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Losing My Nerve

February 16, 2010 Daisy, Diary No Comments

One recent late night at the dungeon party I’d been flogged pretty hard. The blows started pleasurably as delicious thuds, reminding me with each stroke who I am in service to. But as Sir M got more enthusiastic, his lashes increased in intensity so my pain level reached a treacherously biting sting.

Photo by Smudgerphoto for submissivemolly.com

I’m not able to absorb that much pain and I screamed and cursed and sobbed, hoping he’d stop. I yelled at Sir M to not hit me so hard but he ridiculed me and went harder. Something in me snapped. It put me over the edge — and in an unhappy place.

Afterward, as I recovered, I tried to compose myself but just couldn’t. I finally decided that I’d had enough, so I defiantly bolted out of the room without requesting permission from Sir M.

I knew this act was tantamount to going on strike. If I stuck around with Sir M after this I might be punished severely but at that moment I was demonstrating that I was fed up and DONE with this training. I darted into the restroom, bolted the door and sat down to gather my thoughts.

Losing it

What kind of submissive am I? What are my goals with this training? I’m not a masochist. I don’t think I’ll ever enjoy pain that’s at my threshold of tolerance so why try to go there all the time? What am I doing here?! I quit!

Sir M is renown as a particularly cruel sadist and he hits hard. He’s used to playing with partners who can handle much more pain than I can. But he’s also a benevolent and reasonable Dom and takes a paternal approach for the “after-care” that follows such a torture session.

When I returned to the room Sir M sensed that my attitude had shifted. I was upset and freaked out and seriously considering reverting back to my old vanilla lifestyle.

He hugged me and stroked my hair and helped calm me down so I could describe my conflicted feelings.

“Your pleas of ‘STOP!’ or ‘NO!’ or ‘TOO MUCH’ mean nothing in this context, nor does crying,” he explained. “Anyway, crying can be cathartic — you feel really good afterward.”

That is true, although crying in public feels to me even more humiliating than public nudity.

Sir M pointed out that I hadn’t followed the protocols he gave me — I’d never used the safe word “yellow” when the pain got to be unreasonable. I realized that in my attempts to submit to him and please him, I was letting him go too hard on me because I didn’t want to disappoint him. I was building up anger and resentment that could have been avoided.

Sex heals all

I was relieved but Sir M could see I needed a little more TLC.  He knew intrinsically how to fix me. He strolled over to the next room where another Dom was just packing up a scene and his submissive was cleaning all the toys he’d used. I couldn’t hear their conversation, but soon they came over to me. “Position 6!” commanded Sir M. I lay on my back with knees pressed against my body almost under my armpits and my hands sandwiched inside my folded legs – the position for Pussy Inspection. The other submissive, a petite brunette dressed in a schoolgirl micro-mini skirt, knelt down in front of me and pushed up the bottom of my very short leather skirt.

She delicately started flicking her tongue around my clit and the outer lips of my pussy. She stuck one, then two fingers inside me, then pulled them out abruptly. That left me wanting more and I begged her to put them back in. She sucked on my clit and pushed her bent fingers back into my wet pussy while both Doms looked on.

Sir M called out to me in his commanding voice, “show us what a cum slut you are!”

The sound of his voice and this luxurious sex play lulled me back into proper submissive form and soon I was riding waves of bliss, smiling and panting. The girl got more enthusiastic when she saw how responsive I was, and she thrust three, then four fingers in and out of me with a twisting motion. A handful of people were now sitting in chairs watching — girl on girl action can always draw a crowd!

Her hand plunged into me again and quickly worked me up to a moaning, heated crescendo. As I was on the verge of cumming Sir M said “not yet!” — reminding me that I’m not allowed to cum until he gives permission.

The girl slowed down but continued rubbing the Gspot area, then leaned forward to suck my left nipple. She tugged on the piercing a bit with her teeth so the jewelry would clank against her teeth, then she’d roll her tongue around the nipple. She picked up the pace with the finger banging and I rolled my hips around, beaming a big smile.

Sir M said “OK, cum for me bitch!” and she picked up the pace. My non-stop moan grew louder and higher in pitch until I was shaking and writhing. I came hard and wet. She continued to play with that and coax more orgasms and juices out of me. At last I was dazed and exhilarated. I wobbled up and went home happy.

After care

The next day Sir M asked me to write down my impressions in a private journal that only he has access to. He checked in with me later via webcam to make sure I was OK with everything and said he would cut back on the amount of pain he is giving me. I told him, “I’m glad I didn’t quit.”

He responded, “you are responsible for bringing this to my attention at the time. Now I can choose to ignore it and keep going if I feel that’s what you need, but at least I have the information to make that decision.”

This is the delicate balance of power and control that is part of the BDSM equation.

Sir M left me with a beautiful quote he’d stumbled across many years ago in some forgotten chat group that seemed particularly applicable:

Why is it that a naughty girl resists the refuge a Dom’s paddle offers, and chooses instead to hold the hurt inside? Tears are the gift of a submissive’s spirit… she should offer them freely to the one who tends to her soul.

Daisy TraLaLA (@DaisyTraLaLA) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. Check back every Tuesday for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.

Men Don’t Leave, Especially the Ones Who Fuck Up the Most

February 13, 2010 Adora, Diary 1 Comment

He strikes out at me when I am within reach, and then he reaches for me when I draw the line.
– Ani DiFranco “Served Faithfully”

A part of me wanted to knee him in the balls and then have his name blacklisted throughout all of Hollywood for being such an unbelievable bastard. The other part of me wanted to kiss his forehead, wish him well, and say goodbye. But because we were in a controlled environment, because he was my boss, and because I hadn’t had sex in two and a half months, I stayed.

“Give me another chance, Adora?” Lucas pleaded with those weepy puppy dog eyes he pulls out whenever he knows he’s in the doghouse.

“I gave you a chance when we first met. Remember? You shit all over it.”

“Come away with me. We can go anywhere. Spain… Greece… the Cayman Islands…”

Of course, he listed those three destinations. On our first date (before he threw another woman in my face), I told him I desperately wanted to travel to all of those places sometime in the year 2010.

As we stood in the corner of the penthouse suite at The Standard downtown with 50 of our friends and colleagues doing shots and dancing on tables, he pulled me into his lap and started running his fingers through my hair. I’d like to say it was the champagne and wine that compelled me to let him. But the truth is, I stayed in his arms because it felt good.

He’s quite a handful — Lucas. As the head executive at our film studio, he’s more than accustomed to people taking orders from him.

Rising from his lap, I exploded, “I don’t take orders from people, especially you, Lucas.”

His eyes and his voice softened even more. “I’m not giving you orders. I miss you. I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t think you had feelings for me, and I screwed up.”

I had been thinking about him a lot the past month. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s the last person I’d been with, or if it’s because things weren’t really over yet, or if it’s because I’m just that hard up. But he’d been on my mind so much that for a second I thought I’d manifested the entire scenario. I feared that perhaps, I was to blame for him beckoning me back into his life.

When I was younger, I lusted after brilliant, powerful, tragic men like him. Some women find him repulsive. Others find him irresistible. Underneath it all, he’s just a puppy desperately wanting to let someone love him. But as the old adage goes: we get in our own way.

“I mean it, I miss you,” he repeated. “Stay with me, and then come away with me tomorrow. We can leave in the morning.”

“Trust me. By this time next week, you’ll forget that you miss me, and you’ll start missing someone else.”

And then he pulled me closer and kissed me, at first soft and then long and deep. Lucas and I are nowhere near being in love, yet this keeps happening.

There’s nothing worse than when unavailable men throw themselves at you, except — of course — indulging in the act when it happens. The next morning, I tiptoed out of the hotel room as silently as I could.

“Where are you going?” Lucas asked out of nowhere.

“Oh, I didn’t want to wake you,” I said. “I’m heading to the office. I have to get some work done.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“I have a lot of catching up to do. You should know, you gave me the workload.”

“So are you going to come with me?”

“Let me think about it. I’ll call you later.”

He ended up calling me later instead. I didn’t pick up the phone and I didn’t return his call.

I have to see this man nearly everyday online and in real life. When will we get the time to be just friends? When I quit my job? When one of us gets married? When pigs fly?

I’ll keep you posted.

Bullhead City

February 13, 2010 AV, Diary No Comments

Mojave Valley Highway. It’s the last leg of the journey between Needles and Bullhead City, Arizona. The place is desolate: there’re more adult bookstores than houses, not a person in sight. If it weren’t for the Harleys parked outside a saloon, passerby’d probably think the place was a ghost town. We find a Wal-Mart.

I jump in a cart and my boyfriend pushes me around the place. He wants to buy me sneakers.

“Does this mean I have to wear socks?”

I hate socks. He finds me some socks. I will have nothing to do with this plan to attain “comfortable attire.” Nevertheless, I’m amazed they have shoes and socks and just about everything in one store — it’s so American. Everything you could need or want, standardized and shoved into this box-like establishment.

It’s incredible to imagine — fifty years ago, this place didn’t exist. Hell, fifty years ago Sam Walton, the founder of Wal-Mart, was still working at JC Penney.

I’ve decided that I’m a Wal-Mart: a dilettante specializing in cheapening genius and beauty to the point of democracy.

Andy Warhol was right when he talked about the wonder of consumer egalitarianism in this country. You can still watch TV and see a Coke and know that you can have a Coke just like the one Dubya is having, and the one Paris Hilton is having, and the one Bill Gates is having. All Cokes are the same and all Cokes are good, isn’t that what he said?

Yes — if we have any sort of a legacy, this is it.

Having procured the sneakers and socks — which I flatly refuse to wear — we hit the hills and find a look-out as we near Laughlin. The population there is less than 10,000, but it’s always buzzing with people: it’s the third most visited casino-destination in Nevada, after Vegas and Reno. From the look-out, we see Casino Drive’s lights reflected on the Colorado River like a little Las Vegas right at our fingertips.

I jump out into the heat to take a picture and have a smoke. My boyfriend comes out and before I can light up, he’s opened the side door of the car and bent me over the back seat.

Low-rise jeans give easy entry: you don’t really have to unbutton or unzip them to get them down. You just tug, whale tail and all, and you’re in.

It’s like we don’t even touch, we just fuck. I need his cock and he needs my cunt. We don’t even have time to moan before it’s over. I feel him tighten inside me after a few savage thrusts and I come. When I come, I send him over the edge. He pulls out–pop shot on my back.

He leans against the side of the car, I get out and, jeans still mid-thigh, light that cigarette.

Image by Gregory Melle. Originally published in Black Heart Magazine on December 6, 2007.

Becoming a Rope Slut

February 9, 2010 Daisy, Diary No Comments

“I think I’ll have you tied up and suspended tonight,” Sir M told me when I greeted him at a recent dungeon party. This was to be another chapter in my training and I was grateful for the de-emphasis on pain and the focus, instead, on altered states.

Rope bondage is an area of BDSM that attracts many admirers with the beauty and creativity of the craft, combined with the image of seeing a submissive completely helpless. A good rope practitioner knows how to lay the rope in an artful way to accentuate the body and personality of the one being bound. Rope bondage for suspension requires great patience and skill so Sir M asked a rope aficionado called Sir P, to do this for him.

I peeled off my dress and prepared to be bound

Sir P is an elegant older gentleman with the air of a doctor or professor. He is renown for his extraordinary rope skills and his speed so I was flattered to have my first session with the best. Assisting him was his faithful slave, looking like a sexy librarian. She sat off to the side, poised to serve. I noticed that she was pure protocol – she deflected any attention from herself and if she needed to ask a question or leave, she formally asked his permission. She never spoke unless spoken to, and when she did, it was in a raspy whisper.

Sir M gave me a direct order: “take off your clothes and your shoes.”

I pouted for a moment because I thought the suspension could be accomplished clothed. Also, I’d worn a latex mini-dress and it takes some time to take it off because the clingy rubber fabric is literally skin-tight. But I peeled off my dress and 6-inch stilettos as Sir P set up.

He arranged ten bundles of black ropes in slightly varying thicknesses and lengths on a bench. The first was wrapped around my hips. Sir P explained that this would hold the bulk of my weight, followed by wraps around my chest and legs. He was good about communicating what he was doing to me, each step of the way. Another rope was wrapped in a pattern around my chest and back so that my breasts popped out between the ropes.

He then wrapped a whole network of different ropes around me to make a harness with a bold pattern. The ropes were all threaded through a hoop ring hanging inside a big wood frame. When he was satisfied he pulled the main ropes tight and hoisted up my feet so I was horizontal. He added support for my neck and then I was comfortably flying.

The absolute freedom of bondage

I loved the feeling of weightlessness and of being a suspended object. I was aware that I was on display and several people had gathered to watch this “scene.” I couldn’t really see everyone but many complimented me on it afterward. Sir M was viewing from an armchair a short distance away and chatting with another dom. Although out of my line of vision, Sir M was still clearly in charge of me. Sir P checked on me frequently to make sure I was OK, feeling for cold extremities or numbness.

Soon I’d settled into the suspension and was mewing like a happy kitten. I felt secure tied up like that and not a shred embarrassed by my nudity. The ropes enveloped me and made me feel safe in spite of my vulnerable position. This confinement allowed me to surrender completely. It was a surreal, womb-like experience hanging in that dungeon room, with echoes of loud slaps and girls screaming off in the background.

In one corner a large girl wearing pigtails was bent over a spanking bed while a man used all his might to whack her behind with the seat of a stool. I was thankful that Sir M left me there to just soak it in and enjoy the experience and didn’t torture me with spankings. That would happen later.

Sir M had explained that some people can enter “sub-space” through suspensions — a trance-like state that’s very desirable in BDSM. I felt I gained a certain calm happiness that may have been the first step to subspace. But on this day, after 20 or 30 minutes the ropes started digging into me in an uncomfortable way and Sir P decided it was time to let me down. That took a while as well — he had to unwrap things in reverse order, taking care not to let any rope ends snap and hit me.

I felt oddly intimate with Sir P, as if the ropes were an extension of his arms hugging me.

Back on the ground, ecstasy awaits the rope slut

Once back on the ground, Sir P explained that I’d be very cold and should sit still for a while. He ordered his slave to wrap me in a Snuggie blanket (black, of course!) and sat me on a chair. I bundled up and started quivering and sighing deeply and feeling orgasmic waves of pleasure spasmodically shooting through my body.

Sir M came over to take care of me. He stood behind me and absorbed my energy spasms so he could feel my excitement and bliss too. Sir M hugged me and made me feel comfortable and safe to vocalize the swirl of emotions I was experiencing. I amused the two Sirs as I continued through periodic waves of ecstasy and amazement.

“It’s the endorphins and adrenaline pumping through you,” explained Sir P.

“Enjoy it!” Sir M piped in, “Now you’re a rope slut.”

It’s true, I can’t wait to be suspended again for a longer time. I crave the sensation of being immobilized by rope. It’s such a sensuous medium in the right hands. It makes me feel safe and cared for, and this frees me from the worries of daily life. The suspension by rope felt like a rite of passage, a path to awareness.

The prospect of losing myself through the physical transformations and altered states possible in BDSM play make this exquisite torture all the more appealing.

Daisy TraLaLA (@DaisyTraLaLA) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. Check back every Tuesday for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.


February 6, 2010 AV, Diary No Comments

Barstow, California was named after W. B. Strong–B for Barstow. The place’s a drive-through; no one wants to stay there beyond the ten minutes required to get a few more Bulls, piss and have a cigarette on the way to somewhere else.

I get out of the car and breathe the impossibly hot air — 124 degrees Fahrenheit. The wind burns through me and dust clings to my lip gloss. I smile behind the aviators and head into the gas station. I walk through; people are too busy staring at the woman in the hat — Californian B in black, baby — they don’t notice that I’ve cut the line until the door shuts in their faces behind the Stetson.

Walk out, looking over them in their over-sized, faded t-shirts and beat up tennis shoes. I love Americans, even if they always look terrible.

My boyfriend’s waiting for me outside. I take a last puff, drop my cigarette and he puts it out before the heat gust can blow it away. Inside the car, the A/C’s blasting. Jenna Jameson’s comeback flick with Wicked, Hell On Heels is on in all five screens. The short playing features Jenna as a winged version of the White Russian Kahlua ad; she’s being caressed by two fallen angels in raven black feathers. In the background a song reminiscent of Enya plays, creating the most perverse illusion of sanctity a Catholic could lay eyes on. This, of course, makes it my favorite part of the video.

On to Needles, still California, 148 miles east.

When I blow my boyfriend, I use cities as landmarks; Barstow to Needles, estimated hour and forty-five minutes. Ready, set, go.

Some people suck dick because they like to, because it turns them on. Some people do it because they have to. Most are a combination of enjoyment and compromise. I’m in it for the science when I’m on the road. Technique and endurance. The signs dotting the roads and interstates are meters.

You think a lot with a cock in your mouth when it’s not there out of desperate want during an unorchestrated sexual encounter. Thank god for the monstrous things that are American cars. Hunter S. Thompson crossed the desert in 1971 in a Chevrolet Caprice convertible, but it’s 2006 and we’re doing it in a Suburban.

God bless American opulence: without it, vehicular oral sex would be a cramped proposition.

Image by Patrick Dirden. Originally published in Black Heart Magazine on December 6, 2007.

Private Lessons

February 2, 2010 Daisy, Diary No Comments

A proper submissive needs to be trained and disciplined with more than just paddles and whips.

My training by Sir M has focused on protocol for a submissive -– and his sweet torture is a bonus. I committed to meeting him each Saturday night at the dungeon party but he wanted more time with me so I agreed to meet him during the week.

The question was where to meet, since his house is full and my apartment has paper-thin walls.

On a recent weekday I drove out to a far-flung location following his precise directions. We rendezvoused in a Walgreen’s parking lot, and then I followed him over to our destination. Our session was in the small living room of a suburban apartment lent to him by a friend.

It felt like we were trespassing on someone’s life — plastic bracelets were strewn on the coffee table, and a stuffed Hello Kitty doll perched on a tablecloth of fake lace.

I still had large, colorful bruises from our last play session

I stripped naked and he checked my aura — clean! He put a cute, red spiked collar on me.

“This is your play collar,” he explained.

He didn’t have me wear a collar at the dungeon party because I’m single, and unowned. The collar signifies ownership in public.

“I’ll try to not add any extra bruising this time,” he assured me, since the five-day-old bruises on my butt from the previous weekend’s dungeon party were still a vibrant purple and the size of navel oranges.

The first day’s private training was teaching me to distinguish the various types of floggers and the different effects he can get with each one. He left the blindfold off for the first part of the session so I could see each one. As he introduced them one by one, they graduated from smooth soft calfskin to rough to menacing.

Sir M lightly ran the strands of each along my face, my shoulder, my breasts, had me smell each and get familiar with it. He demonstrated the lightest touch, where the tails barely kiss my skin. Gradually he’d increase the impact to a brushing, thwacking, thudding and stinging sensation depending on which flogger he used and how he used it.

“Now put on the blindfold,” he commanded. It was time to play.

He flicked his wrist and delivered a sudden hard thud to my back with a black and silver leather flogger. I screamed loudly and snapped out of my fatigue. That worked better than a triple shot of espresso. He continued to flog my upper back, my thighs, around my ribs. The intensity worked up to a crescendo and then down again. Then he’d switch to another flogger for more of the same pace.

After the introduction to floggers, I was allowed to take off the blindfold and I make myself a cup of tea. He explained the six positions he likes submissives and slaves to use, and asked me to demonstrate each. The first is the classic surrender position but with a wider stance, appropriated from the military. Second is the same position, arms up behind head with fingers touching, but down on the knees with legs spread.

Pussy inspection

I was blindfolded once again and he ordered me to get down on the floor and assume position six, for pussy inspection. He was pleased to find my pussy wet and hungry.

“Mmm good! Very healthy!” Sir M’s expert fingers massaged my g-spot hard and coaxed me to squirt again and again. He cooed, “Good girl! Good girl!” He pulled his fingers out to the entrance of the vagina and lingered, swirled around my clit with my juices, then fingers plunged back inside for more. A warm wave of bliss spread over me. I felt invincible.

After this inspection, I was ready for more pain. Sir M stepped in very close to me and I could smell his soap or cologne, mingled with the smell of pussy juice. That turned me on and my nipples popped erect again. He showed me another of his knives, from a fraternal BDSM society he belongs to. It was wickedly sharp, curved and archaic-looking.

My gut clenched up and I quickly got a stomachache –- an adverse reaction to seeing the knife. He put the knives away and continued to use some of his floggers on me. The last looked like a cat-o’-nine tails and I was really thankful that he didn’t use it.

“Oh I could slice you open with that one. But I won’t,” he said reassuringly.

That special glow

Our training session lasted nearly four hours but the time passed quickly. I was high on the experience and the adrenaline. That euphoria lasted through the rest of the day. That night several people told me how great I looked and guessed that I must have done something special that day.

The truth is, I’m empowered by testing my own limits and taking that leap of bravery into unknown and terrifying places. And that makes my inner beauty shine.

A few days later I was craving the thud of his floggers more than anything. So when I got his e-mail instructing me to meet at the same place on Monday for more training, I was thrilled. I went into the bedroom and played with my throbbing cunt for a while, then went to sleep with a smile. I knew that my lover, who I’ll call J, would be back in a few hours and crawl into bed with me.

Daisy TraLaLA (@DaisyTraLaLA) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. Check back every Tuesday for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.

Sugardaddy Dating Is The New Black

January 28, 2010 Britney, Diary 1 Comment

What began as a new adventure into the world of cash and play became an interesting encounter with a new way of serious dating. When I started checking out dating sites geared towards rich men, I was expecting guys who were in it for the afternoon romps and weekend getaways, hoping to find sexy women who were happy with shopping excursions and no-strings attached relationships. I won’t lie that a lot of my contacts have been with men over 50, unattractive and desperate for a hot little number to swing around on a Friday night.


I’d spoken to several different men, who, when I asked why they’d choose a strange site to meet women, would say, “These women are looking for real men, not losers. They’re more serious about relationships, and that’s what I want.”

Interesting, I thought. They want genuine, serious dating relationships. These are guys who are heavily involved in their work or business, many of which travel on a regular basis and don’t have the capacity to be emotionally or physically available for a woman.


For women like me, who are attracted to the rich guy, these sites seem to be the harem of established, secure men. In this evolution of “equality” in work and home responsibilities, the feminist movement, many women are dissatisfied and longing for that chivalrous man, that dream prince who can take care of their every need and whim.

Seems the culture here is lacking of chivalrous men who want to take care of their woman, who can be responsible gentlemen. Where are they? When both sexes are working hard, that old-fashioned, bread-winning man looks all the more appetizing to a girl. To let a man take care of you, get a “sugar daddy.”


They just don’t have time or emotional capacity to do it the traditional way. If they are successful business owners, entrepreneurs or hard workers, you have to expect that they cannot offer something of the norm. They actually want a relationship, but on their terms.

An unconventional, hectic life needs something unconventional and flexible. They suspect they may just find that kind of girl on sugar daddy dating sites. They’re avoiding the escort types or gold diggers that tend to haunt these parts. Irony, I know…


People are honestly on these sites to find love, and with someone who would be able to retire young and have the world at their fingertips, or in their wallets. So, if you are a girl looking for a dependable guy who can spoil you senseless, you should check out these sites. And if you are a guy whose got the world to share with someone, you may just find that sweet, endearing young lady who can give you the world… in other ways.

Britney du Jour (@britneydujour) blew in to Los Angeles from Wholesome USA in the name of a Hollywood-style ever-after. Now that she sees this isn’t going to pan out, she’s decided to take charge… and start charging. Check back every Thursday for posts about her journey from hard working girl-next-door to working girl. Image in this post is by Tamara.

The Fair Vow Breaker

January 27, 2010 Darla, Diary No Comments

Before there was sex, there was history, and in this history there is a man by the name of Gerald. 

Gerald is middle aged and has a family. He believes in the scientific method, conservative politics, philosophical pursuit and all things adventurous.  Adventure was hard to come by once he became a husband and father. His days had become inseparable from the plot to the film Groundhog Day. Nothing was fresh or worth savoring. His idle mind left him wandering one particular evening in the depths of the web, via Google.

Gerald was curious about criminal psychology in the beginning of August 2007. His search revealed a particular criminal psychologist blogger who cited a link to an obscure and abandoned blog I had created in years past. The blog featured my e-mail address, and Gerald was captivated by the person I had introduced. Luckily for Gerald, I actually read the subject lines of items in my junk mail folder, and his subject line set him apart from the scammers and spammers: “Beauty,” it said simply. Who knew that a single ego-feeding word would draw me in and risk the health of my computer?

His missive read:

“Anything in any way beautiful derives its beauty from itself and asks nothing beyond itself. Praise is no part of it, for nothing is made worse or better by praise.” — Marcus Aurelius

Most of us know that spam is usually sub-human advertising, a bank account scam, phishing or random drivel. This was random, but far from drivel. I decided the email was worthy enough to respond to since most strangers don’t email me quotes about beauty from Roman emperor philosophers. My response was a slight twist to the emperor’s words, but sage enough to bait the hook and catch us a conversation worth having for over three years.

With any intimate conversation, people will stay engaged if you’re still interested, and especially if you’re interesting. I would describe myself as interesting, perhaps even borderline strange. I like to push limits and see how far I will go in any situation presented. You could say I was also interested in all things adventurous. 

That’s how it started. Innocently — or, well, as innocently as missives begging for adventure can be.

Neither he nor I had any idea just how far — and how deep — we would end up going.

If you met her in person, you would never guess the kind-faced psychologist and devoted fiancée was living such an intense double life. But she is — and she’s here to tell us some of the hot stories and logistics involved with conducting a successful illicit affair. Learn these lessons and you too will be able to join the select elite who can lead as many lives as their greedy hearts desire. Image in this post is property of A.V. Flox.

Sir M’s School of Discipline

January 26, 2010 Daisy, Diary No Comments

On a recent Saturday night I found myself blindfolded, nearly naked and chained up in the “play room” of a dungeon party. This was my first BDSM play session with Sir M and I was afraid, yet thrilled to be trained by such a highly experienced and respected Dominant. My adrenaline surged with the first smack on my behind.

“I’m going to introduce you to a lot of my different tools so you can learn the different sensations,”  he whispered as he locked me in a wrestler’s hold from behind with his left arm and slipped on my blindfold. His right hand then teased my erect nipples. “I’d like to string you up by these nipple rings but we’ll have to wait until they’re completely healed. What a shame!”

He tortured me with a series of implements – barehanded spankings, leather paddle spanking, three or four different floggers, a riding crop, and a lucite cane. With each one, he’d tell me what is was, stroke it softly along my face and body to teach me the feeling and the smell. Some floggers felt smooth and heavy, others has more of a tooth to the fabric like suede, and one seemed to have more texture.

Sir M’s Torture was delicious and painful

Sir M took his time and let each blow be absorbed before giving me the next. It was delicious and painful. I screamed a lot and swore uncontrollably, trying to dodge when the blows got harder.

“Don’t dance!” he’d yell if I squirmed around.

He was careful to test my limits — this session was going to be the base for many more to come.

Sir M paced our session so the pain intensity would warm up and swell and peak, then have cool down periods. There would be intermissions of pain and he’d check in with me to make sure I was doing OK. He’d check my chakras, caress me for a while, console me, then say “OK, slut, ready for more?”

A few times he cupped his hand around my throat just under the jaw for what seemed like several minutes. It felt strange and frightening, like I might be strangled, but I could still breathe just fine.

“Sir, may I ask a question? What are you doing?”

He chuckled. “You may ask that but I’m not going to answer. I’m checking something.”

I noticed that Sir M always stayed attuned to my breathing, sometimes synchronizing his own breath. When he gave the most intense pain he’d remind me to keep breathing deeply.

Divine surrender

At some point in the session I felt transformed. Lightheaded but clear. Exhilarated. Still feeling the pain acutely but able to spread it through my body with my breath and transcend it. I later realized we’d spent two hours but the time had flown.

When he was finished, Sir M had me wrap my arms around him and give him a bear hug. This helped ground me and prepare me for the outside world. He settled back down in the leather armchair and watched me get dressed, with his permission. He instructed me to clean off all the toys he used with alcohol and taught me to only clean the “fall” of the floggers, the part that touches the body.


We joined the groups socializing outside the playrooms, gathered by the fire pit. A slave called Cinnamon with glowing eyes and flushed cheeks rushed through the crowd holding a snifter of cognac. It was balanced on the palms of her hands as if she were a human tray. I could see she was rushing over to serve her master and it wasn’t a good time to chit chat.

I was pretty dazed. I stood there with Sir M’s heavy bag of whips and chains. Several people I’d never seen before complimented me on our scene, on my tattoo. I realized we must have drawn a crowd with my loud cries and screams. And we got their seal of approval.

I knew that once I stepped outside the club doors I’d return to being my assertive, independent self. That fact makes my choice of submission even more meaningful. I can attain freedom through surrender!

Daisy TraLaLA (@DaisyTraLaLA) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. She’s currently unowned and uncollared. The image used in this post is from Daisy TralaLA.

Britney, Sugarbaby

January 21, 2010 Britney, Diary 1 Comment

I’m not a golddigger. Actually, scratch that: I’m not greedy.

I’m smart, really. All I ever wanted in my life was stability and security. If I have those two things, everything else seems to flow elegantly along in my life.

I’m actually not about playing a game with men. I’m actually turned on by money and material wealth.

If a man demanded I bend over for a grand, I would quiver all over. The idea of a man showering me in gifts makes me want to fuck all day. I’m aroused by the power and possession a man could have over me. Rip my dress and panties off. But I insist you keep the Manolos on, the ones you just bought me. I’ll play hard to get, but all you have to do is enforce your power and open your wallet. Then I’m all yours.

Fashion is my foreplay. Cars are the lube. Money is the key to my dark heart.


Not even 30 years old, and I’ve had my taste of the nuclear family life and built a business. My father could never provide. My men could never provide. In fact, I was often the sugarmomma, to my dismay. I took care of my men, who tended to be distressed or despondent amidst their menial tasks. God forbid they lift an arm or take a risk for something important. One fluttered between jobs on whim. The other was an emotional sideshow.

I’d grown emotionally detached, even moreso than I had been during my childhood. I had no room for love, as much as I truly needed and wanted it. I worked until my hands bled, until my soul felt no warmth anymore. And it filled me with an envy for the women out in the world getting what they needed at the wink of an eye or tousle of their hair. I was beautiful and talented. Why was I working so hard to please others and make them happy, all the while I was fading away? I had all the heart in the world for adventure, and desperately needed it to thrive, for my own work and business to bloom.

I decided to make a change. I have a fetish for money and power, I’m sexual, I’m young, pretty and emotionally unavailable–I have all the components to being a successful, and delightful sugar baby.

I’m single, untethered by anyone or anything.

I’m game.

This is where I will archive my experiences in the transition.

Britney du Jour (@britneydujour) blew in to Los Angeles from Wholesome USA in the name of a Hollywood-style ever-after. Now that she sees this isn’t going to pan out, she’s decided to take charge… and start charging. Check back every Thursday for posts about her journey from hard working girl-next-door to working girl. Image in this post is by missmareck.


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Gamers Won’t Be Seduced, Will Stare At Random Cleav Instead

That Steam allows the objectification and sexualization of female characters in a variety of its games but refuses to accept a game about actually engaging with women in a more interactive fashion is astonishingly backward.

FetLife Is Not Safe for Users

That the site doesn’t take measures to protect user content and has shown incompetence or negligence in regard to user privacy, all the while prohibiting victims from warning others about predatory behavior creates an environment where it is nearly impossible for members of the community to take care of themselves and one another. By enabling FetLife to continue espousing a code of silence, allowing the spinning self-created security issues as “attacks,” and not pointing out how disingenuous FetLife statements about safety are, we are allowing our community to become a breeding ground for exploitation.

Why You Should Vote No On Prop 35

Should people who benefit (parents, siblings, children, roommates!) from the earnings of “commercial sex acts” (any sexual conduct connected to the giving or receiving of something of value) be charged with human trafficking? Should someone who creates obscene material that is deemed “deviant” be charged as with human trafficking? Should someone who profits from obscene materials be charged with human trafficking? Should people transporting obscene materials be charged with human trafficking? Should a person who engages in sex with someone claiming to be above the age of consent or furnishing a fake ID to this effect be charged with human trafficking? What if I told you the sentences for that kind of conviction were eight, 14 or 20 years in prison, a fine not to exceed $500,000, and life as a registered sex offender?

Pretty and Calls Herself a Geek? Attention Whore!

If you are a woman, you might be given a chance to prove yourself in this community. Since there is no standard definition of what a “geek” is and it will vary from one judge to the next anyway, chances of failing are high (cake and grief counseling will be available after the conclusion of the test!). If you somehow manage to succeed, you’ll be tested again and again by anyone who encounters you until you manage to establish yourself like, say, Felicia Day. But even then, you’ll be questioned. As a woman, your whole existence within the geek community will be nothing but a series of tests — if you’re lucky. If you aren’t lucky, you’ll be harassed and threatened and those within the culture will tacitly agree that you deserve it.

Cuddle Chemical? Moral Molecule? Not So Fast

Zak’s original field, it turns out, is economics, a far cry from the hearts and teddy bears we imagine when we consider his nickname. But after performing experiments on generosity, Zak stumbled on the importance of trust in interactions, which led him, rather inevitably, to research about oxytocin. Oxytocin, you might remember, is a hormone that has been linked previously to bonding — between mothers and children primarily, but also between partners. What Zak has done is take the research a step further, arguing in his recent book, The Moral Molecule, that oxytocin plays a role in determining whether we are good or evil.

How to Avoid Pissing off a Stripper

Let’s talk about the strippers. Whether they like to be half-naked or not, whether they enjoy turning you on or not, there’s one thing they all have in common: they’re working. Whether you think that taking one’s clothes off for money is a great choice of career is really beside the point (is it a possibility for you to make $500 per hour at your job without a law degree? Just asking). These women are providing fantasy, yes, but that is their job. And as a patron of the establishment where they work, you need to treat them like you would anyone else who provides a service to you.


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Here you’ll find news about the latest research being conducted to figure out what drives desire, passion, and other sex habits; reviews of sex toys, porn and other sexy things; coverage of the latest sex-related news that have our mainstream media's panties up in a bunch; human interest pieces about sex and desire; interviews with people who love sex, or hate sex, or work in sex, or work to enable you to have better sex; opinion pieces that relate to sex and society; and the sex-related side of celebrity gossip. More...