Sinful Sunday: Request granted

“Please punish me, Sir,” she’d said. 

She knew that punishment was coming, whatever she said, but it’s sexier to ask for it. She’s admitted that sometimes part of her thinks that if she asks very nicely she might get a stroke or two off. But another part hopes she won’t, and she would be very disappointed if she did.

Once in position, over the whipping bench, she’s on a ride. Submission becomes some kind of fairground attraction. She’s bought her ticket, and now she hopes it as exciting as she can bear. 

You don’t control a rollercoaster while you’re on it. But afterwards yours eyes sparkle and your face glows. 


Sinful Sunday: You won’t see me. But you’ll know I’m there.

She’s asked nicely and, as far as I could tell, sincerely, to be caned, and of course she will be. 

But there’s always the warm-up first. The leather paddle doing good, loud, work. She’s still worried about the caning to come, but she knows that the warm-up is a good thing: erotic and sensual in itself, and also a sign of care. I can’t be as angry with her as I’m pretending. 

Soon, she knows, we’ll fuck, and she will pretend to be very sorry and I’ll pretend that I’ve only just forgiven her. Hypocrites, we Doms and submissives. In a way. But we also know each other closely, and we know the truth, too. 

She knows she won’t be allowed to come for at least an hour. And that when she does, she’ll finally be told what she already knows: that she’s a good girl. 






Sinful Sunday: Please Sir

When she says, “Please punish me, Sir,” she’s being a conspicuously Good Girl. Every aspect of her presentation is a display that says, “I’m a good girl, really.”

Her eyes and her face are downcast, and her open hands hold out the instrument of her punishment. Her hands are open because she knows she’s not allowed to close her hands on the cane. She bent down, naked, to take it from the floor in her mouth, then released it onto her open hands. And then held out those hands to me, offering both herself and it. Details and body language matter.

The wool over the whipping bench, behind her, tells her that she’s going to be spending some time bent over there. That matters too. It would be a terrible world, boring, unloving, unsexy, if I didn’t pay close attention to her needs, even when delivering discipline.

She gives a perfect display of submission. It’s come just a little too late to save her bottom and upper thighs. But that doesn’t make this moment less enchanted, for either of us. I’m not ready to tell her she’s a “good girl”. Not yet. But I will be soon.

Monica the lube monitor

Monica lay facedown on the bed, legs spread, ass arched up so she could lube herself. She turned to watched me watching her, her finger glazed with lube, delving into her ass. “Do I look hot?”

“You look hot. Also obedient, which I like. And beautiful. So, yeah, you’re pretty much my ideal woman.”

She pulled her finger out and half turned, to coat it with more lube. “I feel hot. I mean turned on. But I was sure this looks pretty good, in your eyes.”



“And proud of it.” I smacked her thigh. And put a condom on, because she really was enticing me.

“Good boy. Master! Re condom. Can I – ?” She rolled over and sat up, taking my cock in one hand and slathering the other with lube. I said nothing. She knew that lubing me was almost sex in itself, and that if she did it for long I’d need a new condom, and some down time.

She looked in my eyes. “I guess this is service. It feels good.” 

I kissed her, since her face was close. “This is sort of service. But real service comes from doing things for your Master that you wouldn’t usually get pleasure from. Like, how are you at ironing shirts?”

“I suck at it. Guess I can learn. I can imagine how it’d feel sexual if it’s slave service, and I knew that I’m pleasing my Master. But I’m pretty good at looking after boots!” 

“Then you get both, pipi. Uh, it’s time you got on your hands and knees now.” 

“It is.” Monica turned and got into a sort of catlike position, knees wide apart, back arched so her cunt and glazed asshole were pointed at me. I got up on my knees and shuffled forward till I had my hands on her hips and my cock just touching that tight muscle. So she knew I was there.

“Just say if it gets uncomfortable, or painful. I only like to hurt you in ways I can control.” 

Monica shook her head violently. “No! I want you to fuck me hard. I don’t care if it hurts. All the better if it does. Just fuck me. Er, please, Master.”

So I smacked the sides of her crimson, richly warm and red ass, and pushed forward,, until the head of my cock was firmly inside her. 

Monica groaned.

Sinful Sunday: The Glory of Marks

Marks. We both loved her marks. They tell a story, and she could see that story just by turning her back on a mirror and looking over her shoulder. 

These marks told two stories. She’d just been punished, a nice straight set of stripes from the cane. That was one story, a very traditional one between a Master and his slave.

But there were also warm blotches on the outer side of her left buttock, and another, a little lower on the outer side of her right thigh. They tell a different story. We’d fucked after her caning, because it’s such a submissive and accessible position, and we both need to feel each other, hard, after she’s been punished. 

But the best thing of all, about that position, is that I can spank her, hard, while we’re fucking. It helped her feel surrendered, plundered, while we’re fucking, and we both loved that sensation too.

The glow of the handprints tell us both about the glory of that sex.

And now she’d been caned, fucked and spanked, and we’re catching our breath. But she’s still not allowed to rise. There’s a paddle, not far away. And it’s about to become part of her life.