Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 41

“Yes, because you joined that gang. You took part in some horrible things. And you started some of them, like that old guy you mentioned. The poor bastard who got bottled.”

Raylene made an unhappy sound. That was the thing that she felt worst about. When she’d first joined the skinheads, still fucked up and still angry with her mother, she’d egged on the gang to bash an old man. They’d called him a Jew, though Raylene wasn’t sure that he was. Not that it mattered. 

I said, “You’ll have to apologise to him. In person.”

Raylene wriggled uncomfortably. She was trying to nod her head, and she couldn’t do that from her awkward position, presenting herself on the stairs. She said, “Yes, I know. I should. But I’ll need you to make me. Sir.”

Can I get a witness? It seemed Raylene would like one.

Can I get a witness? It seemed that Raylene would quite like one.

“Maybe I’ll let him watch me punish you. After you’re said sorry.”

Raylene sighed. No, it was a moan. That idea had struck hard, and she’d liked it, at least in part. I didn’t really know if I’d punish her in front of an old man, but the threat had pleased and excited her. Whatever I decided to do when the time came for her to apologise, that had to be useful information. 

Her atonement would take a long series of punishments, and good deeds. We’d have to talk about it first, but the idea of a long-term project with Raylene seemed incredibly hot.

I touched the flat of the razor strop to Raylene’s cunt. She jerked forward and then relaxed. I pressed it a little harder, then took it away. There was a wet smear along the centre of the leather. I smiled, not that she could see me. But I made my voice warm when I said, “Good girl. I like it when you’re happy.”

I held the leather in front of her eyes, so she could see where she’d made it wet. “It’s just like a kiss,” I said. “Your cunt kissing the strop.”

Raylene made a smug, animal sound. Like a rat, warm and safe inside a nest of shredded newspaper. I touched the glistening leather to her lips. She kissed it, smiling.

I put my hand on her hip to steady her, letting the strop fall against her right thigh so she could feel its weight. A muscle in that thigh twitched, but she was silent.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 40

Raylene didn’t react. I looked at her with some wonder. Not because she was stoical, but because she was beautiful.

“We’re going to begin now, Raylene. There’ll be, oh” – I paused, as if I really were considering the number, which I’d already decided – “thirty strokes.”

hands stairsHer hands, clasped behind her neck, slipped a couple of inches, as if she wanted to protest. Or even get up. Then she was still again. She couldn’t turn her head to look at me. “Thirty? O god, that’s …” She stopped. 

I said, “It’s what you deserve. For now.”

“Thirrr-ty!” But Raylene made no further protest. So it was indeed a good and satisfactory number.

“Yup. Thirty strokes with the razor strop.” That felt good to say, so I added, cheerfully cruel, “across your arse. Quite hard. Probably hurt quite a bit. I mean it to. Do you know why, girl?”

“Because I didn’t call you sir? Before? Sir?”

“No, love. That last stroke dealt with that. So why am I going to strap you?”


“Raylene. Can you think of something you probably need to start dealing with? Atone for?”


“Ah what?”

“Ah. Because I was in that stupid gang? Sir?”

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 39

I watched Raylene’s presented ass and her crimson face. You never really know what someone else is thinking, but sometimes in bdsm you feel you have some sort of intuitive access, at intense moments. This seemed to be one of those.

I felt that she was a little scared, though not really afraid, and she was excited. I probably knew those things by smell. 

I also had things to think about, mostly more mundane than hers. For example:

Do I really have condoms in my wallet? (I think so. Didn’t I replace the last lot?)

How much of an idiot will I look if I don’t have condoms? (Considerable.)

Can I get away with checking, now? (No. It’d break the moment. Anyway, this is neurotic. Of course they’re there. Anyway, there’s oral sex to keep her on-side, then a dash to the chemist. Focus, f’fuck’s sake.)

raylene tawseI had been intending that we’d go to her bedroom and fuck first, and then I’d give her the razor strop afterwards, and that would probably be hot enough that we’d fuck again. It seems to be happening in this order instead. But what if it hurts too much, or she doesn’t like it? What if she gets pissed off with me? (Then you’ve blown it, and she probably won’t fuck you. Too late to back out now. C’est la vie.)

Okay, but how hard should I make the strokes? Love-taps or lashes? (Firm, I think, and fairly hard. She’d be disappointed if it doesn’t feel serious. Go with the best guess, and that’s it. And hell, she’s been in gang fights, which is more than you’ve ever done. She probably has a higher pain threshold than you, you total wuss, you.)

tawse for thoughtHow many? (It should feel like a landmark. Sort of an achievement. Make it … thirty. That sounds like a dramatic number. You can go softer if she’s not handling it. But she’d be proud to have managed it, once we’re through it. Thirty sounds a good whole-hearted number.)

Do I tell her the number in advance, or might she enjoy the suspense of not knowing? (Um, better tell her, for a first time.)

Uh, wait. Do I actually, all things considered, have the right … ? (Oh fuck off. Time to get moving.)

So I put my hand on Raylene’s waist, and squeezed her, enough to feel forceful, and hurt just a little. She expelled a breath, hard. My voice had absolute, baritone, certainty. “All right, girl.”

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 38

Raylene said, “Oh!” Her face was a beautiful crimson, and though this was partly a result of the strained position I’d made her assume, I was certain that she was extremely conscious of herself. And blushing at herself.

We’d stopped on the landing, midway up the stairs to her bedroom. Raylene had bent forward at the waist as I’d ordered her, feet well apart, lunged forward so that her weight rested on her forehead, pressed onto the fifth step from the landing.

No one would place their body in that attitude except at a command; the position meant that she was the sort of girl who obeyed commands, which was something for her to wonder at.

Only an hour ago, back in the kitchen, I’d told her to raise her arms so I could take her jersey off. She’d hesitated, and then decided to go along with me. Provisionally. But time had moved slowly in the hour since that moment of acquiescence, and in those minutes we’d come a long, long way. Raylene was now committed to obedience.

I watched the muscles of Raylene’s stomach and thighs tighten and clench, as she raised her arms to clasp her hands together, fingers intertwined, behind her neck. It was difficult to get her hands into place while she was in that position, which is why she’d said, “oh!”

lungingI considered Raylene’s crimson face. She had a lot to think about, in the moments – I hadn’t decided how long I was going to make her wait – before I started her flogging. This position she was in had no purpose, no possible meaning, except to present her body, her buttocks and cunt an offering to the man who was going to flog her with an ancient razor strop.

She was facing new experiences. She’d mentioned that she’d let some boy spank her before this. But I was sure that that had had none of the intensity we had now. Even before we’d begun.

And after I’d strapped her we’d have our first fuck, her and I, and those first times are always momentous. It’d certainly be the first time she’d be fucked by a man who had just whipped her; I thought she might already be wondering about the ways in which that would be different from other sex.

I expected that our fuck would go well, when we finally got to it. I hoped she had the same confidence.

Raylene made a “fff” sound, getting herself as comfortable as she could with the weight of her upper body resting entirely on her forehead. She was a strong girl. I liked her muscles. 

The illustrious e[lust]: e[lust] 68 is here!

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Elust #68

Photo courtesy of Molly’s Daily Kiss

Welcome to Elust #68

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #69? Start with the rules, come back April 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

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~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

A Misunderstanding With My Clitoris

BDSM Doesn’t Magically Fix Your Life

Discussing Consent, Culture, and What We Do

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Other people run. I fuck.
Frame by Frame

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Bad Men and Why Perfectly Intelligent, Independent, Sane Women Fantasize About Them

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Erotica Challenge: The Euph-Off /
Squirting: A Feminist Issue?

The Waaaambulance Race

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Sex and Depression – An Update
The Dating Game
Pussy Whispering
“Fuck You” Is the Best Revenge
Interviews & flirting

Erotic Non-Fiction

Doing As I’m Told
Possibilities to ponder
Sign Language
Today I’m Going to Share a Sad Story
Whispering To Him
Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 37

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

One Sadist’s Consent
Home Improvements
NSKQ 48: Cumming Kills the Party
The Fun, The Serious & the In Between in BDSM
Starting to feel human and kinky again
Do what you say you will do


Flattery – A Lusty Limerick

Erotic Fiction

happy birthday
The Red Shoes
The Fuck Feast Fantasy
“Not Paid to Love You”
The belt

Writing About Writing

Resist the Erotic Euphemism
Lessons From Writing A Threesome
The Semantics of Sex
Sardax Breathes Life Into Venus in Furs


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Falling off horses, and gate-keeping at bdsm meetings

Falling off horses

Even bad holidays are holidays, and holidays end. So I stood on the road with my suitcase waiting for the country bus that would, eventually, take to the airport that would take me home. My uncle and aunt waited with me, not overwhelmed with grief that I was going. Samantha was there too, not grieving either, but giving me the full force of her disdain. She was good at disdain. She wished me a good trip, going home.

So I was sadder, though not much wiser. Still, I had two new pieces of knowledge.

The first was that girls didn’t pick guys for their niceness or their intelligence or whatever. It was something subtler, that Greg had and I didn’t. He was a shit, and he was sexy. I could whine about that, or I could try to work out ways of being sexy myself, while still being me.

“Thou wilt never come for pity;

Thou mayest come for pleasure.”

If I really liked girls, and it was clear that I did, then I’d have to be someone girls enjoyed hanging around with. I had no idea how to go about that, but at least the project was clear.

Ruth is stranger than Richard.

Ruth is stranger than Richard.

The other thing I learnt was even more depressing, because there seemed to be nothing much I could do about it. It was that there was no reason to think that even I met a a submissive girl, or woman, and we got on well, she’d want the same things as me.

Bdsm is a big tent, and it includes all sorts of tastes, desires and practices. They’re not always going to be compatible.

At the time that seemed like bad news.

Of course, as you know, you can almost always find common ground with a lover, and you can pervert them in your direction, and they can teach you a few of their own favourite things. I just didn’t know that yet. 

Bdsm meetings

Girl in fishnets

Girl in fishnets

So – and now I’m going back to something I said in those posts about running bdsm meetings, especially this one – the fact that bdsm is a big tent  also means that it’s hard to draw lines about who is and who isn’t into bdsm. And that woman Ruby, who came to my bdsm meet’n’greet wearing a fishing net, and who got dissed for only being interested in getting spanked and fucked, is definitely inside the tent and under the umbrella. 

If anyone wants to identify with us, it seems to me that (except for people who advocate non-consensual practices) we don’t need gatekeepers to keep them out. 

Falling off horses and bdsm 3

So up in that hiding place on the upper floor I read, “But Henry never understood about gloves. He’ll give a swift beating followed by sex, but nothing kinky.”

I liked that line, mostly for the outrageousness of the goes-without-saying assumption that there’s nothing kinky about “a swift beating followed by sex”. It was an insouciant joke, and though I didn’t know the word I knew I liked the style.

But there was also some bad news in it, for me. The woman narrating the story was submissive, but she dismissed her husband as an unsatisfactory lover because he wasn’t sexually responsive to gloves.

Bond effortlessly established his dominance with his purple mink glove.

Bond effortlessly established his dominance with his purple mink glove.

I wasn’t a gloves man either, nor even a glove-fancying eleven-year old. These days I have a pair of leather gloves that I use for spanking and stroking girls who like the feel of leather a lot. But that’s more to indulge a submissive than because of any strong interest in gloves or leather on my part.

But in that shed the  gloves reference made me suspect that life was going to be even harder for me  than I’d come to expect.

At the time I wanted a girlfriend, who I imagined  as a girl prepared to cuddle me, and to talk about important things with. 

I also wanted to discover all that newly appeared girl stuff, like breasts and amazing phenomena like Samantha’s arse in tight Jodhpurs. And then I wanted to feel myself in the body of that girl who liked me enough to want to take me on board.

Those were my main ambitions, and they spent a lot of time haunting my waking and sleeping dreams. They seemed hard enough to achieve. I’d just failed spectacularly with Samantha, where a completely unworthy rival I thought – had succeeded.

It didn't seem much to ask.

It didn’t seem much to ask.

But then there were the other things I wanted. I was a dom, though I didn’t know the word. (The only word I knew was “sadist”, which didn’t really capture what I was like or what I wanted. I’d read some Sade, and I was – and am – no admirer of the Marquis.) But I wanted to find a submissive girl, who wanted the things I wanted to do with and to her. She’d want to be spanked, that dream girl, and tied, and to kneel with her hands and ankles tied together. Waiting for me to decide what I’d do with her.

So I’d somehow have to meet a submissive girl. There had to be at least one, somewhere in the world. I hoped so, anyway.

But the gloves line taught me, suddenly, that finding a submissive girl was only half of my task, though that seemed impossible enough. But what if I found that submissive girl and what she wanted was to be dressed in tight corsets and long black gloves, or wrapped in plastic, and tied in amazingly complicated ways? I’d seen images of that sort of thing, and they’d puzzled more than excited me. What if it turned out that the submissive girl I finally met didn’t want any of the relatively simple things I wanted? What if I didn’t enjoy the things she liked?

I had to re-define my goal. I didn’t just need to find a submissive girl, which was more than hard enough: I’d have to find the specific submissive girl who wanted what I wanted, and also wanted me.

The odds against me seemed high. Quite a bit too high. Life looked, from my rickety vantage point on the mezzanine floor of an abandoned shearing shed, likely to be grim.

Falling off horses and bdsm 2

Farmers don’t knock old buildings down. If a farmer builds a new family home on top of the hill, then the old house near the road is used for travelling workers like shearing gangs and fruit pickers. It’ll stay there until the floor caves in and the roof sags, and the younger son starts cannibalising it for wood and corrugated iron.

shedSo on my uncle’s farm there was a newish shearing shed, and a little further off there was the skeleton structure of the old shed, which was so ancient there were no electrical fittings for the clippers. There were manual, non-powered clippers on the bench, with other antique equipment that was probably worth a fortune, even then.

And there was about half an upper floor, where there was a press like a giant vice, with handles for two men, that compressed the wool into bales. They stored the bales up on that platform until they were taken away for auction.

Greg and Samantha were off riding somewhere. I didn’t want to think about that. The climb to the upper floor looked dangerous. Good. I’d been disappointed in lust, and I didn’t care if I was dead. And so forth.

Anyway, up on that rickety platform there was half a bale of wool still left in the press, some fleeces, a pile of woolsacks and some hay bales, stored and forgotten. So I went over to the hay bales, and found that they concealed a sort of nest. For shirkers and lovers.

And, as it turned out, wankers, because when I climbed down into this hiding place I discovered, under a sack, a small but select pile of ancient magazines, some Playboys, a few issues from the original British run of Penthouse, and some issues of something called Mayfair, which I’d never seen or heard of before.

The Penthouses were so old that the models didn’t show their pink bits, and often had a carefully placed hand or prop to cover their nipples. They made up for that with a Penthouse Forum section that seemed more explicit than in the later, more gynaecological issues. (I have no idea what Penthouse is like now. I haven’t seen one, or a Playboy, in the last twenty-odd years.)

nude spank2So people claiming to be office girls wrote to Penthouse to share their experience with being spanked in the office, which they agreed to because the pay was good. Eventually, after some terrible mistake, they’d have to strip quite naked before going over the boss’s knee, and as the spanking wore on they’d have an intense, screaming orgasm. After which, as it did in Penthouse Forum letters, “one thing led to another”.

I read the best of those letters so often I memorised them. Then I moved on to the Mayfairs. It was more cheaply produced, and so the girls in the pictorials looked like girls next door who might take their clothes off because they fancied you, rather than looking like models. They were still pretty, and there was something endearing about their tiny imperfections.

The Mayfairs were twenty or thirty years old when I discovered them. The newer ones had only pictures, and headings like “Thirty tits-out, daks-down bathing babes – AND THEY’RE STARKERS!” So something had gone badly wrong with Mayfair. The older issues were more up-market, with fiction, and articles on serious topics, competing with Playboy.

There was a story in one of the older issues, called “The Inner Room”, or “The Saddle”, or something. It contained two sentences I still remember. The heroine and narrator, a devastatingly heartless and aristocratic submissive woman, puts on her gloves, and reflects ruefully about her unsatisfactory husband:

“But Henry never understood about gloves. He’ll give a swift beating followed by sex, but nothing kinky.

Falling off horses, and bdsm 1

I stayed on my uncle and aunt’s farm one Christmas vacation, when I was eleven. I learned a lot about falling off horses, and I learned two things about sex.

What I learned about falling off horses was that although you seem to be very far from the ground up there on horseback, hitting the ground doesn’t actually hurt that much. In fact it struck me as quite a bit less uncomfortable than staying aboard a trotting or galloping horse, at least until I learned to move with the horse and got used to the saddle.

The first thing I discovered about sex involved my horse-riding, spray-on jodhpur-wearing cousin Samantha, who was sullen, moon-faced in a pretty way, and thirteen. She was an older woman. Eleven year old boys mostly don’t go after thirteen year old girls, and I knew that it was unlikely that she’d see me as a serious sexual contender.

But lust drove me to try, and ignorance drove me to try by hanging around gazing at her, trying to find ways of being “helpful”, and being too tongue-tied to say anything amusing. So I dropped, in her esteem, from irrelevant to irritating to revolting. I told myself, once I understood that, that the age gap, in that direction, made the whole thing impossible.

That saved my pride until Greg, a boy from the nearest city, also turned up to stay. He was eleven too, but a couple of months younger than me. These things matter when you’re eleven. Anyway, he started going riding with Samantha, and I smirked to myself about how much his failure was going to embarrass him, because I’d be there to see it.

It was at this moment that my heart made a little "nk" sound.

It was at this moment that my heart made a little “nk” sound.

So I came in from swimming a couple of days later, and there was Greg, sitting on the old couch on the veranda, with Samantha curled up on his lap. They were kissing. I noted with the precision of jealousy that he didn’t have his hand under her shirt.

But I knew better than to hang any remnant of my pride or hopes on that. It was only a matter of time.

My heart and pride snapping was the quietest and least important sound in the world. I’d got too close to back out without being seen so I came up, pretended not to notice their position, and enthused about my swim. I was as cheerful as anyone might seem to be, under the circumstances. There was, after all, nowhere else for me to go.

But Greg was a terrible person. He was in trouble at school for bullying, and he used to beat up his younger brother. He crept around the neighbourhood after dark and peered in the windows of women living alone. He stole things and blamed others. I found it hard to believe that he was good to Samantha. I, on the other hand, was a reasonably good person. I was gentle with people smaller than me, though I stood my ground with bullies. I had a lot to learn about riding, but at least I’d been brave about falling off horses, and got on again. I liked helping people. So clearly, being good, gentle and brave, I deserved Samantha more than Greg.

So I learned that the desire and affection of girls is not something you get as a prize, by “deserving” it. I had more to learn than that, but it was a start.

The second thing I learned about sex will have to wait till the next post.

Hosting a bdsm meet’n’greet group 4

So Ruby left, with a flash of pink knicker, trailing her fishing net behind her. The moment she’d gone, there was a burst of conversation. 

Woman in corset, with black lipstick: Well, thank god for that.

Woman in corset, with red lipstick: Fucking bitch.

Me: Huh? Ruby? She seems … harmless. What’s wrong with her?

Woman with collar, in short tartan skirt: She’s always fucking showing off. 

Woman in corset, with black lipstick: I don’t know why she bothers coming to kink events. She’s not into kink. She just wants to fuck lots of guys. 

Woman in corset with red lipstick: Yeah. She likes a spanking, but she never takes more than that. Just wants to be spanked and fucked.

Woman with collar, in short tartan skirt: Yeah, she should just go to polyamory groups. Leave us out of it.

Trio: Fucking bitch.

Me: Unhhh…

So I went and hung out with the football fans for a bit, because football might be as boring as half a ton of batshit, but at least it’s better than being nasty. 

Matisse: Young woman in a net dress

Matisse: Young woman in a net dress

It struck me as odd, because you might expect that if Ruby had been too spectacularly pretty, or snagged someone’s boyfriend or girlfriend, or got all the male (or female) attention. But Ruby hadn’t been or done any of those things.

She’d snagged my attention, but there were plenty of other bdsm guys in the bar, including a guy who was not only vastly better looking than me, but who managed to wear leather pants without looking like a total goose. That’s the only time I’ve ever seen it done. By a guy, I mean.

And the attention I paid Ruby was only conversational. It never occurred to me, at the time, that she might have been interested in me and hoping I’d make a move. (It’s only just occurred to me now. If she made any signals I missed them, as guys tend to do.)

But if she had signalled me and I’d noticed, I’d have pretended not to, because I liked her but didn’t fancy her enough to want to spend a night with her. She looked fine, but I knew I’d find the eccentricity harder and harder to take as the night wore on. 

So she was conspicuously the least successful woman there. She’d made an offer to a cop and been turned down. And whether she’d wanted me or not, I hadn’t even tried. So the female hostility she’d earned seemed a bit over the top.

Eventually, I discovered that there were various factions in the community, which were about personal rivalries rather than about competing ethics or ideas. Ruby was simply seen by some people as being too cheerfully unbothered about sides. 

I remembered that sort of thing from my days as a political activist. The less power and influence a group has, the more vicious the in-fighting for power within that group.

The bdsm community had no power whatsoever: therefore the corresponding viciousness of the in-fighting could go up to infinity.

I kept on running the group because I’d volunteered. But after a few months a submissive woman contacted me, and we wound up in her bed within a couple of hours of meeting. After that there was no contest. I preferred to spend time with her, and not the community.

So when someone told me I was running the group wrong, they found I was suspiciously ready to hand over the reins. I never found out if my critic ran the group better than me. I never went back. 

A moral

As I say, the group I’m hosting now is refreshingly faction-free. So up in the mountains I can do something useful for people who do that thing we do, and enjoy myself. 

The moral, I suppose, is that we expect community to be a good thing, but there are no guarantees that it will be. Communities, or segments of them, can be extremely unwelcoming and no fun at all to be around. If we want “the community” to be a haven, a resource and a pleasure, we have to remember to behave reasonably attractively.