I Love My Handcuffs More Than You

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So here’s how it happened.

A while ago I wrote this pornographic roller coaster ride. It proved kind of popular and got linked to here and here and that probably led to this. (That’s not a picture of me they’ve used to illustrate that by the way – that’s somebody else. About as somebody else as it is possible to get.) But Mr Blue Sky (remember him? – well that’s still going nowhere in the nicest possible way) had mentioned Blowfish to me so that made me happy because I could show it off to him. And then he could write me a very nice email response about offering me a gift of his pain. Well, he does that most days but it was still nice.

(And he reads this blog now – which he didn’t when I first mentioned him – so I’m a little embarrassed – but only a little. Hi, I think you’re extraordinary.)

Mind you, actually, you know how I hate to snark, but, you know, how I don’t – this blog isn’t called Kittenish Jones’s Diary – that thing on Blowfish: Well, obviously it is nice to be included in a list of the five best blogs by dominant people on the intarwebz – I’m not complaining. Really. Well only a bit. And even though I am last in their list (I do not like being last in lists, even top fives) that means the only people better than me are a couple of pros, and a couple of people who can tie good knots. Not bad considering I started this blog in January with a post about how PVC dresses made me look like a slug. (My, how I’ve grown – and mostly outwards).

No, what I was going to say was, you see where they’ve included me, and it’s all, well everyone else is earning money off this shit so here’s someone who isn’t. Just for *balance*. Just to be fair on those saps who do this as, like, a *hobby*. Am I nuts? I just pick up the vague implication that I am not quite as good because I am not all properly hardcore and lifestyle.

Not only am I ‘not a professional’, the not part is in fricking italics. That is how fucking exceptional I am! Emphasis on not. Like I am the only dominant woman who doesn’t get free money for the way her brain is wired in the entire freaking gorram world.

And you know how I feel about this.

For yes, it is the shameful truth, I am powered only by fucked up sexuality gone wrong and not by, well, greed. (Actually though, I am powered by greed – just in a different way. If you offered me a cake to dom you I’d probably say yes. Well, maybe. A really nice cake. Though, I’m so droppy and awful and lazy and impatient prima-donnay-aftercare-spongey at the moment – you’d be better off keeping the really nice cake for yourself and having a wank.)

But this is meant to be about my handcuffs and I am meant to be telling you that when I wrote my celebrated wank post, well, that post was not quite the truth. Because I said I owned five pairs of handcuffs and I didn’t. I owned four.

I lied. Five just sounded better. Sentence rhythms, word-geek crap. I care about stuff like that. I can be a little controlling.

But I hate the fact I lied to you and then the post was linked and pimped all over the known universe and that little lie I told was everywhere.

I could not sleep! (Kind of)

I could not eat! (Kind of)

I had no choice.

I bought another pair of handcuffs. Because doing anything else would be wrong. (No I couldn’t edit the post – it was too late, it had been pimped to fuck. Besides – rhythm, remember – always important.)

Do you know what’s weird? I’d never owned a pair of *rigid* handcuffs before. And as my friend Gwen (female sub next door neighbour – for serious, not joking, yet another potential BJ sitcom) pointed out, this means they are silent. No rattling chain. Now that is not really so good as I like a bit of rattling chain but I forgive these cuffs because they are so damn cruel.

And handcuffs are *meant* to be cruel. That is the point of them. This is why I hate handcuffs covered in fluff (quite aside from what they represent). If I was going to cover my handcuffs in anything I would cover then in industrial grade sandpaper.

First time I put the cuffs on Pan he screamed and made me take them off because they hurt his wrist bones.

Joy!

Oh my beloved beautiful cuffs – like an extension of me.

Anyway, we got them on again – on right and I got to do that thing.

What thing? Let me tell you.

I kind of envy male doms, in that they have the advantage of sheer physicality to subdue the sub. In fact when I see women tied up in mandom porn I often think, the huh, because if that Mr Sir was me I would just use my superior physical strength alone, bitch! Because that is so fucking hot. Struggle and fight and *force*. Yes.

And can I just say *force* again.

I like a lot of flavours. But one of the ones I like bestest oftenest is *resistance*, forced compliance, physical overwhelmsion.

Except I – obviously – can’t do physical force alone. I would lose. I would lose ten million times over and have to eat dirt the dirt – especially as I like them so super butch with shaved heads and tattoos and huge, *huge* biceps.

So I’m jealous. I’m jealous even though I like that femdom spins that dynamic around. And I love images of a big man kneeling for a slight little woman and nothing says submission to me like a guy holding out his wrists for the cuffs when he has arms like tree trunks that could smash me through the wall if he wanted to.

But spin or not, edginess or not, baseline is if you are a het dom man (with a willing partner) you can do that thing where you just hold the other person down and forcibly use their over-powered *body* to make yourself fucking come. And I am so fucking jealous of that. That is so beautiful and pure and brutal. I hate paraphernalia and equipment and *stuff*. I want to be able to dom like that. Just with *force*. Force! So fucking hot.

Well, that is what is so good about the rigid handcuffs.

I got the angle right – somehow, god knows it sure as hell wasn’t skill – and I got my weight in the right place. I’m a big girl, I have some weight to play with. All my weight on those cuffs meant I could hold his wrists down above his head with one hand.

There are not enough keys of this keyboard to fully express how happy this made me.

And I kissed him and hurt him just like that – making out I was domming him with just my superior strength until our mouths and minds went inside out.

My new cuffs. My love. My heart.

They are my oh-so-lovely, unnecessarily cruel, you-really-shouldn’t-leave-those-on-*too*-long-Bitchy “failed basic” Jones, extra-hard, extra-cold, extra-vicious sadistic bitch cuffs.

My rapist cuffs.

(There are a lot of cool articles about women having rape fantasies and what that means and how we should all feel about that. Now, one of these days, I’m going to draw you all a little closer around my campfire and tell you all about my *rapist* fantasies. But not today.)

I took the cuffs off so he could fuck me.

And, hey, pay attention, I like *him* to get on top to fuck. There is some big lie going around that dom women like to be on top. No we don’t. That is the stupid way around. Being on top means doing all the work. Er, no – you can do all the work thanks. You can support your body weight on your crampy arms and piston your pelvis, motherfucker, and put the effort in. No I do not want to jump on top and use your penis as a dildo while you just lie there, because…

Hey! What the fuck is the fucking point of that?

You’re not a dildo. You’re a fucking fucking machine, baby.

Do your job.

That’s when I took them off. When I had to. When I wanted him to fuck me.

I have five pairs of handcuffs. I like to use handcuffs. My intense love of every sensory aspect of handcuffs is probably edging close on a genuine fetish…

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