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Once I’d hauled off Fliss’s jeans and panties, and smacked her bottom because it was too adorable not to (could this be the last time, I wondered?) I lay back against a stack of pillows like a pasha, took my belt off and kept it in my hand.

Dab dab dab, dib dib dib

Fliss got up on her knees, leaned forward, and extracted my cock with her hand, and began dabbing at it head with her pink little tongue.

I was aware that I wasn’t being a good boyfriend at that moment. But Fliss didn’t know that, so she was happily serving.

I wasn’t quite comfortable, ethically, but my cock wasn’t interested in that kind of issue. Fliss was smaller, more compact than Maureen, slender, with small breasts and a little hard arse like a pair of apples. Cock, once it’s excited and being pleasured, has as much conscience as cunt, or, for that matter, as a brick.

After a time Fliss stopped playing, and took me deep in her mouth. And I held her head with the hand that held the belt, and she started to mouthfuck me, rather fiercely, while I held her head. I let the belt press against her face so she could feel the leather and imagine she would be punished if she didn’t serve me properly.

Usually I would smack the belt down her back, letting it impact and curl around her arse, usually not hard enough to hurt, but with occasional harder lashes, while she sucked my cock. But on that occasion I didn’t quite feel that I had the moral authority. She went unleathered. 

But I was in danger of coming, and I wasn’t sure what my recovery time would be like, after having already come in Maureen that evening. So I hauled Fliss off my cock, and pulled her up the bed and forward until her cunt was pressed down against my mouth.

I dropped the belt to get both hands on her buttocks, holding her against me while she leaned forward to rest her face and arms against the wall. Fliss tasted of cinnamon, for some reason, also soap and faint urine tangs, but her basic cunt taste was bland, a little sweet and salty.

The was also a faint hazelnut taste. Fliss’s older sister made oils and unguents as a sort of household industry for her and her kids, and it was probably some sort of hippie-ish health thing. Anyway I liked her tastes, and worked at her cunt until Fliss was squirming and squeaking and demanding to be let down.

Eventually I released her, and she scrambled down to drag my pants off, while I pulled my shirt off over my head, keeping my back and its collection of Maureen’s clawtrails against the pillows.

So we were both naked, and I held Fliss’s hands while she straddled me and lowered herself, very quick and greedy, onto my cock. Usually there was a long, slow section at the beginning of our fucks, but we skipped that. The thought occured to me, pounding up into her, watching her little tits bounce, that it was probably a good thing that I’d already come in Maureen, because otherwise I wouldn’t have lasted long. Though I didn’t expect that I could introduce that as any sort of argument.

Anyway, after a while I pulled Fliss down against me, and rolled us over so she was on her back and I was on top of her, holding her, slowly pumping in her sweet wet cunt, while she held her breath and spread for me. The scratches on my back were in the open air, though Fliss couldn’t see them. 

And it was in that moment, staring down at Fliss, her eyes closed, intently working on her pleasure and utterly carried away with getting fucked, that I realised that there was a way out. I might just get away with this.

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So, home alone, with a few minutes to spare before Fliss arrived, I dropped my blood streaked shirt in a bucket, with oxygen bleach. It was safe there. My older brothers had had girlfriends who would come round and do their washing for them, but somehow those didn’t seem to be the women I was interested in. Unless they were doing it for pervy sexual reasons.

 Certainly Fliss was not a woman to show any interest in doing my laundry, so there was no chance my bloody and incriminating shirt would be discovered. I took a shower. Afterwards I checked the mirror, hoping that the clawmarks Maureen had left on my back would have faded. But though I could see that they had stopped bleeding, they were still raw and very bright. There was no way of disguising them.

Werewolves: no market these days She wouldn’t believe vampires, either

It occurred to me that I could come up with a story about how I’d acquired my wounds while saving a sad-eyed little child from an enraged grizzly bear. Except that the nearest grizzly was thousands of miles away. And I didn’t think she’d buy werewolves.

Maybe I’d fallen asleep in long grass and someone had run a lawnmower over my back. Maybe I’d run backwards through a thorn bush, though I couldn’t think of any reason why I might do that.

Maybe I’d been juggling cats, and had flubbed the triple-tabby behind the back parabola, so they’d taken their hissing, screeching revenge.

Maybe I could just explain that Maureen had been nostalgic, horny and very fuckable.

I considered this again, and came to the same conclusion I’d reached when I’d been riding home: there’d be unhappiness all over the place, and we’d possibly break-up. I knew I was in the wrong, and I might deserve bad things, but these weren’t remotely good outcomes. I heard Fliss’s car outside. I put on a fresh shirt and pants and went out to meet her.

Not usually a strategic mistake.

She slipped her hands inside my shirt to embrace me, which made me wonder if the gouges would be noticeable to the touch. The best defence was distraction, so I put my own hands inside her jeans, and lifted her up. Fliss wrapped her legs round my waist. I realised I’d made a slight strategic mistake.

We were in the beginning of twilight, and I had thought I’d be better off if I gave her a glass of wine and we talked about our day, and so on, so that it would be dark when we took our clothes off. We’d still turn the light on, during or afterwards, and there I’d be. But at least it would have delayed things and I could have thought of something.

Instead I had Fliss wrapped round my waist, rubbing herself against my cock and riding me cowgirl, and under those conditions, pilgrim, there is only one direction you can go.

So I took her to my bedroom, held her high while she laughed and licked my nose, and dropped her onto the bed. As I’d done with Maureen not two hours earlier. I pulled the curtains, explaining that I’d seen the old woman who lived next door out in her backyard. There was still too much light. Then I joined Fliss on the bed, and we kissed and rolled around, over and over each other, rubbing our faces into each other while I took her clothes off. 

But not mine.

So far so good

It wasn’t so odd that I pulled Fliss’s shirt off without undressing myslf, because she liked to kneel, naked, take my cock into her mouth and pleasure me while I was still clothed.

It helped her to move herself from her outside world persona into her bedroom self, to feel that she was serving and submitting. It was how I’d first suspected – something neither of us had known before – that Fliss was submissive.

But being submissive didn’t matter. When there was hell to pay, she could raise hell.

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Lying in Maureen’s arms, and cunt, fucking her delicious self, had earned me the tribute of lost blood, from her nails digging into and raking down my back. 

The stigmata of the Blessed St Jaime

It occurred to me in that moment that I’d been an unsatisfactory boyfriend for Maureen in various ways, like unreliability and a general lack of cash, shift and feck. So I was trying to do better by Fliss, my new girlfriend. But Fliss would turn up at my house in about 80 minutes, and she’d be expecting to see me naked. And fresh claw marks down my back would be an indication that I wasn’t being completely satisfactory, as boyfriends go.

We weren’t doing polyamory.

Ah well, the damage is done, I decided, and carried on, getting my hands under Maureen’s arse, hauling her tight against me, pumping and pounding her hard, and earning fresh clawmarks. Maureen was a luscious and energetic girl, and a fuck with her merited full and undivided attention, regardless of the consequences.

But we came, and said loving things, and time ran out. I kissed her goodbye and put my clothes on – blood streaks soaked through my shirt instantly, reported Maureen proudly – hopped on my motorbike, kicked it into life and rode home.

I was happy with Fliss. There were a lot of important reasons for this, that she was gorgeous, and flamboyant, and clever, and assertive in ways that scared a lot of guys, and someone I could watch and listen to with admiration. And, for another thing, we’d discovered within only a couple of weeks into our sexual career together that she was a submissive.

That discovery, about Fliss, had been a turning point in my life. I’d met submissive women before, but those encounters had been rare. But when two girlfriends in a row had turned out to be submissive, without my having suspected or chosen them on that basis, I saw that “people like me” were not as scarce as I’d thought when I was growing up, and that my life might turn out to be a lot more fun than I’d come to expect.

Of course, lions sorted out the lioness-claws problem millennia ago

Still, submission didn’t make her any less stroppy, and Fliss was not going to like this evidence of my faithlessness. And that evidence that would clearly still be only minutes old, when I next took off my shirt in front of her. 

She might break up with me. That would be very sad. Or else, a lesser sentence, I’d have to live through days of “discussing our relationship”, before I next got to grips with her.

Days of eggshell-walking time with an angry woman. I’d rather scrub wet batshit out of a washing machine, for the same length of time, than go through that.

I considered simply giving Fliss a good beating and roaring at her that I would fuck whoever I wanted and be damned to you, girl. But no. The Brian Blessed approach (I mean the roaring; I don’t know what Brian Blessed does in bed) might work for some things, but not when I was so obviously, and so very recently, at fault.

When I got home, Fliss’s car wasn’t in my drive. I’d beaten her home. I had time to have a shower and hide my shirt; that was something.

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So I watched that first broad stripe form across Maureen’s bottom. She arched that ass up, making it clear that more of the same was required.

So I aimed the loop of belt across the crowns of her buttocks and made leather hit skin. I got a much louder smack this time.

Maureen sighed, and performed a rather neat, dancer-like, roll of her hips, first dipping towards the bed, then arching up again for the next smack.

I provided more smacks while Maureen squirmed about and made encouraging noises, until her bottom had achieved a good strong tomato-coloured glow.

Maureen’s complaint about her current boyfriends was that they didn’t understand about this kind of thing. Even if they tried to deliver a spanking, or something more ambitious, they were uncomfortable with the idea and generally clueless about how to do it.

In practice, she’d found, the main pain she suffered from was embarrassment. Alternatively they really hurt her, but not in the sexy way. When I’d been Maureen’s boyfriend I’d been unsatisfactory in a lot of ways, but not that one.

Then I aimed my belt a little lower, and started colouring in the tops of her thighs, slowly turning that deliciously soft skin from pink to crimson.

Maureen wriggled and bopped about, or at least her arse did. We had moved into a sort of rhythm, with the belt landing steadily though not fast across her bottom and the backs of her thighs.

Maureen’s hips performed her roll-and-present dance exactly in time to meet the belt as it came down, and her breath gasped out at every second stroke.

A lot of time passed like that, Maureen getting whipped, hotter and hotter. Though we had no idea how much time.

But Maureen eventually grabbed my belt, which was her right since she was not mine, and pulled me down while she turned, so that I fell onto her side, kicking and flailing about trying to get my own clothes off quickly.

But we sorted it out, and eventually I joined her, naked, supporting my weight like a gentleman, with her thighs – pleasantly heated by the belt – wrapped around me with her old enthusiasm. And I plunged my cock into the melony sweetness of her cunt.

And after a while Maureen closed her eyes and held her breath until her face turned red. That was something that she did and I remembered it fondly. It happened when I was doing the right thing and she was concentrating to enjoy it.

And then she put her hands on my shoulders, dug her fingernails in and clawed through my skin, drawing eight long lines of blood. And then she did it again. There was no pain. I was too turned on to feel pain. But I knew there was blood. 

Oh yeah, I remembered. There was that, too.

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The signal that this should go in anther direction was that Maureen said, “Jaime. Jaime, I miss Carstairs”.

And so I carried her over to her bed, lifted her off my cock, and dropped her.

Maureen bounced, something she did quite appealingly. I watched her breasts until they settled. Then she turned over onto her front. I looked down at her nicely contoured back and said, “well, yes, Carstairs. Those were the days.”

I undid my belt buckle, and made sure that the belt made a good loud leathery-slithery noise as it pulled free from the loops of my pants.

So we need some explanations. Why, for example, would anyone react like that to the name “Carstairs”? It seems a bit like Steve Martin in Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid, who would go berserk whenever someone said “cleaning woman”. (If you haven’t seen Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid, you should now.)

But I don’t really have a generic hair-trigger thing about the name “Carstairs”. If someone said it to me now, they might glimpse a bit of a smile if they were quick but they’d be boringly safe. “Carstairs” was specific to Maureen and me.

Maureen was one of the first submissive women I had ever found, in joyous mutual recognition some time after we’d already become a couple. 

She and I only had only ever done bedroom bdsm, and it was usually just a warm-up spanking followed by sex. But when we wanted to do something more intense, with tying up, and harsher orders from me, and the harder instruments, then we tended to use role plays. At that early stage in my bdsm career I found it more comfortable if the man who subdued and hurt Maureen wasn’t really me, or not quite; and if the woman who suffered but enjoyed those things wasn’t quite Maureen’s everyday self either. The games were silly, but they allowed us to do harder things that we wouldn’t do as ourselves.

Most of these games started on the pretext that Maureen had just insulted a grey, spindle-nosed neurotic husk of a woman called Vera Carstairs, who might be a teacher, prison warden or an office senior, depending on the game being played. I would deliver stern justice in retribution for the insolence that Maureen had shown our imaginary Miss Carstairs.

I don’t use role play any more, since I’ve learned to be as harsh as the situation and mutual pleasure warrants, as myself, and without a qualm. But the “Carstairs” games games were an important stage in my bdsm learning.

So the game was afoot, though we didn’t bother to invent a reason: I didn’t  think of exactly what Maureen had done to poor Miss Carstairs this time. I just doubled the belt, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then her shoulder, and then pressed my other hand down on the small of her back, holding her firmly down.

There would be squirming once I started her strapping, but, safewords aside, she wasn’t going anywhere until I’d finished.

Maureen arched her bottom up, and waited. It felt odd, for us to be so sexually intense together months after we were supposed to have broken up. But I was happy to be there with her, in this room and in this mood. So I pushed the small of her back down even more firmly, raised the belt, and brought it down, lustily and loud, across the crown of her buttocks. There was a beautiful creamy ripple where the strap landed, and Maureen sighed, though she kept herself still.

A few second later, a beautiful red band magically emerged across the pale, lightly freckled, domes of her bottom. It was a beautiful and intensely, immensely sexual sight. I hadn’t expected this, and it was good. I said, “Yeah, little Mo. I’ve missed this too.”

I raised the belt again.

That’s where I’ll break, for today. There’s trouble ahead, I should say.

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