She waits. He anticipates. Everything starts here.
My first story sale is in print! And available in an e-book!
The story is called Desires. Gee, if you really loved me, you’d go buy the book it’s in.
You can buy it here. It’s available in paperback and as an e-book. I recommend the paperback because you can sit it on your shelf and take it down when you need to spank someone with it, or be spanked.
Also, there are people who won’t have sex with you if there isn’t at least one book in your house. And in my experience Book Nerds Make Better Lovers.
The book is Identity, and it showcases a diverse collection of essays and stories by over twenty writers of sex fiction and non-fiction, and sex toy reviewers. It presents a range of talent from established writers and new writers, all of whom are coming to the 2017 Eroticon Conference in London.
It’s a sex-positive anthology, moving from the heteronormative to show a truly representational cross-section of erotic identity.
In this unique compilation, the central theme of identity is explored from many different angles. Some authors discuss their personal identity as writers, others how their fictional characters explore who they are through sex. Yet other writers examine the impact of the erotic identity, sexuality or personality and how this is celebrated or must remain hidden.
As well as the amazing Jerusalem Mortimer, whose story really is rather hot, Identity features work by Velvl Ryder, Malin James, Eve Ray, Marie Rebelle, Meg-John Barker, Teresa Caves, sub-Bee, Emily Jacob, Jenny Guérin, Ella Scandal, Alun Norley, Ina Morata, Miss Ruby Rousson, cleareyedgirl, Heather Day, The Other Livvy, Zak Jane Keir, F.F. Sexton, Zoë King, Charlie Powell, BibulousOne, Emmeline Peaches and Girl on the Net.
If you’re already reading them you’ll know that’s an amazing line-up. If you’re not, then this is an excellent place to start!
The previous episode is here.
I gazed, awed, at the pink blush of Jennifer’s bottom and thighs. She was still red in the spots I’d concentrated the spanks: the centre of her buttocks and the tops of her thighs.
I took the oil and poured a little trickle onto the upper cleft of her buttocks.
She’d be acutely aware of the trickle running slowly down, some collecting at her anus, and some trickling lower. She would want me to rescue her from that trickle when it reached her anus, certainly her cunt. She would want me to touch her.
As if having the same thought, she expelled her breath and moved her feet slightly apart, exposing her pretty, swollen and – I was sure – achingly wet and needy pussy. There was silence for a moment. Tribute not just to the sexual power of our situation, but also to her sheer beauty.
“That’s good, girl, that’s lovely. Your behaviour, I mean.”
“Thank you, sir.” She knew what I’d meant.
I poured a generous helping of oil onto my left hand, put the bottle down and rubbed my hands gently together. I rubbed her bottom gently until most of her bottom and thighs were slippery and shining.
Then I used more force, pressing my thumbs into the centre of her gluteal muscles. Jennifer made a little squeal of relief and pleasure, as I worked on the knots of tension in that gloriously firm and round ball of muscles.
Her upper body flattened entirely onto the desk and her ass rose, surrendering herself entirely to anything I might choose to do with her. Her head was turned so her left cheek rested on the wood. She was smiling, lips slightly parted, and her eyes shone.
I worked my way down to her parted thighs, finding and working on any knots of tension until they were gone. She made little pleasure noises as she relaxed, and I knew those would be the noises I would hear when her need and her nerve had build up to the point where she begged me to fuck her, and I decided she was ready. I resolved to hold off for at least a fortnight, no matter how prettily she begged.
The knots dealt with, I was gentler and more sensual as I stroked and pressed her thighs and bottom on the return. I wanted her to feel, just from my hands, how tender and beautiful I thought she was. She sighed, lost in pleasure, and her left foot again moved a little further to the left.
The trickle of oil running down her cleft had nearly reached her anus. I was sure that she was very aware of the oil’s slow encroachment.
I ignored it, and continued her massage, clasping and kneading her soft, now utterly relaxed, flesh. Jennifer’s sighs and other sounds were more overtly sexual, a young woman being pleasured, and her hips started to move, gently up and down as if being fucked by an invisible lover. Every breath she took was audible now. She was absorbed, and lost. Nothing existed except for my hands, I guessed.
She stilled suddenly. The trickle had reached her anus. “Sir?”
I pulled her cheeks apart, though it wasn’t strictly necessary.
The next episode is here.
Photo courtesy of Silverdrops Toybox
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I found this sculpture of Hermaphroditos in the Palazzo Massimo in Rome. In the myth Hermaphroditos is the child of Hermes and Aphrodite, who – because both gods are a little more magical than most of the Olympians – combined in one person and soul the beauties of both hir parents.
It’s an image of gender ambiguity, and in our time that’s probably the meaning most often ascribed to the Hermaphoditos myth. But it’s something else as well (all myths have several meanings, or what’s the use of them?): that union of two into one body is what many lovers are yearning for in their deepest and most desperate sex.
A living Image, which did far surpass In beauty that bright shape of vital stone Which drew the heart out of Pygmalion. XXXVI. A sexless thing it was, and in its growth It seemed to have developed no defect Of either sex, yet all the grace of both, -- In gentleness and strength its limbs were decked; The bosom swelled lightly with its full youth, The countenance was such as might select Some artist that his skill should never die, Imaging forth such perfect purity.
(From The Witch of Atlas)
The previous episode is here.
“What do you mean, ‘feel better’? Sir?”
I put my hand on her cotton-cocooned right buttock and squeezed, to remind her that there was nothing to stop her from getting her morning spanking all over again. Jennifer shivered, her soft skin and firm muscles trembling under my hand. She understood that I was threatening to repeat her spanking. But she liked my hand.
“Some people get spanked regularly and often, Jennifer-” She made a wordless noise, not of protest but of recognition. Jennifer had learned that that was the kind of girl she was. “That’s the world you’re in now. Now, girls like you often need aftercare. And if they’re been good after their spanking they should get what they need. Does that sound sensible, Jennifer?”
There was a pause. She was looking for the trap. But it was hiding in plain sight. Eventually she said, “No, that does sound reasonable, sir.”
“Now, Jennifer. You’ve got a sore bottom, but you’ve been a good girl all day, I’m told. So you can have something that can take the pain away.”
“Sir?” She sounded shocked. Her imagination was, of course, running wild. She was seconds away either from protesting or making some declaration of consent or need. The latter was more likely but I didn’t want her to do that today. She needed more time, to build up a deep and desperate need before I’d let her consent.
“It’s a natural oil mixture, with aloe vera, lavender, arnica and cocoanut oil for vitamin E. It cools the spanked area and takes away most of the pain, and sets about healing the skin. To let you sleep easy, and, well, let you sit down again without it being awkward. It’s for girls who get into trouble a lot but they’re good girls really. Would you like that?”
There was a longer pause. Jennifer knew she wouldn’t be applying the mixture herself. That left strong, male hands kneading her flesh, healing the skin I’d hurt earlier that day.
I suspected that would appeal in its own right, and anyway it’d be better than going home with a sore bottom.
Finally and bravely Jennifer said, “Yes, I’d like that. You mean like a massage. I like those.”
I collected the tube of oils from the corner of my desk, where it lived with the pens pencils and felt tips and paperclips. I put a dab on the lowest vertebrae in the small of her back. A subdued, noctural animal sound from Jennifer. She was so needy, so aroused.
I put my fingers in the upper hem of her panties, and pulled them, not down, but away from her skin, revealing a perfect bottom, unlikely to be quite as sore as she’d claimed but still prettily pink from her spanking.
Jennifer groaned. “Oh sir, please. Can you leave my panties up?”
“Um. Well, yes, sir. You did. You have.”
“So is it something about your panties, then? Have you got a laptop hidden down there?”
She laughed. “No, sir.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jennifer reached back obediently. The panties came down, slowly, as if she felt it was a gift that should be savoured inch by inch. She pulled the bunched cotton past the fleshiest part of her bottom and tugged them all the way down as instructed.
She was a spanked angel, smelling of musk and almond flour, half naked over my desk.
The next episode is here.
I’m cooling my heels in an airport transit lounge, on my way to the castle. I’ll be in my castle in 20 hours.
Then my girl arrives in Rome the next day, so I’ll be with her (some might dispute that preposition) in about 40-odd hours.
Wifi here is dodgy, so I’m not even going to try to post a pic, though I’m having a hilariously bad hair day.
It’s 6.30 in the morning. A girl waits for me, pale pink with deeper pink in places,bending over a chair near the end of my land, looking down into the valley. The air is clear but still morning-fresh: she shivers a little.
She won’t come quietly, that girl. Echoes of the flogger’s impact, and quieter pleasures, and orgasmic cries, across the valley. It’s a beautiful place, but it’s never been more beautiful than that morning.
A protocol is, essentially, a standing order that a dom gives to his or her sub. The sub must always carry out those protocols, even if not reminded or instructed in the moment.
An example of a protocol (not one I’d impose, because I like eye contact too much) is: “The submissive will not make eye contact with the dominant, but will look straight ahead or down when they are speaking.”
The thing about protocols is that they increase awareness for both the dom and the sub, but especially the sub, of their relationship. They extend the emotional and sexual pleasures that come from simply being dom and sub, together.
In practice a dom/sub couple only do very active dominant and submissive things – flogging and tying and commanding and obeying – for a small proportion of their time together.
They also have to rest, and eat, and choose entertainments, and go to work, and worry about their parents or their children and so on. Life goes on, and a lot of it is mundane.
So, if you look at it in one way, their experience of time is that there are short intense bdsm experiences followed by long stretches of vanilla time.
Protocols act to extend bdsm consciousness into more of that dom’s and sub’s consciousness and experience of time. They give a kind of immersion experience.
Bdsm, dominance and submission, isn’t a place you occasionally go, it’s where you live. Protocols help to keep the roles alive and active even when the couple is doing mundane things.
So, the dom may be doing the dishes, but the sub will still address him or her by their title: Sir, Ma’am, Master or Mistress.
The submissive may have to ask for permission to enter or leave the room, if the dom is in that room. Something like that takes only a couple of seconds, and yet it suddenly makes real and palpable the reality of their relationship, and what they’ve given each other, even in an otherwise unsexy moment. It’s a miniature flash of lightning, a reminder of the connection and the tension between dom and sub.
I’ve listed some protocols I’m thinking of imposing on someone who’s new to bdsm, and is in a fairly light regime, below.
The submissive will address the dom as “sir”.
The submissive will wear the collar given him or her by the dom, plus any other given adornment.
The submissive will wear what the dom instructs.
The submissive will kiss the dom in greeting if they’ve been apart for longer than, oh, five minutes.
The submissive will ask permission to enter or leave the room the dominant is in.
The submissive will respectfully remind the dom of any matters needed to ensure the sub’s continued good health and well-being.
The submission will address the dom respectfully, no matter how egregiously he or she may have just fucked up.
Those are my suggestions, as starting points. Any thoughts or suggestions?
The previous episode is here.
Jennifer let her upper body rest on my desk, her arms reaching for the edge. She looked at me, helpless, fearful. The cane frightened her. I nodded at her. “Good girl.”
So I got up, walked round my desk. I stood behind her, and put my hand on the desk, almost touching her hip. The school skirt had risen almost all the way to her coccyx. It barely covered the upper hem of her panties. “Feet apart, girl.”
Jennifer said, “Yes, sir.” So one part of her training had been achieved. I smiled and watched her shuffle till her thighs were open for me, feet about half a metre apart.
She knew what she was giving me. It was more than obedience. She wanted me to like what I saw. It was incoherent, but it was desire. For the first time, probably, she wanted to be make a man unable to resist her, and to be taken.
I put my hand on her hip. Her head raised momentarily from the desk, then she subsided.
“This is the position you’ll be in where I cane you for the first time.”
She coughed. It was hard for her to speak. She managed, “Yes, sir.”
“So, how do you know you aren’t going to be caned now?”
Her head shook. She hadn’t known that at all. Then she stared at my chair, thinking of what I’d said to her. “Because I’m not naked, sir?”
“Good girl. That’s right. You’ll need to undress, before I cane you. Think of it as a formal occasion. Now, keep your head down, Jennifer. And keep still, if you don’t want to find out just how that feels.”
Her face rested on the wooden tabletop, as fast as she could. “Yes, sir!”
“I’m told the worst part is putting your clothes back on after you’ve been caned.”
“Ooh.” I let her think about that for a moment or two.
“Now.” I traced my finger along upper slopes of her bottom, through her panties. “That’s where you skirt reaches, if you bend over, girl. Did you realise that?”
Her face moved, though she didn’t dare lose contact with the tabletop. Of course she’d known that. She was torn between acknowledging just how provocative she’d been. Or lying. She said, “No, I didn’t know. Sir?”
I smiled and put my hand on her pantied bottom. “You didn’t sound very certain, Jennifer. I’m going to ask you again, and you’ve got one chance to answer truthfully.”
“Sir, I’m sorry, sir! I just – I was ashamed. I didn’t want to lie. I’m sorry. I did know. I did. You can punish me if you like.”
“That’s very generous of you, girl, but you’ll find that that’s up to me. And I said you had one chance, Jennifer. In fact I’m glad to hear you’re a bad liar. But don’t do it again. Ever.”
“Oh, sir, I’m sorry. Thank you, thank you, sir.”
“Oooh, sir! It’s so sore!”
I smiled. I wasn’t sure that would pass the lie test either, though I hoped there was still pink, and she could still feel it. But it didn’t matter just then. I could teach her truthfulness later.
“Hmmm. Poor girl. Would you like me to make it feel better?”
The next episode is here.