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Masturbation Monday: Emily’s second caning

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So Emily had become mine. She’d once tried to get me to make her stop smoking, by taking charge, commanding her and punishing her if I smelled tobacco on her breath, her hair, or her clothes. Though one kiss will reveal that a girl has had a sneaky cigarette. I’d refused, because spanking or caning her because she had a sexy ass, and because she enjoyed submission, was one thing; presuming the right to give her orders and enforce those orders was another step, and I hadn’t been ready to take it. 

She became one of those black and white kneeling girls

So she’d done something that put herself in danger, and hurt me, and I caned her for it. A real world offence. She still had two more canings to go.

After her first caning, she’d told me that it was up to me to stop her smoking. I realised something I’d thought was a one-off event – in three instalments – was not that, in her mind. This was how she wanted to live.

So, finally, I stepped up and claimed her. We’d agreed: Emily was my property now, for me to reward or punish, and she was to do as I told her. 

We fucked again to celebrate.

When we rose, it was only three hours before Emily was due for her second caning, the one I’d promised her for lying to me.

She went to her room to work, though I doubt that she got much done. I spent the rest of the afternoon reading.

After dinner, Emily left while I cleared the table. She came back, naked, with the cane in her right hand. This time I had her bend over the table, holding on to the far edge. She was still brightly marked from yesterday’s caning, but I decided that didn’t matter. Or rather, it did matter. The fact that I was prepared to be merciless when she was already sore would make it hotter.

Even monochrome girls get the cane

I’ve described what caning Emily is like, so I’ll only say that this second time was noisier, because Emily made no effort to restrain her cries. She was lusty and loud, and she rocked, spectacularly, with the impacts, but she took her eight strokes across already marked skin, and didn’t let go of the table.

I felt sorry for her, but her punishment felt natural within the new terms of our relationship. It was amazing how fast I got used to having this right.

But underneath the rhetoric about justice and guidance I enjoyed the sight and sounds of her submission and her reactions, and Emily took her own pleasures from me. I knew she was floating in lust.

It was odd that she both enjoyed it and felt it as punishment. We were running on two emotional tracks at once. One was about punishing Emily for her behaviour and the expiation of her fault, and the other track was about her enjoyment of submission, and sex. One made her feel sorry and small, and the other made her wet and happy. Both tracks were true.  

Afterwards, in bed, I lay back so Emily could lie on her stomach, on mine. She cried onto my shoulder, eventually subsiding to snuffles. She said she was sorry, she’d been stupid, and she loved me. I held her, stroked her hair, kissed her over and over, and told her that it was done now, for tonight, and she was forgiven.

Generally, Emily dreamed in black and white

When she fell asleep I thought about her love and whether I deserved it. I decided she was in a life that excited her sexually and that committed me to keeping her from harm.

And while it hadn’t been a perfect negotiation, involving calm people, we’d both agreed to it, and the respective duties that imposed on us. So perhaps I was on reasonable moral ground.

It wasn’t about men and women or patriarchy. It was personal: she had a right to submit to me. She was one person, getting what she wanted from her lover. 

That’s where I felt that the ethics, the politics and the sex were lined up again.

I had another unsettling thought: was this why she’d fucked Marty? Had she staged a crisis to push me into taking control? It was something she’d asked for before, and  I’d refused her. So it made a kind of psychological sense. On the other hand, Emily wasn’t really devious. Our new arrangement suited her, and I’d resisted it for a long time. But she wouldn’t be that manipulative.  But… Emily slept beside me and I lay awake, wide-eyed.

Masturbation Monday: The right thing

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I’d just used moral blackmail, talking about how she’d hurt me, to ensure she agreed to being punished. This was new territory for both us – I’d never punished a submissive before – but I was sure that talking about how she’d hurt me was wrong. So I’d apologised. 

But Emily shook her head. “No, I’m sorry, I really am. I’m so sorry. And … you should do it. Punish me. I want you to. Well.” So I held her again. Emily buried her head in my shoulder while I stroked her neck, feeling that I was, on the whole, a shit.

Eventually we stood apart, and I took the cane from her. We’d been here countless times. But never like with this meaning. I said, “All right, Emily, you’ve asked for this, and now you’re going to get it.” That was true. “I’m going to beat you. As you deserve.”

‘Deserve’ was weak; I wasn’t sure what it meant. But I bet Emily had liked ‘I’m going to beat you’; that had sounded ruthless. I added, “Take off your clothes. Everything, including your watch. Quickly.” 

Emily undid and shed yesterday’s party clothes. I knew she’d prefer to be bending over the bed, tied down so she didn’t have to hold still. She wouldn’t have that. When she was naked I pointed the cane at her feet. “Put your feet apart. Wider.”

Emily obeyed solemnly, hands at her sides. I touched the cane to her belly, then touched it to her mouth. “Kiss.”

Emily bestowed a blessing on the rattan, easily. It seemed that I’d hoped for more reluctance.

“Thank you. Now turn around, please, Emily, bend over and touch your toes.”

Emily obeyed the traditional instruction, jack-knifing her body and reaching down to assume that simplest and most submissive of postures, beloved by bonobos, actors pretending to be teachers in bad porn videos, and me. It’s a hard pose to sustain for ten strokes, but she’d managed before. The position is emotionally as well as physically exposed. That seemed right.

“Thank you, Emily.” Still polite. I pressed the cane to the undercurve of her bottom, so she knew where the first stroke was coming.  

I was enjoying Emily’s submission display – would I fuck her after I’d caned her? Of course I would – but I was aware of softer emotions that I hadn’t expected. I’d lost my anger. Emily was giving me an extraordinary amount of trust, and that meant I had to be loving and protective. I had to be worthy of her.

There seemed to be something I hadn’t expected in this, something loving. It wasn’t “parental” because Emily wasn’t at all childlike and anyway I don’t think adults should hit children. But I was calmer than I’d expected, and oddly certain that I was acting from love. I suspected that I might be doing the right thing. I raised the cane.

Emily closed her eyes tight. I let her wait while I considered how hard to strike. I knew this had to hurt her. I put some speed and force into the swing.

 

What’s this Donate Button crap about, then?

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I’ve added a Donate button.

Running this blog costs money, especially as I’m self-hosting in order to avoid censorship.

I put a lot of time into this blog, and there’s no chance I’ll ever get paid in any realistic way for the work. It’s a labour of love, and I’m comfortable with that.

However, if you did particularly like something I wrote, this starving author would be very happy to spend it on a handful of rice.

 

 

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Masturbation Monday: “But that’s embarrassing!”

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Note: This is a continuing story, and its previous episode is here.

I’d told Stephanie she was coming to my room still naked, but on her hands and knees. She looked at me. If she did as I said it’d be humiliating. On the other hand, it’d be hot. Worse, or better, it’d be hot because it was humiliating. 

She chose a form of resistance that was calculated to be futile. “‘Walk to heel’? I’m not your dog.”

Eventually I said, “No. You’re my girl. Tonight, anyway. And you’re going to do as you’re told.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, Stephanie. Because you want to. Because you and I both really want you to. And…  because if you don’t I’ll take my belt to this gorgeous arse.”

“Oh!” She looked shocked for a second, then amused by me.

“And you’d say that’s not a threat it’s a promise?”

“Neither. It’s just information.”

I stepped back, because I needed space to move one hand from her bottom, to stroke her cunt.

Stephanie, sweetly, wetly stroked, moved her feet apart a little, and put her arms round me while I pleasured her.

I was holding almost all of her weight now.

But it was important to have her wanting more. I took my fingers from her cunt, and held them to her mouth for her to lick and suck clean.

“Good girl, Stephanie,” I said. “Now: hands and knees. Drop.”

And Stephanie looked at my eyes. Sh swallowed. She’d committed herself. She lowered herself to her knees, kissing the bulge in my jeans her way down, and assumed her new position.

On all fours. On the concrete doorstep.

I opened the door. 

Note: The next episode is here.

Subscribe to this lovely blog!

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I’m a writer. For money I mostly write about things like water distribution rights, health policy, social housing and other things for organisations who pay me for the research and writing work.

This is what happens to starving writers. Thomas Chatterton, dying in his garret. The model, oddly enough, is George Meredith, who was also a starving poet when he posed for this.
You don’t want me to die in a garret, in my snazzy blue pants, do you?

But I’d like to complete the shift to being a purely creative writer, who makes a living by selling stories I want to tell.

I’ve written a non-fiction book on bdsm, and two novels. I’ve put off the actual selling part of the writer’s job, because although I’ve sold many other products for paying customers, self-promotion doesn’t come naturally to me.

But you can help me, and it won’t cost you a cent. Please subscribe to this blog!

There’s a subscription note at the top of my right-hand sidebar. If you can’t see the sidebar, just click the Jerusalem Mortimer banner above, and it’ll appear, along with the other posts on my front page at the moment.

Fill in your email, click subscribe, and, well, that’s it. That’s all you need to do. 

I know that about 2,300 people visit my blog each week. The value of subscribing, for you, is that you get notified by email of my posts as they come out. I post four times a week, and the posts tend to tell stories, sometimes sexy, sometimes funny, sometimes both. I also write occasional information and opinion pieces, though mostly I’m a story-teller.

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Don’t do that again! 2

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NOTE

This is Episode 2 of a short story. Well, it’s short by my standards: I expect it to take only three or four episodes. Episode 1 is here. Read it if you haven’t and you feel like it, then come back. 

Don’t Do That! 2

Gavain groaned. He had, indeed, spanked Cassie without her permission. He said, “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. I mean, truly: I apologize.”

“God, you’re fish in a barrel. I was teasing you. You’re easy. Truth?”

“Ok.”

“It was mildly pleasant. It’s not one of my turn-ons, particularly, but I didn’t hate it. How, um, I suppose I should ask, how was it for you?”

“I’m not sure. I mean, your ass always feels good to me.” She looked irritated, so he corrected course.

“I don’t know,” he said. “When I had the thought about my, uh, client, I mean, when it occurred to me to spank her, I had a kind of flash, like a vision of what it’d be like. It was hot as fuck. I went, full on, this-is-awkward, unwanted erection. In about five seconds. Took ages to get it down again.”

“Did she notice?”

“Oh yeah. She laughed at me. A lot.”

“Oh, poor you.”

“God no. I was relieved. Could have been much worse.”

“I suppose. Anyway, what’s that got to do with how hot it was to spank me? Or not?”

“Because when I imagined it she was really into it. That’s what made it so hot.”

“So my reaction was… disappointing?” Cassie didn’t look sorry.

“I wasn’t sure if you hadn’t noticed, or you were putting up with it, or it was sort of okay but nothing special. So that wasn’t so hot.”

“On behalf of all womanhood, I apologize for not being a porn star. You’ll just have to put up with real girls.”

“You got a porn star’s ass. Very superior ass.”

“Huh.” But she waggled her ass, just the same.

Protocols and the experience of time

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Watch and chain

A protocol is, essentially, a standing order that a dom gives to his or her sub. The sub must always carry out those protocols, even if not reminded or instructed in the moment.

An example of a protocol (not one I’d impose, because I like eye contact too much) is: “The submissive will not make eye contact with the dominant, but will look straight ahead or down when they are speaking.”

The thing about protocols is that they increase awareness for both the dom and the sub, but especially the sub, of their relationship. They extend the emotional and sexual pleasures that come from simply being dom and sub, together. 

“Caution: bdsm time will end in 18 minutes”

In practice a dom/sub couple only do very active dominant and submissive things – flogging and tying and commanding and obeying – for a small proportion of their time together.

They also have to rest, and eat, and choose entertainments, and go to work, and worry about their parents or their children and so on. Life goes on, and a lot of it is mundane. 

So, if you look at it in one way, their experience of time is that there are short intense bdsm experiences followed by long stretches of vanilla time. 

Eternity, mother of many acts and hours

Protocols act to extend bdsm consciousness into more of that dom’s and sub’s consciousness and experience of time. They give a kind of immersion experience.

Bdsm, dominance and submission, isn’t a place you occasionally go, it’s where you live. Protocols help to keep the roles alive and active even when the couple is doing mundane things. 

So, the dom may be doing the dishes, but the sub will still address him or her by their title: Sir, Ma’am, Master or Mistress. 

The submissive may have to ask for permission to enter or leave the room, if the dom is in that room. Something like that takes only a couple of seconds, and yet it suddenly makes real and palpable the reality of their relationship, and what they’ve given each other, even in an otherwise unsexy moment. It’s a miniature flash of lightning, a reminder of the connection and the tension between dom and sub.

I’ve listed some protocols I’m thinking of imposing on someone who’s new to bdsm, and is in a fairly light regime, below.

Introductory protocols

The submissive will address the dom as “sir”. 

The submissive will wear the collar given him or her by the dom, plus any other given adornment.

The submissive will wear what the dom instructs. 

The submissive will kiss the dom in greeting if they’ve been apart for longer than, oh, five minutes.

The submissive will ask permission to enter or leave the room the dominant is in. 

The submissive will respectfully remind the dom of any matters needed to ensure the sub’s continued good health and well-being.

The submission will address the dom respectfully, no matter how egregiously he or she may have just fucked up.

 

Those are my suggestions, as starting points. Any thoughts or suggestions?