Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 9

But Raylene had pressed forward, legs parted so I could reach my hand between her buttocks and stroke and pet her cunt. And she’d pushed her body hard up against mine so she could feel my cock, solid evidence that she was exciting me. And it wasn’t so long since I’d given her inner thigh a smack and she’d understood that that was an order to part her legs, and she’d obeyed.

I’d loved that little moment of obedience, and everything I could read in her told me that she’d been excited by it too. The act of sliding her right foot across a bit of kitchen floor, just a little to the right, had somehow taken on immense sexual promise and significance. Because it was submission. 

lip bite 1I’d been about to back off and apologise. But I felt sure that that couldn’t be what she wanted. So I went with instinct, knowing that I could easily be turning this moment of awkwardness into something genuinely bad: a creepy man trying to bully a woman. I said, in the command voice, “Raylene. I’m going to take this jersey off. So lift your arms up. Now, girl.”

So that was unmistakably what it was, and if I was wrong there was no going back, except for apologising and leaving. 

I’d hoped my voice would come out sort of Cary Grant-ish at that moment. Firm, but also light and charming, that was the tone I was hoping for.

I didn’t manage Cary Grant. Too much was at stake, and my voice emerged, treacherously, in a sort of hollow-throated growl. It can’t have sounded at all attractive.

Raylene froze. 

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 8

[This is part 8 of a serial. It’s really an elongated anecdote, since it’s true except for the odd detail being changed to protect the identity of a woman whose name is not really Raylene. And the story started in a kitchen and here in episode 8 we’re still in the kitchen. Nothing’s happened, really. Or nothing except that Raylene had given me some ambiguous signals about submission, displayed interest and then denied it, and had at least given me certain other kinds of permission. As Episode 8 begins, we are standing together, face to face, and Raylene’s jeans and panties are down around her thighs and I’m firmly holding her ass, a buttock in each hand. So we’re both happy. Now read on.]

7r8SUxtSince having my hands squeezing her bottom made Raylene sigh, I slipped my right hand down a little further, around cool rounded flesh, and accessed and stroked her cunt from behind. That made her sigh too. Raylene held her breath, expecting more. So I made there be more, and more.

Raylene sighed and held my hips, and she sighed and held her breath. I pleasured her, fingers finding and stroking a slick pathway, female territory that seemed to be a little wetter with each pass, and she sucked in her breaths at long intervals, more or less at random.

My fingertips were wet, then wet past the knuckles, then three fingers wet and in her all the way. I kissed her ear again, and she leant closer and said, “Yes.” Yes is what I thought, too. It’s not so hard to be happy. 

Time passed, and while I stroked her I considered what had to be done next, if this was going to end, as it should, in her room and on her bed, table or possibly carpet. We had to move this into private space, since Raylene had sisters who also lived in this house. And although they were supposed to be renovating a house in the country, there were also her mother and her mother’s boyfriend to consider. It seemed to me that the way to move this situation to her bedroom, which I assumed was upstairs, was to get her to take her jersey off. She would then realise that we were irrevocably intimate, and invite me upstairs.

This actually was a reasonable plan, though my desire to get my hands and mouth on her breasts helped me to think of it. And because I am stupid and do not learn, and under some circumstances I do not think at all, I said, as encouragingly as I could, “arms up now.”

Raylene frowned and looked at me. I had only meant this as a mock-order, the sort of thing I might say I were putting one of my nieces or nephews to bed: Arms up, because you have to lift up your arms so I can help you off with your jersey.

But in this context I seemed to be pulling “that stuff” again; giving her orders after she’d said that she didn’t want orders. The frown meant that I’d been told not to do this dominance stuff, and here I was again, and what did I think I was doing and who the hell did I think I was?

My first impulse was to apologise. I don’t like making women frown. Though perhaps I should only apologise mildly, since it was a pretty mild transgression.

Ahh, man, fuck cancer: I mean, seriously, fuck off, cancer

Thing is, I been pissing blood. It’s stopped now, but my urine looked like pinot noir. No pain, so there was nothing to distract me from the sight of it, and I can report to you that it looks really, really weird.

I got two doctors who think there’s a reasonable chance it’s a presenting symptom for cancer. So I’ve contributed a whole lot of blood and urine for some lab to take a look at in the next week. I’m getting ultrasounds on Monday.

So life’s on hold until late next week. Because that’s when I should know. I actually don’t think it is cancer, because there are other possible explanations and the odds are against it. But I know that I wouldn’t actually know, and my assessment of the odds is close to worthless. And even having to worry and wait is pretty shitty.

I’ve been a bit weary the last couple of days, because this has been a year of this sort of shit. My mother died, my father’s losing his marbles and is now in a dementia ward, the woman I loved done left me, and … Oh, that’ll do for now; I got enough for a blues.

Bad news

I’ve had some bad news. I’m not ready to write about it, and I’m mainly in a mood for – I don’t know. At different times in my life I’d have got drunk, or hidden from all my friends till I’d dealt with it, or switched myself off but gone on doing what I usually do, but not really being there, or playing bad music incredibly loudly, or shouting poetry, in private of course. Sorry, you get this lot: 

      Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
         Nor peace within nor calm around,
      Nor that content surpassing wealth
      The sage in meditation found,
         And walked with inward glory crowned—
      Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
[…]
      Yet now despair itself is mild,
         Even as the winds and waters are;
      I could lie down like a tired child,
      And weep away the life of care
         Which I have borne and yet must bear,
      Till death like sleep might steal on me,
         And I might feel in the warm air
      My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony.
Riwha Titokowaru

Riwha Titokowaru

.

But also, less weary, some defiance from Titokowaru:  

“E kore a hau e mate kāore a hau e mate,
ka mate ano te mate.”
“I shall not die; I shall not die.
When death itself is dead I shall be alive.”

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive: getting our bearings and resuming the story

I’ve been blogging about the Australian Survey on Sex and Relationships, and then I told a story about the Gates of Ivory, and the unsatisfactoriness of sex fantasies compared to the most prosaic real sex. And all that time I was leaving a girl in the kitchen. 

I was telling you about Raylene, who was the younger sister of a woman I’d known for a while. We’d had sex a few times, but were were never more than friendsa. Anyway, she’d mentioned she had a younger sister who was going through a hard time, because she was angry at her mother and stepfather, and she had terrible taste in boyfriends.

A couple of years later, I met that girl in her kitchen. She’d left a neo-Nazi gang, and because I wanted to write a story about them, I’d been keen to interview her.

jeans downBut in the kitchen, we’d found that we liked each other, different though we were in every way. And it had got to the stage when Raylene had her jeans and knickers down round her thighs, and we were leaning into each other’s bodies to kiss. But she’d reacted positively when I gave her a smack and told her to open her thighs. So I’d started to talk to her the way I talk to a submissive.

She knew what that was and what it meant. And she froze. And suddenly I was set back several steps. But she didn’t pull her jeans and knickers up, and she seemed fine with my hands on her bare ass, so … something was still happening. 

Tomorrow we resume the story from there.

The Gates of Ivory: The Hurdy-Gurdy Man walks away

So I was, “Oh come on, you may as well leave it too.”

girls outdoorsSo we walked along, all singing close harmony songs about food cooperatives, no-good blue-eyed lovers and eldritch uncanny things, since the Dixies and the Warpaint occupy way different songy universes. But my piano-accordian, the which I had not previously known how to play, totally tied it all together, musically.

Eventually the Emilys tugged my arm. Or arms. An arm each or apiece. So I was all like, “What?”

“Thank you, honey, for letting us out of your dream.” Emily smiled. “We’re so very grateful.” And then Emily smiled too. “And we’d like to show you just how very…”

Emily started fumbling with my belt, because I somehow had my clothes back on, and Emily fumbled with the button of my jeans, and then they sank to their knees at my feet, each resting the little song-snatch on a heel and looking hungrily at my cock, which had fully forgotten to be floppy. 

And that was a fine thing, but I said, “Hey, Emilys, are we still in…”

And Emily went, like, “Nah. We’re just kidding.” And Emily was all, “Honey, totally jerking your chain.” 

Theresa and Natalie came over, and were, “Hey, girls, there’s someone else wants us now. See you round, Jaime-Bob.”

natalie dixieAnd Natalie, who’d had reverse cowgirl anal on my gearstick, which I thought creates a bond, winked at me.

She went, like, “You want us back some time, you know how to dream, don’t you, Jaime-Bob? You just put your head on a pillow and snore.”

I was all, “Huh?” I was watching the fine Dixie and Warpaint asses walking away. Natalie punched my arm. “Huh?”

[The End.]

 

Gates of Ivory, Penis of Playdough

So the Corrs went sashaying off to entertain some dude they’d said was way like me. But dude totally wrote poetry. That seemed most unlike me, even ignoring details like him liking his poems with fake blood on them, which is way more weird than fully. Also, apparently he’d stop with fake blood spatter and the Corrs getting naked, so he clearly has no dick.

Not tonight. You apparently have a headache.

Not tonight. You seem to have a headache.

But just then I could in no wise despise that fool, because my dick was likewise, like, totally floppy. This is something that is normally not appreciated, though it was approved of by elderly librarians when I was at school, but not so much liked by chicks. Present a chick with a dick that’s doing nothing and a “nothing doing, sister”, and much female understanding, support and sarcasm can flow and ensue. A friend of mine totally told me.

But there I was, as deflated as the Save Ferris balloon, fully deflated, dudes and manettes, but the Jaime-Bob dick seemed to be absolutely as popular as it ever has been. Ever. 

So I was, “Hey chicks, Warpaint and also Dixie alike, this is like a fully soft cock, which is not the most triumphant tribute to your beauty, yeah? Or not?”

And the Emilys were all, “Aw, don’t you see it? It’s adorable!”

So I was, “Chickettes, I fully don’t get why you’re baby-talking my dick like you thought flat and squishy was the new hard. It mean, stick a feather on the end and this dick’d totally look like a party tweeter.”

tweeterAnd Theresa Warpaint’s nipples went all, you know, bulletty. And she was fully, “But Jaime-Bob, party tweeters are hot. Also fandoozles. Party horns. Flid-whistles. Squeakers. Blow ticklers.” And she waved her hand in front of her guitarlicious tits, like to cool down.

natalie dixieAnd Natalie Dixie was, “And party tweeters, yeah. Hooo. Even the names are getting me way hot.”

And Jenny Lee Warpaint went, all sultry if that’s the word I think it is, “And wet.”

And Martie Dixie was, “And wild.”

And Stella Warpaint put her finger in her mouth and then pointed it at me. “And wide.”

The Gates of Ivory: The Cardboard Jellyroll

Now there is fully nothing sweeter to these ears than praise from happy women. But this praise was fully fake, and hearing it was, like, like eating a photo of a jellyroll. And though I love some jellyroll I fully need the real thing: fuck similes.

But the glowing squirming excellence and extremities of my slippery seatful of the chicks Dixie and Warpaint totally notwithstanding, they were making me uncomfortable. If they’d praise anything I did then none of that praise meant anything.

So I stood up, which is not something that can at all actually be done in the front seat even of a Chevrolet that was fully the size of one of the Gilbert Islands, and I reached for my underpants. “There is nothing at all, chicks, that I could do wrong, is there?”

The dreamer can leave but the dream is never over

The dreamer can leave but the dream is never over

They all looked up at me, open-mouthed and shook their heads slowly, like beautiful laughing clowns. Theresa Warpaint was all, “No, you can’t be wrong, honey.”

And Natalie Dixie went, “Not in our eyes.”

So I stepped over onto the back seat and vaulted out of the car. And Stella Warpaint went, “Honey no, where you going? You can’t go. It can’t be the same without you.”

But I was fully, “Look, dudettes, you’re hot and all, hot on a solar hotness scale, and I know I’ll be waaaay sorry for this. But this must be my world, here, so I’m fully allowed to leave it, yeah?”

And I totally walked away. But the sight of their most woebegone faces stayed with me. So I turned back. The fish tank had disappeared but there was still a Chevy packed with naked Dixie Chicks and Warpaints, with fourteen nipples pointed at me and seven girl-faces looking fully big-eyed and sad.

The Gates of Ivory: The Corrs and their Other Encounter

And then the Corrs produce this singing fishtank, as big as a football field, and they drag it into place where Warpaint’s pool table used to be. And there’s mermaids in there, brushing their hair and singing songs that don’t have lyrics, except for “weia weia woglalala” and such. 

human-fishtankSo I’m like, “Thanks for the fish tank and all, but, hey, I like totally never ordered a fish tank and I fully don’t want to see it on the bill, man. Or man-ettes.”

And the like senior Corr, she goes, “Noa, m’darlin, the fish tank is gratis.”

And I’m like what?

She’s all, “I mean it’s free, y’… handsome devil, and sure and you’ll be grateful to us later. Sometimes you just foind you need a fish tank. This one’s fully operational, and fires real fish.”*

So I go, “Yeah like totally whatever. Hey, you wanna get with the party in the front seat here? My body is like totally a theme park for rock chicks, Corr-ette, whichever one you are.”

And the Corr of Corrs is all, “Thanks sugar, but no. We got another appointment.”

 And I’m like, “Appointment?”

 And the middle Corr says, “yeah, it’s a guy like you. We just have to go and see him sometimes. And we do this thing.” 

PVC raincoats are a thing.

PVC raincoats are a thing.

“Thing?”

“To be sure. We turn up in these little see-through raincoats, and he reads us a poem he’s written. A really angry, angry, angry poem. And then we splash blood everywhere, and we take off our raincoats and we tell him he’s the greatest poet who ever lived. Total genius, the poet’s poet’s poet.”

 I’m, “No way!”

“Absolutely way.”

So I’m all, “And then what happens?”

And the two older Corrs are all looking at each other, like they don’t remember what comes next, and they’re totally shaking their heads, and it’s the junior Corr who goes, “No, m’jo, that’s it.”

And I’m like, “It? Freakin fuckin deacon, that’s not much of a party, is it? Not like the fun the Chicks and Warpaint are having.” 

And the Corrs are like, “No, acushla, we find it an utterly satisfying encounter. In. Every. Way. We love it and it gives us complete physical satisfaction. As women.”

I’m like, “wow”, and then they’re all, like, bye, and they sing a unison see you later to the Dixies, and they skate off.

And I’m shaken by the whole thing, and while I’m thinking it over the Chicks and Warpaint suddenly chorus, “Awwwww! It’s gone soft! Isn’t that just the sweetest, most adorable thing?”

I’m like, “It’s totally never happened before, it’s not you, it’s, I’m under a lot of … Wait a second: sweetest? Adorable? Are you sure?”

 

* Friends of mine will note that I’ve stolen Michael Moorcock’s “fish tank” gag again, but it was bound to happen, soon. Least I’ve got it out of the way.

The Gates of Ivory: th’ Dixies, Warpaint and a guest appearance by the Corrs

Emily Dixie

Emily Dixie

So I’m in this awesomely huge Chevrolet convertible, peoples, outside the Phully Phat Phizzeria, and there’s like me and my coq au pommes frîtes avec Moët and also Chandon in the front seat. Which seat is also most awesomely decorated by the Dixie Chicks, fully naked, I mean wearing nothing but a smile and roller skates totally out of American Graffiti. Also the pale gold radiance of their beauty, which’d make you wanna bang their booty.

And they were squirming around all sleek and smooth like, y’know, totally fit blonde dolphins, and it’s full-on party hour. Natalie and Emily and Martie somehow get my shirt and pants and Mr T boxers off without me even getting out of the seat, which is fully weird.

Then Natalie turns round on my lap, facing the front with her arms stretched out like a car ornament, and lowers her little asshole onto my gearstick, I mean mine, my most intimate gearstick, which is soon more than somewhat comfortable filling her lasshole.

Emily Warpaint

Emily Warpaint

And while I’m grinding Natalie I’m kissing Emily and Martie, and then Theresa and Jenny Lee from Warpaint are, like, sliding most bodily and bodaciously into the car too. Then Warpaint Stella arrives with Warpaint Emily, who hi-fives Dixie Emily, and the Chevy is rockin’ and I’ve got my cock in. 

There’s champagne being supped from here and there, and here again, and everything is most entirely squeally and moany and foamy.

And then Natalie climbs off the gearstick and gives it a champagne scrub, and they all demonstrate the superior leg room of the Chevrolet by getting down and taking turns like totally swallowing my swizzle, which is my way of avoiding the word, y’know, cocktail. I am way impressed by the superior technique and breath control of chicks some of who or whom can like even, f’fuck’s sake, yodel. DING!

CorrsBut this is when the Corrs rock up in their little PVC raincoats, except for the guy no-one remembers, who isn’t there, and they kick Warpaint’s pool table on down the road.

One of the Emilys looks up and is, like, “awww, what?” but I’m all, “Hey, Corrs.”

Because, like, could you ever really tell them apart? 

(To be concluded. There is, sort of, a point to all this.)