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Studio bondage

We didn’t get caught, which was a shame because I bet Roland, millionaire businessman that he is, would’ve still gone as red as a little boy when caught taking shots up some girl’s pussy. Bet he would. And I could be all, ‘Help, he exploited me! He lured me here under false pretences with promises of taking clothed photos and building up a portfolio and making me a proper model!’

On an unrelated note, someone who read this blog has told me that my writing is really good. I don’t think it is, but a few people have said this. However, I can’t help but notice that my writing goes off on tangents -like this one – and isn’t very descriptive of, say, the studio, restaurants, etc. Anyway, I’m very flattered to be told this by someone who isn’t my friend in real life (because their opinions would be biased in my favour, and a couple of them have read my stories and poems which are better than this blog.)

I suggested he squirt the cream on – as Roland said, because I didn’t use the word and he (maybe) thinks I can’t talk dirty – “your pussy” (said with relish, like a naughty spankable company director) and lick it off. Which he did, though it didn’t bring me to orgasm. Was good, though. He made me wriggle and squirm and moan, though sometimes the feeling was too powerful or painful – but mostly really good, better than last time in his office even.

 

He went on for a long time, long after all the cream was gone (idea for a product: low calorie sex cream, “Be a whore! You won’t get fat no matter how many people you do!”)  and watched me intently the whole time. Then he stopped.

I was lying on my back, worrying about the cleanliness of the floor – which wasn’t very clean – anyway, Roland blindfolded me. He asked first, which was nice. He’s a good boy.

Then he put handcuffs on me. “Now, those are locked and I’ve got the key,” he said.

I could not believe I was actually lying naked on the floor of a possibly unlocked studio while a richguy had the key to the handcuffs – I don’t trust rich people, especially millionaires.

He wrote ‘whore’ on my chest with red crayon. Then he snapped some pics and, after a bit, my eyes adjusted to the blindfold and I could see him clearly. My vision isn’t good, but I have great night vision, so maybe that helped.

I giggled and said “I can see you.” He rearranged my blindfold but my eyes adjusted to it again in a little while. Roland took lots of pics, then he removed the blindfold, though this didn’t make a big difference to what I could see by this time.  I said, “If you put the key in my mouth I could probably unlock them [the handcuffs].” Roland smiled. “Actually, they just pop open,” he said, pressing a button on the side, “you could’ve opened them yourself the whole time.”

That made me giggle. “You lied!”

“Yes, I lied.” He was pretty proud of himself.

 

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SM and the double standard

Gagnon and Simon coined the term sexual script to describe the norms of sexual interaction and maintenance of relationships specific to each gender. While men are encouraged to enhance their skills via multi-partner experience, women are compelled to avoid this lest they are labelled promiscuous (Linsey 2011,  Peplan and Hammen 1977; Radlove 1983). As a result of these gender-differentiated scripts in which the male is honoured and permitted to express his sexuality while the female’s sexuality is degraded, denied and ultimately forbidden to her, “Women may perceive themselves as sex objects, not sex actors” (Phelps 1979). Perhaps the adventurousness of s/m is a route to becoming a ‘sexual actor’.

The double standard necessitated a virgin/whore dichotomy which still exists in some form today whereby women’s choices are constrained because men wanted to marry sexually repressed women but sleep with less repressed women (Frith 1976:66; Lees 1983:51; Whyte 1943) which forced girls to accept the repression and monogamous submission.(Willis 1978:45; Wilson 1978:72). Boys demonized ‘sluts’ Lees 1983:51; Wilson 1978:71; Whitehead 1976:179).

The double standard stems from a sexist and biological-determinist Freudian view of human sexuality. Dinnerstein concludes that “What the double standard genuinely hurts in women is…self respect…” which ultimately leads to the crippling of  “human pride” (Dinnerstein in Williams and Stein 2002). Dinnerstein’s article is of particular relevance to the issue of s/m as the typical sm-er is white and middle-class.

However sometimes women themselves may demonise and police their sisters. Wilson (1978) claimed that women policed the sex codes themselves, but only within the framework policed by men. A recent example of this occurring in the political sphere is Nadine Dorries MP’s Private Members Bill (due for a second reading in January 2012) to teach compulsory abstinence education in all schools to female pupils but not male pupils. By placing the blame for rape, intercourse and pregnancy on women and denying their sexual agency as well as their right to have sex, Dorries is perpetuating the double standard. Recent examples of this occurring in the social sphere are widespread and a part of our daily lives; gossip, bullying, the use of words such as ‘slut’or ‘tart’ occurs in high schools and offices on a daily basis. Since these women are enforcing the double standard, I will refer to them as enforcers to distinguish them from ‘patriarchal’ sexual repression.

The double standard is harmful to women (Dinnerstein 2002; Heidensohn 1996).The creation of the double standard in its contemporary form is partly due to a nineteenth-century confusion of sex and morality. At first glance this appears nonsensical, as morality and sexual behaviour are two radically different entities, and are also different fields of academic study. However this idea of confusing the two is not as controversial as it seems – after all, no reasonable individual would assert that rape or paedophilia are moral or ethical – ample evidence that, as a society, we do apply moral standards to sexual behaviour. The male-dominated Victorian society enlarged this moral distinction between sex and rape by making sexual repression synonymous with morality. The relevant issue here is that women were – and, to a lesser extent, are – indoctrinated into confusing morality/ethics with sex; and ultimately conditioned into believing sexual repression is ethical and sexual exploration unethical. Thus they are made complicit in their own sexual oppression; this is especially so in the case of enforcers.

This begs the question of whether female sm-ers are acting as if ethics and/or human rights have prevailed over sexual repression, or whether they have successfully escaped internalising the double standard and therefore are not sexually repressed; having thoughts which are pure, free from the taint of repression, are they free to explore s/m? My research has proved inconclusive on this point. Whichever it is, women who do s/m are more likely to be challenging gender than doing gender, as s/m is sexual exploration – precisely what patriarchal society has forbidden them. As middle-class women are less constrained with gender roles and, arguably, the double standard attached to gender roles than working-class women, they may feel free to do s/m which may be one of the reasons why s/m is a predominantly middle-class crime. This is reminiscent of Adler’s theory that emancipation causes crime, and suggests that class is a factor in s/m.

Mocking sexism through s/m

Millet (1970) rejected the biological reductionist theorists and argued that women are forced to accept unequal gender roles, with the family fostering patriarchy in society. One woman’s re-enactment of sexism as an s/m scene vented her anger at her personal experiences of sexism (Easton 2007:224). Therefore it appears that s/m is not only a vehicle to challenge oppression, but also a means of psychologically dealing with the injustice by experiencing the sexism through a narrative or drama. S/m may also resolve inner conflicts caused by the conflict between indoctrination of the code of sexual repression and the individual’s natural biological sex drive and/or sexually adventurous personality. Although femsubs could be construed as expressing passivity and obedience to patriarchal gender relations, as discussed above middle-class women are unlikely to subscribe to such notions and therefore it is probable that femsubs are mocking traditional gender roles, an opinion expressed in Califia (2002) and Thompson (1994); this is also similar to Weait’s (2006) assertion that s/m mocks the State and the legal system, which historically used torture to enforce laws.

 
 

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More Roland/spanking stuff!

“And who,” asked Roland, enunciating each word slowly and clearly, “did you agree to sell yourself to?”

I didn’t answer, and he whacked me again.

“To you,” I said, as miserably as when I’d been tormented in the dungeons of the KGB when I was nine, in my fantasies. (As a kid I had a minimal enough knowledge of that issue to enable both disapproval/fear of the KGB and fantasising about what they might do).

“You have sold yourself to me,” he announced to the camera, “And I think that is very naughty, it’s a very dirty, disgusting thing to do, to sell her first time-” he flicked the tails over my bum again and I yelped even though I was trying not to -“to make a deal to sell her virginity” – the flogger smacked down and I wriggled -“Now that is disgusting and such a girl would deserve to be punished…” he said softly and whacked me again.

I whined “Tht’s not fair, you wanted to buy me so why would you punish me for giving you what you want?”

“Oh no,” he smirked proudly, “You offered your body for sale. You made a deal.Was that not what we were to discuss in the restaurant? You made an offer which I merely accepted.”

He struck me, and kept hitting the same spots so it hurt a lot.

“You’ve been very bad, Queen Tut,” he said, “You deserve to be punished.”

Every time he whacked me it hurt more. Then he gave me a very hard swat and I writhed over the benchand cried for several seconds. “That was pathetic,” he said, like in the story (Kemet 1).

Then he laughed and smacked it into my labia and it didn’t hurt at all even though it was a powerful smack; it just felt good and a few minutes later he did it again, and that time was even better. He beat me harder and harder (or so it felt)  and I started to cry harder and even though  sometimes I kept still and didn’t make a sound, most of the time I would.After several minutes of him flogging me and me wriggling, squirming and crying, he brought out the cane.

He asked me how many strokes I thought I deserved and I said two, but he had a grin on his face and he said six would be more appropriate. The first stroke was intense, it made the whole of me tense up and then go limp. I couldn’t see how I’d get through all six of them. The second burned even more and after the third, Roland asked if I wanted to stop and I didn’t want to but a part of me did, and I nodded. As he untied me I realised I was crying a lot. He untied me and held me close and said “It’s good to know your limits. And your limit is the cane. And we won’t use the cane again.”

 

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The flogger

So there I was, tied over the bench. As he listed out my naughty deeds, he smacked me with the flogger-it stung and the sting radiated out all over my bum. After two whacks, he swung harder , pausing after each stroke to take in the effect it had on my bottom. I tried not to make a sound but I squealed almost every time I felt the hot sting, and it felt almost solid not like felt strips cascading onto my skin. Sometimes the bench rocked a little. His eyes were shining with that purest delight, the joy that is only found in the flesh of others. I knew what he felt because I felt it too; I couldn’t stop staring at him (in between each stroke) and I wished he would take his clothes off and be naked so I could see him..I was watching all the time so see if he was getting hard from spanking me, but I couldn’t tell. There should be a law that all men must wear tiny little shorts that are nice and tight. Except the fat or ugly ones. I just remembered that when I was 13 and started a petition not to have to wear school uniform, my friend who was in my class said that I should make the petition say that all boys should wear a thong, except the ugly ones. As it happened, I stuck with the idea of just petitioning against school uniforms. (I gave it to the headteacher, because it was the headteacher who convened and chaired the Pupil Council. Everyone whose name was on it got called to her office the next day and asked why they had signed it and who had asked them to sign – despite the fact I already told her it was my idea and had started with my friends, which was why I was the one who was handing it in to her. Some signatories’ parents were called and told thert kids had signed a petition.That was the last we heard of it. I think the questioning/calling parents of signatories is discouraging free speech.And petitioning the pupil council or school was not against the school rules; it was done in a non-disruptive, nonviolent way at break time and lunchtime and not in class time.)

Anyway, that was one massive digression, but lying over that bench I wanted to see if he was hard or not. It was amusing seeing how a professional businessman could become controlled by physical drives, with only one goal in mind and a lust that must be satisfied. Are we all instinctual, animals, at heart? I know that, when I spank him, it will feel even better than being spanked.

Roland flogged hard, questioning me about lying that I was about to commit suicide. (I did it because the guy I lied to (who lives in America) has a habit of telling me the most ridiculous lies, which he gets me to believe, then mocks me for being gullible. I’ve tried to get him to believe lies back, but  never been able to get him back for it until I told him I was going to kill myself, which he believed and called the Dept. of Health, Scottish Government and finally the Lothian and Borders police, who, with the help of a lecturer I knew who lured me to where they were waiting under the pretext of a conversation, ambushed me in a University building just after my last exam. I told them it was a joke and apologised for wasting police time. Luckily, they believed me.Five minutes later I met Roland at the restaurant.)

Roland, after briefly flogging me for offering pornography for sale, now brought up the subject of my fake suicide.

“You caused him to worry,” he stated, scraping the flogger’s warm tails over my bum. He whacked me and I jumpd slightly, yelping.

“And he worried so much, he called the police,” Roland continued, rubbing the flogger over my skin, then swatting me hard. I burst out laughing at how funny it was that the guy who had laughed time and time again at my gullibility had finally believed my lie. And called the police, creating a huge drama! How funny and interesting my life was! Roland stood there for a while, totally nonplussed and watching me carefully. (He told me later that at first, he didn’t know whether it was laughing or crying. Then he thought ‘I’ve got to stop her laughing’.) And he did. He slapped the flogger into my bottom hard and I squealed in pain as stinging fire raged across my cheeks; then he did it again, and again until I was screaming.

Then the blows fell lighter, and he stopped and said, “Where did you go for lunch today?”

“The Tower,” I murmured.

“And what did you discuss?” he pressed, looking towards the camera.

“…Stuff.”

He bent closer to me. “What kind of stuff?”

“Selling stuff.”

“And what was it you agreed to sell? Was it…yourself?”

“Yeah.”

 

 

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Tied over a carpentry bench

I rubbed my bum for a while and then Roland dressed me in a black and gold corset, sliding sheer black over-the-knee tights up my legs. My toenails were bright red like my fingernails and underwear so it looked pretty good. Roland tied a pink strap around my wrists so my hands were tied behind my back. I felt completely restrained and helpless, and even a little panicky because I thought that if I had to run (e.g. if there was a fire, or someone was in the building) then I wouldn’t be able to move.

“If you really want to, you can get out of that,” he told me, and I felt calmer as I surreptitiously tried my bonds and realised this was true and my hands were much freer than it appeared. Roland had me kneel on the sofa, my hands bound and knickers pulled down so that my freshly spanked behind was displayed. He took lots of photographs of me bound and bent over. He tried to put bunny ears on me but they kept falling off; I was able to readjust them sometimes, though with difficulty, even with my hands bound (if I contorted myself). He took photos of me kneeling over the arm of the sofa and kneeling on the carpet with my front on the sofa. I think he took around 200 photos.

Then he removed the door handle and said “You can get out but nobody can get inside, because the only way in is with this.” He put it on the windowsill. Roland went out into the large space outside the door which was empty apart from debris and stuff from the renovation. He came back, knocked and I opened the door; he was dragging what he called a “carpentry bench” that the workmen had left behind. It was about 60cm long and 50cm wide, with four sturdy black metal legs.

I felt intriuged as I looked at it, and a tad apprehensive, but mostly just impatient to be tied over it. Roland configured his video camera.

I walked over to the carpentry bench and he bent me over it; “All the way over,” he said, and my hands were nearly touching the ground. He started pulling out snaking lentghs and loops of bright pink and purple rope from his bag of goodies. “It’s bondage rope,” he said. “I got it in a shop in Soho.” He tied my legs, and I eased my arms into a position so they wereroughly symmetrically positioned and easier to be restrained. I was a little nervous because I’d never been tied up or even handcuffed before. Although I wasn’t deliberately paying attention, it was obvious to me that Roland was tying very loose, easily untied knots, using big loops instead of single strands. (I know nothing of knot-tying, but I rather suspect that my instincts lead me to observe details when they percieve a potentially threatening situation, especially as regards freedom of movement.)

Roland pulled something else out of his goodie-bag and it was a flogger/cat o’ nine-tails. Its pink and blue stripey design, and its tails, reminded me of the flail in my story (“Kemet”). I said so.

Roland moved behind me.

“Why am I being spanked?” I asked, grinning.

“Do you want a list?” he said, savouring the words.

“Yes. List it to the camera.”

“You are being spanked,” he declared, “For offering to post pornographic drawings, for lying to that guy through emails that you were going to commit suicide, and he was worried and called the police, and for agreeing to sell me your virginity. Your first time.”

 

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