Catwoman, Catra, and the influence of television

It’s the question we all ask when we develop fetishes as adults: is it nature or nurture? I didn’t watch a lot of television when I was growing up, but I made sure I never missed my favourite villainesses. Did this influence me, or was I inherently drawn to women I’d later grow up to emulate? I was much older by the time this excitement took on any relation to sexual – or even meaningfully emotional – urges, but after a look on YouTube, I now wonder if clips like these might offer up some clues as to what made me the glorious monster I am today…

The Stranglehold

It was the moment I stepped forward, grabbed her by the throat, and pushed her against the cold, concrete wall (with a little more force than was strictly necessary – I admit that much), that she finally stopped talking. She hit her head. Not very hard, of course, not even hard enough to bruise, but enough that the combination of its impact and the stranglehold left her mute, flinching, pinned to the wall like a trophy.

(…You see, I’d been having the strangulation conversation recently with a friend. There’s something about a person’s neck that excites me, perhaps more so than any other part of the human body. Of all the erogenous zones, the throat is most vulnerable, being a fragile stem between body and brain, a sensual passage of air, blood and nerves that tingles at the touch. Quarry of the vampire, the executioner, and the majority of carnivorous predators in the animal kingdom, the neck tempts my fingers, my blade, and my noose…)

Coming down the steps just now, she had been doing her what-would-you-know face, with those faintly mocking eyes, and her mouth twisted into something that was almost laughter, but not quite. Her heels had echoed on the concrete, a rhythmic plop ringing between deserted floors.

(…Underground car parks late at night, those ones in Central London, have that same kind of air you find just before a thunderstorm. The emptiness is electric, fizzing on your skin, and every shape has a thick, incandescent aura beneath the buzzing lights and low ceilings. The nocturnal chorus of city noise above is muffled, the roar and clatter of tube trains, traffic, and automated machinery reduced to a steady purr from the thick walls…)

We had stood together for a moment, there by the pay-and-display machine. She exhaled steam between hurried sentences. I had been feeding coins into the slot and hearing the steady clunk, clunk, clunk of money being digested behind the consistent monotone of her voice, as she gave a sardonic commentary on music, or food, or the movie we’d watched earlier, or something. I forget now. I was only half listening. She had been goading me deliberately though, I could tell. I recognised that look for a moment as she darted a sideways glance at me, the look of someone tossing pebbles at a sleeping lion, a hollow complacency in her eyes that flickered every so often with something darker – some fear and fascination, the hunger for punishment, the need to be smacked down to a lower level of herself – the façade of pride was worn solely to invite its inevitable fall. It was as if she had been daring me to react.

And so I did.

(…When people speak of erotic strangulation, they tend to think of the thrill of the asphyxia itself. This, of course, is a factor, and we’ve all seen the effects of its allure through the countless accidental deaths during Hutchence-style danger-wanks and hyoid fractures in the course of over-enthusiastic breath control games. So the pull of the physical can’t be ignored, but the mental aspect is really what intrigues me…)

After I slammed her against the wall, there was silence for a moment. Her expression changed instantly, a flickbook animation of shock, bafflement, and then fear, staring into my face from so very close, mouth hanging slightly open. As my thumbs pressed above her collarbone, I felt the intake of breath before I squeezed, just gently at first, teasing out that darkness until she gasped, a wordless plea. Her pulse raced beneath my fingertips.

(…Asphyxia is undoubtedly a physical buzz, but it’s definitely something very different that draws me in. It’s not the drowning sensation itself, you see, but the anticipation of it. As with most aspects of BDSM, it’s the psychological buzz that gets me off. After all, the stranglehold is the ultimate position of power for a Dominant – you are literally holding your lover’s life in your hands. It’s not squeezing the air out of someone’s windpipe that’s the turn on; it’s the thought that you so easily could, and permanently…)

“Face the wall,” I whispered, loosening my grasp for a moment, the sudden rush of cold air beneath her chin making her shiver. She almost laughed, rolling her eyes flirtatiously and turning away as if merely playing along to placate me.

“Uh huh,” she sighed, brow raised. “What you gonna do?”

I ignored the question, voice steady, impassive, as I unbuckled my belt. “Keep your palms flat against the wall and close your eyes.”

“Have I been bad?” she giggled in a low, sarcastic drawl, her fingers drumming on the wall, back arched, wiggling her hips in a parody of submission. Her short pencil skirt rode up, exposing a bare rectangle of thigh above the tops of both hold-up stockings.

The thin leather belt was unfurled now, and I fed it slowly through my hand.

“Palms against the wall,” I repeated slowly.

She opened her eyes again, pushing as if about to turn and face me. “Make me. I dare you to try and-”

A stifled yelp cut the sentence short. I had whipped the belt hard across the back of her right thigh, sending a jolt through her body. Its fresh welt blushed from white to pink across her skin, and its sharp sting left her breathless for a moment. She may have tried to blink back tears at the shock of it all. Her head was bowed in disbelief. I could no longer see her face.

“Palms against the wall,” I hissed again, excited by my own exasperation, looping the belt through its own buckle to make an improvised choke-chain.

“Fuck you,” she gasped very quietly, panting, eyes screwed tightly shut, her face contorted in futile defiance. Yet she willingly pressed her hands up to the wall now, body rigid.

Gently, I slipped the belt over her head and pulled it taut. Its loop closed around her neck, rough leather against soft skin, not quite tight enough to hurt just yet, but just enough to make her lower lip tremble.

I touched the welt at the back of her thigh, just softly now, and she whimpered. A little tug on the belt around her neck silenced her. I ran my fingers higher, to the shallow crease between leg and buttock. She wasn’t wearing underwear, as requested. I hitched the skirt up further, exposing hot flesh to cold air. She tried to open her legs to my approaching hand, but I pushed them closed, denying her that intimate touch.

“Not yet,” I scolded quietly, my lips so close that they almost touched her ear, and a tremor ran through her body and rippled down to the warm, bare skin of her thigh against my fingertips.

I wound the belt around my hand, pulling it tighter. The muscles in her legs tensed, stretched by the arched back and high heels, skirt up around her waist. She was sobbing silently. My fingers were gentle.

“Please,” she murmured, voice almost choked to nothing.

Her legs were pressed tightly together, labia squashed shut, pulsing hungrily between round, bare buttocks. Moisture brimmed at those fleshy little nether-lips, a hot, sinuous dribble of frustration that clung to her thigh, sticky liquid rolling down to where my fingers waited. I breathed against the tight leather at the back of her neck, her ear, her hair, her scent against my face.

“Please,” she whispered again, voice little more than a desperate gasp.


“Oh god, please…” She strained against the belt, aching to be touched, pushing down hopelessly onto my hand, soaking wet now. “Fuck me…”

“Not yet,” I repeated, pulling my hand away and tugging at the belt so hard that she cried out.

It was raining above. I could hear it spattering against the upper storey, smell the fresh, moist night on the air. Outside this cool, echoing space, the city had fallen asleep.

“Fuck me,” she begged, sobbing in desperation, face flushed, shining. “Fuck me now… Please…”

(…It’s the helplessness that gets me. Achilles had his heel, the body part that offered the key to his defeat, yet all humans have necks that make them vulnerable. Necks! Right there on display beneath their faces! Right there! Exposed in all their obscene glory! The strongest foe can be weakened by no more than a squeeze of the throat, and it excites me to think that we all have a reminder of our own frail mortality stretched bare between chin and chest. Someone otherwise seemingly indestructible – someone like her – can be easily thwarted by a body part far more visible, accessible, and erotic than a mere heel, and the possibility of that fascinated me more than anything else as she stood, shuddering, yearning, hands against the wall, belt around her neck, pleading with me to let her cum. And if you were wondering what I did next, by the way, you can keep on wondering for now. It’s a story for another day…)


Merman II – In Conversation

Mummified in clingfilm from the chest down and entirely immobilised, his breathing restricted, the merman is now bound in corset gauntlets and clingfilm boxing gloves. Next, his arms are bound together with a web of rope and suspended from the ceiling. After being left there for some time, he is then released, but instantly bundled into a tiny cage, still in his clingfilm restraints. Ms Slide, speaking throughout about fetish and fear, is a cruel Mistress.

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Merman II