His cold strength was so compelling I couldn’t do anything but submit, as he sat down and pulled me over his lap. He immediately administered several hearty smacks across my rear end, the hairbrush giving quite a good sharp smack.

I was so shocked, I didn’t utter a word until the second half dozen smacks. Then with my wits about me, I began to wail like the dickens, kicking and screaming with all my might.

“Joseph, you have to stop this!” I cried.

“I certainly do not!” he insisted. He let that brush land harder still.

“Stop it now!” I tried again.

“Hush!” he blared at me, as he continued to lay the horrible thing on my bottom.

I quieted at least for a moment, though I continued to try wiggling away from him. That only made Joseph spank me harder. And with his free arm clamping itself about my waist, my furious struggles were all the more pointless.

The brush came down with such fury that I thought he’d never stop. Before long, my bottom seemed to burn, each new smack just adding to the ever growing warmth in my rear. I was so humiliated, I was no doubt blushing, though neither of us would know that right then, since my face was nearly on the floor.

I couldn’t believe how much this hurt. I imagined my poor bottom glowing rosy red under my skirt.

“Joseph, please,” I wailed, very loudly.

“If you don’t be quiet my love, I’ll pull up your skirt and get a little closer to your bare skin!” he informed me.

That quieted me altogether, I couldn’t imagine anything more horrible, or more improper; though I have to admit that there was a certain fascination with the possibility.

The hairbrush continued with an amazing steadiness, until I thought I could stand no more. And just as I was about to squeal loudly again, Joseph stopped.

“Now,” he said, as he pushed me back to my feet. I was about to run bawling to my bedroom, but his voice leapt out at me and hauled me back.

“Don’t you go anywhere,” he said, very sternly.

I shrank back, embarrassed to let him see my tears and my red nose, rubbing my poor wounded rear. It still felt mighty sore, though the burn was beginning to subside, leaving me with the most lovely warm feeling on my punished rear cheeks.

“Don’t you ever pull a silly stunt like that again. Do you understand?”

“Stunt?” I questioned him foolishly.

“Making a scene in the restaurant, and walking out on dinner,” he reminded me. “You’re much too old to act like that.”

He was completely right, I know, but there was just enough defiance left in me to scowl at him nastily.

“I’d better get an apology Daisy, or I’ll start again.” He waved the hairbrush in his hand. I knew he wasn’t kidding.

“I’m sorry,” I said at last. “You were right.” I believed every word I said, and I hoped he heard the sincerity in my voice. I guess I was still so stunned by the whole thing, that I couldn’t believe it had happened. Even today, I still don’t know exactly what to make of the amazing incident, or my dear Joseph, but strange as it seems, it’s only made me love him all the more.

After my apology, Joseph came to me and put his arms about me and held me. I didn’t say a word, and neither did he. Explanations were unnecessary, as if the treatment was normal and perfectly appropriate for a courtship like ours.

When he finally spoke, he was as loving and tender as he’d always been. All the horrible irritation and anger had vanished, and I could only remember the sweet things about our time together.

I cooked him scrambled eggs and potatoes, and he said it was the best meal he’d ever had. I don’t know if he was telling the truth or not, but it didn’t seem like honesty was quite as important right then, as the quality of affection we had for each other. And mine, as bizarre as it may seem, has risen by leaps and bounds, in this short time.

The Milk Bitch Trilogy by Frances Gaines Bennett

During lunch at a DC power restaurant, the striking brunette journalist Gina can't take her eyes off a ruggedly handsome man on the other side of the dining room. An advance on him is rebuffed by the maitre'd, but that doesn't stop Gina from trading a night of sex with the restaurant owner for information on her mystery man. Before that night is over Gina will be drugged and later wake up in a warehouse, where sees shocking scenes of young women being examined, sold, crated and wheeled away. She listens in horror as her mystery man, Ward, and a powerful Sheikh make a deal that will turn Gina into Ward's property.

Though Gina finally lands safely back at home, her world has been upended...even her sister and good friend are in the clutches of this slave trade... and some of the powerful in Washington are in on this shocking commerce in women. Gina is now at Ward's beck and call as he tortures, ass rapes and humiliatingly degrades her in acts that bring her to intensely powerful orgasms.

She'll be subjected to a systematic program of sexual breeding and forced lactation. In a diabolical research lab, under the direction of Dr. Roland, her breasts are ballooned to an extraordinary degree, an activity that becomes highly orgasmic for the slavishly submitting Gina. To perfect the alternations, she's left at the doctor's farm where she and the other girls are kept in stalls like cattle. Once Gina returns to DC, her bulbous milk-filled breasts become the object of much attention. She's routinely milked and fed special diets that will alter her milk in order to please the men to whom she's given. Her transformation from DC journalist to Ward's Milk Bitch is now complete.

More brutal subjugation follows, as Gina's story continues in Milk Bitch Lost. She's taken to the Sheikh's home where Ward shows off her special milking talents and arranges to transform other females who will serve the Sheikh in the same manner. While there, Gina is kidnapped by Amani, a powerful priest with mystical powers, and a complicated plot must be devised to save her. Finally in book three, Milk Bitch Pawn, Gina is back in the US where she's again forced into more dehumanizing scenes of abject submission, and becomes a integral part of her 'Daddy' Ward's scheme to blackmail a former US Vice President and his son.

The stories of Gina and her fellow milk bitch slaves are told in a beautifully written masterpiece of S&M perversion, with graphic depictions woven though suspenseful plots that will keep readers turning pages until the very end. While content centers on sexual submission and lactation, also included are body modification, suspension and Shibari bondage, stringent corsetting, slave autions, pain, punishment, whipping, pony girls, piercing, piss drinking and slave auctions.

Today when I miss someone, I find this helps.

"There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."

"A leaf fluttered in through the window this morning, as if supported by the rays of the sun, a bird settled on the fire escape, joy in the task of coffee, joy accompanied me as I walked."

For me, its about looking at the bigger picture. It's easy for me to think in one way. Oh I have to wait till this happens in the day before I can do that otherwise if this doesn't happen it has no purpose and shouldn't be allowed to start. The fact is, that's true but I'm not going to look at the day as some kind of chore when I should be enjoying things that happen in it and not overlooking them. Not enjoying them nearly as much as enjoying the thingS that I miss because of the person that I miss.

I understand that I am very lucky to have this person in my life and I have to remember that. It didn't just happen to me today, it wasn't an onset of emotions, it was ongoing since yesterday. I won't post more than this or less, just thought I would articulate something that means a lot onto a space where it's about saying what's on your mind.

Favourite Things blah.

Saturday, 20 November 2010

If someone could pay me for each post, I'd buy myself a hot tub

to save myself from boredom. It's not even ten yet. I have done everything and more in the last few hours. I am tired but refuse to sleep early on a Saturday night. It's !!Saturday!! night and I'm thinking about watching fucking Love Story on youtube.

Anyway I always have an opinion about something or other and of course I have one on the very trivial People's Sexiest Man Alive. Whenever I think of that title I'm reminded of a Mills and Boon romance with a really cheesy smiling guy on the cover holding a rose and looking slimy. However, I did enjoy that book in particular when he shacked up with his plain Jane seceretary, you have to hand it to Mills and Boon for subtlety and then he says to her if she ever leaves him again, he'll spank her. Oh I would have loved to have read Sexiest Man Alive 2; Secretary gets spanked (that's what it was called..) where she's giving him a blow job, he's fully clothed, she's very naked, and he writes something important and she has her mouth full of boss man's cock.

I need something to calm me down here, oh yeah..

Ryan Reynolds? He's the Sexiest Man Alive? Doesn't he shave his chest? No, kidding he has some hair there -I think -I can't even be bothered to look properly but he sort of looks as though he may shave his chesticles or have considered it at one point whilst fluffing his boyish hair. Look, honestly I have no beef with him, I don't know him, I liked the trailer for The Proposal, I could watch it again, but he (looks as though he would )shave his chest.

I know he has abs but he (looks as though he would) shave his chest.

Which brings me onto Zac Efron. He reminds me a little facially of Leonard Whiting from Romeo and Juliet, a good looking man for sure. The thing is his face is almost beautiful and even though he was in High School Musical, I actually think he could be quite raunchy, not that Ryan -shave chest today grow hair out tomorrow- Reynolds (see how bored I am!!)couldn't be a beast in bed too, but like Efron, he's unthreatening despite the level of body fitness going on there. Well maybe these two are threatening to men but nothing about them when I wasn't submitting to my Dominant made me go oh hello.

Then there's the classic man who doesn't shower. I remember when I had a sad little mini crush on Ethan Hawke but one of the things that turned me off about him was that Troy Dyer look. Troy Dyer had grease in his hair. He wanted to look dirty or was just dirty anyway but that didn't make him manly to me, it just made him someone trying to relive his teenage years. Whilst being a pouty little bitch about "Lainey" and oh yeah, like, the whole world.

And so whilst Johnny Depp is a wonderful actor and a witty man, I couldn't ever muster up excitement over wanting to kiss him because I always thought I might leftovers from a cigarette in my mouth.

And this Chris Pine? Really?

Someone posted about how they think these men are effeminate and non threatening and I remember the hype over Leonardo Di Caprio who has an angelic type of face, a bit of Bottecilli going on there, but he is someone who in his teen heart throb werewolf prime would be described as effeminate and unthreatening. What are womens or girls fascination with men who resemble women a bit? I never understood that although having said that I appreciate nice lips, (probably because I know they're going to be fun to kiss) and my Dominant has those.

I know People and to be honest all magazines are full of promotion. Ryan Reynolds has a new movie coming out, already out probably and Brad Pitt is a family man now with no sudden movie, Johnny Depp has The Tourist with Madame Jolie so it's all what's hot, what's not. I was reading something interesting about the Marie Claire article a woman wrote, she hates fat people so much to which most women I included replied what a bitch, and an author made a very interesting point that it's just about promotion. It's going to get a reaction and everytime, Marie Claire in this case is being promoted.

Odd things.

Sometimes I just want to shake things up a little. I have a thing about writing something that touches upon something that is very touching and in my dreams soul searing. Whatever. So, I have an odd habit I'd like to share.

You know in Silence of the Lambs, when that Hannibal Lecter character, no no it's not what you think, is listening to classical music whilst eating a dead person's body or some stuff like that, I like to listen to music like this whilst reading a book like American Psycho. (I say reading, you say googling excerpts from books). And it's not to make it more palatable, the music or the book, it's probably because of the contrasts between the two but mostly I reckon it's really because I enjoy both. I think these lines from AP are gorgeous and I also happen to think the music is too so it's like combining my two great likes and making a monstor that gives me pleasure.

". ..there is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusonary, and thought I could hide my cold gaze and you cans hake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable" I simply am not there. "

I just thought I would post something that's a little light hearted for once. However, as I am posting this, I have this bee in my bonnett. Is slavery or submission only palatable to people including those with some grasp of BDSM if it's about love? And, do people have a problem with a woman being objectified unless it's done with love?

And another one

Whilst reading, An excerpt from Owned and Owner

"I sat on my bed, waiting.

“I am going to men to be owned, to be owned, to be owned...” The words drummed softly but insistently through my head. Some part of me was amused at this need for drama. Still, I had to find a way to convince myself. There had been years of fantasies, some of them so intense they felt much more real than this. ‘This’ was a small locked room, hanging in space, waiting. Not much different from the cell I‘d lived in for months, or for that matter from my room at home. So although my rational side - such as it was - told me I was really on my way, there was some level on which I simply didn‘t believe it. I didn‘t believe that the world outside of me was finally going to match what had been going on so violently inside my head all those years. I wasn‘t sure exactly what I was going to, which didn‘t help. All I had was some official information, meant to put me off, and the pictures they had shown me briefly, six weeks before.

I could have cried when they took them away. If only I could have had them all to myself for a day or two! Instead I had to look at them with that dour, grey woman standing over me, muttering her disgust. I sat there trying to conceal my excitement, feeling almost paralyzed by the throbbing between my legs, pressing myself helplessly against the hard bench while trying to seem casual about my movements, my hands trembling as I turned over the pages.

I suppose they were hoping I‘d be appalled. As soon as I‘d glanced at them without a word, the woman snatched them away, not looking at me as she marched out, locking the door behind her with a clang. She wasn‘t stupid. I‘d proved myself once again to be beyond the pale. My shame made me long for the punishments I‘d seen in the pictures.

I sat on my bed trying to remember details in those pictures. What did the man look like who held the leash? The woman‘s expression - I‘d not had time to read it. The surroundings, were they familiar or strange? What was I in for? What had I done?

The judge had been grey, but not dour; a perceptive woman. That judicial eye had pierced my sullen armour more than once. Sullenness was my defence, at least in the psychological sense. (In the legal sense, I had none.) I‘d had such an attitude toward authority figures that all of them - mothers, aunts, teachers - had given up in despair. I raised attitude to an art form. I raised a lot of blood pressure, too. There had to be no chinks to my inner life. It was so habitual that the effort to drop it was wrenching, when that ultimate moment came in the courtroom.

Half the Reodir region seemed to have jammed itself into the long, low room, with its faint smell of ammonia, lurking beneath the sourbean odour of all the bodies and their breath. I refused to turn my head, but the intense half-hush of the crowd pressed palpably on every nerve I owned. The silence imposed by the judge‘s appearance was more ominous still.

“You have been determined to be incorrigibly irresponsible toward yourself and your community,” the judge pronounced. “I cannot recall a worse case. You have made nothing but bad use of the privileges this society accords its members. At every opportunity you have demonstrated that you cannot be trusted with citizenship status. You know your three options: rehabilitation, exile or slavery on Henth. What is your decision?”

For a long moment the words wouldn‘t come. They hung suspended in a tight, strangling web of silence. After a life of concealment, three words were going to show everyone my dreadful colours.

For months I‘d been rehearsing my response to prevent myself from losing my nerve at the last moment. I‘d planned to say the words by rote, without letting myself think or give them meaning. But my answer had to be forced through a constricted throat, and was addressed in a hoarse whisper to the table in front of me.

“Slavery on Henth.”

There was a sharp murmur behind me in the courtroom. No one had chosen the Third Option from my community in living memory. After a few moments the initial disbelief gave way to a roar of indignation. I clenched my sweating hands together, eyes fixed in front of me, my back to the crowd, trying not to cower. This was even worse than I had imagined. I was afraid they were going to lynch me.

“Etrin Aboia, let me be sure the court is not mistaken. State your choice again clearly and fully.” I swallowed with difficulty, and looked down at my hands. They were clenched together, but the thumbs made a small upward gesture, as if to tell me to get on with it.

Taking a deep breath, I raised my head and made my hunched shoulders drop. A kind of desperate calm came over me. For once I was going to say the truth about myself and not be ashamed. I made myself meet the judge‘s eye. The room went quiet.

I thought, this is it. Do it right, Etrin.

The words that emerged rang clear, across the court and back to me again, to echo around inside my skull. “I, Etrin Aboia, choose the Third Option, slavery on Henth, as punishment for my crimes of irresponsibility.” The voice sounded like it knew what it was talking about, and I was grateful. I could see by her expression that the judge, at least, knew the truth.

Still, I had to wait the required twenty-nine days before my choice was considered final. Twenty-nine days of hell.

At first I was elated at my emergence. I felt buoyant, without that leaden weight of constant concealment. I actually thought it might be possible to be who I was and say so. But my family was let in to plead with me, and their horrified reactions shut me down pretty fast. I went from glee to defiance, through to anger and resentment, then down into guilt. Soon I had to reassume my sullen armour, my only protection against their outpourings of grief and fear and anger, and my intense shame. By then I felt horribly naked and exposed, like a calibspod out of its shell, and I did my pathetic best to get my shell back on in a hurry.

Radiating disapproval, the authorities made sure I knew exactly what the Third Option meant. Although I heard some interesting details that I hadn‘t been able to pick up earlier, details which scared me more than ever, I didn‘t change my mind. The warder brought the photographs, then took them away again. Doctors made me go through another battery of tests to assess my sanity, very short with me for fooling them the last time. Sorry, sorry, sorry. They kept commenting on my intelligence, as if that mattered.

My family would have tried round-the-clock brainwashing techniques if they‘d been allowed. The ten hours they had each day were bad enough. They were losing me forever, and I should have been gratified that they found this so awful, in spite of everything I‘d put them through. But at the time I attributed it to their embarrassment over my appalling choice. Then of course I could reject them for their conformity to public opinion - a gibe that led to such a fight that the warders had to intervene.

Secretly, I suppose I wanted someone to understand and acknowledge my choice, someone to accept me as I was. Laughable when you think about it. Pathetically unrealistic, and far more than I deserved. I was bound to be disappointed on this one, because it was impossible for me to tell them just how long I had felt this way (forever), and how much I needed to go to Henth (indescribable). They thought it was just one of my self-destructive whims. The finality of it terrified them. Understandable; it terrified me, too.

I spent a lot of time with my arms crossed over my chest, glaring at the ceiling while they railed and pleaded. If even one of them had sat down and listened, I might have been able to tell them the truth. At last, driven to desperation, I grabbed one of my sisters by the shoulders and shouted in her face, “I‘m doing what I must; let me be!” Too little, too late. It didn‘t help. No one really heard me. They didn‘t leave me alone until the very last minute of the very last day.

At first the solitude on the spaceship was an unbelievable relief. I could put the guilt away and bask in the elation, having survived the ordeal. But the wait soon became boring, imprisoned alone in my little cabin, and at the same time brutal in the urgency of my waiting for the end of it. Finally, after those months in custody on Raniz, there was no peephole in the door, and no one demanding my attention. They brought me my food three times a day, that was all. I had nothing to read or screen. All I could do was think, try to imagine what was ahead, and relieve the pulsing demands between my legs, brought on by the memory of those photographs, and by the knowledge of what I had accomplished. The fear made my belly tighten with surges of excitement, the fear of what they would do to me, of whether I could stand it.

I spent hours looking at my body in the mirror. Was it pretty enough? I had no way of knowing what men would like in a woman. My body felt oddly detached from me, as if it wasn‘t mine at all. It occurred to me with a thrill of fear that soon it really wouldn‘t be mine, in honest truth.

I watched my hands hypnotically stroking the full, pointed breasts, the slender ribcage, the smooth buttocks. I ran my palms over the silky skin of my inner thighs, and my breath came faster. My eyes closed, and I thought of whips. I had never been whipped, or even slapped. Opening my eyes, I examined my face. Pale skin, reddish curls to my shoulders, the grey eyes shadowed and fearful. I was smaller than average, and I knew men were tall. Helpless, I‘d be helpless. The word made my belly contract with arousal.

There was nothing I could do about it now. Still, now that I didn‘t have to convince anyone else, I could admit to myself that I was well and truly terrified.

I was going to men to be owned...

All my life I had known that what I needed was not where I was. Just where it was located wasn‘t clear to me for a long time, but I knew, in a gut level, primitive way, right from the beginning, that something was missing from what I saw around me. Maybe it was the fact that unlike us, animals came in male and female, but I think it was more than that. There was something - actually, the absence of something - a gap, a chasm. Something indefinable, because I had nothing to go on. Everyone else seemed to feel complete and whole. I felt an ache of loss, and I didn‘t know what was gone, a yearning for I knew not what. It kept me separate and alone; it turned me silent.

I began to hear about a planet full of monsters somewhere, that used to have some mysterious and awful connection with us. Then the lesson in history class that focused the monsters into something even more fascinating: Men. I‘d always had vague fantasies, ‘stories’ I told myself each night before I fell asleep, or whenever I played alone. I knew enough to keep these to myself, that they were shameful. The new information fitted into the fantasies like a ship into its octagonal mooring - perfectly. Suddenly my imaginings had the right kind of hand on the whip, the right kind of body controlling and invading my own. My longings, now with an object, became the most agonizing of needs, but at least they were clear to me. And my need for secrecy became more urgent than ever.

I was an adolescent, desperately isolated by the split between the inner life I was living, and the ordinary one I walked each day, when I heard about the Third Option.

Just a library hour, like so many before and after. Classmates’ whispers all round; dull research on my scratched and clouded screen. A project for Community Ethics and Law had me scrolling through dry legal texts, not written or intended for children.

And there, in half a line in small print, at the bottom of an account of an embezzlement case, was the outcome: slavery on Henth.

I stared at the words, and stared at them, and everything else in my universe tipped and slid away into the void. Those three words were a seismic event, a watershed between Etrin before and after.

I found myself starting to misbehave.

My outward life ceased to be so ordinary. First my high marks in school went to dust, and I stopped being where I was expected to be. Then I started taking things apart, usually literally.

At first it was excruciating, doing something other than what was expected. I had been an inhibited, compliant child, so upset by disapproval that my tough womb-mother had shaken her head over me. After a while I got better at it, began guiltily to enjoy the turmoil I caused. I had never really belonged to these people, that is what I felt, so why should I care if I hurt them? Sometimes I hated them for not being what I wanted so fervently. I made damned sure that no one could get close enough to make the task ahead of me any harder. The shame I felt for hurting people fed right into my need.

After each incident I wished so hard for punishment, for someone to hold me immobile and hurt me. What was the matter with them? How far were they going to let me go? Why were they giving me all this freedom? I hated it. And the harder I pushed the limits of that freedom, the more disturbing the possible outcomes became.

Still, I didn‘t always know that I would follow the plan all the way through. I had a million ways to get off the path to Henth if I wanted to. Right up to the end of the twenty-ninth day... All through those years I told myself I could back out at any time, become responsible, that this was just a game I was playing. A game of tension and risk, toying with the unthinkable. Change was too much to hope for; this life on Raniz, hopeless as it was, was the one I had. How could I imagine that I could accomplish anything different?

Only at night, in the dark, with the belts tightened around my naked body, the rope pulled into my vulva and tied front and back, my hands stroking, pulling, my inadequate female hands punishing, did I know, deep in my very center, that I would put myself into a man‘s hands - a real man‘s. I would not turn back."