That sounds like some kind of obscure greeting doesn’t it? Actually the eight hundred-seventy-one reflects how many more hits my blog needs (as i write this Wednesday night) before i turn over to a new, magic number.

A quarter of a million.

*sucks in air*


A quarter of a million hits in just under 2 1/2 years?? Holey Moley guys ‘n dolls!!

And…a very large, deeply sincere….. Thank you.

It was never what i set out to do here. This was a refuge, a place to come to, to help heal my heart, and find a new path through the strange and exciting world of erotic stories.

And explore who *i* am, or was…as an uncertain submissive.

Well, haven’t there just been a ton of changes since August 30, 2009?

And another staggering thought hits me….if my hits keep up this way, i could be looking at half a million by year 4.

This *staggers* me.

So thank you. While i know i don’t get as many hits as other popular blogs…for me to have gone from a readership of 3, to this? Well, this is nothing short of amazing. You have helped me grow and stretch as a writer, and as a submissive. We’ve shared parallel journeys and laughs and sorrow and sexy tales together, haven’t we?

So, for the next 48 hours, i’ll be watching my stat counter with bated breath…and turning inner cartwheels!

As to the “Felicitations“?

Ah, now there is a tale to be told…..(surely you didn’t think it was merely a greeting did you? *grinning*)

She’d been down to this end of town before.  She’d been drunk and her girlfriends had challenged her to finally get that tattoo she’d always said she wanted.  Kee-rist, she was 25 and not tied up with anyone, and why the hell not, right? Too old for parental disapproval to matter much, not that dear old Mom and Dad would see this tattoo.

She remembered lifting her shirt and proclaiming that she wanted a titty tattoo, and the verrrry professional artist who did nothing more than hone down the location and style she wanted, before setting to work, despite her attempts to entice him.

Later, when she was pain-sobered, he said that she had nice tits, but he preferred a bit more class in his sluts.

She’d gotten pretty huffy about it, but he’d just laughed and taken her money. She said she’d never come back, but five years later, here she was, trying to find the fucking place, so she could get a matching tat on her other tit.

And this time she was stone cold sober.

She parked in front of where she thought she remembered the parlor being. A small sign proclaimed this to be


specialty wear for special girls

She wondered if the tat place had moved. Seeing a light on inside, she opened the door. Overhead a brass bell jingled.

There were beautiful outfits here. Some were “glam” dresses, much like Bob Maki used to design for all those Hollywood girls.  Others were more slutty. Classy, but with cutouts in strategic places. Or hemlines up to unmentionable places. Or the one dress that when she looked at the “skirt” saw that it was nothing more than quarter-inch strips of fabric…talk about “easy access!”

She touched a robe that was sheer but for a thick trim of maribou that ran around the entire outer hem.  It was black, and immodest, and screamed sex.

“That would look divine on you, with your coloring.”

She whirled and looked at the effeminate man. He plucked the hanger from the rack and held it under her chin.

“The black makes your gorgeous red hair just glow. And with that pearly skin? Fabulous.”

“I didn’t come in here to shop,” she began.

“Oh sweetie, so few do. They come looking for an old tattoo parlor that used to be here, and instead they find me!” He leaned back and offered a little giggle.

His smile was sweet. His laugh was infectious. She found herself smiling back. He waved his hand around the shop floor. While it wasn’t overly large, it was intimate, and well planned to showcase some lovely clothing.

“Please, look around. There is plenty to try on, and with your body, I have just the thing for you to be a total bomb in. Be right back. Browse, browse!”

Fluttering his hand toward the racks, he hurried off to the back room.

Well. She hadn’t come to shop. But there were some interesting pieces over against the far wall that had a vintage look. She started going through the rack, and found a gorgeous cream silk organza blouse, and a  long velvet skirt the color of chocolate that would be a lovely combination for a formal occasion.

She heard him bustling back, and turned with her finds in her hand. Yet what he carried captured her full attention.

It was stunning. A long, flowing confection of black lace and black silk. Stitched in alternating panels, she knew that the lace would reveal teasing views of skin, that would be quickly hidden by the silk panel that bordered it. Floor length with a tulip hem, a princess neckline and pencil-thin straps over the shoulders and crisscrossing the back, she could hardly wait to try it on.

“May I?” She asked, breathless.

“Of course you may! This dress is rumored to have been made for a special woman. She was a slave, but her Master was charmed by her. He never did set her free, but they remained a couple for their entire lives.  It’s come down through  several generations, lovingly cared for until *I* found it at an estate auction. There is supposed to be a spell on the dress.”

“A …spell.” She spoke dryly.

“At least, that’s what the paper said when I bought it at auction. The dress was commissioned in France in the late 1800’s. “

She blinked at him.

“That would make this dress hundreds of years old, and the fabric looks as new as if it were made on 7th Avenue last week.”

“True, and perhaps that is the real magic of the garment, hmmm?”

She smiled. No fucking way was she buying into that superstitious crappola, but the dress was certainly gorgeous. She’d never seen lace that gorgeous, silk that thick.  She wouldn’t even ask how much it cost. She would just try it on.

It might look terrible on her, for crying out loud.

Though, she doubted it. It seemed like the gown would cling in all the right places. More than any other garment here, this dress called to her, made her yearn to try it on.

“Where is your dressing room?” she asked.

He pointed the way, and she hurried through the store, eager to find out if the dress looked as magical as it was purported to be.