Balance is key. In everything you do. Dance all night long and practice yoga the next day. Drink wine but don’t forget your green juice. Eat chocolate when your heart wants it and kale salad when your body needs it. Wear high heels on Saturday and walk barefoot on Sunday. Go shopping at the mall and then sit down and meditate in your bedroom. Live high and low. Move and stay still. Embrace all sides of who you are and live your authentic truth! Be brave and bold and spontaneous and loud and let that complement your abilities to find silence and patience and modesty and peace. Aim for balance. Make your own rules and don’t let anybody tell you how to live according to theirs.
“Sex appeal is something that you feel deep down inside. It’s suggested rather than shown. …there is more to sex appeal than just measurements. I don’t need a bedroom to prove my womanliness. I can convey just as much sex appeal, picking apples off a tree or standing in the rain.”
― Audrey Hepburn
photo by Philippe Halsman
Audrey Hepburn, 1955
It is a state of mind, not a state of undress or a state of body shape or size.
It is all to do with attitude, confidence and self belief.
You see sex appeal through the eyes first, down inside the person. Then the way they hold themselves, how happy the are inside their body no matter what shape it is.
The rest is just window dressing.
Don’t get me wrong I t’s great to see a nicely dressed window but it is what is on display inside the window that really matters.
I won’t do you the dishonour of writing you in something that stains forever. I’ll follow your winding heart—its changing patterns—its constant going and un-going. I will write you in lead, in chalk, in breathy sighs.
Q:Re blog your archives...I'm on mobile and I just want to read. Please ?
Sorry but I don’t have the time or inclination to reblog my archive, no matter how nicely you ask. :)
If you would like to just read, a lot of my stories are on my other blog http://velvet-reading-room.tumblr.com/
Peppy the Inspirational Cat - Motivational Post-It Notes Left On The Train by October Jones.
A precise moment in time, held in that second when pain and pleasure mingle;
The chain cold between your lips, the clamps harsh against your skin;
The tilt of your head sending sparks through your body;
Small gasps of delight escaping between tight clamped teeth;
'Again' his command rolls over you;
And another burst of pain ripples outwards from those hard points, bouncing through your body and pooling deep inside your cunt;
The gasp stronger, the sensation of the moment harsher, your need for it deeper;
Fuck, yes, no, damn;
The pain ricochets from mind to body, nerves on edge, pussy wet and heavy;
Unbidden you tug again and again, the bit between your teeth, the whip crack of the pain forcing you on.
No, yes, fuck, damn.
His control, his pace, your body panting, needing, heart pounding in your ears, thighs slick, lips heavy.
Panting, wanting, desperation sliding inside, the need for more, more pain, more moments, the suspense terrorising you;
The chain drops from your mouth and in to his control, harsh tugs alight you again, a gasped shout rebounds off the walls as his hand finds you wet, slick, ready;
His pace, his mastery, moving you forward, warping your mind, teasing your body, tweaks, deep dives, forcing shouts of desire from between your lips;
Building to the crescendo, played as if you were a Stradivarius, each motion of his hands bringing exquisite music to the air, a finely tuned instrument in his hands, pushed beyond limits, forced to pause until the conductor’s signal;
Finally, release. The shout, the shuddering escape, as the chain once more becomes taut, reaches the rafters, echoes the energy that surges through you, his fingers deep inside, sustaining the note, pitch perfect;
And then you drop, as the chain becomes slack and you fall in to him, spent, empty, clean;
His role changed as he scoops you up and envelopes you, his chest your shield as the emotions roll back inside you, quiet sobs stumble against him, as the moment, that one moment of perfection slips away, to await the next time.
Words by: The Dirty Romantic (aka You Make Me Need You)
One from the archives - reblogged by someone else.
A nice reminder of when the words flowed.
He was dangerous to her. He did things to her heart and mind she couldn’t explain. He made her want things she’d always been afraid of. But now she wanted to try.
One word, the commanding tone and his youthful bravado crashes away;
So full of confidence, the young buck, so sure in front of his friends;
She knew about the bet, it was so fucking obvious, the same dumb game played the world over. The young boys barely able to see beyond the short skirts and toned legs of their normal prey.
But alone, here and now, looking deep behind his eyes she could see through the bragging. Time to teach the pup a lesson and make the most of his youth and vigour, she needed to fuck, needed a body that could keep up and sometimes only the young bloods would do.
All energy but no fucking finesse, no direction, not skilled like a man with experience and thought. But he was here, she was in need and he could be directed, taught the hard way.
So be it, let it begin.
A second of defiance from him evaporates with the smoke blown his way and her fingers clasping the back of his hair. Such a pretty little cut, so well maintained, so vain, it annoyed her hugely. So she held her grin at the thought it was about to be destroyed by her, she almost, almost, felt sorry for him.
With a gasp he is pushed to his knees, surprised by the strength of this ‘little woman’, held down, head pulled back to look at her, his pain visible now as his hair is clawed tight.
And as she pulls her skirt up, to reveal her shaved cunt his eyes flick down. He yelps as she pulls his attention back to her.
'You keep your fucking eyes on me boy', the words ringing in his ears as he yelps one final time before being forced to take her into his mouth. His head held hard, face tight between her thighs, powerful hands controlling his movements.
Her words control him now, more than her hands and as she closes her eyes, leaning back against the wall, legs wide, she grins, she knows, he will be begging for release, for mercy - his bet will be hard won. The next few hours will leave him exhausted.
And she will pick him up and make him perform again, until she is done, satiated.
And then he will come back to the bar where she let him pick her up and buy her a drink with the money he made anyway.
(Picture Source: thekinknextdoor)
I like it when somebody reblogs something I wrote a long time ago, to remind me of the power of those words and when it’s a story which makes me smile. I like this piece, I like her strength and don’t give a fuck attitude.
It would be fun to see how we would tussle and who would win.
Ha, who am I kidding - it would be me of course. I am nothing if not humble. :)
The Dirty Romantic
Lurking in the background. Trying to find words that work. Not sure if they do.
Smoke and Mirrors
He kissed her, as he always had.
His hand wrapped her throat, pulling her to his embrace.
He poured himself inside her, more now than ever before.
He closed his eyes to the moment, to feel her lips respond to his.
It was in the quiet of that touch he realised she wasn’t there, she was not with him even though she was held within his arms.
Her lips were crushed beneath his but they did not fight back.
Her mind did not melt inside her body, it stood apart, elsewhere.
Her hand on his chest a barrier, not a sign of tenderness.
She was but smoke and mirrors.
He couldn’t hold her, she drifted in and out, refusing to stay in focus.
He couldn’t see inside her, she reflected only what she wanted him to see.
She was his but she wasn’t.
Her smile for him an unreadable message, a code he couldn’t break.
He wondered how long she had been smoke and mirrors.
He let the kiss drift away.
He let his hand fall to his side.
The memory of her touch a false hope still stinging on his lips.
The Dirty Romantic
I grabbed her by the throat but I didn’t choke her. Just kissed her so deep she forgot whose air she was breathing.