Too Quiet, Too Long

Long Creek Falls
Peace and beauty in the North Georgia Mountains

It’s high summer, so once again i’m spending some quality time with my Kitten in the USA.

It has brought me to the realisation that I’ve neglected this blog really badly, since the estimable Michael Knight set it up for me.  Why, because a pesky troll was buzzing around like a persistent fly.  Now, truly swatted.

I’ve also had a major life event: my dear mum died on June 12, afed 98.  Life will now take a different direction, and I intend to edit several hours of video I’d recorded with her.  It will be a labour of love and a fitting tribute to her almost century here on Earth.

So life is being reset, rebooted, to borrow the language of IT geeks.

I intend to post here at least weekly, from now on, with my musings on the world of kinky-fuckery, the beauty of the female form, the odd video or book review.  You get the idea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What We Learnt from Eroticon

Eroticon logo

For those who don’t know, Eroticon is the annual gathering of sex/BDSM/smut bloggers in London. It must be a harbinger of spring, because I can definitely feel the sap rising. Here, in no particular order, are my reflections on a fabulous Weekend.

1. The BDSM community is famously friendly to new faces: join your local beekeeping society or allotment association, and it may take you a while to break in to the cliques that have formed over many years. You may even be regarded with hostility for the first few decades of your membership! I’ve been to a number of BDSM play parties, fetish markets and so on, so I’m already used to the idea that BDSM folk are welcoming, inclusive and excepting of difference. It sort of goes with the territory, if you don’t accept difference you’ve definitely signed up for the wrong event. But even with that caveat, Eroticon was especially friendly, incredibly warm and über welcoming. Yes, this was our first year and it certainly won’t be the last.

2. The amazing diversity that exists within our community was there for everyone to see. Hairstyles, outfits, gender-neutral toilet facilities including an accessible one, (don’t forget to bring your RADAR key).

3. Why do we all come together under one umbrella – largely because sections of society apply adjectives like ‘sick‘, ‘perverted‘ and ‘freaky‘ to our chosen lifestyle. And these are not the urban dictionary definitions: no, this is tabloid journalism at its most destructive and most bigoted. Sure, there is safety in numbers, but there is also reassurance – even though your kink may not be my kink – in being among people who you know are not going to judge. One of my friends, the redoubtable Kayla Lords, tweeted that it was lovely to be able to open your phone and not have to worry who is looking over your shoulder!

4. BDSM bloggers make brilliant drinking chums: there was certainly ample time and space (thanks to the Camden Holiday Inn), for people to unwind, get to know each other and share tips tricks and ideas. We had been warned though – it was not a play party and there was CCTV everywhere. We like the hotel so we had to be sensible.

5. Michael and Molly, the powerhouse behind Eroticon, had managed to pull in some fabulous sponsors, and those sponsors had fabulous merch they wanted us all to try and buy. A huge thank you to them all, and as I write, our ElectraStim is charging – later on could get very interesting!

6. Eroticon doesn’t seem to come with ‘conference fatigue’: as a veteran attendee and some time organiser of numerous conferences and events, by the final hours of the final day, I’m normally looking forward to getting home and returning to some sort of normality. With Eroticon, the opposite was the case: I could have done several more days. Always leave them wanting more – that way they’ll be back next year…

7. Don’t be an idiot – like me – and assume that just because you live in the London area, you don’t need to stay in the hotel. You do! Travelling backwards and forwards added needless hours to each day – hours that could’ve been spent chatting, networking, playing, blogging.

8. Eroticon is hungry and thirsty work: fortunately, the wonderful Arlington Conference Centre kept us stocked up with tea, coffee, biscuits and water as well as sandwiches and fruit for lunch. What’s more, Camden is a bit of a foodie paradise: we discovered the wonderful Jamón Jamón which does scrummy tapas – great for sharing.

9. For someone with prosopagnosia, as well as severely impaired vision, meeting so many new people all at once can be a bit daunting: prosopagnosia is face blindness, which means that even familiar people will be unfamiliar until you’ve set them in context or can remember their voice. Eroticon has the added complication that people are known by a name (it may not be their real name) a Twitter handle and perhaps a separate blogger name. So, by the time you’ve got your head around those three identities, met six more people and had a gin and tonic, you’ve probably forgotten who the lovely person with a cute kitten years was. Actually, It was Amy, @CoffeeAndKink. See? At least I remembered one person who was new to me! It probably was those kitten ears 🐱.

10. Be careful who you snap with your smartphone: given the aforementioned bigotry and underlying hostility towards folk in the BDSM world, some people are very understandably protective of their identity. No problem, those who didn’t mind being photographed wore a black lanyard and those who absolutely didn’t want to appear on social media in person wore a red one. It’s very important – depending on your profession. – that your true identity is concealed. Some people have even been ‘outed‘ by trolls with nothing better to do with their time. If for example you’re a primary school teacher who also enjoys being put into bondage and spanked in your spare time, it’s not something that overprotective parents should get to know about because they would draw all of the wrong conclusions. And for anybody reading who isn’t already familiar, ‘safe, sane and consensual’ are our bywords: BDSM has absolutely nothing to do with paedophilia.

And finally, a huge shout out to the sponsors and organisers who made Eroticon such a fabulous place to be: step forward

Molly Moore

Michael Knight

Girl on the Net

Cara Thereon

Candysnatch

Speakers

Kayla Lords

Jaime Mortimer

Bianca from Helen’s Toy Box

Zebra Rose

Franki Cookney

Jetset Jasmine & King Noire

Sponsors

Doxy

Sheets of San Francisco

Hot Octopuss

ElectraStim

Fetish.com

Ruby Glow

Temptation Holidays

If I’ve forgotten you, or you think I should include your link, and just put it in the comments below and I would be more than happy to do so.

At Your Service

Sexy maid

What is it about the French maid‘s uniform that has so many of us Tops or Doms reaching for our crops or paddles?

Is it the bell-shaped, prematurely attenuated skirt that skims the thighs and usually the stocking tops? Oh yes, definitely stockings, there will be extra punishment if the wearer has decided to put on pantyhose or tights.

Is it the fact that the underskirt or petticoat forces the skirt to reveal the upper thighs and lower slopes of the bottom cheeks of the wearer? Or is it indeed that postage stamp-sized little apron that is usually positioned so that it covers the wearer’s pudenda?

Is it the possibility of upskirt voyeurism when the maid is on a stepladder, dusting books from the higher shelves?

Is it the generously cleavage-exposing décolletage of the bodice?

If there is a headpiece, does this add to the caricature of the domestic servant of yore presented by this ensemble?

Perhaps it is that there is an immediate assumption of a master or mistress/servant relationship? This is something that implicitly suggests a power exchange, the possibility of needing to correct inappropriate behaviour, which can be attended to simply by having one‘s charge bend forward over a banister, the arm of the sofa or across the knee.

My kitten and I were fortunate enough to be staying on a charming little hotel in the Canary Islands whose waitresses all wore a slightly more conservative version of this outfit. Every time we were served in the dining room or on the terrace, my pulse would race; I would ask the feline one if she could borrow one of these uniforms for a play session in our tastefully appointed suite. No, she couldn’t, she protested: and so my mind turned to having both her and one of the ‘real’ maids bend over the antique dining table in our suite so that I could discipline them both.

There are some other details of the attire that need to be carefully noted: the maid must have her hair up at all times – this not only renders her more attractive, by exposing the nape of her neck, it is a practical, hygiene consideration. She must wear a pair of killer heels so that she totters from one table to another or up and down the stairs.

Stockings – either the traditional variety or hold-ups – are another essential item of apparel. Sheer black will do very nicely but fishnets complement the outfit best.

Your maid must adopt a subservient, eyes downcast demeanour at all times. No request, however unreasonable, should be refused and close attention must be paid to her department. She is wearing that get-up for a reason – the sooner her master finds fault, the sooner the fun can begin.

Unless previously negotiated, knickers are absolutely essential: they must be impractical, lacy, and ridiculously small. If they are tight enough, they will enhance very nicely the pudenda (shaved obviously) of your employee.

Since you have your very own maid on hand, I recommend starting a scene with her serving some sort of light snack and a drink. She will thus be obliged to totter around on her heels while carrying a tray.

How long her knickers stay on is a matter for you and your maid: you can at least begin her punishment with knickers in place and then remove them, or lower them first, as part of the humiliation involved in corporal punishment.

I can’t conceive of a session like this that doesn’t result in some vigorous, sexual activity: now minus her knickers, your maid is readily available; simply by bending her forward you have access to her nether regions. On her knees, she presents a delightful spectacle, ponytail bobbing, as she ministers to your desire for fellatio.

Have her wear her outfit often – And punish her frequently for any misdemeanours, real or imagined.

Now where’s my hairbrush…?

I survived kinky camp -“Little time” and “I kissed a girl and I liked it”

I survived kinky camp -“Little time” and “I kissed a girl and I liked it”

I survived kinky camp -“Little time” and “I kissed a girl and I liked it”
— Read on missusmistress.wordpress.com/2018/08/14/i-survived-kinky-camp-little-time-and-i-kissed-a-girl-and-i-liked-it/

I love the innocence and honesty of this post – one of a series of revealing posts about ‘Kink Camp’.

My Girl Lollipop

Lolly Paddle

Readers of my and my Kitten’s blog have probably worked out that we both consider Kayla Lords and John Brownstone to be good, kink friends.

It was therefore with much delight that we decided to patronise the Kinky Fuckery Shop which recently opened online.

Unfortunately, our order arrived while we were on a break elsewhere, and for various reasons we haven’t had much playtime since.

Oak Paddle
The grip on this beauty is excellent

As I am flying home to the UK today, Kitten reminded me that we hadn’t yet tried out our new toys – a Lolly Paddle and a Red Oak Paddle.

In the middle of packing, suitcases strewn around the floor, a hasty maintenance/good girl spanking was delivered using both implements.

Both felt great in the hand and delivered a resounding, stinging experience according to Kitten. What I especially like about the Lolly Paddle is the fact that it leaves cute little rings on her gorgeous, little girl butt.

So thanks John and Kayla, and get shopping, everyone else who is reading this blog. They will definitely be on my Kitten’s packing list when she visits the UK next month.

Does anybody else have particularly, favourite toys that must be packed for every trip? Leave me a comment to let me know.

BDSM & PMS

Today my Kitten was out of sorts: shivery, snappy, easily upset. I had had to pull her up a couple of times for practically throwing her extremely expensive smart phone down on the table.

Did she feel like playing?

She looked up at me from under her lashes and said shyly:

“To be honest, a spanking would probably do me good.”

Well say no more! Hang on though, doesn’t this call for more than usually sensitive handling? You bet.

Many female submissives process pain differently when they have PMS: often a moderate to severe spanking that they normally take in their stride will push them beyond their limits.

I told Kitten to dress in a white tutu with a minuscule white thong and white ‘fence net’ hold ups. She even put her hair up in a ballerina’s bun, rather than the usual ponytail or braids.

I made her pick out implements that she wanted to be spanked with: two leather and two wooden paddles.

I had her bend over the the end of the bed on tiptoes. As soon as I started her warm-up with the smaller leather paddle, I could tell that her pain thresholds had shifted. It meant that the other three implements – all of which were capable of inflicting severe chastisement – would have to be handled with care.

We agreed on twenty strokes with each implement, but I slackened the pace and let up considerably with the other three implements. On a normal day, she will probably have wondered what on earth was wrong. Today, she finished the spanking and wanted lots of hugs, kisses and reassurance – all of which she got in spades.

Our playtime afterwards was also markedly different: she tasted delicately citric – a sure sign of hormonal change. And her body seemed to hang on to orgasms and needed lots of coaxing to let them go.

Afterwards, she was happy and relaxed; happy that we had played and happy that her spanking had made her feel a little less out of sorts.

N.B. Please understand, dear reader that I am not setting myself up as an authority on women and PMS. I am merely relating what worked for us on a particular day and in the circumstances that I describe.

Nothing Short of Scandalous

So what do two people get up to in a secret mountain hideaway, when they are not actively involved in kinky fuckery?

I decided it was time that my Babygirl was introduced to what I consider to be the finest piece of prose the English language has to offer: I consider myself reasonably well read; this is not an accolade that I bestow lightly.

Perhaps it is partly thanks to my family links to Wales, that I find Dylan Thomas‘s Under Milkwood to be the head and shoulders winner in this category, which has some extremely stiff competition including the likes of Charles Dickens, Graham Greene, Margaret Atwood, Laurie Lee, Gore Vidal and Annie Proulx.

I have always found Thomas’s fine wordcraft, impish sense of humour and sexually charged wit to be exactly to my taste.

Under Milkwood was written as a radio play – a ‘play for voices’ as Thomas would have it – radio being the dominant medium back in 1953. The work has been likened to lifting the lid on a dolls house: it describes a day in the life of a small, Welsh fishing town and the goings on of its many eccentric characters.

And such goings on there are! Willy Nilly Postman and his wife, when not steaming open the town’s mail in order to spread gossip, are privately engaged in a spot of CP:

[He] Walks fourteen miles to deliver the post as he does every day of the night, and ratatats hard and sharp on Mrs Willy Nilly

‘Don’t spank me please, teacher,’ whimpers his wife at his side.

But every day of her married life she has been late for school.

Dai Bread the baker is in what we would now call a polyamorous relationship with Mrs Dai Bread One and Mrs Dai Bread Two, all of whom occupy the same bed.

The local strumpet, Polly Garter, sings to herself, as she scrubs the floor ready for the Mothers’ Union dance that evening (a gathering at which she would never be welcome) of her previous loves, Tom, Dick, and Harry. We learn that Tom was “strong as a bear and two yards long”, Dick was “big as a barrel and three feet thick”, and Harry was “six feet tall and sweet as a cherry”. I confess that it wasn’t until the second or third time of listening that I realised it was Tom, Dick and Harry’s vital appendages that she was eulogising.

Mrs Organ Morgan bewails her husband’s passion for his organ, but which organ?

It’s organ organ all the time with you…

Under Milkwood is as replete with requieted as unrequited love: the local haberdasher and the local sweet shop owner, whose businesses are at opposite ends of the town, write to each other of their undying love but nonetheless are never to be united.

The butcher’s daughter, Gossamer Beynon, is a vision of feminine ripeness:

The sun hums down through the cotton flowers of her dress, into the bell of her heart and buzzes in the honey there and couches and kisses, lazy loving and boozed in her red berried breast.

In spite of her overt respectability, she secretly yearns for Sinbad Sailors, her imagined, hircine lover:

She feels his goatbeard tickle her in the middle of the world like a tuft of wiry fire, and she turns, in a terror of delight, away from his whips and whiskery conflagration.

Sinbad laments Gossamer’s education and her superior standing in the microcosm of society reflected in the town. Social snobbery dictates that they will never consummate their passion.

And blind, old Captain Cat reminisces of his time at sea, the men he has lost and the women with whom he has caroused:

Rosie Probert, 33 Duck Lane. Come on up boys, I’m dead.

Even when unmasked as a serial teller of tall tales, the captain beseeches his long dead (and probably imagined) lover to,

Lie down, lie easy. Let me shipwreck in your thighs.

Life in Llareggub (write it backwards and you will see the author’s little joke) is not all romping and ploughing in the hay. The schoolmaster, Mr Pugh, dreams of doing in Mrs Pugh, locked as they are in poisonous matrimony:

Sly and silent, he foxes into his chemist’s den, and there, in a hiss and prussic circle of cauldrons and phials brimful with pox and the Black Death, cooks up a fricassée of deadly nightshade, nicotine, hot frog, cyanide and bat spit for his needling stalactite hag and bednag of a poker-backed nut-cracker wife.

Thomas died exceptionally young, on a trip to the United States. It would have been amazing had he lived to old age and allowed his style to develop even further. A lover of women he certainly was; unfortunately, also lover of whiskey, which helped him into an early grave at the age of only thirty-nine.

The point is, long before those of us living what we euphemistically call ‘alternative lifestyles’, Thomas was suggesting that such activities were commonplace, desirable and only to be condemned by the village gossips or bigoted preachers in the chapel, whose dominion in Wales stretched far and wide back then.

Not only is it a wonderful piece of writing, it is bold and adventurous and lit the path for those of us who rejoice in the pleasures of the flesh, whip and cane, to take up the baton in order to normalise our lifestyle for future generations.

The BBC has released a dramatised audio version of Under Milkwood in which the voice of Sir Richard Burton has been digitally remastered to appear alongside contemporary actors. If you do nothing else this month, give it a listen. Kinksters, you will not be disappointed!