Probation Officer #88: Cat claiming ownership

Sa’afia rolled her eyes, and didn’t care who saw it, even if it was the man with the rod in his hand, who was using it to tap her bottom with some force now. To show her I’d seen that eye-roll I swung the stick a little harder, this time making an audible impact and leaving a vertical stripe down her left buttock.

She shook for a second, and arched her back. She was very beggy.    

“You know, you have no idea how beautiful you look. And hot.” This wasn’t quite true. She knew I was hard. When I’d pushed her head forward she’d rubbed my cock with her forehead, like a cat claiming ownership of a human’s hand.

I pressed her against my cock while I swung the rod again and striped her right buttock. Sa’afia hissed in breath, then turned slightly to kiss my inner thigh through the wool of my pants. 

wolfeWith that kiss, some things became urgent. I considered making her open my belt and my fly with her teeth, but it’d take longer than I was ready to wait. I unbuckled and unzipped, and let my cock free, pronging the air in the general direction of Sa’afia’s nose.  

I tightened my grip on Sa’afia’s hair and guided her onto my cock. Her lips pressed a soft ring around the head, and I pressed forward. We both said, “Hahh,” at more or less the same instant.

Probation Officer #87: A concern for elegance

Sa’afia crouched, naked, holding her stomach in, worried whether she looked beautiful.  She touched the floor with her fingertips and lowered herself awkwardly to her knees. She looked up at me. 

I scowled down at her, as best I could. “Of course you look beautiful.” 

“It’s not the most elegant position.” 

I tapped the rod against Sa’afia’s bottom. Her mouth formed the letter O, appealingly. But she made no sound.

“No, I didn’t give you permission to speak. And I don’t believe you’d forgotten.”

Sa’afia mouthed, silently, the words, “Sorry, sir.”

kneel safiaI shook my head. “Of course I’m going to punish you for that, Sa’afia. I mean, seriously. How badly would it suck it I didn’t? You’d hate it. So lean forward and lift your bottom up. Yes. Now arch your back. Think of a cat begging to be fucked. I want you like that.”

There was a little noise from Sa’afia. She’d liked that image.

Things were happening that she’d thought about but not expected to experience. I took a handful of Sa’afia’s hair and pushed so that she bowed her head while she presented her ass. “I want that arse of yours just begging for the cane.”

Despite herself, Sa’afia smiled at that thought. She arched her back a little more. I stroked the corner of her mouth, and she made to kiss my thumb and fingers.

“Yeah, good girl. That looks beggy. Beguiling.”

Sweet dreams #4: Sweet dreams

I’m in Sarajevo. I’m on my own. I’m about to get on a train. On that train I shall sleep. I’ve been pushing a bit hard lately and I’ve reached a limit. 

stoyaHere is  picture of a woman called Stoya. I chose a picture of her sucking cock, not because she looks her best in fellatio, but because long soup has been a topic.

Stoya was in bed with Amanda Palmer recently. I think a newspaper owned by Rupert Murdoch (spits on floor) would say they cavorted. This makes me think that they are both unreasonably lucky. 

If I’m mildly lucky, on my train I will dream of one of them, or both. Good night, world. 

Sweet dreams #3: Long soup

A woman dom with a submissive man can suck his cock as part of keeping him in his submissive space. She can tell him that he’s being teased and tested, that he has to stay absolutely hard in her mouth, but he’s not allowed to come. Or else. Or she can say he has to come quickly, and get soft again, quickly, because he’s being “milked” to reduce his male energy and any tendency to forcefulness.

So a man can have his cock sucked by his dom and remain in submissive role.

If she demands that he get on his knees and do her, she receives his tongue and his attention as service. When he licks her, he’s being submissive. Why? Because they both say so.

dreams1But if I licked – let’s say Sa’afia – I’d be thinking how I controlled her. I’d hold her down, I’d demand that she ask permission before she comes, and I’d let her wait and panic a bit before I gave that permission. I’d be dominant, and poor Sa’afia, with my lips and nose and tongue in her cunt, would be submissively under my control.

Whereas if she kneels while I stand, and takes my cock in her mouth, then we’ll be getting back to where I left the Probation Officer story.

I’ve finished one project. I’m going to Mostar, in Bosnia and Herzegovina be cause I’m due at a conference. Just observing, not doing anything. That’ll be less busy. Normal blogging should be resumed tomorrow.

Sweet dreams #2: Everything is a damn metaphor

Holy Crowley!

Holy Crowley!

Aleistair Crowley has been largely forgotten (internet fame not being quite the same thing as fame). He was a supposed black magician in the early twentieth century, who the newspapers called “the wickedest man in the world”. He did his best to play up to the reputation. 

Crowley was essentially an amusing charlatan, who harmed a few people more by carelessness rather than malice, and perhaps made up for that by showing some people an exciting time while entertaining millions more.  

One of the interesting things about him was his version of bdsm. When he was domming men, he’d give his male submissives a good thrashing to help them find the properly submissive state of mind. Since his male lovers had gone to English public schools they’d already been well trained for him: presenting themselves for their floggings and holding position for the master. They’d have been right at home. Crowley even used the titles (Magister, Dominus, Meister, Master) their flogging teachers would have used.

What strikes me as odd is that after the thrashing Crowley would present himself and order his submissives to bugger him.

It reminds me how conventional I am, really. If I let a submissive hitch on a strap-on, since people who have real penes aren’t part of my sex life, and shove it up my bum, I’d assume that while I was being anally penetrated I’d be doing something submissive.

That wouldn’t be a reason for not doing it. People should do what they want, with consent, and not worry what other people think, or what category it seems to fit into. I’m not going to worry about doing something I feel like doing because someone could read it as submissive. I’m only saying that’s the meaning I ascribe to anal sex: the penetrating partner seems to be dominant, and the ass-fucked partner seems more submissive.

Disclosure: I did once let a girl try to get a dildo up my bum, because being buggered by a girl seemed amusingly complicated, symbolically. But in practice it just hurt: there was nothing good about the feeling at all. Gay friends tell me it’s great, and I should give it another go. But I gave it a fair try, and it’s not for me. I pulled the plug, as it were, and I haven’t repeated the experiment. Well, there’s no law that says everybody has to like everything. I’m glad that women, and especially submissive women, mostly like different things than me.

But when Crowley had his submissive’s cock up his arse, he presumably felt that he was in charge. Perhaps he shouted commands: “Faster, you fool. Now slower. Don’t you dare come.” That sort of thing. 

When I bugger a woman, I feel and she feels that she’s being submissive, and that I’m in charge, riding and ruling her. Anal sex can be wonderfully, beautifully deep. I mean emotionally deep: the depth of the woman’s submission and surrender. It seems to be spmething very intense, between a dominant and a submissive. I like taking that surrender.

Still, in bdsm it seems that any meaning can be ascribed to any action. It’s the ascribed meaning that matters, not the action itself. 

I’m still in Glasgow. I turned out 80 pages yesterday, and I’ve got a concentration headache. I’m still working. 

Sweet dreams: A break from the probation officer story

I’m on the night train to Glasgow, with fighting, farting, shouting Neds in kilts and blankets. Last night I was up to all hours and all sorts of things. 

sweeterI was at a show where girls and boys wore nothing but cardboard and rags they’d acquired by tearing up suitcases on-stage. Then they picked up instruments and played and sang “Sweet Dreams Are Made of Thee-yisss”. It was Art, heigh ho, but lots of fun.

I finished up in a Chinese restaurant in Soho, though not Lee Ho Fook, and not infested by werewolves. Or any other customers at all. It was the small, bewitching hours. I had duck in plum sauce, and a beautiful slave girl with pink, white and black hair had long soup.

Long soup would be a good poetic term for oral sex, wouldn’t it?

We’d left the two pretty toolkit girls drinking cocktails in a homely little bar named after a parrot. I don’t think I could find that bar again. You can get lost in London. Lo-lo-lo-lo-lost. Loooooost. In London, lost.

Anyway, the point is that I’ll have to get back to Ana’s and Sa’afia’s story later. I need to do some work to make money, and then get some sleep. 

Probation Officer #86: Keeping up traditions

I waited, holding the rod high until Sa’afia forgot, for a microsecond to be tense. I struck quickly, still medium hard. Hard wood and soft thigh met, loudly. I could feel the impact, transmitted down the length of the rod to my hand. I could feel the sweet resilience of her. 

pain faceSa’afia’s sensations were intense where mine were subtle. She shook her head under her clasped hands. “Ahh-ooahhhh.” It was breathed through her obediently open mouth, not spoken. She puffed twice more, until the pain was under control. In a few seconds it would start to feel warm and sexually strong. The new line on her thigh formed and darkened. Her marks were beautiful.

I nodded. “Good. Good girl. Now, can you remember how many strokes you’re going to get on the back of your thighs?” 

Sa’afia nodded. There was a little shine of saliva at the left corner of her mouth. “‘es, sir.” She kept her mouth open, as instructed, even when she spoke. “Ten.” 

“Good. You’ll bend over and touch your toes for them. No, stupid girl. Not yet!” 


“One other thing first. You can put your hands down now.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And keep your mouth open, stupid girl, or I’ll punish you.”

The first time I’d said ‘stupid girl’ I’d worried if it was traditional, or just a cliché. Well, the next thing I said would be both. 

“Now, girl. Kneel.” 

Sa’afia said, “ah.” 

Probation Officer 85: Open wide

Sa’afia held the rod clasped between her upper thighs. I lifted it a little, so it pressed against her cunt. Sa’afia moved her left foot a little further leftwards, and moved her hips forward so that a little sliver of the rod disappeared beteeen pink folds. I lifted the rod a little to make the angle more pleasing, and Sa’afia closed her eyes, riding a cock horse. A couple of centimetres of the rod gleamed darkly in the light. She’d got it wet.

I took it away again once she’d relaxed. It was crueller than striking her thighs with it. She opened her eyes wide, shocked, and her mouth to protest. The rod had been wonderful. Why was it gone? I tapped her left thigh, below the first stripe, now slightly raised. I said, “You’ve got two stripes on your right side, and just one stripe here. Is that fair?”

“No, sir.”

“And so…?”

“You’re going to cane me on my left thigh, sir.”

“Holy fuck.” I was jolted out of role. I held up the stick. “You call this thing a cane?”

Sa’afia frowned. “Yes?” She couldn’t see what I was getting at. “It’s always called a cane.”

open wide“Well, okay.” It wasn’t a cane. It was something fiercer, harsher, than a cane. But I was getting off track again. “That case I’m going to cane you. Open your mouth.” 

Sa’afia looked a little bewildered, but obeyed. She’d been quiet so far, when she’d felt my hand or the rod. I wanted to make it harder for her to stay silent.

I didn’t explain that. I knew she’d like being told how to hold her mouth while she was being disciplined. It showed that I cared about her, in detail. “And keep it open until I tell you you can shut it.” 

Sa’afia closed her eyes and nodded, open-mouthed. I tapped her with the rod. “Open your eyes, stupid girl.” She watched, jaw dropped, while I raised the rod and held it poised, letting her wait. 

Probation Officer 84: Major Pain

The rod landed on Sa’afia’s upper thigh, straight wood biting curved flesh. It sounded like I’d slapped her copy of Charmaine Solomon’s Encyclopedia of Asian Food on the table. Sa’afia managed to keep still, and silent, except for straightening the fingers in her left hand. 

I watched the first mark form on her thigh, on plumpish flesh about an inch below her hip. I said, “How many strokes are you going to get on the backs of your thighs?”

Sa’afia opened her mouth but said nothing.

“You can speak to answer questions, stupid girl.” I had doubts about saying ‘stupid girl’. I didn’t worry that Sa’afia might wonder, even for a second, whether I really thought she was stupid. But I did worry that it made me sound silly, something like John Cleese’s Latin-teaching Centurion in Monty Python’s Life of Brian. But Sa’afia didn’t seem to think it was a caricature. Well, maybe it wasn’t a cliche. Maybe it was traditional.

So I added, “And if you think you have to say something, you can ask me for permission to speak. Um. You stupid girl.”

a stripeSa’afia nodded, but still said nothing. She might have forgotten the question. I swung the stick again, catching her a little lower on her right thigh. Sa’afia liked to watch my eyes when I did that, it seemed. I’d ask her about it later. She puffed, as the pain reached her, and relaxed again a few seconds later. The first, fiercest, pain only lasts a few seconds. She made no sound.

I watched the stripe form where the rod had landed. Two dark red stripes, slightly raised, parallel. Like a corporal’s stripes, I thought idiotically. This is corporal punishment.

“Ten strokes. You’re going to give me ten strokes across the backs of my legs.”

Sa’afia was speaking quickly. She was a little high again from the pain – maybe we both were a little high – and she wanted to show me that she was being good. 

I touched the end of the rod to her pelvic bone, just a couple of centimetres from her lips. Sa’afia slipped her left foot just a little further to the left. I took the invitation and lowered it, pressing forward so she could hold it between her thighs. I said, “That’s right, girl. Ten strokes. But we have some other business first.”   

Probation Officer #83: Keep still

Sa’afia said, “Fuck oath.” The first time I’d heard her say that I’d thought she was saying “fuck off”. But it was her version of “fucking oath”. It meant roughly the same as “damn right”.

She didn’t want any talk that suggested that her father was a bad man, and she didn’t want to have any tediously social-workery conversation. It wasn’t sexy. So she was pleased I was back on track.

suck airBut I’d only switched the topic back, not the mood. So I said, coldly, “I’ll tell you when you’re allowed to talk, girl.” I swung the stick and caught her, smartly, on the side of her left thigh. The stick made a sharp impact sound. Sa’afia didn’t. She breathed the pain hard through pursed lips, and was silent, staring hard into my eyes.

I nodded and didn’t smile. Smiles are reassuring and things would be sexier, for now, without that. I tapped her right thigh with the stick, because that was information she could think about. I said, “Put your hands back on her head.”

I waited for Sa’afia to obey, and didn’t praise her for it. I tapped her thigh again. “Keep still.” 

Sa’afia inclined her head. She was back in that state she’d floated in while I’d spanked her. I raised the stick, letting her watch her pain approach, and swung it, medium hard, to strike her right thigh.