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The Sex Blog Of Record
Thursday, November 7th, 2024 -- by Bacchus
I dunno what she did or why she has a punishment coming, but her coy backward glance suggests she isn’t too worried about it:
Cartoon is from the April 1933 issue of Paris magazine.
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Friday, November 16th, 2018 -- by Bacchus
You see a lot of pulp covers with rough men shaking whips at scantily clad women. But on this one, the women have all those men in a net, and it’s time for some Amazon femdom whip revenge:
Art is from the cover of Moschettieri #4.
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Thursday, September 13th, 2018 -- by Bacchus
The look of considerable disdain on this dominant lady’s face suggests that the person she is punishing is only barely worth the trouble she’s taking swing to that whip. Her downcast gaze — and the notable length of her whip — tells us that her punishee is plastered flat to the floor, perhaps even trying to merge with it, if only such a thing were possible! The woman with the whip? She’s tall and strong, with considerable physical endowments. (No, I don’t just mean her impressive breasts.) Some naughty person is going to be rather covered in welts before this long evening is over…
From a 1970s Kitan Club fetish magazine.
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Tuesday, August 21st, 2018 -- by Bacchus
Calamity Jane has a new ride, and her pony boy has got some fresh stripes on his naked ass. Hey, is that really George Custer?
I wish I knew more about this publication. From the art style, I’d guess at the 1970s, and it’s priced in lira, so probably Italian.
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Saturday, May 12th, 2018 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a reminder via Bawdy Blog that sadism is supposed to be fun:
The art isn’t credited, and I could be wrong, but from the style I want to say it’s by Peter Riverstone.
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Tuesday, March 6th, 2018 -- by Bacchus
Spanking Blog has turned up a pulp vision of a Roman orgy with a sterner-than-usual Mistress Of Ceremonies. Do not flag, do not tire, or she will lash you back to the business of the evening!
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Sunday, October 23rd, 2016 -- by Bacchus
He finally encountered a woman who wouldn’t put up with his grab-assing bullshit. It’s going to take him some time to heal:
Artwork is from a cover of the Italian pulp magazine Isabella.
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Sunday, August 28th, 2016 -- by Bacchus
Spanking Blog has an instructional French sex comic panel for the gentleman who wants his partner to move her ass more during the anal sex. His solution, apparently, lies in the brisk application of a riding crop:
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Tuesday, August 16th, 2016 -- by Bacchus
Based on an unsophisticated statistical analysis plus a few choice hints on social media, I have identified the probability that one or more ladies and/or gentlemen in the greater ErosBlog potential viewing bubble/area will be cheered today by these Milo Manara graphic novel panels of a handsome young officer receiving a briskly unjust military whipping. So, without further ado, herewith:
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Thursday, March 27th, 2014 -- by Bacchus
As I age through my forties, I encounter more and more women who express their sexual frustrations with some degree of honesty. The impression I get is that a good man is hard to find and a hard good man is even harder to find. Thus it’s my hypothesis that I have female viewers who will react to this brutal bit of old Italian fumetti with some version of “the whipping’s not my cup of tea but if it gets a reaction like that, maybe it’s worth a try…”
Via Spanking Blog.
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Sunday, January 5th, 2014 -- by Bacchus
Now here’s a fine and decadent whip-sex tableau:
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Sunday, January 6th, 2013 -- by Bacchus
I suppose it’s only to be expected in bottom-oriented spanking porn from whatever era, but this vintage drawing by Georges Topfer seems notable to me because the bottom being unwillingly presented for punishment is not tiny in the modern style. The woman is not drawn as obese, but there’s still plenty to whip:
From the Spank Slaves spanking links blog.
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Thursday, December 20th, 2012 -- by Bacchus
Spanking Blog: “Virgin warriors, it turns out, offend the patriarchy. And the patriarchy has whips.”
Ain’t that the truth in a nutshell?
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Wednesday, July 20th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
One of the defining characteristics of sex comics is that they tend to be idealized. There are some notable exceptions (*cough* Crumb *cough*) but usually the nekked peeples in the comics are beyond physical perfection — they’re fantasy-proportioned beyond anything plastic Barbie ever dreamed of, and drawn as gorgeous as the artist could manage.
But exceptions do exist. This consensual BDSM panel from Pulp Story #2 is strikingly unusual for featuring a large soft woman with big doughy belly and breasts:
Found at Erectus.
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Sunday, April 18th, 2010 -- by Bacchus
Ladies, you want stern? Erosblog brings you stern:
Picture is from the famous spanking movies producer California Star.
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Wednesday, September 16th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
This lustily-illuminated letter C looks as if it might come from the long era when anti-clerical propaganda and lurid pornography were combined in one unified genre throughout the Protestant world:
However, from the “gourari.jpg” filename this image had when I found it, and from some supporting Google results that aren’t quite linkworthy, I suspect that the artist is one Liliane Gourari, whose illustrations appeared in at least one mid-twentieth-century edition of the Marquis de Sade’s “Justine”.
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Thursday, July 9th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
One of the standard “recommended texts” for people getting interested in BDSM is a book entitled Screw The Roses, Send Me The Thorns. When I saw this picture on Spanking Blog, I immediately thought of that title. Apparently it’s possible to have both roses and thorns:
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Friday, April 24th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
In response to the two recent posts that featured Uschi Digard (here and here), a fan emailed me this link to a video of Uschi “enduring” a fake whipping (note the telltale not-shackles that wouldn’t stop Andre The Giant from taking his hands out) in a 1973 movie called Superchick. I think we can safely assume the welts are done with red ink:
Tuesday, September 2nd, 2008 -- by Bacchus
I found this florid description of mutual oral sex in Sadopaideia, so called because most of the 1907 book involves whipping and spanking. (The subtitle is “Being the experiences of Cecil Prendergast, undergraduate of the University of Oxford, shewing how he was led through the pleasant paths of Masochism to the supreme joys of Sadism.”) But, for that sort of thing, you often need an initial seduction, and in this passage that’s going swimmingly:
I felt her right arm round my waist and her left hand began to unbutton my fly from the top. Before she had time to undo the last button John Thomas leapt forth ready and eager, but she slapped it and pushed it in again and undid the last button and fumbled for my balls and gently drew them out. I drew back a little from her and lifted her petticoat right up, disclosing the daintiest of black silk openwork stockings with pale green satin garters, and above them filmy lawn drawers with beautiful lace and insertion, through which the fair satin skin of her thighs gleamed most provokingly. At the top there appeared just between the opening of the drawers the most fascinating brown curls imaginable.
I feasted my eyes on this lovely sight, undoing my braces and slipping my trousers down. Her hand immediately left my balls and began to fondle my bottom, stroking and pinching the cheeks while she murmured, “You darling boy, oh, what a lovely bottom.”
I was eager to be in her, but the brown curls fascinated me so much that I could not resist the temptation to stoop down and kiss them. I was rather shy of doing this, as I had never done it before, and though I knew it was usual with tarts, I was not sure if it would be welcome here. Judge of my surprise, then, when I felt Mrs. Harcourt’s hand on my head gently pressing it down and heard her saying, “How did you guess I wanted that?”
She opened her legs wider, disclosing the most adorable pussy, with pouting lips just slightly opening and showing the bright coral inner lips, which seemed to ask for my kisses. I buried my head in the soft curls, and with eager tongue explored every part of her mossy grot. She squirmed and wriggled with pleasure, opening her legs quite wide and twisting them round me. I followed all her movements, backing away on my knees as she slipped off the chair, until at last, when she drenched my lips with love, she slipped on the hearth rug. Then, as I could scarcely reach her with my tongue in that position, and didn’t wish to lose a drop of the maddening juice, I disengaged my legs from hers and knelt down to one side so that my head could dive right between her legs. This naturally presented my naked bottom and thighs to her gaze.
“You rude naughty boy,” she said, smacking me gently, “to show me this bare bottom. I’m shocked at you.”
Her hands again fondled my balls and bottom, and I had all I could do to prevent John Thomas from showing conclusively what he had in store for her.
I had no intention of wasting good material, however, and was just about to change my position so that I could arrive at the desired summit of joy when I felt her trying to pull my right leg towards her. I let myself go and she eventually succeeded in lifting it right over, so that I was straddling right across her, and we were in the position I knew quite well from photographs, known as sixty-nine.
My heart beat high. Was it possible I was to experience this supreme pleasure of which I had heard so much? I buried my head between her thighs, my tongue redoubled its efforts, searching out every corner and nook it could find, and just as it was rewarded by another flow of warm life I felt round my own weapon, not the fondling of her hand, but something softer, more clinging, and then unmistakably the tip of a velvet tongue from the top right down to the balls and back again, and then I felt the lips close round it and the gentle nip of teeth. This was too much, John Thomas could restrain himself no longer, and as I seized her bottom with both hands and sucked the whole of her pussy into my mouth, he spurted forth with convulsive jerks his hidden treasure. When the spasm was over I collapsed limply on her, my lips still straining her life.
Link via Spanking Blog.
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Friday, February 8th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
This kinky anime cartoon with LOLcats-styled caption from Spanking Blog (post and larger version here) made me laugh:
Hey, if cute animals can talk, why not cute cartoon girls?
Saturday, September 15th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
A reader who wishes to remain anonymous sent in the following bit of vintage femdom art, which is probably attributable to the artist “Jim” and to the second quarter of the 20th century. Since the ladies who frequent this blog are always clamoring for more dick, I figured some Saturday morning whippin’ and drippin’ would not be out of order.
The first thing that struck me about this drawing… no, scratch that.
After I got over the whole male panic thing (“aah, balls, don’t be showing me balls, and especially don’t be beating on THE BALLS!“), the first thing that struck me about this drawing was the cruelty of the foot bondage. That wall could be fourteen inches high and his posture wouldn’t be much different, not with cables cinched tight around his Achilles tendons to enforce the tippy-toed stance.
The second thing that struck me is that this is that it’s another area where the march of technology has marched onwards since the picture was drawn. Are you sadly deficient in dungeon space? Does your bedroom lack thirty extra square feet in which to erect a permanent five-foot wooden bulwark that’s bolted down with iron strapping? Well, you’re in luck! Because these days, there’s a handy portable equivalent called The Humbler. It’s a bulwark in a box — just snap it around the balls and behind the thighs and you’re in business. Complete with bonus electrodes for (shudder) double bonus fun.
At this point I’d normally be talking about the miracle of technology and how great it is that everything gets smaller over time. Unfortunately I’m still distracted by the faint voice in my head that’s still screaming “Aaiieee, not the BALLS!”
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Monday, July 23rd, 2007 -- by Bacchus
It’s been a while since I’ve posted any gay porn here. But I’d say these menacing fellows definitely qualify:
From Bondage Blog.
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Friday, May 25th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
This song is a song about Alice.
No. Wait. I mean, this post is a post about Hitler’s dick. Not quite the same.
But, the post does come with a soundtrack.
Yours is the dubious obligation of constructing the soundtrack in your mind. Remember The Colonel Bogey March from Bridge On The River Kwai? Good. Whistle a couple of bars quietly to yourself to bring it back to you. Then start again, while reading the words:
Hitler has only got one ball,
Goering has two but very small,
Himmler is somewhat sim’lar,
But poor old Goebbels has no balls at all.
Repeat as needed. Your seven year old son could probably go on for an hour, laughing with glee between repetitions. Even though he’s probably never heard of most of the people whose genitalia he’d be mocking.
OK, enough rambling. Now I have to live up to my title. What, you don’t think I can do it?
Oh ye of little faith! You should know me better than that by now:
No, of course it’s not real. It’s British propaganda. Nobody beats the British at the game of penis propaganda. Not, at least, when they have the balls to actually publish the stuff:
An old army colonel – he had served a lifetime in Poona, an experience which had not failed to leave its mark on him – had found it on the table of my secret printer whom he had visited with a view to acquiring some of our latest philatelic counterfeits. When he saw this particular piece of pornography he was almost beside himself with indignant fury. I did not want to hurt the old man by challenging him to battle over an item of pornography to which in any case I attached no great importance. So I immediately withdrew it. But it was not really all that bad.
The German army’s propaganda unit had been putting out a series of leaflets purporting to expose how the enemy was retouching photographs and faking them to convey untruths. By this time my “Black” printer was an expert at counterfeiting german documents, using the same type, the same paper, and the same size as the German original. So I got him to put the same title on our counterfeit. ” Wie sie falshen”, it said ( How they forge ). Then with a suitable text we exposed a palpable forgery of a Hitler photograph, which we attributed to the despicable treachery of an internal enemy. The genuine original photograph showed Hitler in his usual saluting posture, right arm upraised, his left resting on the buckle of his belt. The forgery however showed a huge penis under his left hand. Our caption read: ” This is a most appalling forgery, Everyone one know the Fuhrer does not possess anything of the kind”. Well, I don’t really blame the old colonel. As pornography this item was not attractive. In fact, it was revolting. All the same, I would have been interested to have seen what effect it had on the German propagandists.
See also Leon Trotsky Whipping Two Nude Girls.
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Friday, May 11th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
I gotta quote Bitchy Jones again. Unlike most of the folks who love to hate the splendidly cheesy literary phenomenon that is Gor, she gets why those books sold about a zillion copies and still go for megabucks on eBay, gets it well enough that’s she’s moved to give it a complete “vertical flip” in her mental fantasy editing software:
Gor is easy to take the piss out of, but the real truth is that deep down in my heart I know that if I were a male dom I would fucking love Gor to tiny bits. I would be in those chat rooms wanking and sweating and wanking some more while some middle aged housewife going through an identity crisis talked about herself in third person whilst pretending to serve me a mythical drink.
Yeah, like every other person in the world who believes in equality but gets off on inequity, I have the insane conflicted love for a bit of gender supremacy fantasy and I secretly in my dark heart wish that we had something as ridiculously camp and ritualised and sprawling as Gor over on our side of the river.
…
So, basically, it’s all hot and dusty and badly written and stuff. Women live in big castles and are tough and sexy and mean. But fair and honourable. And, yeah, they’re sexy, but it’s no big deal, no one’s looking at them because:
OMG the hot slaves!
Literally and metaphorically hot. Built like Greek gods and covered in sweat (from doing hard *hard* labour).
Yes, the men are, like the women’s slaves. Oh a few aren’t, but they’re weird. But also hot if you capture them and make them be slaves. So although these not-slave men are freaks they are kind of useful when complicity gets dull ’cause they have to be all *forced* and broken and whipped to shit and stuff.
Gosh, isn’t *forced* a nice word.
Anyway, on upside down Gor slave men are traded — bought and sold. There are markets. Men who transgress are punished. Viciously, mercilessly and publicly. (Which is nice.) Or maybe just punished for entertainment. Such awful punishments, predicament bondage and heavily ritualised whipping and stocks and cages and stuff like that. Really dehumanising hot stuff.
Some of the poor things are just kicked around like dogs, or made to whore themselves on the streets, butchly pretty ones wear humiliating skimpy clothes and get prodded to perform bondagey semi-naked suggestive dances with whipping. While drunken women molest them. And they would have to do all this over elaborate honourific address stuff, please, ma’am, may this slave please have permission to…
Golly, I really do like ma’am in the right context. It’s the apostrophe. You can see where his voice cracks even when the word is written on the page.
Anyway, they better get that formal address stuff right or else more whipping. Yeah. Pretty much any excuse for the whipping. And the, you know, submissive positions to vocal commands, and the bondage and… did I already say the bondage? Well I should probably say it a few times because there is so much of it.
Oh, and the key thing is that by doing this they would come to realise that they had never felt more masculine or desirable than when, er, being whipped, and sexually used and whipped a bit more.
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Wednesday, January 24th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
A while back I noticed a Bondage Blog post called Hanging Like Ripe Fruit. The post (illustrated by some bondage porn from Hogtied.com) featured a suspension tie reminiscent of a scene from The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty, a famous BDSM novel by Ann Rice. Unfortunately Bondage Blog only posted one picture, so in a moment of boredom, I went back to Anne Rice to help flesh it out:
“Double her, for punishment,” said Lord Gregory. “I think a real punishment is in order.”
Princess Lizetta gave several high-pitched groans. They seemed both anger and protest. She seemed not to have bargained for this, and as she was carried ahead of Beauty and Lord Gregory into the Hall of Punishments, the Pages quickly affixed leather cuffs to her wrists and ankles, each cuff with a heavy metal hook imbedded in it.
Now she was raised, struggling, to a great low beam that spanned the room, her wrists hung from a hook above her head and then her legs brought straight up in front of her so that her ankles were fixed to the same hook. The was, in fact, bent double. Her head was then forced between her calves, so that Beauty could see her face clearly. And a leather strap was bound around here, securely pressing her upturned legs against her torso.
But the most cruel and frightening aspect of it for Beauty was the exposure of the Princess’s secret parts, for she was hung so that anyone could see her full sex with its pink lips and its dark hair even to the tiny brown orifice between her buttocks. And all this just below her scarlet face. Beauty could imagine no worse exposure and she looked down timidly, glancing up again and again to the girl whose suspended body moved slightly as with a current in the air, the leather links at her wrists and ankles creaking.
…
The man in velvet had begun to stroke Princess LIzetta’s sex with a small instrument that was, as so much here, covered in smooth black leather. This was a three-pronged rod that somewhat resembled a hand, and as soon as he teased the helpless Princess, she began to struggle in her bonds.
Beauty understood at once what was happening. The Princess’s pink sex, terrifying to Beauty as it hung so unprotected, appeared to swell, to ripen. Beauty could see tiny droplets of moisture appear on it.
…
“Lord Gregory,” the Lady said, “you must think of something special.” Then to Beauty’s horror, the lady reached out delicately and fastidiously and pinched Princess LIzetta’s pubic lips hard so that they exuded moisture. Then she pinched the right lip and the left, and the girl winced with pain and misery.
Lord Gregory had meantime snapped his fingers for the Lord with the iron clawlike hand, and whispered something Beauty could not hear. “It will strengthen her punishment.”
And now the Lord appeared with a little pot and a brush and as the Lady stepped back, he took the brush and bathed Princess LIzetta’s naked organ in a heavy syrup. A few droplets fell to the floor, and the princess again made known her misery. She sobbed softly behind her gag, but the Lady only smiled rather innocently and shook her head. “It will attract any flies we have about,” Lord Gregory said, “and if we have none it shall produce its inevitable itching as it dries. It is quite uncomfortable.”
The Lady did not seem satisfied. Her pretty and innocent face was smooth however and she sighed. “I suppose it will do for now, but I wish she were bound with her legs apart to a stake in the garden. Then let the flies and the little insects of the air find her honeyed mouth. She deserves it.”
Although there are no dramatically better views in the short trailer and sample views visible for free without whipping out your credit card, a membership will get you rather a lot more!
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Saturday, December 30th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
One sentence from the following caught my attention. To me, and perhaps to you, this sentence stripped from context seems almost absurd the first time you see it:
“It was garden variety whipping, a knife and sex as far as that goes.”
Whipping, a knife, sex. Garden variety. Picture me dressed as a Capital One barbarian growling “What’s in your garden?
It’s the “garden variety” that got me. I’m hard to surprise; that people mix whips and knives and sex is neither news to me, nor in the least dismaying. (But it’s not for me; I was raised in a place without much in the way of doctors and nurses and antibiotics, so I’m wired to react to knife wounds, even superficial ones, as minor emergencies requiring immediate application of disinfectant and bandages. Sure, you could have sadistic fun if you used a good old fashioned disinfectant — iodine, anyone? — but getting all those little bandage packages opened would kill the erotic flow, and who wants to find herself covered with Winnie-the-Pooh BandAids after sex?)
When you’re used to thinking of a kink as a point of departure, a “thing” that some other people do for sexual fun, it’s illuminating to be reminded that the “thing” is not just one experience oft repeated — it’s an activity like any other, with the full range of variety and differential experience and days when it’s wild and days when it’s mild and days when it works better than other days. Which means, some days it’s wild and some days it’s “garden variety.”
Now for the full quote, from this post at Magdala’s Submission:
“Are you too tired to hurt me?” I asked in a very small voice.
I don’t think the words had stopped being spoken before He was out of bed, the lights were back on and I was face down on my belly in the middle of the bed.
Apparently He was not too tired for that.
…
I think it was a whip. I think it was two, one after the other, front and back. I know it was the knife. I know the knife was not the blissful out of body experience it usually is. The knife was mean that night. It scratched and hurt me over and over again. It was blissful in a different way. I don’t know how long He whipped me first. I know He stopped several times and drew His finger along some part of my body. Following, I assume, a mark He had left upon me.
I cannot recall any words He spoke to me but I know He did. I know He said things, I know I answered Him. I do not know what those things were. I do know that the whip marked me and left it’s sweet, sweet kisses everywhere. I remember Him having me reach behind me and spread my ass cheeks wide for His whip. The damned whip that insistently struck me again and again in the same sensitive spot and not only did I accept it, but I held myself wide open for Him and truth be told, I desired it.
I remember the order things happened. Whip, knife, sex. I think. I think I came with His hand deep inside my cunt, His fist plunging in and out of me the same way His cock does. I do know that it never ceases to amaze me that each time He fills me with His cock it feels like the first time and each time, I am filled with wonder and happiness that He is a part of me. That it just feels so damn good. That it feels so good, so wonderful each and every time that my world suddenly seems manageable again. That everything just seems right when He slides His cock inside me. I think I sigh with contentment when He does.
I do know He whipped me hard, that He used me hard and rough. That His knife was hard, that His use of it rough. There was nothing spectacular, nothing elaborate. No dramatic restraints, no meticulous plans followed. It was garden variety whipping, a knife and sex as far as that goes. But something about it made it so very wonderful. If I were more arrogant I would say that asking to be hurt helped fuel a fire already burning. I know He does not need an excuse to hurt me or even a reason. It may have possibly added to that though.
Who would have thought that one little sentence would be so very difficult to say? Or that saying it would have such blissfully wonderful results?
Wednesday, May 3rd, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Sometimes I think I grow jaded. My first thought, upon seeing this vintage whipping illustration from Spanking Blog, was: “Why is she wearing his hat?”
Saturday, October 22nd, 2005 -- by Bacchus
One of the common mostly-false slams against porn in this era of globalisation is that the performers are mostly coerced sex slaves, or at least impoverished scared young girls with few options. (I’m not making this up as a straw man argument; see, e.g., the Biting Beaver (her term): “You CANNOT know if the girl you are masturbating to is, in reality, a sexual slave from Austria who has a gun pointed at her head just off camera.“)
Yeah. And you cannot know that the bottle of salad dressing you pour on your salad isn’t full of stale unpasteurized jizz from bored wanking food factory workers, either. But that doesn’t make it likely, or stop you from eating creamy salads. Why not? Because of branding. If you worry about funky jizz in your dressing, you buy a reputable brand from a company you trust, one that’s got white-coated vat inspectors and security cams all over the factory floor. And, if you really worry, you do research. You get a tour of the factory, or (more likely) read the article in Consumer Reports by the reporter who worked there for three days undercover. The point is, you check into it a little bit.
This is perfectly possible with porn. By way of local example, these issues came up in a peripheral way in this post about real sex in BDSM porn, where a couple of readers suggested in the comments that making such porn was degrading and unsafe for the models, only to be confronted by other readers who were able to vouch for the porn company in question based on personal acquaintance with the models and producers.
And that’s how you check out your porn brand. Research. You look for accounts (which are all over the web, since many models have blogs) of what it’s like to work for a particular porn company, how they treat their people, how the sets are run, whatever you’re worried about. Of course you can’t disprove sensationalist claims about porn factories full of enslaved Eastern European beauties this way — folks who want to cling to that fantasy will continue to do so, brandishing their “news” stories from The Weekly World News, National Enquirer, and Reader’s Digest — but you can satisfy yourself, along with any other reasonable people who might be curious, that the porn you buy is sex slave free.
To pick another flamboyantly outrageous example, how about the notoriously severe spanking and caning DVDs produced by Lupus Pictures? They are often cited as an example of a company that must abuse and exploit its models, because what right-thinking innocent girl would voluntarily consent to an ass-whipping that leaves her in tears with flaming red welts on her bottom? (Short answer: There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreampt of in your philosophy.)
Here are couple of a relatively mild screen capture samples so we know what we are talking about, courtesy of Lupus Spanking [2014 update: now defunct]:
And now some samples from an article by and an interview with Niki Flynn, who went to Prague to make a movie with these “evil werewolves from the East”. From the article (link broke awhile ago, see this .txt mirror):
I never thought of myself as a girl who could survive a Lupus-style caning. I cringe and wince when I watch the films and say, “There’s no way I could take that!” I’d heard the internet rumours, of course — about the innocent, impoverished Czech girls who are seduced by the money into being abused by the evil werewolves from the East. But I’d look at the “behind-the-scenes” pictures on the website and see everyone having a good time, laughing and horsing around, even after the canings. So the rumours never seemed to have any substance. Besides, the same girls turn up again and again to do films; they clearly know what to expect.
…
The thing that impressed me most of all was the consummate professionalism of everyone involved. This was not a group of pornographers making dirty pictures, nor was it a cruel band of misogynists delighting in taking advantage of girls who couldn’t say no. This was a real film crew working on a real film. In addition to the director, producer, script supervisor, makeup artist, properties and wardrobe mistress, caterer, cameramen, boom operator, still photographer, actors and (ahem) stunt girls, there were people on hand to offer us refreshments, comfort or anything else we needed.
…
Did it hurt? Of course. Did I enjoy it? Absolutely not. Do I regret it? Not for a moment. In fact, I had the time of my life. So did William. I knew exactly what I was getting into and I did it because this is what I like. And when it was over and I lay sobbing over the desk, I felt what mountain climbers must feel when they reach the peak. I was so high on the feeling of accomplishment and so lost in the roleplay that I nearly wished I could have some more! And when I look at the marks now I have a sense of pride and achievement. I savor the marks. No one who isn’t into this can ever truly understand. Boxers and footballers suffer broken noses and concussions. No one criticizes them or calls their sport unhealthy. What we do is so much safer. It’s really a shame so many people misunderstand.
Hmm, she doesn’t sound helpless or exploited, does she?
From her interview:
David: There are many rumors about the girls who perform in Lupus productions. Some believe that they attract poor, starving, drug-addicted Eastern European Girls. Now I know that this isn’t true. Prague is often referred to as ‘The Paris of the east”. The Czech Republic is not a third world country. What myths about Lupus would you most like to dispel?
Niki: (Sigh) Yes, the famous urban legends. I think that those rumors are insulting to the girls actually. It’s true, some people think of the Czech Republic as a third world country and that the girls are all uneducated and bullied into it. Or, they have no choice because they are so desperate for money they will do anything. The truth is that the Czech Republic isn’t a third world country; it’s a middle income country that has just joined the European Union. Most of the Lupus crew are friends on the Czech BDSM scene. Some of the girls do it because they are genuinely kinky — they come back again and again. Some may do it for money, but it’s not a crust of bread. They are paid a professional rate. On the set, they are treated as professional actors. The production team at Lupus couldn’t have been more professional or more concerned for my safety — for all of the performers’ safety.
And that’s how you know that the girl in your favorite video doesn’t have an off-camera gun pointed at her head.
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Wednesday, October 8th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Somehow in light of yesterday’s political goings-on, tinged as they were by the warm whiff of sexual scandal, this cartoon seems fresh again:
Which reminds me, does anybody have, or have a link to, a really good high-quality scan of that Spy Magazine cover from 1992 or thereabouts that featured Hillary Photoshopped into an impressive dominatrix outfit?
Similar Sex Blogging:
Friday, January 3rd, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Here’s some hardcore stick figure porn from The Petting Zoo:
Don’t miss their unique version of the hamster dance.
“Recycling” is also…special.
Other people’s children…what can one do?
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