It’s a Cinch

Growing up I was obsessed by corsets. Some of it was being much skinnier back then and it making me convinced I was flat chested but a lot of it was coming of age in an era of John Paul Gaultier dressing Madonna¬†and Dolce and Gabbana’s modern day corsetry that shook off the Victorian associations for pure Sicilian sex appeal.

No one in Ireland wore corsets (unless they were about ninety and still wore their ‘stays’ with a girdle and had never heard of Lycra) so I had no idea that you didn’t need tits to wear one, but that they did the work for you and created a cleavage to die for. I had several images like this of the model Chandra North in a corset and dreamed of spilling over my top in such a literally over the top style.

I did get a chance to wear a zipped corset made of black leather for a sex work client on a few occasions but it never gave me the silhouette I was after even if I loved the feel of it and the look of a leather corset. The zip simply didn’t nip my waist in enough to make much impact and it made me think such things weren’t for me even when I got tits in my twenties.

Then my Master introduced me to waist training and corsets and it was love at first lacing once I learned that overbust corsets don’t suit me (the other issue with that leather one) by squashing my tits into a very unflattering shape which defeats the purpose somewhat.

I thought I was a bit of an expert on waist training though by now when I learned something completely new existed. In searching Amazon to replace a waist trainer I’d worn out, I found that I’ve been wearing the 9 steel waist trainer in that time but a 25 steel version also exists.

Quite simply the more steels, the more the cinch and the more results. You won’t be surprised to hear I bought one immediately. I was pleased on a practical note when I opened the Amazon Prime package to find that it is considerably stronger and less likely to stab me with a stray steel that the one I’ve been wearing (having ripped two in the last six or so months no less.)

But stronger means trickier to put on and I really really felt the effort of fastening it evn starting on the first row of hooks. And I really felt the effects of wearing it. Longer than the 9 steel, it comes higher up my back and lower down my stomach which I liked as it prevents a visible line but it felt like wearing a full corset compared to my old one.

I decided to distract myself by wearing it to cook and do housework so my mind wouldn’t keep being distracted by how firm it felt around my waist. I could see why Princess struggles with hers as I think she started out with a 25 steel and that’s quite a leap since I was very aware of it after almost two years of the 9 steel even though it’s perversely comfortable to me.

Then I realised as I cooked and cleaned that I was very distracted after all, not so much by my waist but by my tits. Even on the first hook, this waist trainer pushes them up and together so much more than before. Like a modern day Narcissus I was drowing in my own cleavage every time I glanced down.

Three hours in and I tightened it onto the second row of hooks just to see if I was imagining things. Turns out I’ve finally fulfilled that lifetime ambition to have full firm tits spill over the top of a ridiculously tight top in a way that’s borderline obscene. I half expect to be arrested on the third row of hooks frankly….

tits in top


It’s a Cinch

Size Me Up

My Master has a friend of a friend who is always referred to as the guy whose cock is the size of two cans of Coke and it always makes wonder if a) it’s true, b) how they all know and c) just how big that really is in real life.

Because the thing is that my Master’s patient stretching of me over the last few years has completely distorted my reality of sizes and dimensions. Uberkinky sent me a mail out about National Orgasm Day and a link to their page of huge dildos this week and I obviously scrolled through and very few of them seemed that big to me.

In fact a few seemed, if you’ll pardon the pun, to be stretching the definition of a huge dildo somewhat (especially if you are putting them in your cunt not your ass.) Which is how I came to be testing the theory of just how big two cans of Coke is on a Friday night.

two cans

Turns out it’s exactly the same size as the John Holmes toy which is my standard dildo these days. I shouldn’t have doubted my Master’s mathematical abilities when he told me that recently.

Hopefully I can make my disobedience up to him by getting his permission to play with the cans of the very appropriately named Ting again…?

Size Me Up

Hard to Swallow

It’s not even midday on Monday morning and I’m annoyed already by this Cosmopolitan article about why you shouldn’t swallow. (Spoiler alert: being joyless about sex isn’t given as a reason.)

Obviously if you prefer not to swallow or give oral sex that’s a perfectly legitimate preference. BUT in the same way it’s rude and immature for a grown up to refuse a foodstuff they’ve been offered by saying ‘ewwww! Gross!’ or turning their head away like a fussy toddler, not having a respectful conversation about oral sex is the same.

No one feels good if someone pulls away from their cock (or cunt) or makes catty comments about smell or taste. Simply set your boundaries before you use your mouth for anything else and don’t act like semen is radioactive waste or a waste of your time.

Men can help make this easier by giving a heads up when they are about to come or if there’s more come than usual to prevent any misunderstandings. Also the sound and movements of a man about to come in your mouth is ridiculously hot. Make more of them please.

And now I’m reminded it’s far too long since I had my Master’s cock in my mouth and I can’t think of much else….

Hard to Swallow

Clear Out

Princess has a kink I didn’t know about until this week. But it turns out she gets turned on by tidiness and getting rid of clutter and I just happened to be having a belated spring clean and clear out which pleased her immensely.

The fact I found boxes of photos and clothes from my old slutty days certainly added to her enjoyment. I could just picture her face when I sent her a photo of the dress I wore on the Millennium. Black of course and completely and utterly sheer. I wore it with a black bikini underneath and danced on a table.

I also found a sheer pink vest top I used to love. Bought to layer under another top in an oh so nineties way, I remember putting it on one night to go clubbing and some friends calling round to drink first. By the time we jumped in a cab later, I was tipsy enough to have either forgotten or not care that I hadn’t layered the top up and went out in it.

It took a few moments in dark bars and clubs for people to notice that the top was completely see through and I wasn’t wearing a bra. I definitely didn’t buy a drink all night and I seem to recall my evening ended in a hotel room with one of the visiting DJs.

In contrast to the very tight figure hugging trousers I wear now, all the trousers I found from then were slouchy wide leg ones that I wore oversized and low on my hips, often without underwear and always with the hint that you could have just pulled them down to fuck me at anytime.

Sadly some of my sluttiness outfits were nowhere to be seen. There was a very tight strapless silver sparkly dress that was an eternal favourite when I was escorting. Everything about the dress screamed sex worker except that I always wore it with trainers and that confused bar staff into thinking I was a student playing dress up rather than actually working. Same with the red satin Chinese collared dress I had in those days that could decide if it was demure or dirty minded.

But my favourite most full on slut outfit was from when I first moved to London. I used to go to ridiculously hot dark hip hop nights dotted around dodgy pre gentrification railway arches around the city and the logical choice of outfit was again a bikini but worn under a pair of oversized denim dungarees.

I tended just to wear the bikini top and allow the cut out sides of the dungarees to show that I hadn’t bothered with the bottoms. Much easier for when you’d sneak outside part way through the night to get some air, usually accompanied by a man I’d met inside to hide in the shadows of another arch or alleyway together.

You could open the dungarees in a way that made it easy to pull them down at the back and bend me over to fuck me from behind while not actually being obviously naked which helps camouflage someone as pale as me in the darkness. There’s something also incredibly hot about fucking a stranger and keeping them a stranger that way.

I’m supposed to be clearing stuff out of my flat but this trip down slutty memory lane has me looking to buy a bikini top. I was more outrageous in my tastes in my twenties, but in my thirties I’ve got pierced nipples to show off instead. I think that’ll still turn Princess on…

Clear Out


Pride at the weekend had many things going for it, but particularly the chance to relive the fun of the temporary tattoo. They’ve come a long way since coming free with bubble gum when I was a kid.

My Master marked his property on me with one on the back of my neck (which is apt since having the back of my neck touched always turns me on) and Princess added to it with a beautiful red lipstick mark beside it too.

I enjoyed wearing it for a couple of days afterwards which has put me in a mind to follow my Master’s orders about getting tattooed for him. In fact Princess sent me a great idea for getting started as I want something only they will see when I’m getting fucked and this place fits the bill beautifully.

tiny tattoo

I’d definitely change the actual tattoo but I love the placement. But not as much as I loved Princess’s tattoo at the weekend. Every time I saw it peeking out, it went straight to my cunt and made me very glad that while the tattoo was temporary, the sentiment is permanent…

princess tattoo



I had a busy weekend. Not only was I at Pride with my Master and Princess, I managed to have drinks with another friend. She happened to be the person who introduced us but remains unaware that we are more than occasional drinking buddies which always amuses me.

Events meant that our original choice of venue was closed and she called me to meet her elsewhere. I didn’t know the name of the pub and was shocked to walk round the corner and ¬†discover it was the re-named version of one of my favourite haunts when I first moved to London.

Ostensibly I frequented it because it stocked obscure Irish items behind the bar that sated my homesickness, but the fact it was incredibly popular with bike couriers in tight shorts and muscles you only saw at certain angles kept me returning.

I don’t know if it’s something about being straddled across a bike saddle all day but bike couriers are both incredibly horny and utterly filthy. They also managed to combine being direct with being respectful in a way that meant they seemed to gauge whether you wanted to drink quietly while eyeing up their arse or be propositioned for all kinds.

My mind kept wandering during the grown up thirtysomething conversations of last night to my twentysomething evenings there. Despite there being no biked toned men at the bar last night I had more than one or two images of the men I remember from there fifteen years ago.

There was the most flexible man I’ve ever met who lived in a nearby warehouse with one of those beds on a platform that always made fucking seem more like living on the edge than I’d like but also allowed him to perform his party trick of flipping his legs over his head and sucking the tip of his own cock before fucking me senseless.

Or the guy who would fuck me slowly and intensely while speaking Russian to me in a way that went straight to my cunt every time. It always sounded like him giving me the kind of stern order you wouldn’t dare ignore, especially when he was holding my arms down at the same time. When something sounds that hot you can ignore that he might actually be reciting his bike route to you believe me.

But my favourite memory of nights in that pub came to mind when I nipped to the toilets which unlike the rest of the pub hadn’t changed a bit. There was the slight quirk with them that one cubicle in the women’s toilets was separate to the rest and very easy to sneak into with someone.

I fucked a few guys in there over a variety of Friday nights but there was one American guy I particularly remember. I used to kneel down and suck his cock while he would run his thumbs along the back of my neck making me purr with pleasure while pulling me deeper onto his cock.

He’d arch his back the hornier he got round my mouth and up onto his tiptoes so the tight lean muscles in his calves would look even more defined as he did and they’d quiver under the effort of holding him up and the feel of my hands on them as I’d pull him close as he came in my mouth.

He’d always pitch forward back onto the balls of his feet just as he came so his hands would go out against the toilet door to hold him and his cock would slide down the back of my throat so that swallowing him was like it was meant to be. I’d feel him deep in me with my forehead pressed against his stomach feeling the muscles contract as he tried to make no noise beyond a gasp.

We never fucked and he never touched me because he had a girlfriend back home and only oral sex was some kind of loophole for him not to think he was cheating on her. I never really cared. His calves and cock did amazing things to my cunt and I’d always go back to the bar soaking wet and so turned on I had no trouble catching someone else’s eye to fuck them later knowing he’d be watching me all night and thinking about the orgasm he just had.

I hadn’t thought about him for years but the memory came back to me so clearly standing there that fifteen years later I still went back out to the bar soaking wet and unable to concentrate on the conversation for pure unadulterated slutty nostalgia…