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The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Tuesday, 31 May 2011

Gratitude and attitudes

"Thank you."

Two of the most beautiful words to roll off a submissive tongue, or ping up on my phone.
Those two words sweeten my feelings towards those under my charge, making me smile as I recall (or imagine, if I'm not present) the occurance that I am being thanked for. The act of saying thank you places me in a position of power, instantly, like a sugar rush. I am a benefactor, a gracious giver of sensation. I've actually recently started to use the word patronage to describe my leverage as a dominant, it expresses the exchange in a way that has pleasing reminders of lords and ladies keeping valuable artists, perfected servants and objets d'art. It also emphasises the fact that dominance is not all about taking, or even about simply doing, what I want without consideration, there is method and reasoning in what I am doing. I offer something very valuable which cannot be taken for granted.

Gratitude, when truly felt, is a surprisingly complicated emotion, relying on an understanding of the value of what is being given and the cost of giving it. There's a balancing act to be struck with using it - rather like apology it can be overdone (I have a pet hate of people who say sorry too often and try to drum it out of those around me). The trick is to use it sparingly and at specific points that are outside of the normal framework for when that person might use that word.

I require politeness in general, but messages of thanks form part of my stated protocol with my pets. I want them to be reminded of our relationship at certain key instances - orgasm is a particular favourite, but equally after punishment or an order is issued. I'm deliberately framing and highlighting the nature of our power exchange, that I am responsible for both the pleasurable and the painful parts of our sexual interactions and that they should feel grateful for it.

It can form a useful training tool not only because repeated actions and phrases can help ingrain a sense of structure but because the act of thanking someone establishes a bond between two people. The more genuine thanks that are offfered, the more connected we become. There are other, alleged positives in even the act of saying thanks itself. There have been various studies which show that gratitude can act as a mood enhancer, improve mental health and even improve sleep. Whilst I'm tending towards taking that with a pinch or five of salt I do like the idea that I could make the lives of my submissives even better by getting them to feel even more grateful towards me - it certainly sounds like a virtuous circle worth working towards.

Thursday, 26 May 2011

Horses sweat

Muscles vibrate in his back, clenching and unclenching in spasms that wind tighter and tighter. He's coiling up like a spring, My hands are wrapped tight around his hips as I thrust my new, larger dildo into him. Saturday night, Mannequin has gone to bed. Mr Smith and I are still awake and I'm using the small hours to engage in a very active search for male prostate orgasm. Determined to drag him through it.

All the pre-signs are there. He's prone, arms splayed out and fingers grasping at the bedsheets, feet curling. The muscles in his thighs are trembling and he's bucking against me, pressing his hips against the cock. I fuck him, building him up through faster, harder strokes, then slower, deeper ones that take their time to press him open. I can see his desire for release in his body, and I watch him carefully, judging depth, speed and playful little thrusts upon his own movements. I can hear it too: the tell-tale type of panting, tiny gasps that lift upwards, getting softer and more lost as he begins to hyperventilate. A few times I need to calm him down, to force him to breathe more deeply, relax and stop striving so hard.

I stroke his back,
I can feel the heat rising from his skin, feel the sweat pinprick, then run in rivulets over his naked body. I love that moment. Sweat is an under appreciated fluid: I love sweat. The cold sweat that starts from fear, shock or pain. The sheen from flushes of excitement. The gentle overnight sweat where the scent of two (or more) bodies mingles with sex, sleep and animal contentment. And this. Pure fucking exertion and mindless force, flowing - literally - from his pained efforts at my command. With it comes his smell, now familiar and resonating with my own dominance, already part of the attraction I have for him - scent is a hugely important thing for me. I can track pheromones and those the rise from him are heady. Sweat. It's a power trip. Emperors must have felt this way when gladiators roared and bled in the arena.

The orgasm isn't coming, but he's working really hard towards it. Perhaps too hard, in that desperate, uphill struggle that climax can sometimes be, especially unfamiliar climax. I remember the effort (and surprise) of my first orgasm through cunnilingus, and later, from someone else's fingers. To this day I've never had an orgasm purely through vaginal penetration. Each first time was hampered by the fear that it wouldn't happen, that I would fail, falter and collapse. Which is what happens to him, eventually, both of us worn down by the exertion. I've led him up and down the waves of rising almost-orgasm several times before I decide we need to stop. His entire body is shuddering through with tiny convulsions and he is almost without speech (a rarity for this one) for several minutes. He's angry, frustrated and - as expected - feels like he's failed. Submission and failure are tricky but often present bedfellows, I can certainly call on my own experiences, especially the desire to produce orgasm for a dominant, but also for oneself, to give a true sense of completion and finality.

Eventually I get up and fetch a dry towel and begin rubbing him down. The long strokes across his back and limbs seems to calm him, and he quietens. Even that action is pleasing to me. H
e's a horse ridden hard and in need of stabling. What I'm doing is very familiar to me from teenage years spent riding. And the minute I think "horse" is the minute everything falls into place. The more I think about this one, the more I think of horses, and all the pleasures that come with that.

I tend to visualise my submissives as animals, so they generally go by a moniker like "kitten", "puppy" or even "bear" to recall a name from my almost-vanilla past. And so this one is a horse. Sweat like horses do, with all that impressive power and force behind them, yet passively following a bit and bridle. Groomed, trained and even bred for purpose. Sure, they whinny and nicker every now and then, but generally fall into place if treated correctly. I smile as my brain fills with all the thoughts of leather tack, hay-filled stables and my thighs twitch a little. Once he's dry, I curl up around him, wrapping him up in my arms and holding him tight whilst he continues to give the odd twitch and moan. I stroke his hip, and my brain reads "flank", whispering soothingly into his ear. There's plenty of time for all sorts of training for this boy.

Monday, 23 May 2011

Magic number

The plan was a threesome, but given it was going to be an fFm threesome, with myself as the dominant, there were a number of assumptions I was looking forward to playing with and overwriting. An object lesson in submission and an overturning of what a threesome looks like: it isn't about what you want, it's what I want. Which is what you will want. Eventually. It was a training experience for Mr Smith as part of the ongoing project to move him beyond swinging scene attitudes and normalised modes of "masculine" sexual behaviour. I knew he was interested in Mannequin, which was ideal because she's mine, she's very well trained and so I could be sure she wouldn't let him get away with anything.

It was an opportunity for a spot of decadence, and I'd been looking forward to it. A rare Saturday night dinner and cocktails date with two of my pets. I spent the afternoon shopping in Soho, doing the rounds of the gay sex shops for penetration toys - I like them industrial looking, nasty and a little alien. Certainly not the fleshy-pink types that look queasily like laminated penises. When I fuck with a strap-on I want to look artificial, strange and a little other-wordly. Shock and awe, baby. I have no desire to mimic a cis-male: I'm a fabulous beast, a unicorn, a woman with a horn. A cyborg having new adventures in fucking. I went over to see Mannequin and we prepared the space, discussed strategy and engaged in a bit of dressing up. A rare occasion for ultra-femme stylings: silky dresses, make-up and high heels. To most people, I would have looked like a woman dressed up to the nines - looking good but not looking strange. For me, it was a deliberate change from how I usually look, especially with Mr Smith because I tend to the more tomboyish. This would look unusual for me, and hopefully sow a bit of confusion which always helps increase the anxiety and anticipation. He knew that there would be a play session with both of us, but that is all he knew.

We went to Hawksmoor, which I thoroughly recommend and spent a while flirting and chatting over drinks then aphrodisiac foods: steak, oysters, red wine. Later, there would be hard drugs and harder BDSM. The opening to the evening was soft and seductive, about creating a genial sense of liberation with a touch of mild exhibitionism along the lines of being an obvious threesome in public places. We got enough raised eyebrows to satisfy ourselves, but nothing especially salacious or kinky was done in public (I like both the restaurant and the cocktail place and would like to go back). I enjoyed the fact that whilst in the minds of those around us Mr Smith must have seemed like a lucky man, he certainly is, but not for the reasons they might have expected. Both of them were under instruction that if anyone asked directly what was "going on" they had to answer truthfully.

Eventually we found our way back home and the night began. A simple enough start: strip and tease. Of him. Clothes came off, blindfolds, cuffs, collar and ropes went on. As did a CB2000, although not as effectively as I'd hoped (I'm starting to think that chastity devices are needlessly complicated, I love the theory, but the practice is very finicky, especially with an unwilling or at least unaware victim). We secured him to a chair, toyed with him with ice and tiny clothes pegs for a while. We then removed the blindfold to let him take in his predicament. There's a balancing game to be played with sensory deprivation - on the one hand it can make people feel more free and allow them better, easier access to sub space. On the other there are times when you want them to feel constricted and to be unable to float away to sub space. And sometimes seeing is believing: I needed him to feel completely helpless and under my control. For that, he needed to see what was happening, where the deprivation was coming from.

Mannequin stripped me, I stripped her, putting a collar around her neck.
We were ostensibly playing on a trope - the strippers who kiss to titillate the male viewer, but ultimately they are there to service him. In fact, he was there to serve us, if we needed him to. My ultimate goal was to use him to teach her how to fuck boys with a strap-on.

I went quickly into dom space, having been teetering on the brink all evening anyway - awash with that smug satisfaction of a plan playing out. He was a body-in-waiting, a toy on the rack that may be needed later but for the moment was not. A voyeur has more power because at least they wanted just to watch. He wanted to do. And could not. At the back of my head, I knew he was present, I could hear him moan, feel him wriggle a little. But she was in front of me, she was right there and she was mine. I got a rush of it, the knowledge that the flesh in my hands belonged to me. I hadn't seen her in a while, I'd missed her and there she was. Perfect skin and all. I lay back, put her mouth between my legs and closed my eyes. Smiling. I think he said something. It could have been anything.

We untied him after a while, and I put her into the strap-on harness and talked her through what to do, using him as a model for her experience. I enjoyed the situation because it meant that he would be fucked by her under my control, which was effectively (for my own D/s purposes) the same as being fucked by me.
I remember a flicker of pride at his passivity, he was actively trying to "be good" to behave, to ask before touching and to ask me rather than her. I knew that he was very tactile and that depriving him of that was difficult. He allowed himself to be led, to be put in position. The training was working.

Thursday, 19 May 2011

Temple Prostitution

This is one of those posts that overlays my more spiritual activities with my kink. The two come from a very similar place, anyhow so it's no surprise that it's happening more and more.

As well as my ongoing kinky adventures, I am also conducting a four year alchemical Magnum Opus. Earth is my first year - it's a natural foundation - and I'm working on my body in particular. The sort of exercise I'm doing at the gym is about building muscle mass, becoming stronger and thence more earthy. I'm focusing a lot on my work, trying to do more things with my hands and have recently moved house and got a much better living space. I'm attempting to have a more grounded approach in my personal and emotional interactions (notice how the language ends up being coloured by earthy metaphor - I'm finding myself doing that a lot).

Each year I'm going to create a personal trial, to do something connected to the element itself which is both difficult and scares me. For earth, I intend to do a live burial, with a wake arranged by my friends happening over my head. I don't know how long I'll be able to be underground for. Ideally overnight, but I don't want to set a time limit on myself: the experience is the important part. I also want to be able to physically claw my way out of the ground at the end of it, partly because of the labour and exertion factor, partly because of the re birthing analogue and partly because I like Buffy.

I've been thinking a lot about how to pay for this.
Earth is a very money orientated element, it's about material goods and one of it's common symbols is the pentacle or coin. It's important that payment is given to the people who are organising this for me - I have an image of a large pile of coins on a table. Naturally, I could just use the money I get from my day job and that would suffice: I worked for that money, it's mine. I've also been thinking about the idea of Temple Prostitution, not least because that would connect my body to sexuality to money but also because it would mean that the money earned for this event would be specific to these acts rather than a portion of my salary.

I'm turning this idea over and over in my mind, trying to work out exactly what I think and lots of things bubble to the surface: personal, political, spiritual, emotional. I'm usually pretty good at coming to a decision, especially with my sexuality, but this is still hanging over me. I like the idea, I think it has a power to it and could be a good experience. Yet I do have my doubts and anxieties. I've considered BDSM sex-work in the past, especially as my industry is pretty unstable and continues to be so, but not quite in this way. I have the natural nerves and concerns over sex work, plus, given this specific context I wonder whether what I am suggesting is actually offensive or problematic for people who are sex-workers, and if so, is that a concern for me? After all, I imagine it is certainly offensive and problematic to people who consider accepting money for sex as immoral, but that doesn't bother me. I am going to take some time and talk to people about it, and also to think more about the best way of doing it, particularly given that those who (should anyone actually take me up on the offer) hand over the cash, will in some part be contributing to the final ritual, so it's also about managing that link which I will have created.

I'm interested in what people think on the subject, so please tweet, email or comment.

As time goes on, I'm sure there will be some more kink-related outcomes to the entire process and, naturally, I will be writing about it.
For those with no interest in the "magical" parts of Kinksville, don't worry - I won't be doing this too often, and there will be a handy tag so you can scoot on by.

Wednesday, 18 May 2011

Vote for me!

In a bid for further shameless self-promotion, I've submitted the blog to the Adult Blog Awards and would be most appreciative if you would click on the button and make me slightly more (in)famous.

SexShop365 Sex Blog Awards

Tuesday, 17 May 2011

Zen and BDSM

A brief posting, due to my ongoing lack of regular Internet. I've recently got back on the horse that is Internet dating following a review of my sexual portfolio (something someone once kindly referred to as my "chocolate selection box of fucking" which creates all sorts of puns relating to fudge, nuts and walnut whips).

I'm currently running a series of D/s relationships in tandem, primarily with Mannequin and more recently with Mr Smith. I'm fond of both of them, but very aware of their needs outside what I can provide or what they want from me, which means I'm looking for other people. Specifically, for a suitable long term (probably male) partner. In the meantime - I'm in no rush so happy to enjoy what comes along and play the long game - I've got something of a balancing act on my hands, particularly regarding time and how D/s operates when you are not the sole partner.

I'm able to view my previous musings on the subject in the context of being a submissive and either being in love or certainly falling in love with The Photographer. Those two factors made life hard, too hard to bear in the end. Now, things are a lot easier. Perhaps because I have learnt from my mistakes, and learnt how to better manage my feelings.
I can keep a lighter emotional touch these days, I care about my partners, certainly and could see myself caring more. I am passionate about them and about what we do. But these are "in the moment" passions, remembered fondly. Zen BDSM, if you will. These people are not always mine and there are places these relationships cannot go, ways in which they will not develop and that creates a remit that must be adhered to.

The dominant position means I am more in control of what is going on and taking a more active part in what I am doing and with whom rather than being controlled. This requires a certain amount of self-control, as well as control of others. I order my personal expectations and need to keep a cool, pragmatic approach when managing the "externalities" of our interactions, especially about where the lines are drawn, and not getting too territorial when they need to be re-drawn because of the needs of my partners' other partners.

To take a good "lines" example, I recently had a discussion with Mr Smith about marks on his back. His wife had seen them and been upset. Now, I had spoken to him about marks - because they were going to happen if he wanted to submit to me - and he had told me that the usual standard was fine (nothing visible in a suit and shirt). However, nothing can really match seeing marks, realising them for fact and she had reacted to that in a way that had not been predicted. Upon hearing about this, I went into two parallel thought modes: D/s and open relationship management. The dominant in me was annoyed about this shifting of goal posts, especially over something I had checked and thought was fine. There was a spark of anger over interference in my play. All of these D/s reactions needed to be absorbed, understood and left to one side because I do not have full D/s control over him.
On the wider relationship front I personally felt uncomfortable about upsetting someone else, even though I hadn't known it would be a problem. My response was to change the sort of play activity (for the moment) to something less marking but not less in terms of D/s and to try and arrange a coffee date with his wife to set ground rules face to face.

Time is another issue. I'm busy. I do a lot of things. Add to that multiple partners and the need to find time to locate new partners (as well as blogging about it all) and my diary becomes a very serious piece of work. I have stopped fledgling engagements in their tracks because the other party couldn't organise themselves out of a paper bag. My partner's time is important, my partner's partner's time is important. But mostly, my time is important, because it is my D/s time.

Whatever they do elsewhere, whatever other relationships they have, when they are with me they run to my clock.
I take my time, because it is my time to take and to indulge in. Taking and indulging is part of the power exchange, they give me themselves and they give me their undivided attention. From stepping into the restaurant until I leave them in the morning, those hours are mine to do with as I wish. Afterward, and before, are blank pages for other people to write upon. The sense of transitory ownership and the anxieties or difficulties that can present is mediated by ring fencing specific points in time. My D/s only works because I can view these people as belonging to me for the moments they are with me, allowing me to appreciate them to the full when they are with me, but leaving well alone when they are not.

Friday, 13 May 2011

Power, protocol and punishment

I slip the condom off and straddle his chest, quickly shoving it into his mouth before he can react. I press my fingers against his tongue, pushing his semen down his throat. His eyes widen from their relaxed post-orgasmic state. He makes a face, a sorrowful, confused moue.

"The next time you don't say thank-you immediately after you've come, that happens."

I surprise myself with how much force I can put behind that statement, I am genuinely cross with him and the punishemt, together with his obvious unhappiness, satisfies me. He begins to make excuses but I slap his leg and he quietens down. I lie down next to him and explain the importance of such things to me, reminding him that this is what he came to me for.

Punishment is a part of D/s training that needs to be delicately managed. I've learnt that it must happen quickly after the transgression so that the two are linked. It needs to be distinct from other parts of the relationship, clearly enshrined as a punishment: I want it to be obvious, isolated, unpleasant and cathartic. An action delivered to teach someone a lesson, ultimately it is instructive and (hopefully) constructive. My goal with my partners is to make them "better" through the training I'm delivering, they are of course marvellous and delightful already or I wouldn't play with them, but there's always room for specific tailoring to my own tastes. Reward has its place, of course, including praise and pleasure, but there must be punishment too. Enduring something unpleasant is part of submission: the ability to put distance between what the submissive wants and what the dominant wants and enforcing the latter to the detriment of the other strengthens the bond created by the power exchange.

I like punishment that is appropriate - this seemed like the obvious punishment for ungrateful orgasm. When pain is used for punishment it must be carefully contextualised, which is part of the reason why I don't often like delivering something such as a beating for punishment: it's too close to something I might want to do, whatever has happened. I don't want there to be a confusion of association because effectively I'm attempting to create reflexes and those require repeated, similar, stimulus.

Punishment reinforces and protects the rules of engagement: protocol. I love protocol because I want my relationships to be very clear in how they operate for my own piece of mind and assurance. To know who stands where and how so that each relationship I maintain is enshrined in its own little empires. I may not be the king of the world, but I will be king of that which I command. It's part of being the
only X that does Y, I've got to have my particular space and protocol helps me define that space.

I don't run detailed protocol, and most of it is under the surface or private rules that will not be obvious in company. I prefer a few simple, brief rules that are "always on". Anything else can be delivered as an instruction when required. Micro-management holds little charm for me, it removes the space for the submissive to delight, surprise and please of their own initiative. I have smart, funny, capable partners - I want them to show flair in what they do.

One of the interesting training challenges with Mr Smith is overwriting the sexual behaviours from the swinging crowd, particularly the freedom to act and reversing his "naturally" dominant tendencies, particularly around women. He's very tactile, for example, which is nice but has caused a number of wandering hands incidents that needed correcting. We had a conversation in a taxi about how he had touched a submissive friend of mine and her dominant had a twinge of annoyance - I can certainly empathise with that. The act itself was relatively insignificant, and done because of casual friendliness. However, both myself and my submissive friend felt it was inappropriate. When I talked to Mr Smith about it he bristled and was annoyed that he wasn't informed at the time, because he would have liked to have been able to account for his own actions. I explained: "When you are with me, in a kink context, you represent me. You don't have authority for yourself, I do. I am responsible for your actions - how you behave reflects upon me."

The specifics of good protocol should be invisible, except to those who are aware of it and (certainly for me) it is akin to good manners, which is something I look for in submissives in general. What should be obvious is that there is a relationship of command, I love it when people comment on how "good" and "well-behaved" my submissives are. They don't need to know which rules they are following in order to appreciate the total package...

...almost as much as I do.

Wednesday, 11 May 2011

Body language

He moans. Light at first but getting longer and deeper. Mr Smith is on all fours, spreading his arms out in front like a cat, sprawling. If he had claws, they would be ground into the bedsheets.

All I can really see of him are his back and shoulders, arching gently up towards me. Ankles and wrists cuffed but not bound to anything (some hotels are really inconsiderate in their lack of useful hitching posts). His face is encased in a rubber hood selected for him earlier today. It's tightly zipped at the back of the head with two pinpricks for nostrils and an ovoid, red rimmed hole for the mouth. I like kissing hooded faces, He's secured nice and snug with a collar around his neck. The exterior of the mask is smooth, featureless and shiny, when I press my hands, or run my tongue, against it I can feel the warm, yielding flesh beneath. We are separated by millimetres of latex and by
miles and miles of power exchange.

When the face goes; they go. Ways away, and deep, deep down, both in their mind and in my mind's eye. He is muscle and bone, Fuck Toy. Ultimately, only and solely - perfectly for my purposes - a body. Those beautiful, abstracted submissive bodies.

I've spent the past hour or two amusing myself and slowly working him up to a good, long session with a strap-on. Lubed fingers pressed, spread and curling inside him, then a series of plugs moving up in size as I felt him relax. I like the feeling of being inside someone, of the heat of their body. The intimacy and the power of pressing my flesh, my force, my muscle, into their yielding skin. Finally, I pull his legs up and push the harnessed dildo into him - all the way - and start to fuck.

I zone out a little, entering that straight-line arrow from a bow feeling that is the trajectory of dom space. It's not like concentrating, I am not thinking. I am doing. Fucking is
an exercise in unconsciously reading flesh. The majority of communication is carried without words and he's a book spread open. There is a wave that keeps passing between us, on a heavier and heavier tide. I ride it, I ride him. His moans rise and fall and I can see the flickers and twitches of muscle spasms in his back. I create rhythm with my hips: grinding into him, gripping tight around his arse and thighs: pulling him into me with the dull thump of flesh on flesh. I thrust harder and faster, enjoying the build of heat in my body, the wetness growing in my cunt and the synchronicity of fucking. The pure animal joy of it.

I become aware of a rising tension flowing up from him as he clenches and unclenches seeking a release that moves away from his grasp.
I push him towards it, but feel him slipping, eventually slowing to a halt, and we collapse in a sweating, gasping heap. Waiting for language to return to us. Later he confessed that he felt on the point of orgasm but without knowing how to - orgasm through anal stimulation is somewhat uncharted territory. I told him that I was sure that if he's well behaved I could certainly help him practice.

Monday, 9 May 2011

Pleasures of the flesh

I'm a priestess of carnal delights. A herald of hedonism. A dedicated follower of sense and sensory delights. I play on the palate of my lovers. I'm a domestic goddess.

I like food, no, that's not true. I love food. I love cooking, eating, everything that surrounds it. I think that people who don't like food are strange, bland and sterile types, who probably aren't that good in bed. And it's not just about liking food - it might be a truism, but I've yet to meet a pervert who isn't also into food in some way, sexuality and saity go hand in hand, perhaps.
It is no surprise that some of my favourite cookbooks have titles that would be perfectly at home on my kinky bookshelf: Tender, In Search of Total Perfection, Tarts with Tops On. The frankly filthy Nigel Slater has a recipe that advises licking hot, salty butter off someone else's fingers and includes in his timings for the perfect banger going back to bed (with a friend) until the cooking smell rouses you from other types of pleasure. One type of sensory indulgence is perhaps easily mapped onto another, and any marketing agent will tell you that sex sells. Yet there is more to it than that.

Aphrodisiacs (from the Greek goddess Aphrodite, herself born on a scallop shell - seafood being a common aphrodisiac) are foods thought to inspire lust such as the phallic and lewd to consume asparagus and bananas - no prizes for guessing how that associates with sex in people's minds. Less obvious, though only just, are foods that remind us of delicate parts of bodies: oysters, rare steak, figs, cream. Then there are the stimulants like chill, ginger, coffee and chocolate, and the disinhibitors such as alcohol, with champagne or deep red wine top on that list. Finally, there are foods that have become sexualised by their appearance in literature or the social consciousness, most famously perhaps apples as wonderfully chaotic signifiers of beauty or temptation, leaving a string of drama in their wake, exactly like an intoxicating love affair.

The greatest aphrodisiacs in my opinion are those created by our own experiences because they will be unique to us and to the situation in which they occurred. Fresh, homemade bread will remind me of Ten, Krispe Kreme donuts are a standard tribute when visiting Captain (as is John Smith's bitter, but that's not sexually stimulating for me at any rate) whilst sushi and sashimi make me think of Hedwig. The cup of tea is as much a part of post-kink activity as the cup of coffee is a precursor. I bookend my perversions with hot caffeinated beverages, clearly.

Moving on from food that inspires sex, there is sex that is described using the same language as food. Motifs such as unpeeling for removing clothing, the idea of consuming and devouring, the natural paralells of mouth on flesh between eating and oral sex from the direct "eat out" or "eat/suck pussy/cock" to the slightly more poetic "take a bite of peach". The metaphor spreads out beyond the act itself. Our desire for sex is a hunger, which needs to be satisfied. We might also describe ourselves as empty and wanting to be full. Even in terms of finding a partner we could reference hunting or stalking our prey in the same way as we might catch a meal.

Then naturally, comes, sex with food from the vanilla drips of Haagen Dazs onto the chest of one's lover (in my case, it was Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia which has unfortunately large chunks of chocolate, but it set the tone for my love life) to the world of splosh fetishists. Cucumbers seem to have been purpoe made to insert into people and the 90s debacle over "mars bar parties" - I wonder if the decline in such references is linked to the belief that such chocolate bars are now smaller?

Cooking has a lot of parallels with kink. Preparation, concentration on the balance of sensory inputs, taking note of particular tastes and desires (or revulsion), indulgence, satisfaction, physicality. The range of different ways to tempt and ultimately satisfy are deeply, often unashamedly sexual.
Swapping recipes like swapping new forms of torture for our partners. Then there's the kit, of course, which all perverts love: getting new tools or new toys and using them for the first time, or bemoaning the loss of an old favourite. Knives, for example sit neatly in both worlds - I personally favour Global, but that's partly my love of all things Japanese as much as the joy in the blades themselves.

For me cooking sits with my D/s desires, because of how it meshes with control. I manage my kitchen with the same level of concern as I would a play space, probably more to be honest. Woe betide the person who steps foot unbidden within my kitchen for they will suffer greater than if they had interrupted a scene, and probably won't get fed either. There's another side to it too, which is about providing for, about seeing people smiling and happy, satisfied with something amazing, exciting and enriching that I have created - like delivering a good session, you can see their eyes glaze over with pleasure. Combine the two, and you have the perfect afternoon in: playing, fucking, eating and dozing until ready to do it again.

Thursday, 5 May 2011

No sex please, we're women

It's not often I'm moved beyond my own sphere of personal indulgences and contemplations to discuss the political, except where I feel it is treading heavily on my turf. This is one of those times. Nadine Dorries - harridan of the conservative party and general hater of all things fun - proposed a bill to teach abstinence in schools, but only to girls aged 13-16.

Now, the "reasoning" behind such a blatantly sexist move is precisely the sort of backwards thinking I would have expected from that corner of the House of Commons: it purports to have a socially useful function but the narrow range required for its execution will succeed only in increasing the blame for unwanted sexual activity, and its consequences, onto young women.

Thus, Dorries follows in a grand tradition of pointing the finger at female sexuality as something that needs to be controlled and managed for the good of society and the "protection" of women. There's a long history of considering cunt as the antithesis of all that is good and pure and I am heartily sick of it. We need to stop creating virgin and whore dichotomies and look beyond the crass and unfair media depictions of single mothers, lesbians, prostitutes driving down property values on "our streets" or those unmarried young women going out and enjoying their lives instead of settling down and breeding the next generation (within the context of wedlock, naturally)

I was dismayed to see that MPs (narrowly) passed the bill at its first reading
despite a very well thought out and detailed rebuttal from Chris Bryant. That, together with this article in the Guardian outline all of the issues and pitfalls with the a bill in some detail. Both suggest much better alternatives to tackle what are real problems, starting from the shocking idea that we should perhaps teach boys as well as girls to say no to sex. I wonder when will we start accepting that men have an equal place in sexual responsibility and treating them in an equitable and respectful manner rather than automatically assuming they have no existence beyond their raging hormones or that they are all only after one thing? The hideous stereotyping of the genders is shocking, and I'm concerned at just how many of our elected representatives must view the world in this light for the bill to have passed this stage.

To be clear, I don't have an issue with teaching abstinence. I think that learning how to say "no" to sex should form a part of everyone's sex education: whatever their gender. But it should be part of a total discussion of the physical, emotional and psychological experience of any (and all) kinds of sexual activity. After all, how can someone make a decision when they are lacking in the facts? Blindly saying "no" can be as bad as blindly saying "yes", and encourages people to focus on the damaging and negative parts of sexuality, without an understanding of its pleasures.

Sunday, 1 May 2011

Room service

There's something about hotels that sits perfectly with BDSM. The bland, anonymous rooms have nothing of their own, but are full of the quiet, uncaring atmosphere of in-between places that are not personal to us. They are not living spaces but functional (even the very nice ones) areas for sleeping. Or more precisely, in this case, fucking. Prostitution, love affairs, the traditional honeymoon night - all these acts of fucking are consonant with hotel rooms. They are morally grey spaces, where taboo and judgement is lifted or side-stepped: staff have almost certainly seen it all and come the morning it will all be laundered, washed and forgotten about. Hotels are paid for spaces, which adds to the transactional nature of what is going on. Things of value are bought, making them under your control, part of a system of exchange in which there is power and ownership. Things that need privacy, to be kept away in a floating island separate from the day-to-day happenings of whatever lives we come from, you can be anyone. They can be anyone. Which means that, on a certain level, you can be free.

Sexuality begins in hotels.

And it begins like this. The lift door closes with a quiet ping and I place a hand on Mr Smith's pleasingly broad chest. The thrill of the chase has never interested me - I tend to prefer the spoils of victory and I am looking forward to all the little revelations that come with a new partner. Once in the room, I strip him naked, it came as a surprise to find out, a few months ago, that this is a sensation often unfamiliar to men. I like either removing their clothes myself or getting them to do it in front of me, slowly. The important thing is to make them very conscious of the act of stripping as a thing in and of itself, to make a show of themselves, and to start to see themselves as things that are on show.

This is perhaps where the hotel room comes into its own. It will reek of associations with his prior flings and lovers so he will have assumptions and expectations that I can subvert. He's married but open, with more of a history of swinging than kink and the kink he's done has been on top. I like knowing his preconceptions and to be able to push and press against them. That means he does not come here as a lover, but as a toy. And we do not come here as equals, he comes to me, to serve me.

All my toys are beautiful and I take pride in helping them understand that. All my beautiful things are toys, and that's a lesson too. A dominant is a teacher and a trainer, but the best lessons are object lessons. And the best learning is in doing. The first play session we have is calibration, they always are. He's well behaved, and stays where he's put. I tend not to go for the bratty ones, I won't fight a submissive, certainly not until I know them well enough to be sure of winning. Although there are multiple ways and means of doing that too. He's probably stronger than I am, so there's a pleasure in his pliability, his giving up of control.

I place him in a convenient position, like a puppet, his eyes close and breathing slows. Blindfold on, and pushing him face down onto the bed. He falls.
I smile and strip, safe in the knowledge that he cannot see though may be able to hear. There's an element of teasing going on, of course, and I'm building his anticipation, as well as playing on his nerves. Self-confessed "bad at pain" types are fun to play with, though they almost always can take more pain than they think, if warmed up to it.

Hands are the best tool for getting feedback from unfamiliar bodies. I stroke, slap, scratch, pinch and pull my way around his flesh, working out where the sensitive parts are - aside from the usual. I use the physical sensations to try and get a better read on what is going on inside his head, which is where the fun stuff lives anyway. I won't know what he's really thinking until a few days later, the images or fantasies that float beneath his eyelids whilst his body is under my control, so I work with what I do know:
he's here, he's given himself up to me and I have a bag of kit and all night.

His face has gone slack and he's gone non-verbal, he has become a non-person. A pile of muscle and bone that twitches and whimpers like a living landscape. I'm an artist of flesh. I make red patterns on the smooth, broad skin of his back. I'm an orchestra conductor of a gentle, low soundscape of groans made as I press lubed fingers into his arse. I'm a trainer, watching his bottom rise up to meet me whilst I fuck him with a strap-on. I check him over, thorough inspection of his function as a sex-object - the mouth, the fingers, his ability to make me orgasm.

Later there will be laughter and chatter as we return to ourselves, as I rest his head on my chest and play with the back of his neck, enjoying the warm, sweating animal presence of his body, like a horse ridden hard. The memory of the heady feeling of total control remains. As ever, that is the element that I enjoy the most - the fact that I can do whatever I want. Whatever and whoever Mr Smith is when he is at home, in that hotel room he is mine.


Just returned home elated and energised from one of the best intimate private parties I've ever been to. I very nearly didn't show because I am wrapped up in the tedium and frustration of house moving and was feeling a little tired and sorry for myself. Which just goes to show how uplifting good BDSM experiences can be: I'm wide awake, hungry, horny and happy. As I write this I'm eating all the food in the house, planning on an excess of masturbation and a long gym session tomorrow. And grinning.

The event was quite specific - boys were going to get fucked in the arse by women. I knew a small number of people going, but it was refreshing to meet - and play with - people I didn't know. There were a number of things that made the day really work for me. First, it wasn't my event, so I didn't have any of the concern over planning or playing hostess. It was also extremely well organised, with lots of lovely touches: cissy maids to answer the door and wait on the women hand and foot. There was an unexpected ratio, for some reason I'd anticipated there being more women than men but there were more of the latter. Usually that imbalance would concern me, but because the invite list had been well controlled, and because the party itself was tailored to strap-on fucking we all knew what we were here for which reduced the pre-amble (or messing about, as it can also be called).

I had a lot of fun with Boy Wonder, helping kick things off by tying him down to a bench, slowly lubing him up with latex gloved fingers (I love the snap as they go on) then fucking him with my vibrating strap-on. I like pulling his hair so his spine arches and his mouth opens in an O of surprise and pleasure. Throughout the evening I kept fucking him, taking the opportunity of Dandy's arrival to assert every woman's right to a show of boy-on-boy. I love the way they complement each other physically and are able to be tender, allowing me to be harsh. I alternated the pair of them between fucking them in the arse whilst they were tied, arms spread and the other sucked their cock.

I love the depth of sub-space that arse-fucking gives - the glassy, dreamy look that follows the moans and whimpers as I fuck deeper and harder. The way that the face becomes slack and the body just starts to wriggle and weave as if dancing to an unheard beat. There is a particular sensation to taking that kind of control, especially given the lack of physical feedback or feeling from the cock itself. The response comes from their whole body, you develop a second sense of how they are feeling from how they are holding themselves, the noises, the way they move against you. It also comes from experience, and being able to use that personal skill and knowledge is very powerful. As someone said: "that's me, making them do that." It's a very dominant sexuality that comes right from forcing pleasure - and pain - out of another body. It requires patience, of a sort, or rather, the longer you do it for, the more you can do. As they get more and more fucked they let go more and more, sinking further into the experience, and become able to go even deeper. The power lies in managing that, in riding the vicarious waves of body-shocks, and controlling their descent.

I am still in awe of a spectacular scene I watched in which a woman fisted and fucked her boy, with the largest dildo I have ever seen, and he came over and over again. After each time we applauded. His entire body twisted as if current was running through it and he went through several octave's worth of ascending moans, shrieks and gasps. Then did it again. By the end his legs were shaking so hard he could barely hold himself on all fours to be fucked again. But he did, inarticulate with pleasure, giggling and staring unseeing at his audience whilst she laughed and called him her baby. It was one of the most erotic things I've seen.

As the night wore on, and particularly after that ice-breaker, the event really warmed up. Unlike many parties there were no wallflowers. Everyone fucked. Everyone got fucked. The energy in the room was very friendly and fun, which really helped - there was a lot of laughter and camaraderie as the boys encouraged each other to strip down and take cock; equally having a group of like-minded ladies around helped spur the strap-on wielders to deeper levels of fucking.

I enjoyed being ably to play on a number of different levels and with different boys, I enjoyed all of it immensely, and being able to watch other women play, as well as how other men experienced strap-on fucking has given me lots of ideas. I gave very slow and delicate explorations with someone I knew to be new to anal play and very nervous - lots of lube, mostly fingers and a small amount of anal beads. I also delivered some heavy beatings and violent fucking to a cheeky bastard - almost the definition of asking for it. By the end of the evening we had a designated sofa for "broken boyflesh" (their term, not ours) where the naked, fucked boys piled around each other, under blankets and with water and sweeties, until they had stopped shaking and could form words, like "thank-you."

I do hope there's another one. And soon.