The Ojastara Tales: Asking nicely, in a Scottish accent 1

The flogger was reaching between her shoulders, and Ojastara, her arms outstretched and her wrists tied to pillars of either side of her. Her bonds were not uncomfortable, but she couldn’t slump and relax, the way she wanted. 

Bridget was applying the flogger almost lazily, letting its weight drive the impact as she swung it down on Ojastara’s back. Ojastara sighed. A happy sigh; this was good pain, and it was almost comfortable. Then there was movement within her, and her eyes widened suddenly.

Bridget had introduced a dildo into her cunt before the flogging started. Now it was as if it had suddenly woken up. “Remote control,” Ojastara thought.The stimulation was gently insistent, and exceptionally pleasant.

Then Bridget stepped in front of her. She was a tiny girl, with hair the colour of a fire engine. She wore satin black shorts, cut high, and a tiny black leather bra, and little black high heeled shoes. Apart from her hair, she was pale white, speckled with freckles. She smiled at Ojastara. “Oh, I am enjoying myself! It’s a pity you don’t colour much. But you have the yummiest skin.” 

Ojastara nodded. Just then, with the vibe in her cunt slowly becoming more insistent, she couldn’t gather her thoughts enough to form a sentence. She watched, helpless, as Bridget raised the flogger again, and delivered two slashing strokes to her breasts, left to right and then right to left.

One of the lashes caught at Ojastara’s dark plum-coloured nipple, causing an instant’s fiercer sting among the long, warm thud of the flogger’s path. Ojastara felt it like a kiss, or a kiss-and-bite, and she sighed, pleasured. The flogger lashed her breasts long and hard, with only occasional sharper sensations. 

The strokes came shorter and faster as Bridget worked her way down Ojastara’s body. The flogger swept across her thighs from left to right and back again, for a long, long, hypnotically long time. “Tara,” she said at last (no one but Bridget ever called her ‘Tara’), “I’d love to whip your cunt. Long and – mostly – slow, till you come. That all right by you?”

The flogging stopped, suspended, waiting on Ojastara’s word. Bridget bit her lip, supplicant though she held the whip, waiting. 

Ojastara smiled. “That’s you. You ask me nicely, in your Scots accent. I don’t think I could refuse you anything, little Bridget. “I mean, yes. Yes, please.”

“Oh, thank you. You’re so sweet, Tara.” And the flogger dropped, to lash upwards at Ojastara’s warm, dark, wet and tender lips.


The second thing Jerusalem Mortimer likes in his writing

The second thing I like when I achieve it in my writing, and try to achieve is: “no inflatable darlings”.

2. No inflatable darlings

An inflatable darling is a character who doesn’t have needs and drives and desires, except perhaps for the desire to please the protagonist. She – it’s usually “she”, though some people write male characters in the same hollow vein – has nothing inside. No doubts, no worries, no insecurities, only lust. So the hero, Tex Turisedmeattube, says to his lover, “We’re going to have a threesome with Mona next door.” 

“Goody,” she cries, clapping her little hands in glee, “I love threesomes.”

So, as it happens, does Mona, who has been sitting at home, crocheting sleeping bags for mice, and waiting to be asked. For ages.

When the threesome happens they are jolly and jovial throughout.

In fact, they’re more committed to Tex’s pleasure than their own. Despite that, they both come noisily and often. Out of the blue, really. 

But I’m going to come back to one of my stories soon. I broke it off just as the threesome was about to happen. And at the time I just found it too hard to write.

There’s a man and two women, each of whom have their own desires and fantasies, and their own fears. He’s afraid of hurting his regular partner, or their guest. He’s afraid he won’t be able to keep them entertained. He’s worried about seeming selfish, or bossy in the wrong way.

One woman is worried about her body, and worries that the man will prefer the other woman. She’s worried about the other woman, and just how far she’s supposed to go with her, because she’s a little bi-curious but she’s basically straight.

The other woman is worried that she’ll cause trouble between the principal couple.

Perhaps she actually prefers the other woman, and is putting up with her mixed feelings about the man because the encounter will only happen if he’s present. 

And so on. There are three agenda. They’re all trying their best to please the other two, and to be decent, and to give pleasure and receive it.

But it’s complicated, because they’re real people. Erotic writing is still a kind of literature, and it should capture some of that complexity. In fact the more it does the realer it is, and the realer it is, the more more sexually powerful it is. 

Even when one of the characters is submitting, and dedicating themselves to serving the other’s pleasure, that person is still a person, and there are reasons why he or she chose their submission, and there’s usually a history to the pleasures they take from it. 


So, when I’m writing, I try to make sure I know what each character is wanting and thinking. Even if I don’t say all of it, there should be enough to make it clear to the reader than these people are real, feeling, wanting and alive. 


The third thing I aim for, and like when I get it, is clarity. So I’ll talk about that next week.


In the realm of the Sensei 4

When Seamus got home it was about eleven and he was still drunker than he was comfortable with. Asuka met him at the door, kneeling naked with a cane in her hand, and another on the floor beside her. The one on the floor had a bow, and a card that said, “For School Use”.

“That’s so you can give the other one back”, she said. “But this one,” she passed him the cane in her hand, “Is for you. To use on me. Here, at home.” He looked at it, dumbfounded: it was thickish bamboo, about the length of his arm.

While he did that Asuka busied herself with his pants and took his soft cock into her mouth. He’d thought he’d be too drunk to achieve an erection, but Asuka was skilled and enthusiastic and, his desire roused, he used the cane vertically on her bottom while she served him.

But when he was confident his erection was going to survive, he pulled her up by her hair, turned her, smacked her bottom and drove her in front of him to the bedroom. He pushed her back onto the bed, and crawled up until he had a hand on each thigh, and pushed them wide. He kissed her just above her little furred patch, and when she wriggled, lowered his face and began to pleasure with his lips and tongue, getting his face greedily wet while she closed her hands into fists and her back arched.

Even so, Asuka took a long time to come, letting small pleasure sounds escape while she held her orgasm off. At last Seamus thrust two fingers into her, to stroke upwards at spongy flesh, and focused his tongue, for the first time on her tiny, hard clitoris.

She raised her thighs higher and cried out once, in what he guessed she thought was an unladylike manner, and let her body sink back to the bed while she sighed happily.

Her gift of the cane, the rod for her own backside, changed the nature of their relationship, of course. Especially since Asuka was proud of the marks he left and liked to skip though his apartment naked, so she could catch glimpses of herself in the mirror.

He liked that a lot, having a naked, pretty, happy girl about the house, and her joy was infectious. And he found that the cane made her sexually more urgent and passionate and he had to acknowledge that wielding it had the same effect on him. And, oddly since she enjoyed her “punishments”, her attention to schoolwork – particularly Maths – did improve.

The Ojastara Tales: The Landgrave 4

He was begging her for release, his cock hard in the air between them. A small quantity of what the Germans called “yearning droplets” caught the light at the top of his penis. Ojastara leaned forward again, so her breasts touched his chect and his cock rutted against her stomach. She undid the leather round his wrist and thumbs, freeing his hands. Taking his left hand in hers, she held it to her mouth and spat copiously.

Then she sat back upright on his thighs, picking up the riding crop again and looking down at him fiercely. “If you want to come, little Landgrave, you can. Use your left hand. I’ll watch you.”

He stared up at her, desperation in his eyes. “Please…”

She flicked his cock warningly with the crop. “You know, I think you’d come if I just whipped this little cock. Would you like…”

He wouldn’t, it seemed. He reached for his penis, left-handed, and began to stroke. He gasped at the contact, and his stomach muscles tightened. He let out a great gust of breath, closed his eyes, and the circle of his thumb and forefinger stroked his cock at almost frantic speed.

Ojastara smacked his chest with the crop again. “Open your eyes! Don’t you dare close them again!” So he stared into her eyes as his body rose from the bed, his weight resting on his shoulder and ankles.

He said, “Mistress…” And he came, gasping as fluid spurted, in two streams, the first reaching nearly as high as her eyes, the second perhaps half that distance. None of it touched her. His head fell back.

Ojastara arose. The Landgrave looked up at her. His voice hardened, even as his cock softened. “An interesting moment of lust, to be sure. But you are staying with me.”

She looked at the riding crop in her hand, and then smiled at him. “No, Landgrave. I have taught you some things about yourself. I think you need to take the time to digest that knowledge. But I’ve done my part.”

And she walked away. The Landgrave scrambled to his feet, then stopped suddenly. Ojastara’s foxes had appeared at the pavilion’s door. All had drawn back their lips to expose sharp teeth. Foxes are smaller than wolves, but the Landgrave knew that a pack would have no trouble dispatching and then disposing of a human. He froze.

Ojastara left, but the foxes waited, still watching over the Landgrave. They were silent, teeth gleaming. 

Sinful Sunday: Perfectly dressed


This evening she puts on her cuffs herself. The cuffs are fur-lined and their softness has its meanings. They are physically comfortable and they symbolise her owned status. He hopes they mean to her that being owned is comfortable. It’s home.

But she puts puts them on herself this time. He is lying back lazily watching her. Shedding the clothes she wore out in the world, and wearing all she needs when she’s with him. 

When she has put on the last wrist cuff he still watches her. She is beautiful. And yes, she smiles, comfortable, natural. 

He says, “Come here.”

Jerusalem Mortimer is an erotic writer, and here’s the first thing he likes about his writing

There are three things I value in erotic writing, and I try to keep them in sight as goals, and work to achieve them. 

1. Details

There’s a sort of proverb among classical music conductors, “If you want a piece of music to sound faster, play it slower.” 

The proverb means that classical music orchestral scores, if they’re worth playing at all, are full of little details that are passed over, undetectable, when you play it quickly, but that emerge and become part of the line, a more ornate line, if the music is played slow enough for the details to emerge.

Erotica is like classical music, if it’s any good, too. It moves slowly, and in detail. In one example, I wrote about a man and woman meeting in a kitchen, where he intends to interview her about a violent gang she once belonged too. They realise that they are sexually interested in each other, and that they are both kinky in complementary ways. At that stage they know that eventually they’re going to go upstairs to her bedroom. 

But they spend at least 100 pages in the kitchen, discovering each other, slowly getting more and more excited, before they finally leave that room. 

That’s because I’m interested in the erotic details of his and her reactions to the other, and the decisions that they have to make before they are committed to do something. By then they know that if they act on their desire it’s going to change both of their lives. 

For example, at one moment she puts her jersey over his head – she’s wearing nothing underneath it – and he admires her breasts, of course, but he also becomes fascinated by the pattern made by the sunlight shining through the weave and dappling her skin.

Erotic writing is a kind of poetry. The words should carry more than their usual weight of meaning. At the same time, of course, it should never sound “poetic”. You try for the art that conceals art, but reveals truth. And hotness. Well, I don’t know what you do. I mean, “I try.” 


The second thing I like about my best erotic writing, and that I always aim for, is “no inflatable darlings”. I’ll talk about what I mean by that, this time next week.  

In the Realm of the Sensei 3

When they were more or less conscious and able to speak again Seamus smacked Asuka again, on her right hip, and said, “Good Asuka. Asuka is a good girl, my good girl.” She made a happy sound, though at any other time she’d have laughed at him for saying something like that.

They rocked together, vastly pleased with each other, until he started to soften inside her and he had to withdraw, holding the ring of the condom so it didn’t slip off inside her.

She straightened up, and arched her back, her arms out above her shoulders.

She turned. She kissed him. “Seamus! You were my first! Up my chokucho. And it was wonderful! I wish you’d been first in my pussy and my mouth too. But I’m glad I saved something for you.” Then she giggled. “You got my arse!”

Eventually they moved the low table back into its place, and she made Seamus sit at it cross-legged, while she warmed and served him sake, holding the little porcelain bottle between her breasts. He generally preferred beer, but Asuka liked making a fuss, and she made a protracted act of service when she brought him warm sake. He was sure she enjoyed it, partly as a tradition and partly as theatre. After she’d served him she wanted to cuddle, but he smacked her bottom hard enough to re-awaken the pain of her caning, and told her to make dinner.

He had a shower, changed into a robe and thick socks, becoming a salaryman at home, monarch, until he returned to work, of all he surveyed. Mostly he watched Asuka surreptitiously while she performed in the kitchen. She wasn’t used to cooking. He usually did that.

After he’d stopped eating she’d crawled to him under the table. She pushed him onto his back, gently, and pulled his robe away from his cock. She lowered her mouth onto it, and sucked him lazily, in no particular hurry. She’d told him she loved his cock in her mouth, and he’d eventually believed her. Seamus allowed her to please herself, for a long time under he felt urgency again.

He put his head in her hair and grabbed a handful. Then he pulled her down onto him, all the way until she choked and coughed and tried to come up.

He slapped her face, then, and she committed herself to serve him, working hard until he gasped, held her head close, and thrust into her mouth. She swallowed his come, and continued sucking him, slowly and less urgently until he was soft again. 

Much later that night, when they were in bed, tired and sleepy, Asuka kissed him and said she’d been sure that he would know how to be firm with her, and that he would have to be that way – “vey firm!” – from now on. He’d reassured her that he would.

He got up and collected the cane, and hung it on a hook above the bed. He’d have to buy another cane, he realized, so he’d have one for home use, and one for school. He expected that he’d only use the school cane on Asuka, too. Though anything was possible.

Then he returned to bed. She reached up and touched the end of the cane that now hung above her head. “For ‘uck,” she said. They cuddled until they rolled onto their sides, Asuka’s rump close to Seamus’s cock, and they slept.


The Ojastara Tales: The Landgrave 4

Ojastara took the strip of leather she kept round her left wrist and climbed the bed to straddle the Landgrave. Leaning down she kissed him, her thighs closing on his cock to distract him, and wrapped the thin leather strip round his thumbs, then his wrists. He grimaced when he realized that his hands really were trapped, but the touch of Ojastara’s inner thigh made him focus on other concerns.

He looked up at her, something both urgent and haunted in his eyes. “Please…”

Ojastara struck his left nipple, hard, with the tassle of the crop, and he forgot whatever it was that he was about to beg. She struck his right nipple twice, unfairly hard, and then sat herself on his thighs, looking down at him. He writhed, cock rigid in the air, but he could not shake her.

She smiled down at him, his expression drawn with need, and spread her thighs to press her cunt against his right thigh, soft wet fruit against hard muscle. A sweet tension built and grew within her, steadily gaining in power as she pressed herself hard against his thigh. She rode him slowly up, then down, pleasuring herself while he begged for relief. At last she said, as if angry, “You are becoming importunate!” She struck him twice, using the shaft of the crop against his chest. Then, when he was aware of the pain, and that he was marked with two raised red welts, she struck him twice more, without hurry.

“Be good,” she said. “Be silent.” Her mouth quirked. “Behave.”

He stared up at her, barely believing what was happening to him, or within him. “Ah… Yes.” Then he said, “Mistress.”

“Good boy.” Ojastara rode him, harder, faster, and then closed with him so that his cock was pressed between his belly and her ribcage. The pressure on her cunt, and her own exertions, were reaching her, and she felt that she was glowing. Eventually she let her tension go, and she groaned, and gushed against his leg, gurgling in pleasure.

She said, “Ahhh… Sweet.” Then she raised herself from his chest so that his cock prodded, untouched, into the air. 

He looked at her, desperate. “Mistress. Please…”

Sinful Sunday: Consolation Prize

It didn’t happen every time. But usually he gave her an orgasm, one way or another, before she got up from her punishment place and position. 

So much of the rhetoric about life between a willing slave and her chosen Master comes down to this: he has to make himself useful, and keep his possession glad that she has a Master.

Arethusa was, in a sense, easy to please, after punishment. She felt especially sexually needy and urgent after he’d caned her. Partly, he believed, she wanted to distract herself from the fire in her ass, but also… she was fiercely aroused. Hungry.

So was he.