From the Vaults

The nutters who contact me on Facebook are getting weirder.

Now, I wholly accept that if you put half-decent pictures of yourself up and allow people to contact you then they will. It is also fair enough that English is not everyone's first language, and I never mind anyone introducing themselves. I should point out, though, that there is no mention on my page of a BDSM lifestyle and whilst there are some pictures of me in PVC and plenty of black, there's no direct kink, no whips or bondage, nothing to outwardly infer specific preferences.

These have just baffled me.

“im submissive miss and i wanted to ask if youd consider having a slave boy of your own to pamper and spoil yopu and do everything you say ?x”

If I were you I’d consider English lessons. This one, again, IS a native speaker.

“hai name, spelt wrong what u lesbian girls ? If U Lesbian girls I am Like and Love U Please connect me or add me oke Thanks”

That’s just really, really funny. In so many ways.

“Hi ***** how are you hope your well, i have to say that you look stunning in your picture, i hope u had a lovely christmas and i wish u a happy new year.

I would love to massage your feet for you, please note that am really good at massageing feet as i have done massage course and i know how to take away stress from feet, neck and shoulders.

i hope u dont mind me messageing you and hope u contact me for a chat, take care byexx”

This is very polite and a much better approach, but is anyone else a little creeped out by the idea of a foot-perv doing a massage course?

Here I have one that just says “hi” and three kisses…, there’s another further down the page that just says ‘hi’, no message subject, no signature and the profile picture is a shot of a car.

“how are u im sure ive seen u b4 x” – This is… interesting somehow? If most of the people on my facebook messaged me every time they’d seen me, the site would overload. Why, just…what?

“hi miss, thanks for your accept.
im an obedient and good looking guy, 24 years old and i would love to be dominated by a strickt women as lifestyle.. i would love to feel my life owned by another dominante women and i live as per instructions. if your interested in making me your doggy slave please let me know, i would do my best to please you miss.
thanks”

I’ll be the judge of whether you’re good looking or not.

“Hi **** how are you hope your well
i have to say that you look stunning in your pic
i hope u dont mind me messageing you

i would love to massage your feet for you, please note am really good at massageing feet as i have done reflexology course. i hope u contact me for a chat byexx”

Foot fetish reflexology? Wait a sec, is this the same guy?!

“Hello ms *****: when are you going to post more magnificent pix?”

When I do. And messages like this make me check the privacy box…

“Hi!! Nice to meet you I'm from spain and i usually go to London. you're pictures are awesome! hi!!!! First of all you have a really nice blue eyes!! when i come back, possibly this summer, i would like to meet you and have a beer(it's a good way to improve my english hahaha ;-)
are you from london?
do you have a band?
really nice your pictures!!”

Holy enthusiasm Batman! And drinking with me will not do your English any favours: it doesn’t mine, anyway.

This is my favourite, though. Let it be noted that this guy was added because he’s a friend of a friend of a friend, although I’m not sure he knows I actually know who he is. He’s also a native English speaker, so mocking the delivery isn’t quite so cheap. Strange enough, he contacted me out of the blue a while ago and after a brief introduction proceeded to inform me that he was a virgin, wished no to be so and asked for advice. Well, for a start, how about not telling random girls on the internet?

He then proceeded to contact me for advice on a series of two and three day relationships, repeatedly ask me to put him in touch with various people (to which I occasionally obliged and they found it HILARIOUS. I’m sorry, I’m cruel, haven’t we established that?) and continue to bemoan the aforementioned virginity and wanting to ‘lose it’. Then came this.

“you know these pictures of in shiny if i can lose it to you i let you put then high heals anywhere you like :P xxx”

ARE. YOU. SERIOUS.

If I’ve translated this correctly - and your guess is as good as mine there – I think he’s referring to some recent pictures I posted of me in some extremely high fetish heels, to an album labeled ‘shiny’.

What I’m gathering then, is this… this thing, boy, whatever it is, is offering me its virginity and in return for my time will allow me to do whatever I like with my second-favourite stilettos.

Firstly, what kind of offer is that when I have volunteers for the same without the compromise of sex? Do you think you’re being daring and novel? Jog on, sunshine.

Secondly, hold on a moment, do you have ANY idea what you’re suggesting? Do you know who you’re talking to? I’m guessing not, I’m supposing it’s outside the imagination of anyone who can’t spell heels. In a world with no such thing as a safeword I’d be half tempted to take him up on that and leave him too traumatised to proposition anyone else he doesn’t know.

What hurts my brain is this fine specimen will undoubtedly eventually find someone to rid him of this pesky virginity and is clearly too stupid to properly understand contraception… That’s right, unless fluke and fate intervene, this will breed.

There you have it people – the future of the human race.

PRIDE - Even the Internalised Sort

I fancied you when I met you - oh, didn’t we all? Six-foot-something, heavily tattooed and pierced, one of those ridiculous to-die-for bodies, you quickly became the heart throb of our large cluster of misfits. I knew of at least five girls who had fallen head over heels for the tough guy looks and gorgeous smile, so I stuck to being your mate instead. Like I had a chance.

Maybe it felt once or twice like there was chemistry... I put it down to wishful thinking. At eighteen, you in your mid twenties seemed far too sophisticated. You had a girlfriend (have had ever since, for that matter) and too many girls after you, most of whom saw me as the safe platonic friend to ask “do you think he likes me?” and it was a stab wound, every time, to know you’d fancy them over me.

Only... I was completely, utterly wrong, and weren’t they all. Because under that hardcore exterior and behind closed doors you are THE single sissiest boywhore I have ever had the pleasure of, and my god have I had the pleasure of you in every way I can think of.

So next summer, whilst they are swooning over you in your vest top and cut-offs, I will be grinning at the memory of you in stockings and ribbons and frilled lace; in rubber; in cuffs and soaked underwear with the word ‘slut’ scrawled across that lovely washboard stomach. You ARE a slut, my slut, and a brilliantly imaginative and enthusiastic one at that. When they finish fishing for compliments and come to tell me that you’ve said they’ve got nice eyes, or you like their hair, I will smile and “oh really, wow”. I’ll be dying to tell them the things you’ve said to me, about me, about yourself, offered to do or in fact done in my name, but I’ll content myself with remembering how you sound whimpering, praying, begging not even for anything specific but purely groveling because I am your Goddess and you adore me.

And whilst I’m attached now and you should probably sort yourself out, I will forever take delight in remembering that you were my bitch.

Truly Perverse.

NB: This post refers to roleplay, I am not being incestuously abused thank you Mr/Ms blog-trawling-concerned-authorities.

I went through a stage of having very niche-fetish phonesex with a friend, and this one came up.

"How's my little girl?"

"Sleepy."

"Do you want a bedtime story?"

"Yes please."

"You know what I want to hear."

I drop out of the breathy lisp that makes me sound half my age. "I can't, Tom*, it's weird."

"I think we went past weird a long time ago," he laughs."Come on, princess."

Somehow, it's not quite right that this is the only context in which I have ever said these words. "I love you, daddy."

"Good girl."


*Names changed to protect the god-honestly wrong in the head.

St. Kink

I credit much of my current self confidence and my current attitude to one man. Before him, I was a wallflower slowly peeling from the brickwork and beginning to lean into the open air. After a few mere months of him (in real terms, ten days or so in his company) I had blossomed into... well, a raving pervert. Not so sure blossomed was the word I was looking for, now!

I’m not for a second saying he corrupted me. More that he, in gently revealing his own...tendencies, gave me a forum to reveal my darkest desires and showed me that it was alright to want things. Alright to experiment. Alright for things to go horribly wrong and if you ended up having to cringe/laugh hysterically/burn the evidence/call the paramedics you chalked it up to experience. As such, I tried more things for the first time with him than I can possibly put number to (although one day I might try)and know I won’t hold back on things I want to do in the future.

And my my, he was into some weird stuff. I say was, I presume I haven’t put him off any of it. And when I say weird, I mean... there are fetishes, and there are the fetishes that are taboo even amongst the fairly open minded, and he is off the end of that scale. And slightly to the side: there were things he came out with which were just baffling. Not even disgusting, just plain obscure, like he was making them up to find out if I’d say yes to everything.

I did.

And I did because I trusted him. Not to look after my heart, not to turn down hot local girls determined to sleep their way up the scene, but to be honest about it and not put me at risk. To stop when I said stop, to be open to my own little quirks and fantasies, to be patient whilst I learned and to laugh when it went horrendously wrong.

It was like a great big BDSM/Fetish checklist. We did pretty much everything I’ve every heard of, and a few things I’m convinced he made up. One or two maybe I did. At one point he genuinely had an Excel spreadsheet written up, because we knew our time was limited and you have to be organised to fit all this nonsense into a couple of hotel weekends a month. Sadly we left it with a few boxes yet to tick, although the rate we added to it, I don’t think we’d have run out of ideas in a lifetime of room service and individual Molton Brown hair and bodywash bottles.

This was how I went from having done virtually nothing to virtually everything in half a year. And I must say, I enjoyed all of it. The sex was fantastic, both in terms of technique/results and the balance of tenderness and humour with which it was conducted making it completely okay that I wasn’t loved, committed, or a ‘girlfriend’... it was fun, I was having a fantastic time and accepted that there was nothing to be ashamed of.

That’s not to say he was perfect: he was, after all, doing all this in spite of being in love with another woman; he was consumingly pretentious, vain to the point of parody; once we genuinely thought he’d given me herpes and on more than one occasion we had blazing rows that lasted days. But rare to find a man who could flatter me without being smarmy, teach without being patronising, idolise me without being lecherous... Given the volatile nature of the concepts we played with it could have gone so horribly wrong, but he took my fragile self esteem and handled it with such care that our twisted pastiche of a love life became the most enjoyable and fulfilling thing I had ever had.

I thanked him a while ago, sincerely, for giving me the safe learning environment which has opened my mind and, dare I say it, enriched my life. And for doing so without once letting me feel used, dirty, hurt or anything on that spectrum. What he considers common decency has been above many of the people I’ve encountered, and I truly appreciate it.

“I’ll be alright when you go to write your autobiography then? Like a madman, obviously, but a decent one?”

“Oh yeah,” I replied. “When I write my biography, you’re going to come across as the Patron Saint of Perverts.”

Black and Blue

Just has a skim read back through this blog. Ahh dear, what's happened to me in a short year or so? From the boy-shy wall flower who presumed she wasn't interested in anything on the kink spectrum to... this? My, what interesting parts of myself I've uncovered. Very publicly, for the most part (but that was one thing we DID know I liked).

So what have I been up to? Partially this...


Although I feel I must point out that was entirely asked for, consensual and I dare say enjoyed. I'm probably convening all sorts of things by posting that and will probably be ganked for it but... I'll deal with it, I'm sure!

Things I Like Being Hit With

Hands - as spanking, obviously, not someone taking a swing at me. A
good slap on the arse or the thighs isn't going to do you any harm,
and there's something beautifully degrading about it.

Riding crop - gently gently, but I do enjoy the sensation, the noise,
and the look of my partner of choice holding one of these.

Tailed whip/flogger - my tolerance for these is surprisingly high, and
I find used softly or striking with further up the body rather than
the tails, the 'thud' rather than the sting is quite pleasing. Can
also be safely used on the back/shoulders - a good place for me.

Improvised items - If you're being particularly cheeky and your master
has to grab the nearest book/hairbrush/ruler/whatever to give you a
smack with, you had that coming.

and

Paddle - I actually genuinely don't like this feeling, which is why
it's great. There's no 'mmm' to the 'ouch': it just hurts. So if I've
really been bad and you want me to scream, cry, beg you to stop,
there's your weapon.

This is all very "oh please, don't throw me into the briar patch," isn't it? Is that why I liked Bra'er Rabbit so much?!

True Mascochism

I spend my entire life bemoaning being people's second choice, being second best, being second priority etc etc, because it hurts too much. Someone suggests an actual stance as a secondary partner...

...and I consider it. If that's not real masochism, I don't know what is.

Not Cut Out for This

I love my body.

Okay, no, I don't because it doesn't work and I'd like not to be in pain for five minutes, but I love my body in the way most people don't like their own.

I'm a decent height and reasonable weight without much effort. I've got disproportionate, child-sized hands and feet, an almost unnaturally narrow waist for my size. My boobs are small but perfectly formed (and probably not as small as I joke them to be. In a decent push up bra, they're adequately distracting). I have a little soft curve of pudge under my navel, curved hips, stocky but muscular thighs and the best arse you'll see all week. None of it's perfect, but it's a nice woman-shape and onlookers can like it or fuck off.

The hinderances, then, if you want to call them that: I'm very much the shape for corsets. So much so that I have to buy them very very small or they just don't do anything, I already have that extreme shoulders:waist:hips ratio.

Any restraints which would use the hands or feet are not going to work on me. They don't account for such tiny hands and feet and I will slip right out of them.

Any shoes with a fetish bent, or even a decent heel, need to be custom made. Now, I'm not arguing they should make platform stilettos for kids, but it gets expensive!

I have to wear gloves at fetish clubs, or I get the hand-pervs. As it is, I get an immense amount of aristocratic kisses on the hand. I daren't ever dance in bare feet when I get tired, I made that mistake once. Bare, high arched, size two feet are a little too much of a temptation for people that way inclined, it seems.

That said, I'm never short a human foot stool, a shoe shine, or a massage, so really - why complain?

On Being a Dodgy Perv in an Overcoat

I bring you this blog from an exhibition, where I'm very well dressed, handing out business cards and causing designer handbag envy. Makes it all the more delicious, I feel.

Ahhh, there's nothing like a proper knee length belted mac for making you feel and look like a grade A pervert. Particularly when what's visible below said mac is freshly-shined black moulded rubber stockings and seven and a half inch stiletto heels, as it was when I deigned to horrify a perfectly respectable woman in a hotel lobby.

I'd like you to picture the scene, because I find it incomparably amusing. Dressed thusly -


I held my head high and took three brave steps out of the lifts into the hotel lobby… where we were faced by an average middle aged couple. The bloke, bless him, gave us a cursory glance and walked on. The woman gave us a genuine triple take.

The first look was barely registering our obstruction of the path to the lift.

the second was a gawp of enthralled disgust. A thinly veied 'people like you really exist?' Indeed. And the fact neither of us are the fat, balding loner men associated with such stereotypes but in fact, may I say it myself, relatively attractive examples of the species probably did nothing for her confusion.

She made herself look away, of course, and then couldn't resist a look back. The last one was definitely fascinated contempt, for some reason aimed far more squarely at me than my actually more rubbery date, and then when she attempted to avert her eyes, they went to the floor, got stuck on my shoes and I almost tripped over it as I continued to saunter along, suppressing a lot of giggles.

Was all that really called for? Other than the overtly sexual connotations, there was nothing obscene or visually offensive about it - so the thought process is then 'what am I missing out on, here? What pleasures do they know of that I don't?'
A fair few, if that face was anything to go by, you miserable trout.

It's half eleven, madam, we're consenting adults. Let's face it: what you don't like about this picture is that I am having more fun than you. Does my composure in such hip tilting shoes threaten you? Does my comfort in attire that speaks such filthy volumes about my proclivities unnerve you? Does it make you uncomfortable? Good. Does it maybe turn you on a bit? i do hope so.

So here's to you, Ms. Face like a slapped arse - not only were you the source of much immediate amusement which i'm still having a chuckle at several days later, but I thought about you. Oh yes. However many hours later, drowned in pounding music, surrounded by darkness, enjoying the admiring stares of strangers whilst being thoroughly fucked, what remained intact of my outfit still on, apart from where it counted, I thought of you. I thought how absolutely horrified you'd be by the entire scene, let alone my inadvertently involving you in it. I knew you'd be entirely appalled and just maybe the tiniest bit jealous, and nothing turns me on quite like that. If only you knew.


Other hilarity includes being bumped to a suite bigger than my entire flat because they'd originally allocated us a room with two single beds pushed together. The temptation, had they not been cooperative, to spill the contents of two suitcases of kink onto the reception desk and inform them that really, a double room would be better would have been overwhelming. And it might have sidestepped the moment when room service knocked a bottle of latex polish off the table. Or we once again spectacularly failed to notice something conspicuously dodgy in full view before ordering food. And actually, it's just occurred to me that I may have been upside down on the sofa reading in none too conservative underwear and a duran duran t-shirt when they came in, and that on the scale of the weekend's weirdness, this was normal enough to have escaped my attention until reflecting several days later.

My turn

Fetish clubbing tonight, which should be fairly brilliant, followed by a weekend in the city making the most of hotel facilities and as much pervery as you can fit into two reasonably sized suitcases. I sat on mine to get it done up and, on triumphantly padlocking the two halves of the zip together, realised I hasn't actually got proper clothes with me. Probably irrelevant, I doubt I'll need more than what I'm travelling in.

A chance, tonight, to dredge up and tick off a few of my long term fantasies. Not that things so far have been by any means one-sided, but we've mostly gone for things he's suggested and I've thought were a great idea, or decided were worth a try and ended up loving. I think all of tonight's set up was my idea first, and this is pleasingly new to me. I'm excited.

What's not as new to me as he thinks is the club sex. I'm not hiding much, it's just that when playmate du jour was first warned of my relative inexperience, his reaction was interesting, and I may have been laying it on a little thick since then. You know, the "why, no... I've never done that..." which I might possibly have lead him to the impression covers sex with an audience. White lies, white lies, I figured I'd be best off not telling the Berlin Story, particularly as aforementioned playmate and I were already seeing each other when I had that little interlude.

I haven't even posted any club sex stories yet, have I? Shame on me, bad girl, etc. My very next post, promise.

Payment in Kind

Actually, my handmade custom rubber outfits (enthusiastically donated by playmates who would enjoy my wearing them as much as I do) are worth a damn sight more than the Louis Vuitton purse your fiance bought you. And I'm not making dinner.

Oklahoma, Pancakes and Harder

Safewords are great. I tend to find, in non-extreme play, that the mere fact one is in place means it won't get used. It takes the potential for panic away, means you know that if you genuinely want it to, everything stops so you can push yourself and let yourself enjoy things which, if you weren't confident of this circuit-break, might be a shade too heavy to enjoy.

That said, I'm fortunate enough to be playing with someone extremely conscientious of such things, who will break to check I'm alright if he thinks I'm struggling in the wrong kind of way or if something felt a little harsher to him than he meant it to. He also knows the difference, if I'm gagged, between "oh, woe is me, I am helpless" struggling, and "shit, I can't actually breathe" struggling. He knows I have a bit of a negative history too, so he likes a nice clear green light.

We set up standing safewords the other day, which is nice for both of us, should anything spontaneous happen and we're not sure we're on the same page. It makes it all so very simple: If the word's there and they haven't used it, you're good to keep going.

You need a sort of code. As well as that all-encompassing, pulling the plug, "I say [this] and it stops straight away", I tend to find a few code words for feedback work nicely. An "I'm okay, but no further," or "slower," word, and maybe a "that's good but it's too much" word. As a domme, I'm very much the beginner: I lack the confidence to push past any resistance unless I know for a fact that it's put on, and I don't know well enough how to read that yet. If I ask "more?" and the answer is "please, no, mistress" it still takes me a while to compute that this is no level of safeword and as such is in fact a yes. But I'm getting there.

I got a new crop the other day. I found it's a nightmare trying to work out how hard you're going with it, so instead of having him count one to whatever for me, I had him count each stroke between one and ten, one being "I can't feel that", five being perfect, ten being "that hurts too much to be enjoyable". Started at a two, misjudged and got a nine, then settled around a nice seven. It helped not to have to work out if yelps were a good thing or not: if he'd wanted less, he could have cranked the number up and I'd have eased off.

I saw someone in a t-shirt which said 'the safeword is "harder"' once, which amused me quite a lot, and I've also been told of games where you use a pleasure word (a yes, a please, a partner's name or something) as a safeword so as soon as you're really enjoying it, you risk them stopping, which would probably be fantastically amusing in the right game but I can imagine might be horribly confusing if it slips. That's a bit much for me, I need my words clear.

When No doesn't mean no, something has to.

Fuck "love", give me fire.

Fetish, by its very nature, is not serious. Don't get me wrong, there are some things out there you need to take fairly seriously, lest you do yourself or your partner(s) some serious damage, but it's play. You take a concept, or an element, and crank it up and up and up until it almost becomes a parody of itself, a pantomime version of whatever you feel like you shouldn't find appealing but do.

Playing at something is not the same as doing it. It's a world apart, however realistic you make a game, purely because it isn't real. It's like when you play at being princesses or soldiers as a child. A current plaything and I were discussing this the other day - people's different preferences for games as children, about how early you develop a fascination with particular subjects, and what makes different people file different concepts away as enjoyable, even at a pre-school age. How these ideas turn into fantasy, long before you even have the physical ability for sexual urges. In primary school, my friends wanted to play mums and dads, or princesses on unicorns. Only one friend and I wanted to play at kidnap and being held prisoner. I had a definite preoccupation, throughout primary school, with most forms of torture. There are things I still don't have the confidence to admit I was thinking about at such tender ages that I now recognise as pure fetish - god, the things my poor Barbies went through - and we wondered, to what extent are people born kinky? What creates this predisposition to be attracted to things outside conventional parameters, even before you realise that is what's happening?

Aforementioned play thing and I started off quite shakily. He quickly picked up that I hesitated in strange places, correctly guessed at abuse although I think he thought I'd been treated a measure worse than I had. Still, he was worried abbot crossing lines that would trigger bad memories and to be honest, so was I, but it turns out the more lines he crosses… the more I like it.

When you've been with someone who claims to adore you, who should rightfully be trying to please you, but who essentially uses you quite carelessly, gets bored and tosses you away, you can get pretty jaded. Such a pleasurable inverse, then, in someone with no pseudo-romantic agenda, taking you and dressing you up and near-visciously doing as they please with you…all the while touching you almost worshipfully, appreciating every second and determinedly pressing all the right buttons even when they're pretending not to. This is the way round it should be: it's the difference between use and "use", between feeling dirty and being told you are whilst someone's doing something which feels insanely good, and you know it's not REAL.

I had a huge problem with someone spewing out how gorgeous I was, how good they were going to make me feel, whilst looking at me with general disdain and leaving me feeling used and empty. On that basis, having someone hold me by the hair and tell me they're going to use me like a doll, whilst looking at me like they can't believe their luck, touching me with tender reverence and ensuring I'm left sated, thrilled and comfortable is almost like having an antidote applied to a venomous snakebite.

The phrase 'no contest' springs to mind...

Border Crossing

It's all about challenging perspectives, I suppose. Pushing your boundaries. If you don't try it, I suppose, you'll never know if you like it. The idea of sushi always freaked me out until I tried it, tried a bit more, liked it and will now happily tuck into raw tuna and squid salads. I'd have missed that if I didn't have this burning urge to give things a go, just so I can say I have.

There are two concepts which I've always found really odd, sexually: spanking and dirty talk. They both struck me as a bit false, like you'd feel totally ridiculous. Whipping, less so, things like that I could imagine the quick stinging thrill of, but the idea of being put over someone's knees and spanked like a disobedient child? Just seemed a bit wrong.

Turns out that's what's great about it.

Yeah, I had both of these ideas simultaneously blown out of the water. I agreed to give it a try - the combination of sexy man, which in itself is quite unusual as I tend to find women more attractive, and natural curiosity made it a bit more appealing. I thought I'd wuss out, to be honest, or crack up laughing, but having it whispered as a threat whilst you're trying to have a conversation with a bar tender just kills that dead. Finding yourself back at a hotel, in that awkward kind of lost momentum, and just being instructed to "Sit. Here," starts off the shivering and the reminder of what you've got coming to you, with lips touching your ear… that's hotter than it should be. Being gently but unexpectedly manhandled into position takes the awkwardness away; you have your skirt lifted up and suddenly this is actually happening and you don't feel weird at all, just excited.

And he speaks to you all the while, utter filth in that oh-so-gentle lilt with the undertones of 'shh, it's okay', and the things he makes you say are, if anything, worse but it doesn't make you cringe. It makes you shiver.

Ninety, was my figure - it's amazing how many misdemeanours you can amass in six weeks, and he was very gentle. By fifty, I was working out how to earn myself some more.

On a separate but related note of expectations… Glamour is sexy, so I'd always sort of presumed you need to maintain an air of glamour during sex. Well, there you have it: I was wrong. It makes you tense, if you care about how you come across, you're just not going to get into it.

Something obscurely liberating, therefore, about having your face shoved down in the pillows, your hands crossed over behind your back and fastened there, your legs shoved around at angles that wouldn't be possible if you hadn't been doing gymnastics for sixteen years and being fucked with your boots still on.

No chance whatsoever of thinking you look dignified then - even less chance of caring.

Sometimes I'm lucky.

I got my miracle. I got spanked, I got fucked, I got called names and tied to things and kissed and petted and treated like a princess. Mmm,mm mm. More when I'm more coherent.

As an afterthought, it never occurred to me that having child-sized hands would mean wrist restraints (quite fortunately, when you think about it) don't go down to my size. I could wriggle out of just about anything, if I wanted to, i could be bondage Houdini.

But what would be the fun in that?