A Staple of Life

Kiss the lips to see who else is being Kinky this time!

The thing I think I love best about the online community I have stumbled into is the acceptance that everyone’s experience is different. There isn’t one path or one goal.

It’s easy to get swept away by mainstream portrayals of sex and especially sex with more kink than a satin blindfold. It can be so many things: beautiful people madly in love; an exotic adventurous activity with no emotional ties; weaponised into a control mechanism for individuals or groups.

What sex rarely seems to be, in media of any type, is slightly old, exhausted, baggy people, muddling through while trying their best to support the people the value most. But that is who we are, me and Mr Hunt.

We hadn’t planned our lives to be this, and our path to a moderately adventurous sex life based on a broadly D/s dynamic seems even more pedestrian. Sometimes we lie in bed and plan a trip out to something openly sex positive that we rarely get to. Sometimes I twist my embarrassed tongue around the description of something kinky I fancy trying. More often I blurt something out when we’re driving somewhere and eye contact or detailed discussion is impossible.

I understand some people know their sexual orientation from very young and others don’t, so I guess similar things apply to how you like sex. I knew I was interested in the power balance and sensory aspects from before my first real sexual experiences. I remember feeling weirdly excited reading stories about dystopian oppression. I developed crushes in school on people who were “of a type”. Gender didn’t matter. It was about an attractive, magnetic, confident persona. Something about the way they looked at and spoke to people. My best friends from primary school on have always had what might be called dominant characteristics.

A particularly memorable early experience involved a good friend and a heavy, spiky hairbrush. I learnt in various ways to appreciate the endorphin release of good pain.

But how I got from there to this point in my relationship with Mr Hunt, I’m not really very sure. Tiny steps. With the occasional leap.

Mr Hunt sort of came with me for the ride. But as I said, I crushed on a type, even if he didn’t realise it when we first met and I’m a very lucky lady that he has embraced and researched and thrown himself into every experience I’ve expressed an interest in. It takes a special sort of man to take on a lady who knows kink is a staple of her life, with only slighty spanky porn as his reference point. And he is very special.

I wrote and self published a couple of ebook shorts while the kids were tiny and sleeping in the day, so to be encouraging, and because he knew I’d never go without a shove, he bought me tickets for Eroticon in 2017.

A year on and I went again, with much less shoving. And because they are astoundingly generous with their time, energy and knowledge, there were things to try from Molly and Michael’s toy bag. There was a medical stapler ordered on a very quick shopping app and delivered to a rather bemused Mr Hunt before I even get home.

This is new, because unlike most toys we’ve played with where you can vary intensity, there is either a staple sticking into your skin or there isn’t.

And in a nutshell for me, that is the appeal. It is leaping off a cliff. So much of this adventure can be done hesitantly. But sharp things that pierce the skin are in that split second a done deal.

If anticipation is part of your enjoyment then staples are good, because there is a bit of prep and (if you go for a design) that can be drawn out in touches to sensitise the skin while mapping and planning, as well as making sure the area is clean.

There is also a wide range of placement. Within a range of variance, I guess a large percentage of marks end up on the bottom or backs of legs where you craning in a mirror to see them. Staples can be placed where you can see the immediate aftermath or watch, or be made to watch them happen.

I love the aesthetic of piercing. Of everything from a staple to full on body mods. But when you’re one half of a slightly old, exhausted, baggy couple, with kids and middle class job expectations there is only so much you can change without issue. Staples are great for that. There and then gone so much more quickly than bruises, but with a massive ‘in the moment’ visual rush. I love the look of my skin with metal sticking through it.

I love it even more that I submitted to the person I trust and let them do it. That rush that comes from letting something happen. Of letting go of the decision. Each staple placement is different, and just because one went in easily with little discomfort, the next one might be more painful and I don’t have to worry about it at all. Just be. This hits a particular button for Mr Hunt also.

The trust is deeper than that squeeze of a trigger. Because of the structure and needs of our family life (social workers have inspected my house including the bedrooms again today), we have to be seen to be sticking to a societally approved life plan. In my mind, there is a sort of heirarchy of acts that have a greater societal taboo that we can easily get up to and that appeal. A smack or a slap on the backside is at the bottom of list. Staples come nearer the top. Breaking the skin. Letting or encouraging this to happen shows I willing to break boundaries as an offering of trust. Mr Hunt completing the act shows the same trust in me.

Although I sensory seek for things others would call pain, staples are not as gratifying in that way as some other things. I think the lovely padding just beneath my skin helps with that. In some ways I would like there to be more pressure. A sharper sting. But there are other things out there for that. Or places on my body. Kneecaps, elbows, feet…and I’ll have to stop there or I’ll distract the masochist who lurks deep within. And Mr Hunt will eventually read this…so….oops.

You can play with the sensation when staples are in place. Wobbling them while playing with threads (on a large embroidery needle with a blunt end) or ribbon (so much easier to lay out and staple over) will make you more aware of them…so if you’re after more of the good hurt, this can be fun.

Oh…and they have to come out. Personally, even with the proper remover, this is the bit that makes me flinch.

Mr Hunt wishes there was more mechanical noise with our staplers. A more mechanical feel, like the old desk staplers, even if that was purely manufactured in for the kinky user and not part of the receivers experience. I have, just once, shot myself in the hand with an upholstery style staple gun, the type used for display boards in schools. I think he want a user experience like that, but I, even enjoying a good sensory rush, don’t fancy repeating that experience. It was, I hasten to say, an accident not an experiment.

If you’ve never tried staples and think they are scary because a board stapler is what comes to mind, the experiences are off the scale different. Staples (and this is just the experience of this one particular woman, not general wisdom) are much less scary in practice than in the distant idea or even the immediate anticipation. Quick, potentially beautiful and easy to tidy away without much in the way of marks.

One last word of confidence. Even with my tendency for breaks in the skin to heal slowly (insect bites can take months to heal), staples have not caused an issue.

I like them so much I have written a trio of pieces this week on this theme, so there is also a Sinful Sunday picture and writing and a fictionalized account to peruse if you’d like.


This week’s beautiful image by the Barefoot Sub is part of the inspiration for this little bit of writing. Another comes from this week’s Sinful Sunday posts of beautiful fierce women. Not sure entirely where this week’s narrative voice comes from, except we share aesthetic pleasure inspired by some of the same things. And then I managed to sneak some lovely playtime, so I’m feeling inspired by medical staples this week. If this is up your street, try Kink of the Week, on this theme this fortnight.

Click the badge to find more inspiration to start this week

We are taught by societal convention there is a perfect woman. Perfect femininity.

Her skin, velvet smooth beneath my fingertips, unmarked, unblemished is part of this image. The only part. Value is given to pale beauty that intimates untouched purity as much as it does temptation.

We are taught that the curve of her waist and hip should be soft. Enough to cushion their partner who is angular and hard. Not too padded though. That a fat woman could ever be considered attractive is fetishized or given cultural overtones of wealth and greed.

Fuck them all.

Her unblemished skin is only of interest to me because I get to mark it.

The way her body takes rope gives me aesthetic pleasure. Not just restrained but segmented. Portioned. Flesh blooming in cushions between the neat, taut lines. Her body talks to me. Rolls of soft flesh around her middle that quiver as she laughs. As she comes.

That laugh. There is nothing pure or innocent in the joy and mischief she can communicate in a giggle.

She giggles now, as I balance astride her. Relief that we have reached this point. Nervous anticipation of what comes next. Jiggling boobs and gasped breaths.

My woman. Spread beneath me. Beautiful.

I will work to the death to deserve the confidence she shows in me when she gives her body over to my keeping. She inspires ferocity.

Comfortable with being bound, too comfortable sometimes, rope is often a decoration. Not tonight. She would have lain across the bed like this if I asked it of her. Stretched her arms above her head and crossed her wrists. Dangled her feet from the knee so she couldn’t push up. But there is a difference between her holding a position and me creating it. Insisting on it. Enforcing it.

Tonight there is power in the taking.

She licks her lips, hoping to entice a kiss. I give her one, taking the pale crest of her breast into my mouth. The lovely softness before resistance. Skin tightening reactively against my tongue. Filling my hands, I smoosh them together, trailing kisses and nibbles and bites, dipping my tongue into the crevasse of my own making.

I feel her tremble between my thighs. Laughing.


I bite down. Tilt my head to glare at her beneath my lashes, giving her the visual of her heavy flesh suspended by stretched nipple from my grin-exposed teeth.

The giggle turns breathless, and within the confines of the rope she tries to arch. Eyes widen. I revel in the experience, ever new, of leading her from easy intimacy to something sharper. Even when she knows its coming, knows our plan, there is surprise when we meet that edge.

Opening my mouth, I let go and feel the bounce. Stay with the slight wince that tightens the corner of her eyes as blood rushes back to bruise. With her solid gaze that tells me she is with me here. Walking the tightrope together.

There is a shared concentration between us as I unroll a length of tape and pass it behind her neck and under her boobs, bringing them together to create a tighter cleavage. A few minutes of creativity later and I can sit back and admire my hand-made demi bra cutting into and taming their fullness. Pause to take photos.

I turn the screen to show her. All those little expressions that run across her face. I run my finger down the place I know has brought the hint of frown, where a messy ridge of swollen creamy breast overspills the sharp edge of tape. Pinch the purple tipped nipple I’d bitten, knowing how much she loves the bruises.

All of her. I want her to love all of herself. To see beauty in the curve and crease.

I want to see my marks, add them to the final images of this evening. Take my time sucking and biting and pinching. Playing with the gift of nature which are her nipples. How they stretch. Tighten. Flush and bruise. Crenelate into puffy peaks like thick icing and sweeties topping the best fairy cakes.

A work of art. The fake whirr and snap of the camera captures my view and my mind races ahead picturing the images edited to highlight the unctuous richness of her body and the cruel touch I brought to it.

Desecration has rarely created a more perfect image, and yet, I feel there is scope to improve.

Cheeks flushed and wet mouth open she is beautiful. Tears weave a damp trail to her hair. I kiss her to savour their salt.

Wiping my kisses from her skin feels cruel in a new way. Clinical. The crisp antiseptic biting through the heavy scent of our combined sweat and lust. Stripping her feel from my fingertips. The moment shift from organic to mechanical, from lust to process, but her eyes on my face don’t lose their need. Her body focuses on disinfectant dampened skin, breaths even but shallow.

Satin ribbon lies precisely across her chest. Tonight, she had an image in mind and I will create it. This is not completely new to us, but this is the first time face to face. First time those reactions will be laid bare, untranslated, for me to read. The dichotomy of wanting to have first sight of the metal piercing her skin and of watching that moment in her eyes is unexpected.

I line up the staple gun across the ribbon and realise I can have both. Hold her gaze, before squeezing the trigger handle.

I know that first release that I will always want to be working on her front when we do this. However beautiful the patterns on her thighs or back, I want this. The everything of her reactions from the tension in her limbs to the sound that doesn’t know how to mark the surprise, is topped by the flash in her eyes that takes us from anticipation through sensory invasion to that look. That look that is indescribable and makes me ache for her.

Her skin barely flushes around the entry sites. I smooth the ribbon and place the gun again.

Squeeze. I wish this shared the false sounds of the camera, because I notice the silence where I expect the heavy mechanical clunk of a desk stapler. Would like the metal puncturing her body to come with more fanfare.

Carefully I fold the ribbon to create a laced pattern. The image she wanted was of tight lacing, but straining the catch points will make her hiss with the sting. I only want that sound when I want it, not accidentally.

Place the gun. Catch her gaze. Squeeze. Fold the ribbon.

We are in our own bubble, our whole focus the framed by her captured arms and the shiny tape.

Place the gun. Catch her gaze. Squeeze. Fold the ribbon.

Her breath barely hitches. I jostle the ribbon through the hoops, pulling it more snug and feel my face crease into a smirk at the slightly strangled moan she emits. It is funny to feel more connected to her body than my own.

Place the gun. Catch her gaze. Squeeze. Fold the ribbon.

Tie the bow.  Capture the photo.

Her skin demarcated by rope and bondage tape. Cream velvet stretched over generous, ripe flesh. Marked, bruised and pierced with dull metal staples. This beautiful image.

My perfect woman.

If you’ve enjoyed this fictionalized experience of staples, please check out the two companion pieces, Date Night and A Staple of my Life

Click the badge to see who else has been giggling this week.

Date night

Kiss the lips to see who else is being Sinful this Sunday

I’ve been gone from my blog for 10 days, so although this post is all about the picture there are some words alongside.

I started writing in 2017, after my lovely husband sent me to Eroticon. I managed to sustain content for a little while until the first parenting crisis derailed me. My confidence knocked, I pulled myself together and started again in Spring 2018. I lasted until June and more parenting. I’m going to work hard to not be derailed this year, even if sometimes I need to step away to deal with life.

Mr Hunt and I have three children with a variety of additional needs. Parenting crises come with more regularity than the local bus service. We are called to be advocates for activities able people take as right, access to education, to social groups, to sport. For the right to have appropriate support that feels safely staffed in both the individuals we can afford to pay and the appropriate ratios. And then we do all the things normal parents do…

The stress of this on our relationship is immeasurable. We both work from home and yet to communicate we send each other emails. Meeting invitations direct from our calendars to find time when we can speak to each other face to face.

We fight hard to remember the promises we have made each other through the midst of everything. Spoken and unspoken. To love, honour, cherish and obey. In every context.

This week we went to court for the right for our eldest to have an appropriate education. I was away from my blog preparing answers to the 500 pages of evidence the local authority put in place to say why we couldn’t have the placement we wanted. Why he wasn’t that special. I couldn’t afford professional support so we had no new professional evidence of need or a paid solicitor to combat the one the local authority paid to oppose us.

We won. The LA conceeded on everything, which really goes to show we should never have had to fight for it in the first place. We go back to court next month to legally tie down everything agreed and to force health and social work to contribute to planned long term support.

There has been no exuberance. No celebration meal. The result of winning was complete and utter exhaustion.

But last night…

…it takes planning to have an night together. One child at Scout camp, one to a sleep over with another autism mummy, one to the grandparents.

Getting “in the mood” on queue is hard, but these opportunities so rare we can’t waste them either. And what would wasting it look like? Lying on the sofa watching a movie? Falling asleep at 8pm because we can? Failing yet again to give what we perceive we owe our partner?

We plan. It’s not that spontaneous is gone for good, but for now having a plan works best for both of us. So last night was “Staples” for Kink of the Week. Something we’d played with a little before, knew we enjoyed, but really has to be saved for a night like this.

Still, we were tense. Trying to clear the physical space for some play meant picking up a thousand pieces of lego. We snapped at each other trying to get organised. He couldn’t find the ribbon. I wanted to relax into it, but tried to fuss over the details like finding scissors, then gave up, then was cross when he’d forgotten them.

There was no meeting of minds. No way to access the dynamic we both wanted. But he can’t control me like that and I can’t control him.

I can only get to grips with myself and make the offer. Push things from my mind and let the openness to him become the central pillar of thought. Remember, cognitively, that I trust him.

Hope he is going through the same thought process.

Stretched out on the duvet I was closer, but not there. He went through the mechanics of getting ready, some of which I could feel but we didn’t communicate. I really didn’t want those staples. Instead of the beautiful quietness I get from a scene, my head was asking all sorts of logical questions about pain and damage.

This isn’t a matter of responsibility. I could have said nothing and gone with whatever happened. He could have read that I wasn’t feeling it. Perhaps he did. But he knows me. I ideally prefer to push through, rely on discipline. Because the underlying anchor in our lives is that I trust him in all things.

I am frustrated that tonight when I want to demonstrate that trust, I can’t. I have to remind myself it is not a failure to need to stop and talk more. I never feel he’s failed me when he the need is reversed.

His palm cracks down on my backside. Hard. Unexpected. Needed. Again and again. Loud and sharp like a bunch of balloons popping.

His jeans clad thigh pushed roughly between mine, his weight on me.

The harder it is, the more we need to communicate.

I run out of writing here… because the stuff in my head about what happened next can not be tied up in words.

Suffice it to say we found our flow. Our dynamic.

Love, honour, cherish and obey…in all things, always.

A little footnote here is when we were gathering supplies on Saturday evening, the failure to plan hit home. Although we’d known this was coming, neither of us had checked the width of ribbon we needed for the staples, and the only decent lengths we had to hand were left over from the making of our wedding invitations years ago. My dress and veil were stored in the same box…so getting them out for photos just seemed to be the thing to do! But having come to write this piece, it seems an important emphasis on how we focus on each other, how we picture our dynamic and how we operate day to day, whether parenting or playing.

If staples are of interest, please check out my to companion pieces, a fictionalized account Fierce, and A Staple of my Life which has a little more detail. 😉

Take me dancing naked in the rain…

Kiss the lips to meet other kinksters in the great outdoors

Let me go back to 1993…

I would love to tell you it was a long, hot summer, but I suspect it was grey and drizzly. It was the summer I took my GCSE exams, and as they were over by mid June, it was the awakening summer of young adult novels.

It wasn’t that I led a sheltered life. I defy anyone to go to Catholic co-ed secondary school and come out without at least observing a very wide range of experience. At the same time, my then undiagnosed autism made me feel like I was in a bubble, not really part of world I walked through. I was very fortunate to be part of a group of friends. I think at the time I thought they were all friends with each other and I was the hanger on, but now I realise just how much they really looked out for me and included me without realising why I was always the one asleep in doorways at parties.

I was weeks shy of turning 16, and never been kissed, which was why my friends fixed me up with a guy at a local music festival. I’m not sure I’d ever met him before, and probably not since, but he was someone’s much older cousin and I’d had enough cider this seemed like a good idea, so off we went into the woods.

A very few minutes later, I was naked to the waist, exposed on my back in the leaf litter, feet from the public footpath. I remember the sky through the trees, how hot and wet his mouth seemed on chilled skin and the scent and feel of leaf mould beneath and around us. The rustle of other people finding their way into the woods for the same experience. Skin wet with rain. Feeling the strangeness of his hard dick pressing against me, rutting against my thigh.

I don’t think I realised at the time that so much later in my life I would still think of that experience. How much it would filter through everything I’ve grown to enjoy.

It didn’t matter who he was. That was something I learnt about myself that day. Books had been a great source of information and I now knew life was far more Jilly Cooper than Mills and Boon. I wanted the experience, the sensations, more than I wanted a grand romance. I wanted those hard fingers pushing beneath my clothes. Wanted him to use me to get off.

I wanted Lysander’s moment dancing to Blue Pearl in the garden. I was prepared to be that unashamed.

I wanted the risk of discovery.

For an otherwise “good girl”, this was a strange juxtaposition.

Being scientific, I repeated the experiment to try to work out why. As often as I could.

It’s easy to see this through this light of adulthood and think maybe this is how I choose to see it now, but in a box beneath my bed are my diaries and writing from the time in beautifully teenage handwriting. In words I didn’t know I tried to explain things I didn’t understand. I rolled the problem round in crap poetry trying to work out whether I was making powerful decisions or doing things to fit in with what I thought I should be doing.

As a teenager living at home, you don’t have a bed to take people to… but living caught between countryside and coast there were plenty of places to be alone enough. My favourites were open spaces. The beaches, just over the tidal lip from the car parks. The sheep runs in the bracken on the moor tops. The Victorian Park in the sodium orange night.

At Uni I had my own room, but that was my space. Being somewhere untraceable was a type of emotional safety and security of its own, even when it went wrong. And it did go wrong. It was still that strange mix of taking control and risking it all to fate. Of the freedom to roam as a wild animal in the urban jungle as both predator and prey.

The scratches and bruises from being pressed into rough walls were the first marks that made me feel proud.

I’ve been with my husband for a long time now, and we are settled and domestic and middle class. I’m am still the same good girl I was at 15. Which is why, after the kids are safely tucked in bed most evenings, when the temperature is bareable, we can be found naked in the garden.

It feels right to be an animal in its natural environment. We are cautious and polite to our neighbours, carefully cultivating a wall of trees for privacy and a well draped gazebo, but the house is full of commitments and obligations and the garden is quiet of those.

I am a sensory led being and outside there is so much stimulation. Temperature, air movement and scent fill my mind, pushing away domestic worry. A different quality of quiet than inside the home, full of creatures and people making their own way through time and space. People who need nothing from me.

I feel free.

We can just be us. Human animals. Skin on skin, if we want.

We can be exhibitionist whilst not, silently fucking feet away from a busy footpath, safely tucked behind a brick wall. Hidden from overlooking windows by the soft blanket of night.

We can be creative. Whilst heavy duty fixing points would look odd in the house, outside they are just overly cautious fixing points for hanging baskets and washing lines.

Or this.

Kiss the lips to meet other sinners this Sunday

Walking the walk

Kiss the lips to see who else is being sinful this week

There have been whispers on twitter from regular posters… “I don’t keep outtakes… what shall I post?”

Until very recently, I used to delete anything I didn’t perceive to be perfect, especially if I didn’t think it showed me in a flattering light. I have a very tight frame of what images I allow of myself and don’t take pictures where I appear very often, either as selfies or as the catalog of family life. There are whole holidays without a single sign I was ever there.

I am trying to be more open minded. I see amazing images from other bloggers and keep pictures I’m not sure. Come back to them a little while later to see if I’ve changed my mind with distance.

There is a difference between a photo that didn’t work like this, because the shadows and focus were wrong… and something where I didn’t like the way my body looked in the image.

I loved the intent of this shot… and the lovely husband behind the camera loves it, and in its uncropped form with even more wobbly bits highlighted in the heated light of the chimneria and I guess posting it is an act of defiance against myself for feeling ashamed of said wobbly bits. For missing the mark with body confidence. Because if this was someone else’s body I’d be seeing different things in the image, focusing on different things…

There is one last photo from this fab child-free evening, but I’m saving that as illustration for Kink of the Week, as obviously these are outside photos…It is in my view the best picture, but there is part of me on it I hate, so I resisted posting it to begin with. Coming back to it a few weeks later, looking at it as if it were on someone else’s blog, I’m now committing to using it.


…for everyone

A little thing happened Eroticon weekend in Camden that left me feeling upset… Not at the conference I hasten to add, which is brilliant and lovely, but as a sort of side effect.

I am someone who struggles to be confident with my body. It doesn’t conform to media portrayals of femininity.

When I was 12 I reached my full height of 180cm, (6ft) and my feet were a 42 (size 8). All the cute boys came to my elbows if I was lucky. I was straight hipped and broad shouldered and although I didn’t really understand it at the time, gender and sexuality confused.

And flat chested… relatively. A cups easily flattened under a vest, far more pecs than boobs. And this continued for years.

No, I’m not posting someone else’s pictures… 4 babies later and I have the other problems.

The thing that happened wasn’t lingerie related. It was shoes. Round the corner from the hotel I stayed at was the Doc Martens’ store. And I really wanted a pair. The front of shop was full of beautiful boots, from holographic finishes and velvet to plain black with rainbow stitching. But I now wear a UK 10 or 11. First, I was ignored in favour of the cuter, hipster customers, which normally would have been my cue to leave. the universal sign of “you don’t fit here”. But I had Eroticon confidence running through my veins, so I toughed it out and eventually asked how would I know which shoes I could get in my size.

I was directed down a set of stairs to the clearly labelled men’s department.

There was a choice of black, burgundy or vegan.

I walked out.

How does this relate to lingerie? My chest has done the opposite. From masculine to maternal. But I still can’t buy bras. I walk into shops and ask for my size and get askance looks.

I had stopped asking. The bra that I dug out from the back of the draw for last week’s photo was last worn between babies two and three, had lost wires and yet, I hadn’t thrown it away because I knew I couldn’t replace it. I had the grand total of 3 serviceable bras, one nude, two black, left in the world, and like shoe shopping I had lost the nerve to go looking for something more pretty than serviceable.

Twelve websites later, and I found somewhere that had my size, in a choice of styles and at a price I could afford.

I hate to be made to feel less because of my size and my height. I hate the assumptions made about what I might be like based on things over which I have no control. I didn’t ask for the F cup chest I have now, any more than I wanted the A cups I wore through my teenage years anymore than I want size 10 feet.

I ordered a new bra… and it fit.

I can’t begin to express how that feels.