'Nillas and Nimh'

To start with a "one liner" (literally) follow up to my November Nimhneach post. That last cane stroke is still visible on Bandree's left cheek on this, St. Stephen's day, 5 weeks later. We are both impressed.

December 19 saw us all back at the Academy for "The Last Blast of 2009". The vibe was good and many costumes distinctly seasonal. We were thrilled to have Bandree's homemade bra nominated on Fetlife, by our lovely friend J, for "Best Costume Award".

Madonna, eat your (candy cane) heart out.

Its amazing what Bandree can achieve with some felt, a couple of cottonwool balls and some safety pins. Which reminds me of the old joke of the woman who asks the man in the Chemist's shop if he has cottonwoool balls, to which he replies "What do you think I am, a feckin' sheep?" And on that note, no, I'm not going into any further speculation about the polar bear's more intimate details.


Bandree also managed to carry the festive colour scheme through to her accessories. Her other motifs for the night were peppermint creams and the discovery that Jelly Babies and Aero Bubbles are excellent together, eaten one and one.

It was a great night for costumes and friendly chat and we made some new friends, as one does at 'Nimh, and met up with some we hadn't seen in a while - you know who you are.

The title for this blogpost was inspired by a post on the BDSM-Ireland Yahoo site in the days preceding Nimhneach. The poster was proposing the possibility of bringing 12 or so of their work friends along to Nimhneach after their office Christmas Party. There were a couple of replies in the normal supportive welcoming line, suggesting ways of meeting the dress code etc.

In the heel of the hunt, some of the party lost their nerve, and the trip never happened.

Now I know that Nimhneach is a public club event, that anyone who meets the dress code, summons the courage and pays their door admission, is welcome. I also don't doubt that at any given Nimh', there are a proportion of one-off speculative visitors. Indeed, it is only by welcoming such visitors that we can help other people to discover and come to terms with their kinks or sexuality. That diverse, tolerant, welcome is one of the great strengths of the club.

Despite all that, I will admit to a sliver of intolerance at the idea that we might become the floor show for an office party "afters". If the whole party were going to be tolerant scene supporters, then their workplace must be like the set of "Secretary" and they don't need the Academy. If, on the other hand, they are a normal mixed workgroup, then the plan looked at risk of provoking shock and, maybe, outrage. At a PC extreme, the last thing Nimhneach needs is to be highlighted in some stupid workplace sexual harassment case.

Am I being overly cautious? What do you all think of the idea of vanilla parties coming along as groups to scene clubs? This is a purely academic question to spark interesting discussion. I am perfectly happy with the public access feature of our club and I am not for one moment suggesting that I would like a membership type approach, as is common elsewhere. If our club was like that, I, for one, would never have got past the front desk.

Wishing you a Happy Rest-of-Christmas and hoping that you all have the lovely 2010 you great people deserve.

Nov Nimh

November was a good Nimhneach.

There were some rival kinky attractions in town which meant that it started a bit more quietly than usual. However this turned out a benefit in the end because it left a bit more space for meeting people and chatting.

I was glad to see Caroline and Frank up from the floodplains. Caro did an excellent suspension on stage with DommyDarko and she has a very expressive description of the sensations, together with some pictures, on her blog.

Later in the evening, we got to play together. To my great pleasure, she agreed to experience the trust exercise which my Bandree described when we first played it together at the August Nimhneach. Although myself and B have now worked through this exercise several times, both at Nibh and elsewhere, it was very interesting for me to experience it with someone else. Caroline is tall. That adds an extra dimension (well, OK, more of the same dimension) when you are throwing someone back, face up, and then standing them up again, supporting them only by gripping a rope harness between their breasts.

What I particularly like about the combination of blindfold, chest rope harness and wrist cuffs, is the total submission it provokes in the sub. No matter how strong willed or opinionated, once someone has submitted to be in that position they have effectively surrendered control. If they cannot reach the blindfold, they daren't run, lash out or do anything else rash for fear of hitting themselves against something, tripping or falling. It is a surprisingly calm and peaceful way of ensuring that you have someone's undivided attention. It is also a very good lesson in responsibility for any Dom. Every step your sub takes depends on your attention and care.

There was other good stuff that night. My B took quite a number of punishments, including three very stern cane strokes with her wrists cuffed to the top of the cage. The last of those strokes is still clearly visible high on her left buttock, quite uncharacteristically, three weeks later.

We greatly regretted missing the electroplay workshop, but we got to speak with Lektro (the visiting lektrurer, sorry) near the end of the night. Bandree's interest was definitely aroused, so that's something else to put on the bucket list.

We hope we can make it to December, though ordinary life is kind of busy, and look forward to meeting our newfound playful friends.

Self-Image

Hers, not mine.

My Bandree had another attack of self doubt. Admittedly, things have been very busy and stressy in our day-to-day world, but yesterday, she went too far.

Any reference by me to playing or other players produced a sniffy smart-alec put down or other rebuke. Everybody else was younger, sexier, subbier, dommier or whatever.

By late afternoon, I had had enough of it. We had reached a deserted location and my Bandree was immediately pushed over a straight backed chair. Nowdays, I never put on a pair of trousers without a suitable belt. The jeans I was wearing were matched, as usual, by the thick brown leather belt I had bought, in her company, in Cheyenne during a recent visit to the US. At that time, we both knew exactly what I was doing when I bought that belt.

Folded double, I brought it down on her bottom, producing sharp yelps even through the trousers she was wearing. She didn't wear them long, though. Singling the belt, I dragged her pants and knickers down. With each swing of my belt, I pushed her back down whilst chastising her for her lack of self respect. I will not have anyone, not even her, bad-mouthing the woman I love, desire and adore. I emphasised each of her virtues with another swing of my belt - her gorgeous clear skin, her sexy legs, her just-right breasts, her wonderful openness to new ideas and exploration, her sense of humour, her kindnesses to others, her erotic effect on me, her happiness in her new role as rope bunny to my fumbling rigger efforts. I reminded her, with another swing of my arm, of how proud I felt the previous evening when she chose to complement the red ribbon bow I had tied through the top pair of her labial rings by wearing black suspenders and stockings. She had looked delicious. How dare she run herself down.

When I had finished she was crying and apologising. I turned her to face the wall for a few moments, to consider her lesson and the importance to me of how she views herself, particularly in comparison to others.

I know that it is a female competitive thing, and sure, we are not youngsters at the start of our sexual careers, but living in our present (rather than our pasts or futures) we have it good. I have a sexy, aware, intelligent, brave, funny, friendly good looking, submissive woman for my wife. I can fear what will happen in the future, I can regret that we didn't discover all this years ago. But with age comes confidence and wisdom and I believe those are the qualities which most enable me to enjoy this lifestyle.

Whilst my B was facing the wall, I noted, again, with pride for both of us, the clear outline of a cane welt she received from me at Nimhneach two weeks ago. This is special because her lovely, cared for, skin doesn't usually hold marks for very long at all, 24 hours would be noteworthy. So she was right when she had commented that her Nimhneach caning had finished with a hard one.

More Kinky Art

Further to previous post, Le déjeuner sur l'herbe, Wikipedia is certainly of the view that the "Ladies of the Night" theory has some credance. I quote:
"One interpretation of the work is that it depicts the rampant prostitution that occurred in the Bois de Boulogne, a large park at the western outskirts of Paris, at the time. This prostitution was common knowledge in Paris, but was considered a taboo subject unsuitable for a painting. Indeed, the Bois de Boulogne is to this day known as a pick-up place for prostitutes and illicit sexual activity after dark, just as it had been in the 19th century."


The Pastoral Concert, above, was painted in 1508 by Giorgione or possibly Titian. In the view of art experts, it closely resembles Le déjeuner sur l'herbe, featuring two dressed men seated in a rural setting, with two undressed women, and could well have been an inspiration for Le déjeuner. It is in the collection of the Louvre in Paris making it likely to have been studied by Manet.

For our purposes, the small musical instrument (a piccollo perhaps) could certainly be used to administer short stinging strokes, but might be vulnerable to breakage. Look again however at the large stringed instrument. No sign of any strings however, much busy fingerplay notwithstanding. What we have here, modestly disguised from prudish eyes, is a very early, and large, 16th century paddle. This was long before the appearance of such tools in the hands of American disciplinarians, the country more often associated with paddling.

And Lo!, what a paddle it is! Even applied to the ample cheeks of the owner's lady friends, the piccollo will be a mere minuet, a practice piece, a child's toy of a performance by comparison.

What do you think?

Kinky Art

My B was recently at a small art class and, during a break, discussion ranged over several paintings including Le déjeuner sur l'herbe ("The Lunch on the Grass") — originally titled Le Bain (The Bath) by Édouard Manet. He painted it in 1863, and it was quite controversial given its mixture of fully dressed men and naked women.

The group quickly realised that there are some other odd features to this painting. None of the subjects are looking at each other and there are some provocatively spilled cherries from the picnic. There was a consensus that the women may be "professional ladies", the cherries symbolising what has taken place and the girl in the background having a post-coital bath.

Trust my little bottom, however, to be the one to spot the crook handled cane/walking stick? being carried by one of the gentlemen. (If you click on the picture above, it should open a bigger version). Not sure the rest of the group picked up on the inference (aren't some 'nillas awfully slow on the uptake) but I'm afraid this painting now has very strong Abel & Haron overtones which I will never shake off.

Can anyone come up with any other kinky scenarios?

Edgy Play

When I came home this evening, my B was busy at the kitchen counter.

I made my greetings, chatted a little about our day and confirmed her compliance with some requests I had made and permissions we had negotiated by phone earlier when she had gone for a mid-afternoon nap.

Running my hand around the hem of her skirt, I lifted it clear of her buttocks, noting the tight smooth black knickers she was wearing. Regular readers maybe a little surprised, since I had previously posted a couple of times that such underwear is the exception for B, rather than the norm. This rule has been relaxed, however, whilst we are waiting for the final piercing to heal.

Her admition that she had not been as perfectly good today as she might have been, provoked the inevitable response and I swung the palm of my hand firmly down several times. It was only after six or so strokes that I realised that, whilst jiggling, jumping and squirming, she was still dicing an onion with a lethally sharp French steel knife.

Concensual maybe, not sure it was the sanest punishment I've ever delivered.

Losing My Virginity for the Second Time

At least, that's what it felt like.

We decided on a day trip to Sitges. Its just like going out to Greystones on the DART, but with less stops and the last bit of the train journey is really cool, way above the sea like Bray Head. We even found out about one naturist beach in a little cove about 5km before Sitges but it seems the trains don't stop there any more since the only landmark is a dirty big cement factory. We debated walking, hitching or a taxi, but in the end settled for one of the naturist beaches in Sitges itself.

Now this is where it started to get difficult. Sitges is a very gay friendly town so there seems to be ordinary (vanilla) beaches, gay beaches, male gay beaches, naturist beaches, and then mixed beaches as in mixed textile/naturist, mixed hetero/gay, mixed hetero/gay/naturist/textile, male gay mixed naturist/textile ..... you get the picture.

We decided against the inappropriately named Dead Man Beach which was described as male-gay-naturist, and settled for Les Balmins which seemed to be all inclusive kind of mixed everything and within walking distance of the town centre, bars etc. It turned out to be fairly male gay naturist anyway, but this is Sitges.

Other extras to our previous foray was that B did succumb to the offers of a passing Chinese masseuse and I surprised myself by lacking any embarassment when I rolled over onto my back to instinctively dig into my non existent pockets to pay the girl, forgetting by then that my trousers were on a rock rather than on me.

After swimming, B, at my instruction, joined the promenaders at the waters edge and I detected a definite animated reaction from one woman to her male partner after they passed her which I am sure was triggered by B's recent jewellery - I'm so proud of my girl.

Out of season Sitges was really nice. Fell asleep after an excellent tapas lunch listening to two young lads jamming guitars "Stéphane Grappelli" style who weren't even collecting money, just enjoying themselves.

It was a good week in Barcelona, although the Museum of Erotica in our out of date guidebook seems to have gone out of business. Plenty of sun, nice food, exhibitionist boundaries broken down some more and we've discovered how good siesta time is for kinky play :) :)

Losing My Virginity

Another significant milestone was passed today.

We are currently on a short holiday in Barcelona, our first. For a long time, my Bandree has flirted with the attraction of Naturist (nudist) beaches. A quick Google search revealed that Spain, and Catalonia (lets be politically correct) has quite a liberal view of such activities. Little did I realise what "liberal" means in this context.

I did the real difficult bit (working out which Metro stop, where to change trains) whilst Bandree did the piss-easy stuff (approaching elderly gentleman walking dog on seafront foot path and asking "Hay una playa naturistica aqui?"). Much handwaving indicated about 1km along said footpath at the far end of the second beach. This was just as well since Bandree's always-right travel planner had reckoned it was about 1km in the other direction and was mortified at the idea of stopping and asking a local.

Approaching the indicated area yes, there were some obviously naked elderly gentlemen. As we summoned our courage, took a deep breath, and approached the stretch of beach, we realised that it was MIXED! No, as it happened Bandree was the only female, but there were people WEARING CLOTHES ("Textiles" as they are known in this particular field) both lying on the sand and walking past, and there were no warning signs.

However, we were as they say, "committed" at this stage and, given what Bandree has done for me, I wasn't backing out, or forwarding out, as in "not sure which bits to hide from whom in any backing out situation".

So we did it. We stripped off and lay on the sand, and went down to the water's edge, and went swimming and bought beer from the passing vendors and declined the multiple (perfectly wholesome) offers of massage from the passing Chinese girls, and IT FELT GREAT. Never mind the one or two dubious guys who passed by more than twice or lingered a bit slowly on the adjacent public path. Fine mate, I've got a prick and two balls, just like you and I've a gaggle of kids to prove it all works and a fine woman beside me so I've nothing left to be uptight about. And actually, when it comes down to it, there are only two types of people you will see on a naturist beach 50% of us are one and 50% are the other.

Being a little more serious. Despite discussing this with Bandree ages back, I probably couldn't have done this a year ago. The people I have met through these blogs, through Nimhneach, through BDSM munches, have so grown me up. I have gained a confidence I never knew I had. Watching the Chinese massage girls really brought it home. As we were leaving, one of them who, remember, was working her way up and down all the "vanilla" beaches, this just being one 300 m stretch in the middle, approached a man who had just arrived beside us. I could not overhear, but it was obvious they were discussing her offers and prices. They agreed and he then undressed completely and lay on his stomach. Whilst he undressed, she smiled and exchanged pleasantries before starting her massage.

You must understand, there was nothing sleazy. It was three in the afternoon and a naked mother and young daughter were playing 50 metres away. It was just a beach masseuse rubbing another back. But I found it very thought provoking. If you are a beach masseuse, presumably most of your clients are wearing some minimal cover but, the process is so physically intimate, that the bikini or shorts are almost irrelevant. That's why that girl could get ready to massage a strange man whilst he stripped naked in front of her and neither of them had to get all shy and silly.

I've learned the same thing from my short contact with this scene. We are often like the pair on the beach. What we do is physically intimate, startlingly so when the other person is an almost stranger and their real identity, quite likely, unknown. I think we are being less than honest if we claim that there is no erotic component whatsoever. But, play can be offered in a straightforward "I know you like this and I like this" context without there needing to be any implied "I'm hoping to get to know and date you" overtones. Some of my most refreshing experiences have come from the changing rooms at Nimhneach, the request from an unknown girl to help lace her into a corset or whatever. I am so much more at home in my body and my psyche since I met the good friends I have made here that I will happily return to that beach with Bandree tomorrow, provided it isn't raining. Thanks to the lot of you.

An Abel & Haron Moment

Here we both are having a short holiday in the exciting, ever so slightly raunchy, opinionated city of Barcelona. We knew before we arrived that it had a pretty serious reputation for street crime and, in particular, subway crime.

So, arriving into the city from the airport, we were on our guard when we entered the Metro for the short journey to our apartment. Climbing the first set of steps from the underpass to our platform, we are overtaken by a group of obvious students, couple of blokes and 5 or 6 girls, all chattering and laughing amongst themselves. One of the blokes attempted to help me with the case I was carrying. I declined, but he was persistent and friendly. My suspicions were aroused but, as we arrived on the platform, they all headed to a door further down the last carriage of the train, which was already stopped there. I relaxed my suspicions a little, this train was, after all, headed for the university district. We boarded at the last door and crossed over to stand against the opposite doors, my wishing to keep a hand on our bags.

As the train pulled out, we both realised that our end and, actually, our side of our end of the carriage was surprisingly busy and crowded with noisy students. B reacted first, pushing abruptly through them to reach some free seats and I followed, guarding my belongings carefully. The students looked surprised and all teamed off at the next stop. At that point, I realised that the zips were open on both B's shoulder bag and my waist bag. Passports were still there but some folded papers beside them were missing. Nothing of value taken but a very close wake-up call.

As our train journey continued and I reflected on our assailants, all I could think of, in a Spanking Writers moment, was the delight I would experience of being permitted to apply suitable corrective measures with all of the young ladies involved. As for the two men, a quick boot up the arse would have to suffice.

We'd Love to Love Our Lurkers

We'd Love to Love Our Lurkers, but we can't if we don't know you're there.

Looking back, I know I lurked for years. Actually its a nasty word, to lurk, no wonder no one wants to own up. It has a kind of sleazy, hanging round stage doors or bookies shops, rymes with murky, feel about it.

But it doesn't have to be like that. We're not asking you to start posting blogs (unless you do already). Its just that we get off on being noticed. If I was writing this entirely for myself, I'd use a notebook and pencil. We are all just ordinary people, each of us maybe revealing a little more or a little less about ourselves than is obvious, but I believe that all the blogs I follow are real. When I look back over them I can see moods cycling through the swings of everyday life. We need to applaud with posters' happinesses and hug them through the downer bits. The only way we can do that is by adding comments to their blog posts.

Its not essential to sign up with any particular blog service. All comments options have an Anonymous button and you can just add a (fictitious) handle to the end of your comment to identify yourself if you want to.

We would all love you to just pop your hand up and say "Hi". It need be no more than that. I've met people in real life, who on being introduced, said "Oh, its you, I read your blog." I get a real buzz from that. You might think that you are looking for notice or wasting electrons by commenting. Not so, even the smallest handwave from out there tells us that someone in the street has noticed our busking. That's often enough for us.

We bare our souls to you a little bit. We hope that it may help you to get braver. I know that reading blogs was how I discovered how this world works and gained confidence that I could trust the occupants. I'm so very glad I did. Through reading blogs I've met some really friendly people, a few of whom I've been lucky enough to meet for real, and they turned out to be just as nice as I thought they'd be. There are others I really look forward to hoping I get to meet sometime, somewhere.

So that's it. We love our followers, including our lurkers, and we'd really love to know that you're out there, pretty please ....... If you don't wave back we might stop writing, and then you'd have to go back to paying bookshops when you wanted a good read.

#Mad4Plaid

By strange coincidence, came home from work, logged on, saw various #Mad4Plaid tweets celebrating the first day of fall - Autumn, please. Walked into the kitchen and, by pure coincidence, what was my Bandree wearing:
She had no knowledge of Mad for Plaid but, by pure coincidence, had dressed for the day.

Security Alert

Sorry for the lull in posts recently, things have been busy and the imagination not very fertile.

This is the time for holidays and, like everyone else, we have been doing our share of travelling. Returning from one such trip, my Bandree triggered a metal detector arch and was asked to step aside by the smartly uniformed female security officer. Regular readers will remember that we recently had six labia rings inserted and, ever since, she had been anxious about how to deal with exactly the dillema she now found herself in. I, together with some of our offspring who are unaware of this jewelry, waited politely.

Leaning closer to the security girl, she whispered "Piercings". The girl couldn't hear her and asked her to speak up. B, aware of the proximity of a bored male security man, tried to point discreetly down her front and said "Its intimate, piercings".

"Ah no love" replied the smart female figure of authority, "sure I'm covered in them and it doesn't set them off. It must be your mobile phone, go on."

So, look at the people around you. You just can't tell, can you?

Cutting Switches

"Will you come and help me cut some nice long flexible ones".

With those words, my Bandree enticed me out of our weekend cottage last weekend, lopper in hand. As we headed down the track, she was eyeing young ash saplings but rejecting them "Too short", "not straight enough", "Not long enough", "Not flexible enough".

Eventually we came on a grove of tall willow on the bank of a stream. "Those look good" she cried "come here and help". Fortunately, I kept my balance and stayed out of the stream. When we had a good collection on the track, we started to strip off the leaves, twigs and small branches, to leave two or three feet of whippy wood, about the thickness of my little finger.

Once finished, we each hefted half the heap and started to walk back to our cottage. Once there, B subjected herself to the final, painful, ritual. Deftly, each rod was flexed and carefully applied on top of its earlier predecessors. Notwithstanding the pain inflicted by the sharp blackthorn spikes, my B wove the wattles into the hedge, creating a few more inches of the fence which will ultimately provide a little more privacy in the evening sun catching corner of our country cottage garden (meadow?, field?).

Applying One of Dossie Easton's Lessons

I have mentioned that a month ago we attended a Radical Ecstasy workshop presented by Dossie Easton. The subtext was "Tantric BDSM". As the weekend progressed, Dossie pointed out that, for her, the grouping was a little atypical. In most of her groups she finds the majority of participants are experienced Tantric practitioners who wish to learn a little about BDSM. A quick show of hands in our group, and we realised that we were a right pervy group of control freaks who needed to be given the beginners guide to energy centres.

Some of the weekend activities involved random pairings of gender, orientation and role determined only by the sequencing of two circles of people being told to rotate one step for the next exercise. I found these challenging and liberating and I will write more about them another time.

One exercise which most couples did together, with a swap and a repeat, was to introduce both shibari and trust play. I described it in an earlier post, so I wont repeat it here. But that post includes a photo of a typical chest harness on Bandree.

At Nimhneach last Saturday, I decided to try the same exercise. I will let Bandree describe it from her perspective first:

"Led by my Leader

Master Retep has asked me -well, told me - to describe my reactions when he blindfolded and restrained me and then led me about among other people a few nights ago at Nimhneach.

I had known that He was going to do this and of course i have often been tied before.

The blindfolding was much less familiar for us: i have pretty awful eyesight so i tend to feel either very insecure or very “free” when i can't see. We had experimented with this, as He described, at a Tantric/BDSM workshop a few weeks ago.

The chest harness was quite tight and the blindfold was dark and he led me confidently. Sometimes pushing, sometimes pulling, which added to the disempowerment in myself and increased my reliance on Him.

It is conventional to claim that a person deprived of one sense has heightened awareness in the others – well, i never noticed that before last Saturday. In fact usually i can't listen to the radio without my specs on!

But because my master's strong hand was guiding me, i was not scared or insecure at all: i had to trust him and to go where he directed. The sounds were on various sides like aspects of scenery – music here, dancing there, people chatting, spanking sounds and little yelps! How odd to walk through sounds like driving through a landscape!

My feet were cautious but my master murmured to me – Little step – edge of dance floor on your right – etc. And i could feel the wooden edge and the dreadfully sticky carpet – why don't the management ever clean it? I felt cool air blowing as we passed between rooms and the indefinably new acoustic of a different space, the tantalising whiff of tobacco, the feeling of “less crowded” - hard to explain, that one, especially as occasionally one would brush against my arm or jostle briefly with a murmur of apology.

Then he told me to bend over and i could feel the edge of a bench against my thighs, so i knew what was coming...

But i didn't know what he was going to use: only what it felt like. Sharp, sudden stripes of pain flashing across my behind. Again, and again. A pause, then more. I've got to admit, he handled it beautifully. What might have been frightening, or alarming, was strong but safe, sharp but not scary.

My bottom did think it recognised one implement, a short strap that is regularly used at home for ordinary discipline. And other, more severe things too – riding-crop, maybe?

I was darn glad when that bit was over, all the same - and i was led back to our table. He waited a while, talking gently to me, and then took the blindfold off, slowly. Immediately i felt that it had all ended too soon – that i could have stood a good deal more – that we had quit too early – i am often like that at the end of a session, whether “play” or real life.

Recognising this, Master Retep left me in the ropes for the rest of the evening, sometimes cuffing my wrists together too.

What were the results? It increased my trust in him, and that was good. Of course it made me hungry for more....that happens! And i think it increased his strength in himself, if you know what i mean – leading me confidently with my safety in his hands.

Was it sexy? Yes. The restraint/blindfold part was edgy, puzzling, because unfamiliar: that uneasiness added to my arousal. The spanking was extremely sexy of course! What about the “being seen in public” angle? Didn't really bother me because my attention was focussed on other things.

Did i enjoy it? Oh yes – loved it! Would i do it again, if given the choice? Oh yes, yes, please, any time!"

I was pleased with the exercise. I was acutely aware of my own responsibilities for ensuring that my charge would not trip, bang her head off objects, interfere with someone elses scene or get struck by a back flying flogger. When you are responsible for someone whose wrists are secured with limited travel and who is blindfold, you must do all their watching out as well as your own. For me, this constant attention and management was an intensly empowering masterful experience.

I definitely intend to repeat this with Bandree at the next Nimhneach and I would be prepared to consider requests from others who might be interested in the experience.

Tops Need Reassurance Too

EmmaJane has written a very insightful piece in which she says:

"Not every top is comfortable with this. Tops need reassurance too. They need to know that they haven't gone too far, that the scene worked, that the tears are ok, that the tears will stop".

This has resonated with my own thoughts on the subject. One of the things I find challenging is managing the boundary between authoritarian disciplinarian and being a compassionate lover or play partner. The problem is that in TTWD we are administering punishment, often genuinely painful, because its what the bottom wants. The want may be as obvious as the desire for the endorphin rush and the bodice ripping thrill or it can be as serious as a need for genuine atonement for nasty or selfish behaviour. Whichever, it is still done to satisfy some need in the bottom. If that were not the case, we would be dealing with straightforward criminal abuse.

Therein lies the rub. To maintain our own self confidence that we are not abusive sexual predators, tops require supportive feedback. The post scene hug is as much for us as for you. An intense scene can leave me trembling. There is some deep truth in the old chestnut "this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you". The more you care for your subject, and if you don't care you shouldn't be doing this, the more intense the shared aftermath is going to feel.

EmmaJane's revelations will help us to understand why, sometimes, we may feel rejected at the very point of climax. For a top, a period of isolation after the event can seem like a rejection, like a judgement that they "got it wrong". We are humans too, with emotional needs, and I think that we need reassurance that we didn't overstep the line into abuse, nor left our subject underwhelemed. For me, I detect that reassurance in the body language of an embrace much easier than in the possibly stilted language of some spoken words. EmmaJane has taught me that, sometimes, we need a little patience before we can be given our answer.

Trust

I know that it has been sometime since I promised to post something about the Radical Ecstasy weekend with Dossie Easton. I have been busy and there was a lot to digest before being able to put words on it.

There were a number of different exercises involving personal interaction throughout the two days. This is just one from the second day. We were introduced to Shibari with the suggestion that we secure a partner, playing a sub role, in a simple chest harness. This is a rope configuration which allows the subject's upper torso to be securely held. When this step was complete, the sub's eyes were covered with a blindfold. They were then manipulated using the Shibari rope. What I mean by "manipulated" is that they could be thrown off balance in unexpected directions, but securely held. Anyone who has played the group "trust" game of falling backwards into the hands of the group will recognise the dynamic, but for us BDSM types, it is delightfully edgy. We then led our charges around the room. Ensuring that they did not collide with anyone, or trip on anything, really reinforced the essential nurturing role of a good top.



As part of the exercise, we reversed roles and repeated the process. (The Radical Ecstasy weekend took us all out of our comfort zones, be they gender, orientation or role). One of the things I noticed about being a blindfolded sub was the intense awareness of the sounds of what was going on around me.

I intend to bring a length of Shibari rope and a blindfold with me to Nimhneach. I imagine that any sub would find the experience of being led to an A-frame whilst blidfolded, depending only on hearing to get a picture of what was going on, to be a sensual one. We will see how this works and I'll post feedback - if any!

Shackled

Last night, I slept shackled to my Bandree.

When we went to bed, I placed a small red leather cuff on each of her wrists and clipped them together. I then placed a third cuff on my own left wrist and clipped it to her cuffs with about 4 inches of chain. I confess that, on this attempt, I released the connection to my cuff during the night. The last time we tried this, we stayed coupled, albeit with a slightly longer chain, all night.

Bandree slept all night with her wrists close coupled. We have done this several times in the past, including variations such as securing her wrists to a thigh cuff. The interesting point is that she sleeps soundly, usually reporting afterwards that she felt safe and secure. I find it is an effective intervention when she needs centering and calming.

OUCH, OUch, Ouch, ouch, ..... ouch, OUCh!

Six of the best.

My lovely loyal Bandree responded obediently to my phone call yesterday morning.

"I'm able to finish early this afternoon. Drive into town, meet me at Stephen's Green. We're going to get those piercings done".

"All six?"

"Yes"

"In my outer labia?"

"Yes, of course. That's what I told you I wanted, to be able to thread ribbons through them to match your bloomers."

"Yes, sir."

And so, a couple of hours later, she's yelping as a nice man, albeit a stranger, is crouched in front of her thrown back skirt inserting six of the most delightful little silver rings in to her lips. I hadn't expected to be the person to be asked to show him where I wanted them to be inserted, there are still some aspects of this lifestyle I have to be reminded of. (That's similar to NGinBoots noticing my lower case knickname on Fetlife long before I did, AND NOT TELLING ME. That error has been hastily corrected.)

So its now the next morning, one nice saline bath later and she looks gorgeous. We're already speculating which of our vanilla friends might be similarly adorned.

I know I haven't posted about our Radical Ecstasy weekend, with Nimhneach as the interval act. Its not that I have nothing to say but rather that its taking quite a bit of digesting before I can write about it. I promise I'll get something up soon.

Disobedience

In an earlier post, I described how B's availability is an important part of her voluntary submission. She will only wear knickers with my permission even for jobs which require trousers, or times of the month that need knickers, but I will either agree beforehand or she will wait for my reply to a text if I am at work. If I am at home, I will usually select which pair she will wear. This is not unreasonable, since I bought most of them.

Last night we attended our first Munch. It was an interesting opportunity to meet some of the faces and minds behind posts we have read or costumes we have admired at Nimhneach. We had already met some of the attendees and it was great to chat in a more wide ranging environment. Some of us even finished up in a well known night club at 3am, enjoying each other's company.

So, it was with surprise that, getting ready for bed later on, I realised that B was wearing knickers!


Nothing wrong with the knickers, as you can see. I had bought them and I know they look well on her. What was wrong was that we had got ready, together, earlier to go out, and I had been asked to comment on her (several) choices of skirt and top (NO, not that kind of top). Wearing knickers had never been mentioned.

The upshot, and I'm sorry if this is publically embarrassing for B, is that she was punished, at 4 am, with a short little strap, which is relatively silent but quite effective. Moreover, she has been told that any repeat will be dealt with using our heaviest cane.

The necessity for this post is that I had publically boasted on this blog of my pride in B's adherence to a code of conduct in which she would ask me before wearing knickers and I don't believe that I have ever unreasonably denied permission. So I interpret the decision to wear knickers to a Munch, without even asking me when I am standing 4 feet away, as a particularly brazen act of disobediance.

B does not disagree with this interpretation of our agreement. She accepted her punishment with humility and fully understands the consequences of any repeat transgression.

Punishment From a Top's Perspective.

This post is prompted by questions in a post of the same name by Eliane.

Whilst understanding what bottoms get from an "atoning" style punishment, as opposed to "role play", she was curious about what a top gets out of this type of encounter. Answering for myself, I had always found the prospect of spanking an attractive bottom (the body part as distinct from the person) exciting and erotic, and I still do. I confess to being one of those males who finds it hard to classify any bottom body part as unattractive.

However, much more recently, my wife discovered the whole concept of obedience in the service of love. The internet, without any doubt, was the medium of revelation. She is very well read and is an educated and wise person, but the web was the introduction to real alive individuals just like herself who had discovered domestic discipline as a helpful part of their relationships. It came as a dawning that you didn't have to start from a pre-established position in the world of kink, BDSM, polyamory and Fetlife to appreciate domestic discipline.

So, here was me, presented with a wife who was much more willing to offer her bottom for punishment. Don't misunderstand, she had never refused, but it was always in the context of slap and tickle foreplay. This was different. I was surprised that it wasn't easy for me. She would be stroppy and disproportionately annoyed about something. I would tip toe around the situation feeling that she might have had a point about housework or whatever, but that her reactions were out of scale. It was that core of "just cause" which inhibited me acting. Later she would recover, apologise and ask why I had not taken her in hand.


That last hyperlink is quite deliberate. Taken-in-hand was probably the first web revelation for both of us. Writers like Louise seemed to so closely reflect many of our dynamics. I learned that impetuous women actually like to be grounded by a masterful reference point. My wife now feels safer because of my ability to contain her, to protect her from the possibility self destruction. Physical punishment, when deserved rather than requested, brings such a mood change in its wake. Its as if her misbehaviour is the growing sultry headache laden buildup to a thunderstorm. Hers are the squalls of wind, the sudden hailstones, the disorganised unfocussed anger.

I must bring her lightning. An appropriate punishment must be intensely physical, sharp and directed. It helps me to direct my anger and disapproval. I can express myself without engaging in a smart alec clever debating war of words.

And afterwards, the clouds clear back, the sun comes out, she sings to herself, she's nice to be around again and I feel good.

First Timer Advice for Nimhneach

I recently posted a reply on Fetlife to a request regarding first time visits to Nimhneach, the monthly scene club night in Dublin. I felt that my status as only one extra visit removed from novice qualified me. For the benefit of any readers here, I repeat the post below.

I would endorse the suggestion of going to the meet & greet. We have only been twice, but we met up with the M&G organiser beforehand each time. If its who it was for us, you can't help but be relaxed. OK, even though it is vanilla dress, you can tell whose waiting to be met because they're lurking near the door, scanning every new entrant and, in our case, getting ready to bolt, and they're all carrying sports or shoulder bags like a dispossessed football team, but are otherwise in street clothes. There are changing facilities at Nimhneach, and a cloakroom within the venue (who are sympathetic to you retrieving your bag to add/remove items). Most people use those facilities.

Just one thing to be prepared for, the changing facilities are unisex (in the hairdressing sense), but you won't show or see anything that you're not going to show or see at Nimh anyway. You can always use one of the loos next door if your shy or want to make a grand entrance. Those facilities are all within the Nimh area and are not overseen by other venue attendees.

From our limited experience (two visits) I would say that Nimhneach is really cool, relaxed, inclusive. and respectful. From the meet & greet you go in a group, so at the ticket desk you can just say "the same again" and follow the previous person down the stairs. If you're carrying a shoulder bag with your gear, the much threatened security staff are happy and no, they don't ask you to spread it all out on a table like airport security.

Be brave and take the plunge,its only scary in a nice way.

Open Crotch Drawers

In my last Nimhneach post, I described B's period petticoat and drawers. The drawers were made from a pattern obtained on the Internet, suitably modified. I think they looked sweet and, as I described in my post, the ribbons in the legs are interchangeable, allowing different colour matches.


B also made the petticoat and adorned the hem with some lovely lace we bought on a visit to SF last year. However, to appreciate the drawers properly, the petticoat must be removed. This only happened later in the night, so we repeated the effect in the photoshoot for this blog (lest anyone think I was so crass as to even consider trying to take pictures at Nimh).


But, as I described, these are open between the legs, thus:

If, or rather when, required, the waistband can be drawn right back:

The period effect was completed by a sweet corset:


I am posting these pictures because it was quite dark at Nimhneach and some of these details weren't that visible, and I have followers who weren't there. We plan a similar effect, but in a more domestic maid theme, for July - so perhaps black ribbons for then.

Underwear Dress Code

Did anybody spot the following news story:

"A Florida city has written common sense into its employee dress code: Wear underwear to work.

The Brooksville city council recently approved a revised dress code as part of its effort to update existing policies.

The revision instructs employees to observe "strict personal hygiene," including the use of deodorant. It lists "the observable lack of undergarments and exposed undergarments" as "unacceptable attire."

It also prohibits clothing with foul language or messages promoting drug use, "sexually provocative" garments, halter tops and piercings anywhere except the ears."

Suggestions please concerning inspection regimes, as in what methods of observation are appropriate, and suitable disciplinary measures for transgressors.

Attention to Detail

Last night was our second visit to Nimhneach. Seconds of anything are always quite different from first times. The awe, surprise and shock value of the whole big thing was replaced by a greater interest in the smaller details - who do I recognise from before, whose writing have I read on line, why am I here and what do I want to get out of it?

B had initial concerns that the look we had chosen for her was inappropriate and silly. Thankfully, that was disproved with three separate unsolicited complementary remarks in the first twenty minutes. Her selfmade open crotch period bloomers were particularly praised for the interchangeable ribbons round the ends of the legs, a detail allowing choices of colour for different occasions. I was also pleased with the lace trim detail she had spent the afternoon applying to her outer petticoat.

For me, a significant issue was resolving the dillema of whether my role at Nimhneah is that of an escorting domestic discipline top for B, or as a more generally available Dom. In truth, I knew even before I went, that I was going to feel disappointed, and probably something of a failure, if I went home from this trip without having explored my dominant persona with someone else in addition to my B.

That someone else turned out to be Caroline. It would be presumptuous of me to speculate what it was like for her, and anyway, she is vastly more experienced than I, and by her standards, I would imagine it was a brief and mild encounter. For me, however, the surprises were in the powerful impact of small details. It wasn't the application of flogger or birch, but rather her offer to remove her shirt and accepting my offer of help in undoing the buttons. I found myself focusing much more authority into my left hand in the small of her back than my right, the one swinging the tawse. Tucking the hem of her skirt into the waistband of her knickers was, inevitably, a shared intimacy but her standing quite still after we had finished, whilst I publically replaced and buttoned her shirt was, for me, the defining moment of authority, coming to public play, as I do, from a DD background which isn't really about play at all, but about obedience.

All I can say is thank you sincerely for helping me explore these details of my persona and letting me leave that night with my self confidence intact.

The Benefits of a Loose Skirt

I don't know how many other disciplining couples have discovered this, but we are definitely big fans of the nice swishy skirt.

Yes, a tightly denim wrapped buttock is certainly attention grabbing, and inviting to swat. But swat is about all you can do unless all geared up with toys and things. Most jeans have far too many rivets and studs to be comfortably hand spanked by a wimpy pain fearing top. But when you are required to wear a long flowing skirt, you can't complain when you are prohibited from wearing knickers, as B now is. To any outsider, this is modest demure apparel. But I know that I only have to come up beside my wife, caress the nape of her neck with my right hand, reach down with my other hand to heft the back of her skirt and bring my right hand, in a swinging arc, from neck to rump. If I drop her skirt again, it is all over in a flash, but she can still feel her bottom bare under the skirt and she knows it is instantly available to me again.

This availability is an important part of her voluntary submission. She will only wear knickers with my permission (there are some jobs which require trousers, or times of the month, that need knickers) but I will either agree before I go to work, or she will wait for my reply to a text if I am at work.

Don't misunderstand me, B has some lovely underwear, most of it bought by me. That was an earlier catharsis, as daunting as my first Nimhneach visit, my first solo trip to THAT part of the department store. It felt just like the famous Fr. Ted scene, distinctly kinky.

I know from several blogs that many women regard buying underwear, sexy or comfortable, as one of their indulgent private treats. My wife has adopted her submission to the point that she not only wears the knickers I choose for her, but she only wears them at the times of my choosing.

This is one of our beautiful shared intimacies, intimacies that keep us alert to our respective roles even when we are apart.

This Hurt Me More Than It Hurt You

or - Don't Try This At Home

Woke up this morning with a really sore right hand. Painful knuckles and wrist with little stabbing sensations into the arm when I flexed my wrist. Tried to think what it could be. Definitely wasn't the pins and needles you get when you sleep on top of your hand and the nerves wake up as the blood flow returns.

When I got up, I thought the back of my right hand looked swollen and puffy and B confirmed that it was a darker red than the left. Then I remembered the playful spanking I had given B the night before. Because of our relative positions at the time, I had tried a few swats with the back of my hand.

B certainly had no after effects this morning and confirmed that they really didn't hurt much at the time. Well, they didn't hurt me much at the time, but its a different story this morning, and I don't think I'll type much more for a while.

You've heard of Tennis Elbow, well I've got Backhand Spanker's Wrist.

Writing Lines

I recently had some discussion with Eliane about writing lines, so I thought I would post some lines of my own. I can't remember where I read about this, but somebody's blog suggested a technique for improving one's caning skills. The results, with B as the model, now adorn my banner (and are my Twitter tag).

The proposal was to require ones sub to wear black knickers, any knickers are something of a novelty for B nowdays. Applying chalk to the cane, rather like a snooker player, but laterally rather than end on, allowed the results of my efforts to be graphically displayed in real time. This is a distinct training improvement over waiting for the red and white tramlines to develop, film like, over the ensuing minutes.

This picture was of my first efforts using this training aid (an aid for me rather than her) and I was quite pleased with the results. There is something satisfyingly schoolroomish about black cotton knickers, canes and chalk, don't you think.

Reading the Signs

We spotted this sign a few years ago adjacent to an island of monkeys in Dublin Zoo, unedited, unPhotshopped, exactly as displayed for the education of thousands of school children, their teachers and parents.

Hasn't sex education come on since our day. I'm surprised they aren't queuing up the street for Nimh.

Still in Awe

48 hours on from the events described in my first post and I am still a bit dizzy and in mental overdrive.

Our only previous experience of any kind of public presence for this kind of scene were two visits a year ago to the London Fetish Fair. Despite feeling safely far from home walking up a street in north London (it was at Shillibeers at the time), we were quite uncomfortable walking in on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Its at moments like that when you suddenly recall that no visit to London is ever complete without meeting a neighbor or workmate from Dublin. Despite the LFF really being not much more than a collection of stalls, I'm afraid it was heads down and get a pint in our hands to cautiously peer over the top of. The first sight of a sub being obviously led by their master, or of a fairly deliberate flash of knicker lace, had the pair of us diving back into our glasses and going so natively English as to stare intently into each others faces and earnestly discuss the weather.

Roll on a year, with no public manifestation of our kink, and we find ourselves once again in a strange setting, clasping plastic glasses (which don't take to being squeezed comfortingly). Thank you F for some refreshingly ordinary words of welcome like any bloke you'd meet in any ordinary bar, but I have no recollection of what I said, my mind was so divided between my mouth and my surroundings.

But .....

just an hour later, I walk up to the cloakroom, show my ticket to the girl and request the bag I left in when we arrived. I dig down into it, calmly remove a high leather collar and a length of chain. I hand the bag back with a friendly relaxed "Thanks". I turn to B, gently raise her chin and secure the collar in place. I remove a carbinier clip from my belt, click it smoothly onto one of the collar D-rings and latch the chain on. This has all been done without any verbal exchange between us.

Finally, I click the other end of the chain to the free carbinier clip on my belt, between the ones holding the leather flogger and the two tail tawse. I turn on my heel and walk away from the cloakroom and across the floor, B following a chain length behind me.

The last time I saw a couple do this, we were both too embarrassed to watch. Now I am proudly parading my beautifully submissive wife in front of the most appreciative audience in Ireland. What a transformation!

Who Am I and What is this About

I am an Irish male, in my mid-50's, in a stable well established marriage to a woman I love very much. Our children, mostly grown, are gradually, as is the way these days, leaving the nest.

As you can tell from my age, myself and my wife are children of the 60's. She would have been a supporter of, what I would call, leading edge intellectual feminism, when a student and we are both the generation of professionals who have, through our careers, been the first wave to unquestionably support the rights of women to full equality in all political, management, work, sport, financial and other arenas. Us men probably found it a little more difficult to be equally embracing of other traditionally female roles but we have tried. In truth, the generation of men before us were a lot more reluctant to cook meals, go shopping, mind babies or show their true emotions than we are.

So how on earth did I wake up this morning to be embraced by my beloved wife and thanked for holding firm and bringing her to Nimhneach for the first time, for either of us, where she was spanked by me in public, followed me on a chain and was even confined to a cage for "time out"!

This is a further landmark in a joint journey of discovery which started a few years ago.

Slap and tickle, coy naughtiness and voyeuristic fantasy talk are the heady stuff of many romances. But for "new age" man there often is a carefully shared lightheartedness. Political correctness, even in the unregulated bedroom, is subtly policed when you are of our generation, because we all, platonically mind you, linked arms to crusade for equality. Believe me, that equality did not run to ever considering that I could place my wife onto an A-frame in view of complete strangers, raise her skirt to reveal a narrow strip of black lace, a cross between a knicker and a suspender belt, and strike her bottom with a leather strap because she had forgotten my instruction to address me as "Sir". As a consequence, I am of the age and mindset that struggles to comprehend the visible reality that the same woman, not one iota compromised in her political, social or religious beliefs, is glowing radiantly the next morning, skipping and jumping, happier than I have seen her all week.

The locals amongst you will, of course, point out that the grey November clouds rolled away this weekend and Dublin returned to more appropriate weather arrangements, but that wasn't the only reason. As I said, this is just one more step for us in a fascinating path of learning how an old fashioned masterful approach to domestic love can provide strength, support, feelings of worth and purpose. We are discovering that "role" is much more potent than "role play".