Wicked Wednesday: Jennifer and the desk

I watched Jennifer’s face while she thought about removing all of her clothes for her twelve strokes of the cane. She frowned, staring at the carpet in front of my desk. Then down at the desk, which she’d probably be bent over while I caned her. Then she looked at me.

Her face was calm, now. She’d assimilated it. If I thought it was necessary, then she’d be a good girl, for me. Or maybe it wasn’t about being good. That spanking had brought her close to orgasm. Maybe she was thinking of how she might feel, undressing at my command while I watched her, till she was fully exposed and about to receive that fiercer sting to her body. I wondered how long it would take her to make sure it happened. 

I interrupted her thoughts. “So, you’d best bear that in mind, girl. But I wasn’t just talking about discipline for you, though you do need that. Don’t you?”

She looked down, then, her face still hanging, looked up at me through her lashes. She was a natural coquette. “Yes.”

I let my voice be harsh. “What do you need, Jennifer?”

“I need discipline, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“I’m glad we agree. Now, I know that this uniform has given you a reputation, and it’s not one that’s good for you. It’s affected your behaviour already. and if you keep wearing it, it will affect those marks you’re so proud of.”

She looked confused for a second, then nodded. Oh, I meant her school marks. I was sure she’d looked at the marks of her spanking in the toilets, and rubbed them well. I wondered if she’d had that orgasm she’d been so close to, over my knee. “I think you’re right, sir. I wasn’t -” But it was too complicated. She shook her head.

“I know, Jennifer. It wasn’t so good for you. Now, I have a solution, that should help you concentrate on your schoolwork from now on.”

She looked expectant, and sure she was out of trouble now. So I pushed my chair a little way back from my desk.

“But we’ll talk about that shortly. For now we have some other things to consider. First, Jennifer, I made you an offer this morning. For extra tuition, and extra discipline. Have you been thinking about that?”

“Yes, sir! And -”

I held my hand up. “Not now, Jennifer. I said you had a couple of days. I don’t want to hear a rash decision from you. But I’m pleased you’ve begun thinking about it. I want you to think it over, very thoroughly.”

Her face fell. She’d been on the brink of telling me she’d accepted. Then she’d have made sir happy with her. And an adventure would start. “Now, Jennifer, step forward.”

“Sir.” She did as she was told, some of her wariness returning. “Now girl, bend over my desk.”

“Sir?” 

“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me, girl. I have little patience for games like that.” 

“Sir? Have I -” 

“It was an order, Jennifer. You obey orders. You don’t question them.”

Her mouth dropped again. Had the adventure begun? She put her hands on the desk, palms flat. She looked at me. Her expression was solemn. This was an important moment.

Her palms slid forward as she bent neatly at the waist, and lowered herself into that most basic and uncompromising of punishment positions.

The skirt rose as she lowered her body, 

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 137: Strokes get in her thighs

So there we were, at a dramatic moment. Raylene naked and bent over the table, bottom and upper thighs already well striped. There should be 19 welts, but they’d merged and crossed each other and I couldn’t count the marks any more in a general splash of corrugated red.

I’d tapped Raylene’s thighs, so she knew where the next strokes were going to go. I raised the cane, and whipped it down, twice, across the backs of her legs. I left little pause between them.

Stung, Raylene yowled and twisted, kicking her legs in the air, since it was the only movement she could make. I watched her with awe and desire, and listened to her pain song.  

Dorabella, Raylene’s half sister, held Raylene’s shoulders down. She did it with real determination, leaving her robe flapping open.

I’d told her that if Raylene got up she’d get extra strokes, and that I’d give the same number to Dorabella. She hadn’t definitely conceded that I had the right to cane her, which wasn’t surprising since clearly I didn’t.

However, Dorabella was afraid that if I told her to take her place beside Raylene, presenting her arse for the cane, she’d do as she was told. By now, I was also pretty sure she wouldn’t disobey. 

In the meantime, she was making sure the issue, and her choice, didn’t arise. She was taller than Raylene, and though they were both strong girls she’d made sure her extra height gave her the advantage.

Raylene was going to take her caning, and she wasn’t going to get out of position.

There were puzzles there: Dorabella seemed to be enjoying herself too much. It didn’t seem to be sororal spite, where one sister will sometimes enjoy mild misfortune happening to the other. It was more that there was some sort of unacknowledged sexual vibe between the two of them. This was turning Dorabella on. I didn’t understand quite what was going on, but there was no doubt that Dorabella was aroused. 

I gave Raylene two more strokes, quite firmly, and fast. This time I aimed high, getting them as close as possible to that wonderful fleshy crease where the thighs and buttocks meet. Raylene screamed, head shaking and hair flying. feet lifting from the carpet, and kicking in the air, until they were the highest part of of her body. Dorabella fought Raylene down again until she subsided.

Dorabella wasn’t looking at Raylene. She looked me in the eyes.

Skinful Sundae and Early Minimalism: One stroke

Time passed. The wooden tabletop was warmer under her body. Her wrists and ankles were still cuffed and tied to the table. She was helpless. In every sense at his mercy. His … woman who had a master. As much his property as the table he’d tied her to. That felt strong. It felt right. 

Time passed, long and longing. At some time she became aware of him behind her, though he’d moved quietly and he said nothing. 

Master! 

Shhh. 

Then she felt his finger, just inside her cunt. She gasped at the surprise and pleasure of it. He stroked along her left side, just inside. Then his finger was gone. Her cunt, her whole body, screamed silently for more. At least another stroke along her right labium, so she had balance. It was only fair. To both labia. To her. God, one more touch. 

Please … 

Shhh. Later.

He was gone.

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Safewords: is “stop, I’m not enjoying this” a safeword?

In my time as a dom, I’ve accidentally caused emotional distress or excessive pain because:

  • I spanked a girl with my hand instead of a hairbrush, and she thought that meant I was genuinely angry with her and not just playing. That made her emotionally desolate, and triggered some bad stuff that had happened between her and her mother, which she’d never told me about before; 
  • I used a riding crop on another girl’s inner thighs, because the week before she’d loved it when I used my belt there. But this time she was having her period and for her that meant her pain threshold was much lower. The intensity was the same, but this time she experienced it as excessive and a complete sexual turn-off;
  • I had my cock in a girl’s throat, and she started to panic because she couldn’t breathe.

None of those submissive women used a safe word to communicate their distress. The first girl had floated into a bad psychological space, and couldn’t speak. The second couldn’t remember her safe word, and anyway the pain meant she stepped completely out of her submissive headspace. She didn’t care about safe words: she just wanted this to stop. The third girl couldn’t speak, but fortunately she was still keeping her eyes on mine, as I’d ordered, and so I saw submission change to panic.

I stopped, and didn’t start again till I’d found out the problem and dealt with it, the submissive was ok, and was ready to go on. 

Each of those events was unpredictable. The girl who spun into a bad mental state because I’d hand spanked her hadn’t known that was going to be her reaction. There was no way I could reasonably have expected it either. It’s the mildest impact play that there is.

Only up to a point, Lord Copper

Each situation turned out ok and happy because I didn’t wait for a safeword. If I had insisted on the safeword, the first girl would have had a psychologically damaging experience, and lost her trust in me. The second girl would never have continued, or played with me again. The third girl could have have been asphyxiated. 

One more safeword story. I valued the first girl’s trust, because it gave her a safe place to do bdsm. Never mind altruism, she was hot. One reason why she trusted me was that she’d last been with a dom who got a lot of his rules and practices from the internet rather than reality. He tended to dole out physical punishments that were tenuously justified and extremely severe, because he liked to give very severe pain. He’d tied her to a cross, and was whipping her when she broke up with him.

She told him to stop. He kept on whipping her. She told him they were through and she wasn’t taking any more. He kept on whipping her. She was bleeding. She started screaming, by now half angry and half terrified, for him to fucking well stop. But you haven’t safeworded me, he said. He’d sounded smug: that meant he was winning. All you have to do is safe word me. He kept on whipping her.

Um, Rumpelstiltskin? Armidillo? Let me loose NOW, or I’m going to the cops? Mercy? Um, red?…

She couldn’t remember what her safeword was. He’d given it to her, which made it harder. It was Armadillo or Rumpelstilskin or something. She’d blanked on it. She was in an angry, fearful state and she couldn’t calmly ransack through her mind to find it.

Eventually he untied her and said her punishment was over, and to get on her knees and suck his cock.

She left without a word and never went back. I made her tell the story, with the guy’s name, to other submissives. Strictly speaking and technically, he could argue that he’d followed the rules. But he was a dangerous idiot, and a criminal from the instant she’d said they were through. 

So in general I treat, “No”, “Stop” and “This isn’t working for me”, also certain kinds of non-responsiveness, as safewords even though they’re not the agreed safeword. Yes, there are rules in bdsm, but they should never get in the way of a submissive’s health and safety. 

Sometimes, though, I will ignore “No, please stop” because it isn’t the safeword. But that’s only where the submissive and I are in a relationship that includes consensual non-consent, and where she (this applies to male and female submissives, but I’m saying “she” because my experience involves women submissives) has explicitly told me that sometimes she wants to be able to beg and shout and protest, and have me ignore that and continue.

Stop! Ha ha, just kidding!

I enjoy that, but that’s for when you know someone well, and you know you can read between the lines, and tell pleasure from real distress in her body language or her voice, or her silence. So that you know she’s safe and in a good mental state, even as you gleefully ignore her pleas for you to stop.   

Even then, truth be told, if I believed that I detected real harm or distress I’d stop even without the safeword.

You can think you’ve worked out everything in advance, and that the rules you’ve agreed to will cover everything. But humans are unpredictable creatures, and emotionally driven and changeable, whether they acknowledge that or not.

Both parties have to be flexible enough to take that into account, and to respond to the person’s needs (and their own needs) in the moment, and not just stick to a set of rules. 

Except one rule: the dom’s duty of care, to do no harm to a submissive, comes before everything else, including “I’ll stop if you safeword me but not otherwise”. Even when they’re not, “no” and “stop!” are still safewords, if the submissive really means it. Whatever the agreed protocol might be.

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Wicked Wednesday: The return of Jennifer!

I should have had more faith in Maddie. The message that Jennifer Perch was to report back to the headmaster’s office, immediately after her last class, went over the PA system just before the lunch break.

That gave her fellow pupils an hour to tease her about how she must really be in trouble this time. And the rest of the school day trying to concentrate on her work while she worried about what was in store for her, when she entered my office for the second time.

So she was pale, and her voice trembled when she stood in front of my desk. She was acutely self-conscious. She’d give anything not to be here. But she said, “You wanted to see me, sir.”

I looked at her, unsmiling, saying nothing, until her bare knees shook. She was fighting back tears, certain she was about to be spanked again. Or worse.

Finally I said, “Your uniform.”

“Yes sir?”

“Jennifer, you’re out of uniform. In school hours. That’s a serious offence. The school regulations clearly state that the uniform will be appropriately fitted. Yours is at least two sizes too small.”

Jennifer blushed furiously. “I know, sir. But my mother bought it without me. And when I put it on, and found it was too small, the shop wouldn’t take it back. My mother had already ironed it. There’s a … well, you can see where she she’d set the iron too hot, when she started. But … but she said she’d talked to you, and that you’d said it would be ok.”

She sounded almost frantic now. She’d realized that she couldn’t be sure that her mother had told her the truth. She watched me like a rabbit watches an approaching dog.

I still hadn’t smiled. “Yes, she did. And I did agree. But that, Jennifer, was before I understood that you were taking advantage of your uniform to make an indecent display of yourself. Yes?”

Jennifer thought. I meant before school this morning, how she’d displayed herself for the boysl. The tears spilled at last, and she hung her head. “Yes, sir.”

“Look at me, Jennifer.” She did, and I finally smiled at her. She took a deep breath and gulped, and some of the tension left her face and body. “And we dealt with that this morning. Thoroughly, I think?” I looked at her. After a second or two she smiled.

“Yes, sir.” Her bottom would have recovered by now, and the memory of her spanking was not entirely unpleasant. More embarrassing than painful, and some of her feelings had had nothing to do with embarrassment. Her thighs had trembled, slightly parted, while she’d hovered on the brink of orgasm.

And the thought of her experience made her smile. We shared a moment of complicity.

“Well, Jennifer, I haven’t called you back to re-visit that incident. I’m more interested in making sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Sir?”

“Jennifer, you know that this morning you were playing up to the expectations that had been created for you by that uniform. You were being teased, and boys couldn’t take their eyes off you. Your immodest display was your way of dealing with that. Or trying to take control of it. Yes?”

“I suppose, sir.”

“I don’t think it’s naturally you. And the way you tried to deal with it didn’t turn out so well, did it?”

The flush was back. That bare-bottomed spanking over my knee. It was never far away. “I – I suppose it didn’t, sir.”

“I don’t just mean your spanking, girl. That put a stop to it. Or it better have.” She nodded fervently. “If that happens again, I’ll cane you, Jennifer. Twelve of the best. Understand?”

She put her right foot over her left foot so she stood cross-legged before me. “I do, sir.”

“You possibly heard that I had to paddle two girls from your class yesterday. Yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know what they were wearing when I’d finished with them?”

“No. They haven’t talked about it. Not to me, anyway.”

“Well. I can see that they wouldn’t want it known.”

I was giving her a powerful gift, of course. In her class, and in her circle, gossip is power. “The pair of them were wearing red paddle marks across their bottoms. Nothing else. Nothing at all.”

“Oh.” Jennifer was wide-eyed.

She swore that she wouldn’t need to be caned. But we both knew that was nonsense

“I am authorised to specify what pupils will wear while they’re being punished, Jennifer. Now, if I have to give you those twelve strokes, Jennifer -“

“You won’t! Sir, I promise you won’t!”

“Well, we’ll see. But you see how what those two silly girls were wearing will apply to you?”

Her mouth dropped open.

“You won’t be worrying about uniforms, if you earn yourself a dose of the cane, Jennifer. Twelve strokes. Naked.”  

“Oh sir!” Oddly, I had no idea what she meant by that.

Jerusalem Mortimer soon to be on sale!

Er, not actually a real book. But it you want it, I’ll write it. For food.

I used to place stories in magazines and anthologies. I had one in Playboy, once. I’ve never actually seen it because they forgot to send me a copy. (Also, they chopped out 1,000-odd words, and I sulked.) But the money was real, generous and much appreciated.  

Then I got involved in political activism, and it became a bad idea to keep publishing. I don’t care much about political parties. I put my energy into campaigns for political and legal changes about unemployment, homelessness and domestic violence, for example. It’s what government does that matters.

But it wasn’t a good idea to have a guy who worked with the male children of women victims of family violence write stuff about tying up and spanking girls who enjoyed being “bad” and its consequences. There’s a huge difference between a pink bottom acquired willingly and joyously, and a black eye acquired in out-of-control terror.

But anyone working for Rupert Murdoch (spit) and his media empire, for example, would pretend to be confused by that difference and use it to discredit any cause I was associated with. And when I wasn’t writing about sex I was writing about a world in which everybody broke the law – especially but not only about drugs – routinely, and the cops were experienced as violent, corrupt thugs.

So I worked on what I thought was important and I shut up. I’ve achieved some social reforms, one major one and a few minor ones, and people are better off because I did that.  But I’ve served my time now. I’m back to writing and, more importantly, publishing, for money. 

This, on the other hand, is absolutely real

My big and serious book, Between the Lines: A biography of BDSM has to come out in paper form, from a mainstream publisher. That’s important, for it to get to the audience it needs to reach.

But I have other work that can emerge in e-form. So I’ve registered on Smashword. There’ll be a story available for sale in a couple of days. Look in if you feel like it. Even buy it! 

Yeah, I know. As a salesman I absolutely suck.

My Smashwords page, for what it’s worth, is here.

 

Sinful Sunday 302: Helpless helpless

She didn’t know how long she’d been there, tied over the table. The last thing he’d said before he left her had been to wait. Not that she had any choice about that.

Her wrists and ankles were cuffed and tied. Her thighs were widely parted, tied to the table legs. She could raise her head. She could buck under the impact of whatever he chose to hurt her with. She could buck under the force of his cock, deep inside her. 

He’d do nothing to stop those movements. He liked her to jerk and flop under him while he disciplined her, or rode her. So that was the only movement he’d allowed her to make. 

She wished she could press her cunt against the table edge. Just a little relief until he returned. But her position didn’t allow that. She could only try to fuck the air: he’d made that choice for her.

He’d taken off his belt, folded it and laid it on the table on her left side. The cane lay beside her on her right.

“I’ll be back to deal with you later,” he’d said. And he’d left, leaving the door open. How long ago had that been? How long would he make her wait? 

Wait for him, helpless. She smiled when that word crossed her mind. She liked being helpless. And he wouldn’t accept anything less from her, just now, than helplessness. 

She knew she’d been good. He wasn’t punishing her. But he’d been in a mood she knew well. She didn’t know when, but things were going to happen. And they were going to happen to her.

Click on the lips for more Sinful Sunday goodness!

Good to be home

I’m back from the funeral and wake. I’d like to thank everybody who sent supportive and really nice messages. I’m touched. There really is a community out there, and it’s extraordinary that an anti-social bastard like me has been welcomed in and become part of it.

I’ve been neglecting a few things while I’ve been away. This blog, for one thing.

And there are so many physical projects I’m behind with, like chainsawing down a row of trees. They provide a good visual block between the neighbours and me, on that side. But now they’re grown so high they’re occluding the solar panels. 

It’s a horrible job, because you have to stand on the stop step of a step-ladder, on very steeply sloping ground.

Has anyone seen my damn lawnmower? Turned my back for an instant, can’t find it again.

I came down a while ago, when the stepladder spilled over, releasing me and my chainsaw to fall about three metres to the ground.

Fortunately, the chainsaw cut off the instant I took my hand off the charmingly-named dead man’s switch.

I left skin on the branches as I crashed through them, but I landed on my arse, still with the chainsaw in my hand. So I said some words, and then made bigger chocks for the ladder. 

And then there’s the lawn. It turned into jungle while I was away. 

Anyway, I’m back to this blog. Things will be happening, from tomorrow. Tune in!

E[lust] 90: Wild, wet, whimsical


Photo courtesy of Rebel’s Notes

Welcome to Elust 90

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~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Conflicted part 1

Glow

Happy Endings

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Please You to Please Me

How to suck my cock – part 1 (attitude)

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Visions of Sugarplums

 

Writing About Writing

The Curious Case of Trigger Warnings
Writing About It All

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

PLEASING THE MISTRESS
Reader Q&A: Dominant women struggle, turn-ons
Chastity Questions
Not every hole is a goal

Erotic Non-Fiction

A Picture is Worth…
Morning Stretch
Lovemaking Almost Too Brilliant To Describe
The GP
I Want
Indescribable Pleasure
Humiliating an ex-Nazi: Raylene’s 2nd dozen
Preparation
I love big, fat dicks

Erotic Fiction

Dude, You’re Wet!
When Love Becomes a Weakness
On a Silver Platter
The Silent Treatment
A Seasonal Affair
Three in a Stall
Schoolgirl Uniform
The New Principal 4: Escape

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Anal Retentive Or Just OCD?

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

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Poetry

-06.01.17_13:22-
Mistletoe: A Lusty Limerick

 

Elust 88

Wicked Wednesday: Death is not life

I’ve spoken my eulogy. My father has been cremated. His descendants and their lovers had the wake. A very Irish wake. I’ve recovered from emotion, also alcohol poisoning. And now I’m home, and dead tired. 

I drank most of a bottle of Cointreau with a brother I used to be close to. He was twelve years older than me, and when I was a boy he was easy with people, and especially with women, in ways that I’ve never quite managed. I hero-worshipped him.

I borrowed from him and got better at talking with women. That was at least partly because of sex, though sex with women wasn’t the only reason I’ve always preferred women to men. What they say just tends to be more interesting, at least to me. 

They seem more likely to talk about what’s really going on. And to be less hidden, and less competitive. Though I suppose women compete with each other and not so much with me. 

That thing about competitive speech may be the reason I know a fair number of women who prefer the company of men to that of women. Even some lesbians. 

I still haven’t got all that good at talking to most men, partly because a hell of a lot of men talk about sports, real estate and other stuff that bores the shit out of me. No doubt it’s also partly because I don’t fancy men, so I have less incentive to be close to many of them.

Anyway, my brother and I managed to get our closeness back. That was good.

I never understood why he stopped communicating with me. It wasn’t a quarrel, and nothing dramatic happened. He just withdrew, and when I tried to reach out he’d let it fall flat.

I mostly blame myself when things get weird inter-personally, but it must have been something going on with him. He withdrew from a lot of people outside of his own family at that time. 

But we’re men. We enjoyed talking again. But we never talked about that. Anyway it’s good that’s over and we’ve started again. 

I’ve spent a while with death.

I feel a great need to follow my heart and be involved in sex. My girl is still a long way away. But the time when we will close in on each other – in an Italian castle! – is getting closer.

I want to be naked and in her arms and in her. I want to feel her arms and her cunt around me. As well as other parts of her body. I want us to melt and dissolve and merge. While still pumping and pulling and wresting for each other.

The life force may not be exactly the same thing as sex, but sex is its avatar. It’s how it shows itself to the world.