Gay marriage and becoming an Australian

I’m living in Australia at the moment, but I’m not an Australian. There’s always been too much about the country that makes me feel like I don’t want to join it, or identify with it. 

There’s the racism, in particular.

I’m not talking about the stuff where someone is making conversation and asks a person who is black or Asian, “Where are you from?” Because there’s a possible sub-text of, “If you’re not white, you’re not from here” about it. But it can also be a well-meaning but under-informed person who means, “I think you look fantastic! Where do they make more people like you?”

My point is, it’s always a clueless question to ask, and sometimes there might be a negative racist meaning to it, and sometimes there might not be. But my sympathies aren’t always with the person taking offence. A little bit of polite person-to-person education goes a lot further, and does more good, than all the offence-taking in the world.

Anyway, when I say Australia is a racist country I’m not talking about that kind of thing.

Rather, it’s about the deliberatively, knowingly genocidal history of what has been done to the Aboriginal people. And the incredible, shockingly callous endorsement of that genocide by a fuck of a lot of Australians, once you get them in private. They don’t even need to have a drink in their hand. The day after I arrived in Australia, some quite wealthy, educated guy said to me, “oh, Abos: they should have put out more poisoned flour sacks.” 

Then I was in a Post Office and I saw a police notice. They wanted to know if the public had seen some offender. The ad said, “non-Australian appearance”. What that meant was that he wasn’t white. Then I was talking to a cop, who said it was a pity we’d moved out of the old days when they’d just take Aboriginal young men down to the station and “give them a bit of a flogging”. He was a young cop. By “the old days”, he’d mean “about five years ago”. 

It’s about the fact that life expectancy for Aboriginal people in their own country is fifteen years less than any other statistical group. Fifteen fucking years. 

And so on. And their media is run almost entirely by Rupert Murdoch, and leans so far to the right it’s lying on its side. And “lying” is the word. “Bullying of people who dare to speak out” are also the right words to describe Australia’s craven, contemptible media. 

So I don’t love Australia. I love many Australians, and like a lot of others. But the vibe of the place: No, I don’t love that. 

Now a group of right-wing nutters and church-ridden homophobes are trying to stop marriage equality from coming to Australia. They’d decided to put the issue to a postal survey, which is calculated to favour the group most opposed to gay marriage, that is, the over-65s, while cutting out the group – just about everyone 30 and under – who most favour gay marriage. 

Knowing that no one in that group uses postal mail, or checks their letter box, any more. It’s a “survey” where the homophobes get to have their thumb on one side of the scales. 

So … I’m going to have to become an Australian citizen. Not because I love a sun-burned country. The truth is that I don’t. But I approve of love, and if people want to marry the person they love, I’m not going to let a bunch of heartless bigots keep them from having that right. 

Laci Green shout-out

Eight years ago (i.e. 2009), when she was 18  Laci Green was making valuable, educational and funny youtube videos on sex issues, and occasionally on why she thinks religion is (a) nonsense, and (b) not so terribly good to and for women. 

She’s largely dropped making references to her atheism, which I think is a pity, but understandable if your main concern is issues affecting young women and sex-positivity. 

Laci Green. Her smile takes up a bigger proportion of her face than with normal human beings.

Anyway, one day in 2009 Laci Green made a video saying that people should be accepting of and nice towards transgender people. They shouldn’t be haters: in fact, “haters” was the name for that video episode. Unluckily for her, she had a transgender person as her guest, and he used the word “tranny” of himself and others.

Not knowing that other transgender persons hate the word, she copied him and used the word too.

I have a bit of a “there but for the grace of god go I” feeling about this, because at the time I would have given the very same offence while trying to say something supportive. That’s because a girlfriend of mine worked as a cleaner at the Gender Centre in Sydney, and I’d often help her clean because I wanted to play squash with her when she was done. (“Play squash” sounds like a euphemism, but it isn’t.)

That meant I knew about a dozen politically aware transgender people at the time, and they all used the word “tranny” of themselves and others. So, when I was in conversation with them and it was relevant, I did too. I’m sure I’ve used it in other contexts, thinking I was being supportive. If I’d made videos, they’d still be preserved, of course.  

There’s also the fact that she and apparently other family members have had death threats. I relate to that, because I was once an organiser and media spokesperson for a tenants’ union, and some people didn’t like me getting in the way of certain landlords. Initially I was genuinely flattered and amused when I started to get death threats on the landline. Problem was, my roommates sometimes answered the phone too, and they’d cop the threats intended for me. So I learned that when this shit is directed at one person, it also affects a lot of other people around them. 

Anyway, this began in 2012, when someone saw Laci Green’s “haters” video, which was then three years old, and wrote to her asking why she’d used the word “tranny”. 

She replied: “You are totally right and I sincerely apologize for my mistake. Before I educated myself about trans issues I had not the slightest inkling of how the word is used to dehumanize nor its place in the cycle of violence against transfolk. Now I have seen people hurt by it and seen it used as a nasty slur. Words have power, and “tranny” is not a word for anybody but transfolk themselves to use because only they can reclaim it.”

As a result of the apology, a whole lot of people went berserk. They decided Laci Green was an anti-transgender person activist, who was leading the charge against rights and acceptance. This would have been news to the various Christian right activists who really were running an anti-transgender persons agenda, an agenda now being put into place in several US States. 

Anyway, she got a torrent of hate mail, demanding that she kill herself, along with threats of violence, and, to show they meant it, they posted pictures of Ms Green’s home on-line.

The police took the threats seriously, and suggested to Ms Green that for her own safety she should move. She disappeared off-line for a while. When she came back it was with Planned Parenthood and a MTV spot, which organizations are better at security than just one person. 

Anyway, she recently started arguing on her videos with anti-feminists, to see if communication can be helpful. This angered people who feel that giving anti-feminists a platform is wrong, even in a a dialogue intended to open them to feminist ideas. So that has offended many offended people.

My impression is that it is probably a bad idea, because some of the people she’s spoken to really have been assholes on the internet, and it may not be a good idea to give them yet another platform, even if the intent is to argue with them. On the other hand, it’s the kind of thing that sometimes works to change minds, and that’s always a good thing.

[Update:

Ms Green and Mr Ray-gun (artist’s impression)

Ms Green recently started shagging some guy called Chris Ray-gun. I know very little about him, but apparently he takes the piss out of people who called themselves SJW, or social justice warriors. I’m sure he’s said many dodgy things in his career, but I don’t know what they are. Some people calling themselves feminists have said this is why she’s less keen to be associated with “social justice warriors. As though your politics is determined by where you put your genitals. Me, I’ve sometimes agreed with a girlfriend’s politics, and sometimes not. Some people are like that.

Ms Green took pains to point out that she is still absolutely a feminist.]

Her other recent crime appears to be that she’s mentioned that she’d been accosted by a group of feminists who’d been heckling her at some event, who then made threats of violence against her. 

If you want to read a column saying that Laci Green was the problem there, and she should have apologised again to the people who were threatening her, you can read it here.

(I don’t know the columnist and I’m unlikely to read anything else they ever write, but that specific column offered an interesting use of the passive-aggressive voice used sanctimoniously. This is only a personal reaction, but I found it oddly creepy.)

As a result, there are signs that the Community of the Terminally Self-Righteous are building up for another bash at her for having, while still a minor, made a video that was supportive of trans-gender persons but used the word “tranny”.

My impression is that she’s a good thing, incredibly decent, harmless and well-meaning, who has done an enormous amount of work on issues like abortion, contraception, sex information, kink acceptance and so on.

I should point out that I’m a dom, so I’m a filthy sexual pervert, who has the goddam gall to call himself a feminist supporter. So what I say will ipso facto have no value for some people, but for what bugger-all it’s worth I salute and support Laci Green.

Wicked Wednesday: Maddy’s tears

Maddie waited naked, her hastily discarded dress on the floor beside her, facing my door, on her knees. She’d heard the scene with Jennifer, and she well knew the mood I’d be in. I put the cane on the floor beside her. She knew that wasn’t because I wouldn’t be needing it, but so she could pass it to me when it was time.

I saw that she’d tidied the storeroom beyond any reasonable complaint. There were neat piles of papers, clearly labelled, tidied rows of books, and the boxes made neat stacks on the upper shelves.

When I looked back at Maddie she’d opened her mouth and put her tongue forward, covering her lower teeth and pushing out her lip. The invitation was almost irresistible. She wanted, as she always did, to direct what happened. I stepped forward and slapped her face with my left hand. Her head jolted the the right, then to the left when I repeated the slap, backhanded. 

They didn’t need to be hard slaps, and they weren’t. Their psychological effect on Maddie was what counted. They dropped her, instantly, into submission and a world in which she had no influence on what happened. It was only necessary for her to serve. I grabbed her hair then, unzipped and thrust hard into her mouth, filling her before she had time to gasp for breath. 

She sucked me, running her tongue under my cock, keeping her eyes on mine, as she’d been told. I savoured her warm, wet harbour, and counted to ten. That was as long as she usually took to start worrying about choking. Her eyes showed worry at twelve seconds. I counted slowly to fifteen. 

It wasn’t that she couldn’t hold her breathe; she could manage over a minute. It was that this was the ultimate loss of control for Maddie, and she feared it and desired it at the same time. At eighteen I pulled her, fast, off my cock, and she gasped for air. 

The tears ran down her cheeks, making runnels in her mascara while she fought for air, my cock poised in her mouth for the next thrust.

Then there was no more air, only cock.I pushed against the back of her throat.

Maddie stiffened and fought for control. Eventually she relaxed, and put her hands on my shins, not for support but for affection, while nearly twenty seconds passed. So I withdrew a little, and allowed her the comfort of having her mouth rather than her throat fucked. She sucked and tongued diligently. 

I watched her eyes while hers watched mine. She was happy. And she expected me to come soon. 

Reluctantly, and with seconds to spare, I withdrew from her mouth. I wanted to tell her she was a good girl and had pleased me, and she plainly needed that.

But it would break the mood. I said, “You think this is tidy, Maddie?”

She frowned. “Well, yes, Sir. I thought so.” 

“Well, we’ll see. Your panties are in your desk, I assume?” She’d shed them when I’d had her this morning. She knew I’d disapprove, painfully, if she’d put them back on. 

She nodded. “Yes, Sir.” 

“Fetch.” 

Maddie put her hands on the floor, and crawled to her office.

She knew better than to stand up.

Wicked Wednesday: Beautiful, bell-like, orgasm

I dipped my finger in the oil collected at her anus. “Hmm,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll often find this part of your body lubricated in the future.” 

“Sir?” 

“A man who wants you, Jennifer, will certainly need to take you here.” I pressed my finger down a little, not quite entering but letting her feel her own muscles ready to admit me. Then I spread the oil, moving down into her perineum. Jennifer’s moan was loud, and unambiguously sexual. She was nearly ready.

“But that’s in your future, girl. For now-” 

I resumed stroking her buttocks and thighs, with Jennifer rising and falling under my hands. Her breathing was urgent. She was close. 

At the last second, I reached low on her buttocks and pressed hard, fingers digging into where her sciatic nerves would be. Jennifer sobbed, once, and her body rose briefly from my table. She was silent after that, trying to conceal that deep and perhaps surprising orgasm she’d just had.

I maintained the pressure, and a few seconds later she gave another shudder, and then was still. Her face looked anguished. Her eyes were wet. There were tears on my desk.

I resisted the urge to take her in my arms, kiss her and praise her, and instead resumed kneading her as if nothing had happened. My cock ached, in restrictive clothing. I wanted her so powerfully. 

After a minute I slowed and stopped, and gave her right buttock a pat. “I think that’ll do you, little Jennifer. I’m sure we’ve dealt with any pain.” 

There was no response. Jennifer was still entranced. There was drool as well as tears on my desk. I reached for her shoulder. “Girl.” There were threats, disciplinary threats, in my voice.

She let me help her up. She stood, panties still round her knees, and looked at me, red-faced, wet-eyed. She wiped her mouth. She wore no lipstick. Suddenly she launched herself, threw her arms around my back and kissed me. It was passionate, needy. I was sure it was the first time she’d kissed a man.

I let the kiss last, because it was wonderful and I wanted to treasure it, and it meant she had surrendered to me more than she knew. Yet. She rubbed her breasts against my chest. “Thank you, sir, thank you, thank you!” 

But eventually I smacked her bottom. She remembered where she was. She stepped back. “Sorry, Headmaster. I was – I just wanted to say thank you.” 

Of course I smiled. “You are an incredibly good girl, Jennifer. And sweet-natured. And there’s nothing at all wrong with that.” I spoke with absolute sincerity. These things were true. “Now, the oil’s soaked into your skin, girl, so you can pull your panties up now.”

For some female reason she turned her back for this operation, so that I could watch the slow concealment of the lower half of her bottom. 

When she turned to face me, a smiling girl, her face only slightly flushed, I gave her a piece of paper I’d had Maddie type earlier. She looked at it blankly. “Sir?” 

“That’s a note to Wynetts. The shop your mother bought your uniform. Take that piece of paper to them – they’re expecting you this afternoon – and try on uniforms till you find one you’re comfortable in.” 

“Sir, please. I can’t take-” 

“There’s a school fund for exactly this sort of issue, Jennifer. You can and you will. Get s uniform that looks good. Not like the one you’re wearing now, and not too conspicuously modest either. Just get something so that you look like the other girls. All right?” 

She stepped towards me, then stopped. Propriety had broken out. She said, “I’m glad I kissed you, Sir.” 

I smiled. “Do you want your bottom smacked again?” 

Her face was pure mischief. “Perhaps.” 

So I tried to look stern, and said, “That’s enough of that.” But I couldn’t stop smiling. I took her ear and led her to the door. “Off you go, Jennifer. See me tomorrow morning, in your new uniform.” 

“Yes, Sir.” I resisted the urge to pat her bottom, and shut the door behind her. I sighed, happily. I needed release. I needed Maddie, with some urgency. After some thought, I took the senior cane from my cupboard. I had no idea if she’d properly tidied and cleaned the storeroom, and I’d warned of consequences if she hadn’t. She’d be waiting for me, having listened to, among other things, Jennifer’s beautiful, bell-like orgasm. 

I opened the storeroom door. 

Dublin and pain

I’m in Dublin. I had an idea, after my father died earlier this year, that I should go to Ireland, to see where I came from, at least genetically.

Statues commemorating the Irish Potato Fame. The starving, beside the Liffey, in Dublin

Both of my parents were of almost entirely Irish stock. Though the people who were my ancestors left Ireland during or shortly after the Famine, they continued to marry other Irish expatriots over the next several generations. Although there’s the occasional Welshman or Scot in my traceable ancestry, it’s basically all Irish men and women.

I’ve always been grateful to my ancestors for leaving. Ireland is still disfigured by the Catholic Church, essentially a corporation for the enabling and protection of child rapists, and for the torture and enslavement of women, the Magdalene Laundires episode being only one example of this.

I’d been in Dublin for about six minutes when I encountered a march of young women demonstrating for the repeal of Ireland’s stupid, cruel and life-threatening ban on abortion.

I make a lousy nationalist. If I’d been living in Northern Ireland during the Troubles, I’d always have voted to be part of the United Kingdom. Not out of nationalism: I’d don’t give a fuck what Cromwell did to the Irish three hundred-odd years ago. Or the Elizabethans before that. (Both sides seem to have forgotten the Scots invasion, and the land theft, famine and massacres under Robert the Bruce’s brother Edward, because that doesn’t fit the narrative.) 

I’d have voted to be in the UK because I didn’t want to have the cops, directed by the church, tell me what I’m allowed to buy in a bookshop. I’d have wanted to be able to buy contraception, which you could then do in the UK but not Eire. I’d want a woman to be able to get an abortion if she has an unwanted pregnancy. Fuck nationalism: I only care about human rights. 

So it was sobering to be reminded that Eire’s abortion law is still the one dictated by the Church. Rapists, torturers, murderers and their enablers, still claiming moral authority. Sooner that’s dumped into history’s Dead Joke Box the better. 

Anyway, the pain I cause is consensual, intended to help, to lead to pleasure and other kinds of growth, and never to cause harm. Ireland is full of the traces of the domination of an organisation that seeks no consent, and is entirely indifferent to the pain, suffering, harm and death it causes.

 

By the way, I’m thinking about pain because after Eroticon, and after seeing Gretel off on the place back to her native land, I went to Dublin and got a cold. My head hurts. Really hurts. My bones feel like I’ve been beaten up, apparently in my sleep, by the secret police. I need to cough all the time, and it hurts like hell to cough. I’ve got chills. God, I’d love a hot flush. 

On the other hand, I’m outside a pub on Talbot Street, drinking coke and watching pretty girls go by. So … silver linings, that’s what you have to look out for. 

Wicked Wednesday: Rubbing it in

I gazed, awed, at the pink blush of Jennifer’s bottom and thighs. She was still red in the spots I’d concentrated the spanks: the centre of her buttocks and the tops of her thighs.

I took the oil and poured a little trickle onto the upper cleft of her buttocks, where she would be autely aware of the trickle running slowly down, some collecting at her anus, and some trickling lower.

She would want me to rescue her from that trickle when it reached her anus, certainly her cunt. She would want me to touch her.

As if having the same thought, she expelled her breath and moved her feet slightly apart, exposing her pretty, swollen and – I was sure – achingly wet and needy pussy. There was silence for a moment. Tribute not just to the sexual power of our situation, but also to her sheer beauty.

“That’s good, girl, that’s lovely. Your behaviour, I mean.”

“Thank you, sir.” She knew what I’d meant.

I poured a generous helping of oil onto my left hand, put the bottle down and rubbed my hands gently together. I rubbed her bottom gently until most of her bottom and thighs were slippery and shining.

Then I used more force, pressing my thumbs into the centre of her gluteal muscles. Jennifer made a little squeal of relief and pleasure, as I worked on the knots of tension in that gloriously firm and round ball of muscles.

Her upper body flattened entirely onto the desk and her ass rose, surrendering herself entirely to anything I might choose to do with her. Her head was turned so her left cheek rested on the wood. She was smiling, lips slightly parted, and her eyes shone.

I worked my way down to her parted thighs, finding and working on any knots of tension until they were gone. She made little pleasure noises as she relaxed, and I knew those would be the noises I would hear when her need and her nerve had build up to the point where she begged me to fuck her, and I decided she was ready. I resolved to hold off for at least a fortnight, no matter how prettily she begged.

The knots dealt with, I was gentler and more sensual as I stroked and pressed her thighs and bottom on the return. I wanted her to feel, just from my hands, how tender and beautiful I thought she was. She sighed, lost in pleasure, and her left foot again moved a little further to the left.

The trickle of oil running down her cleft had nearly reached her anus. I was sure that she was very aware of the oil’s slow encroachment.

I ignored it, and continued her massage, clasping and kneading her soft, now utterly relaxed, flesh. Jennifer’s sighs and other sounds were more overtly sexual, a young woman being pleasured, and her hips started to move, gently up and down as if being fucked by an invisible lover. Every breath she took was audible now. She was absorbed, and lost. Nothing existed except for my hands, I guessed.

She stilled suddenly. The trickle had reached her anus. “Sir?”

I pulled her cheeks apart, though it wasn’t strictly necessary.

Wicked Wednesday: Jennifer considers “feeling better”

“What do you mean, ‘feel better’? Sir?”

I put my hand on her cotton-cocooned right buttock and squeezed, to remind her that there was nothing to stop her from getting her morning spanking all over again. Jennifer shivered, her soft skin and firm muscles trembling under my hand. She understood that I was threatening to repeat her spanking. But she liked my hand.

 “Some people get spanked regularly and often, Jennifer-” She made a wordless noise, not of protest but of recognition. Jennifer had learned that that was the kind of girl she was. “That’s the world you’re in now. Now, girls like you often need aftercare. And if they’re been good after their spanking they should get what they need. Does that sound sensible, Jennifer?”

There was a pause. She was looking for the trap. But it was hiding in plain sight. Eventually she said, “No, that does sound reasonable, sir.”

“Now, Jennifer. You’ve got a sore bottom, but you’ve been a good girl all day, I’m told. So you can have something that can take the pain away.”

“Sir?” She sounded shocked. Her imagination was, of course, running wild. She was seconds away either from protesting or making some declaration of consent or need. The latter was more likely but I didn’t want her to do that today. She needed more time, to build up a deep and desperate need before I’d let her consent.

“It’s a natural oil mixture, with aloe vera, lavender, arnica and cocoanut oil for vitamin E. It cools the spanked area and takes away most of the pain, and sets about healing the skin. To let you sleep easy, and, well, let you sit down again without it being awkward. It’s for girls who get into trouble a lot but they’re good girls really. Would you like that?”

Nude young woman applying lotion to her bottom

There was a longer pause. Jennifer knew she wouldn’t be applying the mixture herself. That left strong, male hands kneading her flesh, healing the skin I’d hurt earlier that day.

I suspected that would appeal in its own right, and anyway it’d be better than going home with a sore bottom.

Finally and bravely Jennifer said, “Yes, I’d like that. You mean like a massage. I like those.”

I collected the tube of oils from the corner of my desk, where it lived with the pens pencils and felt tips and paperclips. I put a dab on the lowest vertebrae in the small of her back. A subdued, noctural animal sound from Jennifer. She was so needy, so aroused.

I put my fingers in the upper hem of her panties, and pulled them, not down, but away from her skin, revealing a perfect bottom, unlikely to be quite as sore as she’d claimed but still prettily pink from her spanking.

Jennifer groaned. “Oh sir, please. Can you leave my panties up?”

“Have I already seen your bottom, Jennifer? Quite recently?”

“Um. Well, yes, sir. You did. You have.”

“So is it something about your panties, then? Have you got a laptop hidden down there?”

She laughed. “No, sir.”

“So you’re fussing, girl. All right, you can help me. You take them down for me. All the way to your knees, please.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jennifer reached back obediently. The panties came down, slowly, as if she felt it was a gift that should be savoured inch by inch. She pulled the bunched cotton past the fleshiest part of her bottom and tugged them all the way down as instructed.

She was a spanked angel, smelling of musk and almond flour, half naked over my desk.

 

Wicked Wednesday: Jennifer’s pleats and pleas 9: Maddie interlude

When I opened the door Maddie was feeding another ream of paper into the photocopier. I knew the paper drawer had been full to maximum before Jennifer walked into my office, and there was no chance it could have run out. She’d stopped the copier to listen to Jennifer and me.

photocopier-2But she bent steeply at the waist while she lowered the paper into place. She knew the effect that was likely to have on me, and hoped it’d distract me. 

“Well, Maddie. Did you hear everything you wanted. We weren’t talking too quietly for you?”

Maddie didn’t blush. And she looked me in the eyes with the utmost sincerity. “Uh, you were talking? I wasn’t …”

She indicated the photocopier. “I was fixing this…” Then she lost her mock-innocent look and laughed. “Oh, my god, she really got to you, didn’t she?”

I didn’t look down. I knew my erection had to be obvious even through a suit. Once Jennifer had left I’d stopped trying to will it down. Instead I said, “A student being punished is entitled to some privacy. Maddie, did I tell you told to listen in, while a student is being disciplined? Or were you told to keep the photocopier going?”

Maddie stepped closer. I did what I needed to do, and put my hands on her ass and squeezed. A woman, not a girl. Firm in my hands. I spread my fingers on voluptuous rounded womanhood, and said, “Oh girl.”

I meant Maddie, but I don’t think she thought I meant her.

But she only paused for a second before she rubbed her lower belly against my cock. “I don’t think you need to punish another girl. Well, not first. Not just now. And we should talk. But not just now.” She reached between us and took my hard cock in her palm, thumb and forefinger pressing along its length.

“Uh. Ahhh. Haaaaaa.”

photocopy-1Maddie smiled, too smugly. So I held her right shoulder and smacked her with my left, spinning her till she faced the photocopier again. I pushed her down, and pulled up her tight little skirt, easing it up over her ass. Maddie said, “Should we -?”

But I smacked her ass, hard, to stop her talking. I unzipped and freed my erection.

Maddie flattened over the top of the copier while I pulled the gusset of her knickers to the side and pushed my cock between her plump lips, all the way into her.

Whatever she’d heard, when she listened to Jennifer and me, had aroused her too. She was slick and wet, and she sighed with satisfaction when I filled her. She straightened her spread legs and arched her ass up. I couldn’t be slow or careful. I held her down hard with my hand on her shoulder and bucked into her, grunting. As deep and fast as we could.

Maddie reached back and turned the photocopier back on.

badge-ww

Wicked Wednesday: Jennifer’s pleats and pleas 8

I’d suggested to Jennifer that she might want to do a little more, to prove not just to me but to herself that she really was a good girl.

She seemed to accept the principle. But I expected some dramatic and florid ideas were passing through her head, while she tried to stare out my carpet.

“Well, I know a way, Jennifer. You fully earned that spanking you just got.”

I paused and gazed at her, so that she knew something was expected. After the briefest of pauses she nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Correct. But you can gain some real credit with me, if you show you’re ready to learn discipline properly. I think you have some things to own up to, don’t you?”

Jennifer looked beseeching. She wanted to deny it, but I’d already shown too many signs of omniscience. She looked from side to side, then said, in the quietest voice imaginable, “Yes. Sir.”

hand-skirt2“And, you know, you can take punishments that you haven’t earned yet. So that things can be a little easier for you when the time comes?”

She frowned, considering that. It seemed to make sense to her, which, frankly, it didn’t to me. Her thinking was being influenced, as it should, by what her pussy wanted. I said, still very seriously, “That could mean additional spankings, or maybe the strap.”

She looked at me, her face back to its natural color. Something in her had relaxed. I said, “Do you know what a tawse is?” She looked blank. “No, you wouldn’t, I suppose. Anyway, those are options. Think on it.”

The bell rang.

“Ah, end of the first period. You’re done now. You’d better get going — I know you won’t want to be late for another class.” I let the smile get through, this time. I mouthed, silently, the word, “Or.”

She smiled back at me. The ideas implied by that “or” had pleased her. She stood up then, and I walked her to the door, as if she were a parent. But just before I opened the door that led from Maddie’s office to the corridor, and freedom for Jennifer, I touched her back lightly.

hand-skirt1She stopped, perhaps wondering if I would drop my hand to comfort her hurt. Instead I whispered into her ear. “Do think about earning that extra credit, Jennifer. It will be good for you.”

She flushed again. “Yes, sir.” And so I lowered my hand and cupped her left buttock. It was a caress, and she leaned into my hand, liking the contact while not wanting to admit it was happening.I let my hand drift over to hold her right buttock. She was perfectly still, not even breathing. 

After a few soft, sweet seconds I made it a smack. Affectionate, but more like a headmaster’s punishing hand. I smiled at her, and she tilted her head up at me. The idea that we should kiss hung in the air.

Then I opened the door, and patted her bottom one last time. “Hurry to class, now, girl.”

She walked out into the corridor, not looking back.

The photo-copier started again. Maddie had been listening. I frowned. She and I would have words about that. I shut her office door and, after a second’s consideration, locked it. Then I walked over to the photocopy room.

badge-ww

Some bdsm-related reasons why hitting children is a bad idea 13: Summing up and concluding

So 1 in 20 teachers and children are likely to respond sexually to child-beating in schools: what’s wrong with that?

We managed to get rid of this shit...

We managed to get rid of this shit…

That may seem an obvious question, but it’s worth taking it seriously. 

As we know from the Irish and Australian Commissions of Inquiry into child abuse in schools and other institutions, in very authoritarian schools the child-beating scenario too often leads to child rape. 

Why would a ritual which includes removing some of the child’s clothing and always involves forcing the child to present his or her buttocks submissively lead to rape?

It’s because those teachers and other officials experienced it as sexual: beating the child turned them on, and the “corporal punishment” rules put them in a position of enormous power over the child.

One in 20 teachers, assuming that teachers are the same as the rest of us, is sexually attracted to bdsm, and turned on by bdsm situations. This is true whether or not the teacher is aware of their sexual response, and is doing his or her best to suppress it.

Mostly, the one in 20 teachers who interpret and respond to school “spankings” sexually don’t actually rape the child.

Well, it’s always a compulsory sexual act forced on a child by an adult who is likely to find the scenario arousing, even if they try not to. It’s just not rape if you define rape as involving penetration.

It’s still … extremely undesirable.

It’s odd that many parents who would be fearful and irate if a gay sports teacher gave their son a back massage seem to take genuine mistreatment of their children with complete calm.

Awakenings 

When Charles Moser studied a California-based bdsm community he found that about 5% of people currently engaged in the bdsm community had had their interest in bdsm awakened by a physical punishment received in childhood.

That may lead some people to conclude that child-beating is not okay because it increases the number of “perverts” undermining society and having weird street parties. But that’s not my point at all. First, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being into bdsm. Second, those children will, if they’re not beaten in schools or at home, almost certainly become aware of their sexual interest in some other way.

The real problem is that it’s psychologically harmful for children to be forced to discover an important part of their sexuality, when they’re too young to assimilate it, in a non-consensual setting of guilt, pain and fear.

happyWe all believe that children should not have sexual experiences forced on them by an adult. Sex is something they should discover for themselves, in their own time, as they become able to handle it. It’s time to put that belief into practice, and put an end to child-beating.

In the meantime, in the immortal words of Roger Waters, “Hey! Teacher! Leave those kids alone!”

 

Note

This is the end of a series. The earlier posts, including the statistics behind the conclusion that about 1 in 20 people respond to bdsm scenarios, sets and settings, can be found here:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12