Masturbation Monday: How to say the wrong thing

Emily had just declared that she wanted to be punished. It sounded like an oath to me, so I added, “Being of sound mind, ekt.”

Emily looked, for a second, up at the ceiling. “Oh, utterly sound mind.” 

“Ok. Look, as far as I’m concerned, there are two things. You shouldn’t have let me wait till three in the morning before you called me. I’m going to punish you for that. So that’s, um, ten strokes tonight, for making me worry about you. Whether you were ok.”

Emily said, “Ok.”

“And Marty, the Marty … thing. You put yourself in danger. It was stupid, and I’m not going to let you do that again. So I’m giving you a dozen tomorrow, for putting yourself in danger. You were scared, and you scared the shit out of me. That is not going to happen again.”

She nodded, silent. I did some counting. “So you’ve got twenty-two strokes, over two days, and I think I’m being lenient. If it hurts, and I’m going to make sure it does, you’ve got it coming.” 

Emily nodded again, thoughtfully. She said, “I guess I do.” I’d given her more strokes than that before. It was on the severe side, but it wasn’t outlandish. I hadn’t mentioned infidelity, having sex with fucking Marty. Fucking Marty. That was on both our minds but we didn’t say it. We were both influenced by versions of feminism, in which jealousy was one of patriarchy’s darkest and most dangerous corners. We were trying to be cool about that. She said, “I suppose. I suppose that’s fair.”

“And you lied to me. That’s more. One more day. Another six.” That was cheating, increasing the number after Emily had agreed. But I’d said it without thinking, and once it was said the rules seemed to say that I couldn’t go back on it. I’d have to remember not to do that again. “So that’s what it’s going to be.”

“That’s a lot, Jaime. I don’t know if I should …” She shrugged, impatient with herself. “No, okay. When?”

“We start right now, Emily. Go get the cane. Bring it to me.”

Emily gazed at me, then nodded without speaking, and left. It seemed she didn’t call me “sir” when it was real. The canes were in a cupboard with other toys and tools in Emily’s room. She returned holding a thickish length of rattan, about four feet long. But she didn’t immediately offer it to me. “I don’t have to take this if I don’t want to.”

She meant to say that she was reaffirming her choice and her consent, but I misunderstood her. “No, you’re right. You don’t have to.” That was the right thing to say.

Then I said, “But you deserve it, Emily. You really deserve it.” That wasn’t so good; I’d thought that I wasn’t going to be a bully.

I followed with worse. “Emily, you lied to me. And you fucked that – you fucking hurt me, Emily.” 

Emily stopped. A tear spilled, began its trail. Then gleaming tracks down both cheeks. Emma wept silently, still holding the cane. I said, “Oh fuck, I’m sorry.”

Masturbation Monday: Real-world consequences

For a second Emily didn’t react. Then she jolted, as if she’d been hit by an invisible tennis ball. She blushed, equally suddenly, and looked away. “Oh,” she said. “Oh.” She turned back to look into my eyes. “I don’t know, Jaime.”

“You asked me to cane you. If I caught you smoking?”

But she saw the doubt in my face. “Well, yes… But that was then. Anyway, Jaime, you said you wouldn’t. You said you can’t punish me just because I do something you think is wrong.” This was true. I’d turned her down, with self-admiration. “Remember?” 

“And you said you wanted me to punish you when you fucked up. That was just about smoking. Well hell, Emily, this is bigger than that.”

Emily would’ve gone on apologising forever, and I’d have gone on making her feel worse while acting as if I was being nice, also forever. That would be boring. This was dramatic.

One thing we’d learned together was that we had a mutual taste for drama.

“I haven’t given you the right, Jaime. Not for this.” 

“I think I should punish you.” Emily frowned. She knew I wasn’t convinced of that. “Well, what do you think? Do you think you deserve it?”

“Of course.” That was dismissive. “Well, okay. Yes, I do. I was really stupid. And I was mean. I hurt you. Of course.” That was less dismissive. “I’d deserve anything you did to me. Well, to my ass, anyway. But that’s not the point, Jaime. You said you wouldn’t punish me for real things. Not for real. You said you couldn’t. We’re supposed to be equals.”

“It’s your choice. We’d be equals if you choose it.”

“So you’d punish me for fucking another guy. But you’d want me to ask you to first. You’re saying that would make us still equals?”

“Um. Well, it’s your choice. And it wouldn’t just be for fucking Marty.”

“Oh, because you’re too high-minded to be jealous.”

“I never said that.”

“Jaime, you’ve got every right to be mad at me. And you are angry with me, you know you are.”

“Okay. That’s true.”

“So, I say I’m a bad girl and then you cane me. Only difference is that this time it’s real.”  

“It’d be real.” I hadn’t changed my mind about the politics: I didn’t believe any adult has a right to tell another adult what to do, let alone punish that adult. Everything I felt about sexual politics, plus my basic anarchism, was against it. But this wasn’t between citizens. It was between Emily and me, and though we weren’t open about it, it was about sex as much as justice. 

She sank to her knees. She wasn’t pleading. Not to be let off. We looked at each other, with nothing new to say. It helped that I knew that Emily wanted and intended to lose this argument.

She didn’t exactly want the cane, but she wanted to have been caned.

Then she wouldn’t be in the wrong any more. Neither of us liked occupying the moral low ground. Punishment would make her good again: I’d have forgiven her, and more importantly she could forgive herself.

But I was certain that her real reason was the same as mine: sex. It had been one thing to play dominance and submission games. But this was about making my dominance and her submission real, with real-world consequences. That seemed hot.

Masturbation Monday: Round in circles

Emily said she’d spent the night with a guy called Marty. I knew and despised Marty. He sold pills, and like a lot of doctors Emily liked her psychopharmaceuticals. She said she hadn’t set out to meet him, and they weren’t having an affair. Spending the night with him had been a wine-fucked mistake, she said, and she’d hated lying to me. I said, truthfully, that I believed her. Emily said she didn’t intend to let him anywhere near her again.

That night he’d been dangerous. She’d undressed him and sucked his cock, and then he’d fucked her on the floor.

But afterwards she’d sat on his bed. I saw her, at this point in her story, patting the bed, smiling at him, with his come in her. That vision didn’t make me happy.

But Marty’s mood had turned suddenly and he didn’t join her. He’d paced the room and shouted, and at one point held his closed fist against her mouth. Then he’d pushed her, so she bounced off a bedside table on the way to the floor. He’d stalked off, muttering, and not come back. Emily, still too drunk to do anything effective, had crawled onto a mattress in another room, pulled clothes and eiderdowns and pillows on top of herself and slept. She got out as soon as she woke up. Someone had followed her car. That was why she’d looked so scared when she arrived. 

Marty was dead, two years after this story

There was something wrong with Marty. He sold middle-class drugs to doctors and lawyers, but he also sold drugs that cops took more seriously. He did it so openly that even I knew about it. He mixed with gangsters because he thought they were glamorous, but his indiscretion and violence were making him unpopular.

Because she’d parked her car outside his place, many people would have stored the licence number, her name and our address. I hoped it was only a cop who’d followed Emily home. At that time in Marty’s life, which ended a couple of years later, he was dangerous. He was also tall, good-looking in the style of the very young, skinny Clark Gable, and on a good day he could present his outlaw act as romantic. 

So on top of the usual reasons for being annoyed when your lover fucks someone else, she’d chosen a stupid and slightly evil man, and she’d put herself in harm’s way. I was angry and I was scared. 

I’d caned Emily lots of times. That wouldn’t be new. But the meaning had changed. That’d be new territory for both of us

I thought about punishing her. She’d asked me to cane her for smoking, when she was trying to give up cigarettes. So there had once been consent in principle. But she’d hurt me and I wanted to hurt her back, and I was suspicious of that desire. She might deserve punishment, but I didn’t trust my motives. Revenge seemed a bad one.

We talked. I said she’d scared me. She said she was ashamed of herself, and sorry. But when everything was said, nothing was resolved. Our talk went in a circle, over and over.  I was hurt, and I’d been scared, and then I was angry; she said was sorry, and then sorry again.

Eventually, in the second hour I broke that circle, and most of my own rules along with it. Partly I was motivated by boredom: it must be time to say something new. “So. Emily. So what should I actually do? This is a bigger deal than you smoking a cigarette, wouldn’t you say?” 

Masturbation Monday: The first time I punished a submissive 1

Emily still smoked cigarettes, though she knew better and wanted to stop. I praised and rewarded every smoke-free day, and I was patient while the cravings made her almost continuously angry. She got through a month without smoking, and that should have been that. But after three months she started again.

It’s odd, in retrospect, how hard I resisted accepting the right and duty to punish

Soon after that relapse, Emily asked me to help by taking control. She suggested that I should cane her if I smelt tobacco on her breath or clothes. Not caning her for play, not for sex: a real punishment, hard enough to hurt and make her want to avoid getting another punishment like it.

She wanted to fear the consequences more than she craved the nicotine. I’d had discussions like this before, and I refused, again.

Punishing Emily for smoking probably would help her give it up, and she’d enjoy being a submissive girl who got punished if she didn’t do as she was told. I could see that. But I still didn’t think I had the right to do it. I’d managed to find a way to do bdsm without acting like a sexist bully-boy, and I didn’t want to lose the formula.

On occasions like this, it was acceptable to call me “Sir”

Emily called me “sir”, but only when she was naked.

This issue grumbled on in the background. My rule against assuming real power suited me. It kept me comfortable politically. Emily was finding that it didn’t really suit her. I knew she wasn’t quite satisfied, but I decided to stick with the rule.

Until Emily unstuck me.

One afternoon there was a party. I had to work, so Emily went without me. I expected it to wind up by about ten or so, and to see Emily before midnight. By early morning I was worried. Emily’s car had recently been in an accident. It hadn’t been her fault, but it made it easy for me to imagine harm.

I called police and hospitals and ambulance services. Just after two she called me. She was staying at her girlfriend’s because she’d drunk too much to drive home. I told her I loved her and went to bed.

Oh, this is going to be all awkward, isn’t it?

But the next morning that girlfriend called and asked for Emily. I caught myself in time not to say, “Isn’t she with you?” Instead we chatted cheerfully, and I promised I’d get Emily to call when she got home. 

So when Emily came home – she looked scared – I passed on her friend’s message.

And I waited while she understood that I knew she’d lied. We knew we were about to enact a boring cliché, but we were stuck with it.

 

Masturbation Monday: Adventures with Emily 2

The previous episode is here.

Sucking my cock had to be made awkward for Emily, because she liked my cock in her mouth. It was, she said, both velvety and hard, and it tasted like I smell, which was apparently good. She could also feel my pleasure, and she took pleasure from that.

She should have enjoyed doing something that she liked, but she liked her pleasures complex. Her sensual enjoyment of having my cock in her mouth diluted the more intense pleasure she wanted, of feeling that she’d surrendered and lost herself in serving.

She wanted to suffer for her service. 

That’s why I reached under her shoulders and cupped her breasts, taking a hard nipple between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. I squeezed until her face showed that it hurt, then relaxed for a few seconds and squeezed harder.

Emily lost her rhythm, then found it again and worked on, eyes closed, oblivious – I had to imagine – to everything but her pain and her service to her man’s cock in her mouth. She’d told me she thought she could come just from this, though we never managed to keep it going long enough to find out.

I knew to watch the skin of Emily’s shoulders at this point. I released her breasts and unbuckled my belt, pulling it in one motion from the loops of my pants. There they were, in response to that sound: Emily’s goosebumps on her shoulders and the upper slopes of her breasts.

I folded the belt, holding the buckle, and swatted the loop down her back, so that the leather would swing down and under her, the end striking the undercurve of her bottom.

I kept the slaps coming, though not hard. The goal wasn’t to hurt her but to allow her to tell herself that she was being whipped, quite unfairly, while she served like a good girl. Emily made small, indecipherable sounds, her head bobbing intently.

But soon I had to pull back from her mouth, and lift her head. We looked at each other, my thumb a poor substitute in her mouth, my fingers caressing her cheek. I said, “Emily”. She closed her eyes, still focussed inwards, and did not reply. I knelt beside her then, kissing her shoulders and undoing the ties with fumbling urgency.

When I’d freed her Emily stretched and rubbed her wrists, then helped me to undress, also urgently. I lay on my back on the carpet, for her to straddle me.

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.

 

Masturbation Monday: Denna and her convenient pervert 2

Denna looked up at me then. It seemed that she didn’t mind being a good girl. She drew her lips back along the shaft to concentrate on the glans, still sucking. There was an audible pop when she released me. I reached down to help her up, but she kissed my cock goodbye, and only then took my hand.

So we stood together, with things to ask and say, about her experience of Doing As She’s Told, but we couldn’t have that conversation in surreptitious whispers. This wasn’t the time and place. So I reached under her gown and squeezed her ass, holding her tight. We pressed foreheads together, so that she had two eyes, then four and finally one.

We grinned at each other like wolves. I whispered, “It’s fucking cold,” and pushed her gown off her shoulders and she stood naked.

Denna mouthed the word, “Bastard”.

I kissed her. I whispered, “When I get you away from the family home, I’ll spank you for that. Fact.” 

She grinned, knowing that it was only a fact if she agreed. She could make me very disappointed, and we both knew it. So I rolled the blankets aside and pushed her onto the bed, on her back. She pulled the covers over her body, and watched while I crawled like a wolf, the big and bad kind, from the bottom of the bed towards her cunt, still vulpine. I slid my hands under her ass, and lifted her a little. I sniffed her cunt and whispered, “Smells like a girl who does as she’s told.”

Denna made a noise with her nose, indicating that she wasn’t putting up with bullshit like that, and put her hand heavily on the back of my head. I dipped my tongue in smooth girl wetness. She wriggled, making herself comfortable, and spread and lifted her thighs.

Time passed enjoyably for both of us, until her stomach muscles and the muscles in her thighs tightened.

She writhed, hands squeezing the flesh of my shoulders till it almost hurt. Then she released her grip and fell back, gasping silently for breath.

I climbed my way up her body, pausing to kiss her belly, her breasts and her throat. We lay entwined, cuddling, with no particular sexual needs or ambitions, but after perhaps half an hour Denna started stroking my cock. So we fucked. We started lovingly, like the night before, but Denna let her head fall, exposing her throat, and spread her arms out over her head. So I raised my body, arms straight, and gave her my hardest and roughest fuck. We finished gasping each other’s breath, and sweaty-haired despite the cold.

She was worried that she’d sleep too well. I set my phone to wake her, on vibration, at 4.30. The alarm must have worked for her, though I slept through it. When I woke up, late for breakfast, she was back in her own bed.

Masturbation Monday: Denna and her convenient pervert

Denna made an interrogative noise, but let me lead her to the mat and pillow. I took her shoulders, and pressed downwards, very lightly. She glanced down, then looked back at me. “You really need me to suck your cock, don’t you?”

I whispered, “Well, that’ll be hot, of course. But I really need you to experience doing as you’re told.” She frowned and made the interrogative noise again. I put my mouth close to her ear. “You’ve got a pervert handy. You may as well make use of him. Remember?”

“Well, maybe.” She said that into my ear, then bit it. Hard. “But you can’t spank me if I don’t, can you?”

I managed not to rub my ear, though it hurt. And she was right: a spanking for Denna would bring the whole household running. Quite apart from the bratty fuss she’d make, spanking is loud

“Getting your ass spanked is hot, for lots of people. And in your case it’s incredibly, absolutely fucking deserved. You’d probably like it. And I’d love it.” She put her tongue out and made a disrespectful noise, very quietly.

I held her ear, pinching her very lightly, a warning only, and whispered into it. “But that’s not the reason why people sometimes do as they’re told. In sex, I mean. It’s that doing as you’re told can be hot. It’s a mind thing. Try it.”

“How?”

I put my hands on her shoulders again, and pushed down more firmly. “By doing as you’re told. Because I said so. Now get down on your knees and suck my cock. That’s not a request, Denna.”

“That’s the silliest…” And then she dropped to her knees. She kissed the end of my cock, letting it jolt upwards each time her lips touched the head. Then she licked the underside, and was rewarded by the sight of my fingers, toes and buttocks, all clenching. I gulped in air. She licked the underside some more, while I fought to keep still. At last she opened her mouth and took me in.

I stood silent and still while Denna moved forward on her knees, then leaned forward a little to take my cock deeper into her mouth. At last she began to suck me hard, cheeks concave, lips moving firmly back and forth on the shaft. She raised her right hand to hold the base of my cock.

“No,” I said. “No hands.” I have a command voice, that I use when I’m domming someone. It’s supposed to be warm, and communicate certainty that the person addressed will want to do what the voice says. It doesn’t work so well when you have to whisper because her parents weren’t far away, but I did my best.

Anyway Denna took her hand away immediately. She’d entered into the spirit of the thing enough to want to keep me pleased with her. But a second later she realized that she always used her hands when sucking cock. Now they hung vaguely by her thighs. She didn’t know what else to do with them.

I touched the top of her head. “Put your hands on my feet.”

I hadn’t thought about it in advance, but on that cold floor having the warmth of her hands on top of my feet was very welcome. I let her work, head rising and falling on my cock. I stroked her head, and sometimes took handfuls of her hair, so she had to pull to keep her head properly on me. I made occasional quiet pleasure noises, partly because I couldn’t have stopped myself for all the world and partly because I wanted her to feel she was doing well.

She sucked harder, speeding up, her hands rising to my ankles as she became more focused. I started to move in response, trying to avoid giving her the idea that I was fucking her mouth. She could feel that she was doing as she was told, but she should also feel that she was leading.

It was only when my whole body was shaking and I could barely stand that I head the back of her head firmly and pushed her forward.

And about a minute later I felt that a gentleman should give fair warning. “Uh, Denna. I’m, ah – ”

But that was as far as I got. I froze for a second, as if my body had locked, and spurted into her.

And with that release I could move again and I thrust into her, while Daphne licked and swallowed. It took incredible effort for me to stay silent. It was almost painful.

At last, when I was spent and she still sucked me, cleaning my cock, I could whisper, “good. So good. You are so good.” She seemed happy, so I risked saying something that can be dangerous, said to a woman who isn’t in exactly the right mood.

“Good girl. You are such a good, wonderful girl.”

 

Masturbation Monday: Emilia’s tale 2

So I’d just threatened to put Emilia over my knee, for disciplinary purposes. It took me a moment to hear what I’d just said. I thought I’d sounded like a roué in an ancient sex comedy, something black and white and British, on television at three in the morning, starring Terry-Thomas and Syd James.

At that time I’d kept bdsm hidden for seven years. I played bdsm with strangers, or I masturbated to dark fantasies, but I didn’t offer to spank my women friends. Or I hadn’t until just then. I wanted to slap my forehead, but my hand was busy patting and squeezing Emilia’s ass. In the absence of complaint from her I’d keep on doing that.

Still, I’d just threatened her with assault: low-level violence, some sexual content. We still hugged, but she was no longer holding an honourable gentleman.

Emilia didn’t seem to mind that I wasn’t a gentleman. Her eyes widened, but she said, almost without a pause, “Yes, yeah, I know. You should.”

Oh? Relief was followed a second later by the thought that, if that was the case, then it was a pity I’d said, “if you ever do that again”. How long would it take for Emilia to do something like that again? What was wrong with now?

I thought about whether there were any private spaces in my apartment where Emilia could be suitably disciplined, as we both obviously wanted, and realised that the thing simply couldn’t be done. There were people sleeping everywhere, since they weren’t fit to drive home after my party. They probably wouldn’t stay asleep during any of the noisier pleasures.

That train of thought led to other speculations. I imagined Emilia, a vista of muscular but soft woman draped over my knee, her tee-shirt pulled over her head and her panties on the floor. I’d smack her gorgeous bottom a few times because I couldn’t resist, but surely I should start with reassuring and mood-setting stroking. Yes, that is what I’d do.

My hand told me there was just Emilia under that cotton t-shirt, so there were just two layers of material between our bodies, her tee and my dressing gown, a silk one with dragons that I’d bought in Vietnam.

The middle of one of the dragons pressed, roused, into Emilia’s lower belly. She looked up at me, eyebrows raised.

Some explanation seemed called for. “Yeah. Oddly enough, spanking you is something that I’d enjoy very much. In a, ah, rather pervy way.”

 She laughed, evaluating what she had here. “Yes, you would. You would, wouldn’t you?” But her belly stayed in contact with the hardening, stretching sign of pervy enjoyment.

Masturbation Monday: Emilia’s tale 1

It was the morning after my thirtieth birthday party. I’d got up, and started collecting dishes, glasses and ashtrays for the dishwasher. No one else was awake yet.

This is the t-shirt image. Emilia’s t-shirt was, er, longer

But a bedroom door opened, and Emilia Vivian emerged, in a manga tee-shirt that hung almost to her knees. Emilia was a doctor, a glowing light-brown woman with large, almost black eyes and an extraordinarily sweet face framed by medium-length black hair. She was small but contoured. She lifted weights.

Emilia was embarrassed to find me, and uncertain of her welcome. Last night she’d performed the party’s most spectacular piece of bad behaviour, launching a screaming attack on her best friend, accusing her of fucking her last boyfriend, of pretending to be sweet but always undermining her and some other girl on girl offences.

It’d been the least fun part of the evening, but I’d already forgiven her because the outburst had been so out of character, and because, only a few minutes later, Emilia had fallen asleep in that same friend’s arms. Wine sometimes solves the problems that it creates.

But Emilia was hung over, embarrassed and ashamed, so I hugged her. I let her go when she winced. But she emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, having dealt with her bladder and her head, and wrestled her way back into the hug. “I’m really sorry, Jaime. I don’t know what … Well, I’m sorry.”

My hand was, just then, the most important part of my body, and had all of my attention

“Ah, love, it’s okay. You’d had a bit of wine. And … you probably had reasons.” I found myself hugging Emilia with one arm while reaching down to squeeze her ass with my other hand. Affectionately, you know. We had history, Emilia and I. In the years I’d been with a girl called Susie, we’d sometimes talked and gazed earnestly into each other’s eyes, and we’d once almost had sex.

I’d had my penis partly inside her when conscience, hers more than mine, finally won. It’s quite a late stage to worry about fidelity, but we’d stopped and separated. I’d felt noble, though I doubted Susie would’ve admired it. So Emilia and I were intimates, without having had sex. Or not exactly sex.  

Emilia rubbed my chest with her forehead. “No, I didn’t have reasons. Not good ones.”

“Well, okay, but I still know you’re a wee love. You’ve got years of credit with me; you can’t blow it in one evening.” Emilia smiled up at me. “And I still don’t think it came from nowhere.” More smiles.

When your brain steps into manga-world…

A nice man was being nice to her. And the ass-squeezing was probably a great comfort in her time of self-recrimination.

Then information from that bottom-squeezing hand swamped my brain. I added, “Though … if you ever do anything like that again, Emilia, I’ll put you over my knee.”