I'm watching a cooking show and the chef is talking about the value of flavour over the look of the food on the plate. So, for this Tempting Tuesday, the word is flavour.

What does flavour make you think of first? How does flavour work with relations between Dom and sub? Does the flavour matter more than the look of things?

I think the flavour is the depth of the encounter or play versus what people think the play between a Dom and submissive should be. There are a lot of stories, mostly based on fictional encounters. These give a flavour of BDSM which is not the reality.

In your writing, does your play have a real flavour, something based on reality versus something that just looks good on the surface?

The Tempting Tuesday prompt this week is shiver.

A shiver can be a feeling of excitement, a good thing. Or, a shiver can be a very creepy and unpleasant feeling too.

What kind of shiver do you feel as you think about rope and bondage? If you like being bound and securely tied up - you will feel anticipation in a good way. If you dislike bondage the shiver you get will be different, less than eagerness to begin.

At times it works to use tactics which you know the submissive or bottom does not like. However, there should be a line drawn. A shiver of dislike is a reminder of who is really in charge. But, to go beyond that, to the point where the submissive is truly upset, is taking it too far.

What kind of play makes you shiver in a good way and what gives you creepy shivers?

This Wicked Wednesday, which of course, I'm doing on Friday because I just thought about it this morning... the word is proud.

His pride suffocated everyone else in the room. On and on, his voice became a steady drone about himself. So proud, so intent on making sure everyone knows about it. The award he had won clenched in his hand as he waved it about while he spoke.

I noticed when he began to realize people were no longer hearing him, trying to avoid him. His face changed then. He got quiet and somehow even quieter once he sat down at his table to find everyone else had moved their name tags elsewhere. It was sad to see him then. Pride is like acid when your bubble is burst.

The award had meant a lot to him. Being a good sport, a good winner, isn't so easy when you aren't used to winning.

I didn't like to see him deflated this way. I prefer a man to be human, versus the blow hard he had been when he was still so full of his own pride. However, this wasn't just pity I was feeling. He was hurt, like a wounded little boy - except he wasn't a boy. There was no pout to his expression, no sour grapes or signs of being a spoiled brat. He was just sad. Sitting alone, taking it like a man.

Being the sort of woman attracted to men... I joined his table.

He looked up but didn't speak. Good, a little humble was a good thing. I smiled, a slow smile as if I had all the time in the world to move my lips upwards. A friend claimed my slow smile made me look like a shark in red lipstick. I was feeling a bit like a shark now.

He smiled back, just a touch of self-depreciation. I liked it.

Rising from my seat at the table, letting my curves speak for themselves as I walked away, I left my room key for him to pick up. These little games of seduction are fun for the not knowing - not having a plan with all the finer points worked out.

Of course, I'm not into taking too many chances. We've been married long enough for me to know he can't resist my slinky red dress and my shark smile.

Have you ever found your bliss? Been blissed out? Wondered what, exactly bliss means?

Bliss - An emotional state of perfect happiness (satisfaction, enjoyment, pleasure).

How does the word bliss inspire you? Can you write a story based on bliss in 300 words or less?

Wicked Wednesday - Wave

I like the wave of his hair. Most men with long hair just don't interest me. They let the hair get tangled, they don't seem to wash it enough (or they just sweat too much). For some reason long haired men never turned me on. Or if one did, it would be about the rest of him, not his hair.

Jeff... I'll just call him Jeff, has a thick, wavy head of hair. The front is a layer of bangs which tend to fall over his face.  At the back it grows long, a little past his shoulders, soft and luxurious. In the wind his hair blows around his face. When he tips his chin up he looks like a lion with a proud mane.

I like to have Jeff chained to my bed in the morning. His arms resting along the top of the headboard, his wrists chained or tied to the bedposts. His head bowed down, hiding his expression.

If I look closer I will see him watching me. His eyes peer up through his bangs. Accusing, when I left him tied up while I enjoyed a nice Sunday morning breakfast and coffee, without him. Pouting, when he thought I'd been too mean the night before. Best of all, is the slow burn of his smile when he is hoping for more. Of course, I don't see his smile. It's there in his eyes, the seductive twinkle. Looking up at me, through that wavy mane of his hair. I know he's just pretending to be patient, waiting, lurking, tied up in my bed.