unexpected bruising, and a long-awaited holiday

I had a new experience last week. You probably all know that I realised some time ago that professional one-to-one spanking sessions aren't for me. It's for the same reason that I don't let amateur photographers spank me themselves: I don't like being hired by the person who's topping me. There are loads of reasons for this, but at heart I think it's just an instinctive thing. I'll respect the decision of anyone else who's happy to do it - it's an amazing service to provide. But I'm not the right woman for the job.

Well, for a while now my friend Zoe Montana, who is a very popular spankee in the world of private sessions as well as the world of film, has been talking to me about the possibility of teaming up to do a joint session where I submit to her alongside a submissive client. Since she first mentioned the idea a couple of years ago, I've been willing to give it a go: it doesn't cross my ideosyncratic personal boundary. I trust Zoe as a friend and as a very talented switch, and I know I'll be safe in her hands. She's a wonderful, warm-hearted person and I also trust her to put together a fantastic roleplay and create a lot of energy, even if I'm playing alongside someone I've never met before. And I'd get the buzz of performing in front of someone new (in the sense that partly they'd be there to watch me get it) at the same time as exploring the tempting intimacy of helping give someone an amazing, personal play experience. That part of things has always appealed to me, whatever my boundaries.

It was a good session. Ms Montana put together a brilliant scenario, and I'm sure she wouldn't mind my reposting this snippet of her original invitation:

"I already have proof of Pandora Blake's involvement, now I want her accomplice to do the right thing and step forward with your confession. Pandora will be meeting me at my office in central London to be disciplined for the part she played in the recent shocking events that have taken place in this school. We know that there was also a male involved in the incident and we strongly recommend that you own up and also meet with me in my London office to receive your punishment alongside Miss Blake. It seems only fair for the two of you to be punished together, as it was together that you have caused so much chaos and trouble in the school."

It was fun exchanging emails in character before the event, and I enjoyed the roleplay. I am very blessed in having, not one, but two kinky partners in the same town as me, with whom I am free to explore my fantasies. I have nothing but empathy for those whose lives do not permit the same freedoms. It was a wonderful feeling being able to share the intensity of a play experience with someone who was not able to indulge as often as I am, and I was a bit humbled by the realisation of how lucky I am, to be living in this generation and to have had the resources and opportunities I've had.

The only downside to the session was the sudden, dramatic revelation of quite how little I've played since May, due to my levels of exhaustion this summer. I knew I'd had a fallow period, but: some hand spanking, a series of warm-ups with leather implements, and a couple of dozen medium strokes of the cane? I was so warmed up I was buzzing all the way through; despite being out of practice, Zoe's expertise, the delightful chemistry we share, and the voyeuristic thrill of playing with someone new made it very easy to take a decent amount of punishment. So I really didn't expect this:



It's only just healing up a week later. I'm used to being able to judge my own levels a bit better than that. Been a while since I marked that much, that easily.

--

Tomorrow, Tom and I are taking a much-needed, low-key holiday in the country for a few days. We need it desperately. Before I go, I have a couple of work emails to reply to: including one from Zoe, asking when I'd be free to do another, similar session after I get back. She's only in the country until Christmas, so I'm keen to take advantage of the opportunity to work with her again before she disappears. (I'm also hoping to shoot with her for my still-embryonic site while she's here.)

However, I also know that Tom and I are going to want to take the opportunity to play, after we've caught up on our sleep, and given how little time or energy both of us have had the last couple of months, I don't want us to have to limit ourselves. So I call him to explain the situation, and ask what he suggests.

"Well," he says, considering. "I don't think we're likely to play heavily, but I'm hoping to play with you a lot. Perhaps every day. So I imagine, in the circumstances, there's likely to be some residual bruising when you get back."

"A week?" I offer.

"Maybe two, to be safe."

A delightful shiver runs down my spine. I'm sorry that Zoe and her interested gentlemen will have to be patient. But the anticipation of some long-awaited time for leisurely intimacy with Tom is a wonderful feeling.

I'll be back next week, hopefully with some hot stories to tell (and perhaps with some welts and bruises to show off). If not, at least I'll be better-rested than I've been in a while. See you on the other side :)

the deal with stockings

I go through stockings at a ridiculous rate. I don't know if it's the shoes I wear, the way I walk or something else, but no matter how much I trim my toenails and keep my feet soft and moisturised, I can't wear a pair of stockings without them becoming laddered by the time I take them off. D. used to enjoy buying me seamed, fully-fashioned stockings, but after years of none of them lasting the night unscathed, both of us have kind of giving up on wearing them for fun. We still love them, but it's an expensive habit to maintain.

These days, unless I have an excuse like a film shoot or a black tie ball, I tend to buy cheap and cheerful stockings from pharmacies and newsagents. In my experience, they last longer than the posh ones, even if they don't look as good. (Right now, I'm wearing a pair of nude stockings I bought for a session with Zoe Montana last week and never wore. They don't really go with the black suspender belt. I need new suspender belts. Now those are worthwhile investments: they tend to last.)

For months after I moved into my current flat, however, I couldn't find anywhere local to buy stockings in a hurry. I need stockings in a hurry more times than not: when I'm hearing out for a date with one of my Doms, or for a shoot, and have forgotten to stock up in advance (i.e. every time). There's a big supermarket down the road with a clothing section, but the few times I tried it I could only find tights and knee-highs.

The next time D. asked me to wear stockings for him, I complained that I didn't have any unladdered ones, and that there wasn't anywhere en route to his where I could pick some up. "What about the supermarket?" he asked. I explained the inferior nature of their lingerie department. "Rubbish," he said. "They definitely sell stockings. I've seen them."

"They don't. I've checked."

"They certainly do." We glared at each other, only half-serious, but each convinced we were right. Eventually D. broke the impasse. "Look. Next time we're there together, we will check, okay? And I'll make you a deal. If I'm right and you're wrong, then we buy some stockings and you get spanked in them."

I considered. "What if I'm right?"

"Then we don't buy stockings, you get to feel smug, and you get spanked anyway. Deal?"

Well, you can't say fairer than that: "Deal."

The egalitarian nature of our bargain makes the end of this story a little obvious, but a single element of mystery remains. Did I get spanked while wearing stockings, or with legs bared?

Take a look for yourself:



Yup. He was right. So much for all those frustrated stocking-less evenings: they were available on my doorstep, all along.

The only consolation to my wounded pride is that these supermarket stockings were of a decidedly inferior quality, snagged before they were even out of the packet. Fortunately, the quality of the spanking more than made up for it.

belonging to Her

I have lists and lists of posts to write, but I've been answering some long-neglected emails tonight, so I'm all out of words for now. Instead, have some of the beautiful lesbian D/s photos Atlanta Bondage has posted recently:


from Fetish by Anna (via)


used with kind (if belated - my apologies) permission of Tom Rohwer


Little Robin and Chloe by D. Brian Nelson (via AB and (not only) hotel room nudes)


from The Naughty Sketchbook by Greg Louden of Desolate Angels (via)

Mmmm, gorgeous women enjoying power exchange. Who needs words when you have images this pretty?

my superpower

The other week D. and I were at a business networking event for creative types. It was all a bit too loud and hip for us, but we got free cake, so that was okay.

On the tables were scattered stickers encouraging people to fill in a snippet of information about themselves, as interesting, entertaining or wildly fictional as possible. Some people had filled them out and then changed their minds, leaving their putative identities scattered for someone else to claim.

This one caught both our eyes:



Did I grab the nearest marker pen, complete the poor half-finished "n" and adorn myself with this high-powered professional label? I'll leave you to decide. But if I did, it was only because D. was egging me on.

capsaicin

This year the chilli plants in my garden seem to be thriving. I have more hot peppers than I know what to do with. I use them in my cooking whenever I can (I love spicy food) but even then, my plants were getting bowed down with unpicked chillies, and I was worried that they'd shrivel up and lose their freshness. So I decided to have a go at making chilli oil.

Life has been a bit of a rollercoaster lately, and between one thing and another I've not had much free time at home. At the weekend, I ended up with a window of free time waiting for my friend to pick me up in the car. After watering my plants I picked the ripest tomatoes, and then decided I had time to harvest my jalapeno peppers and turn them into chilli oil.

The biggest job was chopping and deseeding them. I kept some seeds to add heat to the oil, but removed the pith at the centre of each pepper and separated about half the seeds for storing and planting next year. I'd sterilised my jars and was just getting ready to heat the oil when my friend phoned to tell me he'd be there in a sec. "Do you want to come in for a cup of tea while I finish what I'm doing?" I asked. No, sorry - he had to dash.

So I hastily threw the overnight things I needed in my bag, put the chopped chillies and seeds in separate sandwich bags in the fridge, sealed the sterilised jars and ran out of the door. I'd just have to finish making the oil when I got home the next day. I was in such a hurry that I left my computer switched on.

It wasn't until I was in the car that I discovered my folly: I had forgotten to wash my hands. As we crawled through London traffic I realised my fingertips were covered in capsaicin. Ten minutes into a half-hour drive my hands were starting to feel extremely interesting. I tried wiping them on my jeans, but that didn't help. Then I tried licking my fingertips before wiping them, but that just made my lips and tongue start burning. I amused myself for a little while giving myself capsaicin lipstick, but transferring the chemical to my mouth didn't lessen the pain in my hands - it just spread it around more. My friend laughed at me as I alternately sucked and blew on my fingers, but until we reached his place there was nothing else to be done.

It was simultaneously hilarious and deeply uncomfortable. The burn didn't disappear for hours. As soon as we parked the car I leapt inside and washed my hands thoroughly with liquid soap. That helped a little, but then I had to wash my hair, and the hot water re-activated the toxin until the sting was worse than ever. I ended up sitting next to a saucer of milk and dabbling my fingers in it. I was astonished by how long the sensation lasted.

Of course, from the first moment my fingers started burning, my mind instantly leapt to the kinky implications of the sensation. I've read about using capsaicin as a spanking tool on Thomas' Spanking Exploits, who has written a tutorial on the subject as well as numerous descriptions of scenes and punishments employing the technique.

I think that having capsaicin applied to my bottom would probably be less unpleasant (or at least, more interesting) than having it stuck to my fingers. Even so, it's definitely not something I want. The idea of having something caustic rubbed into punished flesh is horrid, horrid, horrid - reminiscent of Victorian schoolteachers who applied lemon juice to the thighs of their pupils after leaving welts with a ruler, or medieval torturers rubbing salt or vinegar into wounds. Horrid - and yet compelling. I think if I ever played with capsaicin I'd prefer it to be in the type of roleplay where my tormentor is brutal and unfair, and I'm a hapless victim. It's not the kind of punishment I'd ever want to feel like I'd deserved. Although if I was threatened with it as a punishment, it might be a very effective deterrant!

Having said that, during that painful car journey I did find the burn in my hands easier to bear by mentally transferring it to my bottom. So perhaps the idea has erotic potential after all...

bodies and politics

My friend who has spent several years working with urban sex workers pointed me at a couple of heated discussions about sex work lately. Of course, conversations about sex work are often heated, mostly because not enough of the people participating in public debate seem to understand that it's just as unhelpful to generalise about all sex workers as it is to generalise about all women, or all people of colour, or any group defined by the mainstream as Not One Of Us.

However, once you get past Julie Bindel's predictably ignorant hostility, this debate on legislating prostitution contains some surprisingly balanced views. (Oooh, words cannot express how much it infuriates me that Ms Bindel is so often wheeled out to represent "the feminist perspective". Not all feminists think all sex workers are necessarily victims! I'm a feminist, I work in the sex industry, I'm not a victim, and Julie Bindel doesn't represent ME.)

There are some excellent, moderate, well-reasoned arguments in that thread, from a variety of perspectives, including some realistic analysis from a politician and a police inspector, all of whom advocate a balanced approach aimed at helping women who want to leave prostitution, and not persecuting those who don't. I'm not surprised to hear this from a sex worker, but it's affirming to hear it from the HM Inspector of Constabulary for Scotland:

Having led the Operation Pentameter investigation into sex trafficking in Scotland, I know that there is a serious problem around enforced prostitution. But you can’t assume that everyone in the industry is there because of coercion, and moralising the argument by saying that no-one working in the industry could be doing so of their own free will detracts from efforts to protect the vulnerable.

Sadly, all this common sense doesn't seem to have got through to Julie Bindel, who continued to make outrageously blanket statements about the victimhood of all sex workers in today's Guardian, in response to Pamela Stephenson Connolly's Agony Aunt letter to a reader "hooked on prostitutes". I found Connolly's initial advice far more sensible than her justification after the fact, which contained several flawed assumptions, but Julie Bindel's closing remarks are so ignorant the stupidity sort of cancels out:

"Next time you're with a sex worker, ask her for some pointers," concludes Stephenson Connolly. Does she really think women having to service punters for a living concern themselves with teaching men how to give pleasure to women? They want to get it over with as quickly as possible and learn how to fake enjoyment rather than actually achieving it. Prostitution is a nasty business.

Why of course Julie, I forgot that you are both omnipotent and telepathic, and capable of speaking on behalf of all women without actually consulting them. Need I mention that, on the contrary, the sex and spanking professionals I know who offer private services consider listening, counselling and offering comfort and support just as much their job as the physical aspects? Most of the sex workers I know would be not only willing, but more than able to offer a client good advice about sex or relationships - especially if that client was a regular.

Yes, I know this isn't true of everyone who sells sex. Guess what? Sex workers aren't a monolithic group of identically hapless victims, and calling them so is just as dangerous and offensive as calling all women sluts or bitches. Sadly, this basic fact seems to have escaped Ms Bindel.

--



The fashion industry finally seems to be catching up with the European spanking scene in its acceptance of a variety of body shapes: size 12 and 14 women recently appeared alongside their thinner counterparts on catwalks during London Fashion Week. Of course, such an outrageous decision was never going to happen without drama, but let's face it: the industry is probably better off without the stylist who flounced out in protest. The show only included three "normal-sized" and even they only went up to size 14 (I think 16 is the average dress size in the UK?) but it's another baby step, to match the success of Beth Ditto's fashion brand, and plus-size model Crystal Renn's "new vogue for women 'lush and sparkly with nary a jutting collarbone in sight'."

Designer Mask Fast showcased sexy minidresses on the models, proving his designs don't just look good on size 0 figures. Fashion, advertising and entertainment still have a long way to go in embracing body-positivity, but it's good to see it gaining momentum.

--

On the topic of fantasy bodies vs. real ones, Natty has written another excellent post about being kinky with a chronic illness, called When Play Is Work. I've already written a lengthy comment in reply, so I won't say much more here. This topic is extra-relevant to me today: my hopes of getting a chance to play with Tom this weekend have just been scuppered by his work again. I'm more worried about him than disappointed: I know if I'm patient we'll find time eventually, and I'm lucky to live so close that we can spend time snuggling and looking after each other instead. But at times like this the contrast between the films I make and real life couldn't be more obvious.

Natty's post is valuable because it highlights the way that even when reality doesn't mirror fantasy, it can still be beautiful, rewarding and memorable. For Tom, like Natty, play is often hard work - and that's one of the reasons it's so intense and rewarding when we do manage it. And when it's just as often me who's too tired to play, it's good to be reminded that play doesn't have to be easy, or perfect, or live up to fantasised expectations. Flexibility, empathy and understanding will go a long way.

But sometimes, working hard just isn't the answer. Pushing myself too hard is often the reason I'm too exhausted to enjoy play, and exerting myself further may not help in that situation. And I certainly wouldn't ever expect Tom to work harder than he does to try and provide what I need - I'm more likely to want to reassure him that it's okay if he can't. It's down to the individual to assess how far they can push their body, and when it's time to chill out and give yourself a break. I can't make that decision for Tom any more than I'd want to make it for Natty.

I am blessed in my relationships in so many ways, and I try to be aware of how lucky I am. But even spanking models have to deal with reality undermining fantasy at times, and none of us are on top form all the time.

In producing my own spanking porn, I already intend to emphasise the agency, desire and personality of my submissive models (male and female), respect their boundaries, and celebrate a variety of body types. But I'm still trying to work out how to make spanking films that deal positively with disability and illness. Domestic discipline scenes dealing with real people's limits with humour and sensitivity are a possibility. And if I work with disabled models I can ask them if they'd like to appear on film with any visible supports they may have, such as crutches or a wheelchair - but not all disabilities are visible.

Fantasy is usually idealised, but I want to try and be as inclusive as possible: I want to make porn people can recognise themselves in. I know too many kinky people with chronic health problems to be comfortable erasing their experience for the sake of a whitewashed, glamorous, unrealistic fantasy world. There must be ways of telling hot stories about real people, making the reality of having a non-perfect body crucial to a kinky narrative in the way that Jacqueline Applebee does in stories such as What I Do For My Pain. I'm still trying to work out the best way to approach this (and I imagine it'll be an ongoing process), so I'd love to hear any input, stories or ideas you may have.

celebrating bisexuality

Today is International Celebrate Bisexuality Day! Ideally, I would celebrate my bisexuality by having kinky sex with a small selection of my favourite bisexual boys, girls and people inbetween, but I'm going out drinking with a big selection of them instead. Which is almost as good.

I first identified as bisexual when I was thirteen, nearly half my life ago. For the two years before that I was very confused: I knew I was utterly smitten with my female best friend, but I also knew, in a naive pubescent way, that there was no reason I might not choose a man as my life partner some day if I met the right guy. Then I discovered the concept of bisexuality (possibly on the Internet, but probably in one of the erotic books for women that my mum failed to successfully hide from me) and everything made much more sense.

When my relationship with my best friend developed into a sexual one, I became swept up in the full flush of first love. Clearly, my love and I were fated to be together forever. Clearly, therefore, I must be gay. I believed this until I entered the sixth form, at which point all the mean, spotty boys I knew started growing into tall, handsome young men. I realised I'd been bisexual all along, I just hadn't ever fancied teenage boys. Which is, you know, fair enough.

Peter from Bi Social News has written an excellent article asking: what is it that bisexuals have to celebrate? He answers his own question:

Bisexuality is an invitation to complexity. There is no coloring in between the lines with bisexuality because there are no lines to color in between. The world is open to us. What matters here then is defining an ethical code of our own. In other words, an invitation to complexity is an imperative to critical thinking and making reasoned choices. ... Bisexuality exists as both potential and realization always, especially if you are monogamous.

Being bisexual is emotionally intense and intellectually demanding, because it requires constant engagement and evaluation as part of the package. When we bisexuals live up to the challenge, we show healthy models for human relations and that’s what we should be aiming for.

I am proud to be bisexual. It opens up limitless possibilities and models for relationships, sex, love. I am blessed to be able to enjoy the romantic and erotic company of men, women, and those inbetween. Because my interest is not limited to the cisgendered, I prefer the word queer to describe my own sexuality: I do not consider gender to be a binary, and I am not only attracted to those at the extreme ends of the spectrum. But for today, I'm happy to identify as bisexual, and celebrate that fact.

Today is necessary, not just as a love-fest for those of us similarly inclined, but to challenge the many problems our culture has with bisexual invisibility and prejudice. The LGBT movement has gained increasing force in the last few decades, but too often bisexuals are excluded from the language of LGBT rights, or shunned by individuals trying to reinforce their black-and-white view of the world. While the entertainment industry has started to admit the existence of real gay men and women, bisexual characters are almost never recognised in films and TV. Bisexuality is rarely mentioned in politics or public conversations about LGBT rights. Our culture has very few models for healthy bisexuality, and (perhaps as a result) stereotypes and prejudice abound. We are accused of indecision ('staying on the fence'; 'not making up your mind'), greed ('wanting our cake and eating it'), disloyalty, betrayal and lack of solidarity. We are told we lack self-awareness and emotional maturity ('you'll grow out of it'; 'you're just going through a phase'). Too often, our identity is denied and erased from public perception.

I'm preaching to the choir here: the kink scene is unusually aware and accepting of the range of human sexuality, and I'm sure you all already know this stuff. So I'll get off the soapbox, and finish up my mini-celebration of being queer with some bisexual spanking photos.





This is Leia-Ann Woods, Honey Hardy, Jadie Reece and Stephen Lewis all looking gorgeous in Northern Spanking's recent high-definition film Girls' Night In, beautifully photographed by Billy. The ladies are having fun enjoying each other when Leia's hubby walks in, catching them in the act of admiring and appreciating one another's bottoms. Well, what do you expect the man to do? Spank them, of course!





Happy International Celebrate Bisexuality Day, everyone. To all my fellow queers, I hope you have heaps of fun celebrating your sexuality in whatever way you prefer. Here's to embracing the power of 'and'. :)

spanking art and feedback loops

Last week, Abby Williams used a delightful drawing to illustrate her Talk Like A Pirate Day-themed flash fiction.

My appreciation for spanking art is almost entirely inherited from Tom. He's one of those old-fashioned chaps who prefer drawings to photos when it comes to porn. Webcomics and graphic novels are even better (it was Tom who introduced me to Oglaf, which I spent half of Sunday reading from the beginning. No spanking, but a must for anyone who likes high fantasy, black humour, and cock). Now, I'm a 21st century girl when it comes to media, and I prefer my porn in the form of well-written literature, fanfiction, or glossy photos and videos. Artwork can be hot (I recently enjoyed this piece by Endart), but women's bodies are too often drawn idealised-skinny, which bugs me. And spanking art does tend to remind me that I never do any, and I should - and creative guilt can sour the kick of even the best erotica.

However, after knowing him for 6 years I have a reasonably good sense of Tom's taste, and when I see a spanking drawing which would press his buttons, it tends to press mine, too. You see, if he looks at it and is turned on, it's probably because he's thinking of me - and knowing he's thinking about doing wicked things to me is incredibly hot. So that generates a feedback loop: I see something I think he'll like; it reminds me of him; I imagine me and him in place of the couple in the drawing, and that turns me on, so I send it to him.

So I texted him the Pirate Bride image that Abby used, and started exploring the artist's website, Patty's Spanking Gallery. There are some lovely pieces here. Lots of romantic D/s, curvy women and gentle, firm, bearded men. Look:



Tom liked them, too. Now I just hope we'll get the chance to act on our mutual fantasy before too long :)

The Garden Party

I adore this photo of Ludwig from his and Adele's recent Lupus film, The Garden Party:



Yum. Spanking porn should definitely have more young, dark, handsome tops in military uniform.

Ludwig has just finished his detailled, fascinating write-up of topping for Lupus. The story was started earlier this week, in his previous posts The Company of Wolves and A Dragoon's Life. It's particularly interesting to read about Lupus from the perspective of a top - and while Ludwig is honest about his sadism, he's also clearly respectful, considerate and thoughtful, which makes for a compelling perspective.

--

Speaking of outdoor spanking films starring Adele and dark handsome tops, tomorrow morning is the last leg of filming for our Roué film Lost Causes. Nothing so entertaining as the main shoot, sadly: this involves getting up at 6am to film some location shots, and it's just me, so I won't have my fellow cast-members for company. The film is edited and in post-production, waiting for these shots to be dropped in; Tom and I watched a copy of the edit a couple of weeks ago and are really happy with it so far. I'm not looking forward to the early start, but it'll feel great to finally get the last of the footage wrapped.

spanking porn and erotic D/s

I'd hoped to write today about the erotic scene I played with Tom at the weekend, but work is mental at the moment, so I won't get the chance today. Partly this is because, after the ease with which I wrote yesterday's post, I woke up this morning feeling unaccountably uneasy about its explicitness. As Adele pointed out on Twitter - this is my blog, and as the "not silenced" of my title suggests, I shouldn't censor myself. But detailled writing about sex is rare for me, and when I attempt it, it leaves me strangely vulnerable. Not that sex is more intimate than spanking, but sex-writing isn't my idiom, and attempting it involves stepping somewhat out of my comfort zone.

I guess I'm also partly worried I'm stepping out of yours. And I'm not sure, if I am, whether I care. Eroticism is very much part of my kink, and explicit sexual content is deliberately included in the spanking material I'm producing for myself. Some scenes need to be asexual to work - anything institutional and non-abusive - but I think there's a place in spanking porn for sexual scenes as well, and not just the leery uncle or giggly girl-on-girl kind. I want to see hard, violent, D/s sex between real lovers, and given my own sex life frequently combines that with hot CP, I don't see why they should be separated by default in porn.

Anyway, I didn't come on here to go on about sex in spanking porn. I wanted to repost this delicious F/f photo which Chross linked last week, from free spanking photos:



I'm still trying to work out how to combine my queerness with my kink in a way that works for me, and when I stumble across a lesbian D/s photo that presses all my buttons, I devour it. I love the cool poise of the top, her tiny half-smile. I love the emotion in the sub's posture, her twisting back, the hand resting calmly on the back of her neck. I can definitely imagine myself over this lady's knee. And not only is that a hot, hot thought, it renews my hope that one day, I will find a way of submitting to women that feels right.

rekindling: fantasy

After a fallow period, it's always the sensual side of my kink to reawaken first.

I was looking at the calendar to work out the last time I'd been spanked, and counted five weeks that I was sure of. No time at all to some. When I was in a long-distance relationship, that was nothing. But these days I'm in the lucky position of having two partners close by, and it's rarely a week goes by without some sort of kinky encounter with one of them.

My own exhaustion didn't need any explanation: my sex drive was barely there, and kink just seemed far too much like effort. Give me cuddles, quiet conversation, reading companionably next to each other in bed. I stopped pushing myself to update this blog or read others, and kinky subject matter promptly dropped off my radar.

The first fantasies I noticed returning, late at night, alone under my duvet, were gently erotic. Hands spreading my bottom cheeks, smacks on my inner cheeks, on my thighs. An ache in my cunt as I thought about those hands smacking the most secret part of my bottom, tiny, stinging, humiliating spanks. Stiff fingers tapping at my shy, flinching arsehole. I imagined wriggling and blushing, desperately wanting more pressure there; the hot, blunt-smooth nudge of a cock...

No cruel uncles, brutal institutions, unfair punishments. The imaginative mainstays of my kink had retreated into some dark corner of my brain, and had to be lured out, tantalised with more consensual scenarios. I imagined being tied up by an obedient plaything who knew exactly what I wanted, her playful expression as she shackled my knees to the hooks on the headboard, spreading my legs and exposing my sex to her attentions. She'd tie my wrists above my head, put her fingers in my mouth and smile at the fire in my eyes. I'd call her names, whisper insults with more heat in my voice than venom. She'd know what I liked, she'd work hard to please me. Clamps on my nipples, small hands stroking my breasts, my belly and thighs, slipping beneath me and brushing against my arsehole. Perhaps she'd take the time to crop my inner thighs, kissing the welts with soft lips as she moved her mouth towards my moist and swelling cunt.

When I haven't played for a while, the first fantasies to return are the ones about my pleasure. My body. My desire.

It is a mark of how blessed I am in my beloveds that both of them know this. The first times we played after that fallow period, both of them demonstrated a remarkable ability to give me exactly what I wanted. But I have to run now, so I'll write more about that later.

for sale / sold

I was cycling home from work last week, when I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye. It was so intriguing I had to pull over and walk my bike back along the pavement to get a closer look.



Yes, that is an antique gym horse, displayed outside an antique furnishings and shopfittings shop. Yes, those are iron D-rings attached to the feet. No, there isn't really anything else that could be for.

No price on it. It wouldn't fit in my flat. But there might be room for it at Tom's place ... would he mind me showing up with a random piece of spanking furniture? How would I even get it there without a car? If it turned out to be affordable, I should text him and ask ...

I surreptitiously sneaked a photo, then ducked into the shop to ask how much it was.

"Sold a few days ago," replied the creased, lean man behind the desk. "Still waiting for 'em to collect it, mind."

"How much did it go for?" I asked. Then felt the need to justify my interest. "I'm looking for one for a prop in a film..." (This excuse has the benefit of being at least partly true.)

"Hundred and fifty." Ah. Slightly beyond my immediate budget. (Maybe I could save up, though... Hey, maybe I could justify it as a professional expense. It might even be tax-deductible.) He continued, "Funny how popular they are. We had another one in a few weeks ago, that was snapped right up. In fact we've got a bigger one downstairs, one of the ones that stacks up. You can go down if you want a look."

"No thanks," I said, determined not to be tempted by too-big, too-expensive toys. "I might keep an eye, though, see if you get any more through..."

Apparently North London is full of keen-eyed spankos. I mean, who else would buy something like that? Really?

I went on my way, regretting that I hadn't come by a week ago, and that I hadn't had the nerve to test its size in the street. It looked like it might have been just the right height.

unexpected conversations

I went away this weekend with some vanilla friends-of-friends. I had a great time, not least because it was the first mini-break I've had this summer where I wasn't running or organising anything! I also found myself in the middle of a couple of interesting conversations that I really hadn't expected:

1. I found myself trying to explain That Thing We Do to a very sweet, rather drunk vanilla woman. (I can't remember why - I think I answered the ubiquitous "so what do you do?" question honestly, more fool me. I'll admit I was somewhat the worse for wear myself.) Anyway, I didn't do a very good job of explaining; I would try to introduce to concept of power exchange, dominance and submission, and how it relates to trust and intimacy, and she would furrow her brow and ask "So ... the sadist is the one that likes inflicting pain, yeah?"

I gave up before too long, but shortly afterwards a smiling, wrinkly fellow with long blue-white hair came and sat next to me, saying "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation..." Turns out he's a regular at Subversion and several of the other London fetish clubs, knows all sorts of people I know, and we ended up having a lovely long chat. I recommended a few spanking sites to him, particularly Northern Spanking, which sounded like it would suit his tastes down to the ground. Not only did I make a new friend, but rather than feeling alienated by the unsuccessful attempt to explain kink to a vanilla, I ended the evening all heart-warmed by the fact that fellow perverts can turn up in the most unexpected contexts.

2. The next night, I was sitting and chatting with a group of new friends. The topic of sex work came up, and one of the boys said it was something he'd been thinking about for some time; and that recently he'd started considering it more seriously. I paused for a little while before deciding, oh, what the hell.

"Well," I said, "I'm a professional spanking model, so if you're serious I could probably talk to you a bit about it." He was astonished, then delighted, and we ended up having a really good chat about the potential consequences of sex-work. We traded stories about people we knew, the ones who were happy with what they did and the ones who ended up regretting it. I told him about my friend at university who worked as an escort in London to support her mum, and who made loads of money, but found it killed her sex-drive completely.

"On the other hand," I said, "I was worried when I started making films that it would make me less interested in spanking. You know, because no matter how much you love what you do you still have to be professional about it, keep a booking when you're not necessarily in the mood, or with people you wouldn't otherwise play with. But I've found that doing it professionally has actually made me kinkier. It's like, the more I exercise that part of my brain, the more active it is. Like you know when you're really horny and the more sex you have, the more you want?"

He was nodding, and afterwards he gave me a big hug and said it had been amazing to meet me, and thankyou for the chat. I'll be really interested to hear what he decides.

What I didn't quite manage to articulate at the time, but said to my kinky friend J later, was this: the key, I think, is only doing work you want to do. Don't do shoots that don't interest you. Don't do scenarios that turn you off, don't work for people that make you feel uncomfortable. If you only do shoots that you find exciting, that you look forward to, that you like seeing the results of - then it creates a positive feedback loop, and the more you do, the more you want to do. But if you force yourself to do jobs that aren't fun at all (say, because you need the money), then it can turn into a negative feedback loop and put you off playing privately. From the people I've spoken to, I suspect this applies to mainstream porn, private spanking sessions or escort work as well as spanking shoots, but I could be wrong; I can only speak from my own experience.

The basic rule I've always been told is that you should only do it as long as you enjoy it; and as soon as you stop enjoying it, you should take a break, or focus on something else for a while. I'd go further than that, and say that if you can only do work you actively enjoy, it will increase your enjoyment rather than damage it.

Of course, unless you're producing your own material, it's not easy to follow this rule and make a living off sex work. Which is one of the reasons I'm working on my own site! I don't know if the rule applies to production, direction, editing and website maintenance as well as the spanking itself, although those are all things I've already done professionally for other people. I guess the only way to find out is to try :)

I'm not here right now ...

... Please leave a message after the *beep*.


(photo by Crusier)

Sorry for the unexplained silence. I'm still alive, just trying not to wear myself into the ground doing too many things at once, for what might just be the first time in my life. I still haven't had that holiday, but between work and various vanilla commitments I'm doing more than enough at the moment for someone who's meant to be resting and recovering! Neither me nor the boys are feeling particularly kinky right now, and that's fine: everyone has fallow periods, and while Pandora is keeping uncharacteristically quiet, some of my other selves are getting some much-needed care and attention.

Feel free to leave a message, but please don't be offended or worried if I don't answer quickly. Caroline, Abel, Ludwig and Kaelah, Cameron: I have got your emails, but I'm afraid I just haven't had the time or headspace to sit down and answer any mail from this account. I'm really sorry if the delay is inconvenient, but hopefully you understand the need to sometimes take a step back for a while. If you can't wait, I will sometimes reply to Twitters, and my phone number is the same as ever.

I'll be back soon, hopefully refreshed and full of enthusiasm for all things spanking, ready to spend the autumn filming material for my embryonic pay-per-view site. Miss you all.


*beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep*

making a sound

Graham wrote recently about pride and stoicism:

Tears, wails, wriggling: These are the classic elements of spanking fantasies. It’s all part of the wretched humiliating fun. No one writes a story about a girl who was spanked, and lay there quietly, the end. Cause it’s boring. I don’t want to be boring!

Then again, I’m not going to manufacture whimpers either, and I’m not sure I’m prepared to just be thrashed to the breaking point for the amusement of others.

Quite a few bloggers have been thinking recently about competitiveness, and this links back to my thoughts after playing with the famously-hardcore, and very quiet, Caroline Grey. Graham's post has led to an interesting discussion in which several spankees have admitted being very quiet when they first started playing - "terrified to make a noise that was not 100% authentically wrung from my deepest soul", as Zille says succinctly - which has made me wonder if it's a general pattern.

So interesting do I find this, I left a lengthy comment on Graham's blog:

Mostly, though, I'm vocally responsive to spanking the same way I am with sex. It's partly to increase my own enjoyment, partly to communicate with my partner (how can they tell what you like and what you don't if you don't respond?), and partly to enhance their enjoyment because of the whole feedback loop thing. When I'm pleasuring myself, I rarely make a sound. Sometimes a small moan will escape me at the final moment, but often I stay quiet. That doesn't mean quiet is my "real" response; it means it's my solitary response. Vocal responses are part of the communication and intimacy of sex, and how you ensure you get what you want. I started being vocally responsive during sex before I started being vocally responsive during spanking, but over the years I've got louder in both. If nothing else, screaming enhances my enjoyment - a true but inexplicable fact; I'm far more likely to come if I can let myself lose control and be as loud as I like.

I used to pride myself on my stoicism and endurance, and not do I often find private play harder than I expect these days, but it can be hard to stay quiet if I try. And some silence games can lead to me feeling terribly hard-done-by and resentful, which is clearly not the point. Is it merely a question of habit? Is my pure masochism, the straightforward delight in pain sensations, becoming more complex as I get older? Or do I just find being noisy more interesting, and there's no reason to be ashamed of that?

I do understand the anxiety on not wanting to artificially produce responses. It's fine for a film, but if you do that in private you're sort of missing the point - it would feel akin to faking an orgasm, unfair to you and your top. It's a concern of mine, as I've found myself being a bit more performative in private since I've started spanking modelling, more aware of my posture and how I'm expressing myself. It's hard to know if that's just increased self-awareness (I'm not acting, but I do tend to be aware of the impression my responses are giving) and actually a good thing, because I can be more consciously expressive with my body language and vocal responses, and better non-verbal communication in scene is good. Or whether it's a bad thing because that awareness stops me 'letting go' completely, and I shouldn't try to retain control over my responses, because that's not the point of submission.

Even when I'm performing, I'm still being me: if I wasn't expressing some part of my true self when I make films or play in public, I wouldn't get anything out of it. It's interesting trying to work out the limits of one's conscious actions, especially in the context of submission. As a 'door-knocker sub', I want to give accurate feedback during scene, I don't want to wholly be ruled by what my play partner wants to hear. But as a sub, with my Doms, whom I adore and trust absolutely, I don't want there to be any artifice between us, and I want to be able to let go and put myself into their hands completely.

When you get down to it, being the spankee in a spanking video rarely involves genuine submission. If your private submission starts to mirror your spankee performance, it's easy to feel like you're not really submitting. But our modes of expression are social and habitual; as we develop relationships with someone, we learn to speak the best language to communicate with them. Vocal responsiveness is useful to video because it's stimulating to the viewer, but it's useful in scene because it helps the sub communicate with their Dom.

As far as I'm concerned, being loud and being brave aren't mutually exclusive. While the challenge of staying quiet can be hot, the effort of will involved in being silent can also prevent me from relaxing properly into the scene - just as the fear that I'm being 'artificial' can prevent me from making as much noise as I might like! Which suggests that, like most things, it depends on mood, context, and the expectations of both partners. I've definitely got louder since I first started playing, and I like it that way. But it's hard to know whether this change is triggered by my experiences acting in spanking films, or whether its just the result of being more comfortable and confident during play.

too hardcore for women?

Some friends of mine recently started a magazine called Filament. Billed as 'the thinking woman's crumpet', it aims to buck the trend of consumerist, diet-and-gossip-obsessed women's magazines which, despite their claims, are very rarely woman-positive. Filament focusses on the female gaze, and features erotic photoshoots of beautiful boys alongside well-written, intelligent articles. The first issue contains a grand total of two adverts, and the only women pictured are real, interesting, and decidedly non-airbrushed.

It's received some well-deserved media attention, including a Guardian article last week about the contraversial decision to include full frontal male nudity in the second issue.

Filament, responding to reader feedback, had planned to include a photo set of an aroused man in their second (September) issue. It's not illegal to print images of erections but the Obscene Publications Act is notoriously vague. After taking legal advice, Filament intended to make a test case of sorts. Its printers, however, refused, citing potential objections from "the women's/religious sectors". As a new, independent publisher, Filament can't yet afford more liberal-minded printers willing to tackle the taboo on tumescence.

It's the second major hurdle for Filament, which has already been turned down by numerous UK distributors refusing to handle a women's magazine with a man on the cover. When set against the plethora of men's lifestyle and top-shelf magazines featuring scantily clad and open-legged women, the struggles faced by Filament highlight a deeply entrenched sexism: men can look at women but women cannot look at men.

Encouraged by the positive response from their readership, Filament opened a fundraising campaign to try and raise the extra cash they needed to switch to a more liberal printers. As of today, their target has been met: fantastic news for those of us who want to see more equality in pictorial erotica.

It may be more heterosexual and vanilla than my normal taste in porn, but I support this venture wholeheartedly; it embodies a lot of the principles which I'm following in my own porn production, but as a mainstream printed magazine Filament has the potential to meet a much wider audience. And I hear a rumour that the male models featured in Issue 2 are very spankable indeed.

The groundbreaking Filament Issue 2 comes out on 1 September and will soon be available for presales through our website. In the meantime, if you still haven't got our first issue, please support the tiny fledgling magazine that embraces the cutting-edge science that women have brains and eyes, and get yours here.

Fiona Locke: uncovered!

Well folks, the mystery is revealed, along with the fact that Fiona was, in fact, responsible for starting the "guessing game" - although not for quite how chaotic it got!

At the time I wrote Over the Knee (yes, me!) I had reasons for keeping my two personae separate. But, as Tony Elka likes to remind me, "The Titanic had compartments too."

So rather than make a boring "Hey guys, guess what?" post, I thought it would be more fun to get my friends in on a little mischief. I asked them to start speculating on who Fiona Locke was and - ideally - claim that they WERE her. I thought it would last about a week, that someone would point out the obvious similarities at once and that would be that.

- Niki Flynn

All of us know what it's like to maintain multiple identities - some more developed than others. I continue to be amazed that Niki/Fiona/Angie maintained the separation between her author persona, her personal correspondence, and her acting persona, even after the actor got a book deal! It took a lot of work, a lot of thought, and a lot of care, but I'm very glad that she's now able to publically take the credit for her combined talents and hard work.

I hope those of you who weren't "in the know" didn't mind us humouring Fiona in her coming-out game. I could understand if some of you feel deceived or suspicious, and it took some effort for me to play along without outright lying or giving the game away. So, now that the secret's out, I hope Fiona won't mind if I tell you the story of how I discovered her identity.

In 2004, I got together with Tom: it was my first D/s relationship, and inevitably intense. I was in my second year at uni, and still very young in some ways. That November he surprised me with a trip to Night of the Cane. It was my first fetish event, and the first time I'd played in public. I was nervous as well, but we dressed up in our best Victoriana (I was rocking the dishevelled-underwear look in corset and petticoats). At that point in our relationship Tom was training me in scene manners and etiquette; I knew how many steps to walk behind him, how to hold the coats and implements he passed to me; I knew not to speak unless given permission, to address him and any other Dom as Sir or Ma'am, to be respectful and deferential. I fetched his drinks, I knelt by his chair. It was comforting to have that structure and discipline, and I needed that comfort: I found the event overwhelming to the point of being upsetting.

I was caned on a gym horse in the main bar, with an audience: that was fine though, because my petticoats were frothed up around my waist and I couldn't see who was looking. I thought I took the strokes well, but the endorphines didn't really help ground me. I felt out of place, not knowing anyone; I couldn't start conversations or get to know people, and Tom mostly seemed content to watch.

As we were sitting watching a schoolroom scene in the main room, Ishmael came over and asked if we wanted to enter the caning competition. We'd talked about this beforehand, and I'd said I wasn't ready; but when Tom found out they were still accepting entrants, he added our names to the list. He thought I'd be okay, having seen how well I'd coped with playing in public. Unfortunately, when I found out, I freaked out. I wasn't ready at all, and I wasn't comfortable with him signing me up without checking, and after I'd expressed this to him I felt wretched and guilty for not being brave enough to live up to his expectations.

So it was a difficult night for me, if an enlightening and exciting one, and I didn't speak to many people. But we saw Fiona and Cameron's entry in the caning competition, and liked it very much - I admired their costumes, stage presence, humour and CP technique. Here's what I wrote in my personal journal a few days later:

The most memorable entry was a couple doing a naval roleplay; he was bearded, tall and authoritative, wearing a trim white Navy uniform, and she was petite and exceptionally cute in a very short purple cheerleader's outfit, and cropped brown hair. They did some acting, she did the sulky sub thing brilliantly (not something I'll ever do, but still fun to watch), pouting and squealing and kicking her heels. The best moment was immediately after the first stroke, when she yelped "fuck!" and the entire room burst into applause (although the drunk wankers next to us started jeering, which made me think If that had been me and people had laughed at ME, I'd have broken there and then).

Afterwards we started chatting to Fiona and Cameron on the British Spanking Forums, and arranged to meet up with them to chat - and possibly play. Unfortunately, for personal reasons, we couldn't take them up on their offer; and kink became less of a feature in our lives for a while after that.

Skip ahead two years, and (with Tom's encouragement) Pandora makes her debut on the spanking scene: I met Niki Flynn at my shoot with Bars and Stripes, and thought she was fabulous (I'd barely heard of her fame at that point, but when I went home and read about what she'd done, I was even more impressed) but didn't recognise her. A few weeks later, Tom and I went back to Night of the Cane, at which I was determined to be less of a wuss.

As you know, Tom and I ended up having quite a lot of fun with Niki and HH that evening. We hadn't chatted before the event, and when I saw HH, I recognised him as Cameron and went over to give him a hug, and do the "OMG, I haven't seen you for two years!" thing. He was standing next to Niki, with her dark hair cut in the shoulder-length bob she'd sported at Bars and Stripes. "But where's Fiona?" I asked him, delighted. When he whispered that Niki was Fiona, I was even more taken aback - how had I not recognised her at the shoot?

But there it was. She is a lady of many talents, and being unrecognisable is apparently one of them. I'm glad to know her, to have shared some really intense scenes with her and HH, and to have read all of her books!

not quite feeling the love

D. and I are going to Torture Garden tonight. It's been a long time since we went clubbing together - the last time was Halloween last year, and we had a wonderful night. Since then we've both been out to fetish clubs with our other partners, but not together, and I found myself increasingly missing it. So we booked tickets to go to the Summer Love Underwater Ball tonight, which is at Club Colosseum, a venue I haven't been to before but which D. rates relatively highly. I usually like the summer TGs, they're less full of tourists and have a friendlier atmosphere.

I'd toyed with the idea of throwing together a mermaid costume, but was so busy I decided not to put any extra pressure on myself. So I'm going in my lacy BoundCon dress and my new hot-pink stilettos, both of which have a pleasing track record for getting me molested by D. And I'm not unhappy with my body right now, and D. and I are great - there's loads of love and lust and energy splashing around in our connection right now, and our D/s relationship has been very affirmed recently, and it'll be nice to express that on public, play with people watching and grin at each other on the dancefloor.

Except that I'm knackered. Any of you following my twitter feed will know that I've been overdoing it lately - and that's on the back of overdoing it for about the last nine months. I need a holiday, and I can't have one because of deadlines and housemoves and exciting projects I committed myself to months ago. I'm working on that, but in the meantime I'm fragile with exhaustion.

So, lovely readers, this is where you come in. Help me get in the mood for going out tonight. Tell me of fun nights you have had playing or fucking or flirting in public. Tell me about your mental images after hearing about my lacy dress and hotpink heels. Tell me what you'd like to watch D. and I get up to, if you were going to TG tonight (and if any of you are, do come and say hi!). Tell me your rude thoughts to get me in the mood, and if all goes well I'll be able to report back on Monday and tell you some exciting stories in return.

I don't know if anyone's online on a Friday night, so I might be just shooting this into the void. But writing it has improved my mood a bit, if only making me smile at my love for D. and how he makes me feel. So I'll finish this by posting a soppy photo from last October's TG. Hope you don't mind.

like a drowned rat

This is me right now:



Have I been taken by the arms and had my head held under water by the prison guards, to teach me a lesson when I refused to co-operate? Have I been scrubbed down by a firm and unyielding Nanny, ignoring my squeals as her rough washbrush scraped my nipples, which were bitten bullet-hard by the cold water?

Actually I've just cycled home in a tremendous deluge, pushing through puddles so deep the wheels of my bike sent up plumes of water too heavy for me to pedal through. When I got home I tumbled inside looking like a drowned rat, as my mother would say, took my trainers off on the front doorstep to tip the water out, and peeled my sodden jeans off straight into the shower.

I made it home at top speed though, whirring through the empty, flooded streets as fast as I could, adrenaline coursing through my body. I didn't want to be out any longer than I had to, sure, but I found a subversive delight in racing through London in the rain, battling the streams of water and grinning as lesser mortals cowered indoors. Now I'm home with hot tea and a fluffy bathrobe, and free to enjoy the thoughts of what might have just happened to me ...

... Perhaps a headstrong young lady, slipping out of her bedroom window at night to scale the roofs on some adventure? She would have lost her footing on a loose tile and fallen, to her lasting humilation, into the waterbutt outside the kitchens. Her thrashing would have wakened the servants, who would have come running out with candles and barefeet to fish her out. The under-maids would giggle, the kitchen boys would snigger at the sight of her wet nightdress plastered to her young body, and the grim-faced butler would take her to her father's study to explain what, exactly, she thought she had been doing ...

She would have recovered her composure by the time he addressed her, and would face his temper with a haughty silence. But the cane hurts more on a wet bottom ...



Photos by Dogstar.

snip snip

Take one sub, her very beautiful Dom, a red slinky dress, a sharp pair of scissors, and a length of rope. Where do you imagine this might lead?





Our photographer was Tricia Sullivan, whom I've been wanting to work with again since our shoot with Jimmy in February. I really like her style; you'll be seeing more of her work in future.