Masturbation Monday: The keening sound of punishment

The cane impacted low across Emily’s bottom, the sound of rattan on skin sharp and loud. A second later Emily grunted. The sounds were to be remembered. As was the ripple in her flesh, and the slight, quickly controlled jerk of her hips. And the mark of that first stroke, flaring neat and thin across her bottom, emerging as a cream-coloured line that quickly turned pink and then red.  

Emily’s posture gave her immense sexual power, as she knew. She was posing, doing a show for her … whatever I was. I was Emily’s lover, obviously, but what was I becoming? We wouldn’t go back to how we’d been before. I didn’t think she’d want me to relinquish the rights I’d just acquired. I didn’t approve of my new rights, but I didn’t want to relinquish them either.

Emily moved her left foot to firm her stance. The movement signalled acceptance of whatever came, and that excited me. I swung the cane again. Lustily. It landed, loudly, an inch or so below that first stripe. Emily’s head and shoulders jerked up, her hair flying, but she almost instantly returned to position, releasing her breath in a sweet, low gasp.

Her fingers hovered a few inches above her feet. I’d told her to touch her toes, but I let it pass. The second stripe declared itself, a little below the first stroke, which had by now raised itself into a welt. Emily couldn’t see me as clearly as I could study her, but she could see when I braced my feet. So she sucked in air and held it when I raised the cane.

I arced the cane down, resisting the urge to make the stroke gentler, and watched a third stripe bloom, a parallel line across the best-padded part of her bottom. Emily’s third expulsion of breath was voiced.

Some time later I stopped to watch Emily’s bottom squirming, her movements blatantly sexual though she was no longer aware of or concerned about how she looked. Her buttocks were decorated by five straight, separated stripes. Her hands still pointed obediently down, but had moved beside her ankles, the fingers and thumbs splayed and taut. It was an effort not to put them in the way of the cane. Tears ran down the bridge of her nose, tracking down her forehead to her hairline. She made a small keening sound, more in her nose than her mouth.

I reached down and stroked Emily’s hair, and teary forehead. The other hand, still holding the cane, I put round her waist and pulled her to me. The keening noise was louder, though she sounded in some way comforted. Emily pressed her hip against me. I wanted to tell her, reassuringly, that she was a good girl, and then felt the absurdity of that. In what way was I an expert on goodness?

But I had to say something.

It was my first attempt at this sort of thing. “You’re so beautiful. You’re so brave. I love you.” And, because it seemed called for, “you’re a good girl. Really. I do know that.” Emily’s keening became sobs. So she had wanted to hear that. I stroked her hair. She reached her hand to take mine, the hand holding the cane.

Emily’s sobs slowly subsided while I held her, and she said, “ah-huh, ah-huh”. She was agreeing with something, though I wasn’t sure what.

Sinful Sunday: Comfort after punishment

One of the best things about the classic “bend over and grasp the table edge” position is that after the punishment you can give comfort and pleasure to a bad girl who’s taken her punishment well, and who you know is feeling sorry. 

And without her having to move, you can give her comfort and pleasure until she feels like a happy, wet, wanting, kind of sloppy, loved good girl again. 

 

E[lust] 112: Featuring some great writers, and me

Elust 112

Elust 112 Header Cara Thereon naked on the sofa
Photo courtesy of Cara Thereon

Welcome to Elust 112

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #113? Start with the rules, come back December 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Broken Idol

So Your Partner Has Feelings for Someone Else

Vagina, vag-OWW-NO

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Responsibilities of erotic fiction characters
Pause on Red

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Hell for leather

https://jerusalemmortimer.com/tender/

 

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Relax Baby…We Got This.
Harry Potter Cured a Phobia My Abuser Gave Me
I didn’t mean to write this.

Erotic Fiction

Tied Up Tuesday
Andromeda
Scattered Lilies
My Eyes Adored You
Marks
caught in his web
Oh what a tangled web…
A Fine White Thread
The Doll’s Face
The Cold Breath of Night
…and Pause

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Men should STFU

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

One decision from a totally different life.
The changing nature of my submission

Erotic Non-Fiction

Feathers
Hmnh. Well, that was different.
Mid-Locktober Confessions/Punishment

Poetry

-16.10.18_00:59-

Blogging

Blogging and me

Writing About Writing

Rage & happies, #dommelife

Elust

Wicked Wednesday: Repair work for spanked Jennifers

Jennifer had just taken a dozen smacks with the slipper. It seems like a cosy, domestic implement, but in fact a firm slippering hurts much as the cane or paddle. She had another eighteen strokes to go, and I’d offered her a break, if she wanted to come back and finish her slippering tomorrow. 

It was always a dilemma. One the one hand she felt she couldn’t take any more. On the other, it’d mean she had more of the slipper to look forward to and twenty-four hours to think about it.

At last she said, “Oh sir, I wanted to take it all today. I was trying to be brave.”

“Of course you were brave, Jennifer.”

“But the slipper… it doesn’t care what I try to do. I don’t think I could stand more, sir. Not now. Can I come back tomorrow? For the rest? Please?”

I paused, as though it were a hard decision, though I’d offered her the choice just a few seconds earlier. At last I said, “Yes.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I said, “Can you stand?”

“I think so, sir.” Jennifer slid to her knees on the floor. Her hands hovered near her bottom, but she thought better of touching it. She put her hands on her head, instead. She wanted to be good, and for me to see that.

“Oh my god, sir. I’ll never. Ever. Do that again. Oh my god.”

I stood up, my cock still tenting my trousers. I felt sorry for her, but I also desired her. I imagined the heat of her bottom blaring into me, while she knelt on the carpet and I took her from behind. I held out my hand.

Jennifer saw my erection, but made no comment. She’d seldom known me not to be hard, when she was in my presence; it was a fact of life. She took my hand, and I helped her to rise, shakily, onto her feet. Then I held her.

“Here,” I said. “Just lean on me. You can cry, little one. And you were very brave. The slipper is a much fiercer implement than most people think. It’s ok not to be able to take two dozen in one go. You did well.”

“Thank you, sir.” She leaned in against me. She sniffled, once, but the tears did not resume. “I tried so hard. But it hurt so much. I don’t think I’ll sit down for a week.”

“You’ll be surprised how fast you recover, Jennifer. Which reminds me. I want you to bend over my desk now.”

“Oh sir! You said–“

“Silly girl. This isn’t punishment. This is repair work, for spanked Jennifers. Like yesterday. I’m going to put some lotion on your skin, to reduce the pain, and cool it down and reduce the swelling. So: are you going to bend over so I can cool you down, or do you want a touch of the cane first?”

“Sir!” Jennifer moved at light speed, it seemed. She was over my desk, legs apart in what seemed like no time at all.

I took the lotion from the cupboard. “I should say that this is rather… personal, Jennifer. When I apply the lotion I’m going to have to touch you in a very intimate way. As you recollect. You can have Maddie in to supervise, or I’m sure she’d be delighted to do it for you.” 

“No! Please sir, I’d rather it was you. Only you.” I knew, as she did, that with those words she was giving me a lot more than either of us were saying. Aloud.

“As you wish. Then turn your head, so your cheek rests on the table. Arms out, over your shoulders. Good.” I uncapped the lotion.

Masturbation Monday: The right thing

I’d just used moral blackmail, talking about how she’d hurt me, to ensure she agreed to being punished. This was new territory for both us – I’d never punished a submissive before – but I was sure that talking about how she’d hurt me was wrong. So I’d apologised. 

But Emily shook her head. “No, I’m sorry, I really am. I’m so sorry. And … you should do it. Punish me. I want you to. Well.” So I held her again. Emily buried her head in my shoulder while I stroked her neck, feeling that I was, on the whole, a shit.

Eventually we stood apart, and I took the cane from her. We’d been here countless times. But never like with this meaning. I said, “All right, Emily, you’ve asked for this, and now you’re going to get it.” That was true. “I’m going to beat you. As you deserve.”

‘Deserve’ was weak; I wasn’t sure what it meant. But I bet Emily had liked ‘I’m going to beat you’; that had sounded ruthless. I added, “Take off your clothes. Everything, including your watch. Quickly.” 

Emily undid and shed yesterday’s party clothes. I knew she’d prefer to be bending over the bed, tied down so she didn’t have to hold still. She wouldn’t have that. When she was naked I pointed the cane at her feet. “Put your feet apart. Wider.”

Emily obeyed solemnly, hands at her sides. I touched the cane to her belly, then touched it to her mouth. “Kiss.”

Emily bestowed a blessing on the rattan, easily. It seemed that I’d hoped for more reluctance.

“Thank you. Now turn around, please, Emily, bend over and touch your toes.”

Emily obeyed the traditional instruction, jack-knifing her body and reaching down to assume that simplest and most submissive of postures, beloved by bonobos, actors pretending to be teachers in bad porn videos, and me. It’s a hard pose to sustain for ten strokes, but she’d managed before. The position is emotionally as well as physically exposed. That seemed right.

“Thank you, Emily.” Still polite. I pressed the cane to the undercurve of her bottom, so she knew where the first stroke was coming.  

I was enjoying Emily’s submission display – would I fuck her after I’d caned her? Of course I would – but I was aware of softer emotions that I hadn’t expected. I’d lost my anger. Emily was giving me an extraordinary amount of trust, and that meant I had to be loving and protective. I had to be worthy of her.

There seemed to be something I hadn’t expected in this, something loving. It wasn’t “parental” because Emily wasn’t at all childlike and anyway I don’t think adults should hit children. But I was calmer than I’d expected, and oddly certain that I was acting from love. I suspected that I might be doing the right thing. I raised the cane.

Emily closed her eyes tight. I let her wait while I considered how hard to strike. I knew this had to hurt her. I put some speed and force into the swing.

 

Harsh

Sometimes a slavegirl misbehaves. She was having trouble getting essays in on time. I’d worked round the clock that night, writing the appendices for her for a major project, that had to be handed in in the morning or it wouldn’t be accepted. She wrote the main section. 

So in the morning, when the completed project was emailed off, a minute before deadline,  I was not pleased. There was a discussion to be had, on why this had happened and how to stop it happening again. 

But first there was punishment. This photo is from about two-thirds of the way through. Later she needed to cry in my arms and be comforted, but first she needed the harshness.  

Tenderness and the harshness, and her need for both, are all expressions of love.

 

 

Tender

Every good submissive needs aftercare. After a punishment, or a session. 

The body is suspicious of pain. It wants to know why it hurts, and how to interpret that assault.

A submissive who’s been punished hard, or used hard, and now has welts and bruises, needs to know that he or she is loved and cared for, valuable and special. 

That has a practical reason. It prevents or at least limits sub drop, the state of self-doubt and depression that can come in and bring the submissive’s emotional and physical state down, after the landing from flying through sub space. It’s like an ecstasy reaction, and like the eccie hangover, it sometimes comes immediately the effect wears off, and sometimes it comes a couple of days later. 

So the Dom needs to give the submissive a lot of love and affection and tangible signs of caring, to reduce the drop, and give the submissive some things he or she can hold on to, and use to fight the negative feelings that can follow a session.

That obligation can’t be discharged in one session. Some submissives need immediate aftercare only, but others need immediate aftercare, and a second course one or two days later.

Tenderness is a crucial part of aftercare: the hugs, the soft, loving words, the treats, the warm bath where the dom shampoos the submissive’s hair, the love-making afterwards.

But it’s more than aftercare. I think, anecdotally, that all doms in a long-term bdsm relationship love their submissive. With the physical and emotional intensity of bdsm, and the awesome power of the submissive’s surrender, it’s hard not to.

Sometimes we show that love in a harsh, cruel way, knowing that the submissive needs our harshness in order to take flight. And sometimes we’re just tender, because that’s how we feel.  

Tenderness is kind of underrated in bdsm literature, especially the sexy porn literature. But in reality, it’s essential. 

Wicked Wednesday: Writhing, kicking and bawling

Jennifer heard me sigh. She knew I was appreciating the view she was giving me, over my lap. And she remembered why she was in that place. She said, “Please sir, please give me the slipper. Hard. Don’t show me any mercy, even if it blisters my bottom.”

Her voice was shaky, high-pitched, on ‘blisters my bottom’. She found that was a scary thought.

In reality I wasn’t going to raise any blisters, not on a first slippering. But a little fear would do her no harm. I said, “Good girl. You asked very nicely. And of course I shall.”

I placed the slipper on the crown of her left buttock, so she knew where the next wave of pain would arrive.

Then I raised it, drawing it up over my shoulder. Jennifer said, “Oooh,” when the slipper was gone. I let her wait while I counted, slowly, to five. Then I swept the slipper down, landing on her bottom with a solid, rubber on skin impact. The sound was louder than a pistol shot. Jennifer screamed, and her body stiffened.

I watched her fight for control, and brought the slipper down again. Both cheeks were showing a slipper-shaped mark, blossoming to a deeper red than the marks left by my hand.

Jennifer writhed and screamed and cried, her arms and legs flailing, while I held her in place and continued.

After the first six I concentrated on the softer skin of her lower bottom, and the volume and urgency of her cries escalated. I gave her the eleventh and twelfth strokes on the backs of her thighs, sending her frantic. She was weeping copiously, and the tears flew in the air as she wildly bobbed and shook her head.

I stopped after the twelfth stroke. “You’re halfway done, Jennifer, girl.” If she heard me she gave no sign, still writhing, kicking and bawling. I said, “Settle down, Jennifer. I’m allowing you this time to recover yourself. But you will be quiet and behave yourself.” Still no difference.

I let my voice become harder. “You lie still and keep quiet right now, Jennifer, or I’ll give you extra!”

That worked magic. She put her legs together and pressed her thighs down, over mine. She pressed her fingers on the carpet and pushed herself back a little, so her bottom was again in perfect position for me.

And she stopped her wailing, though the tears still flowed.

“Good girl,” I said. “Now, you have another dozen with the slipper to go. Plus six penalty strokes. Would you rather have them now, or come back to my office tomorrow to take them then?”

Jennifer froze. For a long time she said nothing. 

Masturbation Monday: How to say the wrong thing

Emily had just declared that she wanted to be punished. It sounded like an oath to me, so I added, “Being of sound mind, ekt.”

Emily looked, for a second, up at the ceiling. “Oh, utterly sound mind.” 

“Ok. Look, as far as I’m concerned, there are two things. You shouldn’t have let me wait till three in the morning before you called me. I’m going to punish you for that. So that’s, um, ten strokes tonight, for making me worry about you. Whether you were ok.”

Emily said, “Ok.”

“And Marty, the Marty … thing. You put yourself in danger. It was stupid, and I’m not going to let you do that again. So I’m giving you a dozen tomorrow, for putting yourself in danger. You were scared, and you scared the shit out of me. That is not going to happen again.”

She nodded, silent. I did some counting. “So you’ve got twenty-two strokes, over two days, and I think I’m being lenient. If it hurts, and I’m going to make sure it does, you’ve got it coming.” 

Emily nodded again, thoughtfully. She said, “I guess I do.” I’d given her more strokes than that before. It was on the severe side, but it wasn’t outlandish. I hadn’t mentioned infidelity, having sex with fucking Marty. Fucking Marty. That was on both our minds but we didn’t say it. We were both influenced by versions of feminism, in which jealousy was one of patriarchy’s darkest and most dangerous corners. We were trying to be cool about that. She said, “I suppose. I suppose that’s fair.”

“And you lied to me. That’s more. One more day. Another six.” That was cheating, increasing the number after Emily had agreed. But I’d said it without thinking, and once it was said the rules seemed to say that I couldn’t go back on it. I’d have to remember not to do that again. “So that’s what it’s going to be.”

“That’s a lot, Jaime. I don’t know if I should …” She shrugged, impatient with herself. “No, okay. When?”

“We start right now, Emily. Go get the cane. Bring it to me.”

Emily gazed at me, then nodded without speaking, and left. It seemed she didn’t call me “sir” when it was real. The canes were in a cupboard with other toys and tools in Emily’s room. She returned holding a thickish length of rattan, about four feet long. But she didn’t immediately offer it to me. “I don’t have to take this if I don’t want to.”

She meant to say that she was reaffirming her choice and her consent, but I misunderstood her. “No, you’re right. You don’t have to.” That was the right thing to say.

Then I said, “But you deserve it, Emily. You really deserve it.” That wasn’t so good; I’d thought that I wasn’t going to be a bully.

I followed with worse. “Emily, you lied to me. And you fucked that – you fucking hurt me, Emily.” 

Emily stopped. A tear spilled, began its trail. Then gleaming tracks down both cheeks. Emma wept silently, still holding the cane. I said, “Oh fuck, I’m sorry.”

Sinful Sunday: A terrifying transmogrification

 

 

One of the most dangerous things about being a European, particularly in the Celtic or Graeco-Roman traditions, is that one day you’ll be going about your business and then – wham! – you find yourself turning into a swan! 

We don’t hold with that nonsense in the Mountains. However, every so often swans transform into beautiful naked women. That seems like a better deal, to me. 

I managed to get a picture this swan right in the middle of its transmogrification.