Wicked Wednesday: Maddie trembles

Note: 

This was intended to follow the prompt, Recollection. Unfortunately, the story grew before the recollection part came up. So I’ll have to use this week’s prompt next week. Or, knowing me, it might be the week after. I’m slow. Sorry!

Jennifer’s pleats and pleas: Maddie trembles

Maddie returned, sinuous on all fours, with her panties in her teeth. She stopped at my feet, so the cane was beside her again. She straightened her back, remaining on her knees, and said, “‘Ay ‘anties, sir.”

I took them from her mouth, without speaking. Or smiling. She wanted the tension broken, and at the same time she’d have been horrified if it were. So I said, “You pick up that cane, and hold it out in front of you. Palms up. You’re not to grip it.”

“Yes, sir.” She took the cane and held it as I’d instructed, offering it, and of course herself, for me.

She knew I’d come back from my encounter with Jennifer highly aroused, and that I was going to take her far, as well as hard. We were going to be dramatic. 

I crossed over to the neatly stacked shelves. “Tidy means ‘clean’, girl. Do you think these shelves are clean?”

“Sir, please, I did my best.” It wasn’t like Maddie to beg. But she knew she’d lost any chance of influencing what was going to happen to her, and she was a little unnerved.

I rubbed her panties, white and lacey, on the upper surface of the top shelf. She watched me, like a trapped bird watching a cat. I said, without looking at the panties, “Because if that shelf is not absolutely clean, I should take that as an insult, shouldn’t I?”

She froze, stricken. There was no safe answer to that. Eventually she said, “I’d never want to insult you, sir.”

I held her panties in front of her eyes. There was, fortunately, a reasonable collection of dust there. “Don’t even try, girl, to say you think that’s acceptable.”

“No sir. Oh, sir, I’m so sorry!” Somewhere, she knew this was theatre, designed to ramp up her reactions, and to express my needs. But that part of her that knew that was no longer in control.For now she knew only that the man she’d surrendered to was going to punish her, and that events were happening too fast for her to even think about how to influence what happened. Her palms, holding out the cane, were trembling. 

I said, “Stand up.” This was hard, with her hands still stretched out in front of her, but she managed.

I took the cane from her at last, and said, “Now turn around. Bend over and touch your toes.”

“Yes, sir. Do I count the strokes aloud?”

“Count and thank.”

I caned her hard, poor girl, letting the stripes form from the crown of her bottom to about three inches down her thighs. And I took my time, letting her feel each one, while I watched her tremble and fight for control.

She stayed down throughout, keeping her fingers in contact with her toes. When the count got to “13, thank you, sir”, I paused.

The was a tremor in Maddie’s voice, and I liked hearing it. I’d intended to give her more strokes, but her well striped ass and trembling thighs called me, urgently.

I put the cane in her mouth, unzipped, letting my pants fall to the floor, and took condom and lube from my coat pocket.

 

 

A dom should not be an idiot

When I arrived in Italy, I wrote off a car. It was the first time I’d driven a right hand drive vehicle. I was following a guy who was showing me the way to the castle. 

Never trust a Fiat

But though I’d said he should go slowly he set off at a pretty fast pace down narrow, winding back-country roads. I was trying to be careful by keeping to the right side of road.

Anyway, I managed to catch the tyre on a tree, and the rubber flew off and the car dropped onto the rim. The chassis was absolutely undamaged. It was just a glancing clip that took off the tyre. 

Life being what it is, this happened in front of a carload of cops, carbonieri munizipale. Though at least they took a look at it, decided I hadn’t broken any road rules, and fucked off. Anyway, I’ve listed the extenuating circumstances, but the fact is, I was at the wheel and it was my fault. 

A complete idiot and incompetent

The thing cost me 900 Euros. Worse, it took a huge chunk out of my self-confidence. I don’t like feeling a complete idiot and incompetent, and yet that was exactly the way I was feeling. A man, in particular, isn’t supposed to make mistakes like that.

I know that’s stoo-pid, but it’s what I was taught growing up. And I’d never had to confront that part of my upbringing before because I’ve never hit anything with a car before. So I felt an idiot, and I felt unmanned.

Then my love arrived to join me. She’s a good girl and my support, and I need her. So I got my shit back together. 

But it reminded me forcefully of another fact about domming. Sickness will leech away the energy and the certainty of will that makes me able to do it. So will considering myself to be an idiot. 

A dom, faking it. As we all do

A dom is supposed to have his or her shit together. She or he is supposed to be competent, and therefore reliable and trustworthy. I don’t think my girl felt the worse of me, but I did. It took real focus to lift myself up to the psychological state in which I could could dom.

We doms need certainty that we know what we’re doing and are competent. So, therefore, doms should not be idiots.  

 

Sinful Sunday: Not as unmoved as he pretended

 

His hands had trembled slightly when he raised her dress. He was not as unmoved by her as he had been pretending to be. 

She had waited while he lectured her brief;y. And, ludicrously, told her off for requiring him to punish her. 

But then the first stroke came. It hurt; it burned across her bare skin. But somehow she felt it as intensity. 

Something in her began to awake. This was not a dream.

Domming with no energy

I’m still recovering from being very very fucking sick. I had a rush of energy a few days ago, and thought I was up and over it, but the last two days have shown me I was, um, mistaken. 

I can’t walk far or do any of the work that needs doing. And I can’t focus enough to write anything that takes focus or concentration. 

But I got to thinking. Right now I couldn’t dom a Jack Russell terrier, let alone a submissive girl. I could probably deliver a spanking, if it wasn’t too strenuous, but overpowering even a submissive who wants to be overpowered is probably beyond me right now.

It’s not about physical energy. It’s mental energy. 

Partly the mental energy involves planning, thinking about what she and I want, and working out a path for getting there, taking in some interesting stops on the way. The nipple clamps? The tawse? Cuffs or rope? Start where? What’s the climax? That kind of planning.

But the real thing is the certainty a dom has to have. Not just when giving an order, but from the very beginning, so the submissive knows she can relax and drop. It’s a great mental space to be in, for the dom, because you can see it working, and because simply being a dom is hot. Simply domming

Domming takes a hell of a lot of energy and will. I don’t mean Will in a magic sense, exactly, but will is really important in bdsm. The dom has to gather it, hold it and use it. But right now, if I ordered a kitten to go away, I think it would ignore me. 

Wicked Wednesday: Maddy’s tears

Maddie waited naked, her hastily discarded dress on the floor beside her, facing my door, on her knees. She’d heard the scene with Jennifer, and she well knew the mood I’d be in. I put the cane on the floor beside her. She knew that wasn’t because I wouldn’t be needing it, but so she could pass it to me when it was time.

I saw that she’d tidied the storeroom beyond any reasonable complaint. There were neat piles of papers, clearly labelled, tidied rows of books, and the boxes made neat stacks on the upper shelves.

When I looked back at Maddie she’d opened her mouth and put her tongue forward, covering her lower teeth and pushing out her lip. The invitation was almost irresistible. She wanted, as she always did, to direct what happened. I stepped forward and slapped her face with my left hand. Her head jolted the the right, then to the left when I repeated the slap, backhanded. 

They didn’t need to be hard slaps, and they weren’t. Their psychological effect on Maddie was what counted. They dropped her, instantly, into submission and a world in which she had no influence on what happened. It was only necessary for her to serve. I grabbed her hair then, unzipped and thrust hard into her mouth, filling her before she had time to gasp for breath. 

She sucked me, running her tongue under my cock, keeping her eyes on mine, as she’d been told. I savoured her warm, wet harbour, and counted to ten. That was as long as she usually took to start worrying about choking. Her eyes showed worry at twelve seconds. I counted slowly to fifteen. 

It wasn’t that she couldn’t hold her breathe; she could manage over a minute. It was that this was the ultimate loss of control for Maddie, and she feared it and desired it at the same time. At eighteen I pulled her, fast, off my cock, and she gasped for air. 

The tears ran down her cheeks, making runnels in her mascara while she fought for air, my cock poised in her mouth for the next thrust.

Then there was no more air, only cock.I pushed against the back of her throat.

Maddie stiffened and fought for control. Eventually she relaxed, and put her hands on my shins, not for support but for affection, while nearly twenty seconds passed. So I withdrew a little, and allowed her the comfort of having her mouth rather than her throat fucked. She sucked and tongued diligently. 

I watched her eyes while hers watched mine. She was happy. And she expected me to come soon. 

Reluctantly, and with seconds to spare, I withdrew from her mouth. I wanted to tell her she was a good girl and had pleased me, and she plainly needed that.

But it would break the mood. I said, “You think this is tidy, Maddie?”

She frowned. “Well, yes, Sir. I thought so.” 

“Well, we’ll see. Your panties are in your desk, I assume?” She’d shed them when I’d had her this morning. She knew I’d disapprove, painfully, if she’d put them back on. 

She nodded. “Yes, Sir.” 

“Fetch.” 

Maddie put her hands on the floor, and crawled to her office.

She knew better than to stand up.

Sinful Sunday: In a dream

Someone spoke her name. She rose, passed him the cane she’d been holding. She sighed when the command came, and bent over his table.

He had sounded bored, resigned, as if her humbling and her pain were utterly unimportant. As if he would find punishing her tedious. She knew he was acting. 

But so in a sense was she. She had, to some extent, left the scene: her mind was elsewhere, or nowhere. All this was an enactment, a ritual. It was happening in a dream. 

 

 

Whipping your way through Pompeii

I went to Napoli a few days back. The first two days I did nothing except lie in bed and cough and shiver. Ate breakfast cereal for dinner the second day because all the shops and restaurants had closed when I woke up. Anyway, I was determined to get to Pompeii, so I stayed an extra night and headed out on the third day. 

I could probably say something thoughtful about the flagellation scene at the Villa deii Misterii, but right now I don’t have the nodes. Or the lobes. My brain hurts already: I’m not going to try to think. 

Anyway, here’s a loving couple engaged in an apparent spanking, taken from the wall of the underground baths. 

When your lover (or slave; it’s hard to tell in Roman art) complains the water’s cold…

The really fascinating image from Pompeii, that I should really write about, when I’m not so fucking sick, is this one. (This was an incredibly awkward picture to take, by the way.)

Many think the woman being whipped in the first scene is the woman dancing in joy in the second. That’s certainly my take.

For now, it’s time to have breakfast, pack my bag and head to the airport.

Wicked Wednesday: Beautiful, bell-like, orgasm

I dipped my finger in the oil collected at her anus. “Hmm,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll often find this part of your body lubricated in the future.” 

“Sir?” 

“A man who wants you, Jennifer, will certainly need to take you here.” I pressed my finger down a little, not quite entering but letting her feel her own muscles ready to admit me. Then I spread the oil, moving down into her perineum. Jennifer’s moan was loud, and unambiguously sexual. She was nearly ready.

“But that’s in your future, girl. For now-” 

I resumed stroking her buttocks and thighs, with Jennifer rising and falling under my hands. Her breathing was urgent. She was close. 

At the last second, I reached low on her buttocks and pressed hard, fingers digging into where her sciatic nerves would be. Jennifer sobbed, once, and her body rose briefly from my table. She was silent after that, trying to conceal that deep and perhaps surprising orgasm she’d just had.

I maintained the pressure, and a few seconds later she gave another shudder, and then was still. Her face looked anguished. Her eyes were wet. There were tears on my desk.

I resisted the urge to take her in my arms, kiss her and praise her, and instead resumed kneading her as if nothing had happened. My cock ached, in restrictive clothing. I wanted her so powerfully. 

After a minute I slowed and stopped, and gave her right buttock a pat. “I think that’ll do you, little Jennifer. I’m sure we’ve dealt with any pain.” 

There was no response. Jennifer was still entranced. There was drool as well as tears on my desk. I reached for her shoulder. “Girl.” There were threats, disciplinary threats, in my voice.

She let me help her up. She stood, panties still round her knees, and looked at me, red-faced, wet-eyed. She wiped her mouth. She wore no lipstick. Suddenly she launched herself, threw her arms around my back and kissed me. It was passionate, needy. I was sure it was the first time she’d kissed a man.

I let the kiss last, because it was wonderful and I wanted to treasure it, and it meant she had surrendered to me more than she knew. Yet. She rubbed her breasts against my chest. “Thank you, sir, thank you, thank you!” 

But eventually I smacked her bottom. She remembered where she was. She stepped back. “Sorry, Headmaster. I was – I just wanted to say thank you.” 

Of course I smiled. “You are an incredibly good girl, Jennifer. And sweet-natured. And there’s nothing at all wrong with that.” I spoke with absolute sincerity. These things were true. “Now, the oil’s soaked into your skin, girl, so you can pull your panties up now.”

For some female reason she turned her back for this operation, so that I could watch the slow concealment of the lower half of her bottom. 

When she turned to face me, a smiling girl, her face only slightly flushed, I gave her a piece of paper I’d had Maddie type earlier. She looked at it blankly. “Sir?” 

“That’s a note to Wynetts. The shop your mother bought your uniform. Take that piece of paper to them – they’re expecting you this afternoon – and try on uniforms till you find one you’re comfortable in.” 

“Sir, please. I can’t take-” 

“There’s a school fund for exactly this sort of issue, Jennifer. You can and you will. Get s uniform that looks good. Not like the one you’re wearing now, and not too conspicuously modest either. Just get something so that you look like the other girls. All right?” 

She stepped towards me, then stopped. Propriety had broken out. She said, “I’m glad I kissed you, Sir.” 

I smiled. “Do you want your bottom smacked again?” 

Her face was pure mischief. “Perhaps.” 

So I tried to look stern, and said, “That’s enough of that.” But I couldn’t stop smiling. I took her ear and led her to the door. “Off you go, Jennifer. See me tomorrow morning, in your new uniform.” 

“Yes, Sir.” I resisted the urge to pat her bottom, and shut the door behind her. I sighed, happily. I needed release. I needed Maddie, with some urgency. After some thought, I took the senior cane from my cupboard. I had no idea if she’d properly tidied and cleaned the storeroom, and I’d warned of consequences if she hadn’t. She’d be waiting for me, having listened to, among other things, Jennifer’s beautiful, bell-like orgasm. 

I opened the storeroom door. 

Dublin and pain

I’m in Dublin. I had an idea, after my father died earlier this year, that I should go to Ireland, to see where I came from, at least genetically.

Statues commemorating the Irish Potato Fame. The starving, beside the Liffey, in Dublin

Both of my parents were of almost entirely Irish stock. Though the people who were my ancestors left Ireland during or shortly after the Famine, they continued to marry other Irish expatriots over the next several generations. Although there’s the occasional Welshman or Scot in my traceable ancestry, it’s basically all Irish men and women.

I’ve always been grateful to my ancestors for leaving. Ireland is still disfigured by the Catholic Church, essentially a corporation for the enabling and protection of child rapists, and for the torture and enslavement of women, the Magdalene Laundires episode being only one example of this.

I’d been in Dublin for about six minutes when I encountered a march of young women demonstrating for the repeal of Ireland’s stupid, cruel and life-threatening ban on abortion.

I make a lousy nationalist. If I’d been living in Northern Ireland during the Troubles, I’d always have voted to be part of the United Kingdom. Not out of nationalism: I’d don’t give a fuck what Cromwell did to the Irish three hundred-odd years ago. Or the Elizabethans before that. (Both sides seem to have forgotten the Scots invasion, and the land theft, famine and massacres under Robert the Bruce’s brother Edward, because that doesn’t fit the narrative.) 

I’d have voted to be in the UK because I didn’t want to have the cops, directed by the church, tell me what I’m allowed to buy in a bookshop. I’d have wanted to be able to buy contraception, which you could then do in the UK but not Eire. I’d want a woman to be able to get an abortion if she has an unwanted pregnancy. Fuck nationalism: I only care about human rights. 

So it was sobering to be reminded that Eire’s abortion law is still the one dictated by the Church. Rapists, torturers, murderers and their enablers, still claiming moral authority. Sooner that’s dumped into history’s Dead Joke Box the better. 

Anyway, the pain I cause is consensual, intended to help, to lead to pleasure and other kinds of growth, and never to cause harm. Ireland is full of the traces of the domination of an organisation that seeks no consent, and is entirely indifferent to the pain, suffering, harm and death it causes.

 

By the way, I’m thinking about pain because after Eroticon, and after seeing Gretel off on the place back to her native land, I went to Dublin and got a cold. My head hurts. Really hurts. My bones feel like I’ve been beaten up, apparently in my sleep, by the secret police. I need to cough all the time, and it hurts like hell to cough. I’ve got chills. God, I’d love a hot flush. 

On the other hand, I’m outside a pub on Talbot Street, drinking coke and watching pretty girls go by. So … silver linings, that’s what you have to look out for.