Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 89: Dorabella’s pink-velvet spanner

Dorabella was in the kitchen, sitting at the table in a Hello Kitty t-shirt and her pink gown, flashing her very fine legs and eating cereal. I said, “Hi, Dorabella. You seen Raylene?”

“Oh, course.” She waved a milky spoon at me, to demonstrate how visible Raylene was. I frowned.

Fine way to spend a morning

Fine way to spend a morning

“Well, is she OK? I mean, about this morning? Getting the cane? Where the hell is she?”

Dorabella had been Dorabella, her full name, when we’d slept together. Bellie was Raylene’s name for her sister. I preferred, at this moment, the name we’d fucked under. Dorabella pointed down the corridor at the room Lynette had slept in last night.

“They’re in Lynette’s room. She’s talking Lynette down. When she invited Lynette to come up and watch her get caned – watch you cane a woman – Lynette didn’t take it all that well.” 

“I thought you were going to talk to her. Lynette. To calm her down.” 

“Jaime, I did. She was sort of okay with it. She could see that you’re giving Raylene what she wants. So I’d got her down to dubious.” She pulled a face, illustrating dubious.

“So how come she’s in a panic now?”

Wearing fuck-all

Wearing fuck-all

“I think it was that Raylene was so cheerful about it. She can be a bit much in the morning. She’d cut two canes. Guess that’s your idea. And making her wear fuck-all while she got them from the church. That’s your style too.”

I shrugged. Anyone in a position to tell Raylene what to do, and get obeyed, would make her to wear as little as possible. The same was true of Dorabella, but I wasn’t in a position to tell her anything. Probably.  That was starting to feel like a shame.

“And Raylene whacked a pillow with the thick one. Cane, I mean. It was quite graphic.”

“Oh. I see.” Raylene hadn’t liked Lynette for coming up the stairs without permission, and then disapproving of her. She was waging a small war against Lynette’s peace of mind. 

“Lynette freaked and ran into her room. Raylene followed her. Well.” 

I smiled. For some reason that made me proud of Raylene. But I said, “Are you coming up?”

“Of course. When are you starting?”

“Well, pretty soon after I’ve fetched Raylene and sent her up the stairs. And followed her. Give me ten minutes from then. Snogging time, mostly.”

robe cuntDorabella nodded. She stretched out one leg. The t-shirt stopped at her lower belly. She meant to show me her legs; I wasn’t sure if she’d meant to flash her cunt as well.

But then she inspected her foot, and I decided the cunt exposure was deliberate. “Are you going to be hard on her?”

I was going to answer, reassuringly and truthfully, that of course I wasn’t; I’d make it hard enough to impress and mark her, but for most of the strokes that wouldn’t have to be hard at all on a first time. But I remembered this was theatre, and Dorabella was part of the audience too. “Yes. Very. It’s her first lesson. It has to be hard.”

Bellie smiled a private, inward smile and nodded. That was a satisfactory answer. Was it why she was flashing her cunt at me? A nice soft spanner, to adjust my attitude? “It’s what she wants.”

I knew there was something going on, that Dorabella had her own reasons for wanting Raylene to feel her caning. I had no idea, and filed it under “sisters”. Instead, because the display of long, sleek leg and the sweet, pink folds of her smooth-shaven cunt was having its effect on my brain, I said, “Dorabella.”


t-shirtoff“You’re not wearing that t-shirt while you watch Raylene.”

Dorabella tilted her head, amused. “It’s too cheerful?”

“Any t-shirt. Raylene’s going to be naked. After the first six.” I shook my head as if I there was some good, fairness-based reason for what I was saying. “You can just wear the robe.”

Dorabella looked at me. Of course I’d be hoping the robe spent some of the time falling open. She knew that. But I’d expressed it as if there were some greater issue there. Something about fairness, apparently.

She did know that it was a test. It was getting obvious that Dorabella and I were going to fuck soon. Not today, because I’d be looking after Raylene, but soon. Going by what Raylene had said last night, it would probably be with Raylene, in a crowded, sisterly bed. Still, today we weren’t going to fuck, but it’d tell both of us a lot if Dorabella decided to obey my clothing suggestion.

Dorabella gazed thoughtfully down at her cunt, which made two of us. And didn’t pull the robe closed. “OK,” she said.

I stopped myself from saying, “Good girl.” Instead I said, “Thank you. It’s right.” And I walked down the corridor to Lynette’s room. With a song in my heart.  

Psychoanalytic wibble about bdsm 3: Michel Foucault!

Uncle Fester

Uncle Fester

“From the moment that Sade delivered its first words and marked out, in a single discourse, the boundaries of what suddenly became its kingdom, the language of sexuality has lifted us into the night where God is absent, and where all of our actions are addressed to this absence in a profanation which at once identifies it, dissipates it, exhausts itself in it, and restores it to the empty purity of its transgression.”


That’s from Michel Foucault’s Aesthetics: Method and Epistomology.

That’s nicely gaseous, but Sade didn’t really mark out the language of sexuality. It’s a really stupid claim to make, and you’d only make it if you knew that your fans were all flying with their bullshit-detectors switched off.  

Michel Foucault

Michel Foucault

Nor can you really say that the language of sexuality lifts us into the night where god is absent. After all, people who believe in gods don’t think their gods, or the one they believe in, are absent, while people who don’t believe in gods may not be worrying much about the absence of other people’s god’s.

Not when they’re getting busy with the language of sexuality.

But when he wrote about the profanation that at once identifies the absence of God, dissipates the absence of God, exhausts itself in the absence of God, and restores the absence of God to the empty purity of the absence of God’s transgression, Foucault raised a really interesting question: when you translate French foutaise into English bullshit, how can you tell if the two meaninglessnesses are the same?

(I dunno. Ask a swan.)



Psychoanalytic wibble about bdsm 2: Deleuze & Guattari!

Continuing our series on complete vacuous wibble on bdsm by Freud-inspired writers from twentieth century France, this one is concerned with “masochism”. Take it away, Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari!

D & G: Delouse is on the left, demonstrating the 1970s French idea of a comb-over, Guattari, on the right, accessorises

D & G: Deleuze is on the left, demonstrating the 1970s French idea of a comb-over. Guattari, on the right, accessorises

“What is certain is that the masochist has made himself a BwO [Body without Organs] under such conditions that the BwO can no longer be populated by anything but intensities of pain, pain waves. It is false to say that the masochist is looking for pain but just as false to say that he is looking for pleasure in a particularly suspensive or roundabout way. The masochist is looking for a kind of BwO that only pain can fill, or travel over, due to the very conditions under which that BwO was constituted. Pains are populations, packs, modes of king-masochist-in-the-desert that he engenders and augments .”

From A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, The Althone Press, London, 1988, page 152.

Leaving aside the question of whether things like “king-Masochist-in-the-desert” actually mean anything, and the question of whether it means anything to say that pains are modes of king-masochist-in-the-desert, there’s a bigger problem when D & G talk about “masochism”.

Particularly nasty weather! "Leda and the Swan": photo by Ralph Gibson

Particularly nasty weather! “Leda and the Swan”: photo by Ralph Gibson

In their writings, words like “sadism” and “masochism” are sometimes used to mean “resemblance to the character or works of Sade, or Sacher-Masoch”, and sometimes used in some of the many other common meanings, some of which have something to do with sexual desires and tastes and some of which do not. Deleuze and Guattari slip from one meaning to another without ever indicating what either word is intended to mean at any particular moment.

But once you’ve written that a body without organs can only be populated by pain waves, and you didn’t immediately groan and delete it, then it hardly matters what you think you mean.

Oh bugger it, let’s have another hot swan.

"Ahh, tickle your arse with a feather," shouted Zeus. Sculpture by Igor Zeinalov

“Ahh, tickle your arse with a feather,” ejaculated Zeus. Sculpture by Igor Zeinalov

Psychoanalytic wibble about bdsm: 1 Jacques Lacan!

I’m nearly finished revising the bdsm book. So I’ll be a bit busy for a couple of days, getting it done. I’ll be back to Raylene’s story shortly. I know it’s stopped at a dramatic moment, but we’ll get there.. 

In the meantime, and for your amusement,  here are three pieces of utter wibble written about bdsm by French writers of different Freudian schools. We never asked them to. Anyway, let’s start with Jacques Lacan! 

Leda fucked by Zeus, having transformed himself into a swan. Little-known fact: swans have penises.

“How can those terrified fingers push/  The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?”  Leda fucked by Zeus, who’d transformed himself into a swan for the purpose. Little-known water-fowl fact: swans have penises. (So, by the way, do mallards, including Donald Duck. Lucky Daisy.)

“One might think that Kant is there under the pressure of what he hears too closely, not of Sade, but of that mysticism that is Sade’s home, in the sigh that chokes at what it foresees, to have seen that his God is without figure: Grimmigkeit? Sade says: Supreme Being in spitefulness.

But pfutt! Schwärmereien: black swarms, we drive you out, to return you to the function of the presence of the Sadean ghost.”

That’s from “Kant avec Sade”, by the French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan. Any paragraph of it is much like any other. 

“Grimmigkeit”, by the way, means ferocity, while “Schwärmereien” means rapturous or fanatical intensities, but is a pun on “Schwärmen”, meaning swarms. There may also be an allusion to “Schwänen” (swans), as black swans are celebrated in philosophical circles for disproving the proposition that all swans are white. Lacan was celebrated for his wit, in Lacanian circles.

Lacan preserved Freud’s incoherent definition of “sadism”, failing to distinguish between sexual practices and violence enacted for non-sexual reasons.

The psychoanalyst as James Bond villain: Jacques Lacan

The psychoanalyst as James Bond villain: Jacques Lacan

Lacan’s own career offers an example of this confusion. Lacan treated his followers with contempt that was, arguably, justified by the quality of the work they admired, but in addition he mentally and physically abused vulnerable patients, which is perhaps less forgivable. Lacan’s abuse escalated to open, violent beatings of mentally ill people.

Other psychoanalysts described Lacan’s assaults on patients as “sadistic”. 

In reality it’s unlikely that Lacan derived any sexual satisfactions from beating his patients. He was not a “sadist”; he was simply an unpleasant bully whose violence went unchecked because he headed a cult.

One picture of Lacan is enough for any blog. So let's go out on a picture of a prick: swan's penis. Pfut, indeed!

One picture of Lacan is enough for any blog. So let’s go out on a picture of a prick. A swan’s penis. Pfutt, indeed!


Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 88: Over the table

I couldn’t have my cock in Raylene the second I finished her caning, if Dorabella turned up. Bellie had volunteered to watch Raylene getting her ass caned. Watching my ass instead, pumping away while I fucked Raylene, was a step or two further along. Neither of us was quite ready for that.

Raylene, little show-off that she was, would probably enjoy having the audience, but her preferences didn’t count. She’d like it even more if I fucked her with Lynette watching as well. But I’d like that even less, and my preferences counted.

Yeah, that transition...

Yeah, that transition…

But if I couldn’t use the bed to give Raylene a seamless, or at least instantaneous, transition from being caned to being fucked, then there was no point in putting her on the bed at all.

It made things more awkward for the witnesses, who’d have to stand close to me to view Raylene, and occasionally duck while I waved the cane about. 

There was a metal and plywood chair. I could make her bend over the back and hold onto the seat. But it would be uncomfortable for her, because there was no support for her body, and anyway I thought that position only looked stylish with a high-backed wooden chair.

Very hot position. Also silly

Very hot position. Also silly

I could turn the chair around, and make Raylene could put her knees on the seat and lean down to rest her hands on the floor.

That would be awkward for Raylene but not the rest of us, and it was a position that certainly displayed her body very fully. Also, the witnesses could watch Raylene’s face as well as her ass, when the cane landed. It would be almost too exhibitionist, which would make it peak sexy.

For everybody, including Raylene.

But it was her first time, and it was a hard position for a girl to hold, even a strong girl like Raylene. She was new to the cane and to discipline generally, and when I applied the strokes that were meant to mark her for days, she’d almost certainly break position and fall on the floor. So, with regret, that was out, too.

There was a desk in front of the window. She would have used it to do homework, and the odd bit of university work before she quit. I took the vase of dead flowers, the bear, the rabbit and the jarful of pens onto the floor and lifted the desk into the centre of the room.

Hands down the best position for a caning noob

Hands down the best position for a caning noob

It was wooden and sturdy, perfect for both strength and style.

I pushed it a little further forward, closer to the wall, so that Raylene could have her head over the edge, looking at the floor while I attended to her ass. Also, I thought itd be good to leave room, if necessary, for Bellie to stand in front of her and keep her shoulders down.

I put the chair where the desk had been. I flipped the duvet into place on the bed, so it’d didn’t look so obviously fucked-in. I picked a couple of condoms off the floor, wrapped them in tissue and dropped them in her bin. We were ready, except that the damn girl hadn’t arrived.

I’d have to get her. I picked up her robe, practiced my “concerned” look, in case she’d been bailed up by Christians and I needed to rescue her, and tucked my shirt in. I should have shaved. Too bad. 

I set forth to find my girl.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 87: Suspense and counting, for a caned girl

Other questions had to be decided. One was whether to tell Raylene in advance how many strokes she was going to get.

No, girl, it ends when I tell you it ends. And I'm not going to tell you in advance

No, girl, it ends when I tell you it ends. And I’m not going to tell you in advance

I like to have a number in mind but to keep the girl in suspense as well as pain, until I put down the cane, or whatever I’m using, and tell her that her lesson is over. 

A girl who belongs to me can usually tell, once she’s familiar with being disciplined, that it’s nearly finished when she gets two hard strokes in a row.

The last two strokes – have I mentioned I’m a traditionalist? – are always the hardest. Even then, she can’t be sure it’s over till I’ve told her it is. And if I see her relax after what were going to be the last strokes, I’ll add a couple more just for the mischief of it. It’s a dom’s duty to keep things suspenseful. 

A related question was whether to make Raylene count the strokes out loud and thank me. Girls getting the strap, paddle or cane often do the counting and thanking thing without being asked, if they’ve had a master or a dom before. I’ll let them if they want to.

"O! Fifteen! Thank you, sir!"

“O! Fifteen! Thank you, sir!”

But I only require a submissive to count and thank me aloud if I think she’ll find it hard to thank me properly for her lesson. Or else if I want to force her to stay focussed in the present, so that she feels the punishment fully and can’t so easily drift off into yummy old subspace. Or I might just want to hear her trying to keep her voice steady.

The fact that it was Raylene’s first time with the cane decided both of those issues. I wanted her first time to be challenging but perfectly endurable, and I wanted her to experience it as sexual.

Therefore I was going to tell her the number of strokes, and tell her she wasn’t to count them out loud. She wouldn’t have to think about either issue. If she did float away on me, all drifty and blissed, then I’d be happy and also flattered. I wasn’t actually expecting her to drift into sub-space, but I wouldn’t do anything to make it less likely. 

The other question for a girl – where was that damn girl, anyway? – about to get her first caning, in front of at least one witness and probably two, is where I was going to put her.

fucked cuffsIf we were going to be on our own, then I’d cane her while she lay face-down, ass arched up, on the bed, so I could grab her and be fucking her before she’d even processed that the caning was over. But that probably wasn’t an option, with witnesses involved.

Some other arrangement would be called for.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 86: When to be naked?

I walked into Raylene’s room, still rubbing my hair with her wet towel. She still wasn’t back. I imagined how long it would take a girl, walking carefully, to walk to the back of the church next door, possibly staring down some disapproving parishioners, cut two bamboos and walk back. I frowned.

She wasn’t late yet. Another ten minutes and I’d be her search party. I’d carry her robe and claim she’d been sleep-walking. But that left me ten minutes to get things ready. The first question was when I’d take that t-shirt off her. If we were on our own, I’d make her take her it off the moment she was through the door. She had a lovely body, and watching her would be a pleasure.

blue wakenI don’t know everyone feels this, but now we’d had a lot of sex and spent a night together my assessment of her hotness and beauty had shot up. I’d thought her breasts were good; now they were wonderful. I’d managed to become even fonder of her ass. And her face, when I’d seen it a pillow away, with muscles relaxed, her mouth open and drooling and her hair blue in her eyes and mouth, was glorious as the sun, a puffy, wonderful sun the colour of a smacked arse.

So she’d be naked, if my pleasure was the only consideration.

But Bellie had decided she had to be here as well, and it was possible that Lynette would turn up too. Lynette would come “reluctantly” and with a good reason prepared, I was sure.

So Raylene would be most exhilaratingly humiliated if she first had to endure the first six strokes bending over with the t-shirt’s ridge about coccyx level, but the t-shirt providing cover for her breasts and her tattoo. And then to have to stand up and take it off, facing the company, while they watched her.

blue girlIf Lynette was there, I’d tell Raylene to face her, just before removing the t-shirt, and apologise again.

It was possible the first six cane strokes would make it a teary apology. Then she’d have to strip the t-shirt off. That sounded like fun. And hot. 

I nodded, satisfied. Also my cock had hardened. With determination, no doubt. I was finding it hard to wait. Where was that bloody girl?

Caves: way down below the earth

ribbonyMy friend and his girlfriend had a good time, both under the ground and in the old and moderately grand hotel. The girlfriend, Iseult, and I talked about DJ-ing and politics, also stealing “Games of Thrones” from Rupert Murdoch (spit), and this and that, and we did okay.

There were waitresses, not the old waiters, in the dining room. The one who came to our table was Italian, not (as I’d predicted) German. She was tall, dark, with her hair up and she wore black yoga pants. Even in the gloom of the restaurant it was obvious she had a fantastic ass. She wasn’t completely immune to my charms, since I was using them lightly, mostly because they were understaffed and she was having to work far too hard. So I made her laugh a lot, which is good, but she wasn’t about to sleep with some guy she’d met two hours ago. Well, not this guy, anyway.

I hadn’t really expected anything else, so that was cool. There’s Warren Zevon’s “Lawyers, guns and money”, that begins, “Well, I went home with the waitress, the way I always do; how was I to know she was with the Russians too…”

If it was me, that song’d begin, “Well, the waitress doesn’t know my name; she never really does: She’s worked there seven months now, while she waits for someone else.” 

Except that when she saw me in the morning, I got a conspiratorial smile and a couple of good words. And that was nearly it. Well, the whole flirtation only happened because I was with a couple, and they fondled discreetly, and so … Also the hotel was kind of isolated. If it’d had been a city or even a small town, I’d assume the waitpersons have their own boyfriends or girlfriends to go home to. Well, there it was. 

But here’s another shot of the caves. 



Caving, tunnelling, cave men and cave women: join the club!

A cave man

A cave man

I’m going into some caves this weekend. I’m going to be a mad-looking bugger with a light shining from my forehead.

So the incredibly slow-moving story of Raylene will have to continue on Monday.

I’m going with a couple, as the third wheel, being a friend of the man. The woman has not necessarily warmed to me. I’ll say “yet”, because she doesn’t actually hate me. But I have boring conversations about music with her boyfriend.

I’ll be at a hotel built in the 19th Century, which makes it an old, even ancient, building in this part of the world.

A cavewoman. She's mostly gratuitous, because I've written about caves but this is a sex blog. But there's also the point about how your expectations change, according to whether you hear the words "cave man" or "cave woman"

A cavewoman. She’s mostly gratuitous, because I’ve written about caves but this is a sex blog. But isn’t it interesting how your expectations change, according to whether you hear the words “cave man” or “cave woman”

It used to be wonderfully old-fashioned – a roast on Sundays in the restaurant, served by doddery but learned male waiters, with no female waiters – but it’s been done up. Now there will be dishes with a pistachio and marrow jus, and so on, served by a beautiful German girl, nearly seven feet tall, who speaks better English than most of the guests, making a bit of money to keep her holiday going. 

I don’t think one is better than the other: it’s just that the old-fashioned version is rarer. 

Anyway, this weekend I’m a cave man: big boots, mad bugger forehead-light, club. Normal service will be resumed shortly.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 85: Canings and considerations

I need a Lana del Ray shower curtain. So do you

I need a Lana del Rey shower curtain. So do you

In the shower I wondered how Raylene was doing, out there in just a t-shirt, with two lengths of bamboo to select and cut. I expected her to come back as red-faced as I intended to make her arse.

Nah, I thought, Raylene’s arse was going to be a lot redder than her face by the time she and I had finished.

Dorabella, Raylene’s sister, had told me that Raylene expected to be caned hard.

I thought it was quite likely that Raylene had told her something like that, but that would just be bravado. I shouldn’t take it at face value. Raylene had no idea what a hard caning would feel like. She’d find out one day, if we stayed together, but not on her very first time.

Still, I had to make her feel those two canes and believe the strokes were hard, and I had to mark her. Enough for her to see the stripes showing up bright in the mirror afterwards, and for the hardest stripes to take a couple of days to fade.  

Trying not to think about this ...

Trying not to think about this …

The fact that she had no idea what a hard caning would feel like made that easier. I was confident that a medium-strength caning would hurt satisfyingly, and that I could throw in a bit of rhetoric about how merciless I was being.

There’s nearly always an element of farce about these things.

I’d said I was punishing Raylene for being rude to Lynette at dinner last night. But I didn’t really care about that fairly mild piece of teasing. That was farce too. I’d just wanted to up the ante between Raylene and me.

We’d both find her caning hot, and it’d make her closer to me: more mine.  

So I decided I’d give her a dozen with each cane. Two dozen in all. With enough force that she believed in the strokes, and every fourth stroke a little harder than the others. So on the second day, if she coloured well and held colour, she should have six stripes still showing up across her ass. She’d like to see those. So would I. 

These thoughts had given me a raging erection, not interested in delays or subtleties.  Also, it would be pretty conspicuous, even when I was dressed.

... only meant I thought about this. Stupid brain

… only meant I thought about this. Stupid brain

I thought about the ear structure of the African elephant, my stand-by when I need to discourage erections, but for once it made no difference. 

I got out of the shower, and used Raylene’s still damp towel. I tried to think about anything other than Raylene’s ass. Unless thinking about Dorabella’s and briefly speculating about Lynette’s counted, I failed. 

Damn thing would not go down.

Oh well. I put my clothes back on. My shirt smelled of cunt (how did that happen? I couldn’t remember), also sweat, and male arousal. Raylene hadn’t got back yet.