The Elegant, Implacable Efficiency of Handcuffs

I can appreciate the visual appeal of a body in the embrace of elaborate Japanese ropework or the quirky creativity of immobilising a man in an upright coffin with an inflatable lining, but on the whole My Lady and I are both on a different and much more pragmatic page when it comes to bondage. The best restraints, as far as we’re concerned, are ones that permit a dominant (like her) to reduce a submissive (like me) to a state of abject powerlessness and vulnerability as easily as possible. It’s not about aesthetics, sensuality, the latest gear, or complexity for its own sake; it’s about making the dominant’s power over the submissive concrete, physical, and unchallengeable. A boy kneeling naked but unrestrained at a woman’s feet could, in theory, get up and run off at any moment. A boy chained by the ankle to a ring in the floor will be staying right there, like it or not, until someone lets him go. Chained ankles have their merits, but My Lady and I both have a particular appreciation for the elegant, implacable efficiency of handcuffs, especially when used to lock, say, a man’s wrists together behind his back. A few precise clicks of steel against steel, and the prisoner is abject and deliciously vulnerable, his arms unceremoniously rendered useless. He has no way to fend off hands groping the most intimate parts of his body, straps and canes licking at his flesh, even hungry mouths kissing, sucking or biting. He’s also easy to control, unable to mount much resistance against captors who might choose to drag him down the stairs to some hidden dungeon or perhaps bundle him into a vehicle so that he can be taken somewhere really scary. A man with his hands cuffed behind him is a man who is pretty much at someone’s mercy. Under normal circumstances, My Lady doesn’t have any way of subjecting me to that level of helplessness. We live far enough apart that she can’t generally even keep tabs on me except through the e-mail reports I’m required to send at least every couple of days, let alone put me in handcuffs or any other form of restraint. I obey her instructions and follow her rules because of the seriousness of my decision to voluntarily surrender to her authority, not because she has mechanisms in place to literally force me to do what she says. When the going gets tough, it’s my own commitment to being her servant, plaything and willing victim that makes me leave the nipple clamps in place for every second of the time she decreed, or stick to her limits on alcohol consumption when I would dearly love just one more drink, or take a deep breath and slide the butt plug deep into my subservient ass. When I visited her late last year, however, she took advantage of the situation to experiment with more tangible forms of control. Taking me to a kinky party in a house with an incredibly well-equipped basement gave her a golden opportunity. At one point I found myself being ushered by My Lady and one of our hosts into a cage that was low enough to make standing, kneeling or even sitting impossible, though I had plenty of room to stretch out on my front, back or side. After the cage door was closed and locked, though, they were quick to snatch away even that limited freedom of movement. They ordered me onto my back, cuffed my wrists to the bars on opposite sides of the cage, and cuffed my ankles together outside the bars at the foot. And there I was, unable to roll over or even scratch my itches, held immobile by leather and steel as the party went on around me. People ambled by, carried on conversations, sometimes even leaned or sat on the cage as they chatted. “Are you still there?” a woman asked me at one point, sounding amused. I was clothed all through this little ordeal, but my shirt was open, and eventually My Lady dropped by to check on me and reached into the cage to give one of my nipples a gentle pinch. Even if I’d been unrestrained, I would never have dared to try to stop her, or even to pull away. But knowing I physically couldn’t do anything to evade or fend off her touch took my sense of helplessness and subservience to a whole new level. The next day, My Lady and her partner did put me in handcuffs. However, they found it practical to lock my wrists together in front of my body, so I was spared the more abject helplessness of having them pinioned behind my back. Next time, I might very well not be so lucky.

Hints, Commands and Explicitness

I’m required to run all my posts by My Lady before I put them on the blog. Sometimes she waves them through, and sometimes she tells me to make changes. When I sent a draft of my earlier post on “hot dystopias”, she responded with:

I like your blog post overall and, in particular, your perspective on the eroticism you found in 1984.

I was gratified, naturally – praise from My Lady means a lot to me, partly because I’m under her control and partly because she’s sharp and discerning – but I was also in a bit of a quandary. She hadn’t actually told me whether to proceed with the post or not. After thinking about it briefly I published the post, but wrote back:

I went ahead and put up the blog post, ma’am, with the usual last-minute tweaks to the wording. You didn’t explicitly instruct me to post it, of course, but I took your positive evaluation of the post as a kind of implicit green light. I hope that wasn’t a mistake, or at least not one severe enough to make you decide to hand me over to the Thought Police.

This led to an e-mail exchange about communication styles and ways of conveying instructions. My Lady brought up the influence of gender:

I’ve been learning that men are less willing to make assumptions, even when the context or other factors makes the meaning quite clear…

My experience matches My Lady’s in that I do think men tend to be a little more explicit than women, and perhaps deal less well with lack of explicitness from others. I don’t pretend to understand the root causes of that general pattern, but in my own case I think there’s a personality-related reason and a D/s-related reason for my preference for explicitness.

The personality-related reason is just that I attach a lot of value to clarity. Once upon a time I was a bookish, awkward teenager, less than adept at reading social cues, and I learned that I often had difficulty understanding others and making myself understood. As a result, I worked hard to avoid misunderstandings, not always successfully. Many years later, I still have my moments of confusion in social situations, though they don’t happen as often as they used to. I’ve become better at parsing what people say, and interpreting what they do. I’ve also learned that when I don’t quite understand what’s going on, taking a minute to formulate and ask a couple of polite but direct questions can help immensely. When e-mailing or texting, I can take a bit more time and write rather than talk, so I find it even easier to put together the right questions when someone is communicating in a way I find vague or unclear. Nevertheless, I appreciate people who write and say what they mean, and I try to be equally direct with others even if I come across as a little blunt. It just seems better that way for everyone involved, although my concept of “better” may be unduly influenced by my preoccupation with avoiding misunderstandings.

My D/s-related reason is that I think explicitness is a quality that befits both submissives and dominants, for different reasons. When I write to My Lady about what I’ve been thinking, feeling and doing lately, or answer a question she’s asked, laying all the pertinent information on the table without any waffling or obfuscation is an act of submission in itself. If I have to report something that I find embarrassing or distasteful to discuss, or something I suspect will displease her, I often have to grit my teeth in order to resist the temptation to gloss over critical details or retreat into vagueness. However, that semi-confessional process can also be pretty hot, underneath the emotional discomfort. At some deeper level it’s exciting and erotic that I’m not entitled to conceal my thoughts and actions from My Lady behind a smokescreen of equivocal words, any more than I’m entitled to conceal my body with clothes when she wants to see me naked (we’re well past that early, though prolonged, stage when she still hadn’t seen my penis).

If submissive explicitness is about not being permitted to use obscurity as a way of maintaining privacy, dominant explicitness is about exerting confident, precise control over a subordinate. The clearer My Lady’s instructions, the less room I have for interpretation in carrying them out. Moreover, considerate people often “test the waters” by dropping hints about what they might want before they actually ask for it. When My Lady gives me instructions without any prior beating around the bush, especially orders that require me to do something difficult, taxing or hard to endure, she’s denying me the respect for my feelings and preferences that I can usually expect as an adult in polite society. Instead, I’m being treated as someone who can simply be told what to do, which pushes buttons that make me feel deeply, excitingly subservient to her. The more explicit and thorough the instructions, the more I feel uncompromisingly dominated, and it also helps if the instructions are issued a style that My Lady and I sometimes called “unadorned” – no softening or sugarcoating, no pleases, thank yous, or other little expressions of courtesy. Do this, boy. Don’t do that. You may do this, you may not do that. Do this other thing by Monday, in exactly the way I’m about to describe. Do it wearing only your collar, and send a photo. Do it whether you want to or not – although she never has to actually spell that one out, because it goes without saying.

I do understand that less explicit forms of communication also have their possibilities. My Lady will sometimes drop ominous hints about what she might have in store for me in the future, which is probably more unnerving for me, amusing for her and erotic for both of us than a straightforward explanation of her plans would be. I can see, too, how it would be fun for a dominant to issue incomplete or ambiguous instructions, and then sit back and enjoy watching her boy struggle to work out how to obey. Games like this aside, My Lady likes submissives to learn her needs and develop some ability to anticipate them, and to demonstrate their intelligence by working out what she wants them to do. In fact, she says that giving precise orders doesn’t come naturally to her, although I can testify from experience that she’s awfully good at it. Probably it helps that she’s well aware that the explicit approach can be both practical, in some situations, and very erotic. For my part, I can understand how leaving me to figure out her needs and desires might sometimes be easier for her, even if I might find the process difficult. My Lady doesn’t always choose to make things easy for me, and of course I wouldn’t have it any other way.

There are also times when a more or less subtle suggestion from a dominant can be like the crack of a whip. A few months ago I finally had the opportunity to spend a weekend visiting My Lady and her partner, who shares fully in her authority over me but normally doesn’t do much about it or communicate with me directly. They had me spend a few sweaty hours each day helping them with some fairly heavy-duty yard work, and on Sunday this extended far enough into the afternoon that we had an outdoor lunch break. At one point My Lady reminded me that my break wasn’t to be too “leisurely”, and although her tone was quite casual I still felt sharply reminded of my subservience – it was one of those moments when I would have loved to spontaneously kneel down, press my lips to her boots and spend a few minutes just revelling in her power over me. Unfortunately, we were visible from the road and I had work to do, and I wouldn’t go throwing myself at My Lady’s feet without permission anyway.

In my experience, however, things like that are the exception. Usually it’s explicit commands rather than little hints that make my lips hunger for a taste of My Lady’s boots, and on my side I try to be very clear and straightforward in my communications with her for the sake of submissive transparency. Enough about me, though. If you are dominant and/or submissive, how do you like to communicate with your partner(s)? How do you like your partner(s) to communicate with you?

Wicked Wonderland – New Lyrics to an Old Song

To my submissive brain there’s something intrinsically erotic about winter, the season when nature becomes stark, unforgiving and even a bit cruel. At its best, winter torments us with cold, howling winds, shows us who’s boss by dumping snow all over our streets and driveways, and gives us a dominant’s harsh choice between confining ourselves to warm homes and cars or shivering outside in the dark. I think winter is terrific.

Perhaps this attitude to winter partly explains why new, BDSM-flavoured lyrics to an old holiday song began to come into my head on Christmas morning. When I sent the finished verses to My Lady, she instructed me to turn them into a post, so I’ll present them without further ado.

Wicked Wonderland

On my chest, clamps are gleaming
Down my flanks, sweat is streaming
My shackles are tight
I’m moaning tonight
Writhing in your wicked wonderland.

Gone away is the bluebird,
In your cage, I’m the new bird,
Your knife and your tongs
Elicit strange songs
Terrors of your wicked wonderland.

In the meadow I’ll build you a snowman,
With a badge that says Big Sheriff Brown
You’ll say “Arrest this boy”
And he’ll say “Sure, ma’am,
“Just let me cuff his wrists and take him down.”

Later on, you’ll conspire
With your friends, by the fire
And I’ll be afraid
Of the plans that you’ve made,
Ruling in your wicked wonderland.

Erotic Stories to Support the Trevor Project

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Hot Dystopias – My Fantasies Of Totalitarian Control

I’ve never heard George Orwell described as an erotic writer, but 1984 contains passages that work for me at that level. The following one, for example, leading up to the arrest of the protagonist Winston and his lover Julia:

It was starting, it was starting at last! They could do nothing except stand gazing into one another’s eyes. To run for life, to get out of the house before it was too late – no such thought occurred to them. Unthinkable to disobey the iron voice from the wall. There was a snap as though a catch had been turned back, and a crash of breaking glass. The picture had fallen to the floor, uncovering the telescreen behind it.

“Now they can see us,” said Julia.

“Now we can see you,” said the voice. “Stand out in the middle of the room. Stand back to back. Clasp your hands behind your heads. Do not touch one another.”

They were not touching, but it seemed to him that he could feel Julia’s body shaking. Or perhaps it was merely the shaking of his own. He could just stop his teeth from chattering, but his knees were beyond his control. There was a sound of trampling boots below, inside the house and outside. The yard seemed to be full of men.

The control exerted over Winston and Julia by the totalitarian system personified as Big Brother is entirely non-consensual, of course, not to mention brutal and suffocating. I’m in no rush to trade my mutually fulfilling BDSM relationship with My Lady for a one-way ticket to some cruel dystopia. Nevertheless, dystopias can be amazingly hot as settings for submissive fantasies of the starker and more impersonal variety. The same dark little part of my psyche that is deeply fascinated by prisons and incarceration is irresistibly drawn to the idea of living in a society where I would be subject to strict rules and constant surveillance, and risk being told to stand still and await arrest with my hands behind my head if I stepped out of line. As a devotee of female power I’d just prefer that the iron voice from the wall belonged to Big Sister, rather than Big Brother.

The kind of system described in 1984 is just one possibility, though. Hot dystopias come in endless varieties, united only by the incorporation of various forms of inequality, coercion, exploitation, sadism and totalitarian control into the social fabric. A capitalist version of 1984 might feature lifelong “unpaid internships” that amounted to virtual slavery, or perhaps a system of voluntary but literal and legally binding slavery to which the poor would flock out of desperation. A variation on Robert Heinlein’s Starship Troopers, a futuristic novel in which only people who had completed a term of military service were treated as full citizens with voting rights, could require young men and women to submit to two years of indentured servitude in exchange for citizenship. Or perhaps just the men would be expected to submit, not just for a couple of years but for the rest of their natural lives? As each generation reached the age of majority, everyone would then be acutely aware that the women were headed for productive and fulfilling careers whereas the men were going to end up as their abject slaves.

Under that system, as I imagine it, a man would be allowed to celebrate his 21st birthday, but afterwards he’d have exactly 180 days to report to his local Male Employment Recruitment Centre (I like to think Orwell would approve of the name). At the Centre he’d be taken into custody, branded with a unique number, and subjected to a battery of assessment procedures that would determine his future placement. Some men would be sold to women as personal slaves, others would made available to corporations and other employers as highly trainable slave workers, and the most unfortunate (except possibly those who ended up as the personal slaves of very sadistic owners) would be sent to grim labour camps where they’d toil away under relentless overseers who might be either androids or women with bionic enhancements that gave them overwhelming physical strength.

Democracy and equality are so nice by comparison, and also (that dark little part of my psyche insists) so painfully boring. It’s a good thing I have My Lady to tell me what to do, ensure I’m never burdened with too much freedom, comfort or dignity, and make me squeal now and then.

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)

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
Losing it, asking for it
How I Handle Being A Parent & Sex Positive
Sex as the most intimate performance
The crowded mirror
Sex Hangover


Penisaurus – a Lusty Limerick


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

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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.