It was Kev’s birthday party at Miss Ts. I was wearing my new polka dot dress with pockets and telling everyone it had pockets because that is a given. I was doing my hosting duties and when I wasn’t I was sitting between Kronopticon and Palantilin. I tell you, there’s something quite decadent about flopping down on a sofa between two hot guys, both happy for you to snuggle close and touch them. The two meanies hadn’t met before, but they seemed to bond quite happily over their mutual desire to hurt me.
I was glad to be of service.
It’s not every day that a guest blog gets me right in the heart as well as the knickers, but today’s amazing post by Emilia Romero did exactly that. It’s about freedom and loss and finding yourself, the end of a marriage and the beginning of a love of BDSM. It’s beautiful and hot and painful in all the best ways, and I’m honoured that she’s chosen to share it here.
When he asked me what I wanted, as my reward for winning the game, I think he expected me to demand pleasure. Orgasms, delivered by hand and vibrator, or his wet lips wrapped round my nipples. Maybe a good, hard fuck bent over the sofa. Instead I asked him for pain. “Whip me,” I told him.
Note, this post makes references to That Fucking Virus and These Weird Times.
Help me clear up a dilemma, those of you who are into BDSM: is it better to be flogged in jeans or a skirt? Or just naked? If you’re dispensing a flogging, do you prefer to start off with someone fully-clothed, then gradually strip them, building layers of new pain on top of the warm throb of older strokes? Or go straight in for leather-on-skin? Let’s explore this topic together, via the medium of me getting horny for flogging…
Do you remember the kids’ fable of Brer Rabbit and the briar patch?
I’ll refresh your memory: Brer Rabbit was a bit of a dick, and Brer Fox decided he didn’t like him much. He made a trap in which to catch Brer Rabbit, and Brer Rabbit walked straight into the trap. On catching him, Brer Fox (who thought he was cunning) wondered aloud what he should do with the rabbit now he’d caught him. Brer Rabbit shouted:
“I don’t care what you do, as long as you don’t throw me in the briar patch!”
“Anything?” said the fox, and at this point I think he could have benefited from a few lessons in critical analysis and not trusting sources with a huge vested interest. “You’d really want me to do anything rather than throw you into the briar patch?”
“Yes,” said Brer Rabbit. “Hang me, shoot me, eat me, just don’t throw me into the briar patch!”
So our hapless fox, who I remember feeling intensely irritated by as a small child, did the opposite of what the rabbit had requested, and he hurled Brer Rabbit into the briar patch. Brer Rabbit, who was also a bellend, danced for joy. Burning all of the bridges marked ‘potential future escape scenario’, he crowed that the briar patch was actually his favourite place to be.
“I was born and bred in the briar patch! Hahaha!”
What the fuck has this story got to do with flogging? I’ll tell you.
I rarely play the ‘briar patch’ game. Leather belts, canes, anything whippy with a biting sting is not to be trifled with. I’ll be up-front about my limits, and clear as day when I give feedback. If I’m being bratty and getting playfully punished, a thin cane gives a genuine reprimand. I’ll grit my teeth, bare my arse, and bite back yelps with each stroke.
The flogger, though? It’s my briar patch: I wasn’t born and bred with it, but ever since I started loving BDSM, it’s always been my happy place. My favourite flogger is heavy and thick – purple suede (obviously), with enough fronds that it falls like a thud. There’s a sting if you place it in certain ways – with the tails whipping round to catch me on the hip rather than the bottom. But if you can place it perfectly, right in the middle of one of the cheeks, I will moan and squirm like you’ve just kissed my clit.