Sinful Sunday: The Warm Dream

We’d been fucking constantly for nearly two days. Her cunt and my cock were getting tender, though she was a wet girl and we hadn’t lost any skin. We stopped fucking only for occasional bursts of food.

She’d made soup the day before, so that and warm bread was what we had when we weren’t fucking. The only other reason for not fucking was for me to apply my paddle or my belt to her arse. I liked the heat of her arse when I fucked her from behind her behind. 

But we’d discovered each other, and we woke up something in each other: skin hunger. We needed to hold tight, to fuck, and I needed to colour her beautiful arse and thighs as much as I could. Her skin needed to feel me, hard, in every sense, on her skin. We still weren’t finished with each other. Skin hunger.

But then, while I was spanking her with my hand, after I’d put down the paddle, I realised she wasn’t quite with me any more. She’d fallen asleep while getting spanked. I’ve never had that happen before, or since. So I got onto her bed and pulled her up beside me. She settled in my arms and kissed my neck, still asleep. I probably dropped off too, for an hour or so. 

But we weren’t finished. 


Sinful Sunday: In disgrace

Arethusa in disgrace. Hands on head, nose in the corner. 

I didn’t make her do that often, and when she had to wait for discipline, she knew I thought her offence was serious and the punishment was going to be serious as well.

In this case she’d handed an essay in two days’ late, so it only got marked out of 80%. She’d both disobeyed a direct order AND harmed her own interests, and she knew that those were the two things I said I’d never accept. 

When I took this photo I said, “You know you deserve what’s coming, don’t you? You can speak.”

Arethusa said, “Yes, of course I know that, Master. I don’t know why I can’t get started on essays till it’s too late. Even though I know you’ll punish me.”

“I know, punishment doesn’t fix all of the problems. But I’m afraid it’s part of the answer.”

She nodded to herself. This was true.

“Afterwards,” I said, “We’ll talk about it.”*


  • Actually, afterwards there was care and after-punishment sex, and then after-sex sleep. So the talking part of “afterwards” began quite late. The solution involved Arethusa keeping me advised of each essay topic and hand-in date, with a compulsory slavegirl/Master talk about how she was going to approach her essay a week before hand-in day, and the essay to be sent to me the day before hand-in deadline, so I could proof it for typos, clarity etc. She never did completely avoid university crimes, after that, but at least the serious ones became rare.


Sinful Sunday: Saucy girl

Sometimes I make her arse hurt. With my hand, usually, because I love that touch, skin to skin, and that impact, her beautiful round arse, her little movement under my hand, and her yelp. I love those things so much.

But it’s only fair that I hurt her a bit. She’s cute. She’s playful. And so sexy it hurts.



Sinful Sunday: I am the God of Hellfire and I bring you …


I’ll take you to burn

I’ll take you to learn

I’ll see you burn … burn … burn … burn!

You fought hard and you saved and earned

Now all of it is going to burn…

Fire! I’ll take you to burn!

Fire! I’ll take you to learn!

Fire! I’ll take you to bed!

Fire! I’ll take you! Fire!

(Falls over, hair on fire, screaming)

Actually I just got carried away at a barbecue, with … never mind. That part’s ‘need to know’, OK?



Sinful Sunday: Waiting, holding that cane

Arethusa generally got the cane for one of three reasons: 

(1). Late handing in schoolwork;

(2). Skipping medical appointments;

(3). Sex.

Sometimes they overlapped a bit. Sex was always there. But this time it was because she’d broken a favourite mug of mine, hidden the pieces and lied to me about it. Arethusa didn’t have a bratty bone in her body, I’d have thought, and that was very uncharacteristic misbehaviour for her. 

But it wasn’t going to happen again.

There were two canes that she knew well. One was named “Sting”. The heavier one, that she’s holding between her buttocks, is “Striper”. A long session with Striper tends to be hot, and it always ends in yowling, grunty sex, but it’s also corrective.

When the punishment is going to be painful and dramatic, there should always be a period of waiting and thinking first.


Wicked Wednesday: Dear Diary

[Just taking a break from the Droit de Seigneur saga. Yvain will be back next week…) 

Somewhere a book is marked, “Fuck off this is my diary”

12 March

Last night I was in bed with Angela. I knew we were coming apart. I love her, passionately, with every cell of my body and impulse of my mind. So I was coming apart too. Lying beside the woman I love, feeling lonely and afraid. I said I was afraid. I shouldn’t have.

She’s getting more and more drawn into Utrantia. I can’t understand why. We used to laugh together about homeopaths, and about the time the waif down the road crashed into our bedroom because there were aliens chasing her. There was something about Ley lines, too. She only smoked dope, but this must have been good.

Actually, I don’t think Angela laughed as much as me, on that one. It was obvious that I thought our stoned waif seeking sanctuary was charmingly eccentric and maybe I was so tolerant because I fancied her. Moving along …

Angela’s an intelligent woman. And, until recently she was rational and sceptical. I couldn’t understand how she could fall for bullshit like Utrantia. Last night I said so, and set out my case: ten reasons why Utrantia is bullshit. 

Yes, Diary, you think that was a desperate and stupid thing to do, and you’re right. It only cast me even more firmly in the role of enemy. Outsider. Someone in the way.


16 March

Angela didn’t come home last night. I cried. I listened to sad music. This didn’t help. Eventually I got out of bed, got dressed, and went two doors down to see the marijuana girl: Lissa. She answered the door in her underpants and a t-shirt. She was delighted to see me and she invited me in.

So we had a cup of tea, and I talked about how I was losing Angela. She said, “Right.” She got up and took a bottle of Amaretto. It’s purple, and very strong for a girl’s drink. But she paused at the mantlepiece, knowing that I’d be watching her wiggle. She went up on tiptoe, which she didn’t actually need to do. But the effect on her arse and thighs was all it should be.

I was being subjected to Feminine Wiles. She brought back the bottle and no glasses, so we drank from the neck. And of course we fucked, her bending over the table, me pumping blissfully away behind her, while she made delighted gurgling noises.  

That’s the first time I’ve ever been unfaithful to Angela. That’s bitter-sweet, but if I stayed home it would only have been bitter. 

Then we went to her bed.


17 March

In the morning I went home. Angela was there, putting make-up on. She doesn’t wear make-up.

I’d had a good night, and Lissa had treated me lovingly and with affection, and the sex was good and nearly unending. We had about three hours’ sleep. But seeing Angela there, composed, made up because someone else liked her to wear make-up, it still hurt my heart.

She asked me where I’d been. I said I’d missed her, and gone to talk to Michael, a friend of mine. A friend who would always say I’ve been with him, if someone asked.

She said she was inviting a Utrantia man for dinner, tomorrow. “Don’t worry; I’ll cook.”

So I said I’d invite Lissa, the alien-seer from down the road.

So there!

Yeah, what am I, four?

This is a set-up for disaster.


20 March 

That was unexpected, in so many ways. The Utrantia guy didn’t show up. I suppose he thought of me as a jealous husband. Which I sort of am, except for the husband part, but I’m civilised and wasn’t going to throw a scene or my fists. 

Anyway, it was dinner for three. Angela started noticing that Lissa and I were doing most of the talking, and talking to each other and not much to her. She got up, enraged, and climbed into her car and drove off. 

So Lissa and I went to bed. My bed. My and Angela’s bed, which had never had a body in it except for hers and mine. 

I was doing Lissa with my face sweetly held in her thighs while I licked her. My nose was actually inside her. Her thighs against my ears meant I didn’t hear Angela return, until she slammed the door. Then I looked up.








She’d slammed the door with her inside. She said, “That’s my bed. And that bloody cock, Lissa, that’s mine too.”

She took her clothes off. Not in a seductive way. It was angry stripping. Then she walked over and kissed Lissa’s mouth. It started angry, and got passionate. So I smacked her arse, since it was in reach and she’d always liked that.

She turned at me, still angry. “Why don’t you fuck the girl? You can fuck her, I won’t mind. If you do me with your face at the same time.”

So that was what happened. It was a weird night, emotionally, Lissa and I being very tender with each other and with Angela, and Angela having angry sex with both of us.

So that was complicated. And probably the hottest night of my life, so far.


23 March

Angela’s moving out. Lissa is happy to move in, and I guess she will, soon. So that’s a strange transition. I didn’t plan it, or expect it. All we really know is that we like each other, and work, sexually. But Lissa is nice to me. Angela hasn’t been for ages. Nice is better.

Last night I made dinner for the three of us. Ratatouille. Angela knows that that’s my seduction dish, and that I wasn’t aiming it at her. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen.

At the table Angela said, “I’ve got people to help me pack up and move, tomorrow. To Dean’s place. He’s a Utrantia leader. He’s really wise, you smug prick.”

I said, “OK.” I’d learned, too late, not to argue.

“So tonight’s the last night I’m ever going to fuck you. Or Lissa, if that’s OK with you?”

Lissa said, “Sure. Why not? You’re very fuckable.”

Angela said, “So we’re fucking goodbye. I guess you two aren’t, but I am. So we may as well make it good.”

Diary, I could tell you lots of things about our bodies and what we did and how we combined and pushed.

But it was the saddest, and happiest, night of my life. And I’m not going to talk about it, not even to you.