After Eroticon: Re-emergence

I’ve been silent for a week. That’s probably unprecedented, for this blog, since 2012. Back then I spent a month hanging round hospitals, pouring out blood, fairly heavily wounded. 

And although a nurse kept me amused by showing me her bruises, and although I had a lot of other people’s blood in my veins, I just didn’t have the energy to write.

Still, I picked it all up again.

And that nurse: I think that when I understand the universe better, I’ll discover that she’s secretly in charge of the life force. 

Helsinki: grey, cold and beautiful

Anyway, my reason for silence this time is more prosaic. I’ve been travelling, not always in places with w-ifi. And too many days started before 6.00 in the morning, and then went on until far too late in a different time zone.

Anyway, right now I’m in London, and I’m going to be asleep very, very soon, though it’s early in the evening. But I’m so tired I’m gasping. For air and water, mainly, and rest.

Pork, sympathy and wine in the Eternal City

Here’s a photo of Rome, as experienced by me. This man is bringing me food, and wine from the district where the castle I stayed in last year is located. Thank fuck for Rome, is all I can say about that. 

But I only got one night in Rome. Then I had to catch the train to Turin, spend the night there, and catch the train to Paris too early in the morning, so I could arrive in time to catch the Paris to London Eurostar.

i arrived in London in time to doss down in some dodgy bnb. But in the morning I met the lovely Zoe at the airport, and we went to Eroticon, a conference and general get-together and celebration for the world’s sex bloggers.

I’ll write more about Eroticon later, but for now I can’t. It will take more time and energy and thought than I’ve been able to have yet.

In the meantime, all I can say is that I’m back with a keyboard and a connection, and welcome back to my blog, for all of you!

Masturbation Monday: The slippery slide

So Stephanie waited, bent over the apex of the slide, naked now, face pressed down against the cold metal of the chute, ass prettily presented for me. I slipped my fingers between wet, petalled folds, and began to stroke her again. 

Stephanie said, “Oh, I don’t think I got anything more.” But I just smacked her bottom again, because I wanted to make it clear that all sorts of things weren’t really up to her for the time being, and that a second orgasm was one of those things. She laughed, for reasons of her own, and then sighed when I resumed working my fingers against sweet soft wetness. 

I put my thumb against her asshole and pressed a little, and got another sigh. So I kept that pressure, and kept the rhythm of my fingers in her absolutely steady, neither fast now slow, neither speeding up or slowing down.

In time, ina few minutes, her buttocks had clenched, and she was rolling with my hand,, and her vocal noises were still sighs, but higher pitched, enthusiastic sighs.

I said, “I have. More, I mean. I’m going to fuck you so hard, little Stephanie, when we get back.”

Her foot twitched. She was no longer standing on the steps, letting her tummy take all of her weight. She made a nasal sound, and carolled, “fuuuuuuck!”, partly in answer to what I’d said, and partly for other very good reasons. 

The sound she made when she came, that second time, was like the greatest expression of fear and grief you could imagine, except that it was clearly loudly and absolutely joyous. Her feet and thighs lifted clear, so that I had to grab her and hold her while she came, or else she’d have slid remorselessly down. 

Eventually she breathed a kind of laugh. “I didn’t see that coming. Jesus!” 

I said, “It’s an unpredictable world, Stephanie.” And, because I had her legs in my hands, and she had no more orgasm for now, I pushed her, like a double javelin, down the slide. Stephanie said, “Yiiiii!” And there were whioops of indignation and laughter, while she hurtled facedown and naked, on that chilly metal chute. 

I didn’t follow, though I wanted to. I climbed back down and picked up her discarded shorts and panties. Stephanie, now getting up from the level bit at the slide’s end, called out to me, “You utter, utter, utter, utter bastard!” 

And then a light went on, from the house nearest to the playground. People were stirring. We’d stirred them. 


Eroticon UK: The Jaime papers!

In a week, I’ll be at Eroticon UK! 

On Friday, I’ll be there for drinks. I herewith present my papers!

Name (and Twitter handle if you have one)

My name is Jerusalem Mortimer. But people generally call me Jaime.

It’s like James, but with no “s” on the end. One syllable. It’s not Jamie. 

For social purposes and dauphins, my name is Jaime.

But I’m not thingy about it. Fact is, smile at me and I’ll answer to any bloody thing.  

The pic is me on Day 10 after having my face ripped about by weasels! I can almost recognise myself. I’m having the stitches taken out this afternoon. 

My Twitter handle is @JaimeMortimer.

What are you most looking forward to about Eroticon 2018?

Meeting up with the lovely Zoe, from @sexismynewhobby! That’s the big headline for me.

Beyond that, I’m looking forward to meeting lots of lovely people, who are so damn sharp, cool and nice (and generally lovely) that they astound me to admiration. I will buy many drinks! 

Also, I really liked Camden when I was there last year, and I’m looking forward to getting to know the place a little better this time around. 

We are creating a play list of songs for the Friday Night Meet and Greet. Nominate one song that you would like us to add to the play list and tell us why you picked that song.

Jerusalem (“And did those feet, in ancient time…”).

The Emerson, Lake and Palmer version.

Because Blake is about elemental force, and freedom, and breaking “the mind-forg’d manacles”. Also, the ELP version is an awesome reinvention of a brilliant song.  

Weirdest place you’ve ever gotten up to mischief (define ‘mischief’ however you like…)

The Tutaekuri River, in New Zealand. The name, by the way, means “dogshit” in Maori. I suspect that some nineteenth century surveyor asked a local Maori what that river was called. The Maori guy came up with that, keeping a straight face, so it got into the mapbooks. It’s quite a pretty river, really.

Anyway, I was having sex with my girlfriend in a deep pool on one side of the Tutaekuri River, sitting on some underwater rocks.

The watery fucking got to an urgent point, but then a raft floated by, packed with boy scouts and a pink scoutmaster.

He kept trying to draw the boys’ attention to some sight on the opposite side of the river from us. He didn’t have much luck.

We stopped and didn’t start again till they’d they’d drifted on downriver and out of sight. Then, a minute later, there was another boyscout raft, this one with a red scoutmaster. We tried to lean back and look respectable, and not look too obviously joined, underwater. They passed, and the fucking resumed. 

And then… there was a third raft, with a crimson scoutmaster.

We waited for a bit, but that was it. When the girlfriend came, it was the first time I’d ever heard a woman make orgasm noises and hysterical giggles simultaneously. Best sound ever, I thought. 

Anyway, so we’ve done our bit for sex education.  

Tell us two truths and a lie about yourself

  1. I am indomitable, probably to a fault.
  2. I secretly fear that my powers are not up to my ambitions, as a writer. 
  3. When I was 11, I wrote a novel in which Percy Bysshe Shelley was rescued from drowning by a man in a time machine, who sent him to America to save the place from right-wing crazies on religion.

Complete the sentence: I want..

… to find a publisher for three books. Two novels, one funny and one crime-and racism focussed, also a non-fiction book about bdsm. Put me in paper!  

Wicked Wednesday: Worried thoughts, and the shadow of the slipper


The previous episode of Maddie’s steamy saga is here. 


Worried thoughts, and the shadow of the slipper

Maddie sat, trying to concentrate on French. But she thought about Lucy, her girl. And Sir, who was going to cane her after school that afternoon. And cane Lucy, too. Naked, the both of them. 

She knew he’d be happy with that thought. He’d already shown her what he thought of her body, and she knew Lucy, naked, would delight him too. When she faced him, and when she turned her back to assume the position.

But should she have claimed ownership of Lucy? She’d had his permission to see if Lucy wanted to be there when Sir took Maddie at last, for the first time, at his home after he’d caned both of them in his office. She hadn’t had his permission to claim Lucy as her… what? Her slave, really. So it seemed.

She hoped Sir would let her keep Lucy. She hoped that so hard. And she didn’t want him to be angry with her. She knew that if she owned Lucy, and he owned her, Maddie, then Sir owned Lucy anyway. And Lucy had seemed to find that was an exciting idea: being owned by both Sir and Maddie. She was happily exploring, too. 

Maddie frowned. She’d have to find some way of showing Sir that she’d done something good, even gracious. She hoped he’d see that she’d brought him a gift. Taking Lucy in her hands had been a presumptuous thing to do, but the moment had swept them along. She’d acted for the best, for all three of them.

Mlle Dupaurais said sharply, “Maddie! Faites attention!” Maddie started. The French mistress had a cutting tongue, and when she punished she used a rubber-soled slipper. It left severe marks, and Sir would not be pleased to find she hadn’t kept out of trouble.

Maddie looked at her, beseeching. “Je suis désolé, Mam’selle. J’ai eu une crampe. Je vais faire attention.” 

Mlle Dupaurias looked at Maddie. Her slipper was in the top drawer of her desk. “Assurez-vous de la faire. Or le directeur vous donnera des coups supplémentaires cet après-midi.”

Maddie blushed furiously. Did all her teachers know she was getting the cane this afternoon? Yes, she decided; yes, they would. She said, again, “Je suis désolé, Mam’selle.” 

Mlle Dupaurais gestured with one hand towards her desk drawer. Then she smiled ironically, and nodded, releasing Maddie from her gaze. The lesson continued. 

But now Maddie was focussed on more physical concerns. Her bottom still hurt from that morning’s caning. How would her second dozen feel? Could she take it? God, she hoped so. 


I think I’ve run other pics from this caning, but not this one. The strokes really were for repeated academic essay-lateness, but that was at university level, and in a consenting bdsm context. Still, it’s exactly the sort of thing that was at the forefront of Maddie’s mind, by the end of her French class. 

Masturbation Monday: an apology for a post, and more on the Library of Depravity

I made the Library of Depravity in what had been a bare concrete space.

The concept for it is late nineteenth century, based around the idea of some colonial administrator who’s served in Africa, Indochine (as it was then), the South Pacific, India, the Caribbean, and also around the Arctic Circle.

So he has all these artefacts from the places he’s been, which happen by an odd coincidence to be places I’ve been, and he comes down to the library to read poetry, politics, philosophy and porn, to punish and reward bad girls, and I think to smoke opium.

The only thing that isn’t 19th Century or earlier in technology is the record player, and at least that’s old and analogue. Because it relies on valves rather than transistors, it should have a chance of surviving as a sound system even if EMPs and other things that would fuck up digital technology are ever deployed. The only keyboard in that library is connected to a portable typewriter.

I’m not going all crazy-survivalist on you. I don’t have guns, or stockpiles of canned soup. I just think the internet is more vulnerable to destruction by government or non-state actors, or to coming under government or corporate control, than people remember to take into account. My books will still be here when my Kindle is fried, or the subversive and sexual texts start to disappear out of it.

As for poweringr that fine and ancient sound system, I was thinking of pretty submissives riding bicycles hooked up to power generators, and whips. And plenty of coffee.

It’s the genuinely environmentally friendly way of providing the needed energy. Fun and future-proofing!


Sorry damn note

I haven’t got the mental focus to write the next episode of my Masturbation Monday story, which involves swings and things and buttons and bows.

I could only manage to write this piece about the Library of Depravity. A few people asked me to. So it was a request and it was easy. 

I wrote about why I’m a bit lacking in energy and focus, here

I took this pic of myself five minutes ago. This is me on Day 7 after surgery. If you compare it with the Day 4 photo, you can see that the hard work of healing is coming along, slow but sure. 

Sinful Sunday: On the edge

What’s important is almost never what happens in the centre. It’s on the edges.

Where creamy skin becomes pink. Where pleasure comes with a clap and a pang. 

And beauty escapes the rule of symmetry, and loses the balance. 

And still, and yet, that asymmetry creates the best harmony.


State of the author: stuff I don’t usually talk about


People seeing this photo, which I took about five minutes ago, will think I look terrible. They’re right, I do.

But I think, “This is me just four days after scalpel surgery and then laser surgery on my face, and I’m recovering very fast.”

I think that because I’ve spared people the photos of me on days 1, 2, and 3, when my face looked like I’d been beaten up by the secret police, then pushed out of a car at high speed, then dragged by another car, and then rolling into the gutter, where people kept kicking my face for what must have seemed to them to be good reasons of their own. 

The mutant’s progress

Day 1: I looked reptilian, because the flow of lymph fluid puffed up my face, and blew up the pouches round my eyes so I could barely see out of them. Mostly couldn’t see out of my right eye. 

Day 2: The eye stuff had drained a little into the rest of my face. The rest of my face now looked like it had been inflated with a bicycle pump. I looked pig-like, though I was happy with that because at least I’d re-joined the mammalian order. 

Day 3: I looked dead. You know the annoying guy who’s the first to meet the aliens when they land on earth, and they kill him and use his animated corpse to pass on threatening messages and generally do their work? I looked like him, the deranged evangelist whose rotting face makes dogs howl and children scream and run.

My nose was black, and swollen in an odd way that made it look like it’d fallen off and been hurriedly stuck back on with glue. Still, at least now I was back to looking human

Day 4: Here I am. It looks nasty, but believe me, I’ve been looking at worse, lately. I feel about half-way back to being myself. The face colorisation is still weird, but most of the swelling’s gone, and the discolorisation is starting to fade, a little.

My face is shiny because I’ve rubbed a lot of haemorrhoid gel into it. The gel contains steroids to help repair, and has a mild anaesthetic effect. So you don’t have to stick haemorrhoid cream or gel up your ass; it has other uses.

Cancer scar

For the cancer op scarring under my lip, I’m using a light silicon gel as a wound dressing, as it’s supposed to reduce scarring. 

Yesterday, the surgeon called me and said they got it all. I’m at the lowest possible risk of having to have more taken out later. So that’s good.

Top tip!

I recommend haemorrhoid cream or gel, by the way, for people who’ve been severely caned, strapped or whipped, and have to have their bottom back in socially acceptable condition within a few days. It’s an effective way of reducing bruising. See? Everything links back to bdsm, really. 


Healing is hard work

Healing is hard work. I’ve just slept most of the way round the clock. I have so much to do, and no energy at all. 

How do I feel?

I’m not in pain, or not much pain. I feel better than I look.

I’m taking steroids, on medical advice, to speed the healing. I’m finding that they fuck with my sleep, which is probably one of the reasons I’m so tired now. I was also prescribed codeine, and I think from now on I’ll use paracetamol during the day, and the codeine at night to help me shut down. 

I’m relieved the cancer thing is over. Though I mostly just shelved thinking about it, and never worried all that much. So life rewards irresponsible insouciance, sometimes. 

I’m grateful to the people who care about me and even manage to love me, and to science and the medical profession. I’m kind of amazed that I’m not more unhappy about all this, but the thing is, I can see an upwards path and I feel pretty positive.

And if you’re going to Eroticon, I’m looking forward to seeing you in about a fortnight. By then I’ll have a new face, or rather my usual one back.