Star Wars BDSM toys from a kinky galaxy far, far away
Source: io9.com

Attention kinky sci-fi fans! Tying up getting a bit terrestrial? Need some fantasy to go with your fetish? Well, go and check out Geek Kink’s incredibly interesting little shop on Etsy. Sith-inspired paddles. Darth Vader lightsabre floggers … Everything you need, really, to go to the Dark Side. No Princess Leia in chains though; you may have to supply her yourself. And if Star Wars isn’t your bag, panic not. You can always go for a Super Mario cane or a My Little Pony paddle (!).

NB: ten points to Geek Kink for his shop tag line: ‘These are the toys you’re looking for’.

The oldest romance writer in the world
Source: The New Zealand Herald

I really enjoyed reading this article about 105-year-old Ida Pollock who is, apparently, the oldest living romance writer in the world. Go her. But the thing I liked even more? The accompanying YouTube clip. Cracked me up no end. There’s an incredibly entertaining discourse about the merits of French, Austrian and English heroes. And very emphatic use of the word ‘What?!’ by Ida every so often. Sweet and hilarious all at the same time.

James Franco Gets Sex-Toy Birthday Cake and an Award at Miami LGBT Film Festival
Source: E! Online U.K.

‘I’d like a piece with the ball gag on it, please.’

A strap-on. A ball gag. Anal beads. A flogger. Nope, I’m not talking about sex toys (well, not real ones) but the decorations on actor James Franco’s birthday cake. The sort that aren’t likely available in the baking aisle at Sainsbury’s. You can just imagine everyone eating a slice of this beauty after the candles have been blown out, can’t you? (‘Try the strap-on. It’s delicious!’) I’m not sure I’d be able to get my head around eating anal beads, though – even if they were made of sugar! :-/

The post Alert Me: BDSM meets My Little Pony, the oldest romantic, and kinky cake appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

I’m not sure that this photograph is particularly good from a technical perspective – the focus is a little bit out – but I kind of like it. I think it’s because I’m able to see the inside of the cane: the rattan’s structure and the way the tubular fibres sit so snugly next to one another. Looking at them like this, in cross section, it’s hard to believe they could pack much of a punch – ye gads do they ever, though!

Who else is playing Toy with me Tuesday? Click here to find out.

The post Toy with me Tuesday: Rattan appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Image: Gabel – Foto von: wiktionary:de:Benutzer:acf (Own work) 

After what seems like ages, I’ve finally completed my latest ‘Five-minute erotica’ story. I started Table Manners before Christmas, but the holidays and illness kept scuppering my attempts to finish it. Initially, it featured more than two characters but I decided whilst writing that the scenario actually worked better when the third participant wasn’t exactly … present. (You’ll understand what I mean when you read it.) It’s a bit longer than usual, too (more like ‘ten-minute’ erotica, actually), but – I hope – still a quick and enjoyable bit of smut.

Let me know what you think …

Jane

PS – I know some of you are waiting for the next Garden instalment [*please note this is no longer available on the blog] and I promise that’s the very next thing on my writing list. And for those who’ve missed my previous ‘Five-minute erotica’ stories, you can find them here:

• Frostbite
• All Girls Love Ponies

IMPORTANT: Please note that Table Manners is a work of fiction and contains explicit sexual content and BDSM elements, including impact play. If such material offends you or you are under the age of 18, please don’t read any further.

TABLE MANNERS

In a frantic scramble to find the proofs for my last client meeting, I picked up the bleating mobile and wedged it between my shoulder and ear without bothering to look at the caller ID.

‘Beth speaking,’ I snapped, making minimal effort to hide my frustration at being interrupted. It was my personal phone – none of my clients had this number – and most of my friends would forgive me barking at them in a moment of stress.

No reply.

‘Hello?’ I said distractedly, as I continued to lift up job bags in my in-tray, in search of the one containing the Crestworth mock-ups.

So much for the paperless office. If this was another one of those stupid marketing call centres flogging insurance …

More silence. I paused in rifling through the job piles on my obscenely over-crowded desk, dislodged the phone from beneath my cheek and glanced down at the display to check if the call had disconnected.

Everything inside me froze.

Someone was most definitely on the other end. And I knew exactly who it was.

Proofs forgotten, I sank down into my chair and glanced furtively around at my colleagues. As much as I loved our modern, open-plan office with its buzzy atmosphere and feeling of ‘in the trenches together’ camaraderie, at times like this I wished I worked inside a cardboard box, shielded from all the eyes and ears around me.

Of course, that was likely exactly why he had phoned me, knowing what a struggle it was for me to talk with him in the way he expected, surrounded by a sea of oblivious workmates.

Pressing the phone to my ear, I leaned down towards the floor, pretending to look for something inside my handbag but, in reality, trying to hide my side of the conversation I was about to have from the two colleagues at the desk island opposite. Thank goodness James, whose desk was next to mine, was out with a client for the rest of the afternoon. Having him overhear this exchange would be beyond mortifying.

‘Sir,’ I said softly, lips brushing against the mouthpiece of the handset in an effort to make my barely-there voice heard. ‘I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know it was you.’

There was the sound of a sigh at the other end of the phone and I knew straight away that he was seriously annoyed with me. Courtesy was something he placed monumental value on, and in all our debauched dealings with one another he’d taken great pains to stress that respect between us was paramount.

‘You didn’t even bother to check who it was before you answered, did you?’

My face flamed and I shook my head, forgetting that he couldn’t see me. ‘No, Sir. I was looking for …’

‘Don’t even try, Beth.’ His voice was level but the tone stopped me mid-speech. ‘You were rude. End of story. There was no call to speak to me – or anyone you know – like that.’

I don’t know how he managed it, but a reprimand from him, no matter how small the misdemeanour, had the power to shame me to the tips of my toes. A cool look, a single admonishing word and I invariably felt worse than the time I’d broken the glass vase my mum had inherited from her great grandmother.

I was momentarily grateful not to be in front of him. Having to deal with my transgression in person, and bear the weight of the chastisement that would no doubt be in his eyes. Cowardly, but true.

‘You know what happens to girls who aren’t respectful, don’t you?’

With great effort I swallowed around the lump rapidly forming in my throat at his words, its presence called forth partly by fear, partly by the desolation at having let him down. But, most shamefully, by my excitement at the prospect of submitting to the punishment he undoubtedly had planned.

‘Beth?’ His voice was sharp, demanding I answer his question.

‘They get corrected,’ I croaked, my voice breaking despite my best efforts to control my whispered response.

My ears picked up a grunt of vaguely amused satisfaction at my answer.

‘And how should they be corrected, Beth?’

I knew the answer, but, nonetheless, it was hard to say.

‘However Sir chooses.’

‘I’m glad we agree.’

I let out a breath I was unaware of holding. The seconds ticked by without either of us saying anything, although I could hear the steady pulse of his breathing down the line. Finally, I couldn’t stand the quiet lying between us a moment longer.

‘Sir?’ I whispered.

‘I’m trying to decide what to do with you. I had planned on treating you to a nice supper this evening. But under the circumstances, I don’t think that would be appropriate.’

‘Oh,’ I said, at a loss as to what else to say, mentally kicking myself for my stupidity.

I waited, knowing he would speak when he was ready. Stared down at my open handbag and the still arm that had given up all pretence of searching for a random item.

At last: ‘My house, 7.00pm.’

‘Of course, Sir.’

‘I suggest you dress to please me.’

………..

At exactly 6.49pm I tottered up the steps to his front door in the ridiculously high stilettos I knew he loved to see me in. They were a striking peacock-green suede and made my legs look gratifyingly long, but the five-inch heels meant they were total hell to walk any distance in. Thankfully, I’d only had to stagger from where my car was parked a short way down the street.

A cool wind blew against my stocking-clad legs as I reached for the doorbell and I couldn’t help pressing my thighs together as a gust slid beneath my mac and licked over my knickerless pussy.

‘Dress to please me’ had been the instruction and after six months of getting to know him, the real him, I hoped I had come to understand exactly what that meant. Nothing covered that he would want to play with or look at. Decorative garments only – hence the shoes and stockings. I’d even pulled my hair up into an artful knot on the top of my head so that my neck and throat were fully exposed. I’d never done that before, often hiding behind the veil of my hair during our more intense moments, trying to preserve some vestige of modesty. Would he recognise the physical and metaphorical significance of my gesture?

Just as I was about to press the bell again, the door swung open and soft light spilled outwards over the doorstep. My eyes went briefly to the suit-clad man towering over me before dropping down in deference.

‘Hello, Sir,’ I said softly.

‘Good evening, Beth.’ His voice had a low rumble to it that never failed to make my stomach tighten. ‘Do come in.’

He took a step backwards, allowing me to brush past him, and closed the door with a firm click. I heard the bolt slide home as he turned the deadlock.

My gaze remained fixed on the tiled foyer floor but I had no doubt he was looking at me.

‘Eyes up please, Beth.’

I raised me head and barely stopped myself from taking a step backwards. His expression was stern, but also laced with a look of complete devilment that I’d not seen before. At least, not while we’d been playing.

‘Remove your coat and hang it up.’

My hands went automatically to the fabric belt, making swift work of picking apart the knot tying the ends together before unfastening the row of buttons down the front. As the last one slipped free of its hole, the lapels of the mac parted to reveal my nakedness beneath. I shrugged my arms out of the sleeves, carefully gathered the coat in my right hand, and reached up to hang it on the coat rack next to the door.

Turning once again to face him, I waited.

His eyes studied everything. They slowly made their way upwards from my peacock-heeled feet and stocking-clad legs, paused briefly at my suspender-framed pussy and bare breasts, and – finally – came to rest on my face.

I struggled not to fidget as he looked at me, his eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of my bared throat.

‘You have been paying attention.’

A flush of relief crept through me at his praise and the note of approval in his voice, but a shiver of nervousness whispered through me when he moved to retrieve some items from the small hall table.

A collar. And a leash.

I forced myself to stand still as he moved to stand behind me, reminding myself to breathe as the cool, smooth leather of the choker surrounded my neck.

In all the time we’d spent together, he’d never placed anything around my throat. Had never so clearly marked his ownership and my subjugation.

There was a gentle clinking as he drew the collar’s leather tongue through the buckle and then a soft tugging sensation as he fastened it in place and probed between the leather and my neck with his fingers to check the fit. Seemingly satisfied, he reached around and retrieved the leash dangling between my breasts. ‘How does that feel? Is it too tight?’

I shook my head, too shaken to answer verbally.

A firm tug had me turning immediately to face him, red-faced with embarrassment and arousal.

‘I need to hear you say it, Beth. Is it too tight?’

‘N-no, Sir.’

‘Excellent.’

He gripped the leash close to my throat and pulled it lightly upwards, forcing me to raise my chin. ‘Rules for this evening.’ His green eyes bored into mine. ‘Since you seem to be having trouble being polite to others, I am removing your right to speak. The only exception to this is if you need to use your safeword.’ He cocked his head to the side. ‘Tonight is a lesson in manners and your behaviour will be a direct reflection on me. I expect you to conduct yourself impeccably, no matter what.’ His eyebrow raised imperiously at the look of dismay on my face and I hurriedly schooled my face to a neutrality I was far from feeling lest he think I was challenging his order.

Satisfied, he continued.

‘Because of your behaviour earlier today, you have forfeited the right to eat supper with me and will eat at the end of the evening, once the lesson is complete.’

He tilted my head even higher, bringing my face even closer to his until our lips almost touched.

‘Any questions?’ he murmured against my mouth.

I shook my head, as much as my elongated neck would allow.

He smiled, relaxed his hold on the leash, and took a step backwards.

‘Come.’

………

My mind was still struggling to process the sensation of being led like a lamb to the slaughter as he pulled me down the hallway and into dining room, but the moment I walked through the door and saw the long dining table, all thoughts of leashes and collars flew from my mind.

I felt as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over me.

Instinctively, I tried to back up and reverse out of the doorway I’d just walked through.

The leash pulled me up short.

My mouth opened, words of protest poised to trip off the tip of my tongue. But then I remembered I’d given up my right to speak.

I glanced sideways at him and then back at the table in front of me, forcing myself to take it all in.

Candles. A perfectly starched white linen cloth precisely laid with a single setting. A folded napkin. Chopsticks. Silver cutlery flanked by a cane and a shiny metal plug.

Instinctively, I clenched my buttocks.

I managed to tear my eyes away from the objects in front of me and look at the man at my side.

He was studying me carefully, taking in the nuances of my reaction to the table of instruments before me. ‘Do you want to use your safeword, Beth?’

Did I? Even as I asked myself the question, I knew what my answer would be. Yes, I was scared – but I knew him well enough by now to understand that he wouldn’t push things further than I could handle.

I shook my head and stood a little straighter, trying to project an air of confidence when, really, I was shaking in my impractical shoes.

The ghost of a smirk passed over his lips and then he tugged gently on the leash. ‘Down,’ he said firmly. ‘On your hands and knees.’

At first I thought I’d misheard him, but a glance at his face told me my ears definitely weren’t playing tricks on me. Registering my hesitation, he looked pointedly at the ground.

I dropped awkwardly, the soft carpet pressing against my shins, and as soon as I was in position, he moved towards the table, forcing me to crawl after him.

It was humiliating. Trailing after him on all fours like a naughty puppy, my breasts swinging unfettered beneath me as I crawled. But despite my brain’s mental protests at being treated like an animal, my body was undeniably turned on. The space between my legs felt achingly heavy, and each time my thighs rubbed together, I could feel more and more moisture gathering between the lips of my pussy.

He stopped. Lowered himself into the antique wooden dining chair next to the place setting, allowing the loop of the leash to fall down over his wrist as he sat.

I sidled awkwardly up to him and almost squeaked when his hands unexpectedly gripped me around the waist and aligned me so that I was pressed against the side of his chair and his legs. Then, without warning, one was fisted in my bound hair, gripping firmly, pushing downwards so that I was staring at the floor. At the same time, two fingers were shoved unceremoniously into my increasingly wet cunt.

The shock of the invasion caused me to try and buck upwards, but the hand holding my head merely tightened its grip and the fingers inside me pressed in harder.

My body shook as I fought to still myself. Now that the initial surprise was over, I wanted to fuck against the fingers inside me, to push backwards and forwards against them and bring myself to orgasm. But I knew from experience that if I tried to take control, to direct the course of our session, he wouldn’t hesitate to punish me.

Courtesy. Obedience. Surrender. These were the terms of our arrangement, and I knew better than to flout the rules.

It took a few moments, but I somehow managed to get a measure of control over my increasingly turned-on body. Yet as soon as he felt me rein myself in, he started moving his fingers in a smooth, firm rhythm in and out of my body. A rhythm that he often used to make me come.

Thrust, retreat. Thrust, retreat.

It was unbearable. All I wanted was to shove myself back against his hand, but I knew that if I did, or worse, had an orgasm without his permission …

He paused briefly. Added a third finger.

I gulped a breath in and held it, trying desperately not to move.

The fingers slid forwards, all the way in.

Paused again.

As the seconds ticked by with them buried in my cunt, giving me a brief respite from their glorious friction, I almost believed I could hold on to myself.

But then they crooked downwards and slid backwards, dragging across my G-spot. Pushed vigorously forwards again. Pressed firmly downwards in retreat.

I exploded.

Became nothing but a writhing body riding a lightening strike through the aether. The ability to dictate my body’s reactions completely gone. Worse, my mouth was open and I was whimpering softly as the orgasm threaded itself through me, simultaneously sewing my body together and ripping it apart. Technically, it didn’t count as talking, but I had no doubt the distinction was meaningless as far as he was concerned.

My brain, well aware a rule had been broken, fought to regain the upper hand, to bring my body back to itself. I clamped my lips together and locked my knees in an effort to stop my hips from moving but it was an uphill struggle.

Gradually, however, the shivers settled and I became aware that his fingers were resting lightly on the swollen lips of my labia.

The air around us seemed ominously heavy.

‘Did you ask for permission to come?’

‘N-no – Ow!’ I leapt like a doe as his hand landed squarely and firmly between my legs.

‘Remember your manners. You don’t have permission to talk, Beth.’

Oh, crap.

I shook my head vigorously – or as vigorously as the fingers tangled in my hair would allow, each shake causing small bursts of discomfort as the strands pulled against my movements.

The hands let go of me.

‘Sit up, please.’

I did as I was told. And found myself at eye-level with the top of the table. Directly in front of me on the spotless linen sat the chopsticks, the plug and the cane. A trio of silent tormentors, waiting to be used.

‘Pass me the chopsticks, Beth.’

With a trembling hand I reached out, plucked the four wooden utensils from their small obsidian cradle, and laid them gently in his outstretched palm. They were bound together in pairs, held against each other by rubber bands at either end.

‘Stand.’

I wobbled to me feet and stumbled slightly has he pulled me closer to him, his face level with my chest.

The chopsticks still gripped in his right hand, he used his left to push up the breast closest to him and bring my nipple to his lips. There was a warm feeling as his tongue licked across it and then a silky wetness as he sucked the pink flesh into his mouth. I leaned in as he gently teased the flesh into hardness, jerking slightly when he contrasted his softer pulls with light, scraping bites.

Eventually, he released it, leaving it aching and tight in the cool air, before turning his attention to its already peaking sister.

By the time he’d finished with both nipples, I was unconsciously rubbing my thighs together to relieve the throbbing feeling building relentlessly between my legs. His hand came to rest against my thigh – a warning – and I immediately stilled.

I’d had a pretty good idea of what he planned to do with the chopsticks the moment I’d seen them, and my assumptions were confirmed when he proceeded to prise the bound rods apart ­– as much as the rubber bands would allow, at least – and sandwich my erect flesh between them.

I barely managed to stop myself from crying out when he removed his fingers after positioning the sticks on the first nipple, allowing it to be squeezed mercilessly between the two spokes of wood. The second set was even more difficult to take – mainly because I knew what was coming.

Once they were in place, he didn’t give me any time to gather myself.

I was still trying to regulate my breathing, to move past the achy pain assaulting the crushed tips, when he put a hand around my forearm and tugged downwards.

‘Back in position.’

I dropped to my hands and knees immediately and swivelled myself so that I was once again pressed against his legs and the side of his chair, head hanging down.

‘Stay.’

I did. Concentrated on holding perfectly still. Embracing the slow throb of my clamped nipples.

I heard him get up and leave the room.

I wasn’t bound – the leash around my neck hung down on the floor – but I didn’t dare break position.

When my ears picked up the vague sounds of pots and pans rattling, cupboards opening, and the chink of crockery in another part of the house, I realised he was in the kitchen.

The minutes ticked by, steady but endless.

I stared at the carpet beneath my hands, studying the endless rows of woollen loops and trying to ignore the chopsticks torturing my breasts.

Eventually, I heard his footsteps, the slight creak of the door as he re-entered the dining room. There was the sound of something being set on the table and then I felt him pause – perhaps to study me? – before settling back into his chair.

Rustling. A soft click, and then music was drifting through the air.

He’d turned on the sound system.

Oddly, with the mellow notes floating us, his verbal silence seemed more and more pronounced. The scrape of cutlery across a plate. The sound of liquid being sipped. Slight rustles as he shifted position.

While the noises clearly told me he was at my side, the fact that he didn’t speak reminded me loudly and clearly of my place. And the lesson he was giving me.

……….

The sensation of fingertips trailing lightly across my back at what I judged to be the midpoint of his meal was so unexpected that I nearly wriggled out of place, but the comfort of his acknowledgement quickly overrode my surprise. They began to drift lazily up and down my spine, slow and unhurried, and I couldn’t help but relax into the pleasurable caresses. It was as if all the nerve endings in my back were chasing his fingers as they traversed my skin.

When his hand trailed down to the crease of my buttocks and swept through the slick flood of moisture trickling from my pussy, however, my earlier tension returned with a vengeance. And as his hand moved upwards again and he paused to rub his wet fingers across the pucker of my anus, I knew which item would be next to make its way from the table to my body.

‘I believe I’d like you to pass me the butter and the plug, please, Beth,’ he said as he continued to stroke the tight opening.

As I jerked upright to obey and his hand slipped up my back in response to the change in position, he must have registered the look of horror on my face, because he chuckled with undisguised mirth. ‘Oh, Beth. You’ve never seen Last Tango in Paris?’

I shook my head.

He leaned towards me, grabbing the leash close to where it was attached to the collar and bought our faces together so that they were bare millimetres apart. ‘Go get the butter.’

His dark tone had me on my feet in an instant, the leash sliding through his fingers as he allowed me to rise, and my eyes skittered frantically over the table for the butter dish. I spotted it on the far side, sitting by itself on the pristine, white tablecloth, and started to make my way around to it.

‘No.’ The leash stopped me short. ‘Lean over.’

I noticed he had pushed his half-finished plate of food aside and that there was a gap directly in front of his chair between the butt plug and cane.

Oh, shit.

My mouth was dry as I bent forwards and practically lay across the starched linen cloth. The friction as I strained towards the butter dish pulled at my poor, clamped nipples, the pointed ends of the chopsticks dragging against the fabric. I was stretched so far only the toes of my green shoes remained on the ground.

As my fingers closed around the little porcelain saucer, a warm hand pressed against the back of my neck, holding me in place.

‘Reach back and grab the plug, Beth.’

Unable to turn, my left hand floundered at my side like a seizing jellyfish but, eventually, the cool metal plug was gripped in my fist.

The hand moved from my neck to the small of my back.

‘Pass me the butter please, Beth.’

Another awkward scramble as I tried to hand the dish back to him from my prone position on the table. When I managed to get it to my hip, I felt him take it from me and place it in the middle of my back.

‘Don’t move.’

A pressing feeling against my spine – the fingers of his free hand dipping into the dish – and then a relentless pressure against my ass as a well-greased finger was slowly pushed inside. When it could go no further, he withdrew completely and then eased in again.

His movements were completely unhurried, speaking absolutely of his power over me.

The next time his finger left my body, he said only, ‘Plug.’

I released my grip on the metal bulb, loosening my fingers so it lay free in the middle of my palm. Within seconds, its weight was gone and I could feel the butter dish moving on my back as something was pressed into it.

All too soon, the plug’s cool tip was at the entrance of my anus.

‘Breathe out and relax.’

Easy for him to say. No sooner were the words past his lips and he was driving the toy slowly but steadily forwards. At its widest point, the burning sensation was almost unbearable and it felt as if I might split in two, but then it slipped deeper and I was left with it buried inside of me, together with a feeling of fullness that was both disconcerting and arousing.

‘Stand, please.’

I dragged myself backwards across the table and tottered on the ridiculous heels as I tried to get my balance. A hand on my arm steadied me, and I was grateful.

‘I think it’s time we moved those chopsticks, don’t you?’

I knew an answer wasn’t required – that I couldn’t give one anyway – but if I’d had my voice I knew I would have protested. I knew from experience how much their removal was going to hurt.

Sure enough, as his hands released first one nipple, and then the other from their wooden jailors, it took everything I could not to whimper in pain as sensation rushed back into the blood-starved nerves.

Thankfully, he gave me a moment to gather myself. Allowed me to grab the edge of the table as I muscled the ruthless throbbing into a masochistic box. Waited until I stood there quietly: naked, plugged and ready for him to cane me.

‘Nicely done, Beth.’ He moved to my side and briefly caressed the side of my face. ‘You’ll be pleased to know that I’m giving you your voice back for this last part of the lesson.’

Thank God. I’d had no idea how I was going to get through a caning from him without making a sound.

But then he reached into his suit, pulled his mobile from the inner pocket and placed it in front of me on the table.

‘However, you may not be so pleased to know that I’m expecting a business call from James in,’ he glanced at his watch, ‘about ten minutes.’ He paused. ‘He knows you’re here for supper tonight, so don’t worry – he won’t find it odd when you answer my phone – politely – and tell him that I’m on the landline.’ He paused, his eyes glittering. ‘Understood?’

The sadistic bastard.

James. Whose desk was directly next to mine in the office. And he was expecting me to have a conversation with the man while he caned me?

Part of me doubted my ability to do it. The other part, the defiant part, wanted nothing more than to accept the challenge.

‘I asked you a question, Beth.’ His voice was sharper this time. ‘Do you understand me?’

I took a deep breath and nodded, remembering as I did so that I could actually speak once again. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I understand.’

‘Then hand me the cane and bend over the table, please.’

As I picked up the thin instrument and placed it in his waiting hands, I realised that, despite my fear of what was about to happen, I was impossibly excited. Everything – the subjugation, the clamped nipples, the humiliation of being lubricated with a common household condiment and subsequently plugged, for goodness’ sake – had tangled together to bring me to a pitch of arousal that was equivalent to a scream.

The evidence was smeared all over the pink flesh of my cunt and the soft skin of my inner thighs.

I leaned over the table.

‘I’ll warm you up with my hands first. But when James phones, you can expect six strokes from the cane. Three on each side.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, Sir.’

………

To start with the swats of his hand were almost playful, the intensity light, but then they started to become more forceful and the heat in my buttocks began to build. Every so often, his palm would catch me on the base of the plug, and the sensation would ripple through my body and elicit an uncontrolled groan.

By the time the phone rang, I was sure my backside was blushing a fiery, fiery red.

Initially, the trilling caused me to freeze, but then he said ‘Pick it up, Beth,’ and I somehow found the courage to reach out, press the Answer button and bring it to my ear.

‘Gray’s phone. This is Be-.’

The first strike caught me across the left buttock and I whooshed in a breath, momentarily depriving myself of the ability to speak. As the pain burst forth like a sunrise, I struggled in vain to finish the word I’d started. My own name. ‘Beth,’ I gasped. ‘This is Beth.’

‘Oh! Hi, Beth. It’s James. Gray mentioned you were popping over to his place tonight. Something about the …’

My brain short-circuited, James’s words becoming a distant buzz as the cane fell again – not once but twice on my behind in rapid succession. My breathing sounded like thunder to my own ears and I battled to bring it back under control, forcing myself to suck air through my nose.

‘Beth?’

‘I’m so sorry, James,’ I gasped, wracking my brain for a plausible excuse for my stilted speech. ‘I … I thought I’d knocked my drink over. I do apologise. What was it you were saying?’

Crack.

The cane landed on my right cheek this time, and I realised he’d switched sides. Thankfully, James was talking again and I was saved the embarrassment of trying to immediately provide a coherent answer as I tried to ride out the pain.

‘… mentioned you were going over the budget for the Crestworth designs. Anyway, I won’t keep you. Is he there? He wanted me to run him through the latest sales figures.’

‘N-o.’ The word came out partially strangled as he chose that precise moment to strike me on the lower curve of my bottom.

Keep it together, Beth! Only one more …

‘No,’ I stammered again. ‘I mean, he is, but he’s on the landline. Can I get him to call you back?’ I had no idea how I was actually stringing the words together, the buzz in my head, the pain in my bottom, and the throbbing between my legs were pulling at me like a riptide, but, somehow, I actually managed to finish my sentence.

‘Course he can. I’m around all evening.’

‘I’ll tell him.’

‘Thanks, Beth. See you tomorrow, okay?’

‘Yes. Goodbyeeeee.’

The last lash was by far the hardest and there was no way I could moderate my response. Thankfully, my finger had been resting on the phone’s End button, and I could only hope that I’d managed to press it before James heard my ear-splitting shriek.

As I swam in the drugging aftermath of the cane’s kiss, my body shaking and sheened with sweat, I was aware of the plug being removed from my body and a new pressure taking its place. A crisp shirt pressed against my back and strong arms wrapped around me, inserting themselves between my stomach and the table beneath it.

A finger snaked down and brushed lightly over my clit, causing me to buck backwards against the cock buried in my ass. I could feel an orgasm hovering just out of reach.

‘Do you want to come, Beth?’

‘Yes,’ I sobbed. ‘Very much.’

‘Then what do you say?’

‘Please, Sir.’ I tightened my inner muscles around him and heard his breath catch in the back of his throat. He was as close to the edge as I was. ‘Please may I come?’

He pulled back and then rocked his hips forwards, driving me against the edge of the table. Pinched my clit between his clever fingers.

‘You really do have lovely manners when given the right motivation, you know.’

‘I know,’ I gasped as I started to come. ‘How do you think I talked you into becoming my business partner?’

The post Five-minute erotica: Table Manners appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

What we used: Rattan cane
From: Bondara
Price: £16.99
Material(s): Rattan (cane), leather (handle)

*Important: Canes can hurt in bad ways as well as good ways! If you haven’t already, please do take the time to read the Behind the Chintz Curtain Disclaimer before delving further into this post.

First thoughts …

Lizzie
Excitement and dread.

It’s fair to say that Thomas and I have been on a bit of a journey these past few years with impact instruments; first hands, then paddles, then floggers, then straps, then crops, and now, finally, a cane. We’d been discussing the idea of trying one for a while but had been gradually building up as we knew from all the research we’d done on them (and from playing with our other impact toys) that the pain level would likely be quite a jump. Additionally, because of their greater length, there was the worry that a cane would be trickier to control.

In the end, it was Thomas who took the bull by the horns and ordered  it – I was too chicken!

What it looks like …

Lizzie
Like a looong stick. This is a very simple implement and there’s not much to it. It’s basically a length of flexible rattan (81.5 cm of rattan, to be precise) with a strip of soft suede wrapped around one end to create a handle.

While the exterior barrel of the cane is smooth, the two ends (where the rattan has been sliced through) are actually quite rough. Not really a big deal from a use perspective as these parts don’t – or shouldn’t – touch the skin, but not wildly attractive.

I already knew from reading and questioning others that thinner canes are generally more ‘stingy’ and fatter ones more ‘thuddy’, so the newbie in me was pleased to see that this Bondara cane clocked in with a diameter of approximately 1.0 cm. Reasonably chunky! 

Another plus? It’s not made of bamboo, which we’d been warned off due to its tendency to split and crack.

Thomas
It’s a bit hard to pick what a cane will be like from descriptions online. I knew I didn’t want a thin ‘whippy’ one to start with so, was quite pleased to find that the Bondara cane was relatively robust.

Lizzie’s right, it is a very simple thing; a thick bit of rattan (about as thick as your finger) with some leather wrapped around the end. It’s also nice and smooth, with no splits or cracks (very important). 

Using it …

Lizzie
When this arrived and Thomas let me see what he’d ordered, I got into a bit of a dither. On the one hand, I was really looking forward to having it used on me. On the other, I was worried about having it applied and not being able to cope. (Mind you, I was the same way the first time we used a crop!)

Then Thomas put it away in a cupboard, and that just ramped up the anticipation ten-fold. It’s fair to say, I drove him pretty nuts with questions about when he would be getting it out, whether he’d been practising with it in private, and whether he’d re-read all of the educational texts we have on the subject.

Yeah, I was a pain.

The inevitable response was. ‘I’m not telling you. Relax. You know I’ll be careful.’ (And I do know. He always is.)

The cane finally made an appearance about two weeks after it was delivered, and I knew it was coming because Thomas really took his time to build things up. He didn’t go straight in with it but spent a good forty minutes to an hour getting my head in the right place and warming the skin of my buttocks – first with his hands and then with a wooden paddle. Eventually, he leaned me over a piece of furniture and secured my legs with a spreader bar so that I couldn’t wriggle around. (A good idea because you don’t want to be able to shift position unexpectedly when it’s coming towards you and cause an incorrect placement.)

The first strike was a shock – and the sting very sharp – but, oddly, put my mind at ease because once I knew what the sensation was like, it immediately made it much easier to deal with. (Sometimes my imagination is my own worst enemy.)

Interestingly, the pain a cane strike generates is two-fold. There’s a sting when it first hits, followed by a second bloom of pain a moment or two later.

Thomas’s first blow was relatively restrained and he stopped and checked in with me immediately afterwards to make sure I handled it okay. From there, he incrementally increased the pressure, placing strokes in straight, parallel lines across my bottom. On the third one, he checked in verbally again and I requested that he switch sides so that the tip of the cane landed on a different cheek.  (The end was generating a fair amount of sting in a relatively localised area and given my newness to the instrument, I didn’t want to push things too far too soon.)

We did six strokes in total – three on each side – and my backside was on absolute glorious fire by the end. While it was still smarting, Thomas tipped wax from a wax-play candle over the welts and just about had me leaping through the ceiling. I believe the words ‘sadistic bastard’ were used but quickly forgotten as the session morphed into something else entirely :-).

A final note. I should just mention that canes have ‘after effects’. The welts and bruising this particular Bondara offering created were pretty spectacular and lasted roughly a week on me. While I personally loved seeing the evidence of our session in the days that followed, I’m aware that others might not find the slow-fading markings quite such a turn-on. Just something to be aware of – particularly if you are planning on revealing your butt and thighs in the swimming pool, the changing room at the gym, etc. 

Thomas
As Lizzie was being a right pain in the arse about when, where and how it would be used, I made her wait a while. (A reminder of who’s on top – in the bedroom, at least!)

When it did use it, it was after an extended warm up to ensure Lizzie was well and truly ready for it. I can’t say enough how important it is to build up to something more severe like a cane – especially if it’s the first time you have used one. Going in cold won’t hit the right balance of pain/pleasure unless you know your partner very, very well and you both agree that the severe approach is something you want.

Lizzie was clearly nervous, so I started really conservatively with lots of checking to make sure she was handling it okay. (She was – and was getting rather heated as well ;-). I limited the caning to three-a-side, which was plenty for an initial session, and I must say the red welts on Lizzie’s bottom, especially where the end of the cane was hitting, were very impressive. (This is why you need to spread the love over both cheeks). Any more, even at the relatively restrained intensity we were playing at, and I think sitting down may have been a real issue.

I didn’t want to let Lizzie off lightly after all the stressing and fussing beforehand, so had some hot wax to hand to finish her off.

A nice set-up to a particularly squirty orgasm.

The verdict?

Lizzie
One thing hasn’t changed. I’m still both excited and frightened by this implement. The cane has some serious, serious power and, if applied incorrectly and/or without thought, could result in a horrible experience. On the flip side, in the hands of someone who is measured, careful, and in tune with the person on the receiving end, I think it has the potential to open up an absolute kaleidoscope of possibilities for those, like me, who enjoy erotic pain.

If you choose to buy this – or any other cane – doing your safety homework is essential before putting it through its paces. (The aptly named Jay Wiseman’s book, SM 101: A Realistic Introduction is an excellent text with solid, practical information about caning and other aspects of S/M. Peter Masters’s BDSM website, too, has a very good overview of caning for beginners.) And if you’re the wielder, make sure you practise your aim and pressure on an inanimate object before going anywhere near real flesh. 

Thomas
I liked it, Lizzie liked it, and it’s an implement that can be used to great effect. Just go easy to start with, practice hitting pillows, etc., first to get your aim right, move the strokes around on the cheeks, and swap sides to help keep the intensity and the welts at a manageable level (unless your partner likes a more extreme workup, of course). And remember to keep a close eye on your other half to make sure that all is well and they’re not getting too stressed.

In summary …

Things we liked:

• The price. Sub-£20.00.
• The diameter. This is a thicker cane and, as such, a great choice for beginners.
• The feel. (Well, actually, it hurts. A lot. But that’s kind of the point!)
• The marks it leaves.

Things we weren’t so keen on:

• The cane ends could be finished better – they’re a bit rough ‘n’ ready.

Tickle your fancy? Click here to buy the Rattan Cane from Bondara.

The post The cane; not just for Victorian schoolmasters appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Title:

I think ‘Unheld Conversations’ would have been a better title for this book.

Jared is a member of an organisation called the Rod and Cane Society. Personally, I prefer to refer to it by its original name when it was founded back in 1937: The He-Man Woman Haters Club. Therefore, throughout the rest of this review, I am going to call it He-Man for short.

So, anyway, the guys in He-Man are all into Domestic Discipline (DD). DD, if you aren’t aware, is a form of relationship where one partner gets to decide if the other partner has done something bad and, if they have, punish them for it – usually with a spanking. It can actually function either way (the Wife can spank the Husband) but that isn’t a He-Man idea. Oh, no. And when I say ‘guys’, I mean ‘guys’; ladies don’t actually get to join He-Man. They have to join the He-Man Ladies Auxiliary. More on that aspect a little later.

He-Man even has a really cool clubhouse. It has two sections: a public section (just like you would expect a ‘Prestigious Fraternal Organization’ to have) but also a way more interesting part the public don’t get to see. All the social functions occur in this private section, and it’s just chock-full of art consisting of freshly spanked, red-bottomed women (tastefully modelled by Ladies Auxiliary Members). Oh, and I should mention the ‘Disciplinary Chamber’. I would tell you more about what happens in there, but I don’t want to give anything away.

Jared meets Melania at a He-Man event. Not held at the clubhouse, obviously, because, well, that would have been a problem. You see, even though Melania knows her father is a member of He-Man and her mother is a member of the Auxiliary, she doesn’t know anything about Domestic Discipline or what He-Man is really about. You see, the first rule of He-Man is that you don’t talk about He-Man. So even though her parents play matchmaker for these two lovebirds they neglect to mention to Melania just what she is getting into.

Now I know what you are thinking: Jared surely wouldn’t enter into a DD relationship without making sure that Melania understood what he wanted? Well, actually … They talk about him being in charge and he does kind of mention that he wants to spank her if she does something really, really naughty, but she doesn’t really think he’s serious.

Of course, eventually she does something that he decides she should be spanked for and … What’s that? He gives her a good old-fashioned brisk hand spanking over his knee? Well, no, actually. He fastens her bottom upwards over his fancy spanking bench with fleece-lined straps and uses his shiny new paddle on her. Perhaps not surprisingly, things kind of go downhill for a while after that.

I am not entirely sure what the Society’s existence was supposed to add to the Unexpected Consequences story. The whole Code of Silence was disturbing. The nametags were condescending. The whole argument that Melania would just come to accept her place over time? I double-checked to make sure I wasn’t reading The Stepford Wives.

Jared was totally ruled by his emotions, spending the entire story either feeling sorry for himself or being angry at Melania. I did think his hunter/gatherer argument had the potential to be compelling – if it were still 25,000 BC. Before he took responsibility for someone else, he really needed to take responsibility for himself first.

I kept waiting for Jared and Melania to actually have a conversation about Domestic Discipline and what they both wanted out of it. I still can’t believe that no such conversation actually occurred. I thought the ending was a case of doing the wrong thing for the wrong reasons.

There are a lot of people outside of the BDSM and spanking communities who would consider Domestic Discipline abuse. I just don’t feel like Unexpected Consequences provides any arguments against that but could actually provide some in favour.

Tickle your fancy? Click on the following links to purchase a copy.

Amazon.co.uk:

• Unexpected Consequences - Kindle

Amazon.com:

The post Unexpected Consequences (Rod and Cane Society #1) – Cara Bristol appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Not that keen on sugar? Looking for a different sort of cane to decorate your Christmas tree? May I suggest this festive alternative. (Although removing the holly before use would probably be wise.)

Thomas recently bought this rattan cane for Lizzie (they’re currently putting it through its paces) and I borrowed it from them to take this shot.

Hope you’re all enjoying the build-up to Christmas and are making the most of the December festivities.

Who else is playing Toy with me Tuesday #26? Click here to find out.

PS – we still haven’t finished eating the turkey we used in last week’s TWMT pic!

The post Toy with me Tuesday: That’s not a candy cane … appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Image: Kris de Curtis 

There are quite a few things I’d like for Christmas. I think it’s fair to say, though, that some of them won’t make it under the family tree. No, they’ll be opened in private with my own personal Santa Claus. Ho, ho, ho.

I’ve yet to write out my wish list but, in the mean time, I thought I’d have a little fun with the 1953 classic song Santa Baby, the original version of which was famously sung by Eartha Kitt, to get me in the mood …

Santa Baby, slip a paddle under the tree, For me.
been an awful bad girl, Santa baby,
so hurry down the chimney tonight.

Santa baby, a multi-speed vibrator too,
Light blue*.
I’ll wait up for you dear,
Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.

Think of all the punishments I’ve missed,
Think of all the canes my skin hasn’t kissed,
Next year I could be just as bad,
If you’ll check off my Christmas list,

Santa baby, I wanna crop,
And really that’s not a lot,
Been misbehaving all year,
Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.

Santa honey, there’s one thing you really do need,
The deed
To this submission of mine,
Santa honey, so hurry down the chimney tonight.

Santa cutie, and fill my life with a Dom,
And sex.
Sign your name on my skin,
Santa cutie, and hurry down the chimney tonight.

Come and trim my Christmas tree,
With some clamps bought especially for me,
I really do believe in you,
Let’s see if you believe in me,

Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing,
A collar.
I don’t mean for the dog,
Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight,
Hurry down the chimney tonight,
Hurry, tonight.

*Pants. They don’t do them in blue!

Hope you’re all having as much fun as I am writing your letter to Father Christmas.

Jane
x

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