From Italian design shop Itunube, little cuffs for your wrist–kind of like wrist collars, but better.  I do seem obsessed with this type of thing.  Robbie says he will get me all of it, and more, when he wins the lottery.  So basically any day now.

(Actually, neither of us is very big on conspicuous consumption–we just like to think we’d do it well if we ever needed to.)

Bracelaces, $25 through my beloved Lost at E Minor; more amazing jewelry and design items at the Itunube site.

I stumbled across this video the other day in the New York Times.  I wish I could embed it.  I really liked watching it.  It’s about two working-class brothers who made their fortunes by launching a leather business in Pakistan.  It took them time to succeed because in a place with an extensive garmet industry, they had to identify a niche market.

You see where this is going yet?

They make bondage gear.  The first thing they made was a straightjacket.

What really moved me about the story was not the rags-to-riches tale of the two brothers, who really do seem to have been through the school of hard knocks, but the attitude of the journalist.  There was no sneering or giggling-behind-his hand at his interview subjects.  In the wake of the publicity bizarre articles like the one SF Weekly recently published about, kinky people can become paranoid that everyone hates them and that the media is out to get them.

It’s nice to remember that it ain’t necessarily so.  It’s good to see that some folks, like the lovely, 25-year old woman who has designed and sold garments for the company for three years, can look at a dog collar and recognize both their own desires and the desires of others as part of the great pattern of human nature.


[Picture?  Oh go-on. I’ll put a picture up later.  I’m at work–you do some work too.]

Edit:  Okay, pup, your patience is an inspiration.  Here you go.

Photograph by Marcello Aquilio

Robbie and I have been together for over two and a half years now; I have been wearing his collar for almost two years. As I type this, I feel, on one level, that I have no idea how long we will be together; I frequently feel that. At the same time, the longer I wear his collar, the more a part of me it feels, and the more difficulty I have imagining my life without it and without him.

I thought it might be appropriate to spend some time reflecting on what being collared to him actually means to me. I often read other bloggers writing about what it means to them to be owned, to be a slave, to belong to someone, and I don’t feel that that applies to me. I don’t think of myself that way; I balk at many of those terms.

At the same time, every morning, when I look at myself in the mirror, my eye goes immediately to my collar. When I catch sight of myself in a window walking down the street, I see my long hair–the hair that Robbie had me grow long, for him–trailing behind me, and I think of him. When I put on makeup, when I dress myself, when I am around others, when I am by myself, I feel what Doms and subs call ownership. Just because I dislike the word doesn’t mean I don’t feel the feeling.

And so I’d like to spend some time “reviewing and renewing”, as sub lyn calls it. I want to start with Robbie’s words to me, almost two years ago, when he gave me my first collar. He made it himself, a twined winding gold wire pendant, grasping a rhinestone, hung from a leather choker. I lost it less than a month after he gave it to me–which I deeply regret–but I still have the poem that he wrote and enclosed with his gift:


Some hearts don’t have rhinestones

strong and pure themselves

elegance and aching places to fill.

Some hearts a little bent—

‘Original,’ on dit?—like real leather

perfect imperfect pores, driftwood grained

gnarled Neptune’s runnels, gods’ fingermarks

scratched soft down the sand flats

where the wind and seabirds grow.

Hearts cannot, are not to be

tied and trained, teased, bound or chained

or sent splashing against the wall for release

surging, shuddering, spent—for more.

hearts are not but flesh is; some flesh

and some hearts demand it.

November 21, 2006

We are going to parties this weekend. Not play parties–cocktail and formal parties. This is exciting. We have never done this. We rarely go out when we are together, and when we do, it’s with a small group of (often kinky) friends. So it’s exciting to venture out into Society (*snorfle snarfle*) with Robbie.

We both like social niceties, especially when we can fuck with them. Robbie in particular likes the idea of mixing elegant manners and perversion–very Story of O, him. For my part, I am an inveterate exhibitionist and can say or do some rather irreverent things, especially when I am mixed with alcohol. I expect it will be some weekend.

One of the best things about the weekend from my point of view is that we will have to dress up. Robbie lives in the country and spends most of his time in (sexy) jeans–and although he likes me in skirts, I persist while down on the farm in wearing really unattractive knit cotton pajama-like things from the Gap, which I can work in.

But today I bought the most gorgeous skirt ever. It’s so long I look 20 feet tall, and it’s so stunning I barely need to wear anything with it.

As it happens, I will be wearing some things with it: heels, underthings, a white t-shirt, and either a necklace or my collar, which I left at Robbie’s house when I left there, the last time, after the fight-to-end-all-fights, which was followed by reconciliation. We are nothing if not predictable.

And he will be wearing a suit. I have never seen him in a suit. When he walked into the place we were staying for our dirty weekend wearing a dress shirt (kind of), I almost fell over, I was so amazed at how he looked. So I am very much looking forward to seeing him in a suit.

And to seeing him again.

Images by Rebecca Beard and erocrush, via a flower a day.

I have always not-so-secretly wanted to do a meme. In general I think they’re rather silly, and I don’t like the idea of being tagged. But as I’ve said, I really like quizzes.

So when I saw this one on m‘s site, along with a general invitation to everyone to participate . . . that seemed good.  (Go ahead, please do give it a whirl if you like–Greenwoman has as well.)

Here’s to fours.

Four Girls

four unusual places you have had sex:

1. on the porch, tied to the closet, pinned against the banister
2. in the woods in England, not far from some fields of rape
3. in a church converted into an apartment building
4. in a borrowed apartment in Paris that featured a pet rat

four erotic books you’ve read:

1. Nicholson Baker: Vox and The Fermata
2. Rose Tremain: The Way I Found Her and Music and Silence
3. Jane Alison: The Love-Artist and The Marriage of the Sea
4. (The one I told my lover about that convinced him I wanted to be a sex slave.)

four of your favorite erotic zones:

1. lips
2. neck
3. shoulders
4. feet

four sexy experiences you want to have: (must cheat; so many more than four)

1. pick up my lover in a bar, as if we didn’t know each other
2. get locked in the cage and/or the cellar
3. have group sex we are both way happy with, especially if it’s at Dark Odyssey
4. get to the stage where my lover and I need with a deep and visceral certitude several TwistedMonk hemp rope kits and possibly some steel suspension rings

four favorites:
1. position…from behind
2. sex toy…wrist and ankle cuffs
3. porn…The Fashionistas
4. sexy music…the kind of music on the Stealing Beauty soundtrack

four sexy things you like to wear:
1. my collar(s)
2. garter belt, stockings, no panties
3. silk
4. whatever he wants me to

Viva Ultra Boys

Impishly odd foursome art by vivaUltra, via Sex in Art.

I got a new MP3 player yesterday. This particular MP3 player comes in all sorts of luscious colors–red, lime green, pink, royal blue–nice, clear colors, not tacky.

I opened the box, expecting a fire-engine-red gadget, and saw a shiny, jet-black model.

WTF? By now there are enough black electronics at the bottom of my purse to make fishing the right thing out a major challenge. And, you know, it’s just not . . . fun.

But then I remembered. EVERYTHING IS BLACK. He has decreed that all our sex toys and all our equipment is to be black if at all possible.

New Toy

(From JT’s Stockroom, of course.)

We have black cuffs. Black dongs–many. (It helps that at EdenFantasy, you can search for dildos by color.) Black butt plugs, black gags, and of course, black crops and hitty-things. If it isn’t black already, he literally paints it black. Sometimes I worry about what’s in the paint.

I have a black waist-cincher and black gloves, and two pairs of black boots (as does he–or perhaps he has three). We wear black when we go out; truth be told we look like New Yorkers rather than kinksters, but it works.

So I suppose I instinctively chose black when I ordered my newest toy. Perhaps I should buy a toy for him, too?

There is one toy he wants in fire-engine red instead of black, I know.

Red Posture Collar

Red medical-style patent leather corset lace-up posture collar from restrictionwear.  Mmm . . .

In an effort to throw off the winter blahs, I’ve been window shopping (the window’s the computer screen).

I particularly get off on visiting regular, yuppie, upscale stores and thinking about the pervertibility of their wares. Okay, yes, I’m dull–I believe I already admitted that.

But just look . . .

whatgoesaroundcomesaroundA DillonRogers cuff that says something naughty (I think “what goes around comes around” is pretty good, actually) would be cool.

And then next, say, a Coach keychain for the locks to some high-price leg shackles–maybe the ones from AtlantaBondage.

And just plain sexy stuff: new vibrators, a corset (I have just the one picked out), some staples (boyshorts, garters, stockings, balconette bras) . . . skirts so he can reach up them . . .

When we win the lottery. Yep.

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