Life takes it’s toll doesn’t it? I’ve been feeling depressed lately and have decided to get some short term chemical assistance from my GP. All I need is to feel normal enough over the next few months to deal with finishing 3 work projects, finding a solution to my financial situation (bankruptcy or certainly something like it), Christmas, having my gall bladder removed just before Christmas and then moving (again) in the new year. That’s to say nothing of dealing with the bereavement of my long term relationship (THE post that I haven’t written yet). But, it’s all good. I’m alive and I think I’d worry if I wasn’t feeling the way I am. Thank goodness for my girlfriend, friends and family. And reduced fat chocolate chip cookies.
Oh and plus, I’ve been told that something like Prozac could result in me losing a few pounds AND making orgasms either easier or harder!! That’s a winner right?! Like I’ve said before – bring it on!!
I knew I was in trouble on Wednesday night. I’d teased Vic to the extreme and knew I’d pay for it. We’d shared an evening meal out with a few friends, both of us knowing that there’d be no sex that night and that we’d have to wait until the weekend when our busy diaries would allow us 3 hot nights together.
I’d dressed for Vic that Wednesday night. I wore a low cut top that showed just enough cleavage, bra straps faintly visible, a knee length skirt and sheer stockings. I’d flirted outrageously with her, taking any and every opportunity to touch her, to give her that “fuck me” look. Outside the restaurant Vic grabbed my wrist, pulled me in to the alley and pushed me up against the wall.
Checking that we were out of sight, she lifted my skirt, roughly forced her hand between my thighs and because I wasn’t wearing any knickers, easily discovered that my cunt was dripping wet. Vic hesitated, it was palpable. But, she pulled her hand away, pushed hard up against me, and with hot breath stinging my neck, said “just you fucking wait until Friday.”
When she arrived at my flat on Friday night Vic was quite cool, she seemed pre-occupied. We kissed long and hard in the hall yes, but we didn’t fuck there, at first sight, as I hoped we would. After dinner she went purposefully upstairs and I heard her run the bath.
“Your bath’s ready” she shouted downstairs. I could hear her moving around in the bedroom and knew she was up to something.
I was enjoying my soak when Vic came in and knelt down beside the bath. She leant over, kissed me on the forehead, took the soap and working up a lather, said “this is my job”. She started with my arms, then neck and breasts, lingered a while on my hardening nipples, moved to my stomach, dwelt on my cunt & bottom, teasing me gently, and then finished by washing my legs and feet. She wrapped me in a towel, and told me to dry myself and go wait for her on the bed.
From the bedroom I could hear some movement in the lounge and then nothing at all, I knew she was making me wait. After an age, Vic came upstairs and laid down next to me. She pulled my dressing gown away, and stroking my shoulder said quietly “face down”. Flushed, I turned over to lie on my stomach. She reached under the bed and took out 4 lengths of black rope.
On her hands and knees over me, she tied my wrists to the headboard and then moved down to secure my ankles. I tested the rope, “these are too tight baby”, but she ignored me, I hadn’t used our safe word, she said “shut the fuck up”.
My cunt was wet as hell, I could feel the dampness on the sheet under me. I lifted my bottom expecting to be spanked but it didn’t happen. Kneeling over me, with her face next to mine, Vic said slowly, drawing out each word “Are you ready for me?” Her hot mouth remained pressed against my skin, as she moved from my neck, down my spine, smelling me, taking in long, hot breaths. “Are you ready for me?” she whispered against my bottom, “are you ready for me?” she moaned between my legs, so close to my aching cunt and yet not touching me, “are you ready for me?” over and over.
I wanted her to fuck me so badly. The ache that had started in my cunt had spread all over my body and I wanted her in my cunt, my arse, my mouth, everywhere.
Vic, breathing hard and stroking my bottom, again just glancing my cunt, said “I told you you’d fucking get it.” She got up, straightened her shirt and checked the ropes. Standing legs astride, hands on hips she said “right, here’s the deal, payback for your no knickers stunt, this weekend you’re going to get fucked. I’m going to fuck you when and where and how I please. Now, be quiet baby and wait for me.”
I was clicking around yesterday, as you do, when I came across this on Jen Lemen's blog. I also mentioned it to Honey. It's inspirational and moving and I've been thinking about it ever since I saw it. I hope you enjoy it. Please click and change your day. Thanks again to Jen.
Shortly after I put up yesterday’s post, I received an email from one of my favourite boutiques telling me all about their latest glittery, silky and shiny offerings for the ladeez. Don't they know I'm broke!
These boots are by Minna Parikka and a mere snip at £276.
I love them!
But to carry on from yesterday, as I was I just saying to my good friend femmeismygender, if that old cliché that “you can’t have everything” is true then I’ll have all of the many things that really make me happy and leave the boots alone!
A recent post by the gorgeous Essin Em and reading about many other bloggers struggling to pay their bills has prompted me to share something about my own financial situation. (Am I over-sharing lately?!)
I’ve worked all of my adult life and always paid my bills. I’m self employed, I rent my home and I’m in a LOT of debt.
My finances went in to a complete ditch nearly two years ago when I ended a long term relationship and struggled to work through the emotional trauma that ensued. For the last year, there’s been a down turn in my area of business, so the ditch has got deeper.
I’ve done everything I can to sort out my finances and left with no choice, I recently contacted all of my creditors to explain my situation and arrange repayment terms. I’m still waiting to see how this will pan out, I’ve already had to make a formal complaint to one credit card company whose response was….shit actually, but I won’t bore you with the details.
Until a few months ago I was depressed about my situation and obsessing about all of the bad things that might happen to me. I had tears, sleepless nights, the lot, it was making me quite ill. The depression left me when I got so down that the only way was up.
My position now is that as my creditors can’t send me to prison, inflict a terminal illness on me or anyone else, stop my girlfriend, friends & family from loving me etc etc, unless they’re going to be reasonable, they can fuck right off. They won’t get a penny.
See, this is a pride thing. I've always been proudly financially independent and my pride is kicking in again. I refuse to get dragged down by this, I will not become a quivering mess thereby hurting myself and my relationships.
I might sound angry but I’m not. I’m relieved and amused actually. What’s the worst that can happen? Bankruptcy? So, let me get this right…… if I become bankrupt I won’t be able to drive myself in to the ground trying to run my business, pay the tax man extortionate amounts of money, stay in the rat race? What on earth will I do?!..... Bring it on!
This post comes with a warning to all of the financial institutions I owe money to:
My father moved from Lahore, Pakistan to London in 1958. He was one of the hundreds of thousands of people invited to the UK to take up jobs that the British work force wouldn’t or couldn’t do. He came from a Muslim family, was an excited immigrant and wanted to be “the best westerner.”
My mother was born and raised in the East End of London, the daughter of white English working class parents. She was a smart, feisty and hard working woman.
They met on a production line in a factory. A few of the racist employees had rigged my father’s machine so that it wouldn’t work properly and my mother went to his rescue. That was in 1964 and, well, to cut a long story short, I was born the following year.
My parents had a hard time finding decent, affordable accommodation – many “To Let” signs included the adage “No Blacks, No Pakis, No Irish”. He was always in full time employment and she worked a series of part time jobs, some of them based at home (like gluing hand bags together).
During my childhood, my father began to drink and gamble heavily and many anxious Friday nights were spent waiting for him to come home. His religion would “flare up” frequently and turn our lives upside down. My parents separated quite a lot, sometimes for a few days or a week, sometimes for a month or a few months.
And then in 1975, my father’s “first” family arrived from Pakistan. “First” family (a complete surprise to everyone, especially my mother) being a wife and 4 teenage children (one of whom liked to throw bricks through our window).
Around this time my father’s religious bent grew exponentially. Suddenly, not being allowed wear dresses without a pair of trousers underneath or take part in sports lessons that included boys was the least of it – there was talk of being taken to Pakistan.
In 1977 my parents separated for good. My father was living his religion and for him this meant living in a mosque environment and teaching the Quran, he became a fundamentalist.
My teenage years were spent dreading his visits and living for them at the same time. Whenever I raged about him, my mother would shrink and admonish me and say “don’t talk about your father like that”.
My 20s and 30s were marked by his sudden appearances in my life, turning things upside down again and me falling under his spell every time.
I was always a daddy’s girl. He called me Number One Daughter and made no secret of the fact that I was his favourite. I was completely entranced by him. I loved him even when I hated him.
My earliest memory is of my father. I was around 3 years old and with both of my parents in RegentsPark. The image I have of him that day is in glorious technicolour, I can even see his socks. I don’t remember my mother being there at all but I know that she was. In fact, I’m ashamed to say, that I have no memories of my mother before I was about 12 years old.
I was with my mother when she died nearly 20 years ago. There’s no way to say this without sounding hackneyed, but she never stopped loving him. There was a kind of understanding between them that she never lost sight of but that he came to forget.
In 2005 I found out that my father had died earlier that year. I hadn’t seen him for some time and didn’t know that he was ill. His friend told me that he’d been talking about me just before he died. The friend remarked sadly, how difficult my father could be at times. Well, yes.
I’m not wondering what my parents would have made of me. I know that my mother’s love was unconditional and that my father’s love wasn’t. I need some closure though, and I’m planning to write him a letter and leave it in RegentsPark.
The experience of my father taught me some pretty negative stuff that has been very difficult to know and unlearn – an ongoing process. The experience framed, and sometimes despite my best efforts continues to frame, my interaction with the world.
How have your parents framed you? Any daddy’s girls out there?
This blog that is? Well, like it says in “about me” – self expression for one thing. So, perhaps the title of this post should read “Who is it for?”
I decided a while ago that I didn’t care about preserving my anonymity but recently I’ve been concerning myself with what people might like to read. And I’m going to stop doing that.
I’ve written something about my relationship with my father that I’ve been reluctant to post because of how it might be received. In fact, I’ve always been reluctant to say anything about him or my relationship with him for the same reason. Anyway, it’ll be up here shortly.
So, my small but perfectly formed readership, I hope you bear with me!
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PS Don’t worry, it won’t all be heavy - there’s more Norty Stuff in the pipeline!
