Heart’s Desire. Sinful Sunday #389


Dorothy: …and it’s that – if I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than my own backyard. Because if it isn’t there, I never really lost it to begin with! Is that right?
Glinda: That’s all it is!
Scarecrow: But that’s so easy! I should’ve thought of it for you –
Tin Man: I should have felt it in my heart –
Glinda: No, she had to find it out for herself. Now those magic slippers will take you home in two seconds!
Dorothy: Oh! Toto too?
Glinda: Toto too.
Dorothy: Now?
Glinda: Whenever you wish…
Glinda: Then close your eyes and tap your heels together three times. And think to yourself, ‘There’s no place like home’.

The Wizard of Oz

L Frank. Baum

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Sinful Sunday


Thank you!


This week I hit two big milestones in my blog – 100 followers and 1000 likes, and very nearly a 100 posts! My control freak brain kind of likes how neat that is… I know this is small in comparison to many but I greatly appreciate each and every one.

It took me a really really long time, for many reasons, to eventually decide to create this little space of mine here amongst you all just a few months ago, and I never expected to get this far really.

I just wanted to thank you all so so much for all your support, encouragement, kindness, motivation and inspiration so far. Thank you for all the follows, likes, comments and time you’ve spent here with me. I’ve learned so much and hope to learn a lot more. It has meant a great deal, often at times when things have been a little tough.

Kis xx

Slide Away


we used to fuck to Oasis

in my student flat single bed

twenty years ago at weekends

wrists bound with floaty scarves

another pulled tight around the base of his cock

before we understood what bondage meant

let alone kink, D/s or BDSM

yet I submitted to him even then

as our Dr Martin boots lay atop of one another on the floor



The Coronet


She stood at the edge of the mezzanine level, bent at the waist, hands gripping the brass rail. Her gloss heels and polished latex skater skirt reflecting the laser show lights that danced across the chill out area. The force of his cock, pumping into her from behind, rocked her back and forth on her tip toes, almost in time to the trance music blaring from the heaving dance floor below.

I sat, resting in the red velvet theatre seat, and watched them. He sat next to me, hand resting protectively on my stocking clad thigh, intently observing me observing them.

“Do you like what you see?” he enquired.

I squirmed in my seat, simultaneously embarrassed at silently revealing my admittance. I smiled, my eyes never leaving them, increasingly aroused by our view. She had her head down now, bracing against his thrusts as her long hair swayed to and fro. Oblivious to their audience and the extravagantly dressed kinksters coming and going around them.

He leant in towards me ever so slightly, as his hand trailed up my thigh and stopped. Eyes forward, his other arm casually resting on the flocked arm rest, he tapped one finger against my mound.

“Open your legs.” It wasn’t a request.

I slid forward a little and tilted my pelvis, opening my legs as wide as the seat would allow. I rested one heel on the back of the empty seat in front.

“Don’t make a sound, just watch” he whispered. Finding the slit of my open crotch latex knickers he dipped one then two fingers into me, swirling my wetness around the rubber, both acknowledging and shaming my response to him, and them.

Silently, slowly, excruciatingly he finger fucked me. Expertly matching his penetration to that of the cock below. Mesmerised by what I could see, and stimulated by what I could feel, the sight and the sensation blended. The cock was fucking me, he was fucking me, he was fingering me, and he was not going to stop.

I clutched at the arm rests as my cunt clutched at his relentless sopping fingers. The scent of my arousal hung in the air like the smoke and the sweat from the dancers below. And the beat of the music pounded on as he pounded me and he pounded her.

“You love to watch don’t you?” he growled, breaking the silence between us. “My filthy little voyeur.” Desperate now for more I rocked my hips to take him deeper, to open wider and ride his fingers harder.

“Please…” I whimpered, feeling it rise within me, powerless to prevent it against the repeated pressure against my clit, his finger tips grazing my G spot over and over in harmony to the fucking being played out in front of us, a show within a show.

”Please, what?…”

Fuck, he was going to make me do this. I glanced down. He had her by the hair now, head pulled back, mouth open, his hand gripping her hip as he used her like a doll. Nearly there.





Each word forced out on ragged exhales, balancing on that knife edge between here and oblivion. He withdrew his fingers fully and as I gasped at the sudden emptiness and began to turn he forced them back inside me. Deeper. Fuller.


I clamped around his hand as I combusted, arching hard against the waves and involuntarily throwing my head back against the knees of whoever was sitting behind us, echoing the fuck doll at the rail, her own climax drowned out by the bass beat below us.

And the lasers danced and flickered and the party people came and went as we chilled out in the Coronet.

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Why I love PRICK


When Cuiplash and I first dipped our toes into this exciting new world of BDSM a number of years ago, I quickly became aware of all the labels and acronyms surrounding risk, consent and play. It became obvious to me that the wealth of activities, toys and implements carried a wide range of actual or perceived risk. 

The first one I became familiar with was Safe, Sane & Consensual (SSC). This seemed to be the most familiar and accepted guide as a cover all for most activities and is pretty self explanatory. It assumes that participants agree that what they do is safe, that it is done with sound mind and with consent from all involved. One criticism of SSC, however, is that it doesn’t necessarily encompass risk awareness. It also relies somewhat on perceptions of what is safe or sane and potentially assumes some acts as safe and others as not, when in fact, all carry risk and are not inherently safe, or sane.

This takes us to the next broadly accepted  alternative guide that is Risk Aware Consensual Kink (RACK). This focuses much more on assuming all parties are risk aware and consent is implicit so I would say it’s potentially an improvement on SSC, although can also be criticised on the assumptions that participants have ensured they are risk aware.

A third acronym deals more specifically with the emotional and mental well-being of all involved, a notion not necessarily encompassed by SSC or RACK, and is known as Committed Compassionate Consent (CCC). This one, for many, fills a perceived gap in ensuring not just the physical safety of those involved but the consideration of the whole person.

My favourite, however, is Personal Responsibility, Informed Consensual Kink (PRICK), which is seen as an extension of RACK. I love PRICK (lol) as it makes more sense to me to be actively involved in my own kink education and risk awareness. It makes sense to me to accept personal responsibility for choosing to participate in risky activities from an informed position.

I feel I cannot expect to put that responsibility entirely on Cuiplash, despite trusting him implicitly. Despite being his submissive, I am also first and foremost his wife, his partner, his best friend and the mother of his children and I believe I have an equal part to play in learning and understanding the risks we take with my body, my emotions and my mental wellbeing when we play the way we do sometimes. His emotions and wellbeing are of equal importance and, for us, knowing we both understand what we are doing and why, and the potential impacts, serves to strengthen our connection and mutual trust and confidence in each other to do no harm.

As we developed our D/s and our S&M we explored many things and slowly and gradually pushed boundaries, particularly around the more ‘edgy’ activities including fisting, breath play and knife play. It took us a number of years to build upon and develop an increased repertoire to our initial kink and play foundation and I would really urge new people to take it slowly and at your own pace. For each, however, I wanted to ensure I knew exactly what the risks were, what to be aware of, what not to do and where the risks lay. I remember researching caning early on, when it was a hard limit for me, and finding out skin can be split and feeling terrified at the prospect. Caning is now a firm favourite for us both as that boundary shifted over time with experience and confidence, and despite receiving some impressive welts, stripes and bruising thankfully my initial concern has never been realised. I think I appreciated the act and the cane more for understanding its risks.

Cuiplash and I regularly share information, discuss concerns and jointly and individually research and test out toys and activities before we use or do them so we are both involved in understanding and appreciating the risks involved and making an informed decision on how, and to what extent, to proceed together. I enjoy learning alongside him and jointly choosing what will work for us or what he or I would like to try. The final decision, of course, is his and how, when and if I do.

I think it’s important to note that all of these terms are subjective and are open to interpretation and scrutiny. Some are received and accepted more than others and all have their pros and cons. Whether you subscribe to SSC, RACK, CCC or love PRICK like me, I think it’s important to understand what each means to you both and to what extent it applies to and works for your own relationship.

Double edged sword


Cuiplash loves to edge me in a variety of ways. He is very good at using my triggers and his sadistic streak gets off on turning me on whilst simultaneously reducing me to a frustrated mess. He will edge me to the brink of orgasm sexually, often repeatedly, until I can’t take it any longer and he finally permits me to come. He’ll arouse me verbally during play with commands, questions and humiliatingly hot observations. He’ll tap into my psyche and ignite my submissive mindset by messaging me when we’re apart. He will use nips, bites, pinches and scratches to edge me through a day with little flurries of delicious pain that translate in my body as pleasure.

All of this serves to mentally and physically place me exactly where he wants me and I love him putting me there when he does. There’s something about that wanton and needy head space, focused on him and preoccupied with release.

The interesting thing is, Cuiplash sometimes harbours a certain masochism, if you could call it that, and also derives pleasure from edging himself, by using and edging me. A double edging if you like. He’ll fuck me to the verge of his own orgasm and then stop. He’ll use my mouth and direct my hands until he can feel that threshold and then stop. Each time he takes us both to that edge he becomes more primal but will still deny me his cock and his come…until later. He’ll do this during play, and will sometimes enjoys this in the morning before we have to get up and start the business of the day, leaving us both frustratingly stimulated and aching for more of each other.

It is very effective as a mind fuck as it can heighten any other contact through the day for us both. A look, a grip or a message can all take on a further intensity as we connect back to what nearly was, but wasn’t quite. And of what is still to come later. Including us!

Yoga tears


I recently started a beginners yoga class, despite not being a beginner. Many years ago I practiced Ashtanga yoga and I loved the experience of the mindful connection between breath and body and building strength and appreciation in myself as a result. My body now is much older, stiffer and a lot more creaky so it was with some trepidation I decided to start it over again.

Part of my decision was also rooted in an increased awareness or need to prioritise myself. To make time in my week to just be me, and be with me. To let go of all the responsibilities of organising and caring for other people and take the time to give to myself, in order to nurture my physical and emotional well-being.

So I was more than a little surprised when, lying in Savasana at the end of an hour of Vinyasa practice I started to cry. I’m definitely one to be emotional, especially lately, but I’m definitely not one to openly cry in public. So there I am, lying flat under a cosy blanket, my head on a soft pillow, the room dimmed and silent except for slight shuffling from the other ladies, some beautiful relaxation music and the voice of my instructor leading us through the final relaxation sequence.

Thank yourself for taking the time to come to yoga tonight,” she said “thank yourself for looking after yourself.” As I internally said thank you tears immediately sprung into my eyes. I tried to breathe as steadily as I could and not let them spill past my closed lids so no-one would notice. Embarrassed and ashamed about this sudden and unexpected flood of feeling. I don’t think anyone noticed and I managed to wipe them away before sitting up again.

In my pieces Parts and Can your inner child come out and play? I wrote about my inner me, the much smaller and very vulnerable child version of me and I know that it was here that the internal thank you and the tears originated. Without sounding too weird, she felt seen and honoured, and she thanked me for that. By taking the time to do something for myself, to meet a personal need and focus on my body and breath I cared for all of me. Not just the outer functional, driven part but the deep sensitive and often neglected part.

Clinical psychologist and registered yoga teacher Melody Moore, Ph.D., says that it is common. “The body remembers everything and holds unprocessed tension.” “When we move our bodies and breathe, it gives us an opportunity to work out that tension. As it releases, so too does the emotional story or baggage.”

Yoga is also a time to get out of our heads and “drop down into our bodies,” says licensed psychotherapist Mariana Caplan, Ph.D., author of Yoga and Psyche. “The body contains the memory of the whole life we have lived,” so many emotions—sadness, fear, anger, arousal—can pop up in class when you’re not as focused on your day to day demands, she explains.

It helped to read these testimonies and to know that it is totally normal. This is something I know I can also experience during intense play with Cuiplash, particularly if the intention is there to break me down and create catharsis. I can see the similarities and how it makes sense that in stopping being ‘busy’ with the daily demands, and in having my mind quietened by just breathing and experiencing my body I can open and create the space for emotions, and tears, to rise and be processed.

It was quite a profound experience, although surprising, and confirms that I am on the right path. I’ll just pack tissues next week, as well as ask Cuiplash for some more therapeutic spankings when I need them…


Love Tree

*content warning – DV*

She was always a little off the rails, rebellious, and not at all like her older brother. Her father was a functioning alcoholic for a while yet thankfully her mother fought for their marriage and won. At 16 she met the bad boy in town, a dangerous mix of notorious and charming  but handy with his fists. He’d lost his father when he was young, raised by his mother who struggled with all those wayward brothers. She should’ve paid attention when her own father pinned this teenager down in the dining room after he’d seen the first bruise. At 17 she became pregnant, an accident. At 18 she was a mother to a red headed baby girl, followed by a curly haired strawberry blonde boy when she was 22.

Council flat, drug money, making ends meet. He spent time growing, dealing, selling, smoking, late nights with friends playing guitar along to Pink Floyd, full days spent stoned in bed. Holes punched in walls, tables through windows and that time he nearly killed the dog as they all wept on the upstairs landing listening. The kids did well at school though, despite what they saw, they heard, they felt, they hid. No need to get away, or take them away. No need to talk it through.

Then respite, the house raid and the prison sentence ending the eggshells…for a while. New love brought new hope and an impetus to leave. Then he came home and it was time to flee. She should’ve done it years ago but didn’t, or couldn’t. The children’s bedroom furniture dumped on her parent’s lawn in revenge confirmed her belated choice. She divorced with a lifetime restraining order and set up a new home, new partner, new baby. And then he found it and turned up with the knife. And still, silence, avoidance, shame.

Years later, after the time of courts, custody and threats, she saw her children grow. Strive forward and forge their own paths, her daughter particularly determined. Her son struggled with anger for a while, her daughter somewhat out of reach. She was too busy avoiding the struggles of the third. Grandchildren came along and she stayed back, letting them all get on with it. A card here, a text there. They seem happy so they must be fine.

The red haired baby girl is me.

Someday…the trauma will leave me. I’ll not cry or shake when I write or talk about it all. I won’t feel the adrenaline of fight or flight. I won’t be hypervigilant. I won’t get emotionally triggered or have flashbacks. I’ll be carefree and lighthearted, I’ll feel free.

Someday.                                                       Someday…we’ll talk. I’ll be brave enough to breach the ever widening gap and fear of inflicting further hurt and talk to my mum about all of this and all the rest. Fill in the gaps of her life and tell her the story of me. Someday we’ll connect like we’ve never before.

Someday…I’ll know how to forgive. How to forgive him for the years of damage and chaos he wreaked. How to forgive her for her absence, her non involvement and her head in the sand. In my life as a child, as an adult, as a mother. In the lives of my children.

Someday…I’ll learn to accept. Accept who I am with this background of mine. Accept how it affected me, changed me, hurt me, shaped me. Accept that people didn’t know better and sometimes still don’t. Accept she was compromised and probably did her best.

Someday…I’ll understand why. Why no-one intervened. Why she couldn’t leave. Why it was never spoken of then, or now. Maybe I’ll understand then.

Someday…I’ll heal myself. I’ll not need trauma therapy, and I won’t fight so hard to be ok at times. I’ll not feel so lost and alone. I’ll shed my protection and embrace trust. I won’t have friends telling me that I seem fine, they just don’t see the tears, the effort, the pain. I’ll be assured and secure. I’ll know my worth and I’ll love all of myself.

Someday…I’ll find my peace. I’ll be able to focus on us and him, as he has focused on me. I won’t be so consumed by juggling the demands of motherhood, my career and maintaining my wellbeing whilst keeping the plates spinning so I don’t drop then smash them all. I know the time will come when they’ll grow and leave, and until then I’ll aim to be the happiest and healthiest mummy I can. One day I’ll have time to be just me. I’ll be all his as he will be all mine. And I will continue to love and know only love as I see the sun through the clouds once more.



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Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked