excitement and dread

September 24, 2017

fetish fun

I visited her every third Wednesday of the month, that strange, hard woman who was my secret obsession. And I always experienced the same sense of excitement and dread as I walked from the bus stop to her home.

She would be there in her spiky high-heels and tight pin-stripe skirt, long legs enclosed in black fishnet, a waiting spider to my hesitant fly.

Why did I visit her? Was it the cruel suede whip? The humiliation? The feeling of warm, oiled, heavy chrome beads being inserted carefully, one at a time?

Or did I simply wish to explore the psychic territory of pain in search of an ultimate, mystical proof of “otherness” in life, at the outer edges of death? Pain, pleasure, delirium and reason – she provided it all. For a price…

Dirty Thoughts
James Claudel

…I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia. I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way. You, with all your undumb letters, would never write so elementary a phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn’t even feel it. And yet I believe you’ll be sensible of a little gap. But you’d clothe it in so exquisite a phrase that it should lose a little of its reality. Whereas with me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal. So this letter is really just a squeal of pain. It is incredible how essential to me you have become. I suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things. Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan’t make you love me any more by giving myself away like this — But oh my dear, I can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don’t love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defenses. And I don’t really resent it.

Vita Sackville-West
Letter to Virginia Woolf 21st January 1927

feel so alive

May 7, 2017

I don’t do BDSM for the pain. I simply LOVE being controlled. When I’m tied up and at someone else’s mercy, I feel so alive. I feel like I’ve finally been set free.

Source Here

Gradually, I began to enjoy it (BDSM). When Frank was there, he would train me in doing whatever he wanted me to do, including cooking, cleaning the loft or servicing him sexually. When he wasn’t there, I was left instructions on what to do, like meditation or even just stretching exercises. Rapidly, I lost track of time and Frank insisted that this was his goal. He wanted me to fully rely on him for all information. I realized that sometimes, a Wednesday would follow a Thursday, but I was expected to just accept it and soon enough, I stopped asking or caring about which day it was.

Today, I realize he was almost brainwashing me, but I didn’t see any alternatives. I was warm, I was secure, I was loved and the few times I was hit I actually welcomed and enjoyed it as it was usually followed by some of the best sex I ever had.

Several times, he invited friends over and no, I was not allowed to dress. I remained nude. Most of the people were friends I knew from the dungeon, but I was usually expected to play a certain role, like remain silent for the evening and simply serve food for everyone or even just remain on all four and serve as a human footrest for the whole evening.

Only twice did someone else had sex with me, thought in one of the cases, I have no idea if it was really someone else as I was blindfolded.

Confession of a fulltime Bondage Slave
Marilyn X


Diary 3rd – 4th March

The night turns itself inside out. Dreams come: bizarre, yes – but so vivid they seem more real than waking life. Dreams of photographs and ciphers, spies and bloody murder. And in amongst this chaotic mayhem, Madame Lamson!

See her standing tall in a black corset, tattoos twining up her left arm. No panties, just that thick bush of rusty-red curls. Another, smaller tattoo on her right side just above the groin: this a simple wreath of wild flowers. Black fishnet stockings on her legs, and a riding crop held lightly in both hands.

Madame Lamson:

Sets such impossible tasks. Then punishes failure without a hint of compassion in her hard green eyes. She is the original switch bitch!

Long, lacquered red nails. And that smile on her face, the one that follows you everywhere; metamorphosing, ultimately, into an aristocratic smirk for the men and women groveling round her spiky high heels.

Madame Lamson holds the keys to the gates of hell. Her crop on your flesh leaves red patterns of pain, and eventually you grow drunk on this pain, which is like the sun coming out and making you dizzy, so that you feel your head will just float away to another, rarer place.

Her mouth is all curves and ripeness – like her body. Faint dusting of freckles on her cheeks, and her hair when the sunlight catches it from the window glows red. She is unforgiving and relentless. And her victims feel themselves sliding into a slow-motion loss of control – unable to apply the brakes.

She told you once that she loved candyfloss and carousels. Remember that? Her favorite film was ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’! Your head tried to followed the trail of her words, remember? She spoke so softly, so sweetly, while mercilessly inserting a thumb nail into your urethra.

You almost cried out your safeword when she did that, didn’t you? It was almost too much. Her likes, you thought, were in-feckin’-credible, considering what a bad bitch she could be.

She also told you her favorite colour was pink…!


Our lives together are a song in which music and poetry have become a single, beautiful harmony.


The past is a splinter in my soul, a wound that turns slowly septic. Whatever happened, I wonder, to Gail La Mare?


At age ten I went to the cinema (the name of the film is unimportant) and fell in love with a young actress appearing in the main feature: thirteen or fourteen years of age, she travelled on a ferry across Hong Kong harbor, and I became besotted with her – with the fall of her hair, with her large, almond-shaped eyes, and with the sound of her voice.

At the end of that film, I experienced a most dreadful sense of loss…

I went to see the film again. And again. Every day for a week, I went to see my one true love, who remained so impossibly distant from me…and yet so near.

At night I dreamt about her. In my dreams she became my ‘girl’ and we kissed each other with an innocent passion.

I spent all my pocket money on seeing that film, and then stole cash from my mother’s ‘piggy-bank’ (the only time I’ve ever done such a thing) so that I could continue to go watch my ‘love’. I was like an addict in desperate need of a fix.

And all these years later, as an adult, I can still feel that poor child’s pain…


Each of us, it’s true, are capable of writing various, strikingly different autobiographies, according to the viewpoint chosen and our principle of selection.


Pain enters the body. It is sharp at first. Then awful. Then contradictory. Like nothing else. Nothing: and it’s when the pain becomes unbearable that it begins to go away, changes, becomes something good to moan at, scream at, takes over all of your body, your head, all of the strength in your body, your head, and in your totally defeated ability to think. This can’t be called pain anymore, it might be called death.

Marguerite Duras
The North China Lover: A Novel


It’s often said that cowards make the best torturers. Cowards have good imaginations, imaginations that torment them with all the worst stuff of nightmare, all the horrors that could befall them. This provides an excellent arsenal when it comes to inflicting misery on others. And their final qualification is that they understand the fears of their victim better than the victim does himself.

Mark Lawrence
Prince of Fools


Recently a friend told me that she had ordered a set of nipple clamps online. She has very sensitive nipples and had this fantasy about mild breast torture. However, when they arrived and she fitted one on an engorged nipple, she found the pain too great.

‘I took it off straight away,’ she said. ‘They’ve sat in a drawer ever since. I don’t know how anyone can stand them?’

Well, I gave her the following explanation:

Applying a clothespin to one’s arm initially produces pain that may be quite intense as the skin and surface muscles are compressed. Peripheral nerve fibres detect this pressure and transmit a pain signal to the spinal cord and on to the brain. At first it is the fast pain signals that get through, and the intensity of the pain experienced is fairly proportional to the amount of pressure applied. Everyone would agree that this is acute pain.

The slower pain signals are not far behind, however, and a dull ache may soon be noticed. After a short while, the pain coming from the pinched tissue will begin to be decreased by the closing of the spinal nerve gates. This is because the brain begins to view the pain signals as non-harmful. The pressure may be painful initially but it is not injuring the person in any way. As time goes on, the pain message is given less priority by the brain and the person’s awareness of it decreases greatly.

The brain knows that the clothespin is not causing any injury. Therefore, the brain gradually “turns the volume down” on the pain message to the point of it being barely noticeable after about thirty minutes. The compression on skin and muscle is still occurring, but it is now perceived as a mild discomfort if it is noticed at all.

‘Be that as it may,’ she said. ‘Those bloody things can stay in my drawer forever…’


I had this girl once Jessica who was bit hard. She liked to workout at the gym and fancied herself as Buffy the vampire slayer in her spare time. Once in The Apollo this guy came over and took an empty chair from our table without asking if it was free, which it wasn’t.

Anyway, Jess launches herself from her seat and grabs the fast departing chair. ‘’Scuse me,’ she says. ‘This is taken.’

‘Really? It’s first come first served here, luv,’ he says. ‘Shouldn’t you at least say please, if you want something?’

‘Yeah, your right.’ She kicked him straight in the balls. He didn’t see it coming; had no idea. Down he went like a sack of potatoes. ‘Please,’ she said, and took back the chair.

Anyhow Jess don’t take shit off anyone. She likes to be in control. One night when we’d both had more than a few drinks, she challenged me to a game of cards.

‘What game are we playing?’ I asked.

‘We’ll play nut-cracker poker, yeah.’

I’d never heard of it before and was apprehensive. ‘What are the rules?’ I asked.

The rules she explained to me went something like this: each card represented a punch, squeeze, knee, or kick to the balls; the number of the card was the number of blows to be struck, or the number of seconds each squeeze would last. The Joker represented a sixty second handjob from her as a relief from all the rough treatment.

‘Hang on a sec,’ said I. ‘You’ve got no balls?’

‘I’m the banker,’ she said. ‘I take five cards at a time, see. And then I do what the cards tell me – to you. So we have here the eight of spades, ten of hearts, three of diamonds which means I’m going to give you eight kicks in the balls, a hard ten second squeeze and three punches. But we also have the King of diamonds, which counts as twenty, so you get an additional twenty second squeeze. See, it’s all about you…’

‘I’m not playing?’ I said.

‘But you’ve got a Joker there, too. That’s sixty seconds of me wanking you. You don’t want?’

‘Yes, I want. But it’s the kicks and punches…’

‘You’ve got to take the rough with the smooth.’ She shrugged. ‘If it’s hurting too much you can wimp out. We’ll have a safe word, yeah. Shout out ‘Sissy’ and I’ll stop.’

‘What’s the point of the game?’

‘To see if you’re man enough.’

‘When’s the game over?’

‘When you wimp out…Or when you cum. But if you wimp it, you have to eat me out as a forfeit.’

So, to cut a long story short, I ended up on the sofa in the nude. She dealt the cards and that first hand included three club cards: the four, six and ten.

‘Stand with your legs apart,’ she said. I did. She drove her knee into my balls with so much force my legs buckled. I tried to straighten but as I did so she powered that knee back into her gently swaying target. I hit the floor. ‘There’s a nine of hearts in the hand,’ she said. ‘That’s a nine second squeeze. Shall I do that before the rest of your kicks?’

I slowly rose from my knees. ‘I don’t think I like this game,’ I said, but she already had a firm hold of my balls. The pain was unbelievable, oscillating up from my balls to my brain, exploding behind my eyes in bright red neon. It took a few seconds before I screamed ‘Sissy’ and she released me, laughing.

‘Well, that didn’t last long, did it?’ she said. ‘Better get back on your knees.’ She sat back on the sofa and spread her legs wide. ‘You’ve got a lot of licking to do. About an hour’s worth, I’d say. bon appétit, my little wimp…’


In the Garden, After

June 5, 2016


Zebra Longwings, Monarchs, Blue Clouds lurid against
yellow goldenrod, the stems riddled with galls, the galls with larva,
x’d open by a woodpecker’s stabbing beak.
We walk where the life is spilling out, where the prey
views the predator with indifference. If not this way, another.
Until then, the spread of genetic material.
To protect your skin from the sun, carry this green umbrella,
spin the handle, soft shoe; it’s the long summer and we
require a gentle entertainment. The children are swarming,
querulous in the heat, ignoring the prohibition against touching
pagoda gold, the hand-painted beams shipped from Thailand
over the seas. Every year the pagoda shines less, every year
naga statues guard the bridge with expressions of reproach.
My hand hasn’t one atom of gold on it. No excess worth
lines my nails. The raptors in their cages glazed with boredom,
kestrels and kites, the yawning owls, all track us as we pass,
jessed for public display, for demonstrations of ferocity
in service to delight. This dumb show. This mock danger.
Happy in service, pleased to be part of, my hand in yours,
grasping at some semblance of normal. This is how
foreign substances are absorbed, we grow around the hurt,
eat as we ate before, laugh as we once laughed, present
damage as decoration, our fingers borrowing gleam by
caustic oils—darling, when they walked from that other
bed of flowers they had just learned shame. For us to
advance we must learn to lance that swelling.

Rebecca Hazelton