Sinful Sunday: Praying for the tawse

She’s on the prie-dieux, a piece of furniture meant for people to experience repentance.  One kneels at it, or one bends over it. One thinks about one’s misbehaviour.

When she was told to bend over, and the tawse placed beside her, she knows her future is going to become painful, intense, and yet somehow pleasurable. 

But the waiting: that’s hard. She just wants it to start. 

But, always, first she has to wait. Nothing happens, except inside her mind and body.

Slowly, imperceptibly, the tension mounts.

 

Heloise and Abelard: A bdsm Love Story

The story of Héloïse and Abélard is one of the most famous love stories of Western culture.

They met when he became her tutor, and fell in love. Later, they married. When her family found out about the marriage, they attacked and castrated Abélard and shoved Héloïse into a convent. 

Heloise, after – ooh, that looks like it was the theology lesson

But it’s seldom admitted that this is a bdsm love story. When he appointed Abélard as his daughter’s tutor, her father told Abelard to punish Heloïse physically, in any way he wanted, if he was dissatisfied with her work. If I ever write a parenting manual, I’ll advise against that. 

It seems to have been the spankings and small whippings, with her clothing partly removed, that sparked the sexual relationship. Abélard hints as much in his first letter, written after the lovers were separated.

There’s no doubt at all that Heloïse enjoyed her sexual submission to Abélard. When she writes to him after his castration she’s clearly disappointed that he won’t return to his dominant role with her. 

The lovers are discovered

Two things always strike me when I read the letters of Abélard and Heloïse to each other, aside from the wretched sadness of the story, are:

(1) the utterly despicable role played by the Catholic Church throughout the whole disaster; and

(2) that Heloïse is worth a dozen of Peter Abélard. He’s a famous male intellectual and she isn’t because patriarchy, but she seems … smarter and a lot more emotionally and intellectually honest. 

Perhaps I’m biassed towards submissives, but I actually think it’s her directness and honesty that makes her still seem radiant and wonderful, while he (forgivably: he’s in a terrible situation, but still…) comes across as a pompous egotist. 

Wicked Wednesday: Enviable girl

I met Maddie’s eyes. She was holding Jennifer’s hands tight, so she couldn’t get up. Jennifer was over my desk, face and upper body pressing onto the wood and leather of my desk, her bottom arched up and her legs splayed, feet about a metre apart. There is probably no pose or position that is more inviting, and exposed.

Maddie looked down at Jennifer’s naked body, and smiled at me. Poor Jennifer was waiting in suspense for her slippering to begin. The arch of her back, presenting her buttocks and pussy at me, was intensely sexy and beautiful. Maddie thought that Jennifer knew exactly how enticing she was, just then. I thought that Maddie was probably right.

I’d built up the suspense as long as I could. I pressed the slipper against the undercurve of Jennifer’s buttocks, to let her know where the first stroke would land. Her bottom was still a darkish red, and warm, from the hand spanking and slippering she’d received yesterday. She gave a little gasp when I raised the slipper: loss of contact could only mean that the slipper was about to come back, fast and painfully.

I held it poised over my shoulder, counting to ten. It didn’t matter that I admired Jennifer, it didn’t matter that I was becoming more than fond of her. She’d been told to ask for a merciless, hard slippering, and she’d done as she was told. She was entitled to what she’d requested.

Most girls, when told to ask for no mercy, found it necessary to obey but they also found it scary and humiliating.

Jennifer had only sounded sincere. Her mind felt she deserved it. Her body, and specifically her pussy, wanted it.

So I swept my arm down and landed the slipper hard and low across both her terracotta-red, sweetly rounded cheeks. The smack resounded, rubber against girl, as if someone had banged a leather-bound Complete Shakespeare on an oak table.

Jennifer took a second to react, then her head shot up and turned frantically from side to side, her hair flailing. Maddie’s hands, hauling Jennifer’s outstretched arms forward and down, prevented any other movement. Jennifer’s mouth opened but she fought back the scream, emitting a low, agonised hiss.

I leaned down and kissed her shoulder, and she calmed a little, though the pain of that first spank, on already-slippered skin, must still be fresh and intense.

I whispered, “Shhh, Jennifer. Even when it hurts, you know you look lovely. And we both secretly know it feels wonderful. And would you like to know a secret?” 

“Yes? Sir?” 

“Right now, Maddie is envying you.”

 

Masturbation Monday: Emily’s second caning

So Emily had become mine. She’d once tried to get me to make her stop smoking, by taking charge, commanding her and punishing her if I smelled tobacco on her breath, her hair, or her clothes. Though one kiss will reveal that a girl has had a sneaky cigarette. I’d refused, because spanking or caning her because she had a sexy ass, and because she enjoyed submission, was one thing; presuming the right to give her orders and enforce those orders was another step, and I hadn’t been ready to take it. 

She became one of those black and white kneeling girls

So she’d done something that put herself in danger, and hurt me, and I caned her for it. A real world offence. She still had two more canings to go.

After her first caning, she’d told me that it was up to me to stop her smoking. I realised something I’d thought was a one-off event – in three instalments – was not that, in her mind. This was how she wanted to live.

So, finally, I stepped up and claimed her. We’d agreed: Emily was my property now, for me to reward or punish, and she was to do as I told her. 

We fucked again to celebrate.

When we rose, it was only three hours before Emily was due for her second caning, the one I’d promised her for lying to me.

She went to her room to work, though I doubt that she got much done. I spent the rest of the afternoon reading.

After dinner, Emily left while I cleared the table. She came back, naked, with the cane in her right hand. This time I had her bend over the table, holding on to the far edge. She was still brightly marked from yesterday’s caning, but I decided that didn’t matter. Or rather, it did matter. The fact that I was prepared to be merciless when she was already sore would make it hotter.

Even monochrome girls get the cane

I’ve described what caning Emily is like, so I’ll only say that this second time was noisier, because Emily made no effort to restrain her cries. She was lusty and loud, and she rocked, spectacularly, with the impacts, but she took her eight strokes across already marked skin, and didn’t let go of the table.

I felt sorry for her, but her punishment felt natural within the new terms of our relationship. It was amazing how fast I got used to having this right.

But underneath the rhetoric about justice and guidance I enjoyed the sight and sounds of her submission and her reactions, and Emily took her own pleasures from me. I knew she was floating in lust.

It was odd that she both enjoyed it and felt it as punishment. We were running on two emotional tracks at once. One was about punishing Emily for her behaviour and the expiation of her fault, and the other track was about her enjoyment of submission, and sex. One made her feel sorry and small, and the other made her wet and happy. Both tracks were true.  

Afterwards, in bed, I lay back so Emily could lie on her stomach, on mine. She cried onto my shoulder, eventually subsiding to snuffles. She said she was sorry, she’d been stupid, and she loved me. I held her, stroked her hair, kissed her over and over, and told her that it was done now, for tonight, and she was forgiven.

Generally, Emily dreamed in black and white

When she fell asleep I thought about her love and whether I deserved it. I decided she was in a life that excited her sexually and that committed me to keeping her from harm.

And while it hadn’t been a perfect negotiation, involving calm people, we’d both agreed to it, and the respective duties that imposed on us. So perhaps I was on reasonable moral ground.

It wasn’t about men and women or patriarchy. It was personal: she had a right to submit to me. She was one person, getting what she wanted from her lover. 

That’s where I felt that the ethics, the politics and the sex were lined up again.

I had another unsettling thought: was this why she’d fucked Marty? Had she staged a crisis to push me into taking control? It was something she’d asked for before, and  I’d refused her. So it made a kind of psychological sense. On the other hand, Emily wasn’t really devious. Our new arrangement suited her, and I’d resisted it for a long time. But she wouldn’t be that manipulative.  But… Emily slept beside me and I lay awake, wide-eyed.

Fitness, fucking and domming

Right now, I’m the most unfit I’ve ever been in my life. 

This is a very bad thing. I’m used to being thought of as good-looking, and what I see in the mirror at the moment is not that. I see a man, probably with a nice enough face, with a gut on him. 

I have a feeling that this is worse for doms than for most men. There seems to be two competing factors:

1 Women are, by and large, more forgiving of not-great male bodies than men are of women. But – 

2 A dom is expected to have his act together. If he can’t discipline himself, how can he claim the right to rule and discipline someone else? 

Because of Rule 1, I’ve seen a lot of men in pubs, trying to pick up women and often succeeding. The men are beer-gutted hoons, or bogans.

These are New Zealand and Australian terms, but I don’t think I need to translate them. They’re onomatopoeia.

The girls are fragrant, pretty flowers ranging between elfin-slender and pretty-girly-plumpness.But Rule 1` empowers the men to at least try it on. 

The disparity in attractiveness doesn’t seem to do the men much harm. 

I think it matters more for doms. I’ve heard women submissive complain about soft-bellied doms, and… at the moment that’s me.

I played Saturday morning footy in the park today. It was a hell of a shock to the system, because everybody was fitter than me. But I am a proud man, so I pushed myself and tackled people, and tried for goals, and so on. I think I scored one. Everybody else did better. 

Then I went home and gasped for an hour before I could rouse myself to have a shower.

Anyway, I’m reducing my stomach.

When a woman is across my knee, the only fleshly thing around should be her ass. 

The Tale of the Tawse: Volume 2

Last year I wrote a very good book, The Tale of the Tawse. It’s funny, sexy as hell, romantic and exciting.

In it, a man with a name like a Wodehouse character (Freddie Underhill) meets two women, Daphne and Shar, and helps each of them deal with a life crisis, with occasional applications of his hand or a long leather strap, the tawse of the title, to their firm proud et cetera.

At the end of the book, he’s back on his own in New York, and he gets an invitation from each of the women to come to a global warming conference in Wellington, New Zealand. Daphne is having an art exhibition there, and Shar is the translator for the diplomatic team of a small mid-eastern country. Freddie ends the book wondering how he’s going to manage his way through that.

The Tale of the Tawse is currently with a publisher, under consideration, but it’ll be out soon. I have every confidence in that. And one thing the world will be demanding is the continuation of the story. What happens in New Zealand?

I think – just working this out as I go along – that he lets each woman know that the other woman will be there. They both already know of the other’s existence. On the day he arrives in Wellington he invites both women to dinner. 

They get on very well. However, Daphne’s up for a threesome, or even a twosome with just her and Shar. But Shar’s not having that. She’s a straight girl. 

In the meantime they decide that they’ll get a hotel suite together, the three of them, and they’ll each take turns to sleep with Freddie, while the other sleeps in the next room.

Then Shar hears that her younger cousin, Mahtab, who she hasn’t seen since she was three years old, is also in Wellington, to be married off to a Saudi aristocrat of striking physical and moral unattractiveness. She and Daphne go to meet the girl, and Shar gives Mahtab a card with their hotel room and phone number. Daphne tells the girl about  Freddie, and says they’ll get Freddie to help her. She writes down Freddie’s number and gives it to her. 

The next day, on the way to the global warming conference, Freddie is attacked and stabbed. He manages to break away and staggers into a butcher’s shop, bleeding a lot. The attackers follow him, but are attacked by the huge butcher, and they run. The butcher calls an ambulance for Freddie, and the hospital stitches and bandages Freddie and says he’s fine to go home.

Back at the hotel, Daphne and Shar are waiting. When they see him injured they realise it must be their fault for giving Mahtab written information, that has obviously fallen into the wrong hands. Shar begs him to punish both of them.

He does. Shar, now sore and weeping, begs him to help her cousin escape. Of course he agrees.

I’m thinking the escape takes place on the ferry running between the North and South Islands. But I’m a bit vague about the details.

 

That’s as far as I’ve got, so far. I’m making this plot up as I write this post, and I’m out of ideas now. Thank you for listening.