Archive for November, 2008

Stockholm Syndrome

There’s a marvellous entity in cyberspace who is sometimes known as Petite Etoile, sometimes LondonSpook, and probably lives under an array of other aliases. Her mind is a glorious and terrifying place. She writes fanfics and slash, and I felt compelled to do a copy-and-paste job with the latest, as it’s just too beautiful not to share.

Scars:

Ros gives a feline stretch and watches as the scars on her back ripple in the changing room mirror. They appear to be words, dancing across the page which is her skin. They tell a story and she can’t help but think of him. She can’t help but smile. Ros has never held the same views on love as everyone else. She always thought of love as a constant test; she pushed herself, and she pushed others until they reached breaking point. If they survived, then she could love him.

Stockholm syndrome, that’s what they called it.

Only this time it had happened in reverse. After six weeks of withstanding the beatings and abuse, her torturer had fallen for her. She had thrown down the gauntlet; the test had begun. His devotion wasn’t gentle; it was spasms of unbearable pain and pleasure culminating in an arena of insurmountable bliss. He understood her and she, him. There were days when he’d whip her for hours; she would say nothing, just let her eyes roll back in pure euphoria.

She’d been held captive for three months, when they both realised that neither one of them was going to break. It was then that she decided to love him. The only thing better than the cruel metal hand of the whip, was his own. His own nails clawing down the raw flesh of her back, deepening the welts and the cuts. His sweat burning her as it mingled with her congealing blood. They understood each other better than anyone else had done in their entire lives.

In the fourth month, they rescue her and she can see the horror written clearly in their eyes as she kisses him gently, before shooting him through the temple with his own gun. Her skin burns only this time it is from the warm water they are gently pouring over her. The Service had wanted him alive, and Ros knows she is in for the longest debrief of her life. Ros also knows that she did the right thing; he was not made to be broken, he was made to break.

Ros sighs softly as she pulls her shirt over her head. It’d had been eight years since then and she’d never found a more worthy adversary since. When Adam saw the scars he was indignant that anyone could hurt her in such a way. She didn’t dare tell him that she had liked it. She thinks she probably knew then that she could never love Adam; care deeply- almost painfully for him, yes, but never love. She sits down at her desk and pulls up his file, her eyes tracing the contours of his face. She pulls up her psych file at the time and lets out a soft laugh. It hadn’t been Stockholm Syndrome for her; he’d merely passed her test. He’d passed her test, so she had to love him; there was no question about that. It was fact. How does that saying go again?

Ah, yes.

Love hurts.

Police, Camera, Action!

Yes. I know. It’s that uniform thing again. I was trying to explain this to a friend over the weekend, after we had stopped at a petrol station and parked behind a police car. It was cold. The female officer breathed steam into the night air, and we made eye contact, just for a second, as she crossed the forecourt.

“She’s got a big arse,” said my friend.

“Nah,” I explained. “It’s the trousers. That postwoman cut. It’s the way the uniform’s made. It androgynises. Makes the body look kind of shapeless. Sexless. Somehow, I find that more attractive than if they put her in a Jessica Rabbit dress that showed everything off. Her curves are hidden by the institution she works for, which just - kind of - makes them more tempting. You know? It’s the lure of the forbidden that gets me.”

“It’s the handcuffs,” he said.

I gave a slow, contemplative nod, watching her pay the garage attendant. “Yeah. That too.”

Anyway, here’s WPC Birch from The English Mansion. Her uniform hasn’t got the regulation shapelessness of the real thing, but there are some lovely photos of her carrying out a spot of police brutality on a hapless chap here, as well as a couple of free porny femdom videos thrown in to keep you occupied. You have the right to remain silent.

Pros and Cons

People both inside and outside of BDSM have strong opinions about Pro-Dommes. It’s often said that when domination is paid for, it becomes a service industry. By accepting money from a client, the Domme is negating any authority she has over him and has to pander to his requirements, and is therefore a prostitute of sorts.

I can only speak for myself and the other Pro-Dommes I’ve worked with, but we get paid to do exactly what *we* want. The majority of clients who approach me for sessions are turned down. I could be very rich if I were to take on those whose fantasies didn’t interest me, or those who had the wrong attitude, or simply didn’t say please in their introduction. I live a financially modest lifestyle because I’m picky.

Otherwise, the sub would have control and the power dynamic would have become decidedly squiffy. It’s interesting to explore a client and discover where the sensitive points inside his (or her) head are, but ultimately, the Domme chooses what she wants to do in the session, and ultimately who she sessions with, and no cheeky bugger ever, ever, EVER gets to make demands of her. I’m willing to forego the mansion and the Bentley in favour of my own dignity.

The practical study of desire and excitement is something that beats in my chest, fills my lungs, and runs through my veins, and getting to live it full-time is a wonderful thing. If I became a scene purist and ceased to charge for sessions, I’d have to take on a vanilla job, and inevitably, no matter how far up the hierarchy I was, I’d have a boss. A boss! A boss who isn’t me! I’d be underpaid, knackered, and frustrated. Why on earth would anyone want to do that? That, for me, would be prostitution.

Footprints in the Sand

In the last of the holiday snaps series, Ms Slide splashes about in the frothing tide in bare feet, digging her wet toes into the sand and feeling the warm sea lapping at her bare thighs. $15, 4:25 wmv slideshow, 19.2 MB.

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