One swallow doesn’t make a spring #25

Posted on June 22, 2013 by jaime

So she said, “There are dykes who’ll do you. They’ll bring you off with their hands, they’ll lick you till you come. Or they might put their knee, yeah, there. And kind of pulse you while they squeeze your, uh, breasts.”

“And that knee thing would get you off, would it?”

“Um… It has done. No, stop it! I’m trying to tell you something. Anyway, they’re stone cold dykes because they don’t let you touch them. They get your clothes off and they get you off, but they keep their clothes on and you don’t do anything to them, and they don’t come. Not with you, I mean me.”

“Well, that’s not me. Here. I’ve got my clothes off, I don’t know if you noticed…”

“Yeah, but -”

“And I haven’t got any come left …”

“Yeah, but -”

“It’s all in you.”

Stone cold

“Idiot. Silly man. Oh. Ah-huh. There might be a bit more, you know.” I leaned back and let her stroke her handful of soft cock. She was right. It wasn’t completely soft any more. “Okay, but you came in me because you fucked me. That’s physiology. But I didn’t get to fuck you; you never let me. You controlled me – that was interesting, by the way; that was good. I loved it. But I never controlled you. I lost it completely, I don’t think I knew the bed was here, I don’t think I even knew who I was. But you didn’t lose it at all, ever. You were completely in control of yourself. You stayed cold. You see?”

“Well, maybe. but I like being in charge. That’s sexy, for me. So of course I was getting off.”

“Yes. Up to a point.” My cock stirred, and staggered upright, just able to lift its own weight, as she said that. So she gave her attention to stroking it, and repeated, “up to a point”, over and over. I relaxed and let her, but eventually, half hard, I took her hand and stopped her.

She smiled, as if she’d won her point. “See what I mean? You have to stay in control. It’s okay. It’s just … I can’t see how you can have as good a time as I’m having.”

“Like this. Suck my cock.”

“Just like that? That’s not a very romantic thing to say.”

“Suck my cock right now, or I’ll spank you till your arse is the colour of a stop sign.”

“I didn’t really like it, much, when you spanked me.”

“Then if you don’t want another spanking, you’d better…” And her mouth, warm and moist and sweetly soft, enveloped my cock. “Ahhh.” I wouldn’t have spanked her, since she hadn’t given me permission to do things she didn’t like. But I did know that she liked to be ordered to do things.

So I made myself comfortable, pushing a little deeper and resting one hand on the back of her head, exactly because a gentleman doesn’t do that. Because I guessed she’d like me not to be a gentleman. I thought, as her head bobbed steadily, that I’d won something, though not necessarily the argument.

One swallow doesn’t make a spring #24

Posted on June 21, 2013 by jaime

As I’ve mentioned, Svitlana turned out not to like being spanked all that much, though she gave it a fair trial. But she liked other things. She liked having her nipples ill-treated. At first I did the nipple mistreatment with my fingers.

But later, I had her hands tied to the end of the bed, and her ankles held apart by a spreader bar, and I attached a pair of nipple clamps to her breasts, because I needed my hands to hold under her bottom while I lifted and licked her.

I’m not going to write about most of that night, because it was just sex. We said very little during it. I don’t think that we thought much, either. I know I didn’t. So there’s not so much to say about it, except that it was good. It was a gold and silver night, honey and lightning.

So we were tired when we collapsed, some time that was more like morning than it was night.

We lay together comfortably, satisfied with each other. And Svitlana mused, “You’re like a stone cold lesbian.”

And I said, “I have no idea what that means, but I bet I’m not.”

So we’re back to the beginning, the point where I started this story. It does continue.

One swallow doesn’t make a spring #23

Posted on June 20, 2013 by jaime

Svitlana came, seconds after I’d given that command. Eventually she stirred and looked up, and found me looking at her. I couldn’t stop myself looking at her. She reached up and stroked my arm. “”I came because you told me to. You told me to come and I did as I was told.” She shook her head. “Fuck, that’s weird. That is really weird, Jaime.”

Actually it wasn’t strange at all. By the time I’d told her to come she was going to come. She’d have had real trouble disobeying that order. But I said, “You’re just naturally obedient. You like to do as you’re told. You didn’t know that. And now you do.”

“Hmmm.” She sounded sceptical. Sensible woman.

“Yes, you are. You’re going to obey me when I tell you to get over my knee. Because I’m going to spank you.”

“You think I’ve been bad? And you seriously think I’m going to let you punish me, if you think I’m bad?”

Of course, she’d held still while I smacked her inner thigh, and I’d claimed that was a punishment. But that was an orgasm ago, so perhaps it didn’t count. She didn’t think of herself as someone who let people punish her.

So I said, truthfully, “No, I just think you’ve got a glorious ass.”

“Huh.” She scowled at me, then smiled. “Well, in that case, I suppose. I’ll let you smack my glorious ass. Since it’s glorious. If you’ll give me a knee to get over.”

She slid over me, and I worked my way across the bed, pulling her with me, so I could rest my back against the wall. And Svitlana perched, bottom up on my thighs.

I patted her upper thighs. “Yeah, glorious. Best ass ever. And now I want it warm and pink. Or maybe red.”

“Hey! What do you mean, red?”

I smacked her.

One swallow doesn’t make a spring #22

Posted on June 19, 2013 by jaime

Reader, I looked Svitlana in her eyes, and held that gaze while I brought my hand down, hard, on her inner thigh. She kept herself still, and though she gasped when my hand landed, and frowned and sucked at her lower lip, she did not move.

We watched each other’s faces while she experienced the sharp impact and then the after-warmth of having been deliberately smacked, and I enjoyed the memory of the cool firmness of her left thigh as my hand had landed. I held that memory in my hand.

She still stared at me, a little afraid, not of the potential pain of anything I might do, but of the strangeness of her own response to being out of her own control and under mine. I smiled at last, and Svitlana gasped again, relieved. I said, “good girl.”

She still had her thighs open as wide as she could present herself, and I touched her cunt, at the lowest edge of her lips, and stroked upwards. She was wet. My fingers swam in aroused Svitlana. She shivered slightly, wanting more, and I stroked her again.

Svitlana let her head fall back onto the pillow, and gave up her body to my stroking fingers, . After a while, she put her heels back on the bed and lifted herself, making her cunt and her other entrance available to me. In response I sped up a little, and Svitlana’s face took on that tenseness that said she was about to come. I let my finger slip all the way into her, and said, “nearly”.

Svitlana only moaned. She’d closed her eyes. She was only a second away.

With my other hand I smacked her right thigh. Not lightly; the sound was like a starter’s pistol, and her thigh rippled under the blow. I could see my hand[print, white against white. In seconds it would be a bright, clear red. Svitlana made a high-pitched noise, like a howl. There was a word in that howl. It was, “Harder!”

I smacked her left thigh again, as hard as I could, then put the hand that had slapped her against her mouth. “Now,” I said, “come.”

One swallow doesn’t make a spring #21

Posted on June 18, 2013 by jaime

Svitlana thought for a moment or two. I’d just told her I was going to punish her for disobedience. She wouldn’t have had any qualm, if I’d simply smacked her thigh. But announcing it in advance, and specifying that it was punishment, that it was for disobedience, that made it hard to take.

This was not going to be a night she could discuss with Mayne and Barbs, the dyke couple who were looking after her, let alone with Kerry, the angrier dyke who’d told her I was a bad man who spanked women. Kerry had done me a favour, though that was another thing that would never be said. Not to Kerry, anyway.

It’s the waiting that makes it hot.

She said, with utmost wariness, “Okay. If I were going to let you punish me for closing my thighs, what would you do?”

I smiled. “No. Ask me how I’m going to punish you.”

“Punish me for what?”

“Ask me, nicely, to punish you for closing your thighs when I told you to open them.”

“You keep shifting the ground!”

“Yes. So you should ask me, very sweetly, to smack your inner thighs, to punish you for closing your thighs when I told you to open them.”

We looked at each other. I was grinning like a fox. We held each other’s gaze for a few seconds, and Svitlana burst out laughing. When she recovered she said, “All right. Would you please, pretty please, smack me on my inner thigh – is that right?”

“Just do as you’re told.” That was a growl.

“On my inner thighs, to punish me for closing my thighs when you told me to open them.”

I kissed her, and we held that for some time, my hand caressing her scalp through a handful of her hair. Eventually she broke away for breath, and I said, “Since you asked so nicely.”

“Hah!”

“Left thigh. Bend your knees, and keep your thighs right open, so I can smack you. And don’t move, or I’ll have to give you double. You know that.”

“Yes.” Svitlana obeyed, lifting and spreading her legs to offer me a delicious white, rounded target. I wanted to kiss her cunt, now most prettily framed, and fuck her. But first there was business.

I raised my hand, hovered over the target, three inches below her cunt.

Svitlana drew in her breath. Her stomach muscles tightened. She looked away, and then, drawn by awful curiosity, gazed back into my eyes. I let her wait.

One smallow interlude: Lesbia’s sparrow #4

Posted on June 17, 2013 by jaime

Lesbia. Painting by John Reinhard Weguelin.

My honeygirl, she holds her sparrow to her breasts

And plays with it, all greedy, it’s her delight

she pets it with her little finger, gives it a tweak,

hoping it’ll give her a sharp bite.

When my glorious desiregirl is moved

to play with a little thing she loves,

I guess, when hard passion’s done and down,

It can give her relief and lift her frown.

I wish I could play with you like she does,

And ease her mind and all its woes.

That translation’s mine. But that’s just vanity on my part. There’s no shortage of Catullus translations.

Anyway, there are people who say a sparrow is just a sparrow. But the imagery of the sparrow poems is too sexual for that to seem likely. And when the sparrow dies, Catullus calls on Eros and the Amors, the little gods of love, to weep for it. If it was just a dead pet sparrow, Eros wouldn’t give a hoot about it, or a twang.

There are people who say it’s Catullus’s cock. I’d thought so when Svitlana took my cock and balls in her hand and cradled them like a pet. That happened in “One swallow doesn’t make a spring #20”, which you can find below. Svitlana’s gesture, playful and loving, though we were more or less strangers, reminded me of Catullus’s sparrow poems.

But I went through the process of translating them, expecting to find a poem in which a woman lovingly handles her man’s cock. I thought there’d be submissives who’d like the imagery, and the sense of being in a cock-cradling tradition over 2,000 years old. But as I went through the poems, I realised I was wrong.

Lesbia. Victorian painting. She keeps her sparrow in her lap. Peep! Peep!

The sparrow is Lesbia’s cunt. She plays with it when Catullus is worn out and has no more “hard passion”. She puts her little fingers in and it bites, or at least the lips close on her finger. And Catullus would like to play with it too, until he gets his passion back.

So what does it mean when her cunt “dies”, in the second sparrow poem? First, it’s possible that the death is the proverbial “little death”, and it’s a mock elegy on Lesbia’s orgasm. I can’t actually remember an example, in Latin literature, of the idea of orgasm as a kind of small death, or at least a shut-down of the body, but it’s certainly an old idea. If I can find an example from the right historical period, that would be useful.

Second, it’s a prefiguring of the death of Catullus’s and Lesbia’s love. Her cunt becomes, in a sense, “dead to him”.

One piece of support for the idea that Lesbia’s “sparrow” was her cunt is that Catullus uses the Latin word “passer”. This means any small bird, and not necessarily a sparrow. But “passer” also has a slang meaning, though we don’t know how old this slang meaning is. In Italian “passera” means both little bird and “vagina”. Did it mean that in ancient Rome too?

Here I’m just going to guess, and say that some slang terms, like the ones for genitals, don’t change much, or at all, over time. So “passer” probably did make Catullus’s readers think of cunt. And sparrows too, of course.

Anyway, Lesbia’s sparrow was well worth her time, and Catullus’s.

One swallow interlude: Lesbia’s sparrow #3

Posted on June 16, 2013 by jaime

I’m going to hold off my theory about Lesbia’s sparrow and what it means, because it might be an idea to give the context for this, and why people care.

Catullus comforting Lesbia on the death of her sparrow.” Antonio Zucchi, 1773.

About 2070 years ago, somewhere around 60 BCE, the Roman poet Catullus wrote a book of poems. Quite a few of them were about his lover, who he called “Lesbia”, to disguise her real name. The poems addressed to Lesbia start with the poet besotted, but over the sequence of poems, the poems about arguments and doubts become more frequent, and the last poems he writes about her are only curses and insults.

We know much less about Catullus, and Lesbia, than people used to think.

We do know that Lesbia’s real name was “Clodia”. It used to be assumed that Catullus’s Clodia was the same person as the Clodia who is mentioned in one of Cicero’s court speeches. That speech was mainly an attack on her brother, but Cicero took time out to call Clodia a prostitute, degenerate and general slut.

So people used to treat Catullus’ account of his affair fairly sympathetically: “Of course, if an innocent young man takes up with a woman like that, he’s going to have a hard time. Poor bastard.”

But we don’t really know if Catullus’s Clodia is the same woman as the Clodia that Cicero attacked. But we do know that Cicero was a lawyer, out to win his case by smearing the other side. So we don’t really know if anything Cicero said about his Clodia is true.

So we’re turned back to the poems themselves, which is as it should be. What you get from the poems is that Catullus and Lesbia were lovers, who fell out and separated. Catullus took it hard, and by modern standards he didn’t take it very well. In fact he took it ugly.

It’s hard to feel sympathy for him all the way through, though I think most people forgive him because of his passion, his honesty (of a kind, and within limits), his wit and his readiness to put himself down as well as others.

But the fact is, Catullus is exactly the kind of guy who’d have published revenge porn about Lesbia/Clodia on the net if the technology had been around. “Here’s a photo I took when she was sucking my cock, and here’s one of her wanking for me, and here’s one of her in the bath. And here’s her facebook page and her mother’s email.”

But he couldn’t. So instead he wrote and published poems in which she supposedly stands by the road and fucks passing soldiers for money.

This is a modern statue of Catullus. We have no idea what Catullus really looked like, except that he died at about 30, so he was never as old as this statue seems to be.

So: Catullus. He’s hard to defend, except that he wasn’t just a young man (he died when he was about 30), he was a young man 2070 years ago, in a civilisation that wasn’t big on the rights of women, or sensitivity, and that tended to admire revenge. So he was a boy of his time, but he burned brightly, he shone.

He hurt Clodia and Clodia maybe hurt him (maybe, even leaving Cicero out of it). But they’ve all been a long time dead, now.

Bear with me, please. I’ll finish this aside on Catullus in one or two more posts, and then we can get back to the punishing of Svitlana, and what she thought of having her bottom leathered, on a first date.

One swallow interlude: Lesbia’s sparrow #2

Posted on June 15, 2013 by jaime

My honeygirl, she holds her sparrow to her breasts

Sparrows doing what comes naturally.

She plays with it, all greedy, it’s her delight

she puts it to her little finger, gives it a tweak,

hoping it’ll give her a sharp bite.

when my glorious desiregirl is moved

to play with a little thing she loves…

I have no good reason for using this picture. Because cats like sparrows?

That makes the sparrow sound like it might be a code for a cock, doesn’t it? Of course, the words I’ve chosen for this translation help that interpretation.

But the poem isn’t finished yet, and it throws the question back up, sparrow-like, into the air. Or somewhere else.

I’ll translate the rest of the poem, and then reveal the answer. My answer, anyway.

One swallow interlude: Lesbia’s sparrow #1

Posted on June 14, 2013 by jaime

All the little spirits of love,

Painting of Lesbia and her sparrow by George Joy, a happy Victorian.

and all of you who beauty moves,

Should weep: my girl’s sparrow’s dead.

That sparrow was my girl’s delight.

She loved him more than her sight.

He was as sweet as honey,

He knew her like she knew her own mummy.

He’d stay in her lap, never left her lap,

Hopping up and down.

He sang to my girl, alone.

But he’s gone down the shadow road.

No coming back from his new abode.

That’s the first half of one of Catullus’s two poems about his mistress “Lesbia” and her sparrow. The translation’s by me, and as you can see even from the English, it’s pretty rough. Anyway, there’s a question people have been asking about this poem for the 600 or so years since someone found a surviving copy of Catullus’s poems. Is the sparrow just a sparrow? Or is it Catullus’s cock?

I’ll translate the other Lesbia-sparrow poem, and then I’ll make my guess.

One swallow doesn’t make a spring #20

Posted on June 13, 2013 by jaime

My cock, not quite comfortable, rested hard against her left thigh. She reached down and held it, cradling it and cooing, like a girl with a pet bird. Like Lesbia and her sparrow, I thought at the time, wanker that I am. She said, “Oooh, that was so good. That was … You are going to fuck me again, aren’t you?”