Sleek, silent, and made of stainless steel. A unique vibe designed by San Francisco’s CITIZEN:Citizen exclusively for Jimmyjane.

Sleek, silent, and made of stainless steel. A unique vibe designed by San Francisco’s CITIZEN:Citizen exclusively for Jimmyjane.

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Natalia Belova, on fetish. (Harper’s Bazaar UK, Dec)

Natalia Belova, on fetish. (Harper’s Bazaar UK, Dec)

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Jean Claude Jitrois.

Jean Claude Jitrois.

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Though men of delicate taste be rare, they are easily to be distinguished in society, by the soundness of their understanding and the superiority of their faculties above the rest of mankind… Many men, when left to themselves, have but a faint and dubious perception of beauty, who yet are capable of relishing any fine stroke, which is pointed out to them. Cite Arrow “Of the Standard of Taste” by David Hume (not quite what I intended to find when searching for “leather+thong” — but provocative all the same)
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The purest sex. Link Arrow

(I found it on my first search, A. Are you feeling lucky?)

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How I take my leather. (Givenchy, Fall 2008)

How I take my leather. (Givenchy, Fall 2008)

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I kept my mouth shut and let body language work. It turned out not to be my own imaginings, but a mutual want I’d been picking up from my patron. This time we happily came to an agreement. I am learning to care less about what is proper. To care more about following my instincts of the moment. The connection I speak of creating is not a marketing ploy or fantasy. Cite Arrow Audrey Cain
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A live streaming feed to all the Internet of a poor dear trapped in a cage? My darling slave bijou sends this, with the note: “The magic, of course, is that nothing happens ….” (Of course the slave is on a MacBook. Myself, I prefer the Air.)

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The Mother and her sweet son. (From Vanity Fair’s best news photographs.)

The Mother and her sweet son. (From Vanity Fair’s best news photographs.)

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A temp position from days gone by.

My vintage 1940’s white silk robe needs cleaning. A stack of panties scatters when my slippers fall on them: pink, black, peach, nude, laced and lacy, all high to the waist. (Eric Kroll never got to shoot me in them. His loss.) Those heels need a polish, a buff, and spit-shine. But I don’t want a slave.

Watching Mad Men has made me crave that sort of morning service: someone to hand me my paper when I hand them my hat, to take my coat and tell me the order of things for the day. I don’t think I’ll ever take a slave to live with me, and I’m certain I’d never ask a wife or husband to tend to me so. Is a secretary really what I’m asking for? The rest I can outsource to my iPhone. But who will bend over my tub and wash my stockings without running them?  And who will close the door on the hard day’s work, offer his or her bottom over my desk, and let me consider it?

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