Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive: getting our bearings and resuming the story

I’ve been blogging about the Australian Survey on Sex and Relationships, and then I told a story about the Gates of Ivory, and the unsatisfactoriness of sex fantasies compared to the most prosaic real sex. And all that time I was leaving a girl in the kitchen. 

I was telling you about Raylene, who was the younger sister of a woman I’d known for a while. We’d had sex a few times, but were were never more than friendsa. Anyway, she’d mentioned she had a younger sister who was going through a hard time, because she was angry at her mother and stepfather, and she had terrible taste in boyfriends.

A couple of years later, I met that girl in her kitchen. She’d left a neo-Nazi gang, and because I wanted to write a story about them, I’d been keen to interview her.

jeans downBut in the kitchen, we’d found that we liked each other, different though we were in every way. And it had got to the stage when Raylene had her jeans and knickers down round her thighs, and we were leaning into each other’s bodies to kiss. But she’d reacted positively when I gave her a smack and told her to open her thighs. So I’d started to talk to her the way I talk to a submissive.

She knew what that was and what it meant. And she froze. And suddenly I was set back several steps. But she didn’t pull her jeans and knickers up, and she seemed fine with my hands on her bare ass, so … something was still happening. 

Tomorrow we resume the story from there.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 7

We’d been touching intimately, and then we weren’t touching at all. Now read on.

I looked up at Raylene, appalled at what had just happened and cursing my stupidity. But I wasn’t sure that I’d been mistaken. Raylene didn’t seem angry with me, which was something. Nor alarmed, exactly: more like “troubled”.

I said, “Raylene, I – .”

I realized I needed more information before I should try to complete that sentence. Right now anything I said was quite likely to fuck things even more. So I said, “Um?”

“I don’t – I don’t like that.” But although Raylene wasn’t happy, I didn’t feel that she wanted to send me off just yet. I’d revealed, beyond all reasonable doubt, that I was a pervert, and it was probably significant that she still hadn’t pulled up her jeans and panties. So we were both still there, doing something sexual together. For now. 

I put my hands back on her hips, because I wanted our skins to touch, and for feeling to flow between us again. It wasn’t quite as advanced as stroking her cunt had been, but it was still intimate. Raylene didn’t pull away, but I didn’t feel her relax, either. I stood up, and moved my hands up, from holding her hips to hugging her close. She accepted that, leaning against me.

jumperShe was still not happy. I thought about moving my hands up inside her jersey again. Surely she’d like having her breasts stroked. I thought about kissing her. But I decided I’d used up my quota of stupid ideas, for one kitchen.

Instead I said, “Ah, Raylene, I’m sorry.”

She pulled an annoyed face. Then nothing happened. Her breasts rested against my chest. That felt good, and every second it continued had to be a hopeful sign. The same was true of every second that passed with my hands on her hips, and her jeans and panties staying down round her thighs. I waited.

Raylene laughed, suddenly. I suppose I looked comically worried, myself. What she said was: “No, I’m sorry. Sorry. I’m being. But just don’t. Don’t pull that stuff. You know. Don’t do that. I.”

I said, “Okay.”

And I held her tighter, because I wanted reassurance and there was a good chance she did too.

This time we relaxed against each other. I kissed her mouth, and when she snuggled in deeper I nuzzled her ear instead, and then the side of her head. Which mostly shiny blue, on the right side. And she pressed her bristly cunt against my jeans, and seemed happy to find me hard.

So, since that was the case, I slid my hands down to hold her arse, taking a cheek in each hand, and, when I’d enjoyed the cool-firm feel of that, and the sense of possession that I was possibly not supposed to assume, I squeezed her hard.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 6

 But I decided not to spend any time on why I’d started to think of her in some of the ways I thought about submissives, It was more important to tug her jeans and knickers down, leaving them midway down her thighs.

I was half-right about her shaving. She had been shaving and now she’d stopped, so that new growth was starting to obscure the bottom of the tattoo, like creeper overgrowing a road sign.

Maybe she’d shaved while she was with the boot boys, and only stopped once she’d felt she should lose her habits from that part of her life. So the re-growth must be good symbolism, in a way. Also, it seemed that when her hair wasn’t dyed green and blue, it was light brown.

I kissed bristly, light brown femininity, and looked up at Raylene’s face. She was watching me intently. She was standing while I sat. She had her jeans pulled down her thighs so she had the cold kitchen air around her cunt and bottom, while I was fully clothed. She was waiting while I led.

Most women would be, oh, undressing me, kissing me, telling me to stand up and kiss them: something. So it seemed a good time to act by instinct, and hope like hell I was right.

hand cunt 3I smacked her the inside of her left thigh, lightly but unmistakably a smack, to signal that I wanted her to part her legs more. Raylene moved her feet, obediently and without indignation, so I could cup my hand around her cunt. Which I did, and explored folded, intricate girlskin, gently.

Raylene opened herslf a little more, her thighs and her mouth. She was holding her breath.

I kissed her belly again, feeling an enormous wave of affection, also lust, the feelings I have when submissives surrender themselves and obey, and because that feeling had been building for a while I said, “good girl.”

Raylene drew in a breath, hard, partly because I pushed my fingers into her when I spoke, and I think partly because of those words. I stroked her, saying, “that’s good, good girl love, you’re such a good girl.” This in my kindest, most reasonable voice, the words and tone doms use to reassure submissives, though they’re guaranteed to annoy a woman in a vanilla frame of mind.

But Raylene took a step back. I didn’t have my hand in her cunt any more. She took her hands off my shoulders. Oh, I thought. Oh damn.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 5

We’ve reached Part 5, and we’re not out of the kitchen yet. Some of the stories I’ve told in this blog have been partly about self-doubt and questioning whether I have the right to hit a woman, even if she is submissive and wants me to. There’s none of that in this story. I’d sorted those issues, and I felt confident that I had a reasonable set of skills and at least some ideas about the flow between doms and submissives, and how to manage it and ride with it at the same time. And the point of this story is that I turned out still to have plenty left to learn.

So I’d been researching a story on gang violence, and had been interviewing Raylene, a woman who’d spent a while in a white supremacist gang for stupid reasons. She’d eventually felt her soul and brain come back on, and some things with her mother had healed over, and she’d left the gang. But, maybe because talking seriously about intense issues is very intimate, things between us, in her mother’s kitchen, became more sexual than journalistic.

I found myself sitting at the kitchen with her standing in front of me, and my head inside her jersey, under which she wore nothing but a tattoo. I was kissing her tattoo, that I didn’t like so much, and her belly, that I liked enthusiastically. I was thinking about how that belly would feel when I lay on it.

It would feel pretty god, and I’d feel it under me pretty soon, I was thinking.

A long time passed, with Raylene’s warm midriff trembling under my mouth. She said, “Your beard…”

She didn’t mean she thought it was a cool beard, though she wasn’t laughing at it either. She was just telling me that she could feel it scratch and stroke her skin at the spot I was focussing on, just below her navel, and it was welcome. And so was I. She put her hands on my shoulders and kneaded and stroked the muscles of my back and neck.

belly kissBut I bit her fondly and moved my mouth down her belly till I reached the waist of her jeans, near the button, and the end of her tattoo disappeared under low-slung blue denim.

I thought that I was making the point reasonably clear: if I was going to appreciate this tattoo thing properly, and if she wanted even bettewr kissing, then those jeans would have to come down.

It was so obvious, in fact, that I didn’t ask her. I undid her belt, button and zip, and tugged downwards.

Raylene left her hands on my shoulders and sucked in her tummy cooperatively like a good girl. Er, like a good girl, I wondered? I wasn’t supposed to have that thought in vanilla contexts. Where’d that “good girl” come from?

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 4

It was also possible that Raylene knew that her tattoo was a Nazi symbol in various European countries, but for me to talk about it would make her feel terrible. She didn’t want to be associated with Nazi moronism any more but there wouldn’t be much she could do about it until she had money for a repair. In the meantime I decided that it should just mean whatever she said it meant.

So I said, “Oh. It’s really cool.” And, “Can I, uh, see the whole thing?”

Raylene let the jersey fall back, bringing the curtain down. It was remarkable just how bad that made me feel. But then she walked around the table, and, when I turned my chair round, away from the table, she stood in front of me, very close. She lifted the curtain again, arching her belly forward for me. She expected me to like what I saw, and I did.

It crossed my mind, fleetingly, that there was something odd about this display. Perhaps not odd in itself, but in relation to the shyness, the hiding, that I had noticed earlier. And, though I couldn’t place it, there was something else.

underboobBut time was passing, again, and I should be focussed. I said, “Raylene, that is so absolutely fucking gorgeous,” not meaning the tattoo, and not expecting Raylene to think that I did.

I put my hands on Raylene’s hips and pulled her closer and kissed her belly, with slow, appreciative kisses, soft and dry.

Raylene said, “ninn, yah,” more or less, in response to having her tummy kissed, and let the jersey fall, with my head under it so that I was in that warm-bread-woman space with her belly and her ribcage and her breasts above me. Inside that jersey she was speckled with light from the interstices in the knitting; they were pale and pleasingly weighty though firm, observed from below.

And I moved my hands down from her hips to hold her buttocks, and with that we had declared ourselves. Not only had we established that we were going to fuck, but we had already started.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 3

You’ll notice that I’ve changed the title slightly, so that it now mentions that Raylene was submissive. When I started to tell this I was worried that it was unsubtle, and it gave away too much of the story, but I’ve decided that it’s more schlocky this way.

New-Man-February-1970-600x796It’s like the cover line of an old Men’s Two-Fisted Adventure magazine: “My Night in Buchenwald with Hitler’s Topless Vixens!” That sort of thing.

But it’s a milder story than that, as true stories generally are. And it’s slower-moving than a Three-fisted Tabloid Tale. It’ll be a few posts before we get to the public humiliations, but I think it’ll be worth the journey.

Anyway, the previous posts tell the start of this story. I was interviewing Raylene, who’d spent a year with a neo-Nazi gang, for what she now thought were pretty stupid reasons.

And somehow we shifted the focus from extreme politics to lust. She’d decided to move things along, while still pretending I was doing research for an article, by showing me her gang tattoo. Now read on.

Raylene pulled the jersey up to her rib cage and waited. There was her belly, lightly browned in winter sun, a little soft, and prettily curved. I said, “Ahhh,” appreciatively, because she was waiting. If called upon to do the judgement of Paris, the thing is to make your feedback positive and give it fast. I added, “waa-ey”, and she smiled, reassured 

But I meant her belly, not the tattoo.

I like skin a lot, but I’m less interested in coloured scars. And tattoos tend to be about as stylish as those paintings on velvet of a naked woman and a puma, that glow when you turn on the ultra-violet light. Tattoos are like hanging fluffy dice on your body and sticking speed stripes, with flames, on your sides.

Still, while I’ve never seen a tattoo that looked as good as the skin would have looked if the tattoo wasn’t there, they’re not a major drawback. I just ignore them and look at the woman. It’s not as if my own body’s so bloody perfect.

So I’d been gazing at Raylene’s bare belly, not flat but perfectly yummy, with genuine appreciation for several seconds, and several seconds is quite a long time under those circumstances. And I hadn’t even bothered to glance at the tattoo yet.

It turned out to be a swirly thing, mostly in green with some red details, with three whorls. The lowest of the whorls disappeared below her jeans, though her jeans were worn exceptionally low. I wondered if it was lost under pubic hair, or if she’d be shaven. Shaven, was my bet.

“It’s Celtic.”

“Huh? What is?”

Another woman who looks a lot like Raylene. The tat's different, of course, but Raylene's tat was a bad mistake and no-one should copy that.

Another woman who looks a lot like Raylene. The tat’s different, of course, but Raylene’s tat was a bad mistake. No-one should copy that.

“The tattoo.” Oh, that. “It’s Celtic. It’s, um, strength, balance, love.”

I thought that the symbol probably was Celtic but that her gang had chosen it because it visually echoed the three-legged symbol that fascists often use in countries where the swastika is banned.

Raylene probably didn’t know about that. I decided not to tell her, one reason being that it would turn our conversation in a direction that meant that we wouldn’t have sex.

I thought, seriously, about kissing that belly. Raylene kept her jersey pulled up.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi 2

Over tea and Drambuie Raylene asked me about my writing, and said she wouldn’t mind some writing lessons. Just some guidelines on how to get started. She’d always wanted to write, and now she had something to write about, hadn’t she?

So the atmosphere had changed. It wasn’t reporting any longer. We were talking to find out if we were going to go to bed together. So I offered her my six-part writing course, and she grinned cynically, knowing that there was no such course, but pleased that I wanted to be a regular visitor.

She was impressed by writers – I wish I could say that was common in the people I know – and there was a good chance she wanted to fuck this one. Maybe she thought it would make it easier to talk about the things she had to tell me. Maybe I had a nice smile.

Maybe the fling I’d had with her sister a couple of years ago had made her feel competitive; sisters sometimes rummage through each other’s ex-boyfriends. Also current boyfriends, which is less harmless, but luckily that wasn’t an issue here.

It was surprising, but I was intrigued about where it would go. Anyway, I wanted to fuck her, too. Most of my girlfriends were anarchists, or at least mildly left-wing. Raylene was in a completely different category. Lust builds some interesting bridges.

That isn't where the tat was. But I love this pic, and that Suicide Girl is in various ways very like the real "Raylene".

That isn’t where the tat was. But I love this pic for its fitting homage to Johnny, and because that Suicide Girl is in various ways very like the real “Raylene”.

She topped up my Drambuie, and said that while she was with the gang she’d got a tattoo. Would I like to see it?

I don’t actually like tattoos. Personally, I’m hoping the fashion goes away. But “tattoos associated with fringe political movements” is exactly the sort of thing I get interested in.

Still, that wasn’t the reason I said, “Yeah, sure, I’d love to see your tat. Where, ah?”

She was still on her side of the table, and she stood up and pulled the front of the jersey up.

And we’re well launched on this story, now, aren’t we? So I’ll stop here.