Star Trek: the Kirk-Elaan of Troysius spanking sequence

Now go to my room!

Now go to my room!

The new Star Trek film is good. But it’s very clean in various ways compared to the world of Shatner-Kirk.

For example, here’s the conversation on spanking between Kirk and the imperious Dohlman of Troysius, whose name is Elaan, though she prefers to be called “Your Glory”. 

Elaan: You are warned, Captain, never to touch me again!

Captain Kirk: If I touch you again, Your Glory, it’ll be to administer an ancient Earth custom called a spanking!

Elaan: (rage, spit, throws furniture, etc)

But some time later, the Captain and Elaan are in a fog of lust: 

elaanElaan: Captain, that ancient Earth custom called spanking. What is it?

Kirk: It’s, er. It’s, er. We’ll talk about it later.

[He pulls her into a passionate embrace. We cut, fast as possible, to an ad break. Elaan spends the rest of the episode standing up. Coincidence? Er, probably.]

Probation officer #14: Teasing the gods

I’d given Ana a special kind of power, when she realised that I was horny for her but wasn’t going to fuck her.

Not as long as she was my client was my caveat, but I don’t think  she understood that. She’d finally noticed that I existed, that I was only about her age, and that I seemed actually to be on her side, but she didn’t think about me much more than that.

And I wanted her, but wouldn’t take her. That made it safe for her to play a game she enjoyed. She teased the gods. She took risks, and defied luck or fate to smack her down. With me she’d found a an authority figure, a very small god, who wouldn’t smack her down.

Probation officer #13: Don’t walk away

I told her how to attract cops and get herself arrested. For example, too many of the incidents on her charge sheet started with her seeing a cop and running away. Then I told her how not to attract cops. Ignore them. If you do need to leave, because maybe you’ve got pot in your pockets, stroll, don’t run. Walk casually away, and above all, don’t look back. Until you’re at least two blocks away. If they’re following you, you’ll find out soon enough. But if you look back they’re much more likely to follow.

And I told her the things that a cop was entitled to ask a citizen in this state, that she was required to answer. That included her name, address and occupation, and where she’d just come from and where she was going. Don’t let them draw you out by asking you a series of questions: give them everything they’re entitled to in answer to the first question. Be polite but don’t smile or be charming. Don’t swear or call them names. If they try to pump you for more, after you’ve given the information you’re required to give, tell them you’ve told them what you’re required to tell, and you’re now returning to your own business unless they intend to arrest you. Then walk away.

If they touch you or try to hold you, unless they arrest you, naming a specific crime, they’re breaking the law. Tell them if they want a longer conversation they can have it with your lawyer. Then tell them to keep their hands off you. I told her the name of a local lawyer, who was famous for destroying dodgy police evidence, and sometimes careers, in court. Cops didn’t hate him, because he was a friendly guy, but they feared him.

We went through that a couple of times, then a few times, until she had the words right, and the right tone of voice: the tone of an unfriendly adult, not a defiant child. 

I said, eventually, “That’s just right, Ana. Do that and they’ll stop talking to you. Unless you give them an opening, like shoplifting something.”

“Yes. I know. I’m sorry I did that.” She really did sound sorry.

“Sorry’s not going to be enough keep you out of jail, Ana. But we can talk about that tomorrow. For now, it’s no more shoplifting. No more getting cops to chase you. Stop acting silly, and keep out of trouble. Okay?”

walking“Name. Address. Occupation. I came from my friend’s place and now  I’m going home. Thank you for your time, officer. I am now leaving, to get back to going home. Then I walk away.”

I nodded. “That’ll do for today. You’re a quick learner.”

She touched my leg again. Dangerously close to the rere. Rere means cock in Samoan, I think I mentioned. You pronounce it “reh-reh”, but you say it quickly. I hope you find that useful, one day.

“I’ve nearly got it. But I think you should really watch me walk away. See if I’ve got it right.”

I said, “Ana.”

“You could coach me.”

She knew how close her hand was to my cock. So did my cock. I put my hand on the ignition, symbolically enough. “I better get you home.”

Probation officer #12: Every man in his humour

Bogie sneak-checking Claude Rains's ass. You can avoid a world of trouble if you just wear a trench coat at all times.

Bogart sneak-checking Claude Rains’s ass. Tumescence not shown. Tip! You can avoid a world of embarrassment if you just wear a trench coat and never take it off.

Ana looked at me in disbelief. I seemed to be only reasonably stupid. But what I’d just said was amazingly stupid. I met her gaze, poker-faced. She considered, and eventually her mouth quirked. Then she fell forward, resting a hand on my thigh, laughing and catching her breath.

“Oh man. Aue, oh man. You.” She laughed some more. That was probably about other things I’d done or said. “Yeah, you’re my first probation officer. Are they all weird as you?”

“Probably,” I lied. “The others mostly hide it better.”

“Hey, what’s your name?”

“Jaime.” It wasn’t the first time I’d told her my name.

‘Okay Jaime.” It was the first time she’d used it. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Probation officer #11: The stiffie apology

I said, “Christ, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t be – . Anyway, there are things you need to tell me, about what’s going on with you and the cops.” 

Ana shook her head. 

So it seemed I’d lost whatever trust I’d managed to build up. Whatever she’d been close to telling me before she’d started crying, she wasn’t close now. “And there are things I need to tell you. No, I mean about cops. There are ways of talking to cops, and acting around them, that makes it much harder for them to arrest you. I wanted to talk about that. Yeah. I’m sorry.” 

Ana was still staring at me. She shook her head again. “I didn’t think you were even human. And it turns out you’re weird.”

I wondered how the hell she’d known I’d been thinking about spanking her when I’d got hard. I blushed. I could feel the heat in my face. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry.” 

“You’re still saying sorry. That’s so weird.” 

Probation officers

Probation officers

“Well. I’m really, really not supposed to get turned on by, well, clients.”

“You wanna fuck me?”

I hesitated. First because of course I wanted to fuck Ana. I knew it’d be a terrible idea, but the temptation was nearly irresistible.

Then I hesitated some more because if it really was an invitation she’d have said, “You wanna fuck?” She wasn’t inviting me: she was asking to see what I’d say.

“Yes, of course I do. Definitely. God yes, of course I do. And I can’t. Or I won’t, or whatever it is. Sorry. If I’d met you at a party or something, it’d be different. But I’m working, for you. I’m not supposed to be … Ah, I mean you’re a client.”

She breathed out. That was something like the right answer. “Okay, I’m a client and you’re a probation officer. And you’re weird.”  

Not probation officers.

Not probation officers.

“I’m an idiot, anyway.” I ought to have meant getting an erection was idiotic. But part of me thought that telling Ana I wouldn’t fuck her was stupid. Oh well. 

“No-one’s ever apologised to me for having a stiffie before.”

“I’m your first probation officer, then?”

Probation officer #10: still going on about tears and erections

I’ve left this story for a while, while I wrote about tears.

But there I was, a junior probation officer, 23 years old to my client Ana’s 18 years, and Ana was soaking my shirt with tears, dribble and all those other effluvia. I had my arm around her shoulders, and she turned her head this way and that while she wailed, as though she wanted to rub her nose on my buttons. We were parked by the river like a courting couple, because I was a very stupid 23 year old probation officer, and I’d thought we needed to talk privately.

Career-wise, I was a dead man, probably. This is a dead man's chest joke.

Career-wise, I was a dead man, probably. This is a dead man’s chest joke.

I’d been squeezing and relaxing Ana’s shoulders and talking soothing nonsense, as you do with a baby. I remembered the way women lightly smack the bottoms of babies when they hold them, which seems to be a way of reassuring them that everything is okay. That brought back the incredibly vivid fantasy I’d had only half an hour before, of what it would be like to put Ana over my knee, get those shorts down and spank her till she promised to behave.

Or, because fantasy is a slippery thing, it became about what it would be like to spank her until she was wriggling about, her light-brown little bottom tinged with red warmth, her thighs parted and her cunt petite but open and glazed with yearning, until she had my cock where we wanted it. 

I shook my head again, and thought intently about the ear structure of the African elephant, which usually stopped erections in their tracks. Ana was still crying into my shirt, though the volume had muted, and she seemed more relaxed. 

I could think again. I’d meant to talk to her about the police harassment, and that it was clearly intended to get her into jail. Eventually some judge was going to look at her charge sheet, and not notice the quality of what was on there: only the width. We’d come here to talk about that, about how to stop it. I more or less a professional again, and not just a young man with dom tendencies and an incredibly pretty and exasperating girl. I was proud of getting myself back under control, and that I’d managed to kill the erection before Ana could have noticed.

I said, because it was time to call her back to the world, “Ana? Ana, are you okay?”

Ana said nothing, and didn’t move. I waited, and her shoulder twitched. Her face was still pressed against me. She shook a little, and I expected more sobs. Eventually I realised she was laughing. Giggling. “Aue. Oh man.”

“What? Are you okay?”

I thought you'd like a picture of the new headquarters of the Chinese People's Daily.

I thought you’d like a picture of the new headquarters of the Chinese People’s Daily. No really. It is.

More giggles. She was still in my shirt, not looking at me. “You had a rere.”


“Rere ure. You had a stiffie.” She said it in singsong, like a child’s taunt. “You got me out of the copshop, and you got a stiffie.”

“Oh.” I thought about other jobs I could do, after being fired from this one. “Oh.”

Yikes 5: Tears are our pillow

I’d had high expectations of that night, from the moment I’d decided that tintanabula needed to find out what a paddle can do. That was because she’d got only mediocre marks in a university test. I was outraged, when she admitted her score, because I want her to pass near the top of her class. So I decided that she would feel a little warning twinge in her bottom, a painful memory, any time she felt like giving a test less than 100% of her effort. But to have a painful memory you first have to have a painful experience. That was where the paddle came in.

tears againThe other details, that I’d paddle her in the open air at night, with her bound naked over a whipping frame, filled themselves in. I’d just made the whipping frame, and obviously I was going to find a use for it soon. So I was expecting the experience to be memorable, in different ways, for both of us.

But all my expectations were exceeded. It was emotionally and sexually overwhelming. The source of all this extra power was her tears. They’d lifted the emotional and sexual stakes dramatically. At first, when tintanabula started to cry, I’d been pleased simply because it meant that she would be trying harder for her next exam. 

But tears and sobs can mean an ocean, a world, of feeling and communication between a dominant and a submissive.  

I’m not much of a fetishist, really. I don’t care about leather, or corsets, or gloves or shoes or any of that kind of thing. But I think I may have a thing for the tears of a submissive woman. There’s something intimate about her tears, the way she brings me this physical, surrendered, sign of her emotion for me to see and share it. Her tears make me both cruel and loving. Her tears move me emotionally, and they make me hard. 

There’s a word for tear fetishism, by the way: dacryphilia. It seems that I’m a dacryphiliac.

Yikes #4: Pretending not to care about pleasure

Paddled ass: the other partner in a love-hate relationship

A well-paddled ass: the other partner in the love-hate relationship between submissive and implement. An especially intense relationship when the implement is the paddle.

So this story hovers around a woman, somewhat ludicrously called tintanabula, with her feet and wrists cuffed to a wooden whipping frame, naked in the night air, her ass presented but her head, hands and feet close to the long grass.

She sobbed, unrestrained. Her body wasn’t. Unrestrained. Her buttocks and upper thighs were bright red, with patches of a darker, richer red which would develop into black and blue bruising in only a few more minutes.

tumblr_m6yonvLL7T1rai72mo1_500The paddle lay on the grass beside her, and the penis of the man who had hurt her – that’s me – was hard. I’d loved her tears and cries. She still whimpered as I pushed in and slowly withdrew in her rectum, I held her hips to keep her still and presented. I wanted her to feel, even if it wasn’t entirely true, that I had no regard at all for her pleasure. She was being buggered while her ass still burned with pain. She should get the full benefit of that.

She knew it’d never be quite true, but she loved feeling that I didn’t care about her pleasure. 

I don’t think she enjoyed being buggered just then. Two dozen isn’t a lot of strokes, but it is if you use the paddle. It was one of the most severe punishments I’ve ever given. It simply hurt, and afterwards I hadn’t been gentle.

But it was what tintanabula said was the hottest, the most rawly sexual night she’d ever experienced. Afterwards I’d wrapped her in a gown and taken her to a bed with cool, crisp sheets, and while I laid her down and fucked her I whispered in her ear that I’d paddle and bugger her again soon, but even harder, and possibly with an audience next time. She’d come harder and more often, that night, than ever before in her life.

Yikes #3: More about tears

One of the cliches of Italian opera is that the baritone, who never gets the girl though he’s usually much better looking than the tenor, will at some stage sing a jolly and slightly misogynist song about women’s tears, and how women use them as weapons against men.

Men, he will sing, can stand up bravely to swords and spears, But are helpless against a woman’s tears, tra-la. 

In rom-coms the man will give in on any point if the woman even appears as if she might be considering crying. She just has to pull out a tissue and he caves in.

This is what mascara is for, really.

This is what mascara is for, really.

If delivering my first spanking was a hard thing for me to do, which it was even though the girl had demanded it, the first time I made a girl cry and then continued because she didn’t want me to stop was harder still.

I was taught that hitting a woman or making her cry was the lowest thing that a man could do. When submissive women started teaching me something different, which fitted my own desires, it set up a real conflict.

It took a lot of will to force myself to stay merciless to a crying girl. In the end, submissive women and my desires were bound to win that conflict, and they did. I’m glad I persisted.