Sexy women in Antarctica are waiting to date you!

I’m in Antarctica, on the yacht Rollit, which used to belong to the son of a corrupt South Pacific politician. (His father was his country’s Minister of Education.) Years ago I helped the son load it with sacks of Buddha sticks, under the watchful bribed eyes of Customs officials. Then it sailed to South Africa. Where it competed with Durban Poison, the local product. 

Now I’m on the same yacht, which is under new ownership and management, and has no particular unlawful purpose. Or none I’m aware of. 

Anyway, there’s more to be said about Antarctica, but when I finally managed to get a connection for my Internet dongle thing, I started getting messages telling me that hot women in Antarctica are dying to meet me. “Hi,” says Sarah, who sends a naked pic of herself though I never asked for one, and who lives a few miles from me (which means she’s in the mid-Southern Ocean), “wanna chat?”

I don’t think I do. I suspect that guys who’ve been here for longer than I have, though, would would not only want to chat to a female bot program, they’d be prepared to dig up a dead penguin and bum it. 

Vampire girl #26

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put the hand holding the belt on the small of her back and pushed her forward, so she bent a little, expectant. She arched back to meet my other hand, which stroked its way between her buttocks, slipping two fingertips up into her cunt. Diane was a wet girl, still, and the things that she expected to happen now were keeping her wet.

But that wasn’t what the belt was for. Not then. I pulled her flapping shirt tails back into place, so her spine was still visible but her bottom mostly covered, and put the belt round her waist. “Breathe out,” I said, and Diane exhaled shakily, then sucked in her tummy. I tightened the belt hard enough to allow her to breath, but leaving her uncomfortable.

She might pass, to a casual glance, as a girl who was fashionably under-dressed, but still dressed. I said, “Okay?”

Diane said, “Would you kiss me, sir?”

I stepped in front of her, and gathered her in, her bundles of switches between our bellies. There’d been tears in her eyes, though they hadn’t spilled. She was smiling. I kissed her eyes, then the end of her nose, then her mouth. The kiss stayed, and stuck. Diane pulled the switches out from between us and put her arms round me.

Eventually we separated. I stepped back at looked at her. “You look beeautiful,” I said. “And absolutely debauched. Absolutely … beyond hot. Depraved.”

“Oh, I’m the pervert?”

“I can take that shirt off you, you know.” But I took her free hand, and led her out of the park.

A woman who was about to be whipped with the switches she was carrying, and then fucked while she bled, strolled home with the man who was going to pleasure her in that way, and while they walked they talked silliness about developing a sitcom in which Girls Aloud move in with Metallica and Metallica’s evil Norwegian housekeeper, which tells you roughly the year when all this happened.


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Vampire girl #25

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I made Diane walk ahead of me, partly for her safety, and partly to remind her that her back was essentially naked, from just below her neck all the way down to her shoes. She knew that I was watching her walk, and that any other person who came along that path would have the same view as I had.

She looked around nervously once she’d passed through the first lit area. There was no-one around, but I didn’t want her to be certain of that. I smacked her thigh, hard but without ceremony, and told her to keep her eyes forward.

Diane only nodded in response, and kept walking. I considered punishing for not acknowledging the order. But that would distract her attention from her humiliation. Anyway, she obeyed me, looking straight ahead, her ripped shirt billowing behind her as she carried her bundle of switches to the place they would be used on her.

I could sense her tension rising as each step took her closer to the edge of the park and the more brightly-lit streets. We were in one of the darker areas on the path out of the park, approaching the last of the park’s lights before we reached the street. I said, “Stop.”

Diane stopped. She said nothing, and didn’t turn around. I said, “Feet apart, Diane,” and as she moved her feet I took my belt off.

It’s a thick belt, slightly too heavy to be worn with a suit. But I always have it with me, just as I always have condoms in my wallet. So Diane could hear the leather sliding through the hoops of my suit pants.

There’s a sort of sinister sussurus, leather against wool, speeding up as the leather is freed from the last couple of loops. She hadn’t heard that sound before, but she knew what it was.


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When I was about sixteen I took a girl from my class to the zoo. I wanted her to be my girlfriend. 

Knowing that I was a dom was making it difficult for me, at the time, to be assertive with girls I wanted. I was careful not to do things without consent, and yet a lot of the things that boys do to get a warm, bare breast into their hand have nothing to do with discussion, negotiation or consent.

But if I did apply the sort of pressure that other boys in my year applied, I might expose my sexual interest in giving commands and expecting and exacting obedience. My bdsm desires were still my deepest and darkest secret, so I was careful.

From a sixteen year old girl’s point of view I was a little too careful. Still, she’d agreed to come to the zoo with me.

We had to walk a long way from the carpark, and we were talking. For some reason, she told me that she’d torn the panties she was wearing that afternoon, but that fortunately she’d been able to repair them with a stapler.

I’m not sure what I should have said to that, but it was headily intimate, sexual information to my sixteen-year-old self. What I said was that there must, therefore, be little staple-shaped marks on her bum, and I bet they looked … I stopped. I’d been about to say “sexy”, but that seemed a little too explicit. I considered other options, like “pink”, “hot”, “beautiful”. I settled for “interesting”, coward that I was.

As it happens, it wasn’t the right thing to say. She didn’t approve of my interest in her mild, pink abrasions. She never did become my girlfriend. 

Vampire girl #24

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Diane looked at the shirt, and at me. She said, “I can’t wear that. There’s nothing to wear.”.

I said, “put it on.”

So Diane did. I let her do up the bottom button. It still gave her very little cover. I smacked her bottom, which was bare, for all relevant purposes. She made no protest, or reaction. We were past that. I gave her her bundle of switches. 

“You carry those. When we get home I’m going to whip you with them.” 

Diane took the switches, and said nothing. I said, “Do you understand?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

I smacked her bottom again. “What do you understand?” 

“I carry these. And when we get home, you’re going to whip me with them. Um, sir.” 

“Good. That’s better. Let’s go.” 

And we walked out of the little copse, where so much had happened and changed, and onto the path, under the lights.


The next episode is here.

My ass and welcome to it

Just an odd thing. At work today there was general feeling, among the women, that there weren’t enough Christmas decorations. 

A Kenyan woman, who I rather fancy, got me a chair to stand on so I could lift up the slats in the ceiling, and fix the Christmas glitter-rope, baubles and such, into the gaps between the slats and the framework that holds them up. Never mind how it worked, because that’s not the point. 

The point was that I was up on this chair, and when I looked down there was a crowd of women watching me. I am short and not really fit. But they were finding excuses to stare up at me, and then finding reasons why I should clamber up onto the desks, walking about and poking things up into the ceiling. Er, and holding my stomach in, since my shirt wasn’t tucked in and they were looking up at me.

I don’t really care about the sexual politics, one way or another. I’m not a seventeen year old girl getting photocopier paper from the top shelf, again. And I approve of lust, in general, so long as it’s well-meaning. But I thought: me? What the fuck: me? I do think I’m good at domming, but I’m nothing special in other contexts. 

Anyway, women are perverse. That’s all there is to it. 

Venus with Furs

I’m onto a new chapter deadline. So this is only a blog to promise I’ll finish the Diane (Vampire Girl) story, and to write something about Sacher-Masoch and Venus in Furs shortly.

But today I’ve only got time to note this elegant but obvious visual pun about a Venus with Furs.

It’s odd, isn’t it? In twenty or so  years, most of our sexual images will be instantly locatable in time, because of the absence of pubic hair.  

Vampire girl #23

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Diane picked up her discarded shirt, shook it free of pine needles and leaves, and made to put it on.

I said, “No.”


“Di-ane.” She heard the exasperation in my voice, and quickly took the shirt off her shoulders. “I said to bring it here.”

Diane folded the shirt. She walked towards me, holding it before her in both hands.

 She stood in front of me, regarding me gravely. She was trying to be good, or look as if she was. I still had some righteous anger. But I didn’t want to whip her again, or lecture her.

I took the shirt. It was a man’s shirt, old, threadbare, a legacy of a former lover or a gift from a cheap current one. I could give her the shirt I was wearing, later that night. My shirt was better.

Diane suddenly understood how she was going to walk home with me. She said, “SIR!” She was shocked, but I was still Sir. I tore the shirt up the back, from the bottom hem all the way to the yoke.


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Vampire girl #22

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Afterwards Diane rested against me, both feet on the ground and her bottom pressed hard against my crotch. The woollen material of my suit both hurt and comforted her. She was still panting, trying to get her breath back. “Oh, sir,” she murmured, and then again, “oh, sir.” Calling a lover “sir,” was a novelty. She liked it, and there was a little catch, a kind of chuckle in her breath, after she said it. It wasn’t a laugh of humour, just pleasure. 

I had my arms round her, under her breasts, my hands clasped at her stomach, half supporting her. I kissed her ear and whispered, “Come on, girl. We’re going home.” 

Diane looked down. She saw what I saw, what anyone would see if they walked through the park and turned off into this grove. A naked girl, the tops of her thighs darkly welted and streaked where I had switched her. “Like this?” She sounded amused.

“You don’t want to walk back naked? It’d serve you right if I made you. So everyone can see you had to be whipped.” It occurred to me to add, “then your neighbours would know what a slut you are:” That seemed a hot thing to say, but some girls like the word ‘slut’ and some don’t. I wasn’t sure, with Diane, so I left it.

“I didn’t have to be whipped.” 

“Yes, you did. I told you to bring me your shirt, and you threw it away. Was that obedient?”

“No, sir.”

“So did you deserve to be whipped?”

There was a short pause while she considered this. “Ahm, that sounds credible, though it shouldn’t. But I suppose so. Yes, sir. I did.” She was surprised to hear herself say that.

I wasn’t. “That’s right, you did. And if I have to whip you again, Diane, it’ll be harder.” Her stomach fluttered a little under my hands, when that was said. Though that must have been something she knew. “Now. This time, go and get that shirt, and bring it to me.” I left go of her stomach, and smacked her bottom, hard. 

Diane started forward.

The next episode is here