Masturbation Monday: Round in circles

Emily said she’d spent the night with a guy called Marty. I knew and despised Marty. He sold pills, and like a lot of doctors Emily liked her psychopharmaceuticals. She said she hadn’t set out to meet him, and they weren’t having an affair. Spending the night with him had been a wine-fucked mistake, she said, and she’d hated lying to me. I said, truthfully, that I believed her. Emily said she didn’t intend to let him anywhere near her again.

That night he’d been dangerous. She’d undressed him and sucked his cock, and then he’d fucked her on the floor.

But afterwards she’d sat on his bed. I saw her, at this point in her story, patting the bed, smiling at him, with his come in her. That vision didn’t make me happy.

But Marty’s mood had turned suddenly and he didn’t join her. He’d paced the room and shouted, and at one point held his closed fist against her mouth. Then he’d pushed her, so she bounced off a bedside table on the way to the floor. He’d stalked off, muttering, and not come back. Emily, still too drunk to do anything effective, had crawled onto a mattress in another room, pulled clothes and eiderdowns and pillows on top of herself and slept. She got out as soon as she woke up. Someone had followed her car. That was why she’d looked so scared when she arrived. 

Marty was dead, two years after this story

There was something wrong with Marty. He sold middle-class drugs to doctors and lawyers, but he also sold drugs that cops took more seriously. He did it so openly that even I knew about it. He mixed with gangsters because he thought they were glamorous, but his indiscretion and violence were making him unpopular.

Because she’d parked her car outside his place, many people would have stored the licence number, her name and our address. I hoped it was only a cop who’d followed Emily home. At that time in Marty’s life, which ended a couple of years later, he was dangerous. He was also tall, good-looking in the style of the very young, skinny Clark Gable, and on a good day he could present his outlaw act as romantic. 

So on top of the usual reasons for being annoyed when your lover fucks someone else, she’d chosen a stupid and slightly evil man, and she’d put herself in harm’s way. I was angry and I was scared. 

I’d caned Emily lots of times. That wouldn’t be new. But the meaning had changed. That’d be new territory for both of us

I thought about punishing her. She’d asked me to cane her for smoking, when she was trying to give up cigarettes. So there had once been consent in principle. But she’d hurt me and I wanted to hurt her back, and I was suspicious of that desire. She might deserve punishment, but I didn’t trust my motives. Revenge seemed a bad one.

We talked. I said she’d scared me. She said she was ashamed of herself, and sorry. But when everything was said, nothing was resolved. Our talk went in a circle, over and over.  I was hurt, and I’d been scared, and then I was angry; she said was sorry, and then sorry again.

Eventually, in the second hour I broke that circle, and most of my own rules along with it. Partly I was motivated by boredom: it must be time to say something new. “So. Emily. So what should I actually do? This is a bigger deal than you smoking a cigarette, wouldn’t you say?” 

On the non-funniness of sex

A thing that puritans, especially religious conservatives, often say is that sex is funny. He, and it’s always a he, will talk about how he and his wife like to have a good laugh when they’re having sex. They’re always laughing. 

I don’t believe them, or if it’s true I’m sorry for them, especially the woman. Sex is a peak of emotion and raw physical body need; there’s no place for “funny” in there, at least if you’re a participant wanting to commit yourself and enjoy yourself. 

Sex matters: humour is sexual anti-matter.

There are exceptions, of course. If my partner is trying to do something ambitious and she accidentally sticks her elbow in my eye, say, I’m going to laugh, to relieve tension and let her know it’s ok. But that’s going to be quick, a moment, to keep the sex going. That moment itself, and an “ah, stuff happens” laugh are momentary to keep the overall mood going.

In itself there’s nothing sexy about the problem, or my response. 

The funniest thing that ever happened to me during sex involved trying to put a contraceptive diaphragm into the twat of a lovely girl who thought the stars were god’s daisy chain and used that form of contraception. I coated the diaphragm with spermicide, which got it mildly slippery, and tried to slip in in. 

Yeah, it’s simple, so long as you or your lover are a cut-away cartoon woman…

But diaphragms have springy sides, and sure enough it escaped my fingers and sproinged off to the other side of the room. Flew like it yearned to be free. So I picked it up, washed it, and coated the fucking thing with spermicide again.

I lined it up to the squishy cunt of my lovely girl, who thought that every time a pixy sneezed a flower was born, and slid the first few centimetres in. Triumph, and hardening cock. Until the fucking thing sproinged free again. Hit a different corner of the room.

So I collected it, cleaned it, and applied slippery spermicide again, and came back to the bed.

Readers, this happened four times before I successfully got the thing in. Into the yummy cunt of my lovely girl who thought that the weeping of angels causes the rain. And, readers, believe me when I say my cock was soft.

Believe me, these things can fly. And they want to.

It was funny, sure. And my patience and ability to not get too upset was probably a good thing. But sexy? If sex is Madrid, and it might be, then that was Christchurch, a ruined city on almost exactly the other side of the planet from sex. 

Anyway, we were in our twenties, so motivation was extremely high, and we managed to recover and get down to fucking.

But the lesson I learned was this. Spare me, please, from all things funny during sex. 

I think the “sex is funny” crowd actually don’t like sex. They are uncomfortable with the emotional and physical nakedness and need, and by the way that cocks get hard and spurty, and cunts get plump and wet and slippery, and people make strong faces they’d never make if they were self-conscious. So they say it’s funny, all those bottoms bobbing up and down.

But the claim that sex is funny is just an acceptable way of saying what they really think, which is that sex is disgusting. There’s no dignity in it, and precious little self-control and self-presentation.  And it’s got… bodies.

So when I’m doing sexy things, I hope to be a lot of things, intense, kind, cruel, competent. But funny? No. Fuck off with your funny. 

Postscript

I’ve never really expressed my cold, congealed contempt for the Literary Review‘s annual Bad Sex Awards. Maybe that’s a post for another day. 

Wicked Wednesday: Tears before the pause

I put one hand on the small of her back, pressing her down. She sighed. Not unhappily. We were agreed, Jennifer and I, that this must be done. I said, “Can you remember, what was going through your mind, just before you bent over to show off to those boys?”

“I don’t know, sir. I don’t–”

“Well, Jennifer, that moment led you into pain and shame. I want you to remember that.”

“Sir?” But the discussion was over. I brought my hand down, hard, on her bare bottom, across both cheeks, and the pistol shot sound and her first, astonished wail, filled the room simultaneously.

“You will never, Jennifer!”

Then a series of hard spanks, one side then the other, two on her lower buttocks and two on the soft bubble-butt crown of her bottom, then another in the centre, across both cheeks, now bounding, out of her control, while she yowled.

“Make that disgraceful display of yourself again!”

Then I gave her another six, just as hard. Reality for Jennifer was all motion and heat and pain, and her own cries while I lectured her, one or two words for each smack. “You! Are! Not! To Be! A Silly.”

Then I changed the rhythm, speeding up. Her bottom was energetically mobile, and she howled, her feet kicking and her hair flying. I get her another six hard smacks, my palm landing four times across the lower slopes of her bottom, and twice on her thighs. “Little!” I roared.

The next six, delivered lustily and fast were all directed across her upper thighs. “Flasher!”

That was unfair, of course. Jennifer was an innocent, too innocent for her own good. But I wanted her to take more care; innocence mixed with acting out can be a dangerous combination.

I’d considered saying “slut!”, a powerful word for girls, since I wanted her tears to spill. But “slut” was too strong for her, and I didn’t want her internalise it.

‘Flasher’, plus a sore bottom, would do. I resumed her spanking as hard as before, her bottom and thighs blazing red and in wild motion. And there was a change in her reaction. She was bawling like a baby, unrestrained, weeping, her nose running, tears shaken from her eyes to the floor below her. She was sorry, now, and not just because she was being spanked.

She’d forgotten about modesty. Her legs sprawled again, though this time in furious motion. Her pretty pussy presented itself to me, wet and desperately in need of comfort. Or of any attention at all: if I spanked her soft lips she would come as surely as if I stroked her. I tightened my grip on the small of her back, and continued her spanking, hard, loud, in a steady rhythm.

At last, after about sixty spanks, I leaned down, still holding her in place, and spoke more gently, near her ear. “But you’ll learn to behave, won’t you?”

She was still wailing in her pain and her shame. She hiccoughed several times before she could answer me, even though I’d let my hand rest on her blazing hot bottom. “Y-yes, s-s-sir.”

“I think you will too.” I was so hard for her, at that moment. I had enjoyed spanking her sweet little bottom, but it was her submission that called to me. She knew it, of course, and she pressed herself on my cock. There was something comforting for her in its hardness at her proximity, in the energy that had passed between us, and simply in the feel of it. She liked my penis and its response to her, and she’d sometimes moved her body so it was held between her thighs, though the spanking prevented her from carrying out any plans involving the placing of her body: the pain and heat had mostly controlled her movements, not her.   

Her snuffles had subsided, but she had cried, thoroughly and without control or dignity, for several minutes. I smiled down at her body, now resting across my knees. I wanted to pat her bottom, but at that moment no contact of that hot, red skin would act as a comfort.

Instead I said, “You’ve been a good and brave girl, so far.”” She smiled. I don’t think she noted the “so far”.

She’d thought she’d been dealt with and this was over. But this was only a pause. 

Masturbation Monday: The first time I punished a submissive 1

Emily still smoked cigarettes, though she knew better and wanted to stop. I praised and rewarded every smoke-free day, and I was patient while the cravings made her almost continuously angry. She got through a month without smoking, and that should have been that. But after three months she started again.

It’s odd, in retrospect, how hard I resisted accepting the right and duty to punish

Soon after that relapse, Emily asked me to help by taking control. She suggested that I should cane her if I smelt tobacco on her breath or clothes. Not caning her for play, not for sex: a real punishment, hard enough to hurt and make her want to avoid getting another punishment like it.

She wanted to fear the consequences more than she craved the nicotine. I’d had discussions like this before, and I refused, again.

Punishing Emily for smoking probably would help her give it up, and she’d enjoy being a submissive girl who got punished if she didn’t do as she was told. I could see that. But I still didn’t think I had the right to do it. I’d managed to find a way to do bdsm without acting like a sexist bully-boy, and I didn’t want to lose the formula.

On occasions like this, it was acceptable to call me “Sir”

Emily called me “sir”, but only when she was naked.

This issue grumbled on in the background. My rule against assuming real power suited me. It kept me comfortable politically. Emily was finding that it didn’t really suit her. I knew she wasn’t quite satisfied, but I decided to stick with the rule.

Until Emily unstuck me.

One afternoon there was a party. I had to work, so Emily went without me. I expected it to wind up by about ten or so, and to see Emily before midnight. By early morning I was worried. Emily’s car had recently been in an accident. It hadn’t been her fault, but it made it easy for me to imagine harm.

I called police and hospitals and ambulance services. Just after two she called me. She was staying at her girlfriend’s because she’d drunk too much to drive home. I told her I loved her and went to bed.

Oh, this is going to be all awkward, isn’t it?

But the next morning that girlfriend called and asked for Emily. I caught myself in time not to say, “Isn’t she with you?” Instead we chatted cheerfully, and I promised I’d get Emily to call when she got home. 

So when Emily came home – she looked scared – I passed on her friend’s message.

And I waited while she understood that I knew she’d lied. We knew we were about to enact a boring cliché, but we were stuck with it.

 

Sinful Sunday: Self-awareness, and the colour of beauty

The object our girl is bent over is called a prie-dieu. It’s designed to encourage submission to the Christian god. When I saw this one on sale in a junk shop in the great Australian outback, I had to have it, as a pervertible.

Religious and sexual submission have always been very closely related. The form of the prie-dieu, which can be used for both kneeling and bending, is very encouraging and conducive to that oceanic, submissive feeling. It helps a submissive to feel self-awareness: I am submissive; I am submitting…

But that’s not what I came here to talk about. What I see first, and last, is the blush on my girl’s lovely bottom after a light tawsing. It really is the colour of beauty.

 

Wicked Wednesday: Let the good girl shine

Jennifer’s legs, now bare, were perfectly beautiful, just the right balance of slimness and plumpness, her inner thighs touching but parting again for that adorable gap at the top, just below her pussy, so tightly confined by another scrap of white cotton, no bigger than yesterday’s panties had been. She’d known that I was going to spank her again, so she’d chosen those deliberately, as display.

I smiled at her. “Now the panties. I’m going to spank your bottom, Jennifer. Not some cotton.”

“You– You mean down to my knees? Sir?”

“No, Jennifer.” She gave me her beseeching face again.

It was a very pretty look for her, and I’m sure she knew it. “Down to your feet, and then you step out of them. I mean, off!”

“Oh. Yes, sir.” She had courage enough to sound sulky. I’d cure her of sulkiness, but I admired her for it just the same. She put her hands on the panty hems, and slid them very slowly, at least until they bunched at the top of her thighs, below her pussy. The skin around and a little above that vertical pout was lightly furred. The two girls I’d paddled, the first to have to reveal details like that in front of me, had been neatly shaven. But Jennifer was a less sophisticated girl. 

But once her pussy was exposed she must have felt that she was committed. Face aflame, looking into my eyes, she pushed them down her thighs and allowed them to drop from her knees to her ankles. Then, keeping her thighs tightly together, she stepped out of them and lowered herself, still watching my face, to pick them up.

“Good girl. Now hang them up – neatly, mind you – on the rack.”

“Oh. Yes, sir.” And she turned, sweet thighs and pale round bottom bobbing, while she folded her skirt and put it on its peg, and did the same with her panties. The she turned back. She was smiling, but with her eyes down. She knew I’d enjoyed the view she’d provided me.

I said, “Good girl. There are things we have to deal with, in your behaviour, but I do know that you’re a very, very good girl at heart. We’re going to let that good girl out and let her shine, from now on, aren’t we?”

The smile widened. That sounded like a good idea. “Yes, sir!”

“But the bad girl still has to be punished. You already know what to do, Jennifer. Get over my knee, girl.”

Jennifer placed herself over my knee, almost diving. She wasn’t afraid, but she was shy again. She kept her thighs together. I didn’t mind that. It wouldn’t last more than a few seconds.

Masturbation Monday: Adventures with Emily 2

The previous episode is here.

Sucking my cock had to be made awkward for Emily, because she liked my cock in her mouth. It was, she said, both velvety and hard, and it tasted like I smell, which was apparently good. She could also feel my pleasure, and she took pleasure from that.

She should have enjoyed doing something that she liked, but she liked her pleasures complex. Her sensual enjoyment of having my cock in her mouth diluted the more intense pleasure she wanted, of feeling that she’d surrendered and lost herself in serving.

She wanted to suffer for her service. 

That’s why I reached under her shoulders and cupped her breasts, taking a hard nipple between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. I squeezed until her face showed that it hurt, then relaxed for a few seconds and squeezed harder.

Emily lost her rhythm, then found it again and worked on, eyes closed, oblivious – I had to imagine – to everything but her pain and her service to her man’s cock in her mouth. She’d told me she thought she could come just from this, though we never managed to keep it going long enough to find out.

I knew to watch the skin of Emily’s shoulders at this point. I released her breasts and unbuckled my belt, pulling it in one motion from the loops of my pants. There they were, in response to that sound: Emily’s goosebumps on her shoulders and the upper slopes of her breasts.

I folded the belt, holding the buckle, and swatted the loop down her back, so that the leather would swing down and under her, the end striking the undercurve of her bottom.

I kept the slaps coming, though not hard. The goal wasn’t to hurt her but to allow her to tell herself that she was being whipped, quite unfairly, while she served like a good girl. Emily made small, indecipherable sounds, her head bobbing intently.

But soon I had to pull back from her mouth, and lift her head. We looked at each other, my thumb a poor substitute in her mouth, my fingers caressing her cheek. I said, “Emily”. She closed her eyes, still focussed inwards, and did not reply. I knelt beside her then, kissing her shoulders and undoing the ties with fumbling urgency.

When I’d freed her Emily stretched and rubbed her wrists, then helped me to undress, also urgently. I lay on my back on the carpet, for her to straddle me.

Sinful Sunday: Healing bruises

When your master has released your cuffs from the bedposts, but left them on you. When you sleep, feeling the bruising on your arse is healing, but still feeling the warmth and the comfort of that deep, warm ache. When getting those bruises felt healing, too. 

Those are good sleeping conditions. Everything is perfect.

 

Slave names

I once spent a week with a woman who’d contacted me because she liked my writing. But  there were major differences between us. I tend to see bdsm as loving, and not at all demeanning. She liked to be demeaned. She liked to be treated like a dog, when we were doing bdsm or fucking. 

I don’t mean like really fucking an actual, real dog: I’ve no experience in fucking canines. It’s not just that it’s illegal and there are ethical consent issues. I’m afraid I’ve never fancied one.

I admired my dog Elric, because he was clever. Also, he was once bullied by a huge German Shepherd, who mock-mounted him as an expression of dominance. Elric thought about it, decided he didn’t like that, and while the German Shepherd was still preening, Elric put his front paws on the Shepherd’s back and mounted him, making doggy pelvic thrusts against the Shepherd’s arsehole. 

I still remember the amazed fury in the German Shepherd’s face. He couldn’t believe it, but he was as angry as a dog gets. A fight broke out that Elric would have lost, badly, if it had gone on for thirty seconds. Luckily I was wearing knee-high leather dom boots that day, and I waded in and separated them, kicking the shit out of the German Shepherd until he backed off, and occasionally booting Elric when he tried to keep the fight going. How I got out that with my skin intact, in retrospect I’ll never know.

Something protects idiots, and Elric and I were both that. But despite that, we never got round to having sex, Elric and I. So when this woman wanted to be fucked as one would fuck a dog, I really was at a loss. 

Woofsie!

But in practise it turned out to mean that I lashed her with a short single-tail whip and called it a dogwhip, and I shouted a lot of commands you’d shout at a dog: “Roll over!”, “Down, girl!”, “Sit! Stay!” and so on. Then I’d say things like, “You filthy, stinky dog! You useless mongrel bitch! You worthless carpet-pissing, slipper-chewing, lazy, should-be-spayed, stupid farting ANIMAL!” 

And she would groan with arousal. I was quite proud, actually, of being verbally inventive in a genre I’d never even thought about before. But I’m a Dom who likes to please. Anyway, all human experience is good. That which does not bore us makes us strong. 

Anyway, she wanted me to name her, and call her, “pigcunt” . So I did. pigcunt the dog.

Soon after, I met a girl who was much closer to my worldview and style. We became Master and slave. And she insisted that I give her a slave name. So I called her “curious oyster”

She was endlessly hungry for knowledge, which explained the ‘curious’, and she had a remarkably pretty and demanding cunt, which is what ‘oyster’ meant.

Usually I called her oyster, because it seemed sexy to me, and her, that she was named after her cunt.

The next submissive girl I really loved I called “pixie tinkerbelle”, because that reflected how I felt about her. The name was because she was full of mysterious and unexpected knowledge and skills. Also, she needed spanking at every and any given moment. 

But a few days ago I was talking to a guy who’d been a switch but was wanting to slip into the submissive role because he’d met and spent some time with a dom woman. It had gone well, and they were about to enter a live-in Mistress/slave relationship. She’d ordered him to come up with a slave name. He asked me what I thought.

I thought he should indicate whether he wanted a demeaning or a loving slave name, but after that it’s a dom’s job to observe their sub or slave and give them a name based on what the dom sees in them.

I hate people who tell others in bdsm that they’re Doing It Wrong, but I sort of thought the dom woman was doing it wrong, maybe from a lack of confidence. But I suggested that he should help her find that confidence. The naming was her job.    

 

Also goodbye Elric, my beautiful labrador-samoyed cross: I never did get round to fucking you (and wouldn’t in, oh, a million years), but I sure loved you. 

(Yeah, he was named after an albino Melnibonéan prince. I was reading Moorcock a lot at the time I got him as a puppy. Late adolescence. )