There Is Nothing Scary About Chicken Salad

[disclaimer: This blog post rambles. Even for one of my postings, ramble-freaking-city. You have been warned.]

 

I can honestly say that this has been one HELL of a year so far. Barely two months in and already there have been incredible good and bad things. New friendships begin, at least one very old friendship (I fear) has ended.

I have gone from constant pain to feeling more like myself than I ever dreamed possible. Very healthy days, very sickly days. As Charles Dickens wrote “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”. Yeah, I think Chuck had a point. I get it.

In the midst of all these things, there have also been things reaffirmed to me by the “powers that be”, whether one believes that to be God, the Universe, Allah, Krshna, or just my soul, the result is the same. I have experienced many life changing events and even a few real-time thought process changes.

I have really, for the first time, begun to turn loose of my past and the things that are difficult to speak of. I have (I think) finally not only made peace with the things that I have survived, but I have begun to turn loose of them.

All humans are part of the animal kingdom, and really, we pretty much do behave as animals. Now don’t get all wound up, I’m not saying that we don’t function on a different level, we certainly do! There is a very different playing field between what we consider “animals” and the “human animal”. What I am saying is that we tend to learn in much the same ways animals do, and to a point our reactions and habits are fairly easy to predict. If this were not the case, psychology would be useless, as my reactions and fears would not resemble anyone else, they would be completely random and I would be unable to control them. This is definitely not the case for humans. We are fairly predictable in our actions and habits, both in the personal sense and in the group setting.

So, with that in mind, I have begun to realize that my actions are not altogether unpredictable in nature, either. By “I have begun to realize”, what I mean is that is has been pointed out to me in great detail. It has been pointed out in such a way as it cannot be ignored. I’m getting ahead of myself. Okay. Whoa! Time to back it up a notch and explain this a little (lot) better.

This train of thought actually began about a month ago. After hearing a friend tell me over and over that I would really enjoy a specific book, I finally took two minutes and found it. At my local library. Right there in the stacks. (yeah, can you say duh?) I took it as a signal that perhaps this IS something I should read, since it was so very easy to find in my little town of less than 15000 people. I had barely cleared the prologue before I knew that this was going to be a game changing book for me.

I don’t come across things that affect me so profoundly very often. This little book was full of things that resonated with everything I feel, everything I know. As I was reading, I found myself nodding and thinking, gee, I knew that, even though I am sure I have never read it before. It was like someone describing your hometown to you. It is familiar to you, there is never a moment of “wait, can this be true?” It is just knowing. There were no earth shattering revelations between the well-worn covers of this little book, and it was also a very entertaining little story as well. The result was that I walked away changed by the wisdom I had absorbed. I think that is what all good books should do.

After that book, I had to read another book by the same author, and although I was sure I would have to buy this one, since it was not at the local library, I put off the buying for a few days. I don’t know why, I just felt like I should wait. So I did wait. On the Saturday that I took grandma shopping, we decided to stop at a Goodwill store, so I was looking through the worn out college books and “Chicken Soup for the insert-demographic-of-your-choice Soul” paperbacks. Grandma asks what book I’m looking for, so I told her. “Oh” she says “I think I have that book.”

Really?

I argued with her, mainly because I was just sure that she wouldn’t have the book I was looking for. How could she already know about the wisdom that I was just discovering after all? No way did she have this book! When I took her home, she wanted to look for it in her bookcases and I told her not to worry about it, we will look for it later, I was tired and the last thing I wanted to do was look through her many bookcases for something I was sure she didn’t have.

We ended up over at her house again, the next day, actually. I had forgotten by then about the book, but grandma didn’t . She insisted that we look through her bookshelf to see if it was the book she had. I sat down in front of the mammoth shelves, defeated and knowing that I would have to look through each and every one before she was satisfied. Honestly, I think I might have pouted just a little. As I scanned, half-heartedly for a book that I just knew I would not find, my hand landed right on a copy of the book I was looking for.

“I’ll be damned!” I said, which earned me a “Lunargirl!”* from grandma. (she didn’t actually call me that, she referred to me by my first and middle name, which still sounds just as impressive as it did when I was 8) The book I wanted, the one I had been looking for? It was right there all along. Grandma has had that particular book since 1979, when I was three. *facepalm* So, yeah, listen to granny…sometimes she isn’t confused…

After reading both books and deciding that there was much wisdom to be had in both, I decided that there were things about me that I could improve. I have worked very steadily on these things and some of you are quite aware of this, some less aware of it. I will take a moment to say that when a certain friend starts to get on my case in front of everyone on twitter IN ALL CAPS about how I am stubborn, it is well founded. I don’t disagree with him, mainly because he is absolutely right. Also because I know it is as a friend. I really don’t mind being called out by someone who cares. If the intent is good, then it is all good.

In the last year, fate has seen fit to send me several close friends. I find it more than ironic that my closest friends are all men. All of them. They are all older than I am. I think it is all part of me learning how to trust again. There is a part of me that has a very hard time trusting men, especially those that are close to the age that my father might have been now. It comes from the traumas of youth, when I was hurt deeply by those I should have been able to trust. I understand that part of myself now, and it makes healing much easier.

I find it more than a little ironic that most of the friends I have made (who as I said are men) are also very knowledgable in psychology and anthropology. I didn’t set out to meet these guys, fate just tossed us all together. Isn’t that cool? One of my closest friends is actually a retired psychiatrist. I didn’t know that when we began talking, honestly, if I had, I probably would have approached him differently. As I have stated before, I have a long time distrust of shrinks. I have been assured that I am no crazier than anyone else and that although I have a few bad habits, I can be a much happier person than I have been. I think that’s healthy.

I told you all that to tell you this:

There was a disagreement between She and I last week. She was acting in a way that I found very disturbing and I pretty much just lost it and shut down. I was afraid of being hurt and I wasn’t sure what to do. Eventually, it got late enough that we went to bed. She drifted right off to sleep (the biggest part of her problem was that she WAS tired and on edge) and I stared at the wall for a long time before finally deciding that I needed to sleep.

I was telling my retired psychologist friend about it and the first time around the response was “I don’t understand why you are so upset.” (which did not make me happy) so I told the story again, with more detail, and then a third time, when I told ALL of the story including what bothered me and how I felt about things. As it turned out, I was part of my problem. (I know, hard to believe)

I can tell you that after seventeen years together, if I were in any danger at all, I would have known it by now. Over the years, She and I have had some dandy arguments, but never, not one time in seventeen years has She ever raised her hand to me in anger. Never in seventeen years have I raised my hand to her in anger. We don’t believe that is what love is about. We might shout, we might even throw things on the odd occasion, but never is there violence. So why was I so scared? Somewhere, deep inside of me, there was still the same scared little girl afraid of being hurt.

“You are living in the past” my friend says. Well that pissed me right off. How dare you tell me that I am the problem here. I took a few minutes and was just breathing in and breathing out while he very patiently explained to me what he meant. “Why were you scared?” I had no choice but to answer that I was instantly reminded of the terrible things that happened when people started shouting and I was young. There was never an argument that didn’t end in someone getting hit, punched, slapped, etc. It always ended in violence. Part of me still wanted to react to that. Just like Pavlov’s dog, I had been conditioned. It had happened without my consent and without me even giving it a second thought. Having it pointed out didn’t make me feel very good about it though.

“So you have to decide whether you intend to stay where you are, or are you going to let go of the scared little girl and move on. You aren’t there anymore. Is that where you want to live?”

“No. (sniff) I don’t want to be that girl again. It sucked enough the first time around.”

“Then let it go and move on.”

“Well, how the hell do I do that?”

“I want to say something, but it will piss you off.”

(eye roll from me…)

“Just say it. I can take it.”

“Dammit, you are not that stupid.”

It didn’t piss me off, as it turned out. It did make me think, though. As per my usual, I was making it harder than it really was. I think my friend could sense this, so he broke it down so well for me using an analogy that works for me. Cooking.

“Listen. You can cook really well now, can’t you?”

“Yeah. I do alright.”

“Could you always, or was it hard at first, maybe a little scary…”

“yeah, it used to be harder than it is now.”

“alright then. So what seems hard now, it really isn’t. Eventually it gets easier. Just like once there was a time when you didn’t know how to make chicken salad, but now, chicken salad is nothing. Way easy. Get it?”

(lightbulb)

“yeah. I think I got it.”

We talked for a little while and I managed to bring it up when She and I got home that night. I told her how I felt, and even though I was a little embarrassed to admit it, I told her how much it upset me the night before. In the end, She and I are getting closer and closer all the time since I have committed to telling her EVERYTHING (hush you. I know we talked about this last year. You know who you are.) about how I feel and how things affect me. In the end, the things that I held back, afraid that She would see me as weak? Those things, once revealed actually made us stronger. (yeah, I know, you told me that too. lol)

So believe me when I tell you, the scared little girl has been turned loose and doesn’t live here anymore.

and

There is nothing scary about chicken salad.

 

Lunargirl

 

Joyeaux Noel

Hello readers who are still with me.

This has certainly not been the year for me to make regular postings, not even haphazardly. It has not been a bad year, necessarily, but it sure has been busy. As a friend of mine says (often) “Never A Dull Moment” with me.

He’s right, of course, but what can I say? It has been busy. I have been busy. So I apologize, Alias, I (still) have not written that belting story you keep asking for. I’m sorry, Olivia, I have never continued (let alone finished) the story I started for you. (Sorry, M, my co-author on said story). There are some things that still remain undone, not the least of which would be stories and ideas. I just never seem to have enough time for everything. I promise you all, in the next few months I will get myself back together and get the ball rolling again.

Of course, there ARE things that I did get done.

I did make a commitment to work at communicating at a higher level with Her, which has improved our relationship and will only continue to improve. I did (with the help of M), learn how to accept parts of myself that I have always had a harder time with. I have (thanks to many friends) gathered enough information to understand some of my hangups, which makes solving some of them much easier. I have even made connections with new friends that I am confident will help me to understand so many more things.

All in all, life is good. My health issues are resolving, slowly but surely. I am learning how to take better care of myself, something that I have not always (see: never) been good at. This is a good thing. Sometimes we struggle with things, sometimes we go through hard times, but they only serve to teach us what we refuse to learn any other way. How long we struggle with them is completely up to us. I choose to learn now, to not make it take longer than it must. Life is shorter than most of us would like. I don’t want to waste a minute of mine.

This has been the first year in the last eight that I have really enjoyed Christmas. Last year I wrote about how tough the season has been, but I have learned in this last year that I don’t have to live in the past. My life today is what I have. Life isn’t the destination, it is really about the trip. I prefer to spend the trip looking at the scenery, not longing for what has been left behind and cannot be retrieved. I will miss those that have left my life, but all the want in the world will never return them to me. I choose to enjoy the good memories, not dwell on the knowledge that these people are gone.

I will be a grandmother in about four months. That still blows me away. I can’t come up with words to describe how this makes me feel, but I can tell you, it is mostly good. A little sad, yes, because the teenager isn’t really finished being a child yet, but now must grow up very quickly. I am sure we will all be quite fine, teenager included.

All in all, it has been a good year, and we all have plenty to be joyful for. Have a great holiday, and I hope to see you here in the New Year!

Lunargirl

 

 

Lunargirl Loves Lurkers!

Of course, you know what I mean, right?  Not those creepy dudes that eyeball your every movement when you are walking around the mall, but “lurkers”, those who read and think and usually never comment. They make up the greatest part of the population of blog readers. They are there, I know, because I see the statistics and there are FAR many more reading than there are commenting. (Don’t worry, I can’t see who you are, just your footprints after you’ve gone). 

Some may not understand the reasoning of “lurking”, but I get it. Hasn’t been that long since I was lurking, too. Its okay, we all start out that way more or less, some people do it for a long time, others only for a day or so. For me it was years of reading but never commenting until one day I just did it. I commented. My world has changed quite a bit since then, in all ways good.

One of the first blogs I started reading was Bonnie’s blog “My Bottom Smarts”. If you are new or maybe you’ve never been there, you should go over there. Always great info and links to many other great blogs. Matter of fact, Love Our Lurkers Day is kinda Bonnie’s idea, too!

So to all my wonderful lurkers, I do love you very sincerely. I was you, and I write for you, too! I’m glad you are out there, I hope someday to hear all about you, my comment box is always open to you. There is no restriction on who can comment. I welcome you with open arms.

And if you would rather keep on lurking, that’s okay, too. Just know that you are welcome here and very appreciated.

Happy Love Our Lurkers Day!

(And special thanks to Bonnie. What a great idea.)

Lunargirl

 

Vampires, Violins, and Visions 1

It wasn’t really an apartment, really, as much as it was a room off of an apartment that was used for a very specific purpose, the reason that she had arrived here on this chilly and damp night. She was dressed comfortably, just as instructed, wearing a loose sweatshirt and sweatpants. She had removed her shoes as she had entered and the very sweet woman who answered the door had shown her to the very well-appointed back office.

Nancy was instantly at home in her surroundings, and felt very at ease. The plush carpet was warm under her stocking feet and the knotty pine paneling, although very masculine, was polished and shone warmly under the exquisite and handsome pictures hanging upon the walls of the room. There was a huge dark desk in one corner, a small lamp still lit sitting on the corner of the desk, closest to her. Although this was the only light in the room, the wooden blinds long since closed, it was comfortable and the soft music that was (she supposed) playing from the computer on the opposite end of the desk was very calming as well. For all the darker and masculine colors in this room, the higher ceiling kept the place from feeling cramped and stuffy. There actually seemed to be the slightest presence of a breeze in the small space. For a moment, Nancy lost herself in examining the copper-colored tin tiles that lined the high ceiling. Each individual tile held its own pattern, but in looking at the smaller patterns and appreciating them each, she could also see a larger pattern. Her head began to swim for just a moment with the infinite patterns found within each larger pattern. For a moment she could almost imagine a face peering back at her from the tiles. Realizing with a start that this was the edge of another vision, she struggled for mere seconds with either giving in to the vision or “tuning out” of it. With a start, she realized the woman who brought her to this office was still standing in the doorway (and had likely never left). “He will be right with you, Nancy” the sweet woman had told her. The woman was definitely not the hired help, and since she walked through the home as if she owned it, Nancy supposed she probably did own it, or at least part of it. As the woman shut the door and walked away, while Nancy contemplated just how many times this woman must have seen women just like her on nights just like this?

Nancy confirmed her suspicions when she saw a picture of the same woman on a much happier day, her wedding dress adding to the stunning beauty that the photograph already possessed. Nancy wondered for a moment if she would ever have such happiness, if she ever had possessed such happiness. Looking deeper into the eyes of the two people in the center of the photograph, she felt that she could see some deeper truth lodged in the eyes of the groom. Like an unspoken word, a hidden talent lurked behind the eyes of the man who was smiling in the picture. Had it not been for the fact that Nancy was sure she would have left an oily smudge on the glass of the frame, she would have laid her hand upon the picture, allowing the vision to come. She didn’t know quite yet what the connection was, but she knew within herself that there was a connection between them. What did this man know, perhaps not even realizing her knew it just yet, that would help Nancy find the meaning of the many visions, the pleasant and the not so pleasant, that nearly constantly flooded her mind?

She trailed her fingers across the back of the leather couch, feeling the smoothness of the fabric and sharp corners of the folds where the back had been upholstered using the traditional “button” style. This guy was supposed to be the best at what he did. Nancy sure hoped so. She had to find some answers, she had to know where the dreams came from and what did they mean. Did everyone “feel” things as she did when she entered a building or a room? She needed to know, needed to confirm to herself that she was not just another lunatic. As Nancy gently took her seat on the edge of the couch and began to try to relax, the door opened and in walked Dr. Gifford.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long?” He said to her, a very gentle but pleasing voice. The question sounded more like a statement and Nancy wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but she still stood up and placed her clammy hand into his, assuring him all the while that she hadn’t been there long at all and it was no trouble.

Dr. Alex Gifford was not an old man by any means, but he was also no longer young. His hair had begun that same gradual retreat that most men in the mid 40′s begin to hate. Nancy couldn’t decide what his ethnic background was, it seemed that the more she looked at him, the more she saw there and was not able to attribute to any particular race. He was a very ordinary man, she decided. While part of her found that to be comforting,  part of her found it very amusing, considering the accolades that had brought her to him in the first place. When she had searched for the person to help her decipher the things that her mind showed her in hasty little vignettes, she had run across such descriptions as “A walking miracle man” and “the best I have ever known”. Nancy felt more than a little silly to put such faith into things she had only read online, but she realized that she had instantly known them to be true of him. It was becoming clear to her now that she found the reality of him to be smaller than the myth she had allowed her mind to create. For all she knew, the man sitting behind the desk perusing a manilla file folder (probably her file) was the author of all the good things she had read. With a sigh she decided to put her fears aside and put some faith into the middle-aged man who was seated to her left, behind the huge mahogany desk.

As though he could sense every thought that ran through her troubled mind and almost as though he knew she had finally come to a stopping point, he closed the folder and looked up.

“So”, he began “What can I do for you, Nancy?”

 

A (Very) Short Story

“I need some assistance, please” she announced into the phone receiver. “Can we meet in a few hours at the regular place?” There was a moment, a pause, then a quick “thank you” followed by what must have been a good-bye.

In the span of three hours’ time, she found herself face down over the lap of her ally, her confidant, her friend. One hand resting on the crown of her already bare and slightly pinked backside, the other gently rubbing the small of her back.

“We’ve had this discussion before,  now haven’t we? ” she is asked quietly by him. A nod from her to the affirmative as he picks up his favorite hairbrush, one never used for hair, and begins assaulting the naked posterior of a squirming and squeaking young lady.

As each blow from the brush lands, she finds herself at once quelled and consumed, yet compelled ever closer to the inevitable emotional release. She knows that her companion will not finish this assault on her hindquarters until he knows she has made it safely across to that emotional release she craves and so desperately needs, regardless of how much squirming and leg-kicking goes on. She begins by putting up a valiant fight to resist the urge to let go, all the while knowing it is only a matter of time before she must give in and allow her body to teach her mind what it does not understand.

The first slick, hot, tear finds its way from her eye to her nose, dripping to the floor, unknown by anyone but her. She comprehends at that moment just how much she has held on to, exactly how overwhelmed she has allowed herself to become. The feeling, the emotion held in check always by her stubborn mind, gains a foothold and all is lost. She finds herself letting go and feels the frustration seeping from her eyes and streaming down her face. She hears the sobbing before realizing that it is her own voice she is listening to.

As he hears that first bit of sob choke out of his young friend, he lays the brush aside and resumes his pace using only his hand, until she is able to turn loose and let her emotions run their course. He resumes rubbing her back, and as she pushes herself up with a bit of help from her friend, she lay against his chest and allows herself to cry it out as he holds her close to him.

The only other words spoken?

feel better now?
thank you so much.

 

 

Lunargirl

 

***a special thank you to the friend that inspired this particular ramble of my mind. You do hold a place dear to my heart. I’m glad you liked the first draft, I hope you like the edited version even more!

 

A Little Something…

I woke with a thought, stirred by a friend.

A dance, an excerpt of a song that I had promised myself long ago I would look up.

Look it up, I have.

Now I can share it with you.

Those of you lucky enough to be dancers, enjoy. I envy you. A LOT.

We can still be friends, though.

The artwork chosen for the background of the video looks familiar, as well. Beautifully matched.

For those who would like to know the name of music and composer:

Por una cabeza – Carlos Gardel

 

(second half of) A Bedtime Story

So…

I know you didn’t come back here to hear stories about how good I’ve been this week, did you? If you did, I can tell you all about it, but I am sure you wouldn’t believe me. Why should you? I have been perfect all week.

Hah. Perfectly bratty! (snicker)

So, yes, the other half of the story…

…would begin with me climbing on top of her body, my hips straddling her hips, I can see the softening of her features. After all, this would be quite her favorite position to get me into. I smile down at her as I take both of her wrists tightly into my hands and pull her arms up over her head. As dominant as she is with me, I know she enjoys it very much when I tie her hands into the headboard of our big bed. Just enough to be snug, I am no dominant, after all, I just want to please her, and I will.

As I am tying her hands over her head, she makes a few exaggerated attempts to catch my nipples in her teeth, which I assist her with finally, until I pull my chest away and replace it with my mouth. We kiss deeply and slowly, allowing the intensity to build and the anticipation to rise. I will very slowly begin tracing the line of her jaw with my lips, traveling southward until I am kissing, nuzzling, and gently biting her neck. I can tell she is very turned on by the way her hips begin to move under me. I slide off of her and kneel beside her on the bed, kissing my way down her bare chest, breathing in her scent, tasting her skin and enjoying every sigh and eventually the impatient growls.

Settling myself, I gently kiss the insides of her lovely thighs, perhaps stealing a nibble or two…and working my way from the thigh to the groin. I can tell from her breathing and the vocal response that she is ready and getting impatient, although she enjoys the waiting as much as I enjoy it. I lay my cheek on her mound tenderly, stroking my fingertips along the length of her thighs, I enjoy the warmth and the scent of her, sliding my fingers along the length of her, I know just how ready (and how wet) she is.

I delve into her with just the tip of my tongue, but it is very little time until the quick and gentle licks turn into longer and more determined strokes of my tongue. I take as much of her swollen sex into my mouth as I possibly can, suckling and nibbling gently, riding the thrust of her hips, enjoying the sweet sounds she makes as her body rides closer and ever closer to climax. Perhaps I will gently push a finger inside so that I can feel her come from the inside and the outside.

As she comes, I will lie my body atop of hers and ride the orgasm with her, enjoying the thought of giving her such pleasure. As I untie her wrists, she takes me into her arms and rolls her weight over on top of me, holding me in her strong embrace and I stroke her face as she pulls me closer to her.

She is mine, and I am hers, and there is no one else. Not now. Not ever. Just us. As it should be.

Lunargirl

 

(Half Of) A Bedtime Story

What’s a girl to do?

I’ve been good. Oh, I have been very good.

You believe me, right? Right? Oh, come on. You must believe me. I have been the very picture of innocence, the pinnacle of virtue.

Still not sold? ::sigh::

Alright. So perhaps I have been a little naughty every now and again.

Oh, okay. So maybe a little more often than every now and again.

Well, yes, in fact, it has been pretty much every single day.

There. Now. That’s over.

 

I promised a few months ago that I would write a posting about things that turn me on, a really hot fantasy. That’s considerably harder for me than one might expect. Writing about what turns on some “fictional” character is easy. Writing about me, well, that is much more difficult. So, here goes nothing.

(and thanks to a good friend that gives me excellent jumping off points–you know who you are)

The suggestion from this friend:  Bind yourself and offer to Her.

Whoa. Now there is a hot subject. I am sure that it would turn Her on, and I know it turns me on. I told Her about it the other night, I was brave and told her all about it, in explicit detail. Did she like it? Ummmm, yeah (duh)

 

So, one night, not so long from now, She will come home to:

 

Me, freshly bathed in the scented soap that she loves. My hair up. Wearing nothing but a bra and a plain white button-down shirt. I will be on my knees facing away from the bedroom door, on the ottoman that sits at the foot of our bed. The bed will be clear of everything save the fitted sheet and the few things she has instructed me to leave there.

My hands will be bound together, in my lap in front of me. My knees will be spread as far from each other as they can be, which will cause my bare bottom to peek out from under the shirt tail.  I will not be blindfolded, but I will not be allowed to look anywhere but down at my lap. I will wait for her just like this until she arrives. Anticipating her arrival, I am sure that my sex will be slick with my desire, I can imagine being able to smell the sweet scent of my arousal while I am waiting for her to appear.

She enters the room, I know her footstep and my pulse quickens as I envision her behind me, her hands sliding under the stiff fabric of the shirt, my only covering. Beginning with the top button, she begins undoing them one by one, slowly and methodically, my mind whirring along. As she reaches the last button, I expect to feel her fingers brush against my engorged labia, but instead I feel her loosen my restraints and grasping my wrist in one hand, with the other she makes quick work of the shirt covering my body. Quick as a flash, my hands are once again restrained and now they are secured into the hook on the ceiling. I feel the fabric at the same time that I see it. Blindfolded, bound, completely helpless and at Her whim, I shiver with anticipation and excitement.

“Who do you belong to?”

“You”

Her hands grabbing the cheeks of my backside, sliding from my bottom crack to the front, She rubs for only a moment, feeling the warmth and wetness, then she leaves me suspended there for a moment while she moves to stand directly behind me. Her arms encircle me, my safe haven, my security. In the next moment, Her hands are pushing up the fabric of my bra, my breasts falling free, she palms and rubs them for a moment, taking an extra moment to tease my nipples to standing. I groan quietly, it feels so incredibly good and so very intense. She takes a moment then slaps the right breast with her hand, repeating the process with the left one. There is pain, but also pleasure in the action. Countless times she slaps them, until I can feel them begin to warm from her touch.

She stops long enough to pick up the newest toy added to our collection, the dogging bat. She uses it with skill on each breast, at times managing to catch even just the nipple, causing me to moan repeatedly. When she has her fill of tormenting my breasts, she moves to my backside, first with her hand, then with the bat. Once she has what she refers to as “an acceptable color” to my bottom, she has me stand, which is easy enough, and she loosens my restraints from the hook. I am laid on the bed, face up, and she attaches the restraints to the metal scrollwork on the headboard.

Her instructions are short and very to the point. “Spread your legs wide. Wider.” I spread them as wide as I can manage, until I can go no farther. She then strokes her hand along the length of my pubis. She then takes her hand and begins to smack the area she was rubbing only seconds before. It takes a few reminders for me to keep my legs spread fully.

When She is satisfied that I can take no more of this, which means I have taken much more of this than I ever thought possible, She flips me over to my stomach and using her hands, she begins to penetrate me, deep and rough, her movements fueled by lust and need. She pounds her way to the only ending possible, until she has me a quivering crying mess, the evidence of my orgasm all over the bedsheets. When she loosens my restraints she kisses me, long and deep, holding me until I catch my breath. I lay in Her arms and look up at her, asking if I can now be allowed to return the favor…but that will have to wait until next time for the reader.

 

So there you have at least half of a fantasy. That is half a fantasy more than I managed to get written the last time.  I promise to write the other half down soon.

 

 

Lunargirl

 

 

Dominant and submissive Genes

I have been thinking lately. A lot.

I know that is not always my best plan, but it’s all I have now, so there ya go.

I find that when things keep coming up in conversation over and over, I should take notice. This thing just keeps on calling out to me, every time I turn around, there it is again, so okay universe. I am going to blog about it and see where it goes from there.

What keeps coming up and has captured my attention? Genetics. Predispositions. Nature vs. Nurture.

Are we hard-wired into this kinky stuff, or do we find it on our own and try to figure out where we fit? That is the question.

Now I know from the accounts of many of my kinky friends that they had family that were kinky, usually parents, sometimes grandparents, then the stray aunt and uncle stories…we’ve all heard about adolescents walking in and finding proof that not only do Mom and Dad “do it” (ewwww), but sometimes they do other things too!

Then there are my kinky friends that swear that no one in their immediate family is kinky at all, and you know, I believe them. I know people who are kinky as all get out, but no one they are related to seems kinky at all. It leaves me scratching my head.

In my personal experience, I know my mom was kinky, which leads me to think that my dad probably was too. I am sure of this because I found a stash of *ahem* incriminating things in their room once…the really funny thing about that memory was that at the time, I really didn’t think much of it at all. It never crossed my mind that this was something different, or even something that I needed to feel strangely about. I knew how I felt about spanking and bondage, so to me, no biggie. I figured it was just a part of sex. I wish I had kept that outlook through to my adult years, but that is a different posting altogether.

As I matured, it became increasingly clear to me that not everyone found these things to be sexually exciting. It was around this time that I was told that the things that turned me on were “disturbing” and “un-natural”. Again, story for another blog.

The fact remains that whether you feel it is nature or nurture, there are kinky people and people who are not kinky. I think it takes all kinds, really. I do find it interesting that most of the kinky people I know do have kinky in their families. Some of them even have children who turn out to be kinky. I do think there is a link in the genetics somewhere, but I suppose it could come down to dominant and recessive genes.

Or perhaps Dominant and submissive genes?

Lunargirl

 

The Best Reason For Mondays

I love Monday mornings.

That seems like a strange thing to say, I suppose. Most girls probably prefer Friday night, or Saturday night. I don’t. I like Monday mornings. Everyone complains about Mondays being the end of the weekend, sure, that’s true enough. I don’t like to see the end of the weekend any more than anyone else does, but I still love Monday mornings.

Sundays are the only days that I get to spend with Her, completely. On the weekdays, I am working. On Saturdays, she is working. Sundays are the only day that I even have the chance to get her completely to myself. I don’t always manage to get her to myself on Sunday, sometimes I have to share. I don’t like to share her with anyone, really, but I will because sometimes I just have to. On Monday mornings, I don’t have to share her at all. On Monday mornings, she is all mine, I am all hers. All is right with the world on Monday mornings.

On most mornings, she has to go to work before I do, but not on Mondays. On Monday mornings, she is still nestled in next to me, tucked in behind me, her arm around me, her hand finding my bottom or my front. That is the way I prefer to wake up, next to her, feeling her securely wrapped around me. I know my place in the world on Monday mornings.

We don’t usually stay up late on Sunday evening. We are both early risers, and as a result, we generally go to bed at a fairly early hour. I don’t change the time that the alarm goes of on Monday mornings, we just change the morning routine.

On Monday mornings, instead of jumping up out of bed when the alarm is silenced, I can roll over to her and throw my arms around her and give her all the wonderful soft, wet kisses she wants. If we are alone in the house, she can pull me over towards her until I’m on my stomach and begin by caressing my backside, ending in the scarlet red heat that her hand can leave behind. Sometimes she might even pull out her trusty paddle and apply it in the way that only a lover can. She very quickly helps my mind find the submissive place it has come to love and feel at home in. Some mornings, she might even have me get up and walk to her side of the bed, face away from her and lean forward so that she can inspect her handiwork. The last time that happened, as I was standing there bent forward and feeling very self-conscious of my body, before I knew it she was bringing my body to a very quick and intense climax! What followed I cannot detail, but I can tell you there is a reason that I love Monday mornings.

After I get to work (and often at the last-minute) each time I stand up, sit down, or even move in my chair, I am reminded of the morning’s events and I will blush and smile to myself. The others don’t know why, and I am certainly not telling them. Sometimes the warmth from my backside will linger the greater part of the day. The whole while I am either remembering the morning, or looking forward to Monday evening.

So on Monday mornings, while most of you are complaining, please don’t hold it against me that I am smiling and most likely blushing as I remember the events that have transpired a short while before. I can’t help it that I love Monday mornings.

She makes it impossible not to love Mondays.