Argh, it’s been way too long since I’ve written anything–it’s almost physically painful to try to be writing right now.

Everything is fine–ticking along.  My real life is just excellent–healthier (thank you, gym), more literate (thank you, Kindle), happier (thank you, Robbie), and wealthier (thanks to my employers) than it has been in a long time.  I should thank my mother while I’m at it, but then again, I’ve always planned to thank her in any and every awards speech.

So, the blog has been quiet because I’ve been focusing on other stuff lately–hobbies and work and friends and so on.  I’m planting a micro-garden in the back, and I’ve been cooking more, and I’ve even occasionally cleaned my apartment.  I’ve been reading up on the environment, and thinking of writing more about those topics.  In fact, I’m doing that annoying blogger thing of wondering if I should start a new blog, or several new blogs, or perhaps dozens of them, as places to write about my non-kink interests.

Fortunately, I don’t have to make the decision right this second, because I still have a few kinky interests.  Since Robbie has been visiting me more often where I live, I’ve been trying to beef up the toy collection here.  (His is already dramatic.)  I just received, after weeks of obsessive-compulsive debate about design, a custom-made flogger from MauiKink.  I haven’t used it yet, so I’m not really in position to give them all of the positive press they almost certainly deserve.  But I can show a little leg.

Here’s my new flogger, photo courtesy of those great MauiKink folks:

I’ve also got a matching bamboo cane with a handle in the same burgundy suede.  Together, the pair look really stunning.

Of course, after I got the pieces and admired them, I started to have buyer’s remorse (which is a good sign–I’ve had it about all of my favorite purchases.)  I told Robbie I wasn’t sure either implement was enough to really hurt someone.  He just laughed at me and said he was pretty sure he could make them sting.  I said that I was the one who was going to be wielding these–they’re partly to use for when I switch–and that I definitely was not strong enough to make them really ouchie.  He just laughed again.  I think he’ll tease the closet sadist in me out eventually, whether I want him to or not.

So I really thought I had something more to add to this post, but then I got distracted.  I’m telling you, this writing thing is hard when you haven’t done it in awhile.  I’m retiring with a glass of red wine, a Sandra Bullock movie, and some chocolate to revive myself after the strain of writing this.  Perhaps after a couple more months of that kind of indulgence, I’ll be ready to post again.

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.

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.


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.

It was nobody’s fault but mine.  I invited it.  Heck, I practically invented it.

Last night I got beat by the wire hanger.  And boy, oh boy, was it good.  It’s at moments like these when I am nearly forced to admit that I am a masochist.

It’s certainly masochistic to give your Sadist more ideas about how to hurt you.  I find it almost impossible to resist the urge to draw his attention to cruel things that kinky people do to one another.  I guess it’s a bizarre mixture of curiosity, transgression, and a malfunctioning instinct for self-protection that prompts me to introduce him to new and different tortures.

(He has his own reason for introducing them to me.)

A few months ago I read an article about a fellow, the Well-Spanked Man, who had recently experienced a figging combined with a wire-hanging thrashing

I emailed the blog piece and the accompanying video to Robbie, who is always interested in figging.  Soon after, Robbie bent a wire hanger into a threatening shape and put it on his bureau.  I exclaimed over it the first time I saw it, and he used it on my hand.  Fucking ow.

Soon after that, I got my first figging.  I would like to be able to write, “My figging,” to indicate that this little experiment will not happen again, but I don’t feel fully confident that Robbie is done with ginger.  Figging?  Hurts like just nothing under the universe.  Of course, the piece of ginger my boyfriend decided to shove up my ass was about three times the length and 1.5 times the girth of the piece that the Well-Spanked-Man’s wife and Mistress carved for him.  See below?  Three times bigger.


I suppose I should be grateful that R. was only able to insert it halfway up my bum before my screams deterred him.

In happier news, last night he decided to take the hanger to my ass.  I have no idea what prompted this.  I do know that after two fairly light strokes I was rolling as fast as I could away from him and covering my ass with my hands.  The hanger produced an absolutely nasty, vicious sting, and I hate sting.

After the sour sensation of the sting, though, came a tremendously hot, red fiery sensation that lasted longer than any flogging I’ve received.  It was wonderful.  I broke out in my first real welts, two luscious, round-tipped red lines.  And they stayed around for a couple of hours at least.  (My ass’s resistance to patterns is one of the greatest regrets of my current BDSM experience.)

After discussing (and praising) my welts, he promised to suspend me from the ceiling and beat me with the hanger until I was totally shaking and glowing radioactively, at least on my ass.

I’m hoping this promise was for dramatic effect in the moment.  A sort of wish, inspired, chromatically at least, by Valentine’s Day.

I’m kind of counting on it.  Please send silk hangers.  Thank you.


Pee fucking ess: there are links in this post which are not showing, and I’m not fucking around trying to fix them.  I’m going to go attempt to get beaten and laid again.  Happy Valentine’s Day!


I have been absent, and I am exhaustedly back.

I just moved, yesterday, from a place I had lived since 2001.  I kept track of when I moved into that apartment by recalling Sept. 11  It didn’t happen on moving day, but it happened not long after, and the happiness I lived in my cozy one-bedroom always seemed a strange juxtaposition to–or perhaps a wilful retreat from–the lack of sense in the world around me after we became a nation at war.

I’m not going to try to make much sense this morning.  I don’t have much time to, and I’m simply too tired.  I spent all weekend packing, carrying, and taping, and I ache all over.   Work is busier (though more fulfilling) than it has been in years, and I just moved from an apartment where I lived on my own for the better part of a decade to a enormous historic house in the suburbs filled with life.  I’ve moved in with friends (hi Greenwoman!  Yep, me too!) because these are hard times and because I have had enough of trying to be a tub on my own bottom.  (Besides, at this point I have come to enjoy the idea of sharing my bottom, too.)

I am now living amongst a rather improbable collection of adults, children, animals, and vehicles of transport–one car per adult, plus baby carriers, cat carriers, strollers, doll strollers, sleds, toy carts, toy trains, toy trucks, and several (miniature) Star Wars gunships.  Meanwhile, Robbie is buried in snow and financial paperwork, a cloud of white entirely tiring on its own.  We call each other at 1opm and murmur quietly, partly to keep from waking babies at my new abode, and partly because we are too tired to do much more than murmur.

My libido has attempted to make an appearance since New Year’s, but really, it barely even gets an A for effort.  I don’t blame it; there is far too much going on. We still haven’t entirely given up the dream of a home of our own, though; picture-perfect and ideal, but with a pervert-black picket fence instead of the white one.  That’s our kind of domestic felicity.


Black picket fence by Alice Mayer.

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