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There’s so much more to Washington D.C. than the presidency and the invention of Go Go, (a monster funk groove, should you prefer Puccini). As well as a thriving arts scene there are embassies, universities, international organisations such as the National Endowment for the Arts, the World Wildlife Fund and the World Bank – plus a seriously large fetish community.
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A business client bought me a copy of Sun Tzu, Master of War, a Confucian guide to battle tactics updated for today’s business berks. Fat, bald men in suits who like to see themselves as wild warriors. (The same Horsemen of the Apocalypse who usually want ‘a bare-bottomed spanking, please. And then I want to suck your nipples.’ ) I flick through this timeless text and find out that it’s not a good idea to attack uphill. Who knew?
Maybe I should write my own man-taming text. I am Su-Sie, Mistress of Men – as hard as taking sweets off children. And involves the same amount of whining and whingeing. As some tiresome telly bitch recently said, mastering men is usually the same as training dogs. Why don’t I just try these techniques on My Man Max. Why am I pretending life is a Mills and Boon novel?
They’re men. All too aware that, these days, they’re on the losing side. I suppose I could stoop to that. But why can’t any relationship be an equal exchange? I’m a pro-Domme harlot. Surely I’m not being naive? Am I?
My love has only one flaw. Fast cars. Making a dick of himself with other plutocrats on a long dangerous road. It’s called the Gumboil rally or something equally silly. They race all day and party all night. It seems to attract posh tarts as well as rich boy racers.
It costs about thirty grand to enter, then you need a Ferrari and a string of five star hotels. They get by on very little sleep despite a great deal of champagne being consumed. It’s also possible some may resort to something stronger than pro-plus to make it to the finishing line. There’s no dope test to worry about. You’re a dope if you entered in the first place. That’s what he’s doing right now. Risking his neck. Perhaps dipping his wick.
The other woman is a Ferrari.
Fetish Trance. The Suspended Androgyne. Drifting. Dreaming.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Why Mistresses instead of Queens?
The legendary Marquise. One of the four Mistress cards in the limited edition Major Arcana cards shortly available. We replaced Queens with Mistresses. Well, to name but one, who wouldn’t prefer Our Lady of intelligent elegance to our own dear Queen?
The Marquise once referred to me as a ‘tempestuous Puck-like talent’. Well, I’ve always been a fool. For Puck’s sake. As for The Tempest, I’ve reached Prospero vintage. Hence 22 new Tarot doorways. Taboos to confront. Obsessions to nurture. Moonlit paths through the tangled forest.
Ruth Ramsden has dipped her quill deep into decades of lived wisdom to realise these visions. What’s more, she managed not to murder me during the period of its conception. (While knowing that no court in the country would have convicted her.)
enquiries to markramsden.moonfruit.com please.
I smacked her bottom harder, I used the tip of my middle finger right on her puckered little anus and shoved two of my fingers in her mouth. She sucked on them greedily, eager to show me she would now do anything. Her bottom was red hot to the touch.
“Had enough darling?”
“You call this pain? In Russia we birch each other.”
Bloody cheek! This is sometimes called bratting. Behaving as a bratt to provoke punishment. Some find it cute. I find it annoying but then a pretty bottom excuses a multitude of sins.
“Really?” I said. “I wonder if you have sampled a birch made out of rattan. Lasts much longer than the real thing. Even on an impudent rump such as yours.”
I showed her the birch, tied in a red bow. She was a little frightened now, but trying not to show it. I prefer the birch because canes are harder to control, however experienced you are. It’s quite easy to miss and give someone an extremely painful swipe just where they don’t need it…in the middle of their thigh, for instance. No erotic benefit and a sting like sulphuric acid. An exaggeration perhaps but it’s a sensation you won’t forget in a hurry. As it was, the birch caught her right on the sweet spot. With a few more whacks, just to keep her yelping for more, I picked her up and took her to my bed. It was high time she played with me, selfish little baggage.
We spent the next few hours making each other come, rubbing our faces in each other’s bodies, snuffling up our mingled earth and sea scents. Needless to say this sweet ecstasy wasn’t enough for her. She needed coke and cigarettes more than anything else. As the bedroom filled with smoke time and time again I decided that what she needed was a proper caning. I hate smoke!
“Time for you to bend over properly,” I told her. I didn’t have to fake the aggression or the cold hatred. She had been boring me with coke babble and a little ash tray breath in your face goes a very long way.
“Come on. Stand up, bend over and grasp your ankles. You need six stripes across your backside, young lady.”
Her eyes glazed over as she stepped into the world I was creating. She staggered to her feet, wobbled a little, wiped her nose yet again, snorted down some coke-drenched snot, glared defiantly and then bent over. I got up and picked out my thinnest rattan. This was going to sting.
“Grasp your ankles and hold the position.”
She managed it somehow. Now it was impossible to hold back. Her back was arched, her peach was ready and I could resist no longer.
I tried spacing out the strokes, for maximum pain, but the sound of her cries was just too exciting. All too soon I had given her five beauties. She was panting but I still hadn’t broken her.
I drew the cane back as far as possible and landed it with maximum force. She jumped up squealing, hopping around the room holding her bottom. She calmed down enough to kiss the cane and then we feasted on each other.
I will always remember that day, long after the stink of cigarettes evaporated. The frenzied love. The talk. The laughter. But the instant she ran out of Marlborough she vanished for good.
Maybe she found a rich Englishman. Maybe she annoyed the wrong person. She could have drunk herself to death or got into heroin.
I think of her often, My Russian Ruby. But it’s a relief she’s gone.
I’m old enough to know she would have been a disaster if she had hung around. With age comes wisdom. Or perhaps the fires of madness flicker a little softer.
I was a teenage Satanist. Now I’m twice as old as the little girl who courted darkness. Whenever possible, I seek the light. My skin’s still white, my hair is black, but in summer I wear light colours. I still like smacking bottoms of course, all the shades of red my hand can conjure. From the prettiest pink to the deepest vermilion. Suicide now looks like a cop out and as for Sylvia Plath? Thank God for Prozac…
Dear Sasha,
my missus has bought me a book called The Clitoral Truth. I realise I may not be as attentive to her needs as I might be but should she have thrown it at me saying, ‘Read it, you cunt!’? She can be awfully rude sometimes,
Jeremy
Dear Jeremy,
I may not be psychic but I’m getting that you haven’t had your head between her legs very often recently. When you do get there you’d better listen to instructions as women’s needs vary. Some like it around the sides some like a rub of the nub. Keeping a steady rhythm is important. Unless it isn’t. They’ll soon tell you, if you learn to LISTEN.
‘The Clitoral Truth – The world at your fingertips’ by Rebecca Chalker is a good guide to getting the most out of a clitoris, female ejaculation, the G-spot, Tantric Sex, and everything else you might need to know to service your female. Many men are unaware that it can take twenty minutes for a women to become fully aroused never mind reach an orgasm. Forget Alan Titchmarsh. Do a bit of Lady Gardening. The Clitoral Truth. Cleis publishing. Find it on Amazon.
Dear Sasha,
I live in the London area and need a way of publicising my erotic services without resorting to visiting fetish markets wearing a sandwich board. I sell a new realistically human sex worker android (male, female and t-girl models) which doubles as a vacuum cleaner (stronger than a Dyson) It’s also a qualified plumber and lawyer.
Nick Faust
Dear Nick,
to invent such a supremely useful android I suspect you must have struck a Faustian bargain with one of our other columnists, My Lord Lucifer. Untold riches will undoubtedly come your way, especially if you can somehow make your android sex worker talk. On second thoughts it’s probably worth more without the talking option.
If you still need publicity for erotic products and services you can have Hand Jobs media take on this onerous duty off your, ahem, hands.
One stunningly gorgeous woman accessorised by some friendly blokes made a positive impression at London Alternative Market handing out flyers and leaflets all in a shiny little black bag. Tres chic. As they don’t say in Clapham Junction, where this lovely old Music Hall hosts an excellent market with a very hot after party. The one time I visited the party there was a naked Sloaney girl with a flawless pert body in a suspension frame being teased and spanked for what seemed a lifetime. This Goddess actually insists on gentlemen over fifty, so you don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that this is a daddy thing. (Yes, she does have a boyfriend. Life’s like that.)
They don’t spare the rod in Russia. She was probably used to having her pretty little bottom striped hard. So I would have tobe extra hard. Did I have it in me to be so vicious? We had a few quick drinks, the quickest I had ever had. Which reminded me she would have been a terrible hitwoman. You can’t trust chronic alcoholics. Especially not when they have a bad cold in mid-summer and a need to visit the bathroom every ten minutes. But you can still seduce them. As soon as we were back at my place we kissed till our lips hurt. I dragged her over my knee. One of her hands found the floor while the other grasped my foot tightly. She started to kiss my ankles. I slowly eased her white lace panties down, I was sopping wet just from the sight of her firm, chubby rump.
“Lay still, my girl,” I told her. “You’re going to get the spanking of a life time.”
She had no more hope of laying still than a landed fish gasping for air. I smacked her hard as she wriggled and sighed. I caressed her, fingering her openings, patting her firm, fleshy cheeks. As the heat built up she moaned loudly but she wasn’t going to beg for mercy.
They don’t spare the rod in Russia. She was probably used to having her pretty little bottom striped hard. And she was drunk enough to take a lot of pain. After a while my hand was hurting too much.
Her bottom was red and glowing, yet still ripe for more punishment. Despite the pain she still managed to stick it out and up. Before continuing I took a moment to contemplate the seat of pain and pleasure, the site of pride and shame. It was the finest specimen I had ever had at my disposal. Much too good to rush.
“I keep this heart-shaped paddle for those I love,” I said, picking up my favourite implement. I watched her closely, looking to see
if the word love terrified her. It often does. Because who needs another needy stalker? After a certain age the fiction of a mystic other or perfect lover can no longer sustain us. Luckily our needs and desires remain as fierce as ever, perhaps even more so with the realisation that there is less time in which to indulge our desires.
“Who cares who you love?” she gasped, “Hit me!”
It was the right answer I suppose. Certainly the one to get her bottom smacked as quickly as possible. I unleashed a quick flurry of spanks. Which gave her something to think about. And then I told myself off for losing control.
I usually ask a receiver to kiss the paddle before and after use. Sometimes I douse the surface with water because it makes an already tender bottom much more sensitive to the smacking leather impact. And because moist reddening cheeks look even more enticing. I asked her to kiss the paddle, already slightly warm from contact with her hot bottom. Then I laid it one side and picked my tawse up.
This’ll make you tingle, you hard-arsed bitch. I gave her three quick, hard whacks. She screamed and begged me to stop. Finally! I was getting somewhere. She reached a hand behind her to block my access but, like any mother since time immemorial I merely grabbed the hand and jammed it further up her back. I raised my left thigh to position her more temptingly. She rewarded my efforts by sprawling lewdly, showing me her shaven pout and releasing more of the scent that drives me wild: freshly spanked, horny young woman. I never tire of it.
We had a few quick drinks, the quickest I had ever had. Which reminded me she would have been a terrible hitwoman. You can’t trust chronic alcoholics. Especially not when they have a bad cold in mid-summer and a need to visit the bathroom every ten minutes. But you can still seduce them. As soon as we were back at my place we kissed till our lips hurt. I dragged her over my knee. One of her hands found the floor while the other grasped my foot tightly. She started to kiss my ankles. I slowly eased her white lace panties down, I was sopping wet just from the sight of her firm, chubby rump.
“Lay still, my girl,” I told her. “You’re going to get the spanking of a life time.”
She had no more hope of laying still than a landed fish gasping for air. I smacked her hard as she wriggled and sighed. I caressed her, fingering her openings, patting her firm, fleshy cheeks. As the heat built up she moaned loudly but she wasn’t going to beg for mercy.
They don’t spare the rod in Russia. She was probably used to having her pretty little bottom striped hard. And she was drunk enough to take a lot of pain. After a while my hand was hurting too much.
Her bottom was red and glowing, yet still ripe for more punishment. Despite the pain she still managed to stick it out and up. Before continuing I took a moment to contemplate the seat of pain and pleasure, the site of pride and shame. It was the finest specimen I had ever had at my disposal. Much too good to rush.
“I keep this heart-shaped paddle for those I love,” I said, picking up my favourite implement. I watched her closely, looking to see
if the word love terrified her. It often does. Because who needs another needy stalker? After a certain age the fiction of a mystic other or perfect lover can no longer sustain us. Luckily our needs and desires remain as fierce as ever, perhaps even more so with the realisation that there is less time in which to indulge our desires.
“Who cares who you love?” she gasped, “Hit me!”
It was the right answer I suppose. Certainly the one to get her bottom smacked as quickly as possible. I unleashed a quick flurry of spanks. Which gave her something to think about. And then I told myself off for losing control.
I usually ask a receiver to kiss the paddle before and after use. Sometimes I douse the surface with water because it makes an already tender bottom much more sensitive to the smacking leather impact. And because moist reddening cheeks look even more enticing. I asked her to kiss the paddle, already slightly warm from contact with her hot bottom. Then I laid it one side and picked my tawse up.
This’ll make you tingle, you hard-arsed bitch. I gave her three quick, hard whacks. She screamed and begged me to stop. Finally! I was getting somewhere. She reached a hand behind her to block my access but, like any mother since time immemorial I merely grabbed the hand and jammed it further up her back. I raised my left thigh to position her more temptingly. She rewarded my efforts by sprawling lewdly, showing me her shaven pout and releasing more of the scent that drives me wild: freshly spanked, horny young woman. I never tire of it.
We had a few quick drinks, the quickest I had ever had. Which reminded me she would have been a terrible hitwoman. You can’t trust chronic alcoholics. Especially not when they have a bad cold in mid-summer and a need to visit the bathroom every ten minutes. But you can still seduce them. As soon as we were back at my place we kissed till our lips hurt. I dragged her over my knee. One of her hands found the floor while the other grasped my foot tightly. She started to kiss my ankles. I slowly eased her white lace panties down, I was sopping wet just from the sight of her firm, chubby rump.
“Lay still, my girl,” I told her. “You’re going to get the spanking of a life time.”
She had no more hope of laying still than a landed fish gasping for air. I smacked her hard as she wriggled and sighed. I caressed her, fingering her openings, patting her firm, fleshy cheeks. As the heat built up she moaned loudly but she wasn’t going to beg for mercy.
They don’t spare the rod in Russia. She was probably used to having her pretty little bottom striped hard. And she was drunk enough to take a lot of pain. After a while my hand was hurting too much.
Her bottom was red and glowing, yet still ripe for more punishment. Despite the pain she still managed to stick it out and up. Before continuing I took a moment to contemplate the seat of pain and pleasure, the site of pride and shame. It was the finest specimen I had ever had at my disposal. Much too good to rush.
“I keep this heart-shaped paddle for those I love,” I said, picking up my favourite implement. I watched her closely, looking to see
if the word love terrified her. It often does. Because who needs another needy stalker? After a certain age the fiction of a mystic other or perfect lover can no longer sustain us. Luckily our needs and desires remain as fierce as ever, perhaps even more so with the realisation that there is less time in which to indulge our desires.
“Who cares who you love?” she gasped, “Hit me!”
It was the right answer I suppose. Certainly the one to get her bottom smacked as quickly as possible. I unleashed a quick flurry of spanks. Which gave her something to think about. And then I told myself off for losing control.
I usually ask a receiver to kiss the paddle before and after use. Sometimes I douse the surface with water because it makes an already tender bottom much more sensitive to the smacking leather impact. And because moist reddening cheeks look even more enticing. I asked her to kiss the paddle, already slightly warm from contact with her hot bottom. Then I laid it one side and picked my tawse up.
This’ll make you tingle, you hard-arsed bitch. I gave her three quick, hard whacks. She screamed and begged me to stop. Finally! I was getting somewhere. She reached a hand behind her to block my access but, like any mother since time immemorial I merely grabbed the hand and jammed it further up her back. I raised my left thigh to position her more temptingly. She rewarded my efforts by sprawling lewdly, showing me her shaven pout and releasing more of the scent that drives me wild: freshly spanked, horny young woman. I never tire of it.
Sophisticated slinky soulful sax. The Meerkat, that infernal Ramsden fellow, mixes sophisticated songs, soul, latin, sleazy jazz, funk, Happy House and Hardcore Fem Dom voice from London’s Premier Mistresses. Available for clubs, parties, dungeons and anywhere upmarket grown ups gather.
Sidonia Von Bork’s voice copyright The English Mansion.com
contact through MarkRamsden.moonfruit.com
I got my lovely boy Santa outfit from Substance 666 Hastings, staffed by three Wise Women who like a laugh and good, quick service. I bought my Scarlet and Black Lady Goddess a Viennese mask here. Although the shop offers all manner of bongs, legal highs, kinky knick knacks and gifts it’s Fancy Dress that’s all the rage currently. Have we all gone party mad? I was certainly bonkers after two deep bong hits on Salvia Divinorum purchased here. They did warn me it was powerful. As an experienced Lady K hound I thought I could handle the highest grade strength. That was the worst psychic and actual near death experience I have ever had. Even being cradled in Ruth’s arms during the hallucination of everyone I had ever known being torn in half didn’t help.
Have a care, kiddies.
The tall top geezer behind the counter has worked for Howard Stern, the lucky, lucky bastard. Howard does a lot of explicitly sexual humour, no corner of the Fetish underworld is left unprodded. When I saw his show some gorgeous filly was straddling a fucking machine and getting a right seeing to. Not sure whether these should be allowed as men are more or less obsolete already. Why have a bloke sat on the sofa arguing with you when you can buy a horse-dicked metallic shagatron?Who will actually LISTEN to you.
For occultists Hastings is known as the place Crowley came to die. Crowley – ‘rhymes with holy’ chant the faithful. As I reincarnated as the Great Beast, well, the slightly lesser Beast if you will, I love this atmospheric seaside town and its shifting cast of Boho relics, washed up artists and people who tired of Anus Mundi, otherwise known as London. Come and join us and buy all your kinky toys from Substance 666.
Mark Ramsden's bottom, YET AGAIN
Im also looking for a live in slave. Please contact me for more details.
