我的理想對象:
My ideal mate is excited by my elegant sensuality. He would rather find me dressed to please us both than simply naked under the sheets. And he (or she!) appreciates my enjoyment of Victorian and 50s fashions: corsetry and corsolettes, hoops and crinolines. Your idea of perfect foreplay might include pulling me over your knee, raising my skirts, then warming the tender flesh from my stocking tops to my corset hem. Don't stop when you discover I'm wet down there; continue until my bottom is well-warmed and nicely reddened. For me, that is the perfect foreplay. But it's so hard to decide -- is my spanking more pleasurable on the bare when you redden that whole milky expanse between my stocking tops and corset hem, or would we enjoy it even more when you attend throughly to the delights beneath the broad satin back panel of my very firm, high-waisted retro girdle or corsollette? Decisions, decisions. I hope you would help me decide just how to dress to please us both.

In case I've whetted your curiosity, I'll be a bit more expansive about how delightful fantasies intrude into my daily reality:

Once I'm home with my suit and blouse back on their hangers, I let the imaginings of the day, and especially my drive home, wash over me. Sometimes I touch myself in traffic, but I try to resist until I'm at home, comfortable and relaxed. I would never want to be really , but I occasionally imagine I'm in a relationship with a man who doesn't ask, he just has his way with me. In my musings, that seems all right, but frankly, it does not really square at all with my more feminist notions of the way the world should be run. I rationalize, though, a real separation between the gritty reality of the lives we live, versus a misty, fanciful existence we can enjoy only in our imaginations. Does that make sense to you?

I fantasize about living my life a hundred and twenty years ago as an elegant Victorian lady. Would I really want to be a Victorian wife or mistress? No, of course not. Could any modern, relatively privileged woman willingly accept or enjoy women's lot a hundred years ago -- the utter loss of gender influence, obsolete plumbing, antiquated and sometimes deadly health care, with all the insecurity and hardship that come from the loss of gender power? I doubt it. But that's the critical point behind my personal rationalization separating reality from fantasy. In my Victorian imagination, I am loved and respected, even when I'm undergoing strict correction with a hairbrush or birch. I don't ponder the dark side of the Victorian woman's lot, I just choose to image and focus on what I find appealing and sensuous.

Yes, a Victorian wife or mistress was in many ways like the concubines of any age. She must accede to the wishes of her husband or master, and do whatever is required to please him. Every orifice belongs to her gentleman. A really demanding Master would invade his mistress's pussy and ass with rubber (gutta percha?) plugs whilst they are not being fucked. Her creamy bottom cheeks belong to her master, to be reddened or striped, at the Master's pleasure. Her very figure belongs to her master -- if he insists she lace herself to Victorian ideals, then surely she must, so her master can be proud to be seen with her in public. He gives her the gorgeous gowns with the tiny waists and dramatic décolletage, and she wears them proudly. In my Victorian fantasies, that is the woman I long to be; this is the life I yearn to live.

I would be happiest with an elegant, debonair, imaginative, strict and demanding Victorian gentleman as my master. He is wealthy enough to keep me in the style I so enjoy, but he exacts his own price, and I'm falling in love with him for it. He pays all the accounts at my dressmaker, milliner, shoemaker and corsetiére, and gives them explicit guidance as to his tastes. He pays the tradeswomen well; it's no surprise they strive carefully to assure he is always pleased with their creations for me. Paying top price buys true couturier elegance and style, uncompromising quality, and utter discretion.

I know I'll spend a lot of time on my knees beside my master, with his cock in my mouth. Once we're both dressed for an elegant evening on the town -- at the opera, or the theatre, or a truly fine restaurant -- he often takes the few minutes while our carriage comes to the door to pleasure himself in my mouth, and tell me how he intends to redden my bottom tonight. We are far past chastisements just as punishment for lapses in my behavior. No, my master takes me over his knee, pushes my skirt and crinolines out of the way, takes down my panties and spanks my bottom for his pleasure, not for my correction. I accept that; he is my Master, I am his Mistress, and he has taught me to enjoy my fustigations. I know, after all, that after my bottom is reddened, I will have his cock. I just don't know, unless he warned me during the wait for the carriage, or by whispered comments during an intermission, if he plans to bury his cock in my pussy or my back passage. He does take a certain perverse delight in plunging his cock into my rosebud after he has played with it during a spanking, lubricating the entrance with my own juices. That always leaves me gasping, partly from the spanking, I suppose, and partly from the forceful penetration, but his cock in my ass now feels so exciting. I enjoy the erotic fullness, and I'm pleased to give so much pleasure to my master.

I suppose a modern master might dress his mistress in chic satin corsets, silky stockings, and long, elaborate, elegant gowns. A modern master might keep his mistress's bottom blushing pink from frequent attention over his knee. A modern master might ensure that none of his mistress's orifices ever got lonesome for his cock.

But in my imagination, my Victorian master guarantees my pleasure by catering to all my fancies. When I see people today recreating Victorian times, for example, during Victorian Days at Cape May, N.J., I wonder if part of the ageless appeal goes beyond long skirts, elaborate architecture, and dainty china. Most of the women in the Cape May Victorian fashion shows, like me, are obviously authentically corseted. When they retire to their rooms after dinner at the fancy bed and breakfasts, what then? It is so easy for me to imagine all those waistcoated husbands, each now seated expectantly in rooms throughout the B&B. I can close my eyes and imagine each "Victorian wife" -- and a few "Victorian mistresses" -- pulled over her gentleman's knees. Each elegantly dressed lady looses some of her poise, when her skirts are drawn up around her waist and her bottom is bared! Do you suppose each of the gentlemen enjoy watching a lady's stockinged legs flail during a spanking? In how many rooms will there just a hand spanking tonight, before milady is bent over the back of a chair and fucked silly? How many other couples caught up in the spirit of Victorian marital discipline discovered the unique B&B on Quincy Street that provides its Victorian Days guests with a ribbon-tied birch rod on the mantle? Umm. I wonder. If that were me, I know what I would want the answer to be -- the carefully crafted birch rod left over our fireplace wouldn't languish there as a simple decoration. Maybe someday . . . a friend and I can bring my Victorian discipline fantasies into our real life, at Cape May . . .

Sir, can you see yourself playing a part in my life, or my fantasy life? Would you like to make my dreams come true?