E[lust] 87: I’m in an e[lust] a-[list]! I’m a Mollie’s Pick, so Mollie’s cool!

Photo courtesy of Understanding Flutterby

Welcome to Elust 87 

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~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

On Secret Identities

Dividing lines…

Ember and Ash


~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Bdsm: Our pleasures are our obligations



~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Change your Cookbook: a monogamuggle’s guide to cookin’ with poly folk

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

When Love is not enough.
the fantasy and reality of my arrival


Shine a Light

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

When You’re Bad
How Women Use Their Sexuality As A Weapon
Dear Fans: Quit Kinkbashing

Erotic Fiction

Big Daddy
The Front to Back Challenge
GAME OF TWO HALVES – role shift
no. 106

Erotic Non-Fiction

He’s Cumming
Washing up
Chew Toy
So many friends with benefits


One Stroke
Early Morning Haikus

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A library of filthy books 2: The bdsm case


These are the top two shelves of the (mostly) bdsm bookcase. It starts with Taschen reprints of Eric Stanton femdom fantasies. And a shiny gold book of historical erotic photos, most of which don’t have any bdsm relevance, but it’s there to be with the rest of the Taschen books. There’s safety in numbers. As the mathematicians say.

Then Sade, Sacher-Masoch, “Walter” and his secret life (I’ve read it all, so you don’t have to: god, that man was a terrible writer), then various books of Victorian porn, and a few samples from pre-Victorian times. 


The next two shelves are mostly 20th century bdsm erotica, plus two of the 50 Shades books, which I picked up off the free book exchange table at the local rail station. Plus a few non-fiction books. The wiry brass couple fucking on the upper shelf are from Mali. And the stocky fellow with a thick (but short) erection on the lower shelf is a piece of Saami art, from Lappland.

bottom-shelvesThese are the two bottom shelves. On the left of the upper of these two shelves, there’s one of the very few actually valuable books or series I own. Those three volumes are the bibliographies of Henry Ashbee, possibly better known as Pisanis Fraxi. The Index Liber Prohibitorium, or Index of Forbidden Books, and its two successors. First editions, from Victorian times.

The very bottom shelf has various books of erotic art, including bdsm art, like the works of Guido Crepax and Milo Manara.

The thing with a Playboy Bunny Symbol is the complete set of Playboy from the 1950s, on CD-ROM. I’d get the collection for the 1960s as well, but I’ve never seen it in this format. I wouldn’t bother with the 1970s, though Robert Anton Wilson was still editing and writing there at the time. But it was an important and stylish literary mag, for a while. 

The duck? He’s a reed duck decoy, First Nation art from the Canadian prairies. He’s got no business being there amongst the sex books in particular. But the duck, he just wanted to be there.  Maybe he’s a mallard: they – unlike most other birds – actually have a penis.

And you need a duck, don’t you, if you want to write a rhyming poem about sex.

I was walkin’ down the road an I met a little duck.

He said, “How are ya, human, you look down on your luck?”

I said,”I saw that sexy Sally, tried to slip my nip inside her tuck;

She told me nobody loves me an I’ll never get a -” And so on.

Anyway, that’s the Concavity of Depravity, where Cinderella posed, waiting for her Prince. (Who did come.)  


Cinderella has naming rights, for various reasons. She tells me the whole room is the Library of Depravity, and only the sex books section is the Concavity of Depravity. That seems fine to me.


Wicked Wednesday: Jennifer’s pleats and pleas 2

“Ah, Jennifer,” I said, once she was in my office and I’d closed the door. Jennifer was a pretty girl. Dark hair, cut into a mop around her face. Pretty smile, I knew from memory, though she wasn’t smiling now. She was trying to look calm, but her left hand was clenched, her nails worrying at her palm.  

She’d done up the second to top button of her blouse, to make a less immodest display of her cleavage, but she hadn’t been able to do anything about her skirt. It was cut high at her thighs, several smooth, feminine inches above the knee. She stood about five foot nothing, which underscored the voluptuous promise of her bottom, and the slender womanliness of her thighs. 

All I had to do, if I wanted to inspect that “genital pouch” that had provided Jennifer Perch with her school nickname, would be to tell her to put her hands on her head. The skirt would rise two inches, and that would be all it took.

But those were my thoughts, which I couldn’t do much about. In practice I’d have to tell her she couldn’t wear her school uniform skirt that short. That would make a lot of the boys less happy, but it had to be done if Jennifer was going to succeed at school at all.

I’d been tempted, when I’d paddled Jennifer’s two classmates yesterday, to make them take off their skirts as well as lower their panties. They’d kept slipping down, and I wanted to make sure my reputation as a ruthless disciplinarian was well established. But with Jennifer that would be unnecessary. Once she was over my knee, that skirt would give little more protection than a pleated belt. 

I looked at her. She couldn’t meet my gaze. She looked past me, at the row of certificates behind my desk. “Sit down.” I indicated the straight-backed wooden chair.

Terrifying headmaster, with tawse. And is he really a Pogues fan, or does he just like rum, sodomy and the lash?

Terrifying headmaster, with tawse. And is he really a Pogues fan, or does he just like rum, sodomy and the lash?

That chair, as I suspected Jennifer knew the moment she saw it, was going to play a major, dreaded, part in her life for the next few months.

She was a little short to be able to bend over it and rest her head on the seat when I paddled or caned her. But she could bend over facing the front of the chair, holding the seat for support.

She could lie over the seat, fingers and toes to the floor, flopping like a mermaid out of water when the tawse landed on her bottom.

In the meantime she sat on it, hands together and not still, staring at her knees.

She knew why she was here. She’d skipped classes, and she was to be punished. She blushed suddenly, and her knees drifted further apart.

The movement sent my imagination racing again. I could, once she was used to discipline, have her wearing only her shirt, sitting backwards on that chair, bottom extending past the seat, projected and unprotected into the air, with her thighs open and straddling that hard back.   

I asked the question I always ask. It gives the student a chance to confess, and if they do, as a matter of honour I will halve their punishment. “Do you know why I called you in to see me?”

However, confession hardly ever happens. Jennifer was no exception. She couldn’t look at me. I guessed she was still a bad liar, and I intended to preserve that state. She shook her head. A lie, but at least she couldn’t speak it. 

“When I started at this school, I familiarized myself with the files of some of the more noteworthy students.” I stood looking out the window now. “Your file stood out: straight As, awards. You’re an accomplished young lady.”

She made a sound, a bit like a grunt. Her high achievement seemed to embarrass her. I would fix that. She was about to have other things to be embarrassed about, and discipline would get her focussed again. It might help her to feel special. She needed that. 

I didn’t look at her. She was looking about my office, I was sure. “So I was surprised, Jennifer, when I checked the attendance records of your classes and found that you’d been skipping some of them. That seemed out of character.”

Now I looked at her, using all of my height, such as it is. I saw the beginning of a smile. That had to be extinguished, fast. “You’re only harming yourself with that behavior. So now we’re going to correct it.”

She was silent. She remembered the two girls from yesterday. The paddle on bare skin, and the dramatic results. Was that about to be her?

“That’s very much for your own good, when you’re behaving like a silly, naughty child, and you’ve finally been caught, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I guess.” Her voice was dry. But she was still trying to be nonchalant. 

“The correct answer is ‘Yes, sir.’ Try it.”

She wasn’t looking at me. “Yes, sir.

She couldn’t have packed more insolence into those two words if she’d had drama lessons. But she would mean it, by the end of our session today. “You know your behaviour has to be punished, Jennifer. Skipping classes is foolish and childish so your punishment will be too. I’m going to give you a spanking.”

Now she looked at me. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes wide. 

“I mean now, Miss Perch. Stand up.”

I pushed the comfortable office chair out of the way, and brought out the companion to the one Jennifer was sitting on., wooden, with a high straight back. She hadn’t moved yet. I gave her another order, so she had a sense of orders backing up, of losing control. “Take off your blazer.”

Still nothing, except furious blushing. I spoke sharply. “Or would you rather have the paddle? Over my desk like your two friends yesterday?”

She didn’t want that. She stood up suddenly, and took off the blazer. Folded it and draped it over the back of her chair.

“Wise choice. Now come here.”

She did. She stood in front of me. Her knees were shaking. “Please don’t spank me, sir. I’ll do extra work. I’ll … write an essay. Or clean all the blackboards. I’ll be good, I promise! I – I’ve never been spanked. Never. Please, sir.”

There was a sound from the photocopier room. Maddie was listening. She wouldn’t have expected Jennifer to beg. Jennifer looked over briefly, then switched her attention back to me. She was near tears. “Sir? Please don’t. Please don’t spank me.”

I smiled at her and shook my head. I patted my right thigh. “Over my knee.”




A library of filthy books


This is the sex alcove in my library. It’s been named (not by me) the Concavity of Depravity. I like it, though, so it’s become my name for the whole damn library. 

Five cases of books about fucking. The case at the left, in the front, is for the pioneering sexologists: the complete works of Kinsey, Masters and Johnson, Havelock Ellis, whatever I’ve been able to get of Magnus Hirschfeld, Ivan Bloch and others. Plus Shere Hite, the legendary Juliet Richters of the Australian Survey on Health and Relationships (ASHR), and various others.

That long white object on the middle shelf of that bookcase is a whalebone dildo, which is probably Indonesian in origin, and was used for pleasure and (the head is relatively small) apparently to instruct young brides-to-be on their marital duties.

The case at the front right is devoted to less pleasant topics, like diseases, rape in the family, in the community and in prison, sexual abuse of children, and other horrible things.

The case on the inside left is for historical books – Aretino, Aristotle’s Masterpiece, the Memoirs of Casanova, and other good things. Also, sex work now and in the past. And pro-sex feminism, i.e. people like Lynn Segal.  

At the back, shining in the light, is the (mostly) bdsm bookcase. We’ll come back to that, on Thursday.

And the inside right bookcase, which is barely visible, contains people writing Theory (i.e. late 20th century pomo wankery) about sex and gender. And writing by anti-sex feminists, glowering across at their pro-sex counterparts in the left book case. 

Sinful Sunday: Bad Cinderella


Shortly after their marriage the Prince had moved the old pot-bellied stove from the home she had left to the palace. She used to sit by that stove, tending it and keeping it clean, while she boiled the water for washing her sisters’ clothes, and cooked for them, and kept the house warm. Sometimes she’d crouched behind it, small as a mouse, to avoid their blows and their insults.

Now she ate food made and brought by others, from golden platters, and drank wine of liquid gold from goblets carved from giant rubies. She slept in silken sheets on a bed of softest down. She’d complained once, as a joke, that she thought she’d felt a pea under her mattress.

But no-one had laughed. Instead there had been a great fuss, with even the Prince seeming worried, and that night she found they’d replaced the bed with one that was even softer. She never complained again. 

She lay on her back, thighs parted, beside her Prince. She’d become used to the Prince’s  enthusiasm for her, and his desire to have his cock in her as often, and for as long, as possible. She knew he would stir and reach over for her soon. She loved his love for her.

And yet…

She slipped out of his bed, as she sometimes did, and tiptoed down to the kitchen. She cast off her satin and mink gown, and stood naked for a few minutes, letting the cold and the grime in the air sink into her skin. Then she put on her old dress, all tatters and rips, in which she’d taken so many blows and shed so many tears. 

She heard the Prince, upstairs. He had woken, no doubt erect, and found her not beside him. She heard her wardrobe door open and close as he selected something from it, and then she heard his steps, coming down the stairs. 

When he found her, in that kitchen, beside its shelf of cookbooks and, strangely, books about the things a man and a woman might do together, he would be roaring, and the riding crop he’d taken from her wardrobe would be twitching in his hand, as though it was hungry for her flesh. She would be rolled in the ash, and welted until she cried, and later she would open her legs, gazing up at him, and cry for his mercy and relief. Then she would be fucked over and over again on that filthy floor, until at last they were sated.

He would call maids to come bathe their mistress, and rub strange Arabian ointments on her new wounds. How the girls would chatter, and wonder that their princess took thrashings that were never visited upon them. She would never explain, though they would sometimes see her smile.

She heard him call her name loudly from just outside the door. She bent over then, touching her toes, so that she offered and he could take, without pausing, everything he most wanted in the world.


Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 134: Running on the spot 3

Lynette was first in the room. She stood at the door for a while, watching Raylene’s ass as she joggled and ran on the spot, lifting her knees high. Then she looked at me. 

“That’s to prevent bruising, is it?” 

“Yeah. And reduce swelling.” 

“Hah!” That was Dorabella, looming up behind Lynette. She was looking at my cock.

I glanced down. I was in swollen condition, that was pretty obvious even through my jeans. “Okay. I meant reducing swelling for Raylene’s ass.” Raylene glanced at me. It seemed to be some sort of warning. Maybe I was saying her bum looked big, wearing nothing but cane stripes. “But it’s not universally effective, no.” 

Lynette said, “It affects me. I – No, never mind. This conversation has gone south. Really south.” 

Dorabella was still staring at my cock. I’m a short stocky guy, and that’s about the best you can say for my looks. But for now I was a sex object. That doesn’t happen enough for me to get sick of it. So I smiled at Dorabella, and at Lynette. No reason. Just happy. 

A reminder should be given, every so often, that at the time Raylene had blue-green hair

A reminder should be given, every so often, that at the time Raylene had blue-green hair

But Raylene, still jogging on the spot obediently, was starting to breathe hard. I said, “Raylene.”

She stopped. Her breasts stopped a couple of seconds later. I waited that couple of seconds, because that was beautiful and distracting. “Good girl. You’re doing well, Raylene.” She nodded, knowing that praise, though good, wasn’t where I was going. “But I’m going to give you your second dozen now. Well, a dozen, and one penalty stroke. Baker’s dozen.”

She nodded again, face serious, as if some part of her believed this was fair and right. I said, “So I want you to bend over the desk again now. Same position. Same conditions: don’t get up or you’ll be in trouble.”  

Dorabella and Lynette walked all the way into the room while Raylene said, “Yes, master,” and pressed the tops of her thighs against the edge of the desk before leaning forward and lowering her body to rest on the cold, cold wood.

Dorabella looked to me, once her sister was back in place. “I still hold her down?”

“If you know what’s good for you.” Dorabella sniffed, not sure if I was kidding. Nor was I.

cane-for-2Then I decided that I wasn’t kidding. If I gave Raylene extra strokes for getting up, I’d tell Dorabella she was getting the same, and to drop the robe and bend over on her side of the desk, facing her sister.

I’d had hints from Dorabella, and maybe it was time to put her on the spot.

I’d look stupid if she refused, and I’d just have to back down as gracefully as I could. But I figured I should try, and leave Dorabella to flip the coin. If she obeyed, she’d get three strokes and then the attention would go back to Raylene. But that would give her plenty to mull over until our time tomorrow. Anyway, Dorabella wasn’t going let Raylene get up, so it was likely to be a hypothetical problem. 

While Dorabella took her place at the other side of the desk, hands pressed firmly down on Raylene’s shoulders, I passed Lynette my phone again. “Filming duty.” 

“Yes, sir!” The “sir” was mockery, still, but I didn’t mind. Irony isn’t as powerful as some people think. Lynette took the phone, activated the camera, and then filmed the front of my jeans. I snorted laughter, and after a second so did she. She switched to focus on Raylene’s ass. 

thighsI tapped the cane against the tops of Raylene’s thighs. This second dozen would give more attention to her thighs. It seemed only fair.

“Straighten your legs, Raylene. Bit further apart. Better; good girl. Now get your ass arched up.”

While she complied I tapped the cane against the same place at the top of her thighs, but a little harder so that she winced, and a new, pinkish stripe formed. 

Then I raised the cane. “Okay. Second dozen. We begin.” 

Wicked Wednesday: Jennifer’s pleats and pleas

Note: This is a genre exercise. Stories about little pleated skirts (the little black cocktail dress of spanko circles) and spankings tend to be sexy. The potential for The Sexy is, of course, one of the reasons why real corporal punishment in schools in inherently abusive. It should be outlawed, from Saudi Arabia to Alabama. The fantasy, in which adults play with power, is a different thing.

Last time I discussed this genre and its diction, I mentioned that the schoolgirl is the star, and the story is generally told from her point of view. The headmaster is merely a sex object, who does things that turn the schoolgirl on, but doesn’t have thoughts or an inner life. I’ve been challenged to write this from the headmaster’s POV. So, since I’m an obliging sort of dom, here it is.

Jennifer’s pleats and pleas

I first noticed Jennifer Perch in the second week of school. There’d been some rowdiness going on outside my office window, but it was nothing unusual for the rush before the first class begins, and at first I ignored it.

But then I heard an unmistakeable voice. It was Ross Grainer, a lump of a boy who would have been a bully in the days when intelligence counted for less. Despite his size his voice was high-pitched, probably because the fool was swallowing steroids like candy. And he was shouting words that were about to earn him a touch of the paddle. “Genitals! Genitalia Pouch!”   

I walked to the window and barked at him, in best Headmaster’s Voice, the kind that can reach and terrify any boy or girl within three playing fields. While he pantomimed innocence, and then slowly walked to my window, I wrote a quick note to his class teacher, Miss Lacroix. 

She, bless her upright and old-fashioned soul, had been one of the few teachers to support the changes I’d brought in on my appointment, particularly the re-introduction of school uniforms and corporal punishment. So I could address this note to her, knowing the sentence would be carried out properly. 

“Mr Beecham?” Ross had managed to compose his face into something close to saintliness, on his walk. The other boys had abandoned him. He wasn’t brave on his own. 

I said, “I won’t have obscene language in my school. And I won’t have bullying.”

“Me, Mr Beecham?” 

“Don’t waste my time, Grainer. Take this note to Miss Lacroix.” I gave him the folded piece of paper that specified his sentence.

“Sir, I never – ” 

“I told you not to waste my time, boy. I heard you, and I saw you. Take this note to Miss Lacroix now, and she’ll deal with you. You may be late for your first class. And you may have trouble sitting. But you should have thought of that before.” 

“But I – “

“You say, ‘Yes Sir, thank you, sir.’ Anything else and you’ll get double.”

His face was scarlet. I smiled briefly. That wouldn’t be the only place he was scarlet when Miss :Lacroix had finished with him. I wondered if she’d enjoy herself. He swallowed. “Yes sir. Thank you, sir.” His voice was tiny.

“Go straight to Miss Lacroix. Now, boy. I’ll be checking with her at lunchtime. Get out of my sight!”

It took him thirty steps before he thought it might be safe to open the note. It said, “Please give bearer, R. G., 8 with paddle, hardest. Obscene language, bullying.” He hesitated, but dared not turn around. He hurried on to Miss Lacroix and his fate, head down. 


But I had another matter to think about. Jennifer Perch. It was her second week at this school, and it seemed she’d already managed to acquire a troubling nickname. And, when I’d come to the window to see what that stupid boy was shouting about, she’d been bending over, straight-legged, to tie her shoes.

The hem-line of her pleated uniform skirt had risen past the bottom of her panties. Genitalia indeed, though snugly held in white cotton, quite deliberately displayed with her bottom pointing straight at the crowd of boys.

The nick-name said that it wasn’t the first time she’d done it. I frowned. I’d thought Jennifer was one of the good girls, hard-working, intelligent: an over-achiever. Something wasn’t right.

I was going to be the scariest thing she'd seen in her life.

I was going to be the scariest thing she’d seen in her life.

I pulled out her file. Ah. There were irregularities, in particular a persistent pattern of lateness. She was experimenting with being a bad girl. I sympathized, a little, but she needed to be brought back to earth, quickly and firmly.   

I buzzed Maddie, my secretary, and asked her to call Jennifer Perch to my office, immediately. Maddie was surprised; Jennifer did have a reputation as a Good Girl. She asked, “Is she to be -?”

“Yes. Spanked. But not too severely if she behaves. And she should have privacy. You might want to do any photocopying you need to do.” 

I could imagine her shaking her head. Then, with surprise still in her voice, she said, “Yes, Mr Beecham.” 

I waited. I should be working, but I found myself thinking about that display of pouting pussy Jennifer had offered the boys. I was certainly going to give her a spanking. That was only right and proper. But should I remove her panties? Ahhh… 

I realised I’d thought too much and too long about that question when the reception door opened. Shortly afterwards I heard Maddie making herself busy in the photocopier room. Jennifer must be waiting. 

She had a lot to think about. I let her wait, and think. I cleared a Jennifer-sized space on my desk, in case she talked her way into a paddling. Or perhaps a caning. I could consider those choices more calmly than she could, out in Maddie’s office.

She’d be thinking about why she’d been called here. She knew she’d been skipping classes. She knew that I’d meant it when I said corporal punishment was back. I’d paddled two girls from her class for fighting, on Monday of that week. The older girl had sworn at me after the fifth stroke, so both girls had had to take their panties down and stay in place for another six. I didn’t expect to see either of them for a while.

I was sure the story had gotten around. Jennifer would have been shown the bruises by now. Girls will be girls.

But it was my own impatience, as well as hers, that finally made me stand up, open my door, and usher her in. 

Terror of the Cane! (Or: how to make a caning sexy)

This post began as a reply to sub-bee (so hat-tip to her), when she commented on the First Strike post. But I’ve been meaning to write about the cane, and how it can be used in ways that make it just the right amount of scary for the submissive. It should be a bit scary, and there should be a sense of milestone and achievement about taking the cane, but it shouldn’t be so scary that it gets in the way of it being sexy.  

No really, you can always trust a man with a cane in his hand...

No really, you can always trust a man with a cane in his hand… (From Restrained Elegance )

The truth is that the cane’s reputation is somewhat more fearsome than the reality. I know it’s all very well for a dom to say that, since I’m never going to be at the receiving end of a caning. But doms learn by paying attention. 

What I’ve learned about making the cane not too scary is that you talk about it first.

You mention that it doesn’t have to be as scary as it’s made out to be, and you say – and you’d better be clear on this yourself – that you’re going to take care. There are rewards for the recipient, like the hotness of the “you’re going to get the cane” scenario, the sharp clear sensation of a cane-stroke, and the beauty of the cane stripes afterwards. 

How getting consent works depends own your relationship. With Arethusa and I, it was a telling-off, followed by me producing the cane, flexing it in an alarming manner and telling her to get her clothes off and bend over the table. There wasn’t any discussion because it wasn’t that kind of relationship. I was her master and (conditions applied) consents had already been given. She could have used her safe word or said it was a hard limit, or she could obey. She chose to obey. Neither of us had any doubt that she would.

In other relationships I’ve talked about it first, and introduced the cane in a sexual context rather than a punishment one. Actually, a punishment scenario is a sex scenario too, just a couple of layers of rhetoric down. Anyway, the wise dom goes at the submissive’s speed, and doesn’t just get driven by their own desires. Or not completely.

Anyway, once they’ve got consent, the dom starts, before introducing the cane, with a slow warm-up. The idea is to focus on things that the dom knows the submissive enjoys. Usually, that means using hand-on-skin at first, and then some of the more familiar instruments that the submissive partner already likes.

At some stage the dom switches to the cane, but it should be with continuity, not with a sudden “and now we’re going to get serious!” change of pace and mood.

caned-russianThe idea is to keep the intensity of the cane low, at first. I like to give four or five light strokes, like a drummer using brushes on his drums, and then one stroke a bit harder. Repeat, and repeat, for a long time. Without going harder. Usually, the submissive getting the cane will find that quite pleasant, in a floaty way.

Stay there for a while, with lots of stroking in general and cunt-stroking (or cock-stroking, if that’s your submissive’s equipment) in particular, and the submissive and the cane will settle down together. After a while – the dom should be watching his or her submissive very closely – it may be time to increase the intensity and make the strokes a bit harder.

The dom’s job is to watch the submissive and back off any time it looks or feels like it’s hurting too much for it to be sexy, and take it back to the level the submissive was enjoying before. But towards the end the intensity should increase, and the strokes should get harder.

The dom shouldn’t be too ambitious the first time, but the next time, taking and applying all the things that worked best the first time, it can probably be taken all the way up to leaving marks that outlast the caning by a few hours and have it be sexy, at least for submissives who like impact play at all. 

By the way a hard caning leaves marks that last over a week. That’s not a good idea for a first time, though you will know your own relationship. Usually, with a first, pleasure-focussed caning, a few hours is fine.  

caneThe stripe in the First Strike picture is unusual, because it was Arethusa’s first, and it’s a punishment stroke. There was no warm-up and it was a firm to medium hard stroke. The marks of that caning lasted about four days.

It’s not the stroke you’d deliver first if you were wanting to demonstrate that the cane is good, sexy fun. What I wanted to demonstrate was, “You want to graduate! So from now on do your assignments on time, or you’ll do them standing up!”

But even then, as I said, she finished up liking the fact that she was a girl who got the cane, if not exactly loving each instant of impact. 

The point is, based on observation rather than personal experience, I’d say that the cane probably is worth exploring some time, I mean by submissives who like impact play but are freaked out by the cane’s reputation.

I'm nerd enough to have three canes. The bamboo, the lighter rattan (whose effect can be seen above) and the heavier dragon cane, also rattan. But the point with a cane is not the implement but how it is used.)

I’m nerd enough to have three canes. The bamboo, the lighter rattan (whose effect can be seen above) and the heavier dragon cane, also rattan. But the point with a cane is not the implement but how it is used.)

Just make sure you explore it with someone you really trust and who is very aware that you find the idea scary.

They have to get the set (the emotional and physical expectations), the setting (the place where it happens and the submissive’s position while being caned) and the emotional flow just right.

The dom has to take care of the submissive before, during and afterwards.

There’s much more to be said, but lust should do most of what’s needed. 

Sinful Sunday: First strike


She’d failed to get university assignments in before. But that stripe was the first she’d ever had in her life. It was the first time she’d ever felt the cane.

I’d warned her that I’d cane her if she didn’t get the work done and handed in. But it turned out that the warning wasn’t enough.

She knew there were 11 strokes to go, and that she deserved each and every one of them. But with that first strike, and that first stripe, her life changed. 


I haven’t written about this woman often, but her name, for blog purposes, is Arethusa. That really is her first ever cane stripe, and that’s the reason she got it, even though it sounds like a cliché. Her motivation went right up.

In the short term, anyway. She started liking the cane, or at least she liked being-a-girl-who-gets-the-cane because her Master cares, and she liked just-having-been-caned so the slate is clean, and it’s sexy. So it stopped having the same behaviour-modifying effect. Oh well. I helped in other ways. 

Anyway, the photo. I took several shots of this moment, because she’d want a record, but I like this one best. She stayed in position, so this is just a few seconds after the stroke. I suppose it’s the way her lovely bottom rises, freshly decorated, with the promise of more: including a change in our relationship.

It represents a new dawn. 

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Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 133: Running on the spot 2

She laughed again. “You! You’re not making it up as you go along. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

I decided to leave that unchallenged. It wasn’t remotely true, but it was good that she thought so. So I shrugged, I hope ambiguously. “Anyway, I’m falling in love with you. And, you don’t have to fall in love with me. I just blurted.”

“Yeah. It’s okay. Seriously, it’s much better than okay. Just .. give me time, ok?”

“Yeah.” To mark of the end of one sensitive conversation, and to remind her of other sensitivities, I smacked her ass, hot and welted under my hand.

Raylene jolted. “Yah fuck!”

hands-on-head-canedSo I smacked her again, then let my hand stay, stroking her. Firm, beautifully rounded, a little rough where the cane had directly landed, and blazing heat.

She said, “Jesus, my arse is sore. How long does it hurt for?”

“Well, this is peak hurt. It lasts maybe half an hour from the last cane stroke, though it’ll keep on hurting quite a lot, slightly lower level, for a couple of hours. Especially after I’ve given you the second dozen.”

“Yuh. I haven’t forgotten. Master.”

“Good girl. It’ll maybe hurt most of today. Though it’ll be at a lower level. You’ll feel it, but it’ll be background. And you’ll probably like it. A nice, sexy, buzzing feeling. And I’ll be looking after you. And for the next couple days you’ll get a reminder any time you sit down. Or, I don’t know, walk backwards into anything. And don’t forget I can bring you back to peak hurt anytime, just by smacking you hard with my hand. And I won’t hesitate, if you’re out of line for a second. You put the Me in Master.”

She frowned. “And without the ME it’s a-s-t-r. Star! Ah! You’re a star Master!” 

“Yeah, it was really stupid when I said it. Now it sounds cool.” 

“You’re going to hurt me when you fuck me.” That was a demand.

“Promise. That’s a promise. Not accidentally.”

Her eyes shone. She might not be in love with me, but we were perverts. “Yeah.”

I heard the bathroom door open. “Yeah indeed. Now. Running on the spot, Raylene.”


running-on-spotI put the cane in her mouth, for her to hold. And I put my cock all the way back inside my jeans “On the spot. Running. Get your knees up.”

“Ub.” Raylene took her hands down from her head, and shambled into action.  

“Knees higher or I’ll beat you. Girl.”

Raylene lifted her knees. I could hear Dorabella, still talking, in the corridor. Raylene jogged and jiggled, with her spectacular back to the door.

I’m a good host.