I love them. I love the care that goes into choosing the images, the thrill I get as the end of the month approaches and I can look forward to the new picture, which will represent a time in my life where I was really enjoying myself and with people who mean a lot to me.

In a way, that calendar is a physical representation of how lucky I am. How, despite my life sometimes being sad, irritating, unhappy and downright annoying, I am blessed. I am blessed with an adoring husband, a lovely Lover, some amazing friends and some excellent kink play. So what if I don’t have the career I always thought I would, that sometimes I don’t get the play I want or the attention I crave. There are moments in my year that are as close to perfection as I could ever want them to be. And my calendar is a reminder of this. It’s my happiness measure.

I would love to post some of the pictures here for all of you to see. Sadly, although I’m open about what I look like, many of the people in my life, including HWMBO and The Lover are not, so I can’t. But I can assure you all that every time I make a cup of tea in our kitchen and this month’s picture catches my eye, I smile and remember how good it was and how much good is still to come.

Lucky lucky me!

I’m dieting again. It’s not going very well. I had a review meeting with The Lover last week and he described it as a ‘disappointing start’. Is there any worse combination of words in the English language? Apart from the phrase ‘I’m disappointed in you’.

I’m not very good at doing things on my own, even if I really want to, so I really appreciate a mentoring aspect. Other friends have talked about the difficulties of mixing pleasurable punishment that has an erotic charge and unpleasant punishment that is meant to hurt, the submissive doesn’t enjoy and frankly, the dom doesn’t either.

In my life, I’ve been thin and I’ve been fat. I’ve been overweight and underweight. I’ve even been just right – for about three weeks after birth. Although I love food, I don’t love how it makes me look a lot of the time and I envy some of my lucky friends who by lucky genetics or proper eating habits (or a combination thereof) can eat whatever the hell they like and maintain an amazing figure.

I’ve long given up on asking HWMBO to help me conquer my life-long poor relationship with food. He won’t do it – because it’s hard work and very unrewarding as I become snappy, grumpy and cross. He doesn’t have the patience or really understand my torturous journey with what I put in my mouth. He dislikes telling me not to eat something or forbidding me from doing something, something I’ve always found ironic in a dom. He wants me to make my own choices, to regulate myself. Except that I can’t. I am weak.

The Lover, poor fool, therefore offered to step into the breach. At first, it went well, he monitored me every day by text, walloped me when I misbehaved, put up with me screaming abuse at him when I couldn’t have what I wanted. He quickly came to the conclusion that HWMBO did, that unless I do it myself, nothing works, not thrashing, not telling-off, not talking. So he gave up on the thrashing and now he merely counsels me in a sad voice, making me feel like I am the most useless and idiotic person on the planet and causing me to despise myself even more as the following day, I eat forbidden things again.

So why do I do it? Apart from the obvious temptation that is? Because a tiny part of me says, it’s because neither of them care. If they cared, they would be on my back all the time, snatching Bavarian Smoked cheese from my fingers if needs be, scoring an angry line of pain across exposed thighs, checking, checking, checking. But they don’t. They can’t be arsed with that level of commitment. And if they can’t be arsed why should I be?

My problem is, as I put on weight and feel worse, so eat more and put on more weight and feel worse so eat more – is that I know when they will be arsed. They will be arsed when suddenly, I am so overweight that they can’t help to notice it and suddenly, they don’t fancy me anymore. The process is already happening, like a speeding train rushing towards the inevitable barrier over the abyss. And that’s when I will care – when I watch them lust after others and know that they don’t lust after me – and that’s when it will hurt more than any cane strokes can possibly do.

I suffer from lack of will. But will comes from inside. And somehow, what you need to do, inside the poisonous inner wellspring of hatred and poor body image and corrosive guilt and jealously of the younger thinner ones and anger, anger at your own being – you find your will. Then you do it all by yourself. You don’t need anyone else. Because all those things that held you down drive you on.

It just goes to show really that relying on anyone other than yourself is futile and will lead to your eventual unhappiness. You can only count on you. Believe me on this one.

I don’t have multiple orgasms often, but when I do, it seems to be that the last vestiges of the previous one sets the new one off – rather like earthquake tremors. And unlike a normal single orgasm (which are lovely as well!), you end up with every muscle in your body feeling weak. I feel that women certainly get the better end of the deal here – I think it’s fair to say that whilst men orgasm more easily, they can only do it once. Only women are blessed with the ability to go on and on and on….

(Smug grin)

This has coincided with some new research that suggests that the g-spot is a myth. Now speaking personally, I’ve never managed to find my g-spot although I am lucky enough to have very intense orgasms. So other readers will have to let me know if they think it exists and if they’ve ever found it. 

The bit that amused me though was that apparently an American plastic surgeon has managed to create an artificial g-spot – which has caused women to have very intense orgasms with the friction from normal day-to-day activities, such as riding on the bus.

Given how much that would spice up my daily commute, I’m surprised that American women everywhere aren’t beating a path to his door!

So yes, where was I? Oh yes, anal sex. I thought for quite a long time about whether or not to write this post. Was it a little bit too rude? Would people be able to look me in the eye after it?* Well, we’ll soon find out, won’t we!

I’ve only ever had anal with three people. I lost my anal virginity in a drunken one-night stand with a law lecturer, before I was even into BDSM. It hurt, there was blood and I didn’t enjoy it. Later on, when I met He Who Must Be Obeyed and as a submissive, it was something that I very much wanted to do with him, I kind of wished the drunken one-night stand into oblivion and that he could have been the first to take me there.

Because there’s something about anal sex. It’s not called unnatural for nothing (although animals sometimes have anal sex, scientists reckon this is because they’ve missed the proper orifice**). There is something naughty, sordid and wicked about it, and it’s not something you would want to do all the time, not least because of the physical impact it would have on you sphincter muscle!

As a submissive, the act of anal sex means a lot to me. As I said above, although I have played with a lot of people and had sex with a smaller number of those, I have only ever done this with three people, one of whom barely counts. And it’s not just to do with the fact that it can be awkward and painful. It’s because it’s one of the few things in BDSM that I find utterly submissive and I don’t want to be that submissive with everyone. Like Haron wrote in her excellent post the other day, I have difficulty sometimes in letting go. And allowing a dom to do that to you, especially when he’s ordered you to reach behind and part your cheeks for him in preparation, is one of the most submissive and meek things that you can do.

In case anyone is in any doubt, it’s also something I really enjoy. I like it slow and gentle, to give me time to get used to the sensation but also to allow myself to revel in the sheer wickedness of allowing myself to be taken in that tightest and most forbidden hole. Sometimes, I like it brusque and sharp, which has the advantage of often ending quickly, because it’s not something that I can take for an overly long time. I love the fact that every time I have anal sex, it’s like being a virgin all over again.

And it doesn’t have to be penetration by cock. I like being stroked and probed with fingers and dildos, having cheeks that are welted and sore massaged with cold cream and feeling fingers slipping between my cheeks, knowing perfectly well what is going through HWMBO or The Lover’s minds (for he is the third) and preparing myself mentally for the ultimate invasion, the ultimate moment of submission.

When I play with myself, I am usually thinking about a scene that turns me on. And even if I start thinking about something different, a caning, a birching, sex in the shower – inevitably, as I approach my climax, suddenly, that act is happening and I clench with orgasm as I picture myself parting my cheeks…..

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*Yes, the standard return joke to that sentence is ‘Which eye?’
** Which isn’t uncommon for blokes either, although I won’t name names!

This is not a good start to my New Year’s Resolutions!

I am hoping that once I recover a bit, that the resulting drought will actually make my orgasms better and stronger – especially as I’ve now started dieting so am feeling deprived of lots of other things, like carbs, alcohol and cheese.

But in the meantime, I’m just going to sulk….

…….sigh………………..

We had eight dances in total, which I, dressed for the evening as a chap* called for everyone and as the couples whirled around the floor, I did, several times, feel like I’d been transported back time to 1809.

When I first introduced traditional Regency dancing to our annual house parties, I have to admit I felt some trepidation. It’s been one of my hobbies for years, encouraged by watching loads of BBC costume dramas but I wasn’t sure how the kink crew would take to it. Initially, there was a little resistance from the men of my acquaintance, no doubt fuelled by the fear of looking silly. Luckily, the girls were up for it and they persuaded the chaps to take a chance. And after a brief introduction to the basics, we were away.

Once you’ve waltzed a lady around a ballroom or gazed into her eyes as you both walk down a set and she blushes and looks away, you realise how very erotic the act of dancing is. How closely it’s tied in to the act of dominance and submission. In Regency dancing (and in fact in most period dancing), the gentleman makes the initial move, offering his hand to the lady. The lady responds. The man moves first, the lady follows. In waltzing, the man leads and the lady must allow him to move her backwards, unable to see where she is going and she must trust him to guide her correctly and not steer her into another couple or the wall or the fireplace.

It’s only comparatively recently that formal dancing (as oppose to the general free-form bumping and grinding that we do in clubs) has stopped being something that every man and woman learnt. In fact, there has been a resurgence of interest in ballroom dancing and in period dancing in the past few years. I wonder why? Dare I say it’s because ladies quite like being led occasionally, when we’re not holding down demanding jobs and generally being superwomen?

Often, when I’ve danced with He who Must Be Obeyed at public balls, I’ve felt a massive frisson of sexual tension as we catch each other’s gazes and our thoughts swing ahead to what will happen later in the evening, when he stops being a gentleman on the dancefloor and becomes a cad in the bedroom…

Ah, the memories….

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*No laughing at the back, we were one man short and I can dance both ways

1.    I will lose weight. First and foremost, this is my number one goal. Because when I’m thinner, I get more play. Sad but true.
2.    Related to the above, I will play more in 2010. Although I have had some fabulous plays this year, there has been a distinct shortage of good male doms about, and even smaller number of whom actually wants to play with me on an individual basis. So I need to reassess my pulling strategy!
3.    I will try to be nicer. I say this every year and every year I am astonished by what a bitch I can be when bad feelings like rage or jealously take over. To try and harness these emotions into a more positive response is a key life goal.
4.    I will try not to get easily irritated by small things. I have a reputation for speaking my mind and being honest about what I think. But whilst being blunt is good, being short-tempered is not.
5.    I will stop measuring my self-worth by what other people think of me and do with me. It’s what I think is important, not what anybody else does.
6.    I will remember birthdays.
7.    I will have at least five orgasms a week, minimum.
8.    I will try to do something worthwhile for myself that is non-kink related. I’m not arrogant enough to bang on about wanting to save the world or always assume I am amazing at everything, but I’d like to do something for me that will make me feel good about myself.
9.    I will try to provide more wise counsel. I don’t think I always get it right when my friends bring their problems to me.
10.    I will appreciate things more. It’s the small things that matter!

Last week, I got spanked by He Who Must Be Obeyed for not very much, but I was up for it. That was until he actually started spanking me and suddenly, it was really hurting. HWMBO has a very hard hand so being spanked by him, especially in mock outrage, is pretty ouchy. Then he quickly swapped to a paddle and suddenly that was it, I was crying big fat tears into the sofa as he blistered my bottom.

I’m not sure if I was actually crying from the pain of the spanking or the humiliation of not being able to take it or both, but all I know is that I was utterly mortified. Why couldn’t I take more? Why was I such a wimp?

In general, I do try hard not to let myself get taken over by the competitive urge in spanking. Because I know deep down that it doesn’t matter how much I take. However, when I then see another of my friends take a very hard beating or read about the exploits of some of my more bold friends, I feel ashamed.

I’ve been playing now for over a decade and in the early years, I had a reputation for being able to take an awful lot and yes, I hate to say, I showed off. This all came to a halt when I was 24, when I was beaten to blood and afterwards had to take six months off the scene until my poor bottom recovered. After that, a more sober Jessica decided that she was going to be a little more sensible about things and take less and to have a hard limit that any cut, any blood, now matter how small, meant an instant stop to the scene. And my skin is all the better for it and I won’t have an arse like a rhino by the time I’m 35. As time has gone on, my tolerance has dropped and eventually, I am where I am now, which seems to be that I cry at nothing. Which brings me to the scalding shame.

I know perfectly well that it’s better to have too little than too much. I don’t want to be one of these people who just gets hit and hit so much that it desensitises them and then every time, it has to be hard and to actually make an impression you almost have to batter them senseless. Doms like to feel they are making an impression without hitting you with a lump hammer. But surely there has to be a happy medium between being a hard-arse and being a wimp? Because I like to be in the middle. I don’t want to be the class baby. Nobody ever wants to be the one who cries first.

However, New York was a little bit of an exception. I was prepared to shop. There was an early disaster as The Lover attempted to go shopping in Abercrombie and Fitch for Christmas presents. For those of you unfamiliar with the ‘temple of cool’ on 5th Avenue, it’s a four-storey impression of the seventh level of Hell, a kind of LSD vision of Hamley’s for teens and twenty-somethings, staffed by beautiful but utterly brainless staff who have no idea where anything is, with dim lighting so the colour and style of the lumberjack style clothes* is totally indiscernible, the air reeking of a nauseating own-brand style perfume that makes you gag and pounding music so that any conversation with anyone has to be carried out in a kind of mad scream. And there are plenty of mad screams as hundreds of people jostle round the centre staircases like hamsters on speed in a never-ending plaid Escher drawing. The Lover and I were in there for 45 minutes on Day 5 of the holiday** and a further*** foray on Day 6. Never again. Afterwards, he has to take me for a massage at the Red Door Salon to recover my shattered wits. Ah well, there are some compensations!

Anyway, apart from the A&F hell, we did do some good shopping, including a trip into the wildly decadent lingerie store Kiki de Montparnasse in SoHo. This is the kind of shop where men take their women to get them kitted out in wisps of silk and lace and where they can perch on chaise-lounges whilst she is paraded before him in silk confection after lacy confection. So Jessica felt that summoning The Lover into the massive individual velvet curtained changing-rooms to approve purchases would cheer him up after A&F. Particularly as she had found a rather nice sailor-style French knicker set, a silk corset bra that laced up the front (shown in the picture above) and a black silk bow to attach to her pants, perfect for presenting her bottom for smacking.

So it was a confused Jessica that was faced with a granite-faced Lover as she paraded the sailor suit, showing no reaction whatsoever and in fact radiating disapproval.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes”

“Really?”

“Yes. Next one.”

“Do you not like it?”

“I do like it. Hurry up. Next one.”

And so on. Even the silk bow produced a disappointing response as The Lover afforded it a brief glance, nodded, then bolted back into the main shop, leaving a dejected Jessica to wonder where she’d gone wrong, especially when she emerged from the changing room to find him lurking at the far end of the shop, looking furtive and apparently examining a display of erotic novels.

The chosen items were given a cursory approved by The Lover, wrapped and paid for and then a restaurant was chosen for lunch. It was only over the second glass of wine that The Lover confessed that the surroundings of the shop had been so erotic, and the lingerie on Jessica so appealing that he’d been temporarily ‘overcome’ with his feelings – i.e had a stonking erection – and having been helpfully relieved of Jessica’s coat and bag by super helpful staff was left ready for action and with nowhere to hide, hence his preoccupied expression which had been caused by him visualising dirty socks, razorblades and Harriet Harman in a thong in a desperate effort to help him subside and his lurking by the books, the only display high enough to hide his groin area.

Ah.

Jessica is pleased to report however, that the bottom-bow received firm approval in the privacy of the hotel room!

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*which are naturally twenty times more expensive than anything a real lumberjack would wear
**Where nothing was purchased due to being unable to find anything without the pictures in an email on The Lover’s laptop
***rather more successful

Before anyone makes a silly joke about my amazing number of orifices, that is to say, I only lost my real virginity once (twice if you count my anal virginity), but I really enjoy playing the blushing maiden, especially when I’m a blushing maiden faced by a villain determined to ruin me. I am a huge fan of gothic novels and read far too many wartime romances, but unlike most of the people in the UK who enjoy books like ‘Polly of Page Street’ and ‘Kiss The Girls Goodbye’, I actually get all hot and bothered when the spiv/German/landlord/boss/American GI/nasty husband takes advantage of or rapes the heroine.

There is just something about being ‘taken’. About being ‘used’. About having a man have his wicked way with you, whatever his thoughts on the matter. And for some reason, being a nervous first-timer seems to add to the fun.

Luckily, due to my daily ‘on the tube’ pelvic floor exercises and not having squeezed any babies out through my vaginal canal, I can, with a bit of judicious tightening, easily pass for a nervous virgin. Never let it be said some exercise isn’t good for you!