Friday, 27 March 2015

REBELLIOUS SLAVE by billierosie

So what’s all this stuff about Rebellious Slave – that damn book that I tweet incessantly about?

It’s a Female Domination story – it’s a love story – it’s a story with kinks. I try to show just how far a submissive man will go to please the woman that is his Mistress – in Reuben’s case, his wife.

I hadn’t realised when I created the Female Dominated organisation that is the Coterie how far I was tapping into the psyche of so many men. Men from all walks of life whose dark fantasies and dreams lure them to a world controlled by women – those Mistresses who dominate their male submissives absolutely. The males are there to obey their Mistress’ every whim – they are willing slaves. Free intelligent men who sign over their bodies and minds to The Coterie.

They are sexual slaves, always at the bidding of their Mistress – whether it be a nightly demand for cunnilingus or a whipping at the end of a long exhausting day. The males are humiliated – ordered to perform depraved acts, even if the perversion is not something that he has yearned for, the fact that he embraces his Mistress’ desires speaks of true love and devotion.

Yes…love. I was recently accused of writing books that celebrate cruelty…the dirt and disgust of perverse sexual preference and experience. My characters love deeply…in Enslaving Eli – Eli adores Jasmine. In Rebellious Slave – Reuben adored his Dominating wife Esme and his Mistress, Melissa. Lovers, always.
A reviewer on Amazon doesn’t “get” the acts of depravity in Rebellious Slave. Am I pushing my luck by drawing your attention to a negative review? My readers are discerning and intellectually savvy enough to make up their own minds. You can read the exchange of points of view here.

There is room for depravity within the framework of love; within the framework of erotica. I am talking about abject male submission.

Such a male is Reuben; also Eli, in Enslaving Eli.

But more about The Coterie. An ancient organisation dedicated to the Feminine principle. They are followers of the cult of the goddess Artemis -- the Coterie is wealthy; secretive. It has been in existence for centuries – it has the support of our leaders’ world wide – royalty too. But no one knows about it – there maybe hushed whispers, rumours even. The Coterie is there, but it isn’t. From their wealthy, ancient houses in England and across the world the Coterie Mistresses rule their men absolutely. And their men submit willingly, lovingly.

Here’s an extract about the origins of the Coterie – taken from my novella Enslaving Eli.

“They were shaded from the hot sun by two Ginkgo trees; the oldest species of tree, older even than the Coterie itself. No one knew when the two trees had been planted. Jasmine had read somewhere that there was a Ginkgo tree in China, estimated to be 3,500 years old. Fossils of Ginkgo leaves had been found dating back millions of years both in Europe and the Middle East. The strangely shaped leaves clattered in a sudden cooling breeze. Jasmine was glad of the shade and the breeze. She liked the warm weather, but despite her dark hair she did not tan well. She preferred to keep her complexion ivory white.

Jasmine inhaled the breeze. She was thankful that she could come to this place, steeped in history. A place ruled by women, time out of mind. It had always been thought that the Coterie legend began with Queen Elizabeth the First. But only twenty years ago, a Roman shrine had been found, right here, where she now sat in the little courtyard; it was dedicated to the Goddess Diana. It had been unearthed tenderly, by a female archaeologist, sponsored by the British Museum. Though the woman had preferred to remain anonymous, her book, “The Lost Pagan Shrines of England,” had been hailed as a masterpiece of scholarly integrity.

The scholar now resided at the Coterie, her anonymity diligently protected by the owners.

Jasmine and Mistress Claudia stood and walked over to the little shrine. The naked slave followed respectfully. The shrine looked just like a hollowed out rock concave; part of an ancient stone wall. But it had been authenticated by historians around the globe. A verified shrine to the Goddess.

Both women genuflected before the ugly little statue of Diana. It was grotesque, and worn with time, but still recognisable as a statue of a woman. A woman with many huge breasts. Fertile, yet virgin.

They were in a sacred place, and both women recognised it as a place worthy of devotion. Diana, the huntress and before that, the Greek Goddess, Artemis, and before that, far winged Selene, Goddess of the moon. The virgin Goddess. The shrine was dedicated to the feminine principal.”

In Enslaving Eli there is a scene where Eli is branded – there is no suggestion of him being forced – he goes willingly to the white hot fire. He bears the ritual with pride; with dignity. His Mistress has deemed it appropriate – that is enough for him. He recalls the pain and the stinking sizzle of burning flesh. He dedicates them to his Mistress and the Goddess.

Here is the branding extract from Enslaving Eli;

“When the Goddess reached him, she smiled at him. His breathing quickened. He broke out in perspiration. His heart rattled against his ribs. His mouth was bone dry.
Artemis placed her bow and quiver on the ground.

Her hands touched his shoulders, as if approving the sacrifice that Mistresses and Priestess had chosen for her.

She was tall, but she still barely reached his shoulder. She reached up and tangled long, strong fingers in his hair, pulling him towards her, kissing him, pushing her cool tongue into his mouth. Eli kissed her back, she tasted of aniseed and citrus. She smelled of wild flowers, poppy and wood anemone. She was warm in his arms.

Her fingers wrapped around his erection and she pumped gently. The smooth sensation was exquisite.

She turned him as they kissed, so that he had his back to the semicircle of women. She stood behind him, her hand on the back of his neck.

It was a silent command to kneel. Eli knelt.

She walked around him towards the altar. He caught a glimpse of her sandaled feet. He heard her remove the brand from the fire. One of the coals spilled over and rolled perilously near to his face. He heard her dip the brand in a pail of cold water. He heard the violent hiss of steam. He closed his eyes. He heard her soft footsteps as she walked behind him. He was aware that at least three of the Mistresses stood around his head. One straddled him, sitting on his shoulders. She was a heavy weight and he had no choice, but to lower his upper body to the ground, and raise his butt. The other two Mistresses used the hooks on the shackles to fix him at the wrists to the two iron rings.

The ululations and hissing began again. Eli could scent the excitement in the air. He could taste his own fear; it tasted like metal. His erection pained him, his cock slapped against his belly.

And then she did it. No hesitation. She placed her free hand onto his lower back to steady herself, then the red hot metal sank into the flesh of his right buttock. His piteous scream echoed around the Shrine, through the centuries and she didn’t let up. She was strong and she held it firmly in place. His screams and bellows shouted his fury and would have been heard for miles. Tears streamed over his cheeks, snot drooled from his nose. His mouth was open in a perpetual scream of negation and saliva dribbled over his lips. He bucked the fat Mistress from his shoulders, his strength was inhuman, like a raging, tortured animal. Every muscle in his body clenched, He retched as the brand cooked his flesh. Every bone in his body ached and the pain roiled through him.

He had been well conditioned to associate pain with pleasure and his body and mind did precisely what they had been trained to do. He ejaculated, his orgasm pumping his seed over the floor of the Shrine.

The rush of the orgasm was exquisite and still the brand cooked his flesh. He could hear the sizzle as the fat burnt, and he could smell the stench of cooked human flesh.
At last the Goddess lifted the branding iron. It had been a bloody mutilation, a violation; a massacre.”

The women of the Coterie are all powerful – submissive males fear them, long for them.

So what happens when…if a slave dares to transgress? That is Reuben’s story; the story that is Rebellious Slave…

Rebellious Slave is at Amazon US priced at $1.48 as a Kindle eread and in paperback at $3.59 click here

Rebellious Slave is also at Amazon UK priced at 99p as a Kindle eread and £2.75 in paperback, click here

Enslaving Eli is available as an eread at Amazon US at $5.99 click here

Enslaving Eli at Amazon UK at £3.68 click here

Enslaving Eli is also at Sizzler Editions click here

Enslaving Eli will be out in paperback later this year.

Friday, 20 March 2015

THE RAFT OF THE MEDUSA Jean-Louis André Théodore Géricault 

Jean-Louis André Théodore Géricault (26 September 1791 – 26 January 1824) was a profoundly influential French artist, painter and lithographer, known for The Raft of the Medusa and other paintings. Although he died young, he became one of the pioneers of the Romantic movement.

Born in Rouen, France, Géricault was educated in the tradition of English sporting art by Carle Vernet and classical figure composition by Pierre-Narcisse Guérin, a rigorous classicist who disapproved of his student's impulsive temperament, but recognized his talent. Géricault soon left the classroom, choosing to study at the Louvre instead, where he copied from paintings by Peter Paul Rubens, Titian, Diego Velázquez, and Rembrandt for about six years, from 1810 to 1815. There he found a vitality which he preferred to the prevailing school of Neoclassicism. Much of his time was spent in Versailles, where he found the stables of the palace open to him, and where he gained his knowledge of the anatomy and action of horses. WIKI

Géricault was beautiful, controversial, supremely talented. He had an affair with his aunt. The pair had shared an intense bond since Géricault's boyhood, but by his twenties he had matured into an eye-catching figure.

His teacher Carle Vernet claimed he 'had never seen such a good-looking man ... his legs were, above all, superb': Alexandrine-Modeste clearly thought so too and aunt and nephew started an affair. In 1816 Géricault fled to Rome in an attempt to distance himself from the imbroglio but he was back within a year and in 1818 Alexandrine-Modeste gave birth to his son. It was, therefore, in a state of turmoil that he started work on The Raft of the Medusa.

“Théodore Géricault was the quintessential Romantic artist: he died young and in torment, leaving behind him one great masterpiece and the legend of a painter touched by both genius and madness. 'Suffering is real and pleasures are nothing but imaginary,' he said; it was an extraordinarily bleak outlook and what is truly terrifying is that he believed it.

The painting that made his reputation was exhibited in the Paris Salon of 1819 as “The Scene of a Shipwreck”, but is universally known as “The Raft of the Medusa”. It tells the macabre story of one of the most notorious scandals of Restoration France: the abandonment on a jerry-built raft of 147 passengers and crew of the frigate Medusa when it came to grief off the coast of Senegal in 1816.

As the Royalist captain, officers and more well-to-do passengers headed for the shore in the ship's boats they cut the rope towing the raft, leaving those clinging to its planking to their fate. Provisioned with six barrels of wine, two of water and a sack of soggy biscuit, the castaways' ordeal lasted for 13 days, during which time they suffered from exposure, malnutrition, dehydration, mutiny, murder and, most thrillingly for the audience back in France, cannibalism.

When the raft was finally sighted there were only 15 skeletal survivors left and strips of flesh - human biltong - were hanging on the mast to dry. When the full story of the abandonment of the raft came to be known in France it became a liberal cause célèbre, the perfect example of the callousness of Royalist misgovernment.

Until the second decade of the 19th century, action painting in France—whether dealing with mythic, religious or historical events, and even if violent in content—often lacked real energy. In France, the gorgeous colours and symmetries of Poussin in the 17th century, the chiselled nobility of David in the late 18th and the austere beauty of Ingres at the start of the 19th, all gave way to the explosion of Romanticism. One painting, above all, might be said to have initiated the new movement: Théodore Géricault's ‘The Raft of the Medusa.’”
From the daily telegraph 1 April 2007
Michael Prodger

Géricault revolutionized the depiction of real events, taking for his subject a scandal only a few years old and "romanticizing" it. While the painter visited hospitals and morgues to study the moribund and cadavers, the figures on the raft here hardly look as though they have just suffered through dehydration, starvation, cannibalism and madness. They are muscular. Some are beautiful.

Today's viewer will probably respond less to this picture's political and historical relevance than to the drama of its composition. In terms of art history, it looks both backward and forward.

“"The Raft of the Medusa," while maintaining the symmetry of Poussin, changes painting once and for all. It is sculptural and architectural, but depicts no architecture. Two great overlapping triangles, suggesting both a ship's sails and the ocean's waves, define the space. They also contain 19 human figures (one barely visible, four others quite obscure) in various postures, combinations and stages of life: the living, the dying and the dead, old and young, black and white, male and—perhaps—female. Some have faces; others turn away from us. We can read the painting both from left to right and from bottom to top.

The picture represents a specific moment. The survivors have just sighted the Argus, the boat that will eventually rescue them but is now a speck on the horizon, actually passing them by. At the top, two men, one an African crew member, are waving banners, shirts or kerchiefs. The figures express a range of emotions, from eagerness and exultation to incredulity, despair, hysteria, resignation and apathy. Géricault's preliminary sketches (one smaller canvas hangs elsewhere in the museum) document the growth of his ambitions for the painting. The most shocking figure, absent from the earlier sketch, is a dead person on the lower right. Its gender is uncertain: Géricault used a male friend as his model, but the chest looks womanly. The head is outside the frame. We see primarily the person's midsection, with pubic hair exposed. Whoever this is, or was, has one leg still wrapped around a beam of the raft. Clearly the person will soon slip into the sea.

Another apparently dead youth has the beauty of a Greek sculpture. The most arresting figure, the only one staring straight out at the viewer, is an older, well-muscled man who supports the youth, perhaps his dead son. He looks like someone out of Michelangelo. His gaze suggests his transcendence of both hope and despair.

The painting's center has what seem to be cracklings or bubbles, which distort both the figures and their colour. The painter's use of bitumen on his palette came at a cost: This particular black appeared lustrous at first, but over time it created a wrinkling that cannot, according to the experts, be corrected.

If not as great a colourist as Delacroix, Géricault made an appropriate palette of deathliness. The picture's primary hues are sickly, pallid grey and yellow flesh tones, but there is a range of hues from alabaster to black. The colouring seems to work against the classic muscularity of the figures' bodies.

But there is more. Nature frames humanity. At the painting's bottom, top and sides, the waves and sky—in their colour and brush strokes both intense and delicate—compete with the humans for our attention. The planks of the raft, especially when viewed from up close, reveal delicate brushwork applied meticulously to reproduce the grain and colour of the wood. Flickers of light on the beams leaven the thick brown impasto.

First and last, there's action itself. Not just the waving gestures of the men at the top, but also the play of sea and light. The wind is blowing from right to left, against the tilt of the human action. The light shines from left to right. The two forces operate in perfect antithetical harmony. Géricault learned from Caravaggio all about chiaroscuro, and then went on to discover by himself a way of depicting human life and death in a painting that contains both natural tempestuousness and compositional calm. He has put pictorial symmetry at the service of ferocity. Two dimensions have never felt less flat.

Gericault’s preparations for the painting were meticulous: he befriended Alexandre Corréard, the Medusa's engineer who had survived the ordeal of the raft and who, with the ship's surgeon, Henri Savigny, had written a celebrated account of the shipwreck; he commissioned the ship's carpenter to build a scale model of the raft; and, most notoriously, in order to immerse himself in death he filled his studio with the heads and limbs of executed criminals borrowed from a nearby hospital. The paintings he made from these body parts are the most horrific still lifes in art, but also among the most beautiful.

The Raft of the Medusa itself is an enormous work, measuring more than 23 feet by 16: 7 meters by almost 5. To paint such a subject at such a size for the official Salon can be seen as a sign of political protest but it can also signal an artist who has lost all sense of what is appropriate.

The other pictures he was producing at this period - scenes of graphic sex and murder - also reveal a severely disturbed man. Within a couple of years he was painting portraits of inmates of a mental asylum, possibly as a fellow patient. Géricault was no clear-headed agitator but a man whose grip on reality was loosening.

Today, “The Raft of the Medusa” hangs, with other large canvases of that period, in one of the Louvre's grand galleries. It has darkened with time. Some of its figures are barely visible, and many details are occluded.”
From Willard Spiegelman’s essay; “Revolutionary Romanticism.”

Sadly, I haven’t seen Géricault’s painting.

Friday, 13 March 2015

BDSM (post 50 Shades) Madeleine Morris aka Remittance Girl

This is in response to a very disappointingly unnuanced article published in the Atlantic Monthly.

So, you’ve just seen Fifty Shades of Grey, or you read the book, or both and you’re thinking… wow, that’s looks sexy. I could go for some of that….
Okay, I really hope you read this fully and take what I’ve written here to heart and give it some deep consideration.

1. Fifty Shades of Grey is fiction, written for the purposes of selling books. It was written by a woman who is NOT a practitioner of BDSM and knows literally fuck all about it. It’s an amusing read, a sexy film, whatever. It has no data in it that is reliable for you to apply to real life. Watching Top Gun can’t teach you how to fly a plane and FSOG contains NO practical info on BDSM. Similarly, the stories you will find on this site are fictional. They are not self-help guides, or how to manuals. In fact, quite the opposite. Narrative form leans towards conflict, not harmony. My characters are not admirable, healthy people. They might be interesting fictional characters, but they’re all terrible role models.

It turned you on? Wonderful. Have a wank. Have five. But there is very little chance, statistically that you are a masochist or a sadist, or even all that wired to sexually enjoy the kind of explicit power dynamics involved in domination or submission. So, right off the top, enjoy the fantasy. You don’t have to take it into your real life to be cool or legitimate or trendy.

2. Being sexually aroused or getting erotic pleasure from inflicting pain or receiving it is not normative. I’m not saying it’s wrong, I’m just saying it’s less common than the hype would have you believe. There is a consumer trend at play at the moment to convince you that being that way is a glamorous and desirable thing. Manufacturers of Fifty Shades of Grey and BDSM merch and paraphernalia have in interest in trying to convince you that if you don’t have this stuff, you’re not hip, you’re not sexually aware, or liberated. This isn’t true. They just want to sell stuff and they don’t give a shit who they hurt or what kind of physical, mental or emotional trauma results from their lifestyle identification brand strategy. Bondage, beating and rough sex all carry significant physical and emotional risks. Anyone who tells you it’s absolutely safe is lying.

3. Many people who DO really find the giving or receiving of pain, humiliation, degradation, sexual control, etc., pleasurable have an agenda. They want the rest of the world to think they’re not sick or deviant or evil. There’s nothing wrong with this, because the vast majority of people who practice BDSM are ethical people who feel very strongly about consent and the rules that surround the practice of BDSM. BUT they have an agenda too. They don’t want to be persecuted or punished for their sexual tastes. They want to be validated and recognized as good citizens by mainstream society. This means that some organizations are guilty of downplaying the risks inherent in the practice and downplaying the fact that some people use the cover of BDSM to sexually abuse unwilling, non-consenting people.

4. Being someone who gets their sexual pleasure from causing another pain is problematic within a culture that condemns acts of violence. Generally, it takes a person who is wired this way many years to come to terms with their appetites and figure out how to engage in their type of preferred erotic activity while still staying within the bounds of the law and of humane ethical behavior. And some sadists NEVER manage it. So, cosying up to one carries risk. Always. I’m not engaging in victim blaming. When someone breaks your rules, breaches the boundaries you have set, they are ALWAYS the ones at fault. BUT, violence, especially associated with sex is a taboo in our society. People who get off on it are transgressive by nature. Transgression is about rule breaking. So, you are dealing with a person who is sexually aroused by breaking rules and you are depending on the fact that they will break the ones you like broken, but not the ones you don’t. YOU have an obligation of self-care. You have an obligation to understand that you are placing yourself at greater risk. If the world were fair, all sadists would be scrupulously ethical. But the world is not fair. When it gets fair, I’ll let you know.

5. Being someone who is sexually aroused or gets erotic pleasure from being hurt, humiliated, degraded, restrained, having one’s ego decimated, engaging in symbolic self-annihilation, etc. is also problematic in our culture. Our culture emphasizes the need to avoid pain, to care for oneself, to keep healthy, to hold oneself in high regard. A masochist also faces a difficult path in negotiating his or her way through mainstream society. Their need to get the kind of stimulation that satisfies them often leads them to take risks that others would not take. Just because a person gets sexual satisfaction from being caned doesn’t mean they are asking for or deserve to have their spine broken. But to not acknowledge that in letting someone cane them, they are taking a chance that this might happen is to be willfully stupid. Furthermore, servicing a masochist also requires having limits yourself. And although most masochists are ethical will accept what those limits are, some will not be able to do that. And that can make them very dangerous.

6. Shaming, bullying or manipulating someone into being submissive or taking pain when that isn’t what gets them off is FUNDAMENTALLY lMMORAL. No matter how cool the movies, books, the press or sex toy sales companies say it is. It is a deeply emotional and traumatic experience for anyone whose psychosexuality doesn’t lend itself to this kind of thing.

7. Shaming, bullying or manipulating someone into being dominant or inflicting physical or mental pain is JUST AS IMMORAL. And I suspect there are even more adults being cajoled into this kind of behaviour than anyone wants to admit. Acting in the capacity of a dominant or a sadist can be deeply traumatic to a person who is not naturally inclined to this.

8. Sex is not safe. It’s not safe in nature and it’s not safe in human society. People are vulnerable in sexual situations, both physically and emotionally. Society can inscribe laws that attempt to mitigate the risk and prosecute people who violate them. You can take sensible precautions, and minimize the risks on a personal level, but you can never eliminate them completely. If the world were fair, it would be different, but the world isn’t fair.

9. BDSM is FAR LESS SAFE. If sex carries some basic risk, kinky sex carries a much greater level of risk. It is transgressive sex. To transgress means to consciously and intentionally step over boundaries, to contravene taboos established within any given society. The eroticism at the core of BDSM lies exactly in the fact that kinky activities flaunt established social conventions and carry a level of risk. If it were safe, and socially acceptable, it would not be so erotic.
So… this is the paradox that few people want to accept. We live in a world that encourages us to have our cake and eat it too. But cakes and BDSM are both always subject to the laws of matter and physics. This can be very hard to accept because our consumer society keeps on assuring us that we can have BOTH transgressive pleasure AND perfect safety. It is a lie perpetuated for the purpose of encouraging your consumption.

But you can be thoughtful and self-reflective and refuse the Koolaid. Please, in this instance, stop thinking about what might be cool to have, or be or do. What do you need? What do you really need sexually, erotically, inside? Please ask yourself that.

I do not want to dissuade anyone from pursuing their kinks. I am not condemning, pathologizing or shaming anyone who has non-mainstream sexual tastes. I am not a hypocrite. I just want to try to inform you that you have a duty of care to yourself that goes far beyond this month’s hip thing, or this week’s sexual flavour. Ultimately, I want you alive, uninjured and untraumatized. And it is foolish to ever depend on anyone else to ensure you remain that way. If the world were fair, you could depend on others, organizations, websites, groups to help keep you that way, but the world is not fair.

I have mixed feelings about the debate regarding Fetlife and outing dangerous people. Even if Fetlife were to allow users to publicly accuse people of rape or lesser unacceptable behaviour, it would be a grave mistake to believe you were any safer. Meanwhile, its proponents seem unwilling to address the rare but grave issue of false allegations. A lot of rapes happen when people meet in a bar under very vanilla auspices. Do we post notes naming rapists in bars? I still think the best response to a rape is to formally accuse that person and make the law work. If what is at issue here is that the law, the police and prosecutions are not dealing with this, then that’s the battle we should be fighting – for everyone, kinky or otherwise.

You need to acknowledge that when you step into the world of transgressive sexual practice, you have walked into a less safe place. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be there, but it means that you need to be very vigilant and take responsibility for your safety.

You need to practice the care of self. Be well. Be careful.

Thanks to Madeleine Morris (aka Remittance Girl)for letting me post this brilliant more of Madeleine's stuff here

Friday, 6 March 2015


Melly is a character within the dynamic of an Age Play relationship – Melly is her ‘little girl' name. In real life Melly is an adult – I don’t know her real name. Melly is a Daddy’s little girl.

i’ve slept with a teddy bear all my life. this may seem insignificant, but it’s really not,. i had my teddy bear with me when i moved in with Master. i held him every night, and was tucked in with him when Master sent me to bed. When i was moved into a kennel for sleeping, the bear moved with me. This was the jumping off point for my D/g relationship with Master. When reaching for my bear one night, i felt especially “small”. i whined in a very little-girl-like manner. And looking up at Master, i felt comforted in a way that piqued something in me.

Later, i expressed to Master my little girl inside. i’ve always been child-like in my wonder and expression of joy and sadness, and Master had told me it was one of the things that endeared me to Him. He had me write an essay about being little, about wanting a Daddy. i poured out my feelings, and when He had me read my assignment aloud to Him, i was in tears. i blushed and was embarrassed at my desire to be little. i was shy about my connection to the little inside me. i was worried that He might reject that part of me, and be unwilling to be my daddy.

All those worries were very much in vain. i first called Him “Daddy” when He was tending to a wound on my hand (a splinter, gone infected.), cleaning it because it was awkward for me to reach. the alcohol burned, and i was shocked at my own self to hear a gasped “Daddy!!” leave my lips. He didn’t even blink. He just kissed my forehead, and told me, “Daddy doesn’t like hurting you like this. it’ll be over soon.” He was right, of course. The pain subsided, and the wound healed over the next few days, but i wrestled with that word, that place. Master, however, was already settling into His role, and later, when i asked Him if it was okay that i had called Him “Daddy”, he smiled gently, and hugged me close. No other answer was needed.

Over the past two years, my little and Master’s Daddy have grown into each other. And the two of us have settled deeply into those places with each other. i read to Him from my Nick Jr. subscription. He laughs and traces the mazes when i tell Him i can’t find the path. i can see His pleasure when i am excited and giggle. i put my arms around His waist, and He holds me and tells me i’m a good girl. and i am. inside our D/g dynamic, i have an innocence, a simplicity, that can’t be had elsewhere. i have an excitement and a wonder that is unsurpassed. i have a trust that can’t be broken. and Master takes all these things, and gives me the counterparts. He is the strong Daddy. He is the comforting hand. He is the responsibility that i can’t handle.

Ageplay, for some, is a separate activity from their everyday selves. Sometimes, i am more or less little, but i have not engaged in separate roleplay style “ageplay” for quite some time. Why? Well, because at some point, i stopped separating my little and my grown up selves. i embraced my little, even in the midst of being grown-up melly. My Master/Daddy understands this. We shifted into that gradually. Initially, i would put on a special t-shirt, put my hair up in braids. Turn on the TV to cartoons. It would take me a bit of time to “get into” being little. Now, it’s natural, and an inclusive part of my behavior. i don’t dress a particular way, or do anything special to send me into little space, though sometimes, i’ll pull my sippy cup down, and i often color to relieve stress and gain a sense of achievement from Master by showing Daddy my pretty pictures.

The D/g dynamic has vastly improved our relationship, because of the behaviors inherent in being little. trust, often fostered over a long period of time, came quickly. Fears were lost in the face of the wide-eyed wonder of a child. Communication flows freely between little melly and her Daddy, and she never has to worry about being judged. Even in the BDSM sense, things that grown-up melly might feel shame for become innocent in light of a child’s sense of exploration. Fears are only fears, and can be overcome. When i AM afraid, i can be comforted, and allowed to cry.

Emotionally, i am more stable when i am able to actively engage my little on a continuous basis. Mentally, i am more whole when i can allow this part of me to not only come out, but be ever-present. It IS who i am. i can no more erase her than i can erase my hand. Even if i remove it, there will be a stump, and something will be missing.
Just tonight, i asked Master, “Why do you like being my Daddy?” His response: “I don’t know… there’s just something about it. something .. important.” Indeed. Something very important. To us, having this dynamic is a closeness and a comfort. Master has never been a Daddy before. i’ve never been able to integrate my little into myself as fully as i have. Actually, i think i am about as fully integrated as i can get. And i think that’s very very good, for both of us.

i do realize that not all people do it like we do. It is perfectly fine to put on your hair ribbons and ageplay a single scene every few weeks. That’s just not what we do. i’m a 24-7 little girl, just like i’m a 24-7 slave. Sometimes, it’s more overt, sometimes, more subdued, but it is a very real and very important part of who i am. i am growing into BOTH of those identities more fully every day, learning more about myself in the process. i honestly hope i never stop!

Every night, i tell Master, “You’re the best Daddy in the whole world…” and true to His form, He replies, “i’m really glad you think so.” He IS the best Daddy for me. And i am the best little girl for Him. it’s now integral to our relationship, not added on. it’s who WE Are.

Submissive Guide

Friday, 27 February 2015


It was the first notorious killing of the twentieth century. July 1910 Britain was gripped by the progress of a huge man hunt. It was on a scale that hadn’t been seen since Jack the Ripper.

The fugitive was Doctor Hawley Harvey Crippen and he was wanted for the murder and mutilation of his wife Cora. Together with his mistress, Ethel le Neve, Doctor Crippen had fled from London. Handbills had been printed and pasted everywhere and distributed to police around the world. Everyone was talking about this case.

The Home Secretary, a certain Winston Churchill had organised a reward of £250, worth £20,000 in today’s money for their capture.

So where was Doctor Crippen and his lover Ethel le Neve? In fact they had already left the country and were holed up in a hotel in Belgium. They had plans to leave for North America.

Henry Kendal was the captain of a steam ship heading across the Atlantic to Canada. But two of his passengers had aroused his suspicions. The SS Montrose had only been at sea for one day when Captain Kendal noticed a father and son behaving strangely on deck. He thought it was very odd that they squeezed each other’s hands immoderately, as he put it, and that they would sometimes disappear behind the lifeboats. The two of them were travelling as Mr and Master Robinson.

What happened next was just like a detective novel, with the Captain playing the part of Sherlock Holmes. Captain Kendal decided to carry out an experiment to try and confirm his suspicions that he had Doctor Crippen on board. He took a newspaper photograph of Doctor Crippen and using chalk he whitened out the Doctor’s moustache and then blackened out the frames of his spectacles and it was a photo fit. Without his moustache and spectacles the mysterious Mr Robinson was clearly Doctor Crippen.

Captain Kendal had access to a pioneering piece of technology that would speed up the process of twentieth century crime investigation. It was the Marconi wireless, but the transmitter only had a range of 150 miles. When Captain Kendal made his breakthrough he was already 130 miles from the nearest receiver; he had 20 miles left to get the message out. Rushing along the lower deck to the wireless room he handed the wireless operator the message that would electrify the world.

It read:

“Have strong suspicions that Crippen the London cellar murderer and accomplice are amongst the passengers. Accomplice dressed as a boy but with voice manners and build undoubtedly a girl.”

But would the message get through in time?

So what exactly were the events that had led up to this extraordinary situation?

Doctor Crippen, an American, who dabbled in cheap patent medicines and dentistry had been living what seemed a pretty conventional life in a North London villa. His wife, Cora, was a would be music hall artiste. But the marriage was troubled and Crippen had begun an affair with his young secretary, Ethel le Neve. On the 19th January 1910, Crippen visited a chemist to purchase five grains of hydro bromide of hyosin; an enormous dosage of a deadly poison. He signed the poison book like he was supposed to, with the words “for homeopathic purposes.”

On the 31st January, the Crippens held a little party at home. Later, Crippen would claim that it had been followed by a terrible quarrel between him and his wife. Cora had said that she was leaving him the very next day. Whatever really happened that night the guests at that party were the last people to see Cora Crippen alive. To explain Cora’s absence Crippen claimed that she had gone back to America and then he later said that she had died out there. Very suspicious Cora’s friends now paid a visit to New Scotland Yard. The case was taken up by Detective Chief Inspector Walter Dew, a veteran of the Ripper murders. He was a member of the Yard’s newly formed “murder squad”. Its members prided themselves on their prowess and their skills in disguises – however unconvincing. Chief Inspector Dew searched Crippen’s house for evidence but found nothing. But he wasn’t quite satisfied. He went back three days later for another look and discovered that Crippen had disappeared. “My quarry has gone,” he said.

Crippen’s house, where a block of flats now stands held a strange attraction for Dew. “That sinister cellar,” he wrote, “draws me to it.” His sergeant began to work away at the brick floor, then to remove the earth beneath. There was a nauseating stench and Dew and his men had to rush out to the garden for fresh air. Fortifying themselves with brandy, they returned to the cellar and soon made a grim discovery. There, in a shallow grave, lay a limbless headless torso. What kind of person could have done this? Surely not gentle Doctor Crippen?

The story caused a frenzy of excitement, with lurid headlines in the popular press. Inspector Dew was now under enormous pressure to catch the killer.

And then, that sensational telegram arrived from the mid-Atlantic.

Chief Inspector Dew now hatched an ingenious plan – he had to take a faster ship to overtake the Montrose before it reached Canada and to arrest Crippen on board. And the press were hard on his heels. Word had leaked out about what was happening on the SS Montrose. Newspaper readers could follow Dew’s pursuit as he closed in on his suspects at the rate of three and a half miles an hour.

This story has it all. As well as a gruesome murder, there is an illicit romance and a chase across the Atlantic. And best of all, the suspects didn’t have a clue that the police were onto them, although every newspaper reader in Britain did. Doctor Crippen had become the most famous murderer in the world.

Dew attempted to evade the journalists by disguising himself as a harbour pilot in order to board the Montrose. But it was no good. Reporters were there to capture the moment when Dew finally greeted his suspect with the words; “Good morning Doctor Crippen.” Can you imagine an actor and director lingering over that line – the pace, the dramatic pause?

Press photographers caught everything that happened next. The crowds waiting at Liverpool docks. Dew escorting Crippen off the boat. The anticipation outside Bow Streets magistrate’s court for the committal of Crippen and Le Neve.

The press had made the couple into a highly marketable commodity. This was a very modern murder.

Bizarre offers now began to come in. If they were acquitted Crippen would get £1000 a week for a twenty week tour. le Neve would receive £200 a week for a performance including a musical sketch entitled “Caught by Wireless.”

On the 18th of October the trial of Doctor Crippen began at the Old Bailey. This was going to be a huge spectacle. Four thousand people applied for tickets, the court had to issue special half day passes so that double the normal numbers could get in. In the words of the Daily Mail’s reporter;

“…the crowds begged, pleaded and argued for seats in the public gallery.”

Inside there was even more chaos. There was a rowdy atmosphere, like a music hall. People were shouting ‘blue tickets that way, red tickets up here.”

The trial ended on Saturday the 22nd of October. The jury only took twenty seven minutes to find Crippen guilty of wilful murder. He was sentenced to death.
In his evidence on oath, Crippen said that his wife had often threatened to leave him and had picked a quarrel with him over his behaviour while they were having friends round for dinner. Recounting the last time he saw her, he said:

She abused me, and said some very strong things; she said that if I could not be a gentleman she had had enough of it and could not stand it any longer and she was going to leave. That was similar to her former threats, but she said besides something she had not said before; she said that after she had gone it would be necessary for me to cover up any scandal there might be by her leaving me, and I might do it in the very best way I could. I came back the next day at my usual time, which would be about half-past seven or eight o'clock, and found that the house was vacant.
The trial ended on Saturday the 22nd of October. The jury only too twenty seven minutes to find Crippen guilty of wilful murder. He was sentenced to death.
The jury took just 27 minutes to reject Crippen's explanations for his wife's disappearance and convict him of murder.
Crippen was executed on 23 November 1910, less than four months after his arrest. His last request was to have a photo of Ethel Le Neve in his top pocket when he was hanged. He was buried in the cemetery at Pentonville prison.

Ethel le Neve, at a separate trial was acquitted and she lost no time in selling her side of the story. A publicity shot shows her in her infamous disguise as a boy. But her fame was short lived. It was Crippen himself that would be imortalised. Even during his trial sculptors at Madame Taussaud’s had been preparing a wax figure based on those snatched court photographs. Within days of the passing of Crippen’s death sentence Taussaud’s unveiled their new addition to the chamber of horrors. Crippen was on display to the public before he’d even met the hangman.

And over one hundred years later he is still on show.

In the 1912 catalogue to the Chamber of Horrors he takes his place amongst the greats. His fellow doctor, William Palmer the poisoner. And opposite the 19th century murderess, Maria Manning. They have a description of their crimes in the catalogue. Doctor Crippen has none. Everyone knows who he is; what he did.

And a contemporary journalist described this place, the Chamber of Horrors as “the holiest of holies.” These were the people everyone wanted to see. What does that say about the Edwardians?

Indeed; what does it say about all of us? Public hangings are no more; but I bet people would go to see them if they were. I recall watching the Crime channel (I’m addicted to it. It’s my version of a seat in the public gallery at the Old Bailey) there were crowds outside the jail where they’d got Ted Bundy. They cheered when it was announced that his death sentence had been carried out.

It seems that a lurid fascination with murderers and death did not die with the Edwardians.

You can read statements taken by the police and transcripts from the trial here;

TV viewers of BBC 4 will recognise that I have plundered parts of “A Very British Murder” presented by Lucy Worsley. The rest of the post has been put together using sources from the web.

Friday, 20 February 2015

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

It’s two in the morning. In the opening scene of Edward Albee’s WHO’ AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF, George and Martha stumble home tipsy, from a party. They bicker, in the way drunks do about things that don’t really matter. They laugh; stupidly.
The loud snap of a door latch. Action!

Martha; “What a dump!” The play begins.

Yes, it's 2am and Dionysus is on the prowl. Dionysus is alive and well this night in New England in the 20th century. His red gaze falls on his two old disciples, George and Martha. The beast has been unleashed; he wakes from his long slumber, and snarls. George and Martha will act out Dionysus’ ritual and sacrifice. They will scream and go mad. They will paw and claw at each other. They will do real damage. The ritual will end in death, just as it did every year centuries ago, in Eleusis.

Dionysus is the Greek god of fertility, wine, and ecstasy. A complex deity Dionysus played two very different roles in Greek mythology. As the god of fertility he was closely linked with crops, the harvest, and the changing of the seasons. As the god of wine and ecstasy he was associated with drunkenness, madness, and unrestrained sexuality. His nature included a productive, life-giving side and a bestial, destructive side.

The audience know immediately, that George and Martha have acted out this orgy of violent, verbal bloodletting before. How we know; well, no-one tells us, it’s just a gut feeling. The humiliating word games they play; “Get the Guest.” The stories that they tell suggest that this obscene rite has been performed before. George and Martha are in the grip of a repetition compulsion. Just as Hades and Persephone act out their ritual of death and re-birth so do George and Martha. The Dionysian mysteries were repeated annually; the sacrifice, the ritual tearing of human flesh to please the god ensured healthy crops and fertility for the coming year.

George and Martha are part of this eternal conflict. Their game is cyclical and they play it through to its bitter conclusion. Only then can they achieve sanity, sanctity and restore order.

Two guests arrive and they are immediately drawn into George and Martha’s ugly little scenario.

I watched the film of WHO’S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF, this week. I didn’t want to; I knew I was in for a rough ride. I’ve seen the stage play and seen the film. Both left me shattered. The film stars Richard Burton as George and Elizabeth Taylor as Martha. George Segal is Scott and Sandy Dennis is Honey. The film is made in black and white which works well; the stark images helping to convey the creeping, sinister feeling that everything is slipping out of control. Usually, I would prefer to watch a stage play over a film, but the close up camera work lingering on facial expressions adds to the tension. I feel as if I’ve watched a violation, something profane. Something I should have stopped but was helpless to do anything.

There’s a hopeless, helpless slippage going on that things are not what they seem.

This is psychological terrorism.

At one point, Martha says to George. “Truth and illusion. You don’t know the difference.” George responds; “No, but we carry on as if we do; the illusion can be as true as we want it to be.”

While Martha is showing Honey where the bathroom is, George tests Nick's verbal sparring skills, but the young man is no match for his host. Realizing that he and his wife are becoming embroiled in the middle of marital warfare he suggests they depart, but George cajoles him into staying.

Upon returning to the living room alone, Honey innocently mentions to George she was unaware he and Martha had a son on the verge of celebrating his sixteenth birthday.

Martha has broken the rules by talking about their son, and will be, must be punished.

But at this stage of the play, it is Martha who is controlling the action. George seems like an amateur compared to Martha’s bitter vitriol.

Martha reappears in a new outfit - sleek fitting slacks and a revealing blouse - and when her husband makes a snide remark about the ensemble, she begins to demean his abilities as a teacher, then escalates her seduction of Nick complimenting him on the body he has
developed as quarterback and a state boxing champion, while criticizing George's paunch.

Honey again raises the subject of George and Martha's son prompting the couple to engage in a conversation which Martha quickly tries to end without success.

To counterattack George's relentless comments about the boy she tells their guests her husband is unsure the child is his own. They argue about the colour of the boy's eyes until George threatens to expose the truth about the boy. Martha is furious and accuses him of being a failure, whose youthful idealistic plans for the future slowly deteriorated as he came to realize he wasn't aggressive enough to follow in his father-in-law's footsteps leaving her stuck with a flop. Inebriated and upset by Martha's behaviour, Honey rushes from the room.

Honey’s comical hysterical exits and entrances provide the audience with a much needed relaxation of tension. We are already feeling battered; we need to breathe before the next round of screeching, screaming annihilation. It’s a relief to be allowed to laugh; it’s only when we laugh at Honey’s antics, we realise how our jaws have been set in a grimace of horror, like Munch’s SCREAM.

Honey is the Greek Chorus, commenting inanely, sometimes profoundly on the action. Sometimes she simply repeats the last word of the dialogue. Sandy Dennis’ wonderful comic timing, and physical comedy, releases us from the tension for just a beat, or two.

Honey wants to dance; she loves to dance. “I dance like the wind,” she tells us, while skipping and waving a silk shawl. Her dance is reminiscent of a Dionysian orgy.

“Following the torches as they dipped and swayed in the darkness, they climbed mountain paths with head thrown back and eyes glazed, dancing to the beat of the drum which stirred their blood. In this state of ekstasis or enthusiasmos, they abandoned themselves, dancing wildly and shouting 'Euoi!' [the god's name] and at that moment of intense rapture became identified with the god himself. They became filled with his spirit and acquired divine powers.” (WIKI)

The play is overshadowed by children, or the lack of them. Honey has had an “hysterical pregnancy.” “She goes up, she goes down.” One of the first questions George asks of Scott is whether he and Honey have children. George tells a story about a boy, blonde haired and beautiful. He shot his mother and killed his father in a road accident. He’d swerved to avoid a porcupine. The story has a peculiar resonance with what George says to Martha about their own son.

Martha; “our son is coming home tomorrow, for his 16th birthday.” George tells her that their son is dead. He drove into a tree, trying to avoid a porcupine on the road. Martha bursts into an hysterical rage. George has killed their son. He has no right.

But George has taken control of the action. He was in control all along; the audience and Martha just didn’t realise it.

Martha asks George, where is the telegram notifying them of the death of their son? George says he’s eaten it. He hasn’t; there was no telegram. Honey colludes with George. She tells Martha, “He did eat it, I watched him.” George’s statement is a blatant, bitter parody of the Eucharist. Transubstantiation; the participant consumes the wafer, the body of Christ. The disciple consumes the Divine and becomes the Divine.

Was any of this true? Was there a son? Was a boy, killed? We don’t know, and that really is unsettling. We know that the telegram is a lie; what else is a lie?

There’s a strange feeling of calm as George begins to pray. The final act is entitled “Exorcism.” Is this an exorcism or a requiem? A prayer for reconciliation? Is it a funeral mass? While George is reciting the prayer, Martha talks. The two voices speaking simultaneously, produce a rhythmic, calming, lulling effect. Order is slowly being restored.

George; Kyrie Eleison. (Lord have mercy.)
George; Christe Eleison. (Christ have mercy.)
George; Kyrie Eleison. (Lord have mercy.)
Honey; Amen. (So be it.) Honey, as the Chorus, speaks the final word of the prayer ending Dionysus’ revels. The games are over.

Kyrie Eleison is Greek, and is a part of many liturgical rites in Eastern and Western Christianity.

Scott and Honey leave, almost unnoticed. George and Martha relax. The actors take their curtain call. The credits roll to Alex North’s tranquil music. George and Martha prepare to go to bed.

Dionysus sleeps.

Friday, 13 February 2015

GOOD PUSSY BAD PUSSY -- RACHEL'S TALE by A.Aimee -- A sexual thriller and erotic romance

‘Good pussy bad pussy. I knew something had awakened in me, something I’d never experienced before. A force, a power, a drive, an energy. Call it good pussy, call it bad pussy, call it whatever you will, but a life force had been awakened in me and I couldn’t put it (her) back to sleep again. Right or wrong, she was awake! She was alive! And she wanted more.’

In this fascinating tale of forbidden sex and guilty pleasures, readers can follow the beautiful and naive Rachel in her dangerous attempt to be free, follow her heart and satisfy her pussy – all at the same time!

From Amsterdam to the French Riviera to New York City… from her blond lover Stefan, to the aristocratic Albert, and mad doctor Howard, Rachel tastes the forbidden fruit – and likes it. That is until life takes a very surprising turn! And yet another…

Tim Spencer interviews A. Aimee about her book “Good Pussy Bad Pussy – Rachel’s Tale”

Tim Spencer Question:

In your book, Rachel has to leave her husband to experience the orgasmic bliss she is seeking. Was her leaving him driven by a conscious need that she had for this experience? Did she understand what was really happening with her? And, if it's possible, how do you see such experiences of orgasmic bliss influencing other aspects of people's lives.

A. Aimee Answer:

In my understanding, orgasm – the big O that we are all seeking – is truly a portal to ecstasy, a state of timeless awareness and the death of the ego, which is so blissful. And that I believe is why we’re all so desperately seeking this experience. That’s my understanding of it. Orgasm, or the great surrender, is such an amazing experience because finally we let go and give up everything. Everything! In other words, in that state of blissful surrender we even give up thinking and worrying about everything and anything that’s bothering us. At least for a few moments! So at least for a few moments, we truly lose our minds! And then, oh great glory and wonder, we are finally fully present in our lives in this now moment. No wonder we find it so extraordinary!

So I wanted to write a book about a woman who experiences this blissful surrender at great depths. And I also wanted to write about a woman who finds these states of orgasmic bliss outside of our so-called “normal” couple relationships (marriage) and in situations that are often quite beyond what we think is acceptable. In my story, Rachel is often shocked and surprised when she discovers that her body can respond in one way even if her mind was screaming something else. Hence the title – Good Pussy Bad Pussy.

Tim Spencer Question:

Through all the events that happened in Rachel's life in this story, is it logical to conclude that Rachel found that living a life that cannot be sustained emotionally is unfulfilling? What do you think it takes for a woman today to live an emotionally fulfilling life?

A. Aimee Answer:

Yes, in the end, Rachel was not willing to put up with a mediocre life that was emotionally unfulfilling. She was ready to live “outside the box” so to speak even if she couldn’t always find her way or see the consequences of her actions. At least she was willing to give it a try and go after a deeper level of satisfaction – even if it had unexpected karmic consequences for her. So yes, I think all of us – both women and men – are seeking a deeper emotional fulfilment than most of us are experiencing.

Tim Spencer Question:

Do you think that ultimately Rachel learned, through all her experiences and relationships in the book, that what she was really looking for was someone she could love and be with? Or, if there was more to it, what was it?

A. Aimee Answer:

Rachel wasn’t so hung up on the idea of marriage and couple relationships – rather she was seeking true intimacy – however that would reveal itself in her life. Seeking this demands real courage, as she found out. And honesty.

Tim Spencer Question:

Finally, was it all of the experiences that she had and the people she experienced in the book the reason she came to choose a career in psychology? What did she come to "see" that made her want to help others in this way?

A. Aimee Answer:

Traumatic experiences such as Rachel had often make us question our beliefs and spark a desire to go deeper and understand more. This was definitely the case with Rachel. And I continue to explore this and the other themes in the next Good Pussy Bad Pussy book.

Tim Spencer Question:

Wait, one more final question... is there a second book in the works for Good Pussy Bad Pussy? Do you have an expected release date?

A. Aimee Answer:

Yes I’ve just finished another Good Pussy Bad Pussy book. The title of the new book is “Good Pussy Bad Pussy in Captivity”! It will be released in the fall of 2015. You can look forward to a deeper exploration of these themes, lots more drama and adventure, and yes, lots more hot sex!

Good Pussy Bad Pussy is getting fantastic reviews!

The book is getting great reviews all around including so many 5 Star reviews on Amazon and Goodreads such as:

Good Pussy Bad Pussy is a “great freaking book! 5 Stars” says blogger and book reviewer @ReneeGiraldy on her blog. Read more here:

“Good Pussy Bad Pussy is one of those pieces of work once read, never forgotten. 5 Stars” says Darla Hogan on Amazon. And he continues: “An uncomfortable story but one that needs to be told, and read.” Read more here;

“There’s enough craze and kink, tears and thrill, romance and repentance to make Good Pussy Bad Pussy a perfect gift.” Doris Dawn, sex blogger on her blog and on Goodreads:

“Good Pussy Bad Pussy is brave, wonderfully done, it hooks me in and grabs my interest from the start,” writes blogger and book reviewer Sylvia Storm. Read more here:

For more see:
Or contact the author at:
The book is available on Amazon and from other sellers as a printed book, Kindle and ebook.

Interview posted on Tim Spencer’s Web site here:

Tim Spencer’s narration of the start of “Good Pussy Bad Pussy” here:

Good Pussy Bad Pussy trailer by Tim Spencer, here.

Links for A. Aimee

Her website




“Good Pussy Bad Pussy” purchase links:

Amazon com: Amazon Kindle: