Wicked Wednesday: The desk warmed by Jennifer’s body

We looked at each other. Jennifer broke the moment, running at me and kissing me. I kissed her back, gravely, one hand in her hair. With my other hand I lifted her skirt at the back and rubbed her bottom, her skin hot under my hand. She kissed me again, softly, thoughtfully, while I stroked her. But after a few seconds I gently disengaged her. “You’re a good girl. But you’d best go home, now.”

 

Masturbation Monday: Tenderly

Emily was crying, but pressing her body against me. I was in territory I’d read about but never been in before. I said, again, “I know you’re a good girl, you’re so good, my love. We’re going to get through this. You’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.” I hoped that tone of voice counted for more than the words, because I couldn’t think clearly. Then I took my hand away. “But stay in position, darling. We’re nearly done.”

We got through the ten strokes of the cane she’d been promised, with one more stop for emotional comfort. It seemed to be over quickly, though Emily’s time must’ve moved more slowly than mine. She stayed in position afterwards. She was vividly striped, and mouthed the syllables, “ol-cha, ol-cha” over and over, sometimes aloud and sometimes silent.

She honked back phlegm, and her bottom ducked and rose while she managed and absorbed the pain. I stood beside her.  “We’re done. For today. You were so brave, love.”

Emily snuffled for answer, and reached over to caress my leg. I ran the fingers of my left hand down the corrugations on her bottom. Ten stripes blossomed there, on golden curved girlskin, each stripe in a different stage of development. Emily would have something to admire in the mirror. Probably for about a week.

I stroked her cunt, to show that whatever changes we were forging, I was still here to serve her pleasure. After our fashion.

I hoped to find her wet, for my own reassurance. She, thank god, was. My fingers entered easily, slickly welcome, and Emily made a soft, pleasured sound.

These sounds continued, and raised slightly in pitch. That was encouraging.

So was the beauty and the sheer, shocking, sexual power of those ten stripes. Those stripes were sex. Those stripes were lust. I’d put those stripes there, ten flags of conquest. They claimed new territory, they were pink pennants of victory. She was mine, in some more literal and deeper sense than we’d had before.

I helped Emma straighten up after she’d come, and she put her arms around my neck and her head in my shoulder, and we rocked together, my arms round her waist. We walked crabwise to bed, where she lay on her front. I undressed and lay facing her, kissed, praised and comforted her while she shed tears and made small hurt-animal noises.

The fiercest heat of a caning, that makes the recipient cry and cry out, fades quite quickly. But Emma’s marks still radiated heat to the air and pain into her body, and she winced even at my gentlest touch. I thought we’d lie together like this until she slept. But after a while our occasional kisses became more focussed.

I rolled onto my back, pulling her on top. We fucked slowly, holding hands and caressing, looking into each other’s eyes.

 

Religion and bdsm

Christianity is a kinky little religion, not that there’s anything wrong with that. Well, so long as it restricts itself to consenting adults. Unfortunately, it doesn’t, as investigations into child sexual abuse in institutional settings continue to reveal.

But today I just want to write about the flagellant tradition in Christianity. In a way, you might even expect more kinky forms of sex to develop in a doctrine and culture that puts so much effort into suppressing sexuality. Whipping may be a minority taste in Christianity, but it is persistent.

It’s remarkably widespread. Christian religious orders with flagellant traditions include the Augustinian monks, Benedictines, Capuchins, Celestines, Cenobites, Cistercians, the Dominicans, the Hospitalites, Jesuits, Trappists, the Ursuline monks and others. In the 19th century they were joined by Opus Dei, whose members are still encouraged to “apply a rope whip to their own buttocks once a week.”

And the interest in flagellation is certainly about sex. Consider the story of St Teresa of Avila, who co-founded the Discalced Carmelite Order. She recounts in her autobiography how she regularly whipped herself, reaching blissful states that were clearly orgasms. That autobiography,The Life of Saint Teresa, sets out the wonderful feelings she had when she thought about submission and slavery, and her use of self-inflicted pain. Her whipping plan regime led to experiences like this:

“I would see beside me, on my left hand, an angel in bodily form … He was not tall, but short, and very beautiful; and his face was so aflame that he appeared to be one of the highest ranks of angel who seem to be all on fire [the Cherubim] …

“In his hands I saw a great golden spear and at the end of the iron tip there appeared to be a point of fire. This he plunged into my heart several times so that it penetrated to my entrails. When he pulled it out, I felt that he took them out with it and he left me utterly consumed by the great love of God.

“The pain was so severe that it made me utter several moans. The sweetness caused me by this intense pain is so extreme that one could never wish it to cease … ”

Catherine of Cardona, also of the 16th century Carmelites, whipped and chained herself and dug hooks into her flesh, achieving what her hagiographers called “euphoric” sensations. Sometimes she halted these sessions because they felt too good.

Still another 16th century Carmelite, St Mary Magdalene de’ Pazzi, would have herself tied to a whipping post, hands tied above her head and her bottom bare, and demand that the other nuns whip her and then drip hot wax onto the welts.

Male saints with broadly similar tastes included St William, St Rudolph, St Dominic and others.

The modern counterparts of these saints, who enjoy posing semi-naked before a crowd, bound, whipped and stung with wax, might go to a bdsm club and pay $50 to the doorman, and then, once they’re inside, queue up to appear on the performance stage. The key difference is that their modern counterparts know what thery’re doing and why.

Still, I’ve read medieval specialists complain that it’s almost impossible to distinguish accounts of the pleasures of the medieval saints from the descriptions of the mortifications of the flesh and the divine ecstasies of O, in The Story of O.

Wicked Wednesday: All slippery, and floaty

We moved together, her slippery centre moving rhythmically forwards and back, up and down. In less than a minute her hands and buttocks clenched, and she made a long, low, melodious moan like a whale calling in the deep to another whale, of surpassing and hypnotic beauty. Her mouth had opened wide, as had her eyes, and she flopped on the desk as she came.

I kept going, fingers working inside and outside her pussy, and she was soon wailing that cry again, body tense, her upper body clear of the table. As she came this second time I smacked her bottom hard, twice, knowing she wouldn’t feel it as pain. Eventually Jennifer opened her eyes. She looked at me as if she was surprised to know who I was. Or where she was.

Masturbation Monday: The keening sound of punishment

The cane impacted low across Emily’s bottom, the sound of rattan on skin sharp and loud. A second later Emily grunted. The sounds were to be remembered. As was the ripple in her flesh, and the slight, quickly controlled jerk of her hips. And the mark of that first stroke, flaring neat and thin across her bottom, emerging as a cream-coloured line that quickly turned pink and then red.  

Emily’s posture gave her immense sexual power, as she knew. She was posing, doing a show for her … whatever I was. I was Emily’s lover, obviously, but what was I becoming? We wouldn’t go back to how we’d been before. I didn’t think she’d want me to relinquish the rights I’d just acquired. I didn’t approve of my new rights, but I didn’t want to relinquish them either.

Emily moved her left foot to firm her stance. The movement signalled acceptance of whatever came, and that excited me. I swung the cane again. Lustily. It landed, loudly, an inch or so below that first stripe. Emily’s head and shoulders jerked up, her hair flying, but she almost instantly returned to position, releasing her breath in a sweet, low gasp.

Her fingers hovered a few inches above her feet. I’d told her to touch her toes, but I let it pass. The second stripe declared itself, a little below the first stroke, which had by now raised itself into a welt. Emily couldn’t see me as clearly as I could study her, but she could see when I braced my feet. So she sucked in air and held it when I raised the cane.

I arced the cane down, resisting the urge to make the stroke gentler, and watched a third stripe bloom, a parallel line across the best-padded part of her bottom. Emily’s third expulsion of breath was voiced.

Some time later I stopped to watch Emily’s bottom squirming, her movements blatantly sexual though she was no longer aware of or concerned about how she looked. Her buttocks were decorated by five straight, separated stripes. Her hands still pointed obediently down, but had moved beside her ankles, the fingers and thumbs splayed and taut. It was an effort not to put them in the way of the cane. Tears ran down the bridge of her nose, tracking down her forehead to her hairline. She made a small keening sound, more in her nose than her mouth.

I reached down and stroked Emily’s hair, and teary forehead. The other hand, still holding the cane, I put round her waist and pulled her to me. The keening noise was louder, though she sounded in some way comforted. Emily pressed her hip against me. I wanted to tell her, reassuringly, that she was a good girl, and then felt the absurdity of that. In what way was I an expert on goodness?

But I had to say something.

It was my first attempt at this sort of thing. “You’re so beautiful. You’re so brave. I love you.” And, because it seemed called for, “you’re a good girl. Really. I do know that.” Emily’s keening became sobs. So she had wanted to hear that. I stroked her hair. She reached her hand to take mine, the hand holding the cane.

Emily’s sobs slowly subsided while I held her, and she said, “ah-huh, ah-huh”. She was agreeing with something, though I wasn’t sure what.

Sinful Sunday: Comfort after punishment

One of the best things about the classic “bend over and grasp the table edge” position is that after the punishment you can give comfort and pleasure to a bad girl who’s taken her punishment well, and who you know is feeling sorry. 

And without her having to move, you can give her comfort and pleasure until she feels like a happy, wet, wanting, kind of sloppy, loved good girl again. 

 

E[lust] 112: Featuring some great writers, and me

Elust 112

Elust 112 Header Cara Thereon naked on the sofa
Photo courtesy of Cara Thereon

Welcome to Elust 112

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #113? Start with the rules, come back December 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Broken Idol

So Your Partner Has Feelings for Someone Else

Vagina, vag-OWW-NO

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Responsibilities of erotic fiction characters
Pause on Red

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Hell for leather

https://jerusalemmortimer.com/tender/

 

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Relax Baby…We Got This.
Harry Potter Cured a Phobia My Abuser Gave Me
I didn’t mean to write this.

Erotic Fiction

Tied Up Tuesday
Andromeda
Scattered Lilies
My Eyes Adored You
Marks
caught in his web
Oh what a tangled web…
A Fine White Thread
The Doll’s Face
The Cold Breath of Night
…and Pause

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Men should STFU

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

One decision from a totally different life.
The changing nature of my submission

Erotic Non-Fiction

Feathers
Hmnh. Well, that was different.
Mid-Locktober Confessions/Punishment

Poetry

-16.10.18_00:59-

Blogging

Blogging and me

Writing About Writing

Rage & happies, #dommelife

Elust

Wicked Wednesday: Repair work for spanked Jennifers

“I want you to bend over my desk now. Not for punishment. This is repair work, for spanked Jennifers. Like yesterday. I’m going to put some lotion on your skin, to reduce the pain, and cool it down and reduce the swelling. So: are you going to bend over so I can cool you down, or do you want a touch of the cane first?”

“Sir!” Jennifer moved at light speed, it seemed. She was over my desk, legs apart in what seemed like no time at all.

 

Masturbation Monday: The right thing

I’d just used moral blackmail, talking about how she’d hurt me, to ensure she agreed to being punished. This was new territory for both us – I’d never punished a submissive before – but I was sure that talking about how she’d hurt me was wrong. So I’d apologised. 

But Emily shook her head. “No, I’m sorry, I really am. I’m so sorry. And … you should do it. Punish me. I want you to. Well.” So I held her again. Emily buried her head in my shoulder while I stroked her neck, feeling that I was, on the whole, a shit.

Eventually we stood apart, and I took the cane from her. We’d been here countless times. But never like with this meaning. I said, “All right, Emily, you’ve asked for this, and now you’re going to get it.” That was true. “I’m going to beat you. As you deserve.”

‘Deserve’ was weak; I wasn’t sure what it meant. But I bet Emily had liked ‘I’m going to beat you’; that had sounded ruthless. I added, “Take off your clothes. Everything, including your watch. Quickly.” 

Emily undid and shed yesterday’s party clothes. I knew she’d prefer to be bending over the bed, tied down so she didn’t have to hold still. She wouldn’t have that. When she was naked I pointed the cane at her feet. “Put your feet apart. Wider.”

Emily obeyed solemnly, hands at her sides. I touched the cane to her belly, then touched it to her mouth. “Kiss.”

Emily bestowed a blessing on the rattan, easily. It seemed that I’d hoped for more reluctance.

“Thank you. Now turn around, please, Emily, bend over and touch your toes.”

Emily obeyed the traditional instruction, jack-knifing her body and reaching down to assume that simplest and most submissive of postures, beloved by bonobos, actors pretending to be teachers in bad porn videos, and me. It’s a hard pose to sustain for ten strokes, but she’d managed before. The position is emotionally as well as physically exposed. That seemed right.

“Thank you, Emily.” Still polite. I pressed the cane to the undercurve of her bottom, so she knew where the first stroke was coming.  

I was enjoying Emily’s submission display – would I fuck her after I’d caned her? Of course I would – but I was aware of softer emotions that I hadn’t expected. I’d lost my anger. Emily was giving me an extraordinary amount of trust, and that meant I had to be loving and protective. I had to be worthy of her.

There seemed to be something I hadn’t expected in this, something loving. It wasn’t “parental” because Emily wasn’t at all childlike and anyway I don’t think adults should hit children. But I was calmer than I’d expected, and oddly certain that I was acting from love. I suspected that I might be doing the right thing. I raised the cane.

Emily closed her eyes tight. I let her wait while I considered how hard to strike. I knew this had to hurt her. I put some speed and force into the swing.