Lately I’ve purchased a few items of fetishy underwear. I’ve been nervous that posting them on here might make me look ridiculous, such is the stigma around men wearing sex orientated clothing. It appears to be almost exclusively the preserve of the gay kink community.
After a couple of posts of maudlin introspection about my current situation, Sinful Sunday is definitely a time for happier thoughts.
Lilly is spanking Katie. She’s spanking Katie because I’ve told her to do so. So far I suspect that what Katie’s feeling is mostly sensual rather than painful. She seems to be enjoying it, squirming on Lilly’s lap, lifting her perfectly tight little bottom to meet Lilly’s hand.
Caning is all about the cane. The sensations of a thick, stiff cane are quite different from those of a thin, flexible one. As are the after effects.
My image this week comes from my first meeting with Miss Hunter. She introduced me to the Tawse, the feared instrument of punishment in Scottish Schools until it was banned in 1987.
My image today comes from my wonderful, joyous even, session with Miss S at Better Than a Bed. I’d written an old skool cheerleader spanking story then we had played it out almost as if the story were a script.
What to wear to a beating? Why is it even a question? After all I’ve been entirely undressed at more or less every session I ever had and have barely given it a thought.
Earlier this week, and at my specific request, Elita took me apart. In 18 months of seeing her, in fact in 20 years of seeing Mistresses, this was the hardest session of them all.
“You grabbed the knot on the back of my harness, tightening it and making me feel like you were gripping my whole chest at once with one extended long-fingered hand, forcing my weight down hard onto the vibrator until I nearly screamed, dominating me.”
I love this image. It’s from my second one to one session with Miss S. It’s a joint effort; I took the picture on my phone and she turned it into the beautiful, soft, black and white you see here. She thought it looked like a kinky perfume advert and I can only agree.
I led her down the long flight of cold stone steps, deep into the underground bunker. I had captured my play-thing and was leading her into my lair. She knew she was in trouble.
For years, too many years, the only outlet for my kink was through hurting myself. A sub-kink developed (is that even a thing?): I found the act of making or buying implements with which to hurt myself became erotically charged in itself. It still is.