This was the item I was most excited about from my recent Lovehoney spree. Until now, we’d been playing with this smaller and gentle suede flogger – it was a fantastic starting point for us, and it really bridged the gap between a little bare-handed spanking and more serious, more intense scenes. But after getting a thorough thrashing from a big brute of a flogger at a play party, we both felt the need to upgrade to something a bit meaner.
And with this twelve-tailed leather flogger, it’s very much a case of ‘be careful what you wish for’…
Bigger, longer, sturdier, heavier and rougher than anything we’d played with before, the Hog Hide Flogger isn’t for the faint of heart, or delicate of arse. It is mean. But before we get to the fun part; the basics…
The black was out of stock so we got the red; a nice change from the rest of our all-black kit. It’s real leather — thin strips are braided into twelve individual tails; secured at the bottom with thread. The very end of each tail has loose ends – this contributes to the sting in the tail! The handle is a wooden dowel with a wrapped leather finish, and a handy arm strap/hook at the top for storage and extra security. It’s 31 inches long in total, so it looks sufficiently menacing.
But what’s it like to play with? I asked my resident Dom how it handles.
He was playing Minecraft. In between planting cactuses, he said that it was fun, but he had a few niggles. It’s a bit too light, and could do with more heft – it delivers a stingy slap, but thuddy pain is not really achievable with this flogger. Being accustomed to the smaller suede flogger and using his hands, he didn’t like the distance between us when using the Hog Hide Flogger. The tails are so long that you need to stand way back to aim it properly, he says, but this is probably something he’ll get used to in time.
On the plus side, it’s versatile. The fringed ends allow for light stings, while the braided tails deliver a meaner thwack. It’s long enough that it can be doubled over for a more thuddy impact. It’s “big and scary looking” and it makes great noises when it’s swung, he says.
In fact, all of the positives of this one seem to be in how I react to it. The sound of the leather flying through the air gives me butterflies, and the sensation on impact is stingy and complex. The braids, although they’re flexible and made of soft leather, do scratch in a delicious way. The pain intensifies after each swing into an overall heat that takes a while to go away.
In short, it packs a mean punch… actually, more of a bite than a punch. And it makes me squirm to look at it. Which is probably the best thing you could say about an impact toy like this.
The verdict? It’s a good quality, good value product at just under €25 with free delivery. He’s still looking for something that can do a bit more damage, but I love it – I think it’ll make a great addition to our arsenal of evil, even if it’s not quite our ideal flogger.
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How does 24/7 work?
… is a question we are often asked. Am I a 1950s housewife? Does he make me do all the crap chores? How do I relinquish control of money, bills, decision-making? Am I allowed to nag? Is there a pipe and slippers involved?
I usually answer with how it works *for us* — ie, sometimes not at all, and at other times it feels so natural that it’s hard to imagine being any other way.
I usually talk about it as a baseline understanding that can be brought into sharp focus in a split second, or left to linger softly in the background. I talk about looks that speak a thousand words, I talk about being taken care of, I talk about certain gestures or phrases or touches. I talk about allowing myself to be cherished and protected as a form of submission.
But this text — which made me laugh, made my stomach flip and my knickers flood all at once — this text says it all so perfectly.
This is how 24/7 works for us. And it is fucking awesome.
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They don’t fuck around with the names on these things, do they? I guess it doesn’t help that this is about as basic as it gets – a rigid, classic, one-motor vibrator with no frills or special jazz – and so they need to distinguish it from every other plain ol’ vibe out there.
But it’s precisely this simplicity that makes the Super Smoothie my favouritest and most used toy ever. I bought this as a replacement for my now-dead Inch Perfect – a truly novelty vibrator that I won from Lovehoney years back for some blog comp or other. The Inch Perfect was plain and simple too, except it had a little ruler on one side, and the hilarious/slightly gross motto “How Deep is your Love?” on the other.
I wasn’t expecting much from ye olde Inch Perfect, but there were a few things about it that helped it claim its place at the top of my sex toy list – and sent me looking for an identical one when it finally gave out. A quick hunt around the classic vibrators section pointed me to the Super Smoothie, and looking at the details I decided it was pretty much the same vibrator. Once it arrived and I got it out of the box, I could tell I was right. Hurrah!
So what is it that makes the Super Smoothie my go-to toy? I immediately liked the speed dial – this is where the Super Smoothie gets its “Multispeed” accreditation. It starts off soft & slow, and ramps up to a nicely intense speed. The vibrations are deep, not buzzy, and don’t travel down the shaft. Perfection for a constant-vibration junkie like me! I don’t like most of the on/off patterns that come with most ‘multispeed’ vibes, but I do like being able to vary the intensity of a constant vibration.
The second best thing about the Super Smoothie is that it’s smooth and hard (aw yeah!). It has a velvety feel, but it’s plastic, not silicone. That means no sticky fluffiness! But it also avoids that cold, slippery plastic-y feel of most classic vibes.
It comes in two colours, red and purple, thankfully avoiding the dreaded pink. It takes two AA batteries which slide in very simply, and the screw cap fits nice and snug to make it water resistant. There is still a groove around that battery cap, so I wouldn’t leave it lying in the bath or anything… but it could certainly withstand a quick dip, or even frequent use in the shower.
And for €12 you can’t really go wrong. This bog-standard toy gets reached for almost every time we have sex, and for solo sessions too. Money very well spent.
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small victories
You can do anything, but not everything.
— David Allen
I did a small thing this week. A small thing that was a big thing. It’s going to sound really silly when I tell you, but I’m inordinately proud of myself for achieving it. I say ‘achieving’… it won’t seem that way to most people. But for me, it was an achievement.
For a very long time I’ve believed that I have to do and be everything. That the only way to be enough is to be perfect. To be all things to all people. The dependable one, the capable one, the reliable one. Superwoman.
I believed that non-perfection was failure, and that failure was unacceptable. And so many things fell under the non-perfect banner. Sickness, weakness, laziness, unemployment, depression, being single… there was literally nothing that I wouldn’t take as evidence of my absolute shitness. It makes me almost cry when I think about how much I’ve hated myself over the years.
I’m not really sure where that came from… I have a few ideas, though. Wherever it came from, I so fervently believed it. It was my absolute truth. I was not good enough.
So I pushed and pushed and took on everything that I could for years – and I kept failing. I kept breaking. Collapsing under the weight of it all. This, of course, was further evidence for my jerkbrain to throw at me when I was at my lowest points. About how incapable I was of managing even day-to-day normal life. And so the self-hate grew and grew. And you cannot take care of something you hate.
I won’t say that I’m totally cured – I still have a tendency to feel the need to do it all. But this time I know I’m overreaching. I know it’s headed for a big crash. And I know that something’s gotta give. The first thing to give was my immune system, it seems… I’ve been smothered with a nasty cold all week.
But for the first time ever, I just accepted it. I stayed in bed. I rested. I let D take care of me. I called in sick to work. I did not have a panic attack about calling in sick to work. I did not feel guilty. I did not offer to work from home. I did not go back before I was well. I felt entitled to time off to rest my body and my mind. And so my body and mind were rested.
A small thing. But a big thing, for me.
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I picked up this pretty little thing on Lovehoney’s most excellent Deal of the Day offer, where it set me back a mere €10.39 (£8). Lovehoney now offers free delivery to Ireland, so I definitely got a bargain!
It arrived promptly (well, as promptly as An Post is capable of) and in the tasteful new Lovehoney packaging – no sexy cartoon ladies or glamour models in sight. Inside, the toy was nestled in a little plastic tray along with an information sheet about how best to use your new toy. (This is where I got up to fetch said information sheet to tell you what it says… and discover that I have lost it. Oh well.)
The dildo is about 7.5 inches long, pink (of course!), and made of velvety-soft silicone. This is touted everywhere as feeling lovely and being skin-safe, phthalate-free, yadda yadda. And that’s great! But in reality, velvety silicon = picks up every bit of dust and fluff in your house. And if you, hypothetically, had a pervert cat who, for example, liked to sit in your sex toy box inside the bedside cabinet whenever he got the chance… you’ll find you need to give this toy a rinse before you use it. I picked up one of the Lovehoney satin toy bags to keep it in, so now there’s less cat hair, but more tiny threads of purple satin. Suffice it to say, it’s not my favourite material.
Structurally, the dildo is shaped in a gentle curve with a bulbous head, meant to stimulate your g-spot. It’s a very pretty and unthreatening little toy; soft and pliable, and high-quality – no ugly seams or anything. However, this pliability is where me and the Satisfy Me fell out. In short, it did not.
I found the head to be too small and the neck too pliable to give me any earth-shattering sensations… or any sensations at all, really. I can see that it would be great for a lady who’s just beginning to explore her g-spot, or for a lady who’s not quite so fond of being, er… jackhammered? Haha. I’m a classy broad. But as it was, I found myself getting more frustrated than turned on, especially when my partner was using it on me. I found myself wishing he’d just feck it across the room and do the job properly himself.
If the Satisfy Me was a little larger and a little more rigid, I’d be right on board. I’m glad I tried it out though, if only because it’s made me even more certain that I need (yes, NEED) the Njoy Pure Wand in my life.
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pervert party
What to say about the party? It was both expected and unexpected. Normal and bizarre. Surreal and mundane. But most of all, it was fun.
I wasn’t sure what to expect when we walked into the meet-and-greet bar, around the corner from the venue. We knew someone would come to fetch us, but our main concern was how we would recognise them. Walking up to randomers and asking them if they were from the Internet probably wouldn’t work (aren’t we all nowadays?), and we were fairly sure that asking punters if they were perverts would lead to trouble.
This worry was resolved when a friendly-looking bloke clad head to toe in skin-tight latex wandered in.
And so the waifs and strays of the Irish fetish community drifted in, in ones and twos, to say hello and get comfy before an evening of debauchery.
We were warned that the venue was somewhat dilapidated, but we were still somewhat unprepared for just how… ‘atmospheric’ it was. Cracked stone floors, exposed beams, crumbling plaster over red brick walls. Gaps in the ceiling gave peeks of fellow kinksters on the upper floors. Cobwebs. Dust. Paint. We were skeptical.
We struggled into our kinky clothes (klothes?) anyway, feeling more self-conscious by the minute. Our partners in crime were similarly wary… we all sensed impending disaster. How delighted we were, then, to be proven wrong.
You would be forgiven for thinking that folks who have a penchant for consensual sexual violence might not be the most friendly or approachable bunch. You would also be dead wrong. Lots of fellow pervs introduced themselves happily, clearly delighted to have new people around.
The host was genial and excited – the theme, she told us, was Carnal Carnival, and we had our choice of several evil-sounding games. The menu of players was handed around – a list of “staff” kinksters who are happy to show the solo attendees around the equipment and give or get a playful swat or two.
Yes… the equipment. We made our way up to the top floor to find a shabby room, dimly lit with fairy lights dotted about. An unassuming space – if you ignored the St Andrew’s Cross and suspended stocks adorning the walls and ceiling. Our dungeon master for the evening was ensconced up there, keeping an eye on… well, nothing as of yet.
Curiosity satisfied, we wandered back downstairs and sat and drank and chatted. Strange to be so comfortable in such varied company – some guys in street clothes, others in black shirt and trousers, others in full PVC drag. The women were clad in an array of skimpy, clingy, booby, corsety things. Toys were shown off, war stories swapped, bruises compared and orientations shared.
The rest of the evening is mostly a blur. I have flashes of pretty catsuited ladies being spanked rather meanly, of lovely subby girlies punished for not doing their homework. I was introduced to the terrifying monster that is The Fucksaw – capital letters warranted. We hijacked a table and with a little bit of duct tape and ingenuity, transformed it into a spanking bench. We laughed. We winced. We made friends.
My one outstanding memory of the night is tentatively slipping my hands into the cuffs of the suspended stocks… just to see what it felt like. The cool leather felt restrictive, but secure. I smiled at my Sir as I did it, wondering at how far we’d come in a few short years… from tentative newbies to fully-fledged, play-party attending pervs.
I saw a smile creep over his face as he stood in front of me, and a split second later, I felt the thwack of a deliciously heavy flogger on my ass. Shock. Sir’s grin widened. A realisation, followed by a thrill of anticipation. A second lash.
But that’s a story for another time.
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Slick
I can’t remember how it started. All I have are flashes of memory, of feeling.
I knew I wanted to come, and that he would oblige me.
He asked which toy I wanted, then gave me no choice. Told me I’d have to use the slightly broken one – the one that cuts out. And if it stopped, then so did I. I pouted. He didn’t care.
Stripped, I lay on my back with him by my side. His hands and mouth exploring. I whimpered with want.
It had been days. I was wet and eager.
Fingers slid around my soft places, slow and tantalisingly gentle. They filled me, oh-so slightly. My body cried out for more.
He changed, then. No longer content to watch me squirm and want, he began to want. He told me he was going to fuck me.
I was so close, when he slid on top of me. So frustratingly close, my brain buzzing, my hips bucking to meet him.
He wouldn’t slip inside me. A favourite trick of his – to hold back. To make me ask.
His cock slid between us. I ground my clit against him, aching to be fucked. Did I beg? I must have.
He held firm. Such resolve. Such dedication to my torment. His face a picture of evil glee.
Whispering to me, asking me if I could come twice. “Yes Sir, I think so.” “You THINK so? Yes or no?”
His lips against my ear, my nipple. His words teasing and cruel.
His cock against my clit. Sliding. Slick.
Fuck.
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there are no words
I can’t even muster rage.
(via @charismagic)
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housekeeping
So, here I am again. No excuses this time! Just wanted to say hello and thanks for keeping up with my wishy-washy-bloggy thing.
I’m really hoping to write lots more in future — we’re embarking on lots of new adventures, and I really want to share! But from time to time, I’ll be putting posts behind a password. This will be for posts of a sensitive nature, mostly when I’m talking about events, the kink community, or people other than me and my Sir. But also for when I write something really filthy that I’m too embarrassed to put up otherwise.
The password will be the same for every post, so you’ll only have to ask once. It won’t be an exclusive club by any means — anybody can email me and request the password, and I’ll mail you straight back with it, as long as you don’t appear to be my mother, a scandal-seeking journo, a trolly spamface, or a spammy trollface.
If that seems like an awful lot of effort, fellow kinksters will be able to follow my postings on Fetlife, where my username is misch.
So, if you fancy reading all my adventures, drop me a mail on michellaneousblog{at}gmail{dot}com. Or just drop me a mail anyway — I love getting mail!
Love,
misch xx
PS: I’ll also be tweeting pervy stuff @MsMichellaneous. Come say hi!
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that look
I kinda got the subby thing and the teasing but never saw what people saw in spanking, to me it was like a foot fetish.
Out of the mouths of babes. Or rather, out of the mouths of ‘nillas. This was what Sir thought of spanking when we got together two and a half years ago. Oh, how times have changed – just ask my tender arse. It’s interesting, really, to see how he has grown into his dominance. At first it was slow, and careful. Then it was enthusiastic, but cautious. Now? Now it is wanton. And oh so sexy.
The past few months have seen a massive leap forward in our play. Where before we were chugging along quite nicely thank you, we’re now speeding along at an exhilarating pace. He doesn’t hold back any longer, or worry about hurting me. He says he doesn’t care about my pleasure – which perversely is thrilling to me. He uses me, truly uses me, in a way that never happened before.
I don’t know what changed, but I like it. I like the bruises and the bites, the hand around my throat when we kiss, the rough gropes and the hissed profanities. I especially like that he now refers to himself as a sadist. And even more, the look in his eyes that shows me that he’s right.
He gets this look, you see. It’s in the eyes, and a slant of the mouth. One that shows the cogs turning in his head, plans being brewed for me for later, or perhaps a fond memory of me, whimpering and desperate underneath him. I like to think his cock jumps too, at those moments.
Until recently, that look was like a rare jewel. I treasured seeing it because it was quite rare – although we played hard and played often, it wasn’t every time that his Dom brain engaged. Life was distracting him, worry and stress getting in the way. But now, that look is frequent, and it no longer delights me. That look makes my stomach twist and my knickers flood. It makes me hot in the face, giggly and nervous. Because I know that, finally, that look means he wants something… and that something is me, tortured.
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michellaneous 