A poetry review.

As I write this, I am sitting in an Italian café in the middle of the city, eating a bowl of soup. I’ve been sick for the last week, and had to cancel a lot of client appointments. This is more for their benefit than mine. I’m pretty vigorous, even when ill, but it gives me a quick temper and I’d perhaps be more harsh than I should be. Paulo’s been a doll. The first few days stuck in bed in the apartment, he ran me soup and orange juice – and of course, being Paulo, another poem. I didn’t appreciate the last one so much. I blew my nose on it, scrunched it up and threw it back at him, before slamming the door. I saw him through the curtains, retrieve the paper and put it in his pocket – silly little deviant.

 It’s sunset, and outside in the park a group of thirty musicians are sitting in a circle under a cloud of pot smoke. Right now they sound a little discordant and unfocused, but I imagine when the pot intake hits a critical mass, they’ll create a good sound.

It’s funny how being sick makes you appreciate the little things. For example, the warm saltiness of chicken noodle soup. The fragrant steam from a lavender infused bath. Slipping a naked body, warm and sensitive from a while in the water, into clean cotton sheets. The bed became my fortress for a while. I spent a lot of time fantasizing about various things and pulling tarot cards for future tasks. One of my fantasies concerns a certain individual, who completely throws me off balance on an ongoing basis. A friend. I think. The kind of person who says very sensible, clever things, but at the same time stokes my desires (seemingly without trying) to the point that I am quite ineffectual in my daily life, and fantasize about setting upon him on a regular basis. Will I? I certainly shouldn’t. I spend my days teaching my subs discipline and this has all the makings of a very undisciplined situation. Still, I’m perpetually itchy about it. After two days in bed, I’d started getting a little frustrated about both the cold, and the fantasies.

I called my friend, High Priestess Ember. She’s a member of various pagan organizations and a wise woman. Everyone needs a wise woman – she’s mine. Tall and voluptuous, with a booming cackle and electrical green eyes under her raven hair, if I’m ever feeling off, she’ll right me. She’s the kind to call you on whatever bullshit she thinks you’re spinning. Like I said – invaluable.

“Well it sounds like the sexual aspect is pretty important to you right now.”

“Right now…. When is it not?”

“Sex is one way to experience connection, Katia. What’s actually happening during such a sexual experience is a connection to self. You are vibrating with a joy and love that is one with all… true connection.”

“I am vibrating with something. Ugh. It needs to stop.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

“I do… a little. Alright. Alright.”

She laughed again and gave me an exercise for personal sexual magic, that I wanted to share with you. If your Mistress or Master has given you permission to please yourself, this is a good way of connecting intent with sexual energy.

As you masturbate, focus your thought and emotions on some kind of magical intent. In this case, maybe it’s to attract something that has a sexual or intimate connotation to it. As you carry on, focus on the outcome you desire. You can chant a phrase or incantation too that is applicable, repeating it over and over. The idea is to build the energy of your focus and manifestation towards your goal through sexual energy and to send it off at the moment of climax. Afterwards, you can end the session with a simple “So Mote it Be” if you wish.

Let me know if you try this. I’d be interested to hear your stories. Email me and let me know. katiaThornwood@gmail.com

As for me, I’m not sure if it worked. But, it didn’t hurt!

Your Misttress,

Katia Thornwood

Understanding Scarcity.

The principle of scarcity is fairly easy to grasp – you want something more when it is harder to get.

From time to time, a spouse or partner will contact me to spice up their relationship with my brand of dark bedroom magic, and I’m only too happy to assist. Usually one partner is recitent or shy to try domination, and in some senses it’s easy to understand. In life, we tend to be either dominant or submissive in nature. When you’re trying to get your submissive partner to take a more dominant role, it’s not always easy. They might be embarrassed, or terrified of hurting you physically or emotionally. They may have a hang up about BDSM not being a “nice” thing. But you know what’s nice? Ice cream. And too much ice cream gives you a stomach ache and a case of regret. Nice is such a bland word. I don’t know about you, but I like a little unpredictability and passion in mine. There is nothing wrong with bending a boundary now and again, to test its strength. And as the saying goes, “diamonds are formed by heat and pressure”. You know what’s formed by room temperature and stagnancy? Dust. That’s how you get dusty.

I remember talking to my Italian friend, Tina, a while back. She’s been married ten years now to a nice man, but is utterly bored with the monthly missionary position and short foreplay. She confessed to me after coffee:

“I just want him to pull my hair, or spank my ass once in a while!”

I suggested to her she might like to take the lead and dominate him for a while to show him what she’d like by example. She looked over her coffee in shock:

“I can’t just greet him in the bedroom with a bullwhip! He’d think I was crazy, and I’d be embarrassed.”

Yes, it’s true. One does not simply go from zero to pegging: you need to build up to this kind of relationship gradually.

This week I got an e mail from one of my mailing list, V. He told me about his wife, who he adores, and his desire to be dominated by her. He’s dropped some hints, but nothing’s come of it yet. I’m writing this newsletter for his wife, and any women out there who are in a similar situation.

First, as a woman, you need to appreciate your worth. I know this is hard for some of you. Maybe you have self-esteem issues, relationship drama, bad family dynamics or a rough experience of motherhood. Details, ladies. These are all just details. Underneath all that clutter is your power. Find it.

As a woman, you have something men (and some women too) want. Not just the sweet nectar between your thighs, but your soft curves, your scent, your affection and your mind (the dirtier the better). Don’t try to tell me you don’t have fantasies of your own. They are nothing to be scared of – celebrate them and let the little beasties out to play.

We are incredible creatures. The same breasts that hands like to fondle and eyes like to gaze at synthesize food into nutritious milk for our young. Our bodies are the earth where babes grow, and we can obtain that seed from any man, yet we choose our partners. We can create and nurture or terrify and destroy. Our monthly cycle is mysterious and powerful – four seasons in a month – endless cycles of potential fertility. Even our life stages, as maiden, mother and crone hold a different power and promise in each. A woman that knows her own power, even as her face is etched in lines and delicate features fallen, can still arouse curiosity and alarm with well timed words and a certain tone.

Your real power, outside whatever case nature put you into at this moment – lies in your mind. My imagination is the scalpel that cuts deep into the minds of my submissives. By being open and blunt in my speech, with just a little innuendo and teasing, I can extract little threads of their fantasies and wild desires that I can then use to bind them into servitude (give a man enough rope and he’ll hang himself – though I’d honestly rather hang things from him… but that’s me).

Learn to tease. Stoke your partner’s desire by grabbing them wordlessly as they return from work and kissing them passionately against a wall. Then go out and run an errand (or take yourself to the spa!) for a few hours and leave them alone with frustrated desire. Buy a cock cage with their credit card and slip it on them at bedtime before pleasuring yourself. Send a series of increasingly explicit texts to them during a boring company function – shock them and arouse them simultaneously. From my own experience, dread and desire are close neighbours. A little of one, creates a lot more of the other.

Life is short. Dispose with the blandness!

Do let me know how you’ve been getting on. If you’ve not yet signed up for my Premium Program now would be an excellent time to do so.

Your Mistress,

Katia Thornwood

The Importance Of Empathy

This week I had Rick come to visit. Rick is a father of two young children with another on the way. His wife is from England and is a very motherly sort. She is the personification of The Queen of Pentacles in the tarot deck for me. The kind of mother that has a salve for every wound, a snack for every occasion and the positivity to support those around her in whatever challenge they may be facing at the time.

 

Unfortunately, she is married to Rick – a perpetual challenge. I have faith that we’ll make process, but right now I am trying to lash the selfishness out of him. We just started working together last month, and this week when I asked him how he was doing I think he misheard – because he took it as an invitation to moan and gripe about his wife, Debra. In his ankle and wrist restraints he told me the woeful tale of his wife continuing to breastfeed Celia at age two. Apparently she would let him nowhere near her breasts during this time, and he was feeling unloved and aggrieved about it.

 

“She wont even let me near them, even when Celia’s not feeding… I feel like she cares more about the child than me, her husband…”

“Mmm…”

At this moment, I was rubbing his thighs down with oil. Teasing him between the legs with my deft fingers and nodding, as if sympathetically. The truth was, I felt no pity for him. His understanding of pain, this early in our work, was that of a five year old. “I want this – if you don’t give me this, I will sulk about it”. Some men like Rick know nothing of pain, real pain, the way a woman knows it. They play at war, or fight, or fuck, or chase – just to get a small taste of the intensity of feeling that comes at all times so naturally for a woman. We are, after all, the ones who tend the children, who nurse the sick spouse, who soothe the minds of aging parents and have empathy for a world largely broken by stupid men. Despite all this, we are able to continue nurturing, guiding, teaching and keep a smile (though at times, it may be filled with daggers) on our “delicate” faces.

 

Rick began to moan and writhe within the restraints. Denial of orgasm until I say so is a given, and he had been two weeks (his wife being otherwise occupied). I knelt down before him, playing with the tip of his erection on my nose. Teasing it with my lips. Then looking up and grinning at him.

 

“You feel very hard done by, I can tell.”

 

“Mmm… Mistress…”

 

“Everyone else is getting breasts – why not you? Mmm? Where’s your breast, man baby?”

 

Rick looked at me questioningly, but continued to writhe, his tip poking my lips.

 

“What are you, Rick, say it – say ‘I am a Man Baby’…”

 

“I am a Man Baby, Mistress.”

 

“Very good. I bet you want someone to suck on your nipples like Celia enjoys your wife’s, hmm?”

 

“Yes, Mistress… yes…. please, suck on my nipples… like that…”

 

Silly fool didn’t know what he was asking. How could he? Of course, he hadn’t been paying attention to his wife’s breastfeeding, else he would have known what a painful experience it can be. I remember a few summer’s ago, in Ember’s appartment, watching her feed Lilith as we talked about the Gulabi Gang – a group of brave women in India who set upon sexual attackers with sticks and protect the women in their community. Mid-conversation, a fire truck had pulled up outside, its sirens blaring. Lilith, who was one and a half and pretty mobile, had turned her head to the sound, but not released Ember’s nipple. Without a sheet to cover her (we have seen most of each other, in and out) I could only marvel at how far it stretched. Ember, for her part, dealt with it bravely, mouthing curses but not disturbing her child in any way.

 

I was going to teach Rick the empathy he lacked in the best way I knew. I pulled myself teasingly up his naked body as he shuddered, licked his right nipple a little, then clamped down with some force on it with my teeth.

 

“Arghh!”

 

But I was not done. I turned my head a little to the right and to the left, taking his pilled nub of elastic skin with me.

 

“Yeowch, Mistress, what are you doing?”

 

He was gasping in pain. I released my grip on that nipple and traced my tongue over to the other, as his shallow breaths increased in pace.

 

“Please don’t… YEOOWCH! OWW! Ginger! Ginger!”

Ginger was the safe word. I released my grip reluctantly, but the rules were the rules.

“Your problem is not with your wife, but your own selfishness, you tiny pricked jackass. Have you heard yourself? Truly heard yourself? You are utterly pathetic, man baby. Your wife is doing the job of nurturing the child you made – your contribution was three minutes of fun – let her do her job. Make yourself useful. Fetch her drinks, watch shows with her, wash her feet and wait on her hand and foot like the goddess she is and the worthless wretch you are.”

 

“Yes Mistress.”

 

“And if I hear a word of complaint about this in future, I’m going to bite off one of your nipples, spit it out and feed it to you, understood?”

“Yes, Mistress! Absolutely.”

Rick looked absolutely terrified. Good. I do beleive he understood though, for the rest of that session I heard no complaint, and I even let him jerk himself off. Of course, I did make him sing a song as he did. As he’s a man baby and man babies cry, I pulled up the lyrics to Roy Orbison’s “Crying” on his phone, and made him hold it and sing, wavering, until he came.

And we’re keeping the name, Man Baby as well. It suits him.

Your Misttress,

Katia Thornwood

The things children do!

Babysitting is not my forte. I generally make it a rule to avoid little undisciplined creatures as much as I can. But I have a tender streak for certain children, one of which is the daughter of one of my submissives, David. His wife is a cool lady, a photographer who works in the city. Sometimes I help out with little Morgana because I’m at a loose end too, and I enjoy her feisty little spirit. Sometimes she worries me though.

This afternoon Morgana had her dolls out. Ken was naked on the wooden table and a Monster high doll with black heels and greeny black hair was brought down hard on his plastic chest by Morgana’s meaty little hand.

“Bad! Bad boy! Ken is a bad boy!”

Morgana is four, and there is no way she knows what goes on between her daddy and I, as she’s never been to the dungeon and we make it a rule never to do anything at his home. But sometimes I wonder if she has a psychic streak, because lately her games have been a little bit close to the truth.

Morgana picked up Ken and threw him down at the floor.

“Ken is stupid! Stupid dumb dumb Ken!”

She cackled wildly. I raised my eyebrow. She looked at me with those giant green eyes that seemed to bore into my soul.

I picked Ken up from his prone position on the floor. Morgana eyed me wondering what I’d do next. I like her little cackle, and knew throwing him back onto the floor would amuse her, so I did.

Morgana then jumped down from her seat and waddled her way purposefully up the stairs, returning with a handful of Barbie clothes.

“We dress Ken up!”

“What a good idea, Morgana. What do you think he’d like to wear?”

Morgana found a pink princess dress with lace trim and then ran off to get her felt tip pens. I knew what she was doing, she’d done it a few times before. Ken was about to get a makeover. I chuckled to myself as she pulled the dress on Ken and helped her get the top off the red pen.

I don’t think Morgana’s cut out to be a make up artist. She’s got passion but very little attention when it comes to colouring within the lines. Maybe it’ll come. In any case, by the time she was finished with Ken, he looked like Stephen King’s IT after a spell in a monsoon. I picked him up and made a big deal of her handiwork.

“He looks… very pretty!”

Morgana smiled and picked up her other doll again.

“Very pretty. Now dollie smash!”

Princess Ken was then repeatedly trodden under the heels of her dollie.

“Katia… you help me?”

“What do you need, darling?”

Morgana dropped the doll and went into the kitchen. I have to watch her because she’s good at finding things she shouldn’t find – mainly scissors and sharp kitchen implements. I opened the drawer she was standing in front of, then looked to where she was pointing. A reel of string, used for the Sunday roast, I presumed. It seemed harmless enough. I gave it to her. She ran off excitedly with it, and then – to my amusement, started wrapping Ken in it.

Like I said, sometimes I wonder what this child knows.