Immoral Support

My darling Mistress Matisse finally sat down with Dr. Dick to record a podcast! I tagged along to provide (im)moral support and the occasional (off) color commentary. As usual, when Matisse and I get going, things can get a touch... racy. Poor Dr. Dick, he tries his best to keep things on track when we get going, but I do not think I've ever seen a grown man blush *so* much.

Hear the podcast here. So, so not work safe.

Quick and Dirty Podcast Action

My darling lover, Matisse, just posted another one of our "quick and dirty" podcasts. While not up the the polished audio quality of our studio recorded stuff, these make for a fun listen. Recorded in the moment as we were conversing on the topic of fashion.
Yes, fashion.
I know, normally I look like a jack booted thug in my cycle gear and Abbey clothes, but I have developed quite the fetish for dressing up. Perhaps it is the fact that I don't *have* to dress up for my job that makes it all the more fun? Or better yet, there is nothing more sexy than knowing you are a bad ass AND you don't have to wear leathers everywhere to prove it.
About 10 min long and mostly work safe.

Another Podcast with Mistress Matisse.
We are back at it and causing more mayhem than is allowed by the FCC. Hear it here, about 10 minutes, SO not work safe.

Matisse has a new podcast up. In this episode we talk about poly and the dangers of comparing partners as well as I go on a rant about folks "assuming" things about my dearest partner Tambo. It is a prime rant too for fans who like it when I unhinge :)

I have on my to do list to set up a new recording session soon so if you have questions we can answer for you send us an email.

I fear that a kink blogger arms race may have just been sparked as last night I took revenge on my darling lover, Matisse, but shooting a clip of her new shower... while she was in it clad only in a towel. I'm worried what will happen next week when it is late, late at night and we are cavorting about the house half naked armed with instant communication devices...

Matisse just posted another podcast, in this one we do our best to answer a couple of listener emails. Enjoy!

Matisse just posted another one of our podcasts. So go take a listen. We got ourselves a new sound engineer, I'll admit I was a bit worried about him at first. Sure, this guy regularly does audio for all manner of rock acts and such but how would he respond to a couple of perverts like MM and I riffing unscripted about male prostitution and adult baby play?

Well aside from the one time we noticed him falling off his chair in the sound booth from laughing, I guess ok. For those curious, we are working with the folks at Foundry for Sound.

Enjoy!

From Twitter: "Of all the crazy, kinky things @mistressmatisse has talked me into over the years... This one takes the cake." 4:04 PM Dec 22nd, 2008 from txt

Let me begin by saying that I am an unrepentant sinner. A happy, well adjusted pervert who makes no apologies for who he is or what makes his naughty bits tingle. That said, today I find myself shocked at the extent of my own perversion. Or should I say, shocked at how I have been lead astray by a certain woman. Now when we met, some five plus years ago I considered myself pretty well versed in the various ways and means of sexuality and kink. Firmly rooted in what I knew I liked and what I knew I did not like and wise enough to know no matter how out there it may be, it is not a bad kink just not for me.

That is, of course until I met her... everything changed with her. Things that up till now were placed firmly in my “No” list, slowly found their way to becoming a “maybe” and then, inevitably, “Oh sweet Jesus YES, a thousand times yes!’ She, she has this way you see, a way of making the impossible sound intriguing and the terrifying seem like no big deal. I blame her laugh, when she laughs I loose my ability to think rational thoughts and all I want in this life, more than my next breath is to hear that laugh. And so, like the sirens calling sailors to their doom, I found myself powerless to her charms. Perversions and deviance I once never contemplated are now common place for me.

Today, today I’m a very well versed pervert. I dare say, even jaded at times. Between my personal sex life, running a wildly successful bondage company, and sex work I’ve seen, and done, more than most will in an entire lifetime.

Imagine my shock when, after all this, she did it again.

It all started with a casual, off the cuff comment, while laying naked together. My first response to her was repulsion. “Oh you have just been elected the mayor of Ickytown!”, I responded in mock horror. Not another word was spoken about this for weeks, then another comment. She had tried it out and found she sorta liked it. “This is why we are poly” I think was my response, but even then I could feel the tiny flicker of curiosity spark. If she, this woman with whom I have experienced things of legend with, like it. How bad could it? No! This was far too strange, too taboo my brain would rebel and scream. Eventually, she would excuse herself before we tucked into bed for the night and partake in this taboo ritual, returning to me, dare I say aglow.

I remember the first time she let me watch, my curiosity getting the better of my caution, I sat and looked on intently as she undertook the ritual. Horrified, I could not look away. Every part of my brain rebelled, nay screamed for me to turn and walk away… but then she let out a laugh. Oh that laugh, oh how it pulls at my being like so many hooks, drawing me in closer. It would be several days later before I asked her to show me how it was done, she smiled and asked, “Are you sure, baby?”
“Yeah, lets see what all the fuss is about” I tried to sound casual while my guts did somersaults.
Gently, calmly she took my shaking hand and showed me just how she likes to do it. The trick you see is in the ritual. The process is all part of the pay out, preparing the components and then, then the act.

I blinked and choked my first time, nearly falling over backwards onto the tiled floor with shock, but I did it. Later that night, as we basked in the warmth of the other, she ran her fingers along my furrowed brow and asked me how it felt. “Not… not that bad actually”

The next week, we did it together again. Again and again like clockwork this thing became a habit for us. This forbidden thing, now a ritual. Part of the fabric of our life together, until… until I found myself wanting it when we were not together. Thinking about it, thinking about how good it would feel right now and I how I did not want to wait till I saw her again to do it. No longer satisfied with it being just an “us” thing, eventually I found myself on e-bay looking to fill my need.

I bought my own Neti Pot.

You see, after years of exposure to hemp dust, my sinus are a wreck. A constant source of soreness and untold head colds, the pain can be unrelenting some days. It was her, a long time sufferer of allergies herself who suggested I try this homeopathic remedy.

After all these years and all the crazy, fucked up things we have done together, buying my own tools for nasal irritation feels so… deviant.

Tonight while sprawled out next to Matisse, my head resting in her lap as she scratched my head and laughed and the way it made my eyes glaze over, we got to talking about an upcoming social event and the inevitable question arose.
"So, what do you think you will wear?"
Most folks look forward to events like these as an excuse to finally get to wear their favorite fetish attire. However, once you have a profession where you pretty much get paid to wear fetish wear all the time. Donning a pair of PVC pants and sweating down your ass crack for a social gathering just sorta looses its appeal. Now she, she has become legendary for dressing in some amazing, designer dresses. The kind that when she walks into the room, everyone stops talking and just sorta stares for a sec.

Me? I'm nowhere as classy as she is, but I do however clean up well and like the idea of ditching the BDU/knee high boot combo in favor of something different as well.
"Dunno," I say mid scratch, "I was thinking about picking up one of those suits they wrote about in GQ last month. Maybe see if I can get it tailored in time? Its been years since I wore a suit, seems like high time to add one to the wardrobe."
"While I love the idea of you in a suit, I sorta miss those red velvet pants", she mused
"Ahh, my pimp pants. Yeah, those were sexy when I was 15 pounds heavier. Now they just hang and I can't seem to find a decent replacement for them"
"To bad, you used to dress much more flamboyant"
True, I once had all manner of outlandish outfit, a throwback to my actor days I think. however these days I seem to have settled comfortably into the more simple (some would say iconic) look of tight jeans, tighter white shirts and my well worn vintage black leather jacket.
"Hey, if you can find me a pair that look good and fit, I'd wear em" I respond.
"really?"
"Sure, you know I've always wanted to do the velvet bell bottoms and platform heels look"
"Ohh how David Bowie of you!" she laughed while leering at me.
Yes, gentle reader, I happen to own a pair of 6 inch platform heels. I can even dance in them, thank you. Long time readers will remember me once dancing about Matisse's living room in them (and not much else) for her birthday a few years back.
"Like I said, I've never been able to find just the right pair of pants to pull it off, cuz you know it is all about the pants"
"..and if I can find said pants?"

Consider the fashion gauntlet thrown.

Nu Media.
Not much to say today, crazy ass busy this week with other, not very interesting projects. I do have some hot photos for you later, so stay tuned for that. In the meantime Matisse has another podcast up, featuring yours truly. I'm scrambling to book some studio time this week as well so if you have questions that you would like to hear us answer, fire away.

Things to do today... bottom to the boys at the industrial supply store.

One of the machines I use at the Abbey is busted. A specialized pump that we use to move scalding hot dye water about. So today I need to pack up the busted unit and take it over to the huge industrial supply company and see how much it will cost me to get it fixed. Since there really is no other model for just what we do, the tools and machines are all custom, one of a kind creations that we have developed over the years. Things that evolved from us going, "this sucks what if we did it this way... " and viola a rudimentary machine was born. That machine would then undergo countless upgrades and modifications along the way until now I find myself having to write down instructions for others on how to use it.

While I can spin a socket wrench with the best, I never was one for classes like metal shop and tend to glaze over when folks start going on about gear ratios and the hydrostatic pressure differential. Thankfully there is a huge company nearby that supply all sorts of gears and motors and such to heavy industry. You know, the kinda place where all the other customers wear shirts with their names embroidered on them and have more things hanging off their belts than batman. I can walk in, plunk down the broken motor and smile while they figure out the tough stuff. When they ask me, "What is your application?" I smile and give them the most generic answer possible. Thankfully they seem just fine with "textiles" and can go from there.

Of course this place is awesome for finding parts for fucking machines as well. In fact today I'll also be there picking up a replacement drive belt for Matisse's infamous machine. Seems one of my favorite MILFs wants to take it for a ride at an upcoming party. Again, when they ask me about the nature of the application, I'll smile and say, "Its for a motorized art installation."

Of course this tactic doesn't always work. I've spotted some very cool pipe fittings in a photo and want to obtain some. Said photo was from fuckingmachines.com and I'm not about to plunk down a print out of said image and say, "So pay no mind to the chick getting impaled by the modified bread maker, what I'm really interested in are these pipes she is restrained to, whats that? No, sir I don't know why she has that in her ass, about these connectors..."

Nope, just not cool.

As for the fucking machine, well I guess I will just have to test said machine, you know to make sure it works properly...hmm Matisse and I do have a date tonight... hmm I wonder whatever shall I do about that.

Every little thing she does is magic…

Today marks the birthday of my lover, Matisse. What can I say about my dearest that has yet to be said? I remember the first time I met her, while at one of Max’s rope bondage classes. My companion pointed her out, “that is,” she said with a dramatic pause, “the Mistress Matisse”

There, sitting at the front of the room was a stunning woman with an infectious smile and laugh that made you want to laugh along.

It would be many months later, at another one of Max’s rope classes, when I finally had the opportunity to chat with her at length, we hung out in the back of the room while they all practiced. No rope was being sold so we both nibbled on tootsie rolls and swaped stories. I suppose I should describe how “sexually powerful” she was or how dynamic her presence was, but no. The thing I remember most about that conversation, and the many that followed was just how interesting, charming and fun to talk to she was.

I walked away from every occasion not with a sense that a diva had just deemed me worthy of her company, but rather a giddy sort of “I can’t wait till the next time I get to chat with her. What a cool lady…” feeling.

Tonight, after an altogether too brief dinner date, as I kissed her goodbye and walked out to my car those giddy feelings of our early encounters are still just as fresh. Nearly 4 years later I’m still sporting a goofy smile every time I say goodbye to her and counting the minutes till I get to see her again.

Happy birthday, my love.
You just keep getting better and better.

Updates from an undisclosed beach location...

Right now I feel a bit like something out of a Hemingway story, save for the depression and firearms, see I’m writing this to you from the deck of an old southern manor house. A grand affair, blocks from the beach, it’s great brick pillars frame Matisse and I as we type away tonight. It’s once mighty edifice now worn a bit at the edges from the ravages of time and too many tourists, the place has a sort of comfortable worn feeling about it. Worn it may be, the food is decadent and the beer is always cold. From our second story vantage point were we can watch the world pass by, parents herd their sun burnt offspring back to civilization, optimistic college boys make one last play for that elusive island girl all the while the ever present ocean stirs in the distance.

No civilization for us just yet, a few more days of blessed vacation for us still.

Our days have been remarkably relaxing, I dare say frighteningly so. Sun, surf, good food and very cold beers. When not out, toes in the warm white sand, we escape the heat and crowds and retreat back to the manor’s grand balcony or better yet, to the air conditioned decadence of our room. Did I mention the four posted bed in said room?

Yesterday I got to watch my first tropical rainstorm up close and personal. Sitting upon this same porch, Matisse noted the coming dark clouds rolling off the water towards us. In minutes the once hazy blue sky turned an ominous black and then opened up with an explosion of light. Lighting so close that you felt the ruble of thunder mere moments after the blinding flash, loud enough to feel it shake your bones. Next came the rain. Living in Seattle I’m very used to rain but this, this was new. In a moment the air went from dense and charged to filled with water. Great sheets fell from the sky, flooding the hard packed streets and flooding the gutters. The tall palm trees in front of us swayed about madly as the sky unloaded upon us. Safe in upon our deck, we sat back and marveled at the sudden force of nature around us.

As rain as warm as bath water filled the sky Matisse leans over to me and purrs, “You know the local tradition here is that whenever one of these storms blow in you are supposed to head for cover and fuck.”

“Oh really now?” I respond with a grin, “a conscientious tourist must always respect the local customs and traditions…”

The "Pancake-O-Meter" of good play

I was in my early teens before I discovered the joys of central heating. See, back on the farm I grew up on we only used a mammoth wood stove to heat our home. I must have been 12 or 13 before I discovered that other people had these funny little boxes on the wall that you turned the dial and it got warmer. Back in those days, when my grandfather would come to visit, he would always make a huge fire. Overloaded with freshly split hunks of pine, the great wrought iron beast would roar till the top was just shy of glowing. In protest, we would always have to open the front door of the house to let in some cold air, save we all wither from the heat… or spontaneously burst into flame. My granddad always laughed at this, calling the front door, “the only measure of a good fire that really mattered”. Meaning that in his mind, it just was not a really good fire till you had to open the front door.

What the hell does this have to do with pancakes? Good question. A top can throw a good scene and enjoy the response they get from their bottom. Sure, you can enjoy the effect of whatever devious delight you are subjecting them to, but the really good scenes are the ones that when it is all said and done, when they are starting at you with a sort of dazed expression and a slightly off kilter smile, and they announce “god damn do I want pancakes now!”

That, that dear reader is the mark of true success.

Diner booths make for some excellent post care, sipping coffee and enjoying the late night feast of food that you would never think of eating when the sun was up. That stack of pancakes with a side of hash browns so large it threatens to engulf most of plate, is the best damn tasting food in the world. Smirk if you will, but there is something really gratifying about watching someone you just played with devour a meal with gusto and genuine hunger. Reminds you that what we do is physically intense and when done right, the hours feel like minutes and you end up throwing your entire self into the play till you are near exhaustion.

Of course you could say that this is just the ramblings of an egotistical top, smug in the knowledge that they wore their partner out.

This could be the case, if I did not know the power of pancakes first hand. See, I do switch on occasion. Recently during a much-needed lost weekend with my lover, Matisse, I returned to the land of bottoming after what had been a long, long time. Why so long you ask? A million reasons, none of them worth going into, but suffice to say I really, really needed to get my ass full and righteously kicked, hard. And kick it she did.

In the pre-dawn hours as we wandered into her kitchen, I was more stumbling in a daze really while she waltzed about with a wickedly satisfied grin, in search of post play nourishment. Sure we could go out, find some all night diner, maybe even a late night pizza.
“Pancakes, dude I must have pancakes..” Was all I could say.
Rifling through the cupboards till we found all the required components, even peanut butter (yes I am weird like that). I set about to make breakfast.

Let me just say, dear reader, that those were the best-damned tasting pancakes I have ever eaten. If god himself were to come down on high with a golden spatula and used unicorn milk in the batter, they would not come close. Yes, pancakes the perfect post scene food and the mark of really good play. How good you ask?
Well no sooner were the plates cleared when I, looking a bit more like a human, said to my lover, “You know that one thing you did with the thing…”
“Oh yeah, that was fun!” She responds with a wicked laugh.
“Let’s do that again.”
“Sure lover, anytime”
“How about now?”
“Oh really?”, she says raising an eyebrow, “perhaps we should leave the pancake mix out for later… just in case.”

Behold the power of pancakes, the only measure of a good scene that really matters.

Weekend.... um, what she said. Yeah.