Wax (a travel tale)

A few years back, in India, I took a girl to a shop specialising in depilation.

Because this is a story about something that happened in India, I guess I should say that she was a woman over thirty with social and economic power.

So why “girl”? When I was growing up, I was taught always to call any female person over 16 a “woman”. I did for a while, because I like girls and I like women, and for slightly different reasons I want both classes of person to be safe and happy. But as soon as I started fucking, many women showed me that they were more pleased with me when I called them girls, whatever they might claim about their preference. (I mean in sexual contexts: not in academia, work, and so on.)

And my powerful girl in India preferred to be called a girl. 

Anyway, that day she’d shaved her pubic hair for me. So I pretended I was displeased with her effort.

I took her to a depilator, in a part of town where all the hair-removers had congregated. We taxied through the marketplace, with people looking in to see a girl with her hands on her head and her legs under a blanket. And a man’s hand under the blanket. Once we were out of the taxi I led her through the district with my finger and thumb pinching her ear, taking occasional whacks at her bottom.

There were people who used creams and razors and even in some cases lasers, though they drew the line at tasers, and there were people who used traditional methods involving tightly twisted lengths of string. That looked painful, so I took her to the cleanest one of those, that offered private space. 

The woman who ran the shop knew why I insisted on staying to watch, and she seemed to know that the girl on her back on the table, with her knees up and spread, was a girl under discipline. She knew something was up, anyway. If anything it made her more ruthless. 

Afterwards my girl was pleasantly subdued. She said she felt very submissive and service-oriented, and very sensitive. I could make her moan just by blowing on her lips.

Later, she made other noises.

And later still, talking about her day, she said the woman’s ministrations, waxing and pulling her, being watched by me, knowing that I’d smack her in front of this stranger if she wasn’t cooperative, made her feel “absolutely violated”. 

She said “absolutely violated” with wonder and awe. And she said it three times.

In the air, flying home with a whip and a chair

There’ll be too many leaves in the pool, which’ll be the color of strong tea. The lawn will need mowing. Trees will need felling. I’ll need to build a bigger woodshed. I’ll have to do paid work. Quite a lot of it. 

Submissive women will need to be handled with a whip and chair. I haven’t written about my travels while I’ve been having them but I’ve seen tigers at a range where they could have eaten me, a bit, if they were annoyed by the truck I was on. Or the way I looked at them.

When I was young I saw a circus with animals in it. A man with a red jacket, jodphurs and whip (probably a role model, now I think about it), put his head in their mouths, then made then roll over to have their tummies tickled. Well, I can do that. Now. 

So I’m sneaking my new whip and chair past Customs.

Victorian lion and tiger tamer in a body stocking and skirt: felines, he’s got felines


Indian hotel for English gentlewomen

In the north of India, where it’s still warm but you can see the mountains, there is an old hotel. It’s not open to the public. It’s full of English women public servants, aged from their late 20s through to, oh, 80 or so. Apart from the hiking and other healthy activities, there are two things the regulars come to do: smoke opium, and, mostly for the younger members, have sex with each other.  

I dropped by because a friend of mine’s sister lives there. He’d asked me to drop off some gifts from England. (Gloves, gingerbread, a riding crop, and tampons for her younger girlfriend.) She – my friend’s sister, that is – has retired and intends to stay till she dies. Others, like her girlfriend, just come to spend a few weeks there each year, fucking in the day and dreaming pipe dreams in the night. Or vice versa. Membership’s by invitation only, and they don’t advertise.

My friend gave me the errand partly as a favour, because he knew I’d find the place astonishing. They showed me around, since they don’t dislike men (conditions apply), and they don’t get many visitors. It is an extraordinary place. You may be wondering where older women go, who prefer women, and who don’t have close family connections. I know where about eighty of them went. 

I’ve been as specific about the location as I’m going to be. 


I was 16. A girl called Tanner sat on the ground in front of me, with her legs crossed in a little skirt. Her skin showed through the rips in the pantihose, warm ripe golden thighs bursting through black nylon gaps.

Her boyfriend was in jail. I took her on the back of my bike to see him. I wanted those thighs apart, touching my ass, and her breasts against my back on the turns. And I figured I had one sexual advantage over the bad boy in jail: I wasn’t in jail.

I was a dumb 16 year old. I’ve still got traces of the wound her bad boy’s friends gave me. It was the first time I saw a part of one of my own bones. When I looked past the skin and the blood, there it was: living bone, palely yellow. And I never did actually fuck Tanner. 

But she looked sexy on that lawn. Affected my tastes to this day.


In Farewell my Lovely, Robert Mitchum plays the ageing and down-at-heel Philip Marlowe, who realises, to his surprise, that he and Helen Grayle, played by Charlotte Rampllng, want to fuck. So he says, “my place or yours?”

She says, “Why? We got everything we need right here.”

I feel that way about bdsm. Don’t need clothes, let alone costumes. Don’t need ties, or implements of discipline. Don’t need no electricity. All we need, a submissive woman and I, is our bodies and our voices.

Stuff is fun, and I own, oh, boots and vests and tawses and spreader bars and so on these days. Lots of stuff. But I don’t need it. It’s never the point.

Gem thinks about her cunt while waiting to be leathered Part 22

This is part of the excellent, steamy, funny and insightful novel “The Tale of the Tawse”

Because that novel’s about to be published, the early drafts have to come off the net. Publishers don’t like competition from free providers.

Once it’s published, the address for buying this will be uploaded here.