Wicked Wednesday: The Cocky Caning

Lucy was stroking Sir’s penis,that I was still getting used to thinking of as my Sir’s  cock. He’d ordered Lucy to do that because he was determined not to take any of her virginities tonight. But her hand was fine.

He’d said that the more turned on he was, the harder he’d cane.

I don’t think Lucy wanted me to be hurt, or not too much, but I knew her: it was her nature to do her utmost to please him.

So I waited, bent over with my fingers touching my toes, and that cane having touched my lower bottom, which I’d already learned hurt the worst, I knew I was in for a very hard, painful caning indeed. 

Sir said, “I want you bent tighter than that, Maddie. Palms flat on the floor.” 

I said, “Yes, Sir,” and moved my hands lower, then let my palms rest on the floor. Fortunately I was a supple girl; I still am. Yoga students and girls who get the cane regularly need to be supple. 

I could feel the way my body tightened. I was presented perfectly, from his point of view. My pussy felt terribly exposed, not just to his gaze, though I knew it was that, but also, in that position, to the cane. A really hard stroke could easily reach my pussylips.

I wondered if I’d be able to take that without getting up.

Sir said, “All right, Maddie. You know you’re generally expected to take a caning in silence. If I tell you to, you can count the strokes aloud and thanks me for each one. I’m not expecting you to do that. Lucy’s going to do the counting for you. So what does that mean, Maddie?”

My heart sank. “I’m not to make any sound at all, Sir.”

“That’s right, girl. Those are the rules. Do you think you’ll be able to manage that?” 

“I… I don’t know, Sir.” 

“I have my doubts too. There’s a choice for you, Maddie. If you accept two extra strokes, making fourteen, then I’ll allow you to scream and squeal and carry on, so long as you keep still. If you don’t take the two extra strokes, and you scream, then you get the stroke over. So, what’s it to be?” 

I felt the cane touch me again, this time on my legs, about four inches below the crease of my bum. Oh god. I whimpered. I knew that I’d get more than two extra strokes if the rule of silence applied to this caning. “I’ll take the two strokes. The extra strokes, Sir.” 

“I think that’s a sensible choice. So that makes how many strokes of the cane you’re due for?”

I felt tears slip from my eyes, down into my eyebrows, to get lost in my hair. I sniffed. “Fourteen strokes, Sir.” 

“Good girl, Maddie. I still expect you to stay in place. Get up, and you’ll get another twelve. Understood.” 

I wanted to sob already. “Y-yes, Sir.” 

“All right Lucy, A little bit slower, now. I don’t want to come until I’ve got you two home with me. Now, Maddie.” 

“Yes Sir?”

But he was warning me. I must have heard the cane swishing through the air, but I don’t remember that. I only remember the pain and heat when it landed across my underbum.

It was so hard. I couldn’t help it. I screamed on the very first stroke, though I’d sworn to myself I wouldn’t, and my hips and bottom jerked convulsively. I only just managed to stop myself from getting up.

Lucy said, “One, Sir.” There was awe in her voice.

 

 

Sinful Sunday: “It’s a toy if I say it is,” I said. In my cocky way.

The wheels of chance have spun, and I wanted champagne and runny cheese, or possibly money. But what I got was “natural light” and “toys”.

“Well, all right,” she said, “at least about the natural light. But that damn paddle is never a toy.”

I picked up the paddle, and slapped it on the wooden table, which really was there, just out of shot in this image. The impact of leather on wood made a noise like a Presidential assassination. With an old-fashioned 303: they were loud. It made a noise that discouraged further argument with the man who held that paddle.

“I say it’s a toy,” I said. Cockily. “Discuss?”

No. There was no more discussion.

It was time for percussion.  

 

Note

The title of this post includes a word I think I’ve never actually typed before. It’s there because a romance writer of modest gifts, Faleena Hopkins, took out a copyright on the word “cocky”, and is using that as the basis for sending threatening letters to other writers who’ve used the word “cocky” in book-titles. 

The letters threaten to take all the proceeds from any book written with the word “cocky” in the title. 

As a former magazine editor, if I got a letter on those lines I’d laugh, show it round the office so others could have a snort, and glue it to a sheet in the crank file. (We used to keep the threats we received, to look through and cheer ourselves up if we ever thought we were being boring.)

But writers who don’t have access to legal advice, and are living hand to mouth, can easily find such letters alarming. 

The Romance Writers of America is now preparing a case to have the copyright over the word “cocky” overturned. But for this week, in support of writers threatened by Faleena Hopkins, my every post will have the word “cocky” in the title.

You can follow this story by checking #byefaleena on Twitter. 

Footsore and bleary: can’t write, couldn’t dom

The birth of Venus. Fresco at Pompeii.

In the last few days I’ve clambered and walked all round Pompeii and Herculaneum, and climbed from the road on Vesuvius to look down into the crater, a distance of, I’d say, about one and a half kilometres. 

All the time limping like a three-legged dog. That’s because I climbed my way into the grounds of the Villa Diodati, Byron’s old palace in Geneva.

It’s in private hands now, and closed to the public, which is a disgrace. There’s a sign nearby about how “Frankenstein” happened there. The Shelley’s house, where Bysshe and Mary were living, and actually wrote the novel, has been demolished.

By the way, the novel was conceived and mostly written by May Shelley. Percy Bysshe wrote about 7,000 words of it and had a couple of the less important plot ideas, which gets him to the status of minor collaborator. He never claimed any share of the credit.

Anyway, my leg had largely recovered, but before I went into Vesuvius’s terrain (terrain of terror, I guess I shouldn’t say) I undid all the repair work while walking through the Carraculla baths in Rome. A road made of cobble Has the power to make me hobble. It seems. 

After the ruined cities, plus the volcano that did the ruining, my feet weren’t just sore; they’d swollen up until they looked to me like someone else’s. And that someone else was possibly an elephant.

Since then I’ve kept my feet elevated, and me relaxed, as much as possible, and as a result they’re nearly back to normal size. Phew!

Anyway, I’ve been having a wonderful time, but I’m physically exhausted. That, it seems to mean, prevents me from writing. Writing takes energy, and the body has to supply it. It hasn’t been. What energy I have, I’ve devoted to making myself walk, and go and look round different places. 

I have a terrific episode of Maddie’s story (the Wicked Wednesday saga) formed in my head, but it’ll have to wait till next week, when I’ll be resting on the beach in Phuket.

It’s interesting that domming and writing both require unusual amounts of mental energy. You need desire, focus, attention to detail while shaping the direction you want to go. 

Right now, if some girl were to drape herself over my knee (or chair), I honestly don’t know if I’d be able to oblige her. Similarly, I have the plot of next week’s Maddie saga worked out, but I couldn’t write it right now to save my life. (That, I guess, is not actually true. At gunpoint, I’d write it.)

Anyway, I’ll be able to write more next week, by bribing some kid to watch my laptop when I go for swims. My journey ends on 16 May. 

Masturbation Monday: Crawling to my bedroom

Note

This is a continuing story. Icouldn’t write an episode llast week because travel. But the most recent episode, before this one is here.

The story so far: Stephanie and I left my own party to go across the road, and do everything but fuck in the children’s playground, after midnight. When we got back to my place, I put my clothes back on, but Stephanie had to stay naked. Since she was happy with that, I told her to drop to her knees, for the journey through the party-goers to my bedroom. 

And the thing is, the really cool thing, is that she did.

The previous episode is . Read it, if you haven’t, then read on.

Crawling to my room

I opened the back door, and stood back as if I were a polite man, so Stephanie could lead the way, prowling on her hands and knees. It wasn’t politeness, of course. I just wanted to watch her ass.

I said, because there are times a dom can’t help himself, and it comes with an incredibly powerful wave of both affection and lust, “Good girl, Stephanie.”

She looked at me, thinking, I guess, about protesting the idea that I was in any position to decide whether she was good or not.

(I was in an excellent position to observe she was a girl, and she couldn’t have any doubt about that.)

Then she looked back down at the carpet, so I suppose she’d decided that what I said went. She was a good girl.  

There was no one around, near the back door. I reached down and smacked her arse, hard, and she skittered a little, like a horse might, then began to crawl towards the main corridor. We could hear people there. Her arrival in that corridor was going to be noticed. And she knew she was a pretty girl, and that my male guests in particular were going to notice her.

I said, “You know the way to my room. Go.” And I smacked her again. This time she accepted it, and began to crawl, half prowling and half shuffling, to the door of my room. I had a thought. “Keep your head down, girl.” I smacked her again. There was no way not to.

There was about a dozen people in the corridor, one couple kissing, and two groups of five. They looked at Stephanie first, and then at me. They’d seen me do weird stuff before. Most of them didn’t know about me and bdsm (a higher proportion of the women knew, but they were still a minority), so I guess they just took it as theatre.

I said, “Second door on the left, Maureen.” (That was what my idea had been, such as it was. Most people are terrible witnesses, and most of the guys, and the women for that matter, weren’t looking at the naked, crawling girl’s face. So using the name “Maureen” might just give Stephanie a kind of privacy. She, I hoped, wouldn’t be in the stories about this. In any face, her face was as red as I’ve ever seen anyone’s. She liked humiliation, and she certainly had her fill in that corridor.

But she reached my doorway, and made the left turn inside. There was a couple on my bed talking. I felt bad about throwing them out, because I’d hoped they’d get together, and they clearly had. Unfortunately, they’d have to consummate somewhere else now. Four idiots (I say this affectionately) who were wasting party time by standing around and talking about Gramsci, also looked at me.

I said, “I’m sorry to chuck you out. But I need the room. Sorry, John, sorry, Lena.” That was to the couple on the bed. But they broke up, Lena laughing at me because of things she knew, and they all filed out. I shut the door behind them, and pushed Stephanie’s scarlet face down to the carpet.

“Keep your ass high, Stephanie. Knees apart. Spread your arms out so your upper body is on the carpet.”

Stephanie made a little moaning noise, that wasn’t a protest, and obeyed. She looked spectacularly, nakedly and rudely offered. Sexually offered.

She said, “Uh, Jaime,” and I smacked her again. She waited, watching me from the floor. I took my clothes off again, and took a condom from my wallet. I put it on.

“Carpet burns, darling. You’re about to get serious carpet burns.” 

The next episode is here.

Sinful Sunday: See where she lies!

See where she lies! a mortal shape indued

With love and life and light and deity,

And motion which may change but cannot die;

An image of some bright Eternity;

A shadow of some golden dream; a Splendour

Leaving the third sphere pilotless; a tender

Reflection of the eternal Moon of Love

Under whose motions life’s dull billows move;

A Metaphor of Spring and Youth and Morning;

A Vision like incarnate April, warning,

With smiles and tears, Frost the Anatomy

Into his summer grave.

 

 

Oh, did you find the whip then?

Oh, yes, thank you.

Note:

The Third Sphere, in Plotinian philosophy, is the circle/orbit of Venus, goddess of love. Her Sphere is pilotless when she visits one of the other Spheres, e.g. Earth’s.

Vanilla and spice: Is bdsm a smaller box?

Nothing wrong with vanilla

I’ve never liked the term “vanilla”, used by some people in bdsm to refer to sex that doesn’t have bdsm in it, or the people who practice it. It seems a bit disparaging, and self-promoting in a way I find unattractive when other people do that to me.

For example, there was a thing in the Sydney gay community a few years back where heterosexuals were referred to as “breeders”. Sometimes it was a joke, and a good-natured one, but I’ve also heard and read it being used in terms of extreme dismissiveness and contempt. 

I thought it was a shame when gays and lesbians were doing that, even if the het world has come up with its share of disparaging words for gays and lesbians, Hets have no moral high ground whatsoever. 

I think it’s a shame when we refer to the majority of the human race as having “vanilla” sex, with its sub-text that they’re having boring sex, poor people, while we fetishists, ministers, bdsm guys and girls are exploring all the flavours and having psychedelically mind-blowing sex, compared to those poor, restricted vanillas. 

But the term’s here now, and no one’s come up with a better one-word way of saying, “non-bdsm sex and the people who have it”.

When I’m talking about bdsm to people who aren’t into bdsm, I’ll explain that there’s this word, and I use it for its convenience. I don’t mean it pejoratively. 

Still, I’d rather there was a better term. 

I don’t know why but when I think, “sort of attractive but utterly not sexy”, this is the sort of image that comes to mind

I also wonder about my own sexual repertoire. Since I’ve embraced bdsm so strongly and so passionately, I’ve had occasional sexual encounters with women who aren’t into bdsm and don’t want to try 

I’ve found that there’s enough lust to carry me through vanilla sex (erection, ejaculation and so on).

But there’s no question that I’m not as turned on, as excited, as I am when I’m subduing and taking some sweetly or fierily consenting submissive girl. 

Have I become a sexual specialist, only really capable of enjoying bdsm-related sex? I think the answer is: not completely, but to a significant extent. I’ve fitted myself into a smaller box. That worries me a bit. 

I sometimes feel a little awkward because I’m monosexual.

That’s a word that some bisexuals use to describe people who aren’t bisexual. Obviously, you can be homosexual and monosexual, and you can be heterosexual and monosexual, which last is the Venn circle that I’m in.

He’s the sort of go-to image for “hot man”, just at this moment. But I don’t fancy Chris Hemsworth, nice guy though he seems to be, or anyone of his gender

Bisexual seems like the cool category to be in, embracing everyone, but I’m stuck with not fancying men whatsoever, and being amazed that so many women do, thank fuck. 

Anyway, I’m heterosexual, and so I’ve excluded half the human race from potential lust, and I can see that that’s a loss, of a kind. Similarly, I’d much rather be able to have vanilla sexual relationships, because otherwise I’d be excluding about 95% of humanity from potential lust.

But I have a feeling I’m drifting away from non-bdsm sex.

I don’t think I’ve had an erotic dream, certainly not a waking sexual fantasy, which isn’t bdsm-based, in years. Still,I guess that we all just have to be, and accept, whatever it happens that we are. 

Lest we forget the dead donkey

My great-grandfather was at Gallipoli. Gallipoli was an attempt to get a land pathway into Europe which British troops could follow, and attack the Germans closer to Germany than the stagnant lands created by trench warfare.

The road through Turkey would be opened by non-British troops, mainly New Zealanders and Australians, whose deaths in a futile and poorly planned operation wouldn’t be making headlines in England. There was a beach selected for this task, and naturally the British navy sailed straight past it and dumped the “colonial” troops into a beach where conditions would be intolerable if you lived, and where the Turks could sit up in the hills safely pouring lead onto the poor bastards on the beachhead. 

Anyway, my great-grandfather was stuck on the killing beach. He did what you do under the circumstances. You try to go forward, you try to kill people wearing the other clothing style, you try to keep your head down and stay alive, and sometimes you do crazy brave things because the men you’re with are doing them too. 

He came back from the meat-grinder alive but fucked. He couldn’t re-settle, he couldn’t be with his family, and he spent the rest of his life, except his last two years, trying to drink himself to death. Unluckily for him, the Mortimers have weird genes, and though he spent nearly eighty years consuming pretty much nothing but gin when he could afford it and sherry when times were worse, smoking when he could and sleeping rough, he lived until his late nineties. 

In the last eighteen month of his life, when he was ninety-six, he became the live-in handyman at a block of apartments in Nelson, chopping wood (I told you we’re genetically weird), fixing fuses and hinges and water piping for the young couples living around him. He was proud of himself for the first time since 1915.

He died in the 1990s. Someone managed to locate his family and contacted my father, who wasn’t actually a relation except by marriage, and he went down and cleared up . 

Anyway, my great-grandfather wouldn’t talk about Gallipoli, or Chunuk Bair. There wasn’t much to say. Except one thing. He said he was on the slopes with a donkey carrying water. The donkey got hit smack in the stomach by a cannon shell. It whipped its head around in time to see the middle of its body gone and its hind legs falling. Then the front of the donkey fell too, head facing my great-grandfather.

My great-grandfather used to say that the expression on the donkey’s face, when it realised it was fucked (grotesquely destroyed, if you prefer), was something he’d never forget as long as he lived. 

I never met my great-grandfather. The only time I ever saw him was when I was nine. I was at a family wedding that he, pointedly, hadn’t been invited to. He turned up drunk, with a drunk friend, and got turned away. I missed that, but saw him later at a kid’s play area with a helter skelter. He and his friend decided to walk up the spiral of the slide, and come down the ladder.

It took them a long time but they made it, with assorted family members standing a distance away making disgusted comments. I knew nothing, understood nothing, but I did feel a kind of sympathy with him. Not “that poor man”. More like, “that’s odd but kind of cool”. 

It was my mother who told me the only thing he’d ever said about his experience at Gallipoli. So I don’t know how he told that story: was it a parable about the way the New Zealand and Australian men were treated when the British decided to throw their lives onto a choppingboard? I don’t know: but my guess is that, yeah, it was that, but above all, he thought it was funny.

The people in my country have the blackest sense of humour I’ve encountered anywhere in the world. Throw in having lived through Gallipoli, and I’d say my great-grandfather would have had get a sense of humour so dark it had infinite gravity.

Anyway, I’ve never given a fuck about ANZAC Day. Nor, I understand, did he.

When I see it being used by politicians to defend more stupid military deployments, for the sake of someone else’s empire, I get really, deeply disgusted and angry. And it’s nearly impossible to make me angry.  

So, I think the poor sods in the army, navy or air force who get sent where their country tells them to go deserve sympathy, and most importantly they deserve real help while they’re alive.

But fuck ANZAC Day. It was bullshit in the first place, and it’s now been securely seized by right-wing, race-baiting arseholes. Fuck them, fuck the politicians, fuck the snivelling scumlicking bullies in the Murdoch press, fuck all that bullshit. Fuck, as I said, ANZAC Day. 

I remember the mess it made of my great-grandfather, sometimes, in bugle-free private, and I remember that poor bloody donkey. 

Sinful Sunday: Eyes on the thighs

 

That flogger had to be somewhere. That dom had looked under the end of the bed. But when he came back up to bed level, he saw his girl had changed positions. And he looked at the sweet, beautiful lines of her body.

And he wasn’t looking for his whip anymore. Which meant he was about to find it. 

Life teaches submissives in fierce, fiery sensations. But doms don’t have doms, generally, so it teaches us in parables. 

 

Message of hope for baby-doms

The most miserable experience of my life was because of bdsm. I was twenty-two, and I was very deeply in love with a woman I admired, respected, who was beautiful, who shared my political passions, whose virginity I’d taken. She’d been eighteen, and she hadn’t told me. I’d been nineteen, and I didn’t know enough to realise. 

Later, when she told me, I was flattered that I’d been her choice, and sorry I hadn’t made more fuss. She should have had more cunnilingus, and afterwards a cake with a candle. Anyway, it was done.

I don’t really have any photos that illustrate this post. But here’s a pic I took yesterday, of a Prague manhole cover, depicting some sort of strife.

But there was a problem. My deepest and most satisfying sexual thoughts, and all of my fantasies, involved bdsm, and me being a dom. I don’t think the word existed at the time.

But in my sexual dreams I commanded, fastened, spanked and flogged. I guided, I rewarded and punished, and I took.

That was what I wanted, from a willing partner having fun.

It always had been what I wanted. I’d known it since I was four, long before I was sexually focussed, let alone sexually active.

But she thought that that sort of sex wasn’t just not for her; it was evil.

She’d read Andrea Dworkin and Robin Morgan on bdsm, and so she “knew” that. There could be no such thing as ethical, or even consensual, bdsm.

I’d mentioned it once, and on seeing her reaction, I gave up. I thought it was a pity. I loved her so much I wanted to be with her forever. and that meant I’d have to bury my bdsm. Lose it. Forget about it. Cut it off me.

Of course, sexual desires and needs don’t go away. Sometimes it’d be too much, and when she was absent I’d have my fantasies and masturbate. The miserable thing happened because we were staying with her parents, and moments alone just didn’t happen.

Eventually, the desires got too much, and I took a book I liked (“The Coming of Age of Françoise Cocteau”, which I’d expected to be more stylish, though the flagellation scenes were hot) to a local park, overlooking the sea.

It was twilight cold, and no one seemed to be there, and no one was likely to come to the park at that hour. I found a place among the trees, partly sheltered by a rock, and masturbated. But I felt desolate. I was in love with a girl who loved me, and I was still utterly isolated. Part of me was disgusting to her. All of me, just then, would be disgusting to anyone who saw me.  

So I was in tears, streaming down my face, before I came, and after. Body fluids everywhere.

That’s it. That’s the experience. I cleaned myself up, binned the tissues, waited a while for the onshore breeze to remove the smell from my body, and trudged home. Despising myself.

 But here’s the thing. She left me the next year, because in the feminist circles she was moving in it was wrong to have a boyfriend at all: sleeping with the enemy, and withholding wimminlovingenergy from other women, that’s what loving me was. Eventually it got too much and she moved in with women from the sisterhood. I was collateral damage. 

It was not the happiest time of my life.

Sitting at a cafe in Prague today, keeping an eye on the square. Because life is ok.

But humans, thank fuck, are fickle, and after a mourning period I noticed that a man who’d been with one woman for four years, despite a roving eye, was a subject of sexual interest from other women. I had opportunities, and I started taking them. The second significant girlfriend I had wanted me to spank her. We explored further, and I found that I loved spanking her, and I loved what happened when we went further, too.

I moved to another city when I finished my degree, and found that my very next girlfriend wanted to be spanked and commanded too. So I’d met and bedded two women in a row who were submissive, when I hadn’t even included that in my selection criteria. I realised that my life wasn’t going to be as miserable as I’d expected. Instead life set about being fun and bringing me joy. I learned that a male dom is not short of women who want male doms, so long as those doms behave themselves like gentle men.

Because life is random, and for other reasons too obvious to explain, here’s a picture of a dog-washing shop, two days ago,  in Geneva.

Anyway, that’s my message to baby-doms. The term “baby-doms” isn’t meant to be dismissive. It’s derived from “baby-dykes”, who are among the most charming people on the planet, even if they don’t want to have sex with me.

Babyhood is a time of infinite potential. Baby-doms are people whose experience of bdsm is in its infancy, who are just starting out, and who have, perhaps, only recently become aware of their desires. Don’t despair. Life can go hard on “perverts”, and so can your own mind.

Keep your code of ethics, try to do the right thing, and persevere.

There’s nothing wrong with being a dom, so long as you obey the same rules about consent and avoiding force or manipulation that people expect in other kinds of sex. A lot of people are submissive, and they are looking for you, or someone like you.

Life gave me some miserable times because I’m a dom, but it also gave me the most wonderful experiences and times I’ve ever had. Those outweigh the bad times by a factor of, I’m not sure, but at least a hundred to one. I’d never give up being a dom, now, even if the thing were possible.     

So, be hopeful and of good cheer. Life offers paths to doms, to fit their sexual “kink” into a good, ethical life, with lots and lots of incredibly hot sex and love. 

Wicked Wednesday: In Lucy’s hands…

His cock still deep in my mouth, Sir kissed Lucy. She leaned against him, breasts pressed against his chest, and so of course it became a long, lovers’ kiss. Was I jealous of Lucy? I don’t think so, or not exactly. I liked that we both belonged to Sir now. And I liked that, below that fact, Lucy also belonged to me.

And I liked that they wanted each other, and they were kissing. Even though I had Sir’s cock just then, I think I was just jealous that she was getting so much attention.

Sir must have felt something, because he pulled out, cock still pointing hard in the air. He said, “Maddie. Feet apart, bend over. Fingertips touching the floor.”

“Yes, Sir.” And I obeyed quickly, showing him I was a good girl too.

Sir still had had arms round Lucy and his hands on her pink little bottom, but he looked at me and smiled. “Can you touch your palms to the floor, Maddie?”

“Oh, yes, Sir.” And I demonstrated. God, I was a supple girl then.

Lucy looked at me, and his hand cracked hard against her bottom. “Eyes to me, Lucy.” She didn’t answer, just made a happy noise and wriggled her body in even closer. “That’s good, Maddie. I liked what that does to your bottom. But while you’re waiting, you can just touch your fingertips to the floor. Oh, and eyes to the floor girl. Looking at your hands.”

“Sir.”

So I stayed in place, bent sharply at the waist, head down and bottom presented, too afraid to look up. There were flustered sounds from Lucy, then the sound of Sir’s chair scraping on the floor.

Lucy was giggling, then a hard smack on her bottom made her gasp. Then another, and another. She made a sort of moaning noise, now her spanking was proceeding in earnest. Her moans got louder as the spanks got louder.

It was harder, I think, than he’d ever spanked me.

And it went on. I counted twelve strokes, then twenty, then two dozen. Then three dozen. Lucy probably hadn’t thought to count, but her moans had turned to little cries of pain. He was hurting her.

At the fiftieth smack there was a pause. Lucy probably thought it was over, but I guessed differently. I was right. The next smacks were slow and hard, and each got a high-pitched yell from poor Lucy. She was snuffling now, trying not to bawl like a baby.  Finally, at sixty, Sir stopped.

“That’s a good girl, Lucy. Brave girl. Obedient girl.” He’d be stroking her bottom, caressing, making her feel better. Lucy still snuffled, and moaned when his hands touched an especially sensitive place. Then there was silence. He’d be stroking her pussy, and Lucy would be trying to be ladylike in front of her Mistress. That attempt lasted perhaps a minute, and then she whispered, “Oh, Sir…”

A few seconds later, as I guess her whole consciousness narrowed down to the fire in her bottom and the sweet sensations in her pussy, she started murmuring, “ohsirohsirohsirohsirohsir…”

Then there was another loud smack, and Lucy made a surprised sound.

“Up you get, girl. Fetch me the cane, and stand close beside me while I cane your Mistress.”

Then I heard him thank her, and the cane swish through the air, hissing, as he tested it. He was letting me know that this was going to be harder than this morning’s caning.

“Now, Lucy, I want you to take my cock in your hand. Can you– Ah! Good girl.” There was another pause.

I dared not move, but I strained to hear them. Then there was a sigh from Lucy. I assumed he’d kissed her again.

“I want you to keep on stroking me, just gently, while I cane Maddie here. Maddie wants to be caned hard, doesn’t she?”

He left a silence. Then I thought, Oh: that wasn’t a rhetorical question. “Yes, Sir. I do hope it’s hard. I think I want that.”

“You certainly need it, little one. Now, Lucy, a thing you’ll learn is that the more excited a man is, or a man like me, the harder he’s going to cane. So I want you to pleasure me with your hand, while I deliver Maddie’s caning.”

“Like this, Sir?”

For once Sir sounded strained. “Ah, yes. Uh! Pretty much exactly like that. Good girl, Lucy. Have your fingers mainly running along the underside, and of course the head. Ah. Good girl. You keep that up, till I tell you to stop.” 

“Yes, Sir.”

“Right, Maddie. We begin.”

And I felt the cane touch my bottom, lining up across the lower slopes, where it was bound to hurt most.

I felt passionate. I wanted this. I knew he did too.