I love my new house. I love everything about it, with the possible exception of the gas oven, and even that is growing on me now my mother has shown me how to light it. Yeah, I know... I am under no illusions as to just how pathetic I am.
So, my new house. I love the kitchen. I love the living room which is big enough to have my sofas, a proper dining table, and eventually a sideboard in it. I love the conservatory, I love the spare rooms, in spite of the décor, I love the bathroom, I adore my bedroom, with its new bed, wardrobes big enough to play hide and seek in and en suite. I especially love my new “library” filled with my books, and the shed with the left over wooden stepladder, about to be converted into library steps.
Ah, library steps, you say. I remember you talking about library steps, Eliane. Why yes, indeed you do. Before I moved, I talked about library steps, and being spanked in every room in the house, and generally revelling in more space to be kinky.
Except that I have a little problem. It feels a bit wrong to be thinking about kinky stuff in my lovely new house. Like I might sully it with kinky thoughts and deeds or something... I'm still kinky, don't get me wrong, I'm not going through a vanilla patch or anything. I just feel bad thinking about kink in the house. I hope the feeling goes away soon, as it's going to be a hell of a waste of house potential if it doesn't!
22 hours ago