Sweet dreams #7: How did you know?

Her boyfriend turned up about then. He was in love with the world too, but not enough to want to hug me. He looked at me. He was twenty too.

He gave me a quizzical smile. He thought I was probably okay, but I was a complete stranger he’d first met with an armful of his girlfriend. Even young men in love and in love with the world are unlikely to be sure of that stranger.

eccyI sort of disengaged his girl, gently and with compliments, and she headed back to him. I said, “It’s beautiful here. Have a great night, you two.”

“It is a very beautiful night. Where are you from?”

I told him, and said, “Take care. Take care of her. Eccies are great, aren’t they?”

The girl looked at me, open-mouthed. “How did you know I was on eccy?”     

[The end. Back to the Probation Officer’s Tale tomorrow.]

Sweet dreams #6: Lovely, lovely

bridge at nightBut I was walking near the restored Old Bridge a little after one in the morning, the drink and drugs part of a Mostar night.The bridge was still crowded, lovers looking down into the river, some drunk tourists looking for whores, skinny old men with grey moustaches. They wear baggy trousers, the pants they wore when they were younger and bigger men.

And their hats are grey. Fedoras, I think, with black sweatbands. The men get skinnier as they get older. The women get fatter. There’s nothing wrong with that. I just don’t know why. 

A beautiful girl emerged out of the crowd, dancing and walking towards me from the darkness. She looked at the mist shining round each of the bridge lamps, dandelion spheres of light. She was entranced by them. She was trying to dress like a scary goth, but she looked like a girl in her mother’s clothes. She was twenty, blonde, ridiculously pretty, sweet-faced and struck by the beauty of everything around her.

She veered my way and into my arms. I was wearing black pants with hose and a russet-red frock coat, in the manner of Van der Decken, the captain of The Flying Dutchman. I had my reasons, which seemed perfectly good at the time.* So I stood out a little, though though not quite as much as the lamp posts.

She said something questioning, which I didn’t have the language for, but I guessed she was asking permission to put her arms round me. Anyway, she did, and then leaned in, getting Cleopatra black eyeliner on russet silk. I hugged her back, keeping my hands well clear of her ass because I didn’t think this was driven by lust.

Not even though I was dressed as an eighteenth century Dutch sea-captain and had such fine legs. Maybe If she’d been a girl stowaway pretending to be a cabin boy,  then she’d have been overcome by lust. I said, “Ah, you’re lovely.” 

Because I’d spoken English she said, “lovely, lovely. Ahhhh. Beautiful.”


* I was looking for a girl wearing a hooped green crinoline dress and no knickers. I hoped she’d have some sort of thing going for romantically cursed members of the Dutch merchant marine. Mostar has everything. Sometimes.

Sweet dreams #5: Mostar bullet holes

Taking a break from the Probation Officer story. 

I’m leaving Mostar this afternoon. It was a beautiful city once, before evil nutcases started killing people for evil and stupid ethnic and religious reasons. The bridge over the Neretva river was one of the most beautiful things in the city and for a hundred or so miles in any direction. So evil morons blew it up, with, I expect, a passionate sense of righteousness.

Every so often I’d be sitting in the sun of the new peaceful Mostar, having a rakia in some coffee shop. Rakia made of fermented fruit, and it will burn a couple of layers of the skin of your mouth or throat every time you have a sip. And leave claw marks all the way down the throat. So it’s wonderful. You can relax, eye off girls, and talk about not talking about politics with people who speak English.

mostarBut if you’ve in a shop and you look behind a hanging cloth, or you’re in a market and you happen to see behind a piece of three-ply wood that catches the wind, you’ll see bullet holes in the stone or the old wood. And you can only hope that whoever tried to kill someone there, just a few years ago, missed. But it takes away some of the summer cheer.

Écrasez l’Infâme. In particular, écrasez religion, all of it, including the supposedly harmless stuff that gives cover to the murderous stuff. And the ideologies that work like religion, like communism and fascism. Fuck them all. Fuck ethnic nationalism, too. 

On the other hand, they’ve rebuilt the Old Bridge. Using as much of the original stone as possible. Hope, I suppose. 

Probation Officer #93: Capture

holdemSa’afia stayed on her knees, still working my cock when there was no more come, cleaning me and keeping my cock as firm as I could be, after coming into that comfortable, clinging place.

Sa’afia sucked and licked for about twenty minutes, while I slowly, pleasurably softened. Finally, though my cock was still a little fat and complacent, it lolled out of her mouth.

I leaned down and, my hands still in her hair, tilted her face up so she looked at me. Sa’afia wanted to please me, and she’d wanted to see if she could drive me, for a while, out of my own control.

She was smiling, and there was no doubt or need for reassurance in her face.

I kissed her forehead and the broad tip of her nose. I said, “I think – ” Then I said, “I don’t think anyone has ever – ” Then I kissed her again, and said “I’m keeping you.”

Probation Officer #92: O

I didn’t really make any decisions. I’d assumed that I was going to break off and do other things before I came. I’d thought that while I striped her ass with that rod I’d stand where she could turn her head and watch my erection, and then feel it inside her, when her skin was still hot and hurting and I fucked her.

But then I felt the urgency of that sensation at the base of my spine, or somewhere deeper, made up of sugar and need. I dropped the rod and put both hands on Sa’afia’s head. The rod bounced and rebounded on the hard floor, but I’d forgotten it while it was still making its racket. I was supposed to growl something at her, threatening to punish her if she didn’t swallow every drop. But that had never been something that I really cared about, and anyway I didn’t have time.

swallows1Instead, looking down on the black shine of Sa’afia’s hair and the warm brown of her shoulders, my eyes wide as a cat’s at twilight, I made incoherent noises, gutteral at first but higher pitched with the rush into Sa’afia’s mouth.

Sa’afia coughed once, and then swallowed and kept swallowing.

I said, “good girl good girl good girl good girl,” over and over, while my body took over. I came in my Sa’afia. My? Well, perhaps she was.

I was laughing, towards the end, because of happiness, pleasure and awareness of how ridiculous we were, but mainly me. I mostly enjoy being ridiculous.

Probation Officer #91: A kiss on the hand can be quite continental, but a slap on the face…

Can't say I like many porn images of face-slapping. They're not affectionate, mostly, and they creep me out. But lions are sexy beasts.

Can’t say I like many porn images of face-slapping. They’re not affectionate, and they creep me out. But lions are sexy beasts.

At the time smacking Sa’afia’s face was still pretty shocking. In the last few years there’s been a fashion for hard face-slapping. It’s an internet thing, and the internet doesn’t come with a notice about not trying that at home.

I know that a lot of submissive women have tried being slapped, and some of them like it a lot. But I’ve never been able to bring myself to go beyond a firm-but-not-very-hard slap, plus some theatre to make it seem harsher than it is.

I said, into Sa’afia’s shocked silence, “You please me very much. I want you always to know that.”

The odd thing about this conversation, which maybe seems a bit lovey-dovey on the screen, is that my cock didn’t soften at all. I’m sure Sa’afia stayed wet, and that she dropped another two floors below the basement, further into submission about a second after the slap.

I pushed back into her mouth, as deep as I could go, my pelvic bone to her lips. When she started to cough I stayed for a couple of seconds before withdrawing. I gave her a second to recover, but no more. I started to move, not too deeply but hard, before she’d completely calmed. 

Before the slap I’d let her set the pace but now I took the lead, fucking her mouth, holding her head by that handful of her hair.

She wanted to be taken hard now, out of her control. And out of my control, up to a point. How did I know that? Well, desire ruled both of us, and we knew that. I’d had a different set of plans when we’d started, but I was going to come in her mouth. And soon.  

Probation Officer #91: Lovey dovey, up to a point

Sa’afia made a noise. Something with both growling and squealing in it. Then she put up her hand. “Armission a heak?”

I said, “All right. Oh.” I withdrew my cock so it bobbed about just inside her mouth.

“Thank you.” Her lips touched me when she spoke. I liked that.

I said, “In fact, we’ll change the rules for a bit. You can speak when you want to, from now until I say otherwise.” 

She nodded. “Thank you. You said you liked hurting me.”

“Well, only in certain ways -“

“You don’t need to be defensive. I mean, you don’t. I just wanted to reply. Because I love it when you hurt me. You know, the number of times I’ve said that to anyone is … zero. I love you hurting me, and that must make me just as weird as you are. Do you know what I like best about you hurting me?” 

I frowned. “Well, I don’t know. Um, you get an adrenalin rush, and that intensifies what you’re feeling, so that makes it sexier? Um.”

“Darling, at least I know something about neurochemistry. You shouldn’t even try. No, what I love best, sir, is how much you love it. And that you think you’re being terribly wicked, and – Well, you love that. You really love it; it’s like … glee. And I love pleasing you. That’s what makes me what I am, doesn’t it?”

slap“I’m glad you are what you are.”

“Well, so am I. Now. Not before, but now. And I’m really glad that you don’t leave me in any doubt about whether I please you.”

“Mmmmm.” There was history to that last remark. Someone had left her in doubt. Probably the same lover who’d been so lukewarm about having her mouth on his cock.

I stroked Sa’afia’s mouth and ear, and then smacked her cheek.

Probation Officer #90: Of course

The sort of thing my mother would have said, if she’d been into bdsm, is that if you can’t think of something sexy to say then it’s better to just say nothing at all. And that it’s mostly a good idea for a dom to say the thing the submissive will be pleased to hear. I’d add: as long as you think you can carry it off.

So I said, “I’m going to beat you, Sa’afia.” I left a pause because I thought she’d like to think about sucking the cock of a man who proposed to apply a wooden stick to her bottom, making it hard enough to hurt her. Hurt her even though she was being as submissive as she knew how to be.

I added, “but don’t you dare stop when the stick lands on your ass, girl. Or bite.” I swung the rod down at the left side of her buttocks, then the right. I watched her waggle, shaking off pain like a dog shakes off water, and the two new welts form: first white, then raised, then dark. Safe? Of course I was. She opens her mouth when the rod lands. 

I’m afraid those stripes excited me. I had to resist the urge to push my cock deeper into Sa’aphia’s mouth when she gasped. She could only take my cock deeply for a second or two, and that only with warning and preparation. This isn’t cock pride: this isn’t even a Led Zep song. Sa’afia was a novice at fellatio, that’s all. 

I looked down at Sa’aphia, marvelling at her. I knew some of her thoughts and feelings, but never everything. I asked her a question I knew the answer to. “Does that hurt, girl?” 

suck1Sa’afia made a happy noise, her mouth impeded. She looked up at me, without interrupting the movement of her head, or her lips. 

I guessed whatever she’d tried to say was affirmative. So I said, “Good. So it should.” 

Sa’afia looked down again, to focus on my cock.

My guess was that just then she was telling herself that she was at the mercy of a man who liked hurting her. And that she was excited by that idea, which was perfectly compatible with the fact that it was only partly true. 

I tightened my grip on the handful of her hair that I’d been holding. I’d let her choose a comfortable depth for my cock, and I didn’t want to push her into choking. Instead I pulled back a little, so she had to pull her own hair when she bobbed her head forward. 

suckI decided that my guess about her thoughts was close enough to be true, and that Sa’afia shouldn’t have to guess about mine. I let go of her hair and stroked her face again. “And yes, beautiful girl, wonder girl, of course I love hurting you.” 

Probation Officer #89: Long soup

Sa’afia was at my feet, naked where I was clothed, though it was only her mouth that covered my cock. Her buttocks and hips burned a little, I hoped, from the smacks I’d given her with the rod. Her bottom still wore two raised welts, and waggled slightly while she worked on my cock. I was happy, but never mind me: I knew beyond any doubt that she was supremely happy. 

She wasn’t allowed to speak, but she broke that rule whenever she felt like it. The threat of getting a smack across her arse wasn’t exactly terrifying her. She’d discovered that even quite a hard impact was a strong and sexy thing, and she was pleased to provoke me into giving her more. But when bdsm works you don’t need speech. There’s a kind of body-reading that comes close to mind-reading, and we knew what we felt, without words.

There’s a joke about a starlet who goes to a Hollywood agent and begs for a bit part in Flying Crocodiles of New York III. He says, “cherrypie, the script has only three girls in it who run around with their tits out and get chomped by the crocs. And those parts have been filled.”

Flying Crocodiles of New York III: Amazing special effects!

Flying Crocodiles of New York III: Amazing special effects!

She says, “then I could just run around with my tits out anyway, sort of in the background.”


“And by the way my tits are very nice, and if you put me in the movie then you could come between my tits or in my mouth. In fact, put me in the movie and I’ll suck your cock right now.”

The agent looks puzzled. “Yeah, but what’s in it for me?”

I mention that because when Sa’afia was sucking and licking my cock, I felt something pretty close to that ludicrous arrogance. I loved the sight of her, and I loved the soft paradise she’d taken my cock into, but above all, I felt proud that I’d put Sa’afia in a place she liked, that she’d wanted to be in and not found before. 

She loved her submissive position, the fact that her ass burned, and that she was pleasuring the man who’d welted her. I watched her and watched over her, and thought about ways to increase her feeling of submission. She served my cock, just then, but I was at her service.