saved as tx-we

FOOTNOTE

The actual number of SM/Bondage enthusiasts around the world is impossible to prove, but I know for a fact that the FETTERS mailing list of active players currently totals 7,000; “BOUND & GAGGED” magazine has 10,000; and obviously many regular game-players have never heard of either.

WE LOVE S&M:

Criminal Confessions from South Croydon.

Sally & Malcolm Barrett

PROLOGUE - November ‘94

by Sally Barrett

When I sat down to write this book four years ago I was a very angry person. On December 20th 1990 a judge at the Old Bailey declared that sex games my husband and I enjoyed in the privacy of our bedroom were, in fact, criminal. On that historic day Judge James Rant decided on a surprise new interpretation of existing laws ... and it changed our lives. I wouldn’t mind, but we weren’t even on trial ... it was nothing to do with us ... but there it was in black and white in THE NEWS OF THE WORLD: Consenting adults can’t consent to all sorts of things that until then we didn’t think were anybody else’s business but our own!

So ... I won’t go back over the whole depressing, disgusting, sick-making, infuriating disgrace to the British Judicial System called the “SPANNER” trial ... because, as you can see, I’ve calmed down a lot in the past four years. If you don’t already know about it and you’re a real masochist, you can read more about it elsewhere ... but it’s very depressing. The main outcome being that a single judge without reference to me (or to Parliament) decided that my husband and I weren’t intelligent enough to decide for ourselves what was and was not good for us nookie-wise.

At that time we felt very powerless because so many of our basic rights had obviously been bludgeoned to death by the Good Judge Rant. We decided that we should try and do something positive. But what? Well, such a lot of rubbish was talked and written about S&M and fetish games in general during the trial ... that gave us the idea. Even the so-called Quality papers trotted out every misconception and popular prejudice, so we thought “Time to stand up and be counted.”

Now, my Malcolm has never been one for letting it all hang out, but he agreed with me that we were at least in a position to tell the other side of the story: that kinky sex and SM games may not be everybodys’ cup-of-tea, but they are certainly not something for the great British Judicial System to make an ass of itself about. As my sister Ethel says “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it” (she’s famous for such platitudes), and Judge Rant and subsequently the Law Lords (God bless their silk socks and silk frocks) did seem to not have a very clear picture of the reality behind the lurid myths about S&M for pleasure.

Anyoldway, we decided to tell it how it is because, whether the disapprovers like it or not, there’s a whole lot of us intelligent, responsible but sexually uninhibited people out here in the real world and we manage to live full and fulfilled lives without disturbing the neighbours or corrupting our kids.

For what it’s worth, here goes with the story of two of them.

Chapter One:

IN THE BEGINNING.

When I first met Malcolm he thought he was king of the Orchid Ballroom, Purley. At 18 he was your typical early sixties Jack-the-Lad. Elvis hair and Elvis trousers. Legend had it that he wore a salami down his pants leg for effect. That wasn’t true - it was all his very own. Of course me, I was five years older and light-years wiser than him then but not exactly experienced sexwise. You see if you’ve got a mother who talks to you about sex it may take away some of the delicious mystery and excitement ... but it also makes getting it a bit less desperate. My Mum’s always been a lady who knew exactly what she liked and got it regularly. And, because she was never furtive or saw reason to hide things from us girls, I suppose as a child I was well informed but managed to remain totally objective. Adult sex seemed as natural as enjoying a game of tennis or hopscotch. No she didn’t corrupt me. She enabled me to approach the practicalities of sex more calmly than is usual in British family life. Maybe, unintentionally, she did exposed me to some early experiences of men’s sexual overdrive. But, as she put it, information is power. As a young teenager when anyof her admirers attempted some minor slap and tickle with me ... they were left with very red faces. I’d seen the way she could handle any situation and I learned by observation. So, I suppose you could say that early in life I’d discovered that sexually I could not only look after myself, I could take it or leave it.

Unlike me, lusty Malcolm (“Big M” to his friends would you believe) had a lot of notches on his gun at 18 but very little idea of subtlety. He won’t mind me telling you all this because he was a very different person then. In those balmy days of Beatles and the last of the Milk Bars, for a boy to pull a bird five years older than himself was like doing rude things with your granny. I’d seen him around of course (you could hardly miss him), but I’d never spoken to him till I took my mini into this garage in the Brighton Road. He was working there: bright red Pit Stop overalls with zip open down to the crotch, picturesquely torn vest underneath and more grease on his hair than in his grease gun. Well, I don’t remember what sort of smart crack I made as I drove away ... but he remembered me next time he saw me at The Orchid. With a couple of other girls we were all looking cool and unavailable in the Stardust Bar when in swaggers 'Big M' attended by several of his courtiers. Two of his cronies nearly came to blows over who would buy him a beer, and his gaggle of girls giggled nervously imagining what death by impalement might feel like.

He gave me a smile that wasn’t meant to look sincere and drawls “Oh ... where have you been all my life?” “23 Margurite Villas,” sez I quick as a flash, adding in what I hoped were sexy tones, “Why? Are you looking for accommodation?” He sensed the challenge and so did his groupies. “Oh ... would you like to accommodate me ... cuddles?” he purrs. Now, if it hadn’t been for this reference to my slightly fuller figure I might never have pursued the matter. “I have a bed that would accommodate you nicely,” I smiled, “It’s in our front garden and all ready to be planted.” I’ll skip over the subsequent verbal fencing and two months of sporadic sniping, but the garage he was at did good work, and when I noticed that he always managed to be the one to come over and deal with my car when I drove in ... I began to warm to him. Two years later we got married in a hurry.

The parents of this ballroom Lothario were more conservative than Winston Churchill. They’d had Malcolm late in their lives and his three older brothers were all already up and away before he was twelve. So his slightly lurid Hollywood Pop star image was his defence against suburbanites as he put it. Anyway his poor old Mum and Dad were relieved that he would be safely married off and moved out by the age of 20 so they could enjoy their old age in peace. God love them they’ve been good Grandparents and will soon be Great-Grandparents if all goes well.

We’d set up house just in time for our Melanie to arrive and a year later almost to the day our son Todd followed in. There we were, as ideal a young family as the Christian Family Association could wish for. The fact that Daddy was emotionally immature and randy as a buck rabbit and Mummy less than ecstatic about being a life member of the Pudding Club didn’t promise well for our long term future. In addition, super-stud Big M’s self-image was developing in a distinctly un-lovely chauvinistic direction. So with the danger of a population explosion plus our need to be a two salary family something had to be done. Our sex life was terrific ... predictable but terrific, but I knew something had got to change.

Now ... I don’t think it was exactly what my mother had in mind when it was first suggested: After I’d talked to her on the quiet about the problem, she just happened to remark in passing to Malcolm that there were alternatives to good old straight forward penetration. She’s like that, my Mum. I thought he’d freak out ... but he was just vaguely mystified. To him sex had always been as natural and uncomplicated as loading the washing machine ... and he wanted his oats about as regularly as a household with two infants runs its washing machine. But anyway, he adored my Mum and loved it when she talked about sex because of course his parents never had. Well, there’s nothing kinky about our Vera (that’s my Mum) so all she was really suggesting was that perhaps there are things a man can do that make it last longer, perhaps without quite so much wear and tear on the merchandise, and not result in too many unwanted little strangers. God bless him, poor Malcolm was totally out of his depth. I think he wasn’t all that far from asking her to show him what she meant. But I stepped in and told him I’d explain it when we got home.

It wasn’t easy. Big M was used to taking what he wanted when he wanted it. Physically he was powerful enough to control any situation. He welcomed a good fight but in bed nobody had ever put up much of a struggle. So when I tried to show him that if he would only hold back a bit and let me regulate the build up ... but it wasn’t what he was used to. It was too easy for him to take over whenever he felt the urge. The cellotape was my idea. We’d both got quite giggly while I was trying to get him to hold back and control himself. I trooped out of bed and down into the living room and came back with a roll of cellotape and said “If you can’t keep you hands to yourself you’ll have to let me help you”. So without any protest he let me tape one hand to the bed head. He was in a stupid mood and said in an Irish accent “I can fight any man with one hand tied behind me back!” So I said I’d tape the other one as well. He laughed as he let me, shouting “Help! Help I’m being accosted by a sex mad female!! Help! Rape!” and he was laughing and struggling ... and I don’t think he realized how strong cellotape is when it’s wrapped round a few times.

It was ever so dramatic. He’s a big feller and for the first time in his life he wasn’t in physical control of the situation. He did his damnedest to break free and I waited for him to convince himself that he was well and truly fixed. His legs were under the bed covers and I was sitting on them so they weren’t too much of a problem. We both had an incredible time. After I’d teased him a bit he was getting so worked up he told me to cut him loose so he could take control and I said no way. He was all steamed up and at first he didn’t believe I was serious ... but I was having a ball like I’d never had before. It was the hottest sex we’d ever had together and it went on and on and on. We were both deep into new territory, with new rules, new possibilities ... and before that night was over we both understood that there were places we’d never even dreamed of. It was fabulous.

Next morning he wasn’t so sure. Ever since I’d known him he’d sniggered about perverts and people who needed 'kinky' sex. Same with his attitudes towards homosexuality: Prejudice based on total ignorance. He’d always been dismissive but at the same time very defensive about Queers as he called them. Only, with his silk shirts and tight pants at The Orchid it wasn’t only the women that gave him the eye. But then if any man ever looked at him twice there’d be ugly incidents and punch-ups. At times I almost felt he invited the trouble. Let’s face it The Sixties may have been swinging in Carnaby Street and Liverpool, but in Croydon horizons were still pretty limited. Our local Borough Council wasn’t actually top of the league table for Sex Education. No, our Malcolm was your typical provincial macho, chauvinistic, Daily Mirror reading penis-brain. Why did I let him marry me? Apart from him being highly sexed and incredibly good looking he had a sense of style and a sense of humour and inexhaustible vitality ... and I was slightly plump and twenty five years old. Now, if you ask him why he married me ... I don’t think he knew at the time but he knows now: We’re well matched. From the first time we met we’ve been good sparring partners. Two halves of the same coin.

Getting back to how little we knew about non-conventional sex; whatever preconceptions and misconceptions either of us had at that time about “kinkiness” had been obtained through school yard mythology, adolescent jungle telegraph and the more sensation-mongering newspapers. We’d all heard about it but nobody we knew admitted to actually having done it. Sound familiar? But the social conditioning was deep and effective. Unlike today when fetish clothes and bondage imagery are commonplace in the Pop Scene, at that time imagery of so-called Bizarre Sex was thinner on the ground ... particularly in Croydon.

So even after that one great night, the inhibitions that 'Civilized Society' had so subtly tangled us up in prevented us from escaping. For me the altered balance of physical power had opened up new vistas of tactile, emotional, sensual and imaginative possibilities. For Malc his brief experience of powerlessness had (he admitted much later) broken down so many barriers and made him realize how potentially destructive to our relationship his limited sexual horizons had been.

But speaking chronologically the cellotape stayed out of the bedroom for over two months. Then, one night when Malc was trying to persuade me to let him go off on a six week deep water diving course, in wheedling to get me to agree he said he’d let me tape him up again. Ho-ho, I thought, he’s been thinking about it too. Our second bout was even more fantastic than the first because I taped his ankles as well that time. Purely a practical measure because with his weight training he could throw me off or trap me with his legs. The progression of the scene that I improvised took him through excitement, frustration, real impotent anger, desperation and eventual physical exhaustion to a point where he’d have agreed to anything to get me to stop teasing him.

Somehow he grew up five years in that one night. For the next week he smiled a lot and we were closer than we’d ever been. Then he went off to learn deep sea diving and I was left with two screaming kids to contemplate what the rest of my life might hold in store.

Chapter Two

THE NAMES OF THE GAMES

Sadism and Masochism were words I’d never even spoken before the age of 25. I’d read them, maybe even heard them said at work; sniggered about in the nudge-nudge wink-wink way people do. Certainly at that time the sort of games Malc and I occasionally played weren’t sadistic or masochistic in the Sunday newspaper sense of the words. Starting out with the purely practical need to get a better balance of physical power between us, the new alternatives we discovered opened up a whole new ball-game (if you’ll excuse the expression). So, is tying somebody down and tickling them until they beg for mercy or will agree to anything sadism? Is agreeing to have it done to you masochism? If you say so ... that’s what we were by natural instinct. If you disapprove ... that’s your problem. If you think we should be sent to prison for doing something we mutually enjoy in the privacy of our own homes ... then stop reading this book.

Assuming you’re still there ... what’s your opinion on tying somebody down and bringing them to orgasm five times over a period of three hours or maybe less? Is that torture and sexual abuse? Can you imagine the headlines in the NEWS OF THE WORLD? Well, it became one of my favourite games on a slow Sunday when the kids were off with their grandparents for the weekend.

Other words like fetish and perversion gave us the same problems in the early days. I looked them up in a dictionary but the definitions didn’t seem to relate to anything we liked to do in bed. Fetishes like stiletto heels and fishnet tights, nun’s outfits made in black latex or grown men wearing girls school gym slips were cliché we discovered in soft porn magazines the first time we went to Amsterdam for a weekend. They didn’t appeal to us but we thought 'Live and let live'. No, in our early days of self-discovery we derived innocent fetishistic pleasures unconsciously. For example Malcolm’s greasy garage overalls with his wide leather belt and high lace-up boots turned me on more than his satin shirts and blue suede shoes at the local hop. When I first went on the back of his motorbike (He’d had one since he was 16) I wore one of his old leather jackets. Snuggling up against his leather shoulders and nice round butt gave me a thrill that I didn’t identify as even sexual ... it was just exciting. I think the words sensual and erotic are often much more appropriate than sexual. For Malcolm and me to work out a way to discuss things together we found we needed to learn a whole new vocabulary and un-learn a whole load of prejudicial meanings that have been imposed on words.

If leather and boots are a fetish, by the time I got my own jacket and boots so I could go for weekends on the bike with Malc I was well on the road to hell ... because in them I even turned me on let alone Big M! And not only leather but wet weather gear too. Climbing off the back of the bike after a ride through the rain with Malc dressed up like a plastic spaceman ... we were both so turned on we could have rolled around on the garage floor having rampant sex if it’d been physically possible in all that gear. The frustration of having to peel it all off before we could get at each other was terrible. By the time we got to bed or into the shower the main turn-on imagery was lying wet and limp by the back door. So, “Fetish is as Fetish does” as sister Ethel might say if she had any imagination.

Is having sex with your clothes on Kinky? Somehow when I was young I thought is was ... unless you had nowhere to go except the cinema car park. When I first talked to Malc about it he agreed that somehow he’d grown up thinking that to have proper sex you needed to be naked. First time we had sex together in full leather and boots it was fantastic beyond belief. It was in a tent on the Yorkshire Moors and it was a very cold wet night ... so that made it OK. After that we tried it once in our bedroom and felt stupid.

Now rubber was a different story. Long before it became fashionable and Madonna wore it I think Malc was attracted to it. He had waders and oilskins to go fishing in as well as his bike waterproofs. For his wind surfing and snorkelling he had a wet-suit before I met him. Then came his yen to take up deep water diving. It didn’t strike me until the first time I saw the Avon dry-suit catalogue how sexy men look totally encased in thick rubber ... preferably black. After the diving course when he suggested he should get his own suit I thought ... to hell with the expense, think about the possibilities offered by having one on hand on dry land. Specially when I went to the diving centre with him and saw what was involved in neck entry as opposed to zip entry. All the struggling and pushing and pulling to get into it, and it being almost impossible to get out again without outside help. Right there in the shop seeing Malc totally imprisoned inside the thick rubber casing made my innocent heart flutter. I can tell you I could hardly wait for him to get it home.

People who don’t know what I’m talking about kink-wise often ask how it can be sexy if you can’t get at the essential equipment. Well first of all, if I can’t get at it, neither can he (for more about Chastity Belt games see page 35). And when he’s in no position to push me off, it’s amazing what you can do with ice, a hair dryer and a vibrating Pifco massager (Whenever we see one at a Car Boot sale we buy it - they’re the best sex toy ever produced).

'Bondage' is another word that always causes a stir but most people don’t really know what it actually means. Bondage when I was at school was something Shylock yattered on about in Shakespeare. In the Bible people always seemed to be getting themselves into or out of bondage, and in the NEWS OF THE WORLD a bondage shock horror story is anything from a fully furnished dungeon in the basement to a roll of cellotape in a bedside table drawer. There’s a lot of confusion in the public mind about what exactly Bondage involves. It’s a conveniently vague taboo for The Establishment and Customs Inspectors to maintain without having to be specific or even logical.

We still didn’t consider we were seriously into Bondage when Malcolm and I had already learned from experience that rope is less messy than cellotape; cotton rope leaves less marks than hemp AND the knots don’t slip like they do with nylon cord. It was much later in our development that we switched permanently to using leather strips which we first saw at the annual BIZARRE BAZAAR in New York ... but that was years later and gets a chapter to itself so let’s stick to the subject of the names of the games.

In our early days of discovery without access to information, we discussed between ourselves whether or not such 'exotic' sex games might be addictive and we might lose the ability to enjoy the simple pleasures of kissing and cuddling and good old straight forward humping. Well, we still don’t know the answer to that one ... but how many other couples who’ve been together for 27 years play erotic games regularly at least twice a week ... sometimes 12 hours at a stretch? You tell me. If we cut down on the actual intercourse that might originally have been to do with birth control or because it was so exhausting with Malcolm exclusively in the driver’s seat. Anyway I’m turned 50 ... but then again Vera’s nearly 70 and she still gets a little whirl when she needs it. I don’t think SM or Bondage sex are any more addictive than arcade video games. It’s all a matter of degree and intelligence. For some people even Bingo becomes obsessive and wrecks their home life.

Still on the subject of our vocabulary of eroticism: Pain as a game takes a bit more explaining. We eventually came to the conclusion that Malc has always been some sort of masochist. Well, you don’t leave a warm bed at five o’clock in the morning to go fishing when you’re 12 years old if you’re normal, do you. Enjoying physical pain and discomfort in Malc’s case ranged from boxing, wrestling and running (until he tore a tendon) at school, through motorcycling in all weathers as a teenager to deep diving off a North Sea Oil Rig in winter. That all involved degrees of self-induced discomfort ... whether consciously or unconsciously is another matter. I suppose physical self-challenge can become a fetish if you get off on it (As an American friend of ours might say “Tell THAT to the Marines”). What would you call a man who works out with weights till his whole body is trembling and he’s almost crying with the strain on his muscles?; He-Man or Pervert? So here’s a scoop for the Daily Mirror Sports Page ... in our bedroom for the past six years we’ve had an elaborate and expensive home exercise construction called Super Gym. It fills half the room with posts, pulleys, weights, traction benches and push-up/pull down bars with grab handles and suspension points. Well I wasn’t the one who decided to add lockable wrist and ankle straps at strategic points. I wasn’t the one who set a tough exercise program and asked me to make sure he did it all ... “and maybe more”! What sort of a game would you call that? Kinky? Perverted? At 45 his body looks great and he feels great ... believe you me. OK it was my surprise idea that he’d do his chosen exercise program every day wearing his silver plastic sweat suit. I love to watch him sweat and strain and cuss. I tell him it’s his full body condom. He gets so mad ... but a deal’s a deal. I lay and watch as he does his exercises ... and we both get the benefit from them.

Erotic games involving deliberately inflicting pain, like everything else we do, grew naturally out of experiments. Having discovered what turned Malc on it was only right that he should be free to get his own back and spring a few surprises on me. Almost the first time I let him give me the cellotape treatment I thought I’d made a serious miscalculation. When I was all spread-eagled and vulnerable he announced that he’d bought a new whip that he wanted to try. We were still only at the slap and tickle stage then ... and although we hadn’t got into gags at that time he improvised something and left me helpless and fuming ... but somehow deep down I knew we had too good a relationship for him to push it too far. Back he came saying that he’d have to blindfold me as well before he used the whip. I heard the swish and braced myself ... the devil had bought a aerosol can of whipped cream which he proceeded to squirt all over my helpless naked body ... rub it around ... and then lick it off. Gagged and blindfolded I was in seventh heaven. I couldn’t have let him do all that to me if I’d been free to fight him off. You see, it may sound terrible or wonderful to you or just plain silly ... but we like it.

Chapter Three:

VOICES IN THE WILDERNESS

During the first five years of our marriage before our kids were capable of serious curiosity Malcolm and I were free to play at home ... although, as an investment in the future, we did from the beginning encourage my Mum and Malc’s parents to have our kids to stay with them for occasional weekends and take them on holiday trips from time to time. Luckily this suited all concerned and even in our innocent beginnings allowed for our noisier game playing. As far as our instinctive gravitation towards more (shall we say) experimental games, we were isolated from any form of outside influence, but at least we had each other. When I think how many people there are out there with nobody to even exchange ideas or opinions with; people who may never succeed in making contact with another compatible soul on this planet ... Sorry, recently that thought’s been bothering me more and more. Anyway, where was I? Beginning of Phase Two of our development. By the time our two kids both reached the age to start primary school full time, money was getting tighter. Everybody was ready for a change. I wanted to get back to my work full time and Malc was eager for a shot at something more adventurous than being a garage mechanic all his life. From the first his idea behind the diving was to get work on the oil rigs which were only just starting. After five years of married life he had earned a break. Bless him he was great with the kids but he’d still got a lot of the kid in him at 25. We thought there’d be more need for him to be around the house when our two hit adolescence. I was nervous of the dangerous work of course but there was good money to be made on the Rigs at that time ... and I was quite looking forward to getting back onto the career ladder I’d hopped off to get married.

As this saga is only about our sexual exploits I’ll get to the point of this chapter: Voices in the Wilderness. Throughout history sex-starved men in lonely places have found solutions that 'Civilized Society' might find unacceptable. Life on the oil rigs pitched Malc smack into a world he’d never experienced but took to like a duck to the proverbial. In spite of his Orchid Ballroom bravado and our less than conventional occasional sex games he was still an innocent at heart. Older men on the rigs knew and did things that blew his mind. Luckily for me we had a good firm relationship. Without the bond of our secret and slightly guilty games (we still felt guilty about them then ... we don’t now, Your Honour) I don’t think our marriage would have survived Aberdeen ... the Tartan Klondike. For the first time Malc was exposed to German, Swedish and American porno videos. He had access on local shore leave to strip shows, sex clubs, phone sex ... and what was so sweet was he used to write and tell me all about it.

Not to be outdone I used to write him weekly letters giving news of home and the kids plus totally fictitious and outrageous accounts of my sexual exploits with my boss, the milkman, his old mates from the garage and even with the lady next door. Some of the scenarios I dredged up from my subconscious shocked even me. On his first two trips home he was suspicious ... but it was the beginning of the role playing that we both eventually became so good at. On an early trip home he brought a few of the Contact ad. magazines that circulated on the rigs to show me. Of course they’re illegal in Britain but that didn’t seem to include Aberdeen. BITCH GODDESS, SM GAZETTE (I’m not making this up), SM/ADS, , RUBBER NEWS, and DIZIPLINE were all packed with contact ads as well as pictures and fiction. Most of the ads were from professional Dominatrix offering the men interesting shore leave in Amsterdam, Hamburg, Bradford, Birmingham and even Carnoustie! Some of the ads sounded like pure fantasy but who knows? There were also obviously genuine personal ads from lonely men, lost souls sending out messages from the wilderness. It was the first time I realized how many lonely hearts never get heard from.

During that leave I asked Malc if he’d fancy writing to some of the more outrageous Dominatrix ads. I said I’d be very interested to know how they wrote back. He said he’d think about it. When he went back he left the magazines ... they certainly contributed to my education. No, they didn’t pervert me, I was just happy to know we weren’t the only perverts in the world if that’s what we really were. Reassurance that you’re not alone in the world is not something to be sniffed at. And like it or not Mrs. Whitehouse, there are people in the world who choose NOT to live by the rules you choose to live by. Whoops! Cool it! Don’t get emotional. But you see, thinking about all the people who never manage to make contact with kindred spirits makes me angry and depressed ... and I don’t want this book to be depressing or shocking just informative.

Chapter Four:

STRANGERS IN MY BED.

Elaborate role playing between regular sex partners isn’t as peculiar as it might sound, nor as unusual. When we first drifted into it early on, it was on paper like I said ... in our letters. The first time in full make-up and costume was full of surprises. A week after that leave when I suggested Malc should write to some of the sexy contact ads a letter arrived from Aberdeen addressed to the 'Divine Madam S' at our address. I could have killed Malc because the postman’s good a friend of ours and member of the Darts Team. In it he’d written to me as though I’d advertised in a magazine called SEX EXCHANGE BY POST. According to him my ad had said “Frank exchange of sexually explicit letters desired by suburban housewife from frustrated sailor or manual worker living alone”! He’d concocted this quite sincere sounding letter from a man who had a wife who didn’t understand his needs and was sexually frigid. He went on to unburden his secret sex fantasies which included every kind of perversion under the sun and ended with the admission that he was so sexually frustrated he was masturbating nightly together with several of his work mates and was seriously in danger of turning homosexual if he didn’t get a sympathetic and understanding response. He even signed his letter with his real name!

For the next two months our exchange of letters was by return post ... sometimes he wrote a second letter before he’d received my reply to the one before. The erotic fantasies he thought up were incredible. In one of his letters to his “Divine Madam” he sent a set of ridiculous black see-through underwear with red marabou feather trim. I can imagine what sort of shop he bought it in Aberdeen. Well, he asked 'her' to wear it and think of him. In response I asked him to send a photo of himself in the nude. Ten days later I’m damned if it didn’t arrive: Malcolm stark naked except for his hard hat and his wellies, grinning away larger than life. I’ve never dared to ask who took the picture ... which was in a box with this slightly larger than life vibrating dildo and a note suggesting that I should use it and think of him.

As a return challenge I wrote straight back and said that on his next leave not to go straight home to his wife but come visit me 'The Divine Madam S' for a couple of days. We’d actually booked a family holiday in Ibiza for the second two weeks of his shore leave ... but in my letter I said I (The divine Madam S) would send my children to their Grandparents for the weekend. It was really exciting. The next week his letter was very short. It just said that his leave started the following Saturday and he was very much looking forward to meeting me for the first time.

Because I had no idea if he’d have the nerve to follow through with it, I tried to cover all eventualities. I’d already ordered by post a few items advertised in the magazines he’d left ... just for a bit of devilment ... but I’d never dared show them to him. They were just what I needed if I was to live up to the reputation of the Divine Madam S. - Slut of the South Circular Road. So I packed the kids off for a weekend with his Mum and Dad, my excuse being that I would be working overtime to earn extra cash for our Spanish holiday. Of course they were always happy to go because Malc’s Mum and Dad always spoilt them rotten.

On the appointed morning the front doorbell rang and I was suitably tarted up as The Divine Madam S. just in case. I’d even borrowed this long dark wig ready to give the acting performance of my life. When I opened the door there stood Malc and I was stunned. He’d had his lovely long hair shaved down to a tight crew cut, wore seaman’s sweater and wellies and was smiling like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “Are you Malcolm Barratt’s missus?” he asks in a broad Scottish accent. There was a pause before I nodded. “Funny,” he says, “he told me your were brunette. Anyway Malcolm asked me to look in on you while I was on leave. He sent you these,” and he produces a bottle of booze and chocolates from his canvas kit bag. The bastard had concocted a totally different scenario. “Would you mind if I came in for a wee while?” he says easing his way past before I could answer. I was totally off balance but the scene that followed should have won us both an Oscar because, having switched roles into the role of dutiful wife and mother, Andrew McGilligan (“Call me Andy” he tells me!) opens the Scotch, plants himself in Malcolm’s chair and starts making a strong pass at his good mate’s wife. When I demurely rejected his advances, downing a third “wee dram” he starts getting insistent and I find myself defending my honour against a sex starved helicopter pilot on his first visit to London.

It was a wonderful performance. Before long his character started to turn quite nasty and suggest that he could take me by force if I didn’t co-operate. I was just deciding whether to drop my role and opt out of the game or knee him in the groin and ruin both our weekends ... when he suddenly changed tack and said not to worry, Malcolm had asked him to visit and tempt me because he had heard that I was being unfaithful. Well, I acted outraged and shocked and then came the tears and ordering him out of the house. Suddenly he asked why I was trying to get rid of him and what was I trying to hide and who was I expecting ... and before I knew it he was up the stairs and into our bedroom.

Well the lacy lingerie and the dildo were all laid out on the bed ... and a Scottish Presbyterian Minister couldn’t have been more biblical about me and my Fancy Men. It was time for thinking on my feet so I said I knew Malcolm had been having an affair through a contact magazine. I cried a bit and said I’d fetch us both a drink and I’d explain it all. Down stairs I quickly reviewed my options and dashed back up stairs with two large glasses of scotch ... and I don’t even like scotch! He was sitting on the bed looking at the set of lockable leather wrist and ankle restraints with matching collar I’d bought by mail order. For a minute I thought he was going to come out of his character ... but he downed the drink in one gulp instead. I could see I’d gained a little time so I took it quite slowly. “Andrew,” I said “I am not, in fact, Malcolm Barratt’s wife. I am a professional Dominatrix and his wife Sally has paid me to be here because her husband was supposed to arrive today and wanted his wife to do terrible perverted thing to him ... and I’m a lady who can deal with men like that.” Calmly I added “That’s why I laced that drink I just gave you with a potent chemical which will make it impossible for you to resist me physically or mentally ... do you understand? Can you feel that all the power has drained from your muscles? You will do exactly as I tell you. OK?”

I could see that his old brain was whirring away before he decided to play along. He says weakly but ever so dramatically, “You Bitch, what have you done to me?!” “I have made you my slave and my prisoner. Take all your clothes off. You have just enough strength to do that but no more.” Acting like the last of the zombies he strips right down to the buff as I sit on a chair and watch, smiling enigmatically. “Now lock on the ankle, wrist and neck restraints,” I purr. He does it and Zombie or not his pecker was stiff as a pole. He co-operated while I fastened him to the bed, then I got the other glass, lifted his head and gave him a drink from it. “This is the antidote to the drug. Your full strength and power will be restored immediately. You can fight and struggle as much as you like now because I’m not going to let you loose for 48 hours”.

“Forty eight hours,” he yells suddenly springing back to life. He thrashed around and really put my new purchases to the test. Luckily they were worth the money and held him fast ... but he didn’t give up easily. “Keep still,” I barked and slapped him quite hard. “Now tell me who you are Andrew McGilliguddy or Malcolm Barratt?” He thinks for a minute and then says “McGilligan. Andrew McGilligan, helicopter pilot for B.P.” “Right Andrew, I’m going to do to you all the things that your friend Malcolm wrote and told me he’d like me to do to him. Two whole days with no arguments. No get out. Right?” Well, he was determined not to drop his character ... and for two long days and nights I pulled out all the stops. He slept in restraints for the first time. I’d also bought a good solid gag so he couldn’t keep me awake. Incidentally, this isn’t the time to interrupt the continuity to talk about long scenes or degrees of 'consent' and the removal of it, but I hope to find a place to slot it in later on (see page 77).

Anyoldway, by the end of it all poor Andrew was drained quite literally. He acted like it had never happened to him before .. and I had worked in a lot of surprises ... and it was the longest scene we’d ever sustained. When I let him loose poor old Malc was too tired to think and I played my part right to the end. When he’d got his clothes back on I kissed him gently. “Well now Andrew. You pop off down to the station and phone Malcolm and ask him if when his leave starts he’s coming to see The Divine Madam S. for two days before he and his wife and kids fly off to Ibiza for his leave proper. Andrew nodded and trotted off down the road like a lamb.

In about ten minutes the phone rang “This is Andrew, Madam” he says, “Malc says he’s feeling a bit shattered and would like a couple of quiet days at home before the start of the family holiday ... but he asked me to ask if perhaps on his next leave he could come and visit you for the first time.” “Tell him I’ll look forward to that, Andrew,” I said. Well, talk about quick change and stage management. I only just had time to change my clothes and pack away the gear in the bedroom before I heard Malc breeze noisily in through the back door. He was wearing a colourful athletic track suit and carrying a sports holdall; the sailor’s kit bag and wellies nowhere to be seen. I thought ... you have a talent for this game matey. I’m going to have to get in some practice. Since then the repertory of characters we turn into to turn each other on has grown. Together we’ll plan a night out ... perhaps by one of us going to a bar we know which is mainly for singles in Redhill ... the other will arrive pretending to be somebody totally different. It’s real improvisation stuff. We have a file of character types, turn-on clothes, basic scenarios. Sometimes we just pick a piece of paper out of a hat. Malc knows I like his slightly dumb drunk Irish labourer and motorcycle stud or off duty policeman new to the neighbourhood. My tart with the heart of gold and the school teacher who’s never had sex and getting desperate are fun for us both. I suppose many people don’t need or can’t deal with elaborate role play in sex ... but I tell you, it beats going to the pictures.

Chapter Five:

COMING OUT IN CROYDON.

It might sound like I’m skipping a lump of the story, but with Malc working away and two kids springing up like weeds and me back at work full time, although our correspondence and holiday breaks continued to be full of surprises our real serious development into fully fledged sexual perverts didn’t happen for another six years. When Melanie was 12 and Todd 11 it seemed like time for Malc to settle down closer to home. Always in his mind he’d wanted a machine shop or specialist garage of his own. The opportunity presented itself and the cash had been saved. It was the time of the North Sea boom but he eased his way out of the field work but had managed to make himself useful enough to have some good contacts when it came to special marine engineering requirements. So by 79/80 we were in business. My job had elevated to Company travel organizer for the multi-national which shall remain nameless, and was too good to give up. The perks had already got the family to Spain, Crete, Greece and California plus romantic weekends for Malc and me in Rome, Venice, to say nothing of Hamburg, Paris and Amsterdam ... and I’ll say nothing of our visits to Hamburg, Paris and Amsterdam!

Oh, what the hell! Those trips contributed to our coming to terms with our sexual preferences. After seeing the magazines from Aberdeen, visiting these so-called fleshpots of Europe made us realize how normal we were and how screwed up so many so-called normal people are ... but it certainly confirmed our isolation in South Croydon. Contact ads of the less lurid kind were there to be found if you knew where to look even in Britain in the late Seventies. Useful magazines like SKIN TWO, SHINY and BOUND TO PLEASE hadn’t started to appear yet but FORUM, PUSSYCAT, ATOMAGE and Pamela Young were all good low key contact points for the needy and the lonely. Malc and I discussed the possible advantages of making social if not physical contact with like-minded people. Choosing our own route towards further personal development was proving difficult. Access to information allows you to make informed choices. 'Ignorance is not bliss' as the opponents of Sex Education would have us believe. But with our kids increasingly alert, inquisitive and demanding, our games at home needed to be very very circumspect. I was determined the kids would not grow up ignorant of the broader concepts of sexuality ... but no way would we complicate their lives by opening their minds too far too soon. A brilliant solution to our space needs was for Malc’s new workshop to have a separate 15 x 15 foot 'Work-out Room' for his weight training complete with shower, etc. ... etc. Naturally this was something he used mainly in the evenings ... and at weekends when Daddy was working overtime and Mummy was helping him with the Books. The kids were happy to have the house to themselves from time to time and entertain their friends. They were good kids and we treated them like young adults.

But somehow our sense of isolation seemed to be increasing and several times we discussed running some sort of ad to make a few social contacts or at least to exchange letters with other closeted suburbanites. We’d both become very good letter-writers during our months apart, but first we needed to take stock and consider what we had to gain or lose by risking exposing our interests to strangers. Malc had met several men on the rigs who in that free-wheeling atmosphere had let down a few barriers about their less-conventional sexual preferences, but with most of them there was still an element of snigger-and-wink coyness about such admission ... and apology. Malc said these men often pretended to be contemptuous or disapproving when in fact they were dying to try things they’d only heard about second hand. 'Civilized Society' (aided and abetted by the muck-raking media) was still helping to keep the locks firmly on the closet doors even then. I had never had a serious discussion with anybody but Malc or my mother about so-called deviant or kinky sex. It was time to put a toe outside the door.

But before we’d decided what to put in some sort of ad, FORUM magazine Personal Column provided us with what looked like the perfect opportunity. “South West London couple with interest in all forms of unconventional sexuality and erotic stimulation wish to meet others with view to forming discussion group. Confidentiality guaranteed. Send phone number only in first instance”, and a Box number to write to. Well, that was the start of the next phase in our personal development .

Chapter Six:

GROUP THERAPY

Groups can be a mixed blessing. Malcolm and I have learned a lot since that first faltering attempt by the two who put the ad in FORUM. As it turned out they were really looking for additional sex partners and shared experiences rather than discussion ... and Malcolm and I weren’t ready for that. Apart from us, three other couples and eighteen singles replied to their first ad so it showed just how many people were in the same boat as us. I don’t think now’s the time to get into generalizations about the dynamics of Group Interaction ... No I’m sure it isn’t. Maybe it’s something to do with being British. Anyway, a few of us did meet two or three times in private houses from Streatham to Dorking.

One direct good result was that we got to see a copy of a newsletter from EULENSPIEGEL, a well established SM group in New York. And, well, one things leads to another as Ethel would say. (I really should tell you about my younger sister sometime. She’s the queen of the platitude and lives a totally uneventful life in Sutton). Anyway, as our personal development into depravity is what I expect you want to hear about I’ll skip over the fumblings of our first face to face Group Encounters in South West London and get on with our expansion into the international network of newsletters put out by different SM groups in different countries and the personal contacts which can build up from there.

We’d found the door we were looking for at that time. Our previous letter writing experience gave us the confidence to say things in print we perhaps weren’t yet capable of saying in public. Very British! But the immediate response we got from our tentative letter to the Secretary of EULENSPIEGEL was friendly, generous and genuine. 'Goldie' welcomed us and also immediately sent us a copy of THE RIGID BONDAGE ROSTER (now sadly defunct) which was filled with useful Contact addresses for other clubs and groups around the world. There were also “Personals” of hair-raising explicitness (if there’s such a word!). Importing such publications was illegal in Britain even at that time (1978/9), but it was before the recent vicious clamp down made even having a copy of such a magazine in your private home a criminal offence.

At that time Malc first got his Personal Computer because it was necessary for his new business and he got ever so good at Word Processing ... and over a period of about five years that modest little office Word Processor found itself becoming the centre of an international information exchange of private opinions about all aspects of kinky sex! It built up gradually, but people we wrote to were mostly so friendly “It just grow’d” as Little Topsy said (a literary reference!). It also proved how isolated so many people like us were. Not just geographically but isolated from their neighbours, family and social friends ... and forced to lead double lives.

Anyway, we found we could store letters we wrote and send chunks of information and opinions on any specific topic whenever that subject cropped up again in a letter somebody else wrote to us. I suppose even that is technically illegal ... publishing obscene material ... and sending it through the Royal Mail (Now there’s an obsolete and cranky Victorian hangover. 'Obscenity' like corruption and perversion are used like blunt instruments by people who’s understanding is as limited as their Christian tolerance. Whoops! I digress again).

So, by the start of The Eighties our circle of PPPs (Perverted Pen Pals) had already spread and we were in regular contact with like-minded souls as far afield as San Francisco, Oslo and outback Australia. Apart from informative intellectually stimulating and psychologically sound exchanges on all aspects of SM and Bondage ... there were offers to “Visit if you’re in the area” from all over the world. Not invitations to orgies, you understand ... just nice, friendly sociable people who were longing to have more communication with people who shared similar interests and weren’t screwed up about it.

Well, because the kids were lively young teenagers and Malc’s business actually did take up a lot of not only his time but mine, we not only didn’t have much time to ourselves, we wanted to give our kids the best. For our annual family holiday in 1980 the kids opted for New York. We invited my Mum to join us and it was the first time for all of us ... and as it turned out a wonderful time was had by all.

Chapter Seven:

HANDS ACROSS THE SEA

The Big Apple lived up to it’s reputation. The hotel was big and busy and just off Times Square. The kids at 14 and 15 were fearless and eager for adventure - and in a funny sort of way so were Malc and I. We’d been writing regularly to three people who were all members of this EULENSPIEGEL SOCIETY and also to the man who published THE RIGID BONDAGE ROSTER, so when they all knew we were coming the offers of hospitality were overwhelming. “Come and see our Playroom”, “We’ve got a guest apartment in our house”, “Will you give a talk at the weekly Meeting?” But it was essentially a family holiday so we declined all offers except that we said we would like to be at the regular meeting of the EULENSPIEGEL SM GROUP if there was one while we were in town. There was and it was arranged for Vera to take the kids to see the play DRACULA on Broadway (their choice, not ours) and off we went to meet “Rose and Dick” who we already felt we knew. Ron, the man from THE RIGID BONDAGE ROSTER was to join us along with a Professor from City College who lectured on Fine Art and had a fully equipped dungeon in his basement. They were to buy us dinner and then escort us to the meeting. I thought I’d be nervous but we’d all exchanged so many intimate letters it was like meeting old friends. They took us to eat in Greenwich Village and the table conversation ranged from SM Night Clubs to where to buy a leather strait-jacket, and nobody even bothered to lower their voices. The sense of freedom was something I found difficult to get used to.

Then, walking into that little hall where EULENSPIEGEL met was somehow like coming home. A wonderful mix of misfits who’d found one another and although they were all into different things they were comfortable with one another: From city and suburb; straight, gay, lesbian; couples and singles. No strict dress code so we didn’t feel at all out of place in our tourist clothes. There were some in full leather or fetish dress, even two transvestites or trans-sexuals (I didn’t know the difference then). Anyway, we were made to feel completely at home because it was actually homely. I’m not being wicked but the atmosphere wasn’t much different to our local parish church social ... except for the topics of conversation of course. There was coffee and biscuits and the sales table was piled high with pamphlets, information sheets and publications (many of which we’d never heard). Rose and Dick knew most of the people and we were introduced informally around the room. People asked what we were “into” ... and we hadn’t actually got a pat answer. They were amazed we hadn’t brought any photographs of the games we play. We’d never thought of taking pictures of us in action ... in fact I thought it was quite a kinky idea. We discovered that a lot of people there had photos in their wallets of themselves dressed up or tied up. They handed them around like showing photographs of their children or holidays; common currency, communication. We felt completely relaxed as people gossiped together as more people arrived and the official meeting was ready to start.

A fabulous lady of about my age and build who was a lecturer in Social Psychology introduced herself and gave us her business card. She invited us to come meet students in her 'Human Sexuality' course and talk to them about marital S&M in Great Britain. We said we had our kids and my mother in tow. “Oh, I’ll get somebody to take them on a boat trip up the Hudson for a day” she says. “My students would love to meet you. Last week we had a professional New York SM Call Girl give a talk. She was a lot of fun.”

Then there was Donna, a sexy but tough looking gal in full leather (although it was ever so warm that night) who asked if we’d ever been to San Francisco. “That’s where it was all at” she announced. She told us that she was employed as a sex Counsellor at a big hospital there, had helped found “DYKES ON BIKES” the all female motorcycle club and, as a hobby she made the best whips in the USA. We saw DUNGEONMASTER magazine for the first time and bought all the back issues of it and RIGID BONDAGE ROSTER. A very masculine man in boots and motorcycle jacket introduced himself to Malcolm and said he was a member of the Gay Male SM Activist’s group (G.M.S.M.A.) and would Malc like to go to a meeting as his guest? Malc looked panic stricken. He’d grown out of thinking of all homosexuals as limp wristed pansies but this hunk looked like he could beat Malc in the wrestling or boxing ring. I speculated on the thought of Malc being overpowered by two very macho homosexuals ... but from there on I didn’t pursue that fantasy. But I did buy a couple of issues of the gay magazine DRUMMER which specializes in photos and fiction about muscular men in leather and chains. The theme of the issue was “Hot’n’heavy Mansex”. I thought that’ll make interesting reading after we get home.

The Speaker for the evening was an expert on whipping techniques. He demonstrated various types of whips on several willing acquaintances of both sexes. We were impressed by his insistence on safety, hygiene, precision and total responsibility (Mutual consent seemed to be taken for granted). These strict rules & established etiquette were new to Malc and me. The rules are clearly defined and generally observed among the 'in crowd'. Prescribed codes of conduct are even written down and published in magazines in American, Sweden and Germany ... it’s just that all those publications are banned in the UK, so we found we were horribly ignorant at that time.

This lecture demonstration was part of a series. Other topics listed for forthcoming meetings were restraint as a sensual experience without SM titled “The Gentle Art of Bondage', “Pins & Needles” (which was piercing and tattoos as Art and Eroticism), “Masks, Hoods and Helmets in Fantasy Enhancement” and 'Military Interrogation Techniques, including demonstrations of electro-torture with muscle stimulators, vibrators, cattle prods, violet wands and hand-cranked generators”. I slipped a copy of the list to Malcolm and as he read it the bulge in his crotch got noticeably bigger.

After the main talk and coffee the crowd of about sixty split up into smaller groups each discussing a different topic or sexual preference. Rose and Dick were leading a 'Talkshop' about enemas which didn’t appeal to us much, so we sat in on 'Inferno 79'; the dishy young leatherman talking informally about the recent annual meeting of the Chicago Hellfire Club. 'Inferno' each year is a gay leather/SM/bondage get together for four days. 200 men into every kind of 'Heavy Mansex' he explained, “It’s a learning experience as well as having a great time”. The slides were incredible; flogging and electro torture workshops with demonstrators working on willing victims and surrounded by crowds of observers; a Slave Training session by a well-known Master; a freestyle bondage competition. Men aged 21 to 72 at the equivalent of a Boy’s Camp in the wilds of the Mid-West doing their own thing in public in the privacy of an enclosed campsite. Apparently it’s by invitation only and always oversubscribed. Malc bought the illustrated souvenir program for the previous year ... and picked up membership details!

I’d wandered over to a group to which a middle-aged Jewish housewife was demonstrating 'Nipple Torture'. I gathered she was generally known as Rosie the Tit Lady, who sat at home in Brooklyn modifying all types of bulldog clips, alligator clips and anything that would grab, grip, nip or tweak as she put it. I moved hastily on to join Malc at 'Bondage for Beginners' where we didn’t learn anything. But it was a massive breakthrough for us both. Sixty men and women responsible and intellectually alive, sharing ideas with the specified, publicly advertised aim of promoting SAFE, SANE AND LOVING S&M.

Chapter Eight:

NATURAL PROGRESSIONS

So, back in Croydon the need to share some of the things we’d learned grew stronger. Nothing to do with trying to corrupt or convert people you understand, just an increased awareness that there were a lot of folks like us around if we just knew how to meet them. Oddly enough a Pen Pal in Stockholm put us in touch with a couple who lived 20 minutes down the road from us and one thing leads to another, doesn’t it. They knew a couple of couples and over a few social get-togethers the confidence grew. We discussed the practicalities of having a more formal group with regular meetings and pre-planned agenda. We decided on a few rules and codes of practice and it wasn’t long before we took the risk and advertised.

I’d been Secretary of an amateur Drama Group and Malc and I were both on the Committee of the Bowls Club ... and the administrative side of it was no different and we weren’t offering anything illegal. Of course we kept a sharp eye out for newspaper reporters trying to join, but prospective members were well vetted. I’ve not spent 30 years in Personnel and Public Relations for nothing.

This was a particularly rewarding period for Malc and me. We had experience and knowledge other people could benefit from, and we never stopped learning. The Group brought us into contact with a whole cross-section of possibilities we might never otherwise have stumbled into. And although talk not action was the name of the game at meetings, that didn’t mean to say our social interaction with individuals met through the Group didn’t, shall we say, spill over somewhat.

I’m not going to give you a catalogue or blow-by-blow account of this natural progression but meeting different people with different preferences gave us not only information but occasional hands-on experience. Particularly when it came to equipment, there were things we’d never have thought of buying but having had an opportunity to try it ... well, for example ...

One nice couple from the Dorking area (let’s call them Rita and George) were very much into corsets. That was something we’d seen in magazines but never encountered in the flesh (if you’ll excuse the expression). In advance of inviting them to give a talk to the Group Malc and I went to visit them socially. During the evening they were very proudly showing us their collection, and Malc says to me that I’d look good in a corset. Well, I wasn’t any slimmer than when we were married but I wasn’t much fatter. So Rita says to try one on ... hers wouldn’t fit me but one of her husbands’ would. Well, I wasn’t flattered but I didn’t want to be a spoil sport so I whips off my frock and Rita puts this contraption on me and laces it so tight I could hardly breath. It did wonders for my boobs and hips but nothing for my digestion. No wonder Victorian ladies were always fainting.

I think Malc was quite intrigued because he started looking through this corset catalogue George had and I says firmly “If you’re thinking of ordering one of these get it in your size, mate!”. George thought that was a wonderful idea and out he whips this heavily boned and strapped man-sized corset. I suppose Malc didn’t like to be unsociable so he strips down to his briefs and lets Rita and George lace and strap him into it. I said “Now you know what I mean” but his old pecker was trying to rip his underpants apart and Rita said “Oh, we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we George.” Malc caught my eye but neither of us expected what was coming next. The corset had attachment points for a through-the-legs piece that tucked all his masculinity into a sort of solid crotch box and then sort of ... depressed it. Before we knew it he was looking like Danny La Rue below stairs.

Well ... perhaps if we hadn’t already had sherry before and wine with our meal he might not have gone along with what followed from there. Rita and George decided on the full treatment for him; make-up and wig, black stockings and a pair of George’s best high heeled shoes topped off by rhinestone choker, earrings and long black gloves. He looked fantastic and he couldn’t take his eyes off the mirror. Eventually, all he said to me was “Have you ever thought of becoming a lesbian?”.

Talk about broadening your outlook: it was around that time we also met a few people who were really into Chastity Belt games. Not just over night anti-masturbation devices but long term for weeks on end. The different psychological control and domination games centred around restricted access to your own body and bodily functions can be mind blowing ... a book could be written about it. I’ve even sat through 'The Sound of Music' locked into a chastity belt when our Melanie was in it for the local Operatic. First time we got somebody to give a talk on Practical Chastity Devices at the Group Malc said he wished he’d known they were available when he was on the Rigs because he’d have bought one for me. It’s funny isn’t it, how you tend to threaten somebody with something if you’d secretly like to try yourself. That can signal the threatened person to go ahead and turn the tables.