I thought there were none. I thought there were no bed-located tricks that were universal. I assumed that all humans, due to our unique-like-snowflake sexual preferences and genital configuration and kinks and quirks and loves: I thought there would be no universal Trick To Blow Their Mind In Bed.

But if there were one, and I’m not necessarily saying there is, then it might be this:

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This week’s guest blog tackles something super-intense: knife play. It also does something that I adore, in that it tells the story from two perspectives, giving an insight into what each partner is thinking during the session…

As with anything sharp and shiny, safety comes first.If you’re interested in knife play, then check out this safety guide and, of course, negotiate and communicate with your partner.

The author wanted me to add a particular note to this post: “My partner and I play without a safeword. It’s something we’ve both discussed at length and have agreed upon together. He is a medic, is trained in and trains others in martial arts and we have both had extensive training in body language and the subtle nuances of human behaviour and the human body. Whilst this works for us, I’m not suggesting this kind of practice for others – it’s all about knowing and trusting yourself, your partner and your relationship.”

Please welcome Alice and the Wolf.

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This is one of those posts that goes into the sometimes dark places in my brain. As a result, it involves discussion of things like pain, BDSM, and roleplaying sex-as-punishment. Everything in the post is 100% consensual, but I’m just giving you a heads-up so if those things are likely to disturb you please don’t read on. 

We’re discussing the difference between corporal punishment and what I’m going to call ‘angry punishment.’ I explain to him that, in previous role-plays, I’ve struggled with the idea of rigid, ordered punishment. Counting spanks, measured chastisement, that kind of thing. The type of role-play where I am a naughty girl, and a guy in a position of authority is responsible for correcting me:

He orders me to bend over and touch my toes, stretching my thighs and arse taut for the cane or tawse. He makes me wait for what feels like an achingly long time, as my calves tingle and my cunt gets slick, and I wait for the first thwack.

At that moment what I’m hoping for isn’t one sharp stroke. I’m not anticipating a measured, precise stripe across my backside. But usually that’s what I get. One stripe – carefully applied – then the inevitable order:

“Count them.”

And I count. One, two, three, four… I count the strokes and I thank him for each one. This controlled, dominant guy, who will dish out exactly as much pain as I deserve and no more.

That’s nice – it is. But it’s not the best.

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