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The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Friday, 28 August 2009

Water, water everywhere....

Yet I'm not thirsty. Water, of course, being the medium of sexuality that all crystal-ball peerers tell us it is. I'm a Scorpio, if anyone cares. A currently not especially horny Scorpio, which may mean I'm letting the side down. I honestly couldn't tell you what is driving this and I'm slightly concerned. Usually I end up leading the charge of an evening but having left things to their own devices there is the daily routine of home-dinner-bed. To sleep.

Nothing wrong with that, of course. If you are poorly. Or under some sort of mind control. Or a nun. It's not that I don't have sexual fantasies - I do, although as previously noted they are most definitely of the dominant variety these days. I'm still in need of an orgasm before going to sleep (better than a nightcap, less likely to lead to alcoholism) and a morning kick-start beneath the duvet is almost as good as a double espresso and a pain au chocolat. So I'm probably masturbating more. Mentally and physically all the drives are there. Yet it is all very self-centered, I suppose. There's no real input required from someone else, and although on one level it would be nice if someone was there, I'm not sure I'm particularly driven towards doing anything that is merely nice.

Fundamentally, I feel as if I have lost some passion - the need for kink or even just sex is at a serious low. As I said above, this is making me a little concerned. But I do mean a little. I'm worried because I think I should be worried, because I've always considered sexuality as an important part of my make-up and a change like this suggests a sea-change elsewhere. Yet I'm not exactly losing sleep over it (possibly due to the soporific effects of orgasm?) It's as if part of my mind is telling me to relax, that it's ok, that I'm just having a break, or a pause. A time aside from it. I'm keeping my body and mind refreshed with frequent "personal time" and everything else can go hang for the moment.

Needless to say, unless I am spurred into action by something out of the blue, that may mean this blog becomes a bit more theoretical for the moment, but bear with me. I'll be right back with you.

Tuesday, 25 August 2009

A handful of things

I had tea and cakes with Kiss Curls recently. Well, she had the tea and I had the cake in a labour-saving exercise. Quite apart from the fact that she clearly has the most exciting and varied sex life of anyone I know she reminded me of an important point, which is that I need to book myself into a sexual health clinic and get a check-up. I haven't had one in a while and certainly over the last year or so my explorations have been a little more adventurous than one-careful-owner-monogamous-vanilla-boyfriend. Appointment is booked for this place in Dean Street, based on how much she enjoyed the experience. Yes, enjoyed. Not endured, which is my previous memories of other clinics.

It has pedigree as a clinic. Established originally to treat gay men it has been at the forefront of offering a welcoming service. I'll let you know how my own appointment goes later on, but the outlook is certainly favourable. This got me on to thinking about the attitude of my own generation towards sexual health and particularly the heterosexual viewpoint. Gay men have traditionally been groundbreaking and extremely (rightly) demanding in terms of sexual health, we "straights" have benefited from this, but our own requirements seem to rest solely within the "making and preventing babies" category and even then it is hardly a responsible or reasonable service. A recent survey has shown that many women are on the wrong type of pill and that GPs are handing them out like sweeties without asking the questions or providing the information that might allow people to make an informed choice.

And that's just the part that's in the open. Generally speaking, if it's about fertility then it is at least dealt with on some level, whether it be at school or from parents. But actually sexual education? Not a chance. Sex is still presented as some sort of moral taboo whereby corruption is inherent in the mere discussion, especially with those considered "vulnerable" by society (children, women, working class people...) This is made especially difficult by the fact that representations of sex are everywhere and they are highly unrealistic - pastel pink perfect bodies grinding into each other with choral "oohs" and "aahs". Additionally, depictions of naked, sexualised bodies are almost always female, except for those aimed at the gay market. Girls must grow up with a very strange perception of what male sexuality is like and preserving the mystique of the penis by refusing to ever show the damn things cannot be healthy. A recent example is the lovely ladies at Filament who had a terrible time trying to get a printer to agree to publish their fine works. For some reason, the penis is a protected area, veiled and hidden. Which means that oftentimes, the first point that any of us see one is when we really have to be able to do something about it. And then can't. At best women will be disappointed, at worst totally confused, I know that I certainly needed to get accustomed to the whole thing and a decent amount of preparation would have been very well received.

Basically, there is a gap, a huge gap, between what we know about sex and what we think we know. Part of Kiss Curls' current project is to work on this gap, especially with young teenagers. I couldn't support her more.

Saturday, 22 August 2009

I know I said I was away but...

I did have to share this little titbit - a free hour or so prompted me to see what any of my online accounts might have to offer me by way of entertainment. I have a memo asking me if I would like to watch "4 or 6 guys wanking in front of me for the sexual frisson of it"

No. I don't think I do. Sounds like some sort of terrible Wanky Man Cabaret. Especially given that the note was addressed "Dear Little Lady". Now, if the message had read "4 or 6 attractive hardbodied guys tie each other up and tease the fuck out of each other under your precise instruction" I would be all ears. The bits of me that weren't melting into a bucket, that is.

So here goes: "Dear Little Men, please try this...."

On holiday

Back later, be good.

Thursday, 13 August 2009

Slaves and lovers

With The Photographer last night, he asks in the middle of using me if there is anything that I want. I usually shake my head, because when we're fucking, like this, really my mind is in an empty space of use-submission and I have no wants. Except at the moment, I do. I'm presenting myself to him, hands around my breasts, pushing them up to meet him, a new position for him to use me in. His breath is brushing my lips and I find myself caught in the agony of knowing that I can't just reach up and kiss him. I feel silly asking it, because I know that I can't. It's not allowed. I ask anyway, knowing that all the same. Because it is a desire I have, because I want to be told "no" I suppose, and to be reminded of why. They why is important. He asks me to tell him why and I do, twinging a little, perhaps a tiny note of regret or even embarrassment, then overshadowed by a flush of pleasure, a sexual thrill in the most real and physical sense.

I am his slave and not his lover. Lovers are for kissing. Slaves are for using. Slaves give pleasure. Lovers give and receive. I am one but not the other. Which causes two pangs in my heart, pulling it both ways. Happy that I am his, for all that gives me. Sad that I cannot have those specific, tender intimate touches as well as the firm ones, that I am not his lover, because at that moment I want to be able to be everything to him, but some needs cannot be filled at the same time as others. Additionally, being a slave requires that there are things I want but sometimes cannot have - denial makes me feel owned by him and the sensation of ownership is a strong turn-on. If I had everything I wanted, whenever I wanted it, at my beck and call I would not be the slave. It's one of the necessary power exchanges that make a D/s relationship function, in order to be completely his, to be his slave and to be able to enjoy all the pleasure and satisfaction of that, I have to lose something else that would also give me pleasure, albeit in a different way. I could have the kisses. But I would not be owned.

It's made a little more complicated than that, of course, because we don't spend our entire lives in bed. I am his lover most of the time and certainly for all the outside world would know - and we do kiss. Just not whilst we are fucking or playing, which is the point during which I am most expressing the fact that I am his, when he is most demonstrating his ownership of me. Physical signs directed at each other, in private, where only we need know what it means and how it feels: I'm a public lover and a secret slave.

Resistance is futile

"You just lie there and masturbate. I'll stroke your hair, I won't strangle you."

"You can if you want..." A grin through the words, and they are barely out of my mouth before his hand is clamped on the back of my neck, pincer-like, pushing me down into the gap between the pillows. His fingers are hard and firm, they press against the tendons and cut into the blood-flow to my brain, white flashes at the edges of my closed eyes. Fireworks inside the eyelids. I gasp. I love being held tight, wherever, however. From sharp pinches to hands locked around my wrist, grasped by the hips or hoisted up in a bear hug - I want to feel wanted and this is one of the most perfect expressions. Grabbing hands take what they want and there's passion in their hunger for flesh, being able to feel that need is extremely erotic. It's about force. About something or someone stronger than me, rendering me incapable or limited in some way, about the power of their will overcoming my own except I am not overcome, because I don't resist.

Put it another way, then. If I'm actively opening myself up to this pressure, seeking it out and accepting it - which I do, as a submissive wanting a D/s sexual relationship - then what is it that is so exciting? It's not about the adrenaline jolt from the thrill of capture or struggle in this case, but about the fulfillment of a very personal desire - to be taken. The pleasure I derive from rape-play scenarios is a case in point. They are games, planned and agreed to, consensual fantasy. Part of the thrill is in the vicarious emotions from adopting the role of panicked (breathless, dizzy, captured) victim, but there is a strong part of pleasure that surrounds the physicalities of it. The being held down, the roughness and impatience of touch, lack of pre-amble. The fact that it is about a body being used, being fucked, not about a person or a personality.

The harder and stronger then the more I am taken. He wants to push, I want to be pushed. And I want to see how far I can be pushed. And I take pleasure in the fact that he cares enough, wants enough, to push me. It draws the edges of what we are, of how the relationship works. I give him access to me, he takes what he wants, how he wants. Last night was special. We haven't fucked like that in a while - it was as if he was taking me back. I felt like his again.

Tuesday, 11 August 2009

Turning over a new leaf

Over dinner, last night, I had a heart-to-heart with The Photographer. I'm constantly reassured by the frankness of our conversations - I've never felt especially embarrassed discussing sex with anyone, but our mutual experiments work all the better for knowing what the other person wants. In this case, I want to try my hand at domination, not just for a night or so, but ongoing. He's a little stressed out at the moment and has been hankering after the release of submission. Perfect, no? We tried a taster session in the evening and the feelings I got from being in control were totally absorbing, as satisfying, albeit in different ways, to being submissive to him - which surprised me.

I'd expected to feel a little off-guard, as if it wasn't my "natural" inclination, but I didn't get any of that at all. He was mine, to play with as I wanted, and he was keen to do so: kneeling down naked on the floor, planting kisses on my stomach until I paid him a bit of attention. As a symbol of servitude, I could get used to this. I played with his hair for a while - I like grabbing a man by the hair - the small, gasped "ah!" proving that this is really what he wanted.

"Fetch me three things you want me to use on you." I wanted to see what he would bring, what sort of mood he was in. Part of the process is for me to find out what sort of submission he is interested in, the type of relationship, and type of play, we might develop. He lays them out on the bed. A glass dildo, with a lovely purple swirling set of ridges and a neat little looped handle, a ball gag and a length of cord that resembles a shoelace. I think it is, in fact, a shoelace. Cock bondage and anal play then. I don't tell him this, of course, but sit on the edge of the bed as he kneels at my feet. It's a good place to be. I feel calm, confident, entertained and slightly predatory. Like a cat with a ball of string.

The ball gag goes on straight away. His eyes close, shutting himself away with his feelings. He becomes a body that makes noise - I read his responses through his skin. I thread the cord through his nipple piercings, patting and tapping them lightly, then pull it taut, using the ends to loop around his balls, tying it tight. I love CBT. The precision and concentration of focus fits well with how I like to play, as well as the pleasure derived from a cock that stiffens when you hit it. Little pats from my finger tips slowly building into heavier blows, this way and that. Blood rushes in and the erection pulls the cord taut. The pain is turning him on. Good. That turns me on.

I do that for a while, then lie him down on his back, legs slightly bent at the knee and parted wide. I rub some lube between my fingertips then start to tease his anus, testing the muscles. I press the dildo against him, hoping the glass is still cool enough to cause a little shiver - iced water for next time, perhaps? It takes a while, but steadily I press it into him, he flexes his legs and bends to receive it. That makes me smile: he's hungry for it. I slip the cord from around his cock and piercings, giving him a couple of moments of respite before looping it around the handy "O" at the end of the dildo allowing me to secure the ends around the base of his cock in an impromptu arab strap. All tied up. I'm horny now, very much so, all the moans and flushed flesh have worked their magic. Time for him to earn his keep. I put him on his knees again, smiling as I think how the string must be pulling at his cock, the pressure inside his arse.

I unfasten the ball gag and press his mouth against my cunt. He knows what to do, and he's very good at it. Another reason for pursuing this sort of relationship - I can make him do this whenever I want. That's a thought to keep a girl warm at night. I lie back and think of my beautiful, naked boy-slave, lapping eagerly at my clit. It's a perfect place to be, secure in the knowledge that he will shortly bring me to orgasm, which he does. I lie there for a while, letting his head rest against my leg, grinning. I'll let him masturbate in a while, if he can make himself come whilst tied up like that, I'm looking forward to feeding him his own come, and to make him used to that over time. He does manage it, after a few minutes, faster than I'd thought. I enjoy the floor show, having first replaced the gag. No orgasm with an open orifice, I think, mentally making up rules for him to live up to.

Later on, falling asleep with him curled around me, he's calmer, relaxed and with a softness to his voice and mannerism. Subservient. He fetched me a glass of water, cleaned the dildo and put everything away. It's not just about the play, it's also about the aftercare. For me and for him. I'm marking the whole thing up as a success, he fell asleep fairly quickly so no feedback as yet, but I am certainly looking forward to see where we can take this. All the way, baby.

Monday, 10 August 2009

Your own personal Beatrice

I like playing tour guide, I won't deny it. Since my own, rather determined, re-entry into BDSM over a year ago I've been grabbing peoples' hands and pulling them along with me, keen to show anyone with a flicker of an interest just how exciting it can all be. Why? Well, I suppose it's simply nice to share one's hobbies with people around you - saves having to talk about the weather all the time. But there's more to it than that, of course.

I remember how it felt, when I was younger and I didn't know what kink was or what it meant to be kinky or even that there was a thing called "kink". I certainly didn't know that it was ok to have those urges, to want those things, or that it wasn't "abnormal" or "freaky" to not find vanilla sex especially interesting. I remember how it felt to be in love with someone but to feel totally sexually disconnected from them, how upsetting it was, how difficult (impossible?) to change a basically vanilla relationship into a D/s one when one party was disinterested at best, turned off at worst. I remember the arguments, and feeling sorry for myself.

Then there came the good stuff. Finding those like-minded people to play with, to form relationships with, to enter into agreement with. And feeling like a proper person, after all, finally getting what I wanted. I'm not going to apologise for needing sexual satisfaction to make a relationship work, and certainly not for needing it to be D/s flavoured sexuality. I'm not going back, and it's extremely freeing. Not just to get what you want. But to know what you want, and to be able to go out and get it. I want that opportunity to exist for everyone I know.

So, with a light heart and a wicked grin I've been walking people around my version of the nine celestial spheres of kinkdom, as I did with my friend Green Man over email and this weekend. Some gentle prodding encouragement to go to a munch, an internet link here and there. A personal voyage of discovery is one thing, but a journey that allows others to make their own inroads into paths previously desired but untrodden makes what I've done all the sweeter.

Come on in, the water's lovely.

Friday, 7 August 2009

Just for me

Recently, through whatever synaptic vagaries my brain churns out these days, I've been having a lot of fantasies about submissive men. Beautifull toned and wonderfully naked pretty, submissive men. In handcuffs. If I close my eyes, I can picture it perfectly. One of those men who is a little over-muscled, strong looking, great hands. I like the dichotomy of someone powerful on their knees in front of me, giving it all up.

I think I'd be keen to get one all to myself, who I could mould into the perfect companion, to best fit a lifestyle to which I would very much like to become accustomed. It might be the regular sight of all that tortured masculine muscle mass in the gym (alongside the smell of sweat, nothing says "I'm trying hard to please" like a tang in the air). It might be that my life is a little stressful at the moment and the thought of someone who would lovingly attend to my every need is extremely pleasing. It might be that I'm becoming more of a sadist these days and that I want something to control, to hurt, to punish and to manipulate. I might be just that I miss oral sex. Receiving it, that is, it's a certain sort of orgasm, deeper and more satisfying than masturbation, which is my current outlet.

There's one particular thought that has always been pleasing, but now much more so. I want to keep someone in chastity. I especially like the heavy, metal sheathes that leave balls exposed - applying a crop to testicles until they become taut and swollen is definitely on the list of things I'd like to do, and do soon. It's not just about the look though, or the feel. It's about the emotional and sexual connection. I haven't taken something away, I have been given something, which I will hold and look after dearly. Not merely physical control, although having someone unable to orgasm without my say-so makes me grin, I want the knock-on effects of this. The chastity is the physical reminder, the ticking-clock of controlled desire. The real fun is in the psychology. A slave who is duty-bound (in more ways than one) and keen to follow my instructions, to offer himself up to me for whatever reason, and in whatever manner I choose. At home as well as when we play away games. In public and in private.

The perfect gentleman.

Thursday, 6 August 2009


The Photographer introduced me to needles a while back, and its taken me some time to compose my thoughts. It was a personal challenge - I'm not scared of needles, as such, however I do associate them with hospital visits, not being well and medical professionals being unable to find a vein then bruising my arms horrible. Junkie chic has never sat well with me. So I wasn't really expecting to get anything out of it, I was expecting it to hurt and that was it.

I lay down on my front, so I couldn't see it going in, partly so that I wouldn't know when to expect the pain, which would help me relax a little, and partly because the not knowing added to the excitement. I was certainly nervous, enjoying the feeling of trying something new, and of trying something that was pure sensation play rather than sexualised. First, he moistened the skin with antiseptic wipes, I like anything that has an air of preparation to it, it makes me feel pampered and looked after. Two needles were going into the flesh on the back of my neck. The pain was a lot less than I'd expected, mentally I think I was gearing myself up to something akin to my piercings. Instead it was a short, sharp little heat, one dart on entry, another on exit. Then a warm glow as the metal sat there, in my skin, snug as a bug in a rug.

The warmth spread, tingling and crackling as he lightly tapped them with his fingers. I felt myself go a little light-headed, nothing shocking or hyperreal - just a gentle sensation, like lying in the sunshine my nerves responding to this most soft of coaxing. It was very relaxing, nothing for me to do but revel in the way my body was feeling - I started to get turned on, domino-effect tumbling through my skin. It hurt again when he took them out, both from the pain and the release. Just a little loss, a little blood. Wiped up and cleaned, I went onto my back.

This time I watched as he put sharps into my breasts, above the nipple. Seeing the needles go in didn't actually have that much effect on how it felt, especially given that now I was no longer worried and in fact both eager and curious. This time it was a little shallower, but still gave the same pleasant buzz. He tried a few more, in the flesh just on my mons, the warmth creeping into my cunt and over my clit making me arch like a cat.

We didn't wrap it up in any particular D/s context, although I think it would be very interesting to try, perhaps some type of torture or collaborative art experiment. I can certainly see why it's a good thing to do in a club environment: the act of placing the needles, lining them up so they look as nice as they feel is certainly an art and I can imagine it's almost as fun to watch as to participate. Almost. Anyhow, we've stocked up on quantities of wipes and I'm looking forward to trying again.