Cheap prosecco and Ann Summers do not the kink ball make...

It wasn't a bad night, but it wasn't all that. And frankly, the fact that I had been promised free champagne, but given cheap prosecco was outrageous. And I love prosecco, I really do, but this was fizzy, alcoholic sugar.

The one in the middle, that's me. On the left of the picture is a lovely friend, who showed up unexpectedly, and on the right, well, that's Alistair. I went a little heavy with the smudge tool on those guys. Those of you who have been with me long enough will remember the fateful day when Alistair found my blog. Whilst I have refused to pull any punches, whether he reads it or not, I still feel the need to smear his face beyond all recognition, it's only fair.

Do you like my gown? That be 100% pure silk, with train, the whole shebang. It was given to me as payment for modelling at a show for these guys.

I am surprised we made it at all, considering Alistair left it until about an hour before the cab arrived to finally accept that he needs some fetish clothes to go to clubs in. Don't get me wrong, he has a truck load of gear, but most of it is either useful only as part of a session, or is a little too skimpy to go to an "exclusive" fetish ball in. Truth be told, the man hardly ever leaves the house, preferring the endless conveyor belt of women to come to him. Actually, I must be fair, he does attend and throw private fetish house parties. These are convenient, since he can wear both of his uniforms, i.e. the only fetish wear that he ever wears: upon arrival: leather trousers and black top, an hour later: little leather thong (butt plug if he's lucky).

I digress.

He left it as late as he could to have a hissy about the lack of clothes, managing to produce only an old black rubber catsuit, and an old pair of black rubber chaps. I favoured the chaps, since his backside is of epic cuteness. However, some bastard guests had pinched the polish from the fetish B&B that he runs, with my assistance. I have the patience of a saint, so I managed to smile through adversity, despite the fact that I hadn't been laced into my corset, and the cab had arrived.

But we got there, and he looked lovely. But I always think that, which is one of the reasons I just can't put him down. But he did.

We got there early, as he didn't want to miss out on the champagne. It was fucking prosecco. Nonetheless, it was served to me by one of the hottest, buffest (can't believe I just said that) bits of crumpet that one is ever likely to see, wearing only a pair of tight shorts. Nice.

The venue really wasn't very "exclusive". I was expecting marble, and plush furnishings, and a really nice loo. I always say that you can tell the quality of an establishment by how chic its loos are. Regarding this establishment, I have graced worse toilet seats, but I have graced a hell of a lot better too.

And the people started to arrive.

Hmmmmmm.

Young crowd. Young oh-my-darlings-aren't-we-being-edgy crowd. They were hot, no doubt about that, but it became apparent that each one had only just bought their riding crop at Ann Summers, and after tonight, it was in danger of never being brought out the closet again. And there was very little good conversation to be had.

Call me old fashioned, but even if they are mind bogglingly, angels-weeping-tears-of-joy hot, I just can't kiss 'em unless they're clever.

Eventually I made my way to the dungeon, I noticed it was a dead end, and then I noticed a horny tranny and her mistress making a bee-line. I fled.

However, Alistair and I did meet one extremely lovely, genuine woman. I really liked her, and we are keeping in touch already. More on her later.

Eventually, after a failed after-party at someone's house, Alistair and I reached home on Saturday morning. It was only 9am... shockingly, nay, disgustingly early for us. And so we had our own little party. 8 hours of play in the dungeon.

I cannot begin to describe the things we did, suffice to say that if I told you, you'd probably end up running away. And for once, Alistair subbed to me, and looked at me with those burning eyes of his. The eyes that make me want to be cruel, the eyes I want to see cry... They almost did, I think, on Monday night, when we revisited the weekend. It's a compelling, addictive, and entirely unhealthy game we play. It's a game that horrifies him, disturbs him, and yet makes him so hard... And as I push him, force him into doing things of nightmarish proportions, I am waiting for those moments where the desire takes him over, and he begs for more, and for me to hurt him.

The Dance

My housemate, Saladin (see older posts), came home tonight. I hardly see him because he is dutifully looking after his ailing mother. He did not stay long.

We were in the kitchen, inspecting the damage that the leak from the flat above had caused. It flooded us a week ago, and things have been slowly drying out. There was banter, the usual kind, the kind where I feel as if I am disadvantaged because he unnerves me.

He informed me that I have got off lightly because he has not been around very much, but as soon as he is able to spend more time in the house, he will resume patrolling around, making sure everything is just so. He is the only person I know who is more OCD than even my mother. I am a tidy housemate, but no one is ever immaculate enough for Saladin.

I admitted to him that perhaps I am not the best there is at washing up. I squirmed as I found myself confessing that all the previous men in my life have complained about my appalling incompetance at the kitchen sink. It's not that I don't do it- I do- it's just that no matter how hard I try, I never seem to shift all of the dirt.

That won't do in Saladin's house, oh no.

He casually leant back against the counter-top, but stared at me intently.

"Have any of those men actually shown you the correct way to wash up?"

I answered in the negative, and then smiled slyly and told him it was all simply because they had not put an effective reward/punishment system in place. He agreed and began mentioning something about a cane, I became flustered... I am not quite sure what was said, but it ended in the description of his latex coated cane.

I protested. I would not entertain such a thing. Far, far too painful. And I was quick to point out that I am a purist, it's the biting kiss of bamboo for me. But Saladin never listens to my complaints, and left the room, returning seconds later with a fairly thick cane, thinly coated in black rubber.

He told me to hold my arm straight out to the side, so that my hand was level with my shoulder. I was about to decline, but he flashed me a look and repeated his order. I obeyed. He stroked the cane across my palm, and a battle of wills began, as he taunted me, repeatedly raising the stick as if he was about to strike. I refused to flinch, and looked away. He instructed me to look at my hand, and so I did, and still, I refused to flinch.

All the while he was speaking to me, calmly, matter of factly.

His words made my cheeks burn. Very few men make me blush.

He brought the cane down on my hand, but not unbearably hard, so I teased him.

He began speaking to me again.

He brought the cane down again, and I squealed in pain.

I began to complain, but he cut my words off with talk of scattering rice on the floor of the living room... I blushed harder than I have in a long time. I actually hid my face in my hands. I said,

"I am going to my room now,"

and I ran away.

Rice? Well, that's a story from some time ago. Back when I began this blog. One of my first entries related to what Saladin described to me around two years ago, when we went on a date.

We have been on three dates now over a period of two years, and then three weeks ago, I moved in as housemate. Over two years, we have kissed but once, and he has smacked my palm with a cane.

This is a long, slow dance...

Was it good for you?

Yesterday evening, at half past seven, I climbed the stairs up to Sir's beautiful London apartment. This would be my first time flying solo, and having previously been the one wielding the crop, this was my first time offering my services as a submissive. I was required for two hours, and my tribute was enough to put a smile on my face. Enough to help me control my nervousness.

And it was not the thought of submitting to strangers that made me anxious, not the removal of clothes, nor the vulnerability. It was simply that I was offering a service, and it needed to be good. I needed to be good. If either one of the couple had been smacked with the ugly stick, it would be harder to be good.

Sir had already mentioned to me that they were absolutely gorgeous... But my tastes are not everybodies'.

And yet, I was greeted at the door by the woman, the Mistress, and she was gloriously beautiful. But being straight as a line, her gorgeousness was wasted on me. She spoke very little English, and beckoned me inside. We went into the living room, which is also half of the dungeon (executed perfectly, not one piece of mundane, or kinky furniture looks out of place), her partner was seated on the sofa, looking apprehensive. I had already been told via email that he was not convinced by the idea of this session, but was doing it to please her.

I tried to act natural, like I had done this one hundred times before. The voice in my head was wondering what is considered polite in these circumstances... It's different when you are the dominant, you take that and run with it, but if you are the submissive, well... I wondered if I should say hello, have a little chat, possibly even tea and biscuits. In the email, she seemed to want me to just get down to business, and they didn't have much to say... I indicated that I needed to go into the bathroom to put on my long, latex gloves. Pulling them on seemed to take and age.

When I returned, the Mistress told me to take off my clothes. She left the room, and I found myself stripping in front of a strange, but handsome man, who looked like he wanted to be somewhere else. When I was down to only my stockings and gloves, I approached him and ran my gloved hand down his face. She had told me that he loves the smell of latex. His partner quickly returned, and she indicated that I should undress him, and so I obeyed. His body was as beautiful as his face, smooth olive skin and lightly muscled. She remained corsetted in leather, and she knew so few words of English, most of her communication with me was with a gesture of the hand, or a look in the eye. She showed me that she wanted me to tease her partner, to pleasure him, but only a little.

I should say that many who are involved in this kind of work do not offer sexual favours... I am not one of those people. I am a deeply sexual person, and for me, BDSM is a deeply sexual practice. And who wouldn't take a bite, when confronted with a man like that?

After I had begun to excite him just enough that he had relaxed into the correct headspace, she took him and bound him to the St Andrews cross, she had me suck his cock as she whispered something I could not understand into his ear. Then suddenly she took me, pushed me down onto the spanking bench, and tied me there. I felt her hand between my legs, and then she began spanking me, gently at first, but then harder. And I could feel his eyes burning into us, watching as he hung there...

Before the two hours were over, she forced me on him a few more times, and him on me. She tied him to the spanking bench, and asked me to fetch her a glass of water. She watched me struggle with the task, as she had left my hands still bound. Then, I was to stand in front of her partner, so that his head was pressed into my pussy. She indicated that I should hold the glass out towards her, across his back, so that she could drink from it when she chose. In Spanish, she told him to lick me, and she began to fuck him with her strap-on. The more I felt his tongue, the more difficult it became not to spill the water. The harder she fucked him, the harder it became not to spill the water...

When she was finished playing the girl who was playing rough with her dolls, she had me kneel on all fours in the centre of the living room, and had her partner fuck me there, as she reclined on the couch, and watched.

They asked me to see them again, 3 days later.

Bed, Breakfast, and dungeon.

It is hard to know where to begin. A lot of time has elapsed, a lot of things have happened. I have decided to ease myself in slowly, and introduce to the main project I have been working on.

As I have previously mentioned, the fetish B&B is now up and running, we had our first customer last weekend, and they absolutely loved it, and said that they'd book again.

Obviously, the idea is that guests receive luxurious, self-contained accomodation, including bathroom and kitchen, and the most important thing, a dungeon. Although in this case, they also get a medical room too. I am running the webmarketing side of things, and the general frou-frou maintenance of the place. i.e. I make things look beeee-yoooo-ti-ful, make beds, etc.

And to be honest, I have got to the point where I am not so concerned about hiding who I am anymore. Not that I am going to reveal myself in all my exciting glory to you right now. Simply that I want you guys to take a look at the establishment. My lovely friend and photographer did the pictures, and I dressed the rooms. Behold: London Fetish Studio.

Spanking School

Earlier on in the year, I helped a friend deliver a class on fellatio, hand-jobs, and good things to do with your partner's penis.

Freya is an internationally well-known figure in the world of kink and beyond. She is an author, performer, artist, and columnist. Based abroad, she visits the UK about twice a year to give classes for an exclusive boutique of erotica, and to perform at clubs. Tonight, I shall be assisting her with a spanking class, and I will be the spankee. Of course, I can't wait to tell you how it goes, but for now, I shall leave you with the details of the JoyStick class from earlier this year...


These classes are mostly frequented by bored middle-class people with quiet sex lives, and money to burn. I am probably being a bit unfair here. This particular class was held at a rather nice private members club on the Portabello Road. It was all women, mostly giggling, with not a single male partner in sight.


The way Freya does the class is to go in on her own initially to give a 15m intro. She then tells the class that she is about to call her boyfriend in. "GASP," say the women, "Does she really mean to insert a man's erect penis into her mouth in front of us? Here? An erect penis? Her mouth?" But ha-ha, the joke is on them, and the middle-aged woman in the front row who just died of a heart-attack pegged it for nothing...


"Boyfriend, oh Boyfriend..." calls Freya. There is an excruciating pause, during which time none of the women know what to do with themselves, then in I stride wearing trousers, blouse, and a strap-on. Oh, and bunches. We thought the contrast between strap-on and bunches was amusing.


I strode up to the platform, thrusting my hips, my artificial manhood leading the way. Some colour was beginning to come back into the women's cheeks. Yes it was relief all round.


During the class, Freya demonstrated how to approach your man in a sexy fashion and perform an inpromptu blow-job. She explained how people should be prepared to loosen up more, that mussed-up hair is sexy, that makeup running down the cheeks is just about the hottest thing ever. I agreed whole-heartedly, and told them that it was just the other night when my man pulled me in front of the mirror so I could see the streaks down my face, and told me how hot I looked. Of course, he also told me I was a filthy slut, and the reason I had running eyes was because he had slapped me round the face several times. I left that part out. These classes are meant to be "accessible". But I had to wonder how on earth any of this stuff was new to these women. There was one moment where Freya was discussing the use of pelvic floor muscles during sex, and the clenching thereof... You'd have been forgiven for thinking that she had just discovered a cure for cancer, clenching the vaginal musles during sex: a revelation indeed.

That said, I must admit that, despite walking into the class thinking: "What could I possibly have to learn?" I walked away with a couple of new strings to add to my bow. And I owe it all to Freya, and the courgettes hidden under everyone's chair, including mine.

Yes, this was the "How to put a condom on a penis using only your mouth" part of the class. I had never attempted this before, and was not familiar with the technique. Freya told us her special secret whilst handing out condoms, and then we began putting what we had learned into practice. I am proud to say that I did it effortlessly, like lightening, like it was instinct. I like to call it talent. And as I smugly brandished my sheathed courgette, I surveyed the class from atop my platform of sexual righteousness, and wondered how I came to be here. How had my life led me to fellating a corgette, seated on a platform before a room full of sexually repressed posh women, all slobbering frustratedly over vegetables? These thoughts evaporated as my smile grew wider. They were replaced with feelings of pleasure and contentment. For all the difficulties and sorrows, there are some parts of my existence that I adore. For I may be overly sarcastic, at times downright derogatory, but the truth is that helping a bunch of mainstream women break out of their shells and enjoy better sex is awesome. The weird and wonderful situations in which I find myself keep me going. And it is a joy to help out at Freya's classes because she is amazing at what she does.


I should say that at the end of her class, she handed out latex gloves to everyone, and offered to demonstrate the fellatio techniques she had taught to us on our fingers, so we could actually learn what it feels like. During the session I had watched and listened, I had played "stunt-cock", and I had thought that Freya had some interesting ideas. After she had finished with the women, she came over to my gloved hand. All I can say is, sweet Jesus, I wish I was as lesbian as she is. Her wife is a lucky woman. If that's what it feels like on the hand, I can only imagine what she can do to a real penis...