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Femininity

“Femininity is not just lipstick, stylish hairdos, and trendy clothes. It is the divine adornment of humanity. It finds expression in your qualities of your capacity to love, your spirituality, delicacy, radiance, sensitivity, creativity, charm, graciousness, gentleness, dignity, and quiet strength.”

~ James E. Faust

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Broken Silence

The silence was broken only by the ticking of the clock that mocked her. It mocked her for thinking this time would be different, for accepting his word at face value knowing full well he had never kept a word ever made. It mocked her for believing him and giving him another chance to do what he always does, hurt her.

There were times when the hurts were small. So minute in fact that they ceased to even register until so many had accumulated they could no longer be ignored. She tried though. Oh how she tried. Sitting here now she could not help but see the truth behind the veil of ignorance she had been wearing all these years. By ignoring what the rest of the world easily saw all she had done was let herself be played the fool.

From the near second of his lateness she knew she had been played yet again. She was done with it. She would be played a fool no longer. He would regret every missed moment, every forgotten date, every promise broken. He would regret every single hurt he’d given her, every bruise and broken bone, when she returned the favour.

All the times she had let slip by, unnoticed or unaddressed, were like tiny nails in a coffin. Eventually the coffin would be complete and ready for it’s eternal occupant. Her coffin was finally complete, though she would not be the one resting in it. Soft and comfy though it may be the body inside would never know. The body inside would be dead and cold, and she would be anything but.

Tonight the tables turn. Tonight he becomes the fool, he endures the hurts, he ceases to be.

She got up from the table leaving the full plates of dinner, the open bottle of Shiraz and her half empty glass. She also left the candles that had burned nearly completely away, though not before knocking one of them over. Wax spilled out over the cream linen tablecloth and the flame followed. The table was soon engulfed in flames. The chairs quickly followed.

The house they lived in, the home they had built, was crawling in flames and filling with smoke. She hardly noticed. Her mind was already elsewhere. On her way to the front door she stopped momentarily at the entryway mirror to check her appearance and fix her lipstick. She didn’t bother closing the door behind her.

She knew where to find him. All these years he thought she was clueless but she knew. She had never been inside the bar before now. Not once. It was his place, the boys club, where he went to drink and gamble and pick up whatever woman struck his fancy. Oh yes, she knew. She had always known, she had just refused to believe.

The place was just as she had imagined. Dark, dingy, and smelling like a day old beer with about an inch left in the bottle and half a dozen cigarette butts swimming in it. The men were a reflection of the bar. The women were the same, but in high heels, short skirts, and frosted blue eyeshadow. There were four pool tables, a larger snooker table, and one of those golf games at the far end if the bar. This end was occupied by a plexi box of pull tab tickets and two tabletop slot machines.

She walked past the machines towards the far end if the bar and stopped in front of the snooker table. “Hello, Jimmy.”

Jimmy looked up from the table he had been intently studying. The other player had left him snookered on a coloured ball. “What the hell are ya doin here lass?”

“I came to tell you I’ve had enough.” She watched the anger rise in him. Bad enough she was confronting him, but to do it here was much worse. His snooker buddy conceded the game and backed away from the table.

The bartender called over to Jimmy. “Jimmy man, that was the Darla. She says yer house is on fire.”

Jimmy looked back at her, eyes as black as night and a coldness in his tone that nobody could miss, but she didn’t flinch. “What the bloody hell have ya done lass?” He was beside her now, his hand at her neck.

In one swift motion Lynne took her hand out of her pocket and stabbed him twice in the chest with his own hunting knife. He fell backward against the table, blood quickly turning his grey shirt crimson. Shock and disbelief registered in Jimmy’s eyes when he looked down at the growing sea of blood. More began to drip from his mouth before he finally succumbed to the injuries and fell to the floor.

Lynne turned to the bartender. “Would you be a dear and call an ambulance? The truck I came in is in the ditch and I think my water just broke.”

The bartender could only stare at her in silence.




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Lavender Fields Forever

Have you ever experienced the wonderful scent of fresh lavender? Likely not. We can get dried lavender, and lavender scented items such as candles and air fresheners, but it isn’t a prominent garden flower. Lavender is also one of those scents many people are adverse to. Not because it is a bad smell, but because they are used to the abundance of artificially scented items that can run the gambit of smelling pretty to causing severe headaches.

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I love lavender. REAL lavender. During the days when I studied aromatherapy and herbology I grew quite fond of it. Such a difference when you can work with the real deal versus some synthetic scent created and patented in a laboratory. Lavender essential oil is one of the best for helping heal minor cuts and scrapes. It can be used to make a natural deodorant, and having the fresh scent around you can be very relaxing. I like to use culinary lavender in shortbread and dark chocolate muffins.

Last month I went to a local lavender farm. It was heaven. Artist Wife came with me and at first she was afraid of getting a headache. Natural response when used to the synthetic scents. She did not get a headache. In fact I do believe it had a more healing effect. That’s the power of nature.

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The proprietors of this farm do more than just farm lavender. They raise honey bees, house horses, and make wonderful products from their lavender. They use this beautiful (very phallic looking) copper alembic distiller to produce their own lavender essential oil. I purchased a delicious pot of honey but there was essential oil in stock during my visit. Another trip must be made.

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The most difficult part of visiting the farm was keeping myself from getting naked and rolling around in the lavender. Even Artist Wife mentioned how difficult it was to follow the rules and not touch the growing flowers. Next visit I’m doing a Scavenger Hunt and flashing some of my girly bits. You can count on it!




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Pussy Torture

A while back I attended a pussy torture workshop with Artist and Artist Wife at a dungeon studio in Toronto. I had been wanting to visit the studio for some time but things always came up that kept me from going. When I saw the posting for the pussy torture workshop the timing was perfect. My son was away, so I didn’t need to find a sitter, and it was an afternoon workshop. Afternoons are much less stressful that full on evening events when you don’t know anyone there. Yes, I brought Artist and Artist Wife along, but they didn’t know anyone else either.

We made our way downtown and my fellow travelers reminisced about when they used to work at a studio in the same neighborhood. It had been several years and though many things remained the same others were drastically different. The studio address was easily found, the studio itself not so much. We looked around for signs pointing us in the right direction. Nothing. There were several groups of people outside. No help. Then we found a parking spot and figured the studio was the one next to the parking spot. Wrong. One lovely lady finally told us where the studio entrance was. You had to go in one large door, through a group of people who were there chilling (smoking up) and the entrance to the studio was inside to the right. Why couldn’t those guys have been more helpful. Geesh!

Anyways, we finally made our way inside and found some rather nice people and a cool space. It was much smaller than I had anticipated, but that tends to happen. Ask a man about the size of something and see how accurate his measurements are to reality. ;)

The presenter was nice, approachable, and seemed to know her shit. I liked her. Truly. I’d like to hang out with her for an afternoon, one on one. Maybe even visit her dungeon. I just wasn’t that keen on the workshop itself. The majority of it was taken up by an anatomy lesson, Female Anatomy 101. Surprisingly, many women don’t know their own body. I understand that men may require the full on lesson, but I didn’t. I think that it should be a separate workshop on its own, or combined with male anatomy to get a full picture.

She also spent a lot of time on safety. This I really liked because it showed that she cared about the content she was putting out there and does not want to see people getting hurt. One can rarely be too careful when dealing with things that have the possibility of causing great harm. Something as simple as using foods or lotions with sugars in them can cause havoc with ones girly bits.

What I didn’t like was that there were two demo bottoms for her to demonstrate with, along with a variety of implements, and I got nothing from the demo portion of the workshop. I did find a lovely bamboo paddle/trivet with a handle that works amazingly well on her table of torture devices, even made a trip to Ikea to purchase a couple. That was an implement though, not an actual method or way to torture a pussy, and not an implement she demonstrated. I also found an excellent lube, but then I very rarely use any kind of lube. I have a small bottle I purchased upwards of ten years ago that is still more than half full. I didn’t learn anything new regarding the topic I went there to learn about, pussy torture. If anything I left there more frustrated than before I went.

There were a wide variety of  clothes pegs and clamps. She did use some on one of the demo bottoms but only discussed the difference between two types and the sensations each would provide. I think mentioning that the big plastic ones, though not much of a grip, have sharp edges that you want to keep away from certain areas would be important for the beginner to know. She mentioned a zipper (clothes pegs joined with string and applied to a body then pulled off with a tug of the string) but didn’t have one to show us or demonstrate.

One simple thing that I would have liked to see was ways the person being tortured could be positioned. The demo bottoms were sat quite precariously on a rolling metal table. They couldn’t lean back and get comfortable. There was no way they could position themselves in a natural way. Even the demonstrator couldn’t find a good angle to wield a flogger, paddle, or even her own hand. The spanking bench would have been a better platform than the rolling morgue table.

This is not a diss on the presenter. It is my opinion of what I thought of this particular workshop itself. It wasn’t what I had expected, nor was it what I was looking for. That doesn’t mean it isn’t a very helpful workshop for some people. As I said, I quite liked the presenter. I think she has a lot of knowledge to share and I would attend another one of her workshops.

 

Dust In The Wind

A fitting tune for today…

A Different Kind of Sunday

 

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I’ve been thinking about a part if my life I lived many moons ago. The memories sometimes feeling like they happened to another person in another time, sometimes feeling like I lived them just yesterday. The only thing for certain is that I am reminded of them nearly every day. This picture was taken on my way home from picking up my son after work on Thursday. I see it every morning I drop him off at daycare and every evening when I pick him up. Just a tree. Nothing special. Except, it is very special to me and it will be gone soon.

My first love grew up in the house right across the street from this tree. The first time I made love was to him, in that house. I went to tell him I loved him in that house. When I couldn’t deny it any longer, when I had to tell him or I’d burst. I was 17. I thought we’d make love again. We didn’t. Instead, he told me that he had met someone else and it was over with me. I never got to tell him that I loved him. I was completely heartbroken. I left that house, practically ran out of it in tears. I made it across the street to this tree before I broke down, sitting on the ground leaning against this tree and sobbing. I don’t know how long I was there before someone came to take me home. The sun had fallen and shadows crept across the grounds. It seemed the world had shifted, that it had become as sad and gloomy as I.

The person who helped pick me up and get me home was his father. A wonderful man. He passed away on Thursday. Maybe that’s why I stopped when passing this tree, remembering not just the heartbreak I felt at that moment in time but also the kindness of a man who barely knew me then but who would come to mean very much to me in the years that followed. Tomorrow we will celebrate his life and put him to rest. Then on Monday I will watch as the city removes this broken tree, leaving another void that will never be the same.

 

A different kind of sinful for a different kind of Sunday.

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Photographs and A Nipple

I tend to take a lot of photos. Of everything. Yes, everything. There are currently 1,234 on my phone. All taken by me, save one, and most taken in the last month or so. I do download them to my laptop regularly and delete the vast majority from my phone but it does seem to be a never ending cycle. I say majority because there are a few I’ve kept on there that are more than two years old. The photoI used in the post A Matter of Time is the oldest one on my phone and I’d say it is closer to three years old.

Why do I take so many photographs? I don’t know. Many reasons I guess. I like capturing special or funny moments so I can go back and look at them again and again. I like telling a story with pictures. The evolution of my child from a pea in my belly to the fabulous four year old he currently is, and hopefully on to adulthood and parenthood, is one of those stories. One photo I’ve kept is of him at my cousin’s last Christmas with a tiara on and the biggest smile ever. That one will be included on the picture roll at his wedding, should he get married. He’s actually taken one photo that is still on my phone. His first mirror selfie. Oh my!

I also take pictures of things I want to remember, crafty ideas and such, or pictures that inspire a story of fiction. There are pictures I took at the dollar store of pervertables. There are pictures of various jewelry finds and designs to help inspire me for my project with Artist Wife. There is a picture of a bottle of homeopathic asthma remedy my naturopath prescribed that I am currently out of and need to replace. There are pictures of storage units I saw last week at Ikea that would be great in my entryway. There is also a picture I found on Twitter that is the inspiration behind a story I hope to write in time for the A Darker Flame meme this month.

Since beginning this blog more and more of the photos I take are of me and my naked bits. I have found that I am much more an exhibitionist than I ever thought. I also find that these photos show there is more to me that the scars I was used to always seeing when I looked at my body. Some are basic nudity, although very few. The majority, I think, are creative and artistic. Many of these I use for my Sinful Sunday posts. Not bad for an 8 megapixel autofocus with a f/2.4 aperture and LED flash (I have no idea what any of that means!).

You don’t need a big camera and a lot of expensive camera equipment to take a good photograph. This you can trust me on. All of the photos I’ve taken and posted on this blog were taken on a cell phone.

Now, since this is Wicked Wednesday, I couldn’t write a post about photographs and not include a wicked one for you. ;)

clamp marks

my nipple, sporting some lovely clamp marks





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