As I write this, I am awaiting Homme. I have left him watching TV and have left him explicit and graphic instructions of what I expect of him in the next few hours and by no means must he enter the main bedroom until 9pm and I have prepared myself adequately for our final night of pleasure before he goes away for a whole THREE NIGHTS with his wife and my lover, Femme, a wonderful creature I am more than enamoured of being in the presence of and had the pleasure of intimate acquaintance. For she has agreed with absolutely no complaint to sleep in the spare room while I tie up her husband and do filthy and passionate things to him. She has allowed me him as my plaything alone in their sanctuary and I intend to do her proud.

I am shaved. I am scented. I have climbed into my new white PVC number I bought from Camden Lock market last weekend and matching knee high socks with nothing else but a shaven crotch. I was going to wear my black, glass based ‘stripper heels’ but I can’t for the life of me find them. I may have left them under Johnson’s bed. I have applied coconut butter to my exposed flesh with a hope that he will place his soft lips over every inch, that being my shoulders, my chest, my bald coochie, my cleavage and the tops of my thighs.

I pull out my special Agent Provocateur box from underneath their bed where I have it for safe keeping. This morning I tucked it under there after an especially delicious late one on one session with Femme with Homme’s turn to sleep in my room. I place it up the black silk sheets I had requested from her today to cover their kingsized play area for me.

I remember the feeling that shot through me this past Valentine’s Day when my two lovers first presented me with this box, now one of my most treasured possessions. They’d had it wrapped in pink, silk ribbon. It housed (to my lust, amazement and glee) a bejewelled leather riding crop, as well as a sly bottle of their perfume too. It’s encrusted with Swarovski crystals and glints even in the soft bedroom light. I was so eager to just lift it out and hear the beautiful sound of when it is sliced through the air with delicate force. A delicate force which does nothing but delight me when it comes into contact with the side of my rump or underneath my bum, at the tops of my legs.

Until that point, I had only felt the pleasure inflicted by the bare hands of my Homme and Femme (who is partial herself to the odd reddening), apart from that one afternoon I begged her to bend me over her knee like a bad aunt and smack me with one of her ballet flats.

I immediately found myself thrusting the crop into his hands upon receiving the gift and got onto all fours in front of him. I was wearing my best french knickers and he just slipped them down to my knees without a second thought. He made me deliciously pink and hoarse in the throat and I could feel the pain upon my ride onto the tube. Luckily I was wearing my gypsy skirt and could feel the breeze. I had to bring coffee to obnoxious celebrities while my arse cheeks throbbed. It was bliss.

I think of that first morning every time I open this box now, despite no longer being home to the crop anymore. That has pride of place on the dresser in my room for all who is invited to see. A symbol of not only my affection and gratitude to the giver but one of respect and identity to anyone who enters my glorious domain. It is situated invitingly close enough to the bed for anyone who gains my trust and I allow my intimacy to use at free will.

Currently, I have a playmate called Tabitha, a gay goth chick from Sweden that comes over and hangs out with me when she is in the area. There’s nothing sexual between us in terms of what I do with Femme, Maria and such (apart from the odd bit of mutual masturbation when I make her exceptionally horny) but the arrangement suits us both. Plus, she has a long term girlfriend and it sounds a little complicated. She is a Domme in training and likes the spanking practice really and I like girls to dominate me. I met her at the London Fetish Fair last year. We got chatting at the crowded bar in amongst the trannies and the older couples about what we were both attending for and she asked me quite openly if she was allowed to lift up my skirt and strike me with her hand.

“Of course...” I gushed. She looked so surprised, I expect that she thought that I would say no. I quite enjoyed the public display. I was wearing my long white socks, with my babydoll Mary Janes, a tartan pleated skirt and one of Homme’s crisp white shirts. I think it was the pigtails that drew her into me as she muttered something along the lines of pulling them back as she plunged a strap on into me. It had the desired effect because she got me so wet. Homme was with me and had to get his cock out for a little play too.

In my box now are all my instruments of pleasure. There are cuffs, collars, silk ties (stolen from Homme), butt plugs, anal beads, nipple clamps, lubricants, feathers, condoms and for when I am feeling especially submissive, a ball gag. It has yet to be used and since its purchase. Perhaps this weekend will lend the ideal opportunity. The tools in the box though are there for invite only. To use as and when I desire. Femme has her own box of tricks and although we use our toys on each other, we know what is each others etc. There are certain things in my box that she desires and vice versa.

I have placed all of my toys on his dresser and the box open on the floor in preparation for the next few hours. I intend to use as many as I can. Before he goes, I am determined to give him quite the memorable and extremely late night.

I should sign off in a minute and call for him. First, I am going to slip in a butt blug and greet him at the door on my hands and knees on the stripped wood floor so the first thing he steps into is in between my legs. When I am satisfied with the attention I am given it is his turn.

Read more adventures and real life experiences at: www.hommeandfemme.blogspot.com