I received a lovely note of appreciation about a recent call. His comments about the call and his preparations during the day leading up to it were both so thoughtful and entertaining that I decided to share an excerpt with you:
Here for your entertainment are a couple snap shots from the day.
I was up before dawn, perhaps around the time that you were signing off from your prior night’s endeavors. My intent was to get any shopping out of the way early. I stopped into a grocery store to pick up a couple of items, including, rather peculiarly, pink nail polish. Moving up the aisle with cosmetics, I had the now familiar raised pulse and slight light-headedness that goes with shopping for such items. Guilty pleasures as you call them. Although the store was sparsely occupied there was a Spanish speaking couple in the aisle. I bided my time waiting for them to move on, catching a couple furtive glances at the rows of polish and other cosmetics. After settling on an effervescent fuschia over one of the paler shades, I moved to a self check out line. You may appreciate that when I went to ring my items up, the computerized check out line lady-voice advised that I needed assistance with the three avocados I had grabbed. The lane light started flashing yellow. Really. So much for being incognito. I looked around and quickly scanned and bagged a couple more items including the polish. No one ever posted to assist.
I left without the avocados.
The next stop was back home. I was headed to the office but had promised you that I would do my nails early. I painted them once, had breakfast, and then re-did them. This was only the second time I have ever done my toenails.
I was dressed casually for the office, and was getting set to leave, but it hit me that it would probably be acceptable to you and in keeping with the theme to do more. Before leaving, I changed, putting on my pink thong and pink bra. More ridiculously I put my forms in my bag.
I work in a small office, and with the summer expected limited attendance. Behind the locked main door and my locked office door, I took off my shoes, then later my shirt, and eventually my shorts too, putting the forms in the bra. I was able to get a fair amount done during the day, although as I suggested to you, I paid more attention to my feet than ever in my life. I have worn lingerie under regular clothes before. I cannot remember ever having stripped down outside of home like that before.
I returned home, dined, had a nice long bath and a long cocktail to relax. With the pending call, I grew rather nervous. A good anticipation, but nervous nonetheless. I believe before the bath, I painted my fingernails, too. I re-did the toenails. The act of bringing up foot and trying to paint the nail and not the toe or the surrounding room is quite the challenge. Odd to think how hard I concentrated on getting it right – or at least as best that I could.
I seem to recall that we started leisurely on the call, which was really fine. A couple topics, and not the weather among them, so a bit of substance to the call. At some point you asked if you would be having the pleasure of dressing me.
The make-up undertaking followed. Sort of like trying to swat a fly with a hammer. I am less than elegant. Although I do try my best.
New for me was the pink eye shadow. I usually will tart up in a blue or something equally outrageous. I liked the pink, though, and it was a bit of a theme for the night. And it was a bit more provocative than I thought it would be.
One of your good lines, paraphrased –
Mistress Edenn, “So how do you look?”
Moi, “Well, let’s just say that guys won’t be walking past you to get to me.”
Mistress Edenn, “Some guys would.”
Funny. Never thought of it that way.
After that came the clothes. I am still amazed how certain actions yield certain results. Rolling up a pair of stockings. Attaching garters. Like stepping down a path toward an erotic pool. I had not worn garters in a while, and it was a treat.
You quipped that every girl has a little short black skirt. The irony was not missed.
And the shoes. I could wax poetic about heels.
Then came, for lack of a better term, a bit of branding. Or maybe advertising. Writing the word (referring to my instruction to write “SLUT” across his chest in lipstick) and seeing it in the mirror on my chest was a strangely powerful experience, Mistress. But I guess you knew that. After that, I was pretty much yours, if I was not already. A bit of a warm feeling from attaching the garters to the stockings, but I recall a rush of emotion when I marked myself as a slut. I recall that that was the first time during that call that I broke down and sobbed a bit. By the way, my pink bra is permanently marked with the deeper shade of red lipstick.
And then the spanking. I thought that you had forgotten about the wooden spoon. Really I did. And that would have been perfectly ok with me.
I have spanked myself in play before. You had me do it on another call once. But never like that. Here is how I remember it.
The instruction was 15 strokes. Sounded like a chore, but you had me in the mood with the labeling. I counted off the first several. I was concentrating and making sure that I did not miss. Although in thong, there are still parts of the anatomy that do not enjoy being introduced to swinging lumber. At 6 or 7 or so, I miscounted, I think. I really did lose track. I asked you for the count.
“Seven”
Swat, swat. Two strokes. I counted ,”Eight.” You counted, “Eight.”
Smack, smack smack “How many, please? Eight or nine,” I asked.
“Nine.”
At this point I had pretty much surrendered the counting. My bottom was already stinging.
Swat, swat, swat, swat, swat.
“How many, please?”
“Eleven.”
“When I get to fifteen, I can stop right?”
Very evenly you said, “Maybe.”
I believe that I may have been crying a bit. Another ten or so strokes.
“How many, please.”
“Fourteen.”
A long pause. Another half dozen or so.
“Will you tell me when I get to fifteen?”
Silence. Some swats.
“I must be on the Mistress Edenn ignore line.”
Laughter. “I am not ignoring you, I am enjoying hearing your bottom being reddened.”
A couple strokes.
“Fifteen.”
Deep breath.
“How is your bottom?”
“Red, Mistress. Hot and red.”
“Can you make it hotter and more red for me, barbi?”
Pause. Deep breath. Sort of a sobbing sigh. I was pretty far gone.
“Yes Mistress.”
“You want to do that for me, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Do it.”
And we started again. Until you stopped me.
During the first set, at some point, after a particularly sharp smack, I cried, “Stop it.” I remember your reply, which was, “I can’t stop it, sweetheart.” An interesting statement, that.
True – in a real sense, in that circumstance, you, can’t, only I can as I am holding the weapon. But also true, I think that you can’t because it is what you do. Talking folks to new places. And maybe you like it just a bit and were indeed enjoying it.
And “sweetheart.” You understand and communicate that when on the call, we are in this together. Obviously, you are in charge, but there is a give and take. In some sense, only we could stop it, and you knew when to do that. I trusted you to stop it at a proper point.
A day or so later after the call, had a scratchy bottom. I wondered whether I had a rash or something Not until I checked in the mirror did I see bruises moving their way out. Only then did I realize how hard I had been hit. Bruises were another first.And I could go on.
There was a bit of comic relief when I explained to you about the vibrator with the bad switch that wanted to keep running.
“Usually, the problem is that they shut down at the wrong time,” you said. Funny line.
And bouncing. I remember bouncing. For some reason whether the heels, the angle of the vibrator, my general wantonness, whatever it was I really needed it and it felt good. Bouncing like that was a first.
The little details. Lying back.
“Should I take my skirt off?’
“Do sluts take their skirts off? Tell, me what do sluts do?”
And there followed a description of what sluts do. What I wanted to do. And I had to look no further than to see my skirt hiked up around my waist, hungry to be filled and hungry too for your voice.
