Tynan Fox went to the Ground Zero nightclub in Minneapolis. And there, he got, in his words, “hit by a girl”, which is not typically his custom. Here’s how it went down:

Up walks to stage this buff guy with huge muscles, tanned skin, long hair, washboard abs, and a huge upside down triangle tattoo across his shoulders. He tips the Domme as his friends make fun of him (and awful tragedy which shouldn’t be tolerated) and proceeds to get cuffed to the restraints hanging from the ceiling! Mistress Mara flogs him a few times and then scratches him some and does something else with an ice cube….

….and in my head, I fell into the slippery slope of discompassion. What I SHOULD have thought to myself was “Maybe it’s his first time!” “Maybe he needs her to go light.” “Maybe he injured himself already today!” There are any number of infinite possibilities that could explain why this Domme wasn’t lashing out on those buldging muscles with every last ounce of her strength. All of them are probably legitimate too. But as I stood there watching, the rum in my drink took over my thoughts. My mind darted around all the other times I’ve been flogged. The only logical conclusion my tipsy mind could come to was simply that the guy was a PUSSY. I can do better than that.

Move over, Fabio.

I marched up to that stage and asked Mistress Mara what her rates were. I tipped her appropriately (side note: gay kinksters don’t tip in our community. I THINK I tipped her appropriately, but I’ve never had to do that before. Hope she doesn’t hate me now) and asked her, “Can you flog a gay-boy, Mistress?”

“Hell yes! How hard can you take it?”

I gritted my teeth, half expecting to regret saying it but also determined to show Fabio what a gay boy can take. “I’ve been flogged until I’ve bled before.”

Mistress Mara just SMILED and secured my wrists to the shackles in the ceiling.

Being that it was the end of the night, it was a pretty fast flogging. But that doesn’t mean she went light on me. It was tough to remember to yell “Thank you MISTRESS” as opposed to my usual “Thank you SIR” or “Thank you MASTER”. It hurt, but like I said, I was determined to demonstrate what this gay boy is made of.

At a certain point I felt Mistress Mara slap a couple strips of duct tape against my back. “Just a little blood! No worries!” she said.

I didn’t break. I didn’t care. That wasn’t the point. Before I even knew it it was over. I said thank you to Mistress, and walked out of the bar, euphoric, and proud.

Here’s Emily Nagoski on what it’s like when the famous and fabulous Annie Sprinkle comes to campus to give sex tarot readings:

I expected her to be fabulous. She was. But beyond the fabulous was the warmth, the welcoming, the openness, the inclusiveness, the eagerness to connect, to give something of value to each of the students who swarmed around her perimeter, watching, attendant, like damp, frozen children waiting for cocoa after an afternoon in the snow.

So it was The Annie Show all the way, but she noticed that and she created space for us other sex educators to read Tarot with her, see, because she’s a cup of cocoa after playing in the snow; she is the mittens drying on the radiator; she’s whipped cream on the tip of your nose. And so I sat next to Annie as she engaged with each student, limitless in her welcome.

She would explain a card and then say to the student, “What do YOU think?” And then she would look at me and say, “What do YOU think?” And she would smile and say, “Wow, you’re good!” And I would get all warm inside. Because cocoa.

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“Everybody grab a beer, the hunk-o-gram has arrived! It’s like a singing telegram, only it’s the bride-to-be who’ll be singing by the time these guys are done with her!”

Via Kinky Delight. Actually the fellows are from the TV show Spartacus.

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Queens and commoners alike need a good brushing out before being delivered to the king’s chamber, apparently. At least, they do if the king commands that they do:

Apparently it’s also prudent to be kind to your serving ladies, too, lest they re-use the ass-brush a little too freely!

Panels are from the Dofantasy comic The Steel Trap Maiden, drawn by Ferres.

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This is your object lesson on why unsupervised military interrogations should not be conducted in San Francisco. One minute everything’s on track, you’ve got your guy standing there scared with somebody’s jockstrap in his mouth, surely he’s about to spill the beans:

And then without any warning at all your oh-so-serious tough-guy interrogator gets “caught up in the moment” and things get seriously twisted with the cattle prod and the forced butt licking:

Thanks to Bound Gods for doing it all wrong, but better — San Francisco style!

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The idea of putting spring-loaded clothes pins on somebody’s nipples is such a basic trope of BDSM that it’s usually encountered as an afterthought, a painful detail that’s barely noticed because of what’s going on with the riding crop or the hot wax or the complicated business with the cables and the pulley and the donkey. But if you’ve ever actually done this (or had it done to you, or done it to yourself) you’ll be aware that it’s quite worthy of a person’s full attention, all by itself:

(Click that image for a much larger version with a bonus third panel showing her facial reaction once the pins spring closed.)

Panels are from a comic called Celine Die Sklaven (Celine The Slave) by Jacobsen.

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I’m not old enough to remember, but my parents used to speak of an era when Nylon was a new miracle fabric. That was before the space age (speaking literally); U.S. soldiers in Europe were swapping nylons for sex in the same war that saw Von Braun chucking the first serious ballistic missiles across the English Channel. Presumably this sex-shop gag-gift box of crotchless Nylon panties dates from a couple of decades later:

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