Also the spectacle and the awareness of her own body. Daily and, so to speak, ceremoniously soiled with saliva and sperm, she felt herself literally to be the repository of impurity, the sink mentioned in the Scriptures. And yet those parts of her body most constantly offended, having become less sensitive, at the same time seemed to her to have become more beautiful and, as it were, ennobled: her mouth closed upon anonymous members, the tips of her breasts constantly fondled by hands, and between her quartered thighs the twin, contiguous paths wantonly ploughed.

Pauline Réage
Story of O

Such an androgynous teen. Old men desired me because of it. I could be so pretty, so easily fetishized – compliant and submissive to their darker needs and desires. One of them called me “a wild tigress”, and his greedy eyes seemed to see to my soul.

To them I was a tease – provocative – an open invitation: and they were are all hunger and expectation. I was the whiff of helium that made them light-headed. They prowled afternoon cinemas, silent and starving, like wolves seeking fresh prey. On rainy afternoons during the long summer vacation, I would frequent the local cinemas, those dream palaces, like a feast of innocence waiting to be tasted.

‘Could I get you an ice cream?’ Their voices trembling slightly as they asked the question during the interval, each one heavily superimposed on the other in my memory. ‘Yes, I’d love that. An ice cream tub, please…’

Their eyes were always cautious but filled with an old wish. They’d do almost anything to touch my pearl white body beneath my clothes. They were all the same – all suffering the same exquisite distress. The same, perhaps, unexpected lust. I am, after all, Spring to their Winter.

Later, in the darkened auditorium, a hesitant hand on my trouser fly – as if it were a page to be turned, opened, in an act of discovery that would leave him/them breathless.

Fingers on my face, tracing the curve of my baby mouth. Then lips brushing lips and gently his/their tongue/s entering my mouth. Always the same. The same loud exhalation of breath, the noise of our aching lives.

Their trembling fingers, I must admit, gave me a huge sense of power over them, these men. They trembled like leaves in a wind under a fading moon. My body had power. It turned their heads, made them foolish. So much so, they’d offer money to get what they wanted.

And I’d accept. I’d let my mind wander, separate from them, just a short walk away – but just far enough.

Dive bomb clusters of kisses followed. I would play my part, of course. Unpredictable, wild, dangerous – beautiful, even. And yes, I would suck them, each in turn, cradle them on my tongue, tenderly, then in to the private cave of my mouth, I’d take them. And like wolves they would silently howl at the moon, sway with the tides, pull, bite, claw this offering of flesh while I sucked them slowly dry –

It’s hard for an educated woman to turn her head off. That’s part of the joy of being a submissive. None of the decisions are yours. When you can’t refuse anything and can’t even move, those voices in your head go silent. All you can do, and all you are permitted to do, is feel.

Cherise Sinclair
Dark Citadel

total submission

April 29, 2018

Respect is everything. We must respect limits, safe words, all boundaries, but above all we must respect the individuality of the submissive. Respect is earned. Fear is not respect. Nor is power over another human being. Instilling fear in a submissive will never achieve a state of total submission. Ultimately, fear will cause fragmentation of the relationship. It will lead to abuse. That must never happen.

Positive Domination is a state in which calm prevails: trust is engendered with listening and learning. Feedback between dominant and submissive both, a kind of emotional spiral where more is delivered, the more it is received and it becomes in turn a two-way street.

Then both parties win.

to be submissive

April 15, 2018


Showing yourself to be submissive is not a sign of weakness…it , in fact, shows great courage, confirming who you are, your true inner identity…That’s why you, as submissive, and always with the premise of taking care of yourself, must not hide away your emotions or your inner motivation. Above all you demonstrate you know your place which implies, in my opinion, that you will never let others coerce you, blackmail you or impose anything on you – unless you want it. To please others should not mean to stop pleasing yourself.

Confessions of S

The real you…

December 24, 2017


We met them, the Tees, at a local BDSM munch about two years ago. The wife, Kay, described herself as “Hetroflexible” and has “played” with submission for years. She’s 100% submissive, a masochist, voyeur (loves watching hubby in bondage), exhibitionist (likes an audience when she’s being used) and slut-slave.

Her hubby, James, entered the BDSM scene in his early twenties. He was invited with his girlfriend of the day to a “party” while in Las Salinas Beach, Ibiza. The party turned out to be a full-on fetish orgy and James thought he’d died and gone to heaven. He took to the scene like a clit to a vibrator.

Jimmy has a passion for rope play, he’s a good-looking switch, by nature dominant, a bondage giver, but happy to submit and have his backside spanked to a glowing red by the right person.

Both Kay and Jimmy describe themselves as “being in tune with nature”; she’s into crystals and healing, and James loves yoga and meditation. They both like walking, the great outdoors, reading, photography, astrology, music, gardening and spirituality.

We’ve enacted scenes with them on four of five occasions. Kay, submissive, is restrained and “chastised” by Dee and by me while Jimmy watches. Then he in turn plays the Sub to Dee’s Dom. As with very many BDSM get-togethers there is no sexual intercourse. There is, of course, aftercare: comforting and reassuring; the Sub’s been placed in a very vulnerable physical and emotional state, after all said and done, and needs some degree of aftercare in order to properly process and come down from the event. In fact bondage without aftercare is abuse, pure and simple, in my opinion.

Anyway. Yesterday, Saturday, the Tees arrived in the afternoon, and were duly greeted at the front door by Dee and Gabriela. Cheeks were kissed, embraces exchanged, before the girls led them inside.

In the sitting room, I waited en femme as Navina, sex goddess extraordinaire, at times mildly submissive and into light bondage, but much happier in “domme mode”, twisting men around her/my little finger, teasing and denying their hard bodies. Making them beg.

Kay’s mouth dropped open at sight of me, Navina. ‘That’s incredible…’ she said. Shaking her head, she shrugged. ‘I’d never have recognised you. You’re beautiful!’

Jimmy was speechless. His eyes were eating me up. Drinks were offered and accepted. We exchanged small talk. Finally Dee said, ‘Would you like to see upstairs,’ to Kay, who nodded and stood up beside Gabby.

Soon Jimmy and I would be alone. Upstairs, I knew, it was Dee and Gabby’s plan to give Kay an extended and intense spanking/caning, taking her close – very close – to the edge of her limits, and from that wonderful, swimmy-headed place begin lovemaking with her.

After their departure I fixed Jimmy another drink. He kept looking at my high heels and stockings. I sat down in my black dress, letting the hem ride up and give him a quick flash of thigh and white lace. He is obviously fascinated by Navina, enamored and infatuated to the point of awkwardness.

‘I’m in to cling film,’ I said softly. ‘Clothespins, handcuffs, cockplay and mutual masturbation. What about you? Would you like me to bruise you a little? ’

From upstairs, a shrill cry: the sound of a strap impacting on rounded flesh. My girls are wasting no time. Jimmy’s petite, submissive lady has embarked on her delicious pleasure journey.

‘Have you ever fucked a Goddess?’ I asked him, without waiting for his reply to my previous questions. The ice rattled in my glass as I crossed my legs. His eyes went to my stocking tops. ‘It happens, you know. It’s quite common in fact. In hypnagogic and dream magic. You actually get to fuck deities – happens all the time in tantric visualisation meditation. It’s actively sort in Chaos Magick…’

‘I’ve heard of sexual encounters with deities in dreams or in astral travel. But they don’t have a physical component,’ he said, hesitantly.

More cries of pain from upstairs. The sounds of flogging, merciless. Distracting.

I licked my lips. ‘D’you like my lipstick?’ I asked. ‘It’s lipstick queen, and the colour’s called “bare nude.” I got it specially for today.’


‘A physical component is important in sex with a God or Goddess, but not essential,’ I said quickly. ‘Even alone, you can hold the image of the God or Goddess in your head, masturbate in offering to them, experience intense pleasure in their name. With time and practice – or immediately if you are really one of the lucky ones – you feel that someone else, the God / Goddess is stimulating your body…’

Kay’s shrill voice begging for mercy upstairs. The sound of flogging continued. But more intense, now.

Jimmy’s cheeks were flushed scarlet. His glance went from my crossed legs to the ceiling then back again. I sipped my drink.

‘The coolest thing about sex with spirit beings is it’s not limited by the constraints of physicality. It is possible to experience interpenetration and prolonged ecstasy with all parts of your body/mind/spirit…In all sex magick it’s the energy between those involved that makes the difference. With the right chemistry, you can move mountains!’

‘I see,’ he said. He put his empty glass on the coffee table, distracted.

‘Would you like another?’


I crossed the room to fix fresh drinks, the thrust of my hips provocative. I knew his eyes would be on my tight backside.

‘Do you like pussy worship?’ I asked over my shoulder.


‘Would you like to worship my pussy?’

‘I would.’

I smiled.

‘You are beautiful,’ he said quickly. ‘Kay was right. It’s an incredible transformation. You look like a Goddess…’

‘A Goddess?’ I handed him his drink. ‘You should make an offering to me then.’

‘What would you like?’

Upstairs the flogging had finally finished. The sounds we heard now were sexual in nature. Gabriela’s big O approaching. The headboard rattling against the bedroom wall.

‘Masturbate for me, Jimmy,’ I said softly. I sat beside him on the sofa. I wriggled my skirt up to my hips. ‘You like my legs?’ Apparently he did; he unzipped his fly. ‘Grip it really tightly for me and rub it fast. That’s it. Hard and fast. Think about Kay upstairs. Can you hear them. Dee and Gabby are going to take turns fisting her. Her pretty little couch will gape like a railway tunnel when they give her back to you…’

I took his free hand and rubbed it up the inside of my thigh then round to the strap of my suspender.

That seemed to do the trick. His body spasmed violently. His breathing caught abruptly in his throat. Outside it had started to rain; it rattled suddenly against the glass of the patio doors. Kay cried out in pleasure upstairs – I suspected Dee would be licking all round the hand she’d shoved inside Kay’s dripping sex just about now. There was a magpie bobbing about on the lawn again…

‘You needed that, Jimmy, didn’t you?’ I said, my attention returning to his stubby dick and the mess in his lap and down my left leg. ‘I’ll get some kitchen roll and you can have a cleanup. Another drink would probably be a good idea, too…’

So my Saturday rolled ever onwards. The rain became more intense, puddling the patio and weighing down the sagging heads of the hydrangeas at the bottom of the garden. The three girls remained upstairs for a further hour of finger fucking and licking. Jimmy sat quietly with his drink, while I roasted a tray of vegetables, courgettes, peppers, tomatoes and what-have-you then we all sat down together to eat. The three women had glowing, bright red faces when they came downstairs.

‘Enjoy yourselves?’ I asked.

‘Wonderful,’ Kay said. ‘Have to do that again.’ She looked at her hubby on the otherside of the table. ‘What about you, Jimmy?’

He smiled broadly. I came all over the leg of a Goddess,’ he said. ‘It was bloody fantastic…’


The woman who first introduced me to BDSM was a genuine misandrist who, for the purpose of this blog, we’ll call Zenobia. Her condition, I now recognise, was pathological: her denigration of men, her violence towards them, was ingrained – urges inside herself that were totally beyond her ability to control or suppress. She believed, ultimately, in the coming of the “Übermensch Womon” and felt herself one of the first of this “new species”.

Zenobia married young, eighteen, and produced a daughter the following year. She worshiped her child but marginalised her hubby. He existed to provide a roof over their head and to be humiliated in a thousand-and-one different ways. In the fifth year of marriage he ran a hose from the exhaust of his car and sat inside listening to the night with the engine running. His suicide came as a shock to all those who knew him, but not necessarily a surprise.

Had Zenobia’s behaviour caused her husband to top himself?

I have no idea. But it certainly must have played its part. Her hostile sexism towards men and towards him in particular was very apparent throughout their short sad marriage.

I knew very little of this when I first met Zenobia. To me, then, she was an attractive woman touching thirty, who thought men to be “hateful little boys”. We met at her birthday party and danced together all through the night. I have to say she “prick-teased” me mercilessly. Dancing cheek-to-cheek, she must have felt my hard-on…and that acted like a red-rag to a bull; she took every opportunity from then onwards to grind her hip against it, press it, catch it glancing blows, until I was almost ejaculating in my pants.

About three in the morning she kissed me good night. She said I could stay, sleep in the spare room. Her guests had all departed.

She asked, ‘Have you ever masturbated in front of a woman?’

‘I have, yes.’

‘Would you do it now. For me?’

‘I’d like to make love with you.’

‘No way. But you can wank off. That stiff little thing of yours has been prodding me all night long.’ She laughed. ‘Go on. Get it out. Let’s see what it can do…’

And I did exactly as requested. Moments later, sitting on the arm of her sofa and staring hard into her eyes, I ejaculated over the parquet flooring.

‘Not a bad effort,’ she said, smiling. ‘If you want me, why don’t you lick that up?’ She pointed at the long creamy spray of cum. ‘Lick that up, and I might let you have me in the morning…’

And so began a relationship that consisted of verbal and physical abuse, interspersed with erotic moments of intense love and tenderness. That first morning, she said to me, in her best bitch voice, ‘You want me? You really want to fuck me? You think in that little testosterone-riddled brain of yours that licking up your muck off the floor’s going to give you the right to stick it in me? Think again, boy. Fuck you. If you want me, you need to make sacrifices. Meaningful sacrifices…’

We sat at the table in her kitchen. Her little girl was round with her grandparents for the weekend. I said to her, ‘I want you, truly, as a friend…As a lover.’


‘Because you’re beautiful.’

‘Because I’m beautiful I have to submit to your limp ego? Because you’re attracted to me, I should be passive? Vaginas don’t have the right to say no, eh? Is that what you think?’

‘God, no…!’

‘So what would you give to fuck me this morning?’

‘What do you want?’

‘Would you drink my pee? Are you that big a perv?’

The idea repulsed me, but I so wanted this woman. Hungover, still a little tipsy probably, I acquiesced, said I’d do anything…After all, I was sure she didn’t mean it; that this was just a test of my commitment.

She stood up walked to the cupboard beside the sink and took out a large crystal jug. She was wearing a white nightdress that came down just below the knees. She crouched, put the jug between her slightly spread thighs and pissed in it. She was looking straight into my eyes all the time she was pissing. ‘Nothing good in my life,’ she said, ‘has ever come from a man. I’ll be honest with you, Peedeel, you won’t cope with my fuckedupness. It’ll be like riding a car down a one-way street at eighty miles-an-hour – but going the wrong way.’

She put the jug on the table.

‘Drink all that before it gets cold, darling. Drink it and I’ll let you take me into the bedroom…’

I was young, stupid, couldn’t see anything beyond the physical. It’s hard to explain but it was as if my brain was split into two halves. One half was saying, ‘What the feckin’ hell…’ While the other kept repeating, ‘Go ahead…get it down you. It’s nothing.’

So I drank. Tasted the warm, salty liquid. Her “wine” she called it. Drank all of it.

‘What a despicable little pervert you are,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Go on through to my bedroom. Strip off. I’ll give you a little reward. Wag your tail a bit…’

I did as instructed. She came in and told me to stand with my hands clasped behind me back. I did. She used the belt from a dressing gown to bind my wrists together. She pushed me forward onto the bed, two pillows beneath my penis and hips, my arse raised. Unexpectedly, she pulled a pillowcase over my head. Then my ordeal began…

I had always had a submissive streak. Even as a child. I fantasised about restraint, and being sexually used. In part Zenobia took control of my fantasy life; she provided the spark. Took me to the edge of infinity by inflicting the most incredible pain on me. Clothes pegs were attached to testicles and penis. She took a cane used to support a potted plant in the bedroom window, and lashed my backside into a throbbing numbness. It went on and on. Her eyes took the aim, and the cane striped my bum and the backs of my legs. And when she grew tired, she got a candle and matches.

Candle wax burns like feckin’ hell. I screamed inside my pillowcase. I begged. I cried with the pain of what she was doing to me. The torture continued and my mind drifted into this kind of fugue state. I was there but not there. I felt as if I were approaching ecstasy. As if I could reach out and touch the hand of God…

Zenobia burned me with the candle and with a lighted cigarette, but I hardly felt it. I had gone beyond pain, beyond desire. It was like an out of body experience.

The next thing I became truly aware of, was lying on my back. The pillowcase had been taken off, and Zenobia was stroking my head. ‘Poor thing,’ she said. ‘Poor poor thing.’ Her free hand went to my stiff cock. ‘Let’s wag his tail for him…’

I drifted. In the whole wide world there was only the sound of her voice, and the gentle ministrations of her slender fingers on the head of my penis. When I came it was suddenly, unexpectedly, the first spray of cum arching over my head.

Later she said to me, ‘I did warn you I was a fuckup – told you, didn’t I? You’ll never survive me. I’ll break you down into a sniveling shit-eater before I’ve finished.’

And then she went to get some gel to put on my burns and bruises.

Zenobia was lethal for sure. Whatever was between us, be it mistress and slave or predator and victim, continued for some months. I promised myself after that session, I’d not go back to her – but I did. I went back and continued to go back. She was like a Gestapo interrogator, a dark haired torturer, and I was like a moth attracted to the flame of hatred inside of her.

In some terrible way we complemented each other. I was yin to her yang. She was Nero fiddling while I burned. And each of the hours spent in her company left a fresh scar on my flesh; on my soul.

Eventually, like all things, our “special relationship” came to an end. Zenobia nearly put me in hospital one winter’s night, and I realised that I need to escape her influence if only for my own preservation.

And that’s what I finally did.