Sinful Sunday: Warming up

There is heat in this room.


(Historical note: This is a real oldie, this one, that I recently found in the archives and cleared for use. We’re still in touch. Her mother was playing video games elsewhere in the house at the time this was taken. It’s hard to keep quiet while doing multi-instrument spanking followed by grunting noises, and in the end we didn’t manage. Didn’t even manage to keep on trying. Fortunately, those video games were loud.) 

Happy anniversary to this blog!

This blog began on 1 March 2012. It will soon be coming up to its seventh anniversary. 

Primitive style in 1,000,000 BC. Or so Hammer Films claimed, in 1967.

What have I learned in all that time? I think I’m a better writer. I’m certainly better at fixing up typos. Blogging has helped me, by imposing the discipline of writing every second day, that has to be ready for an audience whether I want to be ready or not.

Though I write all the time anyway. I’m currently finishing a novel, and as soon as that’s done I’ll be working on the next one. But there I have the luxury of polishing and revising, over and over, before anyone else gets to see it. 

Today, however, I’m working hard on making money before I go to Eroticon and India – partly because I need to, to pay for that trip. I’m going to have to keep today’s post pretty short. So I’m going to run the picture – Raquel Welch in a fur bikini – that I used in that very first post on this blog, back in 2012. 

That first post began with these immortal words: 

People always talk about the opening sentence of a novel, but no-one ever reads the first sentence of a blog.

My book about bdsm opens with: “About twenty-one thousand years ago a tribe crunched across white grass in the frozen landscape that is now Russia.”

I do like that first sentence. You may recognise the rhythm of it, which I stole from Jane Austen. 

Anyway, I’m going to spend time over the next few weeks, celebrating this blog, and pointing out some highlights, and taking you behind the scenes in its production. Seven years, eh? Who’d have thought? Well, not me, that’s for sure. Not on 1 March 2012.

Wicked Wednesday: Tears and sweat

Jennifer had just received twelve strokes of the slipper, bent naked over my desk, with Maddie holding her hands to make sure she stayed in place.

She’d been noisy and tearful through-out, and yet already, her bottom blazing red and hot, she was calm again. She had to be focussed on the hot pain across her buttocks, and finding that the heat has some quite pleasant side effects. 

I said, “”Maddie, you can let go of her hands for now. Thank you, girl. I’ll thank you properly later.”

Maddie smiled, and she stroked the backs of Jennifer’s hands comfortingly, after she’d released them. “I know you will, Master.”

“Jennifer. You’re done with your punishment, or at least the punishment for exposing yourself. Two dozen strokes over two days. Bravely taken. And now you’ve paid, and it won’t be mentioned again.”

It took Jennifer almost a minute before she could say, “Thank you, sir.” Then she added, “Thank you for punishing me. I know I was doing something wrong. It was a stupid thing to do.”

“I don’t think you’ll ever do it again, Jennifer. But if you did I’d cane you. And if there were a third offence I’d cane you naked in front of the school. I think that would cure any further exhibitionist tendencies.”

Actually I doubted that last statement, very much.

Something told me that if I ever did cane her in front of the school, she’d find a way of making sure it happened again. But I kept that thought to myself.

“All right, Jennifer. You can stand up now.”

“Oooh, yes… sir.” She raised herself stiffly and awkwardly, like an old man. But she managed to stand and face me. Indeed she had wept.

Her face was wet with tears, and her nose ran. I’d have to use many tissues if I wanted to hug her, but it wasn’t time for that yet. Anyway, Jennifer was a beautiful girl, but I’d come to love her face when she wept for me.

“We’re not quite finished for today, Jennifer, but I want to stop you from stiffening up too much. Can you do squat thrusts?”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

“Good girl. Of course you can. Give me twenty.”

Jennifer said, “Yes, sir.” She dropped down into a squat, then shot her legs out behind her, drew them back into the squatting position, then stood up.

As she repeated this movement, I beckoned Maddie over.

She stood in front of me, eyes bright, and we hugged. She could feel my penis, hard, between the two of us. She whispered, “You’re going to use me so hard after this, aren’t you?”

“Eight, sir.”

I said, slightly louder then she’d spoken, “Yes, Maddie. You’ll stay behind, after Miss Perch has left.”

“Thirteen, sir.” Jennifer was a fit girl, but she was puffing, now.

I smacked Maddie’s bottom, and we turned to watch our girl exercise, bottom glowing, breasts bobbing. Aware of our gaze, she tried to keep the puffing inaudible. Eventually she sang out, “Twenty, sir!” She stood, arms at her side. There were beads of sweat between her breasts.

Masturbation Monday: Watching him, watching her

A week later Jayavardhini Mudiliar opened Chetana’s door. Inside there was a woman singing. With an orchestra. Her voice seemed to circle like a soaring eagle, higher and higher. The sound was clear, though a little scratchy. 

Oh, she thought. Philip’s wind-up gramophone. She didn’t know the music, but it was beautiful and very overtly sexual. 

Chetana was on her back on her bed, with Philip above her, pumping her, roughly in time with the pulse of the music. Chetana was making a cooing, pre-orgasmic song of her own. 

Jayavardhini’s parents would have said she should withdraw discreetly, but instead she walked in and watched them.

Chetana’s body she knew well, dark, dark black and her flesh muscular but lusciously voluptuous, while Philip, held between her thighs, was wiry and mostly white except where his arms and legs were tanned.

Philip had one hand on Chetana’s throat, constricting her, his other hand tight on her shoulder, fingers digging into her. As they plunged and rose together his face was fierce, while Chetana’s seemed abstracted.

Her body arched beneath him, hips and thighs surging upwards to meet his thrusts, greedy and hard. When Philip released her throat and slapped her face lightly, Chetana closed her eyes, her mouth open, a line of drool spilling from its edge.

She moaned, low like a big cat, a puma being fucked, then abruptly clenched, thighs and arms tight around him, her head thrown back to scream. 

Chetana’s orgasm scream was loud and uninhibited. Philip slapped her again and the scream repeated, then again a few frenzied seconds later, quieter now and dropping in pitch.

The woman singing came too, at roughly the same time as Chetana. The orchestra seemed to move in then, to caress her with infinite tenderness and then carry her gently into sleep.

Chetana was done for the moment, though Philip did not stop. Chetana stared up at him, as if he were a frightening but wonderful gift, until he gasped, both hands holding her shoulders down, hands cruelly tight, and when he came he growled at Chetana like an angry bear.

Chetana reached up and touched his face. She said, “Oh, my love.”

Jayavardhini was surprised, but she couldn’t help but smile. They were in love. She hadn’t quite understood that, though the way Chetana had spoken of him when she and her were making love had puzzled her. She hadn’t known Chetana be so moved by a man before, or, even as Chetana’s female lover she had to admit it, by a woman.

Philip was a surprise. He was so polite and diffident when he had his clothes on that she had assumed that was the real him. She’d been wrong. In intimacy the man was ferocious. And slightly cruel.

They still hadn’t noticed her, but the record had ended. She took the spindle off, and Chetana suddenly looked her way.

Write on white


I’m not a minimalist. If I were in one of those once-fashionable white rooms, with only a white chair and, say, a white piano, I’d go nuts. 

To me, white is a start. White, especially on a submissive lover, is a canvas.

UK law removes anti-bdsm rules, recognises “full and free consent”

There’s been a major break-through in the UK’s frankly insane and stupid censorship laws. 

Books, films and sites – such as this one – that depict bdsm in a consensual context can now freely discuss bdsm, and depict it in text or images.  

These marks were, technically, unlawful in the UK. Not inflicting or enjoying them, but showing them. Shades of “hide your shame, woman”

One of the oddities of the UK law was its bigotry. Acts like face-sitting or sexual spanking between adults are perfectly legal, but they couldn’t be depicted in erotic media. The purpose of law is supposed to be to protect people from harm. It’s not supposed to protect people who don’t like the idea of some sexual activities from thinking, “yuck”. 

For example, if Theresa May and Jacob Rees-Mog, say, were to film themselves having consensual sex and release the footage to the internet, I’d think that was yucky. I’d find it repellent if I saw it. However, I don’t need the law to fix my problem. That’s easily solved by not seeking out images that I don’t want in my brain. I’d avoid seeing the May-Rees-Mog tapes, which is easy to do. 

So, what are the changes?

Certain types of “violent” porn are now permitted so long as the sex acts are consensual (the wording is ‘full and freely exercised consent’,) do not cause serious harm to participants, are not ‘inextricably linked with other criminality’ and are not likely to be viewed by anyone under the age of 18.

Obscenity lawyer Myles Jackman, who has campaigned for these changes for a number of years, said that the change had wider implications for the law. He said: “It is a very impressive that they’ve introduced the idea of full and freely exercised consent in the law. Even for people with no interest in pornography this is very important for consent and bodily autonomy.”

Media superhero Pandora Blake, in her civvies

Activist and queer porn filmmaker Pandora Blake, who also campaigned to have the ban on the depiction of certain sex acts overturned, called the news a ‘welcome improvement’. 

“This is a happy day for queer, feminist and fetish porn.”

It means, incidentally, that one of my own books, that had been legally problematic – because I described a consensual caning that left welts that lasted a few days – can now be published in the UK. So, even though I don’t live in the UK, I am significantly better off as a result of these reforms. I’m not the only one.

Acts that were banned that can now be depicted include:

  • Spanking
  • BDSM
  • Female ejaculation
  • Urinating (also known as watersports)
  • Strangling
  • Face-sitting
  • Fisting
  • Humiliation

Thanks to…

Myles Jackman, legal superhero

Myles Jackman and Pandora Blake both worked hard, sometimes under huge stress, to get this change through. We owe them a huge debt of gratitude, and admiration beyond all measure, for sticking to this cause and ultimately winning it for all of us. 

I dare say non-kinky civil libertarians are pleased too. Because government control of public speech always – always – begins with speech about sex. But, unless the censorious forces are stopped in their tracks, it never ends with sexual content. 

And every country affects every other country, so this has world-wide significance. I’m living in Australia, also Antarctica, and this victory in the UK means that similar, chilling, legislation is less likely here. 

So thank you, with respect and admiration, to Pandora Blake and Myles Jackman!

Wicked Wednesday: You may not come!

I’d told Jennifer, bent naked over my desk, to brace herself. This is always credible advice when it comes from a man with a slipper in his hand. Jennifer shivered a little, thinking I’d meant I was about to start her slippering. 

But I put my palm and finger under her pussy, and ran my thumb down between her soft, inviting folds. She jerked in surprise, and then relaxed. I put my thumb into her, feeling the spongy skin as I pressed down, moving my thumb slowly into and a little way out of her, while pressing my palm against her clitoris.

Jennifer sighed with pleasure, and then her body started to echo the movements of my thumb and palm. Her breath quickened. I admired the rise and fall of her bottom, which blushed a bright crimson from the six slipper smacks I’d already given her. But at almost the last second, when she was on the edge of orgasm, I pulled out, smacked that bottom, and said, “But don’t you dare come, girl!”

“Ahhh, sir!” She made a howl of protest, and in another mood I’d have given her extra strokes for that. 

But I ignored her. I drew her knee a little further towards me, and applied the first stroke to her inner thigh, about eight inches from her pussy. Jennifer shrieked, “Owwwwww!”

Since she could no longer kick, her body rocked from side to side on the table. I brought the slipper down again, a little harder and three inches closer to her pussy. Jennifer howled and writhed, though it was less dramatic than her response to her first six. She was getting tired, and she was transmuting at least part of the pain into pleasure. I delivered the third stroke on the plumpest part of her thigh. She yowled and then sobbed, crying like a baby.

As I crossed to her right side, Maddie said, “We have tears, Master.” I couldn’t see her face but I knew that was true, from the quality of her sobbing. I took Jennifer’s right knee, and held it firmly while I delivered the same sequence of three strokes to her right inner thigh.

Maddie still sobbed and wailed, but her body movements were calmer. Her bottom rose and fell as if her pussy was riding the air, riding something that should have been there but wasn’t. Despite her pain I knew that if I touched her she would come within about thirty seconds.

More importantly, I was now certain that she’d be able to come instantly, without my touching her, if I commanded her to.

I rested the slipper on the small of her back. “If you beg for permission to come, Jennifer, I’ll give you two dozen extra strokes. Is that understood?”

Her voice was very quiet. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re learning discipline and obedience. From now on, you come only when I give you permission.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That includes at home, in your own bed.”

“Sir! I mean, yes, sir.” 

I smiled, not that she could see me. “I know you’re a good girl, Jennifer. This is part of showing me how good you can be.”

She sighed, resigned. I’m not sure if she understood, yet, quite how much power she had just ceded.

Masturbation Monday: Meeting Jayavardhini

Four days later, when the weather was calm and the ship was making good speed across a flat sea, Philip searched through his luggage. He had spent every night and most of the time they were both free in Chetana’s cabin, and this was the first time he’d spent in his own place. It was unfamiliar to him, and because he’d been busy while the ships were stowed, it wasn’t him who had put his belongings in the cabin.

He found the small Burberry case at the top of the wardrobe, and brought it down carefully, hoping it had been put there with the same care. 

He undid its leather straps and checked it, fearfully. Nothing seemed to be broken.

He whistled, closed it again, and took up the case. He walked the short distance down the corridor, and turned right towards Chetana’s cabin, near the Jagannath’s prow.

As he approached the door opened and a woman stepped out. Philip hadn’t seen her before. She was Tamil like Chetana, smaller, younger, with the same shock of black hair, emerald eyes and bruised purple-pink lips. She was smiling.

She saw Philip approaching, and her mouth opened, still pleased with the world. “Hello! You’re Philip! I’ve seen you, but I don’t think we’ve met.”

“I would certainly remember it.”

“So I have you at a disadvantage! From what Chetana says, that’s almost impossible. But I should abandon it.” She held out her hand.

She smelled of lemon. And something floral. And sex. “I’m Jayavardhini, Jayavardhini Mudiliar. You can call me Jaya.”

Philip frowned, then smiled back at her. “I know the name Jayavardhini. It’s a beautiful name. And auspicious. If you prefer Jaya, then I’ll follow that. But please don’t shorten your name out of politeness.”

The woman, named after a goddess of victory, laughed. “Well, then, I do prefer Jayavardhini. Thank you. Most people find it a mouthful.”

Philip had an urge to say something inane and flirtatious about her and mouthfuls. The urge surprised him. He said, “Jayavardhini. It’s lovely to meet you.”

“It’s been lovely to meet you, Philip. I’ve heard about you for so long. In Chetana’s emails. It’s like finally coming face to face with a legend.” She glanced at the case in his hand. “You’ve brought Chetana a picnic? You smuggled caviar or something else she likes on-board?”

He shook his head. “I’d love to be able to. But the rule is that food is a common resource. No private stashes.”

“I bet you made that rule.”

“I proposed it.”

She was still laughing at him. “Most people who invent rules don’t apply them to themselves. I suppose your legend is true, then. Anyway, I’m holding you up. I should go, I think.”

But she didn’t move. For a second Philip had the impression that she was going to kiss him. He knew Chetana was not a one-man woman. Nor was she a one-woman woman, probably. But he was a one-woman man. Still, he would not have minded if she had kissed him. He said, “I’ll see you.”

She said, “I should hope so! I’m a botanist, so I’ve been sorting out our plants: hydroponics and soils. It’s still a nightmare down there. You have… noidea. But it should get less frantic in about three days’ time. I’ll be more visible after that.”

He smiled at her. “Good.”

Then she did kiss him. She changed her aim at the last instant to touch her lips to his cheek, but he could not have been more astonished. Or, he supposed, charmed. Then she kissed his mouth. 

He’d been right: a kiss from her wasn’t something he would mind.

He realised he’d have been shocked, stammering in embarrassment, a week ago. Chetana’s sexual appreciation had changed him. So he grinned, only happy. “All right. I’ll look forward to you being free.”

He had the urge to ask if Chetana was all right, and alone now. But she was only a door away. So he watched the woman walk away, sarong tied under her armpits, probably all she wore.


Sinful Sunday: Being sorry

“Hands on head. And wait there till I return”

Time is important. In a while he’ll invite her to tell him if he’s sorry. She’ll say she is, and she’ll say it as earnestly and strongly as she can. And she’ll mean it, of course she will.

But… she knows that part of her isn’t only a tay bit sorry, and what’s going to happen to her, from beginning to end, in something to look forward to, as well as to fear. 

She stands on an emotional and sexual balance, shifting her weight from one side to the other. 

And, of course, she knows it has to begin. For sorry and for sexual, she wishes it would begin. 




Invasion Day in Australia

I live on land stolen from the Darug and Gundungurra Nations. 

I hope Australia confronts its past soon and comes to a treaty with the Aboriginal nations.

That treaty, I know, won’t involve full restitution, the “give it back” option. But it will involve political recognition of Aboriginal voices.

Not “the Aboriginal voice”, since the Aboriginal nations, and the Aboriginal people who are not associated with a nation, are as far as you can get from being a monoculture. 

It’ll involve recognition of certain traditional hunting and gathering rights. And so on. And serious, non-bullshit government-driven moves to reduce the differences in education, health, imprisonment rates and life expectancy.

Do you know that the average lifespan of an Aboriginal Australian is 15 years less than for a non-Aboriginal Australian?

That’s why an Aboriginal Australian can claim the Age Pension from 50, while for non-Aboriginal Australians the age is 66. Ask the average Australian why that is, in a pub, and they’ll probably say it’s because those fucking Abos get all the perks, and so on. 

Anyway, Australia hasn’t even started its first step. In a way, Australia has been very lucky in its image, with its beaches and maybe the GLBTQ Mardi Gras makes the place look more inclusive than it really is.

I remember the horror with which the rest of the world viewed Apartheid-era South Africa. If people looked Australia with a cold eye, they’d think, Fuck, that’s horrifying: some of the conditions here are worse than the apartheid era. I’ve been through places in Australia that looked a lot worse than photos I’ve seen of apartheid-era Soweto.

I’m not an expert. I just know that a nearby country, New Zealand, sorted this out in 1840, with Te Tiriti o Waitangi/Treaty of Waitangi. Which was imperfect in many ways, but it was a crucial start. As a living document it’s being developed all the time to fit with the modern world, and post-colonial ideas of justice.

When the day comes, and there’s some sort of treaty with Aboriginal support, I’ll be proud to become an Australian citizen. 

Until then I can’t join “Team Australia”. It’s just a conscience thing.

I’d like to think that improvement will come when the current racist, incompetent, corrupt shambles currently in government in Australia gets the arse. Which will happen as soon as they have an election, and they can’t put that off much longer.

But the hopes I have for Labor are very, very low and muted. 

Anyway, nobody in their right mind cares whether I join Team Australia or not, I know. It’s just me.

Still… shout out to anyone else in the same position. And muted hopes for a less racist Australia after the election.