Masturbation Monday: A seagull’s cry

We were in one of the classic threesome line-ups, with Maires on her knees, ass up, getting fucked by me, with her head down between Stephanie’s thighs, her nose, lips and tongue deep in Stephanie’s centre. Stephanie lay back, slowly writhing, eyes closed.

She’d let go of Maires’s hair, and her fingers were clenched on Maires’s shoulders. There was a little smear of blood on Maires’s right shoulderblade, where Stephanie’s nails had dug into her skin. I doubt that Maires had noticed.

I’d promised Stephanie that she’d still be feeling me while I fucked Maires, and so I smacked Maires on her right thighs. Then again, so I had her attention. “Slow down, Maires. I told you to follow me. You do Stephanie at the speed I’m doing you. Remember?”

“Yes sir. Sorry, sir.” Maires raised her head from Stephanie and looked at me for a second. Beseeching.

She seemed to have forgotten her embarrassment about calling me “sir” in front of Stephanie. But she knew that she’d just been slightly disobedient, and disobedience usually got her caned, and she probably didn’t want me to cane her in front of Stephanie.

Though, dangerously for her, that idea turned me on as soon as I’d had it. So she wanted to show me she was good. She dropped her head again and kissed Stephanie’s cunt gently. She slowed down.

She put three fingers into Stephanie’s cunt, pressing upwards, and began a series of long, slow licks, from the softly creased skin below Stephanie’s cunt, slowly upwards, then around her fingers until she lapped at Stephanie’s clitoris.

Then, as I drew back from Maires, as slowly as I could, she’d lick downwards, and then reverse when I thrust forward and deeper into her. So that was our rhythm. Stephanie spread her thighs wider and lifted her knees a little. She was being a helpful girl, in case Maires needed better access. She put both hands on Maires’s head, holding handfuls of hair, and pulled her in closer. She wasn’t being dommy; just greedy.

I sped up slightly, and Maires picked up her pace, her face pressing into and pleasuring Stephanie’s cunt. She moved her fingers, thoroughly wet from Stephanie’s cunt. to press against her little asshole, and slowly enter.

Stephanie’s head fell back onto the pillow, and she moaned. I liked that sound, and wanted to hear it again, but with my cock entering her little asshole. I wanted to lean forward and kiss her, but I couldn’t just then without withdrawing from Maires.

And I needed to be in Maires just then, and she needed me.

So we picked up speed again. I fucked Maires a little harder and faster, which Maires in turn passed to Stephanie. Stephanie wailed, and that became continuous. She was going to come soon. She raised her head, and we looked at each other.

I said, “Good girl, Stephanie. I want you to come, now. Be a good girl and come, now.” Stephanie grunted, her mouth opened as if she was about to scream, but no sound came. Maires sped up again, not quite on cue from me, but unable to stop herself, her fingers and tongue working as fast as they’d go.

Stephanie stared at me, as if she was in anguish and the most terrible thing in the world was being done to her, and then she closed her eyes tight and wailed again. Her knees lifted while she cried out, a high, lost sound like a seagull’s cry, and she took her hands from Maires’s head and clutched her own breasts, squeezing tight. Then she lay back, arms fallen to her sides, gasping for breath. 

Janie’s drop, part 1

She’d kind of hoped he’d take her with him

“Why do you have to go, anyway? Can’t I come with you, Master?”

Janie knew she only sounded querulous. No one likes a whiny sub, she’d been told. She knew, too, that Paul had little choice about this trip. It was work. But Paul had never punished her for needing him.

Paul smiled. “You won’t be missing me much, Janie. You won’t have time.”

Huh? “Master?”

“You’re meeting my friend Monica. She’s in charge of you this weekend. You’ll address her as Mistress, and you’ll obey her just like you obey me. Until I collect you on Monday. Understood?”

Janie felt near-terror. She’d never obeyed, or served, anyone but him. “Yes, Master?”

This was her calm space, and they were both leaving it

Yes, Jane.”

“How can I- ?” She wanted to say, “serve anyone but you?”, but she knew this was already decided. And although this frightened her, she didn’t want to displease Paul. “How do I get to her place? Do you have her address?”

“I will deliver you, little love, and I’ll come to collect you when I’m back. And we’re leaving right now.”

Panic! She felt the sudden jolt, the lift in her heart rate. “Master! Please! I, I have to pack!”

“You’re wearing your collar. You won’t take that off, and you won’t need anything else. Now, girl.”


The next episode is here.

Wicked Wednesday: Darkness and light

I’m a dom. When I go to meet a bunch of people who also do bdsm, I’m likely to wear black: black boots with metal rings, black jeans with zips all over the place, black t-shirt, black jacket.

That’s traditional. It’s probably only thirty to forty years old, as traditions go, but I tend to go with traditions where they’re harmless. But in general I’m not an enormous fan of black or darkness.

Dr Frederick Wertham was quite right to say there was a strong fetishistic streak in comic book characters. (That’s Superman and Power Girl, by the way.)

For example I always preferred Superman to Batman; Superman’s story is about optimism and ethical issues, while Batman’s story is about poor Bruce Wayne being psychologically messed up because he saw his parents murdered in front of him.

Superman’s problem is essentially that he’s a god, and he has to work out ways of using his powers to help humanity without getting in their way too much. To me that’s more interesting and actually far more relatable that Batman’s dead-parents-bitterness problem.

Because we all have some power, and we all need to work out how to use our allocation of power to make things better.

 (Don’t get me wrong. I like the Batman mythos and I ain’t dissing Bruce Wayne. I just prefer Superman’s world. And worldview.)

Wertham’s mistake was in thinking there’s anything wrong with that. (Batman with Catwoman.)

Similarly, I’m not really interested in the problems of the traditional powers of darkness. I could never take vampires, werewolves, ghosts, demons and devils seriously. I don’t just mean that I don’t think they’re real. It’s that as story elements they seem kind of silly, rather than sexy or stylish or chilling or whatever. I can’t be scared by a vampire story or movie, because they just don’t feel real. 

Darkness, when I’m writing, tends to come in the shape of a corrupt or authoritarian politician, a racist cop, a violent husband.

Or just malign chance, like disease or car accident. 

Most of the people in stories I write, including the erotica, are well-meaning. They may get ratty, and thoughtless, but that’s because they’re under stress. Given time to relax and think, they behave better. I write that kind of interaction not because it’s a fantasy world I want to live in: it’s actually the way that most real people actually do behave. I also think it’s more interesting: the struggle people have, in trying to find and make themselves do the right thing. And conflict between people who both think they’re doing the right thing, and are well-meaning, is more interesting that struggles between “good” and “evil”. 

Once we’ve got our black gears on, all male doms think we look like this. In our dreams…

As a dom, I give control, restraint and certain kinds of pain to women who want that, to be controlled, held tight, bound, given carefully measured touches of pain, while knowing that they are loved and looked after.

That doesn’t seem to me to be “dark”, or enhanced by pretending that it is. It’s colourful, the colours of blush and arousal, which vary with different skin colours, but are seldom really “black”. Sex, and especially bdsm, is not at all monochrome. 

It’s an exchange, for love, or at least affection, and pleasure on both sides. We give each other things that the other fiercely needs, while receiving the equivalent from them.

So I don’t deal much in darkness, or in black. Except for the clothes. 


I’ll be back to Maddie’s saga next week. 


Masturbation Monday: Follow me

This is turning into a saga. The previous episode is here


Maires and I licked and nibbled our way down Stephanie’s thighs, she writhing slowly and smelling beautifully, headily, aroused. Eventually, when Stephanie would expect at least one tongue to touch her glorious, shiny centre, I stopped and kissed Maires.

Mouth to horizontal mouth, while Stephanie’s vertical mouth leaked, and she tried to move down the bed so her cunt touched our faces. I smacked her leg, and she stopped, making piteous, disappointed sounds. After a while, Maires stopped kissing me. She looked at me, eyebrows up, and I nodded.

Maires turned her head, and pressed forward, delicately, her mouth softly touching Stephanie’s cunt. Stephanie said, “Hooo”. 

Then Maires licked, firmly upwards, touching and tongue-bathing Stephanie’s clitoris. Stephanie’s whole body clenched, and she was silent, legs apart, abandoned, waiting for whatever we might make happen to her. 

I slid, snakelike, up the bed while Maires was busy with Stephanie’s sweet centre. I kissed her, and she opened her eyes. We smiled at each other. I said, “I’ll be fucking Maires next.” 

Stephanie nodded solemnly. A host had his responsibilities, and she knew it was Maires’s turn. She sighed, in response to something Maires was doing, then touched my face. She pulled me down to kiss her again. For a long time Stephanie was the centre of our tiny world, on my bed, having her cunt explored and kissing the man who’d just – finally, after too many years – fucked her.

I said, “but when I’m fucking Maires, I promise you’ll still feel me.” 

I know; that sounds egotistical. But we all live in a culture, and because of that culture Maires could lick Stephanie’s cunt because I was there. If I wasn’t present this wouldn’t be happening. My male presence, and I guess things about me specifically, made it possible for Stephanie to accept my girl’s tongue on her cunt, that female to female pressure. But Stephanie was having a threesome with a man, for the time being her man, not lesbian sex. From her point of view.     

I whispered, “Maires likes it if you hold her hair while she’s doing you.” And kissed her again. And a few seconds Maires made a lust noise; she was having her hair pulled, and she was serving. 

I kissed Stephanie goodbye for the time being. Maires was on her knees, her head down deep between Stephanie’s thighs. Her position was close to the one I’d enforced on Stephanie on the carpet. I clambered back until my knees were between Maires’s. I held her hips, Maires’s head still bobbing and bopping energetically, one of Stephanie’s hands in her hair.

My cock pressed forward, between her buttocks. The head touched Maires’s cunt. She was distracted, with her own duties, but she said, “Yer, ye.” I pushed forward. She said, “Ah fuck!” as I entered her. She lost her rhythm, for a few seconds.

I saw Stephanie dig her nails into Maires’s shoulders. Blood was going to be spilled, and soon. I pushed forward, into Maires in one thrust, tightly held in the most perfect world there is, wet, warm, and needing more of me. I smacked Maires’s arse, which I possessed utterly and without reservation from either of us. I said, “I’m fucking you. You’re doing Stephanie. So, follow me.”  

Maires made a sound that wasn’t a protest. It was acquiescence mixed with the knowledge that she shouldn’t take that sort of order. But she liked being given orders, and obeying, as Stephanie did. I wondered which of them would get to surrender to the other. And I pressed forward, and back, in Maires’s clasping wet cunt, riding her high and slowly. 


The next episode is here.




Books, publishers and agents: and where are the under-the-desk blowjobs?

The writer, giving good type, and laying pipe.

I’m in the slightly unusual situation of having finished three novels in the last four months. 

One of those novels contains no bdsm and very little sex, but a lot of love and death, also violence and politics, set in an antiquarian bookshop, and I don’t think I can publish it as being by that disgraceful Jerusalem Mortimer.  

I’m sending it to an agent on Monday. And they can decide what to do with my split personality writing career. 

The writer’s reward. I mean, money is good, but mostly we write for the under-the-desk blow jobs. Ask Hemingway, ask JK Rowling. Ask anyone.

The other two novels contains lots and lots, also lots, of sex and submission, and the acceptance of submission. And lots of very committed fucking.

They are true novels, in the sense that they’re about people, and the changes they go through as a result of experience.

They are also, I think, filthy hot.

People discover the most intense desires, to own or to give themselves to their lover, and to mark them or be marked by them.

And today a publisher has been given the opportunity to enrich their company and myself beyond their and my wildest dreams, as my books fly off the shelves.

As they most certainly will! 

Balzac would have said, “There goes another novel.” But he was an idiot.

I’ve been busy most of this week, This process, the writing of blurbs, synopses, and histories of my writing career, and so forth, has kept me away from blogging for most of this week. I’m sorry about that.

I like to keep my readers entertained. I believe that writers are entertainers, or we’re nothing. I believe that very seriously.

Usual services restored next week!