Sex in the South Seas 9

cupped breastsSenemelia’s teak-dark breasts, her belly and her arms seemed to shine in the halflight. And her eyes. I crossed to stand behind her, to take her hands away and cup her breasts in mine. Senemelia said, “Ahhhhh,” and squirmed back towards me, getting her ass against my cock. 

So that was the right thing to do. Tongue-kissing isn’t a universal practise, but maybe stroking her breasts and jamming her arse with a hard-on is a good cross-cultural practise. Senemelia liked it, anyway. Maybe I was over-generalising from a small sample.

Anyway, Senemelia wasn’t in my room to discuss comparative sexual customs.

I pinched her nipples very slightly, and she turned her head to smile back at me because I was doing something weird, but tried to squirm away. So that wasn’t a Senemelia sexual custom either. 

It would have been even better before the missionaries arrived.

It would have been even better before the missionaries arrived.

So I stuck to things that had already been well received, holding her breasts tight but painlessly,  pressing forward so my cock made known its feelings about her bum. Senemelia pressed back, and rotated her ass against me like a traditional dancer, while I ran my hands down her belly to the catch on that spangled skirt. I fumbled: there was oil on my hands, and on my shirt. Senemelia shone because she’d covered her whole body with oil.

I licked a spot on her shoulder, just below her neck. Coconut oil, I supposed. It tasted mainly of sweaty girl, with faint traces of coconut and something like chili. But Senemelia sighed and sucked her stomach in to help me undo the catch on the skirt. In a second or two it dropped to the floor. 

The knickers were faded and a little worn at the waistband. She hadn’t expected to be taking them off in company. I pushed them down to her thighs. And, because no one could possibly resist Senemelia’s perfect bubble butt, I smacked her arse. “Bed,” I said. 

Back to work: and Freudian fingers on the Iphone

Holidays are over. I’ve got projects, including at least one where I have no idea how to do what I’ve contracted to. But they wanted me, so that’s that. 

I’ll learn how to do the job, and I’ll get a nice transfer of funds, with love, from them to me. (Cue mouth organ break.) 

Anyway, here’s what happened yesterday. A pretty girl I’d been flirting with, months ago, sent me this:

bag flirt















 (It’s just an internet image, which is why I’m prepared to reproduce it here.) Anyway, we’d called it off, but ended on friendly terms, so I thought that was an encouraging sign: she missed me and wanted to pick up where we left off. I felt very cheery. She’d expressed some interest in the leather, semi-flexible instruments, so I sent her this:

Have case, will travel.

“Have case, will travel.”










Anyway, she sent me another message, which went, approximately, “WTF? Nice to hear from you, but why you just text me? & why that?” 

So I realised she’d been texting some other guy, and she’d accidentally sent the picture to me. She’s the sort of girl who’d be horrified to realise she’d done that, so I decided not to embarrass her by explaining. (She doesn’t read this blog). I just apologised. Rush of blood to the head, or something, I said. So there you are. 

Fathers and sons

My father has his own people around him.

I walked out of the family house when I was 17. I slammed the door, as a petulant young man will when he thinks he’s acting out of principle. I went to work as a psychiatric nurse, and when I realised I wasn’t on the side of the hospital I quit and worked on odd jobs in factories and on the roads, to get enough money to go to university. My father and I didn’t speak.

It was me that mended it, when I was near to finishing the degree. It wasn’t out of love that I reached out and made peace. It was out of the feeling that it was stupid to have a quarrel with my father in an adult life. The feud with my father was like an accessory – a pendant or a lip ring, maybe – that can suit an adolescent, but is embarrassing on an adult. It was like still reading Hermann Hesse novels.

I’d thought he was a racist and an authoritarian, and since he’ll never read this I’ll say that that was true: he was. But he’s a human being, born in time. He is a good man, and he has never been a promoter of anything bad. That’s a pathetically small thing to say about a good man, but it’s a true thing. 

When I contacted my father again, and started visiting and offering invitations, I opened up some conversations, about family members, the weather, and so on, but we never talked about things that might be important. If we did we’d fight. So I chose safe topics and I listened more than spoke. I didn’t really enjoy his company. Repairing the relationship seemed like a proper thing to do, and I didn’t actually feel that there was much in it for me.

It was as he got older and weakened that he mattered more.

There was nothing to rebel against. He was a man of his time, in most of his attitudes, and he was in advance of his time in many ways.

And it doesn’t really matter what you think about races, for example, in the abstract. It matters a lot how you treat people. I saw that I’d have to work hard to be as kind and considerate to people as he was. I’d done some of that work on being kind before, because I’m naturally arrogant and selfish and I had to consciously try to be kind, and that’s mostly from his example. But after re-establishing contact I put in much more work on kindness. And patience.

Letting go my anger with him meant learning to let go of other anger.

Here’s a poem by James K Baxter, from New Zealand.

Alone we are born
And die alone;
Yet see the red-gold cirrus
Over snow mountain shine.

Along the upland road
Ride easy, stranger:
Surrender to the sky
Your heart of anger.

There’s some calm in those last two lines. Anyway, I’m around my father right now. He needs people, including me. I’m one of his own people, around him.  

Death in the family #2

The funeral is tomorrow morning. I’ve written a eulogy, which was hard because I’d thought I couldn’t say anything at all. 

My father is grief-stricken and pretending not to be. He is brave in front of people, but his shoulders slump and his face falls when he thinks no-one’s looking. 

He was asleep on the couch this afternoon. He was reaching for her hand while he slept. But it wasn’t there. He suddenly woke up, panicked, and called out, “Where’s Sophie?”

My poor sister had to say, “I’m sorry, Dad; Sophie’s gone. She died on Friday.”

Dad lifted his hands up and brought them down together, to show that his moment of panic hadn’t been important. “Of course. I’m sorry. Sorry, of course. She’s dead, I know.”  

He’s a brave man, and his first instinct, always, is the feelings of others. 

My poor father.

Gem thinks about her cunt while waiting to be leathered Part 20

Gem: Not many girls would do this. 

[Gem reaches down and picks Jaime’s pants off the floor, and extracts the belt, dropping the pants on the bed. For a few seconds she wraps the belt round her fingers, feeling the leather’s weight and supple strength. She pauses, looking at the belt, not meeting Jaime’s eyes, not sharing her thoughts. Then she nods, folds the belt as instructed, and holds it out to Jaime.]

Jaime: Thank you. Now … [he seats himself on the edge of the bed, with the folded belt in his left hand.] Gem, this is a very traditional thing. I want you to bend over my knee. Toes and fingers touching the carpet. Ass under my nose. 

Gem: Jaime, I don’t know…

Jaime: I could discuss it with you, Gem. But I’m just going to count to five. One. 

Gem: Jaime, are you going to hurt me? 

Jaime: Two. Yes, but it won’t hurt very much, love. I just want you to know and understand, while you’re experiencing it, that you’re getting the strap because you didn’t do as you’re told. Three. 

Gem: Please…

Jaime: Four.

Gem [panicked, or doing a good impersonation]: All right! All right!  

[She dives across his lap, supple as a fish..]

Gem: Four and a half!

[Jaime smacks her upturned bottom, with his palm rather than the strap, for that “four-and-a-half” line.] 

Gem: Yeow! 

[To be continued]


Note: Photos borrowed with thanks and appreciation from

Last day of the intermission

The Rex, with a glimpse of the rooftop. I took pics of the topiary animals, but I lost them years ago.

Once I took a girl to the top floor of the Rex Tranh hotel in Saigon/Ho Chi Minh City. There are topiary animals there: deer, bears, cocks, dogs. It was before Vietnam became a tourist destination, and we had the roofgarden to ourselves. Vietnam was still closed. Only East Germans and Russians visited. There were no street lights, cars or motorbikes. 

I took off the girl’s teeshirt. She pressed into the side of the deer, her nipples seeking the hardened ends of the stubs cut by the topiarist. It was cold. I took off my belt and doubled it. She arched her back and raised her arms, so she would fall, a little, into the stubs and spikes of the bush each time my belt landed. She had small breasts, mouth-sized, with very hard pointed nipples. I whipped her.

She was gasping with lust and hurt by the twentieth stroke.

The hard green and the soft white. The red not shown.

Then there was a small man with perfect black hair and a dancer’s waist at the top of the roof-garden stairwell. This was a waiter she liked, a young man who worshipped her. He followed her everywhere, and his patience had finally won him a glimpse of her bare back.

And he’d gained some other intimate knowledge about her. The girl had very white skin but she was petite, unlike most Western women the Vietnamese had seen. He thought she was a princess, a goddess, an opera star.

I gave the young man cigarettes and francs, and ordered lobster for our room, in thirty minutes.  

By that time we were in our room and the girl was tied over a beautiful laquered cabinet with dragons and herons, and her buttocks and upper thighs had been belted and welted as blazing red as the soft skin between her shoulderblades. She’d put her tee-shirt back on to get back to our room, but there’d been specks of blood on the front when I lifted it off her again. Her breasts had bled. 

She’d wondered, when the waiter knocked, if I’d leave her naked and exposed when he brought in the trolley with the lobster, plates and the awful Russian champagne. 

At the last second I’d thrown a sheet over her. He could tell she was there, but not see her.  When he’d gone, I stood between her spread tied legs and mounted her. And while we moved together, I fed her lobster with my fingers.