He hadn’t put the cane down, but he paused. She stayed in position, bottom and thighs stung, deep and warm.
He ran his hand, the one not holding that thick cane, lightly down her skin, grazing the blossoming welts with his nails. Her skin woke up, aroused. She felt the goosebumps blossoming, where he’d stroked her.
He sighed with pleasure and admiration. And then his hand was gone. He’d raised the cane again.
I’m living in Australia at the moment, but I’m not an Australian. There’s always been too much about the country that makes me feel like I don’t want to join it, or identify with it.
There’s the racism, in particular.
I’m not talking about the stuff where someone is making conversation and asks a person who is black or Asian, “Where are you from?” Because there’s a possible sub-text of, “If you’re not white, you’re not from here” about it. But it can also be a well-meaning but under-informed person who means, “I think you look fantastic! Where do they make more people like you?”
My point is, it’s always a clueless question to ask, and sometimes there might be a negative racist meaning to it, and sometimes there might not be. But my sympathies aren’t always with the person taking offence. A little bit of polite person-to-person education goes a lot further, and does more good, than all the offence-taking in the world.
Anyway, when I say Australia is a racist country I’m not talking about that kind of thing.
Rather, it’s about the deliberatively, knowingly genocidal history of what has been done to the Aboriginal people. And the incredible, shockingly callous endorsement of that genocide by a fuck of a lot of Australians, once you get them in private. They don’t even need to have a drink in their hand. The day after I arrived in Australia, some quite wealthy, educated guy said to me, “oh, Abos: they should have put out more poisoned flour sacks.”
Then I was in a Post Office and I saw a police notice. They wanted to know if the public had seen some offender. The ad said, “non-Australian appearance”. What that meant was that he wasn’t white. Then I was talking to a cop, who said it was a pity we’d moved out of the old days when they’d just take Aboriginal young men down to the station and “give them a bit of a flogging”. He was a young cop. By “the old days”, he’d mean “about five years ago”.
It’s about the fact that life expectancy for Aboriginal people in their own country is fifteen years less than any other statistical group. Fifteen fucking years.
And so on. And their media is run almost entirely by Rupert Murdoch, and leans so far to the right it’s lying on its side. And “lying” is the word. “Bullying of people who dare to speak out” are also the right words to describe Australia’s craven, contemptible media.
So I don’t love Australia. I love many Australians, and like a lot of others. But the vibe of the place: No, I don’t love that.
Now a group of right-wing nutters and church-ridden homophobes are trying to stop marriage equality from coming to Australia. They’d decided to put the issue to a postal survey, which is calculated to favour the group most opposed to gay marriage, that is, the over-65s, while cutting out the group – just about everyone 30 and under – who most favour gay marriage.
Knowing that no one in that group uses postal mail, or checks their letter box, any more. It’s a “survey” where the homophobes get to have their thumb on one side of the scales.
So … I’m going to have to become an Australian citizen. Not because I love a sun-burned country. The truth is that I don’t. But I approve of love, and if people want to marry the person they love, I’m not going to let a bunch of heartless bigots keep them from having that right.
Update:
In the end I couldn’t do it.
I can’t join a country that does to its indigenous peoples, and to refugees, what Australia does.
So I let same sex marriage win without me.
The Government did its best to bias it in favour of the lunatics on the Christian Right, which includes more than half the current government, but polls started to make it obvious that the goodies were going to defeat the bigots by a humiliating margin. So I don’t feel too bad. But I hope Australia sorts out its racism problem. Soon.
This is episode 14 of the series that evolved and expanded to become that very erotic and engrossing ebook, Jennifer’s Pleats and Pleas 3: Trying to be a Good Girl.
In this episode, Will gets a taxi for Jenifer, who is too dazed, dazzled and happy to walk home on her own. Maddie, who knows that Will has pleasured Jennifer without taking any reciprocal pleasure himself, takes Jennifer’s place bending over his desk. They are noisy and energetic.
I’ve had to remove the actual text, because this excellent and very sexy book has been published and is being submitted for sale at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Apple Books, 24symbols, Angus and Robinson, tolino, Rakuten Kobo and Vivlio.
I’ll give you a link to a page that will take you to your favoured on-line bookseller, or allow you to choose one, very soon.
The previous episode is here.
So I watched that first broad stripe form across Maureen’s bottom. She arched that ass up, making it clear that more of the same was required.
So I aimed the loop of belt across the crowns of her buttocks and made leather hit skin. I got a much louder smack this time.
Maureen sighed, and performed a rather neat, dancer-like, roll of her hips, first dipping towards the bed, then arching up again for the next smack.
I provided more smacks while Maureen squirmed about and made encouraging noises, until her bottom had achieved a good strong tomato-coloured glow.
Maureen’s complaint about her current boyfriends was that they didn’t understand about this kind of thing. Even if they tried to deliver a spanking, or something more ambitious, they were uncomfortable with the idea and generally clueless about how to do it.
In practice, she’d found, the main pain she suffered from was embarrassment. Alternatively they really hurt her, but not in the sexy way. When I’d been Maureen’s boyfriend I’d been unsatisfactory in a lot of ways, but not that one.
Then I aimed my belt a little lower, and started colouring in the tops of her thighs, slowly turning that deliciously soft skin from pink to crimson.
Maureen wriggled and bopped about, or at least her arse did. We had moved into a sort of rhythm, with the belt landing steadily though not fast across her bottom and the backs of her thighs.
Maureen’s hips performed her roll-and-present dance exactly in time to meet the belt as it came down, and her breath gasped out at every second stroke.
A lot of time passed like that, Maureen getting whipped, hotter and hotter. Though we had no idea how much time.
But Maureen eventually grabbed my belt, which was her right since she was not mine, and pulled me down while she turned, so that I fell onto her side, kicking and flailing about trying to get my own clothes off quickly.
But we sorted it out, and eventually I joined her, naked, supporting my weight like a gentleman, with her thighs – pleasantly heated by the belt – wrapped around me with her old enthusiasm. And I plunged my cock into the melony sweetness of her cunt.
And after a while Maureen closed her eyes and held her breath until her face turned red. That was something that she did and I remembered it fondly. It happened when I was doing the right thing and she was concentrating to enjoy it.
And then she put her hands on my shoulders, dug her fingernails in and clawed through my skin, drawing eight long lines of blood. And then she did it again. There was no pain. I was too turned on to feel pain. But I knew there was blood.
Oh yeah, I remembered. There was that, too.
The next episode is here.
Stairway to…
The previous episode is here.
The signal that this should go in anther direction was that Maureen said, “Jaime. Jaime, I miss Carstairs”.
And so I carried her over to her bed, lifted her off my cock, and dropped her.
Maureen bounced, something she did quite appealingly. I watched her breasts until they settled. Then she turned over onto her front. I looked down at her nicely contoured back and said, “well, yes, Carstairs. Those were the days.”
I undid my belt buckle, and made sure that the belt made a good loud leathery-slithery noise as it pulled free from the loops of my pants.
So we need some explanations. Why, for example, would anyone react like that to the name “Carstairs”? It seems a bit like Steve Martin in Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid, who would go berserk whenever someone said “cleaning woman”. (If you haven’t seen Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid, you should now.)
But I don’t really have a generic hair-trigger thing about the name “Carstairs”. If someone said it to me now, they might glimpse a bit of a smile if they were quick but they’d be boringly safe. “Carstairs” was specific to Maureen and me.
Maureen was one of the first submissive women I had ever found, in joyous mutual recognition some time after we’d already become a couple.
She and I only had only ever done bedroom bdsm, and it was usually just a warm-up spanking followed by sex. But when we wanted to do something more intense, with tying up, and harsher orders from me, and the harder instruments, then we tended to use role plays. At that early stage in my bdsm career I found it more comfortable if the man who subdued and hurt Maureen wasn’t really me, or not quite; and if the woman who suffered but enjoyed those things wasn’t quite Maureen’s everyday self either. The games were silly, but they allowed us to do harder things that we wouldn’t do as ourselves.
Most of these games started on the pretext that Maureen had just insulted a grey, spindle-nosed neurotic husk of a woman called Vera Carstairs, who might be a teacher, prison warden or an office senior, depending on the game being played. I would deliver stern justice in retribution for the insolence that Maureen had shown our imaginary Miss Carstairs.
I don’t use role play any more, since I’ve learned to be as harsh as the situation and mutual pleasure warrants, as myself, and without a qualm. But the “Carstairs” games games were an important stage in my bdsm learning.
So the game was afoot, though we didn’t bother to invent a reason: I didn’t think of exactly what Maureen had done to poor Miss Carstairs this time. I just doubled the belt, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then her shoulder, and then pressed my other hand down on the small of her back, holding her firmly down.
There would be squirming once I started her strapping, but, safewords aside, she wasn’t going anywhere until I’d finished.
Maureen arched her bottom up, and waited. It felt odd, for us to be so sexually intense together months after we were supposed to have broken up. But I was happy to be there with her, in this room and in this mood. So I pushed the small of her back down even more firmly, raised the belt, and brought it down, lustily and loud, across the crown of her buttocks. There was a beautiful creamy ripple where the strap landed, and Maureen sighed, though she kept herself still.
A few second later, a beautiful red band magically emerged across the pale, lightly freckled, domes of her bottom. It was a beautiful and intensely, immensely sexual sight. I hadn’t expected this, and it was good. I said, “Yeah, little Mo. I’ve missed this too.”
I raised the belt again.
That’s where I’ll break, for today. There’s trouble ahead, I should say.
The next episode is here.
I went to Barber of Seville in the Ravenna opera house a couple of years ago. It was off season, but the Ravenna Festival was on, so they put on a student production.
I was going to skip it, but I’d met a woman in an antique shop, where I’d found an old ivory dildo, made in eighteenth century China, probably, and traded into an Italian sailor’s hands some time since then.
I didn’t have the vocabulary to ask the old man behind the counter what he knew about its provenance.
But an Italian woman carrying a violin case was looking at old clocks, and she could speak Italian and English. She thought I was mad, so she helped me out. I offered to take her to a cafe, because I was grateful, and she had a nice mouth and eyes, and she looked good in jeans, though a raincoat obscured most of her. But she’d laughed and said I was an obvious pervert, and she was a good girl.
But her tone of voice suggested another try. “Um, but I’m a great admirer of classical musicians. Especially, someone who’s as obviously talented a soloist as you.” I happened to have passed the Ravenna Festival Hall that morning, where the doors were all closed for a youth orchestra rehearsal. Something told me she wasn’t a busker. So I guessed she was a soloist.
She given me dimples, and an enthusiastic “Grazie!” So we went to the Caffe Il Nazionale. I had a glass of pinot grigiot, while she had something with chocolate and ridiculous amounts of cream. She showed me the CD she’d just released.
The cover showed a violin abandoned on the beach, and a little further away, her wearing only a thing, about to plunge into the water. I looked at her bum, as seen on disk, and at the more demurely dressed reality of her. She rolled her eyes. “It’s the photo Marketing wanted for the cover, if they were going to put it out at all. What can you do?”
So I said, “But you look absolutely beautiful.” Then, since it seemed a little early to pay compliments to her arse, I said, “I mean, now. In this caffe.” She rolled her eyes, but there were dimples again. She wasn’t displeased. So I risked, “Well, you look pretty good on a windswept beach, too.”
“Windswept! Oh, that shoot was so cold! I was freezing my tits off! I mean, literally. There was no way I was actually going to get in that water.”
“Very wise.” I looked at the back of the CD cover, There was another picture of her, wearing a soloist’s dress,beaming and holding her violin as if it were a baby. And the track listing. It featured sweet semi-classical music: solo violin arrangements of opera hits, “Nessun Dorma!” and so on. And the first dance theme from the overture to Il Barbiere Di Siviglia, as a duet double-tracked with herself.
She looked more embarrassed at that than she’d been at her arse. “Look, I’m a serious muso. I wanted to do Shostakovich sonatas. And the Respighi 2. Do you know it?”
“No. I didn’t even know Respighi wrote sonatas.”
“He’s so underrated. He wrote opera, serious stuff. He’s not just some guy who wrote Fountains of Rome.”
She had more to say, because the English-speaking world pathetically misunderstood one of the greatest twentieth century composers. Or so she said.
As an English-speaker I was too good a chance to miss: I was going to cop an earful about Respighi’s stature. I didn’t argue, because I’d heard Il Tramonto and thought it was serious and wonderful, and because you don’t get to be a active pervert by ignoring girls with obscure enthusiasms.
Note
I’m taking a temporary break from the Maddie/Jennifer story, because the next episode is proving hard to write. This story gets steamier as it goes along.
I was riding my bike back home from the university. It was a blue, moonlight evening, on a road that glistened with rain. There was something about the moonlight and water that made me think of my ex-girlfriend Maureen.
I was finishing my degree, and earning money by cleaning the Psychology block at the university. I knew more about the shit of rats in Skinner Boxes than any young man needs to know. One interesting thing, for example, is that the turds of rats who were in operant conditioning experiments involving electric shocks were slightly olive in colour, while the poo of rats that were conditioned only by rewarding them with food pellets could be dark or light, but it tended to be brown. There’s a potential thesis in that, isn’t there?
Norton Dominator. Note featherbed frame, if you can
I had a Norton motorbike at the time, an old one with what was called a featherbed frame, though in reality you still felt every bump or crack in the road, through the bike and your arse.
I’d seen the bike in a shop, and when I learned its type was Norton Dominator, I just had to buy the thing.
I should say that I’m not a motorbike guy any more, though the black leather jacket and the knee-high leather boots are still useful.
Anyway, there I was, riding the moonlit main road into the city, and thinking about how much nicer this night would be if I were riding a sleigh pulled by the Parisian Women’s Nude Iceskating Team. It’s a long ride, from the university to the city, and I often found myself passing the time in mildly lustful reverie.
Monique et Giselle, patineuses nues et Parisiennes
I started thinking about an ex-girlfriend of mine instead of the Parisian nude ice-skaters, and I decided to go and visit her.
I’ve told a story about her in this blog before. It was about the first spanking I gave, in my life, where I was bold and competent and everything had been hot and sexy and very right. I’ll call that woman Maureen in this story too.
We’d split up because we’d both done some stupid things, and she’d left me for a lawyer who played in a mildly famous rock band. At that time she was single again, but I wasn’t. I was with Felicity, a girl who called herself Fliss. She pops up in this story a little later.
I turned off the main road and took the streets that led to Maureen’s place. I suppose I just wanted to look at her and possibly hug, for my sake, and for her sake to listen sympathetically while she told me about her recent boyfriends. Mutual friends had told me that her recent guys were even less reliable, sensible and even more appalling than I’d been. A bit of sympathy was definitely called for.
I parked my bike under a tree round the back, outside her kitchen, just like I did in the days we were together. So Maureen knew it was me. She came out to welcome me, wiping something nasty off her hands with an old tea towel.
This isn’t really what Maureen was wearing, but it’s how I tend to remember her
She was wearing tight, ripped jeans and the sort of t-shirt you wear when you’re cleaning the oven. We hugged. I kissed her, but managed the hug without squeezing or smacking her arse, despite the temptations posed by those jeans. Maureen had always had the kind of body that most men like, just a bit more voluptuous than the women in women’s magazines.
I let her lead me into the house, watching her walk with nostalgic admiration. She sat me down on the couch in the living room, and went to the kitchen, coming back with wine instead of the tea I’d asked for. I moved over and she sat next to me.
I asked her about her current love life, as if I didn’t know anything about it. Her facial expression confirmed that she wasn’t having a great time, and her grunt said she didn’t want to talk about it. So we talked about our time together instead.
We laughed about pleasant times, like camping beside a river and going into the water late that night to fuck, the glade we were in made magical by the moonlight on the trees and the water. We talked about the less pleasant times too, and we forgave each other for our stupidities, selfishnesses and lies. And so we kissed. The kisses were for, oh, friendship and affection’s sake.
Then we kissed some more, with more intensity, and we shared breaths, and Maureen undid buttons on my shirt so she could stroke my back.
It was only about an hour from when I’d parked my bike when I got off the couch to help Maureen off with her t-shirt, jeans and panties. That was all she was wearing. It was a warm evening and she hadn’t expected company. Anyway, she knew she looked good.
When her jeans and panties were round her ankles I put one foot on the gusset and pushed her feet down to the floor. When she lifted her legs again she was naked.
She wrapped those legs round my waist, so I couldn’t get away, and when I straightened up she came up with me, a nice firm limpet with her breasts pressed against my chest and her arms and legs around me, holding tight.
Happy to be, madam, your beast of burden. (In a domly sort of way)
I walked her, to keep my balance, until I pushed her back against the wall. She laughed at me. That laugh used to disconcert me a little, when we were first together, but I’d learned that it just meant she was happy.
I was thinking we were about to have one of those stunt fucks, where we’d adjust out position a little so that my cock, currently bouncing up against her buttocks, could slip home into her, and I’d march us round the room while she bounced on my cock until she came or I was exhausted. Whichever happened first.
But Maureen had a suggestion to make.
The next episode is here.