Sunshine Award from a Master

Sunshine Award I am tickled pink at receiving the Sunshine Award from a much admired blogger, writer and Dominant Master, Sir Joseph McNamara (@JMcNamara4), grand financier and world traveller who hailed from New-York City and his magisterial fortress. Being in the company of glamorous and talented bloggers such as GeminiswordsPenelope JonesRenee RoseAdaline RaineAna VitskyGreen Eyed GheishaAlice DarkGenevieve Dewey and MariMar makes this award an awesome experience for this timid scribbler.

Thank you for your kind words Sir, I am forever your liege.  I will attempt to answer the shiny questionnaire in a way that does honour the occasion…

Favorite Color: is green, for the meadows of my beloved Dolomites

Favorite Animal: the Salamander

Favorite Number: π

Favorite Non-alcoholic DrinkCoffee

Facebook or Twitter: different things I guess, my central character is on Facebook, just in case

Your Passionmy wife Gorgeous, without her the Universe would be a frozen desert

Giving or getting presents: Books mainly, signs of friendship, signs of love

Favorite Day: February 14

Favorite FlowersEdelweiß

My nominations:

Those friends are a constant source of inspiration and learning for me.  I apologise for nominating for an award already received, as may be the case.

Belinda Witzenhausen, writer and wonderful blogger and artist

Rick Stassi, who knows the way

Leslie Moon, poet and photographer

Louise Hastings, author

Mirabella, inspired, inspiring and a source of wonder

Jim Wright, writer, photographer and observer of life and of his beautiful country, Jordan

Diana Lee, writer, photographer and musician

Ash N. Finn, writer and blogger extraordinaire

Marny Copal, who has raccoons on the deck…

Romantic Dominant, who’s certainly not faded nor fading…

If you want to join in the fun, and continue the process, the rules are to:

(1) Thank the person who gave you the award in your blog post.

(2) Complete the Q&A below in your blog post.

(3) Pass on the award to 10-12 deserving and inspiring bloggers, inform them and link to their blogs.

The End of the Challenge #AtoZChallenge #WritersWednesdays

The End of the Challenge

O There is always an anticlimax at the end, like finishing the first reading of a beloved book.  But, somehow, one of the posts has given me an idea.  Doing research for the Challenge leads sometime to old friends, or friends one did not expect to have.  Thus I have met Régine Deforges, a celebrated writer and hell raiser in her own time.  From Régine I have promised myself to read several books, and more about those in due time.  For now I have picked up a new project: translating and commenting on Régine’s “O m’a dit” (© Société Nouvelle des Editions Jean-Jacques Pauvert, 1975, Nouvelle Edition, Pauvert, 1995), her 1975 interview – sorry – “entretiens” with Pauline Réage, author of Histoire d’O.  In fact there is yet another idea beyond this, but for the latter, my readers may have to look elsewhere in these pages.

I think a translation of “O m’a dit” in English already exists (if so I have not read it), but I relish the idea of doing something my own way, with my own bias.  “O m’a dit” is a fascinating piece of journalism and critique, one of only two interviews Pauline gave in her lifetime.  When, in 1975, Pauline and Régine met they were already friends, and they talked about O, of course, but also about many subjects they were keen to discuss: in those lines one can read the weight of their own success – published and successful author of one world-famous book for Pauline, Régine of many to come – as well of their phantasms.  Well, enough for now, and more later.  What I am planning to do is to translate (I think the whole text: 170 pages) and post in small chunks with comments, hopefully of interest to you, reader, and I’d probably do that every Wednesday or so under the tag #WritersWednesday!

So, what about the Challenge?  Well, it is now over for 2013, and I published the last post yesterday!  It has been most enjoyable, and I found it easier than last year, which was my first year of participation.

 

#FiveSentenceFiction: Paradise

To Susan

Daria Bagrintseva His dedication to his work is exemplary, and he is admired by colleagues and friends.

But in the depth of his heart he hides a wonderful secret, a secret always present, as he works through the day.

Only he – and the one who shares his life – know the secret: it is their shared treasure, the magic link between them when he is away.

She has the key, and she knows, every evening he will be there, at their door…

For she is the guardian, collared, fragile, her white skin like snow in Spring, her lips so red, waiting to open for him the door of Paradise.

Image: Daria Bagrintseva

#FiveSentenceFiction: Ringing

Owned The small torus was perfect, its pale colour matching her skin, its location a delicious dream, a constant evocation of a deep secret, his and hers.

They had chosen the craftsman carefully, an old Chinese silversmith who knew his piercing, and was discrete.

She had been a little afraid, but trusted him, blindly.

For him it was symbolic of his coming of age: him, the master.

And for her, the beautiful slave, it was her pride: she belonged, she was owned.

On the True Devastation of Social Stigma

 I meant to write on this ever since I read Gillian’s post of 24 May on this very subject. “For the entirety of my life”, wrote Gillian, “I’ve fought this pointless war of my urges versus societal expectation.” And this makes finding the “right” partner so much more difficult, as we hide “blue”. It may be tempting to take the “social science” route to approach the problem: individual desires – “urges” – versus society’s repression. Indeed the Freudian explanation for psychological disorders caused by the effect of repressed desires is well understood. However I wish to take a somewhat different angle on this, that of the writer, of a writer’s role. Gillian is a marvellous blogger, always interesting, and supremely honest. I suspect that she is also a very interesting fiction writer, although I am far too junior in this game to comment with any authority on her talent as writer: let me just say that I enjoy reading what Gillian writes, and the Black Door Press is one of my very favourite spaces on WP.

Coming back to the subject, we know since Lady Chatterley, quoted by Gillian, that tartuffery is alive and well, and not only in officialdom. D. H. Lawrence’s work had to wait until 1960 to be published freely in Britain! Of course we knew that before, and we all have met people who pretend to condemn and be shocked, whilst being as prurient as any in their demonisation of x or y: “ Did you see what she did?” Bigotry and prurience are time-honoured bed-fellows… One of the reasons for the continuing success of the so-called tabloid press must be the sulphurous appetite for the dirty details, and the prettier the celebrity, the uglier the details, and the more copies of those rags are sold. Those “papers”, their management, readers and censors do not represent “society”, they represent the contemptible end of it, to be polite. The collusion between politicians  – paragons of virtue as we all know – and the “media” has been exemplified by the current judicial enquiry in the UK.

But what of the writer’s role in this?  “Writing and sharing my thoughts on all things sexual”, writes Gillian (emphasis mine), “actually makes me feel like I’m contributing to breaking down barriers that cause so much pain in our lives.” This is, of course, at the opposite end of prurience: it is openness, honest expression of the true – or imagined – self. This clear difference – to oversimplify – between exploitative pornography and writing about sexuality, “marching for healthier fucking”, as Gillian put it, is honourable, and must be supported by all of us, great and small, in the writing community. But so is marching for saving the whales. Could it be though that exclusive concentration on the one single issue – am I showing my age here? – might make us miss the real target? How about homophobic tartuffes? How about agism? How about the demonisation of the poor (the “socially disruptive” of the British conservative press)? Am I mixing things up badly here?

I think not. The very barriers Gillian wishes to break down, have, in sometimes unpredictable ways, be consolidated by single issues interests. The taboos of D. H. Lawrence’s time have survived in even more nefarious ways: for example the refusal, by the mainstream media, to admit to the brutal exploitation of poor girls from the “liberated” baltic countries, in clean and democratic Sweden, as Stieg Larsson described in his best selling novels. What I am trying to say is that we have to be inclusive: “I’ve lived my life in fear and shame of my urges, my thoughts, and my desires” writes Gillian. But the diversity of urges, thoughts, desires, has to be respected also, now that some of the barriers appear to have been, if not broken down, seriously weakened. And, please, please, let us not forget that social stigma is often a smoke screen for exploitation.

Our fellow blogger, delightful and youthful Sextails, writes about hot and healthy heterosexual encounters: some may read her posts as innocent musings, others as risqué. Others write beautiful stories about gay love. Two characters in my unfinished, and probably never to be published novel – moaning now –  are, respectively, deaf-mute and paraplegic – and exquisitely beautiful. All those views are respectable. Yet if I write about BDSM, and the treatment of submissive human beings by cruel masters or mistresses, am I writing women (or men for that matter) as sex objects, as opposed to sex subjects? Am I guilty of that ultimate sin: being a Tartuffe myself, claiming the one truth while really supporting the other, that sex, in writing, films, pictures, merchandising or bodies, is a cheap and eminently sellable commodity.

“We need to drop our masks and embrace our sensuality, our sexuality and not settle until we find our compatible partners rather than trying to change to fit into a culture that is, at its core, dysfunctional and unhealthy.” I searched for Blue, and found her, but am I honestly fighting the dragons of bigotry and stigma as a writer? I am marching with Gillian, knowing I am somewhat dysfunctional myself.

Prelude

We are now in Summer, the Solstice has passed, and the rain is spoiling the rose garden. In the lounge, browsing the book shelves, I think of the day when Helena first came to my house. Helena… The thought of my beautiful and devoted novice fills me with pride. I recall the day of her collaring, when she and her sister Lucy became mine.

I have to start planning the precise layout of the party. We shall celebrate Lucy’s and Helena’s coming of age in splendour. I have invited thirty one Mistresses and their favourite subs, in total over one hundred guests. From experience, I expect eighty percent of the invited dommes to turn up, a few apologising for ill health, or simply fear of not being seen at their best. My parties are well sought after, and equally well remembered.

I look forward to seeing again some far away friends, exceptional beings, who share my tastes for beautiful and obedient subs and who make this community so alive and exciting. We meet only in those special occasions, when one of us has someone to celebrate: a new sub, a freshly minted slave, more rarely a wedding.

This time I have a special interest in one guest: a very tall and handsome domme, and old friend of mine, nicknamed the Ghoul, by uncharitable or envious rivals. Her official name is Mistress V. She’s written to me by return on receiving my invitation. She lives in Canada and we meet rarely, but always memorably. My friend is indeed special: she’s a very beautiful and attractive hermaphrodite. She will join us with her two most senior slaves: an albinos eunuch, named Roland, and an extremely rare specimen,  a blue-eyed, superb black female sub, named Melody. Both are exquisite acrobats…

Since this story is a shade outside the scope of this gentle blog, it continues where you, discerning readers, know where to find it… Enjoy!

Aftermath

 This feeling of emptiness is new to me. Helena is now collared, in a scene I have rewritten three times, and am still not totally happy with. Such is a writer’s fate. I enjoyed the story – not sure anyone else will, is they get a chance to read it that is – but I know I can still do much better with those characters. It’s 10k long, possibly a touch too long given the minimalist plot. There will be a follow up, whatever the fate of this first episode, I am just too attached to those people not to do it. Funny thing is, after finishing off the manuscript this morning and compiling it – thank you Scrivener – I’ve found lots of pics that would make up a nice illustrated version (dare I?) Well, another project maybe. But where does all this leave the novel? I am not too worried, it’s been a good break, and now I have new ideas for that little bunch too! I am a lucky fellow don’t you think?

#FiveSentenceFiction: Medicine

 Back at her place Helena felt drained and lifeless: meeting Mistress G had been a challenge, and she was not sure she’d achieved what she wanted, win her Mistress’s trust.

It was hard for her to balance charm and submission, she was afraid of appearing to flirt, to attempt to seduce, instead of what she wanted, learn, mortify herself, seek humiliation without being degraded.

She knew the older woman would see through her, and despite the evident interest she had for her, would not forgive hypocrisy, nor false pretence.

Then she had to tell Sarah about her day – and night – at Mistress’s house: her partner was immensely tolerant, but equally would not take half truths for granted.

She walked slowly to the bathroom cabinet: there was solace for her tortured soul, and, hesitating a little, she picked up the small box that contained sleep for at least six hours, by then Sarah would be back, and she would be safe again, in the embrace of her lover.

#BlogMeMaybe: May 21 – May I tell you something about writing?

I am really excited by Gillian’s announcement – so much so that I re-blogged her post! On my one attempt at the genre I sought and receive some comments from that most creative of bloggers… Which decided me to rewrite it, perhaps as a teaser before a submission, he says, pondering. For now, a lady friend, who knows a thing or two on the subject of BDSM/RLV, suggested this… Of course dedicated to @GillianColbert:

The diary

Helena is sitting at her little desk, writing her diary, as Mistress G has instructed her. As she writes, she sees herself in the mirror, just in front of her. She knows how to please Mistress, when she kneels prostrate, naked and chained, downstairs, in the dungeon. Up here, in this large room, lined up with books, large windows opening on one side to the sea, on the other to the lush garden, she knows that, to please, she has to be more sophisticated: not just obedient and supple, but also cultured and amusing. Not that she’s ever vulgar, even when she submits to the ultimate humiliations, being whipped and sodomised on the cross. Mistress G has taught her standards. But Helena is still learning: there is no end to the training of a submissive. Perfection is impossible.

She looks at the perfect oval of her face, the ocean green eyes, the black hair, the greek nose, the delicately shaped lips, the slender neck, her collar. She wears her collar with pride, her name is on it, it’s her distinctive and only wealth, together with the beautiful silver ring that glimmers on her shaven labia. But of course the whole of her belongs to Mistress G.

Todays her diary tells Mistress about her dreams, always related to pleasing and serving, but also, as Mistress instructed, to her progress in her understanding of her role as an obedient yet intelligent sub. She looks now at the sea, grey and foaming under the blue sky. She hears the dragonflies hovering  around the pond, the crystal sound of the cascade, their cascade. Perhaps Mistress will take her to the garden, down to the comfortable couch under the big cypress tree.

But now she hears Mistress’ footsteps: Helena stands up, wearing only a light gown over her naked body. Taking in the sight of her slave, Mistress G smiles: “how is my little girl today?” – Helena is on her knees, kissing Mistress’ feet, then, her eyes upturned adoringly to her Mistress, she says: “This girl is so happy to see her Mistress in the house”. She’s now taken the humble nadu position, palms open, and there is only obedience and devotion on her face. Mistress G has expertly freed her slave from the gown and is admiring her naked property. Helena’s eyes are turned down to the wooden floor: she’s awaiting her Mistress’ instructions.  “Let’s have a look at your diary, my good girl” Mistress G says, cheerfully, playing with the handle of her whip. Helena feels a little anguish in her heart: has she made any grammar mistake?