Wicked Wednesday: Death is not life

I’ve spoken my eulogy. My father has been cremated. His descendants and their lovers had the wake. A very Irish wake. I’ve recovered from emotion, also alcohol poisoning. And now I’m home, and dead tired. 

I drank most of a bottle of Cointreau with a brother I used to be close to. He was twelve years older than me, and when I was a boy he was easy with people, and especially with women, in ways that I’ve never quite managed. I hero-worshipped him.

I borrowed from him and got better at talking with women. That was at least partly because of sex, though sex with women wasn’t the only reason I’ve always preferred women to men. What they say just tends to be more interesting, at least to me. 

They seem more likely to talk about what’s really going on. And to be less hidden, and less competitive. Though I suppose women compete with each other and not so much with me. 

That thing about competitive speech may be the reason I know a fair number of women who prefer the company of men to that of women. Even some lesbians. 

I still haven’t got all that good at talking to most men, partly because a hell of a lot of men talk about sports, real estate and other stuff that bores the shit out of me. No doubt it’s also partly because I don’t fancy men, so I have less incentive to be close to many of them.

Anyway, my brother and I managed to get our closeness back. That was good.

I never understood why he stopped communicating with me. It wasn’t a quarrel, and nothing dramatic happened. He just withdrew, and when I tried to reach out he’d let it fall flat.

I mostly blame myself when things get weird inter-personally, but it must have been something going on with him. He withdrew from a lot of people outside of his own family at that time. 

But we’re men. We enjoyed talking again. But we never talked about that. Anyway it’s good that’s over and we’ve started again. 

I’ve spent a while with death.

I feel a great need to follow my heart and be involved in sex. My girl is still a long way away. But the time when we will close in on each other – in an Italian castle! – is getting closer.

I want to be naked and in her arms and in her. I want to feel her arms and her cunt around me. As well as other parts of her body. I want us to melt and dissolve and merge. While still pumping and pulling and wresting for each other.

The life force may not be exactly the same thing as sex, but sex is its avatar. It’s how it shows itself to the world. 


Sinful Sunday: Shake it all about

God! It’s huge!


Master! You should bloody try it and see.

Actually, I don’t think I will, girl. Who’s Master?

The man who just shoved a plug up my bum? 

The same. Ah, would you like me to take it out?

Er, no. It’s kind of ok. I think I could get used to it. Thank you. No.

Click on the lips for more Sinful Sunday goodness!

Wicked Wednesday: The pale court of kingly death

To that high Capital, where kingly Death 
       Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay, 
       He came; and bought, with price of purest breath, 
       A grave among the eternal.—Come away! 
       Haste, while the vault of Waitemata’s day 
       Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still 
       He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay; 
       Awake him not! surely he takes his fill
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.
My father lies in a coffin in his homeland. I leave tomorrow to be with my brothers and sisters, and his body, at his funeral. It’s only for a few people: his children and their partners, and a few grand-children. My mother’s funeral was a bigger affair, but that was because he was alive, and he needed it. Now he needs nothing. 

Totora live for 1,000 years. This is the oldest known totara tree. Its name is Pouakani. It has a temper, and its best not to sleep under it.

On Saturday we’ll drink the horrible sherry he drank, in his honour, and tell stories about him. And he will be cremated. In a year’s time, his children, my brothers and sisters and I, will come together again to mingle his ashes with those of the love of his life, our mother. We’ll dig a hole in the earth among the roots of a young totara tree, which will be fed by both of them and of which both of them will become a part. 

No one in my family believes in life after death, including my father. He knew he’s not going to join my mother for sherry on the balcony in heaven. But he found the symbolism of that reunion in a living, growing thing was right and comforting. 
I’ve written about my father before. My father was a man of power, both the possessor of institutional power by holding various offices, and of personal power. He was, I’m pretty sure, not into bdsm himself, but the way in which he exercised power has been the model for a lot of what I do as a dom. 
That is, he exercised power in a way that was kindly, mostly selfless, and that didn’t take himself, or power, entirely seriously. At the same time he could be terrifying. He used that power to keep some sort of peace in a school playing-ground, and, later, working for the UN, trying to keep the factions working together in places like Afghanistan.
I use that skill more trivially, for the pleasure and amusement of submissive women. So long as they know it’s not real, so that it only feels as real as they want it to. Because I know some things that my father didn’t know, I’m suspicious of power, except where it is received voluntarily, and it’s at the service of sexual and other pleasure. 
Still, he used his power as benignly as he could manage, and since he was intelligent and strong, he could manage a lot.
With his passing I become a kaumatua. Of no hapu, but still, there it is. I’m next in line.
Because of the death in the family, this isn’t the planned Wicked Wednesday story. But Jennifer and her headmaster will be back next week. 

Sinful Sunday: Consolation

Arethusa said, Oh, Master. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Master. I – 

No, it’s over, darling. And you were brave and good. And your – the fault’s forgotten. You’ve paid for it, the slate’s clean and you’re a good girl again. I’ll never mention it again. 

[I was telling the truth. I’ve genuinely forgotten what the fault was that led to the stripes in this picture. It would be something that I felt harmed her interests, and that I’d warned her about. And that she’d repeated anyway. It’d be laziness or carelessness, because she doesn’t wilfully disobey.]

But I hate disappointing you. I feel … [She shook her head, still on all fours on our bed.]

Shhhh, love. You’re a good girl. Wonderful fucking girl. You’re a good girl with a sore arse, right now. But I do know how wonderful you are. I know that I love you, little one. 

[Arethusa isn’t a brat. She likes to be good. The worst thing about being punished, for her, isn’t the pain, which happens often enough for purely sexual reasons, but having to feel bad because she’d disappointed her master and lover.]

I know that too. And I love you, Master. But I let you down. 

Here. Relax, ‘thuse. You’re the world to me. And …

Ahh… Yeah, yes…

[And that’s when I took this photo, left-handed. Just before I put my right thumb where any person of sense, in love with the woman on that bed and wanting her to feel good, would put their thumb. And hold her firmly and begin to stroke, and then pump. There was no more conversation for some time, and no more talk about feeling guilty. Eventually, cuddled in spoon position on the bed, we slept the rest of the afternoon away.]

Click on the lips for more Sinful Sunday goodness!

Bdsm graphic art: Guido Crepax and Milo Manara

I’ve been looking at the work of the two leading male bdsm graphic artists: Guido Crepax and Milo Manara. The other artist I’d say is really important and really good is Paula Meadows, whose work looks a little more amateurish and folksy, but it’s done with real conviction. But I’ll write about Paula Meadows (whose work comes out under a variety of names) in a post all to herself.  

Here’s a Guido Crepax page. It’s a whipping scene from his comic book adaptation of Sade’s Justine. Note the really interesting frame layout, and the telling use of erotic details: the eyes and mouths of Justine’s tormentors, the little dance with her feet when the whip lands, the instant on the whip’s landing across her bottom, and the energy of the whip and the man wielding it. 

This is one of his heroine’s, I think Valentina. There’s something about her look that reminds me of French films from the 1960s, Jean-Luc Godard, say. 

So we get the Louise Brooks pageboy hairdo, the sullen mouth, small breasts, very skinny arms. Also, the Valentina books resemble 60s French art films  because there’s a lot of casual dipping in and out of surrealism, and the plots never make a lot of sense. 

Though I’d rather read Crepax than watch a Jean-Luc Godard movie any day. The cinema of “the novelty of boredom” outstayed its welcome after about five minutes.

Took a woman to a Godard retrospective at the local Film Society few years back. Worst date evah. Not her fault. Not really mine. Godard’s. What a wanker. But I digress.

His work is very stylish, and his lines are very elegant. On the other hand, the women he draws tend to be like Vogue models, being extremely slender, sometimes bordering on emaciated. His women look beautiful, but you know that if you took one out for dinner she’d spend ages chewing one lettuce leaf and toying with the same glass of mineral water all night. So, enjoyably perverse though his female characters may be, they probably wouldn’t be a fun date. 

That’s a pretty shallow response to art, of course, but it is meant to be sexy. So, his work is very elegant, but a little bit cold. 

Milo Manara, on the other hand, draws women who look like sensual women who like food and fucking, and are also enjoyably perverse. If it were me, I’d prefer to go out with a Milo Manara woman. Here’s a Manara post-whipping scene. 

You don’t get the interesting lay-out that Guido Crepax gives us. But the woman, freshly whipped and posing for her portrait with welts, has a fleshly quality, a kind of exuberant sexiness. She’s slender, but not starved. Her left breast is just visible, and it seems to be in a world where the body has real three-dimensional properties like weight. 

The set-up, “You must be whipped so I can paint you”, is nicely perverse.

Here’s a slightly silly, cartoonish, girl on girl spanking. With an audience. It’s clear, which is never quite clear in a Crepax frame, that the two women are enjoying themselves, both spanker and spankee.

The woman on top, facing us while she spanks her not-very-helpless victim/lover, has breasts that would never appear in a 1960s French art film or a Guido Crepax drawing. The hair in Manara art is more Gina Lollobrigida or Sophia Loren than French chic.

It gets mussed up, and sweaty. 

Look, I think Crepax is a better artist, objectively. But here’s a last Manara panel, demonstrating why I prefer his work. You get curves with your collar. And freckles!

Wicked Wednesday 240: Jennifer’s pleats and pleas 13: A fresh slate?

Maddie had asked me if she could suck my cock. It was true that she enjoyed giving head, and under some circumstances she could come from it. More or less. Actually she could come if she could find something she could press her pussy against, like her ankle, in some positions, or my leg. Still, she certainly enjoyed it, and was rightly proud of being good at it. 

A good girl: Maddie at 4.30, Version 1

But this time she’d probably offered because she was worried I was annoyed with her for being free with her advice, and for the shambolic condition of the photocopy room. And I had the cane in my hand.

So she  hoped that her lips around my cock would distract me from giving her more of that cane.

But I’d fucked her only a few minutes earlier. Probably I would get hard once she took me in her mouth, and even come, because she really was skilled and enthusiastic. But the urge was no longer urgent. And I knew it’d be an urgent need later today. 

So I stepped back and zipped up, while she watched warily. “No.” 

“As you wish, sir.” Maddie sounded dismayed. She watched, with alarm, the hand that held the cane. 

Erwin Schrödinger: famous for thought-experiments involving pussies

“Get Jennifer into my office after school, giving me a good reason to have called her. And have this room tidy and spotless. If you do both of those things, to my satisfaction, then you can suck me off.” 

She nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“Stand up.”

Maddie stood, her skirt still around her hips. I smacked her pussy, hard, with my hand. She grunted with the impact of my palm on her most sensitive skin.

Her eyes seemed to glaze. I liked the feel of her pussy against my hand while I hurt her, so I smacked her again. And again, while Maddie kept herself open, and still. Then I smacked her left inner thigh, hard, and she spread her legs wider for me. I put the cane against her labia. “Step forward.”

“Sir.” Maddie obeyed, so that the cane, where it had been touching her, disappeared between her lips. There was both excitement and fear in her eyes. She wanted to ride it, press the bamboo deeper into her and slide wetly back and forth on it, but she didn’t dare.

I nodded at her. I’m not sure if she saw me. All her attention was focused on her pussy, and the effort to keep still. I said, “Fail at either task, and what do you think happens instead?”

A bad girl: Maddie at 4.30PM, version 2

She shook her head, trying to concentrate. “I’d have to undress and bend over your desk. And you’d cane me. Sir.” You could hear it in her voice: I was a monster.

“We’ll discuss your recent behaviour, yes. For a very long, painful time, Maddie.”

She nodded. She knew that was true.

“And when we’re dome you’ll find driving home very uncomfortable. And you’ll be standing up or lying on your tummy for the next few days. That’s a guarantee.”

Maddie looked at my shoes. “Sir.”

I took the cane away from her pussy, and smacked the top of her right thigh. Then I held it so she could hold the middle. “This has got you all over it. Clean it, and put it away.”

“Yes sir.”

“I hope I do have to cane you, Maddie. It wipes the slate clean. It’s always a new start for you, whenever you’ve been punished.”

“That’s true, sir. I hope Jennifer comes to learn that.”

 I stepped back. “Right. We’re done for now. You may leave.”

“Thank you, sir.” She stood and tucked her top back into her skirt. She retrieved her panties from beside the photocopier and lifted her foot to put them on.

“No. Put them in your drawer. However today ends, you won’t be needing those.”

Maddie blushed. That meant she expected to pass both tests. If she’d expected to get the cane instead of the cock, she’d have paled.

I knew she was happy as things were, so I resisted the urge to smack her bare bottom fondly, or to say something approving or reassuring to her. I turned without a word and walked through the door into my office.


Sinful Sundae: O Calcutta!

A woman spanked and then bound represents a culmination. It’s taken a lot of loving work and communication to get us to this point, and to her submission. 

It’s also a commencement. Once we’ve reached here, then things can move between us. Oceanically, but the sky’s the limit.

Oh, and doesn’t she have a cute ass? Or, as we say on Earth, “O! Quel cul t’as!”

Oh Calcutta

Detail from Clovis Trouille’s painting, “O Calcutta! Calcutta!”

Well, some of us on Earth say that, anyway. The artist Clovis Trouille was a notoriously enthusiastic admirer of the comely, womanly ass, and he called his most famous painting, “O Calcutta! Calcutta!”

The title’s a pun on “O! Quel cul t’as”, which means, “Oh, what a [cute] ass you have!”  

Ken Tynan borrowed the painting, and the title, for his sinfully sexy (but nice) 1960s theatrical revue, O Calcutta.

In its original form, O Calcutta included two spanking sketches written by Tynan himself. Ken “Spanker” Tynan was notorious among his woman friends for his keenness on using the flat side of a hairbrush, so it’s not surprising that he wrote two spanking scenes for his show and, as director, accepted and included them. Unfortunately, these two scenes are omitted from modern revivals of O Calcutta.

John Lennon also wrote a scene for the original revue, but now Yoko, as guardian of the Lennon estate, won’t let it be used. But that’s enough about 20th century art and theatre: doesn’t my model have a cute ass?

Click on the lips for more Sinful Sunday goodness!

Looking back on this blog in 2016

2016 ends in a few hours, at least for me.

This is the 1,072th post on this blog. Here’s what I know about you, my readers.

Growth in readership

The stats show that the blog has been growing at a great rate. In my first year, 2012, I doubt if I had any readers at all. Well, I got comments, but my guess is that I only got a couple of 100 views.

I didn’t get a Statistics app until 2014, when I got about 10,000 views. In 2015 I got 32,000, and in 2016 I’ve had about 59,000.

I hope that trend continues: thank you to all readers!

Oh, and if you want to say hello, I’m always pleased, and always reply. Click on Contact us (“us”? It’s just me) and have your say, ask any question, or whatever you feel like!

Who reads this blog?

All I know about my readers is that most of you are in the US, followed by the UK, then Canada, then Australia. That’s not surprising, as it’s an English-language blog. But I also get a lot of hits from Germany and France, followed by the Netherlands.

I’d had readers from almost every country in the world, except for some of the small states in the middle of Africa, who may be short on internet connections and time to worry about middle-class first world people pursuing their pleasures.

And then there’s Greenland. This blog has never once had a single view from Greenland. I vow that in 2017 I will shamelessly pander to Greenland perverts! Siissisoq! Simon Lynge! Handball!

What do my readers like to read?

No matter how she tried, she couldn’t shake that damn stuff off.

The most popular post I’ve ever put up was about toothpasting a girl’s clitoris and waiting to see if she can stand still. (She can’t, and it’s only right that unfair penalties should apply when she moves.)

There were two follow up posts, also popular, here and here.

That was posted way back in 2013, and it’s still going strong. I hope one day to get a cheque from toothpaste companies, for encouraging extra sales.

The most popular post I put up in 2016 is this one, about sexual tension in Raylene’s bedroom.

The next most popular post put up in 2016 is this thought piece about the emotional connections between dom and submissive.

What that tells me is that how-to information is popular, and so is sexual material about different situations I’ve been in, over the years.

The school skirt she bought mail order. But finding a desk that looked school-y, at about the right height: that took serious shopping

The other thing I know is that schoolgirl spanking stories are very popular. I’ve done two series, both times because it was suggested or requested by a woman I was with at the time. The comments make me think that the schoolgirl fantasy is more popular with women readers than with male readers.

Though that’s just a feeling, without enough evidence to make a reliable conclusion.

Men and women readers

I also suspect, without knowing it, that a higher proportion of this blog’s readers are women than men. It’s a truism that women like wordy erotica with a lot of focus on the character’s feelings, while men go for the pictorial. So this blog’s sheer wordiness, and focus on feelings, skews its audience female.

A girl who knows better than that. (Possibly my favourite image, of all I’ve posted.)

I run pictures that mostly seem to me to be hot, but they’re not usually the point of the post. They illustrate the words rather than replacing them. So maybe sex bloggers get more female readers, while sex tumblrs attract more male eyes.

Anyway, I’m grateful to everybody of whatever gender and orientation who has ever dropped by to read me.

I hope your 2017 is far, far better than your 2016!

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 136: Ambiguity and the cane

Lynette had watched Lynette’s struggles, now with extra red stripes across the tops of her thighs, and Dorabella’s breasts while she fought to keep Raylene in place across her desk.

She stepped closer to me so we watched together, breathing in unison. Lynette whispered to me, “Fuck, that’s hot.”

“Yeah. They’re hot.”

“But you’re not doing that to me. You’re not going to cane me.” 

I kissed her. She put her hands on the back of my head and kissed back. She meant it, as did I. So we were engrossed for a time.

Lynette did nothing to keep her body away from my erection, even when I slipped my free hand under her skirt, to cup and then squeeze her ass. Eventually I took a breath and smiled. “Well, that’s up to you.” 

William “Neckbeard” Empson, of Seven Types of Ambiguity fame. I’d used Type 3: the same word or phrase expressing two conflicting ideas

“Ah. That’s one of the types of ambiguity.” She was right.

At surface level it meant I wouldn’t cane her unless she asked me too. But I’d also meant that I wouldn’t cane her if she behaved herself, but I might if she didn’t: and how she behaved was up to her. 

“Can’t have play if you don’t have ambiguity,” I said, which can’t possibly be true, so I distracted her, reaching my fingers under her ass to stroke damp, soft, perineal skin. Lynette closed her eyes, still kissing me.

So there was no more discussion, even though the topic was interesting and all. 

Dorabella made an unconvincing cough noise. She hadn’t let Raylene get her body off the desk, so she’d been good. And Raylene was back under her own control, her body still and expectant, her feet well parted and her bottom posed and poised for the cane.

So I gave Lynette the look that means duty calls, and she nodded. But my fingertips reached, and pressed against, the outer folds of her cunt, and she made a sweet, soft sound. But I withdrew my hand after a few seconds, shaking my head. “We’ll want you here one minute past twelve, Lynette. Don’t you be a second late.”

“Is that a threat?” But she was bright-eyed, amused by me again.

“Well, it could be. But mainly it was desire. Um, extreme desire.” 

“Ok.” We looked each other in the eyes. We were both going to fuck Raylene after midnight, and then each other. And so the night would pass. But right now… 

I picked up the cane, looked into Dorabella’s eyes for a few seconds, and said, “That was well done.” She glanced for a second at the cane in my hand, but said nothing. Silence is another type of ambiguity.

I tapped the bamboo across Raylene’s upper thighs. She’d already taken a few strokes on that most sensitive flesh, but now I was going to mark them properly.

She said, “Oh fuck…” She knew what those taps meant.  

Those stripes would still be burning when I fucked her, whether I put her on her back or took her from behind. And I was certain that Raylene wanted that pain as much as I did. 

I said, “Ready?” She laughed. I raised the cane.