April. the month of the hairdresser, the month of the beautician (Mandy and Jenna it was great to see you again!), the month when I saw one or two friends in the flesh for the first time in over a year, the month in which I looked good, and, consequently felt good. It was also the month in which I began to make firm plans for my retirement, and, specifically postgraduate study , of which more next month. ,
So where to start? For me personally, kink is still a way off but there is plenty to read about, to make me reflect, and to get my creative juices flowing for when I do get to play again. I enjoyed this by Lilith Avir looking at female submission. It bears repeating for the benefit of those unfamiliar with the world of kink that being submissive is not a sign of weakness, rather the opposite.
I posted about sadism for Kink of the Week and this by Molly from the April A to Z blogging challenge also spoke to me, becoming an evil little bitch being one of my life goals.
And also from the blogging challenge this by The Barefoot Sub. I have seen and experienced the power of rope bondage. The only thing is, I am not very good at it. So learning will be a definite post-lockdown life goal.
Another blog I have been following for many years is that of Maggie McNeill one of the most trenchant commentators on sex work issues in the US. This, on moral panics and the associated hysteria, is well worth a read.
And, as the days get longer, and infection rates remain low, there is light at the end of the tunnel,
And music. It was in April 1980 that The Cure released their second album Seventeen Seconds. This marked a departure from the first album. Produced on a low budget, its spare haunting songs in some sense set the direction for next two albums, Faith and Pornography, regarded by many as their best. I don’t think, however, that anything they subsequently did was quite like this and Seventeen Seconds remains my favourite Cure album (and there have been quite a few in the last 41 years!). So enjoy M.
On Easter Monday I went walking in The Stiperstones, lonely rugged hills in the west of Shropshire, not far from the Welsh border. Birmingham, only 50 miles away to the east, could be in another universe, it is so quiet and remote here. The Horseshoe Inn, currently closed and up for sale, is in a wonderful location, its beer garden on the banks of the gurgling waters of the East Onny River. This is just a wonderful place.
And I thought about the first time I ever came here, in 1975 for a school weekend away. We stayed in the youth hostel at Bridges, walked in the hills, had fun even though we didn’t go to the pub! And as our coach meandered down narrow lanes on the way there the number one record of the time played on the radio. This was BYe Bye baby by THe Bay City Rollers. Ever since this song makes me think of Bridges and the Stiperstones. And it is a sad irony that my first visit to the area in many years came just three weeks before the sudden death of the band’s lead singer Les McKeown. I know I am not the only one who felt that a part of their childhood died last week.
I was awake early and lay in bed thinking about yesterday;s events. I hardly needed to touch myself, the very thought of the French girl in a brown overalls, Wellington boots and rubber gauntlets, humping the heavy kitchen bins, ending the day with her hair full of vegetable peelings, her face red with tear, was enough. I had watched most of her torment from a first floor window, camera in hand. Never had I inflicted such humiliation on a girl, never had I derived such satisfaction. I had broken her and we both knew it.
I was in my study just after morning break time when my secretary came in to tell me that Sir Percy Wyndham, long standing Chairman of the Governors wished to see me. I made my way to the Governors’ Room on the first floor. I knocked and entered. Sir Percy was sitting at a table. He motioned me to another table close by on which lay a sheet of paper and an envelope. There was no chair.
“The matter is of the utmost gravity Ranson” said Sir Percy. “We know that you are a filthy pervert and were prepared to tolerate your excesses as long as you ensured a supply of suitable girls for the gentlemens’ retreat. However your treatment of Mademoiselle de Lotbiniere cannot be tolerated. I have taken a telephone call from the Count de Lotbiniere this morning. He is furious and is driving to the school in his motor car as we speak.He is withdrawing his daughter from the school with immediate effect and will take her home later today. You may not be aware but the French Foreign Minister is a distant cousin. Your carefully planned humiliation of the girl is likely to provoke a diplomatic incident. Do you have anything to say?”
I felt my lower jaw trembling but was determined to be defiant.
“Sir Percy, I make no apology for the maintenance of strict discipline in the school. It is what the parents expect.”
“Discipline has its limits, Ranson, and you do not punish girls for your sexual gratification. If news of this gets out the closure of he school will be inevitable. On the table before you you will see a resignation letter with today’s date. The brown envelope contains a month’s salary in lieu of notice. You will sign the letter, take the envelope and leave the school. You are to vacate your rooms by noon. I have taken the precaution of ordering a taxi to convey you to the railway station.”
I felt myself shaking, I struggled to hold back tears but managed to say in a clear, confident voice
“If I have to leave, you will too. Do you not think I have taken the precaution of copying documents relating to the brothel and the involvement of both you and Sir Reginald Carless. I have no intention of resigning. I have devoted my life to this school and have restored its fortunes after the war years. I can agree with you that I stay as Headmistress for as long as I wish and, in return, the police and the gutter press do not get to hear about your involvement in the brothel.”
Sir Percy laughed.
“My dear Miss Ranson, you’re trying to blackmail me. And who will believe your words against mine? If we come to the libel court I can afford the very best silks who will make short work of you and persuade the jury that the documents are crude forgeries. And blackmailers never end well. The last to try was Catherine Spencer-Harrington and look where she is now.”
He took out a gold pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket.
“I should imagine she is scrubbing prison toilets at this very moment.”
He laughed again.
“So, Miss Ranson I advise you to do the sensible thing and sign the letter.”
Sir Percy handed over a gold plated pen. I didn’t take it but fell to my knees before him.
“Please Sir Percy, please, I have nowhere to go. I will be destitute. ”
I looked up at him, this time unashamed of my tears. He stood up and walked over to me.
“On your knees Ranson.”
I obeyed, knelt, not daring to look up.
“The governors are prepared to let you remain in your job but there are conditions. Firstly, you are to sign an undated letter of resignation which I will retain as a guarantee of your conduct. Secondly, you are to provide each term two of the older girls for service in the brothel.”
“The brothel, sir?”
“Yes Ranson. Sir Reginald Carless has bought a stake in the business and, after a refurbishment, we are reopening in September. Delilah will be running it on our behalf. I think you will find she is every bit as amoral and ruthless as Catherine. Less stupid too.”
“Yes sir” I muttered.
“And thirdly you are to report to me at 11 every Tuesday to be used for my pleasure.”
“A disgusting little Sapphite like you needs to cleansing that only the male member can bring. To be blunt, Ranson, I intend to fuck you weekly, repellent as you are.”
He unbuttoned the front of his trousers and pulled out his penis which hardened quickly and rose to the horizontal. As it swelled the foreskin drew back and the purple tip glistened menacingly. I had never been so close to the male appendage before. I shuddered as he took a step forward, grabbed the back of my head firmly and pulled it towards him as he thrust and pushed the penis into my mouth. I choked but he pushed again until his entire length filled me.
“Suck on it Ranson and swallow my come. And reflect that there is no finer taste for a lady.”
I began to suck and he sighed with pleasure. I sucked again and felt Sir Percy’s member harden and expand further. I was choking but he withdrew and thrust again, pushing into my throat.
“Please stop, please stop” I wanted to say but the words would not come out. My torment was soon over as he stiffened as though jolted by electricity, and steams of warm salty fluid flowed into my mouth.
“Swallow Ranson………and enjoy!”
There was too much of it to swallow, the taste was repugnant to me but swallow I must, as if my life depended on it which, in a sense it did. As Sir Percy withdrew and come began to dribble down my chin, there was a knock on the door. I looked round and froze. The Comte de Lotbiniere walked in followed by Delphine, who was dressed in an elegant skirt suit and stiletto heels. She fired me with a look of amused contempt.
“Bonjour Monsieur le Comte. Here she is, “ he kicked me in the side as I knelt, “the piece of filth, the ordure, as you say in French. She is all yours.”
The Count came up and pulled me roughly to my feet. He grabbed a wrist, tied a rope around it and before I could react, he had tied my hands together. The long end of the rope he threw over the chandelier and pulled it so that my arms were stretched above my head.
“I am going to make you suffer for what you have done to my daughter..”
It was only then that I noticed Delphine carrying a knife and a whip. She walked up to me and smiled.
“Not Bin of the bins today am I Madame?”
I noticed a sarcastic and disrespectful emphasis on the word “Madam” which, even in my predicament, I found wholly inappropriate. She ripped my blouse open, sending buttons cascading to the floor, took the knife, cut through my bra so that the two halves hug uselessly from my shoulders.
I heard the crack of a whip behind me and, suddenly felt its piercing sting on my back. I wanted to scream but bit my lip and held it in. Lotbiniere was not going to see me cry, even if this hour of her victory.
When the Count had finished and I felt myself about to faint, the stinging pain cutting through the blur of my mind, she came up and stood on my feet, digging the heels in. I creamed with pain, I could not resist it, and her spittle hitting me in the left eye was one of the last things I remembered before I sank forward and fell to the floor bringing the chandelier down on top of me. My face landed on her shoe which I kissed fervently, muttering,
“Je vous adore, je vous adore” Before everything went dark.
A post for Wicked Wednesday. See more wickedness here
“Pleasure is sweetest when ’tis paid for by another’s pain.” – Ovid
I remember the day I discovered I was a sadist, Saturday April 5th 2014 (7 years to the day as I write). I went to an afternoon spanking party at a local club, thinking I was a submissive. The host and house domme gave me the first spanking of the day which I quite enjoyed. As she left the chill out room with her next victim she turned to me and asked
“Would you like to help me?”
This question was so unexpected that I found myself in the dungeon strapping victim number two to the bench before I even had time to think. Seconds later the domme handed me a paddle and after a few words of advice I began to hit his white virginal backside. And I enjoyed it.
After playing as top or domme at a couple more events I changed my Fetlife profile to switch. A moth later it was domme. I had fond my vocation. In that summer of 2014 I played a lot, had several play partners and learnt a lot. I have a lot to be grateful to that house domme for. She actually left the scene a couple of years ago, and deleted her Fetlife profile and I never really had the opportunity to ask her why she had, on the spur of the moment, invited me to join her in administering a spanking. I broached the subject once and she was rather evasive. But, no matter, she set me off on a thrilling voyage of discovery.
So what do I most enjoy? Hearing squeals of pain as the blows land is enjoyable but building humiliation into the scene is what really floats my boat. To begin with it was small things, making the spankee count the strokes and thank me, kiss the implements of their suffering, a quiz with a difference with punishment strokes for wrong answers and so on.
These days I humiliate subs in a variety of ways and contexts, and I inflict pain in different ways. I am a sadist, I enjoy being a sadist but I am not always entirely comfortable with it. I suppose this is because, in general society, sadism is seen as being something morally wrong and even as a now experienced kinkster, I am not immune to these kid of judgements. There is another aspect to this. Sadism is intoxicating and discipline and self control are needed to play in ways that are both enjoyable for me and also safe and consensual.
And finally, after care. There is after care for my sub or bottom. And, equally important, self care for me. I learnt this a couple of yeas ago after a particularly intense four hour one to one session where I gave full rein to my sadisitic urges. This session had made huge demands on my sub. I failed to appreciate the emotional demands on me. It was three months before I was able to play again.
Sadism, as I have discovered over the last seven years, is not something to be taken lightly. In the words of the song it is something to “Handle with Care”
A post for Quote Quest Week 42 and also Kink of The Week. Click on the badges below to read more about the practice of pain.