Masturbation Monday: The Cocky Host

 

Note: The previous episode is here.

Stephanie waited, naked, on my floor, her face, her outspread arms and her breasts touching the carpet, and her ass up and poised.

It’s just about the sexiest position a woman can assume. Nothing says, “I need to be fucked,” like lordosis. 

I bent down and touched her hair. I said, in my softest, gentlest voice, “Good girl.” Stephanie grunted. She was in the state of mind in which “Good girl,” was a comfort.

Then I pulled her hair, medium hard, to remind her who we were being to each other, in that room, and while she sighed, taking that in, the knowledge that she was a girl who got her hair pulled, I lowered myself to the floor behind her, my knees between hers, my cock pressing urgently against her sweet and very wet cunt.

I didn’t move, though. Stephanie’s hips made little micro-movements of need, wanting me inside her. But she knew I didn’t want her to rock her ass back and take me.

It wasn’t that she knew I’d punish her if she did, though I certainly would. It was that she liked this game and she wanted to be good. And maybe be called ‘good girl’ again.

So we stayed like that, Stephanie waiting, presented for fucking, being tormented.

I was tormented too, of course, but I knew when it was going to and. Or begin. 

I said, “Keep still. That’s a good girl.” It was so difficult not to take her immediately and hard. In one thrust. I let another minute pass, caressing the sides of her breasts, and moving my hands up to hold her, firmly, by her hips. Then at last I moved forward, letting the head of my cock touch slick, wet, needy cunt, and a little further forward so her lips parted for half of the head of my cock. It was like being kissed in welcome. Stephanie made a sound that was close to a sob, then sucked in her breath. She knew she still didn’t have permission to move. 

I mentioned at the start of this story that I’d known Stephanie for years. I knew her family, too. Stephanie was a spoiled girl. She’d never really needed permission for anything while she was growing up. Waiting for permission now, being obedient, was a new experience for her. Clearly, she was finding it hot, in this context.

I said, “Stephanie.” 

“Yes. Jaime?” 

“You can rock back now, and take more of me. Just the head of my cock. If you go further… Well, my belt’s on the floor here. Understand?” 

There were a lot of things she could have said about that. But she took the belt threat without questioning it. She said, “Urrrrrnh.”

I hoped I wouldn’t have to use the belt. Not tonight; it wouldn’t fit the mood. But her acquiescence to the idea in principle made my cock just a little harder. I think she felt that.

She moved back, very carefully, impaling her soft centre on me. My glans covered in her, held tightly, I squeezed my fingers, hard, on her hips. We’d wanted each other for years. It was something to savour.

Then I raised my right hand and smacked her, just for the joy of it. I pushed further in, then back, half an inch back and one inch forward, each time.

Stephanie’s face was turned, and her mouth was open. There was dribble on the carpet. Forward, then back.

Neither of us had any thoughts, any things to say.

I moved forward a little further, then back. Stephanie started to move now that most of my cock was in her, rocking on her knees, pleasuring herself. 

At last my pubic bone and stomach pressed against her ass. We were fully joined. I said, “Stephanie, you are good. And sweet. And beautiful. And…” 

She moved and I shut up. Suddenly, we were fucking as fast and hard as we could. My knees rubbed on the carpet, painfully, and I didn’t care. She was going to lose skin too. 

The next episode is here.

The Rise of the Cocky Billionaire

Well, I’m a billionaire in Thai baht. I’m rising because I had a bad cold and now I seem to be getting rid of it. I’m cocky because I’ve got a cock. I am be-cocked. My cock works well,  rising in the presence of submissive women who want my attention, and later it sets, like the sun.

So that’s how I got “cocky” and “billionaire” into my title. I know, though, that “billionaire” and “cocky” are two words that make me avoid a book, especially if they appear on the cover. 

With “billionaire” it’s partly because it suggests the book is going to be derivative of the “Fifty Shades” books, and god knows that’s a terrible model. There’s also the way sex gets mingled with a kind of right-wing economics. No questions are asked about how the billionaire got his money, and that’s the most real human-interest part of “billionaire” to me. As well as, are they paying their share of taxes?

Instead there’s a sort of Ayn Rand approach, that the very rich have no obligations to the society they live in. They’re just desirable because they can take a girl around in their private jet or yacht, and they can take her shopping. 

There’s something faintly insulting to both men and women is this sexual idolisation of the billionaire. It suggests that a man isn’t a dom because of his personal qualities, but because of his wallet. He dominates the heroine because he’s rich. Similarly, it suggests that women aren’t attracted by personality, humour, eyes, and so on, but by wallets. That’s a shallow and cynical take on human nature, and also, thank fuck, a false view. it doesn’t remotely resemble the world I live in or the dominant and submissive couples I know.

Then there’s the “cocky” thing. The attributes of the “cocky” man seem to be that he’s good-looking and really, deeply knows it. So when he does something obnoxious to the heroine at their first meeting, and she responds angrily, he knows she’s aroused by him to the point of soaking through her jeans. 

So he says, “I know you want me,” to this woman he’s just met, and then, “but you’ll be begging me for it later.” And he saunters off. 

A “cocky” man, encountered in real life, would be what is usually called “an asshole”.

I don’t think it’s any surprise that “Faleena Hopkins”, the woman who took out a copyright on the word “cocky”, (which she did not coin, and she was not the first to use it in an erotic romance title) and started threatening to sue other writers who use the word, reviewed Ayn Rand’s “Atlas Shrugs” on Amazon and said it was her favourite book. 

Most doms I know are trying to be decent human beings, and most submissives react to the person and not their wallet. And they struggle to work out how to be dominant and submissive together. That’s the most realistic bdsm story. It’s also, I think, the sexiest.

Wicked Wednesday: The Cocky Caning

The previous episode is here.

 

Lucy was stroking Sir’s penis,that I was still getting used to thinking of as my Sir’s  cock. He’d ordered Lucy to do that because he was determined not to take any of her virginities tonight. But her hand was fine.

He’d said that the more turned on he was, the harder he’d cane.

I don’t think Lucy wanted me to be hurt, or not too much, but I knew her: it was her nature to do her utmost to please him.

So I waited, bent over with my fingers touching my toes, and that cane having touched my lower bottom, which I’d already learned hurt the worst, I knew I was in for a very hard, painful caning indeed. 

Sir said, “I want you bent tighter than that, Maddie. Palms flat on the floor.” 

I said, “Yes, Sir,” and moved my hands lower, then let my palms rest on the floor. Fortunately I was a supple girl; I still am. Yoga students and girls who get the cane regularly need to be supple. 

I could feel the way my body tightened. I was presented perfectly, from his point of view. My pussy felt terribly exposed, not just to his gaze, though I knew it was that, but also, in that position, to the cane. A really hard stroke could easily reach my pussylips.

I wondered if I’d be able to take that without getting up.

Sir said, “All right, Maddie. You know you’re generally expected to take a caning in silence. If I tell you to, you can count the strokes aloud and thanks me for each one. I’m not expecting you to do that. Lucy’s going to do the counting for you. So what does that mean, Maddie?”

My heart sank. “I’m not to make any sound at all, Sir.”

“That’s right, girl. Those are the rules. Do you think you’ll be able to manage that?” 

“I… I don’t know, Sir.” 

“I have my doubts too. There’s a choice for you, Maddie. If you accept two extra strokes, making fourteen, then I’ll allow you to scream and squeal and carry on, so long as you keep still. If you don’t take the two extra strokes, and you scream, then you get the stroke over. So, what’s it to be?” 

I felt the cane touch me again, this time on my legs, about four inches below the crease of my bum. Oh god. I whimpered. I knew that I’d get more than two extra strokes if the rule of silence applied to this caning. “I’ll take the two strokes. The extra strokes, Sir.” 

“I think that’s a sensible choice. So that makes how many strokes of the cane you’re due for?”

I felt tears slip from my eyes, down into my eyebrows, to get lost in my hair. I sniffed. “Fourteen strokes, Sir.” 

“Good girl, Maddie. I still expect you to stay in place. Get up, and you’ll get another twelve. Understood.” 

I wanted to sob already. “Y-yes, Sir.” 

“All right Lucy, A little bit slower, now. I don’t want to come until I’ve got you two home with me. Now, Maddie.” 

“Yes Sir?”

But he was warning me. I must have heard the cane swishing through the air, but I don’t remember that. I only remember the pain and heat when it landed across my underbum.

It was so hard. I couldn’t help it. I screamed on the very first stroke, though I’d sworn to myself I wouldn’t, and my hips and bottom jerked convulsively. I only just managed to stop myself from getting up.

Lucy said, “One, Sir.” There was awe in her voice.

 

The next episode is here.

Sinful Sunday: “It’s a toy if I say it is,” I said. In my cocky way.

The wheels of chance have spun, and I wanted champagne and runny cheese, or possibly money. But what I got was “natural light” and “toys”.

“Well, all right,” she said, “at least about the natural light. But that damn paddle is never a toy.”

I picked up the paddle, and slapped it on the wooden table, which really was there, just out of shot in this image. The impact of leather on wood made a noise like a Presidential assassination. With an old-fashioned 303: they were loud. It made a noise that discouraged further argument with the man who held that paddle.

“I say it’s a toy,” I said. Cockily. “Discuss?”

No. There was no more discussion.

It was time for percussion.  

 

Note

The title of this post includes a word I think I’ve never actually typed before. It’s there because a romance writer of modest gifts, Faleena Hopkins, took out a copyright on the word “cocky”, and is using that as the basis for sending threatening letters to other writers who’ve used the word “cocky” in book-titles. 

The letters threaten to take all the proceeds from any book written with the word “cocky” in the title. 

As a former magazine editor, if I got a letter on those lines I’d laugh, show it round the office so others could have a snort, and glue it to a sheet in the crank file. (We used to keep the threats we received, to look through and cheer ourselves up if we ever thought we were being boring.)

But writers who don’t have access to legal advice, and are living hand to mouth, can easily find such letters alarming. 

The Romance Writers of America is now preparing a case to have the copyright over the word “cocky” overturned. But for this week, in support of writers threatened by Faleena Hopkins, my every post will have the word “cocky” in the title.

You can follow this story by checking #byefaleena on Twitter. 

Footsore and bleary: can’t write, couldn’t dom

The birth of Venus. Fresco at Pompeii.

In the last few days I’ve clambered and walked all round Pompeii and Herculaneum, and climbed from the road on Vesuvius to look down into the crater, a distance of, I’d say, about one and a half kilometres. 

All the time limping like a three-legged dog. That’s because I climbed my way into the grounds of the Villa Diodati, Byron’s old palace in Geneva.

It’s in private hands now, and closed to the public, which is a disgrace. There’s a sign nearby about how “Frankenstein” happened there. The Shelley’s house, where Bysshe and Mary were living, and actually wrote the novel, has been demolished.

By the way, the novel was conceived and mostly written by May Shelley. Percy Bysshe wrote about 7,000 words of it and had a couple of the less important plot ideas, which gets him to the status of minor collaborator. He never claimed any share of the credit.

Anyway, my leg had largely recovered, but before I went into Vesuvius’s terrain (terrain of terror, I guess I shouldn’t say) I undid all the repair work while walking through the Carraculla baths in Rome. A road made of cobble Has the power to make me hobble. It seems. 

After the ruined cities, plus the volcano that did the ruining, my feet weren’t just sore; they’d swollen up until they looked to me like someone else’s. And that someone else was possibly an elephant.

Since then I’ve kept my feet elevated, and me relaxed, as much as possible, and as a result they’re nearly back to normal size. Phew!

Anyway, I’ve been having a wonderful time, but I’m physically exhausted. That, it seems to mean, prevents me from writing. Writing takes energy, and the body has to supply it. It hasn’t been. What energy I have, I’ve devoted to making myself walk, and go and look round different places. 

I have a terrific episode of Maddie’s story (the Wicked Wednesday saga) formed in my head, but it’ll have to wait till next week, when I’ll be resting on the beach in Phuket.

It’s interesting that domming and writing both require unusual amounts of mental energy. You need desire, focus, attention to detail while shaping the direction you want to go. 

Right now, if some girl were to drape herself over my knee (or chair), I honestly don’t know if I’d be able to oblige her. Similarly, I have the plot of next week’s Maddie saga worked out, but I couldn’t write it right now to save my life. (That, I guess, is not actually true. At gunpoint, I’d write it.)

Anyway, I’ll be able to write more next week, by bribing some kid to watch my laptop when I go for swims. My journey ends on 16 May. 

Masturbation Monday: Crawling to my bedroom

Note

This is a continuing story. Icouldn’t write an episode llast week because travel. But the most recent episode, before this one is here.

The story so far: Stephanie and I left my own party to go across the road, and do everything but fuck in the children’s playground, after midnight. When we got back to my place, I put my clothes back on, but Stephanie had to stay naked. Since she was happy with that, I told her to drop to her knees, for the journey through the party-goers to my bedroom. 

And the thing is, the really cool thing, is that she did.

The previous episode is . Read it, if you haven’t, then read on.

Crawling to my room

I opened the back door, and stood back as if I were a polite man, so Stephanie could lead the way, prowling on her hands and knees. It wasn’t politeness, of course. I just wanted to watch her ass.

I said, because there are times a dom can’t help himself, and it comes with an incredibly powerful wave of both affection and lust, “Good girl, Stephanie.”

She looked at me, thinking, I guess, about protesting the idea that I was in any position to decide whether she was good or not.

(I was in an excellent position to observe she was a girl, and she couldn’t have any doubt about that.)

Then she looked back down at the carpet, so I suppose she’d decided that what I said went. She was a good girl.  

There was no one around, near the back door. I reached down and smacked her arse, hard, and she skittered a little, like a horse might, then began to crawl towards the main corridor. We could hear people there. Her arrival in that corridor was going to be noticed. And she knew she was a pretty girl, and that my male guests in particular were going to notice her.

I said, “You know the way to my room. Go.” And I smacked her again. This time she accepted it, and began to crawl, half prowling and half shuffling, to the door of my room. I had a thought. “Keep your head down, girl.” I smacked her again. There was no way not to.

There was about a dozen people in the corridor, one couple kissing, and two groups of five. They looked at Stephanie first, and then at me. They’d seen me do weird stuff before. Most of them didn’t know about me and bdsm (a higher proportion of the women knew, but they were still a minority), so I guess they just took it as theatre.

I said, “Second door on the left, Maureen.” (That was what my idea had been, such as it was. Most people are terrible witnesses, and most of the guys, and the women for that matter, weren’t looking at the naked, crawling girl’s face. So using the name “Maureen” might just give Stephanie a kind of privacy. She, I hoped, wouldn’t be in the stories about this. In any face, her face was as red as I’ve ever seen anyone’s. She liked humiliation, and she certainly had her fill in that corridor.

But she reached my doorway, and made the left turn inside. There was a couple on my bed talking. I felt bad about throwing them out, because I’d hoped they’d get together, and they clearly had. Unfortunately, they’d have to consummate somewhere else now. Four idiots (I say this affectionately) who were wasting party time by standing around and talking about Gramsci, also looked at me.

I said, “I’m sorry to chuck you out. But I need the room. Sorry, John, sorry, Lena.” That was to the couple on the bed. But they broke up, Lena laughing at me because of things she knew, and they all filed out. I shut the door behind them, and pushed Stephanie’s scarlet face down to the carpet.

“Keep your ass high, Stephanie. Knees apart. Spread your arms out so your upper body is on the carpet.”

Stephanie made a little moaning noise, that wasn’t a protest, and obeyed. She looked spectacularly, nakedly and rudely offered. Sexually offered.

She said, “Uh, Jaime,” and I smacked her again. She waited, watching me from the floor. I took my clothes off again, and took a condom from my wallet. I put it on.

“Carpet burns, darling. You’re about to get serious carpet burns.” 

The next episode is here.