My foolish sweet tooth.

Once again, I didn't follow my instincts.

She was a reader of the blog, a sexblogger herself, and found me through a fetish networking site. She was going through a breakup at the time and had moved nearby from another city to the west, and she approached me to see if I'd be willing to escort her around the Toronto fetish scene. It sounded like fun, and I've come to really enjoy meeting blogreaders lately. She wanted an opportunity to make new friends, start over, and move beyond whatever it was that her previous Top partner had apparently stung her with. She was missing "kinky submissive goodness."

Me, I expected that we'd make platonic good friends, and having her on my arm would give me an excuse to go to all those local fetnights that I've allowed other elements in my world to keep me from lately. Win-win.

For eight months, off and on, we chatted through the fetish networking site. She was full of compliments about my writing, and eventually the flirting began. It became more personal. I already knew that she had also connected with a new Top Daddy, and since both my being largely poly and the fact that she hadn't really become Serious on my radar yet, I had no issue with that and told her so. After all, if nothing clikked, there was no reason why we couldn't stick with the original plan and just be buds exploring the local vibe, right? Sure. We set up a date for drinks.

Over a perfectly pleasant Indian meal, we discussed ourselves, our desires, mutual interests... the usual on-a-date thing. We talked about her past experiences amid the fetscene in her previous city, and she bemoaned the drama in her post-breakup experience there.

(Oh, the irony. ...But I digress.)

Gradually, our datetalk seemed to shift from comrades-in-kinkdom-looking-to-attend-stuff-together to potentialities-in-seeking-primary-partnership-in-life. Was she asking me if I was interested in pursuing a partnership with her? I rolled with it, enjoying myself.

Cupcakes is an early30s mulatto brunette BBW with a passion for shoes but yet, curiously, is also hugely podophobic. (I would later tease her that the worst BDSM punishment I could ever put her through would be to blindfold and restrain her as a circle of men and women gently touched her body with their bare feet.) I was initially intrigued with her background in French literature, her mixed race status, her desire to submit.

And, yes, it's true: the possibility that maybe there might be something here beyond dating, beyond even fucking, appealed to me. I do enjoy being single. But it's also not been since Kara since I had the compatible opportunity for More. Cupcakes appealed to that sweet tooth.

While we were relaxing on the couch in her small apartment, I was looking into her dark eyes when I moved closer for the first kiss. Her lips responded lightly, and as I brought my hands upward to her head and nipped at her ear, she began to slowly melt under me.

I enjoyed the texture of her tight, small, black curls as I held her head and nibbled upon her neck. Her gasps were moist in my ear. Her groans were soft as I tugged her hair from behind. Her nipples began to harden under her lacy top, and when her round, firm breasts were revealed to me, they were capped attentively.

When I found myself kneeling on the floor before her couch, tugging her jeans down to reveal the equally lacy black panties under them, my cock was straining inside my jeans. I removed my shirt, parted her thick legs, and began to taste her. The panties were tugged aside, and I nipped at her thigh as a very lightly sparsed mound opened itself up before me. I swabbed her with my tongue. She gasped and cooed appreciatively.

After a short while, I was eager to see her ass. Turning her down and around, she rested her knees to the floor and bent comfortably with her tummy on the couch. I tugged the panties down and off an ankle, and knelt back as I enjoyed the sight her her womanly round derriere. Opening her up, I continued to taste her from behind, but soon switched to lay down on the floor itself with her thighs to the sides of my head, holding her hips gently as I lowered her pouty cunny toward my mouth. She was warm and rich and definitely moist, and her scent soaked my light beard and lips as she gently rode me.

Soon, I knelt up. I caressed her broad back, massaging her shoulders as she whimpered into the cushions. I moistened and began sliding my fingers inside her, probing her Gspot as I fucked her with my hands. My fingers teased, slid, twisted, cupped, fucked. When she finally came, I was stroking ribbed flesh within her body as she shuddered and quaked beautifully.

I stood and stepped to her bedside table, where a small stack of condoms already awaited me. Selecting one, I tore the package open with my teeth and continued to watch her, on hands and knees over the couch, as I rolled it down the length of me. I brought my knees to the carpet, held the base of my cock with my fist, and slowly guided it inside her thick body. She looked at me from over her shoulder, her mouth open, her breathing heavy. I ran my nails along her spine. I massaged her shoulders more as I started thrusting inside her. I gripped her wide hips and pumped, feeling her phat ass against me. When I started to grip her coiled hair and tug her head backward slightly, she cried out and shook once more.

I brought my pace down, smiled, stood up, and peeled the latex from my cock. She was still shaking gently and panting into the cushions when I reached for the wineglass on the floor and drained it.

Bringing ourselves up to the couch again, I coiled my arm around her waist and lay her across my lap. Her arms and head lay on the armrest of the couch as she realized what was about to come. She had already confessed to me that among her needs was to be spanked regularly, for "maintenance," so I saw no reason to let a fair opportunity like this go to waste.

I held her as we had a Time-Out moment to discuss what would be coming next. I gave her her safeword for the evening.

Once she was comfortably settled, my caresses to her bum shifted to gentle pats. Gradually, pats become slaps. Slaps became strikes. Upon one asscheek, then the other, I alternated and changed where I brought my palm to her submitting body. But knowing that she already had experience and desire in this kind of play, I didn't linger on gentility for very long. Soon, my palm was noisily striking across her seam in crisp, short strokes, and I smiled to myself as I felt it across my fingers. It had been a while.

She began to shudder again, and so my grip around her waist tightened as my other arm continued to alternate the intensity of my strikes. But this time, it wasn't an orgasm that was swelling up inside her, but tears. When the sniffling little thing was reduced to soft sobs, I gradually came to a stop.

The energy shifted. My first thought was that, like other subbies I've enjoyed back in the day at the BDSM clubs, she was of the kind to desire this sort of release. But, no. A nerve had been struck, she had been brought to a place she didn't necessarily want, and so the only thing left to do was to hold her and caress her and try to help her feel safe. Listening. Confirming the thought that, ok, this didn't go right. More listening.

This happens sometimes. And, in my experience, a healthy Top endeavors to handle it as gently as possible, as nurturingly as possible, especially with a new partner.

The silly tart hadn't used her safeword, and this elicited a strong but nurturing response from me. Lesson learned. "I need to trust that you'll alert Me when you've gone into an uncomfortable place, because I may be thinking that you're otherwise enjoying everything that's happening. I observe, I see, I'll make a call if it doesn't look like fun for you, but that doesn't mean I expect to do without your responses, baby."

Cuddles. Relaxation. Wine. Talking. Soon, we were discussing more about our shared interest in having Primary Partnership in our lives, and we each opened up about our respective backgrounds. The time went by enjoyably.

I would be spending the night. Her luxurious bed awaited us, and I smirked as I saw the Hitachi wand still tussled amongst burgundy sheets. Stripping, we slid under the duvet together and held one another.

She wanted me to read to her.

But that's another story.

And to my even later surprise, this otherwise lovely "night out for drinks" wouldn't become what it seemed like it could have been.

And that's another story too.

Wanna play?

It hasn't been since Kara and I were together that I've enjoyed a partner over my knee. That's more than a year. I really owe it to myself to do something about that.

So, thanks to some of my area's FetLife groups, I've begun networking to find some relaxed, safe/sane/consensual friends who'd enjoy coming to my pad for spanking and barbecue parties this summer. If it works, should be fun.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

Happy holidays from Urban Roguery.

Little Ginger.

I had seen her profile on a dating site, and the truth is that, after reading several of her responses to personality-related questions, had already decided that she was a little self-centered and arrogant for me. But, I had to admit, with the spiky short red hair, the thick build, and the sex-positive attitude, she was cute.

And maybe, just maybe, she reminded me of Shayne.

She checked out my profile in return, and liked what she read and saw. A few days later, she wrote to me.

"Your profile sounds like I made you out of clay. Any chance you like gingers?"

What's not to like?

"I love men, real men, and I was so turned on by your profile because you seem to be the last man on Earth who understand what that means," she added later. "Open, confident, artistic and strong with power even, but as if you can wield it with contentment, integrity and grace. I also really like it when men look like men. *sigh!* I just couldn't leaf by your page. A nagging voice told me you wouldn't be intimidated by a girl who starts the chase."

Gradually, she grew on me. She opened up deliciously, and slowly I started to really appreciate the impetuous teeny firecracker that she is.

Little Ginger is a mid20s security guard with OPP aspirations and a Daddy fantasy. She could have been Shayne's younger sister.

"I like older men, though I have yet to really have one. Forbidden fruit maybe? I'm interested in the confidence, assuredness, and allure that comes with the grace and wisdom of age. I love the masculinity, eloquence and maturity which is supposed to come with age, which is why I just had to message you. I love the cut of your jaw, the beard, your eyes.

"I have a very deep sexuality that I have yet to explore. I feel like a painter who has been given a canvice the size of a postage stamp to create an opus. It would be nice to have someone who knows how to give, and draw out depth. I am still a bit shy and naive in this area, which is why I would so like to be drawn out."

But did I want to take this path again? Granted, I can totally enjoy being a Daddy to a perky sweet young thang. Granted, the idea of escorting said sweet young thang into the wonderful world of kink hardens my cock and tightens my chest. Mentor the little wench over my knee? Sign me up.

Sounds like a Top man's dream, no? But still something felt amiss. My psychic radar just wasn't convinced.

A few phone calls and I had her in giggles. A few textmessages later, and she was telling me how she was dying to press her face to my wide chest and drink in the scent of me. I knew she would drench at that, whatwith the essential oils I wear.

Facebook photos showed me the bulldog tattoo she proudly wears on her wide, freckled back. Her brastraps were also clearly in view on these pics, which probably prompted her to teasingly command me to stop looking at them when I commented. The po' thing. And, sure, in getting a sense of her look, I could easily see myself tugging her waist firmly with my arm as I rained my cupped hand down on what I was sure would be a pale, broad, sensitive, womanly ass.

But still this lingering sense of... nuh uh.

I picked her up near her pad, and her eyes widened when she saw me. We shook hands, a light hug, and we were off to a great little pub that's across the street from the comedy club I would take us to later. We played with dogs we passed on the street. Over onion soups and skewered shrimp, conversation revolved around the usual topics, and all the while I had the increasing sense that she was feeling overwhelmed. Unconsciously, and soon, consciously, I began to treat the evening as less than a date and more of just two people hanging out together. No spark. And to make it worse, the comics were mediocre.

It's disappointing when what should be a fun and terrific date turns out limp and uninspired. My first thought was that Little Ginger simply decided that she wasn't attracted after all, and being the Big Boy I am, was fine with handling that. We kept in touch over text, but her flirtations stopped. I didn't press it.

Eventually, she messaged me again. No, she insisted, it wasn't lack of attraction at all; in fact, she loved the way I look. But it seemed that, self-described naive girl she is, I scared her away not because of my Topself but because I was "too feeling." Huh?

You see, call me crazy, but I actually enjoy getting to know the person I'm dating. But, it would seem, because I actually was interested in getting to know Little Ginger as a person, plus me being the first "older man" she had gone out with, well, the little boo just got scared. I had asked her if she was ok, and I thought my question was me being nurturing. Seems all I did was spotlight her feelings of inadequacy. Oops.

"Ok, I need to come clean," she would write to say. "I had fun with you, and you are a great date. You came up with cool things to do and I liked talking to you, but I guess it's hard to take the fantasy out of the bedroom. Just picture me as an awkward teenager who came in her pants too soon... You were my first attempt... when I was nervous and you called me on it it made it worse... but you are cool."

Well, far be it from me to want to make a potential partner uncomfortable just by trying to appreciate who and what she really is. Yes, I like (and do) Daddy fantasy play just fine, but if "it's hard to take the fantasy out of the bedroom" enough for said potential partner to be open with me, well, hey, your loss, and I'd probably not really be interested anyway.

Later, Little Ginger would try to be haughty with me when I sought to confirm if I really had scared her away, as if she couldn't imagine that my own intuition sensed it far before she felt it necessary to explain herself. Can you say "overcompensation"?

While the date was reasonably fine as far as nights out are concerned, Little Ginger also reminded me that I'm a lot more sophisticated now than when I was in my mid20s, and all that 'confidence, assuredness, allure, grace, wisdom, masculinity, eloquence and maturity' that I do in fact possess will be better offered to a woman who is far more my equal than teenagers who come in their pants too soon.

"Take care of yourself: you're a good kid," was my last textmessage to her.

She didn't reply.

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.

Kara's birthday spankings.

She was already under the blankets, casually reading an erotic novel from my bedroom bookcase as I came in from work. I enjoy it when she lets herself in. She looked to me with a smile as I came upstairs, and the smile remained as I slowly stripped before her to get into the shower.

The day before, we strolled on Yonge Street to enjoy some birthday shopping. (Yeah. I'm a guy. And I shop. Deal with it.) At Northbound, we picked up a sharp black PVC evening gown and charming black satin corset, and later found some racy shoes to match both. Gradually, my little spitfire is creating quite the fetish collection, which is as it should be if she's going to drape her arm (or lap) over mine at deliciously sinful venues.

I had already given her a large box from Jacob the week before that contained a very sheer black sweater, a satin miniskirt and a shimmering bra and panty set. The metallic studs on the black and purple bra could easily be seen through the thin sweater, giving Kara an excellent dancefloor look. Our mission for the evening was to visit the store again and confirm my sizing choices, since we wanted her to be completely comfortable during the coming playparty before her impending fate made her completely uncomfortable.

Anticipation had been building up for weeks: Kara was to experience her first public birthday spanking session, and she had been left a-quiver as she waited for me in my bed. It had been at least two years since I last had the pleasure of administering birthday spankings with a lover, and so I thoroughly was enjoying seeing my waif whimper and whine for a while. She's so cute.

Despite how striking and precious the PVC is, she opted for the Jacob ensemble for the evening's play. Its miniskirt and panties would certainly make for easier access and more subby-appropriate vibe for what diabolical plans lay ahead of her. She had already taken it upon herself to polish the linked steel ringlets that adorn one of my favourite leather collars, and this fit charmingly around her throat to shower her upper chest with diamond-like glitterance.

Red attire was the theme for tonight's playparty, which I met with a sensual scarlet shirt under my leather officer's cap. Kara's contribution to redness would soon be her blistering, tight, naked and pert little ass.



Hands down, Goodhandy's is the most cosmopolitan venue I've ever been to. "Toronto's Pansexual Playground" is foremost a den for the local queer community, but is so adventurously openminded that people from any orientation or interest can and does taste its forbidden fruits and all in complete harmony with one another.

It was Dancing Nazi who first caught my eye as we entered the club. A buff dude grooving to DJ Jimi Lamort's tunage with his nearly naked partner, his Nazi replica uniform bugged me. Not because of what it was, mind you, but because the history buff in me was peturbed that he had mixed his insignia all wrong. Go figure.

And how often does one have the opportunity in life to watch a Nazi... dancing? Life can be so weird.

Leave it to Kara to steer my attention toward more topical eye candy. Nursing our ciders, we drooled at th sight of a sensual lioness n the dancefloor, a lithe and bald woman in a PVC gown very alike that which Kara chose not to wear for the evening. Alone, she swayed fluidly on the floor, and heartily beamed when we later shared how much we had enjoyed watching her.

Another couple, a plump Asian woman with a very athletic grunge blonde, kissed sensually as they swayed. Multiple couples of muscular men gyrated and filled the house with laughter. T-girls shuffled about in perfumed packs, eyeing one another enviously and each striving to command as much ambient space as possible. Kara and me took it all in, whispering to each other joyfully as we drank and moved to the tunes.

Until it was time.

I took her hand and led her upstairs to the play area. A blonde twink tended bar (yes, a 'drink twink'...) there, around whom a few voyeuristic dudes watched the dancing below from the balcony. A robust, mulatto woman with long, golden dreadlocks was receiving a light whipping on her naked ass by a muscular dark black dude as she rested on all fours on a table. A lesbian couple relaxed with their drinks in an alcove. Numerous individual men, gay and not-so-gay, enjoyed the action.

I made our way for a reasonably empty spot near the other end of the balcony where an unused spanking bench sat lonely and isolated. It wasn't very long before Goldielocks' nearby flogging came to an end and the area began to clear of most of the voyeurs. Once the space opened some, I commandeered it by turning the lonely spanking bench into a position that suited me, with its upper tier facing what I knew would become new voyeur space and its rear close to the back wall but allowing me plenty of safe movement room. The area was dim, with the blended scent of cologne, bodies, and drinks. Shafts of light from nearby spotlights in the rafters beamed down to the dancefloor but yielded an ambient glow to the area. The thumping thunder from the DJ's work below pulsated through the floor.

I sat Kara down on the bench as I lay my bag of tricks on a shelf that ran along the back wall, moving some candles and empty beer bottles. I went to Drink Twink for some ice, and he looked at me with that slight sneer that gay boys are wont to do when they feel like being judgmental, but his attitude cleared up rightquick when it dawned on wee li'l him that he was being addressed by a Top that wasn't just looking for free fucking ice.

I stood before Kara and held her head in my hands, giving her a slow and wet kiss.

"How do you feel?"

She smiled.

I grasped the short, dark hair at the nape of her neck and slowly pulled her around and upward until she was in position, on her hands and knees on the two-tiered spanking table. I rested her forehead all the way down to the polished wood before turning away to stand behind her and near my bag on the shelf. Leaving her there untouched, I knew the voyeurs would begin to gather around again as I set my toys in a neat little row along the shelf while my back was to her. By the time I turned around, a gathering had come but nicely remained at a respectably workable distance. Among them was Goldielocks.

I didn't waste time. After a few gentle shoulder rubs, I went for Kara's backseat jugular and hoisted her hem up and over her pert heiney. Her panties framed her most nicely, and with only the minimal amount of warm-up, I began an openhanded assault on her delicious little ass. I wanted her to see stars. I wanted her to twitch and yelp aloud. I wanted her writhing and her face looking at me from over her shoulder with a shocked and embarassed expression, wide-eyed and stunned, as she received her birthday spanking. I wanted her to thoroughly entertain every hungry pair of eyes, male and female, gay and straight alike, with her public punishment.

And I got what I wanted.

I had count aloud, marking each of her years with every spank. Of course though, my memory lapsed from time to time... seventeen does come after thirty-two, right? Oh well. Damn that grade school I went to. Better start over.

Kara's ass was bare and red and glowing by the time I paused long enough to slip some ice into her mouth. She was panting yet breathless, her face even redder than her posterior as she strained to keep her forehead against the wood. She looked at me pleadingly.

"Are you alright?" I smirked.

She nodded slowly, blinked, panted some more, and gratefully swallowed the water that melted along her tongue.

Behind her again, and now I pressed against her lower back to guide herhips even closer to the edge of the upper tier to the bench. This raised her butt even higher, giving her lithe body a pretty but uncomfortable S-curve. By now her bare knees were feeling the wood too.

I drank a swig of my cider, and looked around me. Some looked right back, smiling and nodding most approvingly. Others couldn't take their eyes off of my pet. One man sat nearby, slowly stroking his cock. One of the lesbians gently played with her partner's earlobe as they watched.

I retrieved one of my slappers and began giving my pet a series of loud, cracking smacks on her raised behind. Kara wiggled and squirmed, especially when I used my other hand to hold the crotch of her panties and tug them upward to apply pressure to her swelling and drenched clit. I rained punishment along her thighs, which sent her into jolts. I held her head up by tugging her hair, forcing her to look at the crowd which so enjoyed seeing her suffer.

"I love you. Are you having fun?"

She smiled and nodded. "I love you too."

I paused. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

I smiled and returned to my cider. I took a long look at Kara's glowing ass, round and red but still somehow ready for more. I turned to one of the lesbians who had moved closer to me.

"Hi," I said. "So, it's her birthday... would you like to help me out?"

One of the things I learned when I was bouncing and supervising playparty scenes back in my pro-dom days was how to raise the bar of fun in a safe, well-considered way. If you're going to seek "audience participation," it's healthy and wise to know how to read body language and observe that someone understands a sense of protocol. If a Top is going to offer the utmost in generosity and actually offer his or her pet to a stranger, intuition and resilient observation is vital.

But this woman only blushed and stammered, smiling in her quiet and polite refusal. Oops: I had picked a submissive. Still, it was adorably cute. But I was undeterred and wanted a sharing. Somehw I knew I wouldn't be turned down again if I sought a guy. Call it a wild guess.

Greek Guy looked presentable and intelligent, and he had been enraptured with my handiwork. When approached, he almost came in his pants at the opportunity to participate, and I gave him a crash course in certain ground rules before squatting down near Kara's head. I gave her a sip of cider and more ice. Her ass remained high in the air. Caressing Kara's head, I kept a watch on Greek Guy as he stood behind my pet and began with a series of very light spanks.

He had a (shall we say) interesting technique, beginning with a rapid fluttering of his outstretched fingertips that only barely met her skin. Her firm ass jiggled slightly under each series of rapid butterfly swats, which he would then finish off with only a moderate final smack. He was completely enjoying and behaving himself, but for Kara this treatment was a cool-down. Not entirely a bad thing, but not where I wanted to take her yet.

(Later, Kara and I would call this the "good kitty" technique, and mimicked it while rapidly patting one of her cats on its head. "Goodkittygoodkitty...")

It was Goldielocks who helped me make the evening. Even though I had seen her on the receiving end of a lash, somehow my instinct told me that she was an experienced, sex-positive switch. I was right: she positively beamed when she was invited to help me wish Kara her happy birthday.

Goldielocks was an earth mother. Those long, golden dreads rained down her light brown back like a lioness' mane, and her eyes shimmered with sharpness and wit. Buxom and broadshouldered, I could easily see her gyrating with thunderous feet around a bonfire as djembe players resounded on a lakefront beachhead. I could see her smoking cigars. I could see her downing whiskey. She resonated with fun. I liked her instantly.

I gave Kara a break and let her kneel up, sip some more cider. I introduced them.

"How shall she address you?" I asked Goldielocks. "Ma'am... or Sir?"

She chuckled deeply. "Sir."

Smiling, I looked down to Kara and back to Goldielocks. "Have fun." I walked aside and leaned against the back shelf, confident my pet was in good hands.

And she was. Goldielocks' hands were soon all over Kara, caressing and stroking and teasing her little faerie titties. Kara was in bliss, like a little domestic kitten caught by some wild mother tigress, and soon found herself back in position as her new friend had her way. The nearby lesbian couple sat up with rapt attention. Submissive girl practically drooled. The crowd of men doubled, and soon I was standing to maintain acceptable distance as I supervised what went on and guaranteed my lover her safety. With eye contact and the occasional ear whisper, Goldilocks and I handled the scene as though we had been partners for years, keeping it smooth and safe and fun. It was a treat.

Goldielocks spanked Kara's smart little ass to a glowing amber, and it glowed even under the red spotlighting. Each swat was decisive and true, and my poor little dear cried out with whimpering, gasping breaths. Her ass was squeezed. Her ass was gently punched, with Goldielocks smacking her bum with enclosed fists that would tenderize a slab of beef. We flogged her. We caressed her. We made Kara a shared little public playtoy, and when all was done, Kara was a puddle of living goo.

Goldielocks and I shook hands.

"We really need to do this again."

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.

Because boozy tramps get spanked.

I'm cruising to Kara's place and decide that I'm in the mood for dirty martinis. Lately, I've discovered jalapeno-stuffed olives, which add a subtle and eye-opening zing to them. I text her as I pull off the expressway.

Me: Got gin? Wamme to bring jalapenolives?

Kara: I'd love to kick back and enjoy martinis with you, but only am able to have a little and still be decent at work tomorrow. And it's hard for me to only have one cuz I really like them. :(

Me: I'll keep you in line, you saucy tart. ;)

Kara: Ha! That's ALMOST a challenge!

Me: Yer a gin-soaked trollop who needs to be put in her place. A lush, a speakeasy wanton whose bloomers are due for an unbloomin'. Boozy tramps like you should be spanked. So there.

Kara: Yes *hic* sir! :p

Me: I'll expect you to say that when you're across my knee, after you've counted each firm, cupped swat to your tender ass. Hiccups are optional.

Kara: 1 *hic* 2 ... *hic* ... 5 ... 6 *hic* ... 9 ... :)

Me: Kara. Kara, Kara, Kara. You're forgetting "yes, Sir." Now we're going to have to start all over again. With the paddle. So, stand up... tips to toes...

Kara: Oooh! Okay ... 1 ... 2 *hic* 4 ... 5 ... Oh shoot, I missed "3" ... 3 ... 4 ... 5 ... No, wait, I counted those already ... Better start over *hic* ... 1 ...

Me: *eyeroll* I think it's the boarding school for you, hussy. You require immediate and sustained remediation. Poor you.

Kara: Oh. ... And ... Yes, Sir!

Kara: *hic*

Season's beatings from Rogue.

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?

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.

Dress code.

"If you're going to be teaching me about how you like your cock sucked," Kara recently said to me, grinning, kneeling, her mouth still puffy and wet from sliding on my dick as I hoarsely whispered instructions down to her, "then maybe I need a schoolgirl uniform."

The thought hardened me more and had me thrusting deeper into her mouth, feeling her widening lips closer to the base of me as my fingers tugged the back of her shorthaired head. Kara, the high school teacher in a schoolgirl uniform. Just the idea made me laugh from deep in my belly, definitely causing my cock to twitch and swell even more in her sensual, soft, wet, suckling mouth.

While cosplay as a hobby is far more sophisticated and imaginative than its psychosexual dimensions alone, when it comes to fetish play, French maid, cheerleader, and schoolgirl uniforms are so de rigueur to dominance fantasy that one can easily find cheap imitations of these costumes at any party supply store during the Halloween season. And how interesting it is that it is these costumes which are so easily obtainable from non-fetish-specific retailers, packaged and promoted virtually for the power-exchange vibe that people have instilled in them.

Schoolgirl uniforms are totally hot. Both they and French maid uniforms share a sensual undertone that bespeaks submission, obedience, compliance. But unlike the maid, the schoolgirl adds training and corrupted innocence to its vibe, which may also explain its prevalence in spanking and other corporal discipline related fantasies.

And God knows I love corrupting innocence.

I love to bend my pet over, slowly hike up her tartan, and reveal a crisp pair of white panties tightly framing the pert and vulnerable target of my attention. It's a unique, elegant, powerful moment to gradually bare your pet's delectable ass, drawing out the energy and the anticipation and the consensual shame and the frail sense of exposure to inspection and scrutiny before the raining of wrath. Mmm.

Here. I'll say that again. "To gradually bare your pet's delectable ass, drawing out the energy and the anticipation and the consensual shame and the frail sense of exposure to inspection and scrutiny before the raining of wrath."

Aaah. Thank you. Detention, anyone?

Shayne looked adorably cute in the uniform that her training began in with me. Diva, my first partner whom I introduced to kink, had later fashioned one for herself after we parted.

And now, as she bobbed her gorgeous head below me, here was my amazing Kara softly moaning around my girth and picturing herself in wool tartan, bright white shirt, smart little tie.

Someone's been reading the blog, thought I to myself. Someone smart who's learning what Daddy likes. Good grrl.

So imagine the small wince on my face when, over my tea, I read in today's paper how my local Catholic District School Boards are seriously considering shifting from tartans (skirts) to pants. It seems that the sassy li'l ladies, the real schoolgirls, have this habit of hiking their skirts so high to the thigh that "disproportionate amounts of time is being spent addressing the issue with students." Fifteen centimetres above the middle of the kneecap is the rule.

Why, those little hussies.

Some parochial schools have already changed uniform policy to pants, and others have adopted a so-called "x-kilt," which features bullt-in shorts under the regulation length. I wrinkled my nose at these when kinky, supportive, incredibly generous and understanding me purchased Shayne's.

Nice to know that some parents and students are aghast at this dire turn of unfashionable events, however. Tartans may be declining in sales and not as "in line with Catholic traditions and values" as pants (an historically debatable point) according to local retailers, but that's certainly not going to stop the students from desiring cooler clothing in summer, or the parents from wanting to perpetuate a charming life niche many of them remember from their own days at school.

Or prevent safe, sane, consensual kinksters like me from enjoying adult playmates in charming attire as we bare their wanton bottoms for palm, cane, lash, or throbbing, lubed-up cock.

Yes, Kara, you'll get what you want. I will dress you in a cotton shirt with emblems and stitching over the pocket, a handsome matching tie that I will use to bring you to your bare knees and bobbysocks. You will feel the sway of coloured wool around your tiny waist as we stroll through the crowd at the playparty, and you will feel this same as you find yourself bent over a table, swallowing hard as my strong hands hold your hips. Cool air will breeze across the back of your upper thighs... far, far higher than fifteen centimetres from the middle of your knee... as your exquisite, pert, round, firm and lovely ass gets revealed by the slow raising of it. Bare, or framed in panties, I will enjoy your bum as your man should. I will spank you. I will fuck you hard and deep.

Both the nature of your garments and the ways you are taken will have you understanding more of the deliciously submissive parts of you, and you will know how tenderly, how assuredly you are Mine.