So I’m not going to explain this right now or give lots of annoying chronology, but–surprise, surprise–I’m back at Robbie’s.  In retrospect, it seems to both of us that even trying to be apart was really stupid.  I’ve been here for two weeks and am planning to stay one more; this will be about the longest we’ve ever spent together.  Our fights have nearly evaporated.  We’ve come to agreements about how to resolve differences about distance, D/s, playing with other people, and kids.  And we are having a hell of a fun, kinky, loving time.  It’s all black-picket-fence domestic bliss here.  He cooks dinner and makes me eat with bared breasts; I black his boots and clean the cage he’s planning to put me.  We are in luv. 

There’s lots more to tell.  The seven or eight weeks we spent apart were good for both of us, in their own way.  We each had wild sexual adventures, time to think about what mattered to us, new realizations, and–did I mention?–wild sexual adventures.  I want to write about all of that, and about our current play. 

Right now, though, I have to get back to things like boot-blacking, so I’ll just give a taste of what’s happening here.  Below is the list Robbie made of all the pervy things we wanted to do during this visit.  The items that are crossed off are things we’ve already done–but as you can see, there is plenty more to do.  I can’t wait.

Things to Do – March . . . Visit

talk, resolve

love, understand, accept

rope                                        take down       

cage                                        rope

swing                                     outdoors

switch again?                    medical

cellars                                          etc. . . .

photo                                      needles again?

Beat Week                            hogtie

wax                                           burlesque

knife play                             fisting

breath control                   figging

rope                                          cell popping

clips and clamps

    etc. . . .

Illustration from concept boards for the TV show “The Ex List” by Chris Carboni, who also makes wonderful short films.

I had a fabulous party this weekend, which made me happy.  I’ve finally started to gather a group of friends–some kinky, some not, but all really brilliant and funny.  There were ten of us drinking wine and snacking on a huge, smelly, runny cheese until long past when the party was supposed to end.  And, in the universal sign of a party gone crazy, there were  broken glasses.  (I prefer going Greek and just busting them all, but my chaotic side had to be satisfied with two accidental breakages.)

So this morning I woke up and was traipsing around my house in a robe before plopping myself on the couch, where I had the following thought: “Oh weird, I just stepped on a dried cranberry.”  God’s honest truth, that’s the sentence that crossed my mind as I finally notice that a minute before, I’d stepped on a glass sliver which iwas now in the process of causing a very pretty, cranberry colored drop of blood to pool on the bottom of my big toe.  After a minute of admiring it, I plucked it out, cleaned up my toe, and pondered, not for the first time, that attempting to deny I’m a masochist is really a losing battle.

I recently saw some of Frederic Fontenoy‘s work somewhere . . . on another blog I read regularly, I just can’t remember which one.  I’ve known about his work for years.  The photos he takes are basically what I think the inside of Robbie’s fantasies must look like.  Although Robbie has a non-negligible appetite for the haute camp-trash-slut look–the porn queen with class–most of the time he goes for sheer, more traditional elegance: black and white; a crisp white blouse; the perfect waist cincher; stilettos with ankle straps; garters and vintage seamed stockings with cuban heels; masks, crinolines, opera gloves.  We own most of these things, and more.

What I didn’t realize until my last visit to see Robbie was 1) that the thing that Fontenoy is holding in his hand in the picture below is a vintage carpet beater and 2) that Robbie owns one.  He opened his toy closet during the last visit and there it was–something twisty, gorgeous, and unfamiliar.  When I asked, he explained that our friend, Marisa, had given it to him as a Christmas present last year.  He then had me bend over so that he could demonstrate its effects on me.

Wowsers!  The sensation was amazing.  I adore canes, and old carpet beaters are made from rattan, so their impact has a good stingy top-note.  At the same time (I’m speculating), there’s more skin-implement surface area contact when one of these woven beauties hits a bottom than when a cane does.  And that provides a really yummy, diffuse, thuddy feeling.  At least, that’s what it seemed like to me on the basis of receiving a few quick swats.  I would definitely like to get my hands on one of these again for more play time.

I found them for $20-45 at a few places online–including e-bay–though not at most kinky stores.  A few of the shops that carry them seem to hint ever-so-obliquely at their kinky capacity; for instance, Garrett Wade, a company that sells unique hand tools, intones in its product copy that, “This classic household tool has stood the test of time. It is also great fun.”  (For the carpet?)  Other sellers seem to focus mostly on the beauty of the thing; at Remodelista, a writer noted that she “saw this at DWR Tools for Living in New York yesterday and thought it made a great piece of wall art.”  (Hang it on a VERY convenient hook, people.)  The authentically perverted Maui Kink sells their own version, which is sort of a combination cane and paddle, but I’d try to get your hands on a vintage model first–theirs doesn’t have antique cred, and it also looks fierce as hell.  And who in their right mind would be into fierce pain?  I certainly wouldn’t know.

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Robbie and I did not get to spend Christmas together, which was, all in all, a royal bummer.  I have thought for a long time that it just would not be right to spend Christmas away from my family.  And this year–which was the best family Christmas in a long time–I felt as though there was no need for me to be with them at all.  I probably feel this way because I’ve moved back to my home town, and so get to see my parents far more often than I do Robbie, while for the past three Christmases, I’ve seen much more of him during the year than I have of those genetically closest to me.  In any case, whatever we do in future, we are spending this New Year’s together.  I’m at his place now, and he has been eager to get me up here so he can experiment on me.

Robbie has spent much of the last six months building all sorts of totally perverted devices, and investing in all kinds of contraptions and kits for edge play.  This is almost entirely my fault.  Sometime last summer I pointed out to him that we had gotten into a rut, sexually speaking.  With a flippancy and a tendency toward hyperbole that I think of as part of my sense of humor and Robbie thinks of as fucking annoying, I told him that our pattern had two steps: “You beat me and then I blow you.”

This wounded Robbie, as he actually is a creative and sensitive lover who wants me to enjoy myself while he hurts me–I think.  And as much as he likes the fact that I can, on occasion, orgasm from a beating or from providing oral sex, I think he got the message that those weren’t everyday occurrences, and a little more direct stimulation might be needed.

So, between last summer and now, he has made, acquired, or refitted:

  • materials for play piercings
  • a cell-popping kit
  • sisal rope
  • cotton rope that he hand-dyed black (take that, Twisted Monk)
  • a fuckzall (made from attaching a saw to this thing and then to a dildo)
  • a bouncy-ball that the fuckzall dildo attaches to, so I can bounce-fuck myself
  • a five-foot bamboo fuck-pole, to which he can attach (of course) a dildo for Hogtied-style action
  • a special punishment stool (part of a longterm fantasy of mine), with dildo attachments
  • a French maid outfit that I’m to wear to tonight’s New Year’s Eve pahtee
  • a sexy black duvet cover and sheets, just ‘coz; black boots; black leather pants (ohmyhot); tight black t-shirts; hot black boxers; undoubtedly more . . .
  • mysterious pumping contraptions (hinted at, but as yet unseen-by-me)
  • a CD-player for his bedroom, with scene music, to block out the noise of beating and moaning from the people who share his house
  • various clips, clamps, and other pieces of shiny metal he can attach to my pink bits–in one case, a pair of cleverly adapted clip-on earrings
  • a Hitachi wand, with Gonzo attachment.  I keep forgetting this on the list, because it both scares the shit out of me and intrigues me.

There are so many things that I’m certain I’ve left some off the list; I’ll have him check this twice before I hit publish.   And there are so many, now, that it’s hard to find time to play with them all.  The beating-and-blowjob pattern–to the extent it was there–was there for a reason; it was fast and didn’t take a lot of time, planning, prep, or cleanup.  We’ve always had the toys–finding the ways and will to use them is harder.  As he said last night, “You pretty much have to have a real relationship with someone just to find time for it all!”  He was only half-joking.

* * *

There’s one more thing on the list, but it’s not anything new, borrowed, or Gonzo-blue.  It’s something very, very old, something we’ve talked about for a long time, one of my very darkest fantasies.  He’s started to mention it in every email to me, and I have hopes it might happen sooner-rather-than later.  And tomorrow, I’ll tell you what it is. 

Photos by Katja Hentschel, via ponyXpress.

Well, not everything.  But when it comes to BDSM, I have to say the internet still rivals most other sources of information.

I was reading Ferns’s Domme Chronicles the other day when I noticed that she seemed to have an interesting new toy.  She was posting pics of recent acquisitions, including these:


“Are those cutting boards?” I asked.  And I asked her how she liked them.

“Yes, indeed!” she answered.  “I am a delicate flower (no, truly) and a decent spanking hurts me more than it hurts him, so I like it quite a bit. It is more solid than a purpose-made paddle, and has the corresponding heavier impact for minimal effort.

“And I like it quite a bit–it is lovely quality, looks beautiful and has a very satisfying slap-thud. I’d say from the sounds that he makes when I use it that it might hurt just a little bit . . . “

All of this sounded excellent to me.  I’m a fan of a satisfying slap-thud myself, and I made sure to draw the post to Robbie’s attention.  Robbie is increasingly in charge of toy-and-costume acquisition, presumably because he does it better than I do, and possibly because if he does it, he can execute quality control. (Not that he’s into control.)

So I wasn’t entirely surprised when, last weekend, I walked into the room I use as my dressing room when I’m at his house and found, waiting for me, an assortment of new toys.  They included:

– the new sharps kit (items from a medical supply store)

– a platinum wig (he says I’m going blonde for the gangbang he is certain I will one day agree to; apparently, he’s ready any time now)

– an unvarnished cutting board

He had gotten himself a cutting board too,  as I found out the next day when he called me to his bedroom and had me assume the spankee position without offering me any explanation.

I got three medium-force thwaps.  I was unsure whether they were punishment for something I’d done?  (I’ve been ranting about my punishment cravings lately.)  Or maybe they were foreplay?  (He did show me, after the thwaps, that he had a fairly significant hard-on.)  Or . . .??

“How was that?” he asked.

“Confusing,” I started.  “I felt like . . . ”

Robbie sighed.  I have a tendency to scrutinize my own emotions intensely, in a way that can very occasionally frustrate him.  “Let me clarify the question.  How was that physical sensation?”

Oh! It felt good.  What was it?”

“The cutting board.”

“I like that.  It’s really nice and thuddy.”

“Like a paddle, right?”

“Yeah, but a paddle has edges–I mean, that has edges too, but with a paddle you’re more likely to get the person with an edge, which stings.  And with that you have a lot more area.  Do you know what I mean?”  I swear, my brain goes out the window as soon as it senses any pain or any rope.

“Yes,” Robbie said drily.  “I know what you mean.”

So.  I’m here to testify that Ferns’s Bread Board Paddle is a great toy.  And also to show you mine . . . I hope you like it.



Lately, I’ve been wondering why it is that sadists very often say about their masochistic partners, “And then I decided to hurt him a little” or “I really wanted to hurt her then”.

I rarely notice masochists saying, “And then she decided to hurt me for a while,” or “I could tell he really wanted to hurt me.”

It might just be me, but I notice doms (sadists okay whatever yeah I know S&M and D/s are not the same thing can we move on please cool mkay) saying this hurt thing a lot.

And I rarely notice it in reverse.  I hear subs talking about the specific ways they like to be hurt–specific types of pain or specific implements.

Does anyone have any idea why this might be?  This is a genuine question.  I am pretty sure there’s a linguistic difference but I’m not sure why.

Maybe because in English it’s quite natural to say, “I feel pain” but not “I inflict pain”?

Maybe because “I hurt” in the passive sense has an emotional connotation that people tend to stay away from?  Or it just seems to suggest bad pain?

Could it be that the infliction of pain is really different for the top, who isn’t, of course, feeling it–it’s all just pain?  Whereas the bottom feels the nuances?

My sadistic streak is my weakest link . . . it’s hard for me to bring myself to hurt someone, even when I know the person is getting a great deal of pleasure out of it.  And so I  struggle to understand sadism; I can’t wrap my mind around it very well, which gets in the way of things between me and Robbie.  With everything else, I can see things fairly well through his eyes, but when it comes to hurting, I start to feel very lost.

And that’s a shame, because I not only like when he hurts me; I need him to hurt me.


Edit 1: I realize I have only noticed women dominants talking about hurting their boyfriends, not male dominants talking about hurting their girlfriends.  I have no idea why this is.  Maybe my sample is skewed.

Edit 2: In my further search for evidence I just found this post by Dev, telling about a time Jos asked her to hurt him.

Okay so let me rephrase the question: am I the only one who thinks this is the way people talk?  How do you talk about pain, if you want it?  How do you talk about hurting, if you want to do it?

Tell me everything!

Graphic pics at tears.of.eros.

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