A BDSM Vignette from Two Viewpoints


By the time they’d finished washing down pieces of Marion’s birthday cake with good Indonesian coffee, Paul was feeling surprisingly happy and relaxed. He’d hoped that his wife and mistress would want to do something kinky to him on her special day, and he’d been more than a little disappointed when she’d told him to get ready to host a quiet dinner with Brian and Eleanor, two long-time friends of hers that he knew only slightly. They were a retired military couple, a good two decades older than he and Marion, and he privately considered them stuffy and tiresome. Eleanor seemed to have something on her mind tonight, and was joining only half-heartedly in the conversation, but Brian was as animated and talkative as Paul had ever seen him. A quiet dinner in decent company wasn’t really so bad, and maybe Marion would still sink her claws into him after their guests had left.

The thought made him glance in his wife’s direction, but her chair was empty. She must have slipped off to the bathroom, or out to the patio for a quick smoke, while he’d been caught up in Brian’s story about visiting Hong Kong as a young man.

“I think it’s time,” Marion said from somewhere behind him, “for us to move on with our evening.”

Paul had no idea what she meant, but Brian and Eleanor both rose immediately to their feet. Eleanor gave him an enigmatic smile.

“You stand up too, Paul,” Brian said, his tone suddenly that of a man used to giving orders. The note of authority was so compelling that Paul shot up from the table immediately. Brian grabbed his wrists, pulling them together behind his back, and Eleanor reached into the purse she’d slung casually over the back of her chair and withdrew a pair of wicked-looking nipple clamps.

“What’s going on here?” Paul asked nervously, too taken aback to struggle or protest in stronger terms. “Are you two both… I mean, are you going to…”

Marion grabbed his hair, from behind, in a way that he recognised. “Shut the fuck up,” she said directly into his ear, in the crisp, precise voice that he’d learned to associate with her most sadistic moods. “All you need to know about this situation is that you are going to be Brian and Eleanor’s slave, as well as mine, for the rest of the night. Do anything they say, and submit to anything they do to you.”

Eleanor’s smile widened, and she began to slowly unbutton his shirt.



Marion’s slave and husband Paul was so endearingly predictable. Before her birthday he’d been excited as a puppy, obviously hoping for a kinky adventure, and he’d been crestfallen when she’d ordered him to prepare to host a dinner with her old friends Brian and Eleanor. Paul apparently thought of them as a couple of white-haired bores, and so far she’d been careful not to do anything to dispel that impression. Now, however, it was almost time for Paul to discover that there was more to Brian and Eleanor than met the eye. Eleanor was doing a very bad job of containing her impatience, barely talking and glancing hungrily in Paul’s direction every few minutes, but Brian seemed to be revelling in the business of putting Paul at ease. As they finished their coffee, Brian had Paul caught up in some story about the Far East, and Marion decided it was time to make her move. When Paul wasn’t looking, she slipped out of her chair and stepped behind him.

“I think it’s time,” she declared, “for us to move on with our evening.”

At that prearranged signal, Brian and Eleanor rose smoothly to their feet, and Eleanor gave Paul a weird smile. Marion regretted not being able to see Paul’s face, which was probably a mask of confusion.

“You stand up too, Paul,” Brian said crisply, in the commanding voice that he’d once told her dated back to his career as a military police officer. Nowadays that voice was part of what made him a truly intimidating dominant, and Marion wasn’t surprised when Paul instantly obeyed. Heat rose between her legs as Brian pulled Paul’s hands behind his back, just like they’d planned, and Eleanor eagerly fished her favourite nipple clamps out of the purse she’d strategically hung on the back of her chair.

“What’s going on here?” Paul blurted. “Are you two both… I mean, are you going to…” Her boy was floundering, and Marion decided to step in. She moved closer and grabbed his hair in a way that she knew would get his attention.

“Shut the fuck up,” she said into his ear with what she thought was about the right amount of menace. “All you need to know about this situation is that you are going to be Brian and Eleanor’s slave, as well as mine, for the rest of the night. Do anything they say, and submit to anything they do to you.”

That clearly worked for Eleanor. Her smile widened, and she began to slowly unbutton Paul’s shirt.


Which version of this brief vignette did you like better? They describe the same action, convey about the same information, and contain an equal number of words (424 in each case). However, the first is written from the viewpoint of Paul the male submissive, and the second from that of Marion the female dominant. I didn’t recruit Paul and Marion as first-person narrators, but I did give the reader access to Paul’s thoughts, perceptions and knowledge in the first version and to Marion’s in the second.

Before embarking on this exercise, I assumed that Paul’s viewpoint would turn out to be the more interesting and compelling. Perhaps I was a little biased in that judgement by my own identity as a male submissive, but I also had in mind the advantages of making the protagonist of any story somewhat vulnerable and denying him or her the knowledge of certain crucial facts. Submissives don’t normally encounter real danger to life and limb, but they do have adventures that test their resolve and endurance, and they often don’t know what their dominants have planned for them on any given day. In the first version of the vignette, the reader can vicariously share in Paul’s confusion and consternation when Brian and Eleanor move in on him, and easily imagine his reaction – perhaps a mixture of relief and trepidation? – when Marion reveals her plans for the evening. Submissives are underdogs and victims of circumstance, and those qualities make for an exciting main character. There’s a reason Lord of the Rings concentrates on Frodo’s perspective, rather than Sauron’s.

What I didn’t fully appreciate when I started, though, was that the dominant’s perspective could be equally fun in a somewhat different way. There’s no rule that says the reader needs immediate access to all the thoughts of a character whose viewpoint is being considered, so Marion’s plans for Paul and her knowledge of Brian and Eleanor’s dominant side can emerge gradually as the action develops. Instead of vicariously sharing Paul’s uncertainty, the reader gets to share her anticipation, while possibly feeling some sympathy for Paul as it becomes increasingly clear that the other three characters are preparing to make him their plaything. I’m tempted to conclude that hot kinky action can be fun from any viewpoint, and also that Lord of the Rings from Sauron’s perspective might actually have been a pretty interesting book.

Postscript: After reading my first draft of this post, My Lady ordered me to link to the following pieces by Xan West, one of her favourite authors, that discuss the dominant’s perspective in both reality and fiction: Kinky erotica from the top’s point of view and I’m Not Just Doing It for You. They’re both pretty good, but I’d particularly recommend the first one, which makes the excellent point that dominants can be more interesting as characters when they have some vulnerabilities of their own.

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.

BDSM Vignette: Danielle and Martin

The following vignette is meant to illustrate a certain kind of hypothetical BDSM relationship, regarding which I’ll have more to say at the very end of this post.


“I wondered how long it would take you to come crawling back for another ass-kicking,” Danielle said, washing down the thought with a swig of her beer. She hadn’t bothered to offer him a drink, or a chair, but it wasn’t like he’d been expecting either.

“I’m not exactly crawling,” Martin protested mildly. “Just showing up for something I think we both need. I’ve been distracted with my job, and a new girlfriend.”

“Another one?” Danielle sniffed. “What’s she, the third this year? Anyway, you’re going to be crawling pretty soon, if you’re serious about needing it.” Danielle had never been much for small talk. She knocked back more beer and rose to her feet, a hard-looking woman in jeans and a shapeless black sweatshirt.

Martin didn’t much like Danielle’s coarse, abrasive ways, or her apparently unrelenting disdain for humanity in general and him in particular. The two of them had almost nothing in common: not their politics, not their hopes and fears, not even their taste in food or movies or music. They had both, oddly enough, been raised in Pentecostal congregations before rebelling as teenagers, but that really was more or less the only significant thing they shared. But God, he needed what she could offer on these long Saturday nights, the pain and degradation that she inflicted without the slightest apology or hesitation. For her part, Martin knew she thought he was a pompous, overeducated weakling, an overgrown boy who put on airs (though Danielle would never have phrased it like that) and needed to be slapped around for his own good. Nevertheless, some quality in him also appealed to her predatory side and made her see tormenting him as a pleasure and privilege. It wasn’t, she had told him in a moment of candour, just that he could take what she liked to call “a good ass-kicking” – there was something about the way he responded to her canes and paddles that delighted her and made her ravenous.

“So, what’ll it be?” Danielle asked bluntly.

Martin lowered his head. “I think we both know what I’m here for,” he murmured.

“Okay, then. You ready to get started?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” She gulped down the rest of her beer, then slapped him fairly hard across the face. “That’s for making me wait so long,” she announced, and her voice held an undertone of something like tenderness.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he gasped, resisting the urge to put a hand to his stinging cheek.

“Don’t worry, I’ll find ways to make you pay.” Danielle plucked at his shirt, now all business again. “Hurry up and strip.”

He shed his clothes efficiently, well aware that Danielle had seen it all before. When he peeled off his boxer shorts, revealing his full erection, she glanced pointedly at his crotch, then up at his face. Then down at the floor.

“Hands and knees,” she told him curtly. “Go straight to the studio.”

She followed closely, kicking him now and then to hold him to a pace that hurt his knees and shins as he crawled across the bare hardwood. Once she leaned down and slapped his right buttock, her heavy hand descending with enough force to make him whimper in pain. Martin heard Danielle laugh as she drove him, slippered foot prodding relentlessly at his intermittently exposed scrotum, to the spartan little room where she did her woodcarving. Her small figures of people and animals were uninspired and kitschy, as far as Martin could see, but they apparently sold well enough to make the difference when rent came due each month. The studio was also where Danielle did her boys.

When he was roughly in the middle of the floor, she grabbed him by the hair and pulled him to a kneeling position. The familiar leather cuffs were already dangling from the ceiling on their long chain, waiting for him. She buckled them quickly around his wrists, then surprised him by hobbling his legs with another pair of shackles whose connecting chain passed through a ring in the floor. Usually she trusted him not to kick or jump around, and the sensation of leather firmly enclosing his ankles unnerved him. What exactly was Danielle planning to do to him? It was already too late to back out, too late to resist.

Martin knew that the long chain that dangled from the ceiling was attached to a winch, which Danielle had once told him rather gleefully had been installed by a friend of hers in exchange for a couple of blow jobs. She seemed interested in his own genitals only to the extent that they were more sensitive to pain than most other parts of his body. Martin could not, in fact, remember a time when Danielle had touched him except to hurt him, restrain him or push him around. Even when they had first met, after a few weeks of correspondence that had begun on a kinky website, there had been no hug or handshake – just a firm instruction to take off his shirt and get down on his knees if he wanted to stay.

Now the winch was pulling him inexorably to his feet, and finally to his toes. Danielle locked the apparatus in place and then came over to him, grinning and clearly in no hurry. She grabbed his chin.

“You little shit,” Danielle said amiably enough. “Time for you to find out what happens when you let my urges build up for too long.” Her hand dropped to his scrotum and clamped down, nails digging in hard. Martin moaned and writhed, which made her grip all the more painful. He sighed in relief when she let go, only to whimper in consternation when she took down the longest and cruellest flogger from the studio wall and swung it viciously through the empty air.

“You’re going to scream, boy,” Danielle promised as she moved in on him, flogger raised and ready.


I’m fortunate enough to be the plaything of a woman that I can like and respect, in addition to appreciating her sadistic and dominant streak. After all, My Lady and I were internet friends and fellow writers well before I started taking orders from her. However, I can’t help being intrigued by the idea of submitting to someone whom I genuinely disliked apart from her qualities as a dominant, and who disliked almost everything about me apart from my submissive side. Our mutual antipathy would only make me feel more helpless and subservient, and might inspire on her side a certain harsh, businesslike domination style that I would probably respond well to. The whole thing may be one of those scenarios that works better in the realm of fantasy than in reality, especially for any arrangement involving more than occasional sessions, but I have nothing against indulging in a good fantasy now and then.

Wheldrake Goes To Prison

Do you have a favourite sexual or kinky fantasy, one that you find surpassingly, perhaps inexplicably erotic and revisit compulsively in the privacy of your own thoughts? Mine, though it’s a microgenre with myriad possibilities rather than a single unvarying scenario, is the fantasy of submitting to voluntary incarceration in a harsh, forbidding prison or prison-like facility. What could possibly be hotter than intimidating guards, cold steel around one’s wrists and ankles, and the crushing sense of being under the absolute control of a whole institution devoted to keeping people in a state of abject captivity?

For more than a year before My Lady became My Lady, she was a valued correspondent. We exchanged news and ideas, read each other’s fiction and offered suggestions, discussed BDSM and BDSM fantasies, and eventually figured out that we both wanted her to have considerable power over me. While we were still e-mailing back and forth as equals, I told her about my thing for prisons, a fascination that she didn’t share. However, she found my incarceration fantasies interesting enough that we kept occasionally bringing them up in our correspondence, and eventually I started writing a story for her that was set in what I whimsically called the D. Keith Prison for Men. In the story she’s a kind of consultant to the prison, a role that she chose herself, and I’m a prisoner serving a voluntary but strictly enforced 30-day sentence. Once I’ve signed the contract, which I do about 2000 words in, I’m stuck for the full 30 days no matter how loudly I might scream “Safeword! Safeword!”

The story has grown to considerable proportions, but is nowhere near finished. I still send My Lady installments as I complete them, and she sometimes makes decisions about how something in the prison should work or how a character should behave. These days, of course, the parameters she establishes for the story have the status of orders from My Lady, not just preferences expressed by a friend for whom I happen to be writing something. Because of those parameters, and the fact that I’m writing to please her, the prison in the story differs in some ways (though only one fundamental way that comes to mind at the moment) from the ones in my own private fantasies.

The story will never be published, at least not without massive editing. There’s too much personal stuff about me and My Lady in there (although much more about me than about her, partly because in many ways I actually don’t know her very well) and the story is too sprawling and self-indulgent. However, I thought it might be fun to post a lightly (and transparently) edited excerpt here. As it begins, a nude and restrained Prisoner Wheldrake is in the middle of his first night in custody, and is being marched across the prison yard by two young male guards, Officers Bledso and Kimura. I write in the first person present and address My Lady in the second person (that is, when I say “you” in the story, I’m referring to her).

I may post additional excerpts in the future, or go into more detail about my incarceration fantasies in general, if people seem interested and My Lady gives permission.


As I march obediently between my captors, turning occasionally but always walking on a concrete surface, I begin to feel symptoms of rising panic.  My breathing  is growing quick and shallow within the stifling hood, and a painful knot of fear is swelling in my belly.  I stubbornly fight it down, trying not to think about what might be in store for me over the next thirty days at the hands of you and the men.  I try to focus instead on the more limited peril of my coming encounter with the “boss man”, which I suppose probably means the warden of the prison.  I can at least hope that he’s just going to take a brief look at me and send me to a cell, like he did with the Andrews brothers.

It’s hard for me to even imagine what the warden might be like.  In American movies and TV shows wardens usually seem to be tough-minded administrators in civilian clothes, but I have no idea whether that generalisation applies in here or not.  I don’t know whether to picture someone old or young, black or white, firm and fatherly or gleefully sadistic.  Given that he presides over this prison, it’s a fair bet that he won’t exactly be warm and cuddly.  There’s the possibility, too, that he might have plans for me that go well beyond sending me off to a cell for the night.  Worrying about his power over me, however, is almost a welcome distraction from worrying about yours.

“Three steps up,” Kimura says abruptly.  The guards allow me to climb them more or less at my own pace, and then bring me to a halt on what feels like a stone porch or patio.  I hear a click and an electronic beep, and then a crackling, distorted male voice asks “Prisoner [Wheldrake] to see Master, sirs?”  I blink in surprise inside the hood.  I thought we were prisoners here, not slaves.

Kimura, however, doesn’t miss a beat.  “Correct,” he replies crisply.

“Bring him right in,” invites the voice from the intercom.  “Please don’t forget to have him wipe his feet, sirs.”

I wonder if the “sirs” indicates that the man on the other end of the intercom is a trustee, or maybe a trainee guard of some kind… [T]here’s a conspicuous click that might be the sound of a door being automatically unlocked, and then I’m being ushered into an air-conditioned space that would probably be perfectly comfortable if I had clothes on.  As it is, the temperature is slightly on the chilly side, although nowhere near as bad as it was in the strip-search room or in my cell downstairs.  There’s a rough carpet underfoot.

“You heard him, prisoner,” Bledso tells me.  “Wipe.”  I obey, rattling the chain between my ankles in the process.  It’s otherwise very quiet in here, amplifying the sound into a dreadful clatter by comparison.

“Right through here, sirs,” someone says.  Even accounting for the distortion, I don’t think the voice is the same one that came through the intercom.  How many trustees, or whatever they are, does the warden have working for him in this building?  I have the impression that the one who spoke just now is a young man, and there was a controlled pitch to his assured but deferential voice that made me think of actors and PR people.  Weird.  I’m not thrilled about being naked in front of the guy, whoever he is, but at least he isn’t slapping my ass and saying he wants a piece of me.  Thank the gods for small favours, right?

Kimura and Bledso march me a short distance over hardwood, holding my arms as firmly as ever but setting a slower pace now that we’re indoors, and then I hear the crisp rap of knuckles on a good solid door.

“Prisoner [Wheldrake], Master,” Mr Assured but Deferential announces.

“Bring him in,” a man on the other side of the door responds evenly, in a European-sounding accent that I can’t place immediately.  Some quality in his speech makes my ears prick up, to the extent that human ears can, and the hairs stiffen on the back of my neck.  His voice isn’t particularly deep or menacing or anything like that, but there’s an unmistakable note of confidence and authority that resonates deep in my belly.  As strange as it feels to admit this about another man, he sounds captivating.

I’m being manhandled through the door, into his presence.  I walk over more hardwood, then step onto what feels like a thin carpet and find myself brought to a halt by the strong hands on my arms.  Okay, here I am.  I stand patiently in the private darkness of the hood and wait for something to happen, resisting the urge to shuffle my feet or otherwise express the nervousness that is twisting my belly into knots of apprehension.  I hate not being able to see, and not knowing what kind of place this is or exactly who is here with me.  I hear the door fall gently shut, and feel more trapped than ever.

“Take off his cuffs and shackles,” the accented voice says after a moment.  “He can’t get away.”  Anonymous hands, presumably Bledso’s and Kimura’s, set to work at my wrists and ankles.  A moment later I’m unrestrained, though the hood is still in place.  I could easily reach up and remove it, but I’m nowhere near that brave or foolish.  I let my hands fall to my sides, and keep them there.

I hear a creak that could be someone getting up from a chair, and then soft footsteps on the carpeted floor.  It sounds like someone is walking towards me, and the room is so quiet that I can even pick up the tidal whisper of his breathing.  I’m almost positive it is a man, and I get the impression that he’s fairly tall and standing within easy reach.  I swallow hard, and bite my lip to keep from trembling.  I can only assume it’s the warden, the man who apparently likes people to call him “Master”, but I don’t actually know.

A hand closes around my left bicep, kneading and squeezing in a way that seems distinctly exploratory.  Whoever this guy is, he has strong fingers and isn’t shy about using them.  His grip isn’t exactly rough, but it’s powerful enough to be mildly painful.  He moves up to my shoulder, then grabs a handful of my left breast and twists the flesh hard enough to make me gasp.  He prods roughly at my belly, and I brace myself for him to grab my balls next, but instead he snatches away my hood.  Suddenly, we’re standing face-to-face instead of face-to-cloth.

The lighting in here is gentle enough that there’s no momentary dazzling.  I can see perfectly well once the hood is off, and I’m looking practically into the eyes of a man who would register as intimidating even if I passed him in the fucking supermarket.  Under the present circumstances, he’s not far short of terrifying.

Though he doesn’t have the monstrous build of Pitansky or Driscoll, he’s got to be well over six feet tall, and he has a lean, chiselled muscularity about him.  I don’t doubt that he could take me down and pin me to the floor with one hand tied behind him, even if I dared to fight back.  He looks spare and hard in a way that I associate with soldiers, rather than prison guards, and the angularity of his face matches the look of his body perfectly.  If his features were any less fleshy, he’d be flirting with gauntness.  He has a full head of sandy hair, cut very short and liberally sprinkled with a grey that almost matches the flinty colour of his eyes.  His beard and moustache are just as severely trimmed, and are greying even faster.  He’s dressed in khaki-coloured clothes that aren’t quite a uniform, but resemble something a rugged British gentleman might wear on safari.  Quite apart from his size and strength, he exudes confidence and authority as naturally as a shark exudes menace or a giant panda exudes lazy contentedness.  My first impulse on seeing him, as ridiculous as it sounds, is to literally throw myself at his feet.  No doubt the fact that I’m stark naked and completely in his power is a contributing factor, but still.

He takes my chin between his right thumb and forefinger, inevitably hurting me a little, and turns my head from side to side.  He makes a small sound in his throat as he finishes this inspection, a little exhalation that might express either satisfaction or disapproval, and then releases me and turns away.

Only now, when I’m no longer held by his gaze, do I take in my surroundings and realise that I’m not alone with this imposing figure in khaki.  I assume that Bledso and Kimura are somewhere behind me, interposed between me and the door, but what truly arrests my attention is the sight of you sitting calmly on a leather sofa in one corner of the room.  You meet my gaze without any discernible change in your expression, though your eyes flick up and down my naked body in that casual way I’ve already grown used to.  The warden-Master-guy has settled into a chair facing me, on the opposite side of a wooden desk whose surface is sufficiently well-polished to literally gleam in the soft light of the halogen lamps that illuminate this room.  Apart from the desk, which is bare apart from a laptop computer and a stack of manila folders, the place looks more like a living room in a nice condo than a warden’s office in a particularly harsh prison.  There’s a second sofa perpendicular to the one you’re sitting on, and the walls are of white plaster rather than bare institutional concrete.  There are even a couple of paintings, one of Roman centurions leading a bound, naked prisoner and the other of an equally nude man kneeling and pressing his head to the ground in front of a booted figure who is cut off around the knees by the upper edge of the painting.  My nervousness is beginning to congeal into panic.  If nothing else, being naked in a civilised setting like this feels more incongruous, and therefore more uncomfortable and humiliating, than being naked in the austere, institutional concrete rooms and corridors of the building I left a few minutes ago.

The warden, as I’ve decided to think of him, fixes me deliberately with that intense stare of his.  “Welcome to prison,” he tells me, which must be at least the third or fourth time I’ve heard that sentiment expressed today.  “I’m very glad to have you here.  [Your Lady] told me about you some time ago, and I’ve been waiting ever since.”

He’s been waiting?  To do what to me, exactly?  I’m certainly not going to ask, however, and a simple response seems safest.  “Thank you… Master?”

“No, prisoner.  You must continue to address me as ‘sir’, at least for the moment.”

I’m not sure how to take his final words, but everything else is perfectly clear.  “Yes, sir.”

“And while we’re on the subject,” you put in suddenly, “you should be aware that prisoners are expected to address me as ‘ma’am’.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply quickly, wondering what made you choose that particular phrasing instead of simply saying “call me ‘ma’am’ from now on”.  Were you going out of your way to imply that you don’t see me as anything more than just another prisoner, a member of a class of people subject to certain rules?

The warden eyes me speculatively.  “How are you feeling?” he asks.

I blink in surprise at the question.  “I’m feeling scared, sir,” I reply honestly.  “And powerless, and a bit confused.  I don’t know why I’m here, I mean standing naked in your office, and I don’t know what you’re going to do to me.  I’m also tired and hungry, I guess.  But it would be dishonest of me to pretend that I’m not excited, too.  I’ve been fantasising about prisons and dungeons of different kinds ever since I can remember.  It’s thrilling, in ways I can hardly describe, to be incarcerated in a place like this.”  I pause, and then add, “In a way, it seems almost too good to be true.”

BDSM and Bodice-rippers: Guest post by C. P. Foster

With the hope of starting a trend of having more substantive posts about D/s and erotica, I’ve decided to have guest bloggers. As my first, I’m delighted to introduce you to C. P. Foster, an author I met on the Absolute Write forum.  I haven’t read Foster’s books, but I enjoyed reading her blog posts tagged with “BDSM”.

BDSM and Bodice-rippers

by C.P. Foster

Back in the 1980s I read a bunch of romance novels by authors like Bertrice Small, Rosemary Rogers, Roberta Gellis, Katherine Woodwiss, and others. It wasn’t until years later when I got into BDSM that I realized why I loved these books. They were full of BDSM themes. Dominance, submission, bondage, slavery, discipline, sadism, masochism, you name it. Pirates or Sultans captured beautiful women and forced them to have sex (which the women thoroughly enjoyed). Dominant males swept women off their feet. Castle servants serviced visiting knights. No wonder I ate that stuff up like candy.

My first two books, Dark Studies, and the recently released Secret Studies, follow the example of those earlier writers. They are full of BDSM themes, but not in a modern BDSM context. There are no play parties or clubs, no structured Dom/sub relationships, no toy bags full of floggers, whips, and nipple clamps. But there is dominance and submission. Pain and pleasure. Endorphins galore. And blood play, of the vampire variety. (If you want to read more of my thoughts on vampires as mainstream blood play, check out this blog post: http://cpfosterauthor.wordpress.com/2013/02/13/the-bdsm-of-vampires/.)

Books like these are, obviously, fantasy. Modern BDSM springs from these kinds of fantasies, but has been “civilized,” so to speak, with rules and safe words. As necessary as those rules are, they sometimes dilute the underlying desire. That’s why I find myself going back to those old bodice-rippers, where I can completely submerge myself in the make-believe without worrying about negotiations, safe sex, dungeon monitors, or other mundane concerns. It’s a safe way to enjoy the forbidden, unsafe pleasures.

Secret Studies (Arcaneology Book 2)SecretStudes_ByCPFoster-200x300
C. P. Foster
Urban Fantasy, Paranormal Romance
Length: Novel
Warnings: Contains BDSM elements and dubious consent

Buy links:

Barnes and Noble
All Romance Ebooks

If she could only stop running, she could start living…

With a million-dollar bounty on her head, Angie Clark has been hiding under the noses of her enemies for nearly a decade. But trying to prevent a war between humans and vampires has landed her in trouble—again. A vampire monarch bent on revenge has taken out a new contract on her, and Angie knows that if she’s caught, her enemies will torture her until she begs for death. Mired in violence and death, keeping her secrets becomes more important than ever. And as her life unravels bit by bit, she fears she’ll have to leave behind everyone and everything that matters to her and run.

But when Steffen Scott puts his life on the line in order to protect her, she can no longer deny her feelings for him. As the threat of war looms over humanity once again, it could mean the annihilation of both species, and Angie must decide whether to keep running or to turn and fight. And maybe find out what she and Steffen could become.


She went to him, and let him draw her onto his lap. He angled her so her legs dangled to one side while her back rested against his broad chest. His skin felt cool, but not as cold as before.

“Did you intend to tease me by leaving that lovely throat bare?” he murmured into her ear.

“Don’t you like it?”

His growl vibrated over her. “I’ve thought of little else since the moment I arrived. May I taste you now?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

With a gentle touch, he took the single curl that tickled the side of her neck and tucked it behind her ear. Grace closed her eyes as he settled his mouth over her vein. His fangs extended, thin as those of a snake, and pricked the soft skin. She held her breath.

He curved one arm around her waist an instant before he struck. Pain flickered for only a second, then a lush wave of pleasure overtook her, and she moaned aloud. His arm tightened while his other hand stroked up to cover her breast. He squeezed. Found the stiffening nipple and pinched. Grace arched with desire as he caressed his way to her thighs and edged them apart. The suction of his drinking, the quiet sounds he made, the way his body grew warmer with each passing second, all of the sensations engulfed her.

He eased her skirt up and nudged her panties aside so he could graze his fingertips over her moist lower lips. She tensed from head to toe as he traced a slick path to her bud and began to stroke. Her racing heart pumped blood into his mouth. Pleasure built, and when she came, he sucked harder to drink in her ecstasy.


To celebrate the release of Secret Studies, book two in the Arcaneology series, I am hosting a give-away for the next week. Entering is simple:

1) come to my Facebook author home page
2) hit like, if you haven’t already
3) leave a comment

That’s it! On Monday the 2nd of September I’ll put all of the names into a virtual hat and give away the prizes. What are the prizes? Glad you asked!

Prize #1: A digital copy (your choice of format) of both books in the Arcaneology Series (Dark Studies and Secret Studies).
Prizes #2 and #3: A digital copy of Secret Studies, plus a vial-of-blood necklace and a bookmark.
Prize #4, 5, and 6: A copy of Dark Studies, plus a blank-book journal and a bookmark.

You can find pictures of the prizes in my album. Come on over and enter today!


C. P. Foster is a writer of urban fantasy, romance, and erotica. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, Cuddles the caliby kitten, and a cat named Tom that is no longer actually a tom. She doubts he appreciates the irony.

Links for C. P. Foster:

Blog: http://cpfosterauthor.wordpress.com

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Author-C-P-Foster-Aphrodites-Writer/287293758037990

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/CPFoster1

Ad-Dick-tion page is up at Breathless Press

UPDATE – MAY 7 2015 – The publisher has gone out of business and returned my rights to the story. I hope to publish it elsewhere.


Breathless Press releases Ad-Dick-tion Volume 2 on May 4.  Read excerpts from all the stories and pre-order here.  See my fiction page for more on my story, “Now You Know”.

“Say Please” Dirty Queer Sex Virtual Book Tour: “Coming of Age”

If you’ve read “Say Please: Lesbian BDSM” or followed the virtual tour, I don’t have to tell you about the impressive quality and variety of the stories.  While enough can’t be said about this outstanding collection, I’m skipping that in favor of a more personal angle. Other writers tell me readers are curious about story origins. I hope that’s true.

As owner of at least 30 titles from Cleis Press, the thrill of “Coming of Age” being my first publication was secondary to the fact that it would join the row of Cleis books on my shelf.  As an extra bonus, the title refers to my default safeword, “please”.

It’s a story about young, inexperienced Chloe having her first play session with Mistress Lynn and her sub Brandi. Chloe’s just turned 18. The realities of obedience and submission, particularly as defined by Mistress Lynn, turn out to bear little resemblance to what she expected.  The main theme – at least in my mind – is the D/s, not the physical games they played, although Chloe eventually gets her birthday spanking and more.

I drew upon feelings from my first BDSM experience, which involved my visit with “Mistress Lynn” and “Brandi.  The play activities were entirely different. Two decades later, I’m no longer Chloe, but I still have clear and powerful memories of the first meeting and the correspondence just prior to it.  Even though I bottom much more than I top, writing it from the dominant perspective felt right. I’m not “Lynn”, but she taught me most of what I know about submission. I’ve also cultivated my dominant side over the years.

“Coming of Age” was originally part of the third story in the “Chloe trilogy”. I’d like to publish the others, so here I’ll be vague about the content. For the first part, a friend’s comment prompted a story about Chloe’s punishment caning. It’s still one of my favorite masturbation fantasies. I presented the story to my friend as a gift and planned to end things there, but when she mentioned an upcoming shopping trip, my muse poked me again.

In the second story, two friends take Chloe shopping to brighten her mood after her ordeal. Dressing room antics continue in the bedroom, starting with the trio modeling their new outfits and ending with a pile of naked, sated bodies. After some reflection on the arousing aspects of an otherwise unpleasant punishment (as well as reluctantly letting the friends see her marks), Chloe admits her submissive desires and ends up with an invitation to a BDSM club. The unpublished tale of the club visit on her birthday was three times the length of CoA.

I hadn’t found a publisher when I stumbled upon Sinclair Sexsmith’s call for submissions. Faced with the shorter length requirement, I initially resisted being unable to share the whole story. I considered writing something else, but the personal connections were too important to me.  I moved the session to a more intimate venue and did some other tweaking for the anthology. Now, I’m looking forward to polishing the rest.

You can read an excerpt here.

Get the book details and buy it from Amazon or directly from Cleis Press.

The virtual tour introduced me to many sexy, intelligent writers. Here’s the list so you can go back to any you’ve missed.

April 1   Say Please release party in SF
April 1 Viviane http://www.thesexcarnival.com
April 3 Rachel Kramer Bussel http://lustylady.blogspot.com
April 4 Giselle Renard http://donutsdesires.blogspot.com
April 5 Evoe Throw http://www.wholesexlife.com
April 6 Liz http://AlphaHarlot.com
April 9 Roma Mafia http://www.romamafia.com
April 10 Official release date! Sinclair http://www.sugarbutch.net
April 11 Dede / deviantdyke http://deviantdyke.blogspot.com/
April 12 Helena Swan http://www.cuntext.com
April 13 Kim Herbel http://www.butchlesque.com
April 13   Say Please release party in NYC
April 14 Lily Lloyd http://theblackleatherbelt.com
April 16 Lyzanne http://sexpositive.tumblr.com/
April 17 Lula Lisbon http://lulalisbon.tumblr.com
April 18 Ali Oh http://www.madeofwords.com
April 19 Jameson http://www.ftmbutchdude.com
April 21 Charlie Ninja http://charlieninja.tumblr.com/
April 22    Say Please release party in Boston
April 22 Meredith Guy http://meridithguy.tumblr.com
April 23 Wendi Kali http://astrangerinthisplace.blogspot.com
April 24 Lolita Wolf http://leatheryenta.com
April 25 Audrey at Babeland http://babeland.com/blog
April 26 Seth B http://smokebellyscorner.wordpress.com
April 27 Danika http://www.lesbrary.com
April 28 DL King http://www.dlkingerotica.com ( go to Links for the blog link)
April 29 Kiki http://kikidelovely.wordpress.com
April 30 Dilo Keith https://dilokeith.wordpress.com/blog-2/
April 30 Xan West http://tgstonebutch.livejournal.com/
May 2 Say Please release party in Seattle

Ad-dick-tion Vol. 2 Cover is Gorgeous

UPDATE – MAY 7 2015 – Sadly, the publisher has gone out of business. They own the cover, so it is missing from this and other posts.



New Links

The good news: I’ve been adding new links and rearranging the home page. The new Sexualities section has most of the additions. Under BDSM posts, “Not What We Do” is the latest.

The bad news: I don’t have time to read all the outstanding articles I’ve been finding. I’ve read the specific articles linked here, but there are usually many more on the site.

It seems that I can’t put tags on pages that aren’t blog posts, so I’ll mention here that I’ve added links to my fiction on the Fiction page (see tabs at the top).