Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 127: Last strokes of the thinner cane

This is what mascara is for. Though real-Raylene wasn't a mascara-wearer

This is what mascara is for. Though real-Raylene wasn’t a mascara-wearer

Raylene’s sobs enchanted me. The room was still, except for the writhing of her bottom and thighs and the bobbing and turning of her head as she cried. Tear tracks shone in the morning light.

Lynette and Dorabella seemed not to be breathing. So I wasn’t the only person in that room to be ensorcelled.

But if I stopped for too long Raylene would recover and the tension would dissipate. I had to get on with it. I said, “Two strokes to go.”

The cane sped down, making that sharp, loud CRACK of bamboo meeting flesh. I’d aimed for the rounded, muscled crown of her ass. Raylene managed to hold her upper body down, but her sobs got louder. The cane had marked a new track, already red, and rising into a weal.

I watched, open-mouthed, to make sure I’d remember the sight and sound of her forever. Her tears aroused me; her sobbing made me pitiless and hard. My face felt cold and my stomach felt empty.

(The least he could have done is take his watch off)

A helpful porn actor demonstrates what I did not do. The least he could have done is take his watch off)

I wanted to feel my cock buried in her, wet and warm and needy, and to savour the heat of her ass held tight against me.

If I did fuck Raylene right now I’d probably last only seconds before I came in her. I suspected Raylene wouldn’t be able to hold off much longer.

But fucking Raylene in front of Dorabella and Lynette wasn’t quite what they’d signed up for as witnesses. And it’d feel wrong to throw them out after going to all the trouble of getting them into this room. So I drew back the cane again. It would the last stroke I gave her with the thinner bamboo cane. It was written: this stroke had to hurt her.

“There’ll be a short break before we switch to the thicker cane. But the last one has to be hard. So be ready, Dorabella. One.”  

I made it a hard stroke, but still on the most well-muscled part of her bottom. So Raylene could keep her nerve, and her position, though she shouted incoherently before returning to full sobbing, like a wretched, abandoned baby. 

I put the cane down beside her on the desk, and ran my hand along the upper slopes of her hips to comfort her. Raylene let go her grip of the desk legs and reached back a hand to cover mine.

Lynette and Dorabella both breathed out. 

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 126: No pity for Raylene’s tears

robe open1

Dorabella’s robe falling open again was an MGM moment: that vista of creamy smooth stomach and the inner slopes of her breasts, revealed again. Dorabella knew she’d caught my attention. She didn’t close it, this time. 

I glanced at Lynette. She’d switched to filming Dorabella’s open robe and its revelations. She started a little guiltily when she saw me looking at her, and quickly moved the camera frame back to Raylene’s ass.

I said, “Bad girl.” But I might have meant all three of them, for one reason or another.

I swung the cane again, letting the bamboo land medium-hard, the stroke making that wonderful sharp sound of bamboo meeting flesh. It crossed other strokes on the fleshiest part of Raylene’s bottom. Raylene cried out, the impact and heat setting her ass bobbing in furious motion. But there were no sobs.

Beside me I heard Lynette sigh. A release of tension, or a response to the primordially sexual sight Raylene presented: I couldn’t tell.

“Last three with this cane now, Raylene. If you behave.”

She didn’t answer, except to move her grip on the desk legs. There was tension in her arms: she didn’t want to let go.

But the next stroke was the fourth of this series, and I’d decided that those had to be hard. I aimed it ruthlessly low.


Raylene jolted violently when the cane bit her, just above her thighs, and despite her determination her hands lost their grip of her desk. She gasped with the shock of pain, and struggled with Dorabella, trying to get up.


Dorabella’s face was a mask of concentration. She held on to Raylene’s shoulders and pressed down with all her weight and strength.


caned tears 2After a second or two Raylene gave up her struggle, relaxed and resumed her grip on the desk legs. She yowled once from pain and frustration, and her head turned anguishedly from side to side. She resumed her sobbing.


But this time I knew I had the audience on my side.

Sinful Sunday 281: Blatancy, bondage and bottoms, brought you by the letter B

Last Sinful Sunday I talked about whether there’s any meaningful difference between “pornography” and “erotica”. I mentioned objectivation, and that objectification isn’t necessarily a distinguishing feature of erotica or pornography. The real difference is that one word is often used in disapproval and the other word is usually used with approval.

This time we’re looking at the idea that erotica is subtle, indirect and suggestive, and pornography is blatantly depictive. Take this example.

bound wrist relaxedbound wrist clenched







The two images are suggestive. They construct a sexual context, even a narrative.

In the first image the woman is relaxed, dreamy, getting pleasured. Her lover might be doing things to her with his tongue, or toys.

In the second image, time has passed and she’s no longer relaxed. She’s flooded (with sensation; I’m not making a come joke). Perhaps her arse has lifted off the bed and her stomach muscles have tightened.

There’s no particular reason why you should accept the idea that “erotic” means “understated, subtle and indirect”. It’s not supported by etymology or by the dictionary definitions. It’s only an arbitrary decision you might make about how you might choose to use the words. Still, if that’s the choice you make, then these images are erotica.

Now, let’s have another “erotic” image.

Police cuffs. Highly illegal to possess, where I live. Given me by a former pro-somme. So we can guess how she got them

Police cuffs. Illegal to possess, where I live, except by policemen. A former pro-domme gave these to me, so I can guess how she got them

It’s possible to read the angle of the bound, hand-cuffed woman’s body, to see she’s assuming a classic submissive position. That shadow between her fingers, the hint of the top of her buttocks, promises but denies other sexual vistas of her body. But the suggestions tell you that the woman is submissive, bound and helpless.

Here’s a more blatant image taken a short time later. It’s a depiction of the same bound woman. And her paddled bottom.

woman handcuffed

I’m afraid that I prefer the blatant image above to the “erotic” version. It makes me feel (since this post is brought you by the letter B) like being the bold bad Baron of Bulgaria, about to bang his bouncing bollocks on his bound lady’s beautifully blushing buttocks.

So the “blatancy” versus “suggestion” distinction can be used, if you choose, to distinguish erotica from porn. There’s no reason to accept that this is a valid distinction between pornography and erotica, but if you do chose to make that distinction, then I prefer porn.SinfulSundayLips150

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 125: Tears and fears

tearsRaylene’s sobs quietened while I watched her, holding the cane by my side. A sun-caught diamond tear fell from her cheek to the floor. Dorabella still held Raylene down but the look she gave me was accusing. 

At this time in my career, making a girl cry was still a new and unusual experience.

I’d thought, the first time it had happened, that it meant she was having a horrible time and she hated me. So I’d put down the paddle I’d been using and – I’d thought – comforted her. Only to find her annoyed: “Wha’d you stop for?”

So this time I listened. Raylene only had to say, “Stop!” and that’d make it clear. But she wouldn’t say “go on“. If she wanted me to continue I’d have to figure it out for myself. So I listened. The sobs were quiet, introspective, to herself. And, I decided, they seemed to be more a kind of release, a catharsis, rather than misery. So I should go on. 

But I had two other women watching, and they weren’t about to let me cane Raylene while she wept. If I were alone I’d take the risk of being wrong, but they wanted certainty.

tears comfortingDorabella took her hands off Raylene’s shoulders and began to stroke her hair. Lynette was still filming but she was frowning.

I was losing my audience. 

I said, as though I was cross with her, “Raylene.” 

Sniffles. Eventually she said, “Yes, master?”

“Where should Dorabella’s hands be?”

“Uh.” She looked up at her sister. “Bellie, you’re supposed to be holding me down. So I don’t get out of position.” 

“You sure?” Still stroking Raylene’s hair.

“Oh, yes. I really don’t want to get out of place. That really wouldn’t go well.” She looked back at me, as best she could, her upper lip shiny, then turned back to Dorabella. “Please?”

robe openDorabella frowned, uncertain. But I’d felt Lynette, beside me, relax. I could afford to push a little. I raised the cane. “Dorabella,” It was the command voice. Dorabella put her hands back on Raylene’s shoulders.  She looked at me, half defiantly. “Press down hard, Dorabella. If I give Raylene extra strokes because you let her up, I’ll hold you responsible.” 

Dorabella looked at me, uncertain. Was I still claiming a right to cane her? She frowned and then looked down at her sister’s bare back. She leaned forward, pressing her weight down.

The robe fell open again.