Magic number

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Temple Prostitution

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Zen and BDSM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Power, protocol and punishment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...almost as much as I do.

Body language

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pleasures of the flesh

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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