Tombola Goes to Finishing School

My ward, young Tombola van Hoyden, recently attended Mrs Darling's Academy. She has provided us with the following account of her didactic adventures.

Tombola van Hoyden was and is an enthusiastic young person with more ideals than worldly wisdom. She has been chucked out of so many boarding schools that her guardian, exasperated, has despatched her to finishing school, Darling's Academy for Young Ladies, in the forlorn hope of turning Tombola into a lady. He hoped that the famous and very strict methods of that celebrated Scottish establishment would somehow transform her behaviour.

And it seemed as if he might be right...almost as soon as Tombola and her schoolfriends EJ, Jemima and Cate arrived at the airport, the lady who met them appeared a mistress of total grimness! Unsmiling, holding up the identifying placard, she greeted each pupil by name and swept them off to the waiting vehicle where a grave uniformed manservant efficiently stowed the luggage. The girls all sat nervously as near the back as they could, while the Deputy Head and the driver occupied front seats. The girls tried to keep their spirits up by singing comic songs and playing word games, but their play-acting grew strained as the long dark roads lengthened into blackness.

Finally they were there and after the fairly scary Induction they were offered a warm welcome and the company of friends beside a warm fire.

Next morning was Assembly and oh, dear! Tombola's antics in the minibus had not escaped the notice of the deputy head - spankings all around and what are these?
Er, only the Little Miss Trouble knickers that everyone had on!! Oh well then, everyone got smacked!!
hashtag, pantygate!

Favourite thing – really - baking in the kitchen with Zillah and Violet and Sara and Catherine and darling Mrs Darling. It was warm, and atmospheric with the snow outside, and making biscuits is my top favourite thing to do, and everyone was so friendly.

Biggest surprise: a sudden and complete melt-down on the Sunday morning. I found myself blubbering hopelessly, out of the blue! Missing MasterRetep, (i had never been at a play event without him) and i sat on someone's bed sobbing and got hugged and patted during some morning interval, then dried my eyes and back in role again. (thank you, kind and comforting schoolmates!)

Best fun: a naughty escapade when Tombola and Violet were sitting side by side on a sofa watching a gentleman, a visiting Laird, in Highland dress, as he leant to poke a fire. It occurred to us that this was our chance to solve one of the world's great sartorial mysteries: viz., what does a Scotsman wear under the kilt? So she sat on the floor, leaning comfortably back against the sofa and squinting: while i pretended to come over all faint, and actually lay down, head towards the fireplace, for a pefect worm's eye view. Mystery solved! This particular Laird was wearing ...only the family jewels that the Creator endowed him with. Commendable fortitude given the chilly climate and the snow outdoors!

Alas, we had been spotted – nothing escaped the eagle eye of Miss Amelia Hatchet-Grabbe: we were scooped to our feet and draped along the edge of a table and caned in less time than it takes to say, "Highland Fling!"

Not only that, but the offended gentleman himself decided to avenge the modesty of the Highlands...and so did one of the visiting gentlemen guests – so our bottoms were well and truly warmed up in consequence, snow or no snow!!

Funniest comment; a young lady who bore upon her throat the mark of an amorous encounter, attempting the hopeless claim that she had been attacked by a fruitbat. She is certainly sweet enough, but the false alibi did not save her from yet more spankings!!

Most informative lesson: makeup by Mrs Darling. What an education. And learning how to fit on a Fully Fashioned Stocking, goodness, i felt quite illiterate, not knowing all this stuff! Not sure how useful it will be in my chosen career as an explorer, but no knowledge is wasted.

Disappointment: having to leave early because of the snow blocking roads: still feel quite thwarted to have missed final Assembly, where Tombola did not come quite bottom of the class! - apparently spankings were awarded pro rata.

There was lots more – some of it has been described by others and some of it was just small stuff. But i loved the whole Finishing School weekend – the other girls were all lovely: some i'd met before and some i'd only heard of but we all got on really well, there was a great atmosphere of warmth and cheerful cooperation, ably led by our superlatively good Head Girl Catherine.

Tombola emerged a little better educated than she had set out – still eager to complete her studies so that she can go and be an explorer in the Amazon Delta – she had to research the Missionary Position with this aim in view! But she may also have to appear in Society to represent the noble and ancient house of Van Hoyden and so the social polishing of the Darling Staff will not be wasted. She looks forward eagerly to the next term!

indy said...

This is lovely, Tombola! I think Pandora tweeted your best line, but the one about the missionary position is a close second.

10/12/10 05:12

Three Little Maids From School

Last Sunday evening, we finally ran them to earth. Myself as year master, the Head of our school, and the Government Schools Inspector had spent the whole of our Sunday looking for them. We were responding to a report that three of the girls entrusted to our care had been seen by the staff at a remote hotel where all sorts of "adult" activities were taking place.

Scantily clad women were seen to be running up and down corridors, uniformed men observed to be comparing the heights and convenient features of the various chaises longues and other furniture dotted about the corridors. Yelps and sqeals were heard from private rooms and our contact had felt it necessary to avert her gaze from a disgraceful display of underwear in mixed company at the adjournment of dinner on the Saturday night.

Our girls had failed to return from a hockey match on the Saturday afternoon but, due to a misunderstanding that they had been accommodated at the school hosting the game, it was Sunday morning before their truancy came to light.

Myself and the Department of Education Inspector located two of the girls, Bandree and NGinBoots, but our Headmaster, MG, had rather more trouble running the third miscreant, one "Fluffy", to ground so we started without them.

The hotel management were able to put an unoccupied room at our disposal which, conveniently had a very wide double bed. This allowed both the girls to be placed at the footboard with plenty of room to spare for their co-conspirator to be accommodated as and when she graced us with her presence.

After a brief telling off, the two girls were forced head down to the bedcovers, and warmed up. NGinBoots's denim jeans, NOT regulation school issue, proved uncomfortable for my hands so they were pulled down in short order, followed not long after by her knickers. Bandree had lost her's earlier, heaven knows how, so by the time our Headmaster arrived with the errant Fluffy in tow, there were two very flushed bottoms being observed by the Education Inspector.

After the new girl joined her friends, they were placed in opposite corners, hands on head, to contemplate the amount of trouble they had caused all concerned on our day of rest, whilst we took turns in dealing with Fluffy with hand, strap and cane.

This calm scene was, however, repeatedly interrupted by NG who, it seems, does not know the meaning of silence. She whinged, complained, interrupted and, despite our best efforts with cane and Sam Brown, cheekily answered every slap.

The Inspector, noting her behaviour, then dropped his bombshell and, I suppose, revealed his genuine purpose in being there. Our school would not be immune to the budgetary cuts impacting the country at large. From the start of December, only one of our two posts would be funded and money could not be wasted on the salary of any teacher who would tolerate such insolent backchat from a girl whilst she was being caned. In his view, any girl who could keep up that sort of thing was not being properly punished.

Suffice to say, such a challenge did not go unanswered, and it was three very sore little maids who returned to our establishment later that night.

When returning the room key to the hotel manager afterwards, we discovered a possible explanation for Bandree's lack of underthings, and her yelping and apparent sensitivity to our ministrations. It transpired that she had been punished, along with members of a "school debating team" with whom she had ingratiated herself. They had all been caught that morning, at this very same hotel, obtaining alcoholic beverages at the bar using forged identity cards. There had been stern punishment at the hands of the staff of the other school. I trust that the knickers were lost at that time, although there is always the possibility they were missing already. I must check with her morning chastisers when next we meet.

The one piece of good news, we did so well that the Inspector decided to make his cutbacks at a neighbouring establishment.

Setting the Record Straight

(Posted in response to An Unreformed Reformatory Girl by Eliane)

Report to the Board of Trustees

It is my duty, kind sirs, to report to you my further endeavours in taking the wayward lasses placed in my care and restoring them to their place in society.

May I be permitted to relate a recent series of events involving a particularly headstrong girl. I fear that we may not have seen the last of her, by a long measure.

The young “lady” in question had been a mere two weeks in our care, and had already required some admonishment at the hands of my junior staff, when her behaviour necessitated my attentions. On arriving at my office, I was greeted by her insolence before I even had opportunity to enter. The girl was lounging against the locked door in a totally dissolute manner. Even before she had spoken, and despite her tender years, she conveyed all of the lewd and louche manner of a criminal woman of the night.

I have a certain sympathy for those respectable young girls who may find themselves indulging in carnal activities in return for a fair reward. Such girls, typically, are supporting an indigent parent, helping to clothe a myriad of younger siblings or provide fuel to preserve a grandparent from the rigours of a bad winter. Whilst our spiritual directors are correct to counsel us as to the improprietary of their actions, I cannot but feel a little symathy for their plight, uneducated as they often are, even in the simple tasks of domestic service. Such girls will, inevitably, be drawn to utilise their animal instincts to survive. To that extent, they deserve our compassion.

But this girl was not one such. By her manner, I could tell that any man consorting with her would be set upon by footpads and relieved of all his valuables this, probably, without even enjoying the proffered benefits.

As I approached, she confirmed my first impression by greeting me in a most disrespectul manner. Many ne're-do-wells have passed through our hands in the years I have had the honour to manage this institution on your behalf. In that time, I do not believe I have ever encountered one who, at such tender years, believed she could display such truculent insolence in the presence of the nominated representative of your good selves, the Trustees who have devoted their time and monies to the improvement of the lot of these fallen women.

I felt obliged to remind the lass how lucky she was to benefit from our current liberated and compassionate regimen. In the not too distant past, I told her, she would not have been permitted her first supper of dry bread, water and a little oaten pottage, before being introduced to the house diciplinary methods. This introduction would be afforded to all arrivals, even those showing the most timid compliance and contrite apologetic behaviour.

In those days, the new girl would be stripped of her vermin infested garments, including those most personal to her body, which often showed the greatest levels of infestation. She would be aggressively cleansed with cold water and coarse brushes. Whilst her skin was still flushed from both her embarassment and these rough ministrations, she would be introduced to the “house birch”. Repeatedly, the bundle of supple twigs would thrash against her stinging buttocks, her chastiser all the while, recounting the misdemeanours that would lead to its reapplication during her stay in our company. Such inductions were always popular with staff and inmates alike, an opportunity to meet the “new girl” and to witness any notions of superiority being beaten out of her. I explained that this satisfied the naturally assertive desires of both the staff and those more established girls who felt they could demand the respect of the junior girls.

I was none too pleased to note that this “lady” obviously paid little attention to my explanations and felt herself above all such warning words. She was going to require a considerable amount of my personal attention, and I decided to start with a suitably domestic implement. Telling her to remove her skirts, I fetched a leather soled slipper from its appointed resting place. Even before I started, I recognised that this chastisee was going to require containment. Standing her at the end of my heavy desk, the working surface of which was already clear in accordance with my discipled work methods, I firmly secured her ankles to the heavy piece.

I recognised that she was paying scant attention to my counselling words as I slapped the slipper down on her posterior. From her general demeanour, I ascertained that neither my verbal nor physical entreaties were being heeded. This girl was going to demand serious attention. Without further ado, I fetched the heavy reformatory strap, that reliable workhorse of our ministering care for our charges. Only the hardiest of our repeat offenders remain unsubdued by its application.

To indicate to my subject that I was not unaware of her first two weeks in our care, I asked her what punishment she had received at the hands of our guards when she was last corrected. I allowed the foolish waif to try to lead me a merry dance, believing that I did not already know the answer. Such information is always recorded, in timely fashion, in the large leather bound diary resting on the bureau shelf ready to my right hand, the hand now testing the heft and swing of the heavy belt, its leather supple with the frightened sweat of generations of victims.

As I expected, she told an untruth. I chose not to challenge her, since it was apparent that this charge was not yet ready for the exchange of values through verbal discourse. There was only one language of authority and wisdom she was ready to understand for the moment.

As I swung the heavy belt down repeatedly, she squirmed and twisted. In addition to earning her extra strokes, these gyratory motions caused the rear panels of her cotton drawers to further part with each swing of the belt. By the time I had concluded, her buttocks were bare and I could clearly see the blushing rewards of my exertions.

Knowing from the outset that this culprit would retain her arrogance, despite the attentions of the strap, I had decided that the subsequent application of our tawse would allow me to make up the deficit owing for her untruths. My choice, the XH tawse, would allow this debt to be collected with appropriate interest.

As the tawse licked in, I could see the arrogance start to depart her. At the commencement, I had considered the possibilty that her chest or wrists would also require restraining. However, after no more than six strokes, she was slumped across the desktop. Her defiant energy had left her. Six more strokes and her shoulders were heaving, accompanied by tearful sobbing.

Being familiar with the ways of these girls, I know that they use these punishments to enhance their standing amongst their peers. It is an unavoidable truth that lenient punishment only fosters the rapid dissemination of victorious gossip and lends credance to the belief that authority has weakened. This cannot be permitted and would be placing all of those in my care, guards, domestics and even the weakest girls, to serious danger of oppression by these “ring leaders”.

Tough punishment of the kind just administered, however, has the alternate disadvantage that the girl feels both triumphant in surviving and defiantly vindicated in her belief that the regime is both vindictive and oppressive. In this establishment, we create martyrs at our peril. What is required in such circumstances is a punishment “which keeps on giving”, and in this regard I cannot over recommend the use of the cane.

The cane combines a fearful preannouncement of its imminent application by its distinctive auditory signature with a series of long lasting visual and tactile trademarks. I always ensure that the seared lines will reveal their presence each time she sits down on a reformatory bench or caresses her buttocks whilst attending to her ablutions.

I concluded by providing her with the formal warning required by our statute of incorporation. As you are, of course, aware, we are, quite properly, not permitted to administer a formal public birching, in full view of the entire institution, unless the miscreant was warned of this consequece at the conclusion of her previous chastisement. This ensures that no girl can find herself publically exposed to this most psycholgically humiliating and physically trying of disciplinary experiences without having ignored a fair opportunity for reform. Without permitting such opportunity, how can we give witness to our title “Reformatory” with honest and sincere pride.

I dare say the little vixen will present a brave and heroic perspective when recounting her experiences to her little friends, but my last view of her was of a dishevelled half naked sobbing wench. Although the final cuts of the heavy rattan had sliced the last of the impudence out of her, I fear that this may only have been the first of many encounters to reform this wayward lass.

I remain you loyal servant.

If You Had To "Come Out"

Recently, I have found myself looking around the variety of scene related activities we indulge in, or observe others indulge in. This has caused me to consider whether there is a hierarchy of "acceptability" and, if so, what it is.

The easiest way to articulate the question is to consider yourself in a situation where you had to reveal some personal knowledge of kink to a vanilla audience.

Fetish fashion is an easy reveal. Burlesque wear, corsetry, strappy shoes and dommy jackets are all pretty mainstream now, not just the domain of Agent Provocateur and the Sunday Times Style magazine.

So, really, kinky looking gear is no reveal at all.

Spanking, and particularly the schoolgirl roleplay aspect, is probably a little too close to personal bedroom play for many people. It risks a quick categorisation as "pervy" rather than kinky, and would probably stymie further discussion.

Waxplay. Everyone has played with candles in childhood, and many adults can't resist messing with candle wax when in a restaurant in boring company, or when summoning up the courage to pop some question (isn't that why those restaurants have elaborate candles?). So, for most people, a reveal about wax play would probably result in a "so what" reaction.

Explaining D/s power relationships will seem very non-PC to many. Most men are now expected to be "new age", so revealing an acceptance of power exchange dynamics could be interpreted as voting for reactionary stone age political ideals. This dismissive position overlooks the fact that virtually all relationships contain some element of power exchange. Saying so will move the whole debate away from kink and into the much more fraught domain of politics. Introducing any concept of "domestic service and discipline" will only, by definition, bring the argument closer to "home".

If we try to discuss issues of alternative sexuality or gender assignment, we will probably get the "yes, fine, so what ?" response about same-sex relationships. This is followed by a boring discussion about inheritance tax. At the other extreme, we must refute the assumption that our (shaky) knowledge of the more clinical specifics of gender reassignment must have come from a late night Discovery documentary.

Cosplay, and other dress related behaviour, is very closely mimicked in the vanilla world. From the long standing female impersonator of music hall and pantomime fame to any hen party out for a Saturday night pre-wedding bash, there's not much clothing novelty left that we can claim for ourselves Latex is an advanced form of dress kink, and probably can't be explained without going into the whole discussion of one person's fetish being a complex relationship with a specific sensory trigger. That reveal will precipitate a request as to which obscure Social Science subjects I'm studying.

Needle play, C&BT, Electroplay and chastity restraints are all a bit deep and complex to use as a launch pad for a reveal to vanilla friends, so what am I left with.

Oddly, it's rope.

Shibari and its cousins.

Probably the least mainstream, the least often replicated in "ordinary" life and, oddly, the least open to cries of indecency or violence or general immorality. Superficially its decorative, macrame with humans, and should have a special appeal for the 1960's generation. At a more advanced level it's a circus act. A suspension is a personalised trapeze, not that different from a mountaineer's belay.

When I first discovered my kinky side, I don't believe I was even aware of Shibari. Strange that now, if asked to come out to vanilla friends, rope might be my starting point.

What do you think?

Sorry for the Silence

Due to house renovations, and the vagaries of the privatised telecomms industry, we found ourselves without broadband for a while. My brain used this as a convenient excuse to stop contemplating blog posts, not a good excuse I know, but there you are.

Now that we are reconnected, here is a nice placeholder, which a small few of you may not have seen yet, the Jane Austen's Fight Club trailer.



With broadband sweeping away the last of my excuses, I must now compose some offerings of my own.

Pride

Recently, myself and bandree found ourselves in a position to offer hospitality to several scene friends. It was a lovely weekend, everything clicked just right. The conversation was honest and easy, and a dog had accompanied the group, a big floppy friendly "bring me for a walk" kind of a dog.

The weekend was in a remote cottage in a fairly unknown part of the country. It has a small scale feel, which is very calming and quite captivating when you settle in. We bought the house several years ago and use it as a bolt hole for ourselves or other family members.

By the second afternoon, the party had reduced slightly such that we were myself, bandree, two other girls and the dog. This weekend had come together at short notice and there was no pre-arranged agenda of play or anything like that. It was quite genuinely just an opportunity for a few friends to eat, drink, chill out and chat.

And the chat was very good, exactly what I would expect from these participants. As well as chat, though, there was dog walking, swimming (the cottage is near water), canoeing, and general messing around.

Even when there was no conversation and the girls were just lounging around (and the dog), I felt an indescribable wellness. Of the group, bandree is the only one with whom I have a formal "relationship", so what happened inside my head was entirely a subconscious fantasy, I suppose.

I felt very at home. This was my place, in which I was able to provide the resources for their leisure. As they fooled around, I found myself remaining a little aloof. I let them take turns with the canoe, but did not indulge myself; watched them all swim, but didn't swim myself. Reflecting subsequently, I can only describe the sensation as that of a proud lion, watching over his pride (and I suppose the dog was a cub).

Thank you all for a very empowering afternoon.

Kitchen Play

Subtitled - "Why It Can Be Dangerous to Squirm"

Finding bandree in need of the application of a little correction in our kitchen, I cast around our collection of wooden stirry/slappy thingies.
B had been out shopping recently and returned with these additions.


The third one is an interesting device, able to leave a variety of sizes of white blobs outlined in red.
Anyone got any ideas what its 'nilla use may be?

However, I was looking for something a little different.
My eye fell on the nearest kitchen equivalent to a steel rule:


This is an old French Steel carving knife, repeatedly honed over the years, such that it is now very flexible. Bandree had her back turned, her elbows on the kitchen bench and her skirts hoiked up, and had no idea what I had chosen. Told to stay very still, she took five or six strokes, of the flat side of it of course, stoically, with little yelps, but no movement. On the next stroke, she squirmed as the flat of the blade impacted. Her reward, a lovely, though almost painless, reminder of the experience (I did tell you we keep it very sharp, so its an almost surgical line).



Unlike the red glow which receded within a few minutes, the thin straight line is still visible one week later. That line would have been observed by someone else recently, someone who had reason to call bandree to account for repeated lack of preparedness.

But that, as they say, is another story.....

A Creed To Live By

The interweb is full of comfy images of fluffy kittens, both verbal and pictorial.

However, I encountered the following piece first when I heard it read, only later tracing its author on the net. At a first glance, it can appear a bit saccharine Christian . But read it again, from the perspective of those of us who are different but caring, who might feel a little bit socially outcast but really want to make like minded friends. These verses offer great comfort for those brave enough to be themselves.

A Creed To Live By
By Nancye Sims

Don't undermine your worth by comparing yourself with others.
It is because we are different that each of us is special.

Don't set your goals by what other people deem important.
Only you know what is best for you.

Don't take for granted the things closest to your heart.
Cling to them as you would your life, for without them life is meaningless.

Don't let your life slip through your fingers by living in the past or for the future.
By living your life one day at a time, you live all the days of your life.

Don't give up when you still have something to give.
Nothing is really over until the moment you stop trying.

Don't be afraid to admit that you are less than perfect.
It is this fragile thread that binds us to each other.

Don't be afraid to encounter risks.
It is by taking chances that we learn how to be brave.

Don't shut love out of your life by saying it's impossible to find.
The quickest way to receive love is to give love.
The fastest way to lose love is to hold it too tightly;
and the best way to keep love is to give it wings.

Don't dismiss your dreams.
To be without dreams is to be without hope;
to be without hope is to be without purpose.

Don't run through life so fast that you forget not only where you've been,
but also where you're going.
Life is not a race,
but a journey to be savored each step of the way.

Copyright © 1996 Nancye Sims

One Year On - Five Years On

Last weekend was the first anniversary of our "coming out" to public playing, at Nimhneach. Coincidentaly, it was also the fifth birthday party of the club itself.

On the way in, I realised that I was quite subdued. I had thrown a few toys together without a lot of thought and most of my anticipation was about meeting a couple of new friends rather than anything particularly Dommy.

There was a good mix of faces, some new, some familiar, at the meet and greet. Unusually, entering that pub held a little frisson of excitement. "Excuse me, what's in the bag?" from the bouncer at the door. Now, I've always been ready, but never been required, to prove to the doorstaff at the club that the contents of my bag was sufficiently kinky to be let in. Here was a sudden turning of the tables. How do I explain that I am not going to start a fight in this Saturday night pub, armed as I am with length of chain, heavy rubber paddle, flogger, handcuffs, rope and other assorted bits and pieces. My murmured "clothes and stuff" seemed to satisfy them and I was spared any great expose in 'nilla land. This was all witnessed by EmmaJane from just inside the door who found my discomfiture highly amusing - ah well, plenty of opportunity to arrange for her public discomfiture later.

I am well aware that there have been visits to Nimhneach in the past year when I was doing the socialising, being recognised and starting to play with others whilst my Bandree was obedient, loyal and being there because she knew that is what I wanted. This night was different. I could sense her self-confidence, but without sacrificing her respect for my role, and that pleased me. This meant that she actually spent more time doing her own socialising and moving around. Despite this, I think we played more scenes together than at any previous Nimhneach.

I enjoyed the opportunity to play the blindfold trust game with Catherine, finishing up with a light spanking on the new chain spider's web. This was curtailed to allow a bit of space for poor Ginny to recover from her little mishap with the adjacent (collapsing) cage.

EmmaJane was later led to the same web for a rather more business like application of a Coventry Canes Loopy. This is a deceptively innocent looking little toy, silent, but quite severe and all sting. In effect, its a piece of basket cane folded back on itself, so two and a half strokes for the effort of one! For EJ, there was the added piquancy of finding herself only a few inches face to face through the web with those queuing for the bar. For a player who normally has her back, and her bottom, facing her audience, this was a new discomfort. I felt pleased with the scene and appreciated EJ's responses. Catherine was later to feel the same loopy, but across my knee.

However, my most intense plays of the night were with bandree. What caught me unawares was that I had not set out with any great gameplan, but as the evening unfolded, and we met as we crisscrossed the club, our play got harder. Bandree is a responsive sub, she squirms, cries ouch, kicks and writhes. Sometimes she feels bad about this believing she should be still and stoic. Several times in the night, I had to reassure her that "Ouch" is not a safeword, and there is no loss of face in a bit of yelping. I had enough peripheral vision to recognise that those who watched us play also appreciated bandree swing her hips in response to a firm whip of my belt. Our later scenes all finished with a glass of water, a long cuddle and a slow surfacing back to sitting upright again.

In between this, my lovely girl made more friends, chatted, played a bit with others and was a general credit to me. The night ended on a much more emotionally intense note than I had anticipated heading in on the bus. I felt very close to my lover, wife and best friend. It was just under a year ago that I made my first blog post describing that first Nimhneach night and the step on the road of our discovery which it represented. Rereading it now, I realise that my bandree chose the same knickers to wear this time. I couldn't have chosen a better way of rounding off our year than the way the night worked out.

PS. Does anyone know if the lovely girl serving behind the bar was a patron who either volunteered or was pressed into service or was she a member of club staff who was entering into the spirit of things. How else can we explain the collar round her neck and the multi-tailed flogger sticking out of her back pocket? Either that or crowd control techniques in Dublin clubland have moved radically forward recently.

"Commemoration of Ottoman Massacre"

There it was, the headline bottom right of page 37 in the Independent on Sunday.

It was Sunday afternoon and I was in a strangely quiet post-volcanic UK Ryanair airport. On my right, lilemmajane was deep in work papers and, on my left, my Bandree, head buried in a book. Nothing for it but to stretch my legs and go look for a Sunday paper.

24 hours earlier, we had all been admiring Eliane's new house and, in particular, her new furniture. For a girl who has only a passing acquaintance with the Lowewood pupils, and their teachers, B fitted in a little too well.

Quite early on, Abel overheard B encouraging the others to join in with her in a slightly disrespectful song about someone called Mabel. Perhaps it was all an innocent misunderstanding, as she claimed, but he was having none of it. She was summoned to stand behind the back of the sofa, facing the assembled company, and this is where she started to squirm. Her upper cheeks became suffused to a lovely blushing scarlet as she attempted to explain her predicament to her chastiser.

Still protesting that she had intended to run upstairs and decide which of her pretty underthings to wear before the party started "in earnest", Abel took her firmly by the wrist, bent her face down to the sofa cushions and hiked up her skirt. I wasn't counting, but it didn't take long before my pretty lady had four matching crimson cheeks to show everyone. Some may even have been lucky enough to catch a glimpse of her jewellery, but everyone was too polite to say anything.

Later, after the excellent Singapore Slings and other diversions, I had the opportunity to lead my B to Eliane's library and examine the new furniture piece, the brown leather covered Ottoman, only a couple of days old. On testing, it was a perfect height for a kneeling penitent girl and a doubled strap wielding punisher. We tried out Eliane's lovely new rubberwood paddle too. I can't decide between it and her short little, uber accurate, rectangular strap, both of them were a joy to use.

Whilst this was going on, we were joined by S. At the conclusion of B's spanking, I invited S to try out the new toys, which she was only too happy to do. She chose to lie flat on the Ottoman with her legs straight out behind her. The height was still just right for easily aimed swings of all three tormentors.

So how did the Independent on Sunday, within a few short hours, pick up on the Story of the Ottoman massacre at the epicentre of the UK spanking scene?


post script:-

Returning the next morning to compare hangovers and decide on a lunch venue, B was caught out knickerless again, initially by a cane wielding Emma Jane. Now once is unfortunate, but twice, careless, so she got no sympathy from anyone. Her bleating that she didn't think there'd be any spanking the next morning displayed an incomprehensible lack of foresight or understanding of her fellow party-goers.

So yes, a lovely time was had by all.

Thank you everyone for a great weekend.

Does This Make Me a Switch?

Recently, I paid money to a girl to hurt me.

We met at the appointed time. She was probably half my age, and smaller than me, but she carried herself with a confident authority. We had a discussion in which we agreed that this relationship involved invasion of personal space (mine), and power (hers) to inflict physical discomfort. We also agreed a safeword and when I, in an attempt to ease the mood, said I might thump her if she hurt me too much, she replied that I wasn't the first client to make such a threat.

At one stage in the proceedings, she permitted me to hold one of her toys and use it, if I wished, to apply a counter irritant. This, surprisingly, worked but she didn't allow me this release for long.

When we were finished, I felt cleansed and refreshed. I can now see why subs experience a sense of well being after play.

Before I left, I made a next appointment with my Dental Hygienist.

Older, Wiser, Sexier

Its about ten months since we "came out" to the scene community in Dublin. In that time, I have been observing the effect this has had inside my own head, the effect on the love myself and Bandree share, the impact our new friends have made on us and, in all humility, the impact that we have made on our new friends.

I have certainly growed up. I have had to confront subliminal prejudices which I had intellectually rejected years ago but had never really been called upon to challenge. I now realise that the Radical Ecstasy workshop, run by Dossie Easton, last summer was the watershed. That was where I had to grit my teeth and confront close contact, both physical and emotional, with strangers of all gender and sexual orientations. Before you get all excited, there was nothing debauched going on. We all kept more clothes on than the clientele of the average gym, but we spent two days being assigned partners for differing relationship exercises. Key words - "being assigned" - no participant choice here. It was down to random positioning. When we took up our places for any exercise, we didn't know if it was one or two circles, clockwise or anti-clockwise progression, there was no comfortable line dancing predictability for the knowledgeable or the cute.

The effect wasn't instant. Its only now that I can see my own discomfiture relaxing at anything other than conventional male/female contact. Being an intellectual liberal is piss easy, you only have to bullshit about it. To publically, even in a scene setting, hug another bloke because you are a dom and they are a sub, and they need to be comforted, is a considerable step beyond a business-like embrace because you're at a meeting in Paris and we all know the French are funny that way.

In my relationship with Bandree, my wife of 31 years and my lover of 34, the last year has felt like a public declaration of our wedding vows, and more, all over again, but with an added twist of really knowing what we mean. It has also prompted much discussion between us about our relationship, about our beliefs, about our moral principles, and about ageing.

We are both in the second half of our fifties and, unlike some noteable names, we were not founder members of alt.ssanything. Sure, I know that I probably have it easier in that there will always be a demand for silver haired schoolmaster looking types (though I'm not a schoolmaster) but I still have days when I ask myself what kind of silly ageing hippy am I consorting with people less than half my age in a nightclub or at a party at 2am. I don't have a particularly hairy chest but I still feel that all I am missing is that stupid big medallion and dangerously large motorbike.

Then I recall the affection, concern and respect that I have seen these friends show for one another, regardless of age, desires, body shape or taste in fashion. Why am I so self aware? Because, lets face it, we all are. Even in this most non-conformist of social groups, I am watching very carefully to learn the etiquette, to blend in, to not appear gauche or crass. It is, of course, the role of the Dom to take the lead, to be assertive, to establish the rules. There is, however, a conflict when the Dom is relatively new to an established scene. The role carries inherent responsibility, and its not that easy to act confidently and responsibly whilst still trying to work out what is going on and what all the different relationships are.

I have been surprised by, and take comfort from, the number of our new friends who have approached us with supportive remarks. These are generally along the lines of "we're really pleased (for which the cynical could read "surprised") that you have joined our scene with such enthusiasm". Well, there is a saying that youth is wasted on the young and I suppose if the interweb had been around earlier, we might have discovered all this a few years ago. But it wasn't and we didn't and so here we are now, wiser, sexier, more experienced, confident and eager to learn.

We don't want to lose it, so we better keep using it.

M&S Do S&M

"Mark my words, she'll be biting that pillow before she's finished."




With those words, my Bandree greeted the bedding material display in our local Marks & Spencer store.

For some reason, my brain had been in pervertible mode all day. Only half an our earlier, we had encountered a mobile domestic discipline service.



The environment was somewhat noisy, so there was no way of telling whether the operative was making a service call at the request of some exasperated master, or was just having a lunch break.

Back at M&S, we circled the bedding display, amazed at how a kinky context can be missed by so many. Hell, I even had to wait 10 mins to take the pictures because a tired shopper plomped her behind down only inches from this one.


If you study the picture below, you can even visualise another bottom underneath HER hand. The outcome of all this was that I made an unplanned purchase in M&S. Not any bedding, you understand, just a lovely wide leather strap from the Men's outfitters section next door.

Transformation

I have seen the term "transformation" used in many contexts when writing about kink, fetish or sexuality generally.

One that public players will be very familiar with is dramatic effect that is produced by the use of costume at a club like our Nimhneach. As the night develops, we admire and wonder as more people appear in the door dressed as anything from near naked sci-fi figures to elaborate (and very warm) large animals. Amazingly delicate icing sculptures of outfits mingle with big raucous bosomy corsetted burlesques.

The adults we shared a pint with at the meet 'n' greet emerge from the green room in pigtails and pinnafores, lollipops in mouth and only missing their bundles of schoolbooks.

These are transformations we are all very familiar with. We Ooh and Aah, we ask how it was created, we secretly look for ideas to copy.

But last night, at our January club night, I was struck by a lesser commented on, but actually more dramatic, transformation. It was 2.30. We were standing by the door, near the cloakroom. We saw people around us grabbing quick good night kisses and hugs, making promises to meet up again next month, or running back for a forgotten bag. They were strangers.

Who were they, these invaders? They looked like any bus queue. I don't know them. What are they doing in our club?

Then I started making connections. The girl in the warm coat and the thick wool scarf had been an iridescent concoction of white and silver ten minutes earlier. The bloke with the practical pullover and confident breezy manner had been little else but skin, tattoos and submission earlier in the night. This transformation has far less wow factor, but is actually more interesting because it is the proof that we are all in the real world.

Walking out of the stage door and into the street is an actor's ascension into the real world. Butterflies to caterpillars, a transformation indeed.

Political Power

I am unashamedly reposting a photograph which Vivian (Disciplined Feminist) posted a few months ago.

(You should click picture to view a larger image, its much more powerful)

She found it on the official White House photographic collection web site, and it's still there. The other pictures also include some excellently composed images and its nice to see the current White House residents employing good photographers and publishing their work.

The more I have looked at this picture, the more there is to see. What's with the belt buckle at the back of the skirt? Quite difficult to do up or undo without help, I would have thought.

The image of schoolgirl awaiting interview with headmaster is overwheleming.

There again, others might see a teacher patiently watching an offending student writing lines or completing some other assignment.

Whatever way you view it, this picture conveys a highly charged atmosphere of authority, just what we should expect from inside a political powerhouse such as the White House.

Political power, after all, is all about controlling, and being controlled by, people.