An Accidental Sadist? Or The Seven Year Itch

“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.

QuoteQuest

Kinkphobia Strikes Again

I had a new follower on Twitter last week. To decide whether this person was worth following back I had a quick look at their timeline and saw a series of tweets of dicks, of vulvas in pictures taken from so close up, you could literally count the hairs, graphic clips of penetrative sex, usually doggy style in the manner of particularly tedious cisheteronormative porn, and so on. Now I have no wish to see any of this stuff in my timeline so I blocked this particular person. I have blocked similar people before. In fact Twitter is awash with this sort of thing. I have no inherent objection to pornographic images as you might expect but I much prefer images that show some imagination, and, by hinting at things rather than showing everything, are actually erotic. And eroticism, for me, is not just about hinting at what the people depicted are about to do with their genitalia but also their inner states. As a BDSM practitioner I particularly enjoy images of kinky people and kinky interactions for this very reason.

In BDSM images what is not shown is often as important as what is shown. The best images are not graphic. Yet Twitter, for reasons, unexplained, considers BDSM images objectionable in a way that it does not consider the sort of coshet porn I mentioned above. Take, for example, Sardax . For those of you who don’t know, Sadax is a kink artist best known for his femdom pictures. In fact if you are a professional dominatrix and Sardax hasn’t drawn you, you are probably not in the top drawer of your profession. You can see some of his art on his website Sardax has recently had his Twitter account suspended for reasons unspecified beyond the bland “violating Twitter rules”

In terms of kink this is not a one off. One of the country’s best known pro dommes also had her account suspended recently, losing a decade’s worth of content and 50,000 followers. Her offence, apparently, was to replace a glove on mouth background pic, which she had been asked to remove, with a boot worship pic. So there you have it. Dick pics are fine, a man licking a lady’s boot is unacceptable.

The worry for all of us with an interest in BDSM is that Twitter had remained a space of relative freedom as prudery shut off Facebook and Instagram as spaces for expression of kinky thoughts and ideas. I don’t actually believe that cancel culture and denial of free speech are actually a thing. Except when it comes to kink, or alternative sexualities generally. And for all of you reading this, either because you follow me, or have an interest in my content, that should b a concern.

The Hangman’s Fracture

The hangman’s fracture is a break of the second vertebra of the spinal column. It is so called as the British method of hanging, the long drop, aimed to kill swiftly and painlessly by breaking the neck at the second vertebra. There are stories of the hangman Albert Pierrepoint feeling the necks of his victims after taking their bodies down to check that he had done his job properly. It was part of the justification of the whole system that death was both quick and painless. This may be a myth.  Analysis of the remains of some 34 hanged criminals showed that the hangman’s fracture was present in only a minority of cases. In some there was no cervical fracture at all which suggests that these victims may have died by strangulation (a risk if the drop is too short) and this would not have been either instantaneous or painless. Yet in every case a doctor had written out a death certificate stating that the cause of death was the hangman’s fracture. This, in turn, suggests that the medical profession was complicit in a rotten and inhumane system.

This digression does link to the theme – bear with me! I heard recently that an elderly kinkster I met once or twice at events in the West Midlands had died during lockdown. Derek (not his Fet name and probably not his real name either) was in his mid 80s and I believe his death was peaceful. And we all hope for that don’t we?  Not Derek actually. For he had a most unusual fetish. He wanted to die by judicial hanging. He was, of course, old enough to have been hanged but presumably had scruples about committing the kind of offences that might have earned him a death sentence. Unsurprisingly he was unable to find anyone to cater for this fetish, so hanging never became more than a fantasy.

I am sure, too, that Derek was not alone in his death fetish. I know of kinksters whose homes are shrines to death, with skulls, human and animal, adorning their rooms. And many of us kinksters are drawn to darkness. We like to inflict, or receive, pain and suffering. I sometimes think that a submissive moving from agony to ecstasy (it is said that a hanged person experiences orgasm as their last sensation) and into the sweet oblivion of subspace is experiencing a kind of surrogate death.  And the return to life has to be managed as carefully as a resurrection, one reason why aftercare is so important.

So it is not surprising that those of us who crave darkness seek out cemeteries. I love to walk in old, abandoned cemeteries, where the headstones have been washed blank by a century or more of weather, and lean drunkenly, the flatbed graves that are opening up, as if there residents might rise again, I long to take a willing submissive, strip him, flog him with nettles I have picked from an overgrown tomb, to make him lean against a stone, to take my whip on his back, my cane on his bottom, to suffer the extremes of pain, and the pleasure that flows from it, there in the last resting place of hundreds of human beings who learned his pain and pleasure resolve their tension in oblivion.

It is in cemeteries that I feel most alive, because I must, we all must, confront death in order to live. to love. It is mortality that gives our kinks sense. The fetish for death is a fetish for life.

Hanged criminals were not buried in cemeteries. They were interred in lime filled coffins in the prison yard, in unmarked graves that denied death as much as they denied life. Derek would never have wanted that, I am sure.

A post for Kink of the Week. Click on the lips to see what other writers have to say on the subject of cemeteries and graveyards

Keep Fit, Keep Kinky

It is sometimes said that that BDSM can be cathartic, giving people the chance to work through emotional baggage in a safe and non-judgemental environment, reenacting things as parody, turning pain as pleasure. I agree that I can. And that is the key word. I know kinksters who have experience things so painful that BDSM simply doesn’t work as catharsis and would simply bring back the demons. I have play partners who enjoy humiliation play but with clearly defined hard limits relating to those things that are too traumatic to be part of a scene.

I don’t recall any really traumatic experiences from childhood but there were a number of humiliations that have marked me. PE lessons were one of them.  I had no ability at PE or games and was subjected to verbal humiliation by teachers, I hated cold. muddy fields, I hated being naked in front of others. I hated it all, and was glad to leave school and not have to do it again.

BDSM gives me the chance to visit these humiliations on others and exercise (spelling  intended!) my own demons. I actually discovered this by accident when I did my first prison play event. I had planned in a little light forced exercise, but only light as the prisoner was 60 years old and I had risk assessed accordingly. As it turned out he looked very trim and fit and let on that he ran half marathons and worked out at the gym 3 times a week. So, I thought , I am going to have some fun with you.  (Tip for submissives in session. Be careful what you tell the dominant!)

So I had him running round the dungeon, doing star jumps and press ups as directed by by my whistle, just like a jack in a box in an orange jumpsuit.  One blast meant run at normal pace, two, run at the double, three, stop and do five star jumps, four, five press ups, while five blasts reversed the direction he had to run in. Did all this confuse him? That was the whole point! Each mistake earned a stroke of the cane and the startled, fearful look on his face was a joy to behold.

And so I learnt, by accident really, to use forced exercise as form of humiliation play. I got to apply the lessons I learnt in cold gyms, grubby showers,  muddy sports fields, all those years ago. Painful things recreated as parody to give pleasure. This, for me, is the greatest joy of BDSM.

A post for Kink of the Week. Click on the lips to see more thoughts on exercise and kink.

The Joy of the Flogger

All but one of my play partners hate the cane. Most are not keen on paddles either. But all of them love floggers. Which is good because I do too. In fact my floggers are my favourite toys. I love the variety of floggers that are available, the different ways you can wield them, the sensations the bottom feels, from softness and sensuality to stinging agony, and all points in between. I love the way in which I can use these different effects to mess with my sub’s head. Kid them I am going to give them a hard stroke and give them a gentle one. From the yell of pain I know that their brain has made them feel the pain they had steeled themselves for but which I hadn’t inflicted. Or the times I play softly, sensually, and see them drifting into subspace but bring them brutally back with a fierce stroke that cuts into the skin.  In fact the opportunities for creative play for me as a domme are endless and the flogger gives scope that other hitting implements don’t.

I have four floggers, not counting the little one I made at the Kink Craft workshop at Eroticon a few years ago, and which I really only use for tormenting cocks. I have a suede flogger, a mixed rubber and suede one (my favourite which has a lovely feel in the hand and the perfect weight to do the work for me), a rubber one which is evil (the rubber tails are quite thick and sharp edged and really bite with a hard impact, and finally a knotted suede flogger which is a wonderful tool for inflicting torment on a sub whose backside is already well bruised.  Often I start with a gentle warm up with the suede flogger and move up the scale of evilness before moving back down. Sometimes not. Sometimes I just want to inflict pain and get my kicks from the moans, the pleading, helpless looks. And then there are the times I just feel deep love for the man who has given himself to me for my pleasure and amusement and I just want to give him his kinky reward.

It is nearly 2 o’clock on a Saturday morning. The light is dim in the dungeon. We are the only people still playing. In a few minutes the club will close and we will head out into the dark, cold street. But for now we are here in our safe space. In this moment we exist only for each other. We have been playing for nearly an hour. He has take some severe punishment but I have now eased off. I flog rhythmically, resisting the temptation to give him a hard stroke or two to bring him out of his subspace. I slow down, gradually, the strokes become more and more gentle. It is almost as if the flogging has no defined end.  Imagine the ethereal voices at the end of Holst’s Neptune.  That is spiritual. This is spiritual too. The strokes fade to nothing, the throw of the last one too weak for the tails even to reach his skin. I put the flogger down. I caress his sore back, his bruised buttocks.  I release him from the restraints. I hug him close. Alone in the dungeon we are two people in the moment, each in their respective high, bonded by the ineffable delight of the flogger.

A post for Kink of the Week. Click on the badge for other kinky thoughts on floggers

The Key To His Soul

“Control a man’s cock and you have the key to his soul.”

As I left the hotel and set off in search of a restaurant, I kept repeating this over to myself.  The session had not gone quite as I had planed it.  I was more intuitive and spontaneous in those days.  As I sat in the armchair I was using for a throne, one booted leg folded over the other, observing him with my best poker face, the idea came to me like a flash.

I had never sessioned with Steve before.  He was a little nervous but clearly deeply submissive. After a little humiliation play and an over the knee spanking I saw him get hard. His cock was magnificent, it jutted out ramrod straight, and I could have sworn it was pulsing with anticipation. An idea came to my mind. Such an amazing member needed taming.

“Play with yourself for my entertainment” I ordered him.

He complied eagerly, too eagerly,  so I added

“You are not to come until I give you permission.”

He looked worried by this as he had come quickly to the brink of ejaculation.

There he was to remain. He slowed and stopped.

“Did I say stop? Did I?”

“No Mistress.”

“Keep wanking then.”

“But I am about to come Mistress.”

“Is that my problem? I ordered you to wank and not to come. Get on with it!”

“Yes Mistress.”

I saw fear and anguish in his eyes and felt a rush of sadistic elation as I sat, expressionless, enjoying his torment. He was trying so hard, to obey, tensing his body, contorting his limbs into the weirdest shapes as he fought against his own body, fought out of fear of the punishment I might inflict, or oit of his need, as as submissive man, to please me. And I knew then that he would do anything for release.

But I was not yet ready for that. And I made him suffer for a few more minutes before moving on to my kinky dance class.   At the end of the session I permitted him release. He knelt before me ad came in torrents over my boots, before greedily licking them clean. He had learnt his lesson well.  He understood that release is a reward not a right.  And I realized that sadism is not only about canes and clamps.  Get inside a submissive’s  head and the possibilities are endless.

As it turned out I never sessioned with Steve again. He got in touch a few months later to ask for a session. I replied to say that I was happy to see him but reminded him that he was getting a two hour session with me that, if he went to a professional he would probably be paying north of £200 for.  I didn’t want money but as I would be putting my free time into planning and conducting the session, a small gift would be appreciated, specifically a bottle of my favourite malt whisky.  I never heard from him again.  That, I like to think, is his loss. But if I were to see him again I know I hold the key to his soul.

This is a post for masturbation Monday. Click on the image below for more masturbatory delights.

Masturbation Monday

 

Strap Lines

I was born in 1962. It was well into my lifetime when corporal punishment was abolished in UK schools and some of the things that happened, even as David Bowie was reinventing himself as Ziggy Stardust, now seem truly shocking. I remember coming home from school in tears after a headmaster had threatened to cane the whole year over something (admittedly something particularly unpleasant and upsetting which I won’t describe here), that someone in our year had done and for which the culprit had not been identified. I remember comforting a girl in my year after a caning administered by the male headmaster with nobody else present. Britain in the early 1970s could be a brutal place for children and issues like concern over wellbeing and safeguarding, were seemingly far from the thoughts of those in authority over us. To those of us who were there, the revelations of the sexual abuse of children in those distant times that have dominated headlines in recent years have been shocking but unsurprising.

By that time, corporal punishment (the birch) had been abolished in UK penal institutions. In Canada corporal punishment in prisons lingered on until 1972.  The implementation of choice there was a leather strap. In BDSM circles the strap is still referred to by many as the Canadian prison strap. It was a particularly vicious thing and differed from the straps I have used in kink play in having holes. These were to allow the strap to travel faster through the air resulting in a harder impact and more pain. They also bit into the flesh and pulled away bits of skin as the strap was lifted off the buttocks, causing particularly nasty wounds that took a long time to heal. This was a particularly cruel punishment and one that, as we know from the testimony of those unfortunate enough to receive it, left lasting mental scars.

Despite knowing about its dark history, the prison strap is one of the favourite items in my toy bag. I bought mine at a fetish fair in Birmingham five years ago, shortly after discovering my dom side.  I took it to a play party and used on a new play partner (who was to become a regular play partner). After a warmup I showed him my new strap. One stroke with this and he screamed with pain and cried “Red!”.

This remains the only time that a sub or bottom has safed out on me. This was partly due to inexperience on my part and to my not appreciating just what a strap can do. We talked the failed scene over and played again a couple of weeks later. This time I was a bit gentler, but he still cried “yellow” after three strokes and we moved on to other toys. This scene taught me something else. That is that the submissives’ fear of the strap is as powerful as the strap itself. I love the look of fear in their eyes, the pleading. I love messing with their heads too. I show them the strap, make them kiss it, then when I am behind them, put the strap down, pick up a nice suede flogger and hit them with that instead. Every time they scream as if they had had the strap, feeling the pain they had steeled themselves for, and not the actual pain.

In my experience it is only the strap that does this. I have a few nasty canes, and I don’t generally get people queuing up for 50 with the dragon. I have some quite fearsome paddles too. But only the strap arouses that raw, elemental fear.

I started this piece with a brief discussion of the sheer cruelty of the strap when used in an institutional context, because it helps to illustrate the emotional power of BDSM for its practitioners. It takes activities that are deeply unpleasant and recreates them as parody for the pleasure of participants. This enables BDSM to be both subversive and cathartic. I know a number of people on the scene who, through their play, are able to deal with their demons and emotional baggage. It is through kink that they can work things through in a safe and accepting environment.  Not everything can be dealt with through BDSM, of course, and there are those who just get pleasure from pain. I am one of them. In terms of dynamics I can never be other than a dominant but I do need to be beaten from time to time.  For feeling good, it can be even better than running!

Scratching the Itch to Switch

So what did I get up to on that Monday after Eroticon? I did something I hadn’t done for several years and booked a session with a pro domme. I did this for a number of reasons.  I wanted to explore the dynamic of submitting to a woman as a woman. I had previously played with submissive woman as a top but somehow it never quite worked for me. I had a number of mental blockages that stopped me getting into the headspace. I have always felt more comfortable dominating men. And yet I had watched women play in clubs and seen that the submission of a woman to a woman could be a thing of great beauty. I needed to see if that could work for me.

The other thig was that, reflecting on past experiences, I understood that I had never really experienced a deep subspace. Domspace yes, absolutely and my domming career has given me so massive highs but looking at the deep subspace that our play has sent my slave when a scene has gone really well, I understood that I had never experienced this. I began to question my own approach to submitting in a scene and think about what I was doing wrong that was preventing me from getting into a properly submissive headspace.

So this session was about scratching an itch and something in the way of an experiment. I did my research, sent a detailed e mail to the lady setting out what I was looking for and setting out limits and so on. This all sounds obvious, but I had never before done this I in such a structured and factual manner. That I was able to do this is itself a product of 5 years on the scene as (mainly) a dominant and a lot of play with a range of people. I know myself and I know what a prospective play partner needs by way of information.  We had a telephone conversation and I had a good feeling about the lady. We were, I felt, on the same kinky wavelength.

And so on to the session in the traditional discreet location, in this case in South London. The session worked for me. No subspace and I never felt even slightly out of my comfort zone (and I think being taken a little of your comfort zone is a part of a good submissive experience – it reminds you who is in charge) but this was a first meeting with someone who really knew nothing about me. We learnt a lot about each other, and I will see her again as I think there are good things to build on coming out of the session. Her domming style has also given me a few ideas.

Most importantly we liked each other, and this is massively important.   I did say I didn’t experience subspace. True but I did cry cathartic tears at the end, and she gave me good aftercare.

“Thank you, Mistress,” I said as I made to leave.

“Thank YOU, Mistress,” she replied and we both laughed.

We hugged and I left. I heard the door swing shut. I didn’t look back. But I know I will be knocking on that door again in a few months’ time.

Girls on Top

When I first had sex with Kelly it seemed natural to kneel before her, kiss her feet before working my way up to kiss the labia, massage her clit with my tongue, kneeling in adoration before she drew me gently to my feet. We kissed before she made me lean over the bed.  She spanked me hard and I was still stinging when I felt cold lube around my anus,  heard the slap of a surgical glove being pulled on before she moved her delicate fingers inside me, probing my back passage. At first, I tensed up, clenched the muscles, before her soothing words helped me relax.  I was surrendering to her, giving her my body to play with. She fingered me for several minutes, pushing in fingers, two then three, moving rhythmically in and out and building up to an intensity I found almost unbearable.

It was with relief that I felt her withdraw, before she lay beside me and I went down on her licking greedily at her pussy , then finger fucking her as she massaged her clit  I played with myself with my free hand, fucking her harder and faster until we came, together.

Then I knelt before her, head bowed, before gently, lingeringly, kissing her feet.  I lowered my head and touched the floor with my forehead. My worship of her was as arousing as the sex that has sparked my adoration. I was horny, so fucking horny. So we did it again before lying together, drinking gin and tonic until it was time for her to go, to get home before her husband.

In those moments I realised , what I had not been fully aware of before, which is that that I am still deeply sexually submissive with women. Dominant and sadistic in BDSM contexts, but in the bedroom with a woman, I need to worship, to adore the beauty of the female body, the most precious flower my lover keeps for me.

With men it is different and my sadism is a key part of becoming aroused for sex with men. I love the different smell of men, the hardness and angularity. But, at a deep level, I want to punish them for not being soft and rounded and beautiful as my female lovers are. The pleasure I get from hurting them as they strive to pleasure me is a doubling of the sensual delight. For them, the pleasure and pain are a dialectic that resolves itself into a synthesis of explosive orgasms; and more. As one male lover put it, rough sex with me had taken him into the kind of sub space he had only previously known in a BDSM context.

He bled, he was bruised, he smelt of the come I had smeared all over his torso. He knew what all men who go to bed with me must learn. Whether fucking me or coming in my mouth after a vigorous blow job, their pleasure will be bought with pain. For that is fundamental to who I am; a lifestyle dominant and sadist who exacts a toll of suffering from any man who would get close to her.

I have never believed that dominance and submission, or sadism and masochism were polar opposites.  I think there is something of both in all of us.  I remember, a couple of years ago, reading a brilliantly insightful BDSM based short story whose heroine was as professional dominatrix who, in her private life, was the 24/7 submissive of another woman.  I identified as a submissive before discovering my dominant vocation. But I retain submissive urges. My female lovers have enabled me to transfer them to the bedroom. And for that, I will worship them all the more.

An Object of Desire

A little contribution to Kink Of The Week on Molly’s Daily Kiss

I go most places in flats these days. I have reached the time of life when, conventional wisdom has it, comfort takes precedence over style. And yet……

When I saw the stiletto heeled ankle boots in the sale I had to have them. They will go nicely with my leather dress I said although I knew that my chunky heeled knee boots were always a better option. But I guess I’m not the only girl  who buys shoes that she knows, deep down, she will never wear. For shoes are not practical items, they are objects of desire,

I open my laptop and begin to write. Words won’t come. Coffee and cigarettes don’t help this time so I take the department store carrier bag out of my wardrobe and lift out the unworn ankle boots. I place them on the table, I light another cigarette, I lift my skirt and slide my left hand inside and start to enjoy a daydream,.

I put on the leather dress, and tug on the boots. A quick spray of Alexander McQueen and I leave the house. I walk briskly, confidently, made tall by the heel, my chest pushed out. I feel magnificent. I demand to be adored.

And I will be adored. I will find a man in these teeming streets who will beg to worship, beg to be trampled, to feel the cruel heel pushed hard into his nipples and twisted, a man who will worship sincerely, a man who will earn his reward,  when I offer myself to him, when I wrap the booted ankles round his neck as he pushes into me and we come together and the orgasm pulses through me in a kaleidoscope of colours until I can no longer see his face, just the boots, gleaming and magnificent, as I pull down my skirt and begin to write.

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