Takedown at Extremm

At your local fetish club, you’ll find a safe and friendly space to meet people with similar kinks to yours. You might only want to be in the same space as fellow fans of bondage, or rubber, or spanking, or cross-dressing, or fetish stuff in general. Just to chat and socialise – you may not feel the need to actually do anything physical with anyone at all. That’s fine.

Then again, you may want to to find someone to play with. The woman in the rubber catsuit and thigh boots might let you lick her heels. The handsome man in leather might order you over his knee, if you ask nicely. At your local fetish club, if you are polite and you behave like a nice person, this can happen to you. Go along a few times, make a few friends and – always – ask nicely…

Of course, that’s assuming you’re on your own. Perhaps you are going with your partner. If so, you may want to find a quiet corner of the dungeon, to play together and enjoy some erotic time together, away from the kids and the telly.

What if acting out your fantasy involves not just you and your partner – but other people? This too is possible via the friendly pervs you’ll meet at your fetish club

The other day, I was at Extremm, an excellent local group in the West Country. An attractive woman, conservatively dressed in a long red gown, was chatting to her husband and a group of friends. She had a professional look about her – perhaps a bank manager or a local businesswoman, I guessed.

One of the group saw that I’d notice her and whispered in my ear “You might want to stick around and watch – they’re going to do a takedown.”

You may know that the term ‘takedown’ means you grab your victim by force, take them off-balance and drop them to the ground. If you’re a martial artist, or a police officer making a forcible arrest, say. Not something I’d seen in a club, then.

My informant discreetly explained that the lady in red absolutely loved this. Her husband had organised a couple of strong male friends to help and the surprise was planned for later that night. (Well, I say surprise, but you didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to realise that the ‘victim’ in this case had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen and was already getting excited…)

Suddenly it happened. Two big guys had her on the ground in a moment. The dress came off at once. She was pretty fit though and no pushover. She fought like mad, kicking and squirming, pushing them off. Another guy and a woman grabbed her. Still she fought on. If you weren’t in the know, you’d swear that an innocent woman was begin abducted. The struggle lasted for quite a while, until finally they had her under control.

Then the woman in red was brought, still writhing furiously, to a wooden cross and strapped on, now totally naked. The fight was over. Husband produced a cat o‘ nine tails, with soft leather strips. The victim moaned with pleasure as he gently flogged her back.

I slipped away and left them to it.

Find Extremm at www.clubextremm.com
* As a rule, cameras are strictly forbidden at these clubs, to preserve privacy. If you’re the local vicar, you really don’t want photos of yourself as a French maid finding their way into the public domain. However, I was allowed to take photos on this night, so these were taken with full permission…

The Fetish Question: Getting Over the Barrier with Politeness

I count myself lucky. But then it’s a luck that comes with many hours of practice, and you know what, as they say, every master was once a disaster. I’m lucky because in fetisexual terms I am more or less out of the closet, the closet full of latex and mad toys.

So most of my friends know what I get up to, even if they don’t know the specifics. For I certainly don’t put that or those in their faces, but I always game them a bit, turning it around if they start using lame jokes. Humour that they use as a shield that in my opinion keeps them ignorant, and thus apart from having the time of their lives. I keep a pseudonym simply out of etiquette, and it’s kind of like being Batman.

I am also lucky because I realised early on that life isn’t a rehearsal, and I’d rather spend time chasing dreams than being comfortable and ignorant. But getting what you dream of still takes hours of practice. Moreover it takes courage to answer your very own Fetish Question and the ability to say ‘This is who I am, take it or leave it’.

For many men it’s not easy, they feel compelled to get laid, and they don’t want to not get laid by adding more unconventional requests. For women it’s easier to deal with the acceptance part of the Fetish Question, most female newbies get inundated with emails on social network sites. And curiously I have been mostly inspired by fetish women.

Perhaps an answer to dealing with the Fetish Question is in the individuality expressed by many transgender situations: if you accept yourself and flaunt what you have, you are accepted, adored and successful because you write your own story.

Yes, you write your own story. My colleague 3xl has indeed written his own story. 3xL’s was a journey which started by outing himself from the latex closet to his girlfriend and risking her not accepting him. Then, once finding they were indeed incompatible, he still had the strength to still believe he would find his soulmate. Not only did he attend every fetish club going, he started his own website and mini-fetish empire.

He wrote his own story, literally.

Answering your own Fetish Question also comes down to being polite I think. An underrated term politeness, but it is a fair starting point. If you want to be tiresomely fascinating and revolutionary, yes, have fun with that. But we may all have to sell butter or car insurance at some point. In a vanilla situation politeness is key. By first politely accepting that this fetisexual is who you are then you will be able to let people know politely who you are if they ask, politely.

They really aren’t your friends if they recoil in horror. It’s not polite. And if they probe too far perhaps you should politely invite them to a club. The point is to widen that network and let people know who you are. Everyone knows someone. And not everyone is on Fetlife or Facebook.

Now I personally don’t worry about telling a prospective partner what I’m about. It saves time finding out they are not for me. Unless I can sense urges or intrigue, then I will take time to explore or guide. I remain, at all times, polite, and afterwards I am more resilient to being controlled or made to fit. We only have one life to write our life story.

You haven’t got time for fuckery in your soulmate search, because then when you enter the BDSM or fetish world you realise there are yet more onion layers of protocols, agendas, ignorance, control, wilfulness and games to sail your polite self right through the middle of. And that’s just all the good stuff! I hope this helps you in answering your Fetish Question.

SUN TZU MASTER OF WAR: SU-SIE MISTRESS OF MEN

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?

Miss Makeover: The Other Woman is a Ferrari

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.

The Dark Tantra Tarot. First Ever Fetish Pack. 22 doorways 4 Mistresses

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.

Miss Makeover:I dangled the tawse between her legs, rubbing it back and forth as she opened further for me.

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…

The Clitoral Truth: Supreme Sasha answers your letters

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.)

Miss Makeover: Having her pretty little bottom striped hard.

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.

Marky Meerkat Saxual DJ Ambient Lounge Hardcore Fem Dom

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

Substance 666 Three Wise Women, A top geezer and a cauldron of hubble bubble toil and trouble

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.

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