Such wonderful things in life can start with a cup of coffee –


Commanding and adept your hands guide mine alone supple lips.
She tastes of cinnamon.
She squirms but cannot move.
She is not afraid.
Our hands grasp her neck.
Tonight she belongs to us
With every gasp she moans.
My mouth is quivering, thinking about tasting her.
I search for her thighs from my satin darkness.
They are warm, wet, and inviting like the ocean
she tastes of salt and sunshine.
My tongue glides over her vagina , slowly, tenderly as our body heat rises and
then crack goes the cat o’ nine.
She cannot breathe and I cannot see yet there has been no greater ecstasy.

R A Lee

My Kink

Your eyes are my bondage.
Your kiss leaves me breathless.
Your fingers are my toys.
I submit my body and my heart
For your abuse or adoration.
With you the red bag stays zipped.
Don’t you dare give me a blindfold
Don’t you dare gag my mouth
Don’t put leathers between us.
Only one thing does it for me.
Call it a fetish or call it love.
I just want you.

Hannah Dubrow


What are you going to do,
When you become the wicked?
The sick.
The twisted.
When you can’t manipulate your little girls?
When I get sick of this unrewarding lifestyle,
Living for your word?
What are you going to do,
When you become the wicked?

What are you going to do,
When you lose me?
What girl would still take you?
After all,
All you do is compare her to me.

The wicked,
That’s you.
The submissive,
That’s me.

I’m all you’ve looked for,
I’m the kind of sex you need.

Jacquelyn Audrey Whiston

My Dungeon

build for me a dungeon
let its walls be grim
use me there and often
and keep me locked within

in that darkest prison
you may use me to the full
keep your chains upon me
so I may know their pull

make for me a cage there
for extra close confine
where chill of steel can touch me
and pleasure be refined

keep your whip well oiled there
that I may feel its curl
while I hang in helpless torment
and my mind is in a whirl

let my mind be lost there
where only I may go
to know your deepest caring
while held in suff’ring’s throes

for there I’ll find my heartsease
as your willing prisoner
where bonds will hold you to me
and never let you go

Francesca Anderssen

To Be Powerful

On my knees
Legs pressed together
You hold my wrists
Above my head
With one hand
Lips parted
Tongue working
Face buried
In your free hand

I lick your palm
I taste your salt

Is everyone nervous
Their first time?

I lap it up
You cup your hand
Shove it in my face

“Tell me you love it”
“Tell me how much
You fucking love it”

This is a game we play
On Tuesday nights when we
Are too broke to eat out at my
Favourite Thai restaurant.

If I’m a good girl
You will pat my head
Kiss my cheek

Catalina Lopez

23rd July

Living here with so many ghosts I feel like a caretaker of the restless dead – a protector of spirits who haunt my life – so that I’ve become my own haunted house, attempting communication with partially glimpsed movements at the edge of perception, or the sound of a creaking stair, or a noise in the attic which might only be the patter of falling rain…My ghosts can be cranky on occasion: they can whisper words, the meaning of which I’m unable to determine.

It’s been a long time since anyone treated them well –


So the Saturday evening play-party. With our friends from the local munch, people possessing the emotional bandwidth to comply with our safety standards, while sharing similar aesthetic tastes to ourselves.

Like a small film club, are we, eagerly awaiting the main attraction: crisps, freshly roasted nuts and popcorn are liberally distributed to ‘the audience’ in small china bowls. Missy A has been naughty and is to be disciplined while we watch. Furniture has been moved to accommodate this tableaux.

Seeing Missy A bent over a chair with her skirt hitched up is breathtaking. Hearing a hand slap against her buttocks, is so very arousing – how could it be otherwise? Savouring the slight trembling of flesh with each fresh impact. Her yelps of discomfort –

Then E rising to join T who is tiring. E has a riding crop. She takes T’s place. Her skin-head hair cut is intimidating. She uses the crop with consummate skill –

Yelps become cries. Missy’s poor glowing bum is criss-crossed with red stripes –

Missy’s now estranged husband used to take her to play-parties in the boot of their car. Almost nude, gagged and handcuffed, even in winter, she would endure this humiliation without complaint. His treatment of her became harsher and harsher, until she finally left him eighteen months ago.

It should serve as a lesson to us all, how quickly such consensual abuse can become pure abuse –

I’m reminded of Jean-Paul Sartre and his theory of emotions as ‘magic’. Because Missy has simply exchanged one sadist for another. The new man in her life allows his fantasies free rein. She is, it seems, one of life’s natural victims –

E’s skill with that crop is superlative. Her strokes are hard enough to mark Missy’s naked bum but not to break the skin. I can’t take my eyes from Missy, her tear-filled eyes, parted lips, writhing as if in the grip of some invisible power. Sex is inherently ritualistic, a symbolic act whose meanings extend beyond itself. And there can be no doubt that Missy’s submission is sexual, that she takes pleasure from E’s practiced flogging of her backside. And every face in ‘the audience’ is slightly flushed with sexual excitement as they look on. And my own arousal is equally obvious –

Finally, aftercare. Caresses, kisses, gentle stroking. A smile on Missy’s tear-stained face. She experienced some sort of climax near the end of her ‘punishment’, and all the tension is now drained from her.

I finish my popcorn (which incidentally is homemade) as E takes Missy upstairs to the bathroom to fix her make-up.

‘I hope they don’t wake the ghosts,’ I say to no one in particular.

And no one, as expected, bothers to reply.


Hamlet experienced an encounter with a ghost and it ended in massacre. Macbeth was confronted by Banquo’s ghost during a great banquet, and lost his peace of mind forever. It’s more than likely that Shakespeare’s ghosts are simply psychological manifestations of guilt – imagined apparitions, in other words.

But what of my ghosts?

Trish, for example?

She used to love me reading out loud to her. At bedtime I always had to read to her or she couldn’t sleep. On occasion she would perform an act of fellation upon me as I read –

She once described herself to me as ‘Terribly thin’. And her body, I must admit, was like a sabre slash in silk. As flat chested as a boy, was she. ‘You’re fine,’ I’d tell her. ‘I love you as you are.’ And then laid her back and performed cunnilingus on her for almost an hour –

I read her ‘The Story of O’ and we both got turned on by it. It was Christmas Eve I remember, and Trish guided me between her buttocks. I gently sodomized her for the first time while she masturbated herself.

We talked a lot about art, writing, music and cinema. One time I told her about André Gide, his enormous influence on the young, which sprang from his teaching that one’s only duty is to oneself, that one should never be ‘encumbered’, either by material possessions, memories or other people –

‘Often the best in us springs from the worst in us.’

And so I read ‘Isabelle’ to Trish, and we both visited le chateau de la Quartfourche with Gerard Lacase, and accompanied him on his quest for Isabelle in the grip of ‘amorous curiosity’.

Books, reading, more reading and fucking. ‘Why don’t you read me something you’ve written?’ she asked. It was a bridge too far for me. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Never that. It’s all too awful.’ But she insisted, so finally I recited some of the poems in ‘Summer Births’ from memory. And while the words spilled gently from my mouth like little lost souls, Trish fondled me erect and masturbated me –

Trish had always had a thing about India. For her it seemed a magical, mysterious, exotic place. One day she announced she was finally going to go there. She’d saved the money. She was going for six months – longer if she could!

And so she drifted from my life almost as casually as she’d drifted into it. And now she keeps company with the crowd of ghosts occupying this place; a spectre who loves to hear me read out loud late at night –

Get that ass up…

August 26, 2015


You can tell a bottom, even without leaving role, that you need more response, that you can’t tell if the scene is working or not.

Dossie remembers:

The first time I topped at a party I was flogging a woman I didn’t know very well, and wasn’t sure if it was okay to hit harder. I didn’t want to interrupt the scene to ask, especially because there were people watching, and then I got a great idea. In my best mean voice I growled, “If you want me to hit you harder you better get that ass up there where I can get at it!” And
she did, and I did, and it was great.

So this bottom knew how to get what she wanted – and, for that matter, that she could reduce the intensity by pulling away. Thus you can instruct your bottom in exactly what kind of body language you want to hear.

Dossie Easton and Janet W. Hardy
The New Topping Book


A month or so ago we went to visit friends in the midlands. It was a kind of “lost weekend” for us. Too much food, too much booze; and because our friends (for the sake of the blog we’ll call ‘em Victor and Maxine) are heavily into the local BDSM scene, we had far too much of that, also!

First, let me clarify something, because we role-played a number of bondage scenarios, it doesn’t mean we were rolling around bonking each other everywhere. We weren’t. That said, on the Sunday morning, Dee’s “rape” obsession took centre stage, and first Victor then Maxine, “raped” the disheveled and restrained Dee on their sitting room floor while I looked on.

The thing with Dee is she doesn’t give a shit for flowers or romantic gestures, niceties like that. She just wants teeth raking her tits, and her cunt stretched by Victor’s cock or Maxine’s frightening strap-on. When that went up Dee’s arsehole, her eyes rolled-up in her head – like a feckin demon that’s day-dreaming.

Watching felt strange. The woman I love half-undressed and having rough sex on the floor with those two. It’s like inside me there’s an unfinished, only partly formed emotion that I need to vomit up. A terrible sadness that tastes of acid.

Victor kept having to pull out of Dee because he was so near to coming. Maxine didn’t have that problem. Dee’s face contorted violently when she came – and she came three or four times. Finally Victor shot his load into her writhing, struggling body. Afterwards Maxine, comfortably seated on the sofa, forced Dee to kneel between her spread legs and lick her out.

The previous evening Maxine and Victor took us to their local BDSM club bi-annual party. There were a lot of people in leather gear or semi-nude. Just inside the double doors of the hall an elderly, pot-bellied man had been tied over a bench seat with his hairy arse in the air. A notice in black felt tip encouraged all entrants to “make use of him”. There were five neatly tied but well used condoms beside him. Also a black riding crop.

Dee, smiling, picked up the crop. She used it on his arse and made him cry out. I could see by the faint red marking on his buttocks that Dee wasn’t the first to administer punishment.

Maxine took the crop from Dee and lashed the poor unfortunate. ‘It’s too teach him a lesson,’ she said. ‘His mistress is very upset with him. She told us all last week, he’s to be used today like a little tart.’ She fingered a tray of unused condoms on the bench beside her victim’s head. ‘He’s going to be on stage later. Take a full body whipping for our gratification…’

It was all rather mundane. People in chains, in cuffs, in skimpy undies or uniform (there was a magnificent police woman walking round with a semi-nude girl and man on twin leads like a pair of giant poodles). Exotic, yes, bizarre even. But mundane for all that. A lot of the club’s members were male, and many of them were red-faced and overweight.

But Dee’s philosophy was never say “No” to an adventure. Adventures were necessities. As essential to her life as air.

We witnessed the “whipping” of our friend from the entrance. Two women, one his owner and mistress, the other a friend, worked methodically with floggers and crops. The club rules insist no cuts or serious bruising, no flowing blood, no genital play, no unsafe sex. So the whipping was quite mild, but entertaining for all that – the old guy’s shrill yells of pain turned Dee on. The two women seemed to be aiming most of their blows now at his stiff stub of a cock. Eventually this attention became too much and he ejaculated on the wooden floor.

A woman came over and spoke to Dee and Maxine. She was a very large lady in a black leather corset with bright green hair and a gold nose stud. Late fifties, at a guess. Apparently she wanted to know if I was “available” for playtime. Dee, thankfully, gave my apologies, sparing my poor body from whatever decadent delights this lady had in mind.

I have to say that I am partial to beginning a bondage scene with a little neck nibbling, nipple pinching, kissing, ear biting – just gentle nips with the teeth. A light flogging while restrained is a terrible turn-on for many people. Many’s the time I’ve managed to deep breath myself into an altered state of consciousness while being lightly “spanked”.

On such occasions you can easily become undone, whispering, moaning; the unimaginable pleasure racing through your nervous system like fire, as the sweet and torturous tension builds with each fresh touch of burning skin. You experience pure energy in its primal form, so very animal, so very wild. You let it free…

Which is what happened to me last night. But that’s another story –