Pull Your Socks Up!

Why only white, knee-length socks will do

Today, I’ve been reflecting on the power – and I can honestly say it is that strong – of seeing a grown woman in kneelength white socks.

I got slightly distracted by Molly’s Daily Kiss and her exploration of white cotton knickers, or the lack thereof.

Before we even get that far, I need to ask why a half covered leg encased in white fabric has such a powerful allure?

Rather like the people who commented on Molly’s blogpost – many of whom alluded to the schoolgirl connection with white cotton knickers – the white sock is redolent of that minefield that lies between innocence and womanhood. The juxtaposition of a fully mature woman in an outfit that deliberately evokes youth, inexperience and innocence with a hint of sexual awakening and perhaps a desire to explore, is what is at the heart of our fetish for schoolgirl apparel.

Ankle socks, for me, simply won’t do. For a start, they look sloppy and unattractive. Thigh-high socks – though deliciously sexy – convey an impression of trying and little too hard to be sexually provocative. The kneelength sock strikes just the right balance.

This is the first in a series of posts exploring our fetish for schoolgirl attire, behaviour and indeed role-play.

In a future post I want to discuss skirt type and length, then underwear and perhaps other accessories and appropriate hairstyles.

It would be great to hear what others feel on this subject. Leave me a comment below and let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: please understand that I am in no way condoning or advocating sexual relations with anyone under the age of consent. For me, as for others in the scene, our play must be safe, sane and consensual. Anything else is abuse and should be rightly condemned as criminal.


When your babygirl needs special treatment

Today my Kitten was out of sorts: shivery, snappy, easily upset. I had had to pull her up a couple of times for practically throwing her extremely expensive smart phone down on the table.

Did she feel like playing?

She looked up at me from under her lashes and said shyly:

“To be honest, a spanking would probably do me good.”

Well say no more! Hang on though, doesn’t this call for more than usually sensitive handling? You bet.

Many female submissives process pain differently when they have PMS: often a moderate to severe spanking that they normally take in their stride will push them beyond their limits.

I told Kitten to dress in a white tutu with a minuscule white thong and white ‘fence net’ hold ups. She even put her hair up in a ballerina’s bun, rather than the usual ponytail or braids.

I made her pick out implements that she wanted to be spanked with: two leather and two wooden paddles.

I had her bend over the the end of the bed on tiptoes. As soon as I started her warm-up with the smaller leather paddle, I could tell that her pain thresholds had shifted. It meant that the other three implements – all of which were capable of inflicting severe chastisement – would have to be handled with care.

We agreed on twenty strokes with each implement, but I slackened the pace and let up considerably with the other three implements. On a normal day, she will probably have wondered what on earth was wrong. Today, she finished the spanking and wanted lots of hugs, kisses and reassurance – all of which she got in spades.

Our playtime afterwards was also markedly different: she tasted delicately citric – a sure sign of hormonal change. And her body seemed to hang on to orgasms and needed lots of coaxing to let them go.

Afterwards, she was happy and relaxed; happy that we had played and happy that her spanking had made her feel a little less out of sorts.

N.B. Please understand, dear reader that I am not setting myself up as an authority on women and PMS. I am merely relating what worked for us on a particular day and in the circumstances that I describe.

Nothing Short of Scandalous

So what do two people get up to in a secret mountain hideaway, when they are not actively involved in kinky fuckery?

I decided it was time that my Babygirl was introduced to what I consider to be the finest piece of prose the English language has to offer: I consider myself reasonably well read; this is not an accolade that I bestow lightly.

Perhaps it is partly thanks to my family links to Wales, that I find Dylan Thomas‘s Under Milkwood to be the head and shoulders winner in this category, which has some extremely stiff competition including the likes of Charles Dickens, Graham Greene, Margaret Atwood, Laurie Lee, Gore Vidal and Annie Proulx.

I have always found Thomas’s fine wordcraft, impish sense of humour and sexually charged wit to be exactly to my taste.

Under Milkwood was written as a radio play – a ‘play for voices’ as Thomas would have it – radio being the dominant medium back in 1953. The work has been likened to lifting the lid on a dolls house: it describes a day in the life of a small, Welsh fishing town and the goings on of its many eccentric characters.

And such goings on there are! Willy Nilly Postman and his wife, when not steaming open the town’s mail in order to spread gossip, are privately engaged in a spot of CP:

[He] Walks fourteen miles to deliver the post as he does every day of the night, and ratatats hard and sharp on Mrs Willy Nilly

‘Don’t spank me please, teacher,’ whimpers his wife at his side.

But every day of her married life she has been late for school.

Dai Bread the baker is in what we would now call a polyamorous relationship with Mrs Dai Bread One and Mrs Dai Bread Two, all of whom occupy the same bed.

The local strumpet, Polly Garter, sings to herself, as she scrubs the floor ready for the Mothers’ Union dance that evening (a gathering at which she would never be welcome) of her previous loves, Tom, Dick, and Harry. We learn that Tom was “strong as a bear and two yards long”, Dick was “big as a barrel and three feet thick”, and Harry was “six feet tall and sweet as a cherry”. I confess that it wasn’t until the second or third time of listening that I realised it was Tom, Dick and Harry’s vital appendages that she was eulogising.

Mrs Organ Morgan bewails her husband’s passion for his organ, but which organ?

It’s organ organ all the time with you…

Under Milkwood is as replete with requieted as unrequited love: the local haberdasher and the local sweet shop owner, whose businesses are at opposite ends of the town, write to each other of their undying love but nonetheless are never to be united.

The butcher’s daughter, Gossamer Beynon, is a vision of feminine ripeness:

The sun hums down through the cotton flowers of her dress, into the bell of her heart and buzzes in the honey there and couches and kisses, lazy loving and boozed in her red berried breast.

In spite of her overt respectability, she secretly yearns for Sinbad Sailors, her imagined, hircine lover:

She feels his goatbeard tickle her in the middle of the world like a tuft of wiry fire, and she turns, in a terror of delight, away from his whips and whiskery conflagration.

Sinbad laments Gossamer’s education and her superior standing in the microcosm of society reflected in the town. Social snobbery dictates that they will never consummate their passion.

And blind, old Captain Cat reminisces of his time at sea, the men he has lost and the women with whom he has caroused:

Rosie Probert, 33 Duck Lane. Come on up boys, I’m dead.

Even when unmasked as a serial teller of tall tales, the captain beseeches his long dead (and probably imagined) lover to,

Lie down, lie easy. Let me shipwreck in your thighs.

Life in Llareggub (write it backwards and you will see the author’s little joke) is not all romping and ploughing in the hay. The schoolmaster, Mr Pugh, dreams of doing in Mrs Pugh, locked as they are in poisonous matrimony:

Sly and silent, he foxes into his chemist’s den, and there, in a hiss and prussic circle of cauldrons and phials brimful with pox and the Black Death, cooks up a fricassée of deadly nightshade, nicotine, hot frog, cyanide and bat spit for his needling stalactite hag and bednag of a poker-backed nut-cracker wife.

Thomas died exceptionally young, on a trip to the United States. It would have been amazing had he lived to old age and allowed his style to develop even further. A lover of women he certainly was; unfortunately, also lover of whiskey, which helped him into an early grave at the age of only thirty-nine.

The point is, long before those of us living what we euphemistically call ‘alternative lifestyles’, Thomas was suggesting that such activities were commonplace, desirable and only to be condemned by the village gossips or bigoted preachers in the chapel, whose dominion in Wales stretched far and wide back then.

Not only is it a wonderful piece of writing, it is bold and adventurous and lit the path for those of us who rejoice in the pleasures of the flesh, whip and cane, to take up the baton in order to normalise our lifestyle for future generations.

The BBC has released a dramatised audio version of Under Milkwood in which the voice of Sir Richard Burton has been digitally remastered to appear alongside contemporary actors. If you do nothing else this month, give it a listen. Kinksters, you will not be disappointed!