Checklist

   Camera? Check.
   Japanese bondage rope? Check.
   Blindfold/Sleep Mask? Check.
   Three-holed Paddle? Check.
   Very cheap Arbor Mist stuff? Check.
   Panties of various types? Check.
   Cane? Check.
   Bathbrush? Check.
   Computer? Check.
   Sleep? Not yet, still packing...I'm going on a trip. I'm gonna see College Guy. We have stuff to "talk" about. And we have need for a break in the pandimonium of school and life. So I'm going. Leaving in about 7.5 hours. I had better get to bed.
   We have some new implements that we bought together in place of "Christmas presents". I think it's a little early for Christmas...but I know when to keep my mouth shut. I'm looking forward to the cane. The paddle can get eaten by a wild boar on the trip over for all I care.
  Can't wait. Can't wait.
  Can't wait to wish that I could wait. Can't wait to think "Oh %*$*...why did I come?"
  Can't wait.

The Bet

He said her name in that tone of voice. She peaked her head around the corner of the living room. He was on the couch. In the middle of the couch. He never sat there. Not smack dab in the middle.


She flew back to the bedroom, zipped on her coat, jerked on her hat and gloves, grabbed her car keys.


She scuttled by him, avoiding his  gaze. Her hand was on the door, thumb pressed on the top handle, when she felt his arm around her waist, his strong hand wrap gently but firmly around her wrist. "Where do you think you're off to?" The question was almost a whisper, and her breath quickened.


"I'm getting ice cream."


"Like hell."


She squirmed in his half embrace, dreading what was coming, and also...wondering..as always, wondering...would he give up this time?


She giggled. "I didn't realize that kissing me good bye was so important to you. Since when has that been such a big deal?" And she turned in his arms, snuggling in and reaching up for his face in a movement that had been honed with time and practice.


In a smooth move, he stepped backwards and her hands met empty space. So he was airing on the side of caution. Good, she liked a man to be scared of her.


To bad he hadn't thought more into the movement. Right on beat she spun, pulled the door open, and sped out, not bothering to close it. A nervous squeal rose in her throat as she dashed to her car, keys extended. The car beeped at her as the remote engaged, and she opened her door, jumped in, and moved to slam herself into safety, but the door wouldn't budge.


He was holding the handle. "Get out. I will come in there and drag you out. You don't want that."


"I don't want you." Yeah, she knew she didn't play fair. So?


"Get out."


They stared at one another, her brain starting to realize that she wasn't going anywhere.


"Why?" She decided to play dumb. "Why do you always think this will help us? Spanking me doesn't help. I like spanking."


It was dark outside. So she saw the sparks clearly as they flashed in his eyes. "I like spanking too. And I'm going to enjoy this spanking a hell of a lot more than you're going to."


"You wanna bet?"

Holes

    My favorite pair of jeans has 4 holes down the left thigh. And during class, my fingers will sneak down  and a  probing finger or two will sneak into one of the holes, smoothing the skin underneath. And then I'll just leave them there, trapped against my skin It happens unintentionally, but most times, when I realize I've been doing it for awhile, I jerk my fingers out, wondering if classmates had noticed my self-soothing movement.
    Freud would say that the actions was symbolic of another action, another self-soothing habit that he was all too interested in. Doesn't he wish?
    But I don't think that's why I do it. The feeling of my fingers on the previously untouched skin is good. But, after repeating the motion in my horribly long night class yesterday, I realized why I like it, why do it unconsciously. I like trapping my finger.
    I know it's just one finger, and I'm in control of the trapping part. I really don't know why I like it or have fixated on this tiny part of my life as a subject for my post.
    But it makes me think. It makes me think of holding hands. It makes me think of someone holding my wrist, my arm bent behind my back, as I writhe across his lap. It makes me think of a hand on my face, forefinger and thumb pressing just below my cheekbones. "Look at me. Look. At. Me." It makes me think of that place I always want to get to, that place where I can no longer fight and but more than that, I no longer want to.

My Toppy-side

"Why are you following me?" I ask this guy at college that is always running into me. For all of last semester and now this one, he's been "the stalker" in the movie that is my life. We were even in a class this semester, but thankfully, I ended up dropping it. Now I'm trying to find Henry James' "The Turn of the Screw". And this guy is dogging my every step.


"What?" He asks innocently.

I sigh. "Heel!" I command, and keep walking. He follows. I laugh. But it's not funny. I'm mocking.

I only do it because I hate it.

My first boyfriend ever is lying on his back in the parked vehicle. Vulnerable...controlled by his need. I see it as weak...and I laugh. I'm mocking.

"Say it again. Say it like you mean it." I purr.

"You're so good at blow jobs. You're like in the top 2%...." He breaks off in a gasp, and I allow the feeling to soar, then abruptly break off contact.

"I don't think I like the sound of 2%. I want to hear 1%." My voice is matter-of-fact, but teasing.

He chuckles. But I remain motionless.

"Alright, alright, you're in the top 1%.."

I laugh. Hilarious. Horribly hilarious.

I like to think that this is my "toppy-side". That it comes out when I don't like a guy. When I wish I could like a guy.

So I test him. And when he fails, I laugh. But I'm mocking.

This isn't fair of me. Some guys want to be controlled by women. Some guys are like me. It's what they long for.

"The stalker" in the library, when I told him to "heel" , responded with, "Oh, no, Missy, oh no. Don't even think about it."

I giggled. 'Well, you're still following me."

"You may be cute," he said, "But you're not that cute."

Which probably means that his "oh no" reaction was only reserved for those that were "that cute" and that everyone else couldn't boss him around. But some one "that cute" could definitely be the boss.

And I never want that. I'm not saying that I never want to have my own ideas. I do. I want to be able to tell a guy what I think he should do. I want him to tell me what he suggests I'd do. And then I want to figure out what I think is best.

However, I want him to know that when he wants it to be so...when we can push everyday life aside...I want him to control me. But only if he takes pleasure in it too.

I never want him to see being a top as mocking me. I am mocking when I play at it. It scares me every time I do it.