holiday snaps – Contemplating the divine

Quant à moi, peu dormi, vidé, brimé

C’est le 14 juillet, et nous célébrons les déesses républicaines françaises telles que Marianne et… euh…

Liberté, Egalité, Sororité!

Bon, je pense que ça suffit pour la langue française aujourd’hui.

Captions with a vaguely French connection, anyway.

Paris is famous for its stylish leather goods.

One from my ‘advice to a US sub visiting Europe‘ occasional series, obviously. The caption is deliberately misleading: the French insist on following their own local food customs, so you’ll probably find yourself swallowing butts from unfiltered Gauloises, rather then some mild ‘low tar’ cigarettes.

As the label might indicate to even the most male-brained reader, this is of course the magnificent, elegant and beautiful Ibicella, who can be found, worshipped and, ideally, donated to at the address shown. And here she is being adorable.

You might not learn many words in French, but you’ll be *really* good on everyday (and every hour, minute and second) politeness.

And do I really need to mention this is Mistress Eleise? Look, I like maple syrup as much as the next slave, but I can tell you: it is not Canada’s greatest export. I’ve tried both.

Her dungeon doesn’t actually have a view of the Tour Eiffel, you understand. It doesn’t have a view of anything.

There are actually plusieurs esclaves, but they are all much the same.

Or maybe they’re just trying to make things more interesting for the ladies.

P.S. Allez les Bleus! Mais aussi les lions anglais…

P.P.S. OK, so the Bleus didn’t really allez. Or not as much as the Spanish went ándale ándale ándale anyway. So to cheer up any depressed frenchmen – or heterosexual males of any sort, I imagine – here’s the lovely Ibicella, being patriotic.

Compulsive order

Topping from the bottom again? You’d think he’d have learnt by now. Well… I’m sure she doesn’t want to hurt him any more than is strictly necessary, but there do have to be consequences for that kind of defiance.

I know it’s an established trope that women get annoyed when men come too quickly, but back when I was still dating, I found they didn’t mind at all. Most never even realised it had happened, actually.

It’s a horrible feeling when you realise you’ve locked yourself out. Not one that’s happened to me for years, I’m happy to say, as my SO much prefers the approach of keeping me locked in.

Actually, later she and her friends came up with many more humiliating marks, but they’re young and just getting started in the ways of womanhood, bless ’em.

In the event they wouldn’t bend the rules: they were OK taking him, but they insisted on the full six months quarantine. Which posed a dilemma: on the one hand, she was only going to be there for the two-week holiday, so that seemed a bit excessive, but on the other he *was* being *very* irritating.

Their relationship was much deeper and more meaningful than one based on knowing who the fuck he was, or noticing anything he did. But doesn’t Babs look fabulous in black? Even if he accomplished nothing else in life – and as far as she knows, he didn’t – except giving her an opportunity to wear it after his death, that’s a meaningful life well-lived, right?

How ya feelin?

Hot hot hot!

Well, unless you’re in, I dunno, Svalbard or somewhere… New Zealand, maybe. But here in the UK it’s a hot, hot bank holiday (that’s a holiday in which everyone in the country dons a bowler hat and we all play at being bankers – it’s heaps of fun), so I thought a little ex tempore, al fresco and pudendo pessimus post, featuring sunny days, might be in order.

Male readers: if you are in the UK, bear in mind that temperatures are expected to reach 34 C, so if you’re not fully employed in vigorously fanning or bringing iced drinks to members of the superior sex, do make sure you’re wrapped up snugly with a padded latex hood and locked away in some stifling, airless box full of mosquitoes so you have a thoroughly miserable time, you worthless excuse for a human being.

Rest assured: you’ll get your chance to express your opinions, too. Desperate pleading and heartfelt gratitude foremost among them.

Important learning point here. Being a kindhearted soul, she deliberately kept quiet, when he spilled her drink a little while setting it down, just so the poor chap wouldn’t have to suffer a further flogging. And then the idiot did it *again*, later in the afternoon! Spare the rod – or the bullwhip – as she ruefully admitted to herself, watching him writhe and shriek in agony, while waiting for a turn with the whip herself.

Dogging is another British custom. It mostly takes place in summer, like this, but if you’re a sub visiting London, ask if your Mistress can organise a dogging session for you and I expect she’d be happy to, at any time of year, as long as she can wrap up warm. It’s a good way to meet lots of locals, if you’re travelling, albeit rather briefly and not necessarily seeing their faces.

It must be very distressing for her, poor thing.

In the summertime (10)

Last day of the holidays! I expect my So will be visiting the beach one last time, going back to that special restaurant and having one last all-night fivesome with whichever four local lads most took her fancy. Then back home to normality, and a devoted Servitor, waiting patiently – and quite hungrily – for the familiar tread of those heels on the steps down into the cellar.

I mean, obviously I’m not expecting that unchaining me will be the first thing she does when she arrives home. There’s so many things to sort out… and of course there’s the cat to collect from the cattery. But I’m sure it won’t be more than a day… perhaps two… before I am once again dragged blinking into the light and strapped over the whipping bench to catch up on a week and a half’s-worth of missed marital bliss. It’s nice to get away but there’s no place like home, you know?