Pro bonobo

The most annoying Monkee: "I wanna be free"

I found out today that Davy Jones of the Monkees died. On 29 February.

I’ve already forgotten what I was doing that day. 





But thank god Masaaki Sakai’s okay.








I could say stuff about dominance and submission displays in higher primates, and how that relates to What We Do. But I’ve had a hard day at work, and I’m writing the agent’s letter for “Between the Lines”. It’s surprisingly hard to write that I’m fantastic and people should totally buy my book. I’m going to the movies. Right now I got nothing.

No monkey-spanking jokes. These are apes.

Why does bdsm feel so good #4

(Continuing that excerpt from “Between the Lines”: thoughts about pleasure, while delivering my second-ever successful spanking.) 

There was something else. Once again there was that strange, almost telepathic intimacy between us as I heated and marked her.


I knew that the sting in my hand was only a distant echo of the much fiercer pain in her skin, and – though I wouldn’t like that sensation if I were to experience it myself – I seemed to be able to sense the way in which Maureen was experiencing that pain as pleasure, and so I could feel that pleasure along with her.

I also knew, just as surely as I knew that I felt her pleasure, that she could feel my pleasure in watching, holding and hurting her.

 This isn’t a mystical claim. Telepathy is an illusion. It’s that when people focus closely on each other’s reactions – and between a dominant and submissive this mutual focus is very intense – they can develop such a strong intuitive and empathetic understanding of the other person’s feelings and sensations that it feels very like telepathy.

I wouldn’t enjoy being hurt, and Maureen would have no interest in hurting me, but we somehow each knew how the other’s pleasure worked, and we could each access and enjoy those different and complementary pleasures. Later, I’d discover further pleasures in bdsm, but those were already enough to absorb me. 

Why does bdsm feel so good #3

(Continuing that excerpt from “Between the Lines”: thoughts about pleasure, while delivering my second-ever successful spanking.) 

As I continued, slowly building up the force of the smacks, she gave me movements to watch, the rocking of her hips and buttocks as she pressed down against me and then offered herself up in answering rhythm to my hand.

No, your head stays down.

She had tucked her hair behind her ears, but now she was in motion it fell forward over her face.

There were tactile pleasures, the curve of her buttocks and thighs under my hand, soft when I touched her gently, and firmly resilient when I touched more fiercely. The impact of my palm against muscles, the reactions of her body in that second of impact; those sensations were all the more intense for only lasting for an instant.

Maureen’s body pressed against mine, her hips slowly pumping, moving on my cock and under my hand. I was achingly aware of every silken micro-movement of her belly or her thighs.

There were sounds, too: the claps of skin against skin and her occasional answering grunts. And there were our own heady smells.

{To be continued].

Why does bdsm feel so good? #2

(Continuing that excerpt from “Between the Lines”: thoughts about pleasure, while delivering my second-ever successful spanking.) 

I cupped Maureen’s left buttock with my hand, drawing a pleasurable sigh from her. She was cool to the touch. I cupped the other cheek, squeezed and patted her, and then stroked the sensitive skin in the cleft between. When my fingertips touched, lightly, against her cunt Maureen opened her thighs, releasing me.

She bowed her head, probably more in concentration than in submission, and closed her eyes. So we had begun.

I smacked her lightly, closely observing my hand’s impact against her flesh. I knew I would want to remember each detail. What was this? Why did I like this so much?

There were visual pleasures, the sight of Maureen’s flesh rippling and firming as each smack landed. Her face frowned in concentration, a slight pursing of her mouth with each blow. I watched these things with absorption, and wondered at their beauty.

Hand reared girl

When I made the smacks harder I could watch the changes in her skin, the instant of pallor directly under my hand at the instant of contact, blushing to pink as the blood rushed to the assaulted skin.

At first I could see individual prints, my palm, fingers and thumb marked on her like the paint hands on Palaeolithic cave walls, but these soon merged into one large red blotch covering her buttocks and upper thighs. 

[To be continued]

Why does bdsm feel so good? (“It’s clear why I like it, thanks, but why do I like it so much?”) #1

This is a bit from “Between the Lines” about the second (or fourth, if you counted two excruciatingly embarrassing first attempts) spanking I ever gave. 

Hurry up!

“The click of her bedroom door closing had enormous importance. We undressed with fumbling speed, not speaking until Maureen lay back on her white sheet and I lay between her long white thighs and I kissed her belly and the vault of her ribs. Only then could we pause to talk. It seemed that in the hours we’d been apart we’d done things that we had to do, for purposes that had nothing to do with this bed, and that none of those things were of any importance at all.

We focussed on what was of interest. I rolled onto my back and sat up, pulling Maureen with me so she sprawled on top of me. She raised herself on her hands and looked down into my eyes, then slid herself down to lie, long, cool and white across my lap. She closed her thighs on my cock, and waited. 

Our first experiment had been all immediacy, both of us sliding on the edge of the instant like skiers half a step ahead of an avalanche. This second exploration was different. Time moved normally. I contemplated Maureen’s beauty and the astonishing gift that her posture represented: the magnificence of her permission and the luxury of time to enjoy it.

Her pale length was still tinged with pink at her lower buttocks and upper thighs. The coloration was so faint that if I hadn’t known it should be there and wanted to find it I might easily have missed it. I was relieved to find I’d done Maureen no damage, but I had to admit to myself that I was also disappointed. I wasn’t entirely civilised: I’d hoped that I’d left my mark on her.

[To be continued]

The poor girl’s opera

In the comments on the post about Kinky boots of the 1930s and Phegor illustrations, I mentioned the whipping scene in “Das Rheingold”. It’s very loud in the Georg Solti recording, where the recording supervisor, John Culshaw, commented that the whip they used to make the cracking sounds was “absolutely terrifying”. And he’d been to a British public school in the 1940s, so he can’t have been easily scared. 

Anyway, I should say that the whipping scene in “Das Rheingold” is interestingly grotesque, but completely and utterly not sexy. 

Nice hat. Astrid Varnay as Brünnhilde.

But if you were looking for a bdsm scene in a Wagner opera, I’d recommend the Daddy-daughter confrontation between Wotan and Brünnhilde at the end of Die Walküre. It begins with Wotan furious because his daughter disobeyed him, and determined to punish her.

She begs, reminding her father why she did what she did, and inadvertently reminding him of why he loves her: she’s the best of him. So he still punishes her, but he changes it to make it something positive, intended to benefit her. And they reconcile with one of the hugest and most overwhelming orgasms in all music.

If you were a Dom on the prowl (rrrowl!), you could do worse than hang about in the lobby after a performance of Die Walküre, There’ll be some very good looking women there, as well as the ones who look like James Thurber drawings. Find one who’s been weeping red-eyed buckets, buy her a drink and give her a handkerchief. So far you’re being a gentleman, but tell her to clean herself up in a very slightly command voice, and there’s a 50/50 chance that you’ll take her home.

By three in the morning you should be smacking her ass and telling her she’s a good girl really. And she should be hitting the A above the treble stave.   

Golden girl #8

It was after one in the morning when I stopped outside Debs’s apartment. The path to her door led through narrow, unlit brick walkways with lots of corners and alcoves. It was a good place for junkie fundraisers to wait for business. Their business model consisted of braining people with bottles (if you use a bottle you’re not carrying a weapon) and robbing them while they were down. Debs’s isn’t the best neighborhood.

Schroedinger's Emma #1

Debs could ask me to walk her to her door, therefore, without either of us having to acknowledge any other reasons we might have for not wanting the night to end yet. Right now, Emma would be with Therese, with that little ass of hers as whipped as cream and as warm as toast, waggling in the air because she was lapping busily at Therese’s cunt, or else because Therese was busy punishing her for having failed to seduce either of us.

Schroedinger's Emma #2

Either way, Emma would be happy, and so would Therese. And either way, Emma’s ass was much on my mind. I expect it was bopping about in Debs’s sexual imagination too. So we didn’t speak of it. But as I walked Debs to her door, I put my hand lightly round her waist, letting my fingers rest on the upper slope of her left buttock. It wasn’t a grope, but it indicated interest. Debs accepted it, and didn’t wriggle away till we reached her front door. 

She paused with the door half open, not sure whether to thank me and send me on my way, or to let me in and deal with what would probably be a fairly determined effort, on my part, to get her into bed. Though “get her into bed” isn’t really the term, in bdsm. I wanted to get her naked and obedient. If she’d surrender then the kitchen table or the carpet would be just as good as bed. Or better.

Debs’s moment of decision at the front door passed, then another moment, and then another, and still she hadn’t moved or spoken. So I kissed her, not quite sexually, though I had my hand in her hair to remind her I was a dom, and said, “cup of tea.”

In the kitchen Debs boiled water and got down green tea. I walked behind her, and lightly bit and then kissed her ear, and when she accepted that I moved my hands under her blouse, and stroked up her belly to the undersides of her breasts, and then to cup and lift them a little, touching her nipples lightly through her bra. She was tense for a moment, but then she turned around and leaned against me. So I smiled at her, and began to undo buttons on that blouse. Debs has extraordinary breasts, and men who want her naturally start at the top. So I found myself with Debs in my arms, her blouse off, her breasts upheld by something lacy and white, and her lower body pressed against me and not avoiding my reviving erection.

So I told her to put the blouse of the kitchen table, a simple and non-scary order to obey. She did so. Now she was pressed against a full erection, and a man breathing harshly. We kissed, with my hand in her hair while we kissed so her head went where I directed, and we walked her backwards until she was pushed back hard against the wall. And, still kissing, I reached behind her for the catch of her bra.

Debs stiffened again. She said, “Oh god, sorry. No.”

“Ok, okay.” So I went back to kissing her without working on her bra strap.

She wriggled away. “No. Sorry, I mean, stop.”

“Stop … kissing you?”

“No. Stop. Completely stop. Sorry, I shouldn’t have … Sorry.”

“Oh? But … Oh. Well. Okay.” I was puzzled. I hadn’t known what had ended our last flirtation, and now I had no idea what had ended this one. “Ah, then how about a cup of tea, in the sense of it being an actual cup with tea in it?”

“I can do that.” 

Not better than sex. Really.

In a couple of minutes we had hot cups in our hands, and talked about films and work and stupid politicians, and so on. And, because Debs didn’t desire me, and the evening’s events were on my mind,  I said, “But she looked beautiful, didn’t she, little Emma? When she was coming.” 

But Debs was furious with Emma. “That slut. That fucking little slut.” 


[The end.] 

Kinky boots of the 1930s: Phegor 2

Another Phegor drawing. German, 1930s. Anyone know anything about him?

I’ve been sent another Phegor drawing. It’s got some things in common with his other drawing, which I featured in the post “Radclyffe Hall with a whip”.

He (I’m assuming Phegor was a man) put boots on his dommes, and drew those boots in some detail. He liked stockings, too. And, obviously, he really liked drawing whip marks. The title, “Die Geisel der Freundin” (“The Girlfriend’s Whip”), suggests that he was German, but it may just be that this post card, or book illustration, was printed in Germany.

Thanks to the donor of this other Phegor drawing. Does anyone know any more about this artist? Actual name, other pseudonyms, anything?

Golden girl #7

[Note: this story begins at Golden girl #1, below. Start there.]

So Emma pointed her eyes, nipples and parted knees at me and thanked me, and asked me if I wanted her to serve me. Then she lowered her head, nose a few inches from the carpet. It was well judged, and the offer was formidable.

I had a lot of stupid ideas, very quickly. I could show her, using the hairbrush Therese had mentioned or even just my hand, that her mistress’s whip was only a toy; and I could have her tears on my groin while she knelt and sucked me. She could be on all fours, still keening, and learn that a live cock. blood-warm and hard, was more intimate than the plastic one that Therese no doubt used on her. Or I could surprise her with gentleness, growling at her to keep her hands behind her neck while I tongued and love-fucked her. 

I knew only two things about Emma’s own sexual tastes: that she was submissive, and that her chosen lover was a woman. And I knew that no matter how hard I tried to move her, by being exceptionally ruthless or unexpectedly loving, I would only be an incident in the relationship between Emma and Therese. Even if she hated having sex with me, part of her would enjoy that because it would be a submission to her owner, something endured to prove her surrender and devotion to her mistress. 

I’d like to think that was what decided me, or the consideration that Debs would be hurt if I left her side to fuck another woman. I was certain she would be hurt by that, though she had no real right to be. 

But in the end it was mainly pride. Sexual access to Emma was in Therese’s gift, and I didn’t want a gift that big. It would come at a cost, and while I’d liked Therese well enough, I didn’t trust her. I didn’t want to owe her.

This works. It always works.

I thanked Emma, and told her how sexy she was, and that she was beautiful, fuckable, obedient and – smoothie that I am – a credit to her mistress. And that I was sure that right now she needed to serve that very generous mistress.

There it was. Emma really was beautiful, fuckable and obedient, and I really did want to fuck her. But though I’m never sure when I’m doing the right thing, this is one of the very few times in my life when I have turned down sex and never regretted it since. 

The dinner party broke up soon after that. I left with Debs, an exclusively heterosexual, submissive woman who’d just been tempted by another submissive woman, and I drove her home. 

To be concluded.

Golden girl #6

.“Are you all right, Deborah? I hope that wasn’t too unpleasant.”

“No, no, that was … fine.” Debs glanced quickly at me. “It was interesting.”

Therese smiled. “Yes, I always find it interesting. Sometimes I think I could whip this girl all day, and just study her. She’s so good when she’s being whipped, and so provoking when she isn’t. So it’s good for her. Isn’t it, Emma?”

Emma, her bottom still glowing redly and still presented, said to her tabletop, “Yes ma’am.” The tone was carefully respectful, but she already sounded more recovered than I’d have thought possible. But her whipping was over and she’d been much admired during it. She liked admiration. Emma could be certain that at least two of us desired her, and she’d possibly won the determinedly heterosexual Debs as well. She had reasons to be cheerful. And this was comedy.

“That’s right, dear. Now Deborah, would you like more wine? I see. Anything?”

“I’m … fine. Thank you.”

“No, thank you, Deborah. It was good of you to witness Emma being dealt with. It helps her to remember to behave. Emma.”


“Get down, girl, and kneel at my feet.”

Emma stood, wincing a little as she straightened. Some of her stripes must still be active, still busy delivering pain. Still with her back to us she hitched up the little red skirt, which had threatened to come untucked and provide some cover. Therese smacked her thigh quickly. “Just take that ridiculous skirt off.”

Emma turned to face us and tugged the skirt down over her waist, gasping a little when the waistband pulled down her bottom, then wriggled free. Naked, she stepped out of the skirt, folded it neatly and put in on the table. Then she dropped to her knees. She was beside Therese, but her eyes, breasts and buttercup pubic patch all pointed at Debs.

“Now thank Debs for witnessing your lesson. Properly.”

Emma put her hands on her bottom, which was perhaps soothing, but it did display her very appealingly. All of this was ritual; or if it wasn’t exactly that, it was practiced. They’d done this before. We two, Debs and I, were the ones who didn’t know the steps.

“Thank you, Deborah, for witnessing my punishment. I’m very sorry to have put you to the trouble.”


“Yes ma’am. And, Deborah, if you’d like me to serve you in any way, I’d be very … honoured.”

Debs said, “Oh god.” I was surprised. I’d expected an instant refusal. It had been obvious where this was going. Debs sounded as if she was considering it.

Emma smiled. “I could please you here. Or we could go to the bedroom, to be in private. Would you like that?”

Debs was silent, and Therese uncharacteristically misread the moment. “She’s very skilled, Deborah, and very passionate. Emma, you’ll bring Deborah your hairbrush, so she can keep you focused.”

So Debs said, “Oh no. No, I mean, thank you Emma. And, ah, Therese. But no. It’s all right. I won’t. Thank you. Thank you both.”

And so Emma looked at Therese, and then at me.

Therese said, “Yes, now thank him, girl. Properly.”

[To be continued.]