Escape was quite impossible.

September 29, 2019

There was a platform in the centre of the square of each village, and when the Queen went inside the house of the Lord of the village to drink a cup of wine with him, I was left on display.

But I was not to stand gracefully as I might have hoped. And the villagers knew this, though I didn’t. When we reached the first village, the Queen went away, and as soon as my feet hit the platform, a great roar went up from the crowd who knew they were to see something amusing.

I had my head down when Princess Lynette removed the phallus from my anus. Of course the crowd cheered at this. I was then made to kneel up, hands behind my neck on a turntable.

Princess Lynette operated it with her foot. And telling me to spread my legs wide, she turned the turntable. I was perhaps more afraid in these first few moments than ever before, but never once did the fear of rising and trying to escape come to me. I was helpless. Naked, a slave of the Queen, I was in the midst of hundreds of common people who would have overpowered me at once, and cheerfully for all the sport it would have given them. It was then that I realized escape was quite impossible. Any naked Prince or Princess fleeing the castle would have been apprehended by these villagers. They would have given no shelter.

Now Princess Lynette commanded me to show to the crowd all my private parts that were in the service of the Queen, and that I was her slave, and her animal. I did not understand these words, which were spoken ceremoniously. So she told me politely enough that I must part the cheeks of my buttocks as I bent over and display for them my open anus. Of course this was a symbolic gesture. It meant I was ever to be violated. And nothing more than that which could be violated.

But my face aflame, my hands trembling, I obeyed. A great cheer went up from the crowd. Tears slipped down my face. With a long cane, Princess Lynette lifted my balls for them to see, and pushed my penis this way and that to display its defenselessness, and all the while I had to hold my buttocks apart and display my anus. Whenever I relaxed my hand she commanded me sharply to pull the flesh wider apart and threatened me with chastisement. “That will infuriate her Highness,” she said, “and amuse the crowd immensely.” Then to a loud approving cry, the phallus was shoved securely back into my anus. I was made to press my lips to the wood of the turntable. And I was led back to my position beside the Queen’s coach, Princess Lynette pulling my bridle over her shoulder as I trotted with my head lifted behind her.

A. N. Roquelaure [Anne Rice]
The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty

poetry and love

October 20, 2018

I am in the middle of it: chaos and poetry; poetry and love and again, complete chaos. Pain, disorder, occasional clarity; and at the bottom of it all: only love. Sheer enchantment, fear, humiliation. It all comes with love.

Anna Akhmatova
The Akhmatova Journals, Vol. 1

struggle to get a peek

September 23, 2018

Fingering for fun

I wondered what it felt like for her to be sitting on the floor like a dog while I fucked her boyfriend. She could barely see over the mattress from way down there. She had to struggle to get a peek.

She was a mess, clothes half off, grinding against her own hand, hair dishevelled, we could hear how wet she was as she whined and rubbed her clit. It was clear how much she liked it from the slick-squish sounds her fingers made, how humiliating. We paid no attention, her boyfriend and I were too busy making each other moan to notice such a pathetic girl on the floor. I suppose I kept him too distracted.

She begged for permission to cum. We ignored her.

Her Dirty Little Heart

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 –

Keeping Control of Your Man

February 27, 2016


Control of your man.

To ensure complete submission the following should (as far as possible) be adhered to:

1. YOU must control his orgasms.
• You must get him to wear a chastity device, day and night.
• You should place him in this chastity device yourself, and only you should hold the key.
• Release him at your discretion – and only for teasing or milking his semen.

In this way at the very least you will stop him wanking whenever the mood takes him. For a man in a relationship with a woman, his wanking is an act of disrespect towards the woman. It also wastes his seed and dulls his stamina. It has to STOP!

2. Ownership of his cock requires the following:
• He should never have any kind of orgasm without your consent.
• If you feel he must have an orgasm…Ruin it! Totally spoil it for him, after at least two hours of edging his stiff cock (you can use your hands or feet for the “edging” while he “eats” you out).
• Remember, you can ruin several orgasms for him a day.
• Full orgasms should be reserved for very, very special occasions and must be considered a rare treat indeed (Birthdays, for example).
• If he’s been particularly good, or has reached a stage of total desperation, you may allow him to throw a dice determining how many orgasms he must give YOU before you let him cum.

3. Get inside his head.
• Understand his fantasies, and learn what “turns him on”.
• Tease him with your words whenever possible.
• Find out what he feels most humiliating.
• Use his humiliation whenever you feel in the mood.

4. Keep him sexually aroused.
• Talk dirty to him: be as crude as you possibly can.
• Tell him you’re going to make him do something humiliating to him.
• Fondle him frequently, or let him fondle you. Tease and play the whore with him.
• At home insist he’s nude at all times.
• Send him text messages at work with orders to do something sexual.
• Make him give you orgasms frequently. Cunnilingus morning and evening is a good starter. Or he may fuck you with a hollow dildo fastened over his cock – ensuring he feels no sensation at all, hence no stimulation during his performance.
• Ensure he comes to LOVE face sitting for you.

5. Humiliate him
• Make him wear a butt-plug every day for a minimum of two hours.
• Make him wear the plug to work for the day.
• Make him wear female underwear, panties, stockings, to his workplace, or on nights out
• Keep him naked while you’re clothed at home.
• Make him masturbate in front of you (he mustn’t cum).
• Always make him eat his own cum if and when he’s allowed an orgasm.
• Make him request your permission to go to the toilet.
• Order him to perform analingus on you for a set period of time.

6. Punish him often.
• Do a sensual striptease in front of him and laugh at his crushed cock in the chastity device as it tries to stiffen.
• Spank, paddle, or whip him.
• Force him to be your “toilet slave”
• Massage Deep Heat on his cock, balls, or around his anus.
• Make him do anything he hates.
• Call him your “bitch” or “Little whore”.
• Force him to go out “cross-dressed”.

7. Always find ways to tease him regardless of time or location.
• Fondle him through his pants in public (or in private).
• Whisper sexy or humiliating things in his ear.
• Make him shop for lingerie for you.
• Allow him a peek of your breasts inside your blouse, or an accidental “upskirt” view when you sit down (you’ll see the immediate affect this has on him, and will find yourself getting quite drunk on the power trip teasing him gives to you).

He will soon find that his relinquishing total control to you will result in your leading him far beyond wherever he thought his limits might have been. The combination of pain and control will be exquisite for him.

And for you? You’ll be able to luxuriate in your power over him…that incredible sense of total control, leaving you feeling higher than a kite. The power rush you get from this is sublime, totally sublime.


“Yesterday, a middle-school math teacher asked me to castrate him, and last week an engineer asked me to hang him with a noose,” Mistress Josie says…

…By chance one evening she bumped into an old friend…who mentioned that she was making a lot of money as an independent dominatrix. The two women spoke at length, and what Josie heard piqued her interest. Feeling optimistic, she returned to her small Brooklyn room and immediately began researching online the different aspects of the job, from dungeons to salary to equipment.

As she clicked through articles and images, she became captivated by the leading dommes in the industry whose success did not depend on any type of penetration or exchange of bodily fluids. Rather, it depended solely “on ordering men around, beating them, peeing on them, punishing them – and for that they were being worshiped. It was perfect,” she says.

The next day she responded to an ad that, as she remembers, read something like:

Attractive young women wanted for Domination. Fetish. Role Play. No sex. No experience necessary. Top $$$.

“Can you come in now?” asked the woman who answered the phone.

An hour later, Josie was shaking hands with the mistress of the house, a gorgeous, slender woman slightly older than her.

“She basically undressed me with these big black eyes,” Josie says, “and she told me to sit down and complete this long questionnaire filled with hypothetical situations and my feelings toward men.” Following a quick interview, the mistress took her on a tour of the dungeon’s rooms, which were lined along both sides of a long, low-lit hallway. “All the doors opened into these massive rooms, each one filled with different equipment—straight-jackets, leather masks, human-sized cages, bondage tables, fake electric chairs, you name it, it was there,” Josie says. “In some, things like blindfolds, cuffs, whips, floggers, ropes and canes hung from the walls in neat rows. It was extraordinary.”

“Pick a pseudonym and come back tomorrow,” the young mistress told her. “Trial basis. This job will forever change the way you think about men.”

And the following day, Josie found herself sitting in the sprawling living room of one of New York’s premiere domme houses (a dungeon run out of the mistress’s home) waiting for her first client. “I was nervous and excited. I had no idea what to expect,” she says.

“There is no stereotype of who visits a domme,” Josie says. “I see teachers, politicians, bankers, surgeons, religious figures, fathers, you name it. Each one wants to me to validate their fetish.” Some want to bleed, some want to be peed on, some want to be mummified, and some seek a more subdued erotica, “a type of absolution, like Samuel,” she says, wiping some random crumbs off the table.

Samuel is a shy Hasidic Jew with sad blue eyes and a lisp, who has an insatiable desire to be smothered in her armpit. At 27, he is married with six children, and has a rabid fear of God, but none of that prevents him from seeking relief for a fetish which, as he has told Josie, “is on [his] mind all day long.” Twice a week, during his lunch hour, he slips away from the family business and meets Josie in a midtown dungeon. Unlike some other Hasids who wear street clothes to visit dommes, Samuel prefers to wear his traditional garb—the clothes, she points out, are symbols of his transgression, pushing the fantasy into a psychological realm. But despite his longing for sexual prowess, his actions show otherwise—“he undresses so slowly, never looking up, and he’s constantly fidgeting, crossing his legs, trying to hide his body, which is really white and skinny and hairless, like a kid. I feel bad that he’s so scared, but he wants to do it, so we do it,” she says.

Josie becomes more animated as she discloses the more explicit details of the fantasy, such as her verbal humiliation of him while he stands in his boxers and yarmulke beside a wall adorned with hooks, shackles and suspension equipment.

“I begin circling him and shouting in his face that he’s pitiful little prick,” she says. “A joke, an ugly, scrawny fool. A quivering, hairless sissy. I spit at him and tell him that he’s absurd and deserves to be caught.”

After her tirade, she lays down on the couch and watches him “standing there, totally frozen, with his head bowed, apologizing for being such a weak and bad boy.” When she is satisfied with his remorse, she opens her arms wide and the young Hasid “falls to his knees and crawls to me, gasping and repeating ‘thank you my goddess,’” she says, a slight smirk playing at her lips.

Samuel spends the remaining time with his face buried in her armpit, inhaling and sighing, stopping only occasionally to readjust his yarmulke. Josie reveals that he often likes to talk while being smothered. Sometimes he talks about his wife, who refuses to hear about his fetish, sometimes about his Rabbi who condemns his visits and tells him to pray harder, and sometimes about how difficult it is to ride the subway in the summer because of all the sleeveless women.

Her response to all his confessions is laughter, followed by more sentiments of emasculation: “I tell him that real men want more than armpits. That he’s ridiculous, an embarrassment to your wife and community.” To which he responds with heavier inhalations and an erection…

“Some things are really, really out there. They can freak people out,” she adds. Her face grows pensive. “But, you know, I don’t find the more outlandish things all that strange…do you?” she asks. And then she proceeds to tell me about some of her more eccentric clients. An athlete who revels in licking the bottom of her dirty shoes. A 40-something husband who loves to reenact the moment his mother caught him sniffing her garters and masturbating. The cross-dressing neurosurgeon who looks like “everyone’s grandfather” and delights in wearing his wife’s lacy thongs. Big Baby Timmy, the disabled senior citizen who sucks a pacifier and adores being spanked because he peed in his diaper.

And then there is the human footstool, one of her favorites, mainly “because he’s one of the kindest and sweetest people I know,” she says.

Middle-aged, with horn-rimmed glasses, the human footstool is a prominent landscape artist who lives in a multi-level penthouse. Twice a week, before sundown, he sends a stretch limo to bring Josie uptown. On his terrace, “filled with trees and exotic plants, I will command the pig to get naked and put on a thong,” she says. “Then I’ll bind his hands and feet and make him into a piece of human furniture.” For the next two hours, he will remain on all fours with Josie’s high-heeled feet propped on his back.

During this time, this sought-after landscaper, who owns his own company, relinquishes all control of his life and becomes completely submissive to her. “He feels useful, valuable, needed, things he lacks in his daily life,” she says. To further please him, she will often pay bills or shop with his credit card because that “makes him happy and aroused.”

As for getting tired, it happens. “When his back starts to droop, I give him a break. We play a game: I kick him, pretending to break his legs and he collapses, then I put him back together again by kicking him some more and shouting at him to ‘stop being a pathetic footstool!’” she says with an air of detachment.

That her matter-of-fact delivery could be perceived as callousness or an intrinsic desire to inflict harm does not slip by her. She is quick to point out that it is neither. “That’s the classic domme myth, that we don’t care about our clients, that we just go in whip them and get paid. It’s completely untrue. Any good domme will tell you it’s the opposite. Sure, you’re pretending, but you have to like the people you are playing with, and you have to be in-tune with what they want and how they are reacting to you, especially the ones who want corporal punishment, otherwise it just won’t work,” she says.

The corporal punishment fantasies, which she “finds thrilling and enjoyable,” are also the ones that demand the most from her. They are, as she explains, psychologically exhausting, because the fantasy takes the physical aspect of arousal to daring and frightening levels that transcend what most of us consider normal. For example, many of her punishment clients are whipped until the area is black and blue and crisscrossed with bloody welts. “You have to know where you are hitting,” she says, “because you don’t want to damage an organ or a limb.” Seeing the finale of a hard-core whipping fantasy sometimes shocks her, inciting doubt and reservations about what she does. In those moments, she reminds herself “that the pain and degradation is completely consensual. It’s what they want and what makes them feel whole.” She also remembers that whatever transpires during a fantasy, including ejaculation, has been meticulously planned out and talked about at length beforehand. “There are no surprises,” she says. “None.”

Last year, the prospect of sitting in a multi-million dollar penthouse with her feet resting on the back of a prominent landscaper or playing spy games with an old banker would have elicited “a ridiculous amount of laughter, and maybe calling someone crazy,” she says. But right now, the only crazy thing may be how quickly this novice has become a professional. In just one year, she has secured a steady clientele whom she has carefully selected through interviews and in-person meetings; she has gone from sleeping on her friend’s couches to signing a lease on a Chelsea apartment; and, at last, she enjoys financial security. “For the first time in my life, I can think ahead,” she says. “I have possibilities…”

Maria Smilios
Den of the Dominatrix

Goodbye Kinky Wednesday…

October 3, 2015


Terresa is well educated, ambitious and accomplished. However, her attempts at conventional relationships with men or women over the years have proved less than successful. Consequently, she’s gone for the casual, “now you see it, now you don’t” type of encounter, gender unimportant.

In her business life she’s assertive, even opinionated. She’s in charge of a department of thirty other individuals in a sales environment, and is seen as a company “go getter”.

In her private life, she’s discovered pleasure in relinquishing control. She gets great satisfaction from submitting, being hogtied, suffering mild pain – by spanking or caning, this administered by either male or female Dom, it really doesn’t matter to her – and being penetrated in a wide variety of ways, by a wide variety of objects, including male cocks, the bigger the better. As far as Terresa’s concerned, size DOES matter!

She’s learned she likes humiliation. It’s been a revelation to her, for sure, but even being inundated with pee has become acceptable to her – especially when others witness her humiliation, her degradation. Recently, in a well known coastal resort, she attended a “scene” where she was repeatedly penetrated with a huge dildo, caned, then forced to drink the pee of five other people, three males and two females. This while being watched by an invited audience of thirty kinksters.

At the end of the scene Terresa was in an almost ecstatic state. She’d taken one step beyond, and overloaded on pleasure. She’d shed what few inhibitions she still had, like shedding her dirty underwear. It took almost an hour for her to “come down” again, return to a “normal” state.

Things she thought she’d never do, she now actively encourages. Including allowing three strangers to sodomise her on a small makeshift stage, and a housewife and grandmother to fist her while a small crowd of males surrounded her, masturbating to completion over her face and breasts.

But still, obviously, she has her limits. Body modification is a big ‘No, No’ with her! Tats are out, too, as are any marks or bruising that would be visible to the general public. These scenes are only a small part of her life. They are private and she is very discrete. Very careful. She keeps her private life well away from her public persona.

We’ve known her three or four years now. We’ve observed how her “boundaries” have expanded over that period of time. Unlike me, she can’t switch, she’s a sub, end of story. She could no more dominate another person, than she could fly unassisted or strike a safety match on a kids redcurrant party jelly.

Again, unlike me, she has a fascination with blood. Needles, pins and blades. Although any slight bloodletting must take place on her body normally concealed by clothing.

I find the whole concept abhorrent – which she knows and accepts. Sharp knives scare me, I make no bones about It – and I talk as a man who once suffered multiple stab wounds in a brawl outside a Paris bordello, a subject which Terresa finds fascinating. Simulating rape, is one thing. Simulating it with a knife or open razor in your hand, is way out of line in my little black book.

Anyhow, I digress. Wednesday evening Terresa joined Dee, Gabriella and myself for a few fun-filled hours. It gave Gabby, more often Sub than Dom, a chance to dominate completely an attractive young woman, subjecting her to a range of humiliations and mild punishments before Dee took over.

Dee played the bitch from hell. She forced Terresa to drink a jug of pee and fucked her hard with a massive strap-on dildo before taking a riding crop to the soft curves of her inner thighs.

Finally, while Dee and Gabby held Terresa down by her wrists, her arse swaying invitingly in the air, I bum-fucked her like there was no tomorrow…no yesterday, either, come to that. Her eyes were almost bulging out of her head with each fresh thrust.

Later we sat around almost ghostlike after our excesses. We eat hot buttered crumpets, a stack of them, washed down with creamy hot chocolate. We were all naked or semi-naked – Terresa has these magnificent, upthrust, pouting tits. I just love ‘em. She has a piercing in her bellybutton, too, and a hairless pudenda.

‘We should do this again,’ she said.

‘Good idea,’ Dee said. ‘When?’

‘I need to check my diary. But early next month…?’

‘Fine with me,’ I said.

‘And with me,’ Gabriella agreed. ‘Why don’t we make it a Friday or Saturday next time? You could stay over. Make it an all nighter!’

While the women finalised their arrangements, I went to the kitchen to toast more crumpets. I wondered would anyone be sharing my bed on that Friday or Saturday? Or would the three women get by tangled in each other’s arms in the guest room bed? It was a king-size, after all.

We said our goodbyes around midnight. I didn’t kiss Terresa on the mouth, knowing what she’d drunk from the jug earlier in the evening. Instead I kissed her check.

‘It feels as if you’re still up me,’ she confided. ‘Someone could park their car in there.’

‘You’ll recover.’

Sure, no worries. I’ve got a few weeks before you do that to me again…’

We stood on the drive and waved as she departed in her little red car; she acknowledged this with her own waving, her hand out the open window, until she turned onto the lane.

‘I’m for bed,’ said Dee.

‘I’ll join you, I think,’ Gabriella said.

‘Goodnight ladies,’ I said. ‘Goodnight sweet ladies.’


It’s surprising for a County with a very small population, that Cornwall Kink has 864 members. Mind you, a rural area can be ideal for kinky goings on. Mickey Walsh took photos of his wife Devina recently, in one of his ploughed fields and posted them online at FetLife.

She’s naked in some of the pics, partially clothed in others. One shows her after a roll in cow shite (not my thing at all). Another shows her with a cock in her arse. That day Mickey had arranged for five blokes to meet at his field. He let ‘em all loose on his little woman and she loved (allegedly) every gangbang minute of it. A couple of them fisted her, apparently. They all fucked her multiple times. And in the pouring rain, too! And farmer Mickey stood with a hard-on photographing it all for posterity.

Well, did you ever…?

Ron’s sister, Debbie Field, the school teacher, recently said to me: ‘Silence is golden, duct tape silver….’

That was at a local munch. She was drinking Asti and orange juice. ‘My men scream,’ she told me shrilly. ‘But silently behind the silver tape. I really love CBT…Cock & ball torture. I love the power of holding a guy’s tackle in the palm of my hand. Then making a tight fist of that hand and watching his face. It is ecstasy…’

She is, boys and girls, a well built and very strong woman. Amazonian, I think, is the term.

Another woman at that same munch said to me, ‘Every man is just a work in progress. From their early teens they’re just walking hard-ons. Except they all have this built in off-switch. Once they cum it kicks in, and they lose interest in you – their attention wanders elsewhere, football and what-have-you. So you’ve got to be an artist, a sculptor. Men are the raw lumps of marble waiting for your chisel – you have to create a masterwork. And you do that by learning to prolong and preserve their raging erections…and you do that by teasing and torturing them. Continuously edging them. Keep ‘em on the edge of orgasm; on the edge of desperation.’

Her name was April and she lived over on the coast. She was drinking vodka and lemonade. She was looking, she said, for a new “slaveboy” to join her existing “body slave”, Thomas. She would prefer a totally hetro male, because forcing him into fellatio with Thomas would be more “fun”, she thought.

She became a little tipsy during the course of the evening and talked a lot about cock rings and tying testicles. ‘I keep Simon rock hard,’ she said. ‘I love queening him on the sitting room carpet. Having a man lick and nurse your womanhood is MAGICAL! Truly it is. And once a month, without fail, I let Simon cum. Drain him completely.’

A guy named Desmond mentioned his shopping trips to a well known local store. He said, ‘They have some good stainless steel items. I love the feel of cold steel during a bondage session…’

Personally, I’m not so sure about this.

Chris Grant, a middleaged Dom, rambled on about politics. Talking about the labour party, he asked, ‘Where’s the effin’ fire, eh? Where’s the belief…In anything? The whole bloody lot are just career politicians now…’

I couldn’t disagree.

I went off to get a couple more hot veggie rolls and a pint. The evening was sort of strange, but the people wonderful. I don’t really do them justice here.

Erica, a plump pansexual, described herself as ‘a little bit of a sadist,’ (Ummm, not too sure about that ‘little bit’). She’s heavily into humiliating males of all ages. She said she was married (to John), but had three lovers and was about to engage with a fourth. ‘I’m selfish,’ she said. ‘Bratty and narcissistic. I enjoy exploring kink…’

She’s also a horsey woman, and goes horse riding whenever the opportunity arises (she owns a horse which is stabled not far from my home). Her other interests (so she said) were manga and comic books, churchyards (?) and Goth fashion. Erica had a beautiful tattoo of a dragon climbing her left arm. She told me its twin was on her lower back, scrambling out of her arse.

Ummm, now that would be a sight for sore eyes…

Yesterday afternoon in the supermarket carpark I heard a man and woman having a bit of a barny. The man had a very thick Cornish accent. ‘Well,’ he almost yelled. ‘You sit on your arse in the car then, I’m off to do shoppin’.’ The woman made some reply, her voice softer, inaudible to me. ‘Keep it shut,’ the man ordered. ‘Or you’ll get the belt again when I get you home…’

Were they part of the scene? I wondered. Or was this yet another example of local domestic abuse?

It’s often so difficult to tell, isn’t it?