The lovely Zoe, looking just a little pink. And half wearing a very pretty white dress from Cuba.
She colours beautifully. I can’t stop myself from adding extra blush.
Did you know there’s a whipping scene in Wagner’s Das Rheingold?
It’s very loud in the Georg Solti recording, where the recording supervisor, John Culshaw, commented that the whip they used to make the cracking sounds was “absolutely terrifying”. And he’d been to a British public school in the 1940s, so he can’t have been easily scared.
Anyway, I should say that the whipping scene in “Das Rheingold” is interestingly grotesque, but completely and utterly not sexy. It’s between two dwarfs, and they’re brothers.
But if you were looking for a bdsm scene in a Wagner opera, I’d recommend the Daddy-daughter confrontation between Wotan and Brünnhilde at the end of Die Walküre. It begins with Wotan furious because his daughter disobeyed him, and determined to punish her.
She begs, reminding her father why she did what she did, and inadvertently reminding him of why he loves her: she’s the best of him. So he still punishes her, but he changes it to make it something positive, intended to benefit her. And they reconcile with one of the hugest and most overwhelming orgasms in all music.
If you were a Dom on the prowl (rrrowl!), you could do worse than hang about in the lobby after a performance of Die Walküre, There’ll be some very good looking women there, as well as the ones who look like James Thurber drawings. Find a woman you fancy who’s been weeping red-eyed buckets, buy her a drink and give her a handkerchief. So far you’re being a gentleman, but tell her to clean herself up in a very slightly command voice, and there’s a 50/50 chance that you’ll take her home.
By three in the morning you should be smacking her ass and telling her she’s a good girl really. And she should be hitting the A above the treble stave.
Seamus assumed, then, that while he was caning Yua, none of his class had studied their page as he’d instructed. The book was HG Wells’s The War of the Worlds.
So he set them an essay on the Momotarõ myth, in which Momotarõ was sometimes born to rule over lesser people and sometimes an evil invader who slaughtered peaceful natives. The essay had to compare the Momotarõ stories to the The War of the World‘s treatment of imperialism.
“You can write it in Japanese if that’s easier. But if you try to write it in English you automatically get an extra grade. Yua!”
“Sensei?” She turned her face from the wall to face him, while keeping her body more or less in place. The welts on the sides of her buttocks, where the panties did not cover her, were bright and somewhat raised.Her thighs were slim, but soft. He could not help but think of how they would feel, wrapped around his upper thighs, or raised to hold his waist.
He suppressed that thought and said, “Yua, you start a grade down from everyone else. But if you get anything less that a B+, I’ll cane you every day for a week. Understood?”
Her eyes widened. That meant she would have to work hard. She said, “Hai, Sensei.”
He turned back to the class. He knew from their occasional inattention that Yua, behind him, was wriggling, but he ignored that. Finally the bell rang and the class filed out. Except Yua. She knew they still had business, she and him.
At last they were alone together. Yua stood silent and stil, with her hands on her head, expectant. “Come here, Yua.”
When she reached his desk, smiling, sure of her power and victory, he made her turn around. He tugged her panties down, to inspect the damage. She had been well and prettily striped. He took the cane and put it between her upper thighs, close to her cunt.
“Don’t touch this with your hands, and don’t let it fall. Carry it for me while you go into the storeroom. And wait for me. Go!”
The cane between her thighs waggling as she walked, Yua went. She left the door open.
My shop is now open!
It’s selling the longest, sweetest and sexiest schoolgirl spanking saga ever written. So far there are nine volumes, and there are probably another five still to be written. But at the speed at which I’m creating things now, they’ll be ready, with happy endings for all concerned, a little later this year.
But reading “Jennifer’s Pleats and Pleas” isn’t about the destination; it’s about the journey. Buy it now!
Another saga will commence shortly: In the Realm of the Sensei. It’s based loosely on the adventures of a friend of mine who was teaching English in Japan for a while, and will then move on to some of my own adventures in post-war Vietnam. So there’s always more, coming to the store.
It due course I’l be selling the highly desired Jerusalem Mortimer coffee mugs on-line, along with the famous Jerusalem Mortimer t-shirt. But bear with me on those. They will arrive, but other things will have to take priority.
Above all, I say: Come visit my shop!
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.
I have seen many beautiful things.
But Zoe‘s feminine lines and curves are the most beautiful
Claire knelt, hands and knees, at my feet. “I need you to fuck me, now, Master. If you want.” That was a silly thing to say; of course I wanted. But I guessed she wanted to say something submissive. Then she said, “Thoroughly.”
I took the cane, lodged between her buttocks, and removed the little butt plug. I stroked her, two fingers and then three slishing between wet lips, and pressed the cane between her labia. I said, “Thoroughly.” Claire caught her breath, then moaned quietly when I put a little upwards pressure to the cane so it lodged against her most sensitive skin, her cunt warmly and wetly clasping that length of rattan. Then I added, because it suddenly occurred to me, “That’s an anagram of ‘hot’ and ‘roughly’.”
That cane I stroked her with had caused her pain, and she knew it was soon going to bring her more, but for now all was forgiven between them, that cane and her. I turned the cane so it rolled in her, and her moans became a little louder. She was very ready for… something. Anything. She was prepared to let anythng happen. Anything that had her in iit and was hard would be good.
I smiled at her, not that she could see me, and took as condom from my bedside drawer. I said, “As for thoroughly, let’s see what happens. You’ve got six penalty strokes still to come. You’ve had one penalty stroke, so that will bring us to thirty-seven. While I’m deliver them I expect you to stay in place, and count each stroke out loud. And thank me. So, the next one is ‘Thirty-two, thank you, sir.’ Can you do that?”
“I don’t know how I’ll keep still, Master. Or quiet. But I’ll try.”
“You’ll do as you’re told, Claire. Unless you want to call out some higher numbers. You can count to fifty, can’t you?”
“I’ll keep still, Master!”
“That’s better. Brace yourself, Claire. These are going to sting.”
I raised the cane, counted silently and slowly to forty while she waited, then swung it down, to crack, loud and vicious, across the softer skin of her lower buttocks. Claire sucked in air, and her hands clenched, gathering up bedclothes as she fought to keep still and presented. She gasped, then sang out loud and clear, “Thirty-two! Thank you, sir!”
I’d wanted to remind her of her place, and bring back the mood we’d had in my office.
But after only that one stroke lust took over. I rolled the condom on and took Claire firmly by her hips, raising her ass a little further.
I pressed forward and my cock slipped easily into her cunt, till I was buried: wetly and tightly held. I took her in one long, slow movement. When I was pressed tight, finally, against the blazing heat of her ass, Claire groaned, low. “Fuuuck! Thank you, god thank you, Master.”
Claire, naked, shamed and caned, butt-plug winking crimson between her striped buttocks, stayed in position, hands on head. We were going through a ceremony together, the shaming of the committed submissive before the next stage, when discipline continues but becomes less painful and more openly and overtly sexual.
At the same time the clicking of my keyboard was a sign to her that she was not important, just a shamed woman waiting for the next part of her sentence to be pronounced.
Eventually I opened a new document and scrawled in it irrelevantly, just to make the sound of a keyboard while I studied her.
Her head was proud and high at first, but as the minutes passed, feeling the warm pain in her buttocks, and her own apparently ignored nudity, her head dropped, her pride gone. She knew that I thought she’d done no wrong, and had only punished her so she could forgive herself.
She knew that was beautiful and desirable to me. But the physical sensations, and her position have a message that reaches deeper than the conscious mind.
I approved, though she had plenty to be proud of. Her chubby but muscled ass and upper thighs, showing off her new stripes, some raised, some red and some black, and the butt-plug firmly in place, her raised arms and her breasts and nose touching the wall: they were all powerful sexual signals.
It was ten past three. Her daughter, Tara, would be let out of school in twenty minutes.
I said, “Claire.”
“Yes, Master?” She spoke straight ahead, to the wall. She learned fast. Or she’d thought about giving herself in submission before.
“I know you owe me two more strokes, Master.” Then she thought about that answer. “Yes! Of course I need more, Master!” She broke position, and stepped to the clothes rack, taking the robe from its hook.
She realized how little protection it offered, looked at me for a second, aware of my regard for her naked body, and shrugged herself into it. “And… I believe I need fucking, Master?”
I pressed my fingers against her butt plug, getting it a little deeper.
“Good girl. That’s right. Carry these.” I passed her the bags with her clothing, and the clothing her daughter Tara had shoplifted. She took them. They were, in different ways, heavy and meaningful burdens. I picked up the medium cane. She was due two more strokes, though I doubted she could keep it down to just two.
She was a responsible adult. A mother with a child. A working woman. So I took her by her ear, twisted it till it hurt, and led her, cringing in my grasp, through corridors to the car park where my car waited.
I drove her to her home first, following her directions. I let her get out of the car and didn’t follow her while she put the bag of stolen clothes back under Tara’s bed. If she stayed inside there was nothing I could do about it. There was nothing to make her come back to me. Except desire. I waited.
I wrote a series of stories, in which the punchline was always a deeply stupid re-working of the celebratory chortle from Jabberwocky: “Oh frabjous day! Calloo callay!”
I promised to collect them.
I thought there were five or six of them, but tragically I can only find four. But here we go! And here they are:
And, just for Jabberwocky re-working fans, here’s one more:
5. Lewis Carroll was talking to Dickens, after his triumphant American tour. Dickens told him one of the odder sights was what the Americans called, “eckdysiasts”. “What is that?” asked Carroll. “Essentially, they dance and take their clothes off. After they’ve undressed they still dance, but use balloons to cover certain bits of their bodies.” “Oh frabjous day!” said Carroll. “Balloon ballet!”