Wicked Wednesday: Moving fast when motivated

I used the strict-Headmaster voice. “Right, Claire. You’ve asked for the cane, and now you’re going to get it. Good and hard, girl.”

Claire looked solemn. It was apparently the first time she’d been in this ritual since she left school. But she remembered its power. “Yes, sir.”

“Bend over my desk, Claire. Hold onto the far edge of the desk. And don’t let go or get up, if you value your skin.”

Claire scrambled to obey, presenting herself over my desk, breasts flattening onto the leather patch. She reached forward until she could get her fingers holding the far edge.

The position kept her body tautly stretched.

“Good girl. Now put your feet right apart. You don’t need modesty, from a man who’s going to fuck you shortly. And it gives the cane full access to your body. Deeply.”

I meant that when I caned her lower buttocks, the cane would get very close to her pussy lips, possibly reach them. Claire nodded solemnly. She knew what I’d meant. She let her face fall to the desktop, and spread her legs for me, very slowly.  

I said, “Maddie.”

“Yes sir?”

“Two ruler strokes for Claire, please. Medium hard.”

Maddie brightened. Her good luck wasn’t necessarily going to be appreciated by Claire, but it was luck, for both of them.

Maddie can move fast when motivated, and in less than three seconds there was the sharp slap of wood on flesh, then another, while Claire gasped. A fourth and fifth band of pinkish red bloomed across Claire’s bottom.

“Claire, when I give you an order, you acknowledge it by saying ‘Yes, sir.’ Understood?”

“Yes, sir. I knew that, sir. I’m sorry.”

“Good. And you obey orders quickly. Immediately. That may have stung a bit, Claire, but it was only a warning. The next time you fail to acknowledge an order, or to jump to obey it, I’ll make the point with the cane.”

“Yes, sir! I am sorry, sir.”

“That’s better. Now arch your bottom right up. Like you’re a cat begging to be fucked. But in this case, like you’re begging for the cane. Which in fact you are.”

 

 

Masturbation Monday: Bed, I think

After Roland had stripped and Teresa had removed everything but her corset, he moved behind her to undo it. She said, “No, boy. I’m a vamp. The corset stays.”

To her surprise he simply smacked her bottom. The slap echoed in the room, and it also echoed faintly in her cunt, as sex. Teresa said, “Hey!”

But he smacked her bottom again. “I want you naked this time. Also, I want you.”

She relaxed. He’d already shown his enthusiasm for her corseted self, so it was reasonable. And on the one hand, she didn’t want him to smack her bottom again. And on the other hand, she didn’t want to tell him to stop smacking her bottom.

Which probably meant that in the meantime she should indulge him. So she turned her back and allowed him to undo and loosen the stays, and when the corset was loose enough she pulled it over her head and off.

She turned to face him, and his face when he was confronted with her naked self was rewarding enough. He said, “You are very, ridiculously, wonderfully beautiful.”

He took her left nipple in his mouth, kissing and tonguing it, and lightly grazing it with his teeth. Then he sucked, trying to get as much of her breast into his mouth as he could. Teresa let her mouth fall open. It felt comfortable and right and hot, and there was nothing to say about it.

Teresa put her hands on his arse and stepped close, so her thighs closed on his cock. It wasn’t going down, so it had to be somewhere. He repeated his kissing, tonguing and grazing ritual with her right nipple, and then looked at her, pushing a swatch of red-dyed hair out of her eyes. “Bed, I think.”

Teresa sat and lay back, and Roland lifted her thighs with his hands and kissed her cunt until she sighed. Then she felt him trail his tongue up to her right nipple, and then back to her cunt until she sighed again, and then up to her left nipple, and back to her cunt.

She squirmed under him while he focussed her attention close to but not quite touching her clitoris. He licked her, long and slow, and she put her hands on the back of his head.

Not to direct him but to show her approval. She enjoyed his attention to her cunt in silence. What corset? But at last he raised his head and stared up at her face. He said, “You should have your wrists tied to the bedheads. If I’m going to fuck you properly. That ok with you?”

 

Sinful Sunday: Once upon a time in the West

 

Sydney’s West, that is. 

The beginning of what was to become a long session, and a long relationship. She assures me her arse is still utterly splendid, though someone else is keeping it warm these days. 

I’ve had to do some cropping (you should excuse the expression), but she was and is lovely, body and soul.

 

 

 

Food for Thought Friday: She was just fi-ifteen, you know what I mean

When I was at university, in my third year, I had sex with a student who was in her first year. I’d met her a few times at the Students Association, and found that she was funny, flamboyant, radical, and one of the few people I knew who’d actually read a lot of books that weren’t bestsellers.

One day she was down about a fight she’d had with a friend, and I sat with her to commiserate. We finished up pressing foreheads and holding hands. Nothing came of it because I had to go and work. But later that week there was a dance in the Students Association Hall, and she came wearing sparkly little pants and and strip of sparkly, semi-see-through material round her breasts. 

So we danced together, and drank cheap student wine and smoked student joints. The ribbon round her breasts was slinky stuff, and tended to come loose. So from time to time we’d stop dancing so I could tie it back again.  

Then we went and talked for a while, and in a dark corner we did away with that sparkly material altogether. And when it was clear that we were more or less fucking, and it was time to drop the less and do more, we sneaked off.

I had a motorbike, and (this is bad behaviour too) took her on the back to my place, with the sparkly material round her hair since she didn’t have a helmet. 

So we fucked. Then the next day I blindfolded her, not for bdsm reasons, and took her for a smell walk through the flowers and trees in the local park. That night I spanked her, for bdsm reasons, and that became the nature of our relationship.

But here’s the thing. She said she was 16, which was the age of consent in my country. I’d travelled, and been politically active for a while before going to university, so I was six years older, at 22. And I decided that it was okay because she was a first year university student, and a highly intelligent one, with a long sexual history that was in some respects more deviant than mine. For example, she’d already beaten me to “first threesome”, and I still had three years to wait till mine.

But nearly ten years later, friends told me she’d lied about her age, just a little bit. She’d had to get special permission to enrol at university because she’d finished school, but she was only 15. So for the first six months of our relationship I’d been breaking the law, and fucking an underage girl. 

Apparently there’d been scandalised gossip. But I never heard about it, at the time.

All the kids in my school had been trying their best to have sex before they turned 16, so that they could say they were sex criminals. I tried too, but ineptly, and when I finally made my sexual debut I was a boringly legal 16.

But by my 20s I wasn’t too unhappy because I’d broken other sexual laws. For example, you could go to jail for 10 years, the law said, if you had anal sex with a woman (anal sex with a man only cost seven years; I’d love to know the thinking behind that) and I broke that law repeatedly before they repealed it.

I committed a kind of quasi-incest, by shagging my sister-in-law, which doesn’t count, legally, and a couple of cousins, which doesn’t quite count either. Though it would in some countries, I think. Unfortunately, I didn’t fancy my mother or my sister, so I had to leave that law unbroken. 

So my first reaction was shock that she’d felt she had to lie to me (because I’d have talked about it a bit more first, but it wouldn’t have changed the outcome), followed by surprise, and then a kind of stupid satisfaction: “Oh, I did manage to break that law after all.” 

One thing I’ve never felt about it is guilt. As it happened I didn’t know, but it wouldn’t have changed much if I had. She was still an intelligent woman, still more worldly, in some ways, than I was (she knew wine, and how to behave at various formal events), and I reacted to the person I was with. I had no doubt at all that she knew her mind, and that if she wanted me then that was just my ridiculous good fortune. I still don’t doubt that, even looking at it with hindsight.

Anyway, this is a hotter taboo now, I think, than it was twenty years ago. But I’m a sex criminal, for breaking the age of consent law and the anal sex law (RIP), and I don’t feel bad about either. 

That doesn’t mean that I think there shouldn’t be a law. Just that it should mostly keep away from young people consensually exploring. 

 

 

Wicked Wednesday: Last chance to back out

“Maddie,” I said, as though I was displeased with her, and she became subdued.

“Yes, Master?”

“Fetch the cane. Not the senior cane. The medium. And at the moment, it’s for Claire and not you. Though that can change.”

“Yes, sir.” And Maddie turned away.

“Come here, Claire.”

“Sir?” She stood in front of me, her face – like her ass – still a little pink from Maddie’s semi-comic but eventually effective attempt at discipline. All of us had found it powerfully erotic, though, including Claire.

“Hands on head, Claire.” When she obeyed I raised my hands to her breasts, lifting lightly, simply for my pleasure, and perhaps hers. “I’m going to take these clamps off before I cane you. It’ll hurt a bit when the blood returns to your nipples, but it won’t hurt you too much. Maddie knows better than to put them on tight.”

Claire nodded, face scarlet, while I carefully disengaged the clamps. I dropped them in my pocket, and put my arms round her. She held up her face to be kissed, and my mouth touched softly against hers. Then we opened our mouths at the same instant, and the kiss became passionate. 

I put my hands on her ass and smacked her, not gently, and did what I could to distract her from the ache in her nipples. Eventually I drew back and looked at her. “Better? Are you ok?”

Claire put her hands to her breasts, and rubbed briefly. Then she nodded. “Yes, sir. My nipples are still, well, a bit hurty. But I feel very looked after.”

I dipped my head and held her breasts in my hands again, and kissed each erect and rubbery nipple, softly and reverently, in turn. Claire moaned. “Oh, that’s good. Thank you, sir.”  

“You know that I’m going to cane you very hard, don’t you? You’ll scream. Your ass will look like a tomato, and you won’t be able to sit down for days. You understand?”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

“This is your last chance to back out. You can retreat now. But if you choose to continue, you won’t be allowed any more decisions. Not for a long time. So: retreat?” 

“No, sir. I’ve asked for this. I want it. I definitely need it.”

I looked into her eyes. I said, “When we’re finished here, I’m going to take you home and fuck you till we’re both exhausted. Then we’re going to rest and eat and I’m going to fuck you some more.”

Claire smiled. “Yes please. Um, sir.”

Maddie waited politely beside us, with the cane held out for me. I took it from her, and swished it the air, once, twice. Claire stared at me, and swallowed. Her real punishment was about to begin. She looked suddenly nervous.

But it was important that her mood, and the atmosphere, changed now. Claire’s caning had to be memorable, and hard enough for her to consider she’d been properly punished and could forgive herself. I held the cane below her mouth, so she had to lower her head to kiss it.  

 

Masturbation Monday: The best dance

Roland had come only minutes before, and so he was in no danger of doing so again, or not unintentionally. They fucked for an hour, then two, sometimes speeding up so he could hear Teresa’s orgasm cries again, and sometimes lazily pleasing each other while getting their energy back. 

Later, in one of their calm periods, he kissed her ear and her nose, and looked down at her. “Those things you say when you’re coming. Tard-ah. Kit toll. Is that in some language I don’t know? What’s it mean?”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “I have no idea why I say that. Or if it means anything, except that I’m happy. Not just coming: happy.”

“Oh.”

“Do you hate it?”

“No! Absolutely not! I just haven’t heard that before. I suppose I’ll want to hear it all the time, now.”

Teresa grinned up at him. “Well, you know how.”

He laughed, cock still thick inside her, and began to move, slowly at first, digging deep and slowly withdrawing, then filling her again. Teresa sighed. It was a dance, the best dance, and they were speeding up.

When they were fucking hard and fast she raised her thighs again and put her feet on the small of his back. That had made him come, the last time.

He sped up, now desperate for her, and Teresa came, screaming her sounds, hearing his guttural groans of pleasure and release just a few seconds later.

They lay together, Roland above her, his heart pounding against hers.

Is there a “Bdsm gene”?

It’s unlikely that there’s such a thing as a “bdsm gene”, any more than it seems likely there is a single “gay gene”. However, it’s plausible, though not proven, that there are genetic factors that in combination predispose some people in some cultures into adopting the homosexual role defined and allowed by that culture.[i]

Somewhere in that damn DNA is the BDSM. Or, as the case may be, not.

Similarly, it’s plausible that a combination of genetic factors predispose some people to be aroused by pain, restraint or dominant-submissive relationships, and to channel that arousal in sexual directions.

This doesn’t mean that some people are born to be involved in bdsm. It’s rather that they are more likely than other people to recognize and respond to situations with bdsm overtones, for example watching or getting a childhood spanking, or a television or film scene in which a character gets tied up. These experiences can be called “bdsm signals”.

They can be real-life experiences, but bdsm signals are common in advertising, films and music videos. Some people with this genetic disposition may never encounter a signal that catches their attention and triggers their interest. In that case, they probably won’t experience this kind of arousal, and that genetic possibility will go unexplored.

Others, who have both the genetic predisposition and the awakening experience that comes from the culture’s bdsm signals, are more likely to become interested in bdsm.

“Man talk.” (Smack.)

I once talked about this with a woman who had watched Goldfinger on late-night TV with a group of friends.

There’s a notorious moment where Sean Connery smacks Margaret Nolan (who plays a character called “Dink”) on the arse, after sending her away because he wants to talk to Felix Leiter. “Man talk.” 

Everyone else was shocked at the bizarre sexism of the scene, which hasn’t aged well, and she was sitting there quietly thinking, Sean Connery can smack my arse any time he likes. It was one of those “that’s when I knew I was different” moments. 

If there is a genetic predisposition it’s almost certainly carried across a range of genes rather than a single one, and it’s unlikely that those genes will be identified any time soon.

Still, it seems plausible that the culture provides people with bdsm signals, which they may or may not see or notice. And that some of those who observe the signal may for genetic reasons sexualize dominance and submission more easily than others do. In this very limited and partial sense some of us may be born that way.

 

[i]Richters, Juliet, “Understanding Sexual Orientation: A Plea for Clarity”, Reproductive Health Matters, Volume 6, Number 12, 1998, pp 146-147.

Wicked Wednesday: “Grab your ankles, Claire”

Maddie had just told Claire that she was bending over because we wanted to watch her breasts sway while Maddie spanked her. So I said, “This is true.”

Claire glanced at me, pleased. One kind of tension had broken, to be replaced with a softer, erotic one. In that tension she was being punished, not by me, but by the woman who called me Master. She hadn’t expected that. It was humiliating, and it was hot. These things were complicated. 

Maddie touched Claire’s mouth lightly with the ruler. “Grab your ankles, Claire.”

“Do I say, ‘Yes, miss’?” Claire adjusted her position. Feet slightly further apart, the muscles in her legs tightening as she reached for and held her ankles.

“No, Claire. Maddie’s head is quite big enough as it is.” Maddie poked her tongue out at me.

I ignored it for the moment. “Just call her Maddie, even when she punishes you.”

Maddie raised the ruler again, and swung it down on poor Claire’s bottom. It was a much lustier, noisier smack than the first. The mark bloomed almost immediately on Claire’s soft skin, a bright red while the first line across her bottom was pink. Claire said, “Oow!” and stumbled forward. Then she remembered herself, stepped back and bent over tightly, hands back holding her ankles.  

The invitation was too much for Maddie, who raised the ruler again. The third stroke was, of course, harder still, and made Claire toss her head while she fought to stay down and in position. She gasped.  About a third of Claire’s bottom was now a very pretty pinkish red.

Maddie said, “That’s so lovely, Claire. You colour so very beautifully. Master’s going to love caning you.”

She raised the ruler again.

“That’ll do, Maddie. You’ll have to wait till she cheeks you again, if you want to give her more.”

Maddie put her hand on Claire’s bottom, and ran her fingers over the three marks she’d left. Then she squeezed lightly. “You’re very beautiful, Claire. And your body is just … yummy. It’s a crime that you haven’t been fucked in a year. Absolute madness.”

I could see that Claire was a little embarrassed, or perhaps flustered, by Maddie’s enthusiasm. I said, “You can straighten up now, Claire. You’re a good girl. But no more cheeking the staff.” Maddie, behind Claire, poked her tongue out again. 

Masturbation Monday: Her feet on his arse

Roland frowned, trying to read her. She was fighting, and inviting, all at once. So he pushed her shoulders down onto the sheet, and wrestled his way between her thighs with force and sometimes cunning. Teresa wriggled, which she believed she did deliciously. It seemed that this was a game he’d never played before, but she was giving him every encouragement to continue.

They wrestled until at last he had her held down on her back, his body above her, held tightly between her thighs, which she’d raised and pressed against his sides, his cock pressing against her cunt.

Teresa grinned fiercely up at him again, as though it was she who’d won, and let her head fall back. She was exposing her throat.

The gesture meant more to her than it seemed it did to him, but it was clear enough. She’d surrendered.  

He kissed her more tenderly than they’d been for the past several minutes, and she was loving in response. So he pressed forward, in possession of her as if she were conquered territory. He moved his cock forward, into her so that the glans was just inside her wet inner skin. He felt so good, so welcome. Teresa closed her eyes, moaned piteously and opened her thighs a little wider. He’d be a ninny if he didn’t know he was wanted.

He pressed forward so that his cock slid deeper into her, filling her sweetly and tightly, and their pubic bones pressed together.

They began to rock, slowly at first, in each others’ arms. Teresa parted her thighs still wider, so he was in complete possession.

Then she raised her knees, almost folding her body in half, and pressed her feet on his arse. His face suddenly seemed anguished. He came in her, she suspected not quite intentionally, about thirty seconds later.

He said, “Sorry. Shit, I’m sorry,” but Teresa ignored him. Fortunately he desired her ferociously, and Teresa was skilled at getting him hard again, with hands and mouth, and he needed little recovery time. They were soon lost in each other again, rocking and plunging. She cried out when she came, in nonsense syllables: “Tard! Tard a ben kit toll, tard ah! Tard ah!…” He frowned, surprised, but realised that it wasn’t a distressed sound, and kissed her.