Just out – my guest post on billierosie’s blog, my personal take on being a dominant. One size doesn’t fit all so others may feel differently. That’s OK, discussion and debate is a good thing.
Just out – my guest post on billierosie’s blog, my personal take on being a dominant. One size doesn’t fit all so others may feel differently. That’s OK, discussion and debate is a good thing.
Had quite a long email exchange with Billierosie about bdsm – she was writing a piece about Tennyson’s 1833 (and revised 1842) poem ‘The Lady of Shalott’, itself based on mediaeval sources. The poem is often taken to be about the process of creativity and the twin pulls of needing isolation but also needing engagement with the world, though Billierosie explores themes of dominance and submission through it.
The end result is she quotes a fair bit of the exchange, and comes up with an interesting take on the poem. And some cool fantasy material. And the pre-Raphaelite paintings she includes in the post are good as well.
Just had to share this. We had a bunch of pervs over this evening and one of them mentioned the Dream Lover 2000 instructional video. We pulled out the laptop and checked it out. Instant roomful of pervs collapsing with laughter.
The URL is: www.dreamloverlabs.com/dl2000.php (will open in new window) – scroll to the bottom of the page and at the lower right you’ll see ‘Psst… New to male training? Turn on your speakers and click here.’
It’s an instructional video that’s serious yet done in a style that will have you chewing the carpet.
Just be aware the device is somewhat expensive!
Has it really been a week since the last post? Oh well. The next novel is coming on nicely, thank you, though the story that follows is nothing to do with it. Whether this eventually becomes the basis for a longer piece, sometime in the future… anything’s possible.
Writing a novel requires imagination and dedication.
It also requires time, freedom from interruptions, the ability to dive into a character and a situation.
Livia’s solution was a cottage, rented for the summer. A mile up a dirt track road, five miles from the nearest small town. It had its own generator for electricity, water from a spring, but no telephone and no cellphone coverage or WiFi.
It was perfect.
The first chapters ripened. The plot thickened, throwing out new strands. Characters developed. Outside, cloudless skies meant hot days. Inside, there was no air conditioning. Livia wore a loose, flowing dress. But with no one around, and the heavy air making even a dress uncomfortable, she found herself almost unconsciously wearing nothing more than panties. And then, after a few days, nothing at all.
Her central character was Rhavaniel, a name meaning ‘The Wild One’. She was half-elven and half-human, the offspring of a human male pleasure slave kept by an elven warrior princess, for that reason disowned by her mother and sent to live in the human world. In rediscovering her ancestry she entered into the elf world, where dangers awaited.
Livia followed the well-known rules of writing set down by Kurt Vonnegut, among them the injunction to be sadistic to her characters. This, she followed diligently. Rhavaniel, navigating a world she did not fully understand, was quickly captured by brigands and sold into slavery.
Livia began to imagine the ill-treatment one might receive as a halfbreed female slave among elven lowlife. There would be casual brutality and severe punishments, probably of a sexual variety. There would be frequent, rough couplings with any man who wanted her. Probably, with her heritage, many would be curious to fuck her. They’d be ruthless in their use of force and application of discipline, uncompromising in their demands. They’d humiliate her for their amusement. Loan her out to acquaintances.
The chapters moved on, but Livia found herself wondering more and more about Rhavaniel. About how she’d learn from her situation. Learn to please men. Learn to accept pain as a constant in her life. Would she resist, or find a way to manipulate the situation to her advantage?
Hot, sticky nights afforded little sleep. Naked and without covers on her bed, Livia rediscovered pleasure at the end of her own fingers. Tossed and turned in the darkness, with no need to suppress her moans for the sake of neighbours.
Heading for the nearest town next day Livia drove three-quarters of the way there before chancing to look down and see she’d forgotten to wear any clothing. Drove right the way through town anyway, identifying places she wanted to go. Next day, in a more rational frame of mind, she visited the mom-and-pop hardware store, the filling station, the tiny supermarket, the delicatessen. Found the only coffee shop in town and soaked up the sounds of human conversation. Found it difficult to communicate with people and only later realised she’d begun to use the grammar and vocabulary of elven speech. In town they probably put it down to her eccentric city ways.
Back at the cottage, Livia stripped off. She donned the thick leather dog collar she’d bought at the hardware store, the kind intended for a guard dog of about the same weight as her. She attached it to a long chain, the other end of which she padlocked to a piece of ironwork outside the front door. Ate her dinner on hands and knees from a dog bowl. Sat watching the gathering darkness. Finally, she found satisfaction in masturbating, lying splayed out on the warm earth.
Livia slept in the collar, found it comfortable and strangely comforting. Next day the writing seemed to go quickly. When she flagged, she tried another tactic: sitting at her desk, she applied clothespegs to her nipples, breasts, the inside of her thighs. Then, finally, to the lips of her labia. She became astonishingly aware of every movement of her hands on the laptop’s keyboard, yet astonishingly unaware of what she was actually typing. Until later, when reading it back caused her to seek out something to relieve the need in her. Scrabbled though her meagre belongings, dismissed the deodorant, finally settled on an outsize carrot from the kitchen. It was cool inside her, but it did what she wanted it to.
She slept that night spreadeagled on the bed, the chain from her collar fixed to the iron bedstead, a scarf wrapped around her eyes. Rhavaniel would find the bed luxurious, she surmised, and to be placed on a bed at all – rather than sleeping in a cage, or simply chained to a wall, would imply some man could be expected soon.
She relished to sensation of being chained and blindfolded. She’d left the front door unlocked. Anything could happen.
Nothing did. But that could be fixed.
The chapters moved quickly now, but seemed much more focused on Rhavaniel’s experiences at the hands of her captors, and then the underground slave market, the unscrupulous merchant who bought her as a decorative feature for his shop, the aristrocrat who claimed her as a prize when his forces stormed the city – after, of course, the soldiers had used her extensively. She spent almost all her time naked, except perhaps for high heels, and in cuffs and chains – or alternatively, tied to some framework designed to expose her breasts, buttocks and pussy for either flogging or fucking.
A gag was, Livia discovered, a path to an inner core of submission. She improvised one from a thin belt, a length of material wrapped around it to force her mouth open. After an hour or so it made her drool, but that in itself added to her sense of helplessness.
The next time she visited town, Livia remembered to wear a dress. She’d paid attention to the conversations she’d had, and the ones she’d overheard, on the last occasion. And she was grateful that many people had very free in their discussion of one particular young man. ‘Happy to sleep with any of the girls in town, but he won’t settle with any of them. Says they’re too narrow minded. And you should hear the stories about the things he likes doing in bed…’ This from the two middle-aged guys who worked in the garage-cum-filling station.
Her destination was the delicatessen, which doubled up as a sandwich bar and impromptu art gallery. The name she’d heard was the same one she’d seen on the paintings.
She looked again at the paintings. They were mainly of women, and displayed a sensual, almost harshly sexual, gaze. The models were in clearly provocative poses. They were the kinds of pictures that Livia thought might have been cleaned up for public consumption. The artist probably had the originals, and they probably showed the women in an altogether more naked state.
Livia bought a sandwich, asked about the artist and was unsurprised to find he was the young man she was talking to. Handing the bills over, she passed him a folded piece of paper at the same time. And walked out of the door without a second glance, feeling excited and nervous at the same time.
Back at the cottage, she removed the dress – and found to her consternation she’d been wearing the collar all this time.
Oh well. It had certainly underlined the point of the note.
She ate from the dog bowl again, naked on the porch. Imagined herself splayed out against its ironwork, chained to it. And, when it was dark, went to the bedroom, leaving the front door open. Collar locked to chain, chain to the bedstead. She wore the gag, the blindfold. And waited.
The sex was everything she expected. Rough, ruthless, uncompromising. Marks on her buttocks from the application of discipline. He’d removed the gag for the insertion of cock in mouth, but left the blindfold on the whole time. She’d been humiliated, but the experience had pumped adrenaline through her system, created a craving she knew she’d have to feed again. Soon.
He wasn’t there in the morning. But on her desk was a page torn from a notebook, a pen-and-ink sketch of her that captured her in her sexual bondage. The title above the sketch was the same name she’d put on the note.
I haven’t had a chance to blog much, being in mid-flow of the next novel.
The thing is, my lead character’s a bit unruly. She keeps asking awkward questions, like “Why do random people want to keep torturing me?”
“Well,” I say, “think of the bigger picture. You’re collateral damage in a political game you didn’t understand. That’s why you’re a prisoner. And for another you’re pretty and attractive. All the key players in the game are ruthless and perverted. The kind of people who tore the wings off butterflies when they were kids. So their idea of fun is to leave whip marks on your body, see you suffer and hear you scream.”
“I thought really powerful people were often submissives,” she protests. “You know, submission as the way to balance out the responsibility that comes with power?”
“Well, that can happen.” I stop typing and put by elbows on the desk, fingertips pressed lightly together. “But these people feel under threat. The system they manage is collapsing, they’re looking at a state that’s failing because it’s been hollowed out. You must have read Mark Davis, Naomi Klein, all those people?”
She laughs hollowly. “I live fifty years in the future. Those people wrote books, right? No one reads books any more. It’s all very well saying I’m living in a failed state – all I know is I got recruited as a stripper straight after leaving school, and the place I live, if you’re female, a blowjob is just a form of currency except you never get rich giving them.”
“Look,” I say, “just jump back into that screen, will you? I need to write another thousand words by this evening.”
“Yeah? What’s that going to be about?” She poses dramatically, hand on forehead, pretending I don’t know what she’s going to say next. Seeing as she’s naked, with cuffs on her wrists and ankles, it’s a cute pose. “Maybe for a change it’ll be a scene where someone from the ruling class is a masochist, for a change, and I get called in to torture them!”
“That’s three chapters further on.”
“You’re the writer, just cut those parts and get me to a good bit.”
Well, no. The proprieties of the plot have to be observed. I cuff her wrists and ankles in a hogtie, load her into the back of my pickup truck and take her out to a secluded part of the estate where there’s an old tree. A chain hangs conveniently from one of the overhanging branches. I attach her cuffs to that and drive the pickup away, leaving her dangling about three feet off the ground, arms and legs stretched painfully. Muscles in her shoulders and thighs are tensed, stand out under her skin. I like it when she looks that way.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Just trying an experiment.” I reach into the cab of the pickup where there’s a paintball gun, stand back far enough that she makes a good target.
“The paintballs are loaded with a gel that includes an aphrodisiac,” I tell her. I don’t know why I bother, she’ll find out soon enough. “It’s reactive against skin, so if I’m a good shot, you’ll feel very aroused in a couple of minutes.”
“Fucking writers! Too much imagination for your own good!”
“Believe me,” I chuckle, “I could have come up with much worse…”
But she keeps up the tirade, which is boring and would take a lot of typing. So I step over to her and pull a ballgag out of my pocket, where I keep it handy for emergencies with spontaneous character dialogue. It has the inverted Y piece that runs over her cheeks to meet at her forehead, then run over the top of her head to buckle at the back.
Her eyes flash wildly at me.
“Ukk rrr ttrrrs!” She flexes in her restraints, which I notice results in a very delicious bounce of her firm breasts. Maybe… no, never mind about the nipple clamps…
Back in position I fire the first shot. It hits her right leg, making her yowl in pain while imparting a gentle circular motion. I hit the same point again, and she’s swinging around now. She does half the circle, and I try for a shoulder but get her high up on the ribs instead. However, with three doses in her system she’s already reacting to the aphrodisiac. Her breathing is harsher, her belly trembles as she tries to lift it and push with her hips. She’s hanging in midair, there’s no resistance, it’s fruitless.
By the time I’ve put the paintball gun away and come back to her, she’s definitely hot and bothered. I look at the bruises caused by the gel-balls and enjoy the way they’ve bruised her skin. Bruises that will flower in the next day or two before fading. I part her knees and note the way her labia glisten at me. I don’t bother to take her down, release her, because I can fuck her exactly in that helpless position.
She tries to move against me but I have the control.
She did know she’s capable of multiple orgasms, I think. At any rate she definitely knows now.
She’s an exhausted, sweating, dripping, limp and sexually played-out wreck by the time I’m done with her.
I hit “save file” in the knowledge she’ll be coming back for more in a few hundred words.
Never again, she thought. I’m just so BORED with this. There has to be something more interesting to do on the last Saturday night of the month, her only night of freedom. That was when her babysitter stayed overnight in the spare room and she could relax properly. So here she was, trawling the net for a more original approach to her time off. A month to plan, a month to look forward to something new and exciting. But what?
Hmmm. Websites filled with nightclubs playing the usual. Yawn. Cinema? Yawn. NaughtyPlaypals.com. Interesting. Sign up, free membership for women. Cool. Here we go. Odd black outfits. Little videos. Oooh, that looks interesting. The way he’s tied her up there, with that mean little gag and some sort of jewellery on her nipples. Says ‘Slut’. Memories stir. Long forgotten fantasies of submission and helplessness. Damp knickers.
A night of fantasy and dreams follow. Out comes the dildo. Sleep. Kids to school, housework and homework done, kids in bed. PC. EBay. Decision made. Slutty underwear ordered. Black, peep-hole bra, matching very brief briefs, fancy legged stockings, hold-ups, of course. Shoes. 4” steel stilettos. Expensive. Sod it. Ordered. Just a dress to find. Now, NaughtyPlaypals.com. Choose a likely ‘escort’. Check his profile. Gorgeous! Tick. Fit? Tick. History? Previous Playpals rate him highly – five stars! Big tick. Now, hope he responds to her email.
One week to go. Playpal’s member has sent Laura her instructions. Be there at eight thirty on the dot. Lateness will be punished. Cool. Luckily, the clothing she ordered, even the dress, have been given the OK. Babysitter booked, and double checked. This can’t go wrong.
One hour to go. Bathed. Pubes, as per instructions, gone. Make-up and hair, perfect. Kids fast asleep. Babysitter sorted, with videos and supper. Friends? Think her sitter has a bad cold. Slut gear donned, coat to cover on. Just in time. Taxi. Heart beginning to pound.
He was waiting, glaring at his watch. She was three minutes late. That will cost her, she’s informed with a twinkle in his eye. Already those very brief briefs aren’t dry. Led into the club on a lead – attached to the collar he put on her at the door. Can she look around? Yes, but not for long. Take it all in now. ‘You’re going to be too tied up later’, he tells her. What’s his name? Either Sir or Fucking Bastard, but he prefers to earn the latter title.
Weird toys everywhere. People strapped to tables, cargo nets and pillars. One covered in food, several people licking it off her. Another being whipped. A man being flogged, tied to a cross. Now her turn. No more looking. Time to experience.
He ties her arms behind her back, covers her eyes with a leather blindfold. The leather smells good. Feels good. She feels vulnerable. He, presumably, feels powerful. He leads her through the crowd. Someone asks if they can touch. She hears him assent. A hand strokes her arse. Another tweeks a nipple through the dress. He unties her hands. ‘Take off the dress’. She does.
Leather straps tighten on her wrists and ankles. She’s guided to a toy. The straps are attached to the toy. She finds herself spread-eagled on what feels like an X shaped cross. Stretched. Exposed. Semi-naked. ‘Open your mouth.’ She does. It’s filled with a ball. Straps tighten at the back. A small ball is placed in her hand. ‘As agreed. Dropping it means enough. I will stop instantly.’ She nods. Behind the blindfold, her eyes are tight shut. This is… glorious. Exciting.
Sensation starts on her neck. Feathers? Fur? Gentle. Over her nipples, down her abdomen. Shivers. The little prickles. What is that? Who cares? Feels scary. Voices mumble. Something about how pert her nipples are sticking through the peep-hole bra. ‘Go ahead,’ he says. ‘She’s willing.’ Teeth. Lips. Tongue. Nipples now engorged. Pleasure messages shooting down to clit. Fingers brush over knickers. ‘Slut,’ he whispers. Now. We begin. Something tightens on her nipple. Laura gasps through the gag. He waits a moment. Then the other nipple. Gives her a few moments to absorb the pain. Her chest heaves then settles. He checks her crotch. Even wetter. Good. ‘Now, you were late. For that you will suffer, slut.’
Something hits her skin. She guesses a flogger. That’s not what hurts! It’s the chain swinging on the nipple clamps. She stifles a scream. ‘Try to keeps still and they won’t hurt as much,’ he chuckles. More of the flogger. Her thighs, her belly. The straps come off. She’s turned around. Strapped facing the cross. Now her arse. Keep still. Don’t bounce, she remembers. But she can’t keep still. The flogger stings now. She wriggles. He chuckles. She smells perfume. Someone kisses her. It’s a woman. They meet tongue to tongue. A voice whispers. ‘He’s good. Enjoy.’ Then a tug on the nipple clamp chain. Another scream through the gag. Three minutes late. Three of the best. Whack. ‘One.’ Whoah. Laura gasps loudly. Felt like a cane. ‘Two. Owww,’ she squeals. ‘Three.’ That brings a tear. But god, she’s hot now.
She’s unfastened from the cross. Led away by him and her. The music changes. They’re in another room. She holds Laura. He secures the cuffs behind her back. She’s seated. Her legs are spread and ankles fastened to keep them wide apart. Some kind of chair. He takes out the gag. She kisses her. He takes off the nipple clamps. Then it hits her. ‘Fucking bastard!’ she wails. After all, he’s earned it! Then she’s laughing, giggling. Insanely high. Floating. He enters her. She kisses her. Sucks her nipples gently. When she comes, she leaves the planet.
The phone rings. It’s her best mate, Tammy. ‘You didn’t miss much. We just did the usual stuff, you know. Down the pub and club. Sorry you couldn’t join us though. What did you do with yourself?’
‘Got tied up in knots going through stuff from the past.’ Laura smiled. And I’ll be doing some more next month, she thought to herself.
We were chatting over the weekend. Of course everyone is different (thanks goodness) and we wondered, having watched a hackneyed movie quoting what happiness is…what is it in Sexual or BDSM terms? Here are my six of the best.
Happiness is…anticipation of a play session
Happiness is…fire and ice. First candles, then ice cubes. Whilste spreadeagled to the bed, of course.
Happiness is…the nipple clamps coming off!
Happiness is…three forced orgasms in a row
Happiness is…curling up in my dom’s arms when he releases me from my bonds
Happiness is…falling asleep with the rope marks and feelings still on my body.
Don’t be shy. what are your six of the best. We’d love to know…..comments please