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…”

“No.”

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.”

Tears Monday, Jul 11 2011 

I want to make Artemis cry.

Sometimes, when I play with them, their eyes go wide and their face goes slack and their breath catches, and I find myself watching for tears. I listen for that hitch in their throat to become sobbing, and I hunger.

There is an edge there, and I balance on it. I want to hurt them more, bite them harder, push them further. I want them to endure more for me. I want to feel them break under my hands. I want to push them over the edge and be there to catch them as they fall. I want to take their control of themself away from them.

I am afraid to make Artemis cry.

When their face goes slack and their eyes go wide, when their breath catches in their throat, I back away. I see the edge coming and dare not go to it. I am afraid of breaking them – what if I can’t put them back together? What if they never forgive me? What if I am wrong, and they cannot endure more?

I balance there, caught on myself.

Hail to the Wanky Boys Sunday, Jun 19 2011 

So I was wondering a few weeks ago why masturbating in play spaces is so very badly regarded.

I was wondering partly from a very selfish perspective. Kink turns me on. I don’t mean that on some abstract intellectual level – I mean Artemis screams and the blood flow changes direction. It’s as distinct and unmistakeable as a blow. They scream, I get hard. Inevitably, then, if I’m playing, I’m aroused, and generally I’d like to do something about that. But that’s a minor thing. I’m a grown-up, I can handle waiting for an orgasm.

The real meat of the matter was this: why is masturbating over other people’s play so frowned upon?

In part, it’s a matter of consent. In choosing to play with person X in public, I have consented to person Y watching me play, but not to person Y joining in. In masturbating they take a step out of the pure “audience” role and into being a participant, however peripherally. But we deal with the audience problem with a tacit understanding that to play in public is to consent to being watched. There’s no reason that social contract can’t include masturbation. It’s not written in the stars. We choose to draw the line where we do.

But the reason I’ve heard most often is that the men who come into play spaces and wank are taking from the community and not giving anything back. And something rang false about that, so I posed a theoretical: what if I, a female-bodied person, wank over a scene? Am I giving nothing back?

It seems different to me. If I’m masturbating in public, then I am giving people the chance to watch me. I go from an audience member, to part of the show for all the rest of the audience. I put myself on display, because I am female-bodied and everyone knows that women are for looking at.

Men look. Women are looked at. Men who wank in public are voyeurs; women who wank in public are exhibitionists.

It’s the Two Rules of Desire. It’s the same old double standard that gets everywhere and taints everything. And it’s completely false. I like to look at male-bodied people, men and otherwise. I think cocks are beautiful. I think someone with their penis in their hand is hot, and I’d be watching them as surely as they were watching me.

What the wanky boys are giving back to the community is their own bodies on display. If we don’t think that counts, we need to think harder.

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.

You’re Beautiful Saturday, May 28 2011 

It makes me weep, to hear the things said to submissive people. To anyone who submits and isn’t cisfemale. It makes me hurt, that to dominate means to humiliate, that to dominate you I am somehow supposed to stand aloof, untouched, unmoved. The ice queen ruling the pathetic animal.

You’re not worthless. You’re not worms. You’re not boring, unimportant, ugly, undesirable, unnecessary, broken, wrong, failures, hateful, twisted, warped, unlovely, unworthy.
You are not pigs, dogs, housemaids, servants, lesser, tools, machines.
You are not dirty, contaminated, infected, diseased, filthy.

You are not unloved.

I love you.

I want you. I want you to be mine. I want you to see me and love me and let me hurt you. I want you to cry out for me, to keep silent for me. I want you to struggle against my ropes and hold steady at my command.
I want to mark you as mine, draw patterns on your flesh, bite down and drink your pain. I want you to look at me and see me and see how I want to hurt you and still let me do it. I want you to beg and plead and whisper sweet obedience to me.
I want to touch you gently, not the way I touch fragile things, but the way I touch precious ones. I want to stroke your skin and kiss your lips and marvel that you are here, that you are real, that such a day has come to me, that I hold you in my arms. I want to sleep with you against my skin and waken to your smile.

Ugly? Worthless?

You’re fucking beautiful
now scream for me.

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.

Objects Of Desire Wednesday, Jun 23 2010 

Today, I went looking for a picture of a man holding – not wearing – handcuffs and looking sexy. I did this as an experiment, because having noticed that all the male dom / female sub pictures I see focus on the submissive women and not the dominant men, I wondered if this was a real phenomenon or if I was just looking in the wrong places.
(more…)

Strappado Saturday, Jun 19 2010 

I am in a darkened room, at least I think I am. It is hard to be sure, but what little I can see around the blindfold looks dark. I am standing bent-over at the waist. My legs are spread apart, and held that way, leather cuffs fastened to the floor. I could easily undo the cuffs and free myself, if I could reach them, but I can’t. My wrists have been locked together behind me. Locked together, and then pulled upwards and held there. My shoulders ache with the strain. I can hardly move and when I try, I make the pain in my shoulders worse.
This is just the beginning, I know. Soon he will come in, and then things will get much worse for me. I am completely exposed. My nipples will be clamped and stretched. My breasts and buttocks and thighs will be whipped, spanked, beaten. The unforgiving ropes that pull my arms up will be tightened. I do not know exactly what he will do, but I know it will hurt. I know he will take his pleasure from my helpless body. And I know when he is finished with me, he will leave me here, stretched and hurt and aroused, to wait for the next time.

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