Sinful Sunday: Healing bruises

When your master has released your cuffs from the bedposts, but left them on you. When you sleep, feeling the bruising on your arse is healing, but still feeling the warmth and the comfort of that deep, warm ache. When getting those bruises felt healing, too. 

Those are good sleeping conditions. Everything is perfect.

 

Slave names

I once spent a week with a woman who’d contacted me because she liked my writing. But  there were major differences between us. I tend to see bdsm as loving, and not at all demeanning. She liked to be demeaned. She liked to be treated like a dog, when we were doing bdsm or fucking. 

I don’t mean like really fucking an actual, real dog: I’ve no experience in fucking canines. It’s not just that it’s illegal and there are ethical consent issues. I’m afraid I’ve never fancied one.

I admired my dog Elric, because he was clever. Also, he was once bullied by a huge German Shepherd, who mock-mounted him as an expression of dominance. Elric thought about it, decided he didn’t like that, and while the German Shepherd was still preening, Elric put his front paws on the Shepherd’s back and mounted him, making doggy pelvic thrusts against the Shepherd’s arsehole. 

I still remember the amazed fury in the German Shepherd’s face. He couldn’t believe it, but he was as angry as a dog gets. A fight broke out that Elric would have lost, badly, if it had gone on for thirty seconds. Luckily I was wearing knee-high leather dom boots that day, and I waded in and separated them, kicking the shit out of the German Shepherd until he backed off, and occasionally booting Elric when he tried to keep the fight going. How I got out that with my skin intact, in retrospect I’ll never know.

Something protects idiots, and Elric and I were both that. But despite that, we never got round to having sex, Elric and I. So when this woman wanted to be fucked as one would fuck a dog, I really was at a loss. 

Woofsie!

But in practise it turned out to mean that I lashed her with a short single-tail whip and called it a dogwhip, and I shouted a lot of commands you’d shout at a dog: “Roll over!”, “Down, girl!”, “Sit! Stay!” and so on. Then I’d say things like, “You filthy, stinky dog! You useless mongrel bitch! You worthless carpet-pissing, slipper-chewing, lazy, should-be-spayed, stupid farting ANIMAL!” 

And she would groan with arousal. I was quite proud, actually, of being verbally inventive in a genre I’d never even thought about before. But I’m a Dom who likes to please. Anyway, all human experience is good. That which does not bore us makes us strong. 

Anyway, she wanted me to name her, and call her, “pigcunt” . So I did. pigcunt the dog.

Soon after, I met a girl who was much closer to my worldview and style. We became Master and slave. And she insisted that I give her a slave name. So I called her “curious oyster”

She was endlessly hungry for knowledge, which explained the ‘curious’, and she had a remarkably pretty and demanding cunt, which is what ‘oyster’ meant.

Usually I called her oyster, because it seemed sexy to me, and her, that she was named after her cunt.

The next submissive girl I really loved I called “pixie tinkerbelle”, because that reflected how I felt about her. The name was because she was full of mysterious and unexpected knowledge and skills. Also, she needed spanking at every and any given moment. 

But a few days ago I was talking to a guy who’d been a switch but was wanting to slip into the submissive role because he’d met and spent some time with a dom woman. It had gone well, and they were about to enter a live-in Mistress/slave relationship. She’d ordered him to come up with a slave name. He asked me what I thought.

I thought he should indicate whether he wanted a demeaning or a loving slave name, but after that it’s a dom’s job to observe their sub or slave and give them a name based on what the dom sees in them.

I hate people who tell others in bdsm that they’re Doing It Wrong, but I sort of thought the dom woman was doing it wrong, maybe from a lack of confidence. But I suggested that he should help her find that confidence. The naming was her job.    

 

Also goodbye Elric, my beautiful labrador-samoyed cross: I never did get round to fucking you (and wouldn’t in, oh, a million years), but I sure loved you. 

(Yeah, he was named after an albino Melnibonéan prince. I was reading Moorcock a lot at the time I got him as a puppy. Late adolescence. ) 

Wicked Wednesday: Jennifer accepts her fate

“Good girl.” I put my hands on her shoulders and set her up straight. “Now, Jennifer, we’ll discuss your first assignment before you leave the office this afternoon. But there’s a third reason you were to come to the office after school. Can you remember?”

“Yes, sir.” Then she hung her head. “I was showing off to the boys. My bottom, and my… pussy, sir. I know that was stupid of me. And you’re going to punish me for it.”

“That’s right, girl. I don’t want you to do that ever again.”

“I know, sir! And I won’t! I promise! I don’t want to ever be like that girl again!” ‘That girl’ meant her, only a day ago. 

“Of course, Jennifer. That’s what all girls like you say, before they’ve been punished.”

“Please, sir! I’ll never do that again!”

“We’ll only know that’s true after you’ve had your bottom warmed. That’s when you say it and really mean it.”

Her eyes were shining, her eyebrows pleading. “I mean it now, sir! Honest I do!”

“Well, we’ll see. You will make that promise to me again, little Jennifer. But that will be when your bottom is bright red and hot, and you have tears running down your cheeks.”

“Oh.” She moved her right foot to the left of her left foot, crossing her legs. She squirmed.

“When I tell you I’ve finished dealing with you, you’ll make that promise again. And you’ll mean it with every cell in your body. You’ll be surprised how much you mean it, compared to now.”

“I do mean it now, sir. Honest I do.”

I smiled at her. “The difference is that once I’ve finished with you this afternoon, if it ever crossed your mind to do that again, even for a second, you’ll feel a twinge in your bottom.”

Jennifer put her hands back, to rub her bottom. She’d been spanked only yesterday for skipping classes, and it had already had a big effect on her behaviour. No doubt she could feel it, not still hurting, exactly, but still sensitive.

I smiled at her. “You’ll remember – your body will remember – what it cost you last time. And that will keep you behaving like a good girl.”

Jennifer paused, to consider that. Then she nodded. It made sense to her. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now take off your blazer. And that skirt.”

“Sir? Do I have to?”

“You just earned six extra. Do you want to question my instructions again, or will you start doing as you’re told?”

“Sorry, sir.” The jacket came off quickly and easily. She put it on the clothes rack on my wall.

The skirt was a more measured matter, one that took fumbling at catches and buttons.  I watched her, amused. Even though the little skirt she’d worn yesterday had been no protection, either for her bottom or her modesty, taking the skirt off was a stronger gesture. It meant consciously abandoning one line of her defences. I let her come to terms with that at her own speed.

Eventually she unwrapped it, and stood for a moment, facing me. She had the skirt in her hand. She was, I suppose, shy about turning her back on me to hang it up on the rack. So we looked at each other for a moment.

Masturbation Monday: Adventures with Emily 1

I sat reading in the living room. Emily had spent all day working in the wards, so she was intellectually tired and didn’t want to read. She sat on the couch opposite me, picking up a book and putting it down again, sighing loudly.

Off!

She watched and saw irritation on my face, because it’s hard to pull me out of a book, but then she saw a glint of amusement, too. That micro-expression was, in a sense, my consent.

A game had started, and Emily was no longer bored. I pretended to ignore her, but she knew I was now noticing where she was and what she was doing. I turned more pages, letting minutes pass. Finally, I said, “Emily.”

She stood in front of me. “Sir?” I was Jaime most of the time, but when there was something in the air I was “sir”.

“I want you to take your clothes off, now, Emily, and kneel.” I pointed at the carpet between my feet.

“Yes, sir.” Emily pulled off her shirt and bra, then her jeans and so on, making a point of how speedily she obeyed orders, if only someone could be bothered to give them.

She knelt, quivering naked, her hands reaching slightly behind her to touch her ankles.

“That’s very good. Good girl. Thank you.” The command style I’d evolved with Emily was excruciatingly polite. Emily, naked, was hard to ignore, but I pretended to, turning more pages more or less at reading speed. Her eyes were on me, alert for movement like a puppy watching a human with a tennis ball.

Eventually I got up and took, from a ledge, some cords that we’d bought at a fabric shop. I knelt beside Emily, taking her left hand and tying her wrist securely to her left shin, a little above her ankle. I did the same with her right wrist and right shin.

To Emily the symbolism and the sensation of having her movements restricted by bonds was important in itself. This particular tie, with her knees bent and her wrists secured to her shins, was simple but forced her to remain in a position that was unmistakably submissive, that could not have any meaning other than sexual servitude.

I pretended to read then, from time to time glancing at her. After a few more minutes had passed I tipped her forward, so that her face, shoulders, breasts and knees pressed down on the carpet, while her bottom was thrust up in the air. Emily’s ties forced her to shuffle her shoulders and knees, face pushed into the carpet, trying to find a comfortable resting place.

We’d found, in previous experiments, that when Emily was tied like that no comfortable place existed.

But her restless struggling was beautiful and sexual, and her face, as she watched me, open-mouthed, from the floor, was bright red. I knew that she was thoroughly roused. Time passed, while I pretended to read and really watched Emily shift and struggle. 

Eventually I took a handful of Emily’s thick black hair and tugged her up, tilting her back up to her kneeling position. She shuffled forward, following my hand, which tugged her by her ear now, and lowered her mouth onto my lap.

I undid buttons, but precisely because Emily’s hands were tied, I left it to her to extract my cock from underpants and shirttails. She closed her teeth on my underpants and pulled.

 

Sinful Sunday: The blush and the rush

When I spanked and paddled Rose, in diaper position, every moment flashed past at lightning speed and intensity. It was like we were falling through trees. I tried to take photos while it was happening. 

But lust likes speed. Or it causes speed. I took many photos, and this is one of the few that are actually clear, and make sense. 

So this is a document of passion. And lust.

 

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Wicked Wednesday: Jennifer in my office

The next day Jennifer came to my office as I’d told her to do, after school. She was wearing her new uniform. It was less cheerfully obscene than the too-small version her mother had bought, but she looked radiantly happy in it.

She looked at me, proud. Then she faltered, worried that I might think she’d chosen wrong. I said, “That’s perfect, Jennifer. It fits you perfectly. It looks, really, very good on you. Flattering. You did very well.”

She beamed. She wanted to feel confident. A girl who has felt a man’s cock harden for her has no doubt of her enchantment over him. But she still wanted to know she’d done right.

I pointed my finger at her, and made a little circle in the air. “Turn around.” She turned, so I could admire her from the back, looking back over her shoulder. I admired her, but I said, “I meant, twirl.”

She frowned, puzzled. She completed her turn so she faced me again. I said, “Twirl. In that skirt. Quickly, like a cheerleader.”

“Oh!” She spun so the skirt flared out and lifted. Her white panties and the sweet gap at the top of her thighs were exposed, then hidden as she came to a stop.

“Like that, sir?”

“Exactly like that. Good girl. You chose well. And no one else is to see you do that, you understand, except me.”

“I’ll twirl whenever you want, sir.”

I got up from my desk, and walked towards her. She stepped forward to meet me, and she kissed me again. I held her, and we pressed bodies together. “Now, little Jennifer, why are you here?”

“Sir?” It was too broad a question.

“In my office. After school.”

“Oh. Well, you wanted to see me in my new uniform, sir. Thank you, thank you!” I was holding her whole weight; she’d leaned into me with her hands around my neck, and relaxed.

“And you look perfect, Jennifer.” I kissed her, mouth to mouth, and she brought her hand up to stroke along my jawline. “And why else are you here?”

“I’m to tell you what I think about doing extra work for you. And taking extra… discipline.”

“Yes. You are. And what have you decided?”

“Of course, sir! I’d be so grateful if you set me extra work. I want to do better. And I know that if I don’t do my work right…”

“Yes.”

“You will make sure I do my best. With your hand on my bottom. Or worse. That’s as it should be, sir, isn’t it?”

“You’re a good girl, Jennifer. And of course I won’t accept anything less than your very best. I certainly won’t accept any excuses.”

“Yes, sir. I wouldn’t expect you to. Or want you to. I need direction, I know that.”

Note

This episode of Jennifer’s pleats and pleas is slightly ahead of time. When I left the Jennifer-and-Maddie-and-Lucy saga, Maddie was about to tell her headmaster about the time a girl called Lucy had go the cane for the first time, and licked Mddie’s cunt while she took that dozen strokes. That episode is still to come, but I’ve jumped ahead a bit, to where the story returns to young Jennifer Perch, and her adventures in the present. 

She’s discovering pleasures she’d never dreamt of, in one sense, while in another sense she’s dreamt of them for most of her life.

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