Sinful Sunday: Comfort and the cane

Arethusa got this caning for missing a doctor’s appointment. But the first thing I did was put down not one but two pillows for her to rest on, so she didn’t hurt herself, bending over my table.

It didn’t strike me, until I looked at the photos I took, what an odd mix it was: caring so much about her comfort, and then taking the cane and making her as uncomfortable as I possibly could. 

Mild discouragement: A personal note

I’ve been working quite hard to get literary agent representation for two novels. There’re non-erotic novels, of all things, and they’re not written by Jerusalem Mortimer. Or they are, but under another name. 

You know what?
Hang In There Cat can fuck right off

I have sent them to about forty agents now. The pitch is pretty good, I think. And when I check them, even in discouragement, I have to admit that they’re good books. Beta readers have likewise liked them. They’re funny, scary, sexy, dark novels, the kind I like reading.

Still, I’m getting no love. 

Many literary agents don’t even write back. A writer just has to assume, after hearing nothing for three to four months, that that agent must have rejected their books.

I must admit that the level of disrespect that comes with not even bothering to fire off a standard rejection notice just amazes me.

It’s a kind of arrogant, lazy contempt that makes me wonder why those agents are even in a business that has anything remotely to do with books. 

So… I’m still plugging away. I’m writing a third non-erotic novel right now. But just at this moment, a certain amount of joy and hope has run out, like sand out of a toy octopus. I will send the sample chapter, pitch and synopsis off to a new agent today. 

But right now, my life is not joyous or triumphant. It’s an endurance event. 

Wicked Wednesday: That fierce grip

I’d told Claire to arch her ass up, as though she was begging for the cane.

“Yes sir!” Claire’s bottom rose off the desk, round, sweetly curved and decorated with five glowing bands from the ruler in Maddie’s hands. Bent over, her legs straight and widely parted, ass poised, she was in one of the most sexually abject and inviting positions a woman can assume.

But I gave her no praise, instead tapping her bottom with the cane, not softly. I growled, “Keep your ass right there, girl. You’ve go twenty seconds after each stroke to get back in this position. Or you’ll get extra strokes.”

“Yes… S-sir.” Claire was having trouble speaking.

I wondered whether to make her count and thank me for each stroke, but I guessed that she’d lose what remained of her ability to speak in the first four strokes. Maddie could do the counting.

That raised another question: how many strokes to give her? On the one hand, I considered she’d done nothing wrong; but she felt intense guilt, and her caning had to be impressive enough to end that guilt. Not less than two dozen, I decided, and possibly three dozen. More if she wasn’t sobbing.



“You’re in charge of looking after Claire while I cane her. Comfort her, give her tissues, say nice things. Look after her. Sister to sister.”  

Maddie crossed to Claire’s side. She bent forward and kissed Claire’s bare shoulder, then her neck. And she put her hand on one of Claire’s hands, which were fiercely gripping the edge of my desk.

Maddie whispered, “It’s going to hurt, little darling. But you’ll get through it. I’ve been in your place, on this very desk, and I can promise you you’ll be all right. There.” 

I tapped the cane on Claire’s bottom again. “Ready, Claire?” It was a ridiculous question, but a traditional one.

Food for Thought Not-Exactly-Friday: Ritual of enslavement

On accepting a woman as my slave.

I’m dressed in all the Dom gear, which in my case consists of black jeans and a black tee-shirt, and the only actually bdsm-y thing is knee-high black boots with buckles all over them. I’m standing.

She is naked, and kneeling, leaning forward so her forehead touches the carpet. She’s not allowed to speak.

Me: Kiss my boots. Use your tongue. 

While she obeys, I say: You walk with me, following me and beside me. I promise to lead you. 

I raise one boot: Good girl. Now kiss the underside. 

While she obeys, one boot at a time due to my inability to levitate, I say: You come into this new relationship between us as my slave. You are always beneath me. You obey, you show respect, and you never forget your enslaved status.

Me: Good girl. Now kiss my hands.

While she obeys, I say: You are in my hands now, as my property. My hands are for your punishment when you need it, and for pleasuring you, too.

Me: Good girl. Now, using only your mouth, unzip me, kiss my cock, and take it in your mouth.

While she obeys, I say: We’re together now, for your pleasure and for mine. You will please my cock in any way I tell you, and I will please you. We’re together for love and pleasure.

Me: Good girl. Now kiss my mouth.

After she’s obeyed, I say: You listen to me, as your master, and you do as you’re told. I will praise you often, and sometimes tell you to prepare for punishment. And I’ll kiss you often, and lick your perfect cunt.

Me: Good girl. My girl. My property, little slavegirl. Now get back on your knees. Bow your head.

While she kneels, I fit her collar.


That’s the ritual of formal enslavement. I’ve done it three times in my life. It marks the transition from one kind of relationship, even if it was already a bdsm relationship, to another. So it’s very formal.

I thought about how to mark it, they first time I entered a master/slave relationship. I felt that it should be very formal, and ritualistic, with each step and each aspect (like the fact that only I speak) having a clear meaning. It may seem flat, on the screen, but live, in the moment, it has power.

When it’s done the next step follows from the ritual, but isn’t defined by it. She’s allowed to speak again. What she wants might be a glass of wine, or a fuck. Or something fierce and harsh. When the ritual’s over, the moment dictates. 


Sinful Sunday: New experiences

I’d told Arethusa to wait for me naked at her front door on her knees, with her forehead on the carpet. 

It was melodramatic and a little cliched, but it was going to be the first time we met. I’d thought we should start with things she’d read about and wanked to. To show that I was going to bring them to life.

So within two minutes of our having met for the first time she’d demonstrated the formidable fellatio skills she’d mentioned in one of her emails. And, though duly pleased, I’d managed to find or manufacture some fault, and put her over my knee, sitting on her couch.

Then she had corner time, for the first but not last time in her adult life. She waited, wondering what I was going to do with her, or to her, next. To be honest, I was a little moonstruck myself, by the speed with which we’d found our places. So I was also wondering what next. 

I thought of something. 



E[{lust} 121: That Jerusalem Mortimer guy, he’s a top blogger this month!

Photo courtesy of Steeled Snake

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Breathe with me

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Neck constriction, choking and death

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Her Future Husband


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Erotic Non-Fiction

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My thoughts on humiliation
Tell me about… Power Exchange
That time I dumped George Clooney


How To Use Your Stats When You’re Stumped

Erotic Fiction

those three words
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Taking Rejection Online
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Capable: Two Cocks, One Hole
How To Be Vulnerable When Dating

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

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Being fuck positive in public

Wicked Wednesday: Moving fast when motivated

I used the strict-Headmaster voice. “Right, Claire. You’ve asked for the cane, and now you’re going to get it. Good and hard, girl.”

Claire looked solemn. It was apparently the first time she’d been in this ritual since she left school. But she remembered its power. “Yes, sir.”

“Bend over my desk, Claire. Hold onto the far edge of the desk. And don’t let go or get up, if you value your skin.”

Claire scrambled to obey, presenting herself over my desk, breasts flattening onto the leather patch. She reached forward until she could get her fingers holding the far edge.

The position kept her body tautly stretched.

“Good girl. Now put your feet right apart. You don’t need modesty, from a man who’s going to fuck you shortly. And it gives the cane full access to your body. Deeply.”

I meant that when I caned her lower buttocks, the cane would get very close to her pussy lips, possibly reach them. Claire nodded solemnly. She knew what I’d meant. She let her face fall to the desktop, and spread her legs for me, very slowly.  

I said, “Maddie.”

“Yes sir?”

“Two ruler strokes for Claire, please. Medium hard.”

Maddie brightened. Her good luck wasn’t necessarily going to be appreciated by Claire, but it was luck, for both of them.

Maddie can move fast when motivated, and in less than three seconds there was the sharp slap of wood on flesh, then another, while Claire gasped. A fourth and fifth band of pinkish red bloomed across Claire’s bottom.

“Claire, when I give you an order, you acknowledge it by saying ‘Yes, sir.’ Understood?”

“Yes, sir. I knew that, sir. I’m sorry.”

“Good. And you obey orders quickly. Immediately. That may have stung a bit, Claire, but it was only a warning. The next time you fail to acknowledge an order, or to jump to obey it, I’ll make the point with the cane.”

“Yes, sir! I am sorry, sir.”

“That’s better. Now arch your bottom right up. Like you’re a cat begging to be fucked. But in this case, like you’re begging for the cane. Which in fact you are.”



Masturbation Monday: Bed, I think

After Roland had stripped and Teresa had removed everything but her corset, he moved behind her to undo it. She said, “No, boy. I’m a vamp. The corset stays.”

To her surprise he simply smacked her bottom. The slap echoed in the room, and it also echoed faintly in her cunt, as sex. Teresa said, “Hey!”

But he smacked her bottom again. “I want you naked this time. Also, I want you.”

She relaxed. He’d already shown his enthusiasm for her corseted self, so it was reasonable. And on the one hand, she didn’t want him to smack her bottom again. And on the other hand, she didn’t want to tell him to stop smacking her bottom.

Which probably meant that in the meantime she should indulge him. So she turned her back and allowed him to undo and loosen the stays, and when the corset was loose enough she pulled it over her head and off.

She turned to face him, and his face when he was confronted with her naked self was rewarding enough. He said, “You are very, ridiculously, wonderfully beautiful.”

He took her left nipple in his mouth, kissing and tonguing it, and lightly grazing it with his teeth. Then he sucked, trying to get as much of her breast into his mouth as he could. Teresa let her mouth fall open. It felt comfortable and right and hot, and there was nothing to say about it.

Teresa put her hands on his arse and stepped close, so her thighs closed on his cock. It wasn’t going down, so it had to be somewhere. He repeated his kissing, tonguing and grazing ritual with her right nipple, and then looked at her, pushing a swatch of red-dyed hair out of her eyes. “Bed, I think.”

Teresa sat and lay back, and Roland lifted her thighs with his hands and kissed her cunt until she sighed. Then she felt him trail his tongue up to her right nipple, and then back to her cunt until she sighed again, and then up to her left nipple, and back to her cunt.

She squirmed under him while he focussed her attention close to but not quite touching her clitoris. He licked her, long and slow, and she put her hands on the back of his head.

Not to direct him but to show her approval. She enjoyed his attention to her cunt in silence. What corset? But at last he raised his head and stared up at her face. He said, “You should have your wrists tied to the bedheads. If I’m going to fuck you properly. That ok with you?”


Sinful Sunday: Once upon a time in the West


Sydney’s West, that is. 

The beginning of what was to become a long session, and a long relationship. She assures me her arse is still utterly splendid, though someone else is keeping it warm these days. 

I’ve had to do some cropping (you should excuse the expression), but she was and is lovely, body and soul.




Food for Thought Friday: She was just fi-ifteen, you know what I mean

When I was at university, in my third year, I had sex with a student who was in her first year. I’d met her a few times at the Students Association, and found that she was funny, flamboyant, radical, and one of the few people I knew who’d actually read a lot of books that weren’t bestsellers.

One day she was down about a fight she’d had with a friend, and I sat with her to commiserate. We finished up pressing foreheads and holding hands. Nothing came of it because I had to go and work. But later that week there was a dance in the Students Association Hall, and she came wearing sparkly little pants and and strip of sparkly, semi-see-through material round her breasts. 

So we danced together, and drank cheap student wine and smoked student joints. The ribbon round her breasts was slinky stuff, and tended to come loose. So from time to time we’d stop dancing so I could tie it back again.  

Then we went and talked for a while, and in a dark corner we did away with that sparkly material altogether. And when it was clear that we were more or less fucking, and it was time to drop the less and do more, we sneaked off.

I had a motorbike, and (this is bad behaviour too) took her on the back to my place, with the sparkly material round her hair since she didn’t have a helmet. 

So we fucked. Then the next day I blindfolded her, not for bdsm reasons, and took her for a smell walk through the flowers and trees in the local park. That night I spanked her, for bdsm reasons, and that became the nature of our relationship.

But here’s the thing. She said she was 16, which was the age of consent in my country. I’d travelled, and been politically active for a while before going to university, so I was six years older, at 22. And I decided that it was okay because she was a first year university student, and a highly intelligent one, with a long sexual history that was in some respects more deviant than mine. For example, she’d already beaten me to “first threesome”, and I still had three years to wait till mine.

But nearly ten years later, friends told me she’d lied about her age, just a little bit. She’d had to get special permission to enrol at university because she’d finished school, but she was only 15. So for the first six months of our relationship I’d been breaking the law, and fucking an underage girl. 

Apparently there’d been scandalised gossip. But I never heard about it, at the time.

All the kids in my school had been trying their best to have sex before they turned 16, so that they could say they were sex criminals. I tried too, but ineptly, and when I finally made my sexual debut I was a boringly legal 16.

But by my 20s I wasn’t too unhappy because I’d broken other sexual laws. For example, you could go to jail for 10 years, the law said, if you had anal sex with a woman (anal sex with a man only cost seven years; I’d love to know the thinking behind that) and I broke that law repeatedly before they repealed it.

I committed a kind of quasi-incest, by shagging my sister-in-law, which doesn’t count, legally, and a couple of cousins, which doesn’t quite count either. Though it would in some countries, I think. Unfortunately, I didn’t fancy my mother or my sister, so I had to leave that law unbroken. 

So my first reaction was shock that she’d felt she had to lie to me (because I’d have talked about it a bit more first, but it wouldn’t have changed the outcome), followed by surprise, and then a kind of stupid satisfaction: “Oh, I did manage to break that law after all.” 

One thing I’ve never felt about it is guilt. As it happened I didn’t know, but it wouldn’t have changed much if I had. She was still an intelligent woman, still more worldly, in some ways, than I was (she knew wine, and how to behave at various formal events), and I reacted to the person I was with. I had no doubt at all that she knew her mind, and that if she wanted me then that was just my ridiculous good fortune. I still don’t doubt that, even looking at it with hindsight.

Anyway, this is a hotter taboo now, I think, than it was twenty years ago. But I’m a sex criminal, for breaking the age of consent law and the anal sex law (RIP), and I don’t feel bad about either. 

That doesn’t mean that I think there shouldn’t be a law. Just that it should mostly keep away from young people consensually exploring.