There haven’t been many photos of your humble narrator, of a Sinful Sunday.
But I dunno, this Sunday I was feeling relaxed and happy and not very sinful at all. So here I am, a rare selfie, taking sensual pleasure.
One thing I’ll say for this image: I’m very clean.
I took this photo in northern India, after the last Eroticon, the last time I travelled.
I’m taking a break from the wonders of the flesh this week. To celebrate the erotic stone friezes on the temples of Khajuraho. Where I’m longing to return, when the world opens again. The Indian economy is going to need visitors, urgently, once it’s safe again.
Anyway, this man is a Brahmin – I’ve forgotten the signs that tell you he’s a Brahmin – keeping three woman happy at once, with his cock and his hands. And the thing that impresses me, cause I’ve sort of done that a couple of times, when a night went wonderfully, fairy-dust beautiful, is that he is STANDING ON HIS HEAD while he’s at it.
I’ve never managed that.
I think you have to get born into the Brahmin caste so you can’t join it, but if they ever had a recruitment drive, this would be the poster!
It’s not often I got down on my knees for Arethusa. But I wanted my eye level at thigh level. And my view was beautiful, human, womanly, submissive, and also somehow mathematical. I don’t mean you can count the stripes if you like, I mean somehow both warmly living and abstract.
Her paddling is over, squeaky, squirmy fun though it was. She shifts her body, lifting her completely cute little ass in invitation. Me, I’m just a Master who can’t say no.
This was school work again. University, really, but when I punished Arethusa for being late with an assignment, I was always aware, in the back of my mind, just what a traditional bdsm scenario this was. All the hotter, of course, for being real.
Now Arethusa sleeps but, I hope, dreaming in colour.
[Note: this is from the same session and may be the colour version of the black and white shot I posted last week. I took a lot of similar shots of that session, and I haven’t checked closely that this is the exact same one. But there was a request for colour: it is here.]
Those marks were delivered with passion. Pain, submission and kink. And then we fucked, hard as we could push our bodies against each other. That was all in blazing colour.
But Arethusa tended to fall asleep after orgasms. I’d lie beside her, admiring her body, and the claims I’d made on it; the marks of her ass that said her ass is mine. But you can’t admire quietly forever. Some time we’d wake up, and make even brighter colours.
But for now, our kolours kool and we drift into sleep. She was first but I followed, as I usually did. A quieter, beautiful, still kinked but monokhrome world.
I don’t know if there are Doms/Dommes who mean it when they say, “You’re in disgrace”. But I know this Dom never has.
Generally speaking it’s something I say after punishment, when I want to decorate my wall with her standing naked, spanked and on display for a while. “Now face that wall, and don’t move or speak until I say you can!” I say, adding, “You’re in disgrace!”
No, she’s not in disgrace. She’s taken her punishment, and been properly repentant and obedient throughout, and I think she’s utterly wonderful. But telling her she’s in disgrace seems more dramatic than saying she looks hot and I just want to gaze at her for a while.
And, though I’ve never asked, my impression is that many/most submissive women like to hear they’re in disgrace, so long as it’s certain their Dom/Domme is going to do something about that.
Arethusa, cuffed and clipped, fixed tightly over the whipping bench. There’s something abstract about that image, her arm close to me but fixed down, her thighs behind the wood of the bench.
Her photographer has a wooden paddle in his hand, and it has proven to be the harshest implement she’s ever encountered. She’s about to be taken.
It is night, under a full moon, and over the moon. We can hear creatures around us, possums and sugar gliders shocked by the things humans will do, when it’s time for a very deep, very savage kind of sex.
She told me later that this encounter had become her go-to masturbation memory. That made me incredibly happy, and weirdly proud. It’s as dark, in the Dark Lord sense, as I’ve ever been.
“Please punish me, Sir,” she’d said.
She knew that punishment was coming, whatever she said, but it’s sexier to ask for it. She’s admitted that sometimes part of her thinks that if she asks very nicely she might get a stroke or two off. But another part hopes she won’t, and she would be very disappointed if she did.
Once in position, over the whipping bench, she’s on a ride. Submission becomes some kind of fairground attraction. She’s bought her ticket, and now she hopes it as exciting as she can bear.
You don’t control a rollercoaster while you’re on it. But afterwards yours eyes sparkle and your face glows.
She’s asked nicely and, as far as I could tell, sincerely, to be caned, and of course she will be.
But there’s always the warm-up first. The leather paddle doing good, loud, work. She’s still worried about the caning to come, but she knows that the warm-up is a good thing: erotic and sensual in itself, and also a sign of care. I can’t be as angry with her as I’m pretending.
Soon, she knows, we’ll fuck, and she will pretend to be very sorry and I’ll pretend that I’ve only just forgiven her. Hypocrites, we Doms and submissives. In a way. But we also know each other closely, and we know the truth, too.
She knows she won’t be allowed to come for at least an hour. And that when she does, she’ll finally be told what she already knows: that she’s a good girl.