On monetarising this blog

I started this blog in 2012. Since then I’ve published an average of 4-5 times a week. I tend to write in serial form, building up sagas as I go. Most of my segments, or individual blog posts, are intended to contain arousing, erotic scenes. So each of those posts is part of a longer story, which often goes on for something like the length of a novel.  

Occasionally I put up something that isn’t meant to be sexy. I’ve presented research on this blog, and occasionally posted on issues that come up and affect the bids community in particular. Though I’ve been widening my brief, especially in the last year or so, to take in issues that affect people, but aren’5t necessarily linked to bdsm in particular.

The rarest kind of post has been the posts about my personal life.

There’s another category: “meta” posts, which are about this blog, and issues facing the blog.This one concerns the “Jerusalem Mortimer wants a word” blog’s survival. Because the reality iOS that this blog costs me money, to keep it up on the net. It also costs me time, as I work on pieces, and I do work for money.

So I’m going to monetarise this blog, and put in new features that are accessible for small payments. Generosity with my time and cash is still my basic assumption and approach.       

There’s an enormous amount of material here, and most of it will remain accessible for free. But I’m about to launch jerusalemmortimer.com as partially a pay site. 

This involves two things. First, I’ve opened a bookshop featuring my work. It sells erotic sagas, because sagas tend to be what I write. Each saga is divided up to make a book of about 26-30 pages.

Each volume is self-contained as well as being part of a larger story. They’re very affordable at $4.99 each, with the first volume in each series serving as a sample, available for $3.50.

The first saga is Jennifer’s Pleats and Pleas. It’s set in a slightly strange high school in an alternative universe.

The students are initiated in a range of disciplinary and sexual practices, and a very steamy and surprisingly kind time is had by all. 

It will soon be followed by volume 1 of a new saga, set in Japan and Vietnam in the 1980s. Historical literature! With ripped bodices!

Second, from 1 May 2020, this blog’s updates will be available only to subscribers who have taken out a Premium Membership.

As well as access to all posts a month before they’re available to general readers, Premium Members also get audio recordings of dramatic and steamy highlights from my work. These remain exclusive to members only.

Members also get a monthly newsletter, letting them further into their author’s world, and giving advance notice and samples of Things to Come.  

You’ll also get the satisfaction of helping a poor starving author keep his site on-line. So, thank you!  

In the realm of the Sensei 6

Asuka obeyed, lowering the panties so her pussy, now plumply visible, seemed to offer itself to him. Seamus could feel himself hardening. When the panties reached her knees, then fell to gather round her ankles, he said, “Step out of them, and give them to me. If you make too much fuss while I’m caning you I’ll put them in your mouth.”

“Hai, sensei.” Asuka stood, panties in her hand. She held them out and kissed his chest through his shirt when he accepted them and put them in his suit pocket. Then she turned, quickly and with just a hint of coquettishness, so that the skirt flared almost up to her waist before she jackknifed again, the uniform now protecting only the upper slopes of her buttocks.

Seamus lifted the hem and tucked it into her waistband. “I’m thinking of giving you twenty. The roaring twenties. Keep still, till I say you can move.”

Asuka said nothing, but made a sort of squeak. Something about that sound reached out to him; he was now fully erect. But he took the cane in his right hand and tapped it at the fleshiest, roundest part of her buttocks. So she knew where the first stroke would land. Asuka’s fear sound was lower in pitch. He supposed he’d become more familiar with these sounds, the sounds that Asuka made when she was under discipline, in the coming months.

Then, while he still had the nerve to do it, he raised the cane and swept it down hard against Asuka’s bottom. It didn’t land exactly where he’d aimed, but it wasn’t wrong either. The impact on bamboo upon girl was sharp and loud and it drew a white line across light brown skin, that soon blossomed into a bright red stripe, high on her bottom.

Asuka yelped, then sang out, “I’m sorry!” She held her position, her palms still pressed to the floor.

He followed the stroke quickly with another, this time aiming and landing it a little lower. She squealed and sang her apologies at mounting pitch and volume, but kept in place until the fifth stroke, the first across her upper thighs. That obviously stung more fiercely than the strokes he’d laid across her buttocks. Her upper body rose so she seemed to be bowing, and she took a step forward, breath hissing through her teeth.

The Ojastara Tales: Asking nicely in a Scots accent 2

Ojastara knelt, her hands cuffed together over her head and suspended from a hook in the ceiling. Her knees were well part, the skin of her cunt inner thighs ablaze from the steady, insistent and insinuating lashes of Bridget’s flogger. 

Then Bridget increased the intensity, aiming the floggers lashes only at her soft, sensitive cunt. Ojastara closed her eyes,amnd her mouth hung open. She made no sound. Bridget increased the forces of the lashes, and Ojastara at last moaned, as though she was immersing her body into a warm bath. Then her brows arched, pleading, and she said, again, “Yeeees. Please. Please.” 

Bridget smiled. She leaned down and kissed Ojastara’s forehead, and pressed the handle of the flogger against her cunt. Ojastara seemed to collapse, her whole weight hanging from her wrists while she pressed forward and pushed herself against that hard, leather cylinder. 

At last Ojastara cried out like a cat being fucked, a high animal sound that was both need and satisfaction. It built and suddenly reached up to a higher pitch. There were years in Ojastara’s eyes, spilling, running down her face.

At last she breathed, “Oh yeah. Thank you, Bridget.”

“I think I’d like you to call me ‘Miss Bridget’.”

“Thank you, Miss Bridget.”

“Good girl. Not that you’re a girl, any more than, I don’t know, Eris was. You’re a trickster goddess. There aren’t many of you.”

Ojastara smiled. “That’s nice, Miss Bridget. But I’m not a goddess. Or a trickster.” 

“Just what a trickster goddess would say. But I have better uses for your lying tongue, Tara. Come forward a bit, still on your knees.”

Ojastara, who was still in charge there, and they both knew it, made an interrogative noise. Bridget sighed. “My cunt likes that sound. I think I want you forced to lean back a little, while you get me off.” 

So Ojastara crawled forward until her body hung back, from her uplifted, bound, wrists. Bridget stepped forward, thighs parted, and pressed Ojastara’s face into her cunt. She closed her eyes and sighed, as she felt her tongue in soft, wet, sensitive skin. And she let the flogger’s lashes rest against Ojastara’s back.

The third thing I try to do, with my writing

The third thing is: clarity. 

Sex can be rough and tumble, with one person on top then the other, with their arms and legs entangled. That’s good when that happens, and sometimes you’re too busy feeling and doing to really keep track.

But as a writer, keeping track is your job. You have to know where your people are, and write it realistically and clearly. For example, if your characters are having rear-entry sex, the man cannot kiss his lover’s eyes. At best he can kiss one of her eyes, but you should mention, first, that she has turned her head. He will have to lean right down to manage it. 

If either of them has a tool in their hand, whether it’s a vibrator or a cane, it should be where it must be. If it’s in his hand, and the writer hasn’t mentioned him putting it down, then it’s still in his hand. If he has put it down to stroke his lover, then he has to pick it up again before he can use it. 

And the writer has to record that. And so on. 

I once read a book in which the hero has sex with the heroine at last. In the morning, the writer told me, he woke up naked, his withered hand resting on his thigh. So I leafed all the way back to the beginning, to see if he had a disfigurement to his hand. It turned out that the writer meant that his cock and balls, resting on his thigh, looked a little like a withered hand. Well, I thought, if you say so.

People often get metaphorical when writing about sex: waves crash, fires light, and trains even go into tunnels. Most of the best known metaphors are dead, really. Overuse has killed them, and they communicate a writer’s lazy boredom rather than sexual intensity. 

My preference is for saying what’s happening, in direct language that tells about the state and the action of penises, vulvas and mouths.

A note on metaphors and similes

Only after I’ve done that will I try to think of a good metaphor. Part of a metaphor being a good one is that it shouldn’t have been worked to death by other writers. The other part is that it should make sense, and communicate something specific to the reader.

For example, I once said a masturbating woman’s orgasm noise seemed “high and lonely, like a seagull’s cry.” Almost everyone knows what a seagull cry sounds like, so the simile communicates something about how it sounded, and also something about her emotional state.

Another kind of orgasm could be said to be like the sound a cat makes if someone rides a bike over its tail. That is arguably an accurate simile, for some orgasm sounds, but it’s a bad one because its too outlandish, too far removed from a sexual context.

Metaphorts and similes should be accurate, appropriate to the emotion of the situation, and not too outlandish, or too commonly used.


The fourth thing I try to achieve is… humanity.


In the realm of the Sensei 5

Asuka at five. She knocked on the door and waited outside though she knew he left the door unlocked. He opened and found her downcast, head hung, mouth woeful. So although he’d meant to greet her harshly, he put his arms round her, and when she looked up he kissed her mouth, and said, “Welcome, little blossom.” But she was only briefly consoled. Once she was inside the door she sank to her knees, and gave in to sobs.

So Seamus, feeling he was acting like the worst villain imaginable, took her ear between his thumb and forefinger, and pulled her up. He smacked her bottom twice with his hand, through her light blue sailor suit. Then, still tugging her ear so that she had to keep her head down while she stumbled, he led her into the sitting room.

He said, “Asuka, I am not going to put up with any more of your stupid behavior.” He sounded false to his own ears, so he picked up the cane so she could see it and get an idea of what he had in mind. Her expression was unreadable. “Your behavior last night was stupid, and ugly. Last night was the omoni ni kuzuke. The last straw! I’m going to punish you.”

He stopped. This was where she could protest, and they both knew he’d drop the issue if she did. Or she could accept. She snuffled, still keeping her head down, and said, “Yes, sensei. Of course. I was very wrong, and I know I should be punished. I’m so sorry, Seamus.”

Her acquiescence seemed to come very quickly and easily. The thought crossed his mind: Did she engineer this? Am I being manipulated? He decided it didn’t really matter. “Then, bend over, Asuka. All the way down. Touch your toes with your fingers. No,” he said when she achieved that too easily. “Put your hands flat on the floor.” She obeyed again, and the uniform rose another inch, leaving a little more of her white-pantied bottom in the air.

“Hai, sensei.” Asuka was looking up at him, so her face upside down between her knees, her palms comfortably on the floor. She was, he knew well, a supple girl.

About half her panties and the plump intimacies of her lower bottom and upper thighs were exposed. Seamus wanted to kneel and kiss that feminine confluence, but this was something important, and a kiss would only be a distraction from it. They were both giving each other something that mattered to both of them. It had its own momentum and, he had to admit, its own pleasures.

“Take those panties down, Asuka. I’m going to cane you, not some cotton. Right down. Quickly, girl.”