Evil Cheerleader Barbie Mar 28, 2006 10:16 am Mood: mischievous, 372 Views “So you're a new one, are you?” It was amazing how much derisive vitriol could be packed into such a short sentence. It made Celine's shoulders tense almost immediately, her brow furrowing over her closed eyes. It was the voice of some spoiled, Long Beach girl slumming in Soho and sneering at the artists and freaks. It was a preppy type of voice, fake brightness with an undercurrent of disgust for anyone who wasn't them; rich, white, blond and perfect. Celine hated that kind of voice; it dredged up memories of sneering laughter and nasty middle-school politics. New one...where am I then? Camden? West End? By that accent, probably West End. Don't remember getting here. Did I take something...? “Well, get up out of the gutter then, even though you rather look like you belong there,” continued the razorblades-in-sunshine voice. Celine's teeth gritted through the pounding headache. If it's some sort of Barbie cheerleader b!tch, I'll kick her teeth in once I manage to stand up. Celine opened her eyes and rose from the doorway step where she was crouched – painfully at first, but then in some surprise – she wasn't hurt. Even her headache was fading. She could feel that sensation again, however; the adrenaline rush building in her gut, almost like a sickness, or a fever. Due to that bloody voice perhaps – the voice she was going to have to smash back into someone's pouty pastel face. Indeed, she was drawing her arm back before she even knew she was doing it, taking a step forward onto the cobblestone alley, meeting the gaze of her taunter with a steady, blank expression. And Dark stared back. It was Cheerleader Barbie all right, and yet...it was almost like a parody. The hair so golden-blond it couldn't possibly be natural – indeed, there was something about the colour that suggested Barbie was trying to draw attention to the fact it was fake. The dark tan one couldn't possibly possess in England was there on every starved, nearly anorexic limb. The chewing gum which not even chavs partook of any more snapped and popped between perfect teeth. Even a stereotypical belly button piercing which nearly every mundane woman had now was displayed proudly beneath the knotted tails of the Oxford shirt, and the co-ed style skirt, entirely too short for a real co-ed to wear. From the smoky eye shadow to the stiletto boots, every single cliché and stereotype which represented a spoiled young Lolita had been put in place. If it had been warmer, she'd have worn merely a bikini and rollerskates, Celine was certain of it. And in the young woman's crystal blue eyes was a mocking, dark flicker, telling Celine she knew she was a cliché and sham...and she merely found it amusing. Both girls watched each other – surly artist and cocky prep – over the cobblestones of Netherwhere, and the Dark surged through both. I didn't really see this character coming. She just strode into the front of my brain, platinum hair shining, and took a Lolita-cliche pose...and there she was. A conglomeration of the nastiest girls I knew in high school with a bit of a few other archetypes, left to boil and ferment into a nasty soup, garnished with a co-ed outfit. I'm sure we all knew one girl who was poison in a pretty package in our younger days. She looked good, she had the best clothes, walked with the "in" crowd, had the cutest boyfriend. She was the ideal for many - and no one had the slightest inkling what a nasty piece of work was lurking beneath that Brillo-dent smile. Vicious, sadistic and spoiled, she got away with murder solely because nobody believed she could possibly do all the awful things rumoured about her. They must have just been nasty lies by jealous people. But she was just plain evil, through and through. You either lusted after her or hated her...or both. I had one in my school. She lived for tormenting me, and was very good at her job - we're not talking a few malicious teases. We're talking thought out, planned nastiness. As in offering to have sex with various guys as long as they would help her in the tormenting. Seducing the counsellor at the school so he'd write off anything said about her. Just. Plain. Wicked. A tried and true sadist. It was only by having very pacifist parents I didn't just go to school with a pistol and kill her - but it was also by having very pacifist parents I put up with her for years. It's a different story now, but I admit she did teach me revenge is a dish best served cold. I lost weight. I lived a very bad-kitty life for some time, soley by keeping her face in the front of my mind as if to say to myself "Who's laughing now, darling?" The only reason I'd go to a high school reunion these days would be to walk right up to her and knock her on her butt like I should have done 20 years ago. And then I'd laugh. In a way, she taught me everything she knew. Our vicious little vixen is called Stacy in my writing, the beautiful darling on the outside, sick and twisted on the inside, and probably every man's dream. Thing is, it's all a joke to her. She doesn't take it at all seriously, which is perhaps the most sadistic of all. She's a walking shell of a person, playing into the fantasy, but never truly believing it. She laughs at the men who want her, laughs and laughs and laughs at the fact they're buying into the facade - or perhaps NOT buying into it, but wanting so hard to believe they blind themselves. Truly vicious piece of work. I almost admire her, if she didn't piss me off so badly. She'll be a brilliant character. But those stiletto boots are made of clay, as she'll soon find out in Netherwhere. It will be Celine's turn to laugh then. 0 Comments

Missing the boned-silk cocoon Mar 27, 2006 3:24 am Mood: aggravated, 365 Views I love corsets. Truly, deeply, passionately love the things. I love the fabrics, the sensation of lacing in tight. I love wearing them with all sorts of different outfits; gothic, saris, kimonos, jeans, whatever. I love tightlacing, and the feeling of having a permanent, silken, strong hug round the waist. Imagine my trepidation when I tried putting on my trusty underbust Edwardian corset - I haven't worn it for nearly a year - and discovered it's now way too big. I laced it down entirely and it slipped and slopped around until the laces were actually on my sides. That I lost that much weight is groovy, sure, but I'm now without a proper corset. My lovely mainstay of purple brocade has gone from a tightlacing corset down to a loosely fitting silk belt. I'm crushed, as I've not got the cash to get a proper, tightlacing replacement. Corsets are necessary to my wardrobe. Not only for their beauty and the lovely shape they give my form beneath clothing, but also for their support - I've a dodgy back, and as my recent regimen of dancing and allotment work has done my spine in, I could use a bit of support! I've got people to meet this summer thanks to Alt.com and I've no corset. No. Corset. I wish I could properly convey my sense of horror here. I can go out without makeup, without doing my nails (what's the point of doing nails considering I tend to garden?), without having my hair done in the latest style (as long as it's dyed in funky ways I'm happy). I haven't done a decent shop for clothing in years, so I just grin and try to bear the fact I don't have the latest swank goth styles because at least I had my corset to wear. But no corset? NO CORSET?! I feel stripped of something fundamental, some deep essence of my feminine self. I've literally been wracking my brains to try and figure out how to rectify matters - I'd make one myself if I hadn't given all my sewing items to someone who desperately needed to make clothes for herself and her children. I keep hoping £300 will appear out of the sky, but no such joy. I'm also strongly considering putting meeting ups on hold until I get at least some semblance of a wardrobe, if a corset won't happen any time soon. Yes, I'm a drama queen, but I do take a certain pride in my appearance and I refuse to look frumpy on a first meeting. Thus, I do pray, to the Goddess of All Things Undergarment; Smile Upon Me, Lady of Unmentionables, and Grant Me one of Thy Waistgarments of Silk and Iron, that I May Be Suitably Adorned with Thy Beautiful Favour. Grant Me Silk, and Laces, and a Six Inch Reduction at the Very Least. One Underbust. Perhaps an Overbust, or Something Strappy. I Will Not Complain If You Grant Me Two. Or Three. Your Ever-Loving Devotee OyaD Amen. 0 Comments

Why I Don't Do.... Mar 26, 2006 7:00 pm Mood: groggy, 573 Views I've had various questions asked of me over the years of being in the BDSM scene. Usually they're the same questions over and over again, and I've usually answered them all with a "because I don't" or "because I want to". People into D/s seem to spend a whole lot of time giving elaborate rationalisations and pseudo-documentation to explain WHY they're into something rather than just saying "Because I like it, that's why!" I've never felt the need to rationalise anything I do. However, as the same questions keep getting asked over and over again (and the first question in particular has made me think), I figured I may as well get them out of the way, and in written form where I can point and say "All your answers are right there." - Why I don't do Domination A friend of mine used the story "The Little Prince and the Fox" as an allegory for BDSM. How you are responsible for what you tame, and how taming a thing makes that thing have more meaning. It was a very glowing report of BDSM's mystique. However, I saw something completely different, due mostly to my experiences: The fox DEMANDED to be tamed by the Prince, giving the Prince a veritable checklist to follow exactly how the taming should be done, the way HE wished it, giving a very glowing report of how wonderful and lasting it should be. Why? Because the fox was bored, and thus taming would somehow make life more interesting. He saw taming as entertainment - solely for his own gratification - and naturally the Prince should oblige. Not only did the Prince not know anything about taming, but he wanted to go and explore the world, do something else, but the Fox begged and begged, so the Prince tamed him. When the Prince had to go - as he had told the Fox he must long before the taming - of course the Fox cried and the Prince felt terrible about it, sorry he'd caused someone harm. At least the Prince was able to realise what was truly important to him and worth "taming" - though I find the idea that something that isn't tamed or cultivated and put into a jar or cage isn't worth anything rather akin to the self-serving, snotty "leather groups" who seem to think anyone who isn't doing BDSM is somehow less of a human being. There's a reason the creature was a fox and not a dog, or some animal not renowned for its cunning and sneakiness. In short - I got tired of being someone else's entertainment, of doing loads of work solely so the other person could sit back and enjoy themselves. A Dominant isn't in control in a D/s situation - the submissive is, and after years as a Pro-Domme, as a lifestyle Dominant, and so on, I got tired of being the whip-wielding automaton who had to constantly come up with different ways to entertain people whose idea of submission was to hand me a list of things they liked, and who would get up and leave if I ever strayed into something I wanted them to do. That a submissive who supposedly believed in worshipping the Goddess in Everywoman would balk at the idea of mowing her lawn without wearing a load of skimpy crossdressing gear, or actually do some proper WORK and not just flouncing around in a maid outfit with a feather duster tried me too hard. Does this mean I'm not a sadist? Don't misunderstand me - I've got a sadistic streak a mile wide. But it usually takes another Dominant or at the very least a switch to be able to keep up with that side of me. I don't follow a rule-book, I'm on the edge and like it there. Understandably, few submissives will teeter on that brink without a load of preparatory work, and I haven't got that kind of time. Hence, I stay out of the Dominant ticky box because my idea of Dominant and most submissives' idea of Dominant are two different things. - Why I don't do submission: The answer to this is very simple - any spanking, hitting, verbal or physical abuse or pain triggers a VIOLENT reaction in me. Thank years of child abuse for this. There is nothing "safe" or "sexy" about being in a submissive role for me. If you hit me, I will take a swing at you, and probably keep coming until someone intervenes and pulls me off you. I go completely, totally feral in submissive situations - hence for other people's safety, I refuse point blank to switch or be submissive in any way, and I don't trust another human being alive enough to even consider "trying" things. There's always someone out there who thinks it's funny or cute to try and press buttons - and that's when I snap the handcuffs and go for your throat. It's just Not A Good Idea. Trust me. Even in non BDSM situations, I can't see myself ever trusting anyone enough to allow them to place me in a situation or headspace where I am totally reliant or wish to please. It's taken me a long time to get the ol' esteem level up to a point where I can cope with rejection, I don't need the co-dependency submission brings. Have I thought about it? Yes. I've always wondered if I was missing something by not having a submissive streak or doing the sub-circuit. Will I ever actually do it? No, no way. I can't even do it with my husband, whom I trust even above myself (and that's saying a lot). He's attempted a few things before, and I nearly kicked him through a wall. There's no "challenge" in this sort of thing. It's just not worth the trouble and emotional mess. So I stay my assertive self. - Why I don't do Latex/Leather/kinky photos The most popular members on the site are the most undressed, or they're wearing Leather/Latex/Pvc and so on. In point of fact, they all rather look the same after a while. I never wear typical BDSM clothing (or even typical Goth clothing, usually), nor do I have "naughty" photos I'll part with any time soon. It's not that I have an aversion taking them, it's just I don't like being yet another big-breasted bird in the buff. I haven't actually put any photos into my goth bellydance album yet because I'm still working on my costume (which isn't that much of a pressing need as I did my back in and I'm currently not doing much dance at the moment). I'll probably do some body shots but they won't be typical when I do them, and being the perfectionist I am I'm not happy with my current wardrobe, unless "allotment chic" is your particular kink. I'd like to think I have at least a shred of originality. I may not get the most hits on the site because I don't have my bum on my front page, but I DO still get hits, and my hotlist is filling up rather rapidly. Perhaps variety is indeed the spice of life, as I seem to be attracting people who are also outside the ticky-box. -Why I don't do "quick fun" Am I a Happy Meal? Please...there's a person in here. I have needs, enjoyments, pleasures of my own. If someone even remotely bothered to read my profile instead of just registering I was female, on this site and therefore probably want to "meet up for a shag", it would be apparent sex is a ritual in sensuality for me. The quick speed-shagging doesn't do a thing for me. It's a dish to have once in a blue moon just for the variety, but it's certainly not something I'd do regularly. I assume, therefore, when people mean "fun" what they're actually saying is "I want to meet up for two hours, we'll immediately leap into sex or a scene, and then we'll pack up and leave. If I never know your name, your favourite colour, what you like to eat, what music you enjoy, then fine by me, as long as I get what I want out of you." I'm entirely too assertive (read too much of a b!tch) to agree to that sort of thing. If foreplay alone isn't taking at least four hours, then you're rushing it, and foreplay doesn't mean just a bit of tickle and lick. It means wine, it means sexy talk while eating dinner, it means building the energy up, working the sensuality, long before the clothes come off. It's got very little to do with golddigging, and more to do with a tantric approach to making every moment, EVERY moment, spent with a lover a brilliant and beautiful thing. This mode of thinking is straight out of tantra here, people, which is more than just bending yourself into cool sexual positions. It's learning to take pleasure in every bite of food you eat, in every mouthful of drink you sip, as much as the first pearl of pre-cum on the tongue. There is an entire ritual feast specifically laid out before the partaking of ritual tantra sex with your partner - from the cut of the food to its freshness, it shows attention and care to detail and pleasure. There is NO pleasure in ripping open a frozen curry packet and sitting in front of the telly. That doesn't awaken me. Passion is an art. It's also apparently a lost and dying art, but that doesn't mean I won't hold out for someone who understands what it means. It doesn't mean I need to lower my standards in any way, and I won't. I'm not a desperate woman, just a picky one. Show me a man that is anything less. -Why I don't just "stay happy with one" Anyone on this site knows the answer to this as a good portion of people are either in relationships themselves and their Others know what they're doing, or you're looking for "discreet". Humans are complex creatures, and I have felt for some time that monogamy is a mistake. We're not designed for it - never have been. We are all complex creatures, and like the Steppenwolf we have more aspects than merely the wolf and man in us. We are Shiva and Shakti - with hundreds of incarnations, thousands of different people and moods and emotions in one person. This isn't schitzophrenia, this is NATURE. So how can one person possibly give you all your needs? I feel it is unfair to think it's possible. If that's too much for you to get your head round, I'll put it like this - I'm a slut, but on my terms, my way. Men can get away with it, women can't, or at least that's the theory. But I do what I want. Impress me and you'll get what you deserve. Don't? Same thing .... And I think that's covered most of the more common questions. Anything else probably falls under "because I want to." Nemaste 0 Comments

Moon Bathing - A Study Mar 25, 2006 6:20 am 382 Views At sixteen Sabina took moon-baths, first of all because everyone else took sun-baths, and second, she admitted, because she had been told that it was dangerous. The effect of moon-baths was unknown, but it was intimated that it might be the opposite of the sun's effect. The first time she exposed herself she was frightened. What would the consequences be? There were many taboos against gazing at the moon, many old legends about the evil effects of falling asleep in moonlight. She knew that the insane found the moon acutely disturbing, that some of them regressed to animal habits of howling at the moon. She knew that in astrology the moon ruled the night life of the unconscious, invisible to consciousness. But then she had always preferred the night to the day. Moonlight fell directly over her bed in summer. She lay naked in it for hours before falling asleep, wondering what its rays would do to her skin, her hair, her eyes, and then deeper, to her feelings. By this ritual it seemed to her that her skin acquired a different glow, a night glow, an artificial luminousness which showed its fullest effulgence only at night, in artificial light. People noticed it and asked her what was happening. Some suggested she was using drugs. . . . The moon-baths crystallized many of Sabina's desires and orientations. Up to that moment she had only experienced a simple rebellion against the lives which surrounded her, but now she began to see the forms and colors of other lives, realms much deeper and stranger and remote to be discovered, and that her denial of ordinary life had a purpose: to send her off like a rocket into other forms of existence. Rebellion was merely the electric friction accumulating a charge of power that would launch her into space. She understood why it angered her when people spoke of life as One life. She became certain of myriad lives within herself. Her sense of time altered. She felt acutely and with grief, the shortness of life's physical span. Death was terrifyingly near, and the journey towards it, vertiginous; but only when she considered the lives around her, accepting their time tables, clocks, measurements. Everything they did constricted time. They spoke of one birth, one childhood, one adolescence, one romance, one marriage, one maturity, one aging, one death, and then transmitted the monotonous cycle to their children. But Sabina, activated by the moonrays, felt germinating in her the power to extend time in the ramifications of a myriad of lives and loves, to expand the journey to infinity, taking immense and luxurious detours as the courtesan depositor of multiple desires. The seeds of many lives, places, of many women in herself were fecundated by the moonrays because they came from that limitless night life which we usually perceive only in our dreams, containing roots reaching for all the magnificences of the past, transmitting the rich sediments into the present, projecting them into the future. In watching the moon she acquired the certainty of the expansion of time by depth of emotion, range and infinite multiplicity of experience. It was this flame which began to burn in her, in her eyes and skin like a secret fever. . . . - A Spy in the House of Love, Anais Nin *********** When I first read this book, I was rather surprised. Firstly, that erotica didn't have to be crude. And secondly, that someone actually had the same feeling about moon bathing as I did. I discovered a good portion of my friends - the wild, the wicked, slightly fae and freaky - all had done moonbathing at one time or another. However it wasn't just the moonbathing that resonated, but the hinting at polyamory, at the wish to break limitations and restrictions, all symbolised with her love of the moon. Perhaps that is why I adore the moon so much. I have often removed my clothing on the night of a full moon and just gone down to our sitting room, and basked. When my son was born, the very first full moon of his life, I took him with me to sit beneath the moonlight in New Forest, where we were living at the time. The moon shone in the sky like a silver sun, and it was nearly as bright as day outside. I used to spend hours gazing at it, basking in the silver glow on my skin. I've had the opportunity to swim beneath moonlight, and to give and receive pleasure from a group of seven as well. There is no more lovely sight than moonglow illuminating smiles and limbs entwined, I assure you. I was surprised at myself for to me my moonbathing is a very personal thing and not something I ever considered sharing before. However my lover at the time was an experimentalist and he often devised such entertainments - renting a room with a conservatory open to the sky, and so on. My feelings for the moon are so deep-seated that, if I have a potential lover who shows absolutely no interest in moonlight or in the beauty of the night, I can no longer be around them. The night is MY time, my wild time, infused with magic and adventure and sensuality. Necessity forces me to live a day-time existence, but I have always been nocturnal, and occasionally I switch over to a night-waking cycle. It seems to keep me in balance. I've recently re-read Anais' confessional story, and I'm itching already for a clear evening night, for the moon to be high in the sky, and a bit of quiet time to bathe. Two weeks. I can wait that long. 0 Comments

Besmirching the Divine Mar 23, 2006 11:25 pm Mood: cynical, 354 Views The Delta of Venus is one of Anais Nin's most prized works. It earned her hardly any money whatsoever, as it was written for a mysterious collector of erotica, who wanted "just the sex, lose the poetry". Every one of Nin's friends took a hand in creating erotic stories, poetic and sensual, for the collections, and each time, the reply was "Just sex, I just want the sex described." Anais Nin's response to the collector's demands is rather like my own feelings when someone on this site sends me images of nether regions over and over again without a single image of the face, the eyes, the smile. Recieving wink after wink from someone with two sentences in their profile and most of their responses as "prefer not to say", usually revolving around wanting to "meet up" and nothing more only gives me something else to put in the bin. So have a look, dear reader, and digest: "Dear Collector: We hate you. Sex loses all its power and magic when it becomes explicit, mechanical, overdone, when it becomes a mechanistic obsession. It becomes a bore. You have taught us more than anyone I know how wrong it is not to mix it with emotion, hunger, desire, lust, whims, caprices, personalties, deeper relationships that change its color, flavor, rhythms, intensities. "You do not know what you are missing by your microscopic examination of sexual activity to the exclusion of aspects which are the fuel that ignites it. Intellectual, imaginative, romantic, emotional. This is what gives sex its surprising textures, its subtle transformations, its aphrodisiac elements. You are shrinking your world of sensations. You are withering it, starving it, draining its blood. "If you nourished your sexual life with all the excitements and adventures which love injects into sensuality, you would be the most potent man in the world. The source of sexual power is curiosity, passion. You are watching its little flame die of asphyxiation. Sex does not thrive on monotony. Without feeling, inventions, moods, no surprises in bed. Sex must be mixed with tears, laughter, words, promises, scenes, jealousy, envy, all the spices of fear, foreign travel, new faces, novels, stories, dreams, fantasies, music, dancing, opium, wine. "How much do you lose by this periscope at the tip of your sex, when you could enjoy a harem of distinct and never repeated wonders? No two hairs alike, but you will not let us waste words on a description of hair; no two odors, but if we expand on this you cry Cut the poetry. No two skins with the same texture, and never the same light, temperature, shadows, never the same gesture; for a lover, when he is aroused by true love, can run the gamut of centuries of love lore. What a range, what changes of age, what variations of maturity and innocence, perversity and art . . . "We have sat around for hours and wondered how you look. If you have closed your senses upon silk, light, color, odor, character, temperament, you must be by now completely shriveled up. There are so many minor senses, all running like tributaries into the mainstream of sex, nourishing it. Only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy." 0 Comments

Black Widow In Stockings (edited for NAUGHTYWORDOHNOES!!!11one) Mar 22, 2006 9:20 am Mood: bored, 375 Views My husband read a bit of "Netherwhere" last week and confessed he saw a lot of me in Celine. I was faintly surprised. He knew I had an alt.com ad, and he's often looking over my shoulder snickering at the various "bits-shots" I keep getting in my emails. He's never seen that other aspect of myself, which I don't tend to let out too often. I have, in essence, protected him from that. There are those who write fantasy stories about women who use and abuse men, and leave them gasping for air in a rented room. By the amount of people who read the things I imagine it's not such a far off kind of fantasy. It would also suffice to say there must be women like that, somewhere, who want to be this sort of Femme Fatale, to find, (NAUGHTYWORDOHNOES!!!11one) and forget. And that too isn't too far off. Very high and mighty words from a homemaker, aren't they? Well, like most, I wasn't a housewife my entire life, you know. Once upon a time, I was very much a Black Widow in stockings. I was more than happy to haunt a alternative club in my provocative best and see who I could bring home. Sexy 20-somethings without a scrap of money to their names, who wanted to shag in the backs of their barely running vehicles was fun for a short period of time, but it wasn't quite "it". There's no sense of taking in such an encounter - such men sacrifice nothing. They're making out like bandits if you'll excuse the term; getting exactly what they want with little output but a bit of foreplay. Even the merest suggestion of commitment, or of them showing anything other than a modicum of interest in your wellbeing or personality will make them run a mile, and why not when they know they can walk back into the club and find someone else? I used to call it "Seattle Male Syndrome". Freeloaders, one and all, but very good in bed. I however fancied a spicier dish. Are you aware, dear reader, that lawyers and doctors are perhaps the most kinky, depraved people on earth? Forget politicians...it's the most upright people with the most clean-cut facade who have the most to hide...and they're more than happy to pay through the nose to get what they want. Spending £500 for an evening out is nothing for them. Sickening, but it's small potatoes. They're more than happy to spend that kind of money on doe-eyed idiot teenage girls who actually think they've landed themselves a sugar-daddy - and then realise their mistake all too soon when Daddy Warbucks turns out to be more than they can handle. I've been the agony aunt for more than a few young girls who thought they were playing a game, and realised they were actually in the lion's den. When I came across such people, prim and proper on the outside and black with vice on the inside, I gave them a run for their money. It took very little time for me to establish that I wasn't some starry eyed idiot girl buying into their stories. I was their equal. Of course, that usually started the gleam in their eye that meant I was also competition, and when you deal with Type A personalities, competition cannot be tolerated. One upmanship was the name of the game at that point, or perhaps I should say - who could sink to the lowest depths? It was usually a tie. At the end of things, when it was expected I was smitten and in love forever, when these men were certain of their conquest, and would enjoy the cruelty of casting me aside, it was I who got up, composed and calm, and began to dress without a tear in the eye. "Where are you going?" "I'm leaving. I have what I want, and so have you. Time to go." Shock, sometimes anger. One man actually threatened me physically - and I left him on the floor, clutching his nose and bleeding on the carpet. It wasn't the money they had spent on me which made them furious...it was my attitude. I deprived them of something worth more than money and pleasure. I deprived them of their CONQUEST. One man actually laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and we became good friends, where there was one, there were now two, and if my purity test score seems high it's only because it doesn't list nearly enough things I've done to someone else, rather than had done to me. I don't merely want to shag someone, so one night stands don't interest me. And none of my particular kink or enjoyments fit into the ticky-box and ruleset that is now BDSM. My wants are very simple, and yet somehow incredibly complex. I want to set the stage, be drugged on sherries and fine food, dance in the club, and weave the spell. To never have the same experience twice. To have no name, no past, no future, and merely be in the present. To be whisked away and steep oneself in vice in the way De Sade tried and failed to do. To be courted by a masked man at a Ball, someone I'll never see again, and never see his face behind the mask. Everything to set the mood is merely a facade, a backdrop for the final hour, the moment when the will is broken and leaves one breathless - and then I leave without so much as a word. You may find that shocking and very much in the face of accepted BDSM rules...but you'd be amazed at how many people rather enjoy that sort of thing. I don't want your undying loyalty, or your love or adoration, little fly. If I never see you again in a million years I'm happy. I'm merely setting the snare, baiting the trap...like you've done to all those impressionable girls before you. Let's see how you handle your equal, my dear little bluebottle. Step into the parlour, and I'll go put my stockings on. 0 Comments

(NAUGHTYWORDOHNOES!!!11one) Mar 20, 2006 7:42 am Mood: amused, 384 Views I grow exceedingly weary of Alt.com. That a website dedicated to kink and alternative lifestyles can ban blog posts or accounts for the stupidest reasons becomes increasingly tiring. My account was actually approved four times when I first joined (who knows why, it must have went in late). It was then denied, five times. Why? Violation of terms of use - I was faintly boggled. Was it because I'm not a textbook sub or Dominant? Married yet all right with things? I couldn't understand it, and after a dozen rewrites, I still couldn't understand it. I finally sent an email and got the reply I violated the terms of use by making reference to bestiality. I was even more boggled than before. Where did I say anything about beastiality?! They pointed to my reference to "hot wild (NAUGHTYWORDOHNOES!!!11one) sex". Apparently metaphors are also forbidden on Alt.com. My most recent post - part prose, part fantasy, has also been denied as per terms of use. As I've no idea what the offending material was, I just pored over it word by word...and lo and behold, I found a naughty word. One. Curse. Word. Out of the hundreds of different things I've seen discussed here, and the dozens of images of people's anatomy, apparently the f-word is just taking things too far. Anyone else find that a bit ironic? I'm not sure whether I'm laughing, or snorting in derision. So, now I have decided I will use the much more ToU acceptable tag I've just invested for such occasions. (NAUGHTYWORDOHNOES!!!11one) will now warn you when I've said something faintly tinged with blue, so I no longer offend anyone's sensibilities. When you see (NAUGHTYWORDOHNOES!!!11one) you can be assured I was probably using a noun, or adjective, or verb, that Alt.com.doesn't approve of. When I describe using (NAUGHTYWORDOHNOES!!!11one) with my (NAUGHTYWORDOHNOES!!!11one) and the (NAUGHTYWORDOHNOES!!!11one)took the (NAUGHTYWORDOHNOES!!!11one)and (NAUGHTYWORDOHNOES!!!11one) (NAUGHTYWORDOHNOES!!!11one) (NAUGHTYWORDOHNOES!!!11one), I'm afraid you'll just have to use your imaginations, and fill in your own (NAUGHTYWORDOHNOES!!!11one)blanks. Are you happy now, (NAUGHTYWORDOHNOES!!!11one)Alt.com. 0 Comments

To Whom it May Concern Mar 19, 2006 12:28 am Mood: beautiful, 328 Views I do not know who you are. Probably one of the women my husband has been spending time with of late, with my full permission and regard. Whomever you are, you're the sole reason I'm sending this letter. Thank you. Thank you for teaching him to be benevolent even in my worst rages. Even when I was ready to depart, he kept his calm and offered more help than any man in such a situation is required to do. Even with tears in his eyes, he helped to make plans for my new future. Thank you for teaching him to love unconditionally. All plans for learning to drive, to taking care of debts, to childcare, to my jewelry coursework, he agreed to foot the bill. And he said it was because he loved me, and always will, regardless. People who told him he was insane were told in return to mind their own business. Thank you for teaching him assertiveness in the bedroom. I know for a fact he wasn't doing all that biting, hairpulling and growling before. He was too submissive before. It sure as hell wasn't me as I haven't slept with the man in well over a year. But someone taught him to turn into something feral - and I REALLY thank you for that. In short, thank you for helping me find my love again, the whole reason I fell for this man in the first place well over five years ago when the subway door opened and I saw that young, impressionable man standing there. Thank you for making him so tolerant, to allow me to work through the processes in my own head till I came to the proper - the only - conclusion I could. Thank you for helping us both realise we cannot actually be without each other, in any event. Whoever the hell you are, my dear, I thank you from the bottom of my black, twisted little heart, and I certainly hope he gives you as much as you've obviously given him in return. Your compatriot and favourite fan, second to my husband, OyaD 0 Comments

Did you hear that sound? Mar 17, 2006 4:06 am Mood: drained, 367 Views That was the other shoe falling... After a rather tumultuous morning In Whiche more than a few things came to the fore, the husband and I are discussing seperation. Essentially, I'd have to have a place to live and a job by the time the lease runs out here - four months time. My birthday. The irony hasn't escaped me. On the one hand, it feels like a leaden weight has been dropped on my head. And yet, on the other hand, I almost feel myself breathing a sigh of relief. When we married, we were very much in love with one another. We were also very very VERY kinky. It worked, as we were both very much into the scene. However, as time went on, and I got pregnant - I lost interest in it. This was complicated by nearly miscarrying several times in the first few months and spending a good portion of my first and second trimester in a wheelchair. Suddenly, beating the hubby with a whip was the last thing on my mind, and constant pressure to try and make our kink the prime focus of our lives just made me recoil from it. I'd rather this didn't become a bitch fest about what a bad husband he is. He isn't. He's a damn good man who has a lot of potential, and put a lot on the line to try and keep me happy. He sacrificed a lot in the past few years even when we had no plans of having children. But our lives are now entirely too different. We want different things - he's ten years my junior and so he's missed out on a lot of things I've already done. I've always been very supportive in letting him go out and explore. Perhaps that was wrong of me as it gave him too much of a taste of his freedom, and made him think he didn't need to adapt. I don't know. Money is always an issue in our house as well. He works a job he loathes. I feel awful about that - he's brilliant, a genius actually, but he has to work this podunk job just to keep us out of debt. As I stay home, I get enough to feed us and try to keep the household going. More often than not it's not enough to make our ends meet, no matter how much I shuffle things round. At his urging, because going out and about is so rare for me, I splurge on occasion, then spend a good couple of weeks dealing with the browbeating I get about overspending. But the harsh truth is I don't love him any more. He's a friend, he takes care of the bills. We have an agreement...but it isn't love. We don't make love any more, because I'm not doing the Dominance thing any more, and without BDSM he's not aroused. And I really don't want to be with such a submissive man - I need a bit more assertiveness in the bedroom, and he can't do it. So, he goes elsewhere. I've been fine with it. However, lately, there have been hints I should be more like the women he's seeing. Comparisons are happening in his head, regardless, and that gets my back up. I don't care if he's seeing someone else. I care that Someone Else is being held up to my own image, and checks and balances are being chalked up. I am not Her or Them. I am Me. Don't judge me on that, I don't appreciate it. So, I'm now facing the one thing that scares me more than anything in the world; being a single mum. I'm terrified as hell, and can't stop shaking. All I can think of is how broke I'll be, how impossible it will be to do anything other than desperately trying to make ends meet. There's nothing on this planet more unsexy than a poor single mum, I've certainly learned that lesson before. I doubt I'll be able to stay in this city I love so much as there's no work here. I've no idea what I'll do about childcare - it's nearly impossible to afford to work if you're a single mum; it comes it, it goes right out for transportation, childcare fees, kids' clothes, and so on. Anyone who thinks being a single mum is a breeze should try it some time. And yet...and yet...there's something liberating about not having to pretend I love someone. There's a deep sigh of relief escaping my lips as I realise I will not have to answer to anyone but me. My Money, when I earn it, will finally be my own and not something I have to beg off someone else if I ever want to do anything. It may mean I need to get a job damn quickly before my dreadlocks are put in, and I doubt I'll be getting a very well paying job, but at least I'll be doing something. I may need my husband's help in paying certain bills or taking care of my son, but even so, there will be some independence there. And if...and this is a big IF...I ever have a chance to get out myself, I'll actually be able to do it, with no guilt trips, no complaints on how much Money I've spent. When my husband sees his son, he'll actually want to spend time with him rather than ignore him and read a book, as he won't be seeing him very often. I'm scared to death...but I'm going to try and face the fear and do it anyway. So thank you, my dear, for what was a very lovely five years. You did instill faith in men again, and were a prince. But we all grow, and move on. It's time for you to bloom, and shine. I had my chance at greatness - I missed it. You haven't. Go make some other lass who enjoys the scene very, very happy, with my blessing. ....and this is an incredibly non-kink related sort of thing to write. I imagine it bored you to death. Too bad. 1 comment

"So what are you into?" Mar 16, 2006 3:56 am Mood: adventurous, 422 Views Yes, yes yes bloody yes, I'm going to actually get something done at home writing-wise and domestic-wise today, but it seems this blog is sparking a load of creativity for me.... I've been getting this question a lot: "So what are you into?" I believe I have been disappointing many a man as I don't automatically spiel off the list of BDSM practices, and I rather scare the vanilla types as it's obvious after inquiry that I am into some rather non-ordinary things. My decadence is of a rather dark nature - a nature I don't always have a chance to vent as it doesn't fit into an accepted ticky box. It is because my own particular kink cannot be unleashed very often, if at all, that I write about it instead. Thus has Netherwhere been born. My particular vice is to become someone completely utterly different for an evening. To immerse myself into being someone entirely opposite to who I am - it can't be done constantly, as even filet mignon can get dull if eaten daily. To create this ficticious "me" and to use it as a snare for the un-suspecting yet completely deserving. To dance the Dark, bait the trap, spring and devour, and be gone like mist in the morning. It's more than a one-night stand, as the sex for me isn't the main enjoyment. The chase is the spice, and the brilliance of it all. Only through the elaborate preparation is the rest worthwhile to me. I hint at it a bit in my "fantasy" answer to the Alt.com profiling. And it appears in a few passages of Netherwhere, most notably the ritual Celine performs when getting ready for her Dark Evenings. Will any of this ever happen for me in reality? I doubt it. But some fantasies are merely that...and part of their titilation is they will never actually happen. I'm aware posting my work up here is just crying for it to be ripped off by someone, but as I am under a copyright for this piece, I'd strongly suggest against it. ********************* The first necessity was getting her own private flat in the City; that was easy enough as most people in England had a home away from home in London, somewhere, either for convenience, for work, or for secret trysts. Therefore the estate agents didn't bat an eye when said she was seeking out a one bedroom flat on Camden street – it was tradition. To completely transform herself into another person, she had to lay some basic groundwork; a shame as she didn't want to have such tracings of her Dark Life to exist her her Grey Life, but they were easily explained away or hidden. She plucked her eyebrows differently, giving them a new arch out of keeping with her more natural style. She loitered over hair products at the drug store, choosing wisely, spending the coins she managed to save here and there to buy cremes for enhancing curls, to hold shape, for hair dyes just different enough to be eye catching without making her an exhibit. She dedicated more time to her nails, and learned to shave all the hair off her body from the neck down until she possessed an alien smoothness on her limbs. Her appearance became a second job; preening, plucking, smoothing, toning. But it didn't stop with her physical being; she spent many an evening teaching herself phrases in French, the language of intrigue and mystery. She pored over the language of the fan, studied different cuts of suits and styles in magazines she'd never wear, memorised the construction and appearance jewelry and watches she would never own, all so she could recognise them at a glance. She collected books on etiquette and the manners of the rich and famous, analysed the line between the eccentrically charming and the untoward caprice. Celine had to weigh up her aversion to the more blatant trappings of wealth: pearls were running out; Thai rubies didn't exist anymore and Burmese militants seized mines for their own ends, sapphires were harvested with these rubies and thus came from the same corruption ridden areas; opals were ripped from the ground by underfed, underpaid Aborigines in Australia. Celine eased her conscience and her sense of style by buying antiques, as one or two old and interesting pieces often did the job a full diamond set could not. She could not bring herself to wear diamonds, for all their symbolism of money - they were harvested by slave labour, and her deception and Darkness would only go so far. She gave a nod to current styles and fashions but still stuck with her own, going for the exotic to stand out in a crowd of sameness; bold dark jeweltones in summer, stockings with backseams, corsets tightlaced to enhance her curves, hair out wild and free instead of pinned up smartly, curly instead of straight, antique jewelry and accesories rather than new-bought. Conversation at such events would be the most difficult - it mostly revolved around business. Even dressed for pleasure it seemed that people had no idea how to put modern finance and commerce aside. The subjects at least were very predictable; men talked about business, women about their hair or their new diets. Dull, stupid, nonsense conversation which was apparently incredibly important. She knew she had to be very careful with talking; the illusion would be broken entirely too quickly if she allowed herself to be drawn into any subject and talk about the rights of others, of democracy, of having any regard for fellow men in anything but token terms, of her loathing of waste and flashy spending - all the food on the banquet table which no-one would eat to preserve their hard-earned, expensively toned figures, their ridiculously expensive cars in their induced traffic jams when a cab could get them here just as quickly. Therefore she would need to stick to musical functions where talk was kept to intervals, or mealtimes. Art exhibits wouldn't do, nor would cocktail parties - and most of these latter functions required an invite and consisted of a small sect and clique (she didn't have connections, she could only pretend she did). The art in the deception was blending in and looking as if all of this was commonplace, to seem as bored as the others were - for none present were deriving any pleasure in these functions - but to stand apart, regal, with the Mona Lisa smile, for men to be intrigued, and for women to be envious. She transformed her flat into a sumptuous den of silks and velvet, bold rich colours which would rival a palace of a Raj in India. Most of it wasn't expensive; bargains from stalls in Camden, tidbits found in charity shoppes. Most of the trappings weren't expensive, but they looked it, and that was the important part. There wasn't a chair to be seen, the floor of the living room covered with pillows of every size imaginable, a futon half-swathed in a mosquito net made of diaphanous chiffon, the ceiling draped like a tent in organdy and taffeta. Candles everywhere which would gleam at night upon various silver samovars and perfume bottles, her wardrobe full of expensive evening clothing and an army of shoes lined up in a row. Celine had a ritual for the Dark Evenings, as she called them. It was no good just putting on a fancy dress. She had to completely immerse herself in the moment, assume a whole new identity, place herself in a finer setting until it came as easily as breathing. It was a challenge, but then, that was all part of the dark rush. She had plenty of money from her exhibits and shows, and also managed to steal a bit from her family's accounts, or told them she was short when she actually wasn't. Naturally, she could always skim a bit off Richard, but she did that rarely – she didn't like encouraging him, though he was often her “partner in darkness” and could have helped her easily enter into the sort of lifestyle she wanted to immerse herself into; but then it wouldn't have truly been her experience, and hers alone. Celine didn't want to share. The first day was a practice run - she would just get herself in the proper mood with pampering and getting out into the well-off public eye. She saw it as a refresher, revising for the next evening when everything really counted, for the tiniest thing would give her away if she wasn't careful. She'd learned the nouveau riche were fanatical with their rituals and attention to minute details - old money never bothered, but old money never bothered with jostling for center stage in life's theatre. Thus, she needed to make sure everything was perfect, nothing gave her away. All piercings were removed - she only had three, in order to allow her to slip from one life to the next. She had one tattoo but these days, so did everyone else. She bought several day outfits of a cut and style which was unique enough to seem designer made even if the label didn't show. Her evening attire was another matter entirely, and she often spent months scouring various antique shops for unique touches; fans, jewelry, hair combs. She ordered circlet chains from a crafter in the States, and mousquetaire opera gloves from Italy. Celine booked a hotel in Covent Garden - it wasn't the Mandarin Oriental, but it was clean and suitably posh enough to impress and put herself in the proper mood. She never booked the same hotel twice, and sometimes she didn't even end up sleeping in her room at all. But it always set the proper mood of opulence taken for granted. The hotel staff was inclined to give her a mere modicum of politeness due to her ragged, young, punky appearance until she paid with her Gold Card; indifference immediately turned into efficient respect within a few seconds. Then, after dropping off her luggage, she would shoulder her carry-all bag and have a taxi hailed to deliver her to a day spa nearby. At first, the older clientèle of vitriolic, fading, high-maintenance flowers glared death at this new rival with her piercings and youthful face, her dyed hair which would always leave streaks and traces of pastel blue or purple or red upon the collar of her robe. But she'd come here often enough, spending just enough - not too much, as it raised a banner to jealousy within moments - on facial treatments and mimosas, for them to welcome her silently into their own fold of half-bored housewives. A steam in the sauna, then the facial - it never ceased to amaze her that people would pay such extortionate amounts of money to have mud put on their faces, but it was all part of the plan. Her skin was plumped, stripped, scrubbed, wrapped, and polished. Her nails were painted in colours which would compliment her outfits and also add a few years to her appearance; the technicians knew better than to offer her pastels. After a light meal and a doze in the subtropical heat of the relaxation rooms, she'd dress in her new-bought wardrobe, taking off the artist and putting on the debutante, right down to the strappy sandals. It would be time to get her hair dyed next - she always disliked this part as removing the permanent blue-black dye was a bitch. At first, the stylists had fainted in coils at the "mess" she had made of her hair with punky, bright colours and bleaches. They soon learned to keep it to themselves, and merely sniffed archly as they washed away bilous greens, bloody reds, and bruised purples into the shampoo sink. She was now sufficiently Not-Celine to almost fit into the sea of showoffs clogging Covent Gardens. All she needed was a bag of shopping from Harrods' and a cellphone pressed to her ear. She would return to the hotel and spend her time in the restaurant, remembering how to pick at her food as if even the best wasn't good enough, sip at champagne and read a few dark, sensual novels, the "chick book" of the new millennium. She'd drug herself with a fine meal, a glass of wine, a book, always sitting alone, waiting, waiting for someone to come along, intrigued by the lone woman of 20 - or 22? - to come, sit, try to impress her with talk of their business, their cars, flashing their watches they'd glance at every few minutes, their same slightly polite, mostly predatory smiles. The men always looked alike to her, same haircuts, same suits or casual clothes, same impression in their eyes that all women must find them absolutely irresistible, from young spoiled private university boys off to Ibiza without their girlfriends to the businessmen on their way from point A to point B, from point B to point C, all equally pointless in the end. I'm male, I'm rich, and I'm perfect. You're no match for me, for all your primping and preening. I wouldn't be seen with anything less than you, I'll pick your appearance apart and gracefully overlook what I feel to be flaws, but trust me, I'll find someone else tomorrow. Celine always gave these few her full attention...they were the practice run, the revision before the true test, the guinea pigs. As a result, she was never very gentle with them. But as far as she was concerned, they were well overdue for Karma to give them a slap across the face, a dose of reality, humility, and a taste of their own bitter poison. In the morning, she'd disappear from the hotel – leaving these men snoring and in some cases, unconscious in their rooms. Sometimes, the Dark was brutal. The Not-Celine would sign out and hail a cab to her flat in Camden, entering and lighting candles, ordering in a takeaway and sitting in halflight, all the blinds closed, hanging up her new purchases in an already overflowing wardrobe. She never wore the same thing twice, and would bag up outfits she'd had for longer than a few months to give to a charity shoppe. She'd spend most of the evening with her new purchases laid out on the futon, taking up jewelry she had stored in a small case, or perhaps jewelry she had recently purchased, laying it here and there, ignoring it for an hour, coming back to see what she thought of it, selecting another piece, leaving it there...it was a meticulous process, but she knew that those who saw her that evening would be just as meticulous about her appearance. Not a hair could be out of place, not a button could be undone, or a single stone on a ring be missing. Someone would notice, they always did. She'd select her clutch bag, put her tickets to the opera within, make sure that the cab was called, and after a sumptuous bath in carefully selected perfumes and oils, she'd begin to style her hair, assemble her makeup to compliment her outfit. If she didn't look sufficiently like a stranger to her own eyes, she'd remove it all and start over again. This often took a good hour. When all was prepared, she would step into the cab, arriving a good half hour before the performance. Enough to get a glass of wine, or a cup of tea, sitting by herself as she made her entrance. Corsets and mermaid skirts were all the rage, thanks to alternative innovation; what the freaks were sneered at for wearing today, the mundanes always wore tomorrow. She always took her outfits a step further; her corsets were made for tightlacing, with proper boning. Her stockings were backseamed, and she often wore some sort of circlet or exotic piece of jewelry, something no-one ever thought of wearing before. Sometimes, she came in a particular theme; wearing an Egyptian flapper outfit for Aida, or dressing in ruffled skirts for Carmen. But most of the time, she was elegance as soon as she walked in the door, and the Dark followed behind like a spell. ************************ And now I better get back to writing again. 0 Comments

 OyaD