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Today, 3 July, marks the second official blogiversary of Behind the Chintz Curtain. I’ve actually managed to babble smutty stuff at you all for a full two years.

Wow.

I’m not really going to say much in this post. Just thank all the awesome people who’ve supported me thus far (fellow bloggers, authors, writers, reviewers, friends, family) give you a little visual glimpse back over the past year’s worth of photographs (my favourite images taken for Molly’s Sinful Sunday – c.f. the collage at the top of this post), and leave you with the next little snippet from a story beginning I posted for last week’s Wicked Wednesday. This was the tale the majority of you wanted continued. And, of course, your wish is my command.

Hope you enjoy.

Jane

xxx

LOT – PART TWO

*For those who missed Part One, you can find it here. Simply scroll down to Story Two.

Oh, Christ, but I don’t want to go up there. Can’t think of anything more humiliating. To be stared at by all those men and then sold like a cow at a farmers’ market. Despite the pressure it puts on my windpipe, I find myself planting my feet as my handler begins to move forwards, trying to delay the inevitable, but as soon as he feels the resistance he stops and turns back towards me, his grey eyes narrowing. “Now, now. None of that, girl.”

I expect him to haul me forwards, much as the other girl’s keeper did, but it appears I have completely misjudged the man in charge of me. Before I can blink, his arm is clamped around my torso, we’re chest-to-chest, and a heavy palm is landing on the flesh of my bare bottom. The are blows strong, designed to hurt and, pinned as I am to his torso, I cannot pull away, only yelp in pain each time his hand makes contact with my flesh. On and on the spanking goes, until the cheeks of my backside feel as if they’ve been scorched beneath a hard desert sun. When he finally stops, I am crying, breathing hard against his chest, trying to get my head around the hurt and emotions roiling through me. I concentrate on sucking in air through my nose, releasing it through my mouth, and notice, bizarrely, that the shirt I’m pressed against smells of faintly of laundry detergent.

Fresh, clean and grassy.

“Ready to behave?” he says as he releases me.

His voice is gentle – completely at odds with the physical punishment he has just met out – and I find myself looking at the ground and nodding furiously, unable to meet his eyes.

“Good.” He tugs lightly on the leash. “Let’s get you up there.”

I keep my gaze fixed on the wooden floor as we move forwards, me slightly behind him, refusing to look at the audience, trying to forget that they’re there. But they begin to murmur as we emerge from the wings of the stage and, once again, it becomes impossible to avert my eyes.

Faces. So many faces. They blur, the sea of men seemingly becoming one before me. My heart is beating so fast it aches.

“Watch the steps.”

The softly spoken command has my head swinging back to the man at my side; we’re at the very centre of the stage and he is waiting patiently for me to mount the auction dais. When I don’t move, he steps closer to me and drops his mouth to my ear. “If you don’t get up there, little girl, I’ll bend you over right here so that every man in this room can see just how wet that little pussy of yours is. And then I’ll spank your ass until it’s purple.”

I recoil, his words sending a volatile cocktail of shock and horror raging through my body. “You wouldn’t dare,” I whisper softly, face flaming. “And I’m not wet.”

His mouth hardens and I notice a glint in his eye.

“Did you just challenge me?”

What?! Oh, lord. “No!” I say frantically, reaching out to touch his arm with a placating hand. “I didn’t mean it like that!” I close my fingers around his forearm.

For a second he simply stares at me and I think he’s going to let it go. But then he looks away, opens his mouth to address the room, and I know I am done for.

“Gentlemen!” His voice carries across the rumble of voices swirling around the room. He waits for them to fall silent before turning and nodding to the man with the gavel. “Auctioneer.” The man inclines his head in response. “It appears that,” he looks down at the number written in permanent marker on my left breast, “Lot 14 doesn’t know her place.”

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

“In fact, I’m not entirely sure she is fit for sale.”

I want to hide in shame and fear as sounds of disapproval swell out from the audience.

“First,” this as he holds up a single finger to the audience, “she refused to come out onto the stage when instructed.” A second finger. “Then, she refused to climb on the block.” A third finger. “And, finally, she challenged me and denied her little cunt was wet from the spanking I just gave her.”

More disgruntled sounds from the audience.

“So, tonight, if you are all in agreement, I would like to propose an amendment to proceedings.”

An expectant silence.

“That I be allowed to purchase Lot 14, free and clear, and in return give you the opportunity to observe the corrective lesson that I intend to give her.”

He can’t be serious. He can’t be. I close my eyes and try to ignore the excited whispering that floods the room at his words.

“Does anyone object?”

A chorus of ‘nos’ hit us as the sea of men give their approval and I squeeze my eyes shut more tightly as if doing so will make them go away.

“Excellent.” My keeper’s voice holds a definite note of satisfaction and I feel his warm fingers clamp around my wrist. “You’ve just been bought and paid for, little slut.” The sound of footsteps tapping a steady beat across the wooden stage have my eyes springing open of their own volition; another guard is making his way towards us, a pair of antiquated metal shackles in one hand, a long, thin cane in the other. “Now. Let’s see about getting my money’s worth.”

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I am a very average woman, unexceptional in almost every respect.

I’m not beautiful.

I’m not Frankenstein (well, maybe first thing in the morning).

I just am.

The other week, I saw a comment on fellow sex blogger’s post that literally made me do a double take.

Emma (the very same one who wrote the recent guest post on Femininity) posted a picture of herself on her site, Dirty Little Whispers, as part of Curvaceous Dee’s Scavenger Hunt meme and had her image criticised by a certain commenter. He expressed ‘concern’ over her body shape, the specifics of which I won’t go into (if you want find out more, you can click here), and basically implied that she needed to change herself to fit his idea of the perfect female.

Many of us profess to know that the bodies (and faces) we see in magazines, on television, in porn films, aren’t real. Yet we persist in using the images that bombard us on a daily basis as yardsticks to measure Janet and John on the street. Despite our awareness of the smoke and mirrors employed by commercial entities, we wilfully disconnect ourselves from reality, on the one hand saying ‘Oh, she’s definitely been airbrushed’ and on the other ‘I don’t measure up because I’m short a size zero waist and a set of double-D breasts’.

Some time back, a friend shared this image with me via social media:

It’s the cover of the 1994 edition of Sports Illustrated and features the so called Dream Team of Elle Macpherson, Kathy Ireland and Rachel Hunter. Twenty years ago, these women embodied the ‘ideal’ body type. They look beautiful (although the shot undoubtedly caters to another perceived notion of ‘the perfect woman’) – and yet I cannot recall the last time I saw those with their stature on the cover of a magazine. (Incidentally, the friend in question posted the image with a note saying ‘After looking at this, I’m going to let myself have that extra piece of bread’.)

In Emma’s particular case, it was wonderful to see how many people came out in support of her, both on and off her blog, and attempted to educate the commenter in question on his perceptions of the female body and the inappropriateness of his words (it never ceases to amaze me how the – relative – anonymity of the Internet makes people think that they can abandon all sense of social nicety and basic manners), although it’s anyone’s guess as to how much of their words of wisdom were actually absorbed.

I am a size zero. I weigh forty-seven kilos (forty-five if I’m stressed). If you’re measuring me by the current commercial ideal of the perfect size, I tick the box. The realities of being naturally small like this, though? Trying to find a bra small enough to fit me is an uphill struggle (I’m a 30 AA), every doctor’s graph I’ve ever seen tells me I am underweight for my height (although if I actually take my clothes off, I don’t think I look like a skeleton) and I’m constantly being asked by people whether I eat anything (yes, I eat and eat well) or if I’m anorexic (I’m not).

The one that annoys me the most, though? People I’ve known for all of five minutes calling me  a ‘skinny b*tch’. (Oh, but it’s usually said in a jokey way, so that makes it ‘okay’.)

I’d also like to point out to everyone out there (Yes, I’m looking at YOU, Emma’s commenter) even at this size – and I walk every day with my dog and am reasonably fit – my thighs touch and I have a bit cellulite on my butt. I am a female and no matter what weight we are, that’s how we store our reserves.

I am never going to look like Rachel Hunter, or Kathy Ireland or Elle Macpherson. But I absolutely believe that my body and those of all other shapes and sizes can be sexy and powerful and erotic.

And that right there is why I photograph myself.

My figure will not be to everyone’s taste. Don’t like it? That’s totally okay. Look away and move on. But it’s real and it’s mine and for every person who sees its minuses there will be someone else who sees its pluses.

This last photograph (from the same series as the Tramp image I recently posted to Sinful Sunday and Dee’s Scavenger Hunt) is a tribute to the very lovely Emma (and Bawdy Bloke, who posted a similar one when he came out in support of her a few weeks back).

Emma, you’re gorgeous. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.

#RealBodiesAreSexy

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Before I hand over to Emma, a little background on this post … A few weeks ago, Molly, who runs the weekly Sinful Sunday meme (which both Emma and I both regularly take part in) asked for photographs themed around men, maleness and masculinity. What did those words mean to each of us? And how did we interpret those words visually? The prompt produced some beautiful photographs and it was really interesting to see the diversity of the pictures and how varied our perceptions of the words were. Which lead me to think more about the word feminine. Does it still have the connotations it did, say, ten years ago? Thirty years ago? And how do we each define our womanliness?

Over to you, Emma …

FEMININITY

Femininity isn’t a word I use, partly because I can neither spell (thank goodness for spell check) or pronounce it (unless very slowly), but also because I don’t like the word. It isn’t a word I hear much either. Is it something we really need nowadays? Traditionally it generally refers to the female gender and the gentler, delicate things in life, sensitivity or empathy. Are these really female traits these days? Times have changed and females are no longer stuck in the kitchen or sewing children’s clothes.

Recently Andrew Garfield was caught out by Girlfriend Emma Stone as saying that sewing the Spiderman costume was a feminine thing to do. Emma instantly questioned as to why it was feminine. Traditionally, sewing would be feminine, but today, are all men incapable of sewing things themselves still in fear of being emasculated? Times have changed and I wish the language would move on too.  Mixing gender roles seems to be seen as an insult at times, as though you have to justify it. I’ve often heard “Why are you crying like a girl?” as though it is fine for girls to cry, but not boys. Is there a fine line between femininity, masculinity and sexism?

I’ve never liked other languages which have sexes for items either. A chair is a chair, I don’t want to have to remember whether it is female, male, or neutral. It’s a chair, they should all be neutral.

In the same sense, a dildo is a dildo. It doesn’t matter to me whether a man or a woman is using it. Does wearing a strap-on make you any less feminine if you chose to be? You can choose your sexuality. If you want to be feminine you can be, or if you want to be masculine, or both. I can’t define what feminine means to each individual person though.

So what does femininity mean to me? Not a lot. You could say that wearing pretty lingerie is feminine, but to me it’s just lingerie. I like pretty lace dresses too, but so can a man in the same respect that I like DIY. I don’t want to be feminine, or masculine. I want to be accepted for who I am.

Emma Whispers.

*A big thank you to Emma for taking the time to write this piece. For more whispers, please visit her at her blog, www.dirtylittlewhispers.com.

What does femininity mean to you? How do you relate to the word? Have our traditional interpretations of it become outdated? And how do you, personally, define your ‘womanliness’?

The post Guest Post: Femininity – Dirty Little Whispers appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

“Not to be confused with monochrome which means ‘one colour’. I am looking for purely black and white images. No Sepia, no Cyanotype, no Split Tones, no Infrared etc just plain ole Black and White.

However, in order to add interest I am going to suggest that it would be fun if we all posted the original colour version of the image alongside the Black and White so we can see how the two compare.”

Ever since I took my triptych images for the last Sinful Sunday competition, I have become more and more interested in how I light my photographs. The below picture was lit almost entirely by the glow of a fire (hence the post title) with a little stray light coming through the doorway of an adjoining room.

I’m actually not sure whether I like the black and white or the colour version, with its very orangey tones, as the two variations give me completely different feelings. Which do you guys prefer?

Oh, and ten points if you can spot the stray piece of LEGO I forgot to pick up off the floor before shooting this!

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Well, that’s true to a certain extent. But I’m always curious as to how M sees me. This week, I decided to give him my camera. I told him he could take any picture of me that he liked and I would publish it for Sinful Sunday – and this is the result.

Didn’t realise just how many freckles I’ve acquired on my back over the years!

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