#SinfulSunday – He goes shopping

Sometimes the most delightful things turn up in the post. This corset, chosen for me and worn with such enjoyment joins my collar in being such a delivery. I look forward to us getting the opportunity to enjoy them both together.

Click on the lips below to see some more images and to see who else is being sinful this Sunday

Sinful Sunday

We won’t know unless we try

How many times have I been here, this place with its bright open skies, and its own particular micro climate not limited to the weather?

I had given it very little thought in the past given how important it has turned out to be to me and how strange that, or maybe apt, that what thought I had given it was more of a suspicious sideways glance then any full frontal eye contact. It seemed other, to the rural housewife I was, and nothing to do with me at all.

I walk along the front, and up into the town where the empty building He lured me to with text messages stood with its door ajar. The first floor a party to my being stripped and tied in front of the window as people passed by on the double decker buses, close enough to make eye contact if they gazed in the right direction at the right moment, far enough away to make me drip at being exposed this way.

Through the Lanes with their kitch cafes where He bought me cupcakes and tea and I howled my way through my 25th wedding anniversary into His shoulder. I wondered then if this jagged tear at my centre could ever be mended. Would I ever be as good as new? Was it true, as my counsellor said, I could be better?

Back down and along the front to my favourite Italian restaurant, where He took my hand as I told Him that I was all in here, for better or worse and that I was so with the knowledge that I didn’t know it all.

And I wondered could we have it all, was it even possible?

And He answered we won’t know unless we try will we?

Time passes, as it is wont to do and I feel the wind in our particular micro climate soften and fall as the water is sucked back out to the sea. A wave is coming that will take our feet from under us, cast us out and pull us into a new shore. One that is different from any either of us have seen before and we will emerge, gasping from the exertion and laughing with the exhilaration onto a new shore where we find ourselves.

And we will try and we will laugh and love while we try, oh yes will we try 💋❤️💋

Sense of place

I have been a home owner since I was 26. My mum and dad lived with my great aunt for seven years to save enough money to buy their first house, they are only in their second now. Home owning is what we do, further more, house owning is what we do, not a flat but a house, with a garden; it’s in my DNA.

Next Friday the house I co-own with my ex husband and the home I raised my children in will be sold and the proceeds divided up. After the mortgage and debts have been paid off the amount left will not be enough for a deposit as I do not earn enough to make up the difference with a mortgage. My ex husband earns three times my salary and is younger than me and so may be able to buy somewhere, however he grew up in Scotland where home ownership was not common as he grew up and he always fretted about the responsibility and the pressure of owning a house. The irony of this situation is not lost on me as I find myself looking into the next decade and wondering how I resolve this sense of loss of place. I feel left behind – my peers who have managed thus far to stay together – still have their houses, some even have paddocks and are planning granny flats.  This life, that I once had glimpses of joining, will no longer be mine.

I am trying to decide what I want from the furniture that remains in the house. I have taken care of my initial and most pressing needs in the 3 years since I left. My furniture is from charity shops, school sales, and donated by the generosity of friends. I like my space’s eclectic style, but I desire the kind of comfort I get from closing your own front door and curling up on a sofa with a lap to put my head in.

It seems a long time ago now, but one golden afternoon was spent kneeling in front of Him with my head in His lap. We both fell asleep as the sun’s autumnal rays poured through the reddening leaves of the trees outside my window, comfortable enough with each other to snore gently without self consciousness. His hand was in my hair as I inhaled the smell of fields that clung to his denimed legs and dreamed of more days spent laughing and kissing. Dreaming of us and comfortable in the space we inhabited.

That sense of place is what I want to bring with me to my new home. Comfort, pleasure, desire, beauty, laughter and a lack of self consciousness that is still refreshing and exhilarating to me in its unexpected newness.

Where it is won’t matter as long as I have that.

Where it is won’t matter as long as I have us.

Sugar

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Another long day had nagged at her enjoyment of the smallest things.  Usually able to take pleasure in the intense aroma of a well-made cup of coffee or at the sight of a turning leaf falling from a tree through an arc of sunlight, today’s demands had made her hair grey rather than silver and threatened the reliable smile on her face.

She needed something sweet to reconnect her with delight once more but was unable to deliver it to herself in her careworn state.

Her phone pinged with a notification –

Here

Yes, she replied and proceeded to empty her cares into the phone, telling him of the additional responsibilities heaped on her at work without the authority to carry them out, of the intransigence of her ex spouse in the final throes of their divorce, of her concern for her adult children and their experience of their parents in this difficult time, of how it had hurt when they lost their easy connection and how afraid she was that it wouldn’t ever return, how that year when they met only twice and she had tried to fill the gap was the worst ever, and how she was tired, so tired that she thought she might not sleep tonight and then how would she manage with tomorrow’s demands which would not stop, she knew it.

Breathe, he said.

Then. He told her to look at the pictures of the sunset they took during their previous weekend together. The ones he took of the mist rolling towards them under the firey stripes of the sunset as they drank gin and tonics and chatted. “Remember, he said, that I kissed you when you arrived? I needed that so much.” And she remembered, the shock of the re-connection, that had lit her up like a battery in a dead torch. “Ah, yes!” she responded, brain appeased for the moment by the lovely memories he had sparked, then again the worries came in a wave, threatening to engulf her and he listened patiently as she offloaded more care, more woe, more upset into him until finally he typed..

“Ssshhh. Pick a number between 6 and 9.

She was instantly intrigued, decided to go for 7 for no other reason than she liked 8 better but she was still not OK with herself and her choices.

The message came back

“Crack on then.”

And she knew that the connection had been restored, as he encouraged her to focus, to remember, to connect, to think of Him as she pleasured herself 7 times for Him, for their us.

He had fed her some sugar to sweeten a hard day.

It tasted so sweet.

#SinfulSunday – fluids

Shower sex is the hottest sex but can be impractical without some forethought such as a suitable covering for your bed.

Once that is sorted though you are free to push me up against the wall whilst water courses off my body as you hold me by my tightening nipples and enter me from behind.

Then drag me by my wet hair to our bed and have me, legs splayed and begging for you, over and over until we are covered in each other, our desires sated, for now.

Photo by @Exposing40 – thank you 💋

Please don’t forget to click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful this Sunday

Sinful Sunday

#SinfulSunday – hair

In my youth ladies over 50 cut their hair short or wore it up in a bun and pretty much everyone coloured it unless they had a blue rinse.

I began going grey in my 30s and made a decision then not to dye my hair, I was just too lazy and too tight to spend the time and money at the hairdressers!

These days I am happy that I made the decision. I love my long silver hair and wear it as a symbol of rebellion against those mores. I also enjoy spending the time I save in more pleasurable ways 💋

This wonderful image was taken and edited by @Exposing40 aided by excellent cushion removal by @mandapen

Don’t forget to click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful this Sunday

The first night is always tossy-turny

I remember it vividly. The pains in my stomach that made me uncomfortable enough to cry. His face, concerned, and slightly puzzled. He didn’t, couldn’t understand and neither could I but I knew it had something to do with the reason I wouldn’t get confirmed when I was 13 in-spite of my longstanding involvement with the Church, and that had everything to do with not wanting to kneel before any man.

I knew that.

I would not kneel.

I put away the childhood memories of me draping myself over the padded stool in the bathroom and imagining being spanked – they were obvious evidence of me not being good.

I knew I wasn’t good, but I knew I tried hard and here I was trying hard, with my new husband, however letting him witness me farting or even knowing that I had to go to the loo was absolutely not going to happen. It was too intimate and I could not let anyone close enough to me to know me at that level because I was not good, I knew I wasn’t good but I knew I was trying hard and I would just keep going and get good, I would be good, somehow, sometime and in the meantime I would hang on to everything and not let it out, ever even though it caused me excruciating pain and I would not let anyone near me as I was not good.

Our first overnight, three years ago now, (yes I know, long time ago, but I hang on and I don’t let go) I wore my rose dress; the one I so want to get into again but have to face the fact that I may not since I was skinny with stress and distress and radiant with possibility at the time. We met in a hotel in a city near me. I left my then husband at home (the second one who had heard me fart, I had learned that much by then) and came to Him in haze of possibility and certainty, I came to Him like an iron filing to a magnet. Drawn, inexorably drawn.

He clicked His fingers and I knelt beside Him, not even with a second thought because I knew with Him I was good. That I tried and it was enough. That I was His good girl.

That night we ate and drank and laughed. Held hands in the taxi and headed back to the hotel where He hung me from the door-closer and striped my belly with His belt. I worshipped His cock , took it deep into my throat and threw up over His stomach, cleaned it up and carried on. So far from the girl who couldn’t fart in front of her husband that I could barely recognise my glowing, glorious self. We slept together and I woke through the night, tossy-turny in that first night, but my hand in the dip in His chest all the time, a home from home, and all the more precious for it.

Last weekend He built us a nest and we lay together after watching the mist roll towards us across the fields. Our first night of the weekend, as always was tossy-turny, and we awoke to a world that did not entirely greet our togetherness with happiness and yet, I realised that I was no longer ashamed of my gentle snoring, my occasional farting and my obvious not goodness since I was then and am now His good girl and that is enough for me.