billierosie

I love you and I trust you. Of course to the uninitiated it’s horrifying -- whoever wants to make love to the sounds of their lover’s cries, screams and sobs. But to those involved, it’s intoxicating.

I’m talking about BDSM; Bondage and Sadomasochism, particularly, BDSM and the law.

Like all fetishes BDSM has a long history and for some people, sexual arousal is achieved through humiliation and pain.

It’s not just about inflicting and receiving pain and humiliating the submissive. It’s a negotiation, between adults, capable of making their own decisions in a simple and loving way. It’s a two way compliment and commitment from one to another. It’s a relinquishing of power, an exchange of power.

An online friend tells me:

“The person who gets a thrill from having someone else control him/her is simply enjoying an aspect of themselves not everyone has. A spanking can be the most sensuous act between two people who enjoy it. The feeling/shock of being spanked at the instant of orgasm is amazing. Having someone offer up their bodies for you to play with is such a rush.”

So why am I bringing the law into the mix? Why does the law have to have an opinion on what people do in the privacy of their own homes or in a private member’s club? The law states quite clearly, that you cannot consent to your own assault.

But we have the right to do as we wish to our own bodies; don’t we? And surely we have the right to give consent to someone else to do things to our own bodies?

Well, apparently not.

As far as I can see, the only way the law can begin a prosecution is if you end up in the Emergency Room, or A&E as it is referred to in the UK. So if you are going to Brand your partner for example and the session goes horribly wrong, the authorities at the hospital will call the police.

But there is an irony in that I can visit a tattooist and have tattoos all over my body. I can have my clitoris, my nipples, or any other part of my body pierced. Of course I can. Even if the procedures go horribly wrong and I have to go the hospital, no one is going to call the police on me.

In 1990, the news in the UK was all about the infamous Spanner case.

In December, 1990, in the UK, 16 Gay men were brought to trial and given prison sentences of up to four and a half years for engaging in consensual S&M activity. This followed an investigation, by the police called “Operation Spanner” prompted by the chance finding of video tapes of S&M activities.

During a raid in 1987 the police seized a videotape which showed a number of identifiable men engaging in heavy SM activities including beatings, genital abrasions and lacerations. The police claim that they immediately started a murder investigation because they were convinced that the men were being killed. This investigation is rumoured to have cost £4 million. Dozens of gay men were interviewed. The police learned that none of the men in the video had been murdered, or even suffered injuries which required medical attention. However the police may well have felt that they had to bring some prosecutions to justify their expensive investigation.

The convictions have now been upheld by both the Court of Appeal, the Law Lords in the UK and the European Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg.

1987 is quite a long time ago, but the Spanner case has set a precedent; I don’t think that the laws have been challenged since then. If the police discover that you have engaged in S&M activities which have caused injury, you and your partner could be prosecuted for assault.

So why, if I have a piercing in my mouth, it becomes infected and my tongue starts rotting away, why will I not be prosecuted? And why again, if my new tattoo begins weeping revolting pus will the doctors not report me to the police? But if a guy, in a relationship, that just happens to involve S&M, why, if his partner brands his right buttock and they have to seek medical help, why are the police called and the matter goes to Court?

Let’s not be shy about this – in the 1987 Spanner investigation, a guy had his penis nailed to a plank of wood. Some men have a desire to be castrated – I’m talking about castration as a sexual fetish, not as Body Dysmorphic Disorder.

Could it be because sex is involved – well, it’s just something that the authorities cannot cope with? It’s easier to be shocked and disgusted than have a mature, grown up discussion. Fifty, or so years ago, the law was shocked and disgusted by Homosexuality – reasoned argument, and some high profile prosecutions changed forever the way people think – thank God.

I don’t get why S&M is anyone else’s business.

A submissive guy I know from Social Media has been discussing with his Dominant partner about having her Brand him. They will do it – their resolution is solid.

“I fail to see how the law can intervene in something that consenting adults agree to? I always understood that there has to be a complainant, and if there isn’t one what does the case rest on?? Curious!!”

“The historical origins of BDSM are obscure. During the ninth century BC, ritual flagellations were performed in Artemis Orthia one of the most important religious areas of ancient Sparta, where the Cult of Orthia a pre-Olympic religion, was practiced. Here ritual flagellation called diamastigosis took place on a regular basis. One of the oldest graphical proofs of sadomasochistic activities is found in an Etruscan burial site in Tarquinia. Inside the Tomba della Fustigazione, (Flogging grave), in the latter sixth century b.c., two men are portrayed flagellating a woman with a cane and a hand during an erotic situation. Another reference related to flagellation is to be found in the sixth book of the Satires of the ancient Roman Poet Juvenal (1st–2nd century A.D.), further reference can be found in Petronius’ Satyricon, where a delinquent is whipped for sexual arousal. Anecdotal narratives related to humans who have had themselves voluntary bound, flagellated or whipped as a substitute for sex or as part of foreplay reach back to the third and fourth century.” Wiki.

If you want to investigate further about bdsm and the law click here.

For information about Branding click here.

The door to the bathroom almost burst from its hinges as she stormed through the door. I nearly jumped from my skin as she stalked across the steamy room, coming for me, the big, black, bouncing strap on slapping her as she moved towards me.

It was our anniversary. This is what I asked for, I kept telling myself. I never thought that she would come in with so much violence, so much spunk. My own cock started to stiffen as the hot water washed over me in the shower.

She looked at me, and laughed. She stroked the strap on like it was part of her. I went to touch myself, and she boomed at me "DON’T TOUCH THAT PATHETIC THING!"

The door to the shower flung open, and she stepped in with me, water running down her heaving chest, rivulets coursing over her nipples and flowing through her cleavage.

"Suck it slave" She commanded. I got to my knees, and tried to get the hard, veiny, cold cock in my mouth. It was huge. I was trembling, with anticipation and just how it was going to enter me.

With strength that I did not know that she had, she pulled me up by my hair, and spun me around. She pushed me roughly forward, to get me into position. I slipped.

A tile cracked. I felt cold.

I could see her. It was a funny angle. Too much on the side. She was kneeling over me, the strap on still sticking up from between her legs. She was sobbing, holding me.

Why was the world such a funny angle? And where did the red shower gel come from?

And why can't I move my body.

Oh shit.

Oh fuck.

MJ Lewis is a writer to watch. His book, CLIMBING THE WALLS;a sexy adventure, is available here and here

He can be found on Twitter @lewismj78 and at his blog; scribblesoflewis.blogspot.co.uk

I want to introduce Jenny Ainslie-Turner to you; Jenny is my friend and we follow each other on Twitter. Jenny is also a sex chat line worker. I asked her to tell me about her life as a sex chat line worker and how she got into it. As her alter ego, Jolene, Jenny talks about anything and everything to her clients. The phone calls that she responds to are graphic; taboo, not for the fainthearted. As Jolene, Jenny spins a confection of seductive dreams and garish, ghoulish nightmares, fetish and fantasy for her clients; the men who call her….Here’s what Jenny told me…it’s an intriguing slice of life…

I started doing sex chat some 12 years ago, with Datapro Services I was a complete novice at talking dirty and they gave no training. I had always worked with Army and RAF
lads for 18 years prior to this, so I sort of already knew how their minds worked.

It was at a time where I’d just broken up from my second husband and thanks to him selling my home from underneath me I became homeless. My mother, back in my home town of
Newark, found me a place close to her. So, leaving all my friends and the area that I knew and loved so well I became rather isolated. Shortly after moving back to Newark my mother suffered a heart attack and needed to be care for. I became a carer for her but the benefits to help with her care were a pittance and I was used to taking care of myself financially. I had actually seen a documentary on Channel 4 about single mums who, once their kids were at school, logged on to a sex chat company and straight away I knew that was the job for me.

I’d been around men most of my working life and rather missed the banter. And, as I was always a suggestive digestive, a prick-teaser in other words. It was the perfect job for me and I could do the hours to fit around taking care of mum. Not long into the job I realised I’d got this outrageously dirty imagination. I had discovered my writing abilities a few years before but as I was not educated I struggled to perfect my writing skills over quite a few years. As I found myself creating little fantasy worlds for my callers my writing also improved.

So, I wrote my book, “How To Talk Dirty, A Hands on Guide to Phone Sex”.

My video on YouTube was picked by a TV production company, they thought I’d look good on TV and was perfect for their doc, ’My Phone Sex Secrets’ which was shown on Channel 4. Who would have thought the documentary that started me in my line of work would eventually have me starring in a similar documentary.

Also, I now give relationship advice as part of a panel in the Metro Monday supplement. My next achievement is to have my own column of sex advice and tips. I just love helping people in all kind of ways. And, thanks to my documentary I have a successful training business, teaching would be chat girls and all ladies in the art of phone sex.

Added to this, I am writing my first work of fiction – it’s not totally fiction because there’s a good part of me and my chat calls in the book. I am writing it with one of my callers Alix James; by coincidence he’s a writer too and when we created our fantasies together over the phone we discovered a compatibility neither of us had experienced before, so much so we plan to write many books together. In fact we have become the very best of friends and I couldn’t imagine my life without him.

Alix and I are really good close friends now. I’ve met him and his family many times. We have another book out, “Dragon's Flame”. It's the first in a trilogy of shape-shifting dragons. We plan to write many more in the next two years. That's what I hope to be, just an author.

You can find Jenny at her website. Jenny’s books are available there too.

Jenny can be found on Twitter; jennyjo121

Her books are all available at Amazon UK and Amazon US

Jenny also has a column in Rude magazine -- Rude conversations -- every fortnight. There is a channel 4 tv programme about her -- My Phone Sex Secrets -- you should be able to find it on 4oD.

I am a self-descried feminist, yet at the same time I also enjoy reading and writing BDSM. These two traits seem to contradict each other. On one hand, feminism is about the equality of the sexes, while on the other hand “dominance and submission” is literally in the definition of BDSM. And so, it has been a bit of a grapple for me to figure out how to rationalize these two opposing values.

In this rationalization, I think it’s important to keep in mind exactly what feminism entails. For this, I would like to refer you to this speech given by Emma Watson to the UN:

If you have not yet had a chance to watch this powerful and eloquent speech, I highly recommend it. Ms. Watson perfectly encapsulates my views on feminism. Unfortunately the word “feminism” has become synonymous with “man-hating” and with cold-hearted women who only care about their career. But this is not the integrity of the ideology which feminism stands for. Feminists simply believe that both sexes should be treated with the same respect and privileges. It would be hard for me to list an ideal which I hold closer to my heart.

However, I remember back to when I was as young as seven years old having dreams in which I was a slave being whipped, which I strangely enjoyed. At that time, I didn’t have the understanding or vocabulary to describe this strange joy, but in my later years I came to realize I was experiencing arousal. This type of dream reached an apex for me many years later when I was traveling in Venice, Italy (strangely enough). In this dream I was being gang-raped by three different completely unattractive men. They were practically fully clothed and I was naked. Over the years I’ve learned to have some control over my dreams, and so I manipulated it to make the scenario as vulgar as possible. I woke myself up, soaking wet. I had to go to the restroom to dry myself off. When I woke up the next morning I had completely forgotten the dream, until I discovered I still needed to dry myself off.

At this point, it’s important to backtrack. Both of the stories I have provided have been dreams. The reality of the matter is that truly whipping a slave or gang-raping a woman are horrible crimes which will have lasting effects on the physical and mental well-being of the victim. Nearly ten years ago I was home alone at around 12:30am when a stranger tried to break into my home with the intent of hurting me. Fortunately the criminal was unsuccessful in his ploy, but it left me terrified of being home alone at night. It’s a fear that has lead me to install alarm systems in my home and avoid being home alone at night whenever possible. This close call nearly ten years ago has made me feel uncomfortable in my own home ever since. I can only imagine the impact it would have had if this criminal had actually been successful.

Clearly I become aroused when BDSM graces my dreams, but pushing this line in reality is a completely different matter. However, that’s where the important distinction lies. Dreams, much like fantasies, are not reality. Many little boys love the fantasy of killing a dragon, but if faced with the “reality” of a huge fire-breathing dragon, would probably feel otherwise. This is the same case with BDSM.

There are many authors who refuse to write BDSM because they “know too many people who have been raped.” I completely sympathize and respect this concern. However, I think psychotic men who would actually rape a woman would do so regardless of whether or not they read my work. A man who would do such a thing has a lot of other problems which have little to do with my writing.

Additionally, I personally found I could only truly appreciate my own sexuality when I learned to embrace my desire for the fantasy of BDSM. Finally learning to embrace and express this fantasy originated in the very safe place of reading BDSM. Then it progressed into role-play with my husband. While this may seem more like “reality” the fact of the matter is that I’m in a loving, committed, trusting relationship, and I know that if I ever seriously conveyed any kind of discomfort my husband would stop immediately. This is fantasy because we’re “pretending.” Finally, I continued to explore my thirst for BDSM by writing some of my own in the form of a paranormal erotic novelette, Underneath the Gargoyle. The fact that this is a paranormal novelette couldn’t underscore more the fact that this is a fantasy. Embracing and exploring my love for BDSM has enriched my sex life and strengthened my relationship with my husband.

I am a feminist who also believes that sexuality is an integral part of human existence and a happy marriage. Sometimes fully embracing our sexuality entails accepting and cultivating a desire for BDSM. I write BDSM because I believe enacting our sexual fantasies in a committed, trusting relationship is another way to express our love.

Christina Harding is a pseudonym. She is a guest blogger for Romance at Random of Random House and the author of Underneath the Gargoyle a paranormal erotic series available at Amazon US and Amazon UK

She also blogs at www.christinahardingerotica.blogspot.com and tweets @tinaerotica. Christina is happily married and enjoys reading sexy stories with her husband.

I know I’m all about going to the extreme but, telling us where we can and can’t sit?

Last month the government made it illegal for us ladies to ‘face-sit’ a guy. Well, it’s not quite that. It’s videoing the act. Hang on, it’s not quite that either, it’s watching the video of the act of ‘face-sitting’! If all this sounds fucked up to you, then how fucked up are the knob-heads who have plotted it!

Apparently, we are not allowed to face-sit for health and safety reasons. We can gag and choke on a cock quite happily. Well, that would be right, it’s not a danger to the man. Nor can we whip some fucker’s arse unless we have a smile on our face as we do it, in case it is deemed ‘aggressive’. Personally speaking I always have a dirty grin slapped on my face when I’m whipping a guy. But, I don’t slap the grin on too hard!

Buggery was legalised some years ago. Buggering a nice tight arse is perfectly fine. That doesn’t come under the health and safety heading. Again, that’s more for the men’s enjoyment, and mine when I get the chance.

Joking aside, what are we talking about here, doing to men what they love doing the most? And, I should know, I wrote a book on it. ‘Will You be My Fantasy? When grey isn’t quite dark enough’ is all about face-sitting and dedicated to one of my callers who is in the book with his permission!

Why did I write a book on it? It’s the most popular subject my boys want to enjoy. There is nothing better than having a juicy fat cunt smothering a guy’s face. I talk about this so often I sometimes think it’s all they have on their minds.

It’s ok to die for Queen and country but not under a cunt! (Although since we live under the rule of politicians, that’s debatable…) Ask any guy which he would prefer… Can somebody tell me how many men have died this way? Fucking none, that’s how many.

Does this read too ridiculous for words? Well, guess what, the whole thing is too ridiculous for words. What are we talking about here? Killing, maiming or mutilating? No, we are talking about some people being more sexually adventurous than others.

Why the fuck should we be told what we can and can’t do in our own homes! Do we have to look out for face-sitting police checking where we are sitting?

I bet more people have died from chip pan fires. What’s next, banning us from frying our own chips!?

Get a fucking life and stop messing about with ours!

Jenny Ainslie-Turner has been working as a phone sex operator for 12 years and runs her own chatline, Jenny’s Extreme Chat. She is the author of ‘A Hands-on Guide to Phone Sex’, and ‘Will You be my Fantasy?’ and was featured in the Channel 4 documentary ‘My Phone Sex Secrets’, currently being shown on More4.

She writes a regular column for us, Gentleman Caller, about her experiences as a sex chat line operator.

After the startling, yet most welcomed success of my memoir “First Tango in Paris” (which after only two months became an Amazon #1 Bestseller) I decamped to Southern Spain armed with a car boot full of my diaries and collected pictures and scribbling’s, to research and compose its ‘Conclusion’.

It was during the early stages of this process when Antonia, whom many of you will recall from “First Tango”, paid an unexpected visit. It was supposed to have been a quick five-day catch-up, which wholly unintentionally turned into a fourteen-day adventure like no other, culminating in a very intense erotic evening of pure decadence and debauchery held in the Marbella villa of Antonia’s ´Master`. Breaking boundaries and pushing limits was the theme.

In the period before she arrived, I personally experienced as you’d expect a number of highly erotic interludes of my own, several occurring at a rather fun beach close to the house I was renting, all of which are explicitly documented in the book.

The following accurately recaps what transpired during this brief but fun filled period: A period I feel that I was justifiably ‘Distracted’.
Warning: Not for the Shy or Feint of Heart

Chapter Two: The Beach “Au Naturel”
Thursday arrived, yet another sunny warm day was predicted, and having popped to a sports shop in the local shopping mall a few miles away and buying a really swish ruck sac with pockets everywhere, chosen with great care, or rather closer to the truth, getting swayed by the pretty coloured one, which conveniently had a compartment that would comfortably take a freezer brick and a bottle of white wine; I was prepared!

Having packed a few beach essentials along with two plastic wine glasses that I’d found in one of the cupboards along with a bottle opener, I was ready for my first little sortie. Having talked the previous evening to Paul on Skype and telling him my plans he told me in his own inimitable way to go explore, have fun but above all enjoy.

Promptly at midday there was a knock on the door and Rubens stood there smiling, explaining that to save walking we’d be going in his jeep, and to pop the ruck sac in the back with what looked like his own very “comprehensive” beach equipment.

Absolutely true to his word we were only on the main coast road for a few hundred meters until he turned off on to a well-worn track heading towards the beach. It was definitely an ‘off road’ experience, all dusty and very bumpy, but we arrived at a spot virtually on the beach, where there were already a few cars and 4x4’s parked up on a bit of scorched land, which was obviously a popular parking spot and could accommodate about a dozen or so vehicles.

Either side there were large Palm tree growing areas, which ran right up to the edge of the sand and stretched as far as you could see left and right. We quickly unloaded his jeep and I followed him to what he said was his preferred spot.

Having pitched up he very swiftly erected a small half tent, which served three main purposes, namely, a privacy area, a wind break if it got breezy and a cool shaded area to keep the wine and nibbles that he’d also brought along.

We both quickly took our clothes off, both pretending not to be looking and checking one another out, and placed them out of the way inside the tent. Immediately we both decided it would be rude to not open the wine and make a toast to the day ahead. Also it would give me a good opportunity to take in the scene around me, while he explained the very clear etiquette expected at this particular beach.

Relaxing with a nice glass of wine I had a good view of the entire beach, quickly noting that there was a good mixture of couples and singles enjoying the weather and ambience, whilst having plenty of space to themselves. I could see what Rubens meant when he’d said that it could get a bit overwhelming at weekends, especially during the main holiday months of July and August.

It was an idyllic spot, which had a very definite frisson of electricity running just under the surface, which gave it a bit of an edge and a very exciting hedonistic ambiance.
Over the course of a few glasses of wine I noticed a few people disappearing into the palmed area, which left nothing to my very vivid imagination. I soon came clean with Rubens, explaining to him the purpose of my stay in Almayate and the success of my first book; this had him intrigued. I knew as soon as he was back at his “casa” he’d be downloading and reading it.

When I mentioned to him that I’d noted the comings and goings behind the beach, he explained that it was known as a ‘play area’, where people who felt the urge could go and play alone or in groups, basically a fun area where anything goes. He explained it was very safe and great fun, but that you were fair game if you wandered inside. This coupled with the wine and being naked was having its normal arousing effect on me. Rubens was very different from the type of man that I’d normally enjoy a one on one with, however, there was something about him that was very sexually inviting.

I could tell he was really enjoying the whole situation and he was most definitely getting turned on explaining the extracurricular beach activities. He was most undeniably not the shy type and he was getting a real thrill knowing that I was openly admiring, what was by now was a most impressive erection. His body was well defined which he explained was due to long walks and frequent mountain climbs in the close by Sierra Nevada mountain range, close to Granada.

It wasn’t long till the conversation got very flirty and daring, which was just heightening the tension and the feeling of the ‘will we, wont we’ scenario. Thankfully when things started to play out in earnest there was nothing as obvious as offering to rub sun cream in my shoulders, he just on occasion and fleetingly teased my already erect nipples with a small feather from a Spanish Imperial Eagle that he’d found in the mountains on a recent trek and had kept in his ruck sac. It was a sublime and was making me very wet and ready for whatever was on the menu, which even to me was a new and wildly exciting scenario. He asked me if I was up for a dare, and taking my grinning face as a positive “yes”, he suggested that I wandered in to the palmed area through the well beaten pathway nearest to us and he’d do the same from the top end and we’d meet in the middle, and discuss what if anything we’d encountered along the way. I had the distinct feeling he’d played out this scene on more than one previous occasion, so I felt secure knowing that I was in a safe pair of hands so to speak, and said “I’m game if you are?” Upon which he scooped up any valuables and quickly went and locked them in the secure box in the back of the jeep, giving me time to compose myself and freshen up ready for the woods.

It was very exhilarating walking slowly towards the entrance, naked with a warm sun on my back and an intense heat radiating from my vagina. I soon noticed that a young guy had set up his towel and beach brolly very close to the ingress in the palms, and was watching me intently as I nervously approached, just as I was about to enter he smiled and nodded giving me an encouraging wink.
Not knowing my way, or what to expect I entered very slowly and cautiously at first, my senses were on full alert, which added to my sexual anticipation. The wine as always gave me a high degree of bravado and the overall feeling of being naked and not knowing what lay ahead was intensely liberating. I slowly followed the path and within a few minutes I passed an elderly couple that were walking back towards the exit with grins and knowing smiles, which encouraged me to continue. Seconds later I saw out the corner of my eye some movement, which as I got a bit closer turned out to be a middle-aged man enjoying himself, gently stroking his cock while smiling my way. Being the generous natured person that I am I stopped, and made eye contact and returned the smile whilst gently playing with my nipples. My reaction encouraged him to really stroke himself in a more lewd and exhibitionistic fashion, I could feel I was rapidly approaching a long overdue orgasm. I raised my leg against a palm and slowly exposed myself to him, I quickly started to spread my labia and play with my clitoris, which had an immediate effect on him, as he let out an audible groan and increased his pace. After a few moments he gasped and ejaculated a torrent of semen, the spectacle of which made me gush heavily over the trunk of the palm tree. After a few moments he wandered off, not before smiling and saying “gracias”. A great start to this little interlude at the beach, I was now well and truly in the zone and ready for some serious playtime.

Having no idea how far in I’d gone every step was like a mini adventure, always alert, always watching for movement. From the way the pathways crisscrossed and meandered in all directions it was very evident that it was a hugely popular area. I could only imagine how busy it got at the weekends. The thought of being naked in there as the sun went down and things became even wilder and above all more anonymous was raising my levels of excitement to new levels.

After a few more minutes wandering I heard a rustling as I rounded a corner, and there standing with a big grin and an even bigger erection was Rubens. It didn’t seem appropriate to say anything; we just leapt on one another and began to kiss, slowly, wetly and very erotically, all the time his erect penis was throbbing against my hipbone. He pulled me gently into a small area and immediately knelt down and slowly ran his tongue up and down each thigh, teasing me, making me groan in anticipation, as I knew that very shortly his deft tongue would find and explore my wet and very eager pussy. Indeed it didn’t take long, and removing my hands from his shoulders I seductively opened myself up for him. I was rapidly reaching that point of no holding back as he nibbled my clitoris and gently chewed on my engorged labia. I suddenly felt hugely dominant, and with one hand holding his hair I began to grind myself over his mouth, rubbing my wetness over his face until with a huge spasm pulsating through my body I gushed violently into his mouth. It was such a forceful and voluminous orgasm he struggled to cope, gagging as he tried to drink it all in. It was a wonderful feeling as he licked the remnants of liquid from my thighs, praising me on the power of my ejaculation.

It was only natural to reverse roles, so I slowly lowered myself, kissing and licking his chest on the way down to my prize. For a good length of time I used my tongue on him, running it all over his penis and gently taking each of his testicles in my mouth in turn, whilst all the while maintaining full eye contact. Suddenly his eyes gestured to me to discreetly look to the side, where standing riveted to the spot was the young man from the entrance, his large erect penis firmly throbbing, as he proudly stroked it. Clearly enjoying showing its size to me.
This was such a huge turn on for me that I just leant back on my haunches and offered Rubens my mouth to use, while firmly maintaining eye contact with the young man. This seemed to really appeal to Rubens, as he relished fucking my mouth and rubbing his erection over my lips and gently cock slapping my cheeks. It was having a similar effect on our watcher, who was now intently staring into my eyes and simultaneously increasing his ministrations to his rather splendid endowment. After several minutes I began to feel Rubens penis start to twitch and jerk as he forcefully began to ejaculate a vast stream of semen into my eager mouth, this was the catalyst for the watcher, who himself began to enjoy his own volcanic orgasm. Rubens orgasm didn’t die down for a good few moments, during which time each jet of his hot semen got progressively less until he was completely spent.

As we wandered off it was at this time that I mischievously winked at the young watcher, as he stood, still riveted to the spot, but now smiling and nodding a courteous thank you.

We made our way together this time back to our pitch and relaxed with a well-deserved glass of wine, and the promise of more to come another day, as it was fast approaching food time and my prearranged Skype catch up with Paul to discuss the updates on the house. Upon leaving our watcher waved, I waved back as I had a small inkling that I would bump into him at some stage during my time here.

One thing I also did that evening after checking in with Paul was to have a peek at the area on ‘Google Maps’. I would urge any of you interested in visiting this area and the beach in particular that you have a look. Just search ‘Almayate Playa’ and locate the wooded area between the Almanat camping site and the Rio Velez, you will have an amazing birds eye view of the play area, and can see very clearly the well-trodden paths between the trees. I was thankful that the Google satellite wasn’t overhead taking snaps whilst I was in there!

Distracted, is available at Amazon UK and Amazon US

Directed and written by Liliana Cavani, the controversial film “The Night Porter,” “Il Portiere di Notte”, was released in 1974. The film features Dirk Bogarde, as Max, a discreet, unassuming night porter in an exclusive Viennese hôtel and Charlotte Rampling, Lucia, as the figure from his past, who continues to haunt Max.

The year is 1957. Max tends to the hôtel guest’s needs; everything to providing a glass of cold water, to a bed-warming gigolo. Through a series of flashbacks, we learn that during the dark years of World War II, Max was an S.S. officer at a Nazi concentration camp where Lucia was a beautiful, young prisoner. Lucia, became Max's sexual slave, a position that she apparently relished.

The moment where the two recognise each other in the lobby of the hôtel is compelling. Both remember. The flashbacks tell of the chilling photographs Max took of Lucia, while pretending to be a physician. Through the flashbacks appropriate to Lucia, the viewer learns of episodes of rape, sodomy, and torture. Lucia is afraid. The viewer soon realises that it is not Max that she is afraid of, but the primal, carnal power of their relationship.

Max was not simply Lucia’s tormentor. He was her protector. It is a scenario which we see rewritten in our own contemporary erotica. “The Night Porter” is a pertinent template for any “Daddy’s Little Girl”, tale; it whispers and awakens forbidden fantasies. It allows us the space to relish the darker side of desire.

Charlotte Rampling, for her part, insisted that she knew nothing about sadomasochism before embarking on the film. 'The girl had to be an innocent, both fearful, and tempted by the mysteries of unknown pleasures,' she said.

If the scene in the hôtel lobby is compelling, the scene at the opera is electric. Max is seated a few rows behind Lucia and her husband. A sensation causes Lucia to turn. She meets Max’s eyes. She turns away, then turns again. He is still there, willing her to hold his gaze. She turns away, then looks again. Max is gone.

Lucia stays in Vienna after her husband travels on. She wants to see Max, and they find themselves caught up in a renewal of their former sadomasochistic relationship. But Max is to be tried for his war crimes. His former S.S. comrades have been carefully destroying documents and "filing away" witnesses to clear all their names, and while Max tries to keep Lucia's existence a secret from them, they eventually find out about her. They consider her a threat, and they urge Max to turn her over to them. He quits his job, and he and Lucia hide out in his apartment, while his former friends keep watch, waiting for the opportunity to strike.

Filmmaker Liliana Cavani visited a Nazi concentration camp after WW II and interviewed a woman who had been involved in a sadomasochistic relationship with a guard. She then made her story the basis for this powerfully, compelling film.

Liliana Cavani certainly gives her audience a strange and unforgettable picture that questions deeply the psyches of torturers and the tortured, “The Night Porter” presents its psychoanalytically provocative material without exploitation. On another level it deals with the psychological condition known as Stockholm Syndrome
where the victim develops an empathy with his or her abuser.

In an iconic scene, Lucia sings a Marlene Dietrich song to the concentration camp guards while wearing pieces of an SS uniform, and Max "rewards" her with the severed head of a male inmate who had been bullying the other inmates. Max has previously described his relationship with Lucia as “Biblical,” but he cannot remember the story in the Bible that draws him. Then he remembers. It is the story of Salome. King Herod presents Salome with the severed head of John the Baptist as a reward for her display of erotic dance.

In responses to “The Night Porter”, Liliana Cavani was both celebrated for her courage in dealing with the theme of sexual transgression and, simultaneously, castigated for the controversial manner in which she presented that transgression: within the context of a Nazi Holocaust narrative. The film has been accused of mere sensationalism: film critic Roger Ebert calls it "as nasty as it is lubricious, a despicable attempt to titillate us by exploiting memories of persecution and suffering.” Given the film's dark and disturbing themes and a somewhat ambiguous moral clarification at the end, “The Night Porter”, has tended to divide audiences. It is, however, the film for which Liliana Cavani is best known.

I was transfixed by Liliana Cavani’s film when I first saw it, many years ago. I was transfixed again when I watched it yesterday. “The Night Porter” tells of terrible things, and the Holocaust tells a tale of the worst that human beings can ever be. Would Max and Lucia have entered into this distorted, warped love affair -- and it is most certainly, definitely a true love affair, without the Holocaust? Well, of course we don’t know. Would our world today be the same had the Holocaust never happened? Again, we don’t know. The Holocaust is our shame as human beings. We need to be reminded, we need the mirror to be held up to our dirty faces, and if this can be only achieved through a film such as “The Night Porter,” well that’s fine with me.

“The bulk of the Nazi war crime trials took place right after 1945. Basically, from 1945 to 1949, there were parallel Allied tribunals and German courts. The German courts largely dealt with crimes committed against German citizens; the Allied courts dealt with all others, which meant the majority of Nazi crimes. These proceedings petered out by the end of the 1940s and early 1950s largely because West German society suppressed the past and preferred not to talk about it. Nazi crimes hardly found mention in public discourse in the early 1950s.

Thus the Ulm trial in 1958 marked the reopening of criminal proceedings against Nazi criminals. It was seen as a sign that the West German judicial system was taking the Nazi past more seriously. But the most striking thing about the Ulm trial was that it made clear that Nazi atrocities were not just committed within the Third Reich but largely in Eastern Europe.”
Dieter Pohl

After much anticipation, Christina Harding has published Part Two of her Underneath the Gargoyle series!!

Release Special!
Download Part Two for FREE from Smashwords (http://ow.ly/HYZ2E). Use coupon code WN77F at checkout. Be sure to act soon, the coupon expires on February 2! If you download it for free and enjoy what you read, please write a review with your favorite retailer.

Find Part Two Online
*Amazon (http://ow.ly/I2jXu)
*Smashwords (http://ow.ly/HYZ2E)
*Coming soon to more locations!

Genre
Paranormal Erotica/Dubious Consent

Synopsis
Part Two of Christina Harding's Underneath the Gargoyle paranormal erotic series: What happens to Trisha in the catacombs?

Also in the Series
*Underneath the Gargoyle: A Prologue (http://ow.ly/HYZ8Y)
*Underneath the Gargoyle: Part One (http://ow.ly/HYZbs)
*You can subscribe to Christina’s mailing list (http://ow.ly/HYY4i) for updates on her newest releases.

Advance Praise for Underneath the Gargoyle: Part Two
"The first installment in this series is what got me started on reviewing with Christina, and my only complaint was that it ended much too abruptly. This was certainly one of those stories that cries out for a sequel, and Christina has finally delivered.

The story picks up right where we left off, with naughty Catholic schoolgirl Trisha carried off into the catacombs. Her boyfriend Kyle and best friend Olivia are searching for her, though it’s not clear she even wants to be rescued: A new series of stone creatures is keeping her very busy. What will they find when they finally locate her?

Go pick this one up, you won’t regret it." ~5* review by Michael Dalton

"I do love the update to your story." ~First Pass Editor

"Would it be improper of me to admit that I enjoyed this?" ~Second Pass Editor

And here’s a real treat for you…I asked Christina for a juicy paragraph from her new book as a taster. She’s done you proud…here’s the little known prologue to Underneath the Gargoyle. Enjoy!

Underneath the Gargoyle: A Prologue
By Christina Harding
Copyright © 2014 Christina Harding. All rights reserved. Individuals pictured are models and are used for illustrative purposes only.

Marissa stares up at the gargoyles at the top of the church and frowns. She fumbles with her polaroid camera, frames one of the gargoyles in the viewfinder using the zoom function to get a close-up, and snaps a picture, her fingers going numb in the frigid cold air. I wish I had my textbook on gothic churches with me, Marissa thinks as she stands in front of the church, waving the polaroid and waiting for it to develop. Her eyes widen with excitement as she remembers she did, in fact, bring the text.

Still waiting for the photo to develop, Marissa sits down on the steps of the church, despite the fact that they have iced over, and flips through the pages until she finds what she’s looking for. There is an entire chapter devoted to this church with detailed photographs of its features, including the gargoyles. She finds a photo of her gargoyle, the one who looks like a dragon. He is sitting in a crouching position, as usual, and he is baring his teeth as if he’s about to exhale a ferocious flame of fire.

The polaroid of this same gargoyle is starting to come into focus, but his teeth aren’t bared. He’s crouching, but he’s staring almost peacefully off into the distance. Her heart racing, Marissa slips the photo into the text as a bookmark, and stands up to get another look at the gargoyle.

His teeth are bared again like in the textbook, but not like the polaroid she took just moments ago. What the heck? Marissa thinks. Trembling, she looks down at her polaroid again. How could this be possible? The gargoyle must have moved while I was flipping through my textbook! she thinks. She takes another photo of the dragon-like gargoyle, now baring his teeth, and then sets off, hustling to the university with a skip in her step.

“Professor John!” Marissa calls out to her thesis advisor, knocking on the door to his office. He opens the door.
“Marissa!” he says, sounding surprised. “Come on in!” he opens the door wide, and Marissa slips through. His office is warm and welcoming with a fire sparkling in the fireplace.
“I have found some solid evidence to support my theory of cryptozoology.” she announces, excited and still breathless from running.

Professor John closes the door to his office and sits down at his desk, waving for her to sit down too. “What have you found?” He sounds eager.
“The gargoyle on top of the church,” she pulls out her two photographs, “I caught him moving today.” Marissa hands her photos to the Professor.
He adjusts his reading glasses and gives the polaroids a long look. “When did you take these pictures?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes ago. I came straight here. I took the photos only about a minute or two apart,” Marissa rushes to explain.
“You realize the implications of this are huge?” Professor John says, placing the pictures on his desk. “This could be a major breakthrough in the study of cryptozoology.” Marissa’s heart swells with excitement, but the professor continues, “You know, not everyone is going to believe the authenticity of these photos. To date, every picture of a cryptid has been debunked. How are you going to prove that your photos are genuine and that they were taken only within minutes of each other? Who’s to say they weren’t taken years apart and that the gargoyle was not modified?”
Marissa finds herself flushing; she was not expecting such a skeptical reaction. Stammering for a response, she asks, “Do you believe me?”

“I think, a girl such as yourself, should not sully her hands in such matters.”
Shocked, Marissa is speechless.
Noticing her vulnerability, Professor John continues, “It must have been hard to get here so quickly.” He looks pointedly at Marissa’s stretching belly. “When are you due?”
Marissa rubs her growing bump, finding her voice again, “In thirty-five days.”
“As it seems, a child out of wedlock will cast shadow on your moral integrity. You are going to need someone to support your claim, someone with credibility.”
“As my thesis advisor, can’t you…?” Marissa begins to ask.
“Oh yes, that would seem like the obvious choice, wouldn’t it?” Rising from his seat, Professor John rounds his desk and approaches Marissa, “That would require extra effort on my part. And so, I would expect extra from you in return.”
Hoping she’s hearing him correctly, Marissa eagerly responds, “Oh thank you, Professor! I would be happy to do whatever it takes!”
Professor John reaches up and brushes the hair on the side of her cheek. “I was hoping you would say that.” His hand traces down her neck and starts circling her breast.
Marissa tries to back up, but has nowhere to go. She tries to protest, “I love Matthew Cohen.”
“Even though he won’t marry you? He has left you for any man to take.” Professor John reaches up with his other hand and starts caressing both of her breasts.

“Matthew’s status with the church requires certain obligations.” Marissa futilely explains. She tries to squirm away from the Professor.
“None of this. Lay down on my desk now,” the Professor commands.
“No, and get your hands off me!” Marissa insists. She stands up and attempts to brush by the Professor, but he blocks her way.
“If you’re not going to play nicely, I can just get rid of your evidence,” the professor says, grabbing the polaroids off of his desk and holding them over the fire.
“No! Don’t!!” Marissa exclaims, lying down on the desk. “Please….”
“I knew you would come around.” Much to her surprise, the Professor grabs the elastic waist band of her maternity clothes and pulls them down exposing her to the office. Marissa tries to clench her legs together in a last attempt for modesty, but even as she does so, she feels her pussy start to tingle with expectancy.

The Professor pries her legs open and props them on his shoulders, one on each. Marissa feels the heat of the fire directly on her most private space as it starts to drip. Out of obligation, Marissa cries out, “Please don’t. I love Matthew!” even though her body is yearning for more.
Ignoring her pleas, the Professor zips down his fly and pulls out his swollen cock through the front of his boxers. Even though the skin around his potbelly is loose with middle age, his rod is still firm and hard, ready to enter this flesh which is thirty years younger than himself. Professor John caresses Marissa’s youthful labia with the head of his dick, following the folds around her cunt. Marissa tingles as a rush of blood to her pussy makes her fully engorged. She moans.

The professor is still fully dressed in his suit, his pants hiked up around his waist. Just his pink, swollen dick is unveiled, poking out of his boxers from a mass of curly pubic hair. Meanwhile, Marissa is completely exposed from the waist down, and her shirt is starting to ride up over her swollen belly.
Smearing his pre-cum across her labia, the Professor observes, “I wonder how much you really love him. You seem to be enjoying yourself quite a bit.” He poises the tip of his cock right at the opening of her throbbing hole, entering her with just the head, wavering on the brink of her crevice.

“Oh please…” Marissa starts whimpering. But as she says it, she realizes she’s not asking him to stop, but actually begging for more.
“Now tell me, what are you planning on naming your child?”
Marissa tries to focus, “If it’s a boy, we want to name him Kyle.”
The Professor enters her completely. Marissa’s vagina seizes with surprise, but releases with pleasure. She feels a gush of wet escape her pussy. “Kyle is a solid name,” the Professor tells her.
He draws slowly out of her, but then thrusts in again, quickly. Marissa shouts, “Oh, Professor John!” Her body shakes with pleasure, droplets of sweat forming on her pregnant belly.
Her baby has increased the pressure inside of her, making her tighter than she was as a virgin. Her toes curl as she revels in the exquisite sensation. She’s more sensitive than she’s ever been before. Maybe it’s the change in my hormones? she asks herself. Marissa can feel Professor John’s every movement as his aged, but rigid, cock rocks inside of her. “You are so tight,” he moans.

The Professor cups his hands around her belly and feels her baby kick. “Your child knows you aren’t being faithful to its father.”
Marissa feels the baby kick too, and tingling excitement ripples across her abdomen. She looks up at the professor and sees his face contort in pleasure, his bifocals sitting askew.
The professor reaches down and starts stroking Marissa’s clit. Her legs twitch involuntarily, and her body shudders. Marissa grabs the edge of the desk and pulls herself towards her superior so that he can drive more deeply into her. The Professor grabs around Marissa’s legs with his free hands and bucks harder into his student.

All of a sudden Marissa, feels her orgasm coming. “I’m almost there!” She rolls her head back, “Don’t stop!!” The professor obliges, continuing to pump into her and rubbing furiously on her clit.
Marissa and Professor John reach climax at the same moment. She twists and contorts as the pain of a contraction mixed with the releasing pleasure of an orgasm emanates across her body. John clutches her legs to his chest as he shoots deep within her expectant body. He lets out a grunt of pleasure.
There is a knock at the door.
Abruptly both teacher and student are both brought back to the present. Before they have a chance to respond, the door opens and they hear, “Is everything okay Professor?” Then a head pokes through the door.

It is Matthew.
His eyes go round as he takes in the scene in front of him.

Marissa stumbles up as best as she can with her baby bump. “Matthew, this is not what it looks like!”
Matthew’s face gets dark. “I saw he was inside of you. I know what happened here; there’s no need to say anymore.”
“No, Matthew!” Marissa insists, but Matthew has snapped the door shut. Tears start to stream down her face.
“Like I said, he’s left you available for anyone to take. And, there’s no need to lie; we both know you enjoyed it,” the Professor tells her, zipping up his pants. He casually picks up her polaroids on his way out of the office and tosses them into the fire. “Also, the cryptozoology of the gargoyles – that needs to remain a secret.”

If you liked Christina Harding’s free story, then you may enjoy the rest of her UNDERNEATH THE GARGOYLE series as well. A PROLOGUE is also available for FREE download from Smashwords.

Christina Harding is a pseudonym. She is a guest blogger for Romance at Random of Random House and the author of Underneath the Gargoyle, a paranormal erotic series. She also blogs at www.christinahardingerotica.blogspot.com and tweets @tinaerotica. Christina is happily married and enjoys reading sexy stories with her husband.

I wonder how many of you know my friend Oatmeal Girl? I’m using the word ‘know’ reservedly – as far as it is possible to know someone in this, rather desolate at times, cyber landscape. I’ve never met Oatmeal Girl – we only really became aware of each other when we both had stories published in 2010, in Logical Lust’s ‘Best S&M III’.

I know that she follows my blog – silently – very, very occasionally leaving me an astute, thoughtful comment…I know from those comments that I am communicating with a refined intellect…a lover of words, finding the right word…the perfect word following the perfect word.

But most of what I know about Oatmeal Girl comes from her blog – ‘Submission and Metaphor’. From her intriguing poems and poetic prose I learn that she is a submissive woman in a compelling relationship. Oatmeal Girl speaks exquisitely of how she willingly relinquishes control bowing humbly to the man whom she loves and adores, her Master. She refers to him as ‘the Sadist,’ sometimes as ‘the Fiend. The Sadist knows what is best for her – the tasks he sets her are acts born of love, just as Oatmeal Girl’s dedication to the tasks are a demonstration of her love and devotion for him.

Yes, they love -- but let’s not be shy about this daunting, haunting relationship -- Oatmeal Girl tells of butt plugs, caning, chains, collars, floggings, masochism, masturbation, orgasm denial and spankings. These are the things that inform their love for one another. It must be an exhausting relationship at times and not just for the submissive who time after time submits to the ordeal. The Dominant has to plan, organise, take care of his submissive and take care of himself – keep himself physically fit, emotionally fit too.

At this point it seems appropriate to give Oatmeal Girl the opportunity to read what I’m saying about her, so I forwarded my ramblings to her. Here is her response – as you will read – in some ways I am right – in others I fall way off the mark.

“What intrigues me is the impression you have of the relationship from the glimpses I've given into some of my emotional reactions to it. What you (and many others) mainly see at this point - because that's what it seems I've been describing - is the love part of it. Which is only part of the foundation of the relationship. As the fiend reminds me periodically - and as I know deep down inside - the CORE of the relationship, which we must never stray from, is that he really IS my Master. I really do belong to him. Oh, not in some sort of slave registry thing. But in a very real internal sense. He really does see into my soul, he knows me, he freed me, his dominance isn't based on tearing me down but on building me up and teaching me to treasure myself the way he treasures me. We don't just "draw heavily on S&M." The power exchange is the foundation for it all. And it was only after years of training, with catastrophes along the way, that the BDSM side of it was solid enough that it became safe for him to connect with me - at times - as a lover and as a friend.

Which is obviously something I haven't made clear enough on the blog.

It is certainly fine for you to speak about us as you have, based on what you have gleaned from my writing. And, in fact, now it really is a love relationship. Now and then, speaking to him, I'll refer to "all the different ways we are together", referring to my being his mistress, his pet, his submissive, his slave, and his own little girl. But eventually that makes him uneasy, and he'll repeat that if we lost sight of the core, we will lose our way and get into trouble.
And he's right.

BDSM isn't something we just DO.
It is not a game.
This is what we are.
Deep inside, in truth, this is what we are.

But there's nothing you've written that reveals anything that should not be revealed. So that's fine.

Where you call him my "Dominant Master" I would just say he's my Master.

What you say about planning and organizing is absolutely true. He does work things out in a very detailed way before each visit and has a long-range plan as well."

Recently, a fellow tweeter told me that the stories that I write are disgraceful. Apparently, I write of sex without love; I write of pain, degradation and cruelty – She hasn’t actually read any of my stories, she just somehow ‘knows’ what they’re like. If I could be bothered to have a dialogue with her, which I cannot do because she has blocked me on all social media, I would argue that my stories are about people who are very much in love – they just happen to have ‘kinks’ and it is how those kinks inform their relationship -- that is what I find interesting.

And that is why I am intrigued by Oatmeal Girl – despite the S&M, her poems and poetic prose are a dedication of her love for the ‘Sadist’, the man she adores – the man who adores her. She is in an all-consuming love affair with the Sadist – without him, she is nothing – without him she would shrivel and die, like the autumn leaves on my magnolia tree -- exquisitely scarlet when they fall, only to turn muddy brown, found in the spring, as thin and fragile as finest tissue paper in their skeletal remains.

You can visit Oatmeal Girl’s blog “Submission and Metaphor” here.

Follow Oatmeal Girl on Twitter. @oatmeal_girl

‘Good pussy bad pussy. I knew something had awakened in me, something I’d never experienced before. A force, a power, a drive, an energy. Call it good pussy, call it bad pussy, call it whatever you will, but a life force had been awakened in me and I couldn’t put it (her) back to sleep again. Right or wrong, she was awake! She was alive! And she wanted more.’

In this fascinating tale of forbidden sex and guilty pleasures, readers can follow the beautiful and naive Rachel in her dangerous attempt to be free, follow her heart and satisfy her pussy – all at the same time!

From Amsterdam to the French Riviera to New York City… from her blond lover Stefan, to the aristocratic Albert, and mad doctor Howard, Rachel tastes the forbidden fruit – and likes it. That is until life takes a very surprising turn! And yet another…

Tim Spencer interviews A. Aimee about her book “Good Pussy Bad Pussy – Rachel’s Tale”

Tim Spencer Question:

In your book, Rachel has to leave her husband to experience the orgasmic bliss she is seeking. Was her leaving him driven by a conscious need that she had for this experience? Did she understand what was really happening with her? And, if it's possible, how do you see such experiences of orgasmic bliss influencing other aspects of people's lives.

A. Aimee Answer:

In my understanding, orgasm – the big O that we are all seeking – is truly a portal to ecstasy, a state of timeless awareness and the death of the ego, which is so blissful. And that I believe is why we’re all so desperately seeking this experience. That’s my understanding of it. Orgasm, or the great surrender, is such an amazing experience because finally we let go and give up everything. Everything! In other words, in that state of blissful surrender we even give up thinking and worrying about everything and anything that’s bothering us. At least for a few moments! So at least for a few moments, we truly lose our minds! And then, oh great glory and wonder, we are finally fully present in our lives in this now moment. No wonder we find it so extraordinary!

So I wanted to write a book about a woman who experiences this blissful surrender at great depths. And I also wanted to write about a woman who finds these states of orgasmic bliss outside of our so-called “normal” couple relationships (marriage) and in situations that are often quite beyond what we think is acceptable. In my story, Rachel is often shocked and surprised when she discovers that her body can respond in one way even if her mind was screaming something else. Hence the title – Good Pussy Bad Pussy.

Tim Spencer Question:

Through all the events that happened in Rachel's life in this story, is it logical to conclude that Rachel found that living a life that cannot be sustained emotionally is unfulfilling? What do you think it takes for a woman today to live an emotionally fulfilling life?

A. Aimee Answer:

Yes, in the end, Rachel was not willing to put up with a mediocre life that was emotionally unfulfilling. She was ready to live “outside the box” so to speak even if she couldn’t always find her way or see the consequences of her actions. At least she was willing to give it a try and go after a deeper level of satisfaction – even if it had unexpected karmic consequences for her. So yes, I think all of us – both women and men – are seeking a deeper emotional fulfilment than most of us are experiencing.

Tim Spencer Question:

Do you think that ultimately Rachel learned, through all her experiences and relationships in the book, that what she was really looking for was someone she could love and be with? Or, if there was more to it, what was it?

A. Aimee Answer:

Rachel wasn’t so hung up on the idea of marriage and couple relationships – rather she was seeking true intimacy – however that would reveal itself in her life. Seeking this demands real courage, as she found out. And honesty.

Tim Spencer Question:

Finally, was it all of the experiences that she had and the people she experienced in the book the reason she came to choose a career in psychology? What did she come to "see" that made her want to help others in this way?

A. Aimee Answer:

Traumatic experiences such as Rachel had often make us question our beliefs and spark a desire to go deeper and understand more. This was definitely the case with Rachel. And I continue to explore this and the other themes in the next Good Pussy Bad Pussy book.

Tim Spencer Question:

Wait, one more final question... is there a second book in the works for Good Pussy Bad Pussy? Do you have an expected release date?

A. Aimee Answer:

Yes I’ve just finished another Good Pussy Bad Pussy book. The title of the new book is “Good Pussy Bad Pussy in Captivity”! It will be released in the fall of 2015. You can look forward to a deeper exploration of these themes, lots more drama and adventure, and yes, lots more hot sex!

Good Pussy Bad Pussy is getting fantastic reviews!

The book is getting great reviews all around including so many 5 Star reviews on Amazon and Goodreads such as:

Good Pussy Bad Pussy is a “great freaking book! 5 Stars” says blogger and book reviewer @ReneeGiraldy on her blog. Read more here:

“Good Pussy Bad Pussy is one of those pieces of work once read, never forgotten. 5 Stars” says Darla Hogan on Amazon. And he continues: “An uncomfortable story but one that needs to be told, and read.” Read more here;

“There’s enough craze and kink, tears and thrill, romance and repentance to make Good Pussy Bad Pussy a perfect gift.” Doris Dawn, sex blogger on her blog and on Goodreads:

“Good Pussy Bad Pussy is brave, wonderfully done, it hooks me in and grabs my interest from the start,” writes blogger and book reviewer Sylvia Storm. Read more here:

For more see: www.goodpussybadpussy.com
Or contact the author at: amy.aimee14@hotmail.com
The book is available on Amazon and from other sellers as a printed book, Kindle and ebook.

Links:
Interview posted on Tim Spencer’s Web site here:

Tim Spencer’s narration of the start of “Good Pussy Bad Pussy” here:

Good Pussy Bad Pussy trailer by Tim Spencer, here.

Links for A. Aimee

Twitter:

Facebook:

Goodreads:

“Good Pussy Bad Pussy” purchase links:

Amazon com: Amazon Kindle:Amazon.co.uk:

It’s two in the morning. In the opening scene of Edward Albee’s WHO’ AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF, George and Martha stumble home tipsy, from a party. They bicker, in the way drunks do about things that don’t really matter. They laugh; stupidly.
The loud snap of a door latch. Action!

Martha; “What a dump!” The play begins.

Yes, it's 2am and Dionysus is on the prowl. Dionysus is alive and well this night in New England in the 20th century. His red gaze falls on his two old disciples, George and Martha. The beast has been unleashed; he wakes from his long slumber, and snarls. George and Martha will act out Dionysus’ ritual and sacrifice. They will scream and go mad. They will paw and claw at each other. They will do real damage. The ritual will end in death, just as it did every year centuries ago, in Eleusis.

Dionysus is the Greek god of fertility, wine, and ecstasy. A complex deity Dionysus played two very different roles in Greek mythology. As the god of fertility he was closely linked with crops, the harvest, and the changing of the seasons. As the god of wine and ecstasy he was associated with drunkenness, madness, and unrestrained sexuality. His nature included a productive, life-giving side and a bestial, destructive side.

The audience know immediately, that George and Martha have acted out this orgy of violent, verbal bloodletting before. How we know; well, no-one tells us, it’s just a gut feeling. The humiliating word games they play; “Get the Guest.” The stories that they tell suggest that this obscene rite has been performed before. George and Martha are in the grip of a repetition compulsion. Just as Hades and Persephone act out their ritual of death and re-birth so do George and Martha. The Dionysian mysteries were repeated annually; the sacrifice, the ritual tearing of human flesh to please the god ensured healthy crops and fertility for the coming year.

George and Martha are part of this eternal conflict. Their game is cyclical and they play it through to its bitter conclusion. Only then can they achieve sanity, sanctity and restore order.

Two guests arrive and they are immediately drawn into George and Martha’s ugly little scenario.

I watched the film of WHO’S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF, this week. I didn’t want to; I knew I was in for a rough ride. I’ve seen the stage play and seen the film. Both left me shattered. The film stars Richard Burton as George and Elizabeth Taylor as Martha. George Segal is Scott and Sandy Dennis is Honey. The film is made in black and white which works well; the stark images helping to convey the creeping, sinister feeling that everything is slipping out of control. Usually, I would prefer to watch a stage play over a film, but the close up camera work lingering on facial expressions adds to the tension. I feel as if I’ve watched a violation, something profane. Something I should have stopped but was helpless to do anything.

There’s a hopeless, helpless slippage going on that things are not what they seem.

This is psychological terrorism.

At one point, Martha says to George. “Truth and illusion. You don’t know the difference.” George responds; “No, but we carry on as if we do; the illusion can be as true as we want it to be.”

While Martha is showing Honey where the bathroom is, George tests Nick's verbal sparring skills, but the young man is no match for his host. Realizing that he and his wife are becoming embroiled in the middle of marital warfare he suggests they depart, but George cajoles him into staying.

Upon returning to the living room alone, Honey innocently mentions to George she was unaware he and Martha had a son on the verge of celebrating his sixteenth birthday.

Martha has broken the rules by talking about their son, and will be, must be punished.

But at this stage of the play, it is Martha who is controlling the action. George seems like an amateur compared to Martha’s bitter vitriol.

Martha reappears in a new outfit - sleek fitting slacks and a revealing blouse - and when her husband makes a snide remark about the ensemble, she begins to demean his abilities as a teacher, then escalates her seduction of Nick complimenting him on the body he has
developed as quarterback and a state boxing champion, while criticizing George's paunch.

Honey again raises the subject of George and Martha's son prompting the couple to engage in a conversation which Martha quickly tries to end without success.

To counterattack George's relentless comments about the boy she tells their guests her husband is unsure the child is his own. They argue about the colour of the boy's eyes until George threatens to expose the truth about the boy. Martha is furious and accuses him of being a failure, whose youthful idealistic plans for the future slowly deteriorated as he came to realize he wasn't aggressive enough to follow in his father-in-law's footsteps leaving her stuck with a flop. Inebriated and upset by Martha's behaviour, Honey rushes from the room.

Honey’s comical hysterical exits and entrances provide the audience with a much needed relaxation of tension. We are already feeling battered; we need to breathe before the next round of screeching, screaming annihilation. It’s a relief to be allowed to laugh; it’s only when we laugh at Honey’s antics, we realise how our jaws have been set in a grimace of horror, like Munch’s SCREAM.

Honey is the Greek Chorus, commenting inanely, sometimes profoundly on the action. Sometimes she simply repeats the last word of the dialogue. Sandy Dennis’ wonderful comic timing, and physical comedy, releases us from the tension for just a beat, or two.

Honey wants to dance; she loves to dance. “I dance like the wind,” she tells us, while skipping and waving a silk shawl. Her dance is reminiscent of a Dionysian orgy.

“Following the torches as they dipped and swayed in the darkness, they climbed mountain paths with head thrown back and eyes glazed, dancing to the beat of the drum which stirred their blood. In this state of ekstasis or enthusiasmos, they abandoned themselves, dancing wildly and shouting 'Euoi!' [the god's name] and at that moment of intense rapture became identified with the god himself. They became filled with his spirit and acquired divine powers.” (WIKI)

The play is overshadowed by children, or the lack of them. Honey has had an “hysterical pregnancy.” “She goes up, she goes down.” One of the first questions George asks of Scott is whether he and Honey have children. George tells a story about a boy, blonde haired and beautiful. He shot his mother and killed his father in a road accident. He’d swerved to avoid a porcupine. The story has a peculiar resonance with what George says to Martha about their own son.

Martha; “our son is coming home tomorrow, for his 16th birthday.” George tells her that their son is dead. He drove into a tree, trying to avoid a porcupine on the road. Martha bursts into an hysterical rage. George has killed their son. He has no right.

But George has taken control of the action. He was in control all along; the audience and Martha just didn’t realise it.

Martha asks George, where is the telegram notifying them of the death of their son? George says he’s eaten it. He hasn’t; there was no telegram. Honey colludes with George. She tells Martha, “He did eat it, I watched him.” George’s statement is a blatant, bitter parody of the Eucharist. Transubstantiation; the participant consumes the wafer, the body of Christ. The disciple consumes the Divine and becomes the Divine.

Was any of this true? Was there a son? Was a boy, killed? We don’t know, and that really is unsettling. We know that the telegram is a lie; what else is a lie?

There’s a strange feeling of calm as George begins to pray. The final act is entitled “Exorcism.” Is this an exorcism or a requiem? A prayer for reconciliation? Is it a funeral mass? While George is reciting the prayer, Martha talks. The two voices speaking simultaneously, produce a rhythmic, calming, lulling effect. Order is slowly being restored.

George; Kyrie Eleison. (Lord have mercy.)
George; Christe Eleison. (Christ have mercy.)
George; Kyrie Eleison. (Lord have mercy.)
Honey; Amen. (So be it.) Honey, as the Chorus, speaks the final word of the prayer ending Dionysus’ revels. The games are over.

Kyrie Eleison is Greek, and is a part of many liturgical rites in Eastern and Western Christianity.

Scott and Honey leave, almost unnoticed. George and Martha relax. The actors take their curtain call. The credits roll to Alex North’s tranquil music. George and Martha prepare to go to bed.

Dionysus sleeps.

It was the first notorious killing of the twentieth century. July 1910 Britain was gripped by the progress of a huge man hunt. It was on a scale that hadn’t been seen since Jack the Ripper.

The fugitive was Doctor Hawley Harvey Crippen and he was wanted for the murder and mutilation of his wife Cora. Together with his mistress, Ethel le Neve, Doctor Crippen had fled from London. Handbills had been printed and pasted everywhere and distributed to police around the world. Everyone was talking about this case.

The Home Secretary, a certain Winston Churchill had organised a reward of £250, worth £20,000 in today’s money for their capture.

So where was Doctor Crippen and his lover Ethel le Neve? In fact they had already left the country and were holed up in a hotel in Belgium. They had plans to leave for North America.

Henry Kendal was the captain of a steam ship heading across the Atlantic to Canada. But two of his passengers had aroused his suspicions. The SS Montrose had only been at sea for one day when Captain Kendal noticed a father and son behaving strangely on deck. He thought it was very odd that they squeezed each other’s hands immoderately, as he put it, and that they would sometimes disappear behind the lifeboats. The two of them were travelling as Mr and Master Robinson.

What happened next was just like a detective novel, with the Captain playing the part of Sherlock Holmes. Captain Kendal decided to carry out an experiment to try and confirm his suspicions that he had Doctor Crippen on board. He took a newspaper photograph of Doctor Crippen and using chalk he whitened out the Doctor’s moustache and then blackened out the frames of his spectacles and it was a photo fit. Without his moustache and spectacles the mysterious Mr Robinson was clearly Doctor Crippen.

Captain Kendal had access to a pioneering piece of technology that would speed up the process of twentieth century crime investigation. It was the Marconi wireless, but the transmitter only had a range of 150 miles. When Captain Kendal made his breakthrough he was already 130 miles from the nearest receiver; he had 20 miles left to get the message out. Rushing along the lower deck to the wireless room he handed the wireless operator the message that would electrify the world.

It read:

“Have strong suspicions that Crippen the London cellar murderer and accomplice are amongst the passengers. Accomplice dressed as a boy but with voice manners and build undoubtedly a girl.”

But would the message get through in time?

So what exactly were the events that had led up to this extraordinary situation?

Doctor Crippen, an American, who dabbled in cheap patent medicines and dentistry had been living what seemed a pretty conventional life in a North London villa. His wife, Cora, was a would be music hall artiste. But the marriage was troubled and Crippen had begun an affair with his young secretary, Ethel le Neve. On the 19th January 1910, Crippen visited a chemist to purchase five grains of hydro bromide of hyosin; an enormous dosage of a deadly poison. He signed the poison book like he was supposed to, with the words “for homeopathic purposes.”

On the 31st January, the Crippens held a little party at home. Later, Crippen would claim that it had been followed by a terrible quarrel between him and his wife. Cora had said that she was leaving him the very next day. Whatever really happened that night the guests at that party were the last people to see Cora Crippen alive. To explain Cora’s absence Crippen claimed that she had gone back to America and then he later said that she had died out there. Very suspicious Cora’s friends now paid a visit to New Scotland Yard. The case was taken up by Detective Chief Inspector Walter Dew, a veteran of the Ripper murders. He was a member of the Yard’s newly formed “murder squad”. Its members prided themselves on their prowess and their skills in disguises – however unconvincing. Chief Inspector Dew searched Crippen’s house for evidence but found nothing. But he wasn’t quite satisfied. He went back three days later for another look and discovered that Crippen had disappeared. “My quarry has gone,” he said.

Crippen’s house, where a block of flats now stands held a strange attraction for Dew. “That sinister cellar,” he wrote, “draws me to it.” His sergeant began to work away at the brick floor, then to remove the earth beneath. There was a nauseating stench and Dew and his men had to rush out to the garden for fresh air. Fortifying themselves with brandy, they returned to the cellar and soon made a grim discovery. There, in a shallow grave, lay a limbless headless torso. What kind of person could have done this? Surely not gentle Doctor Crippen?

The story caused a frenzy of excitement, with lurid headlines in the popular press. Inspector Dew was now under enormous pressure to catch the killer.

And then, that sensational telegram arrived from the mid-Atlantic.

Chief Inspector Dew now hatched an ingenious plan – he had to take a faster ship to overtake the Montrose before it reached Canada and to arrest Crippen on board. And the press were hard on his heels. Word had leaked out about what was happening on the SS Montrose. Newspaper readers could follow Dew’s pursuit as he closed in on his suspects at the rate of three and a half miles an hour.

This story has it all. As well as a gruesome murder, there is an illicit romance and a chase across the Atlantic. And best of all, the suspects didn’t have a clue that the police were onto them, although every newspaper reader in Britain did. Doctor Crippen had become the most famous murderer in the world.

Dew attempted to evade the journalists by disguising himself as a harbour pilot in order to board the Montrose. But it was no good. Reporters were there to capture the moment when Dew finally greeted his suspect with the words; “Good morning Doctor Crippen.” Can you imagine an actor and director lingering over that line – the pace, the dramatic pause?

Press photographers caught everything that happened next. The crowds waiting at Liverpool docks. Dew escorting Crippen off the boat. The anticipation outside Bow Streets magistrate’s court for the committal of Crippen and Le Neve.

The press had made the couple into a highly marketable commodity. This was a very modern murder.

Bizarre offers now began to come in. If they were acquitted Crippen would get £1000 a week for a twenty week tour. le Neve would receive £200 a week for a performance including a musical sketch entitled “Caught by Wireless.”

On the 18th of October the trial of Doctor Crippen began at the Old Bailey. This was going to be a huge spectacle. Four thousand people applied for tickets, the court had to issue special half day passes so that double the normal numbers could get in. In the words of the Daily Mail’s reporter;

“…the crowds begged, pleaded and argued for seats in the public gallery.”

Inside there was even more chaos. There was a rowdy atmosphere, like a music hall. People were shouting ‘blue tickets that way, red tickets up here.”

The trial ended on Saturday the 22nd of October. The jury only took twenty seven minutes to find Crippen guilty of wilful murder. He was sentenced to death.
In his evidence on oath, Crippen said that his wife had often threatened to leave him and had picked a quarrel with him over his behaviour while they were having friends round for dinner. Recounting the last time he saw her, he said:

She abused me, and said some very strong things; she said that if I could not be a gentleman she had had enough of it and could not stand it any longer and she was going to leave. That was similar to her former threats, but she said besides something she had not said before; she said that after she had gone it would be necessary for me to cover up any scandal there might be by her leaving me, and I might do it in the very best way I could. I came back the next day at my usual time, which would be about half-past seven or eight o'clock, and found that the house was vacant.
The trial ended on Saturday the 22nd of October. The jury only too twenty seven minutes to find Crippen guilty of wilful murder. He was sentenced to death.
The jury took just 27 minutes to reject Crippen's explanations for his wife's disappearance and convict him of murder.
Crippen was executed on 23 November 1910, less than four months after his arrest. His last request was to have a photo of Ethel Le Neve in his top pocket when he was hanged. He was buried in the cemetery at Pentonville prison.

Ethel le Neve, at a separate trial was acquitted and she lost no time in selling her side of the story. A publicity shot shows her in her infamous disguise as a boy. But her fame was short lived. It was Crippen himself that would be imortalised. Even during his trial sculptors at Madame Taussaud’s had been preparing a wax figure based on those snatched court photographs. Within days of the passing of Crippen’s death sentence Taussaud’s unveiled their new addition to the chamber of horrors. Crippen was on display to the public before he’d even met the hangman.

And over one hundred years later he is still on show.

In the 1912 catalogue to the Chamber of Horrors he takes his place amongst the greats. His fellow doctor, William Palmer the poisoner. And opposite the 19th century murderess, Maria Manning. They have a description of their crimes in the catalogue. Doctor Crippen has none. Everyone knows who he is; what he did.

And a contemporary journalist described this place, the Chamber of Horrors as “the holiest of holies.” These were the people everyone wanted to see. What does that say about the Edwardians?

Indeed; what does it say about all of us? Public hangings are no more; but I bet people would go to see them if they were. I recall watching the Crime channel (I’m addicted to it. It’s my version of a seat in the public gallery at the Old Bailey) there were crowds outside the jail where they’d got Ted Bundy. They cheered when it was announced that his death sentence had been carried out.

It seems that a lurid fascination with murderers and death did not die with the Edwardians.

You can read statements taken by the police and transcripts from the trial here;

TV viewers of BBC 4 will recognise that I have plundered parts of “A Very British Murder” presented by Lucy Worsley. The rest of the post has been put together using sources from the web.

Melly is a character within the dynamic of an Age Play relationship – Melly is her ‘little girl' name. In real life Melly is an adult – I don’t know her real name. Melly is a Daddy’s little girl.

i’ve slept with a teddy bear all my life. this may seem insignificant, but it’s really not,. i had my teddy bear with me when i moved in with Master. i held him every night, and was tucked in with him when Master sent me to bed. When i was moved into a kennel for sleeping, the bear moved with me. This was the jumping off point for my D/g relationship with Master. When reaching for my bear one night, i felt especially “small”. i whined in a very little-girl-like manner. And looking up at Master, i felt comforted in a way that piqued something in me.

Later, i expressed to Master my little girl inside. i’ve always been child-like in my wonder and expression of joy and sadness, and Master had told me it was one of the things that endeared me to Him. He had me write an essay about being little, about wanting a Daddy. i poured out my feelings, and when He had me read my assignment aloud to Him, i was in tears. i blushed and was embarrassed at my desire to be little. i was shy about my connection to the little inside me. i was worried that He might reject that part of me, and be unwilling to be my daddy.

All those worries were very much in vain. i first called Him “Daddy” when He was tending to a wound on my hand (a splinter, gone infected.), cleaning it because it was awkward for me to reach. the alcohol burned, and i was shocked at my own self to hear a gasped “Daddy!!” leave my lips. He didn’t even blink. He just kissed my forehead, and told me, “Daddy doesn’t like hurting you like this. it’ll be over soon.” He was right, of course. The pain subsided, and the wound healed over the next few days, but i wrestled with that word, that place. Master, however, was already settling into His role, and later, when i asked Him if it was okay that i had called Him “Daddy”, he smiled gently, and hugged me close. No other answer was needed.

Over the past two years, my little and Master’s Daddy have grown into each other. And the two of us have settled deeply into those places with each other. i read to Him from my Nick Jr. subscription. He laughs and traces the mazes when i tell Him i can’t find the path. i can see His pleasure when i am excited and giggle. i put my arms around His waist, and He holds me and tells me i’m a good girl. and i am. inside our D/g dynamic, i have an innocence, a simplicity, that can’t be had elsewhere. i have an excitement and a wonder that is unsurpassed. i have a trust that can’t be broken. and Master takes all these things, and gives me the counterparts. He is the strong Daddy. He is the comforting hand. He is the responsibility that i can’t handle.

Ageplay, for some, is a separate activity from their everyday selves. Sometimes, i am more or less little, but i have not engaged in separate roleplay style “ageplay” for quite some time. Why? Well, because at some point, i stopped separating my little and my grown up selves. i embraced my little, even in the midst of being grown-up melly. My Master/Daddy understands this. We shifted into that gradually. Initially, i would put on a special t-shirt, put my hair up in braids. Turn on the TV to cartoons. It would take me a bit of time to “get into” being little. Now, it’s natural, and an inclusive part of my behavior. i don’t dress a particular way, or do anything special to send me into little space, though sometimes, i’ll pull my sippy cup down, and i often color to relieve stress and gain a sense of achievement from Master by showing Daddy my pretty pictures.

The D/g dynamic has vastly improved our relationship, because of the behaviors inherent in being little. trust, often fostered over a long period of time, came quickly. Fears were lost in the face of the wide-eyed wonder of a child. Communication flows freely between little melly and her Daddy, and she never has to worry about being judged. Even in the BDSM sense, things that grown-up melly might feel shame for become innocent in light of a child’s sense of exploration. Fears are only fears, and can be overcome. When i AM afraid, i can be comforted, and allowed to cry.

Emotionally, i am more stable when i am able to actively engage my little on a continuous basis. Mentally, i am more whole when i can allow this part of me to not only come out, but be ever-present. It IS who i am. i can no more erase her than i can erase my hand. Even if i remove it, there will be a stump, and something will be missing.
Just tonight, i asked Master, “Why do you like being my Daddy?” His response: “I don’t know… there’s just something about it. something .. important.” Indeed. Something very important. To us, having this dynamic is a closeness and a comfort. Master has never been a Daddy before. i’ve never been able to integrate my little into myself as fully as i have. Actually, i think i am about as fully integrated as i can get. And i think that’s very very good, for both of us.

i do realize that not all people do it like we do. It is perfectly fine to put on your hair ribbons and ageplay a single scene every few weeks. That’s just not what we do. i’m a 24-7 little girl, just like i’m a 24-7 slave. Sometimes, it’s more overt, sometimes, more subdued, but it is a very real and very important part of who i am. i am growing into BOTH of those identities more fully every day, learning more about myself in the process. i honestly hope i never stop!

Every night, i tell Master, “You’re the best Daddy in the whole world…” and true to His form, He replies, “i’m really glad you think so.” He IS the best Daddy for me. And i am the best little girl for Him. it’s now integral to our relationship, not added on. it’s who WE Are.

Submissive Guide

This is in response to a very disappointingly unnuanced article published in the Atlantic Monthly.

So, you’ve just seen Fifty Shades of Grey, or you read the book, or both and you’re thinking… wow, that’s looks sexy. I could go for some of that….
Okay, I really hope you read this fully and take what I’ve written here to heart and give it some deep consideration.

1. Fifty Shades of Grey is fiction, written for the purposes of selling books. It was written by a woman who is NOT a practitioner of BDSM and knows literally fuck all about it. It’s an amusing read, a sexy film, whatever. It has no data in it that is reliable for you to apply to real life. Watching Top Gun can’t teach you how to fly a plane and FSOG contains NO practical info on BDSM. Similarly, the stories you will find on this site are fictional. They are not self-help guides, or how to manuals. In fact, quite the opposite. Narrative form leans towards conflict, not harmony. My characters are not admirable, healthy people. They might be interesting fictional characters, but they’re all terrible role models.

It turned you on? Wonderful. Have a wank. Have five. But there is very little chance, statistically that you are a masochist or a sadist, or even all that wired to sexually enjoy the kind of explicit power dynamics involved in domination or submission. So, right off the top, enjoy the fantasy. You don’t have to take it into your real life to be cool or legitimate or trendy.

2. Being sexually aroused or getting erotic pleasure from inflicting pain or receiving it is not normative. I’m not saying it’s wrong, I’m just saying it’s less common than the hype would have you believe. There is a consumer trend at play at the moment to convince you that being that way is a glamorous and desirable thing. Manufacturers of Fifty Shades of Grey and BDSM merch and paraphernalia have in interest in trying to convince you that if you don’t have this stuff, you’re not hip, you’re not sexually aware, or liberated. This isn’t true. They just want to sell stuff and they don’t give a shit who they hurt or what kind of physical, mental or emotional trauma results from their lifestyle identification brand strategy. Bondage, beating and rough sex all carry significant physical and emotional risks. Anyone who tells you it’s absolutely safe is lying.

3. Many people who DO really find the giving or receiving of pain, humiliation, degradation, sexual control, etc., pleasurable have an agenda. They want the rest of the world to think they’re not sick or deviant or evil. There’s nothing wrong with this, because the vast majority of people who practice BDSM are ethical people who feel very strongly about consent and the rules that surround the practice of BDSM. BUT they have an agenda too. They don’t want to be persecuted or punished for their sexual tastes. They want to be validated and recognized as good citizens by mainstream society. This means that some organizations are guilty of downplaying the risks inherent in the practice and downplaying the fact that some people use the cover of BDSM to sexually abuse unwilling, non-consenting people.

4. Being someone who gets their sexual pleasure from causing another pain is problematic within a culture that condemns acts of violence. Generally, it takes a person who is wired this way many years to come to terms with their appetites and figure out how to engage in their type of preferred erotic activity while still staying within the bounds of the law and of humane ethical behavior. And some sadists NEVER manage it. So, cosying up to one carries risk. Always. I’m not engaging in victim blaming. When someone breaks your rules, breaches the boundaries you have set, they are ALWAYS the ones at fault. BUT, violence, especially associated with sex is a taboo in our society. People who get off on it are transgressive by nature. Transgression is about rule breaking. So, you are dealing with a person who is sexually aroused by breaking rules and you are depending on the fact that they will break the ones you like broken, but not the ones you don’t. YOU have an obligation of self-care. You have an obligation to understand that you are placing yourself at greater risk. If the world were fair, all sadists would be scrupulously ethical. But the world is not fair. When it gets fair, I’ll let you know.

5. Being someone who is sexually aroused or gets erotic pleasure from being hurt, humiliated, degraded, restrained, having one’s ego decimated, engaging in symbolic self-annihilation, etc. is also problematic in our culture. Our culture emphasizes the need to avoid pain, to care for oneself, to keep healthy, to hold oneself in high regard. A masochist also faces a difficult path in negotiating his or her way through mainstream society. Their need to get the kind of stimulation that satisfies them often leads them to take risks that others would not take. Just because a person gets sexual satisfaction from being caned doesn’t mean they are asking for or deserve to have their spine broken. But to not acknowledge that in letting someone cane them, they are taking a chance that this might happen is to be willfully stupid. Furthermore, servicing a masochist also requires having limits yourself. And although most masochists are ethical will accept what those limits are, some will not be able to do that. And that can make them very dangerous.

6. Shaming, bullying or manipulating someone into being submissive or taking pain when that isn’t what gets them off is FUNDAMENTALLY lMMORAL. No matter how cool the movies, books, the press or sex toy sales companies say it is. It is a deeply emotional and traumatic experience for anyone whose psychosexuality doesn’t lend itself to this kind of thing.

7. Shaming, bullying or manipulating someone into being dominant or inflicting physical or mental pain is JUST AS IMMORAL. And I suspect there are even more adults being cajoled into this kind of behaviour than anyone wants to admit. Acting in the capacity of a dominant or a sadist can be deeply traumatic to a person who is not naturally inclined to this.

8. Sex is not safe. It’s not safe in nature and it’s not safe in human society. People are vulnerable in sexual situations, both physically and emotionally. Society can inscribe laws that attempt to mitigate the risk and prosecute people who violate them. You can take sensible precautions, and minimize the risks on a personal level, but you can never eliminate them completely. If the world were fair, it would be different, but the world isn’t fair.

9. BDSM is FAR LESS SAFE. If sex carries some basic risk, kinky sex carries a much greater level of risk. It is transgressive sex. To transgress means to consciously and intentionally step over boundaries, to contravene taboos established within any given society. The eroticism at the core of BDSM lies exactly in the fact that kinky activities flaunt established social conventions and carry a level of risk. If it were safe, and socially acceptable, it would not be so erotic.
So… this is the paradox that few people want to accept. We live in a world that encourages us to have our cake and eat it too. But cakes and BDSM are both always subject to the laws of matter and physics. This can be very hard to accept because our consumer society keeps on assuring us that we can have BOTH transgressive pleasure AND perfect safety. It is a lie perpetuated for the purpose of encouraging your consumption.

But you can be thoughtful and self-reflective and refuse the Koolaid. Please, in this instance, stop thinking about what might be cool to have, or be or do. What do you need? What do you really need sexually, erotically, inside? Please ask yourself that.

I do not want to dissuade anyone from pursuing their kinks. I am not condemning, pathologizing or shaming anyone who has non-mainstream sexual tastes. I am not a hypocrite. I just want to try to inform you that you have a duty of care to yourself that goes far beyond this month’s hip thing, or this week’s sexual flavour. Ultimately, I want you alive, uninjured and untraumatized. And it is foolish to ever depend on anyone else to ensure you remain that way. If the world were fair, you could depend on others, organizations, websites, groups to help keep you that way, but the world is not fair.

I have mixed feelings about the debate regarding Fetlife and outing dangerous people. Even if Fetlife were to allow users to publicly accuse people of rape or lesser unacceptable behaviour, it would be a grave mistake to believe you were any safer. Meanwhile, its proponents seem unwilling to address the rare but grave issue of false allegations. A lot of rapes happen when people meet in a bar under very vanilla auspices. Do we post notes naming rapists in bars? I still think the best response to a rape is to formally accuse that person and make the law work. If what is at issue here is that the law, the police and prosecutions are not dealing with this, then that’s the battle we should be fighting – for everyone, kinky or otherwise.

You need to acknowledge that when you step into the world of transgressive sexual practice, you have walked into a less safe place. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be there, but it means that you need to be very vigilant and take responsibility for your safety.

You need to practice the care of self. Be well. Be careful.

Thanks to Madeleine Morris (aka Remittance Girl)for letting me post this brilliant essay..read more of Madeleine's stuff here

Jean-Louis André Théodore Géricault (26 September 1791 – 26 January 1824) was a profoundly influential French artist, painter and lithographer, known for The Raft of the Medusa and other paintings. Although he died young, he became one of the pioneers of the Romantic movement.

Born in Rouen, France, Géricault was educated in the tradition of English sporting art by Carle Vernet and classical figure composition by Pierre-Narcisse Guérin, a rigorous classicist who disapproved of his student's impulsive temperament, but recognized his talent. Géricault soon left the classroom, choosing to study at the Louvre instead, where he copied from paintings by Peter Paul Rubens, Titian, Diego Velázquez, and Rembrandt for about six years, from 1810 to 1815. There he found a vitality which he preferred to the prevailing school of Neoclassicism. Much of his time was spent in Versailles, where he found the stables of the palace open to him, and where he gained his knowledge of the anatomy and action of horses. WIKI

Géricault was beautiful, controversial, supremely talented. He had an affair with his aunt. The pair had shared an intense bond since Géricault's boyhood, but by his twenties he had matured into an eye-catching figure.

His teacher Carle Vernet claimed he 'had never seen such a good-looking man ... his legs were, above all, superb': Alexandrine-Modeste clearly thought so too and aunt and nephew started an affair. In 1816 Géricault fled to Rome in an attempt to distance himself from the imbroglio but he was back within a year and in 1818 Alexandrine-Modeste gave birth to his son. It was, therefore, in a state of turmoil that he started work on The Raft of the Medusa.

“Théodore Géricault was the quintessential Romantic artist: he died young and in torment, leaving behind him one great masterpiece and the legend of a painter touched by both genius and madness. 'Suffering is real and pleasures are nothing but imaginary,' he said; it was an extraordinarily bleak outlook and what is truly terrifying is that he believed it.

The painting that made his reputation was exhibited in the Paris Salon of 1819 as “The Scene of a Shipwreck”, but is universally known as “The Raft of the Medusa”. It tells the macabre story of one of the most notorious scandals of Restoration France: the abandonment on a jerry-built raft of 147 passengers and crew of the frigate Medusa when it came to grief off the coast of Senegal in 1816.

As the Royalist captain, officers and more well-to-do passengers headed for the shore in the ship's boats they cut the rope towing the raft, leaving those clinging to its planking to their fate. Provisioned with six barrels of wine, two of water and a sack of soggy biscuit, the castaways' ordeal lasted for 13 days, during which time they suffered from exposure, malnutrition, dehydration, mutiny, murder and, most thrillingly for the audience back in France, cannibalism.

When the raft was finally sighted there were only 15 skeletal survivors left and strips of flesh - human biltong - were hanging on the mast to dry. When the full story of the abandonment of the raft came to be known in France it became a liberal cause célèbre, the perfect example of the callousness of Royalist misgovernment.

Until the second decade of the 19th century, action painting in France—whether dealing with mythic, religious or historical events, and even if violent in content—often lacked real energy. In France, the gorgeous colours and symmetries of Poussin in the 17th century, the chiselled nobility of David in the late 18th and the austere beauty of Ingres at the start of the 19th, all gave way to the explosion of Romanticism. One painting, above all, might be said to have initiated the new movement: Théodore Géricault's ‘The Raft of the Medusa.’”
From the daily telegraph 1 April 2007
Michael Prodger

Géricault revolutionized the depiction of real events, taking for his subject a scandal only a few years old and "romanticizing" it. While the painter visited hospitals and morgues to study the moribund and cadavers, the figures on the raft here hardly look as though they have just suffered through dehydration, starvation, cannibalism and madness. They are muscular. Some are beautiful.

Today's viewer will probably respond less to this picture's political and historical relevance than to the drama of its composition. In terms of art history, it looks both backward and forward.

“"The Raft of the Medusa," while maintaining the symmetry of Poussin, changes painting once and for all. It is sculptural and architectural, but depicts no architecture. Two great overlapping triangles, suggesting both a ship's sails and the ocean's waves, define the space. They also contain 19 human figures (one barely visible, four others quite obscure) in various postures, combinations and stages of life: the living, the dying and the dead, old and young, black and white, male and—perhaps—female. Some have faces; others turn away from us. We can read the painting both from left to right and from bottom to top.

The picture represents a specific moment. The survivors have just sighted the Argus, the boat that will eventually rescue them but is now a speck on the horizon, actually passing them by. At the top, two men, one an African crew member, are waving banners, shirts or kerchiefs. The figures express a range of emotions, from eagerness and exultation to incredulity, despair, hysteria, resignation and apathy. Géricault's preliminary sketches (one smaller canvas hangs elsewhere in the museum) document the growth of his ambitions for the painting. The most shocking figure, absent from the earlier sketch, is a dead person on the lower right. Its gender is uncertain: Géricault used a male friend as his model, but the chest looks womanly. The head is outside the frame. We see primarily the person's midsection, with pubic hair exposed. Whoever this is, or was, has one leg still wrapped around a beam of the raft. Clearly the person will soon slip into the sea.

Another apparently dead youth has the beauty of a Greek sculpture. The most arresting figure, the only one staring straight out at the viewer, is an older, well-muscled man who supports the youth, perhaps his dead son. He looks like someone out of Michelangelo. His gaze suggests his transcendence of both hope and despair.

The painting's center has what seem to be cracklings or bubbles, which distort both the figures and their colour. The painter's use of bitumen on his palette came at a cost: This particular black appeared lustrous at first, but over time it created a wrinkling that cannot, according to the experts, be corrected.

If not as great a colourist as Delacroix, Géricault made an appropriate palette of deathliness. The picture's primary hues are sickly, pallid grey and yellow flesh tones, but there is a range of hues from alabaster to black. The colouring seems to work against the classic muscularity of the figures' bodies.

But there is more. Nature frames humanity. At the painting's bottom, top and sides, the waves and sky—in their colour and brush strokes both intense and delicate—compete with the humans for our attention. The planks of the raft, especially when viewed from up close, reveal delicate brushwork applied meticulously to reproduce the grain and colour of the wood. Flickers of light on the beams leaven the thick brown impasto.

First and last, there's action itself. Not just the waving gestures of the men at the top, but also the play of sea and light. The wind is blowing from right to left, against the tilt of the human action. The light shines from left to right. The two forces operate in perfect antithetical harmony. Géricault learned from Caravaggio all about chiaroscuro, and then went on to discover by himself a way of depicting human life and death in a painting that contains both natural tempestuousness and compositional calm. He has put pictorial symmetry at the service of ferocity. Two dimensions have never felt less flat.

Gericault’s preparations for the painting were meticulous: he befriended Alexandre Corréard, the Medusa's engineer who had survived the ordeal of the raft and who, with the ship's surgeon, Henri Savigny, had written a celebrated account of the shipwreck; he commissioned the ship's carpenter to build a scale model of the raft; and, most notoriously, in order to immerse himself in death he filled his studio with the heads and limbs of executed criminals borrowed from a nearby hospital. The paintings he made from these body parts are the most horrific still lifes in art, but also among the most beautiful.

The Raft of the Medusa itself is an enormous work, measuring more than 23 feet by 16: 7 meters by almost 5. To paint such a subject at such a size for the official Salon can be seen as a sign of political protest but it can also signal an artist who has lost all sense of what is appropriate.

The other pictures he was producing at this period - scenes of graphic sex and murder - also reveal a severely disturbed man. Within a couple of years he was painting portraits of inmates of a mental asylum, possibly as a fellow patient. Géricault was no clear-headed agitator but a man whose grip on reality was loosening.

Today, “The Raft of the Medusa” hangs, with other large canvases of that period, in one of the Louvre's grand galleries. It has darkened with time. Some of its figures are barely visible, and many details are occluded.”
From Willard Spiegelman’s essay; “Revolutionary Romanticism.”

Sadly, I haven’t seen Géricault’s painting.

So what’s all this stuff about Rebellious Slave – that damn book that I tweet incessantly about?

It’s a Female Domination story – it’s a love story – it’s a story with kinks. I try to show just how far a submissive man will go to please the woman that is his Mistress – in Reuben’s case, his wife.

I hadn’t realised when I created the Female Dominated organisation that is the Coterie how far I was tapping into the psyche of so many men. Men from all walks of life whose dark fantasies and dreams lure them to a world controlled by women – those Mistresses who dominate their male submissives absolutely. The males are there to obey their Mistress’ every whim – they are willing slaves. Free intelligent men who sign over their bodies and minds to The Coterie.

They are sexual slaves, always at the bidding of their Mistress – whether it be a nightly demand for cunnilingus or a whipping at the end of a long exhausting day. The males are humiliated – ordered to perform depraved acts, even if the perversion is not something that he has yearned for, the fact that he embraces his Mistress’ desires speaks of true love and devotion.

Yes…love. I was recently accused of writing books that celebrate cruelty…the dirt and disgust of perverse sexual preference and experience. My characters love deeply…in Enslaving Eli – Eli adores Jasmine. In Rebellious Slave – Reuben adored his Dominating wife Esme and his Mistress, Melissa.

Lovers, always.

A reviewer on Amazon doesn’t “get” the acts of depravity in Rebellious Slave. Am I pushing my luck by drawing your attention to a negative review? My readers are discerning and intellectually savvy enough to make up their own minds. You can read the exchange of points of view here.

There is room for depravity within the framework of love; within the framework of erotica. I am talking about abject male submission.

Such a male is Reuben; also Eli, in Enslaving Eli.

But more about The Coterie. An ancient organisation dedicated to the Feminine principle. They are followers of the cult of the goddess Artemis -- the Coterie is wealthy; secretive. It has been in existence for centuries – it has the support of our leaders’ world wide – royalty too. But no one knows about it – there maybe hushed whispers, rumours even. The Coterie is there, but it isn’t. From their wealthy, ancient houses in England and across the world the Coterie Mistresses rule their men absolutely. And their men submit willingly, lovingly.

Here’s an extract about the origins of the Coterie – taken from my novella Enslaving Eli.

“They were shaded from the hot sun by two Ginkgo trees; the oldest species of tree, older even than the Coterie itself. No one knew when the two trees had been planted. Jasmine had read somewhere that there was a Ginkgo tree in China, estimated to be 3,500 years old. Fossils of Ginkgo leaves had been found dating back millions of years both in Europe and the Middle East. The strangely shaped leaves clattered in a sudden cooling breeze. Jasmine was glad of the shade and the breeze. She liked the warm weather, but despite her dark hair she did not tan well. She preferred to keep her complexion ivory white.

Jasmine inhaled the breeze. She was thankful that she could come to this place, steeped in history. A place ruled by women, time out of mind. It had always been thought that the Coterie legend began with Queen Elizabeth the First. But only twenty years ago, a Roman shrine had been found, right here, where she now sat in the little courtyard; it was dedicated to the Goddess Diana. It had been unearthed tenderly, by a female archaeologist, sponsored by the British Museum. Though the woman had preferred to remain anonymous, her book, “The Lost Pagan Shrines of England,” had been hailed as a masterpiece of scholarly integrity.

The scholar now resided at the Coterie, her anonymity diligently protected by the owners.

Jasmine and Mistress Claudia stood and walked over to the little shrine. The naked slave followed respectfully. The shrine looked just like a hollowed out rock concave; part of an ancient stone wall. But it had been authenticated by historians around the globe. A verified shrine to the Goddess.

Both women genuflected before the ugly little statue of Diana. It was grotesque, and worn with time, but still recognisable as a statue of a woman. A woman with many huge breasts. Fertile, yet virgin.

They were in a sacred place, and both women recognised it as a place worthy of devotion. Diana, the huntress and before that, the Greek Goddess, Artemis, and before that, far winged Selene, Goddess of the moon. The virgin Goddess. The shrine was dedicated to the feminine principal.”

In Enslaving Eli there is a scene where Eli is branded – there is no suggestion of him being forced – he goes willingly to the white hot fire. He bears the ritual with pride; with dignity. His Mistress has deemed it appropriate – that is enough for him. He recalls the pain and the stinking sizzle of burning flesh. He dedicates them to his Mistress and the Goddess.

Here is the branding extract from Enslaving Eli;

“When the Goddess reached him, she smiled at him. His breathing quickened. He broke out in perspiration. His heart rattled against his ribs. His mouth was bone dry.
Artemis placed her bow and quiver on the ground.

Her hands touched his shoulders, as if approving the sacrifice that Mistresses and Priestess had chosen for her.

She was tall, but she still barely reached his shoulder. She reached up and tangled long, strong fingers in his hair, pulling him towards her, kissing him, pushing her cool tongue into his mouth. Eli kissed her back, she tasted of aniseed and citrus. She smelled of wild flowers, poppy and wood anemone. She was warm in his arms.

Her fingers wrapped around his erection and she pumped gently. The smooth sensation was exquisite.

She turned him as they kissed, so that he had his back to the semicircle of women. She stood behind him, her hand on the back of his neck.

It was a silent command to kneel. Eli knelt.

She walked around him towards the altar. He caught a glimpse of her sandaled feet. He heard her remove the brand from the fire. One of the coals spilled over and rolled perilously near to his face. He heard her dip the brand in a pail of cold water. He heard the violent hiss of steam. He closed his eyes. He heard her soft footsteps as she walked behind him. He was aware that at least three of the Mistresses stood around his head. One straddled him, sitting on his shoulders. She was a heavy weight and he had no choice, but to lower his upper body to the ground, and raise his butt. The other two Mistresses used the hooks on the shackles to fix him at the wrists to the two iron rings.

The ululations and hissing began again. Eli could scent the excitement in the air. He could taste his own fear; it tasted like metal. His erection pained him, his cock slapped against his belly.

And then she did it. No hesitation. She placed her free hand onto his lower back to steady herself, then the red hot metal sank into the flesh of his right buttock. His piteous scream echoed around the Shrine, through the centuries and she didn’t let up. She was strong and she held it firmly in place. His screams and bellows shouted his fury and would have been heard for miles. Tears streamed over his cheeks, snot drooled from his nose. His mouth was open in a perpetual scream of negation and saliva dribbled over his lips. He bucked the fat Mistress from his shoulders, his strength was inhuman, like a raging, tortured animal. Every muscle in his body clenched, He retched as the brand cooked his flesh. Every bone in his body ached and the pain roiled through him.

He had been well conditioned to associate pain with pleasure and his body and mind did precisely what they had been trained to do. He ejaculated, his orgasm pumping his seed over the floor of the Shrine.

The rush of the orgasm was exquisite and still the brand cooked his flesh. He could hear the sizzle as the fat burnt, and he could smell the stench of cooked human flesh.
At last the Goddess lifted the branding iron. It had been a bloody mutilation, a violation; a massacre.”

The women of the Coterie are all powerful – submissive males fear them, long for them.

So what happens when…if a slave dares to transgress? That is Reuben’s story; the story that is Rebellious Slave…

And finally here's a great review from "S.O." at Amazon.

Billierosie might just be one of my new favorite authors. I picked up this novella since it's erotica that doesn't have a woman as a submissive. It's ironic that in this day and age - 2014 - 21st century - that women are STILL being pushed into submission, so when I read that this had male slaves, it intrigued me. Although it's limited in it the sex it has, it's very well written. I don’t know how ’50 SoG became so popular with the garbage that it is. Some people need to learn that numerous sex acts isn't as good or important as the QUALITY of the sex acts, and that throwing around certain words or phrases don't necessarily make for a good read (unless you're a bored and horny housewife then anything will turn you on...and that's sad). Moving on...

In the world of the Coterie women are Dominants, and they have submissives of both genders. Men aren't "alphas", ego-maniacal, trying to push women down, or any of that crap. They serve their Mistresses, and do so willingly and happily (where do I sign up for this?!?!).

All except Reuben who had one moment of weakness with a female slave whose name he didn't even know. As punishment, Reuben is chained, naked, in a cage with only water and a chamber pot.

His Mistress and her friend, the head of the Coterie, have a discussion of what to do with him and come to the conclusion to sell him, though deep inside he longs for his Mistress's return.

What I like about this (other than the aforementioned) is that there is true devotion to the women. It's not ownership of her soul, it's giving over his. Billierosie is articulate, descriptive, and not shy about words and phrases that Americans are. It's such a shame that we claim to be such a liberal nation, yet it's UK writers that are so female friendly and well spoken.

Also, kudos to not having some idiot with 6-pack abs on the cover just to sell a book. The art on Billierosie's cover is a direct reflection of the art in her words on the page...

There were some things mentioned that weren't necessarily a turn on, but just the fact that they were mentioned at all was what I enjoyed.

The only thing I didn't like was that it was too short! I would have loved for this to have been a full length novel instead of a novella. However, I will definitely be reading more from this author!

Rebellious Slave is at Amazon US priced at $1.48 as a Kindle eread and in paperback at $3.59 click here

Rebellious Slave is also at Amazon UK priced at 99p as a Kindle eread and £2.75 in paperback, click here

Enslaving Eli is available as an eread at Amazon US at $5.99 click here

Enslaving Eli at Amazon UK at £3.68 click here

Enslaving Eli is also at Sizzler Editions click here

Enslaving Eli will be out in paperback later this year.

“It was the nuns at my school that got me interested in people’s sexuality. The swinging sixties were going on outside, but we were cloistered together as we boiled and bubbled our way through puberty. I’d write about it, except we were all under eighteen, so I’d end up in court.

“The experiences didn’t harm me in the slightest, but later on they made me realise that there isn’t a clear distinction between ‘straight’ and ‘gay’, or between ‘normal’ and ‘kinky’. We’re all capable of bending our personal rules if the right person comes along, or the right situation presents itself.

“I’d wanted to be a doctor, and I even passed enough A levels, but an incident early on led to my being dropped from the course, so I worked in a variety of office jobs instead.

I watched people coming and going, wondering about their private lives, and their private loves.

“I didn’t start writing until a year or so ago, when I was chatting online to some friends who write erotica. I suggested a few themes, thinking that they could write about them, but they encouraged me to write the stories myself.
I still haven’t worked through them all.

“My limp has been the subject of some speculation, especially as I tell a lot of different stories about it. My favourites are the hunting accident and a war wound, which I have told and retold in various forms, some amusing, some tragic, and some erotic.

Perhaps that’s where my fiction has come from.”

And Rose is always full of surprises -- one day a small volume arrived at my door with the morning mail. Rose had written a book – that book was Post Mortem – a tale of undying love – a tale of love beyond the grave. A single white lily decorated the dark cover. I read the book description on the back;

“Em and Peter aren't going to let cancer get in the way of their love for each other. An erotic story with sex scenes, strong language, and material that some people might find shocking.”

I read Rose’s Post Mortem; I felt as if I were trembling inside. I read it again. Was this pure fiction or had these events taken place? It had the ring of truth about it – yet how, why, when, where? Impossible – surely?

And that first book from Rose sets the pace – Rose has a lot to say – is she questioning our sensibilities? Our notion of the taboo – our belief system, the glue that holds us in check – that stops us from delving into acts that sane people find atrocious?

The stories came – each one, challenging -- confronting the forbidden. Rose weaves tales that take us to perverse realms, we shudder, but something in the dark recesses of our minds gently reminds us that we are enjoying ourselves in spite of the exposition of the taboo. There’s incest in Butcher and Baker; gentle bestiality in Ginger. I had one of Rose’s provocative stories on my blog for a while until Blogger decided to clean up the playroom. Apparently, it’s for our own good – apparently Blogger knows right from wrong. He/she/it/they didn’t actually tell me to withdraw Rose’s story – but with Blogger’s new guidelines hovering like a chilly dark, damp cloud – that particular story can no longer be available for you to read.

But Rose continued to provoke and it’s all too much for Amazon’s sensibilities. She escaped to the relative sanity of Smashwords -- like Blogger, Amazon also believes it/she/he/they know right from wrong and have set up a form of censorship that can only be described as hypocritical bullshit – just weave a little sophistry into your book description and you can get away with pretty well anything – whatever, in other words Rose’s confrontational stories were no longer welcome at Amazon.

Rose has calmed down a little these days – maybe she’s said most of what she wanted to say, I don’t know, but she can now be found on Amazon again. Milk is a playful look at erotic lactation fetish – The Lady House is a creepily erotic ghost story. Noctula checks the box for those sexy undead – vampires.

Treat yourself to a Rose W story – the links are below.

Free reads on Rose’s blog.

The New Leda

Gabriel

The Virgin

Smashwords.

Butcher and Baker

Ginger

Amazon UK.

Noctula

Lady House

Post Mortem

Milk

Amazon US.

Noctula

Lady House

Post Mortem

Milk

I can’t understand how he could do this – should I seek a divorce? Annalisa Barbieri advises a reader...

I have been with my husband for five years and we have just had a baby. He has always used pornography and he has quite specialist sexual tastes. At the start of our relationship, he was very honest and we tried to incorporate this into our sex life quite successfully.
However, over recent years, his use of pornography and masturbation has come at the expense of our sex life. He rarely instigates lovemaking yet masturbates and uses porn daily. He will look at it on his phone when I am in another room.

He also confessed recently that he had been masturbating to porn at work.

Things came to a head with our new baby; he would hold her and still have his phone with him. I asked him not to look at porn when he was with the baby. He said of course not, but over the following weeks would still constantly have his phone with him when looking after her. Last week, he admitted he was looking at porn while he was looking after our daughter.

I was horrified and there were rows and tears. He was very sorry and ashamed and I have pushed him to go to counselling. I cannot move forward until I understand how he could do this.

I am angry and ashamed of his behaviour. We did have a very good relationship outside of his porn problems; it was loving, respectful and supportive but now I fear I can never see him in a sexual way again as I am haunted by the image of him making himself sexually aroused with our sleeping daughter feet away from him.
He disgusts and sexually repulses me and has shown himself to be a very weak man; he either knew it was wrong and yet did not have the strength of character to stop or he did not think it is wrong, in which case he does not have the same moral code as me and thus I am wary of co-parenting our daughter if our moral values are so far apart.
I do not want to be a single mother but even with counselling I think I can never see him in a positive sexual way again. He has tainted our child by bringing the adult world into her innocent life, even though she was unaware of what was happening.

Should I seek divorce or try to save my marriage? He refuses to give up his porn collection completely but since this came to crisis point he has at least cut down on his daily use.

Annalisa Barbieri’s response

I’m taking it for granted that his “specialist tastes” don’t involve child abuse images (nothing you said in your longer letter led me to believe this), because, obviously, my advice then would be completely different.

In cultures where parents co-sleep with their babies/children, people do have sex with sleeping babies in the same room. But that’s not what this is about. I understand how you must feel, not least because you are in that new mother “babymoon” stage, and your husband has introduced something very adult into it.
I consulted Vanessa Oliver, a psychotherapist who works with people with addictions. She thinks it sounds as if your husband has an addiction. “Sex addiction is known as an intimacy disorder and can be very, very isolating,” she says. “Addiction is often used to anaesthetise feelings that may have been repressed for years. The addict may not even be aware of what they are any more.”

Addictions are powerful, compulsive and complex, and it really may not be as easy as your husband simply promising not to do something any more. He needs specialist help.
The worry – in the short term – is not so much what your husband is looking at/doing but that he is doing it to such a degree that his attention isn’t focused on the baby when he is in sole charge of her. I would address this first. Your main priority is you and your baby’s mental and physical wellbeing.
Oliver has worked with couples in very similar situations to yours and she emphasises not to do anything drastic.

“You will be in shock. Don’t panic, don’t do anything reactive. You need time to come to terms with this.”

Oliver also suggests getting individual support, as well as joint support. (But if your husband doesn’t want to get help, please don’t let that stop you.) In therapy, a specialised counsellor will work with your husband to find out what is behind his addiction.

Article from the Guardian newspaper; Friday, 13th March 2015

The image is one of an actor.

Félicien Rops was a Belgian artist, specialising in printmaking, etching and aquatint. He lived from July 1833 until August 1898. He trained at the University of Brussels and his work was part of, and complimented the literary movement, illustrating Symbolism and Decadence.

Although the movements of Symbolism and Decadence can be considered to be similar in one respect, the two remain distinct..

Decadence was the name given, originally by hostile critics, to several late nineteenth-century writers, who valued artifice more than the earlier Romantics naïve descriptions. Some of them adopted the name, referring to themselves as "Decadents". For the most part, they were influenced by the tradition of the Gothic novel and by the poetry and fiction of Edgar Allan Poe.

In Britain the main person associated with Decadence was Oscar Wilde.

Rops’ forté was drawing, more than painting in oils; he first won fame as a caricaturist. He experimented with a distinctive printmaking technique called "soft varnish" which resulted in an image that was very close to drawing, eventually mastering the technique after years of experimentation. He sketched incessantly and feverishly.

Like the works of the authors whose poetry he illustrated his work tends to mingle sex, death, and satanic images.

Rops met Charles Baudelaire towards the end of the poet's life in 1864, and Baudelaire left an impression upon him that lasted until the end of his days. Rops’ created the frontispiece for Baudelaire's Les Épaves, a selection of poems from Les Fleurs du mal that had been censored in France, and which therefore were published in Belgium.

Rops’ association with Baudelaire and with the art he represented, won his work the admiration of many other writers, including Théophile Gautier, Alfred de Musset, Stéphane Mallarmé, Jules Barbey d’Aurevilly, and Joséphin Péladan.

But let’s look at the art and see if we can fathom what critics and supporters of Rops’ were talking about.

Pornocrates by Félicien Rops.Etching and aquatint.

The etching has a defiantly pornographic tone. An almost naked, blindfolded, curvaceous woman, is led by a fat swine from somewhere, to nowhere. Cherubs flit like butterflies in misty blue. It is an image from a dream, tipping over into a nightmare. The erotica is explicit. Yes -- the woman is almost naked, but the few clothes she wears emphasise the helplessness of her situation.

Yet, she is dressed in garments that suggest that she is in control. Heeled shoes, long, opera gloves and sexy stockings. The silken blue sash emphasises her nudity. It is a work of art for the voyeur; there is a feeling that it is staged, that the subject wants to be seen in her decadent glory. Perhaps she is saying; “look at me!”

Or is this a pornographic fantasy that the woman is determined to see through, despite stepping into the realms of the taboo? The little tipping hat that she wears, suggests that she is someone of consequence; the dream symbolism is perhaps telling us something about ourselves. she has given up control, but she is in control.

It seems that Rops is illustrating the theories of Freud and Jung. No matter how hard we try to suppress our darkest thoughts, no matter our place in the social scale, our darkest desires will surface in art, fantasies and dreams; the stories that we tell.

In a letter to his friend Henri Liesse, Rops described the painting:

"My Pornocratie is complete. This drawing delights me. I would like to show you this beautiful naked girl, clad only in black shoes and gloves in silk, leather and velvet, her hair styled. Wearing a blindfold she walks on a marble stage, guided by a pig with a "golden tail" across a blue sky. Three loves - ancient loves - vanish in tears. I did this in four days in a room of blue satin, in an overheated apartment, full of different smells, where the opopanax and cyclamen gave me a slight fever conducive towards production or even towards reproduction". --Letter from Rops to Henri Liesse, 1879.

CALVARY 1892

Whereas many artists of the time might hint at a fashionable blasphemy or satanism, Rops’ dealings with these subjects were unequivocal, as was the blatant, pornographic tone of many of his drawings.

In this parody of the crucifixion Rops is being deliberately shocking to the lecherous edge of perversity. The contorted body of the Christ figure, has goat’s legs and feet. He looks down at the woman beneath; his expression is agonising. There is pain, and something else; depravity. More than decadence, the work expresses a raw, rapacious lust, that doesn’t know where to stop. The creature’s phallus rests upon the woman’s cheek; she is bound to the figure by some sort of strap. Her pose reflects that of the crucifixion, more so than that of the figure on the cross. The scarlet backdrop signifies corruption.

“Calvary” is brutal; insolent. Rops does not care about the viewer’s sensibilities; and why should he? He is being deliberately provocative. You don’t have to look, but he dares you to. If you were to challenge him, I think that his response would be; “well so what”! He is in the business of shocking and here he takes the sentimental, traditional view of the Passion of Christ, and shows it for the blasphemy and obscenity that it is.

It still has pathos, you can see it in the tortured grimaces. But it’s a work about sex and death; sex and religion. In particular I think that it is an exposition of the Roman Catholic tradition of faith and sacrifice. The life of dedication that Catholicism exhorts from the blindly faithful.

THE TEMPTATION OF SAINT ANTHONY

Saint Anthony kneels at the lectern, one bony leg outstretched as if in preparation to flee. He needs a place of security, far away from the horrors of blasphemy. His hands attempt to shield his ears from the raucous din. The figure on the cross compounds the blasphemy; it is the figure of a young, voluptuous woman, her soft, yielding breasts thrusting forwards towards the baffled saint. “Eros” replaces “Inri” at the pinnacle of the cross. The banished Christ is on her right, on her left, a ragged demon, behind the cross a swine stares intently, his forelegs raised. Tiny skeletonised demons flit like bats in the darkening sky. Can Saint Anthony resist the allure of the image? The image that so brutally usurps the Christian message.

The violent image seems to have occurred as the Saint turns the pages of the scriptures. Looking closely, I think that I can see the banishment of Adam and Eve, the first sinners. Perhaps this is encouraging Anthony to hold fast to his faith.

The earliest paintings to employ the scene were Italian frescos of the 10th century. The later European Middle Ages saw accumulation of the theme in book illumination and later in German woodcuts. About 1500 originated the famous paintings of Martin schöngauer (ca. 1490), Hieronymus Bosch (ca. 1505) and Mathias Grünewald (ca. 1510). In the modern era the theme has been treated by the Spanish painter Salvador Dalí and the French author Gustave Flaubert, who considered his 1874 bookThe Temptation of saint Anthony to be his master work.

PIC "La Buveuse d Absinthe"

“Félicien Rops drew "La Buveuse d Absinthe" (meaning specifically the female absinthe drinker) in 1865 at the age of around 32 and frequently afterwards drew the same subject over the next 30 years. The picture always shows a slender woman leaning against a pillar outside a dance-hall, her low neckline and fine dress showing she is part of the nightlife. Her insouciant attitude, accompanied by her staring eyes, slightly opened mouth and haggard expression suggesting that she is a prostitute. She became the archetype of the female absinthe drinker.”

From Osygenee.com

“Joris-Karl Huysmans, writer of A Rebours (meaning 'against the grain'), often said to be the supreme expression of the decadent spirit, described Rops’ absinthe drinker:

“M. Rops has created a type of woman that we will dream of, dream of again and be drawn back to, the type of absinthe drinker who, brutalised and hungry, grows ever more menacing and more voracious, with her face frozen and empty, villainous and hard, with her limpid eyes with a look as fixed and cruel as a lesbian's, with her mouth a little open, her nose regular and short ... the girl bitten by the green poison leans her exhausted spine on a column of the bal Mabille and it seems that the image of syphilitic Death is going to cut short the ravaged thread of her life.”

“On exhibition of his absinthe drinker at the International Exhibition of Fine Art in his home town of Namur in Belgium, Rops felt himself "spat upon": The picture outraged the critics and the local civic establishment issued an official rebuke to the artist, who 'far from consecrating his talent to the reproduction of gracious and elegant works, prostitutes his pencil complacently to the reproduction of scenes imprinted with a repellent realism”.

With unconcealed glee at this notoriety, Rops wrote to his friend Jean d'Ardenne how his La Buveuse d'Absinthe blew the minds ('les têtes... s'epanouissaient') of his bourgeois countrymen.'

Oxygenee.com

LESBOS

Two women rage in an orgy of carnal lust. Cunnilingus, tongues, lips, teeth, juices. The image tells a story of how women are able to feel about sex, there is the potential for women to feel earthy, feral, rather than the sanitised presentation of the erotica in the tradition of Ingres. Women can be active, not simply passive recipients. The image is raw, primal and urgent. Their need is overpowering and overwhelming. There is nothing about making love in this drawing and it is as far away from Gustave Courbet’s tender image of “The Sleepers” as you can get. Rops’ depiction of women having sex is about possibilities; the possibility for women to indulge totally in the dark side of desire.

HERMAPHRODITE

Well, to me, it’s a celebration of life, of sexuality in all of its guises. The woman has an erect penis; or does the man have voluptuous breasts? It doesn’t matter; contorted figures writhe in blatantly sexual poses at the base of the picture. Is the artist saying; “It doesn’t matter what your sexual proclivity is, just do it?”

In his prolific body of work, Rops demonstrates that posterity favours the forthright and the unique over uniformity and compromise.

Like the works of the authors whose poetry he illustrated, his work tends to mingle sex, death, and satanic images in a way which shocked many of his contemporaries and is sometimes disturbing even today.

There can be no doubt that Félicien Robs adored sex and he adored women; their taste, their scent, their texture. His adoration is reflected in his work. In a poignant letter to Louise Danse he opens up about his personal insecurities.

“ Each time autumn arrives with its austere intoxications, I suffer as if every hope that I carry within me and which are the same as those that illuminated my twentieth year were going to expire forever along with the dead leaves. I am so afraid of being old and of no longer being able to inspire love in a woman, which is a true death for a man of my nature, and with my needs for madness of mind and body.”

Thanks to Jan Vander Laenen for introducing the artist to me, and suggesting this post.

Eric Keys’ book; “For the Glory,” will shock and disturb you. It is meant to. It’s a bdsm story; it’s hot, it’s very, very sexy – it also has a 19 year old protagonist with a vile attitude. Ilsa is violently, irrepressibly anti-Semitic.

“Ilsa was driven by rage when she met Saul. He was everything she despised, but he saw something more in her. But does he have the determination to break through Ilsa's defenses? And more importantly, does Ilsa have the strength to let him?”

Eric Keys puts words in Ilsa’s mouth; words that will make you cringe – people don’t say such things…do they? Not now; not in the second decade of the 21st century. We don’t have bad thoughts like that anymore; we are enlightened, charitable; we have learnt how to celebrate difference. Well, if the attitude of Soccer fans is anything to go by, they most certainly do – news reports tell us that anti-Semitism is rife within the Soccer fans world. Both here in the U.K. and across Europe – particularly Eastern Europe.

I think that Ilsa’s profanities are doubly shocking, because she is so young – she is also very beautiful. The impact is the same as when we hear a 3 year old say the “F” word.

Why is Eric Keys giving Ilsa such a terrible, terrifying ideology?

So when Ilsa is seduced into being a submissive to the Jewish, Dominant Saul, it comes as a surprise for the reader – she begins by insulting him – I’m not going to tell you how it ends – all I will say is that if you don’t believe that you can be aroused by the written word – think again.
But it’s the anti-Semitism that intrigues me. Why has Eric Keys put it there? What’s the point?

A friend of mine, Anthony, went to Austria on a skiing holiday earlier this year. He took a taxi from the airport to his resort. He has spent time in Germany and wanted to practice his language skills, so he talked to the taxi driver in German. Taxi drivers love to talk – and this one certainly did. How everyone hates the Jews, how the Jews lost the First World War for Germany, how there is a banking conspiracy for Jews to take over the world. Fat Jews, Jews with big noses – every stereotype you can think of.

And that’s why, I think, Erik Keys has put anti-Semitism into his book – he knows that it is still there; lurking like a cancer – over the centuries, over the millennia – stepping stones of hatred that almost made Hitler’s “Final Solution” a reality.

Genocide – the total extermination of the Jews – it almost happened in the ovens of Auschwitz and Belsen. Could it happen again? What do you think?

Here are some extracts from email exchanges with Eric Keys…

(billierosie) I get hatred but I don't get racism...particularly anti-Semitism; how a whole race of people can be so hated, that they should be wiped off the face of the earth..

(Eric Keys) It is hard to get your head around racism or anti-Semitism. For years it was all a mystery to me. Then I saw a documentary about the Nazis - I think it was called Architecture of Doom - and it all started to gel. Up till then Nazism was scary but alien. But after seeing this film I saw it as even scarier because it started to make sense to me. The Nazi propaganda machine worked by getting people to think they were involved in this giant drama. At the time they thought of it in terms of opera, but we might see it more as a gigantic cycle of novels - Song of Fire and Ice or the Hunger Games or something. Or maybe movies - Star Wars? Anyway, it was only then that I saw the appeal and it scared me a million times more than it did before.

But it also fascinated me. So, I read lots of articles about white supremacy, etc. Scary, scary stuff...

I tried to exorcise it through Ilsa.

(billierosie; talking about my review) ) I hope it's okay that I concentrated on Ilsa's anti-semitism..I know it's inextricably linked to the bdsm..in your book, but it's the hatred of the Jews thing that stood out to me...particularly as you'd told me about your own ethnicity.

(Eric Keys) That's fine that you concentrate on Ilsa's anti-semitism. It's part of what fascinated me about her. I've had this crazy fascination on and off for years. I seriously considered not putting it in there, but she's the heart of the story and her hatred is such a deep part of who she was and where she came from. I sort of expected people would not get over that, but since the reviews have been overwhelmingly positive so I guess people were willing to either stick it out or they haven't been bothered enough to write a review.

Visit Eric Keys’ blog here

For the Glory is at Amazon US And at Amazon UK

Check out also; Mstislav: Vengeance and Glory – also by Eric Keys. At Amazon US and at Amazon UK

BDSM AND THE LAW!

DON'T SLIP by MJ Lewis

LIFE AS A SEX CHAT LINE WORKER

WRITING BDSM AS A FEMINIST by Christina Harding

FACE SITTING by Jenny Ainslie-Turner

DISTRACTED by MS EMMA J.STYLES -- A cool, highly explicit,sequel to First Tango in Paris

THE NIGHT PORTER

UNDERNEATH THE GARGOYLE (part 2) CHRISTINA HARDING

SUBMISSION AND METAPHOR Oatmeal Girl

GOOD PUSSY BAD PUSSY -- RACHEL'S TALE by A.Aimee -- A sexual thriller and erotic romance

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

SEX, MURDER & STATE OF THE ART TECHNOLOGY (EDWARDIAN STYLE)

AGE PLAY

BDSM (post 50 Shades) Madeleine Morris aka Remittance Girl

THE RAFT OF THE MEDUSA Jean-Louis André Théodore Géricault

REBELLIOUS SLAVE by billierosie

INTRODUCING ROSE W

My husband looks at pornography while he’s taking care of our baby girl...Annalisa Barbieri advises...

The Art of Félicien Rops

FOR THE GLORY; ERIC KEYS