Masturbation Monday: The only monogamist in the room

Philip had just explained to Chetana that she was mostly responsible for the renewal of his erection. She kissed him. “Even that was enough of an admission. But it’s okay, Philip. Really it is. You were nice about it, Jayavardhini says, when it was obvious she and I had been fucking. You were very nice to me, too.”

She saw Philip smile, remembering. Then he looked serious. “But you’re my woman. She – You are wonderful, Jayavardhini. But she is not my woman.”

Philip was thinking of turning this down.

“Philip, you’re the only monogamist in this cabin. And your cock is telling me you’re not going to stay monogamous for very long, now. Jayavardhini wants you. And she wants me. And I want you. And her. And cocks don’t lie. I happen to know for a fact that you want her as well as me.”

Jayavardhini saw doubt in his eyes. He was working up to sending her away. “Philip, what Chetana said is true. About me wanting you. And I want Chetana. We could discuss this. Or we could test it. But I don’t believe you want to keep me out of this bed.”

Chetana said, “You’re right about wasting time, Jayavardhini. Come to bed.”

Jayavardhini smiled, happy. Philip had not taken his eyes off her since Chetana had given her blessing. She took the first step towards them, shaky with triumph. Philip said, “No.”

It was as if he’d hit her, the wrong kind of blow. “Philip? Why?”

Then she saw his eyes, amused but also drawn. “You’re not naked. Get that sarong off and then come here.”

“You’re a bad man.”

“And you’re a bad girl.” He withdrew from Chetana very slowly and turned to watch Jayavardhini. His cock, half hard, glistened in the candlelight, wet with Chetana’s fluids.  

Jayavardhini knew a way to do _everything_ minxishly

Jayavardhini turned her back, and began to lift the sarong. She slowed its ascent as it reached her upper thighs, lifting it in microscopic degrees as she got to her ass. Behind her she heard Chetana laugh. Philip wasn’t laughing. She imagined him watching, entranced. She hoped his cock was getting harder, even though he’d just come.

No, she was confident she had that power over him.

But he was silent while she slowly raised the sarong to her waist. Then he made a throaty noise of appreciation. She said, “If you’re not hard for me when I turn round, I’m leaving.”

Chetana laughed again. Jayavardhini turned, holding the sarong just above her navel. His cock pointed fatly at her. “Oh. Well, I suppose I’ll stay, then.”

Sinful Sunday: Something to wake up to

One girl, sleeping. A bit after valentines day, as it happens. (I don’t think either photographer or lovely model care about Mr Valentine and his hallmark cards.)

Her admirer, photographer and self-labeled Master watches over her and waits. He’s feeling very tender. 

But when she awakes all those emotions will turn fiercer, more urgent. The only thing ‘tender’ will be her…

 

E[lust] 115: Hot reads! From the warm, pink heart of the net!

Elust 115 Header Image of Kaetteroo in a steamy mirror nude

Photo courtesy of Katteroo

Welcome to Elust 115

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 #116? Start with the rules, come back March 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Abstinence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

Your Loss

Ask for It

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Two Explorers

Sweet Child of Mine

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

{Na}Scent Traces

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

The Long Shadow
Asleep on the job
Self-care: am I dating myself?
Love, Lust & Living with the Man of my Dreams

Erotic Non-Fiction

The Space Between
Australia Day Bukakke
In Her Panties
Sensuality and the senses
Happy New Year
Technical Sex: Control
Give and take

Erotic Fiction

Brat
Worth the Trouble
Panty Thief
Twisted Fairy Tale #4 Hans & Greta
PJ’s Horseshoe
I Lay Beside You

Poetry

The Rider

Body Talk and Sexual Health

What is normal?
Less Sex, Less Drive

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Not Micromanaging My Pleasure
The bdsm baby blues
Meeting a sub… or not

Writing About Writing

5 Things to Do When You Feel Overwhelmed

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

UK law removes anti-bdsm rules

Elust

Wicked Wednesday: Exercise for bad girls

When Jenny had completed her squat thrusts, naked in my office, watched by Maddie and by me, I said, “Good girl, Jennifer. You need more exercise, though, don’t you?”

She blushed. “Yes, sir. I do.”

“I’ll have a calisthenics program drawn up for you. I’m sure the coach will supervise you.”

Maddie rolled her eyes. Jerry Manderson, the coach, was notorious for his “helpful” ways with attractive students. I’d restricted his use of corporal punishment to the paddle on clothed buttocks, but he found his opportunities. He wasn’t worried about either justice or consent, let alone enthusiasm. I was going to have to fire him.

Jennifer knew Mr Manderson, and didn’t want to be under his supervision. She said, “Sir, I know that he would be best to create a program. But… could you supervise me? I could do my exercises in your office while you… I mean while you worked. I promise I’d be no bother. Sir. Please?”

I thought about that. It was a powerfully attractive offer, of course. And if I left it to Manderson he would find ways of touching her belly, her bottom and her breasts while he helped her with her exercises. Unwillingness, even revulsion, was not a problem for him.

But an intelligent girl like Jennifer could gather the evidence that allowed me to get rid of him, despite his success in coaching team sports and getting parents on his side. But I couldn’t dump that assignment on her, unless she agreed. Nor could I talk to her about staff problems. Maddie could. But I’d have to discuss it with her before I did anything. 

My silence was making Jennifer worried. Eventually I said, “Yes, for the first couple of weeks. I don’t think you’ll be needing to bring any sports clothes.”

She missed the significance of my last remark, or she didn’t mind performing for me naked. “Thank you, oh thank you, sir!”

“After that we’ll see. My office is not a gym.”

She smiled suddenly. “It seems to be an office that has many different uses, sir.”  

“Indeed. And you’ve reminded me that you still have six strokes coming.” Her face fell. “To remind you not to question orders again. Bend over the desk again, Jennifer. As you were before, bottom arched up, legs apart, arms outstretched.”

“Sir.” Jennifer turned, stepped to the desk, placed her feet well apart, and lowered herself till her belly, breasts and her left cheek rested on the table.

I picked up the slipper. “Maddie, back in position, and take Jennifer’s hands.”

Masturbation Monday: Whose erection is it?

Jayavardhini had wanted Philip, and she’d let Chetana know it, because he was intelligent, competent and decent, and she liked men like that. She was sure they would have sex together, since he was Chetana’s primary male lover and she was her primary female lover, and there would be times when Chetana was busy with others.

But she’d expected sex with Philip to be pleasant. Considerate. Companionable. This glimpse of a side of himself he kept hidden was a surprise.

Now she imagined his teeth at her neck and her nipples, his hands slapping and gripping her. Hurting her.  Fucking Philip would actually be hot.

It was Chetana who noticed her presence first. “Jayavardhini, you’re a bad girl.”

Philip had been engrossed, gazing down at Chetana, but he looked about. He started when he saw her. He rolled partly off Chetana’s body, as if she’d caught him doing something shameful. Then he relaxed, settled back between Chetana’s thighs, and smiled at her. “Did we give you permission to watch us fuck?”

Jayavardhini widened her eyes. This was a game, and his question was the first move in it. If she looked mock-innocent and admitted guilt, then she would be fucked, by both of them.

But she suspected her arse would first be warmed and buzzing at Philip’s hands. She considered whether that was an attractive idea. Decided, she blinked her eyes, then widened them again, and said, “No, sir, I didn’t have permission.”

She thought he’d like that “sir”.

Chetana laughed. “You are such a minx, Jayavardhini. Did you know that my man is getting hard again? Already? Inside me, but it’s your doing?”

 Philip said, “Ah…” He was embarrassed. “I’m pretty sure it’s mostly you, my love.”

Sinful Sunday: Warming up

There is heat in this room.

 

(Historical note: This is a real oldie, this one, that I recently found in the archives and cleared for use. We’re still in touch. Her mother was playing video games elsewhere in the house at the time this was taken. It’s hard to keep quiet while doing multi-instrument spanking followed by grunting noises, and in the end we didn’t manage. Didn’t even manage to keep on trying. Fortunately, those video games were loud.) 

Happy anniversary to this blog!

This blog began on 1 March 2012. It will soon be coming up to its seventh anniversary. 

Primitive style in 1,000,000 BC. Or so Hammer Films claimed, in 1967.

What have I learned in all that time? I think I’m a better writer. I’m certainly better at fixing up typos. Blogging has helped me, by imposing the discipline of writing every second day, that has to be ready for an audience whether I want to be ready or not.

Though I write all the time anyway. I’m currently finishing a novel, and as soon as that’s done I’ll be working on the next one. But there I have the luxury of polishing and revising, over and over, before anyone else gets to see it. 

Today, however, I’m working hard on making money before I go to Eroticon and India – partly because I need to, to pay for that trip. I’m going to have to keep today’s post pretty short. So I’m going to run the picture – Raquel Welch in a fur bikini – that I used in that very first post on this blog, back in 2012. 

That first post began with these immortal words: 

People always talk about the opening sentence of a novel, but no-one ever reads the first sentence of a blog.

My book about bdsm opens with: “About twenty-one thousand years ago a tribe crunched across white grass in the frozen landscape that is now Russia.”

I do like that first sentence. You may recognise the rhythm of it, which I stole from Jane Austen. 

Anyway, I’m going to spend time over the next few weeks, celebrating this blog, and pointing out some highlights, and taking you behind the scenes in its production. Seven years, eh? Who’d have thought? Well, not me, that’s for sure. Not on 1 March 2012.

Wicked Wednesday: Tears and sweat

Jennifer had just received twelve strokes of the slipper, bent naked over my desk, with Maddie holding her hands to make sure she stayed in place.

She’d been noisy and tearful through-out, and yet already, her bottom blazing red and hot, she was calm again. She had to be focussed on the hot pain across her buttocks, and finding that the heat has some quite pleasant side effects. 

I said, “”Maddie, you can let go of her hands for now. Thank you, girl. I’ll thank you properly later.”

Maddie smiled, and she stroked the backs of Jennifer’s hands comfortingly, after she’d released them. “I know you will, Master.”

“Jennifer. You’re done with your punishment, or at least the punishment for exposing yourself. Two dozen strokes over two days. Bravely taken. And now you’ve paid, and it won’t be mentioned again.”

It took Jennifer almost a minute before she could say, “Thank you, sir.” Then she added, “Thank you for punishing me. I know I was doing something wrong. It was a stupid thing to do.”

“I don’t think you’ll ever do it again, Jennifer. But if you did I’d cane you. And if there were a third offence I’d cane you naked in front of the school. I think that would cure any further exhibitionist tendencies.”

Actually I doubted that last statement, very much.

Something told me that if I ever did cane her in front of the school, she’d find a way of making sure it happened again. But I kept that thought to myself.

“All right, Jennifer. You can stand up now.”

“Oooh, yes… sir.” She raised herself stiffly and awkwardly, like an old man. But she managed to stand and face me. Indeed she had wept.

Her face was wet with tears, and her nose ran. I’d have to use many tissues if I wanted to hug her, but it wasn’t time for that yet. Anyway, Jennifer was a beautiful girl, but I’d come to love her face when she wept for me.

“We’re not quite finished for today, Jennifer, but I want to stop you from stiffening up too much. Can you do squat thrusts?”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

“Good girl. Of course you can. Give me twenty.”

Jennifer said, “Yes, sir.” She dropped down into a squat, then shot her legs out behind her, drew them back into the squatting position, then stood up.

As she repeated this movement, I beckoned Maddie over.

She stood in front of me, eyes bright, and we hugged. She could feel my penis, hard, between the two of us. She whispered, “You’re going to use me so hard after this, aren’t you?”

“Eight, sir.”

I said, slightly louder then she’d spoken, “Yes, Maddie. You’ll stay behind, after Miss Perch has left.”

“Thirteen, sir.” Jennifer was a fit girl, but she was puffing, now.

I smacked Maddie’s bottom, and we turned to watch our girl exercise, bottom glowing, breasts bobbing. Aware of our gaze, she tried to keep the puffing inaudible. Eventually she sang out, “Twenty, sir!” She stood, arms at her side. There were beads of sweat between her breasts.

Masturbation Monday: Watching him, watching her

A week later Jayavardhini Mudiliar opened Chetana’s door. Inside there was a woman singing. With an orchestra. Her voice seemed to circle like a soaring eagle, higher and higher. The sound was clear, though a little scratchy. 

Oh, she thought. Philip’s wind-up gramophone. She didn’t know the music, but it was beautiful and very overtly sexual. 

Chetana was on her back on her bed, with Philip above her, pumping her, roughly in time with the pulse of the music. Chetana was making a cooing, pre-orgasmic song of her own. 

Jayavardhini’s parents would have said she should withdraw discreetly, but instead she walked in and watched them.

Chetana’s body she knew well, dark, dark black and her flesh muscular but lusciously voluptuous, while Philip, held between her thighs, was wiry and mostly white except where his arms and legs were tanned.

Philip had one hand on Chetana’s throat, constricting her, his other hand tight on her shoulder, fingers digging into her. As they plunged and rose together his face was fierce, while Chetana’s seemed abstracted.

Her body arched beneath him, hips and thighs surging upwards to meet his thrusts, greedy and hard. When Philip released her throat and slapped her face lightly, Chetana closed her eyes, her mouth open, a line of drool spilling from its edge.

She moaned, low like a big cat, a puma being fucked, then abruptly clenched, thighs and arms tight around him, her head thrown back to scream. 

Chetana’s orgasm scream was loud and uninhibited. Philip slapped her again and the scream repeated, then again a few frenzied seconds later, quieter now and dropping in pitch.

The woman singing came too, at roughly the same time as Chetana. The orchestra seemed to move in then, to caress her with infinite tenderness and then carry her gently into sleep.

Chetana was done for the moment, though Philip did not stop. Chetana stared up at him, as if he were a frightening but wonderful gift, until he gasped, both hands holding her shoulders down, hands cruelly tight, and when he came he growled at Chetana like an angry bear.

Chetana reached up and touched his face. She said, “Oh, my love.”

Jayavardhini was surprised, but she couldn’t help but smile. They were in love. She hadn’t quite understood that, though the way Chetana had spoken of him when she and her were making love had puzzled her. She hadn’t known Chetana be so moved by a man before, or, even as Chetana’s female lover she had to admit it, by a woman.

Philip was a surprise. He was so polite and diffident when he had his clothes on that she had assumed that was the real him. She’d been wrong. In intimacy the man was ferocious. And slightly cruel.

They still hadn’t noticed her, but the record had ended. She took the spindle off, and Chetana suddenly looked her way.

Write on white

 

I’m not a minimalist. If I were in one of those once-fashionable white rooms, with only a white chair and, say, a white piano, I’d go nuts. 

To me, white is a start. White, especially on a submissive lover, is a canvas.