Hail, pretty horrors, hail! Halloween and bdsm

I was never a fan of Halloween. Until this year. 

The first thing is that Halloween, in its current form, is pretty much an American thing. The country I come from isn’t very culturally similar to America, and people there just didn’t want it. Like a lot of non-Americans I first really became aware of it through the Halloween sequence in Spielberg’s film, ET.

So it’s something about kids dressing up in marketing outfits for various US franchises, and going door-to-door begging for sugar. So, I thought, it’s tacky and a bit greedy, And the voices of my parents, sounding in the back of my brain, told me that this was a dumb, kind of ugly festival. 

I had another objection. Halloween is probably (not certainly, but probably) the Celtic festival of Samhain, which took place at the same time in the year, and had a theme of death and the lost souls of the dead. In taking it over, Christians gave it a Christian veneer. In this case, it was a night of licence, for indulging the wicked flesh, before everybody goes to church in the morning and people are then supposed to reject the flesh and the devil, and return to Christian asceticism, anti-sex, anti-this world doctrines.

The “trick or treat” thing is focussed on mischief, rewards and punishments. So it turns to bdsm very easily

That idea, the wickedness of the human body and the natural world, is one of the things I most dislike about Christianity.   

But it’s been steadily losing its religious roots, both Celtic (believe me, ancient pagans mostly get a good press, but they really don’t deserve it) and Christian, and it’s steadily evolved into something much nicer.

Basically these days it’s a festival of geek, a cos-play extravaganza. And there are no threatened “tricks”. The slight blackmail element of the old festival has faded away.

So I got visited by a great horde of seven-year-old girls, a couple of moms standing a  carefully calculated distance away. They were all dressed as princesses, mostly Disney princesses but a few fairy princesses too, a sort of ballerina, and a couple of girls in home-made Wonder Women costumes. (So Yay to their moms!) They were far too charming to lecture about this dumb festival. I didn’t have anything prepared, so I gave them dried raisins and apricots, and chocolate.

So the transaction wasn’t, “Trick or treat”. It was, “don’t we look amazing? We dressed up for you adults, so pay us in sugar!”

The Halloween-bdsm links haven’t escaped the cartoonists

Later I went shopping for bread and milk and such, and there were Goth girls everywhere, and real estate saleswomen, shop assistants and a woman I always notice in the chemist all dressed up, as Goth girls and other fantasy costumes. Anything that brings out women in velvet corsets, black lippy and choker collars is ok with me. Plus there were witches, Wonder Women and an amazing Cat Girl or two.

Next year I’ll be in it. I’m going to find me a blind harpist, and dress as a bard, we’ll go door-to-door singing Welsh Death Ballads until they give us marijuana and ask us to go away. You have to be polite to a bard. We can immortalise you in poetry, and its up to us whether you look good or stupid.

Anyway, Halloween! Not Christian, not Pagan: it’s a festival of slightly kinky cosplay!

Sinful Sunday: Something simple

 

This always feels right, to me. 

Beneath the sexiness of spanking, which I’ve discussed here, there’s something very comforting in being spanked, for many submissives. 

I read somewhere that one of the reasons it’s so emotionally soothing is that it has sensual links to something that human, chimp and bonobo mothers all do. A common form of comforting is when the mother holds the baby against their body, and almost absent-mindedly smacks the baby’s bottom. Gently, while swaying or rocking back abd forwards, up and down. 

The meaning of this gesture, it’s been suggested, is:

Hand on bottom: It’s okay, I’ve got you.

Hand away: But there’s no emergency, you’re safe, so I don’t have to hold you tight.

Hand back on bottom: But if there were danger, I’d hold you tight and protect you.

Hand away: But there’s no need.

Hand back on bottom: Still, I’m here.

And so on. Not quite forever, but it can go on for quite a while.

 

So this kind of comforting still carries a sort of physical memory for the submissive. He or she is being looked after, and they’re ok.

Anyway, my girl will be back in this position as fast as possible, once she’s cleared Customs.

And the collared girls go, doop de-doop de-doop…

I am going to collar a girl I love. 

I haven’t a lot to say about that. First, in general, when writing about anyone on this blog I apply a five-year rule, so that nothing gets on this blog before five years have passed. This is mainly for confidentiality, so that even if someone works out my secret identity as a policy advice guy for governments, they won’t be able to tell which woman any particular story concerns. 

And second, I give false names and make sure key details are misleading. So if someone is a lab technician, for example, I’ll say here that she’s a chemist. If she’s short I might say she’s tall, or not mention it. Mentions of hair colour is usually incorrect, but not reliably so.

So what I’m about to say feels very strange to me. I’m going to collar the beautiful and clever Zoe, who blogs here. Never think the simple truth is simple: it took a real internal fight to make myself give that correct information. Out loud. 

The only other thing to say is that she’s somewhat nervous. But my pledge to my readers, especially one of them, is that I’ll go slow, gentle, and only fierce when I’m sure the mood wants to be fierce. 

And giving a collar may present itself as a kind of ownership, but that’s largely rhetoric, to help intensify the emotional intimacy between the collar-giver and the collar-wearer. The fact that we consciously know it’s rhetorical doesn’t prevent that rhetoric from having its desired emotional and erotic effect. 

What a collar definitely is, is a symbol of love: both giving and accepting the collar are huge and powerful statements and admissions of love. 

 

 

Wicked Wednesday: Maddie earns extra strokes

So I stayed down, bent over his desk, not even wearing a wristwatch, waiting for the light touch of the cane across my bottom. There had been two taps of the cane against my bottom, to help him to aim, and that told me where Sir was going to put the next stroke. It told me where the next fiery line of pain would land.

The tap came, twice, against my lower bottom, just above the crease of my thighs. Where the skin was softest and most sensitive, and it would hurt me most when I sat down afterwards. Then the cane swept down, and the loud crack of the bamboo on my flesh, and that line of pure pain reached my brain at the same time.

I yowled, and my hands clenched and unclenched while the pain built up. I forced my body down, the desk so cold and hard under my belly and breasts.

Eventually, I could arch my bottom out and up, the way he’d told me, to present myself for his next stroke.

Lucy said, “Two, sir. And thank you for showing me what getting the cane looks like.”

I could hear the choke in her voice. She didn’t like herself for it, but watching me get humiliated and hurt was turning her on. I could have hated her for that, but I didn’t. She was obeying orders, as I was, and we can’t help what makes us aroused.

Eventually Sir said, “Good girls. Both of you. Keep that bottom up, Maddie.”

The next three strokes were delivered with the same delicious slowness and deliberation. I knew he was watching each stripe forming, and thinking about where to put the next. He was like an artist, not a disciplinarian. He was decorating me; my pain was real, but my stripes were beautiful, to him.

I felt proud, and incredibly needy. Cunt-greedy. All I wanted was for him to fill my cunt. I needed to be fucked so badly.

I wouldn’t even care, I’d decided, if Lucy watched that too. I imagined her saying, in that high, choked voice, “Good stroke, sir! And thank you for showing me what getting fucked looks like.”

I chuckled at that thought, and that sealed my fate, I think. Sir said, “Last stroke, Maddie. A nice, traditional six of the best.” 

And I spread for him, moving my feet further apart, when he tapped the cane again, still low on my bottom. I wanted him to see how greedy my cunt was. And, I suppose, Lucy. A second passed, while he held the cane above his shoulder. And then he swung it down, across my underbum, at least twice as hard as the other strokes. Then all I knew was fire and pain. 

I screamed, and my body rose from the desk. I howled and reached back to clutch my bottom. It hurt so much! I was standing up, hands across my ass for comfort and protection, while I hopped in place and swore and swore and swore. 

Sir said, “Hands away, Maddie! Put them on your head!”

When I’d obeyed – I knew I was in trouble, and I put my hands up as fast as I could – he strode forward and spanked me hard, several times, on my bottom, already sore and striped from the cane. I managed to take those in silence, though the tears of pain and shame streamed down my face. 

He turned my face towards him then, and we were close enough to kiss. I wanted to melt into his arms, but I knew I couldn’t. It wasn’t that Lucy was watching: she was already part of this strange intimacy between us. It was that I was in disgrace. 

Sir looked at Lucy then. “What do you think happens now, Lucy?”

She was so pale. She started to speak, and cut herself off. Finally she managed to say, “I– I don’t know, Sir.” 

“If you lie to me again, Lucy, you’ll get the same as Maddie. Do you understand?” 

Lucy’s little pink tongue passed around her lips. Eventually she said, “She’d get the same again, Sir.” 

“That’s right. And if she gets up again – you hear me, Maddie! – she’ll get another twelve. All right, Lucy. Maddie’s got six strokes coming. Do you want to watch her get another twelve on top of that?”

There was another silence. I watched Lucy. She was wearing only her shirt, and perhaps a bra. Her thighs and knees were trembling, and the tears in her eyes had spilled. She said, “No, Sir.”

Then another silence. Sir and I both knew Lucy was lying. Or part of her was. But Sir said, “Then you’re a kind girl, and I’m sure you’d like to held young Maddie, wouldn’t you?” 

Lucy frowned. “Yes, Sir?” 

“Good girl. I want you to pull your shirt up to your waist, and sit on the edge of my desk. Maddie’s going to put her head in your lap while I cane her. You’re going to hold her in place, Lucy, with your thighs and your hands holding her down. And if she takes her nose out of your … lap, just once, then she’ll get the extra twelve. And you’ll get them along with her. Do you understand?”

Lucy hesitated. 

 

 

What giving a collar means to me

I’m going to collar a girl in a few weeks’ time.

Squee!

Er, in a manly, dommy, voice, of course. Ahem.

There are a few minor issues that have to be dealt with first, like her giving me enthusiastic consent. Which is half-given, but I consider that it’s still subject to conditions at present. But once those trifling formalities are over, she shall be given and wear my collar. 

So what does that collar mean, when I give it to this very specific person? 

Commitment and love

A standard slave collar. Note that the designer provided rings for three leashes! The Bible says you can’t serve two Masters. Obviously,  three’s all right though

The first thing it means is that I love her and I trust, to the state of knowledge, that she loves me. And I commit to her. I’m no longer looking. And whether she likes it or not, I consider it my duty, as a dom with a collared sub, to look after her, and to work to achieve her safety and happiness. She affirms the equivalent. We are a dominant and a submissive, and each of us is focussed on the other.

This is simple enough, and it’s the reciprocal aspect of a collar, the part that means roughly the same to the dominant and the submissive. 

Submission

The second thing it means is that she’s my submissive. But that status, “my collared submissive”, can mean a range of things, on a continuum. 

At one end of that scale it would mean she would address me as Master, and have to obey any command I give her, concerning any aspect of her life. I would have an absolute right to discipline her, for my pleasure or because she has displeased me. (The three things that I’m most likely to punish memorably for are self-destructive behaviour, which can include inaction, disobedience and disrespect other than playful cheekiness.

In that version of submission, she is my property. An owned girl. 

At the other end of the continuum, it means she retains her own decision-making, independent of me for most of her life, but she is submissive to me in and around the bedroom. Her submission is sexual, and not anything else. 

The rhetoric of lovers

These two styles aren’t in practice so different. There are some practical differences, but in reality the major difference is the intensity of the rhetoric.

All lovers use rhetoric when they speak to each other. Two people, having just fucked, may look each other in the eye and swear that they will love the other forever, till the day they die.

There are some tacky slave collars out there. This one could actually be worse than jazz…

In reality they may part within the year, because one of them eats mandarins in bed and the other wants to listen to jazz on the radio when they wake up in the morning.

Jazz would be a deal-breaker for me, by the way. I’d never swear undying love to someone who listened to jazz in the bedroom. Once I discovered that horrible jazz thing, it’d be a one-off, a one-night stand. Um, all right, this might be a digression. 

But the fact that they parted doesn’t mean they were insincere when they swore undying love. And if you understood the rhetoric, it doesn’t even make what they said untrue. They were looking for words to express how enchanted and wonderful they felt, and they used those words.

The literal meaning of their words wasn’t the point; the meaning was the emotion they expressed.

Bdsm lovers’ rhetoric

So I might say to a submissive, “I own you; you are my property, to do with as I choose.” And she might say, “Oh god yes, I am yours, Master.” Then we sign a contract to that effect.

But if she feels bad in the relationship, and she no longer loves and respects me, she doesn’t really transgress that agreement if she leaves.

I could take her to Court, showing the contract in which she agreed that she was my property and my slave. “Look!” I’d say, “it’s signed in blood!” And the Court would laugh its fool ass off at me. A bdsm slave contract is worth the the paper it’s written on, in reality. Less, actually, because that sheet of paper’s got words scribbled all over it. 

So in a sense, the rhetoric of ownership, of a collared submissive, really means: “I feel this passionate urge to be your dominant, to take and enjoy your submission, and I feel it very intensely. And I want to go on feeling it intensely, with you.”

It’s emotionally real. It’s never practically or legally real; a submissive cannot really give up direction and control over her life, except voluntarily while she wants to.

Love, again

The day collar. Something that can be worn in public, with some discretion. I’ll be looking for something on these lines…

So to me, the collar mainly represents loving commitment between a dominant and submissive. Beyond that it means a subtly moving bdsm commitment, with boundaries that extend and recede from day to day and moment to moment, under which the submissive commits to a presumption towards submission when the dominant evokes the bdsm or D/s part of the relationship. 

That means, if I say, “girl, take your clothes off and kneel”, I expect to get obedience.

But if I said, “you will tell your mother about us, so she understands that you are my submissive, and that if she has any requests of you she must direct them through me,” I expect to get, at least, discussion. Or a flat, “fuck off”. 

So I see the gift and acceptance of the collar not as an end-point but at a stage in a process. A declaration of love and commitment, and presumption towards submission when I flash out my dominant side: those are good starting points.  

The collar is the outward sign of the commitment that allows us to find the right level of bdsm for us, and work our ways to the sweet level that best suits us both. 

Sinful Sunday: Bound and paddled on a Sunday lie-in

To wait is to have arrived. To be bound is to be free. 

It’s Sunday morning, and luckily there’s nothing much to do. Except wait.

There will be the sound and the bite of the leather paddle. And eventually he will fuck her. Sometyimes he lets her hands free, when they fuck, so she can caress him. Sometimes he doesn’t. Both are good, and she couldn’t say which is her favorite.

But she does like not having the choice.

 

 

e[lust] 99

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Welcome to Elust 99

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #100 Start with the rules, come back November 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Private Eyes
Brittle
Lust Highway

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

I love a man in a suit
Church Smells, Beliefs and Fornication

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

The House Next Door

 

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Feelings about bisexuality
On scheduling sex
Reasons I Didn’t Orgasm That Aren’t About You

Erotic Non-Fiction

Wet on the Washer
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Alice Takes a Spanking
The GP – Part Two

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Rites of Passage ~ Part 4
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Collars in bdsm: Where did they come from?

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“What Were You Wearing?”

 

Elust 88

Sinful Sunday: Settling in for the long haul

We’re settling in for a long, disciplinary session, Arethusa and I. This is a later view of the scene introduced here

She’d been late with a university essay, and it was the third time. I’d finished up helping her to write the thing. But I was sick of past-the-last-second panics, where it took serious intervention from me to get anything handed in at all. So I decided it was also necessary to take severer measures. So I’d told her what to expect, and to be waiting, naked and bent over my table until I got home. 

Once I arrived I fixed her cuffs to the table, and after that it was simply her job to endure. We started with the lighter cane, and at the time this shot was taken there was still the tawse, the birch and the heavier cane to go.

And then, before uncuffing her, there would be the fuck that tells her she’s a good girl again, and that her Master can’t keep his hands off her or his cock out of her. Not for long. 

But the whole process, from discipline to expiation in sex, took nearly three hours.

Note the cushion she’s bent over, and the box of tissues. That’s one of the ironies about punishing a girl you love. You want to be considerate. 

 

 

Q: Who gets to speak, politically? A: Everyone!

I’m white, het and such. I’m sometimes mildly embarrassed by my complete failure to fancy men, but only in the sense that it’s a limitation and no one should have one of those. But I like what I like, sexually, and I’m not going to change it. In fact I can’t. If the Christian Right has made one contribution to the World of Knowledge, it’s that sexual orientation “therapies” don’t work. 

I also sometimes think that there’s a significant number of people who I agree with on most things, who are likely to discount, or at least be suspicious of, any opinion I express on sexual orientation, race, etc. Because it comes from a position of het white male privilege.

It’s absolutely the case that I get privileged status from being born straight, white and male. I’m also lucky to be physically … well, not disabled. I mean, I need glasses and my hearing’s pretty shit, but basically I can get around and get by. There are people of colour who have more power and money than me, and there are women of any colour who also have that. But I’ve always had the freedom to know I’ll be ok.

It’s not the most fun you can have while naked…

I won’t lose my home. I’ll always be able to afford food and water. At the moment I can even afford to fly round the world, drink champagne, and if I liked the stuff (I don’t) snort cocaine.

I can walk into a room full of rich, powerful white men, and pass. Not just by looking like them; I know how to act. I can make a deal. That’s very privileged, and it has a lot to do with being straight, white and male.

I don’t believe I’m being silenced by the presence of other voices. What’s changed is that I’m more likely to be called out for talking bullshit than my equivalent was, 100 years ago. There are more voices. Rupert Murdoch hates that reality, but I like it a lot. 

Anyway, I was thinking about this because I read someone straight and white, like me, said they wanted to speak out and support Bi-Sexual Awareness Week, and they did, but they felt embarrassed about speaking out at all. I understand that feeling. But if we want to live in a better world, it’s wrong. 

I don’t care if someone saying nasty things about bisexual people is het, exclusively gay or lesbian, asexual, or bisexual with a dash of self-hate. It’s the nasty that matters, not who they are.

Similarly, it doesn’t matter what someone’s privilege check points are, if they express support for bi-sexual awareness, and bi-sexual people.

…sex and politics have always mixed. This is a demonstration in support of same-sex marriage in Australia. This male sex blogger, sadly, isn’t quite this photogenic

No movement, or group of people, has too many allies. Justice issues even need allies to the extent of including het white male sex-bloggers like me.

The same applies to supporting Rose McGowan and other women speaking out about sex predators in Hollywood, which is just another workplace. If something’s unacceptable in a Distribution Manager at a kitchen appliances firm, then it’s also unacceptable in a senior Hollywood bureaucrat.

So I joined the Friday 13 protest against Twitter for silencing Rose McGowan’s account. (She’s been reinstated, so good.) You can even be an ally by shutting the fuck up, sometimes. Life is full of ironies. 

Vinceremos! And wankeremos! We can always do both.

Wicked Wednesday! Maddie, meet the cane!

I stepped forward, avoiding Lucy’s gaze, and bent over Sir’s desk. Lucy’s skirt lay folded on the desk beside me, where she’d taken it off to receive her spanking. I put my hands forward, and lowered the upper half of my body slowly down to the desktop. 

The desk was cold. I could feel my own goosebumps, then the cold, hard surface when my nipples touched the wood and I let myself all the way down.

I knew I was helpless now. I felt absolutely powerless. It was going to happen. 

I felt his hand pressing down on the small of my back. “Bottom up, Maddie. You know what presentation means.” So, under the force of his hand I arched my back, so that all of my body pressed tight on the desk, while my bottom jutted up. For him, and Lucy, to watch. 

“Good girl. Keep it up. Even when the cane’s hurting. You get one warning on that, Maddie, then I start issuing extra strokes.” 

There was a gasp from Lucy, a suppressed protest on my behalf. “Come here, Lucy.” I supposed she must have crossed the carpet behind me, because the next thing I heard was the the unmistakeable sound of Sir’s hand landing on Lucy’s bottom. She got a dozen, and she was wailing quietly for the last four of spanks.

He spoke quietly, so I guessed she was in his arms. “Maddie needs to learn discipline,” he said to her. “If she knows she gets extra strokes if she moves out of position, will that help her stay in position?” 

There was a silence. Lucy had to be thinking. To answer “Yes”, would be to approve of me getting extra strokes, and she didn’t want to say that. Then there was another loud smack. Lucy cried out, “Sir! Sorry, Sir! Yes, Sir, it’s kinder to warn her.” 

“Good. Now, Lucy, would you like to do Maddie a favour, while I cane her?” 

There was another silence, while Lucy considered what on earth that might mean. But finally she said, “Yes, Sir.” As I would have in her position. 

“Good girl. Sometimes when a girl is being caned, she has to count each stroke out loud, and thank me for each one. You know that, don’t you?” 

“Yes, Sir.” Her voice was breathy. I wondered, over his desk, eyes looking at at the dark teak below me, if he was doing something to her while they spoke. Or if she found the situation exciting. It was at that thought that I realised that I was getting wet. It was a turn-on, to know that watching me aroused her. And if Sir was stroking her while they talked, I wasn’t even jealous. 

“Good girl. I want you to count the strokes. In a loud, clear voice after each one. And then you can thank me for showing you what a caning looks like. Can you do that, Lucy?” 

“Yes.” She was barely whispering. “Sir.” 

“Then we begin.” And a few seconds later I felt a thin, hard pressure against the fullest part of my bottom. Then it tapped me once, and then it was gone.

I waited, wondering how much it was going to hurt. Then it landed, a straight line of fire across both cheeks of my bottom, exactly where he’d tapped me. It hurt instantly, and then a second later it hurt more than anything I’d felt before. Oh, it burned. 

I screamed, “Yaaaah!”, and my body rocked and writhed on his desk. “Oh! Ah Sir! Sir, that huuuurts!” 

A second later Lucy said, “One, Sir. Thank you for letting me watch, watch what getting caned looks like.” 

I struggled with myself. It took all of my will-power not to get up and run Though where I could have run, stark naked with a fresh cane-stripe across my ass, I’m not sure. Eventually I managed to get my bottom up, the way he’d told me, for the next stroke. 

“Good girl, Maddie. A little faster, next time. Can you manage that?” 

I thought about extra strokes. Then I thought about how much I wanted to please him. “Yes sir, I will stay in position. Or get myself back into position quickly. Sir.” 

“Good girl. But if I have to warn you again, you will get extra.” I nodded into his desk. Of course I was going to earn extra strokes. I was never going to get used to this. 

The cane returned, pressing against my bottom, just a little lower than that first stroke. Then a little tap, then the cane’s terrifying absence. I held my breath.