The Mouse, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

The Mouse, the Witch and the Wardrobe…
Guy had been chatting with Mistress Beverly for many years – over 12 now and throughout that time had been through several relationships.  Lucy was different though – they had finally got married this year after 4 years together and although he often felt he wasn’t good enough for her he really hoped he could hold on to her and they could grow old together.  She was incredibly accepting of his increasingly strange sexual behaviour and played along with many of his fantasies, but there was plenty of stuff he hadn’t told her, because he knew if she knew the worst bits she would find it difficult to stay with him.

Guy’s fantasies had developed a lot over the years.  When he had first started chatting to Mistress Beverly they had mostly involved him beating himself, a little anal, women’s underwear and saying humiliating stuff.  Over time time his tastes (like those of many silly boys looking for thrills) had become more and more depraved.  Mistress Beverly had tried not to encourage some of his more bizarre behaviours, but had to admit to herself that the more bizarre he got the funnier it got!  Over the years she had made (or helped, depending on how you looked at it) him do a variety of humiliating and/or painful things such as going out onto his street at night dressed as a slutty sissy, hung weights off of his balls, left him tied up for long periods, and many more things so depraved that they are unmentionable even in this account of his story!

In recent years his behaviour had become rather more unruly, erratic, annoying and OTT. Continue reading

Lascivious – edgy lingerie to inspire

LASCIVIOUS – this might just be my new favorite lingerie collection

Erotic and Hypnotic. Most of us have fantasized at some point of doing something daring, erotic, naughty, in an elevator. Well, this artistic ad. compaign by Lascivious certainly takes this to new heights!

Take me all the way up.











So, here we have the King of Persia, Shahriyar. who decides the best way to take vengeance on his unfaithful wife is to kill her. Convinced that the only way to keep a wife faithful  is to have her for only one night, he decides to take a different virgin every day and after taking her to the matrimonial bed at night, he then puts her to death in the morning. Story has it: 3,000 times.

Yes, the virgins weren’t exactly lining up to be his wife.
Continue reading


We all remember, don’t we, that Sampson fell in love with Delilah, who was bribed by Sampson’s enemies to find his weakness. Wary of her questions, he said first that if he were bound with bowstrings he would lose his supernatural strength. (Had you forgotten than he was into bondage?) So Delilah, clever girl that she is, waits for him to fall asleep and ties him up. He wakens and breaks the bindings. She asks again – uh, Sampson, think anything’s going on here? – and he says new ropes will do the trick. Again, she waits until he slumbers and practices a bit of bondage, and again he wakes, and breaks the ropes. Ever persistent, patient, and greedy for those thousand pieces of silver promised her by the Philistines, Delilah once again asks the question. Sampson, by now, weakened by his own love and lust for the Delilah, moves closer to the truth – that he will lose his strength if his hair, which truly is the source of his strength, is woven together. As he sleeps that night, she gives him a hair weave and ties him up, and the next morning, he awakes and unbraids his hair.

Not to be dissuaded from her potentially profitable enterprise, Delilah yet again asks Sampson the source of his strength. And poor, simple Sampson (he’s male, after all, and clearly had forgotten the story of Eve and the serpent), says that if his hair is shorn he will lose his strength. Sure enough, Delilah waits until he is asleep, and then with his head resting in her lap, she has a servant cut off his hair. His strength removed, Sampson is captured by the Philistines, turned into a slave, and, after his hair has grown back, brings down their temple and kills all those inside.

That Sampson. That Delilah. No photographers were there at the time to record the events and post them to Twitter, so artists – mostly men, of course – used their imaginations. But for the visually inclined, there are a couple of points of interest.
Continue reading

Matador – Review #1

Matador, Directed by Pedro Almodovar
Stars: Assumpta Serna  Antonio Banderas  Nacho Martinez
Year: 1986.  Spanish with English subtitles
Matador compilation 2
What do a particular matador and a female sadist have in common?
Blood lust.

It isn’t everyone whose adrenal glands are so blocked that they need to ride roller coasters endlessly or sky dive without parachutes or whatever. But in this wicked and wickedly clever 1986 movie, viewers get to nuzzle up to the twisted inner workings of some characters I find quite lovely and charming.
A retired matador whose aged reflexes keep him out of the ring. And a quite fetching woman who, early on, wraps herself around her casual lover and leaves the most perfect, round lipstick imprint on the base of his neck. Having somewhat similar sympathies and a dislike of protracted agony without ecstasy, I’m quite glad that her hatpin is sharp as she imitates the ritual of life and death in the bullring with an estocada. The moment that she plunges the estoca in, the moment that he’s paralyzed, inflamed and erect and beyond reason – that final, fleeting gasp of breath – how priceless. It sends her quite over the edge.

I do admire a woman who knows what She wants.

A Slice… of Life


It depends on who you ask, really. Take Caravaggio, for instance. When he showed the Biblical scene of Judith beheading Holofernes – the Syrian general who was about to attack her town – the expression on her face is most, well, expressive. “Nasty piece of business, this,” she seems to be thinking. Furrowed brow. The firm set of her lips. Yet she’s not grabbing his hair or slicing the sword through his neck at arm’s distance, is she? No, she’s stepped up and seems to be embracing the task. Grabbing his hair and pulling him towards the breast that he so desired.  And then – speaking of nasty – there are the – oops – jutting breasts-the femme weapon of subterfuge. And certainly don’t focus on his expression. Or his exquisitely erect nipples. Surely, Caravaggio meant no connection between power and powerlessness, between desire and death. It’s not like she talked her way into his tent because he found her so fetching. Oops, again. Yes, that’s exactly how she – a Jewish woman from the town about to be laid to waste – gets into his tent. We won’t go into the perils of letting desire into your tent at the
moment since it’s so nicely illustrated here.

250px-Franz_von_Stuck_-_JudithThen there’s Franz Stuck.
Where Caravaggio told the story in restrained, subtle ways, not so our boy Franz. Holofernes is prone, asleep, his arms raised as if in surrender after a rather, um, depleting intimacy with our girl Judith. (Go Judith!!!). She stands above him, a rather – rather – large sword as upright as a fully-fluffed, viagraed star of the slimy silver screen.
As she stands there, what on earth could she be thinking? Of the sweet little lambs and piglets who will be spared because of the blow she is about to deliver? Her husband? Father, sister, mother, neighbor? The righteousness of her preemptive strike?
Hardly likely, little puppy. Her head tilted slightly back, eyes narrowed to serpentine slits (there’s that darned snake again; I wonder if she belongs to Slytherin), she is most clearly enjoying this tender, quite empowering moment in which his desire has left him not just weak but unconscious (a small death in itself). There’s not a shred of anger or rage or resentment to her expression. No. It’s just a satisfied calm and sense of entitled purpose. Or maybe she’s musing on something. What she might say to the about to be expired Holofernes. “She who thrusts last thrusts best.”



This last doesn’t require much comment.  the Act completed,   Judith’s fingers as if in a death grip on the severed head of Mr. H, her dress half open, glittered, dazzling, and so very, very clearly in an extended erotic state. The nipple now soft and at rest as if acknowledging the trance-like state of Judith.
It’s all a bit gory, isn’t it. Though I must say, I do enjoy a good conquest, whether in the end he’s kept his head or not.

Lies and Spies – Anna chapman

15657090Sex, lies & female spies
By Gayle Schoales
July 18, 2010

Move over James Bond. It’s out with shaken Martinis and in with Cosmos. Like suspected Russian spy Anna Chapman, 28, just under half of the UK’s 3,500 ‘spooks’ are women and, according to experts, it’s feisty, fearless females who make the best spies. With pistols concealed in their designer handbags and lipsticks doubling as listening devices, women are putting their feminine skills to good use, forging careers in what has traditionally been a man’s world.
“Female spies like Anna Chapman use their sexuality to their advantage,” says Claire Thomas, co-author of Spooks: The Unofficial History of MI5. “An attractive, intelligent woman can ensnare a man and get him to lower his guard. She’ll turn him into putty in her hands and get the information she needs. She doesn’t have to use sex – but it’s a powerful weapon.”
While us girls might lack the physical strength of our male counterparts, in the world of spying, that’s not a problem.
“Espionage is more about gathering intelligence than getting into Jason Bourne-style fist fights,” explains Claire. “Male agents don’t have an advantage. If anything, women are mentally much stronger than men. They can cope with pressure better, and the demands of leading a double life.”

The sexier the spy, the better
As for Bond-girl looks, traffic-stopping beauty can actually be a hindrance rather than a help. “Depending on the mission, the agent might want to be unremarkable and fly under the radar,” says Claire. “If it’s a honey-trap however, the sexier the spy, the better.”
When he founded the British Security Service (MI5) in 1909, Sir Vernon Kell stipulated that female agents had to be “well bred and have good legs”. And in the ’30s and ’40s, MI5 spymaster Maxwell Knight recruited sexy women to go on missions to ensnare men with German or Russian links.

“Women are more likely to be sent on corporate missions these days, where they can get jobs in offices that allow them access to files, or have drinks with well-connected people,” says Claire. “But the essence of their work is still the same.
“They can exploit men’s vanity, seducing them into telling them what they want to know. Men don’t suspect women asking strange questions in the same way they would a man.”

Why women make better spies Continue reading

And then there was Eve…

adam_eve_snakeWe all know history is written by men. And you know men. Those beings that are afraid of their own desires.

Think about our good friends Adam and Eve. Eve, of course, is the bitch. She didn’t listen. Not that Adam did, either. Or Eve did listen, but to the wrong being. Snake. That darned serpent. Adam listened. To Eve. To the snake.

Question: what’s skinny, longer than it is wide, and can move in unexpected ways?

If you answered a penis, you have a keen understanding of profound issues.

What was Adam listening to? Eve? The serpent? His desire for Eve, a.k.a. his penis?

Whatever the answer is, he opened his mouth, as if to receive sustenance, as an infant does from his mother’s breast. And he consumed. And became consumed.

The moral of the story: don’t be consumed by your own desires.

Ah. But you’re here now. Aren’t you. you’ve taken a bite. you’ve consumed. you know pleasure.

And it knows you. Does it ever.

I luxuriate in men’s desires, and the passions of sissies and baby boys who get all knotted up over something that seems – that seems at times – just out of reach.

I call that seduction.

Don’t get me wrong. Eve was seduced, too. By the serpent. By the thing that’s skinny, longer than it is wide, and can move in unexpected ways.

The difference between Me and Eve? I know what I’m doing.

I enjoy the company of men who are too weak to resist, with no thought of the consequences attached. Adam was innocent, and without knowledge. Not something you can claim. Remember that. As I lead you to places you desire and fear.

One with Mother

MotheGOLDr and daughter, stood facing each other. Mother in a black dress and Louboutin pumps; her blonde hair pulled up in a classic French pleat. She took her daughter’s hand and there in the palm firmly placed the gold gun.

Her daughter, a younger image of her mother: haughty, blonde, blue eyes,  lean and statuesque, slipped the gun down between her breasts, the barrel rubbing tight against the leather as she pulled the zipper up to her neck.  The soft leather catsuit was tight around her torso before flaring out at the leg over her favorite Louboutin biker boots.   She had been waiting for this moment–the opportunity to put all the training to good use.

They hugged, mother giving daughter a light kiss on the lips, before stepping back to watch her daughter take her leave out of the door.  It was time.
The mother poured herself a drink, Macallan Whisky, straight up, and sat down on the chair; two mobile phones were on the desk in front of her; she reached for the cheap throw away phone to make the call.

The man answered on the second ring.  No greeting, just a distinct and familiar voice brusquely  informing him a girl was on her way over. The phone disconnected before he could say one word. The call itself did not surprise him, but what did is that it was she who had made the call. She had always been obvious in her disdain for any contact with him. He grinned in the thought of her actually having to procure a girl for him. The usual arrangement was that some minion would arrange for a whore to come to his hotel. He had made no secret of his proclivity for certain sexual perversions, and one of the provisions when he was first  ‘turned’ was that he would expect certain favours be granted him.  The exchange of documents and cash had taken place earlier that evening. Now he was wanting the whore. Continue reading

Mistaken Intentions

Certainly there are sexless men out there somewhere, people who feel that erotic pleasure is utterly uninteresting. The guys at work who spend all their free time checking out sports scores or fantasy league standings, or who are devoted exclusively to their model airplane collections. Admirable things, to be sure.

Certainly. He knew that. But it had never been like that for him. He had always noticed the curve of a calf, the sheen of stockings, the rosy flash creeping up a neck as a sign of embarrassment or incipient excitement. It was like a kind of radar or ESP. Sure, it had created awkward moments, a restlessness that wouldn’t go away. Every day, it seemed, there was a moment – an image, a thought, a flash of recognition in a passing glance, a sight that took his breath away – that resonated in his mind as he pleasured himself. Yet it was never right, never enough, and increasingly he imagined darker but unarticulated things. But several months ago, things started to go haywire, and it was only now that he realized things had gone beyond his control. Continue reading