Prompt #111: Masturbation Fodder

(Second related theme : selfies)

You take a pic. You angle it for your best assets to show. You write a short piece. It’s hot sweaty sticky and delicious. You make these public, you share. Do you care what the viewer or reader does with them? Does it turn you on to know that you stimulate? Do they ask you for permission bringing you into their pleasure? Does it humiliate you to be reduced to their masturbation fodder, you a merely specimen of the species?

Conversely, that picture, the light, the angles, something’s clicks. The words, the ideas, the movement of the story. Your body reacts. You save it for later. You know why. A private movement and moment. Do you value it less for it’s immediate function? Is it art or literature when you masturbate over it? Are they human or porn in that moment of pleasure? Do you read the words or stare intently at the picture, or use it just to get you going? Do you return to favourite pieces?

Sorry, folks. I know my header clip is beyond obvious but I adore this Divinyls song – excellent memories of dancing about to it at university with a dildo and a whole bunch of other girls for the visual pleasure of a single guy (long story) – and just couldn’t stop myself from including it here.

Before I start babbling, can I just say that this is a bloody awesome Wicked Wednesday prompt by @tigger_sub. It made me realise that in the entire two years of blogging here on Chintz that I’ve never done a post on masturbation, which is both extremely shameful (not the act of masturbation, the fact that I haven’t written anything about it) and incredibly ironic considering that of all the sexual acts I enjoy and partake in, it’s the one I engage in most frequently.

Before I get to the crux of Tigger’s prompt, a little background …

I stumbled upon this rather delicious form of sex at a relatively young age and quite by accident. I used to ride a lot as a child and although it’s something of a cliché, I invariably discovered that when I sat astride a pony and my bottom was connecting with the saddle in a certain way (generally at a walk) something bloody amazing happened:

I got this incredible feeling between my legs.

A feeling that, provided I maintained whatever friction and rhythm I had going on against the tack, invariably spread over my whole body before peaking and leaving me feeling unbelievably good. Cataclysmically good … although on occasion pursuing it almost made me fall sideways off my horse. Needless to say, it didn’t take me long to work out that I could recreate this very moreish sensation with my fingers, and the rest, as they say, is history.

I don’t recall specifically when masturbation and fantasy started to hold hands with one another but I can tell you that when I discovered eighties bonk-busters, just before hitting my early teens, that the two become irrevocably intertwined. And that to this day, the written word remains my masturbatory aid of choice.

Why?

Well, while I definitely find certain images arousing to look at, I get far (far) more mileage and satisfaction out of scenes that I am able to paint in my own mind through textual cues. I like to be able to imagine – to spin a situation in my head to make it suit my purpose, i.e. getting myself off.

So, what sorts of things, exactly, will cause my fingers to drift south? And do I return to the same masturbation fodder over and over again? In asking myself these questions, I am reminded of a different one asked of Molly Moore during a session at Eroticon 2013:

“When did you know you were submissive?”

Well, if you were to ask that same question of me (and I consider myself to be a pretty messy mix of bottom and sub), I’d say that my textual masturbation choices gave me some pretty damn strong cues as to my sexual proclivities very early on, even though I didn’t acknowledge them or understand them properly until much later. Indeed, to this day, it is very, very unusual for me to get myself off to something that doesn’t have an element of D/s in it. And I’d go so far as to say that my ‘go-to’ masturbation texts over the years outline pretty clearly my personal sexual trajectory …

Age 14: Defy the Eagle, Lynn Bartlett

As a young teen, this scene absolutely fascinated me. It still does. It’s incredibly tame but even though there’s no actual sex in it, the forced bondage element fairly shouts its erotic intent. These few words had my hand (and mind) very quickly occupied.

Jilana lowered herself onto the pile of furs and, while Caddaric towered over her, stretched out full length. He knelt beside the pallet, dropped the rope and then his hard hands bit into her shoulders. When Jilana gasped at his touch, Caddaric merely raised an eyebrow at her and flipped her onto her side so that she faced the tent wall. He released her shoulders and a moment later, Jilana felt the bite of the rope as he coiled it around her ankles. Her arms were pulled behind her back and her wrists bound by the same length of rope which tied her ankles. In the space of a few minutes, Jilana was trussed in a manner that left her immobile. Even as Caddaric rose, Jilana could feel the strain in her muscles and joints as she was arched backwards over the rope.
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She had to strain in order to turn far enough over her shoulder to see him, and when she did he smiled mockingly. “Wait for me, Jilana.”

With those sarcastic words he was gone and Jilana was alone in the dark tent. Wait for me. Jilana laughed a trifle wildly. As if she could do anything else.

Age 15: Till We Meet Again – Judith Krantz

This one, I read over and over and over and over and over and over. In fact, I don’t have enough fingers or toes to count how many times my teenage self got off to this particular interaction between Sabine de Koville and Bruno de Lancel. I had no idea that what I was reading at the time was a D/s scene. All I knew was that it appealed to me. A holy hell of a lot.

“Madame must stand absolutely still. Madame must do whatever I tell her and nothing else,” Bruno said harshly. “Does Madame understand?” She nodded gravely, feeling the hot, heavy congestion grow between her thighs as she looked at the boy’s suddenly fierce features.
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“Madam must stand against the wall,” he muttered. Madame will not remove her shoes.” She complied, her back straight and her breasts proudly high. He stood over her, only inches away, his thumbs roughly weighing her heavy breasts while his thumbs and forefingers sought her nipples under the thin folds of silk. He found them and pinched them, knowingly and repeatedly, with stern fingers that came perilously close to causing pain.

Age 36: Kaylee’s Keeper (Masters of the Castle, Book 2)

Skipping ahead a fair few years, lest this become a post of excerpts, a book that I picked up about a year ago and have returned to over and over again. There are a number of scenes in Kaylee’s Keeper that really hit the mark for me, but I do so (so) love this one, where the heroine, Kaylee, is punished in front of an audience.

“Look how wet she is,” Alan announced, and soft laughter filled the room. He laughed too, even as he purred down at her, “What kind of naughty girl gets wet during her punishment?”

“My favourite kind,” Master Marshall drawled, winning another round of chuckling laughter from everyone. “Open your legs for him, pet, nice and wide. Give him your naughty little pussy and ask Master Alan to spank it for you.”
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“I’m waiting, pet,” Master Marshall said. Is there something you want to say to Master Alan or do I need to put you across my knee first?”

She shivered even harder, but dutifully raised her chin and, horribly embarrassed, whispered, “Please spank m-me–”

“Spank what?”

“Please, sir.” She moaned, hiding her eyes behind her hand as if that could somehow shield her from this wanton debasement. “Please don’t make me say it.”

And even more recently? This edgeplay scene from Cherise Sinclair’s recent Edge of the Enforcer.

As to the question of selfies … Do I care that people might get off on the pictures that I take of myself? Feel ‘reduced’ in any way? Nope. If anything, it kind of gives me hope that people are embracing the idea of everyday men and women with everyday bodies being sexy and erotic and desirable. Because, as I’ve said before, that’s my ultimate objective when I photograph myself in various states of undress.

I could very easily go on about this topic for another few thousand words but I’ll haul myself back at this point before I bury you any more than I already have done in a grave of verbosity. A thought to end if I may, though:

“To masturbate is to imagine: physically.”
― Mokokoma Mokhonoana

The post Wicked Wednesday: I touch myself appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

“Pain is an unpleasant sensory and emotional experience associated with actual or potential tissue damage, or described in terms of such damage.”

– International Association for the Study of Pain

As a sensation in general, pain (understandably) gets a bad wrap. If we accept the above definition, it’s the body’s way of letting us know that we’re doing something to it that it would rather we didn’t.

But, for some, feeling and/or inflicting pain isn’t always a negative experience. What about those of us who have a positive, healthy relationship with it? Who consider it to be an intrinsic part of our sexual selves and a consensual, loving relationship?

I have been trying to write this post for a while but it has proven to be rather difficult. Mainly because I’m not confident that I can fully articulate the nuances of erotic pain, it subtleties – its beauty – in any sort of way that will do it justice. Not to mention that I am fighting against the ridiculously outdated perceptions of sexual/erotic pain put forward in the late 1800s and early Twentieth Century by two well-known psychiatrists. (Yep, we’re still defining sadism and masochism according to theories that are now over 100 years old. How’s that for progress?)

So I’ve called in help – big time – in the form of four very awesome people, all of whom, like me, have a close relationship with sexual pain and view it rather differently to Richard von Krafft-Ebing and Sigmund Freud …

THE RECEIVING END

Molly

That first touch of his hand or the flogger or the paddle is always a shock that makes me gasp for breath and often, for a split second, a little glimmer of hate for this moment will niggle at my brain. ‘Ow that hurts’ my knee jerk reaction but only for a moment. The smallest of moments, because then it is replaced with a heat, a strong powerful surge of chemicals that flood my nervous system but all too soon they begin to wane, disappearing alone my nerve endings and fluttering away to almost nothing until the next strike and then the next and onwards. My body greedily lapping up the sensation, riding on an ever building wave of heat and pressure making my muscles twitch and my skin throb. Nothing else exists in this moment, the pain (for want of a better word) is a consuming focusing point that dances through my body, emptying my mind of everything and making me feel. Everything is more when there is pain and yet everything is me. I am the centre of myself or should I say my body is. Alight with heat, hot electric pulsing heat that fills me up and consumes me, washing everything else away. I am raw, exposed, vulnerable and yet invincible. In that moment I feel so truly alive.

Words can’t really explain it, there is a risk of sounding like a complete lunatic, someone not quite balanced or else so full of woo woo type lovey dovey nonsense that you just can’t relate and my pain experience within kink won’t necessarily be yours. Like all physical reactions, they are unique to the person experiencing them. My orgasm isn’t like your orgasm and my ride on the adrenalin rush of pain is just that, mine. I have written about it so many times and yet it’s true strength and power eludes me here with words. Part of that is because our association with pain or what that word so often means in life is negative, trying to twist that with words into a positive moment always has to overcome that deep rooted association we all have that pain is a bad thing. Painful emotions, painful memories, painful experiences all register in our brain as a hard difficult moments and yet pain applied in such a way as to stimulate can bring about such amazing reactions and release.

So how did I discover pain as a positive erotic stimulus? The answer is someone showed me. He guided me to that moment and despite my protests and inexperience took control and spanked me and I mean really spanked me, leaving bright red handprints on my arse and a red hot throb between my thighs. I am so glad he did it, because in that moment I learned something completely new about myself and he opened a whole new world of sensation play to me. Pain in that moment isn’t really pain, it is something far more compelling and addictive than that. It is a strange and dark dance between pleasure and pain, that mingle together edging back and forth from one another but slowly coming closer together until the two are so blurred that you no longer know where one stops and the other starts. It is that moment, that pure physical experience, a loss of yourself into sensory overload, that I crave. For me pain, applied with a loving firm skilled hand is my drug of choice.

Jane

I understand that not everyone feels and experiences pain in the same way that I do and that the following will, to some, make about as much sense as a chocolate teapot.

As well as being a rather messy combination of bottom and submissive, I am a masochist. In the grand scheme of things, I believe myself to be a pretty lightweight one but, mild or not, erotic pain (amongst other things) defines a significant portion of my sexual self. Note the emphasis on the word ‘erotic’ here. To clarify, I do not find banging my shin against a table a turn-on. That just plain f*cking hurts and there’s nothing remotely sensual or enjoyable about that sort of experience. But tangle pain up with submission or bottoming, place it within a sexual context, and we’re suddenly talking about something entirely different.

Can I define exactly how it makes me feel to receive pain delivered with erotic intent? I can try. The best way I can think of to describe it is as an equation, the adding of certain things together to create a desirable sum:

sexual context + aroused brain + erotic pain = catharsis

Yep, for me, even though it is undoubtedly a sexual kink, receiving pain does not necessarily need to lead to a climax. Can pain cause me to have an orgasm? Not on its own. But it can certainly push me towards one or send me over the edge if it’s combined with more ‘standard’ forms of stimulation.

The type of pain is important, too. To get to that cathartic sum it must be of a sort that I enjoy and be delivered in a certain way. For example, I don’t like sharp sensations, but I love sting if I’m properly warmed up and experience it in bursts.

My perception of erotic pain itself is harder to describe. My brain registers that it hurts but then somehow transforms it into something else. You know when you lower yourself into bathwater that is way too hot but you gradually acclimatise until suddenly you’re sitting chest-deep and it feels wonderful and unbearable all at the same time? Well, that’s the closest analogy I can draw.

It would be pretty accurate to say that I crave erotic pain, in much the same way that other people might crave a bar of chocolate. It gives me both pleasure and satisfaction. Could I survive without it? Of course. But do I want to? No.

THOSE WHO GIVE

DomSigns

This is, I think a much more difficult subject for most of those who give pain as opposed to those that receive it. In my mind it is easier for most to understand how closely pain and pleasure are linked in the brain and therefore easier to understand how pain can be erotic. But what about those who find it erotic to give pain, how can hurting someone else give you pleasure? More importantly how can you not see that as a sickness?

After a great deal of thought on this matter I have decided that the problem with those questions is how they are phrased. The way that it make sense is that I am not “hurting” her. Hurt implies damage and I never injure her, what I do is give her pleasure through the controlled application of pain. That turns her on, and it turns me on too.

It is not just the moments of delivery that make it erotic, but all the moments afterward as well. When she rushes off to see the marks that I have left on her body, when she sits down and winces, when I grab her bottom and she groans, all of that turns me on.

Now to the part that is a bit darker. How it can work for me with the right person and consent. I have the opportunity to let a bit of the primeval part of me loose just a little. I get to express the strength of being a man to hold her down and use her as I desire, to bite and hit and mark. This doesn’t mean that I lose control, quite the opposite. I have to keep a tighter rein on what I am doing because there is a greater chance of things going wrong. It is the dichotomy of being Dom. I can  express that aggressive imperative that still lives within us all… But I need to keep it from spiralling into darkness. That is why it is never done in anger, not even when she is being punished. All that we do together is done with love, complete consent and explicit communication. We all have that dark side within us and together she and I get to explore and learn that part of ourselves together with smiles and tears and passion. That makes it a journey worth taking.

M

My introduction to erotic pain was through Jane and her interest in it. Personally speaking, I don’t find being on the receiving end of it a turn-on, nor do I consider myself to be a sadist. But I do find dominating Jane very erotic and arousing – and because it is a hot button for her, pain plays a big part in that process. I guess what I’m trying to say is that while I don’t find actual pleasure in giving pain for pain’s sake, as a sadist would, I love her reaction to it. It turns her on, and her being turned on turns me on.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel somewhat uncomfortable with the idea of doing things that were fundamentally going to ‘hurt’ Jane when we first started exploring her masochistic side, despite the fact that she wanted me to and had given her consent. But as time has gone on, that’s definitely changed – mainly because I better understand her reactions to erotic pain and love the way she responds to it. I’m also far more confident in my ability to ‘read’ her, because experience and communication have taught me what she wants, what she needs, and what I need to do to get her there. I have absolutely been in charge of the pace of exploration, though. That’s partly a the control thing, but has also been driven by my need to be confident in my judgement and that everything we do is safe.

It’s fair to say that Jane and my experiences with her, have turned the way I would normally think about pain on its head; in an erotic, consensual context, I think it is about power exchange, the brain, and a certain level of release more than anything else. Yes, finding pleasure through pain will be outside of ‘the norm’ for a lot of people but for us, it is something that’s a fundamental part of what I consider to be a healthy, loving relationship.

Trent

As a Dom with a sadistic streak a mile wide, my take on pain is rather … complicated.

First, I think some clarification is in order. I am not a ‘sexual sadist’ as described clumsily in modern psychology in reference to serial killers or the like. I’m nothing of the sort. These persons are truly dangerous in that they are incapable of deriving pleasure without inflicting terrible pain (and often death) on others. They have no empathy for their victims, and seek to inflict this pain on others solely to fulfill their own selfish desires. I’ve simplified things greatly here, but I needed to make sure that that was clear, as some people are frightened by the very word ‘sadist’.

I am a ‘sadist’ when you define the word as someone who enjoys, takes pleasure in, giving pain to a woman who wants said pain. The woman must consent, must enjoy that pain – otherwise, it’s not going to ever happen. That consent is paramount and non-negotiable, and is the key to everything regarding sadism/masochism — at least as I define it.

Pain, to me, can all be boiled down to two ingredients: sensation and control. The attraction to pain for a sane sadist – a label I would apply to myself – is that it can be used to overwhelm the sub/masochist with sensation. Many masochists report that the pain transforms itself into something else. Perhaps it’s the work of endorphins, or perhaps it’s something deeper, more conscious on the sub’s part? I suppose nobody will ever know, but I find it fascinating nonetheless.

For me, the pain must be given in a sexual context; Jane’s example of a shin bash being utterly non-sexual was a wonderful example. As in so much else, context is everything. There is a world of difference between scalding your hand on hot water, and having your ass roasted by a hard spanking. Yes, both involve serious pain, but the context renders them two sensations that couldn’t be more different as experienced by the recipient.

The control aspect comes into play in the context of Dominance and submission. Part of the control a Dominant may choose to exert concerns whether or not he will give his sub pain, be it as a punishment for some infraction of their “rules”, or simply pain given both for his pleasure, and for her pleasure at being compelled to undergo said pain. Deciding when, where, and in what form his sub feels this pain is one of the aspects of D/s that is rarely spoken of in frank terms, but one I suspect is an undercurrent in many, if not most, D/s relationships.

When a Dom decides his sub shall have a spanking, it is not merely the physical pain of the punishment that she may crave and fear in equal measure, but the control he’s exerting upon her in making her endure the pain of the spanking holds its own separate, yet intertwined, attraction for her.

He’s compelling her to expose her naked flesh to his gaze, surrendering her body for both his pleasure and hers. She’s submitting to his will, and accepting his right to give her both pain and (if she’s a good girl) pleasure. In a sense, pain itself is actually subordinate to the real appeal of the entire D/s dynamic: the unequal power relationship and its implied and explicit exercise of control. Pain in the D/s relationship is really a tool, a way to make her experience overwhelming sensation, a means to compel, to punish, or even, to reward.

For the subs/masochists brave enough to embrace those sensations, those adventurous souls who are ready to take that journey, it can be a magical trip indeed!

*An enormous and heartfelt ‘thank you’ to Molly Moore (Molly’s Daily Kiss, @Mollysdailykiss), DomSigns (@DomSigns), Trent Evans (Trent Evans Letters, @TrentEvansTales), and my husband, M, for taking the time to help me out with this post; I couldn’t have written it without them. Please, please do take the time to go and check their very excellent online selves out – in short, they rock!

The post Pain Positive appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

He’d just started reading a new BDSM-themed erotica (which shall remain nameless) and made the fatal mistake of giving me an overview of the first chapter. All was going well until he mentioned the dreaded word ‘contract’, at which point he found himself engulfed in a storm of virtual babble – okay, ranting – that probably made him extremely thankful that we live in different countries and therefore ensured he didn’t have to listen to it in person (sorry, Michael):

‘Wow, that’s a lot of information in a single chapter! But do you know what my eye went straight to? The mention of another bloody contract! Contracts, contracts, contracts! If one more author writes about a contract I am going to … Well, I don’t know what, but it will likely involve a judge’s gavel being used on the offending book in the same manner that Basil Fawlty uses that tree branch on his car.’

And just in case that last reference is a British ‘in’ joke (I’m not sure how many countries had Fawlty Towers), this is what I’m talking about:

Attention authors! I don’t want to read about legal documents! They don’t turn me on! You do not need one to convey that your characters are in a relationship that involves power exchange. Really. You don’t. Just as villains don’t need to be dressed in black in order to convey their ‘badness’ and heroes in ‘white’ to denote their ‘goodness’, people who engage in BDSM aren’t all running off willy-nilly to their lawyers and defining their relationships through legalese. And if I was that desperate to get off on legal jargon I’d visit the solicitor in my local village and get him to lend me a conveyancing agreement.

I WANT WELL-CRAFTED EROTICA – NOT PAGES OF CLAUSES.

My husband does not take me to bed and spout legal jargon to get me in the mood. Nor does he make me read the folder of deeds to our house.

I am not saying that contracts – not to be confused with limit lists and negotiation forms – don’t exist in power exchange relationships. I am sure they do and that they work perfectly well for those who draw them up. But having one is not mandatory and, as Molly Moore said so eloquently in her Myth Busting: the Submissive Woman seminar at Eroticon earlier this month, if they are used, they ‘are rarely a standard rent agreement’.

I think we all know who, or rather what, we have to blame for this bat-sh*t obsession with ‘erotic’ paperwork. Yes, That Book. That great, grey brick of a thing whose name I dare not speak, because, frankly, it’s becoming a little bit like Voldemort:

‘Who gave you that scar?’

‘E.L. bloody James with all her talk of legal agreements and protagonists who have to be ‘damaged’ to engage in BDSM, that’s who.’

If only I had an Elder Pen to wave – or perhaps an Unforgiveable Manuscript Curse to make all this silliness disappear. (What would that be called, I wonder? Editora Kedavra?)

Hmm. Maybe I should recreate the Basil Fawlty moment above with a copy of You-Know-What and a nice, long rattan can. If only my technical skills were up to the job and I could get over the idea of destroying a perfectly good book.

It’s tempting, though. Very, very tempting …

The post I do not get turned on by legal jargon 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.

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.

Title:

A marriage on the rocks. A wife who longs to be taken in hand. A husband who wants nothing more than to recover the control he’s relinquished. Reclaimed Surrender is a fabulous exploration of what happens when the equilibrium is upset in a D/s relationship; of the havoc that ensues when a Dom, with the best of intentions, cedes to his sub.

Rene and Alexis Tanner are having major problems. Something has happened (I won’t spoil the book for you by saying what) that’s severely affected the level of trust between them – and it’s absolutely killing their relationship. To the point that they’re unable to relate to one another, to exchange power, in the way they both desperately need to.

When we first meet Alexis, she’s pretty much resigned herself to the fact that her marriage is, for all intents and purposes, over. In her heart, she doesn’t want it to be (she can’t bring herself to officially end things) but she’s accepted that it’s not working. In fact, she’s doing everything she can to push Rene away from her in an attempt to get him to call time. The problem is, Rene loves his wife – and he’s not about to let her destroy them. He’s tried stepping back and giving Alexis space in an effort to get them back to where they were, but it hasn’t worked and he’s reached his limit. So for one week they’ll do things his way. He’ll assume complete control once more. And if Alex baulks? Well, yeah. Then things really are over.

Verbal sparring, clashes of will, bratty behaviour, delicious punishments – Reclaimed Surrender ticks all the boxes. This erotic story moves at a really good pace and watching Alexis rediscover her submission – and Rene reclaim it – makes for very compelling reading.

‘“You’re a spoiled, self-indulged brat who’s gotten too big for her britches.”
“How dare you!”
“I haven’t finished. Those britches I mentioned? They need to be stripped from you so I can spank your ass until you can’t sit down. How dare I? How dare you?”’

While laced with some incredibly hot play passages – the sublimely cathartic crop scene springs immediately to mind – Reclaimed Surrender also includes beautiful demonstrations of power exchange and submission in their less ‘physical’ forms (specifically, the text message and errand list sequences). This is very much a book about connecting, mentally as well as bodily.

Of course, the backbone theme of Reclaimed Surrender ­­is trust – having it, losing it, getting it back – and the way Riley Murphy articulates and explains the nuances of it within a Dom/sub relationship though her characters is both thoughtful and moving:

‘“ … where a deep trust is perceived to be broken? I can only imagine that this would devastate a fully committed Dom because that would mean his honour comes into question.”’

One final point worth mentioning … There’s a certain human curveball in the Reclaimed Surrender mix – one who keeps you from getting too confident about how it will all end between Rene and Alex. Yet although he was both troubling and obnoxious for most of the book, I unexpectedly warmed to him in the last few pages. In fact, now I must confess to being rather curious about his future. Will Mr Curveball pop up in another of Ms Murphy’s books? I kind of hope so …

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

Amazon.co.uk:

• Reclaimed Surrender - Kindle

Amazon.com:

The post Reclaimed Surrender – Riley Murphy appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

What we used: Bondage Heat Play Wax Candle in black
From: Bondara
Price: £8.50
Material(s): Paraffin wax

A burning candle is a thing of beauty. But what about all that wonderful molten wax? Lizzie and Thomas experiment with a bondage candle and discover the joys of wax play.

* Please take the time to review the Behind the Chintz Curtain Disclaimer before reading this post. Wax play carries some degree of risk and shouldn’t be undertaken without the proper safety precautions.

First thoughts …

Lizzie
Wax play. Yet another thing that’s been languishing on my ‘really want to try it’ list for what seems like forever. However, the big sex toy retailers (in the U.K. at least) have rather limited selections when it comes to wax play candles. There are a load of massage candles from the luxury brands on offer – such as the Lelo Flickering Touch and the Jimmyjane Afterglow – but trying to find nice ones for dripping on your partner isn’t particularly easy. So I was really pleased when we found the Bondage Heat Play candle on Bondara’s website; a decent size and colour, at a reasonable price.

Thomas
I have never tried wax play before; my only experience with hot wax is burning my hand with the stuff when trying to pick up a candle off the dinner table. Not particularly sensual. Given how painful a hot wax burn can be from a normal candle in a not-so-sensitive area, I had always thought pouring hot wax on your nether regions was the domain of serious masochists only. Lizzie, however, was keen and the wax candle was a low melting point type, so I thought we would give it a go.

How it looks …

Lizzie
Urgh. It’s actually quite hard to make a candle look unsexy but, somehow, the manufacturer of this stack of paraffin has managed it. This product is to be used in a sexual way. I get it. There’s really no need to show me a lady gripping her naked breast as if her life depends on it or make up new ‘sexy’ words (such as ‘sin-tilates’) to ram the message home. There’s also a bunch of copy in what looks like Chinese or Japanese. No idea what it says. I can only assume it’s not important safety information given that it hasn’t been translated.

It’s a shame that the box is so tacky, because the candle itself is actually quite nice. A lovely deep colour with more than a hint of plumy-ness to it. In fact, it’s actually dark, dark purple rather than the pure black it’s advertised to be. It smells rather pleasant, too; there’s definitely a scent of vanilla about it.

One final (and slightly concerning) point: there’s no ingredients list on the candle box. I know from Bondara’s online product description that the item is made from paraffin (a low melting point wax) but this fact isn’t stated anywhere on the packet, nor is there information about the dyes used or any fragrance details. Given that the candle is both coloured and scented, this bothers me as I like to know what I’m sticking on myself. And if you have sensitive skin or suffer from allergies, this sort of information is absolutely essential.

Using it …

Lizzie
As I didn’t get to light, tip or drip the wax play candle, I can only comment on how the hot wax felt when it hit my skin. (Thomas did all the prep for our first wax play outing and got to handle the candle during it – rhyme intended!)

Thomas positioned me so that I was standing but bent forwards with my hands gripping the back of chair. We had been playing for a little while at this point and I had seen the candle burning away on the sideboard so knew that hot wax was on the evening’s agenda. The large cloth beneath my feet was another giveaway. (Wax play makes a fair bit of mess so you want to make sure you have all surfaces in the immediate vicinity covered.)

The first drip of wax hit the small of my back and, while I was prepared for the heat, the liquidity and length of the ‘run’ came as a bit of a surprise. The low melting point meant that the hot wax had a lot of ‘trickle’ to it, and it immediately chased downwards over my skin before eventually cooling and hardening. (If you’re going to engage in wax play, it is essential that you use a candle with a low melting point to avoid burning the skin. Paraffin liquefies between 43 and 65 degrees Celsius so is a good choice for this sort of activity. Whatever you do, do not use your standard beeswax household candles no matter how expensive or organic they are.)

Once Thomas had established that I was okay with both the heat and the sensation of the wax, he became more adventurous and started moving further backwards, dripping it over my buttocks and, eventually, the top of the crease between them – at which point the hot wax ran downwards and coated my vulva and clitoris. After a little break, he had me stand up and trickled more wax over my chest and nipples.

Did I like the sensation? Yes, yes, and yes! The heat of the wax was, to me, very bearable, as was the slow cool and the tightness as it hardened. By the time Thomas had finished with me, I had a nice little buzz going on and, if I’m honest, I would have liked to have kept going with the wax play longer than we actually did. In fact, I have my fingers crossed for a very lengthy session in the future.

Removing the wax wasn’t difficult – it peeled off the skin fairly easily (although we stuck to completely hair-free areas) but it did create a hell of a mess. Stay well away from fabric and carpet as the splash factor is significant with this stuff. I should say that most wax play guides suggest a light layer of oil on the skin to avoid wax getting stuck and to assist removal but I must admit we didn’t do this. However, my skin was very heavily moisturised.

Thomas
After I lit the candle I did try it out on myself first. What struck me straight away was that it was definitely cooler than a ‘standard’ candle. It was also very, very runny, i.e. it went bloody everywhere. So towels, sheets, drop cloths (I’m not kidding) are a must, especially if you plan to use it anywhere near carpet, upholstery, linen, etc. You’ll need to fire it up early as well as it takes a while to generate a decent pool of liquid wax – and that doesn’t last long due to the previously mentioned runniness. The best tactic is to use a little with breaks in between to allow the candle to replenish. If you really want to go to town, I would recommend using two candles – or maybe even three if you want to recreate Madame Tussauds.

Once in use, it works great. Just watch out as it tends to run where it wants and that may not be where you intended it to go, so you need to try to be fairly accurate with your aim. (I would recommend some practice first to get the hang of the way the wax runs.) Obviously, it makes sense to start in some less sensitive areas (back, buttocks etc.) and work you way to more sensitive ones – slowly. Lizzie certainly had a great time with the wax, especially on her more sensitive parts, judging by her vocal response and other involuntary reactions

As a final note, Lizzie likes to have her nether regions smooth and hair-free, so clean up of the wax wasn’t a problem. If this is not your thing, however, you need to take this into account when using the wax as getting it off pubic hair could be quite tedious (as well as painful).

The verdict?

Lizzie
Wax play in general? A big thumbs up. This particular candle? Performance-wise, it’s great. I have to admit I am a little concerned about the lack of information regarding the ingredients it contains, though.

Thomas
Lizzie had a great time with this product. Just watch the potential mess and don’t use too much at once unless you have more than one candle. As a safety precaution, always be careful around naked flames; you don’t want to burn yourself or the house down. Keep an eye on where you put the candle when it is lit (it could be very easy to get distracted and then find you have set the curtains alight!) and a fire extinguisher in the house is a good idea, too. It’s also prudent to have a wet cloth and basin of water close to hand just in case you do happen to burn a sensitive area. It may not look particularly sexy but then neither is trying to explain to the doctor in A&E how exactly you managed to get a burn there.

In summary …

Things we liked …

• The look of the actual candle. A good size (four inches long, two inches wide) and a pretty colour – although the black option is actually more of a dark purple.
• The liquidity of the candle wax. Good trickle qualities.
• The heat of the wax. Not too hot.
• The price. Very reasonable.

Things we weren’t so keen on …

• The lack of instructions. To that end, if you’re going try your hand at wax play, you should absolutely do some research and safety reading beforehand. There are some good online guides available for free.
• The packaging. Tacky, tacky, tacky.
• The lack of information on the candle’s make up. Those with sensitive skin or fragrance/colour allergies should consider alternative products.
• Doesn’t come with a container or holder, so you’ll have to find something to stand or place the candle in.

Tickle your fancy? Click here to buy the Bondage Heat Play Wax Candle from Bondara.

The post Wax play: candles, love, and liquid heat appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

What we used: Mawa Klamps
From: UberKinky
Price: £2.99 per clamp (discounts available for multibuys)
Material(s): metal (unspecified), rubber (unspecified)

If you’re serious about your nipple play, then these sprung Mawa Klamps may be just the thing. As Lizzie and Thomas discover, they’re certainly not for the faint of heart – and they’re not just for the top half of the body …

First thoughts …

Lizzie
If you’ve been following Chintz for a while, you’ll know that Thomas and I recently reviewed a set of Japanese clover nipple clamps and that I’m a big, big fan of them (and clamping in general). So when UberKinky asked if we’d like to review their Mawa Klamps, I was pretty keen. However, when I put these little beasts on the tips of my fingers after extracting them from their wrappings and felt how strong they were, I started to get a bit nervous!

Thomas
I am sure I have seen these used on a clipboard, without the rubber pads on the ends. My only issue with this style of clamp (and also clover nipple clamps) is there is no facility to adjust the pressure.

The packaging …

Lizzie
Very utilitarian. The clamps are individually encased in clear plastic. In other words, there’s no official branding.

The construction …

Lizzie
These Mawa Klamps look virtually identical to the bulldog clips you would buy from your local stationary supplier but with one important difference: the ‘gripping’ edges are coated in a soft, black rubber. (It stands to reason you don’t want two sharp metal edges coming together under pressure on the soft skin of a nipple – or other body part.) The ‘force factor’ for each device is created by the spring that connects the two halves of the clamp – and believe me, there is some serious, serious wellie in that coil. Size-wise, the clamps are bigger than a standard screw clamp or tweezer clamp in both length and width (5.5 centimetres and 2.0 centimetres respectively) but they are smaller than most clovers.

I did notice that the clamps we were sent didn’t have the indented weight handles that appear in the UberKinky Mawa Klamps photographs and product description, but this may be because the ones we tested were review samples.

Thomas
They look a bit like office stationary items, which, to be fair, is what you would expect for the price. They are quite strong and of course non-adjustable so I suspect there will be a ‘love-em or hate-em’ response for most people with this item. The construction of the clip and the finish is pretty basic, so make sure you keep them clean and dry as I suspect they may be prone to rusting, etc., if they are allowed to become damp. As Lizzie mentioned, the ones we had were missing the extra hanger bar and I suspect this affected the way ours functioned as their action when squeezed didn’t feel very smooth.

Using them …

Lizzie
After the finger clamping experiment, I was bracing myself for these. I have a pretty decent pain threshold – or at least I think I do – but in a sexual context, I like it to hold hands quite tightly with pleasure. There has to be a balance – and I wasn’t sure whether these were going to tip the scales too far in the direction of ‘it just plain hurts’.

To that end, Thomas made sure that I was well and truly warmed up before coming at me with the Mawas – I’d had two orgasms, so was nicely aroused and at the same time relaxed – and he used his mouth and teeth to make sure that my nipples were erect enough to cope with the pressure of them. (As I mentioned in my last nipple clamp review, don’t try and clamp nipples when they’re in a ‘soft’ state; it’s really important that you and/or your partner ensure that they’re hard before any hardware comes at them. An erect nipple can take a lot more stimulation and it also means more blood will be trapped when a clamp is applied – which equals a more intense sensation when they’re removed.)

The feeling? Full-on. But, interestingly, I didn’t find the Mawa Klamps much more difficult to cope with than clovers, because while they generate a lot of pressure, the clamping edge is relatively broad – and that means that the force they apply is spread over a larger surface area. Thomas didn’t leave the clamps on my nipples for an extended period first time, though (he’d put them on his fingers, too, and knew how strong they were!) – just long enough to distract me with other activity and make me forget about the ache they induced before he removed them and caused the rush of pleasure/pain that heralds the return of blood flow.

However, Thomas wasn’t finished with me. Moments after removing the Mawa Klamps from my nipples, he headed in the direction of my vulva. And then there was a sharp intake of breath, followed by a scrunching of toes on my part as he attached one to each side of my labia. I’ve not had clamps applied to this area before and, strangely, found the sensation to be neither here nor there. Yes, their presence was uncomfortable, but this part of my anatomy seems to be less sensitive than my nipples. Consequently, the discomfort was over-ridden by other feelings as Thomas moved on to other things. The removal of the clamps was more a relief than anything else; I didn’t experience the same achy rush I got when they were taken from my nipples.

Thomas
These little clips work well and are easy to use. They were secure when in place (despite not having small dimpled gripper pads of our Japanese clover clamps), which was good as I had visions of them slipping off and shooting across the room like small bullets. If you and your other half are using these for the first time, I would advise a slow application and thus a gradual increase in pressure to make sure your partner is not going to suddenly leap up and run round the room screaming ‘take them off, take them off NOW!!!’.

When using them a good warm up is a must; everything needs to be engorged, shall we say. You need to make sure you have a ‘taking them off’ plan, too, as leaving them on for too long can cause damage. If you do plan to use them on other areas (lips, labia, other wobbly bits), use your common sense and do your research before you start attaching them.

The verdict?

Lizzie
If you enjoy nipple play and crave intensity, these Mawa Klamps will likely to be right up your alley. They’re easy to apply and their design means they can used on various parts of the body. However, I would definitely not recommend them to beginners. These are something you want to build up to.

Thomas
Nice little low-cost clamps. Make sure they come with the hanger bar and that you keep them clean and dry when they’re not in use.

In summary …

Things we liked …

• The price. Very inexpensive.
• The size. These clamps are compact and don’t overwhelm the area they’re applied to.
• The versatility. Can be attached to things other than nipples.

Things we weren’t so keen on …

• The lack of instructions. The Mawa Klamps don’t come with any guidance as to use.
• They’re very utilitarian. (Although please note that this isn’t a major negative and more a reflection of our personal taste with regard to the way we like our toys to look.)
• There’s no detailed information available on the clamp construction materials. Although the components are described as ‘metal’ and ‘rubber’, it’s not clear which ones have been used. As such, those with metal or rubber allergies/sensitivities would be best to choose a product that has been guaranteed as hypoallergenic.

Tickle your fancy? Click here to buy Mawa Klamps from UberKinky.

*Please note that this item was provided free of charge in exchange for a fair review.

Editor’s note: please note that should not use Mawas (or any other type of clamp) without first doing a bit of safety reading as applying clamps incorrectly or for too long can cause tissue damage.

The post Mawa Klamps: serious pressure for nipples and other body parts appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Title:

This isn’t the first book in the Sweet erotic romance series by the ever-popular Maya Banks, but, in my opinion, it is the standout title in the line-up. In other words, if you’re going to pick one, this is the one to go for. Sweet Persuasion is a cracking, singe your fingers read. Put the cat out, dim the lights, grab a friend (breathing or battery operated) hot.

Serena is in the business of making dreams and wishes come true for other people. She spends her days fulfilling fantasies and making others happy, but what she really wants is to indulge in a secret fantasy of her own. Serena wants to be a sex slave. To give up complete control to a man, temporarily, and then return to her normal life once her slavery is complete.

She has absolutely no idea how to go about making her dream a reality, but as luck would have it, her friend Faith (the female lead of the previous Sweet book, Sweet Surrender) steps in and provides an introduction to the incredibly suave Damon Roche, owner of The House, a private club that caters to those with particular sexual appetites. Damon and Serena meet, as a result of Faith’s introduction, and thus begins a blindingly hot arrangement between the pair that sees Serena playing the submissive slave to the sophisticated, dominant Damon.

Damon’s characterisation is very well done. Banks manages to balance his character traits to create the stereotypically perfect Top; he’s ruthlessly dominant, yet wonderfully intelligent and compassionate. He’s no pushover, but nor is he an overly aggressive, arrogant wanker. His relationship with Serena is all about trust and care and, despite the depth and intensity of their BDSM play, his regard for her is always very clear. And when I say deep and intense, I really do mean it. This book contains some relatively graphic encounters and unapologetically gets into the psychology of consensual power exchange. We’re talking public scening, flogging, anal sex, etc., etc., etc., so be warned.

To boot, Serena is equally appealing. She resonates with the reader because she’s not a doormat. She’s a strong woman struggling to accept that giving up power to someone else takes a lot of guts. Her willingness to acknowledge her desires, to express them, and the trust she places in Damon is very moving, and her ultimate struggle to accept that her wants and desires are more than a fantasy even more so.

Hey, if Damon turned up at my door, I’d absolutely be inviting him (and his crop) into the sitting room before you could say ‘sweet’.

Tickle your fancy? Click on the following links to purchase Sweet Persuasion from Amazon.co.uk (Kindle ; Paperback), Amazon.com (Kindle ; Paperback), Kobo (ePub).

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Title:

A married couple. Friday evening. It’s Maintenance Night. Are they doing DIY? Well, in a sense, yes. They’re engaging in the ‘upkeep’ of their relationship. It just so happens that their form of nurture involves some spanking and caning.

This is the first Trent Evans book I’ve read and I have to say I really, really liked it. Maintenance Night is relatively short, weighing in at just fifty-one pages, but it doesn’t suffer from what I like to call ‘small book syndrome’ (a tale as threadbare as a two-hundred-year-old rug or a story that’s so ridiculously overstuffed that it’s afflicted by literary indigestion). The plot is strong and simple – as mentioned above, it focuses on a single night in the life of a married couple – and the action is centred on them connecting with one another through D/s.

Maintenance Night touched on some concepts that resonated particularly strongly with me. Firstly, courage and open-mindedness. I wanted to cheer Lacey, the female protagonist, for having the bottle to speak up and ask her husband to spank and discipline her, and Troy, her other half, for being so accepting of her needs. (No baulking from this man.) Secondly, the extremely positive portrayal of impact play (and BDSM in general) within an existing, committed relationship was extremely refreshing. Bluntly, it was nice to see two people, already together, still discovering and challenging one another. What a great way to be!

The author also makes a concerted effort in Maintenance Night to highlight that what goes on between Lacey and Troy follows the ‘safe, sane and consensual’ mantra, which, for me, instantly increased its appeal. As they play, Troy consistently checks in with his wife and, when he raises the stakes, he reminds her of her safeword – and, thus, of her choice to participate. He’s a thinking Dom who knows when to hold his hand – and when push it.

‘His low voice was back at her ear. “Do you need to say it?”
She shook her head, feeling the first tear track down her cheek. Her hands twisted in his grip, so determined were they to swipe away the evidence of her defeat.
“I’ll be right back.” He pressed his slacks against her, his huge erection hard against her soft, burning bottom. “Keep them there. If you move an inch, we’ll start over.”’

I made the fatal error of giving this book to my husband to read on my iPad while we were waiting for our kids to finish swimming lessons. By the time he’d reached the end of Maintenance Night half-an-hour later and we were due to collect them, he was as worked up as I was. We spent the rest of the day squirming in our seats with no possible outlet. So clearly this book appeals equally to both genders!

There was only one thing I felt was missing from this story – Troy’s point-of-view. Maintenance Night is written in the third-person and focuses on Lacey’s thoughts and feelings. While the narration is wonderful, I would have liked to have known what was going on in Troy’s head. (I got a pretty good idea from the way he behaved but what can I say? I like to crawl around inside the minds of my fictional characters.)

Finally, a guilty secret. I’m not sure why, but I tend to buy erotica written by women rather than men. Possibly because I unconsciously (or not so unconsciously) make the invalid assumption that I’ll have a stronger connection with the sexual and emotional feelings expressed by female writers. Maintenance Night has shown me how ridiculous I’ve been in not embracing more male erotica authors. This is a great story and a must for those who enjoy tales of domestic discipline (DD) and/or Dominance and submission (D/s).

And Mr Evans? Great cover.

Tickle your fancy? Click on the following links to buy Maintenance Night: Amazon.co.uk (Kindle) and Amazon.com (Kindle).

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