Corner time #1: Before

Corner time is a nice psychological time.  

If I’m genuinely going to punish a submissive, then putting her in the corner for a while beforehand gives her time to think about why getting into trouble is a bad idea, and to develop some butterflies in her tummy.  

If it’s punishment she’s waiting for, she’ll generally be naked. And holding the instrument I was going to use on her. That helps her to concentrate and think about what’s coming.  

If I were just going to spank her for her pleasure and mine, then the waiting time helps her to get turned on before we start. It allows extra games like testing her for wetness once she’s over my knee, or in whatever position she’s going to be in. A spanking feels best when the submissive is already turned on before we start. As everybody knows.  

Of course, because the body doesn’t know about the distinction between punishment and sexual play, she’d probably get turned on while she was waiting to be punished, and she’d be slightly apprehensive while waiting for a good girl spanking. That’s okay. 

Vampire girl #21

Diane leaned back against me, still stroking her cunt, hard and fast, with finality. She lifted her thigh to be whipped, as I’d commanded, but though I’d told her she couldn’t come yet, that had been overreach on my part. There was nothing that she or I could do, at least nothing that would be any fun, to stop that orgasm in its tracks. Or even delay it much.

So I whipped the switch down on her inner thigh, hard enough to raise a welt, but the cry she made was pure, wild pleasure. So was the second cry when I switched her again, about fifteen seconds later. There was no time for a longer gap between strokes. Once she’d given her pain song again, with that second stroke, Diane couldn’t stay quiet any longer. She sang, “nnnnnerrrrr eeeerrrrrnnnn”, in my ear, the sound wavering as if she were riding a horse in full gallop. 

A little later Diane’s whole body stiffened and she fell silent because she’d stopped breathing, I whipped her inner thigh again, as close to her cunt as I could get without the switch hitting the back of her hand. Diane cried out just once with the pain, her body braced hard against mine, and then her orgasm took her. Though she looked as though she was screaming, she came in silence, mouth working, staring up at the moon-bright sky.  

Afterwards I whispered, “good girl, yes, good girl, darling”, while she gasped and fought for control. When she seemed to have almost caught her breath, I squeezed her breasts again, pinching her nipples as hard and painfully as I could, and a second wave of orgasm took her. 

Roads less travelled: Skittety Scat Scat Shoo Bee Doo Wah Wah

Scat singing is vocal improvisation with wordless, nonsense syllables. Scat singing lets singers do the equivalent of an instrumental solo, using their voice.

It’s a jazz thing. God, I loathe jazz. Maybe that’s not quite true. Sometimes jazz spends time being blues (Ella Fitzgerald, sometimes), and then I can put up with it. But the more like jazz it gets, the more I hate it.

And the jazziest thing of them all, even jazzier than bass solos, is scat singing.

However, I will not hear a word against Cab Calloway.

However, I will not hear a word against Cab Calloway.

You know when it’s coming: you’ve just had a long bit where someone goes squeak and squonk on the sax, and goes back to the ranks while the audience gives them a well-bred round of considered applause, and then the singer comes out looking as happy as the Persian cat that engulfed the moon, and begins:

“Squiddily dap dap dap scat a doogity boogity willong scat scat dap whap.”

You just know they plan to keep on doing that for longer than you can possibly stay in the same room as them. Death to scat. I really really will not do sexual play involving shit, but I think the singing might actually be worse.  

Roads less travelled: anal hook

Not all the roads I haven’t travelled are roads I’ve considered and rejected. Some roads I just haven’t got around to. For example, I’ve never got around to using an anal hook. 

She has as many choices as she needs.

She has as many choices as she needs.

Anal hooks are interesting because they’ve become part of bdsm, and yet no-one had heard of them until just a few years ago. I suspect they were only invented recently.

People like me – the civilians of bdsm, not the professionals who run dungeons and make films, and such – have got along without them just fine for the last few millennia. 

But there’s something about their ruthlessness and impersonality that appeals to me. A submissive who is keeping her back arched and her ass presented (I’m going to use female gender for this; if your interest is male submissives, then mutatis mutandis) because I’ve put an anal hook in her knows that her ass is going to stay exactly where I want it until I choose otherwise. She knows that her comfort is not an issue, only her enforced good posture.

The symbolism of the anal hook is hard, unrelenting and merciless. And at the same time, she knows that she’s been put in that position because her ass is considered very pleasing indeed. 

So I expect that a submissive held in that way will be uncomfortable, and happy, and wet.  So I’ll probably get one, one day.

Roads less travelled: sharps

I had a brief relationship with a woman who wanted me to cut her.

She’d been away from bdsm for a while when she met me. When she discovered I was a dom – we found out about the other’s interest in bdsm after we’d been to bed – she liked serving, and she liked being back under discipline. But she told me that her mistress, when she’d had one, used to cut the skin on her back, very finely, with a very sharp blade. Now she was submitting again, she wanted me to cut her.  

I did consider it. You try to give lovers what they want, and doms have no excuse for being any different. But I thought it was unsafe, unwise, unsexy, and symbolically kind of creepy. I don’t like permanent damage. There’s something about knife play that feels hostile to the body. I like the body. So the idea of taking a blade to her skin just creeped me out. That didn’t leave much room for negotiation. 

I’m not condemning knife play, not then and not now. And she’s a smart and responsible woman, not remotely self-destructive. I’m only saying that it absolutely wasn’t for me. I would not cut her. 

So I refused. We continued as dom and submissive for a little longer, but only three weeks later we had an argument about something else, and she handed back the key to my apartment and asked for hers back. I think my refusal to even try knife play was a key issue.

Anyway, knife play. Sharps. Cutting. I’m just not going to do it. 

Roads less travelled: bzzzzzt

I’ve never been interested in electricity in a bdsm context.

It doesn’t seem personal enough. Left to myself, and finding myself with a clitoris, nipples and other sensitive body parts to play with, I want to do very low-tech, body-to-body things. A bite and a kiss, a smack, a twist, a squeeze followed by a harder squeeze; a harder smack. And so on.

But getting out the violet wand seems about as sexy as getting out the vacuum cleaner.

I suppose I’ll buy or borrow the gear, some time, because some submissive … Well, if they’ve been good, I’m susceptible to begging. But so far it’s never been something I’ve been drawn to. 

Submissives

I’m still working on the end of the chapter. So here’s another pic. I kind of like this catalogue of submissives, because of the drawings. Without them it’d just be one of those would-be worldly “the nine types of submissive/doms” posts.

I find those “catalogue” posts a bit distasteful, really, as well as meaningless, because people don’t fit onto categories that easily. Turning complicated and interesting stuff into boring stereotypes, and then mocking the stereotypes, seems a profoundly stupid thing to do. And it’s emotionally wrong, because I don’t see any reason to diss submissives. Or even dominants, for that matter. 

But this gets by because it’s cute. I’m completely pervious to cute. Does anyone know who drew it? 

Polymorphously perverse

I’m finishing a chapter I’ve been working on for too long, so I’ve got no blogging time today.

So here’s more historical artwork instead. The drawing looks a bit  New Yorker or Esquire from the 1950s, but I’m guessing 1950s Playboy.The women manage to be cartoonish and sexy at the same time, which is a hard thing to manage. 

Anyway, it’s nicely, complexly perverse, and I don’t think you’d get a cartoon with any version of those themes into print these days.   

Know thyself, and watch the clock

“Sheeee-ooo! Twenty-four. Thank you sir.”

“Good girl. Now turn over. Onto your back.”

“Just let me…  Ahhh. God, my ass is so sore.”

“So it should be. Now. Legs apart. You’ve got ten minutes to make yourself come. Okay?”

“Yes sir.”

“If you haven’t come in ten minutes, I’ll give you another two dozen. Go!”

“Nnnnnnnn. Nnnnnnnn.”

But it was the time limit that did it. Without it she’d have come, screaming and flailing, within a couple of minutes. But having to come while he watched, with the clock ticking? She always, always, got the extra strokes.