"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.

'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.