Food for Thought Friday: Mistake

The morning after the party,

A bedroom door opened and Cassie emerged, in a manga tee-shirt that hung almost to her knees. Cassie was a doctor, a glowing light-brown woman with large, almost black eyes and an extraordinarily sweet face framed by medium-length black hair. She was small but contoured. She lifted weights.

Cassie was embarrassed to find me, and uncertain of her welcome. Last night she’d performed the party’s most spectacular piece of bad behaviour, launching a screaming attack on her best friend, accusing her of fucking her last boyfriend, of pretending to be sweet but always undermining her and other feminine offences.

It’d been the least fun part of the evening, but I’d already forgiven her because the outburst had been so out of character, and because, only a few minutes later, Cassie had fallen asleep in that same friend’s arms. Wine sometimes solves the problems that it creates.

But Cassie was hung over, embarrassed and ashamed, so I hugged her. I let her go when she winced. But she emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, having dealt with her bladder and her head, and wrestled her way back into the hug. “I’m really sorry, Jaime. I don’t know what … Well, I’m sorry.”

“Ah, love, it’s okay. You’d had a bit of wine. And … you probably had reasons.” I found myself hugging Cassie with one arm while reaching down to squeeze her ass with my other hand.

Cassie rubbed my chest with her forehead. “No, I didn’t have reasons. Not good ones.”

“Well, okay, but I still know you’re a wee love. You’ve got years of credit with me; you can’t blow it in one evening.”

Cassie smiled up at me. “And I still don’t think it came from nowhere.” More smiles.

A nice man was being nice to her. And the ass-squeezing was probably a great comfort in her time of self-recrimination. Then information from that bottom-squeezing hand swamped my brain. I added, “Though … if you ever do anything like that again, Cassie, I’ll put you over my knee.”

It took me a moment to hear what I’d just said. I sounded like a roué in an ancient sex comedy, something black and white and British, on television at three in the morning, starring Terry-Thomas and Syd James. I’d kept bdsm hidden for years. I played bdsm with strangers, or I masturbated to dark fantasies, but I didn’t offer to spank my women friends. Or I hadn’t until just then.

It was the stupidest thing I’d ever said. I wanted to slap my forehead, but I was patting Cassie’s ass and in the absence of complaint from her I’d keep doing that. Still, I’d just threatened her with assault: low-level violence, some sexual content. We still hugged, but she was no longer holding an honourable gentleman.

Cassie didn’t seem to mind that I wasn’t a gentleman. Her eyes widened, but she said, almost without a pause, “Yes, yeah, I know. You should.”

Wicked Wednesday: The shoplifter’s mother and the strap 3

Now she was standing before me, wearing only her silver-and-black panties, I realized even more powerfully what her clothes had hidden: Claire really was a very  beautiful, very desirable voluptuous woman.

For reasons that were half guilt and, I realized, half desire, she thought that she needed to be caned. I was starting to think I needed, or at least wanted, her.  I  also wanted to give her a compliment, but it would break the mood.

The silence between us reminded her. I’d said six strokes, and she’d had three. She looked into my eyes, and put her hands out again.

I raised the strap and swung it down on her left hand. After the clap of leather on flesh she raised her head and called like a wolf: “Hooooo!” I watched her breasts shake. “Thank you, sir.” She held out her right hand.

I strapped her again, and she jumped, and swore and took her hand away. I raised my eyebrows, and Claire offered up her palm again. “Sorry, sir. I’m just not very brave. Not really.”

I had wanted to praise her for her bravery. But I said, ”No, you’re not. You’re getting that stroke again, plus a penalty stroke. Keep your hand out, Claire, without any more fuss, or you’ll get the same on the backs of your legs.”

Oddly, that was the right thing to say. Claire relaxed a little, and said, “Thank you, sir.”

I gave her the fourth stroke again, and this time she took it in silence, except for a small, nasal sound of pain before she thanked me. Then I swung the strap down on her right hand, making the fifth stroke harder than any of the strokes she’d had till then. Claire suppressed a cry, through gritted teeth, closed her eyes and pulled her pain faces again, but she held her palm steady, and after a while she was able to breathe, “Thank you, sir.”

“You’ve got two strokes to go, Claire. The sixth stroke and one penalty stroke. Then we’ll be done. You can rub your hands for a moment, if you like.”

“Thank you, sir. Ahhh.” She rubbed her palms together, turning them as if she were trying to wash the pain off. 

Maddie knocked once while Claire was still rubbing, and immediately entered. Claire grabbed for her breasts, covering them with her hands. I said, “Claire. Get your hands away. Put those hands at your sides: now!”

Claire swallowed and stood there, almost naked, waiting for my next instruction. She was blushing a little. I had to work hard not to smile. “Maddie?”

I’ve called the two shops. Yes, they’ve had stock shrinkage. If we can stop that, and return the clothes in good condition, they’ll be happy not to prosecute.”

Claire made a sound through her nose. She’d have thanked Maddie imperiously, a while ago, but now her punishment had started, she was in a very humbled state of mind. 

I said, “Thank you very much, Maddie. You’re a good … secretary. Now, Claire, we’re not quite finished dealing with you, are we? Hold your right hand out.”

Claire obeyed. The world was doing too many strange things. But obedience was safe. Maddie stared at her, openly. She said, “You really do have beautiful breasts, Mrs. O’Donnell.” I raised the strap. Maddie did not leave.  

Lasshole fucker 3

Freddie handed Ngaire the bottle of lube. Ngaire took off the top, watching as he raised himself to his knees and straightened his back so she could reach his cock. He was hard again, the penis pointing at her. She was surprised. He wasn’t twenty and she’d lost count of the number of times they’d fucked that evening.

Steve, her ex-husband, would have been asleep after the first. She hadn’t liked the sexual enthusiasm of boys, when she was growing up. Maybe that was why she’d married Steve. It was hard, in retrospect, to think of reasons why. But there was Freddie’s hard cock in front of her, and he’d put a condom on it.

Ngaire blew it a kiss, and poured out a handful of lube, and took his cock in her hand, slowly stroking it up, from tip to base, then back again. Freddie grunted, and his cock moved in her hand. It was somehow harder, a little bigger in her hand. “Is that slippery enough for you? I suppose I should say, for me.”

“Bit more on the head. That’s the bit that’s going to open you. You can’t have too much lube there.” 

Ngaire got up to her knees too, and poured more lube onto her hand. She took his cock in her hand again, and pressed her body against his. She kissed him.

He responded, putting his hands on her arse and pulling her close. His cock, slippery as an eel, though firmer, pressed between her thighs.She gripped it tight, and he gasped. 

Eventually he whispered, “I’ll take you slow, and you’re to tell me if it hurts. Is that understood?”

That, Ngaire thought, would be the voice he gave orders to Daphne and Shar. “I’m all right. I’m not a princess.”

“Liar.”

“Heh. Then I mean I’m not made of glass.”

“You’ll tell me if it hurts. I need to know how you are.”

“What will you do if I don’t tell you it’s hurting? Spank me?”

“Heh. At least I’ll know that that’s hurting you, and how much. Also, I’d enjoy that, but in buttsex I’d hate to be hurting you. The goal is very much not to hurt you. But you, beautiful girl, should get back on your hands and knees, with that yummy ass up. Knees well apart.”

Ngaire felt the urge to say “yes, sir”. But she fought it down. Still, she did do as she was told. After all, they seemed like sensible instructions.  

She watched over her shoulder as he shuffled closer, until his knees were between hers. The head of his cock pressed against her perineum, and he put his hand on it to guide it to her little hole, about to have its first sexual experience.   

She remembered something she’d read somewhere, either in porn or some women’s magazine with twelve hot butt-fucking tips, and reached back with both hands. She held her own buttocks, and spread herself for him. 

He said, “Good girl.” She supposed those were the last words she would hear, as an anal virgin.

 

Sinful Sunday: Waiting, holding the cane

She stands up straight, as she’s been told. Master sits behind her. She thinks he’s reading a book. She’s to have the second instalment of her punishment for twice missing a doctor’s appointment. He knows that she was afraid that the doctor would find cancer, and though she knew it was stupid to delay finding out, she couldn’t face it. 

Master had said he was going to punish her for disobedience and for failing to look after herself, which were the two most serious offences under his rules. She’d already had a hand spanking and a session with his belt. But they’d felt good, apart from his disappointment in her: that had hurt.

But the real punishment was yet to come. He’d put the cane between her buttocks and told her to make sure she held it while she waited. She wouldn’t enjoy what would happen if she let it fall. 

So she waits, with the cold, hard instrument pressing into her. Until she is called. 

 

Post-script: They made another appointment, and he took her to the doctor himself, and came into the appointment with her. So he was with her to hear that her tests had come back negative. She was spanked (but not caned) again that night, but warmly and lovingly, out of relief. 

 

Friday Flash: Unwound

Carola had just told James Cerise, owner and director of Cerice Corp, to stick his job up his arse and fuck himself with it. Then she’d slapped the lecherous old gargoyle’s face, and taken the lift to the ground floor. But on the ground she saw young Frank Cerise clear security. She smiled radiantly at him and waved him over.

His face cleared. He knew his father’s secretary, and his eyes followed her like Mary’s lamb whenever they were in the same room. She’d never invited him to anything before. So he smiled and came over. 

Frank joined her. “Hi, Carola. How’s Dad?”

She kissed him passionately. “Shut up.”

He said, “Whuh?’ Carola took a thin strip from her purse.

“Hands out. Wrists together!”

He looked at her, frowning in disbelief.

She slapped him, not quite as she’d hit his father. “As you’re TOLD!”

“My god.” He held out his arms, and Carola quickly wound the plastic round his wrists, ending with a graceless but effective tie. She used her card to take the lift back up to his father’s floor, where it opened directly into his office. She was in luck; it hadn’t yet been cancelled.

“No gods involved. Now fuck me.” Carola pulled her skirt up and bent over, shoving her ass against his quickly stiffening cock.

He said, “Yes. Mistress?” There was a questioning tone to that last word.

Carola straightened, turned and slapped him again. “Mistress. You should know that.” She undid his pants, letting his cock free. She turned and bent again, and guided it between soft firm thighs.

He grunted with pleasure. “Oh, Mistress.”

She took his wallet and used his security card to stop the lift between floors. She dropped the wallet on the floor, but tucked his card into her bra. She didn’t want him to have it. Frank was rutting against her ass, trying to get his cock inside.

Carola stood. “No, boy. On second thoughts, get down on your knees. Get your tongue out for me.”

“Yes, Mistress.” When he was in place she used another thin strip to tie two of his belt loops to his shoelaces, so he couldn’t rise.

His cock poked out between the tails of his shirt. 

He was about  learn something about fantasies. Carola re-started the lift and sent it up to the next floor. She stepped out quickly, allowing it to continue its journey, up to James Cerise’s office. 

 

Wicked Wednesday: The shoplifter’s mother and the strap 2

I raised the strap over my shoulder, and then swung it down, so it impacted on Claire’s proffered palm, with a loud crack.

“Jesus!” Claire gasped, and gripped her sore right hand in her left, then shook it.

“We’re going to have that stroke over, Claire.”

Her face fell.

“And this time, when I’ve strapped your hand, you hold it in place. Keep your palm upwards, and don’t take your hand away again. That’s a warning. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry sir.”

I raised the strap again. Claire suddenly said, “Thank you, sir. Even if I messed it up. Thank you, sir.”

“That’s better.” I swung the strap down again, landing firmly across that right palm. Claire shut her eyes tight and pulled faces, unhappy, painful faces, but she made no protest and her hand stayed held out for me, in place. She took three deep breaths and said, “Thank you, sir.”

“Good. Other hand. Hold it steady.”

Claire held her left arm straight out, her palm flat and uppermost. She gazed into my eyes. I swung the strap down, on her left hand. After the ringing impact she shook her head but managed to keep her palm out. “Oooh. Ow! Oh! Fuck! Thank you sir!”

I smiled at her. “Keep that left hand in place, girl. But you’re doing well, Claire. When were you last punished?”

“At school, sir. My husband … he thought of it as punishing me, but he wouldn’t do it like that. I like authority, like you’re giving me, but he didn’t understand how it works. He’d never be fair. Not careful like this. And certainly not when I wanted. He’d just hit me. With his fists.”

I shook my head. “Claire, we’ll talk about this.” She nodded. “Skirt now. Off!”

She’d already undone the clasp. Now she unzipped and stepped out of it. She wore pantyhose underneath, and below them panties, with a black and silver pattern. I said, “”Pantyhose, too.”

Claire smiled. I supposed she hadn’t stripped for a man since her husband’s friend. She tugged the hose down over her bottom and hips, and then slid them down her thighs, bunching them below her knees, and then pulling them off by the feet. She stood facing me in just her panties, her hands – no doubt very hot and sore – at her sides.

Masturbation Monday: Lasshole fucker 2

Ngaire had just said, “Come in,” to Freddie, or more specifically to his thumb, well coated in lubricant and tapping lightly at her asshole. 

He said, “Thank you,” gravely, and pushed forward. Because she was already slippery from his first insertion, and his thumb hadn’t hurt her even a little bit, she could keep herself relaxed. He slipped inside, the length of his thumb, so that the edge of his palm pressed against soft skin between her buttocks and her thighs. 

She held still, her ass in the air, slightly penetrated. He held still as well. He said, “Are you ok? How does it feel?”

She considered her sensations. “It doesn’t hurt at all. That kind of surprised me. It feels kind of strange, though. I was taught this is really unnatural, what we’re doing. I guess I’m getting used to it. Could you … move your thumb back and forth, like you’re fucking me? Please?”

“As you wish.” He was quoting some film, she knew, though she couldn’t remember which. But his thumb seemed to press deeper – she hadn’t thought it was possible – then withdrew a little, and moved back. The movements were tiny at first, maybe a centimetre forwards and back, but slowly each withdrawal was a little further.

She realised she missed that thumb when it was absent, and was relieved when, slowly, easily, it was back. She sighed, pleasured.

Then she felt herself blushing. That sigh had told him she was enjoying this. He must know she’s a pervert. She thought, Shut up, Mum. Fuck off, Steve. Anyway, Freddie obviously liked perverted girls. And he wasn’t exactly unkinky himself.

The thumb stopped moving then. “Now you,” Freddie said. “When it’s my cock, I’ll expect you to move. So. Now it’s your turn: fuck my thumb.”

She knew that if he were with Daphne, or the mysterious, missing, Shar, he’d have reinforced that order with a hard slap across her ass. Well, she thought, he’ll just have to make do with obedience. She raised her ass a little higher, and carefully moved forward, tightening her muscle on the thumb.

Then she rocked back, still slowly, letting her muscle relax as he entered deeper. She sighed again, but did not blush.

Then she moved again, taking him and almost-releasing him, and taking him again, fucking him. She knew, almost if she had a cock herself, how good that would feel for him. And then that the pleasure she felt wasn’t just in her imagination. That thumb, and her movements on it, felt good.

She said, “So, are you going to fuck my ass, or what?” 

She looked back over her shoulder, to catch delight – there was no other word – in his eyes. But he tried to look serious. “You can never have too much lube. So you have to lube my cock, too.”

He hadn’t moved. Ngaire waited. She said, “Well?”

“No, I mean you have to lube my cock.” 

 

Sinful Sunday: The soft wait

Arethusa had been a good and blameless girl recently, and she knew it. She knew her Master knew it too. Her behaviour for once had nothing to do with why she waited, hands on head and freshly spanked, in that dream-like room, all softness and drapery except for the cane on the table beside her. 

There was not punishment coming, though in a sense it would feel very similar to it. But her Master was in a mood she’d come to know well, a mood that took them both to exhausted, dark and pleasured places. In that mood he needed her subservience and her pain, and then for their bodies to merge.

He liked to leave her time between the spanking and the cane, a time for feeling and imagining. A soft time before their time became wild, harsh and urgent. For now, Arethusa waited, and imagined possibilities, things that had happened before and would always happen again. She dreamed.

   

 

 

Food for Thought Friday: Room 101 (my biggest fears)

I fear human stupidity. Partly because it often comes accompanied by violence, and occasionally that violence is directed at me.

I can handle myself in a fight if I need to, but there’s always one reflection that gives me pause: a stupid person who gets in fights a lot doesn’t mind getting hurt nearly as much as I do.

Even if I “win” a fight I didn’t want, as far as I’m concerned I’ve still lost, because at best I’ve had to deal with fear.

At worst I’ve only “won” in the sense that the other person is slightly more damaged by the fight than I am.

The other frightening thing about human stupidity is that there’s so much of it, and it affects the quality of decision-making in democracies. For example, the Australian population has just voted to reinstall a government that intends to kill the Great Barrier Reef by putting in a coal mine that will be dumping waste into the ocean there. They also intend to do nothing about global warming except for encouraging more coal use, using tax-payer money to make mining companies even richer. In exchange the mining companies donate more money to the Government’s political party, and to individual Government members.

Stupid bastards are killing this planet, and we don’t have another one.

So stupidity scares me. Humans need to become more intelligent, and prize intelligence more.

But that’s still not the thing that scares me most. What scares me most is being without a lover, of living unloved.

Thank fuck there are people who love me, but if I lost that it would destroy me. I would go literally mad, insane with grief.

I know this because that has happened to me, causing the most intense misery in my life, and pain I could barely stand. I never want to experience that again. 

So loneliness is really my biggest, darkest and most personal fear.