Wednesday, 30 December 2009


Ooh! Tie me up…tight…I can take it. Blindfold me; gag me. Show me to your friends as I sink passively into my humiliation. Then you can rescue me; untie me. By indulging me in this secret ritual, you show me that you love me.

Check out Aubrey Beardsley’s dirty picture. The woman is stuffed -- literally. She is being whipped; tormented by her master. Beardsley draws a degrading image; yet the woman does not struggle. She acquiesces. She is passive.

The passivity of women, portrayed in bondage images, struck me, as I put this piece together. It’s the contrast to the piece I put together a few weeks ago, on male bondage that I find intriguing. The men struggle furiously; violently against their tormentors. Their desperate cries can be heard through the canvases; they echo in the marble sculptures. The women do not cry out; they just take it.

If the old Masters are deliberately intending to arouse, is the sight of a strong man struggling, a turn on? And the sight of a docile woman, meekly succumbing to her fate, erotic? Traditionally, the answer has to be ‘yes’. The themes of struggling man and helpless woman, are reflected in contemporary pornography and old stories. Look at Laocoon fighting his adversaries; those muscles! The Sleeping Beauty, the most passive woman in our fairy stories, isn’t just surrendering to her fate, she is sleeping through it; until, of course she is rescued -- by a strong man.

But to get back to bondage; what’s going on? Why do folk want to tie each other up? Are they sexually strange? Is there such a thing as sexually strange? Or are the web sites coming up on the search engine, just tapping into a fetish that’s been going on for centuries, in those very old stories and paintings?

The bondage of Andromeda is a topic that has fascinated artists for centuries.

Edward Poynter paints Andromeda in 1869. She bows her head. She submits. Her hands are tied behind her. Her blue, silken robe, restrains her further.

Here is Andromeda’s story.

In Greek mythology, Andromeda was the daughter of Cepheus and Cassiopeia, king and queen of the kingdom Ethiopia.
Her mother Cassiopeia bragged that she was more beautiful than the Nereids, the nymph-daughters of the sea god Nereus and often seen accompanying Poseidon. To punish the Queen for her arrogance, Poseidon, brother to Zeus and God of the Sea, sent the sea monster Cetus to ravage the coast of Ethiopia including the kingdom of the vain Queen. The desperate King consulted the Oracle of Zeus, who announced that no respite would be found until the king sacrificed his virgin daughter Andromeda to the monster. She was chained naked to a rock on the coast of Jaffa. Luckily, the hero, Perseus, was sailing by, fresh from slaying the Medusa. He fell in love with Andromeda and rescued her, just as she was about to be devoured by the sea monster.

Gustave Dore paints Andromeda, also, in 1869. Dore paints her delicately. You can count her tiny toes. Her skin is fragile; translucent. She is a helpless victim.

Rembrandt paints Andromeda in 1629. His Andromeda has a look of desperate fear on her face. Still, she does not struggle.

Tying up women is an ancient art, that is thriving today. You can read stories about it on the web; you can look at pictures. I got 715,000 hits just from typing in ‘female bondage’ to Google. Interestingly, I got twice as many hits for ‘male bondage.’ Why is that I wonder? But that’s maybe a topic for a different discussion. Although, any suggestions will be gratefully received!

Sunday, 20 December 2009


She knew that he knew that she was watching him. She cast her predatory gaze over Joseph’s strong body; her eyes lingering on his broad shoulders and neat, tight butt. It amused her to see him nervous; trembling. Almost dropping a priceless ‘rose en famille’ porcelain plate, on loan from the British Museum. She mused on what he would be like to play with; a sweet little Christmas treat. A new pet.

Ulena looked around her antique shop, decorated and displayed for the Christmas festivities. She was satisfied; the exclusive, and expensive interior design guys had been worth it. The fifteen foot blue cedar tree, that she’d had especially imported from Russia, looked superb. It topmost branch reached up to the high ceiling of what had once been a Regency sitting room. Festooned with thousands of tiny blue lights and no other frippery, it was exquisite; mysterious. The opening chapter of a fairytale. The rooms of the old house didn’t look like a shop, with the huge log fire blazing in the hearth. Ulena had wanted the customer to feel as if she, or he, had stumbled into the past; into a wealthy home. You almost expected to see a Regency gentleman, leaning against the mantelpiece, sipping his glass of port; taking his snuff from an engraved silver box. His lady, demure, in a muslin gown, gazing adoringly up at him.

She glanced over to where Joseph was just putting the finishing touches to a grouping of Victorian rocking horses. She smiled a small, secret smile. Joseph; now there was a sweet little submissive. Ulena played with the notion of Joseph stripped and flogged, sobbing, as she forced him to lick her clit. She wondered if Joseph even knew he was submissive; she doubted it. He probably thought he was quite a stud. As if feeling the command of Ulena’s gaze, he raised his eyes to her. She held his gaze; he blushed and looked away, biting his lip.

Finally, he found the courage to approach her. She was bloody attractive after all; but still, just a woman. Joseph was also between girlfriends; he’d tired of his last relationship. But to his shock Sarah had been the one to finish it. She’d told him he wasn’t assertive enough, sexually. She’d knocked his confidence; he needed to get back into the saddle. Asking Ulena, his boss out, was taking a huge leap of faith, but Joseph had confidence in his ability to charm.

“Um, I wondered if you’d like to come out with me…for, er, a drink, or maybe dinner?”

A simple enough question. She wasn’t shocked, disconcerted, or even embarrassed; just that cold, unnerving stare. Perhaps she just didn’t like men; Joseph hadn’t thought of that. But he’d seen her turn her vivacious smile on for the good looking delivery guy; the postman; even that ugly, slimy creep who ran the storeroom. Joseph fidgeted miserably as she scrutinized him.

Joseph wished he hadn’t bloody bothered. He didn’t usually ask women out; they came to him. He’d thought she found him attractive; she was always watching him. Obviously, he’d been wrong. Ulena’s heavily lidded, steel grey eyes looked him up and down, as if he’d just crawled out from a stinking swamp. The stirring music of ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful,’ playing into the antique shop, faded into the far distance, as he squirmed uncomfortably in front of her. She leaned back in the Georgian chair, watching him. The delicate, deep rose coloured Faberge egg she held between her long, carefully manicured fingers, was worth thousands. She traced the raised gold patterns on the jewelled surface with a fingertip.

The first flakes of snow were starting to fall outside, and the antique shop had been busy all morning. People came into the shop not only to buy the expensive trinkets, but just to marvel at the Christmas charm. They were expecting a fresh surge of customers after lunch, but this was a quiet time. Joseph was aware that he was blushing and still she was silently appraising him, as if he were a horse at an auction, she may, or may not, choose to buy. Her eyes rested on his crotch, as if trying to assess the weight of what was in there.

His cock, joyous to receive the unexpected attention, hardened instantly.

The rousing chorus of the faithful choir harmonizing ‘oh come let us adore him!’, burst into the silence and he jumped, nervously. A small smile played around her generous mouth.

“Let’s get it clear,” Ulena drawled, her exotic accent, laced partly with French, with just a hint of Russian, “I do the asking.” Her low, husky voice hardened his cock into a violent, throbbing erection.

He hadn’t been expecting such a strong rebuff, in fact he hadn’t been expecting a rebuff at all. He was puzzled. He knew he was good looking and possessed a kind of charisma; he raked his fingers through his chestnut hair and tried his charming ‘boy next door,’ smile.

She didn’t respond; not a flicker.

“Was there something else?” she asked, raising a perfectly delineated eyebrow. Her scarlet mouth curved in a parody of a smile.

“Er no,” he stammered. “ Nothing else…thank you.”

He could feel her eyes on him as he walked away.

Damn her, Joseph thought, as he went back to the counter. Why had he let her make him feel so small? It wasn’t as if she was out of his league. He’d been out with women far prettier and probably, smarter too, certainly wealthier; but they held no allure for him. He sensed hidden depths in her; besides he knew damn well she watched him. So if she didn’t find him attractive, what was all that about? But she’d made him a nervous wreck. As she’d scrutinized his crotch he’d been dismayed at his cock’s outrageous behaviour. Usually, he was slow to arouse, but with Ulena’s attention his cock had other ideas. He’d become flustered, wanting to cover the growing bulge with his hands, but he was frozen into immobility.

He put the counter between the rest of the world and his cock, and wondered how quickly he could hobble to the bathroom, and masturbate his erection away. That was something he rarely did; usually, his erections just faded. But this one was persistent, throbbing insistently inside his pants. The image came unbiddened into his mind, of himself stripped, tied up and kneeling before Ulena. His flesh was seared; he’d been recently flogged. Ulena was naked except for thigh high, spiked heel, black leather boots. Her hand clasped the back of his head, forcing him to lap at her clit. Where the hell had that come from? He hated doing that; it was disgusting.

He noticed a customer, gazing with rapt attention at the gorgeous display of antique French music boxes. Despite their phenomenal price tag, they had been selling well. Damn, his erection would have to wait. He prayed that his orgasm wouldn’t explode into a messy chorus in the middle of his sales-patter.

He couldn’t understand why Ulena had had that effect on him. He didn’t consider himself highly sexed, in fact he only usually rose to the occasion when he felt he had something to prove. On the whole he’d found his past girlfriends far too needy. He was a tall, strong guy and they wanted him to be protective; to seduce them, to make the first move. He always had to initiate sex. One girlfriend had liked to dig her sharp nails into his shoulders, just before she came; that had given him a frisson of excitement, but apart from that, she was as bad as the rest of them. They always wanted to know if sex had been good for him? Was that the best time ever? Sometimes they expected him to repeat the performance, just ten minutes later. And they always wanted to know what he was thinking. Joseph hated that.

But he had to get rid of his erection, urgently. He tried thinking bland thoughts. What he’d had for breakfast that morning. Rehearsing the drive home in the Christmas traffic. Remembering all the gifts in the ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’ song. But the image of Ulena’s luscious crimson lips stretched around his thick cock, popped, unbidden, into his head. Orgasm was close. He mustn’t come in his pants. He just mustn’t; he had to get to the bathroom on the second floor. He picked up a stack of books and holding them awkwardly in front of his growing bulge, began to scuttle towards the elevator.

He looked up to see Ulena laughing with a male customer. Flirting outrageously. Cool and casual, in her black suit, her blonde, expensively cut straight hair, swinging level with her neatly chiselled jaw line. Bitch.

He stumbled over the corner of a sumptuous Turkey rug and staggered through the avenue set up with a glittering display of old Venetian glass. The pieces tinkled musically as he lumbered passed. Joseph placed the stack of books down on a fragile Louis Quinze table. He thanked the god of erections that the elevator was not in use, the antique metal doors were already open. He closed the doors and pressed the button. The old, heavy machinery whirred noisily into use. His erection throbbed. The image of Ulena riding him, astride him, taking him up to the hilt, her beautiful head thrown back in ecstasy, her crimson mouth contorted in orgasmic bliss, flew into his mind; unsuccessfully, he tried to banish the thought. He limped along the corridor to the bathroom, his erection was crippling him, bending him over, double. He prayed that the bathroom would be unoccupied.

It was.

Urinal or cubical? The urinal was closer. He unzipped his pants and groaned with relief as he released his cock. Joseph was justifiably proud of his cock. It was long and thick. A good ten inches. His cock jerked as he ran his thumb over the fat helmet. He wrapped his fingers lovingly around its girth and started to pump.

Just minutes ago, if he had just touched his cock, it would have exploded. He pumped fast, moaning, sensing the orgasm was imminent. But it was elusive and faded. He pumped harder, grunting; it built, then receded again. What was wrong with him? He’d never felt such urgency in his life before. And still he couldn’t come.

The door opened behind him. He frantically tried to hide his erection. His cock, however, was determined to be displayed; it bounced and slapped happily against his belly.

She stood close to him. Close enough that he could smell her perfume. Chanel Number 5.

He turned, to look at her. Her eyes were half closed. “Continue,” she ordered.

“But … but, you’re not supposed to be in here…this is the men’s…”

“I said, continue. Do not question me.”

Her voice was controlled; exotic. Joseph started to pump his cock again. She watched him in the long mirror. He pumped quickly and then slowly. He still didn’t come. The orgasm was just a breath away. She circled him. Her black, killer heel shoes, clicking on the tiled floor.

“Poor little slut,” she murmured, consolingly. “It will happen when I permit it.”

“Please…touch me,” he gasped.

“I think not,” she said with a curl of her lip.

The tension was unbearable. Joseph started to cry. Tears coursed down his cheeks.

“Please,” he groaned. “Have some pity. Is this what you get off on? Turning guys on and leaving them hanging.”

“I don’t see anything hanging,” she said. “I see things standing to attention. Besides…I don’t recall doing anything.”

Joseph panted and pumped.

Ulena took a breath. She leaned in, close to his ear. He could feel her hot breath on his neck. “Come,” she whispered.

Joseph exploded. The release was almost painful. But the relief was incredible. Spunk splattered in gallons; thick, white, stringy globules. Into the urinal, over the mirror, onto the floor. Over Ulena’s shoes. He sank to his knees, his pants tangled in a messy knot around his ankles. He wrapped his arms around Ulena’s legs. He was weeping in earnest.

“Thank you, oh thank you,” he blubbered.

She stepped away from his embrace. She pointed to the mess on the floor. On her highly polished shoes.

“Clean that up,” she ordered.
He looked around for some cleaning implements.

“With your tongue, slave,” she said. “Lick it up,”

Joseph lowered his head and started to lick his mistresses’ feet. He’d never tasted spunk before; but now he did. The flavour was intoxicating. A cocktail of spunk, mixed with the turpentine flavour of shoe polish. And the leathery texture of her shoes. He lapped noisily; slurping and gulping at the sticky strands. Gracefully, she lifted her foot to permit him to fellate the pointed toe of her shoe. He crawled around her slender legs and took her spiky heel into his mouth.

Ulena kicked him roughly away. He gave a wail of protest and she kicked him again, a swift kick to his head, lacerating his ear with her sharp, metal tipped heel. Blood trickled down his cheek and into the corner of his mouth. It tasted bitter; metallic.

“Meet me tonight at Mezzo’s,” she commanded. Nine o’clock. Don’t be late.

Joseph didn’t answer; he was licking the bathroom floor.

Friday, 11 December 2009


In this sumptuous painting, we the viewers, are place in the position of the voyeur. Marie Louise O’ Murphy de Boisfaily is mischievously splayed naked on a day bed. She is displayed; advertised. She is sexually provocative; she is open and ready. Her bottom is raised; her thighs are spread, as she awaits her lover. The painting stimulates the imagination. One can smell her perfume, her juices; sense her spasming labia lips as she eagerly awaits her lover’s cock. This painting is, literally, part of a sales campaign. In his memoirs, Casanova claims to have sold Marie Louise, to King Louis XV of France; it isn’t recorded what he paid for her, but the King was the highest bidder.

Marie Louise was a favourite mistress of the King . Francois Boucher painted this picture of her in 1745. With its frills and frivolity, its love of confection, it is fine example of the Rococo style.

I imagine another voyeur. Her gentleman friend, perhaps standing at the open door, rubbing his erection and licking his lips in lascivious anticipation. Or maybe a servant, peering through a crack in the door, as he masturbates.

Is Boucher’s painting of Marie Louise pornographic? I don’t know. It definitely celebrates a hedonistic lifestyle. I struggle constantly between the definition of porn and erotica. Certainly Marie Louise is presented as a sexual object. I keep feeling the need to write her name; she’s not just a thing; she’s a human being. But she is passive; she simply waits, for one lover, maybe two, perhaps a dozen.

Boucher’s painting of Marie Louise O’ Murphy can be seen in the Louvre Museum, Paris.

Thursday, 3 December 2009


There’s something strangely alluring about the sight of a strong man in ropes and chains, struggling to be free of his bonds. Well, I think so, anyway. All that muscle, straining. His sweat making the bonds slippery, ever tighter. The struggle is hopeless; he sees defeat staring him in the face and still he is spirited enough to fight on.

You’ve only got to type in the word ’bondage’ into any search engine, to be overwhelmed with images, and stories, of men and women, bound and helpless. Mostly, it’s consensual, at least I hope it is. A little piece of BDSM, being acted out by adults involved in a highly charged erotic game.

But bondage is nothing new. The Internet generation cannot claim to have invented it. Neither can writers of porn and erotica. Bondage is in ancient art and old, old stories.
Laocoon and his sons are bound and helpless by fierce serpents. There’s a statue of Laocoon in his death throes, in the Vatican in Rome. Pliny attributes it to three Rhodian sculptures, Agesander, Athenodoros and Polydorus.

Laocoon’s exotic punishment is for committing a sacrilegious act; that of procreation in a place holy to the god, Poseidon.

Punishment through bondage, for a sin, real or imagined and often trivial, is the catalyst for many modern bondage stories. A slave forgets to collect his master’s dry cleaning, and is tied to a whipping bar; he is helpless and is whipped. The whipping is secondary; it is the fact that he is bound and helpless, that is the important part of the ritual. In another story, a submissive craves his punishment and will contrive to get it by inventing any misdemeanour. He visits his mistress in his lunch break and is forced to return to his office, wearing a cock cage beneath his pants. The cage is screwed tightly, pressing painfully against his balls, yet still his cock struggles valiantly for an erection that just cannot happen.

Strength and power are contained, controlled and relinquished.

The old stories are even in the Bible. Delilah contrives to discover the secret of Samson’s great strength. This is a man so strong and powerful, he has ripped a lion in two. Eventually, he tells her. His strength is because of his long hair. Delilah tells Samson’s secret to the Philistines, and Samson is shorn of his locks while he sleeps. His strength is gone and Samson is bound and chained. His eyes are put out and Delilah pockets the silver that the Philistines have paid her.Samson is punished through bondage and humiliation, for breaking his oath with God by cutting his hair.

Michelangelo’s REBELLIOUS SLAVE, can be seen in the Louvre, in Paris. The bondage is there for all to see. The slave is being punished. His hands are tied behind his back; he is engaged in an active struggle against his bonds. Michelangelo has left the marble raw and unpolished, emphasising the grittiness of the subject. The expression on the slave’s face is of agonized humanity. A rebel that has to be controlled.

I shall be posting a piece on female bondage soon -- to redress the balance!