A little bit about us

Looking back, I see that I haven't really actually said much about my philosophies, motivations, alliegencies or whatever.

It's time to put that record straight a little.

The first exposure I remember having to the world of sadomasochism was at a Waxworks Museum on the Isle of Wight. They had a section devote to punishment and torture, exhibiting such thrills as the Iron Maiden, the Scolds' Bridle and a device that demanded my attention for not just the rest of our family holiday, but for years afterwards. It's known simply as the Iron Spider:


The scene depicted in the waxworks was of a torturer sinking this device into the chest of a young woman. It captivated my mind, the stark image of the woman, bare breasted, helpless at the feet of this man by virtue of him simply posessing an item that could cause her pain. The scene was burned into my memory irrevocably. But it wasn't the stuff of nightmares. I never had a single bad thought or dream because of what I'd seen. It wasn't out-and-out erotic either. I never recalled the image whilst masturbating, never aspired to find someone who was willing to have their bodies abused in such a way. It was, perhaps, simply a fondly recalled taster of a scenario or a display of emotion that appealled to me.

I should say, really, I was about twelve, I think - maybe a few years older. No more than fifteen.

Through my mostly lonely teenage years, I taught myself to meditate, practised a calm, centred manner, immersed myself in the arcane and spritual. I was fourteen years in the English Baptist church, leaving at the age of nineteen when I met my first "grown-up" girlfriend, and when it became obvious to me that the hypocrisies and failings of the church couldn't support my spiritual needs anymore. School was mostly uneventful, college was disasterous. I left with enough grade points to not quite get into University. Six months before my 20th birthday, I met a girl I'd be seeing for the next four years.

For the four years following my leaving school, I could be best described as a hedonist - I drank, I went to clubs, I had lots and lots of sex - all of it strictly vanilla (she was more experienced than me - although only six months older - and had apparently "done her experimenting"). The situation suited me for a while, but soon became a pit of misery as it became more and more obvious that we were using each other more as a safety zone against being single and sexless than anything else.

When I met my brat, I'd rediscovered myself to some extent, having had somewhat of an epiphany during my first ever holiday alone. For the first time I'd been "ME". Not a son, or a boyfiend, or a mate, or a work colleague, just raw, untreated me.

And people liked me. It was a revelation. My ego took a boost that never went away. I came back empowered, changed. Everyone noticed, especially my then-ex. I started dating, despite her efforts to fuck it up. I gathered a clique of female drinking buddies whose fickle friendships I encouraged as a simple device by which I could continue to go out to clubs and be around nice people.

The night I met brat was the second time in two weeks that I'd successfully met a girl at a club and spent the evening with her. I was on a roll. I took her back to mine and we spent the night talking - she spent the night talking, I listened to her life story. It was a harrowing thing to hear, but i had no idea what to think other than "I'm tired".

At ten in the morning, after fully eight hours talking non-stop, we had sex. I won't call it "making love". It was the only kind of sex a sixteen year old on speed and a 23 year old who hasn't slept could have. In other words, rather crap.

I saw her home and phoned her a few days later. We flirted and got on well. She'd been grounded for not letting her folks know where she was that Saturday and Sunday, so I arranged to visit her.

The sex was torrid and repetetive. We came alive and fucked each other rigid for two solid days.

The next few months weren't much different. I'd visit on weekends, we'd fuck and talk, fuck and talk, eat and fuck again. Her father "tested" me. His sense of humour runs to the obscenely sexual, cruel and embarrassing. He tried to pick me apart and find a weak spot that he could use to poke fun at in order to wear me down and - I assume - drive me off.

Unfortunately for him, personal insults have never bothered me and he found no chink in my armour. I found a gaping hole in his and played him at his own game. And won. He sulked for weeks.

Her mother told me family stories and tried to mother me. When I told her I already had a mother and she needn't bother - as nicely as possible - she also sulked.

Eventually the pressure of such unbearable parents began to tell on the relationship. I decided the time had come to move her in with me.

It wasn't easy. There was a lot of bitterness from her parents. I was stealing their baby away. I was the big, bad, independent, intelligent ogre who had shown her that there was something else to life apart from parents.

But she made that first important break, she flew the nest. There's more to the story, but that's for another post. This one's long enough now.

I want to talk about our choice of lifestyle, our paganism and the type of Master I want to be. Oh, and we need to take some pics for HNT. Keep reading.