The corners of her mouth fell. She remembered where she was, and that she would be crying again, like a baby, all too soon. But she placed herself lithely over my knee. This time she held my shin with both hands to steady herself, and her thighs were a little open, all primness forgotten. Her little pussy pouted at me, damp and plump from her own arousal, in that softest valley between her buttocks and her thighs. I sighed at the beauty of it, and of Jennifer.
Punishing Emily seemed to be a hot idea. It was also terrifying. I’d no longer be able to rely on the politics that I’d put together to allow me to accept my sexual desires. I’d have to fly without a map, immediately, and work out something new.
She was less fussed about the politics than I was, because we both knew that in any discussion over sexism the woman is always right. I might have to flounder round, trying to come up with reasons, but she didn’t. And she had no reason to worry about getting the cane. She liked getting caned. If she didn’t get caned for this reason, there’d be another reason coming along soon enough.
It came down to this, for both of us: we could carry on being awkward with each other, or we could do something new and scary that meant we’d fuck and forgive. There were arguments for and against this, but the lust of it led in only one direction.
My face was cold, pale and sweaty as a slice of picnic chicken. Emily was as pale as she ever gets, a speckled brown egg. “Yeah, well. Suppose you punish me. Okay. What happens?”
I was used to pretending to be a disciplinarian. Actually being a disciplinarian, the real thing, was stranger and more emotional than I’d imagined. “I suppose … Well, I’d tell you to go and fetch the cane. You’d do as you’re told. And then I’d cane you. And … No, that’s it, really.”
A day ago, Emily might have said something like, “Oh no, sir, pleeease not the cane,” and we’d have taken the game from there. Instead she said, “Okay then.” She stared at a point on the floor, just before my feet.
“Emily, look at me.” Emily looked up, then cast her eyes down. I realised, relieved, that part of her was still play-acting. Sure, she was ashamed, and afraid of the cane, but she was also enjoying her humiliation, and hoping I’d make it worse. I could talk to both Emilys. “I’m giving you one last chance to decide, okay? This is the chance, right now. If you say, ‘Yes, I deserve the cane’, then we’ll start. But if you can say, ‘No, I don’t deserve to be caned,’ then we don’t start. Nothing happens.”
“Um. Well, what happens if I say I deserve it, but I still don’t want you to cane me?”
I hadn’t thought of that. “I’d be pissed off with you.” I shook my head. That was bullying. I’d feel better about this if I managed not to be a bully. “I mean, truthfully, I would be pissed off with you. I’m pissed off now. But I’d forgive and forget. It’d take a while but it wouldn’t take forever. So if you say nothing happens, then nothing happens.”
“You wouldn’t leave me?”
“Jesus, Emily! No, I won’t leave you. Absolutely not. Not matter what. I love you.” It was true, though I didn’t sound very loving.
“Well, whatever the hell you’ve decided should happen. It’s your choice. Oh. Right, the words were: ‘Yes, I deserve the cane.’”
“Ok. Yes, I, Emily Maria Viviani, deserve the cane. No, really; I totally fucked up. You absolutely should punish me. With the cane. I really deserve it. I need you to punish me. I know I do.”
Once she’d said that our world changed. I pretended not to feel the vertigo.
A lot of people have attacked the fictional character Christian Grey for being a bad dom. Of course, he’d be a terrible dom if he was real. He stalks lip-biting inner-goddess Anastasia, spanks her and takes a strap to her arse, all without her consent.
I’m sure he behaved badly in the second two books as well, but I haven’t been able to read them. Call me a snob and call me a cab, but after skimming Volume One I was out of there.
If Christian Grey were a real person bdsm communities would have warnings about him, for his weird, unethical and non-consensual behaviour. He’d finish up getting charged with assault and being in the centre of a massive media scandal: “Billionaire in kinky love-nest rape!” That sort of thing.
However, as a fictional character his behaviour is a lot better. He’s made a lot more women come, with Fifty Shades in one hand and their bits in the other, than any thousand real doms combined. Even if you include me. That’s a significant contribution to human happiness, and you can’t ignore it.
As a fictional character, my main criticism of Christian Grey is that he doesn’t do nearly enough spanking and commanding and binding the Anastasia of Steel. I skimmed Fifty Shades Freed looking for the bdsm scenes so I could critique them, but I never found any. I’m sure I just didn’t look hard enough.
In the interminable schoolgirl spanking saga I’m writing, there are two headmasters, and they initiate certain of their students into various kinky sexual practises. Obviously, if they were real and lived in our world, they’d both belong in jail.
They’re not breaking age-of-consent laws, and the age gap between them and their charges isn’t all that great: about eight years.
But they’re in a position of authority and there’s no question at all that they’re misusing their authority in ways that, uh, conflict with the criminal code in any civilised society.
On the other hand, these two imaginary men are written to give pleasure to their readers, and my impression is that my spanking headmasters, like the “naughty schoolgirl” scenario itself, appeal particularly to a female audience. I am that audience’s humble servant.
There is, eventually, a happy ending to the Jennifer-and-Maddie saga, but at the rate at which time moves in my stories, that ending will probably arrive some time in 2021. In the meantime, my point is, I’m happy to write it and make it as sexy as possible. While being fervently against corporal punishment and sex between teachers and students in the real world.
I’m not saying that fictional characters have no ethical requirements at all. We erotica writers who consider ourselves to be on the side of the angels (especially the sexy, spankable, fuckable angels) don’t write bestiality, or eroticise rape, or write scenarios involving people under eighteen, though the age of consent where I live is sixteen.
But still, there is a difference, a space, between fantasy and real life, and it’s a space that erotica writers spend a lot of time in. It’s fluid and it’s complex, like the best sex, and we need to defend our freedom to have erotic fantasies that are perfectly sexy without necessarily being perfectly ethical.
We know the difference between fiction and fantasy, on the one hand, and the real world, in the other.
We need to take action in the real world to challenge the beliefs and indulgences that make it far too easy for men to rape and get away with it, and to give support to organisations that support women who’ve been subjected to rape and other violence.
At the same time, we need to defend our right to have erotic fantasies, and to share them with others.
Erotica is a powerful tool for improving human happiness, and for helping people to find and explore their own erotic selves without censorship or condemnation.
Pleasure is, at least, undervalued. It shouldn’t be shamed.
I’d asked Jennifer if she was working her way back to being a good girl. Jennifer took nearly twenty seconds to respond. Her head shook, but she decided to keep her nose to the corner. “Yes, sir, I hope so.”
“No, not quite. She has a little way to go. I’m sure you’ll hear some more crying shortly. But she’ll be fine.” Jennifer made another little sound in her throat. She was shaking now, and about to cry again.
“If you need me to hold her down…”
“Oh, I think Jennifer knows better than to try to get up. Don’t you, Jennifer?”
There was a longer gap. And there were sobs again. At last she said, with phlegm in her voice, “Yes, sir. I will be good. You know that.”
Maddie and I exchanged smiles. Maddie had caught some of my admiration for this girl. She said, “I’ll hunt out that draft. Do I bring it in even if you’re dealing with Jennifer?”
That seemed a powerfully erotic possibility. A confrontation between the two of them while Jennifer was under the intimacy of discipline. But I said, “No, I think we’ll allow Jennifer some privacy while she’s finishing her punishment. I’ll send for you when I’ve finished.”
Another muffled sound from Jennifer. The tears were coursing down her cheeks again. I stood up. “”Jennifer.”
“Come here. And Maddie, that’s all for now.” But Maddie watched poor scarlet-bottomed, scarlet-faced Jennifer get up and totter towards me. When I’d caught Jennifer in my arms and embraced her she left.
Jennifer, in my arms, looked up at me. “Sir. I try to be a good girl. I know I deserve punishment. And I know I need… direction.” I brushed the tears from her cheeks with my right hand.
I smiled at her. She tried to smile back, but she was a sad, spanked, humiliated girl. “But it’s so much. It’s so new for me. What… What’s next, sir?”
I put my hand on her poor blazing bottom, and let my fingers press low, between her buttocks, nearly – almost – touching her pussy. I held her tight, and kissed her forehead. She buried her head in the crook of my right arm, and relaxed there. We both wanted more than we could give each other at that moment. Waiting was hard, for both of us, but it was good, too. I kissed her forehead again and she moaned, but it was a far, far happier sound.
“Do you see the cupboard behind my desk?”
“I want you to go to it now, and open it. You’ll see a lot of things designed for naughty girls like you: canes, paddles, straps and more.”
“Just a moment.” I made her take a step back, and undid the two bottom buttons of her school blouse. I pulled the tails to the front and tied them, above her hipbones, so they couldn’t come down and interrupt what was to come.
“Now, Jennifer, go to the cupboard. You’ll see it’s full of what are called instruments of discipline.” She nodded, awed. “You’ll get to know most of the things in there, and what they’re for, over the next year or so. But I want you to find the slipper. A man’s slipper. It’s an old one of mine, actually. It’s got a plaid pattern, and a rubber sole. Fetch that, and bring it to me.”
Jennifer turned to the cupboard. I smacked her bottom sharply, and she yelped, putting her hands where I’d smacked. “No, girl, you don’t walk. On your hands and knees, Jennifer.” I smacked her poor sensitive bottom again, getting another yelp. “Go!”
For a second Emily didn’t react. Then she jolted, as if she’d been hit by an invisible tennis ball. She blushed, equally suddenly, and looked away. “Oh,” she said. “Oh.” She turned back to look into my eyes. “I don’t know, Jaime.”
“You asked me to cane you. If I caught you smoking?”
But she saw the doubt in my face. “Well, yes… But that was then. Anyway, Jaime, you said you wouldn’t. You said you can’t punish me just because I do something you think is wrong.” This was true. I’d turned her down, with self-admiration. “Remember?”
Emily would’ve gone on apologising forever, and I’d have gone on making her feel worse while acting as if I was being nice, also forever. That would be boring. This was dramatic.
One thing we’d learned together was that we had a mutual taste for drama.
“I haven’t given you the right, Jaime. Not for this.”
“I think I should punish you.” Emily frowned. She knew I wasn’t convinced of that. “Well, what do you think? Do you think you deserve it?”
“Of course.” That was dismissive. “Well, okay. Yes, I do. I was really stupid. And I was mean. I hurt you. Of course.” That was less dismissive. “I’d deserve anything you did to me. Well, to my ass, anyway. But that’s not the point, Jaime. You said you wouldn’t punish me for real things. Not for real. You said you couldn’t. We’re supposed to be equals.”
“So you’d punish me for fucking another guy. But you’d want me to ask you to first. You’re saying that would make us still equals?”
“Um. Well, it’s your choice. And it wouldn’t just be for fucking Marty.”
“Oh, because you’re too high-minded to be jealous.”
“I never said that.”
“Jaime, you’ve got every right to be mad at me. And you are angry with me, you know you are.”
“Okay. That’s true.”
“So, I say I’m a bad girl and then you cane me. Only difference is that this time it’s real.”
“It’d be real.” I hadn’t changed my mind about the politics: I didn’t believe any adult has a right to tell another adult what to do, let alone punish that adult. Everything I felt about sexual politics, plus my basic anarchism, was against it. But this wasn’t between citizens. It was between Emily and me, and though we weren’t open about it, it was about sex as much as justice.
She didn’t exactly want the cane, but she wanted to have been caned.
Then she wouldn’t be in the wrong any more. Neither of us liked occupying the moral low ground. Punishment would make her good again: I’d have forgiven her, and more importantly she could forgive herself.
But I was certain that her real reason was the same as mine: sex. It had been one thing to play dominance and submission games. But this was about making my dominance and her submission real, with real-world consequences. That seemed hot.
Welcome to Elust 111–
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After the Party : Cleaner Close #7
Denna and her convenient pervert
Slut Escritoire ||| back to school
Key to Room 237: Freya – Darker Side of Love
Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish
Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor
Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships
I knew Jennifer thought her spanking was over. She’d heard me say she’d been a good girl during her punishment, and hadn’t processed that I’d said, so far. She was in for a mild surprise. But I patted her prettily red bottom, and said, ““You can roll off, now, little one. Good precious girl. Kneel between my knees.”
Jennifer moaned. Her body was hard to move, and painful. But she lowered her knees to the carpet, and looked up at me. A more experienced girl would probably have directed her attention to my cock at that moment. It was a tent-peg in my trousers, as blatant in my need as she’d been in hers. But Jennifer paid my cock no attention, neither as sexual prize nor threat. Instead she looked at my face and snuffled again, tears still descending down her cheeks.
“I know what you mean, now, sir. When you said I really won’t do it again, once I’ve been punished for it. I really won’t forget now, sir.”
I smiled down at her, and cupped her face fondly. “You’ve been a good, brave girl, so far.”
This time she heard it. “So far?”
“Yes, little Jennifer. You’re at the halfway point. I want this to be a body memory for you.”
“Oh, sir. My body will certainly remember this!” That was a flash of humour. She’d already recovered a little.
“Yes. But my work isn’t done yet, pretty Jennifer. And I’m afraid nor is your lesson.”
“Oh, sir. I really hurt!”
I handed her a handful of tissues. “Blow your nose now, Jennifer. And dry your eyes.” She took the tissues gratefully and honked into them as decorously as she could. “Good girl!” I said when she finished. I took them from her and tossed them into the bin behind my desk.
She looked up at me, waiting to be told what to do. She’d noticed my cock. She hoped, I think, that my next order might involve her doing something about that. I suppose she’d read about fellatio, and heard other girls talk about it. If that had been my order I believe she’d have obeyed with relief, and I’d have come in her mouth in less than a minute. But it was too early to lead her into direct, unambiguous sexual activity.
I said, “Get up now, little one. Go and stand in the corner, nose right in the corner with you. Hands on head!”
I let her stay there for ten minutes, while I worked on a proposal for city funding for the swimming pool. Though it was as hard for me to concentrate as, I’m sure, it was hard for Jennifer to stay in place. After fifteen minutes I pushed a button on the desk phone. A minute later Maddie entered the room. Jennifer, to do her credit, know better than to look round when she heard the door open.
“Can you bring me the earlier draft of the swimming pool proposal? I’d put some notes on it.”
Maddie knew why she was in the room. “Of course.” She made a show of noticing Jennifer. “Oh! She’s been very well spanked. I thought Jennifer was a good girl?”
Jennifer made a low, distressed sound in her throat. But she didn’t move. “Well, she’s earning her way back to good-girl status. Aren’t you, Jennifer?”
Emily said she’d spent the night with a guy called Marty. I knew and despised Marty. He sold pills, and like a lot of doctors Emily liked her psychopharmaceuticals. She said she hadn’t set out to meet him, and they weren’t having an affair. Spending the night with him had been a wine-fucked mistake, she said, and she’d hated lying to me. I said, truthfully, that I believed her. Emily said she didn’t intend to let him anywhere near her again.
But afterwards she’d sat on his bed. I saw her, at this point in her story, patting the bed, smiling at him, with his come in her. That vision didn’t make me happy.
But Marty’s mood had turned suddenly and he didn’t join her. He’d paced the room and shouted, and at one point held his closed fist against her mouth. Then he’d pushed her, so she bounced off a bedside table on the way to the floor. He’d stalked off, muttering, and not come back. Emily, still too drunk to do anything effective, had crawled onto a mattress in another room, pulled clothes and eiderdowns and pillows on top of herself and slept. She got out as soon as she woke up. Someone had followed her car. That was why she’d looked so scared when she arrived.
There was something wrong with Marty. He sold middle-class drugs to doctors and lawyers, but he also sold drugs that cops took more seriously. He did it so openly that even I knew about it. He mixed with gangsters because he thought they were glamorous, but his indiscretion and violence were making him unpopular.
Because she’d parked her car outside his place, many people would have stored the licence number, her name and our address. I hoped it was only a cop who’d followed Emily home. At that time in Marty’s life, which ended a couple of years later, he was dangerous. He was also tall, good-looking in the style of the very young, skinny Clark Gable, and on a good day he could present his outlaw act as romantic.
So on top of the usual reasons for being annoyed when your lover fucks someone else, she’d chosen a stupid and slightly evil man, and she’d put herself in harm’s way. I was angry and I was scared.
I thought about punishing her. She’d asked me to cane her for smoking, when she was trying to give up cigarettes. So there had once been consent in principle. But she’d hurt me and I wanted to hurt her back, and I was suspicious of that desire. She might deserve punishment, but I didn’t trust my motives. Revenge seemed a bad one.
We talked. I said she’d scared me. She said she was ashamed of herself, and sorry. But when everything was said, nothing was resolved. Our talk went in a circle, over and over. I was hurt, and I’d been scared, and then I was angry; she said was sorry, and then sorry again.
Eventually, in the second hour I broke that circle, and most of my own rules along with it. Partly I was motivated by boredom: it must be time to say something new. “So. Emily. So what should I actually do? This is a bigger deal than you smoking a cigarette, wouldn’t you say?”