Sinful Sunday: Clearly an out-take

This is a nice image of a girl, Arethusa, well paddled, her ass and thighs glowing, warm and buzzing, bending over the bed, about to be fucked. It’s clear, and warm, and it’s the out-take. Why? 

Because the one I used, a fuck-up from a photographer’s point of view, better captured the sense of movement, the rush of heated red sex. Here it is again.

I liked the “mistake” much more. So the well-taken photo became the out-take. 

#sexTheoryThursday: History of BDSM Literature 2: Defining BDSM


If you’re going to attempt to provide a History of BDSM literature, you’d best begin by defining your terms. 

There are a number of definitions available, but I think they are mostly flawed by the assumptions the writer has made before trying to say clearly what they mean. 

Definitions by older psychological writers and practitioners, not to mention pseudoscientists like psychoanalysts, tend to build in the idea that bdsm is pathological. On the other hand, some more recent writers have assumed that bdsm is necessarily Safe, Sane and Consensual, so that activities that don’t fit into that ethical frame can simply be excluded and discounted. 

This is my definition, and I think it’s the most accurate, with the fewest unstated assumptions, on the intellectual market. So it’s the definition I’m using when I discuss writing that expresses bdsm desires.



Wicked Wednesday: Her daughter’s punishment

“Thank you. It’s such a relief. Can I ask what Tara is likely to, well, get?”

“Shoplifting affects everyone in this school. It brings down our reputation, and means that our pupils are less trusted, whenever they go shopping. So Tara will be caned in front of the whole school.”

“I know that corporal punishment is back, here. And I’m glad. I believe it’ll help her settle down again. She’s been acting out, I think they call it, lately. Going wrong. Caned in front of the school? Is there a procedure for that? What happens, exactly?”

“There’ll be a wooden bench at the front of the assembly, with straps for her wrists and ankles. Tara will be at the back of the assembly stage, behind the teachers, while I explain that that a girl has been caught shoplifting, and because that affects everyone, everyone will watch it be dealt with.”

“Oh.My poor silly girl, she’ll hate that. But I can see that she”s let everyone down.” 

“I’m afraid she has. Her example will have some good effects. It’ll scare the daylights out of some of them, mostly girls, and I think there won’t be any more shoplifting for quite a while afterwards. Tara will be called forward. She’ll be wearing a robe, and when she gets to the bench, she’ll take it off.”

“A robe. You mean only a robe? Nothing underneath?”

“Most likely. If Tara owns up quickly, and she’s fullly contrite early, she might get to keep a bra on, possibly even a shirt. But if she lies to me, then, yes, she will be quite naked.”

“Oh. She’s very modest. The boys will see her body. She’ll never forget that.”

“I should tell you that this is the school’s decision, not yours. I don’t need your consent. But do you object to that?”

Claire puffed her cheeks and blew. “Mr Beecham, the truth is that it’s a relief. I’ve been worried sick. I–” She shook her head, distressed. “I don’t know why that girl has done this. But if you can give her a very harsh lesson, that won’t be something on her record, that follows her round for the rest of her life, I’d–”

She put her hand, suddenly, to her face. Her shoulders shook. Tears are not a rare occurrence in this office, and I took out the box of tissues and passed it over.

She smiled, while still crying. “Of course you should do what you think best. And it’ll do Tara the world of good. I’d be so grateful to you. I am now.”

She wiped her eyes then, and blew her nose.

The Tale of the Tawse, Part 2: 2

Melinda tugged her mother’s sleeve. “Mummy, the airplane was doing doughnuts, and I won!” 

Ngaire looked at me, needing footnotes for that one. So I explained the game “Whoo!” and how to play it. 

She stood still for a few seconds, digesting that. Then she said, “You wanna come round to my place, for tea?” 

“You can’t get a cup in the airport?” 

“Yank boy,” she sighed. “It means ‘dinner’. And getting invited to dinner must mean the same things in yank-land as it does here.” 

“Oh. Like you’d like to show me your etchings.” 

“Not sure what etchings are, so I can’t show you those. But you might get to see my arse.” She looked at me with mock-irritation. “Which, I probably have to tell you, means my ass.” 

I’d thought Daphne had been pretty direct, when I first met her. She hadn’t given me much warning before she slipped into my bed. But Ngaire was off the scale. I wondered if all New Zealand women were like this, or if it was just grateful, still slightly drunk single mothers on airplanes. Or maybe it was just Ngaire.

I said, “I’d love that. Seriously. Once Melinda’s safely tucked up. But there are two women waiting for me, once I get through Customs, and I think they’d mind.”

She frowned. “Two women? Lovers? I mean, lovers of you?”

“Yes. It’s going to be the first time all three of us meet, though.”

“What? How’s that work? Have you just been doing netsex?”

“Well, I’ve been… I’ve spent real time with both of them. And I guess they’ve met each other, now they’re both in Wellington. I gave them each the other’s, oh, details. But we haven’t all three of us been together at once. So I’m afraid I have responsibilities.”

“You’re turning down sex with me, just for the sake of a threesome? Man’s crazy.”

I thought a threesome with Shar and Daphne was unlikely, much though I’d be open to it. But I was still going to be busy, whatever Daphne and Shar had worked out between them. I spread my hands. What can you do?

Ngaire grinned suddenly. “Well, my mother always said, if you want something done, ask a busy man. I want me done. Would you like my phone number?”

“Of course. But it’d be great to know someone who lives here. I’m from New York. Daphne’s from Glasgow, and Shar lives in Lima. Would you like to meet them?”

“You want your lovers to meet me? You’re a weird guy. I mean, I’ve just taken Melinda to up-state New York to spend time with her father, and he’s weird. But not in a good way. You seem kind of ok for a weirdo.”

“Thank you.”

“But yeah, I’d be happy to show you and your harem around. Wellington’s a cool city, but it really does help if you know people.”

Ngaire turned to the overhead lockers and and out took a red bag with big white spots, in the shape of a beetle, and gave it to Melinda. Melinda delved inside and took out a blue tiara and put it on. Then she slung the bag over her shoulder. Her secret princess identity was out. She was happy.

Ngaire delved a little further back for her own bag. Her t-shirt rose, revealing a tattoo on her lower belly, that said, “Property of the”. There was probably more, but that was below the hem of her jeans. I wondered if I’d get to read the rest of that tattoo. If Ngaire had anything to do with it, it seemed I would.

There was movement ahead of us. The people standing in the aisles were being allowed off. I picked up my satchel, from under the seat in front of me. Ngaire said, “You’re travelling on a Yank passport?”


“Ok. You’ll get through Immigration quicker if you say you’re with me. I can get you into the New Zealand queue, as my boyfriend. Ok?”

“Fine. And thank you.” 

So we left together. When we were out of the plane and onto the gantry Melinda turned back to address the plane. She said to it, “Whoo!” Two of the hosties, who must have heard us playing the “Whoo!” game, said, “Whoo!” back. So she was even happier.

When we were walking away she got between me and her mother and took her mother’s hand. Then she took mine. I was surprised how pleased I was. 


Sinful Sunday: Corner Time – humbling or humiliating?

She knows she disobeyed a clear order from her Master. It concerned study, so the order was given for her own good, and she knows that, too.

She knows her Master is angry with her, and He is going to punish her severely. There’s a riding crop on the bench, and she knows she’s not just going to feel its tassel. But that’s in perhaps another hour’s time. 

In the meantime she has to wait in the corner, hands on head. Facing the room so she has to look Him in the eye whenever He passes. Wearing a sign that names the offence she’s going to be punished for.

She feels … small. She feels sorry; she cannot believe, now, that she didn’t prepare for the exam, as He told her to do. What was she thinking?  

No one is going to see her, while she waits, but Master. She knows that in His current mood, if He could bring in witnesses to watch her flogging, He would.

She wonders how that would feel, to get her flogging in public. Just as painful, of course. But humiliating.

She’d say, if asked, that she’s not into humiliation. But there is something in that thought – the watching crowd, all of them knowing that she’s a bad girl who has to be punished – that seems arousing. She’s already aroused and wet: part of her is going to love her flogging, riding on waves of pain and expiation, knowing that Master will be hard for her during, and especially afterwards. 

Right now she feels … humbled. Is that the same as humiliation, or is it something different?



E(lust) 117, on the way to heaven

Photo courtesy of Master’s Eye

Welcome to Elust 117

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #118? Start with the rules, come back May 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

A dominant presence

He Gripped Her Hand and Centered Her

Being alone together.

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

What the fig?

Mind and body

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

O! or, errr… NO!: Orgasm Control in an F/m Dynamic

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Fantasies Never Let You Down
My First Love
New Fun with Old Friends
Sometimes coming joint second
emotional disconnection, sex and loneliness
People Don’t Talk about This Sh!t

Erotic Fiction

Waking the Fallen
opera seria
Catch the Catcher
Club Dress Extended
Dreams … (the Second : Arabian Nights)
The orgasmic arch

Erotic Non-Fiction

The Five Senses of Sex
A public beating
Rope Dreams



Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Primal Regression and Submission
14 Qualities of a “Good” Dominant
Balance in F/m voices


Do I want you to hold my hand?

Body Talk and Sexual Health

Sex in Class
That’s My Kink – All Hail The Nipple Clit

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Why I’m not smiling for IWD


Wicked Wednesday: The Shop-Lifter’s Mother

The following afternoon Mrs O’Donnell, mother of my student Tara O’Donnell, was expected at one-thirty. She believed her daughter had been shoplifting, and she hade agreed to bring me the bag of clothes she’d found under her daughter’s bed.

Mrs O’Donnell turned out to be an older version of her daughter, with the same slightly wide mouth, and California straight blonde hair parted in the middle. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen when she’d had Tara, because she couldn’t be older than her thirty-four now.

Actually, she looked much younger than that. She’d dressed for this meeting in a pale blouse and maroon skirt that must once have been expensive, but both garments were several years old. On the phone she’d mentioned that she did shift work. I guessed that she spent most of her income on her daughter’s education.   

She’d arrived, flustered and apologetic, about fifteen minutes late. It occurred to be that she was the only woman I was likely to see that week who wouldn’t get a spanking for being that late. So I’d smiled pleasantly, partly because of that ridiculous thought, and welcomed her in, accepting from her the bag of clothes that would be the evidence against her daughter.

“Sit down please, Mrs O’Donnell. The armchair.”

“Thank you. And it’s Claire.” She sat and crossed her legs. She had nice legs.

“Claire. Excuse me a moment.” I looked at the collection of clothes. They all still had their labels, and the little sticky-paper price tag. It suggested shop-lifting, but it wasn’t conclusive evidence. Tara could have bought them an simply decided they weren’t right, and be intending to take them back. I’d have to get her to admit to the shop-lifting before I could take action. I buzzed Maddie, and she arrived in a few seconds.

The two women looked at each other. I said, “Claire O’Donnell, Maddie Wizniewski. Maddie, can you take these clothes and lay them and flat, one by one, and take a photograph. Also taking a photo of the label and price on each garment. And then bring them back.”

“Yes, Mr Beecham.” Maddie didn’t really have trouble stopping herself from calling me Master in front of people. It was a problem she had only when she wanted to. She picked up the clothes and left.

I said, “Claire. This is a troubling situation, as you know. But there are two things you should know right now. First, the school will handle this from now on. Both the investigation, and the disciplinary side if it turns out that these were stolen. I’m afraid I agree with you that they were. Tara probably doesn’t have the money for those clothes. And if a boyfriend had bought them for her she’d have taken the tags off and worn them for him. So I’ll expect that we will find they were stolen, and not more than a few days ago.”

Claire looked at me, biting her lip, her eyes nervous. She remembered what it was like to be in trouble in a headmaster’s office. In fact she was still afraid of this headmaster. Of me. I wondered why.  

I continued, “Second, that the police and courts will not be involved. Tara will get a very painful lesson, but she won’t get a criminal record. And not a fine, that would only have to be paid by you.”

Claire nodded. “What would you do?”





Masturbation Monday: Tale of the Tawse Part 2: 1

The plane slid wildly across the air like spit on a frypan, buffeted by winds that never let up although they seemed to change direction every few seconds. Other passengers had noticed that we were flying level just above the water, and the wings were only metres – not many of them – from jagged rocks emerging from the seashore. Some of those passengers were crying, and the most irritating were praying loudly.

They were irritating because they were scaring the little girl sitting next to me. Her name was Melinda, and she’d been happy to humor an adult by telling him about dinosaurs, how annoying her best friend Fergie was being, how Jacob Sartorius used to be so cool, but now he was… old.

She was also an expert on clouds: cumulus is lovely, and did I know how to tell cirrus from stratus?

Her mother wasn’t in this conversation; she’d self-medicated with little bottles of whisky and she was currently drooling onto the window. It wasn’t her best look, though it meant her ass, in tight blue jeans, was pointing in my direction. Still, she’d been noticeably pretty, with dark curly hair, when she’d been conscious.

So I was the adult looking after Melinda, and she’d realised, from the praying nutters that many of the adults were losing the plot. Children find that scary.

So I lied: “This is great! It’s like a roller-coaster, only it’s FREE!” 

Melinda wasn’t quite convinced, so I told her that the point of the game was to raise your fist and shout “Whooo!” every time the plane skidded across the harbour. I demonstrated. A game where an adult says you’re allowed to make silly noises is a good game, so Melinda was probably the most cheerful passenger every time she released a triumphant “Whooo!”

I wasn’t quite as sure as Melinda now was that we weren’t all going to die, though I figured the pilot must have landed in Wellington before. Still, a man has his responsibilities, and my fist-pumping “Whooo” was easily the second most cheerful sound. 

When the plane reaches the shore it crosses a road, flies just over an embankment of maybe eight metres, and finds itself level with the runway. Our plane’s tyres hit the ground with a scream, and jolted Melinda’s mom awake. She looked at me suspiciously. Men who play with little girls don’t get a good press.

She frowned, but it was a thinking kind, not the angry one. Melinda was the right kind of happy, so I must be ok. She took the water I held out to her. “Thanks.”

It was a New Zealand accent. I’d picked her as American. 

We were taxiing to the airport, no longer the wind’s toy though it was still blowing. I said, “Welcome home.”

She looked embarrassed. She’d neglected her maternal duties. And our conversation was still subject to passenger noises. The woman in the row ahead of us was still ululating prayers at the top of her voice, and Melinda’s mom poked her from behind, in the shoulder.. The woman looked back at her, incredulously indignant. “I’m thanking the Lord!” She was a fellow American. 

“Then could you do it quieter, please? I’ve got a fuck of a hangover and you, you’re really not helping.” 

So I started to learn things about New Zealand compared to US culture. Praying woman dropped to a mutter, keeping it between her and her lord.

Melinda’s mom looked back at me. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m terrible in airplanes. Flying scares me shitless. Seriously. Terrified. I had to get pissed, or I wouldn’t have have been able to stay on board. Seriously. These things have doors, and I’d have been out one of them.”

“Pissed? You had to get angry to stay aboard?”

“Ah. Yank boy. Down here it means drunk. Hey, thanks for keeping Melinda sane. It was my job and I fucked it up. My name’s Ngaire, by the way.” 

She put out her hand. I took it and we looked at each other. She was pretty again. I said, “Freddie.” 

Sinful Sunday: Quite well flogged, thank you

There’s nothing more relaxing, I’m told, than lying over a pile of pillows after a good flogging. 

And nothing more relaxed than that submissive, if the Dom has done her or his work right: not too heavy, but above all not too light. 

What stayed in my mind most, though giving this flogging was a pleasure, was remembering having growled “you stay in place” a couple of times, and being obeyed. 

In those moments we know who and how we are. The gift of pain, and the gifts of authority and submission. 

I did well, I think, and she had done well too. I told her so. No wonder she’s blushing. 

Model and star: The lovely Zoë.



Research: A history of BDSM literature

This is the first of a longish series, based on my Eroticon 2019 presentation. 


It is a history of BDSM literature, taking in nearly 50,000 years of human art and history. One of my key points is that BDSM didn’t come down with Sade (who I don’t rate highly), and nor did it arrive with 50 Shades of Grey.

BDSM has been a part of human culture across an enormous time span, and our traces can be found amongst other strands, in an enormous range of cultures. 

These posts are going to be coming on Fridays, so stay tuned!