Style remains

I don't often feel compelled to make fashion comments, and certainly don't intend to steer this blog away from its prime focus on things I have done, thoughts I had and how I felt about it all. That said, the sartorial code of BDSM is certainly noteworthy. I think that the aesthetic aligns neatly with Hebdige's thoughts on the punk subculture: that it is very consciously created, deliberately made or artificial. Some costumes are an obvious parody of the use-origin of the outfit upon which it is based. We get wipe-clean PVC policeman, slutty schoolgirls and not-at-all prim Victorian ladies. There's an element of wish fulfillment here, of turning those real world authority figures into fantasy Doms, and translating actual innocence into submission, and why not? We dress up to help create new worlds in which to play.

I like to think that Coco Chanel would have approved of the basic adoption of black by the scene, although it's hard to define one particular reason why that colour specifically should be the basis of the kinky wardrobe. There's the associations of the colour: edgy and dark (literally), gothic, mourning, formal and eternally stylish. Black is also simple and works well with the materials generally chosen such as leather or rubber, which helps distinguish fetish wear from cyberpunk or just plain punk.

Form is almost as important as colour. Tightly fitting items that accentuate body parts, or expose them. High heels extend legs and limit movement, as do hobble skirts. There is an exaggeration of posture with wasp-thin waists caused by crushing corsetry, or a removal of identity using encasing suits and hoods, leaving nothing but the shape. A reduction into silhouette. And we love our accessories: handcuffs, chains, studs, all kinds of toys and the pratically defining element - the collar. Sometimes it is those little touches that turn a normal everyday outfit into something kinky, a little code in silver around the wrist.

Of course, there is always the option of just turning up naked.

Now you see me, now you don't

Having exploratory conversations with Master Sculptor who very much likes the idea of The Doll Project and a variety of other exciting types of manipulation. With any luck, and all diaries being equal, we should be able to meet for drinks next week and see whether we are still amenable to each other's desires. He's also interested in training a slave (something he's currently working on with his partner) and has some fairly intense ideas. He mooted the point that the ultimate control would be to completely take power over my body: to be able to command or prevent orgasm or sexual desire, even when he wasn't present.

A large part of me considers that unlikely, not to mention unfair on my other partners, and I told him so, but fortunately he wasn't deterred. Now, I'm not at all sure how I would respond to that type of Domination, or even if I would be able to maintain those levels of submission away from him. I have always kept a very distinct barrier between when I am me in play and when I am me, being me. I'm not submissive at work, for example, or when I'm with my friends. Submission is a release from the day-to-day, a break from reality and an immersion in a play space so there is almost a necessary gap. I often use a significant token in order to distinguish these states - with Ethical Hedonist it tends to be either a collar or being tied up; The Photographer and I have a nice gesture in which removal of jewellery indicates my readiness to submit.

These items help both of us to know where we stand, to be able to relate to each other in a clear manner, and it might be very interesting to work without these signs. Although that said, certainly they have been very useful in the past to contextualise play and not-play which has helped connect with my partners as friends as well as play partners - a difficult thing to do when you are in a submissive headspace.

Fit the crime

As someone who tries to be a "good" submissive I tend to miss out on the punishment angle. Whilst pain-play can be easily incorporated into a scene by a Dom who just fancies doing that, there is a particular context that punishment can give. The sense of deserving is key for me, of the pain being justified and correct, which is heightened by saying "thank-you" afterwards, in appreciation of the effort that has gone into the activity. There is also a wonderful sense of satisfaction to it all: I like the idea that I am doing something well so I am happy with the thought of being modified and improved. Punishment is a part of that, alongside being able to take the beating without complaint, and perhaps even with pleasure.

There is an interesting balance to be struck between reward and punishment, particularly when the two can be easily exchanged. For example, I rather enjoy flogging so wouldn't necessarily consider it a punishment, although it can certainly appear to be one. Similarly, a current reward is being allowed to sleep in collar and cuffs. This works because I want to submit and to be played with. An appropriate punishment suggested a while back by The Photographer would be to ignore me, or to put me in a corner, or even (perish the thought) to send me home.

Connections

Speaking to a close friend apropos BDSM relationships, polyamory and how it was all going. He commented that he thought it was going to get complicated emotionally because "you are more likely to fall in love with someone who is giving you lots of orgasms." I'm not sure whether this says more about him or about his opinion of me, but decided that the point was worth giving a little thought to. It seems very cinematic, to me, and therefore totally false. Picture it: first fuck with a new partner, rolling over post-coitally in bed (assuming that quantities of bondage allow such a thing) and declaring in that chemical flush of prolactin to the brain that you are in love, truly in love. Intimate, absolutely; close, yes; happy and content, certainly. Love? Probably not.

The fact is that if love were solely linked to orgasm then I would be in love with myself to the exclusion of all others, with the possible exception of a wonderful young man I once knew when I was nineteen and our relationship consisted of fucking, lots. At the time, we did believe ourselves to be in love, and maybe it was love, of sorts, but I now think that it was perhaps more hormones. On the other hand, I've been in love with someone with whom I rarely fucked, which was a bone of contention, but never stopped me loving him.

I think that great sex makes you more pre-disposed to being or falling in love, but then I believe that to have good sex you need a connection in other ways - attractiveness, friendship, good old fashioned compatibility.

Group effort

I'm naked, fastened to a wall by my wrists, facing the wall in a small room of people I met a few hours ago. American Dom in London is running through a confession scene: a violet wand has been crackling in the background for the past twenty minutes whilst he warmed up my ass with a few well placed spanks, something that I'm not usually interested in but his technique is good and the sensation soon gets me down into myself. I lay my hands flat against the wall, relaxing and allowing my legs to be parted and hauled roughly backwards so my ass sticks out.

The delicate scratching of the wand plays up and down my legs, over my thighs, teasing against the sides of my cunt. I can feel myself getting warming, and wetter, as the sharp seductive electrical sparks shudder over my skin. As usual, I am quiet and calm, trying to hold my face impassive and remaining still, a canvas for him to paint out whatever scene he feels without distraction. It becomes clear he's looking for a stronger reaction, an actual confession, but I'm not prepared to fake anything, and I won't make a sound unless I have to, unless I'm made to.

He turns the setting up and unclips the cuffs to move me around so I am able to catch a glimpse of the little crowd. I like this, being exposed and viewed in this way, but do my best not to show it. An unexpected shock catches me by surprise and I moan out loud, stamping my foot to release the tension, there is a ripple of laughter and comments. Another Dom takes charge of the wand which he runs up between my legs, alternating with light brushings from a flogger. Eventually, more out of timekeeping than anything else, we decide that enough is enough and I'm taken down, wrapped in a blanket and given a cup of tea by a kindly soul. In lieu of an actual confession, I relate a scene that I've particularly enjoyed in the past, before lying down in American Dom in London's lap and taking a well earned break.

There's a real comfort in playing with this group, apart from the fact that everyone is very lovely. There was a genuine sense of fun combined with a serious understanding and appreciation for what we were doing, the safety and enjoyment of all involved. Looking forward to seeing them again.

Come down

Very good party with American Dom in London yesterday night, some lovely people there and hopefully lots of potential to see and do things again. I'll write something specific later about the actual play, because there were some interesting bits, but I wanted to get my current thoughts and feelings down first.

Usually after a night of play I feel very upbeat, perky and with a wide I-know-something-you-don't-know grin to bestow upon strangers. This morning, I don't. I was fine until I got home, a little tired, but that's to be expected. I feel low, I suppose. Not precisely upset but certainly down, and in the mood to do nothing more than curl up with tea and chocolate and strong arms wrapped around me. I have the tea and chocolate, but it's not quite enough.

I don't think it's a knock on effect of the play or the people, I certainly wasn't lacking in aftercare last night or this morning, plenty of hugs and feedback were available, and I felt very looked after. Now, by myself, I definitely feel a little empty. Not anxious, I'm actually very calm. It struck me as being particularly noteworthy as this is the first time in a long while that I have experienced such a level of come down. However much I know that I will feel much better after a nap and some time to decompress, the fact remains that right now, it is not easy and it is not nice.

Spitting games

Ethical Hedonist and, more recently, The Photographer have both spat on me during play. It's interesting because it conveys utter contempt, is totally socially unacceptable and a little bit dirty. It carries a warning, of violence and hatred, and also the underlying messages that anything can, and will be done to you. I wouldn't say that it is especially enjoyable in and of itself as a sensation, but the context in which it is performed can be very exciting. What particularly works for me is having my mouth held open by a gag or forced open so someone can spit in my mouth, the added helplessness and intrusion adds a certain edge.

I don't feel humiliated when it's done to me, instead it adds to my feelings of being made into an object, or a Doll and these things don't get humiliated. It makes me submerge a little further I suppose, as I push down the normal feelings of revulsion and try and remain still, so it does subdue me somewhat. I think that the humiliation could come with a more reactionary roleplay - a prison scene (something that Ethical Hedonist has mentioned) or similar. Ultimately, I think it's an optional extra rather than something that will have me instantly begging for more.

Bottom to top

The Photographer and I attempted a modicum of rape-play last night, and I had a lot of fun squirming ineffectively with the skirt of my dress around my waist and his knee pressing down into the small of my back, pushing me onto the bed before he fucked me. After a while, he turned me round onto my back and made me lie still, legs spread, eyes closed and face impassive, learning to be an object of use, with the threat of being hurt if I moved. A small part of me wanted to wriggle a little just to see what would happen but I complied.

Later on, after a gin and debrief session on the chaise longue (a much adored piece of furniture which makes you feel instantly languid) the tables were turned somewhat. Idly playing across his back with my fingernails made him lean into me, making soft little moans which I interpreted as a desire to be put into cuffs and collar. I decided to become a little less idle and spent some time discovering how hard I could press into his flesh and how long it took before he begged me to fuck him.

I'm still finding my feet with topping, but the more I do it, the more I get out of it, and certainly I was very happy to move him about and generally use him to my own satisfaction. Which I did, and it worked very well. That said, my mindset is such that I am very conscious of his sensation and there is still a strong aspect of ensuring that he is enjoying himself as well. We share a lot of likes and dislikes which means that I can generally do to him most of the things that I enjoy being done to me. I'm not yet used, or in the right frame of mind to go down the route of command and control, with punishment / reward for certain kinds of behaviour. We did limited bits of this, such as him having to ask permission before he came, and I think there's definately opportunity for more.

He slept with the cuffs clipped neatly to the collar, and woke me with light kisses to the back of the neck. A person could get used to this.

Points of interest

I seem to be going through a moment of relative calm, in contrast to previous hectic activity, and arrangements are settling down somewhat, which gives me chance to contextualise everything in my brain. American Dom in London accused me of intellectualising too much recently, and whilst thinking too much can do you harm, it's not nearly as much as thinking too little. Still, we'll see how that pans out over the weekend at the St Trinian's party, which I've been assured is more of a costume theme than anything else.

The Photographer and I manage to see each other fairly regularly, and this is something we're both very happy to continue, possibly interspersed with playing with Lovely Couple as all seem to be in agreement that it went well the first time around. I'm seeing him tonight, and we're idly musing as to whether rape play might be a game of choice for the evening. Perfect dinner discussions. My other partner, Ethical Hedonist is going away for a while with his lady, but I hope to catch him on his return. It must be summer because Offensive Charmer is also not to hand so I can only respond to his electronic wishes.

However all is not entirely quiet, Plastic Artist has gotten back in touch so we now need to start talking more seriously about whether or not I'm a suitable candidate for being encased in latex. There are also a few charming young men who have contacted me and we're working on whether we might like to actually see each other. In the real world.

Sleep tight

"There you are," said The Photographer, as he fastened the leather cuffs to the metal ring at the front of the collar around my neck, "safe and sound". Which I was, and I felt very calm, lying there in the dark with his arms around me. We'd spent most of the afternoon and evening fucking and I'd just been allowed to make myself come so was tired but happy.

There is a particular sensation to sleeping tied up, to be held in such a way, constrained and kept in a certain position. I curl up on my side, smiling to myself at the sounds that the clip makes against the metal on the cuffs as I re-arrange myself. I don't sleep deeply when I'm tied up like this I woke a few times in the night in that peculiar half-asleep half-awake stage that feels like dreaming.

I suppose some part of my subconscious is waiting for something to happen, that there is an expectation upon me of readiness because of my bondage. I wait and anticipate, thinking about what it might be like to be woken in the middle of the night to perform a service, to be fucked. It's also a very comforting sensation, to have been prepared for bed, like being tucked in. To be treated with level of care and attention makes me feel very special. So I am both content and in readiness. Submissive sleeping.

Filthy Language - Part 2

I like being talked to whilst being fucked or toyed with, vocal interaction really works for me on a number of levels. First, and this is especially relevant when I'm blindfolded or if I can't see you, it helps me know you're there, and the presence or deliberate denial of this fundamental form of human contact can thrill me. I also like knowing how you're feeling, a big aspect of BDSM for me is to be pleasing and just hearing that I am, or even better, being told how to be, turns me on.

I have a tendency, so I'm told, to be relatively quiet during play, which stems partially from my love of objectification and also my desire for service in which silence implies good behaviour and being seen and not heard plays a large part. I don't so much deliberately hold back as relish the tension between my ability to remain passive and those moans I cannot help myself making. But if allowed, I will talk, and although I probably prefer being forced not to, (especially via gags which I love) having my capacity for speech controlled in line with my body is very satisfying.

I love the power of the voice: to be commanded to respond or to be silent, verbalised acquiescence, acts of naming, promises and pleas. Deference in the sentence. There is an art to it, as with all things, dirty talking is as much about style as content. I've always appreciated the softer tone of a natural authority figure, rather than the bullish drill sergeant, the former conveys more of a sense of control, imbued with the assumption that it will be obeyed. After all, I have submitted to you already, I want you to tell me what you want, to help me be better.

Realpolitiks

Speaking to Ethical Hedonist yesterday about the Max Mosely case and the potential impact on the BDSM community. It's interesting to see the variety of viewpoints that are coming out of the woodwork, including the idea that BDSM is fundamentally English, which tallies in nicely with American Dom in London's assumption that we "invented" it. I wasn't sure, but felt jingoistically obliged to accept credit on behalf of the nation. At any rate, there was a certain amusement in noting that most of the coverage that wasn't right-wing condemnation or leftist handwringing seemed to revolve around it being a matter of cultural heritage which is certainly a new positive spin on the scene.

I've always been of the opinion that private lives are exactly that: private. Being an adult is about understanding your needs and those of others and to be able to act in a considerate and realistic fashion in relation to them. My sexuality is a lot like my faith, it's a lifestyle choice that affects my behaviour and decisions in certain situations. I would always balk at using it to require others to do certain things against their will. And I expect the same from others, and from society as a whole. Which is, of course, currently not the case.

I do not actually have an issue with the opposing viewpoints of, for example, CARE or similar organisations. They are entitled to their opinion and lifestyle choices, just as I am to mine. My difficulty lies with the law, and the assumptions that underline the legal process, including the issue of consent not being an acceptable defence, and the nebulous language involved - how transient is a transient mark, for example? The discrepancy between how I behave and what how the law thinks I behave is unfortunate, to say the least. I certainly understand what it means to give consent, even if the law does not.

What is the likely outcome of all of this? Well, getting news coverage is always a double edged sword, particularly for a sector that relies on anonymity as part of its charm, but the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about. If there is an increased discussion of BDSM in the general media that may have the potential to lead to legal and social change, then all to the good.

Lessons

I'm being taken to a St Trinian's Party by American Dom in London in a couple of weeks and he's currently toying with whether he wants a goody two shoes or a naughty girl. I'm not quite sure how I'll manage the latter, given that I've never been bratty (to my knowledge, I'm sure I'd have been told at the time). In all honesty, I've never done schoolgirl appart from actually being a schoolgirl and a couple of dress-up sessions for mostly vanilla partners.

Whilst age play in and of itself has never really interested me and I've never been a Daddy's girl, a similar process is used in regressive emotional treatments, including inner child therapy. The power relationship of an authority figure to bestow comfort, control and just plain being looked after are attractive, so aside from the obvious fun of the physical aspect, I hope that there will be potential for some intense D/s roleplay, but context is king and I am mildly nervous about the cliched aspect of it all.

I think I might giggle if someone asks me if I've forgotten my homework or some such, but then that might not be such a bad thing, and I think that playing through the exploratory sexual side could work very well. I anticipate that wearing the costume will be an experience in and of itself, and there is a worry in my mind that it will feel more like fancy dress than adopting a role, but I hope I'll settle into it.

Playing nice

I'm mostly a good girl, and generally tend towards the well-behaved end of the submissive scale. It plays into my love of being passive, quiet, pleasing and pleasurable, as well as my desire to be objectified and to act as a plaything. I have been known to growl a little or move away from particularly vicious strokes, but mostly I like being attentive and to pay attention to my partners.

On the other hand I do like rough sex and force, to be able to struggle or play through torture scenes. My ability to fight back is woeful, however, according to The Photographer, whilst comfortably holding me upside down and stripping off my clothes. I put this down to a combination of lack of strength and the fact that really I don't want to fight back. I want to give in, I want to let go and to accept my fate. I think there is a sense of being made to play nice that I enjoy, this allows me to experience the initial adrenaline rush of railing against whatever is being done to me, followed by the soothing release (physical and mental) of lying back and taking it.

I always prefer pain play when it's done for a reason, whether it's for the sadistic pleasure of another or as punishment for wrongdoing, to give it context adds that edge for me, it imbues the pain with an extra layer of meaning emphasising my position as something that needs to behave and respond in a certain fashion.

Ultra violet

If you turn the lights down you can see the electrical sparks from a violet wand, and they are pretty. I'm lying naked next to The Photographer, but if I turn my head to the side I'm as much spectator as participant, encouraged to watch by Lovely Couple as the tracery of spider thin veins crackle around his nipple piercings and he yelps in pain. I know he's not enjoying this, and that the sensation must be heightened for him because they are already sore from being played with earlier. If I stretch out my fingers to the left I can stroke his arm, but that is the limit of my reassurance.

There is a sense of putting on a performance, in the way that we are played with alternatively, tormented into responding with jerks or moans. An anticipation also, whilst one watches and listens to the other being shocked, or when the wand moves relentlessly towards a softer, more sensitive spot: breasts, inner thighs, cunt. The latter is very sensitive from having been freshly shaved only a few hours earlier, wet and tingling from the evening's play that preceded this floor show. When the burst is delivered it is stronger than I had expected and my murmurs of pleasure become a sudden cry as the pain hits me.

In a cruel finale, we are alternatively given a bar attachment to hold. The electricity will earth itself if you touch something with your other hand, or, in this case, mouth. First, The Photographer is asked to go down on me and of course I naturally arch up to meet his tongue and receive a shock. It doesn't stop me wanting to feel his mouth against my cunt, but the angle is a little tricky and we change places shortly afterwards. I can see the arc of electricity as it jumps from my outstretched tongue and onto his cock and he squirms uncomfortably, a very unfamiliar reaction for me in this particular act. The desire to pleasure him is balanced with the knowledge that any contact I make is neccessarily painful, and I feel conflicted. On the one hand I want to do as I'm told, to behave and to be good. But on the other I am being asked to hurt him and I can see his reaction, hear him cry out to my touch.

I like the feeling of electricity, the ghostly brush of a sharp burn that has no corresponding impact on the skin. Weightless yet absolutely present. At low levels it shivers against my flesh, half tickling, half scratching like a delicate intermittent tattoo. With more power, the jolts, shudders and gasps it inspires can be impressive. The psychology of it is exiting, that the voltage can be precisely meted out and increased gradually in stages. There is an air of experimental science to it all - how much, how strong and where.

Rigged

I'm on my back, wrists bound carefully together with rope and tied above my head to the top of a rack. My legs are parted, tied to a steel spreader bar which is winched up exposing my ass. I'm wearing a corset and some pants which have been moved to reveal more of me. At some point clamps are attached to my labia, spreading me further. I am being displayed, toyed with. I'm blindfolded so can't see what is happening making it all the more exciting and I can feel my cunt getting wetter as I'm lightly beaten with a crop. Blows alternate between smooth strokes of firm hands on my increasingly receptive skin.

I'm given a cane to bite down on and I relish the further restriction. As the sensations continue, I start to whimper a little, quietly, not out of pain because I'm enjoying it, but because I'm becoming increasingly desperate to be fucked. I know that I'm moving slightly into the blows, craving the continuing stimulation and riding the wave of the escalating impacts. I'm trying not to thrust against them, but I want to. My legs start to twitch and my muscles throb in anticipation of an orgasm that isn't going to happen. I feel myself shake with imposed pleasure as I am held there, pinned.

Beneath the rack is a cage, The Photographer is in it, I heard him being put there. I know he can hear me and I wonder how I sound. After a time, he is let out and made to crawl between my spread legs where both of us can be beaten together. He is also blindfolded, and I know that his cock is bound with a strip of leather. He's on top of me, moaning against my face as the crop hits him and he jerks forward. I can feel his hips against my thighs, I can't touch him and he can't fuck me. It's agony and it's wonderful.

Back to back and face to face

I'm stood back to back with The Photographer, arms linked, my shoulders brush his back and his skin is warm against mine. Bare feet on wooden floors, if I move a little I can feel my calf against his. I try not to move, however, I don't want to spoil the effect, we've been placed this way for a reason.

We're in Lovely Couple's house. If I concentrate I can hear them. Enclosed within myself, I can only imagine how we look and I hope we're pleasing, to the eye and the ear. Right now, the sum of my experience is confined to restricted sounds, heightened touch. Both mine and his.

I'm wearing a soft leather hood and a thick, heavy silver collar, the contrast between the two is elegantly symmetric to it. The collar is a perfect circle, smooth and cool, it has no flex to it, immovable and precise. The leather is warm against my face and warmer with every breath, organic and supple. Opposing forces, holding me balanced between them. We're also balanced. A girl and a boy. Both semi-naked, blinded and collared, submissive and exposed. There's a mirroring of piercings, and of moans as a cane or crop perhaps, drums with increased force against bare skin.

The rhythm is seductive and I fall into it, closing my eyes behind the hood and enjoying the touches as they move up and down my chest and thighs. The flow is randomly punctuated with sharper, heavier strokes which makes me gasp, catching me unawares. The same is happening to him, and I can hear the noise of the impact a second or two before he shudders or cries out.

Later on I'm turned around and can hold him to me, arms about his shoulders in a placed embrace. He twitches against my front in response to the blows, little impulsive movements; small pained noises. I feel more connected to him this way, more aware that he's being hurt and aware to that I'm unable to do anything about it beyond holding him. I wince a little, inwardly lining up the sound and the reflected impact with a perceived pain. I anticipate his sensation as well as my own and I wonder if he's doing the same. In concert.

Hiatus

I've had a little time to myself recently, away from partners and games. I did wonder briefly whether this space would make me rethink any of my actions, and that perhaps on my return I'd be less keen, having had the room to contemplate without distraction. Because I've been out of the scene for a while and only recently returned, I had a slight niggling doubt that perhaps I might no longer be interested in it. That I was only back out of some half hearted urge to rekindle old sensations and that, once removed again, I wouldn't miss them.

Fortunately this didn't occur, quite the opposite, confirming what I had long suspected: being kinky is hardwired in. I have tried vanilla, and I tried quite hard, but it didn't work. No harm done. My sexual palate has not atrophied and I still have a hankering for something a little stronger, something with bite.

This is reassuring to me, I've made the right choice. I'm not dabbling, I'm not having some kind of extreme reaction to the end of a long relationship, I'm not here at someone else's behest. I'm where I'm supposed to be, where it feels right. I'm excited and energised, tanatalised by possibilities, playfully calm.

I'm here to stay.

Anticipation is painful

I'm doing some research at the moment on pain, specifically physical pain. I'm particularly interested in types of pain and how pain can be pleasurable. The International Association for the Study of Pain has provided me with quite a neat starting point in terms of definitions.

This can be boiled down to three key points: whether pain is (as they state) by its very nature always unpleasant; that pain has a psychological and emotional aspect to it and that pain is also anticipatory. The latter is something that I had not previously considered, that the fear of pain is in and of itself, painful. Potential physical damage can hurt us and the anticipation of such is part of the experience of pain. This, of course, links in with the assertion that feeling pain is a two-part experience, occurring both in the mind and the body. We can only appreciate pain because we remember it and have an awareness of it. We feel it all the more when we expect it to happen, the body and mind prime each other for the delivery.

The way that the term is defined always stipulates pain as a negative, citing specifically that experiences which are not unpleasant should not be called painful. Given that pain has an emotional component and that it is always subjective, I think this is almost certainly a grey area. Whilst stating that one person's pain is another's pleasure might seem a little pat, the principle is sound. It's easy enough to appreciate that a balance of pain and pleasure during play is exciting and overall enjoyable, but enjoyment through pain itself is a contradiction that is fundamental to some aspects of BDSM, in particular ideas such as subspace. Under these definitons, such an experience would not be "painful".

Of course, these terms are medical and created for situations in which pain is a sign that something is wrong. This is not the angle that I am approaching it from, but these ideas are useful to contextualise my own explorations. To know that pain is something that you should not be experiencing, whilst actively seeking it out, is interesting in and of itself. To make pain pleasing, and to enjoy the anticipation of both these contrasting sensations: surely worth the wait?

Filthy Language - Part 1

The language I use to describe myself and what I've done builds this world in which I play with you here, now. It's a reflection (in several senses) of my life. My words are my bond, I'm a good bondsman and want you to understand that this is as direct a feed into what I'm actually doing as I can make it. I do my best not to omit things that might be of value or relevance, I try particularly to be honest, especially about anything that is, or was, uncomfortable for me. I'm fairly sure that Ethical Hedonist, Offensive Charmer or The Photographer would pick me up on anything they thought was untrue or muddy. I also try to keep it brief.

I like clear writing and strive for a plain style. I want to be specific, particularly when I'm discussing theory or parts of the body, but I also want the text to flow well so I do wordsmith to a certain extent. I dislike coyness in language and think it's a bit obtuse to be unable to write a word when you can perform the action. It implies a disconnect between what you are doing and how you perceive it, or worse, a fear of "naughty words" if adults could even countenance such a thing.

I write "cunt" rather than "sex" because I think it's more powerful, real and less euphemistic. There's a strength to it, in its provenance and slight viciousness that I enjoy. Similarly, I use "fucking" more often than "having sex" and I never use "making love". I love the hard feel of the word, it seems onomatopoeic to me. I also like metaphor, there's a richness to BDSM that I feel needs a little linguistic luxuriating to adequately describe less concrete things such as feelings, response to sensation. Ultimately, I the use words that I think are appropriate.

I get a few links to other people's blogs, or stories that they have sent me and the words they use and the sentence structure is as meaningful to me as what they are writing about. I make a lot of assumptions about them based on how they write, I expect others do the same to me.

Impressions of me

The cane marks that Ethical Hedonist inflicted a few weeks ago have almost gone, my skin now has the barest smudge of silvery lines across the top of my thighs. Shadows of something you can't really see. In a while, they will have disappeared completely as if nothing ever happened. I'll be back to being an empty canvas once more, the only marks those that I display permanently: my piercings and tattoo.

The hand-made marks from floggers or whips are short-lived mementos, like the electronic imprint frozen on old computer screens. They are notes and reminders, to myself and to others, of a particular activity that is specific and unique to one person and one moment in time. They are the biro scribbled phone number on the back of your hand after leaving the club, something to remember the night by, something to act upon. I can smile in the shower as I catch a glimpse of them in the mirror and can think who put it there and why and when I'll see them again.

The ink and ironwork are different. They stay put. These are the more general markers in my life, decisions I have made about my identity that I felt strongly enough to put on my skin forever. These too, make me smile, but not on any fond memory specifically. When I see them, I'm reminded not of other people and other places, but of myself.

Sugar lumps

I've recently become interested in animal play as a type of objectification and have been discussing this with both Ethical Hedonist and The Photographer. Cats and dogs have never really appealed as it isn't precisely pet-play that excites me, but rather the dehumanising effect of being treated as an animal. As opposed pure objectification the submissive-as-animal has an identity with likes and dislikes, indeed, these whims of behaviour form part of the charm for both playing the role and being played with.

The Photographer had a switch related crisis as to whether he wanted to have a pony or be a pony and so our discussing flitted from both sides of the proverbial fence, which was helpful. Appart from the aesthetics and the kit involved, which are both hugely fascinating and attractive, ponies also operate in a very specific arena of play that makes me eager to try it out. They are trained and trainable but naturally headstrong; they are outdoor animals and beasts of burden. This gives them a certain focus on physicality rather than the emotional connection that might be more involved in puppies or kittens and a purpose beyond being entertaining or pleasing.

In all aspects of objectification I find myself focusing on the use-value of the object, that the connection to the Dom(me) lies in what it does, in achieving something, even if that achievement is in total passivity. That part of my pleasure derives from success in a definable context and that to be pleasing I must pass a certain test.

The Doll Project - Part 3

I've always thought of The Doll as a gendered construct, an enhanced feminine form. Obviously part of this is the fact that I am biologically female so performing a masculine doll would be difficult for me, but there are other reasons. The cultural repetoire of dolls runs from girlish (and garish) Barbie through cold, collectable porcelain to tawdry blow-up sex-aid. They are all icons of womanhood, whether pleasant or unpleasant to consider from a feminist perspective.

In my mind, The Doll looks female, overtly so. A circus freak of sexuality whose identity lies only in use. Balanced precariously on heels to extend the leg and thrust out the hips and buttocks. Thick make-up describing a fixed, red smile and wide kohl rimmed eyes. Waspie corset encircling the centre creating a crushingly minature waist, rouged nipples and a smooth shaved cunt advertise its function.

And it is an "it" rather than a "she" because no matter how the The Doll ultimately appears, and it is likely that over the course of the project there will be multiple dolls, it is not supposed to be an actual woman. It is a toy, an object, a thing to be used. I haven't yet worked out where the pleasure (mine or my partners) will lie in playing with this creation. Will it be in my ability to project something so impassive or perhaps at that juncture when I can no longer mimic something man-made, when I shatter the illusion and buck or break. Is it in fucking a doll or in fucking a real woman trying hard to be a doll for your pleasure?