Sinful Sunday: Shake it all about

God! It’s huge!


Master! You should bloody try it and see.

Actually, I don’t think I will, girl. Who’s Master?

The man who just shoved a plug up my bum? 

The same. Ah, would you like me to take it out?

Er, no. It’s kind of ok. I think I could get used to it. Thank you. No.

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Wicked Wednesday: The pale court of kingly death

To that high Capital, where kingly Death 
       Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay, 
       He came; and bought, with price of purest breath, 
       A grave among the eternal.—Come away! 
       Haste, while the vault of Waitemata’s day 
       Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still 
       He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay; 
       Awake him not! surely he takes his fill
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.
My father lies in a coffin in his homeland. I leave tomorrow to be with my brothers and sisters, and his body, at his funeral. It’s only for a few people: his children and their partners, and a few grand-children. My mother’s funeral was a bigger affair, but that was because he was alive, and he needed it. Now he needs nothing. 

Totora live for 1,000 years. This is the oldest known totara tree. Its name is Pouakani. It has a temper, and its best not to sleep under it.

On Saturday we’ll drink the horrible sherry he drank, in his honour, and tell stories about him. And he will be cremated. In a year’s time, his children, my brothers and sisters and I, will come together again to mingle his ashes with those of the love of his life, our mother. We’ll dig a hole in the earth among the roots of a young totara tree, which will be fed by both of them and of which both of them will become a part. 

No one in my family believes in life after death, including my father. He knew he’s not going to join my mother for sherry on the balcony in heaven. But he found the symbolism of that reunion in a living, growing thing was right and comforting. 
I’ve written about my father before. My father was a man of power, both the possessor of institutional power by holding various offices, and of personal power. He was, I’m pretty sure, not into bdsm himself, but the way in which he exercised power has been the model for a lot of what I do as a dom. 
That is, he exercised power in a way that was kindly, mostly selfless, and that didn’t take himself, or power, entirely seriously. At the same time he could be terrifying. He used that power to keep some sort of peace in a school playing-ground, and, later, working for the UN, trying to keep the factions working together in places like Afghanistan.
I use that skill more trivially, for the pleasure and amusement of submissive women. So long as they know it’s not real, so that it only feels as real as they want it to. Because I know some things that my father didn’t know, I’m suspicious of power, except where it is received voluntarily, and it’s at the service of sexual and other pleasure. 
Still, he used his power as benignly as he could manage, and since he was intelligent and strong, he could manage a lot.
With his passing I become a kaumatua. Of no hapu, but still, there it is. I’m next in line.
Because of the death in the family, this isn’t the planned Wicked Wednesday story. But Jennifer and her headmaster will be back next week. 

Sinful Sunday: Consolation

Arethusa said, Oh, Master. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Master. I – 

No, it’s over, darling. And you were brave and good. And your – the fault’s forgotten. You’ve paid for it, the slate’s clean and you’re a good girl again. I’ll never mention it again. 

[I was telling the truth. I’ve genuinely forgotten what the fault was that led to the stripes in this picture. It would be something that I felt harmed her interests, and that I’d warned her about. And that she’d repeated anyway. It’d be laziness or carelessness, because she doesn’t wilfully disobey.]

But I hate disappointing you. I feel … [She shook her head, still on all fours on our bed.]

Shhhh, love. You’re a good girl. Wonderful fucking girl. You’re a good girl with a sore arse, right now. But I do know how wonderful you are. I know that I love you, little one. 

[Arethusa isn’t a brat. She likes to be good. The worst thing about being punished, for her, isn’t the pain, which happens often enough for purely sexual reasons, but having to feel bad because she’d disappointed her master and lover.]

I know that too. And I love you, Master. But I let you down. 

Here. Relax, ‘thuse. You’re the world to me. And …

Ahh… Yeah, yes…

[And that’s when I took this photo, left-handed. Just before I put my right thumb where any person of sense, in love with the woman on that bed and wanting her to feel good, would put their thumb. And hold her firmly and begin to stroke, and then pump. There was no more conversation for some time, and no more talk about feeling guilty. Eventually, cuddled in spoon position on the bed, we slept the rest of the afternoon away.]

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Bdsm graphic art: Guido Crepax and Milo Manara

I’ve been looking at the work of the two leading male bdsm graphic artists: Guido Crepax and Milo Manara. The other artist I’d say is really important and really good is Paula Meadows, whose work looks a little more amateurish and folksy, but it’s done with real conviction. But I’ll write about Paula Meadows (whose work comes out under a variety of names) in a post all to herself.  

Here’s a Guido Crepax page. It’s a whipping scene from his comic book adaptation of Sade’s Justine. Note the really interesting frame layout, and the telling use of erotic details: the eyes and mouths of Justine’s tormentors, the little dance with her feet when the whip lands, the instant on the whip’s landing across her bottom, and the energy of the whip and the man wielding it. 

This is one of his heroine’s, I think Valentina. There’s something about her look that reminds me of French films from the 1960s, Jean-Luc Godard, say. 

So we get the Louise Brooks pageboy hairdo, the sullen mouth, small breasts, very skinny arms. Also, the Valentina books resemble 60s French art films  because there’s a lot of casual dipping in and out of surrealism, and the plots never make a lot of sense. 

Though I’d rather read Crepax than watch a Jean-Luc Godard movie any day. The cinema of “the novelty of boredom” outstayed its welcome after about five minutes.

Took a woman to a Godard retrospective at the local Film Society few years back. Worst date evah. Not her fault. Not really mine. Godard’s. What a wanker. But I digress.

His work is very stylish, and his lines are very elegant. On the other hand, the women he draws tend to be like Vogue models, being extremely slender, sometimes bordering on emaciated. His women look beautiful, but you know that if you took one out for dinner she’d spend ages chewing one lettuce leaf and toying with the same glass of mineral water all night. So, enjoyably perverse though his female characters may be, they probably wouldn’t be a fun date. 

That’s a pretty shallow response to art, of course, but it is meant to be sexy. So, his work is very elegant, but a little bit cold. 

Milo Manara, on the other hand, draws women who look like sensual women who like food and fucking, and are also enjoyably perverse. If it were me, I’d prefer to go out with a Milo Manara woman. Here’s a Manara post-whipping scene. 

You don’t get the interesting lay-out that Guido Crepax gives us. But the woman, freshly whipped and posing for her portrait with welts, has a fleshly quality, a kind of exuberant sexiness. She’s slender, but not starved. Her left breast is just visible, and it seems to be in a world where the body has real three-dimensional properties like weight. 

The set-up, “You must be whipped so I can paint you”, is nicely perverse.

Here’s a slightly silly, cartoonish, girl on girl spanking. With an audience. It’s clear, which is never quite clear in a Crepax frame, that the two women are enjoying themselves, both spanker and spankee.

The woman on top, facing us while she spanks her not-very-helpless victim/lover, has breasts that would never appear in a 1960s French art film or a Guido Crepax drawing. The hair in Manara art is more Gina Lollobrigida or Sophia Loren than French chic.

It gets mussed up, and sweaty. 

Look, I think Crepax is a better artist, objectively. But here’s a last Manara panel, demonstrating why I prefer his work. You get curves with your collar. And freckles!

Wicked Wednesday: Juniper’s Adventures 13

This is episode 5 of the series that became the ebook Jennifer’s Pleats and Pleas 2: The Chime of the Bellbird.

In this episode, Maddie sets about pleasing the man she calls her Master. Who, of course, she thinks she has twisted round her little finger. A pleasurable power struggle begins, that can only have one, mutually satisfying, ending.


I’ve had to remove the actual text, because this excellent and very sexy book has been published and is on sale at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Apple Books, 24symbols, Angus and Robinson, tolino, Rakuten Kobo and Vivlio. A link that allows you to choose your favoured book supplier is here.


Sinful Sundae: O Calcutta!

A woman spanked and then bound represents a culmination. It’s taken a lot of loving work and communication to get us to this point, and to her submission. 

It’s also a commencement. Once we’ve reached here, then things can move between us. Oceanically, but the sky’s the limit.

Oh, and doesn’t she have a cute ass? Or, as we say on Earth, “O! Quel cul t’as!”

Oh Calcutta

Detail from Clovis Trouille’s painting, “O Calcutta! Calcutta!”

Well, some of us on Earth say that, anyway. The artist Clovis Trouille was a notoriously enthusiastic admirer of the comely, womanly ass, and he called his most famous painting, “O Calcutta! Calcutta!”

The title’s a pun on “O! Quel cul t’as”, which means, “Oh, what a [cute] ass you have!”  

Ken Tynan borrowed the painting, and the title, for his sinfully sexy (but nice) 1960s theatrical revue, O Calcutta.

In its original form, O Calcutta included two spanking sketches written by Tynan himself. Ken “Spanker” Tynan was notorious among his woman friends for his keenness on using the flat side of a hairbrush, so it’s not surprising that he wrote two spanking scenes for his show and, as director, accepted and included them. Unfortunately, these two scenes are omitted from modern revivals of O Calcutta.

John Lennon also wrote a scene for the original revue, but now Yoko, as guardian of the Lennon estate, won’t let it be used. But that’s enough about 20th century art and theatre: doesn’t my model have a cute ass?

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