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by Amanda Earl
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There are those times, and this is one of them, when I wonder if I have ever done anything even remotely exciting in this humble little life of mine, in it's entirety to date.
In it's own way, that's a comparative statement. After all, excitement is comparative, isn't it? An expired MacDonald's voucher would be exciting to a starving monk, close to porn in its value as an object of slavering desire and as a utility to gastronomic masturbation (sucking on an empty spoon while pretending to ram down the quarter-pounder you're lusting at), and like most masturbation, temporarily exciting but that's about it. Hungry before, hungry after. You get the idea. I won't go on about it.
So, you may wonder, what has brought on Edith's prolix navel gazing this time...
Well, let me begin by saying that my email friend Karin has a way about her of casually declaring some new adventure, then going for it at a million miles an hour all in a way that leaps and bounds beyond anything I would have dared to contemplate in my own little mind. She makes me feel so, so... ordinary.
I believe she possesses the one least aspect of genius which is that with seemingly no mental effort whatsoever, she comprehends and embraces the plain and the simple while the rest of us blunder around in a fog of half-truth, myth and various self-induced confusions. Something like that. Also, she is not afraid of ideas, no matter how much they may offend the modesty of the rest of us. A kind of female pornographic Jesus.
To digress slightly, I would add that this, I expect, has made her a social target over the years. With an argumental quiver full of razor sharp barbs of logic, and equipped with a very taut bow, she is extremely lucky to have married such a gentle, quiet and tolerant man as Hakon, for example. And to extend the idea, I don't believe she would have been very popular at school all those years ago as an apple-cheeked youth in the then still allied-occupied Germany. In which case, anyway, issues like popularity would not have concerned her. She believes, as most of us believe the sky to be blue, that folks are fools. And I include myself in that assessment. In our own affairs, she tolerates me because I tolerate her first, and that, by the way, with an obsessive amount of dirty online sex thrown in, characterizes our relationship.
Anyhow, the latest 'thing' with Karin is that a couple of months ago, with a friend Makke, she went up to a Saturday afternoon bdsm clinic in Berlin, driving all the way from Karlsruhe leaving early in the morning and stopping for a coffee and sticky bun somewhere in the middle. The idea of bdsm has always occupied a special place in Karin's erotic mind, and many of our own games have used those themes and symbols. Lately however, it's been all Karin can think or talk about.
These clinics are run in the afternoon about twice a week for the curious to come and see what they like and don't like about the scene. Karin had herself hooded and bound in a bikini to a steel X near the bar where she was fondled by anonymous hands for fifteen minutes or so and had the wits scared out of her. Makke chose to crouch naked, strapped to her back a tray decoupaged with 18th century erotic engravings from the Dutch edition of The Misfortunes of Virtue, to be used as an occasional table by some travelling executives drinking beer. One of them wanked on her. Later, changing roles, Karin got to flog some old guy on the pecker, down (actually upstairs) in a pseudo-dungeon complete with racks of sinister-looking devices and an atmosphere of tape recorded screams. She said it made her very wet watching the guy's cock get so red and go bobbing around like that, and later, over a complimentary cocktail, he told her she was quite good at it for a first timer. Wearing rubber kitchen gloves, and with the guy laying flat on his back on a stainless steel hospital trolley, she had pinched and twisted his nipples. Apparently he moaned a lot and told her he loved her and finally ejaculated onto his thigh while still flaccid, which Karin said was a real turn-on. Beats me. Personally, Karin's old guy along with the so-called executives, I can't help suspecting they worked for the place, just getting some free weekend sex.
Another obsession of Karin's lately has been getting me to video myself masturbating in a fetishistic way. Somewhere there, maybe in the middle of orgasm during online sex, I may have agreed. For how ever it came about, I received an emailed page of some very specific, explicit instructions about where, how and why I was to get myself off for her in the video. According to the instructions this involved buying a strap-on dildo, which I refused to do. Karin said, 'Darling, don't be silly. It's the next step.' Whatever that was supposed to mean. Still, I refused.
While I think of it, just exactly how do you approach your friend about accompanying you to a bdsm clinic? 'Hi Makke. I'm going up to Berlin next weekend to get myself tied up and fondled and do a bit of flogging. Wanna come along?'
And what, exactly, do you talk about on the way home? Makke: 'That was really nice the way the guy jerked off on my helpless body yesterday. I feel so complete now.' Do you compare underwear to see who got the wettest? Share butt plug techniques? I am asking these questions because I really want to know, and I don't know. It's beyond me.
Anyhow, doesn't anyone just play Scrabble any more? That's how we used to entertain ourselves, and our friends, remember? Fondue, Scrabble and a piping hot Horlicks. Curse those seventies and that evil Naked Twister. Oh yeah, and acid.
'Where did you stay?' This was me, asking a few direct questions.
'Of course Darling, it was in a hotel.'
'Don't be silly. That's so expensive.'
'In the same bed?'
'Tch.' I don't know how to spell that particularly Teutonic expression of contempt. 'Of course not. We are only friends.'
Karin sent me some photos, one of a group. This, apparently, was the group of around fifteen or so bdsm inductees the Saturday afternoon she attended. Amid a black clubby decor, above their heads hung a dark blue banner bearing a logo of open handcuffs and the name of the establishment, 'Bondage Freundeskries,' embossed in silver Gothic script. Most wore a mask of some kind, such is their right to privacy.
Front and center stood Karin wearing a huge grin and little else except for black stockings and a narrow bodice pinching at the waist and supporting her breasts. Her brown nipples popped out like hard little nuts. The middle-aged guy to Karin's left wore a Zorro mask and a sly erection winking at the camera from beneath a hairy German beer belly. To Karin's right, directly by her side, stood a tall woman in her late twenties with honey-colored hair and honey-colored skin and bouyant breasts the size and shape of upturned tea cups. She was very pretty and stood close to Karin with a model's poise. This woman, wearing a leopard print sarong slung from hip to thigh revealing pelvic creases, I later discovered was Makke. Karin had not mentioned that her friend, hanging around with a forty-nine year old like Karin and going up to seedy bdsm clinics, was so young and beautiful. Why had I expected otherwise? And why is she here on a spring Saturday afternoon and not out having fun in the sun with one of her dozens (I'm sure dozens) of handsome young boyfriends? Maybe there's a thesis here somewhere.
I refused and refused again on the issue of buying a strap-on dildo, not least because except for the video that Karin wanted me to make, I had no other use for it. Then, after seeing the photos of Karin's friend Makke, I bought one. Make of that what you will.
Without Karin explaining it, I understood there had been no S or M component to the afternoon at the Berlin clinic, just some mild bondage and discipline. Several other photos, each bearing the open-handcuff watermark, featured Karin now known there, according to the printed caption, as Mistress Lara. Karin has quite long, dyed-black hair and pale skin and a thin lipped smile which suits the effigy of an uncompromising mistress. She was dressed in mainly leather with nipples bare for ad hoc stimulation, but cunt guarded at the front by a removable flap of black leather spiked with studs. Woe to any who attempt her until she is good and ready. Around her waist on a device like a woman-hero's utility belt, hung various implements of compliance. Another photo seemed to have caught Karin off guard. Frowning at someone unseen off left, she is half obscured by a pillar in the alleged dungeon, so it took me quite a while to realise she is wearing a black strap-on dildo.
'Bondage Freundeskries,' by the way, means 'Bondage Circle of Friends.' They were certainly a happy looking bunch. Put white hats on them and they may have been the Senior's Nude Croquet Team, with Makke as their mascot.
The dildo I purchased was exactly to Karin's specifications, the fake leather strapwork black with lots of shiny rings and eyelets and buckles and some dangly chains to titillate the inner thigh (if you're on top going for it, I guess). The penis, rigidly flexible and which could be unscrewed and used as a novelty doorstop, was realistic except about eight inches long. The necessary part of the scheme, according to Karin, was that I be uncovered between the legs. Actually there was a metal ring back there, way under near my asshole which joined the rear thong with the two straps coming forward one either side of my pussy. In short, fucking uncomfortable. Actually, when I squatted, if you want my honest opinion, the whole arrangement looked like an over-ripe cactus fruit crossed with priapic road kill. In bondage.
On more pressing issues, I said to Karin, 'I looked at a map. It's not really so far from Karlsruhe to Berlin.' And Karin said, 'So Darling?'
'You didn't need to stay the night.'
'Well I did.'
'We did. You did, plural. You and Makke.'
'Edith Darling. I haven't been to Berlin since the wall. I wanted to linger. We went to a lovely dinner at a restaurant that was converted from Stasi cells in Potsdam. Super. I took Makke around to the hotel, Der Mannheim, where I had rented rooms with my boyfriend back years ago and we had made pornographic photos on his Leica and we had lots of sexy fun. I was so in love with him. You know Darling, that kind of love where your heart feels like it will burst the whole time and your feet are all hopeless and tangled. Why wouldn't I want to go back there and see again and feel again those places and those times? Makke thought it was so super. I told her all about those times and she cried.'
And then you went back to your hotel room and slipped the 'Bitte Nicht Stoeren' sign outside the door, and fucked the tall, young, beautiful, honey-colored, tea-cup breasted Makke long into the wee hours of a Berlin dawn. Then lied to me about it.
'Just tell me what you did with her.'
'With who Darling?'
What does Karin's husband Hakon make of his wife's adventures? She has sent me pictures and movies of Hakon naked, and of other times where he is wanking at the computer etc. They have videoed themselves having sex at home, in motels and outdoors. But this seems to be the extent to which Hakon participates. He has never been present (as far as I know) whilst Karin and me have sex and play online together. In fact, as far as I know, he is not particularly aware of me, or anything much that Karin gets up to outside their relationship. Hence, you can imagine my surprise when I received a photo evidently taken by Karin, of Hakon fucking Makke.
Let me tell you something. I used to travel a lot, doing merchandising for a makeup company. Of an evening, with little more than four motel walls and a Gideon's bible for erotic stimulation, and not being one to hang around bars, I made my own fun. Who doesn't? I had bought a digital camera with movie mode, and around that same time a proper dildo. The two came together, naturally, one night, after a bottle of wine in a motel room someplace. I set the camera running pointed right up between my legs and masturbated as honestly as I could with the dildo. The orgasm was deliciously intense. In replay I had never seen my pussy, with or without something stuck in it, up so amazingly close before. I made a lot more videos and found new things to play with, clothespins and the like, which made some pretty interesting viewing, all for my own sexy entertainment of course. I kept these movies hidden.
Over four years later, it was these highly personal videos that I began sharing with my new email friend Karin, one by one. She made a curious comment at one point. She said I had transformed her from housewife to slut. When I asked her to explain (on several occasions) what this meant, she couldn't. I prefer to think that she sometimes has trouble with translation. Besides, if there had ever been any corrupting done, it was her to me, and not the other way around. And that's the truth.
Some more photos arrived from Karin, and it turned out that my suspicions were correct, that she had returned to Bondage Freundeskreis more recently on another weekend. I asked her outright if Makke had gone with her. The answer I received was evasive. I still don't know for sure that she did. Or didn't. Again, the English language seems to fail Karin at the most convenient times.
These new photos featured exclusively Karin as Mistress Lara who appeared to have grown in her role, somehow taller, hair as ever black but now wild. This was a Karin if possible even more confident. In every photo she is rampant nippled. And in every photo she wears a black cape slung back over her shoulders, clasped at the throat by a serpent brooch. And also, a strap-on dildo.
Karin, apparently, had came, had seen, and had made her choices.
I remarked on this, and Karin replied with a weary polemic, weary because it was addressed to the stupid. 'Darling, I know when a man is a real man. I can feel it in my bones and inside my heart by his presence. Every woman can feel this. I married one. I have had several of them as partners in my years, so I know what a man is. I don't have to be told. Those creatures who want to spread their legs and have their cocks flogged are not men, so I flog them for my own amusement, and if they happen to enjoy this in return, for their own pathetic reasons, then that is their business not mine. The ones who need to be called Master, even they are just... Tch. They are children. They seek attention playing childish games, and if as a woman you challenge them they cower, or attempt to become violent, which anyway betrays them. Do they really believe that the submission of a female makes them a man? That is just too, too simple and weak brained. I will tell you Edith, even with her tits out and a rubber penis on her body, Mistress Lara knows more about how to be a man than any of them.'
Take a deep breath. You were warned about Karin.
Perhaps I should quote Karin back to herself: 'Well, if you go looking under rocks Darling, expect to find creatures that live under rocks.'
So what about Hakon and Makke together? I wondered how Karin felt about that, about watching her husband with his cock deposited inside Makke. Did she, Makke, feel it too, Hakon's alleged manliness? Or could it be that Karin shared her husband as though by being the one who understood him, she had earned the right to give him away?
She said, 'What are you talking about?' And I said the photo, Hakon and Makke. And she said, 'What photo?' And so on like that for a while. In the end, out of exasperation, I said, 'Fine. I will send it back to you. You're the one who sent it to me. I will send it back to you, then you can tell me, Hey what photo!' I may have raised my voice.
Karin offered faintly, 'Edith Darling, I really do not know what you are talking about.' We had had enough for the night, anyhow.
And then, do you think I could find the damn thing? By three am I was ready to throw my Roget's Thesaurus through the fucking (as intensifier) computer screen (no synonym). I never did find the photo. Even the email I believed it had been attached to was missing. Karin later insisted, again, that she'd never sent such a photo or email. Medication time.
Here's what happened with the strap-on cock. I had a nice bath and a few wines and set up my bedroom with some candles burning and incense and stuff like that. No music. Actually, I hate music during sex—once the rhythm gets in my head, that's the end of it.
So there I was feeling kind of sexy, warming to the idea of something a little kinky, wishing Karin was there to share it with me for real. You know how it goes. Karin had wanted me to start in a man's suit and do a strip. Breaking with her expressed rules, I preferred something feminine for the occasion and settled for the usual gear of a bit of fluff, stockings and heels. I did a dance thing for the camera, tits and ass to get Karin going, before bringing out the dildo, giving it a blow job, running it up and down between my tits. To slip it on I had to pass the straps under my ass and up the back, and it was in this pose, half-squatting with the candle-lit cock nodding up and down in front there like a bratwurst on speed, that I caught sight of myself in the dresser mirror. I stopped the camera.
Now, back to Karin. With the arrival of a fresh batch of photos after yet another hiatus, it became clear that there had been a plan, and before my eyes Karin had executed that plan and I am left wondering how it was that I hadn't seen it coming. Now I understand the process, the glacial inevitability of the small steps beginning with the transformation of housewife to slut, as Karin described it, and which she still blames me for. In hindsight, the next steps were evident in the little games we played innocently enough online, clothespins, handcuffs, breast and nipple bondage, these increasingly recherche activities culminating in Karin's excursion to a bondage clinic in Berlin. And then the final transformation, that of Karin the Curious into Mistress Lara.
So about now we should be hearing loud piped-organ music reverberating us to excited states amid plumes of dusty smoke and a good measure of dramatic lighting. An Evil is Born, and all that. Exit Goodness. There's a specific word to describe the shell that someone casts off thus in emergence to reveal their true self, which I can't be bothered looking up.
And yes, I am digressing here to put off the awful moment when I have to describe to you my feelings about seeing Karin—sorry, Mistress Lara—with distinguished negligence holding a dog leash, and on the other end of that leash her friend Makke naked except for collar and wristcuffs.
The beautiful Makke, by the way, as I now know, has made a Hundertwasser sculpture out of her cunt. It is punctured down each side by a stacked row of metal rings making in total what looks like the mouthparts of a robot mollusc. From the center amongst this forest of metalwork, hang the honey-colored labia, stretched downward by a pair of heavy padlocks. The word 'SLUT' is written across her bald mound in red lipstick. Who would have thought? I wonder if she carries all this hardware off to work every morning.
I am describing one photo in particular, and it is the most disturbing for me, and at the same time the most erotic, because as well as Makke all dressed up in this exciting way, it includes a third party as a shadowy figure. This figure is a man, also naked, also wearing a collar, but granted obedient licence his leash hangs untethered, straight down bisecting his pale torso. As I said, he is in shadow, yet it is clear enough that he wears a second small, tight collar around his shaved cock and balls. He isn't circumcised and his foreskin is loose. He also wears the word 'SLUT' written in a lipstick arc just over his cock where his pubic hair should be. With his head down he looks remarkably like Hakon, except I know that Hakon is not that round. Or bald.
And there are others out there not included is this one photo. They are the unseen audience, and they are calling for their favorite Makke straight off. They want to see that beauty become slave, and Karin is the mistress proxy of all. She can do it. Outside, out there in the world of light and ordinary things, they are afraid of Makke. Beauty intimidates. It cannot be won or bought, a cellular accident which either you've had at conception or you haven't. But in here they can watch that beauty subjugated, enslaved, forced to do things that beauty by birthright ought not do for anyone. It is a rare thing to see beauty beg, but today, if Mistress Lara is good at her job, they may see this. That is why they are here. This is what they pay for, take risks for. Makke is not a porno actress earning a living. She is the rare true thing. And they, the audience, are on the edge of their seats to catch the spectacle.
Therein lay the clues, or at least the One Clue to Karin. I printed this picture and taped it to the wall behind my desk so I could study and absorb it. Let me describe the photo a little further. Mistress Lara stands exact dead center, in boots and body stocking and with breasts bare. She holds a riding crop in her right hand and Makke's leash in the left, arms at her sides, body erect as though obeying the remnant of a military order.
The three figures are on a stripper's stage with a banner behind, 'Bondage Freundeskries,' and the blue velvet stage curtains are covered in a tatter of silver-paper stars and tinsel. This is Karin's domain. The spotlight lifts Karin and Makke into the foreground, while the male is isolated, exactly where Mistress Lara has put him, in the gulf of darkness behind.
Soon he will come forward and without direction descend to hands and knees, disavowed cock swinging away back there, and with his mouth make love to Karin's boot. This is low comedy and the humiliation to him of that comedy is the particularly acute kind of heart-pain which cannot be distinguished from physical pleasure. Mistress Lara feels nothing, even as he hugs his cheek to her thigh, masturbates, and with one ecstatic groan ejaculates across the toe of her boot. She is insulated from sensation by equally impenetrable layers of leather and disgust.
Now she brings in Makke and stands her centered in the circle of light. Makke is blindfolded by some means so that without the awkwardness of having their gaze returned, the audience may contemplate her exquisite nakedness. They, the audience of men and women, chuckle and coo with nervous arousal. In a spot lit display of cabaret-like theatre, Mistress Lara thrusts her hips, her cock, at Makke from the left and from the right and even more outrageously from the front, all without touching her. Women squirm in their seats daring to imagine that plastic thing going so impolitely deep. Men shuffle in their seats, damning that plastic thing, yet voyeuristically delighted that even if for nothing else, Makke's beautiful indifference, and her indifferent beauty, will be compelled to react. One way or another. Sooner or later.
Makke has no idea what is happening. She smiles faintly, lips trembling in sympathy with the tremors of galvanistic spark rippling through the crowd. Mistress Lara is behind and grazes the plastic cock millimetres from Makke's instinctively clenched ass. When she pushes it through between Makke's thighs and out front toward the audience, there is some laughter, some sighs, the sound of a zipper.
But then as Karin fondles the air around Makke's teacup-shaped tits, a new silence descends over the room. She plucks then pulls Makke's nipples until they are stretched to impossible limits. There they are held for the gawping crowd to fully appreciate that when she is ready Mistress Lara will go way beyond these prosaic little games. She will in due course retire with Makke upstairs to the dungeon, and for the benefit of those in the VIP lounge watching on the giant video screen, get serious about Makke's pristine breasts. But just here and just now, men sigh and are already grasping at the pressure growing inside their pants. Some—just a few—dare to get their cocks right out. Wait and wait... they are willing themselves. Then a woman who cannot wait cups her mouth and cries out, 'Fuck her!'
Well, I don't know if Karin ever did, or what happens next, and I've never asked. Anyhow, this is all just speculation based on one badly printed photo and my overheated imagination.
And my reaction? I will tell you now. I am jealous. I am jealous in particular because of Karin's breasts, the nakedness of them, the way they are offered de rigueur, out of carelessness or recklessness, or worse used simply as a cheap ornament. She had promised those breasts to me, and if Karin had really brought me those breasts I would have worshipped them for her. If I had access to them, I could have shown her what it is to be made love to. I would have played out for her all those silly games we talked about on our computers and she would never have needed to get herself involved in any of this stupid bondage stuff. But there she is, with her gorgeous tits relegated to the status of props, all part of a gaudy costume supporting an even gaudier pantomime. And Karin, for all her high-filuting words, has become a sad parody of a man in sacrifice to her latest addiction.
And yes, too, I'm sure you've guessed, I want a Makke of my own.
There. I said it.
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