Author Archives: jaime

Slow time, and the Tristram Shandyification of stories

Posted on by
Reply

When I started this blog, I expected that I’d have a roughly equal balance of discussion posts and story-telling posts. In practice story-telling must make up at least 80% of the text. 

I’ll remember some incident, and think, “it was funny, or hot, when I …” I’ll decide to tell the story. I expect, every time I start a story, that it’ll only take a post or two. But it always seems to turn out that these little incidents, which may have taken an evening or two in the living of them, turn out to be 20-part sagas, taking a month or so in the telling. 

Some people write time quickly. Take my story about having trouble buying a tawse when I was in Scotland. Someone else might have written that story like this:

“So I was in Scotland, where they invented tawses, but I found it was damn near impossible to buy one anywhere, and wasn’t that just a little bit…  ironic?” 

The end.

But me, I want to make jokes, talk about some sex shop owner’s caftan, and Scots goth girls, and all kinds of things. I’m at the slow end.

Tristram Shandy took a whole year to write the story of the first day of his life. Bertrand Russell pointed out that the longer tristram lived and wrote, at that rate, the more incomplete his autobiography would become.

(Credits: The strip is from Wax Turds. I got rid of the punch time, which was, “ha ha, you’ve been topped”, because it’s better without it.)

Vampire girl #11

Posted on by
1

The previous episode is here.

 

It felt odd. I hadn’t asked Diane for consent before I’d told her I was going to whip her. It was hotter that way. But I did feel I had to ask, before I called her ‘good girl’. 

But it’s not so odd really. Whipping may be more formal and controlled than a bite, or a lovers’ scratch, but like them it’s about sensation. It’s literally skin deep. But if I give orders and Diane gives obedience, that’s inescapably personal. We can pretend we haven’t noticed what we’re doing, what’s happening between us, but “good girl” destroys that pretence. If I praise her for her obedience and she likes that praise, then we both now that she’s not just being a vampire girl any more. 

“Good girl” means she accepts that I judge her actions and she wants my approval. That’s more intimate, and takes more power from her, than any whipping. “Good girl” may be silly, it may be cliched, but it’s currency. Once we think it’s real, it’s real. And it has power. 

I squeezed her bum, then, and let her feel my cock pressing against her belly. So she knew she was wanted.  Most urgently wanted. “Good. Then the fact is, you’re a good girl. A very good girl.” 

Sometimes instinct leads you right and true. I leaned down for another kiss, and Diane was starry at the eyes and her smile beaming. 

I slipped my fingers out of her again, and pinched her lips until she squealed.

“Here, little good girl”, I said. I undid the tails of her shirt and flicked the material a couple of times, so she was covered again, a few inches of modesty at the tops of her thighs. 

Diane smiled. “Thank you.” 

“Now get me ten more switches like that. You’ve got five minutes. If you take longer, you’ll be walking home with that shirt right up over your head. With your arms in it. That’s if you’re wearing anything at all. Understood?” 

“Yes!” 

“Good girl.” I smacked her bottom again, since smacking her felt good, and to demonstrate that she didn’t get asked for permission for that. I’d help myself. “So get moving.” 

The next episode is here.

Vampire girl #10

Posted on by
1

The previous episode is here.

Diane walked towards me, carrying a length of ash twig that bore its own load of emotional and sexual meaning, since I’d said I was going to whip her with it. And because those words still echoed a bit, and her cunt, exposed by her unbuttoned shirt, was cool in the night air, getting closer to me with every step, her confidence faltered. She wasn’t quite happy by the time she stood in front of me and handed me the switch.

I took it from her and told her it was a good piece, well chosen. Then I put it down, leaning it against my leg, and gathered her in, one arm round her waist and one hand patting her ass. Cold bottom it was, and nicely curved. Pat. Pat. Then I slipped my fingers back into her.

She exhaled. But she was still frowning. 

I said, “It’s okay. You look absolutely beautiful. And you’re even sexier than you were thinking you were, when you picked this up.”

That got a little laugh from her, and I felt her body relax. “Diane, some girls like it – even if they’re going to get a whipping – some girls like to be told when they’re being a good girl.”

“Hmmm.” A sceptical noise.

“Just so they know they’re not getting a whipping because I think badly of them, and I’m not angry with them. On the other hand, you could, um, make a case that it’s a fucking patronising thing to say.”

She laughed again. “Oh, could you? On the other hand, it’s a perverted thing to say.” She spoke into my shoulder, roughly where she’d bitten me.

“So, do you want me to tell you when you’re being a good girl?”

She looked up at me. “Yes please. I’d like that. Do.”

 

The next episode is here.

Vampire girl #9

Posted on by
Reply

The previous episode is here.

 

Diane kissed my fingers goodbye, and turned away to search for the right kind of ash switches for her birch. She left the shirt tied at the back, so that apart from her shoes she was still naked from the waist down.

There could be no question. She was flaunting. This was a flaunt.

She had her own power in this situation, and she was going to use it. Any sort of movement seemed to require wiggling, and when she picked up a piece of branch from the ground, she kept her legs parted and straight and bent from the waist. I watched her pick her first piece, looking at the thin end, checking for whippiness and for buds.

She was about to swing it, to test it for whippiness and bite. Then she stopped herself suddenly, and glanced at me.

She didn’t want to hear it whistling through the air: that would be too much complicity in her own birching. She was discovering some of the complicated psychological pleasures that came with collecting the switches for her own birch. 

But the switch she’d found passed her inspection and she kept it, tucking it under her arm. She turned away again to resume the search. “No,” I said. “Not like that. Bring it here.” 

 

The next episode is here.

Vampire girl #8

Posted on by
Reply

The previous episode is here.

I’d promised Dianne I’d birch her until I’d drawn blood. 

She looked thoughtful, then pleased. “Until I bleed.” Now Diane was happy again. She owned a tee-shirt that said: “The blood is the life”, quoting Dracula’s hapless little helper Renfield. She was getting back to vampirey ground, and territory she knew. The odd thing was that I was leading, but apart from having reading the Bram Stoker novel I didn’t know much about this stuff.

I’d seen a few vampire films, but I’d given vampires a miss after letting myself be dragged to Queen of the Damned, even though I’d seen Interview with a Vampire. No force on earth could drag me to another one. Anyway, Diane was interesting in ways that vampires weren’t. 

I said, “That’s right. So. See this switch? You’re going to collect me another eleven pieces just like it.”

“You’re going to make a birch for me?”

“You’re going to prepare it for me. I want you look for pieces that are as thin and whippy as possible at the end. The twigs should be green and flexible. Strip the leaves off. Like this one. And see these little hard bits, like buds?” 

“Yes.” 

“Those are the bits that should draw blood. So get pieces with as much of that as you like.” 

 

The next episode is here.

Vampire girl #7

Posted on by
2

The previous episode is here.

Telling Diane that I wasn’t going to spank her wasn’t reassuring. I hadn’t meant it to be. I wanted her to think about the length of whippy ash-switch in my hand. 

Diane had her left cheek pressed against the bark of the ash tree she was clasping. She muttered, “Oh. Awffuck.”

But that wasn’t in response to what I’d said, or even the fact that the switch had just missed the backs of her legs by centimetres. It was because I’d slipped my fingers just out of her, to rub her lips, finding her clitoris alert and taking an interest, and giving it a little smack.  Her hips jerked forward, and back, while I stroked her. The little moan had come when I slipped my fingers back into the warmth and wet.

She said “awffuck”, again. It was a reasonable thing for a vampire gothgirl to say. If she was wearing only a shirt. And that shirt was tied above her waist. And she was pressing herself against an ash tree in her local park. And she was being masturbated. Pale in the pale moonlight.

Diane was happy. So was I, but I’d started to wonder if I was doing the right thing. The switch in my hand, brushing just past her skin, promising her a different kind of bite later: I was certain that this was part of why this was hot for her as well as me. She had some expectations of what was coming, and those thoughts were helping to keep her wet, and her bottom arched. I’d already imagined her white skin streaked with red, and her body jerking and rolling, and the little noises she’d make at first, and the louder noises she’d make later. And so I was hard, and I was ready to push her to the ground, switching and fucking her, mercilessly, there and then.

On the other hand, generally I believed that before I so much as smacked a woman’s bottom we should have talked about it first. And we shouldn’t begin the talking in the heat of the moment but beforehand, to make sure I had not just desire and consent but considered consent.

I’d already broken that rule that evening by smacking Diane’s arse when she’d tried  to bite me. I’d liked delivering that spank, including the fact that from her point of view – since we hadn’t talked about bdsm at all – I’d simply assumed the right to punish her. But the result was too wonderful to regret: Diane with her bottom arched back, riding my hand and riding the moment. I said, “Ah fuck it. Fuck the rules.”

“What you say? What rules?” 

I eased my fingers slowly out of her, and held them, slippery, to Diane’s mouth. She put her tongue out to lick them.

I said, “Exactly. What rules?” and smacked her bottom sharply, as never happens to real vampires, and as ethical doms never do without prior discussion. Diane opened her mouth properly for me. She sucked on my fingers, hard, with a lot of tongue.

It was an invitation, but I wasn’t sure I should trust her with my cock in her mouth. 

I leaned close, my face to hers, and let the switch touch her bottom, press against her skin. I whispered, “I’m going to whip you.” Diane nipped very lightly on my fingers, then licked them better. “Whip you until … what happens, Diane?”

 

The next episode is here.

Herric #2

Posted on by
Reply

Still working. 

Here’s another Herric.

That belt the two girls are wearing: you could patent something like that for when commercial space flights become available. You need a big, wide two-person belt – a little more elastic, obviously – for sex in zero gravity.

I’ve got to get back to work.

Herric

Posted on by
Reply

I’m working at the moment, so instead of text here’s a drawing by Chéri Hérouard,  a respectable illustrator who also drew a hell of a lot of pictures of pretty lesbians with whips. He used the pseudonym “Herric” for his bdsm drawings.

I like the angelic smile on the face of the girl with the whip. And her dinky little hat.

Herric was christened “Darling-Louis-Marie-Aime Haumé”, so he was generously named. He should really have been made to share with the likes of Bono, Sting, Madonna and Maradona, and so on.

As Chéri Hérouard he drew covers for La Vie Parissienne, mainly in the 1920s and 1930s.

Identities

Posted on by
Reply

Wystan Hugh: he laid his sleeping head next to a heater, by the look of it.

WH Auden once said that he couldn’t really see why gay men would want to live in a “gay community”. He wasn’t against having a “community” in the sense of a group which you can attach yourself to when you need to exchange information, meet potential lovers, or defend your interests.

He wanted to be able to live as a gay man – he might have preferred “homosexual man” – without harassment or discrimination. He wanted there to be places where be could safely meet other homosexual men. Those places should be protected, not harassed, by police, local authorities and so on.

You can call a group that works to ensure those things a “community”. If you like.  

What he thought was silly was the idea that gay men should define themselves first and foremost as gay men, and hang around with gay men in particular, in social and cultural settings. For example, Auden loved opera – even the ones where he didn’t write the libretti – but although he’d go to the opera with his lover of the time, the other guests could be straight, gay, or celibate in any combination, so long as they were informed, interesting and pleasant people. 

I have similar feelings about bdsm. I remember the real sense of relief I felt when I said, mostly but not only to myself, that I was a dom (some doms spell it with a capital “D”, which seems silly, too), that it was an important part of who I am, and I’m not going to repress it, or let it be unexpressed in my relationships.

So in that sense bdsm is an identity, or one part of my identity.

But I’m also someone trying to write, a social policy consultant, occasionally a public relations hack, a man, a vaguely left-wing person, supporting public services and progressive income and company tax, and a passionately libertarian person. And I’m heterosexual. And I’m a dom.     

But I don’t spend much time hanging out with the bdsm community. I hang out with individuals I’ve met through bdsm, but there has to be more in common than just sharing an interest in bdsm for me to feel any significant connection with someone.

I suspect that we need politics more than we need a community.