Wicked Wednesday: You may not come!

I’d told Jennifer, bent naked over my desk, to brace herself. This is always credible advice when it comes from a man with a slipper in his hand. Jennifer shivered a little, thinking I’d meant I was about to start her slippering. 

But I put my palm and finger under her pussy, and ran my thumb down between her soft, inviting folds. She jerked in surprise, and then relaxed. I put my thumb into her, feeling the spongy skin as I pressed down, moving my thumb slowly into and a little way out of her, while pressing my palm against her clitoris.

Jennifer sighed with pleasure, and then her body started to echo the movements of my thumb and palm. Her breath quickened. I admired the rise and fall of her bottom, which blushed a bright crimson from the six slipper smacks I’d already given her. But at almost the last second, when she was on the edge of orgasm, I pulled out, smacked that bottom, and said, “But don’t you dare come, girl!”

“Ahhh, sir!” She made a howl of protest, and in another mood I’d have given her extra strokes for that. 

But I ignored her. I drew her knee a little further towards me, and applied the first stroke to her inner thigh, about eight inches from her pussy. Jennifer shrieked, “Owwwwww!”

Since she could no longer kick, her body rocked from side to side on the table. I brought the slipper down again, a little harder and three inches closer to her pussy. Jennifer howled and writhed, though it was less dramatic than her response to her first six. She was getting tired, and she was transmuting at least part of the pain into pleasure. I delivered the third stroke on the plumpest part of her thigh. She yowled and then sobbed, crying like a baby.

As I crossed to her right side, Maddie said, “We have tears, Master.” I couldn’t see her face but I knew that was true, from the quality of her sobbing. I took Jennifer’s right knee, and held it firmly while I delivered the same sequence of three strokes to her right inner thigh.

Maddie still sobbed and wailed, but her body movements were calmer. Her bottom rose and fell as if her pussy was riding the air, riding something that should have been there but wasn’t. Despite her pain I knew that if I touched her she would come within about thirty seconds.

More importantly, I was now certain that she’d be able to come instantly, without my touching her, if I commanded her to.

I rested the slipper on the small of her back. “If you beg for permission to come, Jennifer, I’ll give you two dozen extra strokes. Is that understood?”

Her voice was very quiet. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re learning discipline and obedience. From now on, you come only when I give you permission.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That includes at home, in your own bed.”

“Sir! I mean, yes, sir.” 

I smiled, not that she could see me. “I know you’re a good girl, Jennifer. This is part of showing me how good you can be.”

She sighed, resigned. I’m not sure if she understood, yet, quite how much power she had just ceded.

Masturbation Monday: Meeting Jayavardhini

Four days later, when the weather was calm and the ship was making good speed across a flat sea, Philip searched through his luggage. He had spent every night and most of the time they were both free in Chetana’s cabin, and this was the first time he’d spent in his own place. It was unfamiliar to him, and because he’d been busy while the ships were stowed, it wasn’t him who had put his belongings in the cabin.

He found the small Burberry case at the top of the wardrobe, and brought it down carefully, hoping it had been put there with the same care. 

He undid its leather straps and checked it, fearfully. Nothing seemed to be broken.

He whistled, closed it again, and took up the case. He walked the short distance down the corridor, and turned right towards Chetana’s cabin, near the Jagannath’s prow.

As he approached the door opened and a woman stepped out. Philip hadn’t seen her before. She was Tamil like Chetana, smaller, younger, with the same shock of black hair, emerald eyes and bruised purple-pink lips. She was smiling.

She saw Philip approaching, and her mouth opened, still pleased with the world. “Hello! You’re Philip! I’ve seen you, but I don’t think we’ve met.”

“I would certainly remember it.”

“So I have you at a disadvantage! From what Chetana says, that’s almost impossible. But I should abandon it.” She held out her hand.

She smelled of lemon. And something floral. And sex. “I’m Jayavardhini, Jayavardhini Mudiliar. You can call me Jaya.”

Philip frowned, then smiled back at her. “I know the name Jayavardhini. It’s a beautiful name. And auspicious. If you prefer Jaya, then I’ll follow that. But please don’t shorten your name out of politeness.”

The woman, named after a goddess of victory, laughed. “Well, then, I do prefer Jayavardhini. Thank you. Most people find it a mouthful.”

Philip had an urge to say something inane and flirtatious about her and mouthfuls. The urge surprised him. He said, “Jayavardhini. It’s lovely to meet you.”

“It’s been lovely to meet you, Philip. I’ve heard about you for so long. In Chetana’s emails. It’s like finally coming face to face with a legend.” She glanced at the case in his hand. “You’ve brought Chetana a picnic? You smuggled caviar or something else she likes on-board?”

He shook his head. “I’d love to be able to. But the rule is that food is a common resource. No private stashes.”

“I bet you made that rule.”

“I proposed it.”

She was still laughing at him. “Most people who invent rules don’t apply them to themselves. I suppose your legend is true, then. Anyway, I’m holding you up. I should go, I think.”

But she didn’t move. For a second Philip had the impression that she was going to kiss him. He knew Chetana was not a one-man woman. Nor was she a one-woman woman, probably. But he was a one-woman man. Still, he would not have minded if she had kissed him. He said, “I’ll see you.”

She said, “I should hope so! I’m a botanist, so I’ve been sorting out our plants: hydroponics and soils. It’s still a nightmare down there. You have… noidea. But it should get less frantic in about three days’ time. I’ll be more visible after that.”

He smiled at her. “Good.”

Then she did kiss him. She changed her aim at the last instant to touch her lips to his cheek, but he could not have been more astonished. Or, he supposed, charmed. Then she kissed his mouth. 

He’d been right: a kiss from her wasn’t something he would mind.

He realised he’d have been shocked, stammering in embarrassment, a week ago. Chetana’s sexual appreciation had changed him. So he grinned, only happy. “All right. I’ll look forward to you being free.”

He had the urge to ask if Chetana was all right, and alone now. But she was only a door away. So he watched the woman walk away, sarong tied under her armpits, probably all she wore.


Sinful Sunday: Being sorry

“Hands on head. And wait there till I return”

Time is important. In a while he’ll invite her to tell him if he’s sorry. She’ll say she is, and she’ll say it as earnestly and strongly as she can. And she’ll mean it, of course she will.

But… she knows that part of her isn’t only a tay bit sorry, and what’s going to happen to her, from beginning to end, in something to look forward to, as well as to fear. 

She stands on an emotional and sexual balance, shifting her weight from one side to the other. 

And, of course, she knows it has to begin. For sorry and for sexual, she wishes it would begin. 




Invasion Day in Australia

I live on land stolen from the Darug and Gundungurra Nations. 

I hope Australia confronts its past soon and comes to a treaty with the Aboriginal nations.

That treaty, I know, won’t involve full restitution, the “give it back” option. But it will involve political recognition of Aboriginal voices.

Not “the Aboriginal voice”, since the Aboriginal nations, and the Aboriginal people who are not associated with a nation, are as far as you can get from being a monoculture. 

It’ll involve recognition of certain traditional hunting and gathering rights. And so on. And serious, non-bullshit government-driven moves to reduce the differences in education, health, imprisonment rates and life expectancy.

Do you know that the average lifespan of an Aboriginal Australian is 15 years less than for a non-Aboriginal Australian?

That’s why an Aboriginal Australian can claim the Age Pension from 50, while for non-Aboriginal Australians the age is 66. Ask the average Australian why that is, in a pub, and they’ll probably say it’s because those fucking Abos get all the perks, and so on. 

Anyway, Australia hasn’t even started its first step. In a way, Australia has been very lucky in its image, with its beaches and maybe the GLBTQ Mardi Gras makes the place look more inclusive than it really is.

I remember the horror with which the rest of the world viewed Apartheid-era South Africa. If people looked Australia with a cold eye, they’d think, Fuck, that’s horrifying: some of the conditions here are worse than the apartheid era. I’ve been through places in Australia that looked a lot worse than photos I’ve seen of apartheid-era Soweto.

I’m not an expert. I just know that a nearby country, New Zealand, sorted this out in 1840, with Te Tiriti o Waitangi/Treaty of Waitangi. Which was imperfect in many ways, but it was a crucial start. As a living document it’s being developed all the time to fit with the modern world, and post-colonial ideas of justice.

When the day comes, and there’s some sort of treaty with Aboriginal support, I’ll be proud to become an Australian citizen. 

Until then I can’t join “Team Australia”. It’s just a conscience thing.

I’d like to think that improvement will come when the current racist, incompetent, corrupt shambles currently in government in Australia gets the arse. Which will happen as soon as they have an election, and they can’t put that off much longer.

But the hopes I have for Labor are very, very low and muted. 

Anyway, nobody in their right mind cares whether I join Team Australia or not, I know. It’s just me.

Still… shout out to anyone else in the same position. And muted hopes for a less racist Australia after the election.

Wicked Wednesday: Is she crying yet?

I didn’t admit any warmth or affection in my voice. Jennifer was to feel punished, before she was allowed other feelings.

I said, “Jennifer, that’s your first six for today. It’s punishment and a lesson. It’s very unwise to flash your pussy at the boys. It leads to trouble among them, and to trouble for you. I’m sure you knew that.”

There was a snuffle. “Yes, sir. I did know it was wrong.”

“So you deserve to be punished, and you need the lesson. This is to make sure your body warns you against it, if you ever even think of doing something that silly again. Is that clear?”

Jennifer coughed, twice, before trying to speak, and her voice was still small, shamed and shaky. “Yes, sir. That is so clear. God, I’ll never…” She shook her head.

That was good enough. I said, “And you’re being a good, brave girl. I’m proud of you.”

Jennifer sobbed again, relieved, then quickly controlled herself. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’ve got another six, Jennifer, for your indecent behaviour. Then you have the penalty six for questioning an order. So you’re a third of the way through. Head down, now girl. And keep your legs parted. You’re about to find out why.”

Jennifer froze for a second. She wanted to ask what I meant. But she decided better, and lowered her head again. I said, “Maddie, is she crying yet?”

“No, Master. Her eyes are wet, but she hasn’t spilled tears yet.”

I smiled, and patted Jennifer fondly on the bottom. She moaned, not with pain, and raised her hips a little further, seeking my touch. I picked up the slipper and moved to her left side.

I took her knee and pulled it a little further to the left, so she was utterly exposed. Her pussy was swollen, lips soft, and damp.

“Brace yourself, girl.”

Masturbation Monday: On a great big clipper ship, going from this land into that

Chetana lay facedown on her bed while Philip washed her. He’d sponged all of her body but now he seemed to be concentrating soapily on her ass and upper thighs. Chetana expected he wasn’t going to shift his attention, or his hands. The cabin rocked gently under them. She knew the ship had left the Laccadive Sea, and was sailing into the Arabian Sea.  

His fingers, surprisingly strong, pushed into the muscles of her ass. She felt him find and work on the remaining knots of tension, a process that both hurt her and satisfied. She was aware of  another feeling, something luxurious that she hadn’t felt in about two years.

It was that she was relaxed, and her mind was in the sensual world, free of things to do or think about.

At last he smacked the inside of her left thigh, then her right, and repeated until she understood and moved her feet apart, open for him. But he continued to knead the muscles of her ass, and only slowly worked his way down to the backs of her thighs.

At last she sighed, and said, “ah fuck, that’s good. Where’d you learn all that?”

But Philip only smacked her bottom, her skin and muscles gloriously relaxed, when a couple of hours ago she had been so tense it hurt. His smack didn’t hurt. She hoped he’d do it again. Most of her male lovers were too deferential for that sort of thing. He said, “You don’t have to talk, my love.”

His finger slid down the sensitive skin of her perineum, from just below her anus to stop, frustratingly, just above her cunt. He was teasing her. Then he smacked her bottom again and she said, involuntarily, “ooh!” That felt so welcome, so right.

“But you do have to get your ass up.” The hand pressed onto her bottom lifted,  and she expected it to land again. But it didn’t arrive. She wriggled a little, and parted her thighs further, then lifted her bottom, in the most abjectly invitational pose she could manage. He said, “Perfect.”

She could hear in his voice that he was smiling at her. Then his hand did land, a slightly harder smack. It seemed to awaken her skin. She felt goosebumps forming, suddenly.

Then the fingers between her buttocks dropped a little and touched her cunt for the first time. Chetana opened her mouth, half from the joy of it and half to suck in a lungful of air. He stroked her lips, still only touching the outer sides. He said “Good girl.”

It was the first time he’d ever said it to her, though she’d known it had been on the tip of his tongue for the last two days. She’d heard him stopping himself. Now he was more relaxed, too.

He stroked her, still slowly and lightly, and at last – at last! – touched her inner wetness with his forefinger. Then he pushed further into her. Chetana said – her voice sounded so high! – “You better fuck me soon. I think I’m going to come any moment.”

She wasn’t surprised when he smacked her again. And then again.

After the third smack, he said, “I don’t care when you come. Or how often. Up to you.”

He put a second finger into her, and reached deep. Chetana groaned.

Sinful Sunday: The Green Girl and the Tawse

We were in a garden on the outskirts of Rome. She said it was so lush. I said that was true. But we were talking about different things.

I’d made her carry my tawse for me. She wondered if I was going to use it hard

I said, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

That meant, oh yes indeed.

“But the Romans don’t whip girls with tawses. Tawses are Scottish, you said!”

“That’s a good point. We’ll do approximately as the Romans do.”


Elust 114! Collected works of hotness!

Elust 114 Headr image Rebels Notes naked bottom
Photo courtesy of Rebel’s Notes

Welcome to Elust 114

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 #115? Start with the rules, come back February1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

The Painful Truth…

As Wet As I Get

Three, in the end

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~



~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

FemDom {T}ropes

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Mx Nillin Fucks… Socks!
Knight Attire
Seven years of comments
Erotic Massage

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Our Dynamic
Collar me kinky

Erotic Fiction

Marking Time
Coffee-shops and painsluts
The Storm
This belongs to me
Backstage Girl

Writing About Writing

Smut Marathon ~ My Journey
3 Downloadable Tools to Track Your Income

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

#SoSS – Sharing Taboo Topics!


End of Year Round Up
Caring too much about the wrong thing.

Erotic Non-Fiction

On Fucking and Being Fucked
Vignette – Pictures of Us
Lunch with a caned girl





Wicked Wednesday: Do you agree that discipline works?

Jennifer raised her head and looked at Maddie. I’d just told her that Maddie envied her, for the paddling she was getting. And, we all knew, though none of us would say it, Maddie envied her because she was the focus of desire in that room. I wanted Jennifer, powerfully. Maddie wanted Jennifer too, and to be her. 

At last, finding my words confirmed in Maddie’s age, Jennifer dropped her head to the table again. She tensed her body, then relaxed, getting herself back under control. 

But I did not want Jennifer in control of herself, even partly. I resolved that I would hear her cry out by the third stroke. I landed the second smack of the slipper hard, and on the same spot as the first. Her body jerked under the impact, and her feet left the floor, though she kept her legs spread.

Her head raised, baring her throat to Maddie, and the hiss came back, louder, and ended in a soft moan of pain.

She was fighting hard, and she was brave. Braver than she’d been under the slipper yesterday. But I was determined she’d lose that struggle, and spectacularly.

The third hard stroke on that same soft area of skin was her undoing. Her legs rose till they were almost level with the table, though she still kept them spread, and her breath expelled in a harsh, loud scream.

With the floodgates open, I stepped back a little and smacked the slipper down on the crown of her buttocks. It must have hurt less than the third stroke, but her legs kicked in the air and she screamed again, her pitch rising, perhaps a semi-tone.

Her brief resistance was gone: she was now under the slipper’s command and direction.

I landed the fifth and sixth strokes on the same spot, about thirty seconds apart, and her legs kicked and cycled in the air, ungainly as a frog’s, and the wail with which she greeted the fifth stroke had not ceased by the time I landed the sixth.

Her cries continued after I’d stopped skippering her, a very sorry girl. II touched her slipper, very lightly, against her bottom, as a warning. “Quiet, Jennifer!” Jennifer continued wailing. “Or I’ll give you another six extra strokes!”

Miraculously, she suddenly found self-control. There was just one last sob, and then silence, except for Jennifer’s hard breathing. Maddie caught my eye again, and smiled. “You’re learning that discipline really works, Jennifer. I bet Master is pleased with you.”

Jennifer shook her head. She was focussed on the raging heat in her bright red bottom, not on speaking. But Maddie reached for Jennifer’s jaw and lifted her face, so the girl and the woman stared at each other, eye to eye.

Maddie smiled. “You always find extra reserves when you’re being disciplined, Jennifer. I know that well enough by now. You’ll endure anything, and you’ll do anything if you think it will please him. Discipline works for you too, doesn’t it?”

Masturbation Monday: Going easy

Sometimes Emily, who’d been caned hard, two nights in a row, moved against me in a way that usually meant she wanted sex. Sometimes my cock was hard, pressed against her belly. But long after midnight she turned on her side and slept with her back to me. I curled up behind her, careful not to touch her bottom, and slept too. I’d forgiven her ages ago. I knew she’d forgiven me.

I’d promised her a third caning, and I delivered it. But this time I gave her less pain and more ceremony.

I tied her to the bed, but when her caning began I made sure the strokes were a little lighter than they had been for her first two punishments. I’d lost the feeling of righteousness that had powered her first two canings.

Afterwards, Emily knew that I’d gone easy on her. She was grateful in a way, but also disappointed.

So I stroked her until she wept and squeaked, expecting to be stroked to orgasm, and then stopped and warned her not to come. I left her on the edge, and still tied fast across the bed. She could assure herself that this was punishment.

I sat with a book, where I could watch her and she couldn’t watch me. If you tie your partner, you stay and watch, for their safety. Anyway, watching Emily was no hardship. It was starting to feel real. Emily really had given herself to me, as a possession, an owned woman, who was accountable to me.

I thought, while trying to read, about our future. We couldn’t just spend all our time with Emily being tied to our bed. Or me spanking and caning her. I’d have to find other ways of letting her feel herself owned and submissive, while giving us room and time to get on with our lives and careers.  I had no idea how to achieve this. Was there a submissive way of watching a movie? Or doing the dishes? Was there a dominant way? I didn’t know.

I shut the book and joined Emily on the bed, and used a buzzy thing to help her to pick up the threads of that dropped, stopped, orgasm. Then I undid her bonds and fucked her again. Emily came again, clamorously, and she was giggly talkative afterwards.

But I fell asleep, most of my weight on her back .Emily woke me an hour or so later, in ghostly night, asking me to move so she could get to the toilet. She came straight back. After all, she no longer smoked.

{The end]