Monday, December 29, 2008

The End of 2008, And the Joys and Perils of Flesh

"Another year over, a new one just begun..."

I can assure you that 12 months ago millie - who recently found himself impaled on the horns of a dilemma or two - would not have considered responding to her new name. What a difference a year makes! I'm quite delighted to say that she stopped in recently and was able to model her new lingerie for moi, and fetching is just the word for it. Our conversation, hers and mine, on the subject gave rise to an observation. Or two.

Let's talk fabric and flesh, shall we? The fabric was black sheer mesh, quite fine, if I do say so, and sweetly clingy. Stretchy, a bit. Like skin, you know? Surely you've had occasion to grasp a nipple between a thumb and a forefinger and pull out from your body and noticed that flesh can stretch. That it's malleable. Just like the mind, really, when one thinks about it. No? Yes, of course yes. Just consider Milton and millie. Stretched beyond recognition, really, at times.

It's interesting how giving voice to things changes one's perceptions. millie modeled the slip. That sweet rustle as it came down over her head, the cool fabric warming as it encased her chest. her bosom. Truly. she's a bit developed there. But that's beside the point, isn't it. My conversations with millie often turn on questions of self, of her helpless need to please, of sensations that would be jarring if it weren't for the bath of natural, self-produced drugs that flow through her like menses from an overly ripe egg at that time of month that drain down the smooth walls of a woman's womb. And ripe she is, that millie, when that internal cocktail of substances is released during that serene state when she becomes herself. Open. Willing. Pliable.

The mesh, it is fine, as I mentioned. What was extraordinary was how sensitive she becomes as she gains awareness. At once smooth and textured, she began to melt as I had her graze her fingertips across those budding mounds of femininity. she could feel the material grabbing her and holding on, not letting go, and it provided another skin that created a whole new set of sensations Talk about the, I told her. Tell Me.

Quite remarkable. Even the faint stir of warm breath provoked an outpouring of poetry from her, as if she were weightless, caught in a cloud crackling with gentle electricity that penetrated her skin and tissue.

The skin. It's the largest organ, you know. As her breath and fingertips and palms danced lightly across her body, she was transported. she knew she'd have to return to the soft itch of flannel trousers the next day, but she also knew that it would just be a temporary condition, an aberration. her reality, or should I say her reality now, ensheathes her body and clings to her like the dream you can't quite shake off. No matter how hard you try.

Friday, December 19, 2008

Where has the time gone...

It seems ages since I entered a post in my blog and I've been remiss on keeping my little sissies and whatnots up to date with the London Academy and Mistress. IF I was a sissy I would bend over spank myself (as if!) but being that is hardly the case, maybe you should just go ahead and spank yourself for Me. Anyway, this is a quick little entry (know what I mean?)

First of all, I want to thank here all you lovelies for helping me celebrate my birthday in style. Yes, some of you are hanging your heads in shame, aren't you. Blowing you... a kiss, for those that did go shopping for Mistress. I truly appreciate it.

I am not going to on here about the comings and goings of Mistress. I usually do that in the newsletter of TGLBB, or will simply address that at a later time.

Lets remember, a sissy or two. Some gone forever, (as they do) and some stay forever. Rachael--remember rubin who became Rachael? Well, that gurl is doing well. She is still in London (my home town) and has been frequenting the more seedy areas at night. She has become quite the 'ladyboy' of the night, and has managed to find those little dives tucked away from the ordinary eye. These places are never mentioned in the tourist guide. You know... try Hyde Park Corner toilets, for a blow job, etc. The kinky have to fend for themselves in finding the more undesirable areas for sex. Anyway, Rachael and I were speaking of cock sucker's remorse. It seems Rachael had a momentary taste of that. She tried to run away from her desires, and attempted to block the need to feel feminine. She was suffering from acute CSR. It didn't last long. It couldn't. And, when she got over the bout, she went on a binge. She sucked and sucked and sucked like it was going out of business!
So, we had this nice little chat about CSR and I explained to her that when she tries to deny what is so much a part of her, she is just going to end up making matters worse for herself. As I have said so many times, you can't run away from who you are. Poor Rachael, she just needed to hear me explain things to her and that seemed to make her happy. I do so like my gurls to be happy. So, back on the streets in London town, to the sordid side of life. A smile on her face, a click to her heels, and cock sucking in a more moderate fashion (whatever that means).

My Camden slut is still going strong, being as silly as ever. Walking a fine line, tempting me to expose and ruin him. Thank goodness for him, I am content to make him suffer in a painful way, rather than ruin his (believe it or not) blissful existence with his beloved girlfriend.

Millie is away. She is busy doing consulting work, and alas hardly has time alone. Nevertheless, we do find time to speak a little and we remain dear to one another.

So many sissies, all different in their desires and needs. Each bringing something different to the Academy. Another sissy in London, sissy anthony, is progressing nicely from the Academy Training. He never suffers from CSR because he has only done that once and then only because he was made to. Does just once count, do you think? LOL. I think it does. But, we never harp on that. It was confessed and now hardly ever mentioned. He loves to please and serve and be amusing to a superior woman. I have helped show him how to achieve this, and I must say he is coming along very well, except.... when he is allowed to release. It's a work in progress. Yes, sissy anthony, if you are reading this... you know what I speak of.

I'm drifting here a bit, not fully focused, and I feel I am not giving any solid advice for the wayward, but it does help to know of others--that you are not alone.

Well, the main reason I am posting now is that the holiday season is upon us. I know it is not the best of times out there, but at the Academy we like to keep it light and frilly--there's enough serious stuff out there without bringing it here. I think that would be silly.

So, with no more ado, my little sissies, let Me wish you a festive holiday and may all your stockings be filled with whatever your little heart desires. Let us hope for a great 2009.


Ms. Beverly,

The London Academy.




Friday, September 19, 2008

blush

Goodness.

millie - you do remember millie, don't you? Well, if you were a regular reader, you would - well, millie made me... what is the word? Blush? Maybe. Maybe not quite right, but we can go with that.

millie made me blush.

It was her response. After I'd penetrated her.

No, silly. Not like that. Stop making assumptions! And let me explain. Please.

For awhile now, when we've talked, it's been lovely. Sensations. Lots of them. My hand, my fingers casually dancing here and there. There and here. For millie, it's been a bit of sensitivity awareness. What her nipples feel like, cleanly shaven, as fingers dance over them. As fingers encased in satin gloves dance over them. As nipple clamps press them flatter and flatter. And as she talks about what she's feeling. How nice it is to be able to share those sensations with someone who understands. With Me.

you know, she is just so sweet. How comfortable she is talking about things that used to be uncomfortable. That used to seem unnatural and awkward and that now, well, now, everything just seems to flow out of her, like a giving energy that wants to heal the world. It's just remarkably beautiful and wonderful.

So, the penetration. she loves to feel receptive. Passive. Accomodating.

I love contrasts. Dark and light. Hot and cold. Soft and firm. Absorptive and reflective.

Do you know about sounds? The highly polished, thin metal rods that doctors used to use to - I'm sorry to bring up such a distateful subject - clear the urethral passage after it'd gotten gummed up through some kind of nasty venereal disease? The sensation, I'm told, of the unyielding rod sliding into that small, oval hole is, well, interesting. Not full out pain. More anal sex pain. The opening and stretching of an orifice (any woman knows that - just ask her gynecologist!)... with the added wrinkle of something going the wrong way down a one-way street. Apparently, the burn of the stretch and the invasion are quite intense, but somewhere between pain and pleasure, where intensity and euphoria lie.

Which is just where I wanted millie to be. Between. As she is in so much else of her life. Male/female. Repressed/open. Anal compulsive/anal expulsive.

Eewwwww.

Sorry.

A sound needs - big surprise here - lubrication. It's not a question of forcing them in, but letting them fall. Ah, the wonders of gravity.

The sight is quite remarkable. The rounded tip, glistening in the light, the lube on it, as it approaches that tight, tender hole. There's a moment, where it's about to touch and finally does, of electricity. The connection - the charge - is something I never tire of seeing. Never tire of hearing or feeling. The slight intake of breath. I can almost feel someone steel their groin and will themselves to relax.

And then the rounded end touches and the opening begins to give way. To accomodate. To yield. To stretch. It's like a kiss, where you know the seducer will conquer. It's thrilling.

There's a silence. I imagine it's just the nerve endingings processing things. Primal. That's what it is. When sensations are so different that everything else seems to stop. millie feels me there, with her, guiding her, but there's not a word. Just her wish to accept and be open and be taken.

And she takes it. Slowly, opening, letting it penetrate her. Slowly slide in. Fill her opening. Stretching the walls. Getting fuller. Deeper. Almost as if she's pulling it inside her. Deeper until it reaches that tender curve where her body brings things back up. It's a difficult place to explore.

We explored. Near the tip. Down the center. To the curve. Making things straighten out and then pressing just a bit beyond.

Never had she been so open. Never so deep.

When I had her withdraw it, again there was silence. And then suddenly I felt something. Not physically. Just felt it. The dance of a tear down my cheek. And then I heard it in her voice. millie thanked me and told me she loved me.

Blush. No. Not quite blush. I wanted to wrap my arms around her. Press her head down to my chest and hold her there, hold the palm of my hand against her cheek.

she had gone beyond, and she had to the depths of her soul feel how important it was to her.

No. Not blush. she made me feel honored.










Thursday, August 7, 2008

CAMDEN TOWN SLUT STRIKES A POSE

So, my little Camden Town slut was instructed to make a fun video while I was generally tormenting him on cam. This is what he came up with. Totally ridiculous, totally stupid, and totally hilarious. I have become engrossed in a UK show "Shameless" and I do believe this little slut has no sense of shame at all. If we had a rating system here, what would he rate?

9/8/08. Having been begged (several times, actually) by my little Camden Town slut, to please show mercy, I have now edited and CENSORED to protect the... innocent? Hardly.

What can I say? I have a heart.




video

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

The Week that Is...


This is stupid boy. I've mentioned him before. This week he will be doing more ridiculous things to amuse Me (and himself, of course.)




Wednesday, July 9, 2008

NEEDS vs. Choices



It can be painful, this situation. A man out of sync with his body. His spirit and essence, really.


Rubin, who has now adopted the name Rachael, came to me in pain. I’ve given birth, so I know pain – and I heard incredible pain in rachel’s voice. Confused. In denial. Unsettled. she was on the border of two states: self-loathing for not being a woman, and self-loathing for being an utter slut.


I’m not a therapist, but rachael found consolation in our conversations. And I came to learn a great deal about him.

Not a man. Not a woman. Proper and responsible. Yet driven to debase himself. From Gent bathrooms in the park to glory holes in a back room, a walking, talking, breathing orifice – or two, actually. His/her only criteria: that the man be rough with him and discard him.

No wrap around. No pleasure. Her clit untouched, her throat and ass exploited.

These forays into the night left him feeling empty afterwards. Totally empty. A shell. A void, really. Ashamed of his need, of being driven.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Compelled. Against his better judgment. Against his sense of decency. Slowly but surely, rachel was destroying rubin.

Over the course of many conversations, rubin reached a point where he could acknowledge the – well, let’s be plain – her compulsion and to call it what it is: a need. A need he/she can’t control. rachel is part of who rubin is. Wicked in the least playful of senses. Demanding. Overbearing. Unrelenting.

she craved. And craved. And craved. Quite literally, her body had involuntary responses. When the slick tip of a cock pressed between her lips, her sphincter tightened. Yes, that one, down by her clit. As it pushed over her tongue, it got tighter still. As it pressed against the back of her throat, before plunging down until its owner – rachael’s owner of the moment – could feel his sack slap rachel’s chin and grind against it, rachel’s ass pussy spasmed, her eyes rolled up in her head.

Speaking of her pussy, she wanted nothing more than to be split in two, feeling some anonymous, hairy chested ape slam his hips against her cheeks as his cock spread her walls. Her greatest sadness, perhaps, was the demise of the shipping industry: the docks just aren’t as well populated as they once were; merchant men with thick forearms and cabled thighs desperate to dump their loads indiscriminately into a sissy’s ass cunt. Abundant opportunities to flip down her skirt and feel his wetness slide out of her and down her thighs as she wobbled back to the safety of her home, her bathroom – where her douche was waiting.

We all have desires. Kinks. Some reside merely in our minds. rachael’s lived in her ass. In her core.

And it was destructive. he knew it. she knew it. But as she came to accept that she has no control over it, she at least had a partner in crime: Me.

I came to guide her. When she would go out. What she would wear. The shade of lipstick. What men liked to hear. And someone to report back to so she wouldn’t feel so isolated and abandoned to her need.

And then, one evening, she hit on an idea that was entirely appropriate to her, let’s say, position. One that gave her a purpose. A sense of worth. She needed to be my whore. Which is how I became – there really is no way to say this delicately, is there? – her pimp.

Flat rate. Mouth or ass, no difference. The sun goes down and out she goes with a sense of purpose and determination. It’s no longer just her need that is driving her: it’s her need to serve me. To earn for me. To work for me. To feel her nose press against the abdomen of a man she’s never met, barely spoken to, and won’t see again … unless she gets lucky on another evening.

rubin, rachael – whatever. She does this because it’s the only way she can feel feminine. For some, it’s enough to dress up. To wear a black velvet choker at the suggestion or demand of a Mistress, if they’re lucky enough to have one. For most, this is enough, and they’re quite happy with sporadic interludes into the feminine world. Some sissies only need a pair of panties on to feel they are submissive, or sexy, or gurly. For some it is merely a mental journey with fancies of this and that. For some sissies, they only feel comfortable exposing the feminine side to what they see as their superior—the female gender. The reasons are many and unique to that individual sissy.

For the others, the need is to submit, be used, taken, and abused by the male gender. It doesn’t mean that they’re gay. What it means, in rubin’s case, is that it is the ONLY path they see available to feel truly feminine. It is not an easy path to take, by any means, and for most I would not encourage the darker side of the night.

But for rubin the association is so definite in that he must feel humiliated to feel femininem and feeling feminine is an absolute need. When she feels the roughness of a man’s hold on him, she melts into a twisted bath of femininity. she did not actively choose to be this way. It’s just simply is the way it is. She really has no choice.

As for where I fit in--I cannot change him--his self abasement is so deeply imbedded in his feminine side. So, what I have done is encourage him to accept it and know that he shouldn’t blame himself for this. Is it a chemical or social influence? That is difficult to answer. Its roots are unclear, but there is certainly one thing I do know: It is not a choice for rachael, but a need. And that need can be manipulated. It can be moderated. And it can be exploited.

And rachael, bless her sweet, little clit, is ever so grateful to have been brought to heel.

(As rachael progresses and rubin disappears, I will update on this blog).


Monday, June 23, 2008

FORCED! COERCED! BLACKMAIL! Or, the slippery slope...

Yes, I know you're wondering. What's all this about millie?

Actually, if you are wondering that, move along. She's an exceptional person, which is why I've devoted so much verbiage to My time with her.

Still, and I know this will be difficult for some of my faithful followers to believe, I do have time to, let's say, indulge others.

Wickedly, a couple of weeks ago, in any case.

he called, this gentleman (and never has the term been more loosely used before) who I'll call mitch, since it rhymes with bitch, which is what he became. And no, no offense intended to people who have the name Mitchell or any of its variants.

mitch. Mewling like a little kitty about how difficult it is to indulge his desire for 'forced' feminization, as if it were beyond me. And then - quite out of nowhere, really - talking about how he'd long fantasized about being exploited, even blackmailed, for his desires, which he at once loved and thought shameful.

Silly bitch. I mean mitch.

To be forced. Can you seriously imagine?

I can't force anyone to do anything.

Now, focusing a man or woman on her desires so he or she loses track of what she's doing... Well, that's quite another matter.

mitch boasted merrily about his quick work with a camera (and his or her clit, if I'd had to wager). What were his images like, I asked - Diane Arbus? Helmut Newton? These minor names drew what one might call a blank. Maybe the names of any photographers would. But mitch assured me he was "it" when it came to photographs and - try not to be shocked - particularly self-portraits. Goodness! Self-portraits! Well that is a lost art, isn't it, I said.

I need to clarify something here. I am, as some of You know, modestly accomplished with a camera, and I stress - and would always stress - modestly because even though I've done shoots and, yes, been paid for my efforts, I am not a full-time professional photographer. And when someone presents himself to me as "it" when it comes to photography, and in the quite limited field of self portraits, I think of the immensely talented Cindy Sherman... not some guy with a bulge in his panties.

Be that as it may... Yes, that is my snit for this post.

So. mitch. The "it" self-portrait girl.

What could I do, he asked, with compromising pictures?

Enjoy them, I said. And, in fact, I do. I've never counted, but there are people - a number of people, most utterly lovely and gracious - who have shared images with me. Some merely want to share. Others are uncomfortable having them in residence on their computers. But going back to the increasingly less new millennium, quite literally dozens of men have entrusted me with images of themselves.

Why? Hmmm. Interesting question, that, isn't it? Most, like my dear, dear friend Millie, have a facet of their personalities that has no other safe outlet, something in them, or about them, that is as real as the air I breathe and the keyboard under My fingertips, even if it isn't something that can be touched. But it is absolutely no less real, not one iota. No, I'm certainly not Mother Confessor - not with my track record, or not in this lifetime - but for as long as I can remember, I have always rooted for the underdog, for the other - the one that may not win the trophy but whose efforts are valiant and, in some way I can't quite describe, pure.

And, yes, millie might fall into that category. Her feelings are sincere, open. Difficult, challenging, at times maddening for her, but she is coming to terms with things that are part of her to her core and finding parts of being in the process. It's no game. Her feelings are as real as she is.

And then there was mitch. On my monitor, no less! Out of the sea of pixels, in all her glory - pinafored. Tucked. Glossy. Matte. You name it, he had it. It was a deluge.

And there he was, telling me how much she wanted - needed! - to be forced. Forced to do what, I wondered - certainly not to dress. She was a walking, talking, posing, primping, preening one-person catalog of styles and make up.

Puzzled, I asked forced to do what? Find a petrified blue whale penis (they can run 9 feet, you know) and sink down upon the entire thing? I mean, I could no more force mitch to dress than I could force him to breathe: it was happening anyway.

No, she said, her voice dropping. Like i said in the beginning, she said. There were a number of things she'd said and I didn't really feel like playing 900 questions. About blackmail, she said.

Ah, blackmail. In my book, blackmail is a sin. Not to mention illegal. Yet for a few quite particular souls, it is the thing that floats their boat, that does it for them. It's the holy grail of... well, of something. Taboo? Perversion? Powerlessness? Self-abnegation? One gentleman I knew at one point was so obsessed with it he'd call regularly and talk about possible scenarios in which he could be blackmailed. One week it was this scenario, which he'd describe in detail, and then analyze why it wouldn't work. The next week it was a new set up. The time and effort he put into it was quite breathtaking. It entertained him endlessly, though entertained isn't quite the word. Last I heard, he was still scheming up ideas in which he could trick himself into being blackmailed, though I suspect it's much like tickling: when it's done to oneself, it simply doesn't have the same effect.

mitch may have been my old acquaintance's spiritual twin. As she talked about what it would feel like, her voice dropped a bit and quite soon, with no assistance from me other than my ear, she'd reached a qualified Nirvana: it was something she wanted, desperately. Quite desperately. she was - and trust me on this, because I know it when I see it - near a state of despair.

Would I truly know how to do that to someone, she asked, her bluster and photographic arrogance left somewhere in another galaxy.

Was she serious, I asked, dead serious? And if so, would she e-mail me a photograph, but only if it was something she really wanted.

Before I knew it, my inbox was crowded with bitch. Satin gloves and black eyeshadow in a nice goth vamp. Pretty pink pinafore and white thigh highs. Green velvet gown... you get the idea. Suddenly, and quite presto, I had a nice little photo album of bitch in her frilly finery, and before too very long, the subject of posting them on the internet came along.

Just so she could demonstrate just how lovely she looked, how pretty she felt. Just so she could convince me of the sincerity of her desire to be thrown to the wolves, so to speak.

mitch, I asked sweetly. Some things are better left as fantasies. Do you really, honestly, in your heart of hearts, want to know how utterly powerless you can become?

bitch got to be a little confused. First, she said: No, it would be too much. Then: what would it feel like? Then: i can't do this. Then: oh, fuck, please.

she wanted them posted. she didn't want them posted. she did. she didn't. Such turmoil!

I reminded bitch that I couldn't force her to do anything, but how lovely and charming and sweet it would be if I could hear her, just for a moment, or a minute, or a couple of minutes, BEG Me to take my time and make her dream come true. Certainly she wouldn't be able to stand it if i made the photos visible to others she didn't know. Someone who might be her doctor. Her attorney. Her boss.

No, she didn't want that. And she certainly didn't want me to post his phone number in connection with them. No, not that. But that bitch - hadn't she just been begging me to do exactly that?

And didn't she say, just then, please, i need this more than anything.

Quite the confoundation, was it not?

I didn't feel she was quite sincere. No, not really. How on earth could I know what it was she actually wanted? Hmmm?

The sweet girl - who had quite forgotten about the issue of force - asked if sending Me a tribute would be proof of her sincerity. Sincerity of what, I sweetly asked. Why, to use them - to force her, to coerce her, to blackmail her. Well, I allowed that if it accompanied a digitally signed authorization granting me the right to do whatever I wished with the images, including granting me the right to post the image publicly, well, in that case, I might consider her request sincere.

And what do you know - within minutes, there they were: the assignation of rights (I do so love assignations of rights) and a proof deposit of sincerity.

So sweet.

And before long, bitch was begging to know where I would post them, who would see them, what the risk was...

In her state, as you may imagine, navigating her one-handed self (I presume) to the page took her a little more doing than she had anticipated. But she got there and let's just say she could see that the images were getting quite the reception. (Yes, Yahoo and AOL chatrooms aren't what they once were, but their place has been amply filled by niche services.) I chatted away, with mitch's photo in my profile, under an assumed name, and people were quite responsive. Not everyone, of course, was interested in being serviced by such a sweet young thing (I'd chosen the pinafore and white thigh highs), and some of the gentlemen in the room were quite outspoken about it. bitch watched and cringed, while I merrily deflected some comments and indulged others.

When was it that she started having reservations? Hmmm. It might have been - yes, that was it - the guy who said he was saving bitch's picture to his computer and was going to print it out and have his dog pee on it and put it up on boy's night in at the local lodge hall where he lived.

bitch had a difficult time processing that. I supposed I can see why, but it is what he wanted and begged for, in a manner of speaking, wouldn't you say?

It was right around that time that bitch asked a favor of Me. Would I be so kind as to remove the image from the profile? Or, if I recall, it was expressed as the following: "Oh, GOD, PLEASE - PLEASE TAKE IT DOWN - PLEASE!!!!!!"

Poor bitch. How hard it is to be hoist by one's own petard.

By then, I was a bit confused myself. How could I really know that he actually wanted Me to remove that lovely image (hand picked, I might add) from the profile? How on earth - what reassurance could he possibly give Me - that he wasn't being just like so many creatures who say one thing when they actually want another?

Goodness. Decisions decisions.

I explained My concern to bitch. Clearly I didn't want to do anything rash or foolish that she would later regret.

Meanwhile, other chatters in the chatroom were having a bit of fun with her image.

I continued to explain My concern, My reservations about betraying the supreme trust she had placed in Me. How, after all, did I really know what she truly wanted?

And at that point, a light clicked on in bitch's sodden little mind.

"Oh fuck - you're blackmailing me," she whimpered.

Blackmailing? No. Not at all. Had I made a demand? Had I threatened? Had I used anything - an image, say - in a context for which she HADN'T granted me license? Plus, I mean really - not that I would ever blackmail anyone about anything, but hadn't she talked again and again about how strong an interest it was of hers?

That stark accusation - I immediately told her that I would be happy to remove the image from the profile. All she had to do was to let me know that that was what she really, truly, honestly, unequivocally, without a doubt wanted.

And do You know what?

she did. But it was in that moment, after she had expressed herself so elegantly and concretely and I had her look at that image, the one that was being shared by so many interested parties, I think it was then, when I said, "See, look how happy you are - you know it's never, ever going to come down, don't you?" Yes, then. That is when the contractions overtook her.

Sweet bitch.

Happy at last.

How do I know? Well, contractions aside, and maybe this is an unfair assumption on My part, but she did call back.

Can you imagine?

Yes. Happy.

And you, dear reader, know Me. I do so love to make people happy.


P.S. This, I believe, is my first blog post script. In the interest of full disclosure, I went on to scold mitch for his unrealistic desire to slide down the slippery slope of exposure, and that it was lucky for him I had a good foot hold (albeit in heels) on that slope. I will not run up and down and play silly games because that is not something I enjoy, but... if sliding all the way down to the bottom of the slope is what he truly wants, then he should be prepared for a ruinous landing. It is one thing to be at standing at the top of the slope. Another matter, altogether, to be pushed down into the abyss. mitch, to be plain, was torturing herself. Not the fun, teasing, drive yourself mad torture that brings on the thunderous relief of a midsummer storm or one that leads to catharsis. Nor, for that matter, the edgy thrill in revealing information for the purpose of pleasing or feeling powerless.


Why do I mention this? It felt like being mired in the second act of a tragedy. One that was sure to end badly. mitch was evil to no one but himself, but he was driving himself to a place that no one should inhabit. Even if I disliked him, which I don't, I didn't want to be the Charon who delivered him to Hell's maw. But, let this be a warning: When the pursuer of exposure repeatedly pushes to be exposed, a Mistress may feel there is no other choice but to reach into her arsenal and give the silly bitch what he asks for!

Sunday, June 1, 2008

Down, girl!


Yes, it's true. I do tend to think of Myself as a liberal person. Not necessarily liberal with a capital L, but liberal in the sense of "given or provided in a generous and openhanded way."

Liberally applied. For instance, that's how I like guacamole with my red snapper fajitas.

Or, as miLLie has discovered, with Lubricant on the phaLLus...

Oh dear. Getting ahead of Myself again, aren't I?

Over the past few weeks, millie and I have become not only dearer friends, but we've developed quite a bond. It's about, let's see, seven inches long, made of glass, and decorated internally with swirls of silvery and pale blue sparkles with a hint of rose when the light strikes them just so.

Give up? Give UP?

The phallus. Very good. Though I'm afraid I gave it away, now didn't I?

Well. To be quite literal about it, in fact, I did.

It went like this. millie and I were talking one day, sharing thoughts and ideas and feelings, and the subject of exploration came up. Now, as fate would have it, or did have it, I'd just seen quite the loveliest phallus in my on-line travels, and it was so pretty, so graceful, that I immediately thought of millie. Delicate in line. Elegant in form. Quite ungross, as so many dildos are, including my ex-.

Oops. Now, now - no giving away family secrets. he did, after all, come oh-so-very-close to providing me with a moment of sensual pleasure. But then ... the phone rang and the back rub ended.

He was good for something ... almost.

Well. No sense reopening old sores now, is there.

Where was I?

Oh. Yes. I was on-line. And I saw this lovely thing. Glass. Sparkles. millie!

millie had
recently done something remarkably thoughtful, and quite helpful, for me, and, being the liberal, generous soul that I am, well, you know how easy it is. Take out the credit card, fill in the fields, and then click and bingo - not long after, it appeared on my doorstep.

It was a marvel. The smoothness. The heft in my palm. The glittering transparency. The shimmer. Was it the shimmer that I loved most? Or the heft? Or the swell of the head?

Tough to say. Tough to say.

After a careful inspection and with the comfort of knowing that my on-line impression had been born out by a physical examination, I shipped it off to her with a generous bottle of lube, and one evening, when the package had arrived and millie had a little free time, we talked.

As regular readers may know, millie is coming into her own, but she is not, in any way, shape, manner, or form, a slut - nor will she ever be. Not if I remain in control of the situation. Yes, she has explored new horizons, dipped her (unpedified) toes in, and expanded her understanding of herself. But her explorations, her probings, have not been capacious. Or extended.

So, with the help of the lube, we went slowly and before long - quite quickly, really - we'd come to the edge.

you do know the edge, don't you? That bittersweet place where disembodied fantasies end and reality asserts itself? A tight spot, it can be, quite tight, as it was for millie. Anticipation is sweet, always, but the edge is a portal, and once one has stepped through it, it leaves its mark.

What to do, what to do.

Slow and steady wins the race. The mark need not be painful, you know.

The first gentle kiss as the rounded tip sought out its target ... its portal. Its opening. The slither of the smooth surface against that precious rosebud. The activation of all those nerve endings - hundreds? Thousands? The fiery rush of sensation through the synapses up her spinal column to the brain, where they danced through the wakening embers.

Slow. Gentle pressure. The slight opening. The slight stretching...

Steady. Just holding. Relaxing. Opening. Pressure. Stopping. Contracting. Relaxing. Relaxing. Relaxing. A little more pressure...

Yes, the edge can hurt. No secret about that. Or it can be slow and come over one under the cover of caring protection and concern, with the ease of small waves lapping at the shoreline. Persistent. Unending. Calming. The expansion and opening coming incrementally, gently, slowly, until - POP - it's past the wide curve of the head and the muscles settle around the shaft and all those neural pathways can bathe in the new sensation.

Then, slowly, as millie's breathing settled into a regular rhythm, until she felt it being pulled into herself, filling a void, and then slightly expelled, and pulled in again. Those waves. Slowly curling up and breaking with the sensation all through her body, starting at her center, the ripples pushing outwards.

And when it was nicely in, more than halfway, and the rhythmic push and pull was as natural and as comfortable as breathing, I allowed millie a more intimate introduction to the edge. I had her sit up, the weight of her body pushing it in deeper and deeper until the wide base was pressed against her, nestled snugly against her opening.

In that moment, she was free.

she opened her eyes and looked around her, saw the familiar dresser, armchair, the bedside table, the doorway.

It was all familiar.

And all had changed.

she remains grateful ... to My generosity. My liberal affection for her.

All of her.







Monday, May 12, 2008

A bit busy


To tell the truth, I've been a bit busy lately.

Yes, there have been those brief callers - butterflies that alight for a moment and spread their wings and move on, velvety appendages glistening with the hope of spring and nectar soon to be discovered, regulars who stop by for a chat, spring cleaning, and all the small things that make up the wonderful mosaic of life, their shiny tiles fitting neatly into place.

But what's occupied Me increasingly is, well, millie, my new best girlfriend.

It's not every day. Maybe it's only every couple of years or so that someone special enters one's life.

I'm not quite sure how to describe it. Or illustrate it. Ah. Yes.

Woolite.

One evening, after we'd been talking for a bit, millie had a question that was enormously touching. Quietly, in the subdued throes of adoration, her clit nicely tucked back, millie asked me a question. Would i consider - and I just don't know how to describe the tone of her voice just then, so sweetly inflected, not ashamed but wanting so much not to be presumptuous or too hopeful or eager or wanting - would I consider, she asked, sending her a few articles of delicate laundry that needed doing.

she was so quiet and still in her request. I wasn't exactly flummoxed or floored. But it made something inside me sit upright. Those are very intimate things, i told her, not the $2.00 items that some people wrap around their cat for a day or so and send off through the mail as 'worn'.

she understood. I asked if that was what she truly wanted. To unwrap the parcel with a note that listed instructions. To feel her fingers delve into the mildly soapy water, feel it splash against the backs of her hands, the sensitive insides of her wrists. To feel her fingers gently cosset the silky, wet fabric that had until recently nestled warmly against my skin... my flesh.

her sigh and a quick intake of breath convinced me. It was what she wanted, perhaps as much as anything she had ever wanted.

The parcel, complete with Woolite, duly arrived, and one evening while we were talking, she went to her bathroom and filled the sink with cool water, a capfull of the mild soap, and, as we talked, she washed.

It was as if I was visiting my girlfriend as she was doing her hand wash. Or My handwash, really. When they were gently rinsed and millie had laid them flat on a towel we continued talking. As the water in the sink warmed to room temperature, I had her wash herself, as well. Slowly, standing there, looking in the mirror at her gloss covered lips, she found herself becoming wetter and wetter...

A few days later, I received them back, air dried, clean, scented faintly only of the soap, along with a very touching letter.

Acceptance. Intimacy. Closeness. Those are the things that millie had felt and had moved her so deeply.

i can only imagine how she will feel, next Tuesday, when she receives another parcel and has the opportunity to tenderly clean something that has touched my skin from the inside, as she brings it to her nose and experiences the scent of what she wishes she could emit. Of course I'll be there to soothe and comfort her, even as she knows that she will never be able to be what feels so utterly natural to her.



Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Sweetly helpless millie

I really had just the most wonderful evening last night, thanks in large part to millie.

As you can imagine, she now identifies herself as millie when she calls. (No, it didn't take long, but still, I am pleased with her.)

Guess what we talked about?

No. Silly. Not that.

We talked about how nice it feels to her when I'm pampered.

Some people want phone sex. mille wants phone massage. That is, it pleases her enormously to talk about how she'd love to give me a foot rub. Or a calf rub. Or shoulders, for that matter.

So we talked. her about her day, and her feelings, and how the ones that she was feeling just then, while we were talking, tended to pop up during the day when Milton was wearing his suit and how strange they felt. At first I wasn't quite sure
whether she meant the feelings and how strange they felt, or the oddly heavy weight of the suit jacket and slacks, which most women would find a little constraining. So of course - being all about clear communication - I asked her about it. What was it, dear millie, that felt so strange? Was it that suit - the slightly padded shoulders, the weight of the wool, the button on the collar and the tie? Was that what felt strange? Or was it something else? The feeling that it wasn't quite right, even though it was something she'd worn for years?

Before she answered, she talked about how her hands would cup my heel and her fingers would press gently but firmly into the soles of my feet. How they would knead into the ball of my foot, how one hand would hold my toes back a little while the other stroked the sole and stretched things... pleasurably.

millie in fact became so entranced by the idea that she quite lost track of time, talking about how nice it would feel to have my foot, my calf in her hands. And when I asked her to be quiet, she just listened to me talk about, well whatever. How sweet she was. How lovely it was that she would take so much pleasure in giving me a massage. How much of a relief it must feel for her to talk with someone who understands things that most people don't have the capacity to understand.

We all have different aspects to ourselves, after all. Strong. Weak. Aggressive. Passive. Female. Male. It's just the nature of things, really.

Though of course not everyone is, well, sensitive to all that. They're busy. Involved in one thing or another. The lawn needs attention. The bedroom needs painting. The groceries need getting. you know.

you do know. Don't you?

millie just wanted a friendly ear, someone to let her express herself. It probably didn't hurt things much when i rested my nicely massaged and relaxed foot on her crotch and we talked about how the ache can be so difficult to deal with.

But, well. You know me. All wise, and all knowing. We found a way to deal with that.


Sunday, April 6, 2008

If only...

If only I'd had him here and a nice, beefy dildo. Nothing crass and vulgar.

But BIG.

It was one of those smart ass callers. Oh, alright. He was one of those smart ass callers. You know the kind, or can imagine - the ones who are saying, 'Bet you can't make me say uncle.' I actually said what I'd wanted to for some time: 'No, but if you give Me your father-in-law's number, I imagine he will.'

The fool. He should have just gotten off the phone. But, of course, he didn't.

We chatted. This and that.
What's the weather like there. How fat his dick is. How he couldn't stand those neutered 'guys' who get manicures and hold the little woman's purse at the mall. I think he was too well brought up to actually use the offensive derogatory slang for men who prefer the company of their own gender in intimate settings, the word that begins with F and ends with T.

Sigh. I asked him how it feels when a woman's silky slip accidentally touches his cock. He had to pause for a moment - he wasn't on autopilot any more.

With some guys, that's all it takes. A little sneak attack. (Yes, if I do say so myself, I can be a bit sneaky.) I could almost hear the blood rushing from one head to the other, and what was so wonderful about it is that he just didn't get it. Yes, yes, I described the soft fabric sliding across the tip of his cock and how it must feel just so nice to him when it comes up under the shaft and lingers just beneath the head and runs over the slit.

Gawd it didn't take much. He was
pumped up and all almost hootin' and hollerin' and ready to praise be to, well, You know, and I said, 'Feels so nice, when it slides across the tip, and what's interesting is that the only guys who really notice that - well, they wind up wearing the slips themselves, and I can bet that you'd look just lovely in one.'

He lost it. Yes, his load.

So, I asked him - politely, of course - 'Why did it make you cum when I talked about you wearing a slip - you're not a
sissy by any chance, are you?'

He swore a few times and hung up the phone.

But I know him. Guys like him.

He'll be back. They always are.





Sunday, March 30, 2008

That millie...

I just don't think I can stand it - that millie is just sooooo adorable! Yesterday, it seemed that she just didn't know what she is about.

Which is not a total surprise, of course. But still.

Like a duck to water, she is. When she called - not the first time in the past week, mind you - she could barely speak. It's like that sometimes with many people. They've called before, and the conversation somehow took them to a place that was unfamiliar, uncharted, except in thoughts they would never dream of verbalizing. And sometimes, when they call back they're virtually, well, not quite pre-verbal... I mean they're not infants or anything... but there's this terribly sweet disconnect between a feeling they can't quite put their finger, or tongue, on and a burning need they have to be understood.

And so it was. Sweet, demure millie. She could barely bring herself to let me know who it was that was calling! When I realized the situation, I had her relax a bit. Maybe more than a bit, and before very long at all she was able to answer simple questions. Did she like it when I called her millie? Did it feel nice when we (oh, okay, when I) talked about how nice it is to feel the hose glide up over one's legs, the lovely constricting tightness... that made all her troubles seem to go away, pushed back into some dark crevice that was hidden from view?

So many things. So very many things she'd never really thought of before. she couldn't quite bring herself to articulate, but it was clear that there were just so many things she wanted, so many things she needed. I mean, it was just so obvious. When the hose were on snugly, and she was safely tucked away, she began to come out of her shell a little. To open up. Now, I don't think that my having her slide her fingers down over the hose and between her tightly clenched legs had everything do to with it. But somehow, knowing that no one would see it, that it wouldn't up and embarrass her, unexpectedly, just seemed to calm her and let her open up...

Just like the sweet, little slut she is becoming should.




Saturday, March 22, 2008

milton to mildred to millie



I do like the name millie.

Where were we? Ah. Yes.

He wasn't into feminization. Yes, he actually did and does like women. A lot. When he - okay, okay, enough of the he s/he thing, we'll stick with she - when I asked her what it was that was so appealing, the answers came out in a slow, steady, fluid stream - the softness, the patience, the willingness to endure, the gentle way a woman will touch her fingertips to her cheek, the carefulness in front of a mirror, the careless and careful way they apply lipstick in a restaurant after a meal.......

He went on and on. And on.

It was just utterly lovely. Truly. And quite revealing.

How many men, I ask you - oh, yes, alright, you're not a representative sample of the general population, now are you? - but how many men are actually aware of all these things? They see them every day, now don't they, and these seemingly listless acts register somewhere in the recesses of their minds, between Tiger's latest triumph and the birdie they themselves almost had when last on the links and the dick boss at work who took credit for another of their ideas and the wondering of whether their wife will ever learn her way around the head of his cock or at least to cradle his balls while taking him in her mouth.

The casual sensuality may register, but only as quietly as a leaf falling on dry autumn grass and with just as much effect.

Not so our - excuse me, MY - millie.

As she talked about these things, her voice softened. I asked when she'd last watched a woman hold a bottle of perfume to her neck and spray lightly. There was a moment of silence. Just a moment. Some moments seem to last forever. This was one of them.

Quietly, she said, 'i can't remember.'

I rustled in my chair and took the phone with me to the powder room (no, it's not a pastel pink, you dork - pink isn't the only femme color) and looked over a few bottles of perfume and eau de toilette and picked up the bottle of Coco Chanel, my fave, as my young neighbor would say, of the moment. The combination of citrus and woody - earthy and clean at the same time, with overtones of a distinctly human scent - seems to both relax men and prick their senses. I talked to him about it, and he heard the spray leave the bottle.

'I don't like to talk about these things with men, because they don't quite understand them - do you know what I mean,' I asked. That moment of silence, that lovely moment of silence, when her increasingly fluid and malleable gears were shifting.

'I know you're not interested in feminization,' I said sweetly, 'but it would be easier for me to talk about these things if I felt I was talking to a woman... a girlfriend - you wouldn't mind terribly if I called you millie, would you?'

The silence extended.

Why is it, with shy women, that they have just such a difficult time saying yes when they're being seduced?

'millie, please get the lipstick and remove the wrapping and close your eyes. Turn the case a little, yes, a little more. i know this isn't really your thing, but would you mind, for me, bring it to your upper lip and touching it lightly? That's okay, isn't it? Yes. Like that. Now, slowly, slide it across your upper lip, starting at the center and going outwards... yes. That's it. Yes. Thank you, millie.'

millie, it seemed, needed to be taken.

I won't bore you with the details, but before long, before too very long at all, millie was able to push past the initial burning sensation and discover her internal pleasure spot - for the sake of her ego, I explained that males have them as well. As she quietly explored, and I feared that her cockometer might explode from internal pressure - and I don't mean explode as in shoot - under my soft but unyielding control, I made her promise that just for a minute, no matter what she heard or felt, she wouldn't change a thing about what she was doing. And I found myself reminding her of something.

That no self-respecting man would be caught dead writhing in bed wearing lipstick with a finger up her ass.

Now would he?

There wasn't total silence on her end. I believe I heard the soft rush of a moan, the kind of sound heard when air leaves the distended neck of an old balloon.

'Now would he, millie?'

For the first time in quite awhile, she was able to summon the strength to form a word. Two of them, in fact.

'No Beverly.'

'No millie. Now be a good girl and touch your clit for me...'

No sense in going on. But you get the idea.

So did she.

How do I know?

At the end of our conversation, past the point of decompression and reorientation, where some, um, men are just dying to get off the phone, she said, 'Thank You."

Well. That was a few days ago know, and she's called a couple of times since. And do you know what's so remarkable, so rewarding? When I answer the phone, she says, 'Hi Beverly - it's millie...'

And when she called last, I replied, 'Oh, millie - hi. It's so nice to hear from you. I was afraid it was going to be this repulsive creature I spoke to once. His name was - I must have put it out of my mind. Oh. Yes. That's it. It was Milton.'


Tuesday, March 18, 2008

mildred

I love mildred. I know. It might be a crush. But I've learned to enjoy these things for what they are.

mildred happened upon My line last night. I wasn't fishing. The lure was simply there, dangling, waiting, and then, mildred bit and really quite outdid herself. That sweet, tender voice, the yearning edge, at least to start, though her agonized whimpers of frustration were.... Hmm. I seem to be getting ahead of myself.

Briefly, the caller introduced himself as milton, presented himself as a sub, and chatted quite rationally through the first drink I had him consume. Along the way, I asked him a few questions - the research and development phase, as I think of it. My fave pieces of equipment - naturally - are the body and the voice. Ask a question, get a response. Ask another, get another response. The little telling clue, and the key to his undoing, or her doing, was the question about what color panties would look best clading his crotch. Milton, apparently, had never been into feminization, or so he said, but when I asked, his cockometer ran a fever and became infected and engorged.

I proposed a deal: that I guide him for part of an evening, and at the end, if he didn't say thank You, I would give him ten free calls. Mind you, I didn't mention that the ten free calls would come in his next life, but I was confident in what the end result would be.

The silly thing agreed, and we reconvened half an hour later, after he'd gone off and bought a pair of stockings and some lovely pink lipstick. I'm a fan of Revlon for my callers, in case you were wondering.

Tucking doesn't come easily to everyone. The first problem, especially for newbies, is tumescence. They find the feel of the tight, clingy material just a little too interesting. My experience, however, is that after half an hour to 45 minutes of having their crotches encased in the restrictive control top, things have quieted down. At that point, the testes are quite warm and things have softened up quite a bit. millie, as s/he was now known, was still slightly feverish and, I must say, still quite game. A bit of trancing and relaxation will help with these things. Down went the inflate-a-clit, up went the testes, and before millie could cry 'Mommy!' s/he was sporting a new streamlined look.

So, I thought, let the fun begin.

Oh dear. My student is here. (He's learning photomanipulation.)

To cut to the chase, compression worked wonders, and within an hour s/he didn't know which end was up and telling me that s/he'd never felt quite so alive, even as that lovely crotch felt like it was on fire and s/he'd confessed to a number of things s/he didn't initially even know s/he had to confess to. Now s/he'll have to live with the shame of knowing exactly how s/he debased humanity with her vile thoughts and actions. But we can talk about those later. To put it simply, s/he made Gus look like the silly winged fairy that he is.




Wednesday, March 12, 2008

New entry from Mistress Beverly

Mistress Beverly of the Academy has neither censored nor changed the blog entry by stupid boy below. Let his own words humiliate his person, but I'll give him this... he was quite zealous in his follow through.

At times discipline is sought and punishment is the only language understood. As my tribe of 'femmes' would confirm, I am not about sadistically inflicting pain, but if I am going to do something, indeed anything, I'm going to do it well, and... enjoy it immensely.


Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Message from a stupid boy:



Dear fellow subs, slaves and perverts.


This is the story of a very silly little boy (me) who loves having his Mistress Beverly degrade and hurt him - but sometimes feels as if that isn't enough and that what he really needs is to be completely ruined by her. It is just a fantasy but sometimes I get stupid and almost make it happen! Blackmail is a dangerous game, and if I had tried it with most other Mistresses then I probably would have been 'ruined' by now. Recently I annoyed Ms Beverly (who is a lenient soul) so much that she actually put a photo of me with my face exposed up on this very blog (see below entry about a stupid boy) She then decided that I was enjoying it a little too much, and therefore decided to remove that photo and concentrate on giving me some serious pain instead.

My girlfriend is currently away on Holiday so Ms.Beverly decided to take advantage of the fact that she could therefore leave marks without them being something that I had to hide from her. We began speaking at around around 7:30pm my time last Friday and she proceeded to tell me how utterly stupid I am. This lesson was designed to show me the difference between silly and stupid. Silly is fun and can be good, stupid isn't and can get a little perverts into a lot of trouble. She spent the next two hours having me beat my arse with a variety of different things (wooden spoon, belt etc). We eventually stuck to a long round (and fairly thick) piece of wood that came from an old chair that had broken. Her aim (as she kept telling me) was to make me cry. I had got drunk before we spoke so that I would be able to take more pain then usual, and despite beating myself for two hours I did not cry (sorry Beverly!)


I was however left with a very bruised bum (see photo!) that I am not sure is going to heal by the time my girlfriend returns this weekend! I could be in deep do do here.




Saturday, March 1, 2008

Seduction

I'm still a bit flushed. After all, it had been awhile since I'd been, well, not to put too fine a point on it, seduced.

No, I don't expect you to know what I mean.

And by a - well, not a sissy exactly. But a strikingly, er, accomodating, male.

It started in conversation of course. Always does, you know. Yes, he was pleading, but without really pleading. Just being so casual, so open about things. What things? Oh, pretty much everything. Humor. Frustrations. Desires. He could barely speak of needs. Not because he doesn't have them. But because he felt like, as if he didn't actually deserve them. Not in his state. Neither here nor there, really.

And so attentive! he really just hung on my every word, my every inflection. Even when I asked about things he never said "No." No matter what it was! The most unusual notion popped into my mind, one that I was sure he'd never contemplate, even for a moment (yes, it is a tender bit, and people don't like to imagine being without it), he just said, "i hadn't thought of that."

It was a particular thought of mine that got me going. The way he leaned back into me, resting himself against my shoulder. Kind of melting, really, as if he wished to disappear into the fold of my arm. he just wanted so badly ... so terribly badly ... to be embraced for all of himself. his confusion. his wanting. The ache he felt in his chest. So tender. It made me think of my breasts when my body first started being flooded with hormones and how even the thought of a touch made me withdraw.

Despite how much he wanted, the thing he wanted more than anything was simply be able to share what I felt and to understand what I was thinking or might want. It wasn't of himself that he spoke, unless I prodded him, but of what my desires might be like, what I felt was important to talk about.

And when I put my arm around his neck and down across his shoulder, and my hand came to rest lightly on his chest, on his breast, and I felt a faint roundness, there was a sigh that escaped his lips, a sigh that felt endless, timeless, eternal. Released by the lightest of touches. When I cupped him in my hand, gently, his body seemed to melt into mind and he said just the sweetest thing:

"Please. i need to please You so terribly. Please let me."

his voice so was soft, i could barely hear it. But it had a resonance that shuddered down my spine and ran through my back and shoulders. I had no choice, really.

So.

I let him.

And now she's mine.


Friday, February 22, 2008

Revelations

UPDATE OF THE MATTER...

Amendment to this blog entry.

Stupid was enjoying the exposure a little too much for my liking. Hence the swift removal of his photo. He just doesn' t deserve to be exposed. My apologies to all other readers.


Original entry:

The picture says it all. This sissy does not know the different between the words 'silly' and 'stupid'. He has always had a 'hard' time differentiating between the two. This is an example of stupid:

He gave a Mistress a full video of him being.... 'silly', which was rather 'stupid' of him when he knew full-well he would end up pissing her off. So, when he came crying to Me, his long term Mistress, I said he was.......... stupid!

These photo will be up until I am satisfied he has learned the important difference between the two aforementioned words. Let it be known, I don't expect him to suddenly develop an interest in pouring over the dictionary, but it will for a moment make him aware of his own... stupidity.





Sunday, February 17, 2008

Not surprising

One doesn't always have the right words for things, does one?

Some of my callers are what one might refer to as "gentlemen callers" if it weren't for a certain confusion about the genetic paraphernalia betwixt and between their... er.... ears? Nearly.

Gentle? Yes. Callers? Yes. Men?

Well. Let me tell you a story. A personal story, in fact. A memoir. Yes, that's the word. Manoir. Some years ago (oh, c'mon - a woman doesn't reveal her age, now does she?) I was enjoying the company of a certain man. Let's call him Sam. We spent time together doing the usual things - movies, museums, dinner, copter skiing - well maybe not that last bit - and in the fullness of time we were in a position to become intimate. We were on his couch watching the telly, his arm around my shoulders and my shoulder snuggled against his side. Yes, I know - boring and traditional. Now, Sam had never been very pushy or assertive, and he'd been shy about being physical in any way that could be considered sexual. Oh, yes, he was a dear - holding hands, rubbing my back on occasion, taking my arm in his. The kind of thing my sister and I used to do.

Anyway, I laid my hand on his thigh and for a moment he stiffened. No, not like that. He sat up straight. He mumbled a bit and choked out a sentence, something about how much he enjoyed my company but how he wasn't really all that like other men. I laughed and told him that no men were like other men but I didn't mind. I was feeling a bit frisky and moved my hand up his thigh and, just imagine my surprise, when I came to the bulge, it just wasn't there. Not a hint of it! I've always been a bit of an adventurer, so rather than pull my hand back in horror (as if!), my fingers crept forward... and forward... and down between his thighs and - VOILA! - there it was, the hiding Houdini! Tucked down, and as my fingers ran down it I had the oddest feeling. It was almost as if I was touching myself - this valley between mounds on either side.

Horrified? No, not in the least. I mean, clearly he was a man, if an exceptionally sensitive and gentle one. And, yes, it was there - his package, as it's called. But it was wrapped quite differently. And felt strangely familiar. And made me incredibly intrigued.

I still get the feeling, talking with callers, whose shame isn't that they don't measure up to, well, full manhood, but that they don't measure up to the knowledge and understanding they have of themselves. Yes, they may be different. Less obtrusively manly. More sweetly and - yes - seductively sensitive. But they don't see that. At times, I just want to cocoon them, or mommiefy (is that mummify?) them and bring my lips to their ear and stroke their smooth, nearly hollow crotches and tell them that they're lovely... just the way they are.