This is a very famous image, and I’m not the first to photograph it. But this is ˆmy ˆphoto. 

It’s from the walls of a temple in Khajuraho in Madhya Pradesh, India. It was not, at the time, inappropriate to have such joyous, benign, sexual images as part of a temple. 

(The official version of Hinduism now prevalent is more sexually conservative. This is a trace of a nearly vanished past.)

Three things strike me about these. The first is the artistry. There are hundreds and hundreds of these sexual images on these temple walls, showing different positions, and each gives attention to the sinuous eroticism of the flesh, and to make sure the humanity and the affection of the various sexual groupings are apparent to the viewer. 

Second, this is a very benign, pro-love, humane universe, as depicted on these temple walls. We’re not used to finding that in religion.

The third is related to that benign worldview: a kind of human humour. The man on the left and the woman at the right of the lovers are not lovers themselves, it seems. But they are inspired by the sexuality of the scene they’re witnessing. Both the man and the woman are masturbating. Everybody is taking pleasure, as they can.

The slavegirl is ready. I’m ready too.

But when you’ve turned a bad girl back into a good girl, and you both want to celebrate that alchemical transformation, the master faces a choice. Both options are wonderful. Still, it’s worth a moment’s pause, for consideration. (Then some more pause, while he reaches for the lube.)

This, by the way, is the first appearance of my penis, or part thereof, in this blog.

A man, a woman and a tawse. That’s all you need. 

Except time. Time passing once it’s clear what sentence will be pronounced. Time, while she waits for the beginning

She waits, her ass still stinging. Master had spanked her hard, for letting his cock slip out of her mouth. It was a momentary loss of focus, but in some moods Master was merciless.

She stands, naked, exposed, waiting for the second round of punishment. She wonders if he is gazing at her, or ignoring her.

He hasn’t said what her punishment will be. She only knows that he will be severe. She will wear its marks for at least a week.Then he will fuck her throat, hard and fast, hands firmly holding the back of her head.

That’s not so bad, not the tawse or the cane or the birch, and not the throat-fucking afterwards. The waiting, though: that’s hard.

.

One girl, sleeping. A bit after valentines day, as it happens. (I don’t think either photographer or lovely model care about Mr Valentine and his hallmark cards.)

Her admirer, photographer and self-labeled Master watches over her and waits. He’s feeling very tender. 

But when she awakes all those emotions will turn fiercer, more urgent. The only thing ‘tender’ will be her…

There is heat in this room.

(Historical note: This is a real oldie, this one, that I recently found in the archives and cleared for use. We’re still in touch. Her mother was playing video games elsewhere in the house at the time this was taken. It’s hard to keep quiet while doing multi-instrument spanking followed by grunting noises, and in the end we didn’t manage. Didn’t even manage to keep on trying. Fortunately, those video games were loud.) 

I’m not a minimalist. If I were in one of those once-fashionable white rooms, with only a white chair and, say, a white piano, I’d go nuts. 

To me, white is a start. White, especially on a submissive lover, is a canvas.

“Hands on head. And wait there till I return”

Time is important. In a while he’ll invite her to tell him if he’s sorry. She’ll say she is, and she’ll say it as earnestly and strongly as she can. And she’ll mean it, of course she will.

But… she knows that part of her isn’t only a tay bit sorry, and what’s going to happen to her, from beginning to end, in something to look forward to, as well as to fear. 

She stands on an emotional and sexual balance, shifting her weight from one side to the other. 

And, of course, she knows it has to begin. For sorry and for sexual, she wishes it would begin. 

Time. 

We were in a garden on the outskirts of Rome. She said it was so lush. I said that was true. But we were talking about different things.

I’d made her carry my tawse for me. She wondered if I was going to use it hard. 

I said, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

That meant, oh yes indeed.

“But the Romans don’t whip girls with tawses. Tawses are Scottish, you said!”

“That’s a good point. We’ll do approximately as the Romans do.”

She’s on the prie-dieux, a piece of furniture meant for people to experience repentance.  One kneels at it, or one bends over it. One thinks about one’s misbehaviour.

When she was told to bend over, and the tawse placed beside her, she knows her future is going to become painful, intense, and yet somehow pleasurable. 

But the waiting: that’s hard. She just wants it to start. 

But, always, first she has to wait. Nothing happens, except inside her mind and body.

Slowly, imperceptibly, the tension mounts.