Running a bdsm meet’n’greet group 2

The group I’m hosting up in the mountains is going fine. Numbers are low, but that means I get to finish off the champagne and runny cheeses afterwards. But it’s a talky group, with interesting people in it. And they spend the time chatting, sometimes about bdsm and sometimes about other topics. And they all get on.

I mention that because this is actually the second time I’ve run a group. The first time I was still living in the city. I agreed to take on the running of the group because the guy who’d been doing it for years had got a bit sick of it, and I was feeling public-spirited. 

Like this, only with guys

Like this, only with guys

The venue was an old pub that was once what was called a “bloodhouse”, the sort of pub that – in its day – had sawdust on the floor for soaking up the patrons’ blood, also urine and vom. There was a trench that ran down the edge of one wall, and at the bottom of the bar, so that when the evening was over and the bouncer had frog-walked the last drunk out into the small cold hours, you could clean the place with a hose.

In the morning you’d put out new sawdust and you were ready for business. People would say that the morning’s sawdust was last night’s furniture, hurr hurr hurr.

But that was then. These days the place was quiet except for the gambling machines at one corner of the room, and the occasional cackle or groan from the old men and ladies who sat nursing a single beer as long as possible while feeding coins into the machines.

Some time ago some optimistic manager had put in comfortable leather chairs and dark wood tables. But they never succeeded in getting new clientele. The old people slumped in front of the machines weren’t going to be shifted, and it was never going to be a trendy wine bar while they held their corner.

So I liked the place. We were welcome customers, and no-one was going to hear us talk, or object to discussions about soft versus hard floggers and comparing notes on ropes and so on. 

I advertised on-line that the group was still going, and I sat, as promised, with a bunch of artificial red roses propped up in a beer glass.

I’m going to tell a story about a woman who turned up wearing a fishing net, and two little flashing lights, one over each nipple. But I’ll do it later. 

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 37

I let Raylene stay like that for a few moments, her feet wide apart, a couple of steps above me, lunged forward so her head and hands rested on four steps higher. I paused, letting her awareness of her position settle in.

“Lovely. Now focus on your cunt. I want you to arch your arse up even more. And push your cunt out, at me. You want to be fucked, don’t you?”

lungeRaylene said nothing, face crimson. She made a high noise that might have been a protest. I swung the razor strop and let it lick firmly across her upper thighs. “Ah! Yes!”

 I stepped to the side so she could see me and raised the strop again. “Yes what?”

 “Unh. Yes, sir!” She was having trouble talking.

I swung the strop again, landing on the soft skin of her underbum. It wasn’t all that hard. It didn’t need to be. “Now answer me properly. Do you want to be fucked?”

 “Oh! Ah, god yes sir, I want you to fuck me.”

 “Yeah. Now show me. Push your cunt at me. Hard as you can.”

I watched while Raylene arched her back tighter, presenting herself in utter, abject sexual need. But she was not yet completely helpless. I said, “Now take your hands away.”


 “You’re not allowed to support yourself. Take your hands away. Now.”

 “Ah! Sir.” This was even more difficult. Without her hands, Raylene’s whole weight rested on her forehead. And she could not get up.

“Good. Now clasp them together, behind your neck.”

Have a look through Elust 67’s link frenzy!

Welcome to Elust #67 


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~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Yes, Squirting is Real (And it’s not pee.)

These men make me SO angry

Still Kinky After All These Years

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

When It Rains
You want me to read what?


~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Due to technical difficulties there is no Readers Choice selection this month. However, here are links to a couple of my posts.





Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

How to Make Time for Kinky Fuckery
Submissive Power Is Hot Stuff
Topping from the Bottom
Property Milestone
Dead Heat
Submissive power and the storms of life
I Talk A Lot, But Not About That
I Just Want To Be Me
What I Get Out Of Locking A Man in Chastity
BDSM and pick-up artists <– The Jerusalem Mortimer post for this month!

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Socks and Sex
Marsala? The Color of My Panties? Who Knew?

Erotic Fiction

Short Strokes: Molasses Makes Me Horny
12 Step Homeopathic Remedy for Scorned Lovers
Alice’s Wonderland
Feel His Breath On Me
Out For A Walk
Playing in the Band
Coming Pretty
The Fall
Erotica After Hours
Dancing in the Dark

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Make Love to Me
I Used to Fake Orgasms. This is Why I Stopped


Brigitta – A Lusty Limerick

Erotic Non-Fiction

With a very sharp knife
black bra and g-string
Meeting Slave Olive for a Cash Point Meet
LachrymoseWhen Two Doms Play…Fuck Tender!




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Running a BDSM meet’n’greet group

I’m running a monthly meeting for bdsm people, to talk, drink, eat runny smelly cheeses, and other things, and meet each other. 

Initially I started an on-line group for people in my mountains, simply because there wasn’t one. It didn’t take any work to set it up, and get it started with a couple of posts. After a while people wanted to meet for real, so I called a munch in a local, rather grand hotel. 

It had a turnout of maybe ten people, which is okay for a start. But the venue was a problem. The food was pricey (and very ordinary), and, because I’d put the munch in the foyer, near the fireplace, you could only order drinks from the champagne bar. So they were expensive too. 

But the real problem is that assorted families were in the foyer too, and they’d brought their kids along. Kids love watching fires. So one of our group would be discussing, oh, let’s say, the electrification of nipple clamps, and a couple of boys aged ten and twelve would suddenly turn up to stare into the fire while listening to the adults.

And then, I expect, go back the the family and ask, “Mommy, what’s a butt plug?” 

So we’d fall silent whenever kids showed up. A lot of kids did. It was awkward. 

I said I’d find a private venue next time. I did some hunting around, and found that any hireable meeting space or social space was hideously expensive. It was far too much for me to pay just out of generosity, but if I charged people who turned up a share of the cost then no-one would show. 

So months passed while I refurbished my library, which had been flooded in the spring. That wasn’t just a matter of getting new carpets and shelving. It also meant digging a trench below the level of the library floor and putting in piping to take any water away. And doing various other drainage and water management things that involved sink holes, pipes, gravel paths, and so on. 

Finally, late last year, it was done, and I had the first bdsm library munch. 

Which I’ll tell you about in a couple of days.


Do welfare mothers make better lovers?

I live in a village of about 7,000 people. I checked some demographic information when I was thinking of buying a place here. The population is mostly people of Scottish and German descent. I used to find it weird, after living in the city, how seldom I see brown or black people round the village, except those who’ve come up to the mountains as tourists. I’ve got used to it, though it does mean there’s no decent Indian, Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese or Lebanese food for about 100 kilometers in any direction.

Yoga and yoghurt in the mountains

Yoga and yoghurt in the mountains

A really high proportion of the people up here are single mothers. The single mothers are here because of the property prices: you can afford to live up here, with a bedroom or two for the kids, after a divorce or separation. And there’s a single mother’s mafia, a network who get each other bargains, and swap garden produce, clothes and that sort of thing, to keep living costs down.

Also, according to Neil Young so it must be true, welfare mothers make better lovers.(It’s a great song, by the way, and I recommend the version on Weld. If you ever wondered, “how much noise can Crazy Horse really make?”, this demonstrates that the answer is, “More than you could ever imagine, in your wildest dreams.”)

There’s a temptation to go all man-of-the-world when you hear bumper stickers like that: ah, yes, that welfare mother, the colours her face turns when you’re in her bed and the kids are in theirs, just a wall away, and she’s trying to suppress orgasmic screams. Her sexual abandonment and need, when you’re just got an hour left before the kids get back from school.

She has various kinds of wisdom, that come from having loved and had to leave a man, and another kind that comes with responsibility for children, that lead to a willingness to see the world and people as they are. That’s sexy too.

The man of the world says something like this, and he sighs with pleasurable reminiscence. He has a sip of whisky, breathes out and says, again, “Ahhh, yes.” I could do that. I’ve even got a library with a leather armchair.

But it’s bullshit, of course. Not because single mothers aren’t great lovers. But then, you could make up just as reasonable a story about nurses, or teachers, or librarians making better lovers. It’s one of those statements that sounds like knowledge but doesn’t really mean anything.

I’ve never known a woman bank middle-manager, or travel agent or public service policy writer, who wasn’t a brilliant lover. I guess I’m just not a man of the world. 

Anyway, I started this train of thought because I was going to write something about running a bdsm meet’n’greet group up in these mountains, and what that’s like. But I’ll come to that next time. 

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 36

Raylene bent neatly at the waist and placed her forehead on the fourth step, her hands on the second step, taking her weight. After a second she turned, resting on her left cheek so she could look back at me. “Is this how you want me? I mean, specifically how you want me? Sir?

She was beautiful, posed like that, but there was room for improvement.

“That’s good, but I want your head on the next step up. You’ll have to lean forward a bit more. Keep your legs apart, but straighten out just a bit. And keep your arse up. It’s called presenting. Oh yes. That’s a good girl.”

presented 1I watched Raylene make these adjustments, presenting herself enticingly for the razor strop, and other attentions she might invite and require. I hoped I had those condoms. It seemed uncool to check at this exact moment. “No, don’t turn your head. I want you face down, so you rest your weight on your forehead, not your cheek.”


This was difficult, but Raylene awkwardly did as she was told. The tension was coming back. It was welcome. “Now arch your back, get your bottom right up.” 

Raylene complied. Her “yes Sir” was a little breathless. It was not a comfortable position, and the only reason to be in that position was to present oneself to be whipped and fucked.

Back to work: and Freudian fingers on the Iphone

Holidays are over. I’ve got projects, including at least one where I have no idea how to do what I’ve contracted to. But they wanted me, so that’s that. 

I’ll learn how to do the job, and I’ll get a nice transfer of funds, with love, from them to me. (Cue mouth organ break.) 

Anyway, here’s what happened yesterday. A pretty girl I’d been flirting with, months ago, sent me this:

bag flirt















 (It’s just an internet image, which is why I’m prepared to reproduce it here.) Anyway, we’d called it off, but ended on friendly terms, so I thought that was an encouraging sign: she missed me and wanted to pick up where we left off. I felt very cheery. She’d expressed some interest in the leather, semi-flexible instruments, so I sent her this:

Have case, will travel.

“Have case, will travel.”










Anyway, she sent me another message, which went, approximately, “WTF? Nice to hear from you, but why you just text me? & why that?” 

So I realised she’d been texting some other guy, and she’d accidentally sent the picture to me. She’s the sort of girl who’d be horrified to realise she’d done that, so I decided not to embarrass her by explaining. (She doesn’t read this blog). I just apologised. Rush of blood to the head, or something, I said. So there you are.