(Not) like sex? Part 2

Back to Saturday morning.

Falling asleep being able to feel the press of your partner's hard-on against your back is always satisfying, if a little strange because of the padding of the nappy. And the knowledge that you being in the nappy is part of their desire. Still, strange is what you are used to. Another press, this one a little more urgent, from by bladder early on in the morning. There's some murmured conversation with Captain and I'm allowed out of bed to squat on the floor to relieve myself. As I start to do so, he pushes up towards the edge of the bed, putting his cock in my mouth. I find out, curiously, that I can't piss and give head at the same time. Something in my brain is just not wired for that kind of behaviour (lack of practice might also factor) so I concentrate on the important thing, which is him, until he pushes my head back and waits, watching me. I catch his eye. I think I grin, but it might have been a grimace.

It's easier the second time around though, clearly there's a knack to it. There's also a lot of piss - I was dehydrated in the night and drank a pint of water - so there's some leakage, despite the couple of inches of padding, which is now warm, damp and heavy. Exactly like a fat, wet sponge, hanging bulky and awkwardly between my legs. I can't see him, because I've lain my head in my arms against the mattress to steady myself. But I can hear him grinning.

"Fetch that towel, and the plastic pants."

I reach over for the towel and mop up the spill, moving carefully lest I make the mess worse, but most of it seems to have been absorbed now. I'm very clunky in my movements, now in a shuffling pace. The plastic pants have not become any more attractive overnight, the material of the incontinence bloomers reminds me of seventies polyester fabric, only a little slippier and heavier. Waterproof. Institutional. Ugly as sin. I put the pants on and then come back to bed. I can feel him grinning. We fall back into a spoons position and doze some more.

After a while, he gets me to stand up and remove the plastic pants - by now they are wet on the inside from my own sweat and thus even less pleasant. He puts the towel on the bed, and lets me take off the nappy, which is heavy and body-temperature, placing it on the towel. He gets me into a crouch, face hovering above the soaked nappy and I know what's coming next. He fucks me, and at the same time he grabs hold of my hair and pushes my face into the nappy. I go cold all over, despite the warm wetness in my face, a damp heavy cloth that smells faintly of me. The smell is actually pretty mild, nothing particularly offensive or challenging about it. It's what is happening. The way he's holding me down, wrapping the used nappy around my face, pushing me hard into it. I am not humiliated. I am not embarrassed or a little shy or getting any of that funny, toe-curling titillation.

I feel eroded. Degraded. Made less of. I don't feel like I'm participating, I feel like I'm being used. A prisoner or captive made low for cheap laughs. And that hurts, because it cuts to my own sense of who I am and what I am worth. To him. Which matters. Which has come to matter over these past few months. So, I do what I do when things get hard, I exhale and let go: give myself over and let him take my body wherever he wants to put it. I stop thinking about it and try to blank out the moment. Although he's put my hand between my legs I can't really feel my clit, there's no arousal in what is happening, I'm numb. He comes quickly, whispering his pleasure at the act in my ears and I fall down in a stunned silence for a few moments before starting to cry. He picks me up quickly, holding me to him until I've calmed down and we lie there, talking it over.

I tell him I feel made worthless, that I feel emptied out and as if I wasn't important - I could have been just about anyone then, with no face, no will, nothing. Not special. Worse than that, something disgusting. He reassures me, tells me that I'm not worthless, that I am important. As I speak, I realise the contradictions in my words, remember the times when that emptiness would have been extremely erotic, the absence of self, being just a channel for his desire. But it wasn't the same. Instead of being made into something beautiful I had been made ugly and wretched in my own eyes. It wasn't about shame precisely, although I'm sure my vanity played a part, because part of self-worth comes from perceiving myself as desirable. Which I didn't feel. Despite his obvious desire, because my picture of how I looked was different to his. Debasement makes you low, that's what it does: it grinds you down and whilst I expect, like with pain and other endurance submission, there are highs to be found within that, I didn't get that.

Later, over breakfast we talk briefly about his fantasies that revolve around degradation - something I need to delve deeper in, because I want to understand more, we also talk about how the effect he wanted was not the one that happened, that he had wanted me to feel controlled and yes, degraded to some extent, but never to feel worthless or unhappy because of who I was. I'm still not sure how to square the two, in the sense that if someone enjoys and revels in the degradation, does that still make it degrading?

I've asked myself a few more questions since, the main one being, if I really didn't enjoy it, why didn't I ask him to stop, the second one being why did I find it so hard and the third, and most interesting:why does it turn me on now, in hindsight, thinking about it?

The first one is fairly obvious, it was difficult but it wasn't painful and it didn't really push my red button, merely made me unhappy. I was also interested in whether my feelings might change as we progressed and there was, of course, the backdrop of being fucked, which is a comfort in troubled times. I think I found it hard because it was new, so it threw me, it was also unpleasant and made me feel bad in and of myself - it took me to a lonely and isolated place. That's not an uncommon (though it is a rare) reaction for me, I'll sometimes get unhappy during other types of play, not usually because of the play itself but because the act distances me from my partner and I feel adrift and my brain dredges up sad thoughts and ideas. I think much the same thing happened here - I didn't feel part of what was going on. It was also quite swift, so there wasn't much time to absorb and process what was happening, which meant it all occurred in a bit of a whirlwind of stimuli response (mental and physical). Perhaps a note for the future that discomforting challenging play might need to be done a little slower, like edging myself into a too-hot bath.

And the third question. Why is it hot now? And it is hot now, if I'm being honest. Not so hot as to make me rush out and buy some incontinence pants, but hot enough to know I'd do it again. Important too as a memory, as something that I have done. Again, this is possibly a factor in endurance play or any play I've found difficult, there is a sense of achievement, of liberation almost, in having done it. Not just in a notch in the bedpost way (although like those on the quest for the hottest curry, there is also the quest for the kinkiest, filthiest thing) but the element of discovery, of another kink unturned, another string to the bow. Taken in one, including the pre-amble, the night, the morning, the tears and the comfort, it is a powerful whole. Another step, albeit a difficult one.

This town ain't big enough for the both of us

Now, what I should be writing about is "further adventures in the world of humiliation play" or "when humiliation becomes degradation and how you deal with that". But not today.

Today I got an email from The Photographer. It wasn't a long email, and I'm sure I will spend more time, thought and text on it than its words merit (I'm always the verbose one), but it brought a few things home to me. It was a shock getting the email, because I'd asked him to only get in touch if he'd decided to leave his partner and give us a proper, monogamous, try. So my heart was racing when I opened it, after all, this had been the stuff of dreams for a good few months after he'd left: that he'd realise how amazing we were together and want to be with me, just me.

It wasn't about that. No moment of high romance or riding off into the sunset for me today. It was much more prosaic, and much harder to deal with because of its tepid tone. He's moving to London. He wanted to get in touch and see whether we could build up a friendship or at least be able to be in the same place as each other. There were going to be "other things" but he'd "deleted them". Ever the man of mystery, or perhaps the man who doesn't know how to say the right words.

At first I was upset. I cried a little. It brought a lot of things back, especially compounded by the indignity of it all: realising that even after all this time he can still get to me, still hurt me. How vulnerable I am to him, how unprotected my feelings are. How many feelings I still have and what a mess they are.

I developed a split-personality over the email as my heart and my head instantly picked up banners and weaponry over how to proceed. I wanted (desperately) to respond, to congratulate him on what must be a new job, to find out all that has been going on with him, to book in a date and meet him. At the same time, I wanted to respond with a torrent of abuse, demanding to know why he thought that getting in touch now would be a good idea for me and if he'd even considered the impact it might have? After all the conversations in which I'd patiently explained that I really, really didn't want to be "friends", that I had lots of friends and that what I wanted from him was something much more. And how I didn't want to be around him if I couldn't have those things because it hurt too much.

I deleted the email.

It was the only thing I could do. Because there was no response that would ever be adequate, ever really get across the mixture of love, hurt, dismay and anger that it inspired. I'm good with words. But I'm not good enough to compose that note. And I know that either way, whichever tactic I took, I'd end up involved in emotionally draining conversations to no purpose.

If nothing else, it did help me drop a few illusions I've had about him. The first being that he will ever come back into my life in anything like the manner I would like. The second that whilst I might still have love and desire for him (diminishing, fortunately), I don't like him very much anymore. I really don't want him to move to London, however I don't have the ability to close borders so I guess I'll just manage as best as I can and hope like hell he doesn't try to come out on the scene. Or if he does, then that enough time will have passed that I will have a better response than turning on my heel and walking away.

(Not) like sex? Part 1

When I get in the door he puts his hands on my shoulders and steers me over to the bench, he sits me down, then onto my back, legs bent, and starts removing my shoes, tights, underwear. In another universe this would be a prelude to sex, and in a way, it is. He encourages me, with soft, soothing words, like you'd use to a child, to lift up my bottom, manoeuvre around, so that he can fix a thick disposable nappy, made thicker with extra padding, on to me. He dusts me with talcum powder then tapes it firmly into place with rather incongruous silver gaffa tape. I already feel weird. Uncomfortable in the padding, uncomfortable with my body enclosed like this, not entirely sure where this is going. Then the final, horrible touch: plastic waterproof pink bloomers that come up high on my stomach and reach down my thighs. He pulls my skirt down, smooths it in place and heIps me back up, holding me against the mirror so we can both see the bulk of it, under my skirt. He touches the padding, patting it a few times. I wrinkle my nose in disgust at my inflated bottom and duck waddle gait and he grins. He hands me some money to go to the shop. I pause, then accept with a resigned, downturned look. He lifts up my chin and kisses me, full and deep. A "proper" kiss of the sort I don't get very often and I know I should pause and enjoy the moment, kiss him back, but my mind is whirling, heart racing. I don't want to go outside like this. And yet, I also do. I want to see what will happen, to see what it will be like.

"This is like sex for me." He says, and I don't really get it. I get that he's excited, but the feeling isn't really mutual beyond a response to his excitement. Mostly I feel a bit silly. What I definitely don't feel, is sexy.

Once outside, I think a bit more about how I do feel. My feelings are quite complex. There's the response to the nappies themselves, which give me reminders of hospitals, fear of physical degeneration - it's always age, illness decrepitude and senility that adult nappies put me in mind of, rather than infantilisation. I don't want to be, and have never felt like a baby when in them. I feel like me, forced into something awful. It's an ugly thing, bulky and awkward. Awkward too, the thoughts that come with it, body consciousness, erosion of attractiveness and sexuality. But there are other thoughts, as I walk down the (mercifully) dark street towards the off-licence. The waddle is also a bit of a wiggle, the padding has given me a bigger, curvier bottom and the bulk between my legs forces me into a different gait. My skirt has slits down the side and I'm uncertain as to whether the ghastly pink plastic pants can be seen as I move. That turns into the desire to be seen, which is where my exhibitionist streak runs roughshod over any sense of embarrassment, as I remind myself of the many ridiculous things I have chosen to do in public, and this is a choice. Whilst I have not picked my own attire I have chosen to do what he wants. I wiggle a bit more, wondering if the passers-bye catch a glimpse of the plastic, wondering what they think, wondering if they will make eye-contact, perhaps say something. Grinning to myself about what I might say.

It's over in a few minutes, even some conspicuous leg shifting in the shop failed to get anyone to notice, and I walk back without incident, smiling to myself. On return, there is a flurry of "good girl", smiles, tea, biscuits and curling up on the sofa. My fingers wrapping around his as I lean against his shoulder and snuggle up to him. Content.

I want to take a moment and draw a line between two types of humiliation. The first is a sense of discomfort within oneself, the second a sense of discomfort that arises from social situations. In this respect, embarrassment can occur when you are by yourself, whereas humiliation requires other parties and, crucially, is a guilty or otherwise awkward response arising from the social approbation of others. This distinction is fairly important to me (maybe not so much for others, I'd be interested in hearing about that) partly because of my exhibitionist fetish, which can work in tandem with "public humiliation" and turn it into more of a potential thrill, as with the walk to the shop, and also because the sense of discomfort about myself is far stronger than a sense of discomfort given to me from someone else. I can often brush the latter away because of my submissive state - I'm in this position because someone has put me in this position, it's no fault of mine etc.

As the evening wore on, I thought about the sexuality of humiliation. It doesn't work for me merely because it turns my partner on and I find his desire sexy - though that sparks my interest in trying and is a natural draw. There is the D/s aspect of control, particularly control over the body and those bits of us we normally consider private. The nappy acts as a chastity device. This can create a sense of intimacy, of trust and through that a connection. When I'm doing something difficult, feel like I am really submitting in instances like this - I am clearly being made to do something I don't want to do (although compulsion is a little strong given I acquiesced without only a couple of half-hearted whines of complaint on the way it made me look). I am submitting to his will. I am allowing him to do something to me that makes me feel uncomfortable. So I get to be submissive, which fortunately for me, is a sexual thrill, like the exhibitionism. Titillation. It was embarrassing, in the classical sense of it being a disruption of my own composure (from the french embarrasser meaning to block or obstruct).

So far, so good, so thoughtful. But then it came time to go to sleep. As anyone who has ever possessed a bladder knows, there is a relief in urinating, especially when you really need to go. And once we went to bed, I really did. But I couldn't. I then endured several hours of extraordinary frustration. I knew that the nappy would keep me dry and so assumed that I would find it pretty easy just to piss when I wanted to. Yet I didn't. There was no constraint upon me not to: Captain was actively encouraging it, reminding me to relax, stroking my skin and hair. I had this immense pressure in my stomach area and the clenched muscles and heightened sensitivity around my labia was, in a very real sense, sexual. I could feel his hard-on against my body, he was playing lightly with my nipple piercings and I was definitely turned on. My legs and arms hand tensed up in the same fashion as the build-up to orgasm, with all the attendant difficulties. No amount of relaxing, tensing, cat-napping, breathing exercises or sheer bloody mindedness seemed to work. I was very upset with myself, starting to feel like a failure and cursing my body no end. At certain points I began to be confused as to which I was actually trying to do as either would have been a release at that point, and I was bitterly confounded by my body's apparent refusal to "let go", which in turn not only made me feel more physically uncomfortable, but also as if I was holding back for an unknown reason.

Eventually, he encouraged me to get out of bed and squat on the floor, stroking my hair whilst I was finally able to piss. The warm wetness flooded around me, then was absorbed by the material, which got noticeably heavier. There was a definite - almost defiant - sexuality in pissing, though, the connection to orgasm was very strong. It was quite liberating, as well as powerful. I entertained thoughts of pissing on someone, on their naked back, into their mouth, to mark them as mine. The nappy didn't exactly support those fantasies, but the sensation of finally urinating worked for me irrespective of the coverings. He broke through this reverie, hammering the humiliation home by demanding I refer to it as "pee pee" when informing him that I'd finally managed to do it, which did make me feel silly, bringing a rush of colour to my cheeks, followed by a bit of a giggle. The relief was overwhelming, in more senses than one, not least being able to climb into bed and fall asleep.

Negotiations

"Can I hit you with this?" A long, black evil-looking crop is waved in my face. I squirm.

"No"

"What if I start slowly and build up?"

"No"

More swear words may have been involved in my response. I don't quite remember because that was not an ideal moment for scene negotiation. The request was perfectly polite, but came from someone who I didn't know very well - I've chatted to him briefly at a club and met once or twice at a munch. The main issue, was the context. I prefer to select my partners after exchanging a few messages either online or at a munch then meeting up with them for a date or two in a vanilla environment, perhaps coffee or dinner, then a discussion about what we might do should we decide to proceed. It's a lengthy process, perhaps, but has yielded good results thus far.

So I tend to feel rather on the back foot when a conversation starts whilst I'm tied down to a spanking bench playing with someone else. I'd already taken some (very pleasant) leather-gloved open palm action from Kobe, someone who I had agreed to play with a priori, including sending a text message a few days before to confirm this. I was a little flushed, starting to get happily spaced out and felt for all the world like I was suddenly in a BDSM Jane Austen comedy of manners as someone else requests to cut in during the dance. Fortunately, Kobe had a better grasp of the English language at the time and was able to sort it out and I think everyone went away happy whilst I got to nuzzle appreciatively against his face before he pushed me back down into the dark, head-shaped cavity of the bench. It was actually a rather nice moment because it reflected well on his ability to control a situation and manage my desires.

The issue was not about whether I would want to play with that person. It was about whether that was a good time to decide. For me, it wasn't. I expect that other people may have behaved differently. It wasn't just that the scene itself was interrupted, more that perhaps there was an assumption of the "house submissive" in the air, possibly because of my role as a maid. Looking back on the evening, I can see how the confusion might have arisen: there were a couple of people who did touch me, play with me and press cake into my face (I'm repeating this for emphasis, also it was hot, thank you Hedwig) but these were all people I knew quite well and had played with before. The situation was resolved pretty quickly, and no harm was done but it did get me thinking about individual expectations of protocol, "scene rules" and how they really are not as fixed and firm as we might like to suppose, especially in a more relaxed and private atmosphere as a party that doesn't have a published set of acceptable and unacceptable behaviours.

There is no such thing as one fixed code of conduct within BDSM. I've posted a few times on my own perceptions of how the etiquette and behaviours of the scene communities might operate - most recently here and here. There are certain things that everyone can generally get together and agree on which are more or less an extension of general social practice with a bit of "being English" thrown in for good measure. But there will always be shades of grey and differences of opinion. Just as everyone has their own viewpoint on what they enjoy within a BDSM context, everyone has their own understanding of how they want to practice. Which can sometimes cause difficulties.

The important thing is that other people's boundaries are respected, as they were in the situation above, where everyone was clear and understanding. Protocol is important, not just because it's nice to be polite (though it is), it's also about protection and safety - for the dominant and the submissive. Which can also extend to emotional protection, good protocol can make a submissive feel safe and looked after, avoid the worst of dom guilt and provide a framework in which to develop a D/s relationship.

Service with a smile

Saturday was Captain's house warming party, and we've been running around trying to make everything perfect. A combination of DIY, BDSM and OCD on both our parts over the past two, hectic, weeks since the flat move meant that once 6pm rolled around and people started to actually arrive it was something of a relief. We were ready. The night managed to encapsulate a number of hot topics that pushed all of my "must do this well" buttons, so I had spent the day being a bit fraught, especially due to a series of irritating stresses such as delayed deliveries and arranging pick-up of new laptop that wasn't ready at the promised time.

But I was there. Finally. Food and drink was all laid out, a second maid had arrived and the decision made that I was in charge and she was my maid-in-training (which had all sorts of connotations for the future). We got ready together and chatted a little, which felt something like being backstage before a show, I wasn't precisely jittery, but I was very keen for everything to go well. I was acutely aware that whatever I did wasn't just going to reflect on me, but also on Captain. And I wanted him to be happy, to be proud of me, and of us.

At first, I'd really been very nervous about the maid costume. It felt a lot like roleplay, which isn't normally a turn on, and it was also domestic service, which is also something I don't do. But there were other elements. First, I wasn't a maid - I was a dolly maid. Baby pink wig, with matching make-up and nails in tandem with the PVC black dress and frilly lace accessories made me feel much more cool, calm and collected. I felt sexy, too, which I had really not expected. I'd anticipated enduring this outfit, at best, it was a trial to be gone through to amuse and entertain Captain and our guests. But it was actually quite a lot of fun. It was a little silly, I bent over and showed my bottom a lot, Mrs Magpie spent the entire evening failing to keep a straight face every time I pouted or poured a drink from a kneeling position.

There was also something a bit deeper going on. Perfectionism is a part of my submission, as is a desire to please my partners, I also always like dressing up, kink and being told I'm pretty and a "good girl" (there were a lot of compliments and flatttery, including a couple of requests to keep or kidnap me). Add to this that in my general life, I like hosting parties and feeding people lovely food and drink. I was pretty high on the praise before anything kinky had even started, and it was fantastic to have my efforts acknowledged, in a way that very rarely happens in the day-to-day, or when it does is always a bit offhand and lacklustre. Here, I felt centre-stage and full of praise. Reactions were varied - some people loved being waited on, others were a little flustured, some still were not quite sure how to handle it, others giggled - but all were welcome. Exhibitionism requires reactions of some sort, and there were plenty going around.

Serving itself was a lot like work. Because it was work, as anyone who has ever done silver service or waitressing will tell you. Even with someone else to help, bustling around making sure drinks were filled, food was doing the rounds and greeting people on arrival kept me very busy. Added to that the importance of looking and sounding good whilst doing it. After a few hours my feet were hurting (high heels and fishnets meant I had diamond patterned soles the next day). It also meant that I wasn't really able to talk to my friends much, particularly once the party started to get going. The enjoyment was not coming from the social aspect, but from the kinky side - from seeing everyone in the room happy, from making people feel "decadent" in the words of Maple. There was a serious pleasure in knowing that I was creating that atmosphere.

Later on, the kink part of the evening started. After a "not-punishment" spanking in bondage, Captain found a pink ball gag to match the wig, pulled my knickers around the tops of my legs (which later fell off, of course) and left me to wander round with one arm behind my back and a tray of canapes, I truly felt like a Michael Manning creation. A BDSM iconic fantasy. Which I played up to, naturally. I was able to be a little cheekier, a little more interactive now I couldn't speak - winks, muffled noises, deliberately confusing gestures. Hedwig captured the spirit of the whole thing by taking one of the cream cakes I was offering around, checking with Captain - always a nice moment - then smearing it slowly and deliberately into my face. The feeling was not unpleasant - like a lot of supposed humiliation play, it has the initial shock of transgression, then the flood of liberation, particularly so as an exhibitionist because it means more people look at you. And getting excited, turned on or embarrassed by you. And have to go and fetch cameras to take pictures of you. Which naturally, you pose for. After being paraded round for a bit to cries of mock pity, I got fussed over by some of the other submissives who cleaned my face for me, adding an exciting touch of complex hierarchy to the mix and setting me to think on how submitting to Captain whilst having a group of slaves, pets and servants to play with would make for a very exciting evening. We're contemplating a dinner party as the natural follow up. I am putting in my request for someone to put my feet up on.

A boy's eye view

Here's the challenge: being queer, feminist, sex positive and kinky in an heteronormative sexual environment. I write this following a conversation with Majeste and Mrs Magpie, as we tried to balance the desire to look good (and thus feel sexy, confident and suchlike) without feeling like we were being categorised according to what we were wearing, or, more to the point, without feeling like our ideas of "looking good" are responses to male sexual desire. This was even more complicated for Majeste: at least I can affirm that male sexual desire is interesting to me and that my submissive tendencies make responding to it part of my own sexual make-up.

We were talking about club Black Whip which I've never visited (although do hope to do so), but which Majeste had recently attended. Ostensibly, it's a club for black, female dominants. However, the impression that was received was that is was more a club for men who wanted to be dominated by black women. I'm not casting aspersions on the club, far from it, rather I'm using it to emphasise a general trend, which is also observable in mainstream sexuality, of desire being male-led, of catering to male fantasies and of, effectively, all sexuality being male sexuality.

In her book, Female Chauvinist Pigs, Ariel Levy coins the term Raunch Culture, describing western society as hyper-sexualised. Rather than the 70s bringing about a sexual revolution in which we are all free to enjoy whatever type of sexual experience and gender expression we wanted we are instead caught in a closed system that only classifies a very narrow field as "sexy" and does so in abundance: sexy is when women are made attractive and available for the male gaze. Whilst Levy is primarily focused on criticising the way in which women have been co-opted into this system as equating "sexual freedom" with "going to lap dancing clubs". My issues with lap dancing clubs are reasonably well known, but putting that aside, where is the room for female sexual expression that doesn't merely ape male sexual expression. Can we find enjoyment in doing something other than gyrating on a pole, or watching other women do it?

My interest was particularly piqued by the similarities I found between the sexual mores of the world Levy describes and those generally found within the BDSM scene. Surely, I thought, surely we kinksters are much more alternative and varied in our sexual expression - it can't all be young, attractive girls with big boobs dressed in tight black latex and getting hit or hitting people?

A quick glance at the internet is probably enough to prove me wrong. Whilst there are some sites and publications that cater to the wider market, the pervert's porn is very much like the vanilla porn. Except in black. And shinier. The emphasis here is on the look and sexualisation of the female for the consumption by the male. I'm not sure whether this is entirely driven by the vanilla world becoming more "extreme" (one could point to the rise and rise of hardcore pornography) or more accepting - one could say, expecting - of nude and semi-nude women in compromising positions.

It could be argued that porn on the internet is always going to be more reflective of the mainstream, but here's another argument - the standard BDSM aesthetic touted around is not so much a reaction or rebellion against vanilla sexuality and gender norms as logical conclusion of it. Let's take some examples - the standard expectation of "girl on girl" and the rejection of "boy on boy", the eroticised dress of the dominatrix as roughly similar to that of the submissive - revealing, figure hugging, with high heels, the high conformity to gender norms (and yes, I know that I might be adding to this through the Doll Project, though hope this works to explore and challenge the issue), the total lack of decent, sexy fetish clothing for men that don't make them look like a vinyl Count Dracula.

The important thing to recognise is that this is not female sexual empowerment. It's not anyone's sexual empowerment, if anything, it's a reduction, a weakening, a limitation. We need to challenge the stereotypes that exist within BDSM, not because I am looking to criticise sexual choice (and vanilla kink is a sexual choice, no matter how much we might look down our noses at it), but because I want to widen sexual choice. Next step is working out how.

Twenty four long hours

Dinner last night with the kinky ladies, Spiral, Painted Lady, Mrs Magpie and Majeste were all in attendance. We had a good catch up, mostly revolving around each other then, planning our next play day, and wondering how many other women we could invite to the party. We also balanced our diaries, and I was able to come away with a handful of exciting dates for the future.

I turned up a little stressed - running a late due to work and generally feeling somewhat behind the times due to my laptop dying over the weekend (I am still in mourning and have yet to be able to go shopping for a replacement - this will, after all, likely be the most significant relationship of my next three years). Fortunately, at least one thing was in place - what I needed to wear, and how I was to behave. Majeste, as a "taster" had requested a little bit of the doll. We were both concerned over being to overt about doing a scene or anything over dinner, so we settled on protocol. I asked for some rules of engagement, she sent them over:

I will wear heels
I will not touch, kiss or greet her on arrival
I can flirt with her during dinner
She will not flirt with me during dinner
I will wear something that is reminiscent of the Secretary Doll
I will drink what she drinks, what she orders or pours for me
I will sit across from her at dinner
I will walk behind her at all times

Rather than being stressful, they codified my behaviour, gave me limits in which to operate. What I was going to wear was decided for me, alongside other social interactions. My evening was made easier, simpler. It also gave me an opportunity to show off, to show what I was made of, at least. I like getting dressed up and being taken out, especially when, the next morning I get a flattering and complimentary email about my behaviour, a desire to fuck me with a fist full of lube, which gave me the usual fear/excitement I've come to associate with her. We're planning a classic date - dinner and a movie - and the soft kisses alongside stern rules received before leaving to catch the train home give me something contradictory to remember her by. I love pleasant contradictions.

Message from Captain once I'd landed back to head over to his to provide some lip service, so I grinned to myself and turned around to head out again, always happy to pick up some mid-week action. Which was not to be. Despite phone calls and angry buzzer pressing he'd managed to fall asleep between my setting off and arrival (next time I'm going to request he sends a car for me and that I have a set of keys). So it was home again, after hanging around in the cold waiting for a bus, heated with the rage of my internal fuming, as anyone who follows my Twitter will have noticed. Not made much more mollified by getting an apology phone call just as I was drifting off to sleep.

The morning found me distressed, still grumpy and very horny. Three orgasms later, the final one against the cold press of a glass dildo to compensate for my feelings of incompleteness and to enjoy the wet/smooth dynamic. I tried to work out what to do next. I knew, really, that it was an accident, but still felt let down by it. We had a few text exchanges in which I expressed displeasure and then I had a thought that made me smile. Homework for Dominants: something to make me feel better.

In this case, he came up with a kinky shopping and clubbing trip to Europe. And plenty of rubber. We then spent the rest of the day planning his future exploits in the blogosphere and things for his flatwarming, so all in all I feel like I'm in a whirlwind of BDSM. Which is no bad thing.