Sir Monday, Jan 30 2012 

I lean back against the handrail at the entrance to the club, waiting for people to finish in the changing room. Beside me, a person I hardly know kneels quietly, stunning in a corset and bare shoulders. I stroke their hair gently, feeling very daring, and they lean into my hand. People arriving for the event look at us sidelong.
“If we’re not careful, people will think you’re mine,” I say, not sure if what I am doing is alright, if I am allowed to take liberties with them tonight. They smile up at me.
“Would that be a problem?”
“…no, I suppose not,” I say, and keep petting them, working my hand into the top of their plait, pulling gently, enjoying the sense of being in charge, in control, this feeling I have never had before.
When the others are finally done changing, and we have left our bags in the cloakroom, there are still contacts to be put in and makeup to be done, and I find myself standing by a cage with the same beautiful sub. Still shy, but hungry for more of that feeling, I wind their plait around a bar of the cage, and pull, and watch their eyes widen and their knees go weak. I set my fingernails into their chest, above their corset. Gently, gently scratch. They bite their lip and look at me as if I am the whole world.
It is only a few minutes before the others return, glittered and beautified, and I scratch their chest one last time and unwind their hair from the cage.
“Thank you, sir.”
I am hard so fast it feels almost like a blow.
“Correct answer,” I say shakily, for lack of better words.


Saying Words Friday, Dec 23 2011 

After we have finished playing, in this gentle half-public scene, while I lie with my head in his lap and hope the person who came in partway through won’t think less of me for how subbish I am being, and he scratches me with a metal claw, and we both listen in to the rest of the conversation – after we are done, he unties me, and I sit up and stretch and borrow his hoodie because I have grown cold there on the ground with no jumper on. My front stings where he has been going at me, stings more and longer than I would expect. I slouch slightly, gasp and wince, sit up straighter. That was unexpected. I pull my clothes up, and see thin red scratches, where the skin is torn, just barely broken. I mock-glare at him.
“You drew blood!”
“Well, you asked for it.”
“I didn’t ask you to draw blood.”
“What did you say?”
“Stop teasing and use that thing.”
“Exactly. You asked for it.”
“I was tied up and you had the implement, it must have been your fault! All I did was say words!”

I have a habit of saying words. It gets me into all sorts of trouble.

Desperation Sunday, Aug 21 2011 

“No, no, no, please sir, please don’t…”

Artemis is cuffed to my bed by ankles and wrists, spreadeagled on their front. Marks from a riding crop show red on their backside, but that’s not why they’re begging. The little badge in my hand curves to a dull point, and I am halfway down their spine, carving a line every centimetre. The screaming started three lines in.

“Please not that, sir, please, please stop…”


I press the point in hard and draw another line, and another. They scream and thrash against the cuffs, trying to twist away.

“Please sir, beat me, beat me five times for every scratch you were going to do, please no more…”

I dig the point in again and hold it there a moment.

“No, no, no, please no, sir, please, no, no, ” and their words dissolve into screaming as I scratch.

“Five more.”

“Twenty-five with the crop, sir, please?”

I smile slowly.

“Five more.”

Co-Subbing Wednesday, Jun 15 2011 

So here’s the thing: when I’m topping someone, I don’t like to share. I’m possessive and protective and I don’t play nicely with others.

When I’m in a submissive mindset, it’s a different story.

I went to the London Fetish Fair on Sunday. I’d come from doing other things, so I wasn’t really dressed for the occasion. It didn’t feel right, not having anything to show that I belonged, so I wrapped a coil of rope around each wrist and left the ends dangling at the back of my hands. Naturally, one of the tops I’d come with tied the ends together behind my back.
We went to watch a demonstration, and I knelt with my back to a wall. Partly I just didn’t want to stand through the whole thing, and partly I was feeling submissive. Janus, who’d tied my hands together, started playing gently with Artemis, and I found to my surprise that I wasn’t jealous. I didn’t feel possessive of Artemis, who also subs to me, or of Janus, who was currently my top. He was playing with someone else instead of me, and that was okay. I felt like a loyal toy – if he wanted to play with one of his other toys instead, that was his right, and it didn’t hurt that he’d chosen to. He’d play with me later, if he wanted me, and in the meantime I’d just kneel here and wait for instructions.

When Artemis came over and knelt beside me, we leaned on each other affectionately, and the mindset that I was a loyal toy didn’t change. It was okay for us to be affectionate, because nobody cares what the toys do when they aren’t in use. And when Artemis asked me to play with them, that was okay too – but I needed Janus to give permission before I let Artemis untie me. I could know I wanted to top them within the co-subbing mindset, and I could know that it was permitted for us to play with each other, but to be untied without permission would have felt like rebellion. It wasn’t that topping someone was rebellious, it was that I had been tied up by the boss, and the boss had final say over whether I could be untied.

Later, Artemis was being beaten by Pandora. I was delightfully floaty from subbing, and I knew I was going to feel left out and possibly jealous if I switched into topspace, so I made an effort to keep myself subby. I knelt down again, in an out-of-the-way corner where I could watch the scene without interfering, and tried to summon up the mindset I’d had earlier.
It worked – it was easy. I was a sub, they were a sub, they were being played with, I was being allowed to watch, and life was good.

Self-Defining Dynamics Monday, Jun 13 2011 

Power dynamics are hard to change.

A friend and I were playing conmen in a LARP recently. I was the brains of the operation, Cassandra was the fast talker. I came up with the plans, she played whatever role was needed, and our third partner carried out the thefts. Our cover story for this particular con was that of a noblewoman and her maid – not her bit on the side, how dare you suggest such a thing? We figured people would be sufficiently distracted by the scandalous lesbians that they wouldn’t question the rest of the story, and we were right.
For both the characters and ourselves, the power dynamic being enacted was reversed. It felt very, very strange to sit at Cassandra’s feet and have my hair stroked possessively – we haven’t played together, but if we did there’s no doubt that I’d be on top. Trying to flip that dynamic just didn’t work. It was a dead end.
I was directing submission at someone who couldn’t do anything with that energy. Cassandra was being handed energy that she couldn’t work with. Both of us were very uncomfortable. It was a skin-crawling kind of feeling, something deeply wrong with the world. I’m fairly sure we only managed it for the hours we did because the characters were themselves reversing roles – I could react to my discomfort by having my character resolve to take revenge later.
The confusion generated by those few hours lasted for some time afterwards. We’d twitch and flail if the other used the tone and title belonging to the forced dynamic – “Girl” and “Milady”. It was not pleasant.

It was very educational. We learned a valuable lesson about not trying to force a power dynamic to be what it doesn’t want to be. And we are neither of us inclined to repeat the experience.

Reporting Back Wednesday, May 25 2011 

So, as you may have guessed from this post, I had a weekend mainly composed of kink. As you may not have realised, it was not spent with Prometheus.
Prometheus is still my partner, but we’ve renegotiated our relationship boundaries. Now I get to play with other people as well. The weekend was the first opportunity I had, and it was wonderful in almost every way. (The unwonderful things couldn’t be helped.)
I got my first flogging from someone who didn’t think tears meant they should stop. I spent a happy hour or two in that same person’s power, being abused with knives and a pinwheel, gaining some very pretty welts and being deliciously sub-spacey. I learned from experience how important it is to discuss what exactly you are hoping for from a scene, and how communication failures can make everyone miserable. And I floated high on submission and endorphins while my feet suffered the tender ministrations of a metal claw.
I also did all the things in the preceding post, to a beautiful sub who makes some lovely noises and says even lovelier things. (They are currently trying their best to distract me via the Internet. I refuse to be beaten.)

So, from all this, I have learned various things. Four kinky freaks and a box of toys is a recipe for a really good weekend. Communication is of vital importance – I knew this before, but now I know. Claws are wonderful things and I should probably buy myself one, or several. I prefer heavy floggers to stingy ones. I don’t get possessive of tops, but I do get possessive of subs – I don’t like to share while I’m playing, and that feeling is still hanging around. I feel protective and as if I have rights over the person who subbed to me at the weekend, even outside the context of play.
I adore being addressed as Sir. I wrote about that here, but that was before I’d ever actually tried it. Now I have, and it is one of the sexiest things I have ever heard.

I need to retract some of my harsh words about foot fetishists. I still dislike how pervasive foot and shoe imagery is – it offends my sense of an efficient filing system – but I must to some extent count myself one of them. I don’t have any interest in shoes, but feet are a wonderful place to apply and receive sensation, and bare feet have a certain visual allure.

Dirty Weekend Monday, May 23 2011 

I am drunk on screams. I am filled with them, like whisky, like fire, like a rainstorm on summer ground I am drowned in them. I hear screams in my sleep, soft gasps and high sweet cries. I cannot close my eyes but I see them, see their brown eyes looking love at me, see the curve of their lips, see them shudder and melt when I promise to hurt them. I see endlessly that moment when I held their breath in my hand and their flesh in my teeth and they jerked and writhed and could not scream and lust ran through me like blood.
The memories crowd around me of a hundred moments. I wound their plaited hair through the bars of a cage and held it there while I scratched them, and all unbidden they called me sir. I ran ice over their skin, across their fresh bruises and down the gap in their corset. I cradled them in my lap and dug fingernails into their chest. I laid lovebites along their spine. I took a metal claw to their feet and they flinched and grimaced and never quite pulled away, took it to their arms and body so hard the welts came up white.
I spent the night with them, and there in the dark they whispered sweet surrender, and even the memory makes me shiver.