Having My Cake

Well two rather nice chocolate cup cakes actually. But this is really a  post about the importance for me of picking and choosing events and not spreading myself too thinly. I chose not yo attend and event I could have gone to in Friday to save myself for a long night last night at Underworld at a femdom event called At My Command. This was worth doing to keep myself mentally and physically fresh.  Because we dommes were busy what with forced exercise, a slave hunt and an interrogation scenario where we had to extract thew code to a safe that contained a bottle of fizz and a box of chocolates. I really enjoyed this and extracted numbers from two slaves,  certainly no pain sluts but who quickly realised that dealing with me in full sadistic flow soon saps the will to be brave. This was my first time at At My Command and it is a brilliant event. The games were well thought out and got everyone involved. And how we enjoyed ourselves! Then there was the cake………

This is one of three femdom events held regularly in the West Midlands. I love Bitchcraft and Devotion too, not least because of the lovely people. Femdom is where I began and, several years on, where I have come back to. It is my home within he often bewildering world of BDSM and I will always make time for these events in the busy life I lead, a lige that means I can’t fit in anywhere near the number of events I would like to go to.

And guess what? They all have nice cakes.

Playing the Role

This was the most intense BDSM experience I have ever had. Strangely I only realise this in hindsight. I meet my slave for one to one play as often as we can manage to fit it in around busy lives and the various scene events we both like to attend. Usually these sessions are not unlike the sort of session a pro domme might have with a client, except that I feel free to experiment and that we know each other well and can have bits of intimacy that would not be appropriate in a professional context.

Last week we had the opportunity to book a filming suite for four hours so I immediately thought role play. The suite did not have much in the way of play equipment but an office, a school room and a bed. It was, therefore, eminently suitable for what I had in mind.

I enjoy roleplays not least because they locate the play in the heads of the participants and are a challenge to my imagination. I do not have a lot of the practical skills with rope and so in that many dom/mes have, but I do have a rich, lively and sadistic imagination. I also have a rich fantasy life, much if it dark and about which I am generally reluctant to talk. In this sense the scenario that I chose was an act of trust in my sub. For me acting out the scene was as much an act of self revelation as were his reactions to what I did to him. And as he absorbed himself in his role and get deeper and deeper into the dark places I had prepared, he drew out my sadistic impulses and I turned up the pain to levels he had not previously experienced with me and which, I think, he was only able to endure because he was so deeply in role.

At the end of the session he was shaking and crying. For him the experience had been terrifying real and as he put it to me his mind was “totally fucked.” I was in a different place too and have spent quite a bit of time reflecting on the feelings and urges the scene unleashed in me. I came face to face with a part of myself that I do not always like to think about. And I find myself thinking whether the boundary between consensual non-consent and non-consent is as firm as I would like it to be.

And I have learned too about the power of role play and specifically the power it gives me. I need to learn how to use this better. The scene was never out of control and the safety of my sub never in question but it is only over the last few days that I have understood the emotional power of the forces I was unleashing. I will drop my sub again into a dark abyss or two in our role play but I have to be damn sure I can bring him back.

Trans Women, The New Misogynists?

Some time ago I lay on my bed, closed my eyes and tried to imagine being pregnant. I then imagined myself giving birth, holding my newborn child, bonding with it. I fell into a deep, beautiful sleep from which I awoke with a feeling of desperate emptiness. I felt my body, its curves, its contours and felt a sudden disgust at a body that was not fertile, not fruitful, would never know certain core feminine experiences.

I got over this, not least because of my some wonderful sex with both men and women, and I now love my trans body. But bodily self disgust is, I think, something that transgender people are quite prone to.   Many speak of feeling trapped in the wrong body but most know deep down that no hormones and no surgery can ever, quite, give them the right body. All trans women know that there are differences between them and cisgendered women, know too that many key issues for women can never affect them directly. We reflect on these and our reflection colours and patterns our relations with our cisgendered sisters.

I, and many trans women, actively support the struggle for reproductive rights,  the right og women to decide for themselves what to do with their bodies. We have cis women friends, confidants, lovers. Yet, however we engage with cis women, the radical feminists continue to abuse us as “mentally ill gay men” “drag queens” “not real women” and so on.  And, in a new tack, a recent blog posts suggested that we are misogynists,  seeking to erase “real” (that is biologically female) women in order to further our own unjustified claim to be women, that we privilege our struggle over that of cis women,  and that, ultimately, trans rights are fundamentally incompatible with women’s rights. This explains the rad fem furore over Government suggestions that the current intrusive,  medicalised and bureaucratic, process for gender reassignment should be replaced by one of self certification, based possibly on the system that has operated for two years in the Irish Republic.

Much of the claims made are nonsense. For example trans people do not require a Gender Recognition Certificate to use toilets corresponding to their self identified gender and the idea that a man would go to the trouble of putting on a dress and make up just to invade women’s spaces to sexually assault them always seemed farfetched.  As we have seen recently it is far from necessary for a man to do this in order to assault women. These arguments also elide areas where the stuggles overlap. For example, bathroom bans in certain US states have led to the ejection of cisgendered women from the ladies’, allegedly for not looking feminine enough.  The control of trans bodies is actually an aspect of the control of the bodies of all women.

Am I a misogynist? I have a number of close women friends who have supported me in my transition, who have shown me love and been there for me when I needed them. These are women who can relate to me as a woman and want to be part of my life. Do they consider me a misogynist? I cannot recall meeting a woman in recent times who was not wholly comfortable with trans women. The women I know encompass a wide age range, a wide variety of backgrounds and levels of education.  I suggest that they represent a representative cross section of the female population. I suggest too that the radical feminists, as in many other questions, are simply not where the majority of women are.

Do I want to erase women? I do not. The simple fact is I could not live without them.

At Club Pedestal

I have finally been to Pedestal. This was actually my first ever event outside the West Midlands.  I guess I had been a bit reluctant to go to an event in London having heard the stories about how unfriendly people, kinky people too, in the Big Smoke. I needn’t have worried. I met my friend Voodoo Queen at the Beehive pub near The Oval which is a regular pre Pedestal meeting place and we soon got chatting to other out of town kinksters, including a few out of country people. Then there were a couple of familiar faces from Birmingham. WE chatted, drank and soon it was time to head off.

The club where this is held is in the arches underneath Vauxhall station, and is a much bigger place than you realise when you go in, with several side rooms and a large outdoor area at the back. WE wtached the performances, we danced, we chatted to people (and there, of all places, the “what are you doing here” line seemed particularly bizarre) and I did a bit of trampling in the trample cage.

But Pedestal is not really a place to play. Rather you go to show off your fetish finery, people watch and absorb the atmosphere.  And it was fun, eevn though I didn’t last till 5 am. Actually we were offered a lift back to Birmingham so the 5.27 train from Euston had to manage without us.

An enjoyable evening then, just a shame I didn’t get to catch up with Trample Temptress who was still on te door when we left. Next time I will try and go the distance. Back in Birmingham I went to my local cafe for a full English breakfast and a mug of sweet tea before heading home to bed, just as my neighbours were setting off for work. and, you know, lying in  bed can be a great way to spend a day. Particularly with so many pleasant memories.

A Few Thoughts on Face Sitting

I love sitting on my slave’s face, as much as he loves feeling my bottom press down on him, the softness of my panties, the weight that restricts hos breathing the tantalising closeness of my genitals,  the aromas of my animal sexuality. I love too the helplessness of his position, the easy accessibility of his nipples, his penis, his balls. Facesitting is sensual but, as a sadist, I cannot allow him to enjoy too much sensuality without the spice of a little excruciating pain.

But until last week, I had never sat on his face outside a BDSM context, naked, pantyless, offering him my crack to lick, feeling the delicious rub of his stubble, the tongue working its way round. I leaned forward not to torture him but to take hos delicious cock in my mouth, to lick his balls, to enjoy the groaning not of pain, but of pleasure anticipated, pleasure that could still be denied, if I was to  switch back into domme mode. Or maybe I never leave domme mode, maybe the sexual and the BDSM elements of our relationship have become so deeply intertwined that they can no longer be separated. And this is not always good news for him because  it adds to his uncertainty, knowing that he could be denied what he most craves, that I might ruin his orgasm, just because I can.

But last week I didn’t. As I felt the delicious abrasion, felt his cock harden in my mouth,  I was just so horny. I needed orgasms and quickly and if he had one too, well that’s all part of the fun too. Sometimes good service needs to be rewarded.

Fucked In The Forest

He is driving, observing me nervously in the rear view mirror. I feel the revolver in my bag. I wait for my moment. He turns to look at the road ahead. I lean forward, push the revolver against the nape of his neck.

Below us a reservoir shimmers in the sun and beyond that, the ugly outer suburbs of the Second City extend towards the gleaming towers of the city centre. He pulls the car roughly over the kerb and parks on the grass. I push the cold metal of the gun hard against the base of his skull.

I get out of the car first, cover him as he gets out.  He has a spade in the boot. I know that.

I open the boot and see the silver spade. I make him take it out and walk through a gate into the wood.  I walk behind him, pistol in hand, safety catch off.

He carries the spade. I notice him shaking.

We stop in a clearing in the middle of the wood..

I order him to dig.

He shivers, takes up the spade.

He digs in silence. He is seating It is a sultry day.

He works rhythmically, digging and throwing the soil behind him to his left. The soil piles up as he the grave deepens. I see that he is tiring. He looks at me pleadingly. Whether for a respite from the work, or for mercy I do not know.

The grave is shallow, barely two feet. I like the sound of the words. I imagine them on the front page of a newspaper. Shallow grave.  Two feet is deep enough.

I order him to undress.

He undresses. I motion to him and he lies down in the shallow grave. I see fear in his eyes. HE is looking at the trees, at the leaden sky, the sickly sun trying o break through. He is not looking at me. He does not want my face to be the last thing he sees.

I put the gun to his temple. I am wet, my gorged clit is brushing against my panties. I am fucking horny. I am gagging for it. In five seconds time I will be a killer. I will summon my lover. We will fuck on top of this shallow grave.

He will lie inches beneath us. His body will still be warm. It will start to turn sour and decompose even as we fuck. I will have killed in cold blood. This turns me on.

I pull the trigger. He sighs and shrugs at the empty click. He sinks back. He thinks he has been shot. This is the ultimate mindfuck. .

He twitches, moans.   He is still alive. He cannot believe the he is alive.

I make him stand up.

I lie in in the grave. I spread my legs. I play with myself and make him watch.

I order him to fuck me. He looks at me. I point the pistol at him, take aim. He kneels down, plays with himself.  He is quickly hard. Precome is dribbling from the bellend.

There is no foreplay. I do not want foreplay. I want to be fucked hard here in this shallow grave. I am thinking of death. I want him to hurt me. I am wet but wish I wasn’t. I wish he could force his way into a dry, narrow cunt. . I want him to be sore from fucking me.

He goes down on me. I twist his nipples hard. He yells with pain. I pull him onto me by the hair. I dig my manicured fingernails into his back as he pumps. I drag them down his back.

My nails are freshly polished. They are red and they gleam. They are the colour of oxygenated blood.

I drag them down his back like a plough. I feel skin accumulate under my nails.

He begins to cry.

I arch my back. He pushes in deeper. He thrusts harder. He is working to dull the pain.

I move a finger down and place it on my clit. I want us to come together.

He moans. I scream. I feel his huge ejaculation dripping from my cunt onto the soil.

I look up to the trees. The sun has disappeared. It is getting cold.

I hand him the pistol.


With the grim inevitability of the humourless, authoritarian and puritanical Theresa May being returned as Prime Minister with  a larger majority on June 8th , difficult times await for all those of us who are into BDSM or any kind of alternative forms of sexual expression. This is why we should get behind campaigning organisations like Backlash UK. This is  exactly what a number of us  who know each other from Eroticon are going to be doing on Saturday 1st July when we spend 12 hours chained to our laptops writing filth. Some of us are meeting in London while others are taking part remotely but joining the party via Skype.

We are, all of us, perverted or debauchd, both (me!) , or simply see sexual self- expression as fundamental to our identity. The battle against censorship and puritanical legislative restrictions on what we do with our bodies is a fight for everyone. But it is laso our personal battle. Please support us



Taking Liberties

I have had a few weeks away from the scene for various reasons and this has coincided with a return of my anxiety. It is never far from the surface and can bubble up unexpectedly, a bit like the eczema I also suffer from.I woke up on Sunday feeling detained having hardly slept.  To be honest, I was dreading the day of kink that lay ahead.

Yet I went to bed feeling deeply happy. Maybe time spent with scene friends, old and new, was just what I needed.  And quality time with my slave. I popped into the BBB for an hour or so and caught up with few people before heading off to Leicestershire to what has become one of favourite places for kink events, Liberty Elite.

If you imagine how a 1970s swingers club probably looked like it won’t be a lot different from Libs and I mean that as a compliment. It is well appointed, extremely comfortable and has a decent sized play area where slave’s bottom received some long overdue attention.  There was a lovely buffet and we sat outside to enjoy what little sun there was. And this is the best bit. Libs has a patio and a large grassed area. It is also in the middle of nowhere  which means you can play outdoor 🙂

had taken a pair of boots and walked the grounds looking for some mud to get on them, for licking off purposes. sadly it was too dry although my slave did get to 2 laps of the field in honour of London Marathon day. But I am really hoping the next afternoon event will be after a day or two of heavy rain. Then I will have my fun.

Not Such an Ugly Mug

On my real name Facebook account I have a group of friends I have never met, men and women from all over the world who have connected with me because of a shared interest in sex workers’ rights. I really value these connection s with these people who are a mix of sex workers and activists, sometimes both. They are all deeply committed and fiercely intelligent, a number of them prominent in the struggle. I am honoured that they wanted to connect with me. I want to talk briefly about one of them.

Alex Feis-Bryce announced this week that he is standing down as Chief Executive of Ugly Mugs after five years in the job. Ugly Mugs (the name comes from an Australian term for a rogue punter) is a project launched with Home Office funding and with the support of the police,   to promote sex workers’ safety. Sex workers can sign up and receive e-mail warnings of potentially violent punters, make reports, anonymously if they prefer, and also report incidents to the police. There are links too to the Merseyside Model under which offences against sex workers are prosecuted as hate crimes.  Fundamental to the success of this is sex workers feeling that they can trust the police.

The biggest threat to this comes from the strident and seemingly tireless advocates of the “Nordic Model” under which the purchase of sex would be criminalised (as it has been in Sweden since 1999). Advocates claim that it involves the decriminalisation of the sex workers themselves although, in practice, the introduction of criminalisation of clients in both parts of Ireland has NOT involved the lifting of legal prohibitions on, for example, working together  for safety. These advocates, including many MPs (Jess Phillips, Harriet Harman, Carolinse Flint and Gavin Shuker to name but four) believe that sex work is “violence against women” although they seem oddly uninterested in actual violence against sex workers. Indeed some police officers in Sweden have said on record that they believe it to be acceptable collateral damage that will discourage others from going into sex work. But it is clear to me that by driving a wedge between police and sex workers it will make them less safe. This is why the struggle for sex workers’ rights, and the battle for decriminalisation are inseparable from the wider work of Ugly Mugs.   As Ugly Mugs has grown under Alex’s leadership he has become an effective and articulate advocate.

What has this to do with BDSM? The answer is that professional providers of domination (or submission) are also sex workers. Indeed the term covers a very wide range of service providers. including men. Some pro- dommes that I engage with online actively support the struggle even if there are others who, disappointingly, reject the label.  But I think there is a further point, which is that political attacks on sex workers are part of a wider backlash against the free expression of sexuality.

Alex is moving on but leaves a strong legacy.  I would like to thank him for all he has done and wish him all the best for the future.  And, dear reader, I hope that you will too..