So you’ve decided to go kinky for Halloween, and now you just need the equipment to play.
Sure, if you have several thousand to spare, you can build and equipment a play room to rival Jack Winter, but most of us don’t have that sort of money. Plus, it’s really embarrassing when your mother-in-law comes to visit and wants to know exactly what you do in that room. It’s hard to convince her that the A-frame is really just for drying shirts, or that you don’t have a vacuum cleaner and use those paddles to beat your rugs by hand.
So Evie’s treat this Halloween is a list of pervertables, BDSM toys you can buy on a budget and which won’t embarrass you if they are found around the house.
I don’t want to mention my age, but let’s just say I have teenage children and I wasn’t a child bride. In general, getting older is great, you gain more confidence as you worry less what other people think. I’ve even found I’m more attractive to a lot of guys. But I’ve discovered that women of a certain age attract one group that I could do without.
I’m on various social media websites. In theory, this is so I can tell people how wonderful the next book is going to be—and yes, A Touch of Passion will blow you away. In reality, it’s because I love to talk. Most of the people I meet are lovely, warm and genuine. But there are exceptions.
The sun is shining, the days are stretching. Let’s celebrate by selling our home and buying a new one. Sheer madness, but it’s a ritual part of spring for many people. Spring is the time when you move house.
This year, I had to join them; selling the place we were living in and searching for another one more suitable for our daughters and their schools.
That’s where the torture began. To start with, we had to get our house ready for viewing. That meant hiring a skip to dispose of rubbish. We only moved in eighteen months ago, how could we have accumulated so much crap? After that, it was time for a mega clean up.
I made a couple of trips to IKEA, not to buy anything, but just to see how they arranged the various rooms so we could do the same with ours.
An hour before the first viewers arrived, I was still rushing around like a lunatic, washing dishes, shoving bondage ropes and riding crops under the bed, carefully arranging several copies of “The Pleasures of Winter” and the other Pleasures books around the house.
“It’s over,” she confessed as we sipped our coffee.
After I sympathized and we relegated him to bastards who wouldn’t know a good thing if it hit them between the eyes, she cheered up a little. “And I was so looking forward to meeting him.”
I need to backtrack a little.
They’d been having a cyber relationship for months. Lots of virtual chat, sexting and flirting, but it all fell apart when they reached the first online love milestone – the exchange of photographs.
How can I put this gently? There was zero sparkage – zilch, nada, nothing. She wouldn’t have dated him if he was covered in hundred euro notes and he hated skinny women. All the virtual evenings they had spent together were gone in an instant, and they were both back on the cyber shelf or in the cyber saddle, eager for their next adventure.
And they’re not alone.
It’s a myth that wiggling your fingers tells you if your arm is broken.
I set off down the piste in Val Cenis first, leading the rest of the group. I knew it was a steep one, but it had snowed recently and the conditions were good. The first few turns went well, but then I made a mistake and went flying.
I hit the ground with a thump and kept going, face first down the mountain, collecting bruises and knocks on the way. Every time I thought I was about to slow up, the run got steeper and I kept going.