Cold Spring

Two months since since my last post and my commenters are beginning to remind me I promised more frequent writings. I apologize; there has been little to write about and much busy work to occupy me. The begging is heartrending and, were I a dominant, would be rewarded with the proper response (say, six of the best?). However, as I am sub, I bow my head and pen yet another short missive to feed the craving that, apparently, never ends.

Actually, there has been some interesting things to write about since Sir took me to the party mentioned in the previous post. Those things have kept me busy, but they have also been of such nature that I have not written about them.

First, we travelled recently London for a few days. I love London and always enjoy my time there. Sir had meetings and I had shopping to do. We always stay at the same hotel, not far from Piccadilly, and I was able to walk up and over to Berwick street to look at exotic fashions.

The day I was out for this excursion was a Friday as I recall and the weather was cool and damp; a typical London Spring day. I wore a new purple dress (Easter present) over a lavender tinted, transparent skinsuit. For the day I wore the white burqa over this ensemble along with over the elbow white gloves. The dress is short sleeved, lightly boned, and has a flaring skirt. but the skinsuit is long sleeved with attached gloves so I had a proper two glove layer over my hands.

White rubber knee boots with a 5 inch heel completed my monochromatic presentment to the world. The interior hood which, as you know, silences me by pressing tightly against my lips, was augmented with a soft rubber gag which filled my mouth. Sir insisted that, if I were going out alone, I must be totally and fully gagged as opposed to just relying on the burqa's attached silencing hood. This agreed with me as I love being gagged in public. It is so exciting and arousing to be in a crowd or in a shop and feel my mouth filled with rubber, pressed upon tightly by a well formed hood which is also limiting my vision.

Making my way through the hotel lobby was fun as I attracted quite a few stares. However, it is not unusual to see veiled or burqa'd women in London, but it is somewhat unusual to see them where I was. And they are usually in black whereas I looked like a swiftly moving white cloud as I walked steadily out of the lift and to the front door. The doorman, who had been on duty when we checked in, simply opened and held the door for me and asked if I needed a taxi. I shook my head and bowed slightly to him. I have found that a slight bow to someone speaking to me has the effect of acknowledging their words and politely ending the conversation. If absolutely necessary I have a small card I carry which explains that I cannot speak, and thanks the person for understanding. Sir printed up a set of cards with somewhat standard questions and answers for me a few years ago and I have used them occasionally. For example, there is one which asks the way to the toilet and one which thanks the person for their kindness. All start out with the simple statement, centered in the card, "I cannot speak at this time. Please excuse my silence."

But generally, no reply, written nor oral, is required from me; a simple nod of my head (or a shake) followed by a slight bow which bobs my rubber covered head slightly, is enough. Clerks, doormen, drivers all seem to understand it.

I proceeded down the road to Regent St, then 'round to Piccadilly and up to Berwick St. Berwick has fabric stores supplying beautiful and exotic fabrics from all over the world to the West end theatre district and to people who are looking for something different in textiles. There is no specific latex sheeting store, but they do have shops with vinyl, lycra, satins, and metallic, hologram prints, and wet look fabrics which look like rubber.  I enjoy sewing and I was taking the opportunity to collect some unique fabrics to bring home.

Piccadilly is a busy and complicated place to navigate, particularly in flowing latex with a limited field of view. I was a bit trepidatious, but I have wandered other cities (and even London) on my own and did not expect any severe difficulties.

Reaching the end of Regent Street and into Piccadilly proper, I made my way around and onto Berwick street. This is a wonderful, lively place with the market, then fabric shops lining the street. I made my way up the street, stopping in three or four shops and acquiring quite a few meters of exotic fabrics. One shop, I was surprised to find, actually did carry latex sheeting for fashion.

I am of the community which applauds the entree of latex into the mainstream of fashion. I do not believe our fetishistic passions are at all diminished by the appearance of latex skirts on the runway or of latex hoods in the high street.

The shop clerks were quite friendly, leaving me to browse but helpful if I needed it. Communication was a bit challenging, of course, but I made myself understood. None seemed terribly surprised nor put off by helping a woman in white burqa and two or three fingered it with sincere curiosity. One young lady in hijab rattled off at me for a moment in what I assumed was Arabic. I showed her my "English Only" card and her eyebrows widened, but she switched to English to ask me how many meters of a shiny wet look Lycra I desired.

I made my purchases and arranged for the fabrics to be delivered to our hotel. From there I went on up to Oxford St and did a bit more window shopping before hailing a taxi to take me back to the hotel. This, of course, involved more silent communication, but before embarking on these little outings sans Sir, I always acquire a business card from the hotel and it as a simple matter to inform the driver where I needed to go.

Later that evening, in my metallic blue burqa, with a blue tinted skinsuit and a stunning metallic blue evening gown beneath, we went round to a seafood restaurant not far from the hotel. Sir reminded me of a time in the late 90's when we went to the restaurant Pharmacy in the same area. It was a remarkable place, extremely stark and clinical in decor, but with wonderful fish. Sadly, it is gone now although I understand its investor, Damien Hirst, did quite well. Sir actually bid on some of the artwork from the restaurant when it came up for auction, but did not win any of the pieces.

I was allowed to eat under the burqa, my silencing hood removed for the occasion so I only had the skinsuit's light, blue tinted, transparent rubber hood covering my head, fitted to the contours of my face like a slick rubber glove. I must say,  do enjoy the feel of a thin rubber hood against my face, then covered by the light touch and feathering of the burqa as it moves with my body. It touches my cheek, my forehead, and my nose ever so lightly and sets them quivering beneath he soft, gentle embrace of the thin, almost diaphanous, slickness of the skinsuit hood.

The view from inside the burqa is dark and private, with little flashes of sight perceived through the filter of the pepperpot eyeholes. I always find myself touching my rubbered face beneath the burqa as we sit in a restaurant, I with a small plate of food inside my rubber tented world.

We spent a few more  days and nights in London, even traveling over the weekend to the Cotswolds for a short day trip. I shall write a bit more of that later.

I shall cut this short here. Suffice it to say that we had a wonderful time in London, saw some old friends, and ordered new clothing made.