Fitness, fucking and domming

Right now, I’m the most unfit I’ve ever been in my life. 

This is a very bad thing. I’m used to being thought of as good-looking, and what I see in the mirror at the moment is not that. I see a man, probably with a nice enough face, with a gut on him. 

I have a feeling that this is worse for doms than for most men. There seems to be two competing factors:

1 Women are, by and large, more forgiving of not-great male bodies than men are of women. But – 

2 A dom is expected to have his act together. If he can’t discipline himself, how can he claim the right to rule and discipline someone else? 

Because of Rule 1, I’ve seen a lot of men in pubs, trying to pick up women and often succeeding. The men are beer-gutted hoons, or bogans.

These are New Zealand and Australian terms, but I don’t think I need to translate them. They’re onomatopoeia.

The girls are fragrant, pretty flowers ranging between elfin-slender and pretty-girly-plumpness.But Rule 1` empowers the men to at least try it on. 

The disparity in attractiveness doesn’t seem to do the men much harm. 

I think it matters more for doms. I’ve heard women submissive complain about soft-bellied doms, and… at the moment that’s me.

I played Saturday morning footy in the park today. It was a hell of a shock to the system, because everybody was fitter than me. But I am a proud man, so I pushed myself and tackled people, and tried for goals, and so on. I think I scored one. Everybody else did better. 

Then I went home and gasped for an hour before I could rouse myself to have a shower.

Anyway, I’m reducing my stomach.

When a woman is across my knee, the only fleshly thing around should be her ass. 

Wicked Wednesday: She Will Have her Way

I’d just threatened Jennifer with multiple naked, public canings, if she came before her slippering had finished.

Maddie said, “He would, too.” She was lying. So was I. But I wanted Jennifer to try her hardest.

At last, dangerously late but not too late, I withdrew my finger from her perfect pussy, getting a loud, involuntary moan of protest from Jennifer. I picked up the slipper.

“All right Jennifer. You’re having fun. But this is still punishment. You’re going to get the remaining twelve for making a display of yourself, and another six for questioning an order. It is going to hurt you, girl. It’s meant to teach you. Not just your mind; I want you to have a body memory of this.”

“Oh sir. I know I’m going to feel it, a little warning from my bottom if I even thought of being bad.”

“And yet, you’ll be back here again. Always. But never think you’re standing still. The standards for you will rise, as you learn better behavior. But I don’t think you’d ever want to be completely good, would you?”

There was silence, then she said, very quietly, “No, sir. If that’s all right with you.”

“I think that’s very all right with me.”

Jennifer raised her hips a little from the desk, so her pussy pointed directly at me. “Will you please, sir, slipper me hard and mercilessly. Oh, I’ve forgotten the words, but you know what I mean.”

 I did indeed, and my admiration for Jennifer just then had no bounds. I looked at Maddie, who knew what I must be feeling. I said, “Maddie, you make sure you hold her tight.”

“Yes, Master.” She made no attempt to correct herself to ‘Mr Beecham’. She judged that Jennifer had heard her earlier slip and made the correct inference. She looked happier, now she’d said it openly, and shared her status with Jennifer. Maddie had ways of getting what she wanted.


The Tale of the Tawse: Volume 2

Last year I wrote a very good book, The Tale of the Tawse. It’s funny, sexy as hell, romantic and exciting.

In it, a man with a name like a Wodehouse character (Freddie Underhill) meets two women, Daphne and Shar, and helps each of them deal with a life crisis, with occasional applications of his hand or a long leather strap, the tawse of the title, to their firm proud et cetera.

At the end of the book, he’s back on his own in New York, and he gets an invitation from each of the women to come to a global warming conference in Wellington, New Zealand. Daphne is having an art exhibition there, and Shar is the translator for the diplomatic team of a small mid-eastern country. Freddie ends the book wondering how he’s going to manage his way through that.

The Tale of the Tawse is currently with a publisher, under consideration, but it’ll be out soon. I have every confidence in that. And one thing the world will be demanding is the continuation of the story. What happens in New Zealand?

I think – just working this out as I go along – that he lets each woman know that the other woman will be there. They both already know of the other’s existence. On the day he arrives in Wellington he invites both women to dinner. 

They get on very well. However, Daphne’s up for a threesome, or even a twosome with just her and Shar. But Shar’s not having that. She’s a straight girl. 

In the meantime they decide that they’ll get a hotel suite together, the three of them, and they’ll each take turns to sleep with Freddie, while the other sleeps in the next room.

Then Shar hears that her younger cousin, Mahtab, who she hasn’t seen since she was three years old, is also in Wellington, to be married off to a Saudi aristocrat of striking physical and moral unattractiveness. She and Daphne go to meet the girl, and Shar gives Mahtab a card with their hotel room and phone number. Daphne tells the girl about  Freddie, and says they’ll get Freddie to help her. She writes down Freddie’s number and gives it to her. 

The next day, on the way to the global warming conference, Freddie is attacked and stabbed. He manages to break away and staggers into a butcher’s shop, bleeding a lot. The attackers follow him, but are attacked by the huge butcher, and they run. The butcher calls an ambulance for Freddie, and the hospital stitches and bandages Freddie and says he’s fine to go home.

Back at the hotel, Daphne and Shar are waiting. When they see him injured they realise it must be their fault for giving Mahtab written information, that has obviously fallen into the wrong hands. Shar begs him to punish both of them.

He does. Shar, now sore and weeping, begs him to help her cousin escape. Of course he agrees.

I’m thinking the escape takes place on the ferry running between the North and South Islands. But I’m a bit vague about the details.


That’s as far as I’ve got, so far. I’m making this plot up as I write this post, and I’m out of ideas now. Thank you for listening. 

2018: The Year of Four Books!

I finished four novels in 2018. That’s two erotic novels and two “mainstream, literary” novels. 

It involved working like a bastard all day, practically every day, from morning to night. 

Me, at local orgy: “Of course, girls! Just got to finish this chapter and I’ll be right with you”

I was thinking I was going to calm down a bit this year, and achieve a wiser work/life balance. 

Maybe I will, but I realise that next year I intend to finish the erotic post-apocalypse science fiction novel I’m working on at the moment: That Oceanic Feeling.

And Volume Two of the sexy Bdsm rom-com, “The Tale of the Tawse“. That’s from scratch. Not a word of it has been written yet. 

And Volume Two of “Probation“, a fairly serious bdsm novel about an inter-racial love triangle set mostly in LA. Cops, a corrupt judicial system, racism and drugs figure. Fortunately, about two-thirds of that is already written, and I have the rest sketched out in my head, so that shouldn’t be so hard. 

Ands there’s a non-erotic novel that I think it likely to outsell all the erotica combined. So I’ll start work on that in about February. Not a word of that is written either, though I have the plot sketched out.

So… work/life balance may have to wait. Stop this man before he types again!

Wicked Wednesday: Don’t you dare come!

Her face was closer to mine now, and a brighter pink than her nipples. I smiled at her, knowing that at that moment she was immune to the power of smiles.

“Good girl. Now bend over, all the way, so your tummy and breasts are flat on the table. Turn your head, and rest your cheek on the table, too.”

When she’d obeyed, placing herself in one of the lowliest of submissive positions for me, I put my hands on the table, palms upward. “Now reach out and hold my hands.”

Jennifer obeyed quickly, and squeezed my hands. I squeezed back, but then broke the contact. “Keep your hands there, Jennifer. Maddie will be holding you.” I picked up the slipped and stood up.

I stepped behind Jennifer, all submissively and bravely displayed, and waiting for me. “Maddie, sit in my chair and hold Jennifer’s hands.”

She said, “Yes, Mas– Mister Beecham.”

Jennifer didn’t move or speak, but I could tell she was now very alert. She’d noticed Maddie’s little slip. Maddie took my place, and reached for Jennifer’s hands. After only a second or two, Jennifer placed her hands in Maddie’s. Maddie said, very quietly, “Jennifer. Look at me.”

Jennifer said nothing, but she raised her head. Maddie said, “Yes, I call him Master. I have to do as I’m told, just as you do. I chose that. It’s a good life – he looks after me – and it’s hot. If you want, I’ll be happy to talk about it with you. Would you like that?”

“Yes, ma’am, I would.”

Maddie laughed. It was a warm sound. “You called me Maddie, even when I was taking a ruler to your backside. So Maddie will do, Jennifer.”

 “Thank you, Maddie. And sir? Will you talk to me as well?”

“Of course, Jennifer.”

“Thank you, sir. This is all very new to me.”

“You are as new to me as I am to you, Jennifer. Put your face down, girl.”

Jennifer laid her cheek down on the desktop. She seemed to wriggle, making herself comfortable. I stepped closer, and stroked her bottom. Her cheeks were still warm, but not a blazing fire like they had been yesterday. Or would be again in about half an hour. Jennifer sighed at my touch, then caught her breath when my hand reached under her, to cup her pussy.

“You’re not to come, Jennifer. That’s an order.”

But the voice that said, “Yes, sir” made it clear that this would be a difficult order to obey, if I continued much longer. “You’ll find that this helps you get through your slippering a little easier. If you’re aroused you won’t feel it as only pain. Sometimes. But I think it’ll work, for you.”

I slipped one finger between her pussy lips, then two, finding her already wet and slippery, and getting more so.

I stroked her excruciatingly slowly while she gasped and flopped on my desk, making a throaty noise through gritted teeth. She was trying to obey, good girl that she was.

I pushed my thumb into her, and said, “Don’t you dare come, Jennifer. Just stay on the edge for me. If you come, I’ll cane you, naked, in the corridor, every day for a week.”

“Oh!” Her eyes were as wide as eyes can get.


Happy this-time-of-year to you!

It’s Christmas Day in the mountains. I’ve mostly been ignoring it, though I bought presents for my loved ones, as a gentleman should.

This graph gives an accurate representation of my feelings with regard to “The Little Drummer Boy”

I’ve really appreciated that the supermarkets, and most shops I’ve been to, haven’t been piping bloody hymns and carols at me.

I hate “The Little Drummer Boy” with the fire and fury of 10,000,000 suns, and I can’t stay in the same room as “God rest ye, merry gentlemen.” So silence has been golden. 

But carollers came to the supermarket while was I doing the last food shopping and sang Christmas songs at me, and I really didn’t want them. I felt the urge to say something piss-offy, though I didn’t. They’re probably nice people.

Anyway, I don’t feel my usual relaxed self about Christmas this year, because too many lunar right Christians are behaving badly.

Catholic Archbishop Fisher expressing something short of love for gays, lesbians, secularists and raped children

So, for example, Sydney’s Catholic archbishop Fisher came out and did a spray – it was his Christmas message! – about wanting the right to discriminate against gays and lesbians, and force kids to go to church, and to continue to protect pedophile priests: if they say in confession that they’ve raped some kid, then the duty to report them won’t apply. He calls this fucked-up agenda “religious freedom.” 

So far-right Christians are making Xmas a cultural war zone, where what they’re fighting for is evil. It makes it harder to feel an unconflicted goodwill vibe. And there’s the whole pretence that there’s a war on Christmas, which is just an angry, arrogant exclusion of non-Christians. 

All that has got my back up. I usually say, “Merry Christmas” and don’t give a fuck, but some Christians are trying to turn it into the equivalent of a Trump slogan. So, without thinking it matters or affects anything, I’ve been saying “Happy solstice”, or “Good Yule.” Not angrily. Just don’t want to take part.

Anyway, the reason for the season is this planet’s orbit, and in the Northern Hemisphere it means, “Happy Hump Day; the weather gets better now until Spring.” And lots of cultures have turned it into a time of celebrating each other, being alive, being kind, feeling hope.

It’s the people who bang on about this time of year being ONLY about Christianity who don’t understand Christmas.

Solstice, as every good pagan knows, is a good time to get somewhere warm (I like to make my own warmth) and play and fuck like rabbits

All that said, this is as good a day as any to celebrate the spirit of hope, warmth in cold times, renewal, love and tolerance, I wish everybody a wonderful loving time.

Please keep warm – other people help. If you’re lonely reach out to someone, or else give yourself delicious food and a good book in the bath.

Look after each other, and remember to let other people look after you, too. Those are the best gifts.

Warmth and happiness to all!

Masturbation Monday: Under new management

I’d just said to Emily, “You’ll do as you’re told whether you want to or not. You obey orders, and you accept punishment when I say you deserve it. The final say is mine. That’s how we are, now.” 

She’d frowned, considering. My heart was thudding. She had every right to say no, since it was a hell of a lot to ask. Still, I’d be devastated if she did. 

But she didn’t say, Yes. She said, “Hey, Jaime?”

So now I was worried. “Yes?”

“This is totally not normal, this.”

“No. It’s perverse.”

“And I’m thinking of agreeing to it. I even think it’s hot, for god’s sake. We’re so strange. Does this feel right to you?”

“Oh absolutely. Yes. Completely right.” 

“Actually it does sort of feel right to me too. But it’s a bit scary, Jaime.”

“Well. Jump and I’ll catch you, my love.” 

“I love you too. Will you really catch me? Always?”

“Yeah, actually I will.” We were solemn together. I stroked her cunt gently, and unfairly, since I knew it interfered with her thinking, then slipped a finger into her ass. Emily sighed. She liked that.

She said, “Then. I jump. I’ll do as I’m told, from now on. I’m yours.”

“So. Emily Maria Viviani, under new management. You’ve changed hands.”

“Jaime, this is the weirdest thing I’ve ever done. It is so not normal. I’m absolutely terrified. But happy. I seem to be ridiculously happy. Well, so far.”

“I love you. I’m not scared at all,” I lied, “and I’m happy. You’re mine. And it is ridiculous.”

That the most amazing gift I have ever been given. It was considerably better than Christmas.

Sinful Sunday: The dreaming of Mrs Willy Nilly


Willy Nilly, postman, asleep up street, walks fourteen 
miles to deliver the post as he does every day of the 
night, and rat-a-tats hard and sharp on Mrs Willy Nilly.


Don't spank me, please, teacher,


whimpers his wife at his side, but every night of her 
married life she has been late for school.

Dylan Thomas, Under Milkwood