Feedback & Requests
Posted 18 January 2006
Today I'm going respond to some of the issues that have been raised in emails readers have sent to me since I started my diary. The amount of mail I'm getting is rapidly increasing as the diary becomes more widely known, but rest assured that I always try to respond (eventually) to any correspondence. Just be patient however because I don't check the mariasdiary mail every day and messages tend to come all at the same time (just after a new diary entry). Also I had a huge increase in the number of hits on my site last week (apparently my site was linked to from a cuckold forum), accompanied by a lot of new mail which I'm still trying to answer.
I very much enjoy reading your feedback and it gives me an incentive to keep going. Thank you so much for the compliments you have all given me - it means a great deal. However I would ask that you try not to overload me with too many requests for more information about my life and marriage. What may seem a simple one line question often requires several paragraphs of reply if I am to properly explain things, and my time is very limited. The diary is a sideline to my life as far as I am concerned, not the centre of it, and my intention has always been to write updates every so often, post one or two accompanying pictures, and leave it at that. I hate not replying fully when correspondents have taken such time with their thoughts and questions, but you're in danger of overwhelming me. Also I'm sure that many of your private questions will be answered publicly in due course within the diary.
There's another point I want to stress again, although you may be tired of hearing it. I'm uneasy about the fact that some of you (husbands) are using my own experience as a blueprint to achieve some sort of goal in your own marriage and I fear that you may end up damaging your relationship if you expect your wife to begin to act and think like me. I say again - I'm a highly unusual woman. It's unfair on your spouse to try to recreate the relationship Martin and I have if it's not the sort of thing she wants. By all means open the door for her, but be sure you know what you're doing before you broach the sort of matters that I talk of so freely. If you're considering showing this site to your wife, consider that she may be upset by the content and the door could be slammed shut forever.
This is the last time I'll warn about this. I will take no responsibility for what may happen if you fail to heed my words of caution. Please think before you head off down the femdom road.
The Leather Pencil Skirt
As happened when it was featured on an amateur model web site, I've had several emails regarding my side-laced leather pencil skirt, shown on my home page and in the 15 October 2005 entry. A number of you are keen to know where it was purchased.
Unfortunately I'm afraid you can't buy this particular skirt, and I don't know of anywhere that sells anything similar. The skirt was modelled on a 1950's dress pattern in my mother's collection and was made by a bespoke tailor in London. I'm not going to give you the maker's name because I'm jealously guarding his identity - he's quite old now but he's a genius with leather fabric and we have formed a very trusting relationship based on our mutual appreciation of quality leather design and craftsmanship. I don't ask much of him these days, but when I do he refuses to even charge me for his work any more, saying his reward comes from being able see me in his creations. Although he probably gets a sexual kick from what he does for me, he's never been anything other than professional and gentlemanly when I see him, and I very much respect him for that.
Currently he's looking into what at first glance seems a very simple project - making a leather sheath for Matt. You may recall that in a moment of passion I told Matt that I had always dreamed of being fucked by leather. Well, I wasn't kidding. I really do want to be penetrated by a leather-sheathed penis. However the sheath must be perfect as far as I'm concerned. Martin bought such a sheath once and it was utterly useless. The leather was of an awful quality; the pouch for the wearer's balls wasn't an integral part of the design (and it was also loose); and there was no way such a sheath could be used for intercourse - it had protruding lacing and eyelets which would be dangerous.
I want Matt's prick in a sheath made of the most beautiful, shiny, leather. I want it stretched across his shaft with only his massive cock end uncovered. I want a one-piece garment with a surface that's totally smooth so I can run my tongue up and down it. I want to be able to lick and kiss his leather-encased balls before they bang against me as he shoves every inch of his oversized dick up me. In particular I dream of seeing this on video, with his shiny black monster pumping in and out of me, the leather saturated with my excitement.
God, I've only just started this post and I'm going to have to stop for a while. I need to get this out of my head.
The Dominated Domina
DS wrote to ask why, if I am a domina, I wanted Matt to spank me. I think many of you will understand why I entertained this. Essentially I'm going to encourage Matt to discipline and punish me (and I'll be going much further than just spanking) because it deepens my husband's feeling of failure, battering his ego even more. Remember that Martin has had several years now of believing that his wife is naturally dominant and can only enjoy sex through subjugation of the male. Then lo and behold, along comes a real man, and she's suddenly submissive to him. She's so besotted with and under the power of her muscular, big-pricked lover that she prostrates herself before him and allows herself to be abused at his whim.
You have to try to imagine what this all feels like from Martin's point of view, especially when he is eventually physically present when Matt and I have sex. He knows that if he so much as lightly smacked me I would hate it, and never in a million years get a thrill from it. And yet Martin is going to have to watch helplessly as his wife is spanked and whipped in front of him. Far from disliking it, she will actually be loving every moment and will beg - yes, beg - for more. She will orgasm with the cat o' nine tails lashing her backside.
Such an experience will be psychologically crushing for Martin, but at the same time we have the paradox that he will find it sexually thrilling. For my part I believe that my apparent passion for punishment won't be feigned. Matt did indeed spank me a couple of weeks ago and I found the whole thing even more exciting that I'd imagined, mainly because Matt himself was so aroused by it. He went nuts with desire when he saw my backless skirt, but when I told him I'd worn it so he could spank me, he was almost delirious. "I just can't believe you, you're out of this world," he kept saying.
After some of our usual foreplay he put me across his knee and rather tentatively landed a couple of blows. These were quite light as I knew they would be - in fact if he'd landed some heavy smacks right from the start I'd have been quite concerned. "Harder," I said, "Please... harder." He gradually struck more powerfully with me egging him on for more. Even when it began to get genuinely painful for me I urged him on imploringly: "Please, Matt, please... just a bit harder... please..."
This went on for a lot longer than I'd ever thought it would. In the process I realised that I'd made a mistake in not having something to stimulate me while I was being spanked because I would definitely have orgasmed if I had. When I could take no more I got up and turned round to kiss Matt, to thank him for my punishment. The pain had made me cry a little and tears were running down my cheeks. Matt looked horrified:
"Oh God, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean..."
"No, no," I stopped him, and smiled through the tears. "That was fantastic. I mean it, it was just one of the most fantastic things I've ever had done to me. Thank you so much."
And I proceeded to reward him with my mouth, paying oral tribute to his awesome prick. The sheer size of it told me that Matt had also found the whole spanking thing an enormous turn on. Fifteen minutes later that was confirmed when he gave me probably the most powerful screwing I've received so far.
The following week (last Friday night) I took both a small vibrator with me to Matt's, and a thin glass dildo. When Matt saw the latter he asked jokingly: "And what am I going to be doing with that?"
I was taking my coat off and my face was absolutely dead-pan as I answered him quite bluntly:
"You're going to shove it up my arse."
We started kissing and fondling as usual, and eventually Matt said softly into my ear:
"Can I spank you again tonight?"
I pushed him gently away from me so he could see the sincerity in my face as I answered.
"Don't ever ask me, Matt. I'm a bad girl, a naughty girl. You know that. You know I'm still prick-teasing men all week and thinking about sex with others even though I've got you now. Naughty girls get punished. Anyway, you're my Master now. You get to do whatever you want with me, you don't have to ask."
I was wearing a zipped leather miniskirt with leather panties that night, and when we got to the discipline session I first of all inserted the small vibrator into my vagina and set it buzzing. Matt then spanked me while I was wearing the skirt before unzipping it and then spanking my leather briefs. Finally he pulled the panties down and inserted the now lubricated glass dildo into my rear. I'd already told him how to use it - halfway along it are a number of notches and glass beads and the idea is that you twist the dildo around to stimulate the sensitive nerve endings of the anus. He did this as he continued to spank with his other hand.
The feeling was so extraordinary that I couldn't hold on for more than a couple of minutes. As each of Matt's blows landed I gave out a loud gasp which grew in volume as I approached climax. I left Matt in no doubt that these groans were of pleasure, not pain. By the time I came I was actually letting out a small scream as each smack struck me. If you heard it on tape you'd probably think it was theatrical, but there was no pretence involved. This was the first orgasm I'd ever experienced which was accompanied by punishment, and like the instance of Martin's cuckolding it's a moment that I will always treasure. Even so, I'm still not sure what I enjoyed most - the experience itself, or later describing to Martin what Matt did to me.
It Ain't Gonna Happen
Based on certain emails I've received, I'd like to say something about the possibility of correspondents meeting me. I need to make it clear that the only people I intend to have relationships with are those that I have met socially or through business. I'm able to carefully assess such people based on the way they speak and act, and I know their background. I'm sure most of you realise that the same can't be said for relationships that are initiated over the Internet.
This is as annoying for me as it is for you. Here I am wanting to meet submissive men who would worship me and whom I could enjoy disciplining, and all the time I have a ready-made group of individuals who want nothing more than to show me their utmost adoration and service. There are men who write to me who have never experienced what it is like to kiss and lick a Mistress's thigh boots or feel the sting of her whip. And you know that unlike a paid prostitute who will get nothing sexually from the experience, in my case I will get great arousal from your homage.
Then there are the 'real men' - strong, confident, powerful, good-looking men who would love the chance to give me the sort of satisfaction that I'm getting from Matt. I'm sure there are things you could do to me that I'd never have thought possible and you'd have no problem whatsoever in rubbing my husband's nose in his own inadequacy as you give me mind-blowing pleasure while he helplessly watches.
It's regrettable that the general opprobrium and lack of understanding that is currently directed towards femdom, together with a few unbalanced individuals, prevent women such as me and men such as you from enjoying mutually rewarding sessions together.
So, to be clear once and for all: I will not make physical contact with any readers, no matter what inducements you may offer.
Three separate correspondents have expressed surprise that I allow Martin to masturbate so freely. I have been advised by each to introduce my husband to the 'joys' of wearing a chastity device which will prevent him playing with himself at will. This, I am told, will ultimately increase his attentiveness towards me and for my own part I will get the pleasure of seeing him grow frustrated with the inability to ejaculate when he wishes.
I fully understand the points of view expressed on this and indeed I've been tempted to try such a device on Martin in the past as a form of punishment, but in the end I've decided against it. Why? Well, it's for selfish reasons really. You need to appreciate just how strong a kick I get from having men masturbate while looking or thinking of me. That, after all, is the primary reason why I'm hosting this diary and why I go out dressed in provocative clothing. I know full well that many of you looking at my pictures and reading my words are, right now, sitting with your erect pricks out playing with yourselves. Does that suddenly make you feel embarrassed and exposed? It shouldn't, and I'd like you to know that I'm loving the fact that you're doing this. Think of it as a sort of service you're performing for me. A number of you have already described in your emails how you have jerked off to particular pictures or descriptions, and I'm not in the least offended; in fact it's quite the opposite.
For exactly the same reason, I like to see my husband wanking at the drop of a hat when he sees me dressed up. I also like to know that while I'm spending time with Matt, Martin will be at home masturbating, usually constantly. It makes me feel like a sort of goddess, with her devotee giving his offering in the form of his sperm. Chastity devices are an impediment to this, although the one aspect that does very much appeal to me is the thought of that small silver key around my neck with the attendant power and promise it holds.
Maybe this is something I'll visit again if I eventually control more than one submissive, in which case I can use the release from chastity as means to create competitive rivalry among my supplicants.
TM asked an interesting question: in my last entry I said that I had used a vaginal plug to trap Matt's cum inside me, with the disadvantage that we could no longer have intercourse. I said my mouth had to work overtime.
Why, TM wanted to know, didn't we have anal sex? Wouldn't this have been another great humiliation to Martin, to know that his wife had been butt-fucked by another man?
First of all, it may surprise many readers to learn that I have never experienced anal sex with a real prick, even though I get immense pleasure from having anal penetration using sex toys. The reason is purely a practical one: I didn't become interested in such sex until well after I met Martin and by the time I had discovered the joys of anal pleasure I was too far down the domina road to allow my lowly husband to perform the service. Anal sex is a very submissive act for a woman to surrender to, especially in the most common position where she is on all fours like a bitch being sired by a dog. There is no way I could allow my slave husband to do this to me. It's unthinkable.
I'm looking forward with enormous anticipation to having anal sex, but after waiting so long for it to happen I now have a very idealised, ritualistic image of how I will experience this for the first time. I had to accept that Martin would not be a physical witness to my first session of extramarital vaginal intercourse, but for the loss of my anal virginity it is essential that he is present. I won't do this without him watching.
The event will probably take place in our large, open hallway. I see myself as a sort of bride, and for this reason I will be dressed predominantly in white leather. That includes the severely laced, bespoke, hand-stitched corset; the matching bra and open-rear briefs; the arm-length opera gloves; the studded collar around my neck; the belt around my waist; and the beautiful 7-inch heeled thigh length boots that will encase my legs. The wedding outfit will be completed with a pair of white lace-top bridal stockings and a full bridal veil - the very one I wore at my church wedding nine years ago.
I will be led by my lover to the centre of the room and I will be made to bend over either a desk or chair that has been placed there. My arms will be cuffed at the wrists behind my back, and a chain which hangs from the stair landing above will be attached to the wrist cuffs and pulled tightly, lifting my arms upwards and making me bend over even more as I attempt to ease my discomfort.
My legs will be held at a fixed distance apart with a steel leg-spreader and my single-braided hair will be tethered to my belt, pulling my head permanently back so that I cannot bend it downwards. My lover will first of all make me suck him while I am in my painful, contorted stance, and once he has been pleasured enough by my mouth he will tightly fasten a penis gag into it to muffle my cries. Then he will discipline my bottom with a wide leather belt before Martin is forced to suffer the sublime humiliation of preparing his wife's rear for entry by servicing her anus with a heavily lubricated dildo that is strapped to his face.
My husband will then be made to sit down and watch as my lover places a low stool behind me and stands on it, his gorgeous prick harder than it has ever been before. As I await with breathless anticipation this man will carefully clip penetration chains to my belt and double-wrap the ends tightly around his wrists.
Finally I will be entered, with at least two video cameras capturing the moment, one of them in close up. My husband will have to watch his sex-mad, debauched, kinky slut wife taking all of her lover's prick in her rear. He will have to listen to her muffled squeals of ecstasy as she is repeatedly penetrated to the maximum, her violator using the leverage of the chains to shaft her mercilessly with each forward thrust. When it is over the cameras will capture the cum leaking from my rear, and Martin's supreme failure will be sealed forever as he is made to come over to me and perform two final tasks to close the ceremony: first, he must bow his head and thank my lover for sodomising his wife, and then he must bend down and give my anus a long, loving, French kiss.
Okay, a little too idealised I know, and certainly too brutal, but I'm as convinced as I am that the sun will come up tomorrow that something along these lines will happen one day. To me, it's a given. However it's inconceivable that Matt is going to be the one doing it. Much as I would want him to be the one to screw my rear for the first time, I'm pragmatic enough to realise that this is one case where his size is a negative. He's simply too big for me, and I don't want to be either injured or ruined for other men by even attempting to have anal sex with him. I learned some time ago that using smaller toys in my rear gave me just as much pleasure as larger ones and avoided any discomfort afterwards.
Matt knows this, and it's something we've already delicately broached. We didn't say much about it but there was enough for me to be certain that we mutually understand that this is an act that we cannot enjoy together, however regrettable that may be. My hope now is that the above idyllic scenario can be altered to include a second man, with me attending to Matt with my mouth while another lover gives me the ass-fucking I long for. I'm very keen to demoralise Martin by making him watch me take cock like this on a regular basis, especially with me on all fours or in the bondaged, contorted position described above. The fuck chains and mouth gag are also vital accessories that I want him to see used on me.
I've even fantasised about allowing a less desirable man to have anal sex with me, someone Martin genuinely dislikes, such as a small-dicked, overweight, business competitor. For Martin to see me taking prick in my rear from such an unappealing male would be devastating for him, especially as this man would be doing something that he has always been denied. Even worse, I would apparently be loving it, and awful as it may sound, I'm willing to bet any money that once this ugly slob's cock gets going my passion would become genuine.
Maybe that's taking cuckolding too far.
Some correspondents have given me advice as to how I should deal with Martin and the humiliations I should subject him to. It's often quite obvious that these punishments are fantasies that the writers would like to experience themselves.
I don't want to deter anyone from sending me his or her ideas as there will no doubt be occasions when something kinky is suggested that is genuinely novel to me. However, please grant me some respect before you (figuratively) put pen to paper. I have been dominating Martin for several years and it has been a passion of mine. Do you think that I'm not aware of some of the things you write to me about? When you suggest that I either make Martin dress as a stockinged housemaid or tart him up as a high-heeled, leather clad slut and train him to suck cock, do you think this switches a light bulb on in my head, with me exclaiming: Oooh, I'd never have thought of that!
I've said so before, but I'll say it again: my husband has to endure humiliations that most people couldn't even begin to contemplate. I'm still at a loss, even after all this time, to understand how he can face the embarrassment of some of the things I make him do. And yet he does everything that I command to the letter; I love him especially for that.
I've been asked by more than one correspondent to put up a gallery where I can post extra captures to complement the ones I show in diary entries. Unfortunately, the implementation of a free adult-oriented thumbnail gallery is explicitly banned by my ISP and in any case I have a monthly bandwidth limit which I must not exceed. Therefore I have to be careful about how many pictures I show.
I'm happy to occasionally show some extra individual pictures however, so don't be afraid to let me know what you like.
PB asked for clarification about the picture of me in a short coat and thigh boots at the bottom of the initial 9 October 2005 entry. Did I actually go out in public dressed like this? Also he wanted to know what I looked like from the rear and when I was seated.
The two captures shown below are the closest I've got of me sitting down in that outfit, but unfortunately I haven't got a shot from behind. I've made a note to shoot something that gives you an idea of what men behind me see as I walk down the street in my thigh boots.
The answer is that yes, this is an outfit that I wore while shopping in the West End of London two years ago. The coat already looks dated, but it was very fashionable at the time. [This is true of many public wear outfits that I show. Please keep in mind that my wardrobe is constantly changing - I'm not stuck in the past]. Martin dropped me off in the early afternoon and picked me up again about three hours later. I mainly spent the time shopping, but had a half hour break for coffee. Even before I started shopping I made sure I was carrying a couple of large shopping bags, as if I'd already visited some stores. This was a vital part of the effect.
Let me try to explain my wearing of thigh boots in public. I wear normal over-the-knee fashion boots outside the house but I'm also prepared to wear fetish boots as well, even at a business meeting. I know exactly what I'm doing. In the film 'Pretty Woman', Julia Roberts goes shopping along Rodeo Drive in her hooker boots and becomes uncomfortable at the scornful looks she receives from shoppers and store assistants. I'm well aware that I'm going to get such looks when I'm out in my thigh boots, and I really couldn't give a damn. I actually get a kick from upsetting the stuck-up fashionistas who sneer at me. But my target isn't these overly-made-up bitches. All I'm really interested in is affecting men. I know that many men who see me in my fuck-me boots will have that image with them for the rest of their lives. They will masturbate thinking of me. They will have a picture of me in their head when they have intercourse. They will be left stunned by the sheer audacity of a woman who is prepared to walk openly in boots which have associations with sadomasochism. And some of them will dream of kissing those boots while I whip them. I do it for me. It's a selfish, blatantly indulgent look-at-me manoeuvre that leaves me incredibly hot and gives me fabulous orgasms later. I doubt there is one woman in ten thousand who would be comfortable doing this, but I'm one of them.
Women are particularly susceptible to the peer pressures of society. They fear the disapproval of other women far more than the disapproval of men. In my immediate social circle I still feel very much bound by 'normal' social conventions, largely because it would lessen the quality of my life if I became an outcast of my group. But away from home I've almost completely unburdened myself of the shackles of self-consciousness. If I go to a business meeting or on vacation to a city that I may not visit again for months or years, what does it matter what people think of me when I'm there, providing I don't (for example) upset a client or interfere with the everyday lives of others? In what way can scorn and disdain hurt me, other than through unproductive self-inflicted thoughts of shame?
For me there's a huge difference between the fear of public disapproval and the fear of looking foolish in public. I have no problem with people sneering at me, but I would not be able to stand people laughing at me. A great deal of it is to do with how I view myself. If I think I look good in a pair of expensive thigh length boots, if they're of high quality, complement my legs well, and I can walk elegantly in them, then I'm not in any way concerned that women might consider them totally inappropriate wear in public, providing I'm turning the heads of men and they're aroused by what they're seeing. Contrast this with how I would feel if I wore a pair of shoes that were simply too high for me and I was stumbling along the street with unbalanced, mincing steps. I would look ridiculous and feel ridiculous, and others would think the same. I would be turning heads for all the wrong reasons, and I would be overwhelmed by the embarrassment.
This is why I expressed such reservation about going to a nightclub dressed in the tight latex skirt I showed in my last entry, despite Matt's assurances. I wouldn't like it at all if I could see young girls mocking me, and I'd be even more concerned about what men thought. The idea that they would be thinking: 'Look at that old granny' as I stood alongside girls ten years or more my junior seriously bothers me. I'm at my most confident when I know that other women can't compete. Few women, no matter how young they are, can ever hope to match my ability to walk around sexily in high boots. It takes years of practice, but at a nightclub in a short skirt I can easily be outdone.
The emotional response to peer disapproval is very much visceral in nature, conditioned into us from an early age, but what I have learned is that such feelings can be overcome and their elimination is a highly liberating experience. It has allowed me to pursue dreams and have experiences that I would never have otherwise tasted and I'm certain that my life thus far would not have been nearly as fulfilling had I not purged such emotions. I would not trade the memories I have of my exhibitionist exploits for any amount of money. Such moments can never be relived. When I'm in my later years, what will I look back on with the most fondness - the day when my bank account reached X thousand dollars, or the day when I walked around Knightsbridge in black leather thigh boots?
If there was ever a seminal moment when this philosophy was formed in me, it was several years ago at a hotel in Las Vegas. Martin and I were in the hotel casino around midnight and Martin suddenly nudged me on the arm excitedly.
"Jesus, look over to the left. Bloody hell!"
I looked, and immediately saw what had made him so animated. A young girl in her early twenties was standing next to a man playing one of the slot machines. She was wearing a PVC microskirt, black fishnet tights [pantyhose], high-heels, and a red strapless corset-style top. She was facially attractive, but her most notable asset was her stunning figure.
Martin just couldn't take his eyes off this girl and as I glanced around the casino floor I saw that a number of other men couldn't either. I have no recollection of what I was wearing that night but it can't have been anything particularly provocative and it's fair to say that I was seriously pissed about this. Seriously, seriously pissed.
I had the same immediate reaction as most other women no doubt had: What a slut... Must be a call girl... And those clothes - so cheap and tacky. Ugh! But as the next hour went by, with my jealousy growing with every stare that this girl received, it began to dawn on me that however much mental vitriol I projected towards Miss Microskirt, it wouldn't change the fact that she was the one getting all the attention. She was the one causing dicks to harden, the one that men would be emptying their aching balls over later as they dreamed of fucking her senseless.
I hated that night, really hated it. I hated it even more when the girl sat down with her boyfriend to play blackjack. Like to guess which table soon acquired a growing semicircle of male onlookers? And she loved it, she milked it for all it was worth, crossing her legs so tightly that her PVC skirt looked as if it was going to end up around her waist. The final slap across my face came when I turned round in disgust and announced to Martin that we should go to our room. "Okay," he said, "you go along. I'll be up soon. I just want to watch a bit of blackjack..."
Most of that night I lay in bed unable to sleep, a mixture of anger and frustration swimming through my head. But eventually I managed to rationalise my thoughts. Why was I reacting so aggressively towards this girl? She had done me no harm, hadn't even spoken to me. No, it was nothing other than jealousy. Pure envy. I could either let it burn destructively inside me, or I could change my attitude. I could be like that girl - maybe not as brazen, maybe a lot more classy, but nevertheless I could make sure that the eyes were on me. And why did I want that? Because I wanted it to be ME who was making those cocks hard. I wanted it to be ME who was emptying those balls.
I didn't have a leather miniskirt with me on that trip, so the following day I dragged Martin around the shopping malls in search of one. Eventually we found something that would do and I wore it for the remaining two nights we were there (it wasn't a very good skirt though - I didn't even bring it home with me). Martin was taken by surprise by this sudden new attitude. For once I had dressed up like this without any prompting - on my own initiative I had gone out of my way to stimulate other men. It was perhaps one of the first indications for him that the tables were turning in our relationship.
This incident didn't change me overnight. Once we were home again I began to regret that I had been so impulsive, but over time my self-consciousness and concern for what was considered 'proper' was overwhelmingly subjugated by my desire to turn on men. Away from home I'm now fairly fearless and this head-held-high confidence is, I know, very much part of the attraction for men. They see the sparkle in my eyes from looking hot, and they love this.
Nowadays when we journey abroad, either to the [European] Continent or to North America, I will have several items of provocative clothing and footwear in my suitcase (although I don't take my favourite items - I'm too fearful of losing them). I have worn thigh boots or a leather miniskirt in cities such as Paris, Venice, New York and Vancouver to name but a few. The best places of all though are the U.S. technology conventions in cities such as L.A. or New Orleans (I'll never forget walking from our hotel to the Ernst Morial Convention Center via the Riverwalk in high heels and a short leather skirt). These venues are packed with desirable men, and the ratio of men to women appears to be something like 6:1. Even then, the girls are very much constrained to wearing smart but somewhat unfeminine business suits. I play the slightly bemused wife of a British businessman, a well spoken, well manicured woman who appears to have a penchant for very high heels, leather skirts and (if the weather's not too warm) black stockings. I get masses of attention at these events, especially if Martin is distracted elsewhere, and we invariably get invited to a number of private suite functions later (I wonder why?). This is one advantage of being married to a man who is ten years older than me - I've already experienced a lifestyle which many other women won't enjoy until they're in their late thirties or forties.
I just lap it all up. One of the attractions of American men is that they're not hampered by the innate reserve of British men and yet they manage to combine their confident directness with exceptional manners and courtesy (we're talking MBAs and PhDs here, not Homer Simpson). The only problem I've found is that I can't identify a submissive in the U.S. as easily as I can in England. The outward veneer of self-assurance in the American male seems to push subservient tendencies further beneath the surface. Then again, such repressed emotions can be all the more powerful once released. I'd love to break in and train an American submissive, especially one who tries to resist his urges. British submissives are often so sweet that you feel like you would want to mother them as much as dominate them. I think I'd be far harder and crueller to an American.
Hmm. This was meant to be a simple answer to a simple question. It's ended up as a stream of consciousness. Oh well...
JM confessed he was a lover of shoes and high heels and wanted to know if I could show any more pictures of the 7-inch heeled sandals that can be seen in some photos. I haven't got any close-ups, but I've dug out a few captures of me wearing them. Despite their awesome height, these shoes are actually quite easy to walk in when on fairly level ground. When wearing high heels the walking difficulty is basically determined by the angle of the foot arch, and the platform on these sandals makes them roughly equivalent to normal shoes with 5" heels. On uneven ground they're dangerous, as it's so easy for the foot to roll to one side, resulting in a sprained ankle or worse.
JM also asked whether I have ever 'trampled' Martin - walked over his back while wearing thin stilettos. The answer is no. The thought's appealing, but I can't believe it's not dangerous, unless you climb very delicately into position, which completely destroys the effect as far as I'm concerned.
There's a general theme that's been running through many of the messages I've received. Although most of you are grateful for what I've created here, it's clear that a number of readers want more. You want to see more of my flesh and you'd like to see more photographic evidence of the matters that I talk about.
To be fair on these readers, they're not so much asking this because they'd like the site to be more hardcore. Instead what they want is some sort of confirmation that I actually do what I say I do. Correspondents have told me that it's become very important for them to believe that the diary events are real and that I genuinely get sexual pleasure from the things I talk about. This is because I have given them hope - hope that one day they will meet someone like me or that their wife will gain assurance that a strong relationship can be maintained when it is based on domination and extramarital sex.
I'd like such readers to consider things from my point of view. Maria's Diary consists of some very explicit narrative accompanied by fairly innocuous photos of a woman in sexy clothing. This affords me a fair amount of protection. The text could have been authored by anyone, and the pictures don't confirm the more extreme aspects of the written descriptions. It's easy to argue that my story is nothing but an elaborate fiction created by an inventive mind. Also, if I am recognised, there are no pictures I'm particularly ashamed of friends and colleagues seeing. You never know, it may even work out well for me.
However, if I start showing pictures that give a completely open insight into what I do behind closed doors, both on my own and with Martin (and even with Matt soon) then that protection evaporates. I'm far more exposed (in more senses than one), and Martin even more so. And in any case, such photos still wouldn't confirm beyond any doubt that this diary is for real. The only way you'll ever get that is if you meet me in person and have sex with me. As I've already explained, that just isn't go to happen.
Irrespective of this argument that the current format offers me some protection, you need to understand the underlying principle that I have used right from the start when deciding what picture content to show. As I mention on my home page, this diary was originally going to be a text-only one. I'm a great believer in the power of the written word and the mental imagery it is able to convey, and I hoped my narrative would be enough to stimulate readers. It was only when I finished writing the first diary entry that I realised that there was a vital piece of the puzzle missing: you needed to be able to put an image of me into the context of what was being talked about.
What I hadn't captured with my words, I felt, was what I looked like in my clothes and footwear. There are thousands of pictures of women in leather boots and skirts, and the vast majority of them in my opinion don't hold a great deal of power. The boots look cheap, the leather is of low quality or poorly cared for, the skirt is ill-fitted, and the girl wearing these items doesn't project any presence or poise. I'm conceited and immodest enough to say that I don't think I suffer from these weaknesses and I needed you to see this with your own eyes. Then when I told you I had walked along a public street in my high boots you at least would know that I didn't look a complete joke. You would be able to envisage the attendant sexiness and style that I believe I carry. Whether you think wearing such boots in public is an appropriate or wise thing to do is another matter, and I accept that you may disapprove.
The captures I've been showing give you enough information to picture me in the scenes I've described. You don't need anything more - your mind can do that. Yes, I have video of me wearing miniskirts and boots in public. Yes, I have pictures of me punishing Martin. Yes, there are images of my husband being made to pay homage to me in unusual ways. And yes, it's tempting to show these to you to validate the diversity and kinkiness of the sex that I enjoy. But I don't think the diary will gain from such pictures being shown.
All the same, let's try a little experiment. I'm going to give a link that will take you to a separate page where there is a capture from a session where Martin was made to service my rear while wearing a latex penis hood. This is a particularly humiliating and servile way for a submissive to pleasure his Mistress and is something which I very much enjoy subjecting my husband to. Unless I instruct otherwise, Martin is required to keep his head constantly moving in an increasingly forceful back-and-forth motion, giving me a highly sensuous anal masturbation which induces a very powerful orgasm when I finally add clitoral stimulus from a vibrator. Often when I arrive home from work this is the first service my inadequate spouse is required to perform, and I'll phone Martin from my car to order him to prepare for it. There are numerous positions this act of worship can be performed in, both on the vagina and anus, but I'll discuss these further at a later date.
The picture isn't hardcore but it's certainly in the 'bizarre sex' category and so I've put it on a separate page so you don't have to look at it if you don't want to. For those who do, I'd be interested to know what your reaction is, especially if you are not inclined towards BDSM training.
First of all, was the image you saw markedly different from the one that was put in your head when I vaguely described what you would see? For those who were excited by the prospect, were you disappointed with the reality, or did it meet your expectations? And how about you others who had mixed feelings as to what you would see? Did you find it intriguing? puzzling? arousing? disturbing? distasteful? repulsive? Would such content add to the attraction of my diary, or would it take something away? I know what my answer would be, but I'd like to know what others think.
I've tried very hard to make things clear. This diary exists to give me sexual kicks. I get off on knowing that many male readers can't sleep until they've masturbated themselves close to exhaustion thinking about me. I want the remote worship for sexual gratification, not so I can become some sort of femdom icon or agony aunt who is going to act as marriage guidance counsellor for submissives and wannabe cuckolds worldwide. Since I've had some feedback I've come to realise that I've been taking for granted the things I make Martin do to satisfy me, not fully understanding that for many of you these are sensational acts, the stuff of dreams that you only expect to happen in femdom fiction. The sort of slavish act that I make Martin perform in that linked picture above is as common a daily occurrence for me as having a shower. But from your point of view it's so rare to hear of a wife who wants and enjoys such degrading servility that you need to see the evidence with your own eyes. Well, I'm sorry, but you're not going to get it.
If it's causing you angst wondering whether I'm real, then do yourself a favour - assume this is all extravagant make-believe and just enjoy it for its own sake. And if you can't do that, then it's simple: stop torturing yourself and don't read my words.
And with that I'm done on this subject once and for all. From now on I'm going to assume readers understand my position on this.
|To contact me, email maria at this site|