Taste of cunt

In the Raylene story, I had a go at describing the aroma of aroused cunt.

I wrote: 

“a warm, woman-ish smell, the middle essence of almond and the blandness but not the sweetness of banana, but those smells made of animal and not vegetable.”

arousedBut I’ve heard from one of my critical readers that this description doesn’t ring a bell. And, since she’s a cunt-owner herself, I’m prepared to accept her criticism. 

Part of the problem is that what I wrote is so impressionistic that it’s almost a private language.

What do I mean “the middle essence of almond”? Well, in perfume that’s not the high note, or the low note. In almonds the middle essence is a sort of warm smell, with no strong taste of its own, except for that slightly mealy warmth. What does “the blandness but not the sweetness of banana” mean? Is “bland” even a taste? Well, I know what I mean, but it’s not necessarily going to communicate to someone else’s tongue, nose, brain and vocabulary.

And using vegetable comparisons to describe an animal taste, that wonderful exudation of the flesh, doesn’t help with clarity either. 

But I can’t think of any animal analogues. I don’t think cunt tastes or smells of fish, for example. 

1950s-housewifeANNNN-yway, I’m going to organise a cook-off, with people male and female who like the taste of cunt.

We’ll be mixing – not necessarily cooking – various ingredients in different combinations. If anyone has any suggestions, for a recipe that tastes like cunt, I’ll gratefully try it.

I will report on results. There could be a great commercial and scientific breakthrough, here. 


Wine, women and song

wine women songI’m doing a lot of woodwork at the moment. Perhaps too much, because I saw this image, and the first thing I thought was, “oh hell, I’ve still got to knock together some wine shelves for the cellar. Hey, that’s good wood, though. Wonder if I can get any locally? Oh yeah, pretty women.”

PS: The next episodes of Raylene’s story will be coming in the next couple of days. I don’t have time to write them tonight. Life is much better than, say, this time last year and I’m a cheerful dom with a song in my heart. Probably “Sweet dreams are made of this”. The song, I mean. But I’m shagged out from doing things related to earning a living, and I’m off to bed. Alone.

Sex in the South Seas 5

Her name was Senimelia. She was a veterinary sciences student at the University of the South Pacific in Suva, and she worked during the day at her uncle’s laundry business. I danced with her in a nightclub, because she probably wasn’t the prettiest girl in the room, but she was certainly the sexiest.

There was a band playing ancient British blooze, Cream, Blues Incorporated, John Mayall and so on. The bass player was Maori and the other three were Hawaiian. Including the show-off, twiddling guitarist, who kept reproducing Eric Clapton’s favourite solo. That’s the one that goes diddle iddle diddle iddle diddle iddle up and down scales forever.

But Senimelia had hips that were apparently set on ball-bearings. She was a much better dancer than me. Though all women are, as far as I know.

She was wearing a white singlet, so that when she swing to the left or right, an area of brown roundness would partly escape from the gap under her arm.

Her nipples were hard enough to suggest that she liked me in ways that I liked her, and they – the nipples, I mean – wrote fascinating, moving circles under the cotton.

Eventually I suggested that we go home – I had a hotel room that night, because I was in a city – and take this dance to bed. She frowned, not following me.

“I want to fuck you,” I said, keeping it simple.

She looked shocked for a split second, Then she raised her head, and breathed an “Ohhhh” of comprehension. “Oh. Well, that’s good, Mr …”

“Mortimer. But call me Jaime.” I’d already said that, but I wasn’t offended that she d forgotten. We d been focussed on non-verbal things.

“Because I’m so going to fuck you.” She had a nice smile. Especially when delivering good news.

Suspenders, garter belts and such

Like this.

Like this.

A lot of art directors, glamour photographers and such, assume that if a woman is dressed to be sexy, then she must be wearing a garter belt, which holds up the suspenders that hold up her stockings. 

There must have been a time, maybe no later than the 1950s, when women wore that stuff for practical reasons, like having their stockings stay up. Because bare legs or jeans were “common”, and pantihose hadn’t happened yet.

With occasional help from the wind, or bicycles and such, men would sometimes get glimpses of thigh with the suspender stripe. That was definitely something they liked. So suspenders became a turn-on. 

When a man got lucky and undressed the woman, there’d be this yummy bit of bare thigh between the lower edge of her knickers and the stocking tops, with the suspenders providing a sort of racing stripe down the thigh.

I can see why it appealed to men of that generation.

But to me it means very little. It’s like a historical re-enactment of something I never experienced and that doesn’t mean much to me. When a woman dresses up for me in suspenders and the rest of it, I know she’s trying to look sexy, and that is the thing that’s sexy. Not the suspender belt.


Very silly.

You see the odd schoolgirl spanking photo shoot in which the “schoolgirl” wears suspenders. To me it just looks incongruous and kind of silly, in a very unsexy way. 

The girls I fancied as a boy, and the women I fancy now, generally wear cotton knickers with jeans or a skirt, and shoes’n’socks. So that’s my experience, and what I encountered once I had the social skills to start unwrapping women’s clothes.

One girlfriend of mine would wear a pair of cotton knickers with monkeys on them when she wanted to get spanked. It generally worked within ten seconds or so. (There’s probably a book in that: “How to train your dom”.) 

This is the maiden all forlorn, whose tights are thoroughly tattered and torn.

This is the maiden all forlorn, whose tights are thoroughly tattered and torn.

If I do have a women’s underwear-related fetish, it’s probably laddered or torn pantihose, with a bit of skin showing through. That does give me an urge to take that nylon ladder or tear and rrrrrip it all the way until I can get at the woman inside.

That “if” was bullshit. Of course I have a women’s, um, smalls-related fetish, and that ripped tights thing is it. They go well with boots.





These thoughts were sparked off by a post by Girl on the Net, at: http://www.girlonthenet.com/2015/01/04/sexy-lingerie-versus-casual-sleepwear/#more-4048 

Anal hooks in use

My knots were nowhere near as neat and tidy as that, I'm afraid.

My knots were nowhere near as neat and tidy as that, I’m afraid.

Some time ago I mentioned that I’d never used an anal hook.

I’d thought it was interesting that no-one had heard of them until quite recently, which means it might be one of the most recently invented sex toys.

They seemed kind of unnecessary, in the sense that people have done bdsm with each other for centuries, and in all that time no-one had ever felt that there was something missing, and that missing item was the anal hook. 

Still, they seemed a good way of keeping a submissive in position, held absolutely ruthlessly with her ass presented. 

Now I’ve used one. This post is just a foreshadowing, because I’m not up to writing much at the moment, but I’ll write a consumer’s report shortly. 

So this is Christmas

Just interrupting the Raylene story, now that we’re finally getting out of the kitchen, for some personal notes.

I’ve just bought a lot of champagne and white wine for Christmas, which is largely, damn near entirely, a close family occasion. Usually I like to host as many people as I can, people who aren’t doing family Christmases, but the family outvoted me on that one. So there it is.

Christ on a bike

Christ on a bike

As for me, I spent three days sleeping round the clock, hardly getting out of bed, after finding that I didn’t have cancer. Then I got flu and something horrible and gastric (you don’t wanna know about it).

Finally I got up, weak as a kitten.

Usually I run down to the bottom of the nearby waterfall and back, but all I’ve been able to manage is a walk down my own property and then back to the house. Exhausted.

So that, I think, is my body telling me enough is enough. It’s been a year of death and separation and loss, and various systems want me to take it easy for a while. So I’ll be sensible for a change.

I’m basically stoical, cheerful and optimistic, and I intend to stay that way. But I’m not feeling any sort of Christmas spirit – no jollity, and I have to remember that I love people – not all the people, obviously. Still, I’m going to get back to normal. 

On the day, since my father isn’t able to do it, I’m going to be a gurning fool, possibly in a white cottonwool beard, shouting ho ho ho, pressing champagne on people, and announcing and doling out the presents one by one with a lot of shouting. A sort of meld of my father and Brian Blessed. 

On not having cancer

I’ve given away the end of the story in the title, there. All my cancer tests came back, and I failed them all. Every one. Negative every time, in every sample in every kind of tissue and body fluid, and in every scan, by every means, of my firm proud slightly puffy body. 

Which leaves a few doctors wondering why. It means I’m still “interesting”, medically, when I’d rather be boring.

But don’t worry, this blog isn’t going to tell you any more about the brief, bloody rebellion of my innards. My body put it down and re-established order. Any more trouble-making and there’ll be shootings. 

(That’s probably how Kurt Cobain spent his last minute: auto-surgery. “Awww, my stomach hurts. And I got a headache. I’ll git that fucka!” BLAMM!)

I’ve been tested intensively enough that I know that whatever it was, my body had the reserves to deal with it thoroughly, leaving no trace of the original problem or signs of future problems. Freak event. Damn freaks. 

Which means no surgeries, no chemo, no loss of my hair, my beautiful hair, and no worries about whether they got the lot, and all that sort of nightmare. Just life, which goes on.

The funny thing is that it feels a bit flat at the moment. I should be out champagning and dancing, but what I’ve mostly done since getting the news is sleep. I’ll probably feel more joyous in a day or two, when I’ve caught up and relaxed again.

Ahh, man, fuck cancer: I mean, seriously, fuck off, cancer

Thing is, I been pissing blood. It’s stopped now, but my urine looked like pinot noir. No pain, so there was nothing to distract me from the sight of it, and I can report to you that it looks really, really weird.

I got two doctors who think there’s a reasonable chance it’s a presenting symptom for cancer. So I’ve contributed a whole lot of blood and urine for some lab to take a look at in the next week. I’m getting ultrasounds on Monday.

So life’s on hold until late next week. Because that’s when I should know. I actually don’t think it is cancer, because there are other possible explanations and the odds are against it. But I know that I wouldn’t actually know, and my assessment of the odds is close to worthless. And even having to worry and wait is pretty shitty.

I’ve been a bit weary the last couple of days, because this has been a year of this sort of shit. My mother died, my father’s losing his marbles and is now in a dementia ward, the woman I loved done left me, and … Oh, that’ll do for now; I got enough for a blues.

Bad news

I’ve had some bad news. I’m not ready to write about it, and I’m mainly in a mood for – I don’t know. At different times in my life I’d have got drunk, or hidden from all my friends till I’d dealt with it, or switched myself off but gone on doing what I usually do, but not really being there, or playing bad music incredibly loudly, or shouting poetry, in private of course. Sorry, you get this lot: 

      Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
         Nor peace within nor calm around,
      Nor that content surpassing wealth
      The sage in meditation found,
         And walked with inward glory crowned—
      Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
      Yet now despair itself is mild,
         Even as the winds and waters are;
      I could lie down like a tired child,
      And weep away the life of care
         Which I have borne and yet must bear,
      Till death like sleep might steal on me,
         And I might feel in the warm air
      My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony.
Riwha Titokowaru

Riwha Titokowaru


But also, less weary, some defiance from Titokowaru:  

“E kore a hau e mate kāore a hau e mate,
ka mate ano te mate.”
“I shall not die; I shall not die.
When death itself is dead I shall be alive.”

Why I’d be lousy at reviewing toys

toolsI’ve lost my paddle. It was a heavy black leather paddle. Heavy, double-bladed; made a cracking noise when it landed. I care that it’s gone, but that’s because it was a present. So it’s got sentimental value. 

But if I’d bought it myself, I wouldn’t really care.

I bought a little leather whip that’s pretty much for whipping cunts and perhaps nipples. I haven’t seen it in a while either, but I’m not counting it as lost because I haven’t looked for it. 

The tools I like best are the simplest. Handcuffs are useful, and ankle cuffs. So are blindfolds. Spreader bars have their place, though they get in the way when it’s time to fuck the submissive. They can hurt the dom’s shins, and that simply won’t do.

If I want to give stronger sensations than a hand spanking, then my belt or a cane will do. But they’re all optional. I mean, only speaking for me.  

Everything a dom needs to do bdsm.

Everything I need to do bdsm.

So I’d be a terrible toy-reviewer blogger. “The new three-strength violet wand with attachable butt-massager”, I would write, enthusiastically, “is probably under the bed. But it might be behind the couch in the music room. I don’t think I took it outside. Anyway I recommend it. Probably.”

All I feel the need for is my hands, my cock and my tongue. To command, punish and pleasure. This is only a personal taste, and I’m not claiming any purity from this. But I’m only a tourist in Toyland; it wouldn’t ever be where I live.