Sinful Sunday: Once upon a time in the West

 

Sydney’s West, that is. 

The beginning of what was to become a long session, and a long relationship. She assures me her arse is still utterly splendid, though someone else is keeping it warm these days. 

I’ve had to do some cropping (you should excuse the expression), but she was and is lovely, body and soul.

 

 

 

Food for Thought Friday: She was just fi-ifteen, you know what I mean

When I was at university, in my third year, I had sex with a student who was in her first year. I’d met her a few times at the Students Association, and found that she was funny, flamboyant, radical, and one of the few people I knew who’d actually read a lot of books that weren’t bestsellers.

One day she was down about a fight she’d had with a friend, and I sat with her to commiserate. We finished up pressing foreheads and holding hands. Nothing came of it because I had to go and work. But later that week there was a dance in the Students Association Hall, and she came wearing sparkly little pants and and strip of sparkly, semi-see-through material round her breasts. 

So we danced together, and drank cheap student wine and smoked student joints. The ribbon round her breasts was slinky stuff, and tended to come loose. So from time to time we’d stop dancing so I could tie it back again.  

Then we went and talked for a while, and in a dark corner we did away with that sparkly material altogether. And when it was clear that we were more or less fucking, and it was time to drop the less and do more, we sneaked off.

I had a motorbike, and (this is bad behaviour too) took her on the back to my place, with the sparkly material round her hair since she didn’t have a helmet. 

So we fucked. Then the next day I blindfolded her, not for bdsm reasons, and took her for a smell walk through the flowers and trees in the local park. That night I spanked her, for bdsm reasons, and that became the nature of our relationship.

But here’s the thing. She said she was 16, which was the age of consent in my country. I’d travelled, and been politically active for a while before going to university, so I was six years older, at 22. And I decided that it was okay because she was a first year university student, and a highly intelligent one, with a long sexual history that was in some respects more deviant than mine. For example, she’d already beaten me to “first threesome”, and I still had three years to wait till mine.

But nearly ten years later, friends told me she’d lied about her age, just a little bit. She’d had to get special permission to enrol at university because she’d finished school, but she was only 15. So for the first six months of our relationship I’d been breaking the law, and fucking an underage girl. 

Apparently there’d been scandalised gossip. But I never heard about it, at the time.

All the kids in my school had been trying their best to have sex before they turned 16, so that they could say they were sex criminals. I tried too, but ineptly, and when I finally made my sexual debut I was a boringly legal 16.

But by my 20s I wasn’t too unhappy because I’d broken other sexual laws. For example, you could go to jail for 10 years, the law said, if you had anal sex with a woman (anal sex with a man only cost seven years; I’d love to know the thinking behind that) and I broke that law repeatedly before they repealed it.

I committed a kind of quasi-incest, by shagging my sister-in-law, which doesn’t count, legally, and a couple of cousins, which doesn’t quite count either. Though it would in some countries, I think. Unfortunately, I didn’t fancy my mother or my sister, so I had to leave that law unbroken. 

So my first reaction was shock that she’d felt she had to lie to me (because I’d have talked about it a bit more first, but it wouldn’t have changed the outcome), followed by surprise, and then a kind of stupid satisfaction: “Oh, I did manage to break that law after all.” 

One thing I’ve never felt about it is guilt. As it happened I didn’t know, but it wouldn’t have changed much if I had. She was still an intelligent woman, still more worldly, in some ways, than I was (she knew wine, and how to behave at various formal events), and I reacted to the person I was with. I had no doubt at all that she knew her mind, and that if she wanted me then that was just my ridiculous good fortune. I still don’t doubt that, even looking at it with hindsight.

Anyway, this is a hotter taboo now, I think, than it was twenty years ago. But I’m a sex criminal, for breaking the age of consent law and the anal sex law (RIP), and I don’t feel bad about either. 

That doesn’t mean that I think there shouldn’t be a law. Just that it should mostly keep away from young people consensually exploring. 

 

 

Wicked Wednesday: Last chance to back out

“Maddie,” I said, as though I was displeased with her, and she became subdued.

“Yes, Master?”

“Fetch the cane. Not the senior cane. The medium. And at the moment, it’s for Claire and not you. Though that can change.”

“Yes, sir.” And Maddie turned away.

“Come here, Claire.”

“Sir?” She stood in front of me, her face – like her ass – still a little pink from Maddie’s semi-comic but eventually effective attempt at discipline. All of us had found it powerfully erotic, though, including Claire.

“Hands on head, Claire.” When she obeyed I raised my hands to her breasts, lifting lightly, simply for my pleasure, and perhaps hers. “I’m going to take these clamps off before I cane you. It’ll hurt a bit when the blood returns to your nipples, but it won’t hurt you too much. Maddie knows better than to put them on tight.”

Claire nodded, face scarlet, while I carefully disengaged the clamps. I dropped them in my pocket, and put my arms round her. She held up her face to be kissed, and my mouth touched softly against hers. Then we opened our mouths at the same instant, and the kiss became passionate. 

I put my hands on her ass and smacked her, not gently, and did what I could to distract her from the ache in her nipples. Eventually I drew back and looked at her. “Better? Are you ok?”

Claire put her hands to her breasts, and rubbed briefly. Then she nodded. “Yes, sir. My nipples are still, well, a bit hurty. But I feel very looked after.”

I dipped my head and held her breasts in my hands again, and kissed each erect and rubbery nipple, softly and reverently, in turn. Claire moaned. “Oh, that’s good. Thank you, sir.”  

“You know that I’m going to cane you very hard, don’t you? You’ll scream. Your ass will look like a tomato, and you won’t be able to sit down for days. You understand?”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

“This is your last chance to back out. You can retreat now. But if you choose to continue, you won’t be allowed any more decisions. Not for a long time. So: retreat?” 

“No, sir. I’ve asked for this. I want it. I definitely need it.”

I looked into her eyes. I said, “When we’re finished here, I’m going to take you home and fuck you till we’re both exhausted. Then we’re going to rest and eat and I’m going to fuck you some more.”

Claire smiled. “Yes please. Um, sir.”

Maddie waited politely beside us, with the cane held out for me. I took it from her, and swished it the air, once, twice. Claire stared at me, and swallowed. Her real punishment was about to begin. She looked suddenly nervous.

But it was important that her mood, and the atmosphere, changed now. Claire’s caning had to be memorable, and hard enough for her to consider she’d been properly punished and could forgive herself. I held the cane below her mouth, so she had to lower her head to kiss it.  

 

Masturbation Monday: The best dance

Roland had come only minutes before, and so he was in no danger of doing so again, or not unintentionally. They fucked for an hour, then two, sometimes speeding up so he could hear Teresa’s orgasm cries again, and sometimes lazily pleasing each other while getting their energy back. 

Later, in one of their calm periods, he kissed her ear and her nose, and looked down at her. “Those things you say when you’re coming. Tard-ah. Kit toll. Is that in some language I don’t know? What’s it mean?”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “I have no idea why I say that. Or if it means anything, except that I’m happy. Not just coming: happy.”

“Oh.”

“Do you hate it?”

“No! Absolutely not! I just haven’t heard that before. I suppose I’ll want to hear it all the time, now.”

Teresa grinned up at him. “Well, you know how.”

He laughed, cock still thick inside her, and began to move, slowly at first, digging deep and slowly withdrawing, then filling her again. Teresa sighed. It was a dance, the best dance, and they were speeding up.

When they were fucking hard and fast she raised her thighs again and put her feet on the small of his back. That had made him come, the last time.

He sped up, now desperate for her, and Teresa came, screaming her sounds, hearing his guttural groans of pleasure and release just a few seconds later.

They lay together, Roland above her, his heart pounding against hers.

Is there a “Bdsm gene”?

It’s unlikely that there’s such a thing as a “bdsm gene”, any more than it seems likely there is a single “gay gene”. However, it’s plausible, though not proven, that there are genetic factors that in combination predispose some people in some cultures into adopting the homosexual role defined and allowed by that culture.[i]

Somewhere in that damn DNA is the BDSM. Or, as the case may be, not.

Similarly, it’s plausible that a combination of genetic factors predispose some people to be aroused by pain, restraint or dominant-submissive relationships, and to channel that arousal in sexual directions.

This doesn’t mean that some people are born to be involved in bdsm. It’s rather that they are more likely than other people to recognize and respond to situations with bdsm overtones, for example watching or getting a childhood spanking, or a television or film scene in which a character gets tied up. These experiences can be called “bdsm signals”.

They can be real-life experiences, but bdsm signals are common in advertising, films and music videos. Some people with this genetic disposition may never encounter a signal that catches their attention and triggers their interest. In that case, they probably won’t experience this kind of arousal, and that genetic possibility will go unexplored.

Others, who have both the genetic predisposition and the awakening experience that comes from the culture’s bdsm signals, are more likely to become interested in bdsm.

“Man talk.” (Smack.)

I once talked about this with a woman who had watched Goldfinger on late-night TV with a group of friends.

There’s a notorious moment where Sean Connery smacks Margaret Nolan (who plays a character called “Dink”) on the arse, after sending her away because he wants to talk to Felix Leiter. “Man talk.” 

Everyone else was shocked at the bizarre sexism of the scene, which hasn’t aged well, and she was sitting there quietly thinking, Sean Connery can smack my arse any time he likes. It was one of those “that’s when I knew I was different” moments. 

If there is a genetic predisposition it’s almost certainly carried across a range of genes rather than a single one, and it’s unlikely that those genes will be identified any time soon.

Still, it seems plausible that the culture provides people with bdsm signals, which they may or may not see or notice. And that some of those who observe the signal may for genetic reasons sexualize dominance and submission more easily than others do. In this very limited and partial sense some of us may be born that way.

 

[i]Richters, Juliet, “Understanding Sexual Orientation: A Plea for Clarity”, Reproductive Health Matters, Volume 6, Number 12, 1998, pp 146-147.