Wednesday, April 30, 2008


Certain recent discussions about the lack of empirical evidence and the plenitude of anecdotal evidence has provided much fodder for some lively discussions between finbar and I as well as providing me with some extensive musings I’ve enjoyed very much. (god, I love the fact that the reality of the human beast allows access to esoteric thoughts and musings totally unrelated to the boring reality of staying alive!)

I have a huge problem with the whole concept of the “unconscious”… by definition if something is “unconscious” would that not mean it is insentient? And if insentient, thus not accessible to the reality of existence?

Skinner or Freud? Straight cognitive behavioural therapy or the more esoteric (and unquantifiable) delving into the psychosis of our behaviour?

Ultimately, the human psyche is NOT quantifiable simply through logic and rationality. There is hard evidence in each of our lives that influences brought to bear on our minds at various stages of our lives can have a very real (if not always understandable) impact on current actions.

Sometimes, the impact is negligible, a simple reactive, knee jerk action or reaction to a process, comment, question or something more concrete – a barking dog or a dog that does not bark ("To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time." "The dog did nothing in the night-time." "That was the curious incident," remarked Sherlock Holmes, Silver Blaze). More subtly, it can weave strands of control into the fabric of real life without an innate understanding of its persistence.

I find it immensely distasteful – this concept that “unknown”, “unseen” imperatives are controlling my behaviour.

Yet like the glimmer of light through the barely perceptible crack at the bottom of a door, I experience those eureka moments … and the dawning realization that as much as I would choose to deny the concrete reality of links between past experience and present behaviour, the sky is indeed – this time – falling …

Each of us experiences at some point (really, at numerous points) in our lives, those “eureka” moments – those visually distracting (light bulb on) times when something suddenly makes total and utter sense – when a connection is established that is unequivocal but to this point, unmade – when the truth about a situation is suddenly revealed when before it was obscure.

I’ve been getting a fair number of those lately. Frankly, I’m not sure whether this is because I am actually gaining insight or conversely, perhaps I’m just miring myself even deeper in psychosis.

Of course, the bottom line is that you can have all the “moments” in the world – the true test is whether having made the connections you can actually change the course of an action, reverse a behaviour or in fact, elicit ANY benefit from figuring out WHY you are acting a certain way …

Ultimately, I think humans tend to be creatures of habit who, even when the impetus behind a behaviour is noted, continue that same behaviour (destructive or not) regardless. Add to that the reality that to “unlearn” something requires far greater effort than “learning” it and often that “eureka” moment is an exercise in futility.

At one and the same time, I find a certain delicious pleasure in recognizing the root of motivation – something to savour and reflect upon even if not acted upon. There is an almost palpable delight in figuring out WHY you fuck up in the same way again and again which supersedes the necessity of actually stopping your determined self-flagellation.

Does recognizing how fucked up you are make you more or less screwed up?

There is also a certain freedom inherent in feeling the bottom is rapidly coming up to meet your soft, vulnerable body … although the adage “when there is nowhere else to fall, you can only go up” doesn’t ring true with me. It seems to me, rather, than JUST when you think it is as bad as it could possible get – it gets worse and there is ALWAYS somewhere further to fall.

Having said that, there are some ultimate truths that each of us recognizes about ourselves – that no matter what is going on in our lives, they remain constant.

But, big, fat HUGE BUT … ANY learned behaviour, especially one ingrained and patterned in an almost inescapable pathway of repetition is VERY difficult to alter. It takes not a few hours of a tape nor even a concentrated burst of ‘want to change” – it takes rather, sometimes YEARS of conscious and concentrated determination.

Further, there are certain behaviours that while heavily influenced by thought and desire, motivation and emotional and spiritual desires, there are ALSO certain realities that no matter how they are dismissed or undermined, are realities that cannot be denied. Realities to do with bodies, with what our bodies are physically capable of achieving, with what our bodies can physically DO.

And all the denial in the world, all the claims in the world cannot shake my belief about certain physical realities.

and yet … and yet ..

for 35 years, finbar and I have danced the dance and woven our realities in and around each other and damned each other and loved each other and through it all, remained for each other, the be all and end of our simplistic existence … the existence of my universe without him there is simply, to me, inconceivable … and that in itself is unquantifiable, isn’t it?

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Yoga and S/m

I’ve often mused on the parallels that can be found between the practice of yoga and a session of intense, physical scening. Both bring me to a state of meditative delight that becomes addictive and provides me with such a burst of energy and contentment, the positive after-glow often lasts for days. Both provide me with a sense of pushing my body to its limits, which in turn provides an immense boost of mental joy that spills over into an emotional and spiritual high that in turn encourages me to push even further the next time. Ultimately, the repetitive, challenging routines required by yoga together with the focus necessary to maintain and internalize an intense sado-machositc scene are one and the same and result in the same sense of calmness and peacefulness that a true meditative glow brings.

Bear with me and I will illustrate the similarities.

1. Clothing:

Yoga is best undertaken with a minimum of clothing – so too is a session. Both, after all, require the practitioner to have a full range of movement with no interference from extraneous clothing.

2. Flexibility

One of the primary advantages of yoga is the flexibility it imparts; for yoga poses are complicated and challenging, requiring the individual to contort, flex, stretch and often (depending on the style of yoga) hold a position for a long time. So too in a scene is the submissive required to undertake certain – often formal – poses which she is often required to hold for an extended period of time. The similarity between yoga positions and those in a scene are self-evident.

3. Pain tolerance

While almost self-explanatory to any masochistic submissive, any committed yoga practioner is well aware that a tolerance for pain is a necessary requirement if one truly wishes to master a certain pose. While an experienced yogic teacher will of course be adamant about NOT pushing past a certain limit (i.e. to the point of damaging a limb, tendon or muscle), most will quite bluntly counsel you to tolerate the “ache” and work through it. So too with a scene! An experienced top or Master will ensure that the level of pain inflicted is within the scope of that particular submissive’s ability while at the same time ensuring the maximum reaction is achieved.

4. Focus

Both a scene and yoga require massive focus… focus to shut out extraneous noise and distractions, focus to go within your mind and find the reserves and strength to tolerate what is being done (or you are doing) to your body, focus to maintain position and decorum.

5. Meditation

Ultimately, to my mind, the end result of both a successful scene and a wonderful yoga session are one and the same – both for me are a form of meditation. Ultimately, by pushing my body, by pushing the limits of my mind and soul, by the reality of dealing with corporeal pain and effort, I am dragged into the hear and the now and my mind is set free to drift in nirvana.

6. Tolerance

Yoga positions - and scenes - are not about how far you can reach to touch your toes or how many repetitions you can perform or whether you can tolerate more than the “other” submissive. Rather, both are all about paying attention to how your body feels; how it moves without excruciating pain or agony but with enough to make your awareness soar. Yoga and scenes are all about breathing correctly, about integrating that breath into your being, about using the breath to work through what is occurring to your body. ''

We practice yoga and are involved in scenes for the same end results. It makes us feel good. It makes the blood surge through our veins, the energy pulsate through muscle and sinew, it is about the bliss coursing through your whole being. Best of all, it is for EVERYONE - regardless of age, color, caste, creed or religion; from the healthiest to the sickest, from the richest to the poorest.

To sum up – both a scene and a yoga session ensure the following (from

- Brings down stress and enhances powers of relaxation
- Boosts physical strength, stamina and flexibility
- Bestows greater powers of concentration and self control
- Inculcates impulse Control
- Helps in rehabilitation of old and new injuries
- Intensifies tolerance to pain and enhancing mental clarity
- Boosts functioning of the immune system
- Enhances posture and muscle tone
- Improves blood circulation
- Results in healthy, glowing skin
- Cleanses and improves overall organ functioning
- Bestows peace of mind and a more positive outlook to life
- Infuses a sense of balance and internal harmony

Sunday, April 20, 2008

yearning ...

I sit in my sterile cubicle, fingers tap tap tapping on the keys, sunlight spilling across my shoulders, its golden embrace an illusion of warmth and a harbinger of a spring which refuses to commit.

I am restless, unable to concentrate, my mood capricious, discontented, despair trembling on the edge of a precipice of want. My voice is silent but trembles beneath the garrotte of my throat, aching to explode in a shower of words, sharp shards of explanation and self justification that sting and cut arbitrarily and without intent. I feel if I allowed this stranglehold to ease, and vomit out a stream of thoughts that it would be as if in another language …. for I myself hardly know what ails me. Does everyone spend so much time in self-examination … in figuring out your own motivations? Or am I supremely self-indulgent?

Yet I remain obsessed with the examination of motive and want, desire and need … and comfort myself in the knowledge that how I choose (or do not choose) to use this space is my decision and mine only.

So many thoughts tumbling and roiling in the caldron of my confused mind. Lately, I have seen my thoughts in terms of equilibrium – a scale… and feathery light touches can disturb the balance and tumble me into the pits of despair and resignation. Sensation…. craving, wanting, needing, internalizing until my skin ripples and concentric curves of feeling flood within my writhing body. Almost obsessively, I ponder the reality of my masochism, need and desire.

How complicated we human beings are!

How our minds and emotions cloud and distort the simplicity of simply being. I think that is why I get such immense joy from the simplicity of cycling – when the reality of sweat and the swish of pedal, the wind against my face, licking along the trailing curtain of hair, tangling in its curls and tugging deliciously at my scalp beneath the restrictive helmet, the burn along the inner thigh as I gear down and push against gravity to ascend a hill, the freedom of flight as I sweep down the other side …

Focus. Something I often feel I lack. Something I seek compulsively, knowing in my heart that my discordant inner turmoil and capricious wants cause dissension and imbalance. I think that is why I seek the peaceful nothingness of exercise, the sweet dream of yoga where by the end of the class, the ache and pull of muscle and sinew, the burning determination of holding a pose, the deliciousness of simply concentrating on the now, give me such inner contentment – for the moment, for the second.

I think that is all any of us can aspire to – that momentary cessation of time, the fleeting comfort of simply being. I think in our restless, drive need for constant stimulation, we forget the peace and joy that can be found in simply opening ourselves to a universe which embraces and accepts and in reality, never judges nor expects but simply is.

Yet, conversely, it is precisely our complicated psyches that make us such a quixotic, fascinating animal; that make the reality of our lusts and wants and needs so much more than simply instinct.

While we embrace the savagery of nature and find in its unforgiving elemental force, an unanticipated thrill which engenders a lust and want that defies our Christian-taught decorum, it is conversely, the complicated highways of mind and soul that elicit the greatest satisfaction; where sadism can truly be exercised in all its twisted delight and masochism be embraced.

My own worst enemy, I am immensely self-critical – I descry my lack of perfection in face and form and lament my moody intensity. I have said to him, he needs, deserves, should have someone far less like work than I, inwardly dying at the thought of someone else in his control.

Sometimes I simply want to be a creature of simplistic desires, hot, smooth skin and warm, damp folds and the feel of him above me, behind me, his teeth fastened in my shoulder, the hot slippery warmth of him between my thighs, bucking and thrusting and taking and demanding and myself, an inferno of wet heat, aching breasts and the feel of his teeth in my neck creating a wave of elemental need that sweeps us both away in a tsunami of wet want …I want to be forced, compelled and mastered …

Sometimes, sometimes I just want to shut my brain off and simply be.

Friday, April 18, 2008


I am a big strapping celt, big boned, strong, with long lean muscles and a tenacious strength. So why today do I feel so fragile?

I vacillate from a rage almost incendiary in its strength then plunge into a pit of despair, so cloying my chest contracts in agony and there is a vast universe of hopelessness that overwhelms.

I think despair is worse than rage.

At least with rage, you can still feel - it courses along your veins like a toxic river of want, a bubbling caldron of heat that burns like a highway into hell while despair ...despair and that blanket of hopelessness that settles over your face and mouth, cloying, invasive, filling nose and mouth and throat until your lungs labour and contract in agony as you try to take a breath.

Monday, April 14, 2008

Hope rises

Outside, tenacious night yawns dark still but in the distance, tendrils of sunlight glint a promise of surcease on the restless muttering lake,

I stand, eyes unfocused, staring beyond the reflection in the window, seeking for some sense of what the unfolding of the hours mean as restless and unsettled, I seek a small sneaking solace in the glimmering hint of light which holds in its warm embrace a promise I am scared to believe.

I find myself endlessly fascinated with the way the mind can manipulate and distort our perceptions of how we look and present both to others and to ourselves. It is an impossibility to truly see yourself as others see you- a reality I find frustrating if somewhat amusing.

As if I look in the mirror of the window, reflecting back to me my wavering image, around the edges of my body I see the blurring and blending of my corporeal body into the stuff of the reality around me. My skin, always pale, starkly white, freckles glowing on its skin which if I look carefully seems to be thinning and becoming transparent.

I lean forward and stare intently into the image of the person reflected back at me. It is as if I can see the delicate tracery of blue veins beneath the skin, as though the very blood trickling through the complicated highway of my existence is exposed and raw. My eyes, are as I have always seen them – uncommitted, wishy-washy, unable to decide a true colour… green bleeding into blue into grey .. unable to make up their mind. Like my mind. Like my existence.

Sometimes I feel the reality of who I am fading into the fabric of reality around me. I feel the essence, the soul (for want of a better word), trickling away into the infinity of the universe where the blending and melding of that which makes me unique wanes into the vast abyss of sameness.

Have you ever had those moments, when in a store window, or a mirror you suddenly glimpse yourself, a fleeting glance and for that second, do not recognize that person? Its like listening to your voice on a recording … we don’t associate our voice – internalized and emitted from within – with that external rambling … that CAN’T be our voice …

So many of us suffer from some level of dimorphic vision… an inability to truly judge our appearance, a tendency (almost obsessive) to focus on what we perceive as negative physical attributes to the exclusion of all else.

I’m not sure if this is primarily female… and more so, a submissive trait? For it seems to me, reading through various blogs and musings, that more often than not, submissives as a group tend to struggle with their own self-worth.

Rationally, I know how negative it is to denigrate oneself; for truly, I am a harsh critic of my own appearance and personality. I look in a mirror and see the wishy washy eyes, the bloodless skin and see how time is encroaching on the canvas of my life. I note with sharp eyes the beginning of slackness in a jawline, the hint of lines at the neck and cup breasts soft now compared to the hard firmness of youth. Worst of all and oddest to my rational mind, is my vision of my overall size – despite zipping up size 6 pants, I see myself in terms of billowing thighs and protruding stomach, of a non-existent waistline and legs grown generous.

Even in my twisted reasoning and distorted vision, I find a certain bitter humour. I marvel at how rational and emotional thinking collide and repel each other – that my rational mind recognizes that I am not the what I see in my mind’s eye but emotionally, I am drowning in flesh which surrounds me, embraces me, squeezes me and smothers me in its cloying embrace. I yearn for the jut of bone and sweep of smooth flesh, for the bumpity bump of a rib cage skimmed by firm skin and undisguised by softness. I flex my arm and hunger for sweep of muscle and sinew and the throbbing blue reality of veins under a thin membrane of pale skin. It is as if I cower within the confines of a body whose reality is as concrete as the touch of the glass against my forehead, as I gaze out over the lake, glinting now in the early morning sunlight ..

I know this negativity, this loathing of my own body is not just self-destructive but ultimately disrespectful and irreverent. For as D. pointed out one day, frustrated and angry at my negative self-image, I was, in essence, insulting his taste!

And when I look rationally, I know that my delight in yoga, my cycling, my obsessive use of the treadmill (although far from making me model material) – has given me long sleek muscles, and the long, strong bones of my frame are there – but instead, stupidly, I focus on the slackness of the flesh over a stomach loose from carrying four healthy children, the small pad at the back of the hip … finding, obsessing and focusing on the nots instead of the haves …

I stand looking out over the lake, the restless, mumbling water an intense deep navy, struck through with crimson and gold as the sun triumphantly rises in the east. Gold cascades through the deep purple of the morning sky, pushing back the night, dancing and weaving and sliding along the opaque expanse of air until it explodes against the exposed flesh of my face and shatters into a million glittering diamonds and hope, tremulous, tentative breathes against the vibrating confusion of my mind.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008


I’ve been reading a lot of blogs lately where the honesty and painful revelations of individuals astounds, humbles and appals me … and I’m not entirely sure which reaction is stronger.

Oddly, I completely comprehend the necessity to vomit out the complications of a wounded psyche and try, with words, to create a semblance of understanding. It is (I think) like lancing a boil, allowing the poison to trickle out, the pressure to be relieved. For surely, one has to expel the thoughts which tumble and roil in our heads, the twisted, hurting emotions which can destroy equilibrium and create an imbalance in our psyches that is detrimental and at times, fatal.

Certainly, the way my own thoughts tumble and fight and create in mind and soul confusion and a terrible lethargy, followed often by a rage whose very nature frightens, is most decidedly worth an outlet of some description! And when the ecstasy of an encounter leaves one breathless and so full up that your joy brims over …

But other than in euphemisms and veiled references, I find it incredibly difficult to open myself to the extent to ANYONE– something someone close to me labels DIShonesty. My own thoughts are inevitably couched in terms that are at best, open to various interpretations, at worst, incomprehensible. I just don’t seem to be capable of truly opening up … and yet… and yet .. I do NOT see myself as either dishonest nor by nature, exclusionary.

In today’s society where privacy is seemingly non-existent, where individuals blare forth every passing thought and experience in facebook, myspace, blogs, twitters …. are we necessarily being fair to those of us who for whatever reason – psychological, emotional, culturally, CANNOT or, truth be told, choose NOT to?

Surely the world is large enough for everyone?

The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice.

`Who are you?' said the Caterpillar.

This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, `I--I hardly know, sir, just at present-- at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.'

`What do you mean by that?' said the Caterpillar sternly. `Explain yourself!'

`I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, sir' said Alice, `because I'm not myself, you see.'

`I don't see,' said the Caterpillar.

This, I find, an apt quotation in that one of the issues I struggle with is that we are all so multi-faceted, so complicated and there are so many factors that influence or otherwise impact on each of us, that a facile rendering of apparent facts can create confusion and false interpretations.

Does anyone else feel that way? That as time clicks away in seconds and moments of our realities, so that the imperceptible erosion of the thread of life which Fate holds in her hand is pulled inexorably tighter, that vast universes of experiences occur between the greeting of dawn and the cessation of reality when we close our eyes each night?

I have claimed in the past that I NEED writing in order to release the pressure of thoughts suppressed and a voice strangled in my throat. Yet, in hindsight, I realize in my own convoluted illogical way, I am incapable of trusting anyone or anything enough to vocalize – written or otherwise.

Not that I have NOT been honest. With one person and one person only, I have opened parts of myself and taken the risk of (and been) hurt terribly. Conversely, offering that kind of vulnerability also opens one to a reciprocal sharing, the blending of which is beyond words.

The quandary of course is whether one has the courage to choose the sublime, knowing the despair ….

In the end, I read the blogs and marvel at the courage.

Monday, April 7, 2008

Edge play

Limits .. hard, soft…. medium? Imprecise catchphrases used to create a false sense of security … facile explanations that ostensibly delineate an individual’s psychological barriers and physical realities.

I am often amused at the eagerness with which the concept of “limits” is embraced. How creating a finite “list” somehow ensures personal emotional and physical safety. When the reality is that limits are there to be pushed, exceeded, broken down. Limits are in essence merely a starting point, beyond which lie monsters … monsters which we embrace.

I do not deny the necessity of clearly defining limits – but the bottom line is that any self-respecting dom will inevitably – but hopefully carefully and with great restraint – PUSH a submissive (or bottom) beyond those limits.

Although an inveterate list-maker myself, creating a “list” for my limits strikes me as amusing – for ultimately, no matter what my limits, I know the inevitability of having them pushed, expanded and destroyed, thus creating such a “list” would be an exercise in futility.

I suppose it is all in the context.

Should you choose to “play” (another euphemism I find irritating and imprecise), it does make sense to have something concrete with which to negotiate as in many scenarios the participants are not familiar with each other and thus unaware of the individual’s personal kinks and, more importantly, hang-ups.

The reality is that many participants in kink enjoy multiple partners, social events and intimate parties where it would foolhardy indeed to venture into a scene without giving the top a very good idea of just how far you care to go – and what indeed is absolutely off-limits. Ultimately, this type of set-up necessitates a clear indication of likes, dislikes and absolutes – otherwise there can be issues.

Kink play can be not only physically demanding and potentially dangerous but the intensity of certain actions and the way in which a person reacts can be devastating emotionally. There is a place that a bottom goes when certain buttons are pushed, when experiencing certain tweaks, that if handled incorrectly can cause major emotional damage.

The reality is that physical harm can usually be dealt with; our bodies are remarkably resilient and with exceptions (of course) will eventually repair itself, but pushing somehow beyond where they have clearly indicated they do not wish to go; involving someone into a scene in which they have indicated they find potentially disturbing; in short, a top choosing to indulge his or her own kinks a the expense of the bottom is a betrayal and unacceptable. Lasting psychological harm can be done to somehow who from past experience – sometimes rooted in childhood – CANNOT tolerate certain actions or scenarios.

The reality is that limits are not set in stone. Newcomers need to carefully evaluate and consider their honest reactions to certain activities and most of all, start of SLOW. Experienced kinksters have a moral imperative to introduce newcomers carefully, maintaining a constant awareness of unvocalized and vocalized reactions, reading cues, acting and reacting accordingly.

The concept, however, of “limits” for those of us in long-term relationships, where the roles are intrinsic and not roles at all but who we are, is ultimately self-defeating and pointless. Because it’s not play. It’s real.

No matter what my limits, I know he will push them.

No matter what the limits, I know he will manipulate them.

No matter what the limits, I know he will hammer them, destroy them, reduce them to so much rubble …

and in so doing, somehow make me like it in the doing .. somehow make me crave it in the doing, somehow make me want it, in the doing.

I have gone places I would have once thought I would never have gone. I have internalized experiences that once would have left me frightened and emotionally distraught.

What I find fascinating is that the human spirit is so incredibly complicated, so multi-faceted and quirky that with the breaking of each new limit, there are a myriad of reactions that create such a cacophony of emotion that like an addict, you reach beseechingly for more …

and another limit is smashed.

today, my throat aches …

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Morning ...

Morning … cacophony of sound as the radio clicks on, startling me from the River Lethe where I float in dark water the temperature of warm blood, soothing, deep, my body weightless and the stars wheeling in a wine-dark sky, thoughts floating free and insubstantial, wraiths of possibility and maybe… intake of breath, quick flick and welcome silence embraces me in the musk of the dark room. His breath beside me smooth and even, the heat of his body entices. I lie for a few minutes, reluctant to move from the cocoon of warm blankets, Fat Cat’s rhythmic purr hypnotic, vibrating through the tumbled strands of hair on my pillow, his warm furry body solid and reassuring along the top of my head.

Sighing, I turn and nestle into his side, nuzzling into the warmth of his chest, my ear against the smooth skin, the beat of his heart steady beneath me. He stretches, still asleep and his arm comes around me, unconsciously rubbing the long line of my back then sweeping up around my ribs to cup the soft mound of breast. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to roll out of bed and start another day of chaos and work and effort and need.

My hand trails down to his groin and gently cups him, the skin soft and flaccid and so beautifully delicate, so incredibly soft. Cupping his loose flesh in my palm, I allow my fingers to caress the sweet roll of flesh, already starting to stir and thicken, relishing the small, almost imperceptible jerking as blood drains into his groin and synapses in his sleeping brain fire possibilities down electric highways of nerve.

Here in the shadowed embrace of a room in which our scents entwine and mingle in a compelling musk, in the quiet of this early early morn, time seems protracted and endless and dreamingly I push the blankets down his slumbering body and lay my head on his stomach, the beat of his heart measured and sure and the throbbing between my legs hesitates then moistens and throbs in time to his heart.

I close my eyes and breathe deep, pulling his scent deep into my throat and lungs, my breasts tightening and swelling and his hand tightens as if he feels their burgeoning want and he squeezes until my breath sighs out and my tongue flicks and I taste him.

Beneath my head I feel his heart quicken and the moist need between my legs throbs in sympathy and I lean forward and my lips embrace and I take him in my mouth, moaning lightly as the swollen warm length glides between my lips. My tongue twirls and dances and slides around the hot warmth of his need, sipping, laving, licking, my hands cupping and gently, oh so gently, tightening around the beauties in my palm.

Unbidden, I open my eyes and in the dark sweet embrace of the dusky room, I see the strident, demand of blinking red and reluctantly, my eyes are dragged to the clock and I see the time and moaning, I release him.

Gently, I pull back and raising my head drop butterfly kisses along his hard length and between his legs, where he has begun to tighten and swell and then breathing deeply, I slip up to his neck and drop a gentle promise along the strong line of shoulder and pull the blankets tight around him.

Sighing, I step onto the cold of the floor, smiling as with a heavy thump, Fat Cat drops down beside me, winding sinuously around my bare legs, purring rhythmically and loudly, demanding his share of my morning routine and leads the way to kitchen and food.