I’m onto a new chapter deadline. So this is only a blog to promise I’ll finish the Diane (Vampire Girl) story, and to write something about Sacher-Masoch and Venus in Furs shortly.
But today I’ve only got time to note this elegant but obvious visual pun about a Venus with Furs.
It’s odd, isn’t it? In twenty or so years, most of our sexual images will be instantly locatable in time, because of the absence of pubic hair.
The previous episode is here.
Diane picked up her discarded shirt, shook it free of pine needles and leaves, and made to put it on.
I said, “No.”
“No?”
“Di-ane.” She heard the exasperation in my voice, and quickly took the shirt off her shoulders. “I said to bring it here.”
Diane folded the shirt. She walked towards me, holding it before her in both hands.
She stood in front of me, regarding me gravely. She was trying to be good, or look as if she was. I still had some righteous anger. But I didn’t want to whip her again, or lecture her.
I took the shirt. It was a man’s shirt, old, threadbare, a legacy of a former lover or a gift from a cheap current one. I could give her the shirt I was wearing, later that night. My shirt was better.
Diane suddenly understood how she was going to walk home with me. She said, “SIR!” She was shocked, but I was still Sir. I tore the shirt up the back, from the bottom hem all the way to the yoke.
The next episode is here.
The previous episode is here.
Afterwards Diane rested against me, both feet on the ground and her bottom pressed hard against my crotch. The woollen material of my suit both hurt and comforted her. She was still panting, trying to get her breath back. “Oh, sir,” she murmured, and then again, “oh, sir.” Calling a lover “sir,” was a novelty. She liked it, and there was a little catch, a kind of chuckle in her breath, after she said it. It wasn’t a laugh of humour, just pleasure.
I had my arms round her, under her breasts, my hands clasped at her stomach, half supporting her. I kissed her ear and whispered, “Come on, girl. We’re going home.”
Diane looked down. She saw what I saw, what anyone would see if they walked through the park and turned off into this grove. A naked girl, the tops of her thighs darkly welted and streaked where I had switched her. “Like this?” She sounded amused.
“You don’t want to walk back naked? It’d serve you right if I made you. So everyone can see you had to be whipped.” It occurred to me to add, “then your neighbours would know what a slut you are:” That seemed a hot thing to say, but some girls like the word ‘slut’ and some don’t. I wasn’t sure, with Diane, so I left it.
“I didn’t have to be whipped.”
“Yes, you did. I told you to bring me your shirt, and you threw it away. Was that obedient?”
“No, sir.”
“So did you deserve to be whipped?”
There was a short pause while she considered this. “Ahm, that sounds credible, though it shouldn’t. But I suppose so. Yes, sir. I did.” She was surprised to hear herself say that.
I wasn’t. “That’s right, you did. And if I have to whip you again, Diane, it’ll be harder.” Her stomach fluttered a little under my hands, when that was said. Though that must have been something she knew. “Now. This time, go and get that shirt, and bring it to me.” I left go of her stomach, and smacked her bottom, hard.
Diane started forward.
The next episode is here.
Freud wasn’t all crank ideas about Edward de Vere writing Shakespeare’s plays, and Akhnaton possibly running off to Canaan and re-naming himself Moses. He also had amusingly crank ideas about bdsm.
My favourite, from Eros and Civilisation is that masochistic women are so opposed to the life force, in their desire for negation and destruction, that they’re responsible for Nazism.
That’s a paraphrase, of course. But it is the argument. It’s not as if women, or gays, owe Freud any favours. Nor do we bdsm perverts.
I finally saw this last night.
It’s a film that owes most of its fame, I think, to the few seconds of screen time that Michael Fassbender, as Carl Jung, spends spanking Keira Knightley, as a patient-turned-psychoanalist, Sabina Speilrein. Which is not in any way a hot scene, though Knightley’s character is appealingly happy to be spanked. But Ms Knightley’s bottom is bony enough to use as a letter-opener, though it’s a bit ungallant to say so.
The film was written by Christopher Hampton, based on his stage play. I found it slightly odd, in a way, because Hampton does treat psychoanalysis almost with the disrespect it deserves. But if we accept that psychoanalysis was pseudoscience, and a conscious business product, then why do we need a film that takes its infighting over ideas seriously? I’d have found a film about the marketing of psychoanalysis more interesting. Because Freud’s influence lasted longer than it ever should have, and that’s an interesting story.
The soundtrack – Howard Shore adapting snippets of Wagner – is great. It may be the best thing about the film, and I may buy the disk.
I love this picture. It’s a beautiful image.
It’s erotic more than actually sexy. I never thought there was anything real in the erotica/pornography distinction.But this might be an exhibit for the other side. An erotic image with little impact as porn. Oh well. Anyway, it’s pretty.
Corner time’s got its place, but other times a dom might just grab his submissive’s ankles, pull her to the edge of the bed on her back, lift her legs up and tug off anything she was wearing, give her a swift belting with her legs still held in the air, and then fuck her hard and fast.
Sometimes doms just want to dom and subs want to submit.
And bodies want bodies.
While she is showing off in the corner, I get to admire the submissive’s body, and enjoy the thought of her getting nervous while she waits.
I can read her body movements, and make guesses about her state of mind.
I’m fully clothed, in a comfortable chair. Maybe with a glass of wine and a book. The book might as well be upside down, for all the attention I paid it, but it’s a traditional prop and I’m a traditionalist. When I remember. But I’d be pretending to ignore her. She’d know full well I’m admiring her the whole time. It gives her time to come to the boil.
Before the words, “Come here.”
For me, corner time after a punishment, or pleasure spanking, is usually briefer than corner time before. That’s because if a girl has been punished, I want her to know she’s forgiven, and I want to start looking after her before she had time to get lonely and unhappy.
It can be a very close time, the reconciliation after punishment. And sexy.
I don’t believe in punishment by withdrawing affection. Punishment, when it’s needed, should be physical and painful, but followed by a lot of loving and comforting. And a quantity of fucking.
But corner time afterwards helps a punished girl to get her breath back, and want forgiveness. If it had been a sexual spanking, then I’d probably not want to hold out for long, before kissing her better. Also better and better. And either way, it always seems to be a sexier and more submissive girl who comes out of that corner when I call her.
Corner time is a nice psychological time.
If I’m genuinely going to punish a submissive, then putting her in the corner for a while beforehand gives her time to think about why getting into trouble is a bad idea, and to develop some butterflies in her tummy.
If it’s punishment she’s waiting for, she’ll generally be naked. And holding the instrument I was going to use on her. That helps her to concentrate and think about what’s coming.
If I were just going to spank her for her pleasure and mine, then the waiting time helps her to get turned on before we start. It allows extra games like testing her for wetness once she’s over my knee, or in whatever position she’s going to be in. A spanking feels best when the submissive is already turned on before we start. As everybody knows.
Of course, because the body doesn’t know about the distinction between punishment and sexual play, she’d probably get turned on while she was waiting to be punished, and she’d be slightly apprehensive while waiting for a good girl spanking. That’s okay.
