Happy Thanksgiving, Canada.

Tabletalk.

Hey. Good to see you. Come on in.

I'm just out on the deck here, at the barbecue. Gorgeous night, huh?

There's beer in the fridge, but help yourself to the bottle on the counter. Glasses are in the cabinet there. It's a really robust 2009 Tilia Malbec. Argentina. The new girlfriend picked it out for dinner last night, and I'm turned on by it.

You want cheese on your burger? Cheddar or provolone?

The new girlfriend?

Yeah. No, I haven't written about her yet, but she's fucking cool. And the really ironic part? She's mulâtresse. Actually, she dislikes that word and identifies as black, although I have to admit that the biracial thing is hot for me. And it blows my mind since it was just a short while ago that I was yearning at the stars, Aphrodite, for a black lover again. It's been since Pamela.

Those smell good. ...Hey, about your last post. Can I ask you something?

Go for it. Yeah, they do.

Alright, like, I know it's just a blog and all, but really, what were you thinking? I mean, you were pretty harsh there.

Mm. I love it when the flame embraces the meat like that, you know? Won't be long now. Yeah, I've been thinking about that, actually. Over the last day or two, I've had some interesting responses to it on the blog, in my personal email box, and even on FetLife. They run the spectrum.

Not everyone who reads the blog might be in the know as far as kink ideas are concerned. You said before that most of your readers seem to be women, and if someone found your blog for the first time and read that post, dude, you'd probably come off... well...

As an arrogant, misogynistic jerk airing personal dirty laundry in a public forum?

Well, kinda, yeah. They look done. You gonna toast the buns?

Already did. Yeah, that occured to me. But I'm hoping the context comes through.

Context?

Here you go. More wine? Just nudge her off of your seat there, she won't bite. Whoah, these look awesome.

Hell yeah.

So, yeah. I realize that that post was pretty volatile, but I was trying to make some important points. Normally, no, I wouldn't use the blog as a platform to target someone on some nasty personal level. I mean, sure, I've made the occasional snippy remark about my ex-wife, but even that's extremely rare and brief, and always, I hope, reflecting a bigger picture. And I've earned it. But to cite someone broadly like that? Not something I'd normally do.

So why do it to Little Ginger?

Well, for one thing, she kinda walked right into it. I mean, I was already wanting to draft some posts with my thoughts about the power dynamics behind topping anyway, but when she started targeting me with this weird nonsense, it just seemed like the perfect springboard to make an example with. I can be a little snarky anyway, but the writer in me just saw this delicious opportunity to use her actions as backdrop to illustrate that, for one thing, respecting Tops and Dominants is a pretty paramount feature to power exchange play. At least in my view. For me, the post really had less to do with her than it had to do with making that point. She became the perfect example of what not to do, and I ran with it. And it's not like she's going to be hurt by the post anyway, since, duh, her moniker is a pseudonym.

But don't you think a certain amount of detachment would have made a stronger point? Could I have the steak sauce? Christ, these burgers are great.

A friend actually suggested that very thing to me, and yeah, after more thought, I think maybe that's true. Being more objective does add to a strong argument, I agree. But, you know, at the same time... well, it's not like she didn't deserve some kind of punishment too, you know? It wasn't the main intent, no, but it's not like it was entirely accidental, either. Just not as much as perhaps some readers might have thought. Especially those who emailed me to say that I'm an ass.

Maybe some of those people were offended because they're SAMs too.

Sure, maybe. And SAMs generally dislike it when the jig is up for them and they've been called on their shit.

So, do you think then that any bratty sub is a SAM?

Oh, hell no. SAMs aren't just brats: they actively ruin a playsession or a scene because they're deliberately manipulative and personally hurtful. A bratty sub might totally enjoy whimpering and refusing to comply with instructions or do other things to play up the role, and I can easily see how a Top in that playspace could have scads of fun with it. But even in that kind of scene, it's still about the bratty sub's submission, eventually anyway, to the Top's playful "wrath." Being naughty to acquire "punishment" can be awesome fun. But SAMs are much more destructive: they say and do things that deliberately, consciously attempt to incite a Dominant into stronger and stronger retributive responses, and they'll do it with chiding, shaming, disrespectful remarks and taunts. That's just hurtful and sexually impolite. It would be like a man saying something shaming to his BBW partner about her bodytype when in the very middle of deep lovemaking, or a woman making a rude comment about her man's cock size in the same situation. It's just not something good, healthy, caring lovers would do. SAMs deflect their own inner demons by playing this you-can't-catch-me mindgame which is inherently unwinnable by a reactionary Dominant.

Why so?

Because it ruins the sense of power exchange. There is no power exchange: it becomes a battle of wills. A reactionary Dominant feels the need to stand ground, and so the matter just gets bigger and bigger. And most importantly, it becomes unfun.

At least for the Top. Is that like "topping from the bottom"?

Can be, I think.

So, what "context" was that last post written from? Or are you really an arrogant, misogynistic jerk?

I think the blog demonstrates pretty clearly that I'm anything but. Then again, that post...

Oh, c'mon. "Cuntswipe?"

Ha! Yeah, I have no idea where that came from. Not a word I've ever used before. Although, the new girlfriend I mentioned did tell me that she thought that was hysterical. But remember: that post was written in the context of a pissed-off Top actively in scene mode. I tried to indicate that by noting how my approach to Ginger changed when I figured her SAMmishness, and when I included the now-we're-in-scene warning label. I think I may write a post or two to help clarify things as well. Oh, hell, we're almost out of wine.

And the real violence you mentioned? You said your past BDSM mentors would wipe the walls with her, and that physical assaults could have happened.

I like to believe that the vasy majority of kinksters in the world are safe, sane, consensual-minded people, and I certainly count myself as among them. No, I certainly don't condone something like genuine physical assault. But, the fact of the matter is, SAMs push buttons on some people and sometimes, unfortunately, unpleasant results can and could happen. Now, that doesn't mean it's right or healthy or advisable or good, but it's one reason why fetish educator Laura Goodwin has even suggested that mortal injury can be a risk factor in those circumstances. Tops protect their territory; it's part of the whole point.

Have I witnessed genuine violence in such a situation? Yes. I've seen people slapped, backhanded, when something Really Ugly happened during a playparty or in a fetish club. People can be dramatic sometimes. People don't always think clearly.

I think it's important to remember that power exchange play, dominance and submission play, is about roles. Masks. It's supposed to be a game, like a grown-up version of "Cowboys And Indians" or "Cops And Robbers" or some sexually kinkified version of "House." Oh, it can get deeply serious, but there's something to be said, I think, relating those childhood roleplay scenarios to the naughty adult potentials.

So that also means that the game can, and often has, definite start and endpoints. Me, I'm a big stickler for ritual and protocol and symbols, so I use real and concrete ways to illustrate the parameters of a scene. It might be the gear I'm wearing: if that leather band is still on my left wrist, I'm still in Top mode, and if that collar is still around your pretty neck, we're still Playing. It might be a handsome candle that's burning: as long as it hasn't been blown out, the game continues. That sort of imagery allows players to sink deeply, and safely, into the skewed-but-scandalously-fun role dynamics happening during the scene. It also means that when the scene is over, we're equal partners again.

But it's all about roles, personas, roleplay. And people choose their roles, and how deeply or consistently they want to take them, based on their fantasies and experiences and what they want to achieve and/or release through the process. It's kind of like ancient ritual theater in that way; it's cthonic.

And that's also why there's a sense, at least a subtle one, of violence to Topping. In life, certainly no, I'd never dream of laying a hand on anyone. Well, not usually anyway. But to some extent, can't it be argued that a fundamental part of the mythology behind this whole Topping thing is the image, the hint, the whisper of a chance that he or she could fuck you up? Isn't that part of the playful element of danger to it all? And, for that matter, wouldn't any self-respecting Top possess some amount of arrogance? Now, that doesn't mean that I really believe that women can or should be threatened or treated with sexist disrespect... but it might mean that, during a pre-negotiated, limited, consensual, limits-respecting scene between trusting partners who know what they are doing is a game, a roleplay, yeah, I just might call you some nasty name when you've "transgressed" and "require punishment."

So, are you saying that taking on any role means you're basically faking it?

No, I don't think so. It depends and what you want out of it, no? Sometimes people wear one role because their daily lives are so entrenched with its opposite: the submissive male who, during the day, is a barking corporate CEO for example, and who seeks release from the stress of responsibility. Or, the other way around, someone with real authority in the daily lives who enjoys that authority so much that they carry it into their sexplay. And then, there are people for whom the roles are entirely and happily fluid, and can wield a riding crop just as quickly and easily as receive the strokes of one. Those sorts of kinksters, it seems to me, are more interested in the shared physical sensations of the toys than in delving into the theatric psychodrama of the power exchanging. But that's just me. In any event, it's all good.

What about 24/7 kinksters? And Ginger's remark about "true Doms"?

For me, trying to be in Topspace 24/7 would be a huge amount of work. Besides, I adore knowing that my intimate partners are, in daily life, my equals: I expect her to have her own pursuits, goals, and interests outside of me. I think doing extended play over a few days would be a blast, but then there are times when I don't feel like making all the decisions too. And, again, that's me.

And this whole "true Dom" stuff is, as far as I'm concerned, hurtful, splitting nonsense. I'm certain that even the haughtiest, slickest, most deliciously ominous professional dominatrix with a walk-in closet full of PVC and leatherwear has her days when she just wants to kick back and catch Sex In The City reruns over a tub of ice cream.

Ooo ice cream. Have any for dessert?

And now for something completely different.

Speaking up for kink and culture.

In a previous post, I cited a mental health website that offered some strong, clinical arguments to suggest that kinky people suffer from a paraphiliac mental disorder.

In the view of these writers, kinkster- and genderqueer people are therefore included among the ranks of pedophiles and presumably other sorts of folk who engage in abusive, non-consensual, criminal, harmful activities in their lives.

"The essential feature of sexual masochism is the feeling of sexual arousal or excitement resulting from receiving pain, suffering, or humiliation," the site states. "The pain, suffering, or humiliation is real and not imagined and can be physical or psychological in nature. A person with a diagnosis of sexual masochism is sometimes called a masochist.

"The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders," they continue, "is used by mental health professionals to diagnose specific mental disorders. In the 2000 edition of this manual (the Fourth Edition Text Revision also known as DSM-IV-TR) sexual masochism is one of several paraphilias. Paraphilias are intense and recurrent sexually arousing urges, fantasies, or behaviors."

I finally got around to chiming in on their comments. I reached for my academic mortarboard (or was it my headmaster's cane?) and stepped up to the mike:

While it's always possible that a person suffering from a mental disorder may have an interest in these fantasies, it doesn't necessarily equate that a person engaging in consensual, expressive sexuality need do so because of an existing mental disorder.

Human sexuality of all stripes often includes a cognitive foundation involving power structures and roles. For many people, the deliberate and consensual application of these different power and authority structures (in a conscious and nurturing environment) can add enticing dimensions to one's sexual play. For some, the use of many kinds of physical and mental stimulation (such as spanking) adds another level of excitement.

People who engage in this sort of imaginative and creative sexplay are not the demons under your bed. Most are highly educated people coming from very professional and leadership-oriented backgrounds, with sound and happy families, paid-for cars, and mortgages.

Tragically, yes, there are people in the world who use power-exchange or bondage play or similar elements within the BDSM milieu for things other than safe, sane, consensual adult sexplay between knowing partners. But then, equally tragically, genuinely abusive people can also be found among the clergy, law enforcement, child care workers, and in other places in life where one wouldn't expect criminal activity.

If one thinks back far enough, deep enough, it wouldn't be unusual to find some kind of "kinkyness" (however one might apply that highly subjective term) in one's sexual fantasy life, including as far back as childhood. It's part of the human sexual awakening experience. Attempts to argue otherwise often fail to grasp the whole breadth of human sexual history and anthropology, and simply resort to trying to sell a specific, limited, restrictive idea about what is "right" and "appropriate" from a culturally myopic point of view.

In other words, the world's a lot bigger and broader than you probably think, and just because I spank my grrlfriend, that doesn't mean that I should stand in line for a thorazine shot.

Just sayin.

Finding tribe.

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Sunday comics.

...continued...

It'll take your breath away.

In a recent Ontario court ruling that should be of interest to kinksters everywhere, the province has decided that providing sexual consent in advance, that is, prior to the actual fucking, constitutes valid consent overall.

This may seem like a no-brainer, but consider the appeal which led to this conclusion:

In 2008, a submissive Ontario female kinkster (only identified as "J.A.") was in the fifth year of her common-law, kinky relationship with her dominant male partner (whose identity remains protected under court order). Part of their kink included breath play, and it would seem that their consensual agreement included such play to the point of J.A.'s losing consciousness while her partner continued to do his thing.

For most people, a scenario like this is pretty heavy-duty, even by bdsm standards. The larger majority of kinksters would never normally consent to such a level a submission where consciousness becomes compromised, much the same way that it's taboo to leave a partner placed in bondage alone in a room. Such practices, while potentially hot for many people, are clearly dangerous (and, in the case of breath play, potentially life-threatening).

Evidently, J.A. was also a newbie to anal sex, and it would seem that while she and her "partner" had discussed exploring ass fucking, evidence presented in court would suggest that J.A. hadn't exactly completely opened up to the idea.

This is because she accused her "partner" of sexual assault when she awoke after a session of (consensual?) breath play, and instantly uttered her safeword, "Tweety Bird," when she realized that her "partner" had completed the backdoor act while she was out of consciousness. J.A. wasn't ready, she argued, and her "partner" should have known and accepted this. One wonders if she was in the process of invoking her safeword before her consciousness was actually lost. Her "partner" was convicted of sexual assault.

But the Ontario Court of Appeal has since overturned the conviction of her (former, one might hope) "partner" in a 2-1 decision, with Justice Janet Simmons arguing that in situations "where a person consents in advance to sexual activity expected to occur while unconscious or asleep is entirely consistent with the principles of human dignity and autonomy... and (if such a person) does not change their mind, (fails to demonstrate) how the Crown can prove lack of consent."

Dissenting, Justice Harry LaForme had argued that acquiring sexual consent under such circumstances would be impossible, and would be "negated when she was choked into unconsciousness."

But both Justice Simmons and Justice Russell Juriansz drew comparisons between the couple's kink-related consent agreement and arguably similar agreements normally and regularly made between medical patients and physicians, where consent-in-advance (such as prior to surgery) is standard practice.

Such are the decisions made in a world where argued precedence sometimes trumps common sense.

This decision is extremely relevant for kinksters, and most especially for submissives and bottoms who know how to think, because it behooves us to be vigilant about whom we trust with our sexplay. One might have expected that J.A.'s "partner" would have respected J.A.'s limits, but tragically in her case, her willingness to explore erotic asphyxiation to the point of lost awareness also resulted in nonconsensual anal sex.

And could possibly have been worse.

Oh, those wacky Malaysians.

I'm so torn.

So it seems that, for the first time, Malaysian correctional officials have caned three Muslim women for having extramarital affairs. Perhaps as a response to public outcries over recent charges against another woman who was "caught" drinking beer, Home Minister Hishamuddin Hussein said he wanted to publicize the case of these three women because of “too much hype” over the earlier case.

"People are saying that no woman has been caned before," he was quoted in a recent Christian Science Monitor report, "(but)today I am announcing that we have already done it," adding that the women 'didn’t suffer any cuts or bruises' from the caning.

Yeah, sure.

With the exception of a thin apron tied around the waist, the subjects are nude. Under the supervision of a medical officer, their wrists are then bound to the upper peak of a A-frame while charges against them are read aloud by officials, who then require the recipient to verbally repeat and confirm the punishment they are about to receive. Up to twenty-four full-force strokes to the buttocks are then administered with a rotan jenayah, the larger of two varieties of rattan canes used in Malaysian corporal punishment. Those supervising make certain that the ends of the canes make contact with the body, allowing for maximum effect. The trained caners are paid RM10 Malaysian ringgit (about $3 Canadian) for each blow they deliver.

Then, is this where I stand on the soapbox with a pro-feminist T-shirt and defend the socio-sexual rights of women (well, anyone, really) to explore their bliss without fear of physical reprisal by the proponents of organized religion? Again?

Or is this where I stand next to a St. Andrew's cross with my jackboots and tell those Malaysian coppers that a good caning should be part of a decent extramarital affair, and not a punishment for one?

Decisions, decisions.
sigh

Her initiation in fire.

"Are you ready?"

She blinked as she adjusted her weight uncomfortably in those geeky clodhopper shoes. The pillory that her wrists were restained in left her arms at an oblique angle and forced her to bend over just slightly, making balance a hard thing to maintain. I smirked, stealing a fast glance to growing crowd around us and behind her. The poor thing.

Standing beside her, dressed in a long black coat and wearing a glistening black leather cap, I gently patted her tartan-covered derriere as she wobbled slightly on the tiny podium that held the pillory in place. The room was packed with minglers and dancers and voyeurs as the industrial music thumped against the walls, and as precious little had been happening in the scene until now, we had collected a small and growing crowd. It was in this setting that Kara, my sweet, found herself clad in a schoolgirl uniform, subjected to this public scrutiny, and felt the coarse material against her smooth, round behind give way to open air as I raised her hemline. For the first time in her life, her lovely ass was being exposed for complete strangers to see.

Kara was at her first playparty.



It was schoolgirl night during this particular event, and Kara had impressed me by collecting the pieces for her attire all by her sexy self. Uncomfortably half-bent over, her crisp white shirt and smart little tie made an interesting contrast to the medieval device to which she was affixed. I raised the skirt higher.

The first few cracks of my hand were playful, love taps to warm her up and alert her senses to this new experience she was submitting herself to. As my palm warmed as well, I smiled to myself when I remembered that this was the same woman who sometimes had to make the effort to say the word "fuck" in a sentence, and here she was being publicly exposed for a spanking.

I cocked my wrist and began smacking her delightfully pert ass in quick succession, thoroughly enjoying the feel of the space between her blushing cheeks against my palm and flattened fingers. She squeaked and wriggled, her wrists pulling at the secured wooden holes that held them in place. I alternated cheek to cheek, and paused from time to time to caress her bum and enjoy the growing heat that I was responsible for. And then, in the spirit of the evening, I reach into my toybag and withdrew the foot-long wooden ruler.

The edge of the ruler was sharp and unyielding in my hand, and as I brought it down from on high, I enjoyed how the lightness of it betrayed any false sense of leniency that its size might suggest. This fucker stung, and Kara's squirming body responded as might be expected. She jumped slightly, the podium clacking as her shoes came back down upon it, and as my strokes continued with each just slightly harder than the last, she was practically leaping into the air and begging me to shift my target to another spot on her precious behind. I didn't.

But I did show her some mercy. I paused. I caressed her angrily red ass with a tuft of soft rabbit fur. I caressed her shamefully exposed flesh. I removed my coat and hid her face from public view by using her bent head as a coathook to hang it upon while I sipped my drink for a moment or two.

I noticed then that others had started to play elsewhere in the club, and I was reminded from playparties past how sometimes all it took was one couple to have the cojones to get the energy started, and everything else would fall into place.

Beside us, a giggling teen trio set a svelte little blonde on a spanking platform, and as she crouched upon it on all fours, her male partner raised her skirt as well and began delivering some staccato strikes of his own. A female partner laughed (in that way a newbie might be expected to) as she held her friend's head in place. It was cute. Me, I enjoyed the sight as I relieved my coat from its hook, raised Kara's head, and allowed her a sip of something cold to soften her lips.

We took a break, and I removed her from the pillory. The crowd parted to me as I led us to the bar, where I held her close as we watched others dance. We might have joined them on another night, but we had come with a specific purpose in mind, and call me oldschool, but I'm not usually one to Top and dance in the same night if the energy doesn't have just right vibe for it.

Maybe it was because of the venue, but this evening's party seemed to be overrun with poseurs and wannabes and urban whitebread kids looking to see a thrill rather than be part of one. Definitely not my preferred scene, and definitely a far cry from the cauldrons of sociosexual decadence that I've grown accustomed to.

But that didn't stop me from giving it the ol' college try at least once more before I was ready to call it a night. A few drinks and some schmoozing with old friends later, and I was leading Kara to a spanking bench not far from a second, and larger, bar. Nicely situated in a corner, the drag queen and her entourage who hung out nearby showed Me deference as I led Kara there and moved aside. Few others were playing seriously at this point, and I nodded to the drag queen as she showed her respects to this club veteran and His pet.

The drag queen took my coat as I collected some ice from the bartender. A small group of drinking fratboys there, very out of place and visibly uncertain of themselves in this environment, would have been a problem had it not been for the steel glance they received from me and the small wave of leatherclad fetishists that followed me back to the corner.

Kara received a long, lingering kiss. Not only had she been courageous enough to attend this her first playparty, but she had been carrying herself with complete decorum, respectful deference to my friends, and submitted hrself to desired public spanking without a whimper of complaint. Her safeword remained secure. Within herself, she observed and experienced with open mind and trust, and for that I swelled with pleasure and pride to have escorted her into this place and Top her. She was due for some reward, and for that reason more than any other, I would keep my eye and ear on the alert in this not-entirely-ideal venue while also bringing her another step closer to her desired ruination at my lustful hands.

I set her into position on the spanking bench, her head near the black wall, her skirt-covered rear toward the bar and the crowd surrounding it. A useful semicircle of space cleared itself between us and them. The scene was set.

I caressed Kara's shoulders as she relaxed. I blindfolded her. I whispered my evil plans into her lovely ear, and she nodded with a gasping, open mouth. I set my cup of ice on the floor nearby and raised her skirt over her pantied and still slightly-red bottom. Bringing my palms to her ass, I pet her flesh gently before beginning a new wave of cracking, audible smacks.

The fratboys stopped their nervous giggling and shut up. Their smirks faded where mine began. Their young men's eyes began to glaze over and their jaws dropped slowly as they took in the sight of my lithe girlfriend's ass receiving attention. Soon, they were gently eased aside from the scene entirely as fellow fetishist folk moved to get closer looks. I didn't miss them. A new wall of black, respectful and appreciating, surrounded us now and gave me the headspace to open up more and relax in my delicious use of my lover.

It wasn't long before Kara's ass was again a radiant shade of red, contrasting to the lilly-white schoolgirl panties that she wore under her raised tartan. Scarlet lines ran down the length of her thighs where my fingernails had raked. I tugged her head up from the cushion she rested her chest upon until she knelt upright on the bench platform below, and gave her a sip of water before undoing the buttons on her crisp white shirt.

I removed it, set her back in position, and undid the snaps of her bra. Setting its straps at either side of her, her back was now fully bared. Kara was completely dissheveled now, virtually topless, her skirt rolled around her waist, her panties tugged upward to fully reveal her ass, her bobbysocks and shoes the only articles of clothing completely untouched. She panted as she rested her weight.

I reached into my toybag. Her skin glowed seductively in the flickering light as I lit the handful of small red candles that I had withdrawn from there, placing one between each finger of my right hand and raising them high above her bare back. Kara flinched as blood-red droplets rained down upon her, and I could faintly hear her hiss and moan under the constant, thundering music. From the corner of my eye, I could see wide toothy smiles from the audience that surrounded us, and most especially from a pair of zoftig PVC- and rubber-clad women who squirmed with yearning interest.

I filled my other fist with ice from the cup below me, and Kara alternatively winced and shuddered as she felt a tapestry of sensation. Her back and bottom were flecked with crimson dots and fiery streams, and the moving light made the small rivulets of icewater on her skin shimmer like crystal. Kara's face was contorting in confused ecstacy, her mouth open wide in a silent groan.

I paused to look directly at our audience. Many of them looked back, their faces full of enjoyment, while the gaze of others remained riveted to Kara's writhing, seminude body. The gothettes, the PVC-clad women to my left, looked particularly happy.

"She would love for you to do that to her," said the taller one, a vampiric brunette in a black corset, motioning with a smile to the blonde BBW beside her. A wonderful invitation. But I was with Kara, we hadn't discussed any such possibility beforehand, it was her first night out, and we were mid-scene.

"Maybe next time," I replied with a smile, enjoying the sight of the blonde go crestfallen.

Yet they inspired me to show a little Top largesse, Paddles-style, and I crooked my icy finger and summoned them closer with a smirk.

"Do you trust me?" I whispered into Kara's ear. She swallowed and nodded, her blindfold still secure over her eyes. "I love you." She got an icecube to chew on and suck in reward.

The Gothettes stood around the spanking bench with me as they received a crash course in safe waxplay before I armed them with more red candles from my bag of tricks. So it was that Kara, my sexy schoolteacher clad in her sexy schoolgirl uniform, received hotwax attention from this dastardly trio of kinksters in a thumping Toronto nightclub, her reddened and virtually bare ass exposed to a crowd of slack-jawed onlookers, her back and shoulders scattered with scarlet droplets as we three consensual conspirators smiled and laughed and tortured her for our own amusement and pleasure. Our hands held the candles high over our heads, their glow radiating against our black leather and PVC clothes as we stood in that unholy circle, the red drops drizzling down from our perverse trinity. How Kara squirmed and wiggled as she felt fire and ice in a blurry, constant wave upon her submitting and tender skin.

When it was over, the Gothettes were breathless in appreciation, and Kara was breathless in sacrificial bliss. The crowd of onlookers had grown thick and impenetrable, but soon even they slowly melted back onto the dance floor or around the bars as I cleaned my worthy pet up and restored her shirt upon her.

The drag queen returned my coat. The door crew shook my hand as we left. I brought Kara home, where she fell into a long, deep sleep.

Sunday comics.

A demanding pet.

Date: 15 September 2009 06:11
Subject: Re: gmorning, sexy
From: Kara
To: Rogue


Something I had never thought of before: that once a moment of ours is blogged about, not only can I see your "spin" on it, but I can re-live it over and over. There are so many more things I want to share.

You know, I have to admit when we first met, when I was toodling around online, dom/sub posts definitely caught my eye. I was beginning to wonder what kind of head-space I would have to be in to TAKE that kind of a suggestion seriously, and, not finding an answer to my musings, I let the idea go as just an internal fantasy ... not to be acted upon.

But what excites me with you, and binds me TO you, is and will always be the "headspace". You wooed me in my greatest erogenous zone: my head... and continue to do so, with safety and love and excitement and expectation ... and it has ALL caught my interest and imagination and, uh, well, my libido.

At the risk of sounding like a demanding pet, winding myself around your legs, trying to trip you with my enthusiasm ... I am looking forward to playing more.

Teneramente.

She has secrets deep within her. There are shadows, smooth as rich chocolate, sultry as black silk, wicked as a deerskin whip, that slowly swirl within her breast and in the unawakened fissures of her not-so-dormant imagination. These are places she rarely had opportunity to go, rarely had opportunity to delve within unto herself, and almost never had been able to breathe life into with another whom she cares for and is cared by.

This is fragile like a blackbird on the wing. Fragile like the flicker of a freshly lit candle. Fragile like trust caressed with fear and excitment. Discovery. Epiphany. Fecund, feral illumination.

And for the satyr, the psychopomp possessing the privilege to escort a tender faerie such as this into a delicious underworld of unseelie sensation... blissfulness attained. Responsibility. Mentorship. Possession. The making and the shaping of the mythic dimensions to another's sexual self in such a way and manner that can never be forgotten, regardless of whatever else may come. The power possessed is given freely only after the earning of trust and love, and must be wielded with the best interests of the pet in mind for these reasons.


She was kissing me. Her tongue swirled across my lips and into my mouth in the way that is so unique to her, so wanton in its feel. Her tiny waist thrilled my caressing hands as I pulled her closer, tighter against me, my palm at the small of her back. She groaned into my mouth and her lips crushed against mine even firmer than before, snaking an arm around my back. She tasted like wine. She was warm. She nudged a leg between my own, her thigh pressing against my own as I raised my arms to hold her lovely head in both hands.

I tugged her closer still, my fingers gripping gently at the small hairs at the nape of her neck as I returned the kiss. I lifted the shirt over her head, revealing her small breasts for my view and touch. She began undoing my belt as I pulled my own shirt off as well. Pants followed between kisses until we stood in the darkened parlour, aglow with candles and resonant with trance music, during this sensual evening not long after we had just begun to date.

My sense of kink intimidated her. My sexual openness was new for her. The kind of communication I had become accustomed to, and insist on in my relationships, was still something sought for and yet to be found for her. Yet here she was, and yet, things were beginning between us. I liked it, and I saw potential. I think she did too.

And so when our kiss was broken for a moment, I knew I was taxing on the sense of trust I had begun to build when I winked, pecked her on the cheek, and departed briefly to my bedroom as I asked her to "hold that thought."

From my toy chest, I returned to the parlour with my leather ankle restraints and few other naughty items. This evening, I had decided, would be about sensations.

"Do you trust me?" I had pulled a chair from another room and set it in the centre of the parlour. Nude, lithe and beautiful in the golden glow of the room, she took my hand to help her stand upright upon it.

"Yes."

I smiled and kissed her taut abdomen that beckoned before me while slipping the thick, heavy leather restraints around each of her ankles. A metal clamp clikked into place as I secured them together. Looking up and into her slowly widening green eyes, I tugged and yanked on the clamp like a magician demonstrating the effectiveness of his equipment. She kept her balance and I kept my smile.

"Your hands to the ceiling. Do it."

She hesitated, and I punished her with a look. Later, she would tell me that that was when she felt a pang of fear and came close to aborting our little game. But she persevered through it and, much to her surprise, was glad she did.

As am I. I may have never sought to play with her in this way again. For us both, it was a test. We passed.

Fingernails grazed along her ribcage as I walked to stand behind her, taking in the delectable sight of her pert little derriere. A pet should have an excellent derriere, not only capable but prone to enjoying whatever torment I can muster, and her ass is delightful. I caressed a peachy cheek with my palm, squeezing her as she began a faint shudder. I cranked the music up. I sipped some more wine. I smacked her oh-so-available ass that was delightfully presented to my eye-level with a smirk of appreciation. And then I smacked it again. And again, enjoying the slightest movement under my fingers that bespoke of her firmness. I parted her shamelessly, exploring and inspecting her nethermost treasures in a way that surely left her feeling utterly exposed.

I slithered moistened fingers past her thighs and sawed them gently through the swelling folds of her darkening, lovely cunt. She was hot. She was soaked. She gasped aloud.

Holding her hip with one hand, I began a series of spanks with the other until her cheeks just began a shade of pink. I caressed her thighs with rabbit fur. I reached around her to run my nails along her tummy, up to her faerie tits, pinching her nipples. I jilled her lengthening, engorged clit betwen my fingers as she struggled to keep her hands to the cieling above her.

Inspired, and with a sense of indulgent come-uppance, I reached for my most recently-acquired slapper, a token from ribald days and nights in Chicago. I enjoyed an irony. With a self-indulgent smirk I returned the mental gesture that the loss of one becomes the gain of another. It was a subtle, personal return on a theme, fully warranted and enjoyed from the lesser deamons of my nature. And it left lovely, loud red swats on my fabulous, healthy, joyful new lover's exquisite ass.

Both this spirit and the spirit of escorting her through these newer sensations then had me at my kitchen freezer where I reached not for ice, but for clusters of frozen strawberries that had been waiting for attention since last autumn. With fistfulls of the hard, gooey fruits, I laughed aloud as I caressed her legs, abdomen, tits, and face with pink pectin.

By the time I was done, she had been through multiple experiences as she wobbled on happily unsteady feet. It was time to let her cum. Reaching again between her thighs, my fingers returned to exploring her, and at the risk of entirely compromising my Topspace, I indulged in giving her my tongue. She began to quake and suffer, now uncomfortable standing on the chair as orgasm eluded her.

I showed mercy. Wrapping an arm around her waist, I hoisted her up and tossed her into the parlour futon in one rush. She screamed aloud as I roughly parted her thighs and sunk my cock deeply into her drenched, quivering, strawberried pussy, her ankles high and around my neck as I fucked her fast, hard, and deep. I held her legs up by gripping the clamp betwen the restraints, the steel clacking loudly with each demanding thrust of my cock. Her knees framed her face as she gasped aloud. Her nails raked down my back as she came.

I removed the ankle restraints. I carried her to my bed. I threw her down. I raised her lovely, reddened ass into the air to fuck her from behind before we coiled together and drifted into sleep, fruit still on our tongues.

Kara was introduced to kink, and was intimidated no more. She's begun exploring her secrets.

Playing with experienced partners is always a pleasure, but I cannot think of a more rewarding privilege than to succesfully introduce someone to heretofore unexplored nuances of their sexual selves. It transcends the tenure of relationships, and makes priesthood to Aphrodite's temple out of those who have the opportunity to know its joys and responsibilities.

Love you, Kara. Dacquiri?

Sunday comics.

Tank girl.

For almost ten years, we were together. She was my first love, my first partner, and we met when I was a rascal in my late teens, fresh from high school, spanking new to the bdsm scene, plying my trade as a carnie at Renaissance festivals throughout the northeast coast. She was a mid-20s United States Marine and sometime-stripper who had just finished a tour of duty in Hawaii and had daydreams of flying fighter jets. She had come to the Renaissance festival with her biker friend and her daughter. With an equally rascally buddy, I was doing my job: drinking heavily and teasing the living hell out of "the mundanes."

I was dressed in skintight black Capezios, boots, and a hard, leather jerkin with a lovely blade dangling from my waist. She was ogling me from a short distance, her friend not far behind. I had a belly full of mead and spicy, flirtacious wit, so naturally when I spied her spying me, I approached her as any self-respecting rascal would.

The blade swayed from side to side, its hilt clinking against the vessel of whiskey that dangled from my belt, the outline of my package as easy to see as sinners on a Sunday, as I approached her. Slinking close, she smelled sunshine-warmed sandalwood oil in my light beard as I took in her body language, full of approval, bringing my cheek to her ear.

"Hello, m'lady," I whispered, booze on my breath and faerie dust on my perspiring brow. "Prithee... do you come to the faire to watch the men in their tights?"

She laughed a head-thrown-back, saucy, ribald laugh, the laugh of a tipsy girl from Southie who likes her man to have a nice ass, and nodded. She gave me a "kissing stone," a small rock painted with a tiny, inviting red heart. Within the next hour, she was getting friction burns on her knees as she rode my cock on the upstairs floor of my rustic merchant's booth, amid my camping equipment and collection of medieval costumes.

Not long after we were done, her biker friend had her turn, suffering my carnie friend's pair of leather wrist restraints as he bound her to a rafter and had his way with her in the same room. They never stayed in touch afterward, but what started for my new friend as a sexy, drunken Renfaire fling would become my first longterm, primary relationship.

Had I more courage at the time, I would have married her. I should have. I almost did.

Before Kara, and even before The Grrl who influenced the development of this blog, there was Diva. I keep referring to her in passing, so on the event of her birthday, it seems fitting to share a glimpse.

I so loved Diva.

She's a dirty blonde vixen who has always managed to fuse the allure of whitecollar elegance with bluecollar spirit. One moment, I'd be enjoying watching her sip champagne from Baccarat crystal over braised quail, and the next minute, she'd be belching in the car like a Plymouth longshoreman after a trip to the package store. An occasional stripper (for which she very nearly faced a "conduct unbecoming" charge while on active duty), she wasn't exactly an innocent when we met. Still, in our time together she found herself introduced to a panoply of adverturous play and shared ecstacies that, I smirkingly know, lasted within her well after our relationship ended.

I introduced her to kink. When I wasn't haggling to buy men's wives or children during my hysterically drunken Renfaire taunts ("Oi, m'lord, two pigs fer yer wife thar... my, but she's a purdy one, neh? Lesse her teeth now... oh yeh, yeh, two pigs an' a chicken then, wot say? Tis a good chicken..."), I was working at either an adult toy store in Greenwich Village or bouncing at the clubs, and it wasn't long into our relationship that she discovered exactly how much she loved receiving a good spanking on her beautiful ass.

Diva would squeal so satisfyingly when she was across my lap, and over time, she developed such a tolerance for OTK play that by session's end, her derriere would be fire-engine red and burning throughout the night. She became so enamored of having her hiney whupped that, after we broke up, I was amused to find sex-networking listings from her on various internet sites where she openly sought "the attitude adjustments I so deserve."

She drove from Boston to New York once to surprise me when I was on-duty at a club. She strolled in as I was supervising a scene between two lesbians, and by the end of that night, I had her dangling from the chainlinks suspended from the cieling as I tortured her with horsehair whips and riding crops.

Once, while visiting her, her brother accidentally walked in on us as she lay sprawled on the living room floor as I hovered above her, slowly dripping hot wax onto her pretty B-cup breasts. Oops.

At another club, after spanking, paddling, and restraining her on a St. Andrew's cross as I pinched her nipples with clamps, I took her into a blacklit booth where I pressed her hands against the wall and fucked her from behind. As I drove deeply into her, tugging her adorable ass against me hard and fast, masturbating voyeurs moaned and stroked both their cocks and pussies as they jockeyed in position for the finest view. When we were finished, Diva told me later about the streams of anonymous semen that found itself splashing along her leg while I pumped her senseless.



We had friends among T-Bears MC, a kink-positive women's motorcycle club, and with them we became part of the clique that founded the Boston chapter of the National Leather Association. It was Diva who, during a relaxed party at our pad, came up with the name for its newsletter, Scarlet Leather, which it retained long after the group redeveloped into the New England Leather Alliance.

We were social butterflies (or wasps, if you prefer) then, movers 'n shakers, the Kind Of People You Wanted To Know. I did workshops at NLA meetings about riding crop use as sex toys; Diva dropped trou to help me demonstrate. I drove our black Ford conversion van as we trekked to another private playparty; Diva knelt on the van floor as our brunette BBW friend, Jacqueline, opened her legs to receive Diva's expert tongue.

And her tongue was deliciously expert. Diva was superb at sucking cock, and knew all about that balance between a firm, wet grip of the fist while also offering a tight, sucking, pouty pair of lips. We would embrace for vast stretches of time, orally spooning as we lay on the bed on our sides, her head at my waist and my hands at her head as I vigourously pumped my cock into her willing, wanton mouth.

She would crawl on all fours, clad only in a teddy, onto the center of the Oriental rug in the playparty host's parlour. There, in the center of a circle of chairs occupied by voyeurs, men and women alike, she would bend her head to the floor and raise her lovely ass high to receive whatever spanking, paddling, cropping, waxing, icing, clamping torment my naughty imagination could muster. How she loved being tormented upon her ass.

Diva's ass. Diva loved to have my cock, deep and thrusting as she perspired under me, inside her ass. How she would hiss and growl as she felt herself get taken, how she would gasp and loudly whisper "Hot! So hot! So... hot!" as my fiercely pumping thrusts burst my cum deep into her body.

Three times I shared her with other individual men, where she was
DP'd each time until she gasped and rolled her eyes back and dropped limp with ecstatic oblivion. One man was a celebrity, of sorts, whom we knew. Another was a bodypainting artist we met at the Renfaire. The last was a mutual friend who was about to wed a woman who detested anal sex, and we gave him something to remember.

At least one orgy, four couples. More playparties. The couple who rented a 1-bedroom apartment just for their swinging trysts. The couple who wanted to simply see a demonstration of my Topping skills as the sound of Gregorian chant echoed throughout their basement dungeon. The teen couple, both redheads, also from the faire. Picking her up after a shift at the stripclub. The afternoon I fucked her on a hillside in the snow as friends nearby sought for us. The night beside the lake as I took her from behind, knees on grass, as a crowd of nude, ribald men and women danced naked around the bonfire to the thrumming of drums and song, our visage barely visible by the glow of embers under a starry sky.

I have written a great deal about my lovers in this blog, but after some thought, nothing I have written to date can come close to the quantity, the quality, of adventurous sexplay that she and I had explored during our tenure together. I've had lusty, imaginative daydreams about exploring nearly as much, being nearly as active in the kink community again, with a partner as I had enjoyed when Diva and me were the Thing we were.

But, yes, it ended. Maybe it was the 7-Year Itch, or maybe the planets simply went kerblewie out of alignment, or maybe it was just time, but we eventually drifted apart. I moved out on Christmas Day. The ripple effect among our circle of friends was vast. I pierced my right lobe (the left ear had been done when I was sixteen) to mark the monumental change in my world.

I would never have admitted it then, but losing Diva was one of the best things to ever have happened to me. For all my sexual exploration and streetwise education, I was a kid then who didn't really know shit about women, relationships, communication, the vulnerability that comes with love. Diva, in her own way, taught me those things, as she taught me certain life-affirming maxims that are tattooed to my forearms. She showed me how to appreciate women who have cajones.

After our breakup, she raced motorcycles for a time and travelled to Europe. Her landscaping business flailed in the recent recession, and she's since moving on to become a corrections officer. It's a career choice that I think she'll do fine in.

Oddly, she's single. Her last boyfriend strung her along for the longest time, never getting the message that all she really wants is a steady, committed partner with whom she can build and share. Maybe her attitude gets in her way, because she's as openmouthed as she is openminded.

We didn't talk for the longest time, but we're friends now, and call on rare occasion. Her mid20s daughter, whom I raised with her during our relationship, calls me Daddy to this day and had her second child by her good husband, a Coast Guard seaman, within the last few years.

I loved Diva very much, and I still do, in a fashion. She's clan. From time to time, like on her birthday today, I think about her and send her good vibes.

Happy birthday, beautiful.

I still have the kissing stone.