Peeptoe86's Blog

First things first. This blog is accessible to all “friends'. You don't even actually have to BE a friend. You don't even have to like me, it's just a tool. I'm happy for people to see my dirty washing, but I don't want it to look like I'm waving it in everyones faces.

And now, it's more a thank you. I have learned all kinds of things in these past few weeks and I pity my poor, poor hubby. But then I'm sure he's solicited his share of advice, down the line. Or maybe he's used the net purely to indulge, away from where (he thinks) I can see. I don't check, because (paradoxically?) you don't need to check computers than never have any browsing history. Somewhere I posted that I'd begrudge him that. But then I asked myself why? I wouldn't begrudge him looking up how to use an online calendar. (I'd fully encourage it.) Well, now I've looked too. Plenty. Level playing field. But maybe not quite level. Edge is a lovely word, isn't it! I do actually like ALL its uses. Unlike some other words. Like, slag.

I was comforted that so many people take issue with labels, and with some descriptions. Trampling, and kinky, for more examples. I also find it interesting that more people will tend to find forms of corporal punishment acceptable than, say, pinning a face to the floor under a firmly placed boot. And I was interested by the extent to which this forum made me question why and when I wear shoes, and what exact pairs. Hubby likes my shoes in part (probably) through conditioning (the whole, stockings and stilettos thing) and in part through liking the lingering aroma of my feet inside them. He can cum, with that stimulus alone, and I like that fact. But my (regularly cleaned, as well as regularly tended to) feet exist independently of my shoes..? Sometimes, there's a lovely sense of contact, barefoot. Balanced against an incredible rush from the apparent indifference to another person's skin, if you tread on it in shoes, especially in heels.

I am indifferent to none of it.

I have thought very carefully about all of the things I have discussed, and read. And now I come to a problem over yet another word. In the end (though I am still forming my final strategy) I am inclined to go with the word “own', rather than slave. As in, “right now, I own you'. I love the way the contemporary use gives that word edge. There's that edge, again. I love the idea of a whispering introduction, though. So intimate, in his ear. I own you. Don't ever forget it. And not Mistress. Mistress is generic. Mistress, for me, makes me a pretend Domme. Just, my name. Please, Louise. Oh yes, you must, my bestest, beastiest possession. You must please Louise.

I now also realize the housework part is largely irrelevant, and see that it doesn't exactly fit with the cock related bedroom control. I'm not going to be doing it (serious cleaning, of any kind) if I don't feel like it (which will be when Hell freezes over) and that's all there is to it. I've offered to pay for someone, if it's that big a deal (I offered that long before coming on here) but he'll continue to crawl round my feet wiping things in order to save money so"¦ if sometimes he gets off on it, where he feels like he's being made a bitch of, then all the better. That bit's up to him to sort out. But he has to be careful because if he wipes clear ALL of the shit I tread round the house then how will he know the exact places to press his lips to when he kisses the ground I've walked on? I love, love, love to watch him do that! That's where the stilettos do have an edge of their own. On “his' wood floors, it's easy to see where I've been. He's always been very contradicted, in his own thinking, on that issue. But, like with cleaning, I'll take my heels off off when I'm good and ready (if I even notice I'm wearing them where they might dent or scratch) cos if I'm wearing them in the bedroom then I'll wear them where I like! In the end, his two big things are as a sex man, and a foot man, with a lot of blurs. That kind of blurring is usually right up my street, but in this case I can see that certainty is required. This is where and when you're owned, this is where and when you're free. And you need a convention, to allow for unexpected passage through doors.

But, anyway, overall...l when it's ownership time"¦ he may well find himself flogged, for being an irritating so and so. Even if he hasn't been. Irritating, that is. I'm definitely convinced by the idea of starting with a flogger. Good word, flog. And little chains. To the bed rails, at first"¦

But I learned so, so many other things. I'd piss on him, now. I'd consider sharing. I'd like to be brave enough to give him time with others, and I have a friend"¦ I know for sure she'd"¦ and he'd love it. But then there's someone else"¦ another woman"¦ I was very, very interested in the idea that someone who dominates male partners might crave submission from the right woman"¦! I have a way to go, on these last two ideas...

I learned a lot, about sharing. Hubby has always liked the idea that I might one day tell someone"¦ and now I've told a fuck of a lot of people!!

Even so, sharing this seems egocentric. Perhaps it is. But for those that have expressed an interest"¦

There it is! A journey, in short. And if I remember bits, or add bits, and if people are interested"¦

Then here it will be.





Original entry...

I notice blogs aren't supposed to be sexually oriented. Hmmmm. I won't go into that. Not sure where the line is, but this isn't a deliberate flout.

Today (now yesterday) I went out for milk. I picked up a couple of other things as well including, I think, some gum. I mention this because that's how most of my life is. If I chose my name again, for this site, I'd probably choose differently - and I'd probably “admit' to being married (a relationship I'm very proud of) but at the same time I wouldn't be looking to get flamed as a result of my thoughts on Syria, or the Trump/Clinton choice, or even on the word vanilla (when used to describe a flavouring.) I'd also accept that in terms of easy identification, I've now probably narrowed myself down yet further. I'm hoping that I'm right, and that there's still plenty wriggle room. I can't get that Pina Colada song out of my head, and thinking OMG what if? Would we each forgive? I'm sure he does it.

Serve him right.

I wore a pair of comfy boots that I've had for some while. (On my short shopping expedition.) They're great for walking in. I rarely go shopping in peeptoe stilettos. (Maybe if we were going to dinner somewhere, and stopped for wine - but even then I'd point out the issue to hubby, along with my various preferences, as if he'd need reminding.) I wouldn't be driving in shoes like that, either. The name came as a result of one of HIS favourite pairs of MY shoes. Don't get me wrong on this, either. I like that he plays favourites, and the leather is kept nice and moist which I'm sure helps them last. Poor old things. Shoes can get more vicious, mind you, with age - I'm reliably assured. But those choices are his, if fun to work with. It all works out rather well for me because part of what I get to do is what I would have done (or not done) anyway, and the other parts, if I'm cornered, are to a large extent me "just a-pleasin' my man". Nothing's changed, same old role models. So who am I really, you may well ask. And if only I knew. I'm older than 30, by the way. By a reasonable distance.

I'm very often barefoot, in bed. I do a great many things that aren't considered at all racy in that bedroom. Sometimes I only suck on oranges. Sometimes I bite into them. I've never yet taken the pith, as regards diet. Sometimes I get surprised from behind in the dark. I make these funny little noises, when that happens - that aren't always that quiet. I do like to have a bit of cake, and then to eat it. You can, really you can.

I wonder, other times, how many women end up doing things they never, ever imagined themselves doing because they meet a man they adore as much as he convincingly adores them in return. I love my shoes. I never expected anyone to love them even more! And, quite often, I do wear them. Without them, my feet do well enough from him anyway. That definitely requires the me.

Another fact. I was younger than I probably should have been when my hand first continued on downward, from someone's naval. There was no consent, and I understand at the age I am now that this might be considered an issue. Whether it was or whether it wasn't (an issue) at the time can really only be guessed at based on the state of my fingers quite soon after I began my clumsy exploration. Sticky, moist. Pretty pleased with myself. Stupid outfit, badly done and overdone make up, shoes I couldn't walk in - but, hey. I fucking work.

Remember the old Yellow Pages thing? Let your..? Took that very seriously.

My friend and I used to play with each other in our bedrooms. Our mums were suspicious. That doesn't make me all that wild, I don't think. In fact, I know it doesn't. God, it was fun though. In a similarly fumbly sort of way although with a better idea of the overall geography. This is really all there is, of wildness. But I do remember, also, a long time ago: a boy we knew dropped his packed lunch on the path, foil wrapped. The same fumbler friend, and I, were following along behind, and she rode her bike over it. I should have found that mean. I found it funny, and maybe even a bit “bitchy' and daring. Later that day she asked him if he enjoyed it. I was kind of interested in that question, and in the answer - which was a rather red face. Not long after, I heard he was going to ask her out, I didn't fancy his chances. How wrong could I have been? Sometimes I wonder about life. Hubby doesn't know that story. Lot's of reasons. And she's long lost. But it was him and his “things', particularly reminded me. This isn't the whole of our lives, though.

How many of you girls may be lying at home tonight wanting nothing more than for hubby to take out his pistol and take a wildly speculative shot at Uranus? Just a quick astrological aside.

Meantime, back to the shopping. By the milk aisle there was spillage, and cardboard. They hadn't dealt with it all that well - but I wouldn't really have noticed, other than for another (but rather brazen, and young) woman, much less practically shod. Pop, pop, pop - as she slid out sideways, to let me in. She didn't chance the whiter way out - which, for her, was probably a sensible rather than altruistic choice. (If it was a conscious choice at all, and very often these things aren't. When you're in supermarkets, you're generally determinedly functional.) Once she'd got by me I walked over the cardboard myself, rather more silently, and then stepped in a bit of the milk spillage - which I probably didn't absolutely have to, but no sense crying about it and I wasn't about to break my back reaching over - and then I didn't bother with the return cardboard route but went on towards the tills. No doubt much to someone's eventual irritation, but much to hubby's delight - had he been there. Strange thing, I know.

Stranger too. The next evening, when the same boots (quite possibly) are rested up on something soft, and if I was watching TV, I might have told him. Not this time, again for several reasons"¦. But it's rather splendid in it's way, cardboard, never mind the milk for a moment. Another good one, as someone else pointed out in a different place, is bubble wrap. Bubble wrap's a good time, I think they say. A fucking good time, to be fair, that kind of thing. Usually a bit after the actual walking on it but...

So it's sad, in a way, to have to keep the post-card once-milkyness of my boots to myself, away from where it might create most reaction - even if I can still talk politics. Sadder still, the reason why? But it's all a bit of fun, even if I'm more than a little curious what people make of it all. Maybe a lot of other people are busy with bin bags, or pegs, or candles, or (instant) whips or whatever and it just passes them by? Not a judgement, just an observation.

Some good people have talked to me, too. Thank you. This seems a real nice place.