Memory

Kiss the lips to see who else is being Sinful this Sunday

I just want to remember you like this.

Mark that on this day, this is who we are.

Everyday who we are is overlain in our memories. We forget the nuances. The individual changes in each line in our skin, the angles our limbs can make.

The way you look at me.

Soft Focus

Kiss the lips to see who else is being Sinful this Sunday

If you’ve been to my my blog before the following statement will not come as a surprise.

I like to follow instructions.

Although it is a prompt not a hard and fast instruction, my brain can only take it one way.

Soft I have in abundance. It was the focus I was lacking.

In odd moments, this weekend has been a sea of curses as I tried multiple approaches to getting a soft focus on a camera phone, where an appropriate downloadable filter was not available. I tried different fabrics, but due to scars I have a tendency to wear 50+denier even in skin tone tights, so that idea was a no go. I got out the clingfilm and various slightly sticky substances but nothing seemed to quite work how I wanted it.

A couple of interesting shots down though, but nothing quite right, Mr Hunt and his techie know-how can charging over the horizon.

Walking the walk

Kiss the lips to see who else is being sinful this week

There have been whispers on twitter from regular posters… “I don’t keep outtakes… what shall I post?”

Until very recently, I used to delete anything I didn’t perceive to be perfect, especially if I didn’t think it showed me in a flattering light. I have a very tight frame of what images I allow of myself and don’t take pictures where I appear very often, either as selfies or as the catalog of family life. There are whole holidays without a single sign I was ever there.

I am trying to be more open minded. I see amazing images from other bloggers and keep pictures I’m not sure. Come back to them a little while later to see if I’ve changed my mind with distance.

There is a difference between a photo that didn’t work like this, because the shadows and focus were wrong… and something where I didn’t like the way my body looked in the image.

I loved the intent of this shot… and the lovely husband behind the camera loves it, and in its uncropped form with even more wobbly bits highlighted in the heated light of the chimneria and I guess posting it is an act of defiance against myself for feeling ashamed of said wobbly bits. For missing the mark with body confidence. Because if this was someone else’s body I’d be seeing different things in the image, focusing on different things…

There is one last photo from this fab child-free evening, but I’m saving that as illustration for Kink of the Week, as obviously these are outside photos…It is in my view the best picture, but there is part of me on it I hate, so I resisted posting it to begin with. Coming back to it a few weeks later, looking at it as if it were on someone else’s blog, I’m now committing to using it.

Gulp.

The Challenge

“Lingerie is for everyone and every body.” reads the tagline.

I posted my lovely man last week, so this week his challenge to me, was to post something personal.

I’m not a fan of my body (there’s too much of it for a start) however I am coming round to the idea that if I wouldn’t shame someone else for their body, I shouldn’t shame myself … and in the right bra, bits of it can be encouraged to an interesting shape.

In honour of a worthy bra that suffered a mortal wound last time I washed it and now must pass to the giant laundry basket in the sky, I present it’s last hurrah.

More beautiful undies hide behind this link…give it a click…

Delicious Sensations

I’m still not sure of the etiquette, when someone posts a photo that makes your mouth water (and other delicious sensations)… but this week’s prompt photo for #MasturbationMonday was one of those.

This beautiful photo is Marie Rebelle’s, provided as prompt for Masturbation Monday and linked back to her original use “Twisted”

Nipple play has always featured strongly in my fantasies, which I found strange, since mine never seemed particularly sensitive in a sexual way. But still… it was a theme I returned to time and time again and something that always sent excitement curling through my body when I read about it, especially when combined with the idea of getting pierced.

So… some fiction… (after some detailed research).

Follow the link to see who else has been feeling inspired this week

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if it would hurt. How it would hurt.

“No.” she stated firmly. One last look at the little purple dots in the mirror. “No questions.”

She felt a little hazy as she laid back on the medical couch, detaching from reality just a little.

The young piercer moved around the room unhurried but purposeful. Vacuum sealed implements laid out on the metal trolley, blue gloves snapped into place. The shiny titanium bars winked at her from the tray.

She had a tendency to fill quietness with conversation, but not today. She wanted to drift with the opportunity to tune in to her body.

This was nothing like the mindfulness course she’d been sent on. Lying on the floor of the community college while the teacher exhorted her to concentrate on relaxing her toes and imagining them scrunched into warm sand. Today she felt tranquility like summer sun on her skin: excitement the distant hum of bees in the flowers.

The cartilage in her ear had scrunched when the needle passed through. An unexpected sound. She didn’t think there would be a sound today.

The world shrank. She let go of the sounds from the shop outside, the press of the bench against her back, relaxed her jaw.

Gave up the embarrassment of being turned on.

Heavy soled boots with beautiful silver buckles walked into view. A white lab coat grazing a knee.

“Just the clamp going on. Feels a little weird this part.”

The whole experience was more than a little weird. But the clamp, that felt familiar. The squeeze. The pull. Tightness that pulled at the base of her throat.

“You can close you eyes if you want.”

No way. She’d been imagining watching the needle slide through flesh for weeks, if not months.

A fat, silver needle, millimetres from trapped flesh.

“Breathe in. Blow out.”

She watched, but didn’t see, her mind filled with too many other messages.

A scratch. A flame. The drag of metal. An explosion of sensation that starts late and burns hot before tapering away. Scarlet blood dribbled.

“And the jewellery. It’s going to pinch just a little bit.”

Jostling the raw nerves. Such good hurt.

The efficient hands withdrew. Murmured words broke through the quiet. Praise for keeping still, registering in all sorts of ways it probably wasn’t intended.

It took time before she could focus on more than fragments. On the shiny balls nestling next to tender flesh. On the second bar sitting on the trolley.

The clamp appeared again in her eye-line.

“Ready to go again?”

His, not mine.

I don’t like to look in the mirror: don’t like what I see.

Too big. Too lumpy. Too old. Too ugly.

He covers the reflection and tells me what he sees.

This body, he likes to remind me is His, not mine.

Not mine to criticize, His to feel proud of.

Not mine to mistreat, His to cherish.

Not mine to hate, His to love.

His to mark and photograph.