I visited this exhibition this week at the Tate Modern.
It's an exhibition about voyeurism - right up my street or so I thought.
Of course, my friend and I were attracted by the element of sleaze. But it's interesting how sleazey sleaze can get.
It was extremely clever in that you came out feeling just ever so slightly dirty. What we both thought might have been erotic, was far from it. Spying on people leaves a slightly unpleasant taste in the mouth, and seeing photos taken by people spying on other people can actually be said to be even worse.
There were elements that made me smile - a "paparazzi" shot of the artist Edgar Degas coming out of a French lavatory was one. But then we moved onto photographers such as Tazio Secciaroli and Marcello Geppetti who were famed for the relentless pursuit of film stars and celebrities...and the real downside of voyeurism began to reveal itself.
And then we have voyeurism and desire. For anyone used to elaborately staged porn films and airbrushed pictures this was a real shock. Watching couples humping with dirty washing in the background is not particularly erotic, partly because the munitae of daily life just reminds you that these are real people, not models.
When desire stops, death and violence begin. We saw pictures of a lynching, of a crowd gathering after a man dies in the street, and, most disturbingly for me, Lee Miler's photograph of the corpse of the beautiful daughter of the Burgermaster of Leipzig, who had just committed suicide at the end of WW2.
Of course, the flipside to voyeurism is exhibitionism, and there's plenty of that in Kohei Yoshiyuki's series of photos "The Park" where voyeurs stalk and even touch couples making out. To photograph them, the photographer too had to become one of the voyeurs.
I have only ever had one personal experience of exhibitionism. It was a long time ago, when I was about twenty. I was on holiday in Corfu with my first husband, then merely a boy-friend, and we'd hired out a motorbike for the day. Giddy with the freedom of being able to wear nothing but shorts, t-shirts, flipflops and no helmets, we speeded around the island for hours until we sped off the road and very narrowly missed a very gruesome death.
We limped back to our campsite, motorbike left in a ditch somewhere, hit our tent and had sex in the middle of the afternoon as if it was both our very first and the very last time. I'm not sure at what point I became aware that we had drawn a crowd, but I do remember knowing that they were there and suddenly everything became magnified. My moans became louder, our love-making more frenzied, and this continued until we eventually gave them a show that drew applause.
As soon as it was over, however, embarrassment set it, for me at least. The ex, nonchalant as usual, went out foraging for food, embracing the attention as he went. I, meanwhile, hid in my sleeping bag determined to wait until the crowd had dispersed to venture out. That was until I realised that I had left a quarter of a watermelon in the corner of our tent and the whole tent, sleeping bags included, was over-run with eager armies of both black and red ants. I crawled out of there as fast as I could manage, to a round of applause that I can still cringe about today.
Thanks goodness no one took any pictures.
Friday, 9 July 2010
Thursday, 8 July 2010
A Dom's Tale
He leans back, Godfather-like, in the chair. She's kneeling in front of him. Collared: she's half with him, half en vacence in her head.
His cock stiffens as, trembling, she rests her face against his knee. Slowly, she starts kissing her way down his calf, running her tongue through his hair, circling his ankle, until she reaches his foot. And there in an agony of ecstasy, she kisses it.
He asks her if she feels humiliated. Her head shakes out her answer from far below. Perhaps it's the sheer exoticism of abasement, of doing something so taboo she would never, ever countenance it outside the four walls of this room.
She's shuddering now, almost crawling on the floor. Her back is before him, he can see the length of her spine, the shape of her arse through her transparent pink panties, the redness of her arse. The redness he gave to her.
She's moving up his thigh now, towards his upright cock. As she passes she takes him in deep, sucking him to the back of her throat. Even when she gags and comes up for air with a choking noise, and oh how he likes that sound of choking, she swiftly returns to pounce on his cock, devouring it, aiming to please him, to make him happy. To make him happy with her.
She leaves his cock and starts down his inner thigh. Her hair is tickling against his leg and he can hear her moaning. This was her idea, not his. She'll do this occasionally. She'll slip in a "I have been thinking of", or "I'd like to try.." He remembers the embarrassment on her face as she told him that she wanted to do this, to sit at his feet. The memory of that embarrassed expression makes him throb. He wonders if she has a list of these things, or whether seeds are planted in her head and she just reveals them as they blossom. When she is ready.
She's reached his other foot now. Her arse is high up in the air now and the sight of it makes him stand. He know she likes this. To feel her smallness beside him. To feel her weakness revealed against his strength.
With a lion-like growl he sends rivulets of cum down her back. Streams of spunk snake down her spine. She's so carried away with the fantasy she doesn't feel him write his name on her back. She doesn't need to. She's already admitted she belongs to him.
His cock stiffens as, trembling, she rests her face against his knee. Slowly, she starts kissing her way down his calf, running her tongue through his hair, circling his ankle, until she reaches his foot. And there in an agony of ecstasy, she kisses it.
He asks her if she feels humiliated. Her head shakes out her answer from far below. Perhaps it's the sheer exoticism of abasement, of doing something so taboo she would never, ever countenance it outside the four walls of this room.
She's shuddering now, almost crawling on the floor. Her back is before him, he can see the length of her spine, the shape of her arse through her transparent pink panties, the redness of her arse. The redness he gave to her.
She's moving up his thigh now, towards his upright cock. As she passes she takes him in deep, sucking him to the back of her throat. Even when she gags and comes up for air with a choking noise, and oh how he likes that sound of choking, she swiftly returns to pounce on his cock, devouring it, aiming to please him, to make him happy. To make him happy with her.
She leaves his cock and starts down his inner thigh. Her hair is tickling against his leg and he can hear her moaning. This was her idea, not his. She'll do this occasionally. She'll slip in a "I have been thinking of", or "I'd like to try.." He remembers the embarrassment on her face as she told him that she wanted to do this, to sit at his feet. The memory of that embarrassed expression makes him throb. He wonders if she has a list of these things, or whether seeds are planted in her head and she just reveals them as they blossom. When she is ready.
She's reached his other foot now. Her arse is high up in the air now and the sight of it makes him stand. He know she likes this. To feel her smallness beside him. To feel her weakness revealed against his strength.
With a lion-like growl he sends rivulets of cum down her back. Streams of spunk snake down her spine. She's so carried away with the fantasy she doesn't feel him write his name on her back. She doesn't need to. She's already admitted she belongs to him.
Bruises
She likes looking at them in the mirror.
She's noticed that different coloured knickers can set off her bruises. She likes her red lacy knickers when they're fresh and dark, a black handprint against her pearl-white skin, made all the more noticeable by the scarlet lace above.
Perhaps it's just coincidence that the lace licks at her clit as she walks.
Logically, her mind revolts at the idea of being bruised, or it used to. Now, the thought of seeing his marks on her can make her knees tremble at the oddest of times: when she's getting out of the bath, trying on a dress in a shop, changing at the swimming pool.
When they don't see each other it's a tangible connection that brings every pain/pleasure moment gushing back to her.
One night she's taken into hospital. She can't breathe. The rattle in her chest has got too much and her airways have closed up. She has to fight for every breath. Her nails have turned blue and one eye has red road-maps criss-crossed across its surface. She knows asthma can kill you; she knows someone who died from it. But she's more afraid they'll make her wear a gown that will show her bruises.
She doesn't want to share them.
She's noticed that different coloured knickers can set off her bruises. She likes her red lacy knickers when they're fresh and dark, a black handprint against her pearl-white skin, made all the more noticeable by the scarlet lace above.
Perhaps it's just coincidence that the lace licks at her clit as she walks.
Logically, her mind revolts at the idea of being bruised, or it used to. Now, the thought of seeing his marks on her can make her knees tremble at the oddest of times: when she's getting out of the bath, trying on a dress in a shop, changing at the swimming pool.
When they don't see each other it's a tangible connection that brings every pain/pleasure moment gushing back to her.
One night she's taken into hospital. She can't breathe. The rattle in her chest has got too much and her airways have closed up. She has to fight for every breath. Her nails have turned blue and one eye has red road-maps criss-crossed across its surface. She knows asthma can kill you; she knows someone who died from it. But she's more afraid they'll make her wear a gown that will show her bruises.
She doesn't want to share them.
Sunday, 4 July 2010
The Biker....The Smell of Submission
She doesn't feel like going. There is a continuous drizzle of rain, she's got PMT and, quite frankly, she is annoyed with him. Last time she had given him her mobile before she left and he hasn't used it. Not once. Not even a text.
She decides not to dress up. She doesn't need to as she isn't going to meet him. She picks jeans rather than a dress, deliberately. But she changes her top three times just to get that right level of nonchalance, just in case she changes her mind.
And of course, she does.
He's the only one in the car park. Even the tea van has decided not to show up. She parks the car but sits in it, not bothering to get out. Let him come to me today, she thinks. She is feeling petty, annoyed. Annoyed with him for not getting in touch. Annoyed with herself for being here.
He's sat on his Ducati, smoking a cigarette. She didn't know that he smoked. She sighs. Something else she misses. Something else he could so easily tempt her with. This man is bad for her in so many ways, but she loves it.
He doesn't look over, just finishes his cigarette and starts the bike. She sits up. Shit, he's going without her. Two seconds later and he is at her window.
"Follow me," is all he says.
Quickly, she starts the car and manoeuvres out of the car park. Damn the rain, she curses as she peers into the gloom for him.
He's waiting at the junction. They drive towards the main hub of traffic, onto the North Circular. She wonders where he is taking her. Perhaps he's taking her back to his place. Maybe that's why he wanted her to bring the car.
She's a little bemused when he pulls into a retail park. Mothercare. B and Q. An electrical superstore. She wonders what he's doing. Perhaps she wasn't meant to follow him after all and she's going to look like a nutter when he realises she's there. But he's waiting for her, at the door to a sofa shop.
She smiles. In her wildest dreams she hadn't imagined she'd ever be going furniture shopping with him. From not phoning to this? Men are strange.
He takes her firmly by the arm and guides her to the back of the shop. A few eager salesmen try to descend on them but he waves them away with a polite smile. "Later, when we're ready," he tells them.
He leads her to a brown Chesterfield sofa and tells her to sit back.
"Close your eyes," he whispers. His lips are pressed up close to her ear. She feels her cunt start to quiver. She feels fidgety. A little hot.
"Close them," he repeats and she does. She hopes he's not going to ask her to do anything strange here. In the middle of a forest is one thing, but right here, in public, in front of all these people. She wonders how she can say no, how she can refuse, what words she can use.
"Now, " he begins again, his voice crashing into her thoughts, "I want you to take a deep breath and tell me what you smell.."
"Leather," she replies, "New leather."
"Breathe it in again, try to clear your mind and tell me what you can really smell."
It takes a few moments and then it hits her.....on her knees in the forest, the sound of birds in the trees, the weight of his cock in her mouth, the floaty far away feeling, the desperate need to please him.....her collar."
"Can you smell it?" he ask.
She opens her eyes wide and nods.
She has to cling onto the sofa arm to stop herself from slipping off and clinging to his knees.
"Remember that...every time you use one of your fancy handbags...every time you pass someone wearing a leather jacket.....every time you pick up one of your husband's fucking shoes.....that's it....that's the scent of your collar.....that's the smell of your submission."
She decides not to dress up. She doesn't need to as she isn't going to meet him. She picks jeans rather than a dress, deliberately. But she changes her top three times just to get that right level of nonchalance, just in case she changes her mind.
And of course, she does.
He's the only one in the car park. Even the tea van has decided not to show up. She parks the car but sits in it, not bothering to get out. Let him come to me today, she thinks. She is feeling petty, annoyed. Annoyed with him for not getting in touch. Annoyed with herself for being here.
He's sat on his Ducati, smoking a cigarette. She didn't know that he smoked. She sighs. Something else she misses. Something else he could so easily tempt her with. This man is bad for her in so many ways, but she loves it.
He doesn't look over, just finishes his cigarette and starts the bike. She sits up. Shit, he's going without her. Two seconds later and he is at her window.
"Follow me," is all he says.
Quickly, she starts the car and manoeuvres out of the car park. Damn the rain, she curses as she peers into the gloom for him.
He's waiting at the junction. They drive towards the main hub of traffic, onto the North Circular. She wonders where he is taking her. Perhaps he's taking her back to his place. Maybe that's why he wanted her to bring the car.
She's a little bemused when he pulls into a retail park. Mothercare. B and Q. An electrical superstore. She wonders what he's doing. Perhaps she wasn't meant to follow him after all and she's going to look like a nutter when he realises she's there. But he's waiting for her, at the door to a sofa shop.
She smiles. In her wildest dreams she hadn't imagined she'd ever be going furniture shopping with him. From not phoning to this? Men are strange.
He takes her firmly by the arm and guides her to the back of the shop. A few eager salesmen try to descend on them but he waves them away with a polite smile. "Later, when we're ready," he tells them.
He leads her to a brown Chesterfield sofa and tells her to sit back.
"Close your eyes," he whispers. His lips are pressed up close to her ear. She feels her cunt start to quiver. She feels fidgety. A little hot.
"Close them," he repeats and she does. She hopes he's not going to ask her to do anything strange here. In the middle of a forest is one thing, but right here, in public, in front of all these people. She wonders how she can say no, how she can refuse, what words she can use.
"Now, " he begins again, his voice crashing into her thoughts, "I want you to take a deep breath and tell me what you smell.."
"Leather," she replies, "New leather."
"Breathe it in again, try to clear your mind and tell me what you can really smell."
It takes a few moments and then it hits her.....on her knees in the forest, the sound of birds in the trees, the weight of his cock in her mouth, the floaty far away feeling, the desperate need to please him.....her collar."
"Can you smell it?" he ask.
She opens her eyes wide and nods.
She has to cling onto the sofa arm to stop herself from slipping off and clinging to his knees.
"Remember that...every time you use one of your fancy handbags...every time you pass someone wearing a leather jacket.....every time you pick up one of your husband's fucking shoes.....that's it....that's the scent of your collar.....that's the smell of your submission."
Saturday, 3 July 2010
Dante
I have always wanted to read Dante. I am learning Italian at the moment and have decided to attempt to read The Divine Comedy in both English and Italian at the same time. No pressure, eh!
What inspired my love of Dante was actually the Hannibal film. I am a bit of a Hannibal film nut to be honest. I spent my second honeymoon in Florence, not for the culture but to follow in Hannibal's footsteps. It was very romantic! But enough of that.... back to Dante.
There is a point, in the Hannibal movie, where Hannibal recites Dante's first sonnet from La Vita Nuova to Allergra. It's a delicious moment, and one has more than slight DS overtones, at least for me...
I am your master
See your heart
And of this burning heart
Your heart
She trembling and Obediently eats.
Weeping, I saw him then depart from me.
Put to music, it is even more spectacular. You can hear it here
What inspired my love of Dante was actually the Hannibal film. I am a bit of a Hannibal film nut to be honest. I spent my second honeymoon in Florence, not for the culture but to follow in Hannibal's footsteps. It was very romantic! But enough of that.... back to Dante.
There is a point, in the Hannibal movie, where Hannibal recites Dante's first sonnet from La Vita Nuova to Allergra. It's a delicious moment, and one has more than slight DS overtones, at least for me...
I am your master
See your heart
And of this burning heart
Your heart
She trembling and Obediently eats.
Weeping, I saw him then depart from me.
Put to music, it is even more spectacular. You can hear it here
Friday, 2 July 2010
The Biker ...cont
She knows it's mad, that she should stay away, but she can't help herself. She's there the next week, the same day, the same time. It's another hot day and this time she has chosen a wispy, floaty dress that reveals her bare shoulders.
He's waiting for her, sat at the table, two teas by his elbow. She takes the place next to him, only barely aware of the looks of the other bikers as they acknowledge her joining him.
"How did you know I'd come?" she asks.
He shrugs, confidently, arrogantly even.
"I knew you couldn't resist it. Moth..flame...you know the story..."
They sit silently, side by side. Her stomach is flipping, turning somersaults, waiting for him to make a move, to say something, to break the tension.
"Open your legs," he suddenly says.
"Pardon?"
"You heard me, open your legs."
She leans back against the table and spreads her knees wide, desperately trying to control her breathing as she does so. She realises that she looks odd, demurely dressed and yet sitting oh so slut-like in the middle of a car park of motorbikers.
"Good girl," he murmurs, and she feels a shiver of thrill run down her spine.
"I bought something for you,"
"Muhu," she replies. She can hardly speak now. She's afraid to open her mouth and talk, anxious that only gobledegook would come out.
"Come," she follows him, slightly disappointed they're not going to his bike. He notices her expression and smiles.
"You have to earn that now."
They make their way into the forest, past swampy ponds and trees struck down by lightening or storms and left there to rot, past fetid funghi and a maze of horseshoe prints, until they find somewhere quiet.
"Kneel," he almost whispers, but she can still hear him despite the sounds of the birds, the wind, the cars in the distance. His voice is cutting into her soul.
She kneels in slow motion, aware of the comfort of the mossy ground beneath.
"Look down," he mutters, "spread your knees wide apart and sit back on your ankles."
She's starting to tremble now; she can feel herself changing; the heat rising and her mouth start to dry.
She smells it before she sees it. It smells like his jacket, of old leather, or soft leather that's been worn in. The scent of it, of him, fills her nostrils as he fastens it around her neck.
This collar is thick. Soft, but thick. It feels heavy.
And then she hears the lead. Metal chains that chink as he fixes it to the collar. For a moment he runs the cold metal along her shoulder, she can see him observing the goosebumps that suddenly spring up in its wake.
And then he steps back, rattling the chain as he goes. The chain is long and she has to crawl for a long time until she reaches him. By the time she is once again in front of him, her knees are covered in mud, leaves, twigs. Her demure floaty designer dress is unrecognisable.
Her unzips his black leather trousers and takes out his cock. It's already hard, waiting for her. He shakes the lead, and she takes the cue, moving forward to take him into her mouth. It grazes the back of her throat, neither of them need to move as it's throbbing so much, each throb taking his cock deeper and deeper. She closes her eyes, ready to take in more, but he pulls it out and comes, with a low moan, all down the front of her dress. Her breasts are covered in his spunk; it's dripping from her shoulders and down her cleavage. It trips off her own orgasm, an orgasm so powerful she has to get on all fours.
"Leave it," he growls, as she goes to wipe herself off.
He allows her to walk back, but he keeps the collar and lead on, at least until they are in sight of the car park. She feels drunk, stumbling so often that he eventually has to take her by her hand.
They stop, and he deftly spreads his cum over her bare shoulders and breasts before kissing her gently: soft featherlight kisses that calm her down and bring her back to earth.
And then he bows, motioning to the Ducati waiting for them.
"Now, tell me, where would you like to go?"
He's waiting for her, sat at the table, two teas by his elbow. She takes the place next to him, only barely aware of the looks of the other bikers as they acknowledge her joining him.
"How did you know I'd come?" she asks.
He shrugs, confidently, arrogantly even.
"I knew you couldn't resist it. Moth..flame...you know the story..."
They sit silently, side by side. Her stomach is flipping, turning somersaults, waiting for him to make a move, to say something, to break the tension.
"Open your legs," he suddenly says.
"Pardon?"
"You heard me, open your legs."
She leans back against the table and spreads her knees wide, desperately trying to control her breathing as she does so. She realises that she looks odd, demurely dressed and yet sitting oh so slut-like in the middle of a car park of motorbikers.
"Good girl," he murmurs, and she feels a shiver of thrill run down her spine.
"I bought something for you,"
"Muhu," she replies. She can hardly speak now. She's afraid to open her mouth and talk, anxious that only gobledegook would come out.
"Come," she follows him, slightly disappointed they're not going to his bike. He notices her expression and smiles.
"You have to earn that now."
They make their way into the forest, past swampy ponds and trees struck down by lightening or storms and left there to rot, past fetid funghi and a maze of horseshoe prints, until they find somewhere quiet.
"Kneel," he almost whispers, but she can still hear him despite the sounds of the birds, the wind, the cars in the distance. His voice is cutting into her soul.
She kneels in slow motion, aware of the comfort of the mossy ground beneath.
"Look down," he mutters, "spread your knees wide apart and sit back on your ankles."
She's starting to tremble now; she can feel herself changing; the heat rising and her mouth start to dry.
She smells it before she sees it. It smells like his jacket, of old leather, or soft leather that's been worn in. The scent of it, of him, fills her nostrils as he fastens it around her neck.
This collar is thick. Soft, but thick. It feels heavy.
And then she hears the lead. Metal chains that chink as he fixes it to the collar. For a moment he runs the cold metal along her shoulder, she can see him observing the goosebumps that suddenly spring up in its wake.
And then he steps back, rattling the chain as he goes. The chain is long and she has to crawl for a long time until she reaches him. By the time she is once again in front of him, her knees are covered in mud, leaves, twigs. Her demure floaty designer dress is unrecognisable.
Her unzips his black leather trousers and takes out his cock. It's already hard, waiting for her. He shakes the lead, and she takes the cue, moving forward to take him into her mouth. It grazes the back of her throat, neither of them need to move as it's throbbing so much, each throb taking his cock deeper and deeper. She closes her eyes, ready to take in more, but he pulls it out and comes, with a low moan, all down the front of her dress. Her breasts are covered in his spunk; it's dripping from her shoulders and down her cleavage. It trips off her own orgasm, an orgasm so powerful she has to get on all fours.
"Leave it," he growls, as she goes to wipe herself off.
He allows her to walk back, but he keeps the collar and lead on, at least until they are in sight of the car park. She feels drunk, stumbling so often that he eventually has to take her by her hand.
They stop, and he deftly spreads his cum over her bare shoulders and breasts before kissing her gently: soft featherlight kisses that calm her down and bring her back to earth.
And then he bows, motioning to the Ducati waiting for them.
"Now, tell me, where would you like to go?"
Uniforms
I have a bit of a thing about men in military uniform, especially desert and Middle Eastern combat. Guns are obligatory of course. And the bigger, the better. But the most important thing are the boots.
I go swimming once a week and often have the lucky honour to share the hot tub afterwards with a soldier who tells me long stories about terrible things that happened over there, or makes jokes about the fact that his Army issue boots were made of compressed cardboard.
Half of me is entranced by the stories, the other half a little bemused at seeing behind the fantasy. Hearing that soldiers often have to buy their own boots if they want decent ones really does bring it home what they go through. And I don't even want to think about death or being maimed.
But the fantasy persists. I think my Dad is responsible: bringing me up on a diet of black and white post war moves such as Ice Cold in Alex might have perhaps started things off. And then I found david Lean's Lawrence of Arabia, and Desert Fox and I was hooked on my dirty little secret.
In my twenties I made a pilgrimage to Thailand where I visited the Bridge on The River Qwai, travelling to Kanchanaburi on the infamous Burma-Siam 'death railway'. It was perhaps one of the most moving things I have done in my whole life.
Soldiers are probably at the top of my list of people I most admire and respect.
However, there is someone I care for who has expressed an interest on joining the Army. And I hope that he doesn't, although it is purely for selfish reasons.
I still harbour day dreams of being captured and used mercilessly by a combat-clad young man wearing desert boots.
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