e[lust] #64

Below is a copy of the November edition — Enjoy!

Elust #64

Cheeky minx
Photo courtesy of Cheeky Minx

Welcome to Elust #64 -

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #65? Start with the rules, come back December1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

On a special note I want to mention that the judges voting on Elust is often very close, this month more than most. You all do such fine work that it is very hard for us to come up with the final results.

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Ownership: On Sexuality & Feminine Relations

Tool Time

Seven – A Fairytale of Sorts

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

The Love Letter of O
To My Single Submissive Friends – Be Brave

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
What S/He Said: Pressing Stop

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Writing about Writing

How We Talk About Play

Erotic Fiction

The Warehouse
Taking Chance
The Little Mermaid
Trick or Treat
Bad Sex Turns Good
Shall We Dance?
Let’s Play a Game (Spuffy Erotica)
Firemen

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

A MakeLoveNotPorn Reality Check
Pondering Dildos as Art
Where does bdsm come from? Other species/
A Females Perspective on Extreme Feminists

Erotic Non-Fiction

Fucking on Facebook
A lot of Patience
Hands Away
Tall Dark and Handsome Pleasant Surprise
Torture His Balls. Tease His Cock.
Caning Sometime?
I Took my Pony Slave Shopping
Private Dancer
Earning Pleasure The Hard Way
At the Movies

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Finding Shelter in the Shadows.
My First Scarification
Q: “What’s stopping me from reporting owner?”
Squirting…Fact Not Fiction-Part 3

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Shiny Lesbian Syndrome
Communicate!
Losing it, asking for it
Celebration
How I Handle Being A Parent & Sex Positive
Sex as the most intimate performance
The crowded mirror
Sex Hangover

Poetry

Penisaurus – a Lusty Limerick

Blogging

Sex toys are NOT required for fantastic sex
My paint brush is empty.

ELust Site Badge

 

Earning Pleasure The Hard Way

By Wheldrake, with my commentary.

When I began taking orders from My Lady back in 2012, I expected that putting some restrictions on my masturbatory activities would be fairly high on her agenda. However, she turned out to be surprisingly permissive on this point until just a couple of months ago, when she must have decided an invisible chastity belt would look good on her boy. Suddenly, my days of onanistic freedom were over, and I was only allowed to bring myself to orgasm if I fulfilled certain strict conditions.

[My interspersed remarks appear in italics like this. Celebration of International Masturbation Month (May) prompted the first set of restrictions. He had to request permission in advance, a system I found unsatisfying, in part due to differences in our time zones and email access.]

For June, the condition was that I needed to inflict some significant pain on myself, and send My Lady a report about the pain-infliction session illustrated with at least one photo, in order to earn the right to masturbate once to the point of ejaculation.

[My well-informed boy had told me that June 2 was the Marquis de Sade’s birthday.]

My Lady and I both thought that my report might make a good blog post, so it’s reproduced below – complete with a photo I took during the session, and with the little errors and infelicities that crept in as I typed.

 * * *

——– Original Message ——–

Subject:  Pain report

Date:  Fri, 13 Jun 2014 04:12:40

From: Wheldrake

To: Dilo Keith

The clamps are now nicely laid out on the desk by the computer, ma’am, ready to be picked up and applied to my tender scrotum and foreskin. I’m planning to report in “real time” over the course of a ten-minute session, like I did when I put the clamps on my nipples. Once again, the clamps are close to, but not quite at, their maximum tightness. I can feel a knot of nervous anticipation in my belly as I prepare to take the plunge. Scrotum first, or foreskin first? Scrotum, I think. It’s now 3:54 and I’ll start at exactly 3:55, for tidiness. Shit, I’m actually going to do this.

3:55. And we’re off. I’m already half-regretting the decision to put one on my foreskin, ma’am, because that’s the one that really hurts. The one on my scrotum is surprisingly bearable, and in fact I can hardly feel it at all. Perhaps that’s because the one on my foreskin is turning out to be so much of a distraction. I gasped in a way that I’m sure you would have enjoyed hearing when it bit down. Nevertheless, it didn’t hurt as much as clamping my nipples did last time.

3:57. The pain is now quite manageable, though there still a dull ache radiating from the foreskin clamp. I have to admit that I feel a bit of a sick twinge when I look down and see the metal biting into the most intimate parts of my anatomy. I’m sitting at the moment, and I guess I’ll feel more of the weight of the chain when I stand up to take photos. Let’s see what happens.

3:58. I’m now on my feet, ma’am, typing a bit more awkwardly. The weight of the chain is actually making the scrotum clamp hurt a little, though for some reason it’s not having much effect on the foreskin clamp. I feel like I’m getting off a bit too easy, so I’ll try bouncing up and down on my toes a bit.

 [Isn’t he delicious?]

4:00. Okay, that hurt, by shaking the foreskin clamp. I’ll take my photos, and then perhaps do a couple of jumping jacks for the grand finale. Whew. The foreskin clamp is still hurting, actually, and I’m also dripping. I’ll wipe that up before taking the photos.

4:03. Fluid wiped up, and photos taken, one from the side and one from the front. The chain was swinging a bit as each photo was taken, so it’s slightly blurred, but you’ll get the idea. My genitals are clearly and fully exposed, of course.

[I assumed he included the last sentence for the reason you’ll learn below. For the purposes of exposing him to readers and providing visual documentation, one photo is enough.]

4:04. All right, time for the grand finale. My foreskin is probably going to hate me for this…

4:05. Ow! Three quick jumping jacks, but yes, my foreskin suffered. It felt like it was tearing loose, and the chain really rattled, too. Time for the clamps to come off.

4:06. Removal wasn’t too painful, and it was a relief to see the metal jaws relinquish their grip. I’ll attach the photos, ma’am, and then proceed with whisky-drinking and general winding-down. I’m already looking forward to tonight’s orgasm, which will feel well-earned if I think back to those jumping jacks.

[He earned an additional reward for this performance.]

 * * *

The orgasm did indeed feel well-earned. Another consequence of that session, or more specifically of the photos I took, is that My Lady has now seen my penis – as have you, dear reader. She doesn’t seem to think her newfound visual acquaintance with what she calls my “boy bits” is any big deal, but I feel as though I’ve just surrendered one of the last bastions of my privacy and taken another significant step into deeper vulnerability and subservience. I’m sure many more steps still lie ahead.

S & M (Semantics And Meanings): Slave

I think of myself as My Lady’s submissive, or simply her boy, rather than her slave. In a lot of ways, I must admit, the level of control she exercises over me approaches what might seem appropriate for a slave: I have to sleep in a leather collar with a little metal tag that has the equivalent of “Dilo Keith’s” on one side and “BT 005″ (because I’m apparently the fifth “boytoy” she’s taken in hand over the years) on the other, I’m not to eat chocolate or masturbate to orgasm without her permission, I can only wear underwear of certain colours, and there’s a limit on how much alcohol I’m allowed to drink late at night when I’m home alone. These rules aren’t terribly onerous, but I’m well aware that she could choose to tighten them up or add new ones at any time. She’s already hinting, for example, that there’s going to be some kind of mandatory exercise regimen in my life pretty soon.

On the other hand, I have outside commitments that preclude throwing myself at My Lady’s feet and declaring that she’s welcome to tattoo me, brand me, relocate me, lock me in her basement forever, give me to a friend, sell me to an interested party, send me off to join the Foreign Legion, or make me go cartwheeling down Main Street without any clothes on. At this stage of my life, I think I’d have to feel something close to that level of devotion to someone before being prepared to describe myself as her slave. Whether I would be brave enough to offer myself as a slave to My Lady if the outside commitments magically melted away is an interesting question, and whether My Lady would consider accepting the offer is another.

However, the line between submissive and slave will inevitably be fuzzy and subjective in societies that have dispensed with a legally binding form of slavery. Most of us probably have a sense that slaves are more deeply committed than submissives, metaphorically buried up to the neck in servitude rather than merely up to the waist, but I’m not aware of any specific, widely accepted criteria for distinguishing one kind of “s-type” from the other. Classifications, including the one by Diane Vera posted on this site, can be helpful in distinguishing among different kinds and degrees of submission but don’t provide an authoritative answer to the question of what level of surrender a person has to reach in order to qualify as a slave. This leaves us subservient men and women free to consult our own feelings, and of course the feelings of those who command us, and simply decide how best to describe ourselves.

If you are intensely devoted to another person, if you feel deliciously owned and controlled, you might prefer to call yourself either a slave or a highly dedicated submissive. If you have a more casual relationship with a dominant, you might call yourself either a submissive or a slave who serves on specific, limited terms – historically, after all, slaves were sometimes quite independent of their owners. Either way, you might also identify as a servant, boy, girl, slut, bitch, pet or plaything, or as something else entirely. Regardless of who ends up with what label, we can still learn – and take vicarious pleasure – from each other’s experiences.

Do you identify yourself, or identify someone who follows your instructions, as a slave or submissive? If so, how did you decide which word to use?

Playing Dress Up

I rarely have any reason to dress up in formal attire, but to my chagrin I got invited to an event that demanded a suit and tie. I find that type of clothing fussy and uncomfortable, and I particularly don’t like the feeling of a shirt collar done up around my neck – ironically enough, considering that I wear My Lady’s leather collar whenever I’m home alone and not in the shower. It’s the only thing I wear to bed at night, and I can feel its slight weight on the back of my neck as I type these words. However, I’m allowed to keep My Lady’s collar quite loose, and I’ve had nearly a year to get used to its presence. By contrast, I’m definitely not used to shirts that have to be buttoned up all the way.

So, I was trying on clothes in front of the mirror one night, trying to work out what to wear to the event. The dreaded top button posed even more of a problem than usual, and in most cases I literally couldn’t push it through the hole. Had my neck somehow become thicker in the many moons since I last had to perform this ritual? It seemed unlikely. Perhaps I simply wasn’t putting enough effort into my attempts?

I did get the top button of one shirt done up, but then found I couldn’t easily undo it again. As I flirted with a deeply non-erotic form of asphyxia, however, I suddenly realised that the collar I had just fastened around my neck with considerable effort wasn’t the only one I was wearing.

My Lady has never explicitly said that I’m allowed to temporarily remove her collar when trying on dress shirts. However, I think she’ll forgive me for unbuckling the thing and setting it aside for the remainder of my sartorial session, which went more smoothly with the impediment removed. If I’m lucky, she’ll even take this incident as a pleasing indication of how accustomed I’ve become to the band of tough leather that symbolises my acquiescence to her firm and intimate control over my life, rather than merely the latest proof of her boy’s absent-mindedness. Either way, I hope that she – and you – will find it amusing. Surrendering to a woman like My Lady can lead to pain, pleasure and submissive ecstasy, but it can also lead to moments that seem more like a brief comedy sketch than a page of Venus in Furs.

BDSM Vignette: A Knight Offers His Sword

Writing the previous post about chivalry got me musing about an alternative model of knightly service, in which the knight’s “lady” was more of an active taskmistress and tormentor than a passive recipient of adoration and protection. What would that look like, and how would it play out? Read on for a quick fictional sketch.

***

The knight had removed his helmet but was otherwise in full armour when he walked into the throne room of a high lady of the realm, accompanied by a squire who was hardly more than a boy. The lady received the knight courteously, before various servants and assembled lesser nobles, and listened without saying a great deal as he explained that he wished to offer his sword to her in appreciation of her beauty, grace and wisdom. Eventually, however, she decided it was high time to warn him about what being in her service would entail.

“If you swear your oath to me, sir knight, I will require from you not only devotion but also humility and obedience. I will not send you into battle lightly, but when I do you must fight and kill for me with the utmost courage. Otherwise, your sword will remain in its sheath, no matter how provoked you may feel. If I command you to undertake long journeys through the perilous wilderness, it will be for my own purposes, which I may not fully reveal to you. If I find fault and choose to punish, you must bear it manfully and without complaint. If I set you to any task, however menial, dirty or degrading, I will expect you to bend to it with alacrity. My courtiers know well that I am a woman of strong appetites, which extend to watching men writhe in my torture chambers, and you will be at my disposal in both the dungeon and the bedroom.”

The knight flushed red, not angered but certainly confused and disconcerted. “With due respect, my lady, do you desire a knight or a slave?” he asked finally.

“I would not ask a slave to fight my battles and defend my castle, just as I would not ask an ordinary soldier to toil in my fields or submit his body to my lusts. To do all of those things is the place of a knight, or at least of any knight who wears my favour on his lance. Do not think that you are the first man to dream of offering me his sword. The others merely took to their heels when they heard what I intended to ask of them, and if you do the same I will not hold it against you.”

The knight thought for a long moment, while the servants and courtiers exchanged nudges and whispers. When he spoke, however, his voice was firm and clear. “I will not take to my heels, my lady. My sword is yours, if you will have it, and I will serve you in any manner you might require.”

She nodded slowly and turned to the squire, who could not help flinching slightly when her sea-grey eyes suddenly bored into his. “And you?” she asked. “I will not try to make a plaything of you, except perhaps if you choose to pledge your own sword to me after you win your knightly spurs. If you wish to be a squire in my household, however, you must obey me and assist your master in every aspect of his service, whether that might mean polishing his armour or helping him prepare for a night stretched out in my bed.”

“I will be honoured to obey you and assist him in every way, my lady,” the squire replied, though he trembled a little as he spoke.

“Very well.” She turned away to murmur something to a nearby servant, a dark-haired young woman in a blue robe. The servant favoured both knight and squire with an enigmatic smile, then slipped from the throne room.

“Your first duty,” the lady of the castle told the squire, “will be to help your master out of his armour.”

The court watched in silence, for the most part, as the squire went about the long and awkward business of relieving the knight of his coat of steel. A few minutes later, however, the knight stood before the lady in nothing more than his doublet, stockings and breeches.

“Well done,” she told the squire approvingly. “Now you may help your master out of his clothing.”

“Before all your court, my lady?” the knight exclaimed in shock.

“Indeed. I want them to see you swear your oath naked as the day you were born. Do not protest again, or I shall be displeased.”

A murmur of excitement slowly rose among the courtiers as the knight stripped, handing each garment to the squire to be folded and set aside.

“Kneel, both of you,” the lady told them calmly when the knight was nude. As they sank to their knees she seemed to look beyond them to catch the eye of someone on the other side of the throne room. They glanced cautiously in that direction, and saw that the servant in blue had returned with three powerfully built figures clad and masked in dark leather. One of them was clearly a woman, and in her hands she carried a bundle of glittering metal.

“Sir knight,” the lady said in a loud, clear voice, reclaiming their attention. “Will you serve me loyally, obey my commands, submit to whatever agonies and indignities I might choose to inflict, and defend my person, household and honour even to the death?”

“I will, my lady,” he replied simply.

“I thank you, good sir.” She turned again to the squire. “Will you obey me, and strive to help your master fulfill his duties in my service?”

“I will, my lady,” the squire affirmed, though the words came out in a breathy squeak.

“Thank you, boy.” She looked beyond them again, but only a little beyond, and the knight realised with a thrill of fear that the three newcomers had closed in behind him.

“Clap my knight in irons,” she told them.

The knight had been warned not to protest, so he forced himself to remain silent and unresisting as the two leather-clad men roughly seized his arms and the woman deftly applied heavy steel chains to his nude body. Manacles closed firmly around his wrists and ankles, and a collar embraced his neck.

“Your master will spend the first few weeks of his service in the dungeons,” the lady informed the squire, “partly for my enjoyment and partly to begin a rigorous higher education in the knightly virtues of obedience, endurance and humility. He will find that my guards and I are stern and demanding tutors. If you wish, you may share his confinement and some of its lesser hardships, and be of what little help to him you can. However, I will not force you, and you may choose instead to be put to work in my vegetable garden until your master emerges.”

“My place is by his side, my lady,” the squire insisted, trembling now like a leaf in the wind.

“An honourable choice,” she remarked approvingly, but an instant later her eyes flicked away. “Seize the boy,” she commanded in a very different tone, and the words had hardly left her mouth when one of the masked men took the squire in a tight grip and hauled him to his feet. “Lock him in the cell across from his master’s,” the lady continued. “He need not be stripped or chained, for the moment, but do not be unduly gentle with him.”

“Aye, my lady,” the huge man holding the squire replied in a voice like the scraping of iron on stone. His hands clamped down a little harder on the squire’s arms.

The lady waved a hand, dismissing guards and captives alike. “Take them to the dungeons to await my pleasure.”

The voices of the courtiers faded in the ears of the knight and squire as they stumbled towards the dark stairway that led down to the dungeons, the knight chained and the squire firmly held by a man far larger and stronger than himself. As they crossed the threshold the chill air of the dungeons wafted up into their faces, welcoming them into captivity. Tears welled up in the squire’s eyes, and even the knight – already a veteran of countless battles – blanched in abject fear.

Knightly Chivalry And Male Submission

One idea floating around in BDSM circles is that men who submit to women are like medieval knights, or at least that the knightly ideal defines one mode of submissive masculinity.

Think of King Arthur’s knights, bustling round the country with odd bits of feminine apparel waving from their lances – either running errands for some lady or questing for the Holy Grail (a transparent sex-symbol in itself). Twelfth century troubadours and Victorian pornographers worked with different imagery, but the emotions and archetypes are akin. Courtly love is transparent submissive fantasy:

Noble Lady, nothing do I ask of thee

But that thou shouldst take me for thy servant.

I would serve as one serves a good lord,

Whatever reward I might gain.

Behold, I am at thy command:

Sincere and humble, gay and courteous.

Neither bear nor lion art thou,

To kill me, as I here to thee surrender.

 

Bernart de Ventadorn (fl. c. 1150-1200?)

Creative Mythology, Vol.IV, p. 179

Joseph Campbell

That poem is very sweet, and echoes a good part of my feelings towards My Lady (I’m particularly glad that she isn’t a bear or lion). However, the surrender that knights traditionally offered to women seems incomplete to me, or even insincere. A knight was supposed to uphold his lady’s honour, undertake quests and perform glorious deeds in her name, and if necessary defend her to the death – but listening to her and doing what she said appeared to be a low priority. Guinevere didn’t get to tell Lancelot to stay home and muck out the stables of Camelot rather than going off to joust with yet another black knight. She didn’t even get to make him fight the people she considered enemies, as opposed to the ones he thought she needed to be protected from. She certainly didn’t tie him up and torture him for her pleasure, a point that doesn’t necessarily detract any further from her authority (perhaps Guinevere just wasn’t sadistic enough to be interested in doing any such thing) but does show that this “courtly love” business left out a facet of D/s that’s pretty important to some of us.

If I were going to dress up in armour and offer my sword to a queen or baroness, I’d want her to be more than a passive object of adoration and provider of a scarf to tie around my lance. Devotion and willingness to fight her battles would be important, but far from the whole story. I’d want the bejewelled lady in question to also be a firm and assertive taskmistress, prepared to decide whether I was going to spend a given weekend besieging Lot of Orkney, jousting with Uriens of Gore, looking for the Holy Grail, or indeed mucking out the stables. If I ignored her instructions or carried them out poorly, I’d expect to be taken out behind those same stables for a good thrashing, something else I don’t think ever happened to Lancelot. Ideally the bejewelled lady would have a wicked streak, like the enchantress Morgan le Fay, and would occasionally have me spend one of those weekends writhing in a torture chamber deep below the halls of Camelot.

As it happens, I’m not the only one who finds the idea of chivalry a bit lacking as a template for male submission.

Chivalry (and romance, which always seems to be monogamous) puts Woman, The Object of Desire, shiny, “pure,” “virginal,” and “good,” on a pedestal, only to be taken out by a man to sing odes to, to lay flowers at the feet of, to make promises to, until he no longer needs her and locks her back in her bower.

When described in those terms, chivalry doesn’t sound very submissive at all. I’m not surprised that there are dominant men, such as one Sir Real, who find the ideal of chivalry inspiring:

Second, I pride myself on being the consumate gentleman. I ascribe to the knightly principles of chivalry which include bravery, truth, honor, integrity, courtesy, and gallantry. In this context, the “Sir” aspect of the name appeals to me.

Bravery, truth, honour, integrity, courtesy and gallantry are great, but I’m sure Sir Real would agree that they don’t make a person submissive. Neither, really, does putting a woman on a pedestal and writing odes to her beauty. Submission is what might happen at the end of a long day’s ride, when the shadows were growing long and a brave knight errant was looking around for a likely place to pitch his tent. Seeing a faint light in the distance, he might spur his mount towards it, finding himself outside a little cottage with a thatched roof and a heathen rune scratched into the door. A hard-looking woman in a tattered cloak would appear when he knocked.

“Madam, kindly ask your husband if I might spend the night here before riding on at first light.”

She would look him up and down, eyes glinting.

“I have no husband, but you may share my bed if you do exactly as you are told and stay long enough to make breakfast.”

Part of him would be infuriated, of course. How dare a woman of low birth, some peasant slattern, presume to even contemplate taking him to her bed as an obedient plaything? It would hardly be unchivalrous to clamber back into the saddle and ride off to pitch his tent in some convenient clearing. But if I were writing the story, the knight would thank the woman for her hospitality, bow to her in all humility, and ask if he might take the time to see to his horse’s needs before going inside to see to hers.

Am I a Pervert?

To support my habit of making naughty doll scenarios, I’ve recently made several eBay purchases. The latest was a large collection of clothes for a certain 12-inch female doll. As I took this outfit out of the bag, an image of a rattan cane sprang to mind.

Image