A good man, with a belt 4

Maureen didn’t know she’d shredded my back until I turned away from her to check the time. She saw the blood on my back and on the sheet where I’d been lying. “Oh god, sorry, Jaime.”

Blood-letting commences in 3, 2, 1…

When Maureen got excited, and a well-strapped bottom followed by a hard pounding was guaranteed to achieve that, she tended to reach up and dig her nails into her lover’s back.

It seemed to be more or less instinctual; she didn’t decide to do it, and I don’t think she really knew, at a conscious level, when she was doing it.

It had been one of the things she did when I’d pushed her down into her animal brain.

I was some way into my own animal brain, because all I could see was that Maureen, contrite and sorry, was too good a thing to pass up. I growled, “Oh. So you think ‘sorry’ is good enough? Maires?” 

Maires was my lover’s name for her. When we’d been a couple I hadn’t really minded her nails. It never hurt, because when I’m sexually excited I don’t seem to feel pain.

I discovered that inability to feel pain when I was 18 and a girl accidentally slid a shower door shut on my erect penis. For a tenth of a second or thereabouts I could see it about to happen, with not enough moving room or time to get out of the way. I’d been horrified. But when it hit I was astonished to find that it didn’t  hurt.

When my cock was pumped hard with blood, and I was intent on following that girl who’d just left the shower, the pain seemed to come from a very little, far-away place, and to be completely irrelevant. But if I hadn’t been so turned on I’d have been dancing in agony and howling at the moon.

This is different from what submissives do. When I’d been warming up Maureen’s ass and thighs with my belt, I was certain that she felt it and that it hurt her: but she could take that pain and turn it into arousal.

And that’s why she said, “Oh. No, Jaime, I don’t think my saying sorry is enough at all.” She waited, horrified and delighted, for me to pronounce sentence. 

Tied and from behind: the only safe way to fuck Maureen

The really important thing for a species is to keep reproducing, and that means that fucking should override almost everything else.

Still, I wonder if that is a Dom/sub divide; for doms, sexual arousal cancels or overrides pain, while for subs the right kind of pain builds sexual arousal.

That’s my half-arsed theory #213.

Anyway, fucking Maureen, at least in missionary position so she had access to my back, meant coming away with wounds. Overall, when I was her boyfriend I was kind of proud of the wounds on my back, because I felt that they showed how much passion I’d roused in her. 

I said, “No, Maires. It’s definitely not enough. I want to see and hear that you’re sorry. Tomorrow I’m coming back. You’re to have a cane ready for me. Ok?”

“You’re going to make me wait? Can’t you cane me now?” 

“I have to go now. But the waiting will do you good, Maires. Make sure you’re in the kitchen waiting for me, same time as I arrived today. Alone, naked, facing the table, holding the cane between your thighs. You’ll get at least a dozen. Whether you get a second dozen depends how well you behave.”

Hard to pass off as a motorbike accident

“Jaime!” She was wide-eyed. Whiny and thrilled, at once.

I wanted to push her down again then and there, down onto the sheet and down into her animal brain. Make her rest her feet on my arse while I rode her to the end.

But I really had run out of time. My problem was that I was due home in a bit over an hour.

I was due home because my new girlfriend, Fliss, was coming over for dinner. She expected to be fed and fucked, of course. Fucking involves nudity. 

And Fliss was not going to be pleased with the state of my back.

A good man, with a belt 3

So I watched that first broad stripe form across Maureen’s bottom. She arched that ass up, making it clear that more of the same was required.

So I aimed the loop of belt across the crowns of her buttocks and made leather hit skin. I got a much louder smack this time.

Maureen sighed, and performed a rather neat, dancer-like, roll of her hips, first dipping towards the bed, then arching up again for the next smack.

I provided more smacks while Maureen squirmed about and made encouraging noises, until her bottom had achieved a good strong tomato-coloured glow.

Maureen’s complaint about her current boyfriends was that they didn’t understand about this kind of thing. Even if they tried to deliver a spanking, or something more ambitious, they were uncomfortable with the idea and generally clueless about how to do it.

In practice, she’d found, the main pain she suffered from was embarrassment. Alternatively they really hurt her, but not in the sexy way. When I’d been Maureen’s boyfriend I’d been unsatisfactory in a lot of ways, but not that one.

Then I aimed my belt a little lower, and started colouring in the tops of her thighs, slowly turning that deliciously soft skin from pink to crimson.

Maureen wriggled and bopped about, or at least her arse did. We had moved into a sort of rhythm, with the belt landing steadily though not fast across her bottom and the backs of her thighs.

Maureen’s hips performed her roll-and-present dance exactly in time to meet the belt as it came down, and her breath gasped out at every second stroke.

A lot of time passed like that, Maureen getting whipped, hotter and hotter. Though we had no idea how much time.

But Maureen eventually grabbed my belt, which was her right since she was not mine, and pulled me down while she turned, so that I fell onto her side, kicking and flailing about trying to get my own clothes off quickly.

But we sorted it out, and eventually I joined her, naked, supporting my weight like a gentleman, with her thighs – pleasantly heated by the belt – wrapped around me with her old enthusiasm. And I plunged my cock into the melony sweetness of her cunt.

And after a while Maureen closed her eyes and held her breath until her face turned red. That was something that she did and I remembered it fondly. It happened when I was doing the right thing and she was concentrating to enjoy it.

And then she put her hands on my shoulders, dug her fingernails in and clawed through my skin, drawing eight long lines of blood. And then she did it again. There was no pain. I was too turned on to feel pain. But I knew there was blood. 

Oh yeah, I remembered. There was that, too.

A good man, with a belt 2

The signal that this should go in anther direction was that Maureen said, “Jaime. Jaime, I miss Carstairs”.

And so I carried her over to her bed, lifted her off my cock, and dropped her.

Maureen bounced, something she did quite appealingly. I watched her breasts until they settled. Then she turned over onto her front. I looked down at her nicely contoured back and said, “well, yes, Carstairs. Those were the days.”

I undid my belt buckle, and made sure that the belt made a good loud leathery-slithery noise as it pulled free from the loops of my pants.

So we need some explanations. Why, for example, would anyone react like that to the name “Carstairs”? It seems a bit like Steve Martin in Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid, who would go berserk whenever someone said “cleaning woman”. (If you haven’t seen Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid, you should now.)

But I don’t really have a generic hair-trigger thing about the name “Carstairs”. If someone said it to me now, they might glimpse a bit of a smile if they were quick but they’d be boringly safe. “Carstairs” was specific to Maureen and me.

Maureen was one of the first submissive women I had ever found, in joyous mutual recognition some time after we’d already become a couple. 

She and I only had only ever done bedroom bdsm, and it was usually just a warm-up spanking followed by sex. But when we wanted to do something more intense, with tying up, and harsher orders from me, and the harder instruments, then we tended to use role plays. At that early stage in my bdsm career I found it more comfortable if the man who subdued and hurt Maureen wasn’t really me, or not quite; and if the woman who suffered but enjoyed those things wasn’t quite Maureen’s everyday self either. The games were silly, but they allowed us to do harder things that we wouldn’t do as ourselves.

Most of these games started on the pretext that Maureen had just insulted a grey, spindle-nosed neurotic husk of a woman called Vera Carstairs, who might be a teacher, prison warden or an office senior, depending on the game being played. I would deliver stern justice in retribution for the insolence that Maureen had shown our imaginary Miss Carstairs.

I don’t use role play any more, since I’ve learned to be as harsh as the situation and mutual pleasure warrants, as myself, and without a qualm. But the “Carstairs” games games were an important stage in my bdsm learning.

So the game was afoot, though we didn’t bother to invent a reason: I didn’t  think of exactly what Maureen had done to poor Miss Carstairs this time. I just doubled the belt, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then her shoulder, and then pressed my other hand down on the small of her back, holding her firmly down.

There would be squirming once I started her strapping, but, safewords aside, she wasn’t going anywhere until I’d finished.

Maureen arched her bottom up, and waited. It felt odd, for us to be so sexually intense together months after we were supposed to have broken up. But I was happy to be there with her, in this room and in this mood. So I pushed the small of her back down even more firmly, raised the belt, and brought it down, lustily and loud, across the crown of her buttocks. There was a beautiful creamy ripple where the strap landed, and Maureen sighed, though she kept herself still.

A few second later, a beautiful red band magically emerged across the pale, lightly freckled, domes of her bottom. It was a beautiful and intensely, immensely sexual sight. I hadn’t expected this, and it was good. I said, “Yeah, little Mo. I’ve missed this too.”

I raised the belt again.

That’s where I’ll break, for today. There’s trouble ahead, I should say.

A good man, with a belt 1

I was riding my bike back home from the university. It was a blue, moonlight evening, on a road that glistened with rain. There was something about the moonlight and water that made me think of my ex-girlfriend Maureen. 

I was finishing my degree, and earning money by cleaning the Psychology block at the university. I knew more about the shit of rats in Skinner Boxes than any young man needs to know. One interesting thing, for example, is that the turds of rats who were in operant conditioning experiments involving electric shocks were slightly olive in colour, while the poo of rats that were conditioned only by rewarding them with food pellets could be dark or light, but it tended to be brown. There’s a potential thesis in that, isn’t there?

Norton Dominator. Note featherbed frame, if you can

I had a Norton motorbike at the time, an old one with what was called a featherbed frame, though in reality you still felt every bump or crack in the road, through the bike and your arse.

I’d seen the bike in a shop, and when I learned its type was Norton Dominator, I just had to buy the thing. 

I should say that I’m not a motorbike guy any more, though the black leather jacket and the knee-high leather boots are still useful.

Anyway, there I was, riding the moonlit main road into the city, and thinking about how much nicer this night would be if I were riding a sleigh pulled by the Parisian Women’s Nude Iceskating Team. It’s a long ride, from the university to the city, and I often found myself passing the time in mildly lustful reverie.

Monique et Giselle, patineuses nues et Parisiennes

I started thinking about an ex-girlfriend of mine instead of the Parisian nude ice-skaters, and I decided to go and visit her.

I’ve told a story about her in this blog before. It was about the first spanking I gave, in my life, where I was bold and competent and everything had been hot and sexy and very right. I’ll call that woman Maureen in this story too.  

We’d split up because we’d both done some stupid things, and she’d left me for a lawyer who played in a mildly famous rock band. At that time she was single again, but I wasn’t. I was with Felicity, a girl who called herself Fliss. She pops up in this story a little later. 

I turned off the main road and took the streets that led to Maureen’s place. I suppose I just wanted to look at her and possibly hug, for my sake, and for her sake to listen sympathetically while she told me about her recent boyfriends. Mutual friends had told me that her recent guys were even less reliable, sensible and even more appalling than I’d been. A bit of sympathy was definitely called for.

I parked my bike under a tree round the back, outside her kitchen, just like I did in the days we were together. So Maureen knew it was me. She came out to welcome me, wiping something nasty off her hands with an old tea towel.

This isn’t really what Maureen was wearing, but it’s how I tend to remember her

She was wearing tight, ripped jeans and the sort of t-shirt you wear when you’re cleaning the oven. We hugged. I kissed her, but managed the hug without squeezing or smacking her arse, despite the temptations posed by those jeans. Maureen had always had the kind of body that most men like, just a bit more voluptuous than the women in women’s magazines.  

I let her lead me into the house, watching her walk with nostalgic admiration. She sat me down on the couch in the living room, and went to the kitchen, coming back with wine instead of the tea I’d asked for. I moved over and she sat next to me.

I asked her about her current love life, as if I didn’t know anything about it. Her facial expression confirmed that she wasn’t having a great time, and her grunt said she didn’t want to talk about it. So we talked about our time together instead.

We laughed about pleasant times, like camping beside a river and going into the water late that night to fuck, the glade we were in made magical by the moonlight on the trees and the water. We talked about the less pleasant times too, and we forgave each other for our stupidities, selfishnesses and lies. And so we kissed. The kisses were for, oh, friendship and affection’s sake.

Then we kissed some more, with more intensity, and we shared breaths, and Maureen undid buttons on my shirt so she could stroke my back. 

It was only about an hour from when I’d parked my bike when I got off the couch to help Maureen off with her t-shirt, jeans and panties. That was all she was wearing. It was a warm evening and she hadn’t expected company. Anyway, she knew she looked good. 

When her jeans and panties were round her ankles I put one foot on the gusset and pushed her feet down to the floor. When she lifted her legs again she was naked. 

She wrapped those legs round my waist, so I couldn’t get away, and when I straightened up she came up with me, a nice firm limpet with her breasts pressed against my chest and her arms and legs around me, holding tight. 

Happy to be, madam, your beast of burden. (In a domly sort of way)

I walked her, to keep my balance, until I pushed her back against the wall. She laughed at me. That laugh used to disconcert me a little, when we were first together, but I’d learned that it just meant she was happy.

I was thinking we were about to have one of those stunt fucks, where we’d adjust out position a little so that my cock, currently bouncing up against her buttocks, could slip home into her, and I’d march us round the room while she bounced on my cock until she came or I was exhausted. Whichever happened first. 

But Maureen had a suggestion to make.