Sometimes Arethusa misbehaved. She didn’t enjoy the micro-second of contact between the cane and her skin, but then the next second it was warming and thuddy. Ties in place, she felt wonderfully submitted. In every sense of the word it was hot.
Eventually it dawned on her poor, gullible Master that the cane didn’t have any deterrent effect, whatsoever. Oddly, because he was a kind and indulgent sort of Master, “strict” canings still happened anyway.
There may not be fairies at the bottom of my garden. But sometimes – even better! – there are bad girls.
Waiting for the man with the paddle. Knowing that she has as much control over crying out as she has over her ass turning red. She knows she’ll be loud once her punishment starts; the paddle has no interest whatsoever in what she wants to do or not. She fears that the whole valley will hear.
As the man with the paddle (and the camera) I know that at 5.45 in the morning, which it is, there’s not a soul about in the valley, and she can express her sorrow as freely as she needs.
And she is beautiful, and she expects – rightly – that consolation will follow punishment almost immediately.
She was my sustenance. She was my pretty pleasure, on a sunny day.
The bedside mirror opens into a world where everything good happens twice.
Where Arethusa adopts one of the classic submissive positions and also, inadvertently, lends her beauty for duplication.
This evening she puts on her cuffs herself. The cuffs are fur-lined and their softness has its meanings. They are physically comfortable and they symbolise her owned status. He hopes they mean to her that being owned is comfortable. It’s home.
But she puts puts them on herself this time. He is lying back lazily watching her. Shedding the clothes she wore out in the world, and wearing all she needs when she’s with him.
When she has put on the last wrist cuff he still watches her. She is beautiful. And yes, she smiles, comfortable, natural.
He says, “Come here.”
It didn’t happen every time. But usually he gave her an orgasm, one way or another, before she got up from her punishment place and position.
So much of the rhetoric about life between a willing slave and her chosen Master comes down to this: he has to make himself useful, and keep his possession glad that she has a Master.
Arethusa was, in a sense, easy to please, after punishment. She felt especially sexually needy and urgent after he’d caned her. Partly, he believed, she wanted to distract herself from the fire in her ass, but also… she was fiercely aroused. Hungry.
So was he.
The castle is medieval; the computer is current; the woman is timeless. Three ages collide, and make something new and beautiful.
When curved granite and curved flesh are in the same image, of course it’s the human, and especially the erotic, that holds our attention. And thank fuck for that, say I.
The lovely Zoë s the model.
When the image is the frame, you give your attention to the essentials. The essential here is power, and its absence: the sense that anything can happen.
The lovely Zoë, framed and bound, is definitely essential.
Arethusa liked her cuffs. She hardly ever took them off when we were together. They were fur-lined and comfortable. And sometimes, when her Master has gone off to make a cup of tea, and toast with jam, they’d keep her feeling held.
And if, as Wordsworth claimed, poetry is the result of emotion recollected in tranquillity, then her sleep and its dreams were poetry.
He liked to pleasure Arethusa, in the middle of punishment. She didn’t always want to admit how turned on she was by the whole situation: his commands, his lecture, the kiss she was required to bestow on the cane, and then the stripes of fire.
But her Master always found her wet, in the middle of any caning. Sometimes that discovery meant the caning was over. There were other priorities, that had just made themselves more urgent.
A slavegirl needs to be pleasured. And, well, being her Master was all duty.