The plan

It was a simple kinky idea... straitjacket on, Hitachi in its support saddle and off we go. That was the plan and you have to admit the visuals in your head are kind of hot. Now this is where once again fantasy and reality collide. Like so many things when reality steps in...

Firstly the straitjacket being leather really needs to be broken in. Like all leather it will stretch with wear and mould to the body; a thing that couldn't be done until now due to the weather. So He puts it on, fiddles around adjusting the straps so it fits properly (unlike in the picture) and one very erotic idea turns into a stiff, uncomfortable reality. It pushes on the collar and one can't breathe, and it produces a strange sense of claustrophobia and then the lungs joined the party. They decided to start coughing... ever tried that in a straitjacket?

When you have heart surgery they used to (don't know if they still do) teach you to wrap your arms around you to support everything. So check for that position... not a stitch would have been strained. Where it got more complicated is that one was lying down at the time for a little oral warm up. Um... it is not dignified to be picked up by the breast straps and be hauled into a sitting position nor is it sexy, even if the coughing is so bad you can't actually sit up by yourself L

So when the coughing subsided He thought we might as well move onto the Hitachi. Good call you are probably thinking. Well it is... or it would have been except for one tiny issue. You can't quite get the lean forward you need in a straight jacket due to an irksome habit of falling flat on your face. So there was the Hitachi buzzing along merrily nowhere near the right spot. In fact the more one squirmed, the more it seemed to be under the directions of some malign spirit... one that was not giving orgasms.

In the end He took off the jacket and we did it old school... naked and on our backs, with liberal applications of nipple torture and a side of Hitachi. He wants one to remember him tomorrow at work, which is why the nipples are getting so much attention. Several screaming orgasms in a row later and sore, bruised body parts we lay there replete. There is a lot to be said for manual systems J

It has been decided that the straitjacket is going to be worn in nice non-sexual ways to break it in and to get used to the odd sensation of suffocation it seems to induce... which was completely unexpected. So one small slave is going to be strapped in it while watching TV... sort of a getting to know you social time. Though one does have to wonder who is going to get drinks and snacks... 'cos one is pretty sure a straight jacket exempts you. Mind you one won't be able to make a play for the remote either. This could end badly...

YKINMKBYK...

is just freaking strange.

The day started with Him roughly propping one up in a kneeling position and being fucked awake. Well a close approximation of it at any rate... awake enough to ask what's the time? Well it was more a series of guttural mumbles until one had the sense to turn ones head out of the pillow. Honestly before mouse it is just as well that breathing is automatic L

Moving to procure that mouse one realised just how fucking sore everything was... tits to arse... literally. The icy cold morning made the abused little nipples stand up and the rubbing on the fabric when one hauled on pj's just made it worse. And the arse? Oh well that made its presence felt when the body reclaimed it as its own.

It is strange how something that can feel so good at the time can feel so bloody painful later on. It is our persistence in the pursuit of these sensations that most non-BDSMers probably find so strange. They look at our assorted kinks and the things we like and think we are the odd ones. The thing is though some other people's pursuits are just as even more strange.

There is no endeavour where this strangeness becomes more apparent than in the field of sport. People train and plan and compete and spend hours on things like Extreme Ironing. A sport in which you have to admire not only their sense of humour, but the sheer amount of fitness that is required. Not to mention a good head for heights.

At the other end of the spectrum there is Freestyle Paddle Dancing. It is the only sport in history that seems to have only one manoeuvre. It is a bit like ice skating where all they do is swirl around the ice. Honestly though nothing prepares you for a sport more boring to watch than golf...

So next time someone says your kink is strange just point them at these examples. It should shut them up... or put them in a coma. Either way peace will reign J

All shiny and new

The day started innocently enough. Meet a friend of a friend for brunch... which turned into lunch, two cafes, three coffees, three sex shops and a pair of these amongst other things. They are magnetic nipple pinchers and come in three strengths; bitey, very bitey and extremely bitey. A quick trip into the changing room lead one to the very bitey option. 

After dropping our new friend off at his place, he refused the offer of joining us for sushi, we drove home via some dinner. It was that or get stuck in traffic so we chose the path of least resistance. Obviously confronted with choices like that, wending our way home slowly is a more attractive option. Well that was our excuse...

Home later He decided to try out some of his new toys... the arm binders (which are a lot quicker than the full leather ones on the profile pic) were popped on along with the nipple pinchers and He proceeded to try out the candles. Have to say that the candles are going to be returned to in summer. In winter here at the moment the sensation of hot wax being dropped on goose bumpy flesh was not that much of a turn on. In summer though one suspects they could be a lot of fun... though maybe not on the parts He wants to try them on L

Returning to the bed He decided to practise a little nipple torture. For the record nipples are very adaptive things. They will callous up with wear and tear; it is how nursing mothers cope with the constant use. It has been a long time since we did any of this kind of stuff. So when He took off the magnetic ones and replaced them with the new black clover clamps he experienced something new.

It was the sound of one really begging and pleading for release. Not just the polite noises one makes when told to, but the real sound. You know one suspects He enjoyed it... it was a while before he removed them. And then He went to use them again, in what can only be described as a threatening manner.

Putting the magnetic ones back on, one was ordered into the position. Flipping over the pinchers, which are heavy, came into their own. They bit and stayed on with a tenacity that was rather more scary than erotic. In fact they stayed on with the ferocity of a pit bull... and no amount of squirming got them off.

In the end it was easier to just stay very still while He administered a long and very slow arse fucking. There were moments there where He was barely moving and all one could do was stay very still and just sit on all the pain. He would speed up into quick short strokes and then move back into deep ones where he hardly moved. In the end one came with a long scream into the pillow while frantically trying to get the pinchers off before the endorphin levels dropped to a level where one could actually feel how bad it was.

Lying there afterwards one enquired where the fabled aftercare was... the stuff where He scampers off like a St Bernard and comes back bearing chocolate, drinkies and warm blankies. He pointed to the doona and said you have some chocolate fish in the cupboard... oh and get me a drink while you are up. Sighs one just doesn't think He gets this stuff at all sometimes... and all the while that little voice was going fuck that is going to hurt tomorrow.

Paradise is painful

Stepping out of the door this morning it struck one how intensely bright everything is. It hit about 4F (-15C) last night and this morning it shows. At 8.30am it is still cold and people are rugged up in jackets and hats. Not something you see in a sub-tropical state.

Everywhere one looks has the same blue motif. The sky is relentlessly bright blue for as far as the eye can see, unrelieved by a single cloud. Looking down at the beach the sea is like a deep blue pond, its surface unmarred by so much as a ripple. Even the island with its snow white beaches has the same blue cast.

Against all of this unrelenting blue the winter flowers and foliage are a sharp contrast in every shade of yellow, orange and red. They blaze like little flames in the dazzling light, nestled in deep tropical green leaves. Even the grass is part of a supporting cast in shades of yellow green that form neat rectangles cut by stretches of concrete. And the morning light bounces off all of the shiny, glossy surfaces to create a glittering effect.

It is all so intensely vibrant it hurts the eyes, sensibly tucked behind shades. The air going into warm lungs sears with a sharp pain and the sinuses are out in sympathy. They throb around the shades like a percussion instrument in time to the heart beat. It is all so bloody beautiful it hurts. 

Zipping along

An unmodified, electric blue Stingray has just sped past and looking down from the bus one noticed that the driver was old enough to know better. It made one smile because all one could hear was Hobbit (who is alive and well, and living on his tropical island at 93) saying when you get older you need better bait. Which when thinking about it wasn't necessarily true, as he could be charming enough to get past any woman when he had a mind to. Thinking about all the people one has known who had sports cars one thinks it would be fairer to say that the cars were reflections of their personalities.

Hobbit was famous for his Bentley, it was called the Bumble Bee due to its colour scheme, and it was a stand up joke on radio that all you could see were his knuckles clutching the steering wheel. He wasn't a tall man. And given his propensity to drive like Mr. Magoo it was also an unfortunate image. Fortunately by the time we got together he had switched cars.

He had a golden Mercedes 350SL which one learnt to drive in. An experience he always swore made him grey. It was like driving a tank with power steering, but boy could that baby float on the road and hug a curve. Unfortunately it also used to float past police cars... which might have contributed to the grey.

There was Sue with her powder blue Stag. The one that's roof would never open when it rained and its tendency to break down on bridges. Not to mention the door that would just stick. Actually that damn car was as temperamental and as difficult as its owner... but a lot of fun nevertheless.

Then there was the lovely Lynnie (a story for another time) with her bright yellow Triumph. It was the love of her life and like most of them did not reciprocate her feelings... that car hated her. Every morning she would go skittering out the door, she could do the white rabbit like no other, in ridiculously high heels, dripping nails and 12 inch hair. And every morning the car would not start. We would lie in bed and wait for her to come back in wailing about how she was late and Hobbit would have to go down and start the car... first time, every time.

Last but not least was the ex and her beloved MG... black with gold pinstripes... all flash and quirks. Electrics that stopped at a whim and a mysterious leak that meant when we went out in the rain one's feet ended up in a puddle. She bought it after our divorce... in both our names of course 'cos nothing about our separation was normal. Eventually as her back got worse she had to sell it and buy something modern with suspension... it broke her heart having to give it up.

To all of these people their cars represented status, an achievement if you will, but in every case they represented freedom from others. The ability to just drive off with the roof down, the wind in their hair and the sun on their face. The cars might have been creatures of capricious tendencies, but so were the owners and they roar across ones memories forever on the move.

Bolt holes

For someone who is struggling

People often wonder about the co-habiting or working on it thing in the group and for years we have tried to explain that seeing someone regularly, working towards full time and actually living together are completely different states. They aren't better, but they are different. The trouble is until the person has done it they never believe you.

See if you have a home to run back to, one that is your space with your things in it the way you like them, you have an emotional out. When things get tough, when you rub each other raw, when you are both sick, angry, upset or hateful, tucked away in your subconscious is the knowledge that you can go home. It is this comparative state of nirvana just waiting for you to run back to.

When you actually live with someone you do not have that out. You are left to duke it out in the situation, with a person whom you are not in an equal relationship with. There is no out, no back door, no safe place. There is just you and them. And no matter how much you love, care for or think they are the one for you it isn't always pretty.

People call it an adjustment phase and really it doesn't do that impending feeling of no return justice. It feels like the door is slamming shut behind you and your first, and frankly sensible, response is to fight it... quietly or hard depending on your nature. It is the time when you have to decide if you are going to run or stay, and it is the time when you find if indeed you actually can. It is in some ways the first acid test of internal enslavement.

See if you find you can't leave then you have to start letting go. You have to let go of the emotional outs, the back doors, your perceptions of how it was meant to be, your preconceived notions of fair and right... all of that has to go. And the only one who can do that is you. It is a choice and a damned hard one because you have to trust that you have made the right choice for you.

And while one would love to say that it gets easier... it doesn't. That lack of "faith" will raise its ugly little head up at every opportunity. It's like playing whack-a-mole on the board of life. The thing is though if you have achieved IE, you don't have a choice to leave so you have to find a way to deal with it or it will tear you apart. 

Crossing over

Helping mod a group is a strange thing. Often one finds oneself in the position of towing a party line or expressing things in a kinder manner than nature would dictate. There are times where even one small slave is aware of the potential impact of words on others. And there are times one would just love to be less than diplomatic... and He says no L

There are other times when bringing things into the group will serve no purpose other than to alienate, upset or distress someone... often quite inadvertently. That or one knows it is going to trigger such a flame war that The Sparkly One will never forgive or forget... let alone leave one her shoe collection. And of course there are some things that one just knows will disintegrate into that outer ring of hell known as a definition debate. Now personally one likes those, but someone always stomps off butt hurt. Mind you without this process Fet wouldn't have so many O/p groups... still think they should pay us a commission.

For those moments one has a blog... a place to come and vent, bore readers into a coma with high levels of narcissism and for readers to occasionally get a giggle, and once in a while wonder who one is writing about. It is a chance for the reader to get a glimpse of what one's life is like and to know what one thinks about things. In essence one writes about things that have no place in the group because when you mod a group, you are not free to do just what you want... unlike a blog.