No sex please, we're women

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

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

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

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

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

Room service

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

Sexuality begins in hotels.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

STRAP

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mistress

I'm currently delving into the world of other people's open relationships because the latest addition to my fold is a wedded chap. More on him and how that's working out later, this post is about words and contexts.

A Mistress is the female lover of a married man. It's also a popular title for a dominant woman. In this situation I am both at the same time, and once again looking at my own thoughts on this particular term of address. It's not as perfect for me as Fox, but I have found myself revelling in it a little - I'm smirking to myself when I roll the word around my head - and so I set to wondering why.

I've always been extremely careful of how I mediate and control relationships where there are other significant others. I don't play without the explicit consent - in writing would be ideal - of the other parties. Although I accept that it is not my direct responsibility if someone else chooses to cheat, if I know they using me to do so then I would not be able to derive any enjoyment or satisfaction from the experience. Since I could never trust or respect someone who chose to cheat they would make poor partners for me anyway.

There is another angle of course. My own ghastly experiences of feeling fucked over by an unseen force outwith my control during my last major break-up means I'm wary of the dangers posed by multiple connections and the minefield of potential communication and emotional complexity. Add in any sort of D/s power dynamic and the danger of someone ending up failing to serve two masters increases.

Aside from clarity and good diary management in this situation there are two points that turn these troubles around. First, and most important I know that the consent has been given by his wife and that she is also engaged in her own kinky explorations. It would be harder, I think, to feel comfortable if someone else's partner merely approved and turned a blind eye. The more open, the more honest the better and the safer. Second, he is submissive to me. He actively sought me out as a dominant woman because he wanted someone with whom to explore his submissive side, which he doesn't really get elsewhere. Aside from the natural power that this gives me over him, it's important (as with any of my partners) that I occupy a particular space - whilst in discussion with Majeste I called it "The only X that does Y". It gives me clarity, direction and security. All of which are necessary to form the bedrock of domination.

I find that I am deriving all of the advantages of the Mistress position with none of my perceived drawbacks. There is a sense of relief over the understanding that this relationship will not be my Next Big Thing. Like with Ten, where we both know that the future holds naught but delicious dalliances - there is none of the attendant stress that can come with open-ended situations. We can both simply enjoy what we are doing. The removal of prospects for domestic emotional entanglements allows me to concentrate my attentions, and affections to kink, kink and more kink (as well as nice sunny afternoons in the park). It's fun. I get to play a star role in someone else's (sex) life, participating in the icing and ignoring the cake - there are dinners, dates, drinks and hotel rooms. There are no shared laundry lists or any of the many daily requirements of a deep, committed relationship.

I turn up every once in a while, a fleeting apparition whose arrival is (hopefully) hotly anticipated. I can be mysterious, dangerous and dashing. Those women for whom poems were written, or the historic legion of "other women" who crop up time and time again with trappings of sexual power, writing themselves into legend. As you can tell, I'm certainly enjoying romantic thoughts of entering into a grand tradition of seduction, assuming that one is technically allowed to call it seduction when the fucking has already happened.

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.

Playthings, playspaces and playtime

It's been some time since I last did a proper update so I'm going to try and gather up my thoughts on what's been happening recently. It's been overall very good, aside from the situation with my mother, so good that I've been much more busy doing things than I have had time to write about them. Can't complain.

I'm obviously leaning towards "chocolate box" tactics as a vanilla friend kindly put it, when describing my sex life. Whether or not the sex and candy reference is appropriate, what I absolutely am doing is more people, and a variety of people at that. A lot of them are new (or newish) either to me or to the scene as a whole, so there's a steep learning curve as we discover their bodies. I currently have an interesting spread of boys I play with sporadically and a girl I see quite often.

At the moment, my D/s "core" is fulfilled by Mannequin. I'm fortunate that she is quite so conscientious, well behaved and self-managing, because I don't actually have a lot of free time for kink these days. Someone commented recently via email that they were amazed I got so much done, as it were. She and I work well together, in a way that surprised me by being quite so easy going - I think I'd expected any relationship with another woman to be hard work, but it's quite the reverse. Possibly because of my differing attitudes to boys and girls.

Needless to say, because of our connection - she is absolutely my girl when I think about her - I'm learning a lot more about Mannequin and by association, the style of play that she evokes in me. It's a reciprocal thing, albeit one in which I make the decisions. Like looking at a beautiful painting and deciding where to put it in the house based on its attributes. Currently our play is much "deeper" than anything else I'm doing, which is only right and proper. I'm very comfortable and familiar with her body and so can push her that bit more, that bit further each time we do play.

Then the boys. It's been commented that I'm harder on boys than girls, as a dominant I am certainly more physically minded with them. I suspect that is in part due to the fact that I know them less well, which leads me down the "top" rather than "dominant" path and makes my play a little cooler and less affectionate - although the whole belle dame sans merci attitude does make me feel pretty damn hot, frankly.

Space plays a part, when I play at my house it creates a certain kind of scene. As I rule, I will never invite new people back to my house. It's a privileged space, and also one in which I ad lib more often, partly because I feel safer and am likely to be there with a plaything I'm more comfortable pressing harder or in curious, unplanned ways. I know that if - to take a random example - I were to spy a large amount of fresh ginger in the shop as I hunted out something for dinner for Mannequin and myself, I could head home, tie her up and insert a carefully prepared piece to entertain me as I cooked. Domestic Goddess, indeed.

When I move outside my own home and use a studio or, better, play in public where I can show off my playthings, I tend to be more planned and orchestrated. I can also be more removed, or adopt a role that is nastier, less connected to the dailiness of myself. I spent a few hours with Boy Wonder in Captain's studio exploring stress bondage and a lot of strap-on fucking. II found myself wishing for a proper, heavy wooden yoke or set of stocks to deliver the type of endurance play I wanted. In the end I used a metal bar and some rope to spread his arms, placing lit candles on upturned palms then sitting back and enjoying the view. There's a great pleasure to be had in relaxing when someone else is in their own personalised discomfort, and they are going through it just for you. As with the figging, I find that the sort of sadism where you set something up then watch it unfurl is wonderfully decadent.

Sex itself is an interesting one. Every now and then I will feel horny, but I can satisfy this in a number of ways, not least masturbation (I remain my own greatest lover, I'm sure most people are) I am finding that these days I need penetrative sex a lot less than I did a year or so ago - I'm not sure where that is coming from, whether it's because of the dominance, because I'm doing a lot of the fucking (with my hands or with strap-ons) which satisfies just as much though in a different way. It's also perhaps that my sexual desire, always strange and curious, is sated by BDSM. Control works as well as fucking, for example. Denying someone else sex becomes sex in and of itself. I recently played with someone who I knew wanted to fuck me, and I had no real desire to do so, but I did enjoy my power over them, my ability to hurt them. I especially enjoyed the escalation of pain, controlling his movements and positions, but most of all, the power trip that came with the fact that he had come to me to give those things. The physical exertion of hitting him was, for me, akin to the physical exertion and satisfaction of fucking.

And finally, well, I don't want to get ahead of myself, but I am rather looking forward to a hotel booked for next week...

Family matters

An otherwise amazing week spent having lunch, dinner and play sessions with perverts was marred by my brave but possibly stupid decision to tell my Mother that I was queer. I've previously steered clear of revealing anything but the most unavoidable details of my sex life or sexuality with my parents, they met The Photographer once or twice very much as a "boyfriend" and were given the briefest details on polyamory because it was better than the running theory that he was married and we were "carrying on" behind her back.

As a family we're generally rather private about our private lives. But we are also honest and respectful of people's feelings and place in the world. Which meant that when I thought that Mannequin might be joining a few friends who were having drinks with my mother and I it became necessary to have a conversation. The alternatives were unpalatable. To say nothing and hope Mannequin would play along would have been cowardly. To request her to do so, would be worse. To spring it upon my mum with no warning would have been cruel and potentially embarrassing and introduce her as a "friend" when she is more than that would be an outright lie. I can't lie like that. It's a denial of who we both were and show a terrible lack of respect to her, to myself and my desires and also to my mother. Frankly I dislike introducing my pet as a girlfriend, but there are levels of public social acceptability and meaningfulness. When I say "pet" in a BDSM situation, people will understand the connection, when I say "girlfriend" in a vanilla situation they will at least appreciate the relationship as a sexual, intimate one.

So I told her that I was dating a woman. And she seemed to take it well enough, initially. I answered a few questions about bisexuality, about my potential life choices, including the fact that I see myself settling down with a man. We went out, we had a few drinks - in the end Mannequin couldn't join us, and everything seemed fine.

The next evening, after a day when there was something of a slight cloud over our Mother's Day time spent together we talked more. She wasn't happy. She was struggling with herself and her own sense of being liberal against the weight of the knowledge that I was sexually attracted to women - it not only upset her, she confessed it repulsed her and that the thought of seeing me kiss another woman made her feel sick. That hit hard. It hit hard not because of what she was saying, I knew that she was unhappy that she felt those things about me, but because I had upset her by telling her a truth about myself. That the person I was made her feel sick.

We talked long into the night. Good things and bad. About how much we loved each other. About the differences between us both, the life experience I have had compared to her. That happiness was important and she wanted to say that whatever made me happy was fine, but couldn't. That she knew she would tell no-one what I had told her, for fear that they would think badly of me. The confusion felt over how she could accept anyone else on the planet being gay. Except me. Because I am fiercely loved, like many children are. But to my mother, who is infertile, I will always be the child she struggled so hard for and never thought she could have - I am adopted and my adoption process was not easy or kind on my parents.

What I told her shocked her, and knocked her view of me off-kilter. It also made her feel bad about herself and scuppered her view of who she was. We talked and although I never really recovered from the cold, hard fist that balled in my stomach when she told me that she felt sick over my sexuality. I know that she wants to be comfortable with the situation, and that fact makes me feel immensely proud of her.

It's just as well I didn't tell her about anything else.