Master of ceremonies

I've been building up to last weekend for longer than I thought. One of those nights when there's a much needed outpouring of emotion and physicality. I practically run to the venue, feeling my heart beat in my rib cage like it wanted to be free. Which was what I needed. A space to vent. Room to spread out wide and be a big animal. Unlike the compressed anger of my last public play venture this was vastly more positive. All the pre-play exuberance combined with an almost childish excitement for a party.

Well planned private parties are the ultimate safe space to let go. Whilst I tend not to be overly concerned by embarrassment for my sake I do often hold back in public because of other people. Not tonight. The theme and tone allows me as much scope as I want and I feel like I've been let loose. The sense of liberation continues throughout the night, I can't wipe a slightly crazed-with-happiness grin off my face and every now and then a shot of euphoria courses through me.

I'd planned the main event, an onstage scene / ritual with Mannequin, everything else I intended to take it as it comes. Total hedonism was my only goal, to do and behave exactly as I felt like whilst inspiring others to do the same. I'd chosen to "be" Ishtar / Astarte and I had no intention of letting the side down.

First. Outfit. That's important, there's an element of capturing a spirit, embodying something primal and other. To take off (and of) myself: revealing something else. To shock, yes, but to captivate, titillate and entertain also. I have a job to do, yet it's not work at all, but play. I'm here to make sure everyone revels in the night. Stripped to the waist, draped in gold and red silk, my face, torso and arms dripping in liberal amounts of fake blood made from honey that I encourage those present to lick from my skin. I grab a glass of wine from Ringmaster who's dressed as Bacchus, annoint people with blood and we toast to the night to come.

I dance. I love dancing. My body needs to move and move with others. I'm working up to something. There's a dervish-like necessity in what I'm doing, spinning around as the beat inside my rib cage intensifies. And I want to take everyone with me. Grabbing arms and pulling them towards me as I spin. Encouraging as many people as possible to dance with me, to pull them away from the bar and from chatting and into the main space.

When the time comes I know it's time and it's only in that moment that I realise quite how much I've been wanting and needing this, like all my coils and springs have just been released. Tension uncurls. I spring. A nod to my wingmen, Dandy and Fenrir and we're off. Grabbing Mannequin, hearing her squeal, and with satisfaction we jump on the stage and the lights hit me.

Everything feels like it's happening at once.

This is the first time ever that I have deliberately put an overt, explicit element of ritual into my shows. There's usually a sense in which all of my public performances are a personal ritual of some kind but this was different. I needed the crowd. Not just in the way that an exhibitionist needs a crowd but I needed them to watch, to witness, to shout back at me, to acknowledge what was being done and to join in. I remember bits of what I did. Not everything by any means and with none of the clarity or detail of more delicate, private play.

I got a massive head rush. Then this tingling, surging sense of eyes being on me and willing me forward. I roar at the crowd in some kind of address and hear them cheer back. There's an energy in the room and it's not just the buzz of performance spaces, or the heat of sex and sexuality. Power. Echoing back and forth. Calling on them to stop gaping and join in. A call to arms, a call to the spirit of the bacchanal that we are invoking. And I'm saying something as I fuck her but I can't remember what, but I can feel the press and pull of bodies as more are gathered from those onlookers able to step up and into the lights. Spirit steps up behind me and I feel her fuck me whilst I fuck the girl and every now and then I catch the eyes of those up there with me but mostly I just move and feel and listen to the moans. A jug of wine was emptied on all of us. I think I laughed.

Above all, above everything it felt right, it felt easy and it was fun. Cake was thrown (mostly at Captain, who ate it) and the so any conceit of pretension blown out of the water, which was perfect. This wasn't a "serious" sex ritual. This was a free flowing of fucking, affection and bodies. Hands. Lips. Mouths. Cocks. Cunts. And cake.

Later. Showered of cake, wine and honey-blood so I could provide less sticky after-care to Mannequin. Four of us naked in a pile on a sheepskin rug curled up like animals, limbs wrapped around limbs. Content.

Carrot and stick

Following on from discussions of dominance as a kind of gambling, it's worth talking about bluffing. Dominance relies a lot on the assurance of action. More than anything else, the other party must be certain that you will carry through on what you have said. That puts the dominant in something of a quandary regarding bluffing. Bluffing can be great, if you know you are going to win. But if you are revealed to have offered something you can't carry out then dominance goes out the window like a squeaky balloon popped with a pin.

The threat of something can often be bigger, scarier and more terrifying than the actual ordeal itself - how many times have we worked ourselves up over a perceived future confrontation at work, a dentists appointment or a difficult conversation only to find it much easier in the doing than the thinking. That's the essence of anxiety - the mind can be relied upon to blow things out of proportion because the best person to scare yourself is you.

But threats never carried out will loose all their weight. If all I do is bluff I will become known for doing so and I will no longer be threatening. What this means is that my word must become my bond, essentially. This isn't just for negative punishments:it works for pain and reward, in my experience a combination of the two is the best way of getting what you want out of someone. There's a lot of talk about trust in BDSM and this is part of that trust - they must know that you will do what you say.

Nothing is weaker than an empty threat. I'm learning that if I threaten or promise something I must be prepared to carry it out so very careful with what I say, even casually. At the same time, I'm also learning that I'm prepared to carry out an awful lot.

The girl was complaining about how she looked, and I could look at the girl and know those things weren't true. So I made a plan. Then told it to her:

"I'll strip you naked at the next Peer Rope London and you will recite five minutes on your beauty to myself and an audience. Then you'll see how pretty they think you are."

At first she didn't believe me, and there were hurried, jokey comments back and forth. I stuck to my guns. I knew she was getting anxious because other people interceded, and I quietly brought them into the fold. There was no secret about the plan. It was made public via my twitter feed - this was one situation where the threat did not need to be vague, it was terrifying because of its clarity.

I knew I had her hooked when she began to twist. It wasn't "never do this to me!" it was "not like this" or "not like that" requests to do it in private, at a different event, to only be stripped down to pants and bra. She wanted it, but she was scared. And I liked that. I liked it a lot. It made me powerful - the control I could exert, right down to the minutiae, the power from helping someone do something they wanted to do but could not manage on their own. Pulling someone through their fear.

In the background, I made plans, first in my head, then on paper in bullet form. There were a lot of variables and I wanted to be clear on what needed to happen so that I could work out the possible pitfalls. Playing with someone's self image is challenging and can be dangerous. My goal was to make her see herself as other's did - as a pretty young woman, to give her the rush and thrill of public exposure and public appreciation. I really didn't want to make a bad body image worse. I checked in on those who knew her first, for a sounding board. I'd seen her play in public, though mostly clothed, and finally I offered her a full and complete get out. But it was a controlled get-out, and one on my terms. She could say no, but that would mean nothing, no play, ever. We'd still remain friendly, but we wouldn't play.

She said yes. Then she emailed across the text she was going to read out.

I had her. She still twisted, and I smiled and teased and kept telling her that no, she wasn't in charge and it would happen my way.

Then it was the day itself. The venue was busy so I had to wait for a while until it was quiet enough for something to happen without causing a massive disturbance, there's a difference between attracting wanted attention to fuel latent exhibitionist desires and being the annoying bastard getting in people's way. Plus I knew that the longer I waited the more she might begin to hope that perhaps I had forgotten or decided not to do it. In fact, the reverse was true, I was actually somewhat anxious that it was too busy to do it and I knew I had to follow through.

Finally, there was a gap in the crowd and she was standing near me, so I grabbed her. I had her occasional play-partner who'd been playing good cop to my bad cop over email, but now was very much bad cop, delivering a blow to her stomach that I winced at. She went down. We dragged her over to the stairs and began hauling her to the second level. Everyone stopped and watched us briefly, weighing up in a moment or so whether this was something that should or shouldn't happen. We appeared to have passed some sort of silent approval and they carried on. Spirit found us half way up the stairs - I'd talked to her about what was going in, and she helped us carry the girl the rest of the way. She wriggled, not screaming the house down as I thought she might - in fact her stoic silence reassured me that some part of her, beneath the fear, was ready. that this was what she wanted. We were fighting a battle of nerves - mine against hers. Could I steady mine against her obvious distress in order to take her through it and out the other side?

Once at the top, I started to strip her. Shouting orders to scare her, between the three of us we forced her clothes off in between wrenching her this way and that around her struggling form. A crowd gathered and I drew her attention to them. Once down to just her knickers, she began to clam up, going silent and wrapping arms around legs. The change in her body and tempo made me alter my movements. There had been enough stick. Now was time for some carrot. I stroked and soothed her, talking in a soft low voice about how I wanted her to make me proud, about how this was going to happen and it was up to her how it played out. I let her get her breath back and counted down from sixty before getting her hauled to her feet.

She had her poem and was trying to hide her breasts and cunt with her hands. We finally peeled them back and, through shouting, some small violence and whispers of encouragements plus threats to keep her there overnight, or longer if needs be. She began to speak in the tiniest of voices, so I ushered the audience closer. After a few false starts, something clicked and she read through the whole piece. Perhaps she realised that this was happening, or that she could end it quicker if she just started to talk.

I smiled as she spoke. Listening to what she'd written. A rhyming set of verse, well put together, funny and depreciating, but with the required acknowledgements that yes, her body was pretty. I reached in my pocket for the magic marker I had bought in preparation, to write her own words on herself as a memento but it had clearly been lost in the struggle. A shame, but the battle itself was well won. Once done, there was applause, which threw her, then a pile of hugs from the three of us and friends. My head felt like it was going to explode with the rush from what I'd just done.

Not only was I committed to hurting her if she didn't do what I wanted I was also prepared to give treats and praise when she did come up with the goods. Sitting next to her, naked and shaking like a leaf, with a heavy blanket draped over her and eating the chocolate eclairs (I'd checked in on her favourite sugary treat) I'd saved for the occasion. I was shaking too. Buzzing with adrenaline I wrapped my arms around her, feeling genuine pride and a huge amount of energy - I was grinning from ear to ear and still am today. Domspace is shiny, and full of stars.

(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.

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.

Girl on girl on girl on... Part 3

It's the weekend. I'm in a room full of other women in various states of undress and I've gotten to the not-quite-sleepy but very serene state. The pain has receded, that part is over. I've an undercurrent of unsated desire - Hedwig claims she can smell me and I'm not about to deny it. I've gone kittenish, curling up by the heater, lapping water lazily from a bowl that someone has kindly provided. Using my hands doesn't feel right and I roll my fingers into my palms.

Hedwig starts to tie me up. Plain, undyed hemp in neat coils, the mark of someone who knows their craft. I find being put into rope bondage very meditative. I like to think I'm a good rope bunny: I'm long and lean and reasonably flexible (not quite enough for Captain, but then, there's always further that one can go). The important thing is to relax soft muscles and loose limbs can be pulled into better positions. Also, don't try and "help". Move if you are told to move, but otherwise let yourself be wound around. I like to flex a little once they are done, test the rotation and give of the bonds, especially if suspended and I can spin on a heel or similar. But this is floor work, and I'm becoming gradually more enclosed. Arms tied behind my head, elbows spread like a sun lounger catching rays. A harness around my breasts, squeezing them into flat points of pleasant pressure. One leg gets bent, ankle to hip then coiled round and round and round in beautiful, intricate flow of rope and knots. The other leg goes up into a ballet point, I giggle a little as a piece of rope goes through my toes, but otherwise I am content to be silent, smiling hazily. The more I'm tied, the more relaxed I become - it's permission not to engage, and I find myself shutting down a little, as if covered with a duvet and lain down in a darkened room to fall asleep.

There's a strength and expertise in her ropework that I wasn't expecting. I knew she was good, but not this good. I can tell, because she has a definite and defined style, which I am able to appreciate from close quarters: her attitude is controlled but also artistic, making something pretty, creating something. She's quick and doesn't hesitate much, or pause, instead deftly wrapping rope around me in long fluid movements. The rope is firm and well-placed (no flaccid, floppy bands that need to be tightened later!). Instead, when she is done, there is an engaging lattice structure. I feel like a mermaid, caught in a net. A silly, grinning mermaid, all spaced out.

Girl on girl on girl on... Part 2

"Shut up. Don't say anything"

I'm scared. I can feel a ball of panic rising in my throat and I bite my lip. Majeste scares me. This sudden turn from the jovial banter we'd been enjoying whilst I curled on the floor watching the other women play. The gentle nudge and calm decision "I'll play with you now", the pride and flush of happiness, at being the one who was picked (and this from someone who was always last against the wall at games and an awkward teen). Those things are gone. Now there is this. The press of her face right against mine and the hiss of her command as one hand grasps my face and with the other clamps a peg onto my nipples. Inside, I scream. I hate pegs. Especially on my nipples, where the metal piercings seem to make everything more sensitive, reminding me of the fragility of my extremities. I've had a couple of nipple injuries over the years and the memory stays with me, making me flinch at the thought. I wince at the white-hot crush as the pegs go on, that specific pain that slows to an aching throb which is broad but never dull and never goes away, never fades, but peaks and troughs as if the brain is only able to process so much at once. Then there's the knowledge that they will hurt more when they come off. I'm also scared of pegs. Scared of them being pulled off by violent hands, visions of ripping flesh, blood. She's stronger than me. Much. I'm strapped to a chair, ankles, wrists and a leather band around my chest. I feel weak, captive. Frightened.

Being unable to make any noise has a number of effects. First, it makes the pain worse. It makes it worse because there is nowhere for it to go - I can't let it out. Second, it makes me further beholden to Majeste, in order behave, to be the good girl I need to be, not only must I take this pain that I hate but I must be quiet too. Finally it makes what we are doing private, secret and a little bit more frightening. Her voice is insistent, focused, pushing me to comply with pain in silent suffering, like the cruel bully who does not wish to attract attention. My entire body is clenched with the effort of being quiet. I shake and tears prick my eyes. I want to cry, to demonstrate to her how much this is costing me, how good I am being, but I can't. The tears would involve noises. And I have to be quiet.

"Beg me to take it off." My mind does cartwheels. I'm stuck. I can't do this. I shake my head, teeth gritted like a non-compliant torture victim. Which I am. I know that I'm behaving badly, but I can't help myself. I still can't beg. Not even for a release that I genuinely crave. It would be a giving-in, a collapse, rather than a submission. The submission is in offering myself to her, in taking the pain. To ask for respite would be an admission that I am not good enough, not strong enough, not worth anything. I want to be brave. But I'm scared and I hurt. I shake my head again and she presses down. I see blackness beneath my tightly closed eyelids, feeling like my lungs are two balloons about to pop with the screams they contain. I'm conflicted and that doesn't help my fear: she clearly wants me to beg, but I can't do it and remain honest, it would be a fake begging, a begging staged for her benefit rather than one that came from a real place. And she deserves better than that. I'm better than that.

Eventually, somehow (pain play makes my brain hazy) it does stop. There is the softness of her flesh as she holds me to her and I feel safe once again, she is my rescuer, just as she was my persecutor only moments ago. Her hair falls against my bare skin in light touches like the brush of a flogger. As she unties me I cling to her, coming back to myself, feeling sorry that I couldn't give more, take more. Then there's the rush. The heady relief and realisation that the pain is over, that it's done, that I am released. I grin. She grins. I thank her. We kiss.

Girl on girl on girl on.... Part 1

I've been encouraged by Hedwig (amidst lots of lovely praise) to give a bit more breathing room in my posts. So you get two write-ups from the Ladies Dungeon Day, rather than one.

We kick off with a journey. As all good adventures do, though this one involved lots of black coffee to get me up before noon on a weekend. Each of us had brought something along that we especially liked. I had a violet wand and black pallet wrap, Mrs Magpie was sporting a fetching red mac and carrying a latex catsuit, Hedwig had oodles of hemp and Spiral was wheeling an enormous suitcase and pool cue bag that probably contained everything hitty, thuddy and snappy item in the world. We were all quite over-excited and managed to clear an entire carriage with our discussion topics before arriving. Start as you mean to go on, one supposes. It's a rare moment that catches me so comfortable in a group of women, especially women I haven't already known for years and years. But, like the get-to-know-you-dinner a few weeks ago, we were very relaxed with each other. There was a lot of giggles, smirks and snickers. I was personally assured by Spiral that my silly grin at her lugging a large suitcase would garner retribution.

We met up with Majeste, Painted Lady and another two ladies after arriving at the dungeon, (which we got into only once a kind soul came out to collect us from milling about and destroying country cottage holiday home prices with our London pervert attitudes). It was a lovely space - very well equipped, and a cosy size which meant that we ended up sat in a circle, looking a lot like a fucked-up WI meeting. Especially given that between us we had brought enough snacks and drinks to host a country fayre. I was initially worried that there might be a hesitancy to get started, something I've encountered before in group play with relative strangers, however Spiral offered to show someone how to tie a hogtie, I volunteered and stripped off then we were away.

I had worried that it might be difficult to relax or to get into anything approaching a good headspace, but once the clothes were off and the rope was on I flopped contentedly onto the padded floor, letting the conversation circle around me, as if it came from far away. A ball gag and blindfold helped me fall further down and I found myself in a very comfortable and warm space. Not precisely submissive, but limber and happy to be moved one way or another. If I were a doll it was a rag-doll, floppy and without much form. Petted and played with like a favoured toy.

After a while, enough time for my face to be in a pool of my own cooling saliva - something that always kicks me into submissive mode - Spiral picked me up and strapped me to a chair, legs spread, still blind and gagged. Then the pain started. Light at first, soft and exploratory almost, brushes of a flogger, taps with some kind of paddle (I'm slightly convinced, from waffle-patterned red marks that this may have been a ping-pong bat, but haven't pinged her to check). They got harder and more stingy as time went on, she interspersed this with a Hitachi against my cunt, which had the effect of tempering the blows. The two worked in concert - the drive to orgasm and pleasure from the Hitachi (a relatively new experience having been so used to it as a torture device) gave me a rounded, building "high" which allowed me to coast on the pain. Similarly, the heat and stings from the pain made the pleasure better, stronger. I let my head loll a little and went where she took me, carried away. There were a couple of difficult moments had me jolt with panic - clothes pegs on the inner thighs were unexpected and threw me totally, unable to cope with them and having to shake my head violently, which made me feel a little unhappy at having to say "no". But the anxiety was fleeting, much less stressful or unhappy-making than I have experienced in one-on-one situations. I suppose this was part driven by the way she was handling me, lots of pauses to check I was ok, plenty of hair fluffing and holding my head to her, letting me breathe out some of the pain. The other was the context of the group experience itself. There was an eroticism in the air, the light noises of other women in pain or pleasure, the murmur of conversation, the silence of concentration gave the space a focus. The knowledge that others were there, engaged in their own games or possibly watching ours, with no one person belonging or particular to another gave a sense of balance and safety. Much as I love firm and complicated hierarchies, that afternoon gave me an appreciation for a different sort of dynamic, one that was both more flexible and self-determined. No-one was "taken", everyone offered up, whether it was their skills as a top or their bodies as a bottom, the space felt very giving.

I am extremely loathe to put this down to the fact that we were all women, but I am sure that this single gendered space had an effect on how we played. Maybe not because we were all possessing of a uterus, because that is bonkers, but because it gave us a group identity. Perhaps it was the acknowledgement of equals, perhaps it was that we more or less felt the same about how we wanted the day to pan out, perhaps it was that women do play with women in a certain way which is different to how men play with women. I'm not experienced enough with this type of dynamic to say for sure. I know that there isn't one way of playing that women adopt - each of the three tops I played with had their own very specific flavour and I responded to all three in different ways, meaning that I don't submit to women in a particular way either. I'm not entirely convinced that I responded to them "as women" in that sense, certainly I didn't feel as if being hit by a woman was particularly different from being hit by a man. The differences were very minor and generally unconnected to any sense of D/s. Some were quite welcome in fact - it's nice being clasped against soft breasts when you are crying or shaking with pain, for example. Very soothing.

I'm starting to think that my BDSM is very gender-blind, and this certainly adds more grist to that mill - certainly I've found that the more I play with people the less interested I am in their gender than in how they play and what dynamics we create.

On with the show

A cheer goes up as my knickers are ripped off. Little girl white-as-snow pants. They fall to the floor, passed my knees, red with falling over and smeared with blood, one frilly sock has slid down my calf towards the patent black dolly shoes. My legs are trembling, I'm tired, sore, breathing heavily and slipping around as Ringmaster pulls me towards him. I have no traction in these heels and can only brace against the rope around my arms and chest, aiming a decent kick in his direction as I crash to the ground once more. Another cheer. Outside, I'm furious, humiliated, crying with frustration. Inside, I'm grinning.

We're performing at Crimson and it's going well, there's a fantastic buzz coming from the crowd - needless to say we're playing up to it, encouraging the cheers, groans and even veering into pantomime/farce elements with "awwww" inspiring acts of tears and "shall-I-shan't-I" evil villain faces as he pulls me ever closer to the cattle-prod. There is contact. I scream. The crowd laughs.

I'm full of a heady mix of feelings. Caught in the interplay between the real and the staged. We'd run through the stages of what we were going to do when, but only in brief. Testing levels on the violet wand, on the cattle-prod, cutting slits into clothing for ease of ripping. It's different under the lights. Now, in front of everyone, we're going further and harder than where we'd started, and we're both loving it. Playing at being real. Really playing. Sometimes we are real, sometimes we play. The two are merging into each other. From the very beginning, when a punch to the gut let me spit the fake blood all over the floor, blood I was then dragged face down through, blood that caused someone in the audience to run forwards and shout at us to stop.

I am both taking part and playing a part. The blood might have been fake and we might not be actually trying to kill each other but some of the violence is real, the rope is real, the struggle is real and the electricity is very real. I'm experiencing several different things at once, and it is a huge rush. There's a note of victimhood, I'm shaky and hurt from violet wand shocks and the various bumps and bruises from being dragged around the stage. I am tired, the pants might be emphasised but they are certainly there. There's even a note of embarassment, the dollification outfit plus public stripping (which caused shrieks of excitement) makes me feel exposed. I'm partly getting into role, and partly already there - the tears are pulled from somewhere within me, as I watch myself being watched from my vantage point on the floor, a boot resting on my face. I'm also high on adrenaline from struggling against him, as well as getting a massive boost from the thrill of exposure, the exhibitionist's rush and the pleasure of giving enjoyment to all of those around us.

Eventually, naked and spent. We take a bow. Grinning like idiots.

You will believe a woman can fly

At the Peer Rope workshop on Sunday, marvelling at how relaxed and friendly the whole event is. We're in a big room and some kind soul has brought in extra heating for those of us who are prone to getting naked (those of you who know me will be surprised to learn I was actually the second person to get my kit off, rather than the first). There are gym mats on the floor providing some cushioning for those who want to do ground level work, and three steel frames with suspension points. Everyone is dressed very casually and the skill level varies from below beginner (me) all the way up, there's no formal process - you ask someone for help and they generally give it, assuming they aren't busy. I enjoyed watching the different styles of tying, how each set of partners (or groups in some cases) interacted, what sort of games they were playing with each other. Rope stories.

It was a fantastic way to spend an afternoon. I got to be tied up a lot, and even learnt something. Captain took some time to show myself and Paris a few variations on a hog-tie. He'd spent the earlier part of the afternoon putting me into an upright web construction (later termed the "use every bit of rope at your disposal" tie), legs bound together, weight resting around my hips so I could "sit" reasonably comfortably, my arms extended and bound together as a handy rest for a pint glass. I like being both attractive and functional. Hedwig noted how grounded being tied up makes you, and I have to agree. I felt calm and relaxed, limber. Even after I'd been released, divested of my hemp charms. The sensation was akin to having just had a massage or waking up from a nap - refreshed, a little self-absorbed and happy. It wasn't a giddy feeling, or particularly within subspace (that happened whilst I was tied up and he decided to spank me) just a gentle feeling of being in the right place at the right time.

"Do you want to fly?" Captain to me. I grin. Of course I do. He places me squarely in the centre of one of the rigs and starts to tie. Unusually for me, I chat to him whilst he's doing it. Normally I'd be in full "play" mode, passive and quiet, but because of the space I find myself interacting, talking to him about what he is doing, where the weight is going to fall. I get rope down the side of my legs, secured across the limb, a little like calipers. My arms are tied behind me and a chest harness wraps my breasts. As more rope goes on I get little quieter, sentences become words become noises. I stop responding to my surroundings and start responding to the rope and to him. Especially once I'm up in the air. My legs are up behind me, curling over somewhat, most of my weight is pushed forward, resting on the rope under my chest, which restricts my breathing. To support me more, I get another set of rope under my hips and become balanced. Pitched in mid air. I grin, I can feel the pull and press of myself held in place. At which point Hedwig announces that there is a handy vibrator just next to us. Captain grins and straps it against my cunt, pressing it hard against me. I part moan and part giggle, in delight at the sensation and the situation, especially as he leans close and pinches my nipple piercings. I can feel him rub against me, smell his skin and I get a very strong urge to be fucked by him right now. Needless to say there is nothing I can do about this except continue to hang there and make noises.

Flying.

Liebe ist fur alle da

I have a new Christmas present requirement. It contains everything that a woman could want, and all in a beautiful and attractive display case.

The deluxe edition of Rammstein's new album Liebe ist fur alle da which features dildos cast from each member of the band, cuffs and lube. I could make some sort of "stocking filler" related pun, but I'm not going to. I shall merely wonder which one belongs to that fine, strapping, germanic specimen, Mr Lindemann.I do like a man whose shoulders have different post codes. Especially one with that voice.

Excuse me whilst I go and have a little lie down.