Not Lost For Words

“Give me words that make my mind curl before my toes.”— Rachel Wolchin

Without words there is nothing. St.John The Evangelist understood this well. Even if you are not a Christian, or even a believer at all, the opening of his gospel is stunning in both its simplicity and its profound truth.

“In the beginning was the Word”

 Words, and the discourses we create with them, are our reality. Nothing that exists outside us can be accessed without language. Words are precious.  The Anglo-Saxon word for vocabulary was wordhoard, meaning that words are literally treasure. Modern German has the same concept – Wortschatz

It follows from this that words are both essential to our sexual self-expression and too precious to be used lightly. Words have too often been used to construct sexualities as deviant, as other, to construct sexualities as dangerous, as things to be controlled. This is especially true  of female sexuality. Words can set us free. They can also chain us tin the prison of  cisheteronormaivity that many of you reading this and so language becomes a battleground, a terrain where we fight for our right to be ourselves.    

This is true too of the world of BDSM with its protocols and rituals, where language is imbued with powerful depths of meaning.

When my slave calls me “Mistress” and I call him “Slave” we are doing much, much more than sticking labels on each other. We are defining ourselves relative to the other, giving voice to the essence of our relationship. We open doors to our souls.

With our language we set in train a dialectic that brings us to enlightenment, to self knowledge, ultimately to freedom. Can a submissive ever be more free than kneeling humbly before their dominant? Can that freedom be realised other than in language, in the dialectical discourse of Mistress and slave? Freedom is rooted in the treasure of words.

A post for Quote Quest. Click here to read more words on words.

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THROUGH AGONY TO ECSTASY

“It is always by way of pain one arrives at pleasure.” – Marquis de Sade

His Mistress set him weekly lines, 250 each time.  This task was tedious and irksome. It did not hurt but the repetition of the line burned the message into his soul. And his Mistress chose the lines appropriately.

He opened the e mail and read

“The lines that I require this week are ‘I will strive to achieve ecstasy through agony’ 250 times in green ink.”

He groaned.  He thought of the hours he would spend writing, working at this tedious and demeaning task, but as he wrote he reflected. And, reflecting, he learned. That was the point. His Mistress understood well the lessons to teach and how to bend her submissives to her will.   

For achieving ecstasy through agony, and pleasure through pain was not something that would happen automatically, it was something to be willed, yes, striven for. He realised this the next time he saw his Mistress, and repeated the resolve to himself as she pulled the straps tight and secured him to the spanking bench. As she selected a cane, showed it to him made him kiss it, fled it, sent a practice stroke rushing through the air. He was afraid, he always was, but, as the first stroke landed, and he gaped at the pain, he knew he had the inner resources to handle it, to turn it to pleasure, This was an act of loving obedience.

And when she had finished, after the final few strokes that he had hardly felt, euphoria enveloped him. And when she undid the straps and hugged him after he had got unsteadily to his feet he cried.

He had got the reward of loving obedience. She had shown him love even as she made him suffer.      

A post for Quote Quest and Kink of the Week. Click on the badges to see what others have been posting.

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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 Man Who Served Women

It was after a session with Mistress Dometria, as we debriefed over a cup of coffee, that I told her how I saw my role.

“You’ll probably think I am a bit weird Mistress but I really believe that I was put on this earth to serve women. Not just, you know, in kink, or here, but, well, in all aspects of my life. “

“Not at all” she said. “The thought has occurred to me. There are so many wannabe submissives out there who want control, who don’t get it, others who I can see are holding something back but you I have always thought are totally genuine, totally comfortable in your  submission. And tell me, what aboit sex?”

“Mistress, I don’t and I don’t want to. I feel that sexually penetrating a woman is a kind of topping and well……I couldn’t do that.”  

“I have long wanted to own your cock and now I claim it as mine. Yu will but a chastity device and bring it with you next time. Is that clear?”

“Yes Mistress” I replied and felt  deep happiness welling up inside me.  

She clicked the cage shut and turned the key. My cock was now caged, for how long? Hopefully for ever. I was happy about this. Penetrating women just felt wrong, so at odds with the imperative to service that I felt. And so I remained in chastity, felt pain every morning as I woke and felt my cock pushing against the cage as it tried to become hard, and I texted Mistress to tell her of the pain I was suffering, as ordered so that she could enjoy my suffering.

“Meet my friend Joy”.

Joy stood up and walked across. I instinctively got up from my chair and knelt before her. She held out her hand.I took it and kissed it gently.

“Pleased to meet you Ma’am. How may I be of service?”

Before Joy could answer Mistress Dometria said

“Joy, or Miss Joy as you must call her has a very special request. It goes without saying that I expect you to comply. I hope you remember our conversation last time you were here?”

“Yes Mistress”

“Slave Nigel” said Joy softly, “I want you to sleep with me and give me a child.”

I started.

“But….but…”

“No buts “  interjected Mistress. “You are doubtless about to say that you are in chastity aren’t you?”    

“Yes Mistress.”

“You will be released from chastity for as long as it takes.”

“Nigel, perhaps I should explain” said Joy. “I am 40 next year and have been single for five years now. I want a baby while I can still do this. And when Julie, sorry Dometria, said that she knew someone as devoted as you are to the service of women I thought I would ask. I appreciate that this is an unusual request but I really think this is the most beautiful service you can give a woman.”

“Thank you Miss Joy. I am honoured and privileged. “

I leant forward and kissed her shoes tenderly. I felt my cock swell and rise only to be crushed again by the cruel cage.  I cried out in anguish.

“Come here slave” ordered Dometria.

I walked over to where she sat.

“Strip!”

I did as I was ordered and placed my clothes in a neat pile on the free chair around the table. Mistress took a key out of a cupboard drawer and unlocked the chastity device. My cock was shrivelled and small, seemingly unable to adapt to its new freedom, like a newly released prisoner who waits beneath the high walls of the prison, unsure where to go.

“Show your cock to Miss Joy.”

I walked over to her and said

“I hope my cock will be to your satisfaction Miss Joy”     

“I hope so too” she said with a smile. She took it in her left hand and stroked it gently. It hardened, gently at first, then swelled quickly as the blood coursed into it.      

“So you should hope slave” said Dometria. “If Miss Joy is not completely satisfied you will be harshly punished.”

“Yes Mistress understood.”  

“Now stand facing us and masturbate to completion”.

“Completion Mistress?”

“It means until you come.”

I was sure I heard her mutter “idiot” under her breath.

And so I did. I was ordered to wank daily for the next fur days and then have  days of chastity before the big day, a Saturday afternoon in a budget hotel in the town centre. I arrived at 3 o’clock as ordered. Dometria and Joy wee already there. I was a little startled to see my Mistress in jeans ad sweat shirt, but noticed a crop and a flogger on the table by the kettle. Even in this informal setting I had to expect discipline. Joy was already on the bed, naked, playing with herself.Her body was both tanned and toned. I knew she worked out regularly and it showed.

“Take your clothes off and stand at the foot of the bed!”

“Yes Mistress”  

“Play with yourself and make yourself hard.”

I looked at Joy as I wanked, at her shaven cunt, at her fingering herself. It was as if she was putting on a performance for me. I soon felt precome dribbling out of my cock. It was time. I went down on her, sighed as I slid in to her wet cunt, groaned with pleasure as the foreskin slid back. Three thrusts and I came, I came twice actually, two ejaculation, one following the other and the second orgasm was overwhelming. I cried out with the intensity of the sensation, just wanting it to stop. I sank down on her but Dometria hauled me up. My work was done. I was not here to make love to Joy but to serve her.

“Bend over the chair!” ordered Dometria. I obeyed.

“So that you don’t start thinking you have any purpose other than to serve I am goinig to cane you. 25 strokes and no warm up”

“Yes Mistress” I said, stiffening my legs as I separated them to assume my position for the caning . I breathed in deeply and steeled myself for the caning. The strokes were hard and accurate but I could handle the pain. And being under Dometria’s control again was hot. As the cane landed I came again and ejaculated over the carpet,

“Lick it up” ordered Dometria. I did and thought I had never been so happy.

I was placed in chastity again and told to await further calls. They never came. Once had been enough and Joy was pregnant. So I served her in a different way. I did her shopping and cleaning and, as she grew too big to paint her toenails, I knelt before her and painted them, not always elegantly but, well  I did the best I could.    

I sometimes see Joy out with her new man and my son, now two, in a buggy. She looks happy. I never make eye contact. I bow my head respectfully and wait till she has passed. For that is my purpose in life, to serve with respect, to give selflessly to the women I am to serve. I expect nothing in return but the joy of service. I have been in chastity for two ears now and Dometria will decide if I am ever to orgasm again. For my cock is Hers. My soul too.

A post for Wicked Wednesday. Click here for more wickedness

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Dreaming

“Dreaming, after all, is a form of planning.”

I have been reading a lot about how people have been having vivid, even disturbing, dreams during this period of lockdowns and restrictions. I have had my share too, most recently, finding myself in Australia with no money and a hotel bill to pay. I knew I had money in my savings account, lots of it, but I could only transfer this to my current account by actually going into the building society branch in England. And I had no money to go back to England to get the money I needed to eat and have a place to sleep in Australia. I was marooned. I woke up, sweating and shaking at 4 am. And not in Australia! And this is far from my weirdest dream.

None of these dreams, however, has been about sex or, for that matter, kink. I have, instead, daydreamed about these pretty much constantly. having taken a break from the kink sense for mental health reasons last winter, and my planned return having been unavoidably delayed, it is a year since I last played. Sex, too, has not been part of my bodily life for a while either. But kink and sex remain integral to my life. They have migrated into my head and I dream aboit them.

I have written a lot of stories both on this blog and elsewhere and these stories have drawn more directly on my own past than anything I have written before. They have been both therapy and catharsis. They have also served to draw a line under aspects of my past, a clearing of the decks for 2021.

And I am dreaming of the future now, of what I will do when fetish clubs open, when sexual partners emerge from the COVID darkness into the light of the new world I have dreamt for them. My dreaming has been a long course in self understanding, and most definitely a guide to action. Come 2021 I will be a better lover, a more attentive domme, (though possibly a mote sadistic one). But my dreams are only part of the plan. The rest we do together, and I look forward to being taken into the dreamworlds of subs, play partners, of lovers.

A post for Quote Quest. Click on the badge below to see the dreams of others.

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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

Nights at the Taj

It was just 13 days ago that I last had a curry at my favourite Indian restaurant in Birmingham but that seems an age ago as I write. It could many months before I go here again. And I will miss the Chicken Rezala as much as I will miss my own personal stash of Wolf Blass Chardonnay, not on the wine list but kept specially for me and those lucky enough to go there with me. For the service I receive here is second to none.

A restaurant called the Taj Mahal  founded in 1962, as the sign proudly proclaims, should have flock wallpaper and have Chicken Tikka Madras as the signature dish. No doubt it did at one time but that was long before I discovered it with a girlfriend some years ago. The decor these days is bright and contemporary and the menu has a range of dishes that were unknown when I first went to curry houses nearly 40 years ago.

I mention it here as it is where I go or a quiet chat with my slave once a month, schedules permitting.  We have the Wolf Blass, we have our own discreet table out of sight, and earshot, of anybody else, and we talk kink and the stuff we do together with surprising freedom  for a vanilla location. He has a fantasy about drinking my champagne in public, in the restaurant, but we haven’t managed that yet. But there are many different and subtle ways in which I can exercise dominance over him that nobody watching would even notice.  And so The Taj Mahal is more than a friendly restaurant for us, it is a safe space.

As I left two weeks ago the manager said to me “you are not just a customer to us, you are a friend.”   And I will miss my friends over the coming months. But when my slave and I go there again I think we just may have champagne to celebrate.

A post about food. You can find more bloggers musing on eating out here

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.

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Kosher Kink and Honey Cake

This is my final post from Smutathon 2019, a story set in Poland.

I live in a land of ghosts. I live in the nondescript town of D. in south western Poland that was once the German town of R. The area is actually scenic. Just twenty miles away, the Sudeten mountains rise up on the Czech border. There are historic towns and castles nearby.  There are palaces. Most of them crumbling ruins, witnesses to a German past most people would happily forget. That last part of that past is dark. The area was littered with forced labour camps, satellite camps of the larger camps whose names still bring a shudder. My town has a synagogue, boarded up and derelict since   it was trashed and defiled on Kristallnacht. There are no Jews in D.

Actually, there is one. I am that Jew. My name is Alicja Bromberger. I am not from here. I grew up in Warsaw. I came here to live among the ghosts.  I felt drawn to the darkness that hangs over the quiet countryside like a pall. I am single. I am often lonely, But I feel that this is my fate. How can I be happy in the face if what befell my people, my family? And don’t think it ended in 1945. I have an uncle and aunt in Israel, forced into emigration in 1968. I live among ghosts and tell no one here who I really am.

I have another secret I keep from my neighbours. In my professional life I am a dominatrix. I work as Mistress Alice, Queen of Kosher Kink. Have a look on those pro domme websites. You will find me easily. There are only a handful of pro dommes in Poland. In real life I am a bit out of the way in my Silesian hideaway, but I have my regular clients, some of them from Germany. I make enough to pay my bills.

I first met Marcin the day I came home from the sops to find graffiti on the wall of my house.

“Precz z Zydami!” ”Jews out!” it read.  There was a crude Star of David overlaid with a swastika sprayed on in strokes of sinister violence. I froze. I looked around, searched for my key in my handbag and disappeared quickly into the house. I shut the door behind me and burst into tears. Who had found about me? And how? And what else did they know? If they also knew that my second bedroom was a BDSM studio, and that I did this professionally, I would have to leave. And I needed the dark solitude of the town of D.

There was a knock on the door. I opened it to a Polish man of about 30 who had a bucket of soapy water in his hand and a sponge.

“I’m Marcin. I think it is really awful what they have done. I’ve come to wash it off”.

“Thank you” I mumbled, “that’s very kind. “

He went to work and when he had finished, I invited him in for a cup of tea.

I set down a tray of tea and little cakes and sat down, watching him closely as he stirred sugar into his tea,

“Please have some cake” I said and, after a moment’s hesitation he took one.

“Actually, I knew you were Jewish, myself, I kind of found out, and I know what you do.”

“How?”

“I look at sites. I found you on InternationalDommes.com I am single, I don’t have a girlfriend, I just think about this stuff. And I hate myself for it. And I hate this country. Look, my grandparents came here from central Poland after the war. Some of my family were involved in the pogrom at Kielce. The Poles have been as awful as the Nazis, some of the anyway, And my family too. Mistress Alice, will you punish me for wat they have done? Please! I have always fantasised about being on my ness before a Mistress, but if I could kneel before you as a Jewish mistress, please”

“I can’t promise. I need to think about it.”

“But I need this. I can’t cope with the shame. Please punish me. And our town, you know it was designated as a town for Jews after the war, before the Germans were resettled? The Germans had to wear a special badge, and had to bow whenever they met a Jew, and step off the pavement”

“I had read that” I said.

“That was so justified, But I think we should made to do that too. I crave humiliation at your hands.”

He broke down and wept and I agreed to see him, despite my doubts.

**************************

“Kiss the Star of David!” I ordered him after he entered my chamber and held out my pendant towards him.  When he had kissed it I pushed him to his knees and ordered him to lick my boots. He started nervously, I could see him trembling in fear and anticipation. I grabbed his hair and yanked his head upward so that his face was looking into mine.

“You confessed to being from a family of anti-Semites. You confessed to telling Jewish jokes. What  else have you got to confess?”

He looked blank.

“Nothing Mistress.”

“What about the graffiti on my door the other day, the graffiti you mysteriously turned up to wash off for me.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“I am not stupid Marcin.”

He bowed his head. I pulled it up again and spat in his face.

“You had better be sincere in your desire to submit to me.”

“I am.”

“Prove it.”

He resumed licking and I saw him go into a trancelike state as he finished the soles and worked his eager tongue up the shaft.

“How does that feel Marcin?”

“Mistress?”

“How does it feel to be on your knees, licking the boots of a dirty Jew?”

“MIstress,  I don’t care what people say abou Jews. I have read books I have…… “

He wept again. I knew that the catharsis he sought would not be easy to find.  I sent him on his way.

************************************************************************************************************

A month later he came back. Again he kissed the Star of David. Again he licked my boots. This time I judged him ready. I had done a lot of thinking. I strapped him to the bench. And showed him the canes I was going to hit him with.  I went into the emotional void that was the main feature f my life here in the town of D.  formerly R. No anger, no feeling, just a cold concentration on the task in hand, the placement, the technique.

One hundred and one strokes, and I made him count every one, each stroke a shedding of a burden, an act of contrition for things done long before he was born, that had trapped him in shame and guilt. He breathed in deeply ahead of each stroke, fought against the agony that radiated through his body. And then surrendered to it.

When I released him from the restraints, his buttocks were an angry red, bloody and marked with the tramlines that are the marks of my craft, of a caning delivered with accuracy, with utter ruthlessness, yet with profound care for the man who had trusted me enough to give himself to me in this way. I took hi into my arms to hug him, give him reassurance, aftercare, and love. Few of my sessions had been as emotionally charged as this one. He wept again, but I sensed that these were tears of release. I kissed him gently on the forehead. He wept uncontrollably

“Thank you, Mistress, thank you, Mistress.”

“And next time,” I said, “I am going to cut off your foreskin and then I will know that you have embraced the redemption you asked for.”

He slipped free of my grasp and prostrated himself on the floor before me. I raised a foot and pressed a stiletto heel into his burning, bloodied backside. He screamed. I laughed, as I hadn’t laughed in years. I was free too.

 

******************************************************************************

Marcin is devoted to me. He comes most days to cook and clean. He will be here tomorrow with honey cake he had baked for me. We will celebrate New Year together, eat sweet things and maybe I will give him a caning to finish up.

It is Rosh Hashanah and I wish you the very best dear reader. I had to get Eve to tell you my story because my English isn’t great but If my story has spoken to you, please consider a donation for abortion rights in the USA. And please, also think about the isolation of so many people like me in a country not so far from many of you. I don’t mean Jews, but as kinky people, LGBT people, anyone who is sexually alternative. This is not such a bad country in many ways. There are good, tolerant people here. But we need your love too, and the strength it gives us.

 

SoSS – October

It is Saturday 19th October as I write. I am listening anxiously for news of the votes in Parliament on you know what. But there is good news, one part of which I will turn to later. For bow I ma very happy that we stuffed the Aussies in the rugby this morning.

Here are some things that I have enjoyed reading over the last couple of weeks. I was a late comer to anal sex and them mainly in a BDSM context.  I ave both given and received and there is nothing like it for making the recipient feel vulnerable. In the right headspace it can release powerful emotions. May More discussed anal here in the context of a post that looks into wider consent issues.

Sweet girl talks about the emotional aspects of anal here.

I enjoyed this story by Posy Churchgate.

Three weeks ago I was busy with Smutathon I have still not got round to reading more than a handful of the 49 posts. I will feature more  of them in a future post. This week I enjoyed this by The Other Livvy and this poem by Quinn Rhodes.

Photography is something I used to enjoy but these days rarely have time for. Some thirty years ago I bought a Minolta x300, my very first SLR camera, and for a few years I  took t wt me everywhere.   These days I tend to be on the opposite side of the camera. I found this by Exposing 40, she who exposed my 57 a few months ago.

And now the good news. This week the Government announced that age verification for accessing online porn was to be abandoned after being deferred several times. They had been told by those with expertise in the area that it would be unworkable. This is apart from issues of privacy, of the security of personal data, of the effect on niche and ethical porn,  (much of it produced by women.)

Read more here:

As ever I am finishing with car porn.As a vintage girl I own a 1958 Ford Prefect 100E, the perfect car for a summer’s day in a circle dress,  and here is the official launch film for the range from 1953,