Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 117: Raylene’s caning 4

Possession isn't everything. But it's good.

Possession isn’t everything. But it’s good.

Dorabella was still filming, and for no good reason except to bring her back from recording to participation, I whacked her arse, not hard, and pulled her into an embrace.

She put the phone down beside Raylene’s hip, and took the thicker cane from between her thighs to hold on to it while she clung to me. She kissed me, affectionately rather than passionately.

“I bet you never expected this was how this would go.”

“Are you … Do you mind?”

“No. You’re a good skin.” I’m still not sure what a ‘good skin’ is, except that it must be good. And skinny. “You’re allowed to be happy. And … you’re enjoying yourself. What you’re doing. And how you’re doing it. It’s fun to watch you.”

Dorabella's dancecard, for some time tomorrow. At least as I envisaged it

Dorabella’s dancecard, for some time tomorrow. At least as I envisaged it. Pretty sure she had something simpler in mind

“Hmmm. Well, don’t get too damn analytical. I’m still expecting you in Raylene’s bed tomorrow. Or yours.”

“Um. Yes, well. You’re still booked for a fuck. On my dance card. Or something. But we’ll have to talk about it.” 

I wasn’t sure what that meant. But at least it seemed that I hadn’t blown it completely. So I said, “Ok. We’ll talk. But just now…”

I glanced at the cane in my hand, and at her sister. 

Dorabella gave me the eyebrows ironical again. “No, you’re a busy man. Go for it.” 

“Filming, Dorabella.” That was an order, a hint of command voice.

When Dorabella smiles, there are dimples. “Yes, sir.” She still meant it ironically. But she put the spare cane back between her thighs, and picked up the phone.

cane comfortI gave her a few seconds, then said, “Lynette, you’ll have to lean back now.”   

Lynette looked at me almost guiltily, then took her hand away from Raylene’s shoulders. She leaned away quickly, dropping both hands to her lap. What the hell was going on with her?

So I said, “Thanks.” Then, because sometimes I just push my luck, I added, “Good girl.” 

Lynette frowned. She seemed to be puzzled too. I said, “Eyes on Lynette, Raylene. And after this stroke you’ll take your t-shirt off and get up to face her. You’ve got an apology to make.” 

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 116: Raylene’s caning 3

Please don't tell!

Oh, please don’t tell!

Raylene stared beseechingly into Lynette’s eyes. Lynette, I dare say, wondered about what to do with power. She’d enjoyed watching the two cane-strokes she’d witnessed so far.

Now, with a word she could get Raylene an extra stroke, entirely in Lynette’s honour. And at her discretion. It’s no bad position for a guest of honour to find herself in. So she hesitated.

But like a good feminist woman, all solidarity with the sisterhood (eventually), she finally said, “Oh. No, she was, you’d say, good. She didn’t break eye contact.”

I gave her the look you give a brat who’s denying that she ate all the chocolate biscuits.”Oh? Are you sure? Lynette? Really sure?”

Lynette’s eyes dropped. She didn’t like lying, and she was terrible at it. Then she looked me firmly in the eyes, radiating truth and sincerity. “Yes. She kept her eyes on me all the time.”

This was comedy and we both knew it. “Oh. OK. That’s all right then.” It was a very poor imitation of someone who believed her.

We looked at each other. I grinned at her, and a second or two later she smiled back. Two liars, in a conspiracy to save Raylene’s ass.


Stripes in blossom. Roses of red and white. It was Spring, on Raylene’s arse. 

I saw Raylene relax slightly, relieved, so I whipped the cane down again. Not hard, but low, catching the soft flesh of her underbum. This time she managed to contain the pain, expelling her breath hard but more or less silently. Though she couldn’t keep her ass still while the new stripe blossomed to red, she did manage to keep her eyes on Lynette.

Lynette smiled at Raylene. Her self-control meant that Lynette wouldn’t have to lie again. Approving of the behaviour of a girl getting the cane: that was a new and strange experience. She seemed to be enjoying it. 

“You can call her a good girl, if you like. When she is being good.” I was being helpful.

Lynette put her hand on Raylene’s cheek, touching her thumb to her mouth. “You are a good girl.” Then she stroked Raylene’s hair, lifting it away from her face.

Raylene accepted the caress but said nothing. She may have felt she could only address me. Lynette’s hand strayed down to Raylene’s shoulders. She must have been dying to get her hands on Raylene’s ass again. But she didn’t dare.

This time I didn’t help. Or give her permission.


Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 115: Raylene’s caning 2

Raylene's amazing hypnotic ass

Raylene’s amazing hypnotic arse

Raylene had settled again, and managed to keep her face turned to Lynette as I’d instructed. It looked to me as though she’d been a bit vague about holding eye contact, and that Lynette hadn’t mentioned it. 

Lynette would be telling herself that this was womanly solidarity, and she’d be feeling good about that.

That and the sexual atmosphere in the room would keep Lynette here. She was focussed and bright-eyed, watching what had become the slow, undulating movements of Raylene’s ass. She was happy. Moderately hypocritical, perhaps, but by then I’d learned not to mind mild hypocrisy. We can’t live without it.

Dorabella still held the cane between her thighs, and filmed Raylene’s arse. Dutiful girl. Beautiful girl. I knew I was being unfair to her, giving her less attention because she was neither my new lover nor a woman I hadn’t had sex with before. That’s shallow, and it’s one of the ways the male brain works. It’s still my fault if I do it, but I don’t think that one’s just me. So I smiled at her. “How’s the filming going?” 

Dorabella was still on her knees, with the phone camera to her eye. “I think you’ll like it. It’s hard keeping Raylene’s arse in frame, though. When it’s really moving. Thought a sadist like you would have tied her down?”

“Pervert, yeah. Sadist, no. Can’t stand Sade. But it’s hotter if Raylene has to keep herself still. This time.”

“And next time?” 

“If you film another episode of ‘Raylene Gets the Cane’, I’ll tie her down. Ok?” 

“That would be very thoughtful.” 

“Then you might want to be ready for the next stroke. It’s going to be hard. I don’t think that ass is going to keep still.” Then, not really talking to Dorabella, I said, “But if Raylene lets go of the desk or breaks eye contact with Lynette, she’ll get the stroke again. Even harder. Until she gets it right.”

Lynette said, “Jesus.” I was sure Raylene would hold the desk but lose eye contact. I wondered if Lynette would tell on her. I expected – and hoped – not.

And that was enough preamble. “Show me how brave you are, Raylene.” 

She didn’t answer, except to adjust her grip of the desk legs she was clinging to. I raised the cane, and counted, everything held in awed suspense, silently to twenty-five. Then I swept it down, putting a little more force into the stroke.

Dance de la troupe. Raylene could come dancing, and Lynette could probably come from watching.

Dance de la croupe. Raylene could come dancing, and Lynette could probably come from watching.

It landed across the crown of Raylene’s ass, with a high, loud SWACK, though it was only a slender cane. It would have been worse if I’d aimed for her lower buttocks again, but Raylene had no sense of being treated mercifully.

Her ass shook while the fresh stripe bloomed, and her body flopped on the desk as though it was trying to buck her off and she was trying to stay on.

My lovely cowgirl. She sang, “Ohhhh! Huuuuuuuu! Oh-owwwwwww, fuck!”  

Eye contact was forgotten in the turmoil of pain until suddenly, guiltily, she snapped back to face Lynette. Still mewling: “ooohhhhhhh.” I expected that her mouth looked very beautiful. I expected that Lynette thought so too.

“Lynette.” She looked at me, startled. She’d been entranced. I said, which hadn’t been what I intended, “Lovely, isn’t she?”

“Oh, god yes.” That sounded heartfelt. Cunt-felt.

“But I could have sworn she broke eye contact with you. Did she?”

Lynette paused. Solidarity hung in the balance, with lust jumping on the other scale. 

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 114: Caning Raylene 1

Lady in waiting

Lady in waiting

So Raylene, freshly comforted, waited over the desk for me to resume her caning. She arched her ass up a little tighter, presenting two straight and red cane-lines neatly ruled across the pallor of her buttocks. Her legs were tense and spread.

She signalled readiness and quivering obedience with every atom of her body.

Her witnesses, Dorabella and Lynette, were in place. Everything that needed to be said had been said.

Though when I’d told her that I seemed to be falling in love with her, maybe I’d said a little more than was strictly necessary. Still, though we’d need to talk about that when we were alone, making a declaration in front of witnesses could have been the right spirit. It was the same spirit as Raylene’s, anyway: crash or crash through. 

So I took my stance behind Raylene and raised the cane. It’s a good moment, that. I paused to savour it, and to help the tension build in that little room. Lynette had told Raylene that she hoped it’d hurt, but I expected she’d been playing up for Raylene’s benefit, and perhaps mine. Anyway, I didn’t want Raylene jumping up on her first stroke in front of Lynette, so this stroke would have to be hard, but not as hard as later ones would be. I’d just have to trust Raylene’s courage and control. She shouldn’t suspect I was going to go easy on her.  

early in caningSo I swung, aiming low, just above the sweet fold at the juncture of her buttocks and thighs. And I let it bite fiercely.

A half-second after the “snick” of impact Raylene’s head shot up. Her arse trembled, at the edge of her control, while that third stripe redly announced itself.

She gasped twice and let her breath out with a sweet, low moan.

I could see in her shoulders and arms the effort she’d made to keep from rising. But I spoke as if I was angry with her. “Keep still, girl. Or I’ll give you the stroke again.”

raylene lynetteRaylene gasped twice more, gathering herself to speak. But her voice was still a little unsteady when she said, “Sorry, master.”

Lynette’s eyes widened. She hadn’t heard about my promotion from “sir” to “master”, till then.

She watched the stripe forming on Raylene’s excellent ass. So did I.

I grunted as if I were – provisionally – satisfied, and raised the cane again. I figured Lynette was committed now. So this next stroke would be harder. 

Homeward bound and gagging (a girl) for it

tiedbedSomeone just wrote me saying that last night they dreamed I was tying their wrists together before tying them to the bed-end. They said it was a good dream, so that was a nice thing for me to think about.

I’ve had a similar dream about her, but I used leather cuffs rather than rope.

She’s dropping by. “Dropping by” makes it sound a bit more casual than it is. It’s the sort of “dropping by” you have to pack for.

And she brings new experiences, which is to say, herself. 

Obviously it won’t be the first time I’ve done that small bit of bondage in general, but it will be the first time I will have done it with that woman. Like Prometheus, she’s been more or less unbound. Till now. Or till soon, anyway.

So it will be exploration: a completely new experience. You don’t have to leave home for them. Which is lucky because I’ve been to so many new places, including 200 miles above the Arctic Circle, in my travels. Now I’m back in my bit of the world I’d hate for the Shock of the New to stop coming. 

gagfuckThe gag reference was only there for the feeble pun. But it’s funny how a casual idea, that only crossed my mind for the silliest possible reason, solidifies into a project.

So I shall explore that – with her – too. She’s a vocal girl, and what she has to say is always interesting. So she’ll find silence hard. I suppose she’ll find me hard in her silence.

I think we’ll both be happy. Happiness is simple. 


In the four weeks I’ve been away from home, a tree has blown down so I’ve got plenty of firewood. The lawn hasn’t grown (winter) so that’s good. Six new book cases were delivered this morning, so I’ve got my work cut out getting them into place without making the place seem crammed. And I have to get organised for that wonder-girl’s arrival.

And once I’ve got myself organised, I can continue with the Raylene story. The episodes can appear while I’m too busy to write.

E[lust] 84: Sexcrime

Elust #84

Elust 84 header
Photo courtesy of A to sub-Bee

Welcome to Elust #84 

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 #85 Start with the rules, come back August 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

About Those “Apple Thighs”
Why the Hell Haven’t I Rebelled Yet?

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

IDENTITY – hiding the evidence
friday flash–service

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Good In Bed

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 112: Sex math and aftermaths, or How many threesomes?

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 111: Lynette’s cunt’s desire, corridors and perhaps me

Erotic Fiction

Pubic Disturbance
Colds and Lust
Sex Machine
A Dirty Bathroom Floor
I’m Sorry I’m So Silent
S’il Vous Plaît
Edge of Morning
Dancin’ (Most) of the Night Away
Airport Arrivals

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

42 Kinds of Casual Sex
Living in Fear – An Essay on Male Entitlement

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

How To Give A Bare Handed Spanking
Reconciling dominance and love
She’s a Very Kinky Gor

Body Talk and Sexual Health

Run the good race

Erotic Non-Fiction

We Made A Resolution To Make Love Everyday
The 20 Minute Orgasm
More on cunt, corridors & Schroedinger’s cock
Stoned Birthday Sex
Room with a View
I’m Not Done With Your Throat Yet
It’s a strange path to trust.

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Poly and Pets

Writing about Writing

Why Write Erotic Fiction?
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Homo-phobia: stay away from Russians in uniform



It’s nice when a violently homophobic country like Russia decides to reach out to gays by naming their special police forces in their honour.

These are two officers of the Otryad Mobilny Osobogo Naznacheniya or Special Purpose Mobility Unit, who beat up and sometimes kill civilians at the orders of the Russian government. Gays, lesbians, transvestite and transgender people are frequent targets.

According to Wiki the unit was broken up three months ago. All I can say about that is that I took this photo yesterday, and there are still a hell of a lot of them around.

The previous post was about Russians being cool. Something fairly nasty happened yesterday, which I can’t talk about because there are going to be processes happening about that. But I had to revise that view.

Russians are cool, generally. Really. But Russians wearing uniforms are the faecal-matter-in-skinbags scum of the earth: stupid, corrupt and brutal. Long, nasty story, not for here. Anyway, here are two paramilitary cops wearing the names of people they hate.

(I flipped the image horizontally. Butterfingers!)

The (slightly drunken) coolness of Russia!

I’m back from a Russian restaurant (of course it’s a Russian restaurant; I mean Russian in the sense that it serves Russian food). It was a game restaurant, where neither the proprietor nor his son spoke more than a couple of words in English. There were guns, crossbows and animal pelts and mounted heads all over the walls.

A vegetarian’s nightmare. I ate bear, and elk.

catskinI gained the admiration of the proprietor by asking about the pelts on the wall. Since we had no words in common, I finished up by pointing at something I thought was a dead wolf, or what a dead wolf used to wear, and asking, “Ah-hoooo?”

And so on, through to bear noises. And my version of a civet cat was, essentially, “miaoww?” to establish the genus, then doing it again in a deep voice.

Anyway, as a consequence, though I arrived at nine and was still there at midnight, their sole customer, they brought out “samples” of their vodka collection.

They were home-made vodkas, with various things steeped in each one. For example, cedar, birch, ginger, horseradish, some red berry, peppery-sweet, and one other. The proprietor said, “Taste!”

They weren’t “tastes”; they were double shots. I managed heroically, except for the horse-radish vodka, which defeated me.

So now I’ve had an encounter with “the Russian soul.” We agreed on things like, “Russia good”, and “Australia good”, and other important matters.

Neither of those propositions is true, by the way. Russia is transitioning into a theocratic fascist state, and Australia has just voted in a bunch of red-necked racists who run off-shore concentration camps where refugees are kept, subject to being raped or murdered, until they go mad. Then they’re kept on in captivity anyway. But we couldn’t manage nuance.

horseI got home. On the way a beautiful girl nearly ran me over with a horse. Oddly enough, that really did happen. You can hire horses in St Petersburg, even after dinner. She may have taken on more vodka than me.

The evening was good, because I started today not much liking Russia or its culture, because of the relentless nightmare of Immigration: two hours in a concrete bunker while nothing happens. Now I’ve changed my mind. Russians are cool!

The Baltic Beat!

I’m in Tallin. Drinking beer, in the square. 

The beer’s compulsory because buying one is the only way to sit and get wi-fi. But I’m not actually complaining.

I’ll add some pics to this post tomorrow, when I’ve got properly working wifi. For now, text is the best I can do. I’m in a sailing ship going down the Baltic. They’re not big on wifi or democracy, really, round these parts. 

Anyway, here’s a “Viking Slave” from Stockholm. He doesn’t seem too unhappy about his predicament.

vulcan love slave

“Pick me! Pick me!”