Psyche whipped

When a Greek myth has someone being whipped, is it sexual? 

Well, if the whipping is ordered by Aphrodite, goddess of sexual love, then it generally is. The drawing is of Psyche being whipped while her lover’s mother, Aphrodite, watches. Aphrodite is the goddess of sexual love, and her son, Eros, is the god of lust, from whom we get the word “erotic”. And Eros is living with, and in love with, a very nice human girl called Psyche. 

There’s a lot of symbolism going on in this “myth”, which like a lot of myths may have been invented relatively recently as a literary concoction. That is, it dates back to Apuleius’s novel The Golden Ass, written in the second century CE, rather than from time immemorial like, say, the myth of the great war between the Olympian gods and the Titans.  

The reason I think the whipping is sexual, in its place in the book, is that Apuleius is very aware of different strands of sexuality, including “sadism”.

By making Aphrodite the spectator of Psyche’s whipping, Auileius is allowed to present it for the reader’s enjoyment and entertainment. As for the artist, he is definitely portraying the event as erotic.

 I guess the central thread of the symbolism is that we all hope that Psyche, or “mind”, has some effect on our lusts and loves. 

At other times, some of us want to be whipped and hurt and to sacrifice ourselves and suffer physically for our love. Which Psyche manages to do. And survive and find happiness.  

The artist, François Boucher, was rumoured to be an admirer of whipped female skin, and his wife to be a participant in his pleasures. There are questions we ask about relationships and consent these days that simply weren’t asked in the eighteenth century, so we don’t know if Mme Boucher enjoyed those sessions. We can only hope she did. 


Mouth to mouth 12: “Ropes? There are ropes on this bed?”

I didn’t know what woke me. Not at first. Qing slept beside me, her tiny body coiled, with her head half under her pillow and her little ass pushed back at me for her comfort and mine. A cord I’d noticed before we slept, one of the four tied to the bedends, lay on the sheet near her mouth, wet with her drool. Another comforter, I supposed. When she slept alone.

sleeperI lay on my side behind her, my arm over her shoulder resting on the swelling of her left breast. In the times I was awake and hard, I’d enjoyed its insistent arousal in my palm.

Through the night I’d listened to her sleeping breathing, with my cock sometimes hard in the warm, comfortable gap between the top of her thighs. 

Sometimes I’d soften and drift towards sleep, but whenever she moved I’d wake up  and my cock would straighten, wanting her.

(That gap at the top of the thighs: it’s the sub-pudendal inter-gracile fossa. The name for that part of the body is my contribution to medical science. It may be useless – I mean my contribution – but it‘s sexy.)

But I must have slept for few hours, eventually, because some time after four in the morning I woke up. Qing had reached back to hold and enclose my cock in her right hand. I could feel my heart-beat, held inside that little cage of fingers.

There were no curtains on her window, and outside I could see light in the gaps between the trees. There’d be birdsong soon. But in her room it was still dark and quiet. I watched her shoulder rise and fall with her breathing. Qing must have sensed that I’d woken up, because although she didn’t move at first, she made a satisfied, happy noise, and stroked the underside of my cock with her thumb.

I sucked in a breath, intending her to hear and understand that I was awake, and that it was okay for her to know it. I wanted her to feel certain that I was pleased to find myself in her bed, and to find her wanton again. Qing ran her thumb up and down the underside of my cock, still holding me lightly with her fingers, until the sensation was almost unbearable. Whenever she touched me my cock jumped like a salmon climbing a rapid.

She turned over at last, and kissed my belly. I said, “ahh..” But she moved lower, down the bed. 

qing and my cockI suspected that I should stop her. Or I kind of did. I was sure I’d come far too soon if she sucked me. And while coming in Qing’s mouth wasn’t the worst thing I could think of, I’d prefer to delay a bit longer. 

But she took the head of my cock in her mouth, and I no longer had the willpower to tell her to stop. I let her please me. If she’d been mine and submissive I’d have trained her a little more: teaching her how to suck as hard as I want without getting her teeth in the way, and I’d have wanted to make my points with the help of a rope’s end.

Still, I don’t think it’s possible for a man not to be pleased with a woman with her mouth full with his cock.

But I remembered that rope’s end, the cords that had been in her mouth while she slept. I found that they stretched as far as the cleft between her buttocks, and I gave her a series of light strokes across the near half of her ass, to encourage her.

qing's smacked bumQing frowned. I doubted that she’d ever been whipped before. But the strokes were light-ish – the way she’d soaked the end with her drool helped to make it land across her skin a little harder – and they helped her with rhythm.

I hoped she also felt the strokes were interestingly, enjoyably perverse. She seemed to be happy, so I kept her whipping going. Then I made the strokes harder, and Qing came up for air. She was hesitant about speaking. She was trying to remember something. 

“You’d asked me about these, when I was drifting off, didn’t you?”

The phrasing told me what was missing. “Jaime. I’m Jaime,” I said. And to show off, I added, “And you’re Qing.”

“Jaime, sorry. Anyway, you’re only more or less righ’ with my name. You don’t qui’e get the ‘chj’ sound. So: Jaime.”

“C’est moi. Anyway, I thought this” – I whacked her ass again with the cords – “was interesting. Not every girl has ropes tied onto her bedends?” 

“Well, not every boy pays any attention to them. You’re the first, actually. An’ … I didn’t put them there. I just – what’s the word? – inhabited? No, inherent?” 


“Ah-yuh. I inherited the bed when I took the room. And the ropes were already there. I just never took them off. It was too hard.” 

qingI had a little pile of things I’d taken from my pockets when I’d undressed: the condoms, but also my phone, keys, some cash and my Swiss Army knife. I held up the knife, with all blades closed. “Really? You couldn’t get them off, and that’s why they’re still here? It’s very easy to fix that. I can cut them off right now if you like.” 

“No! It’s ok!” She was trying to sound casual. She didn’t remotely succeed. 

So I said, “Well, whether they stay or go, would you like to try them on? Now?” 

Qing dropped her head and licked my cock again. She busied herself with that project, and said nothing. 

“Qing, I can’t do anything unless you say the magic word.”


“Okay, magic words: say, ‘yes, please’.

“‘Yes, please’.”

“Not quite yet. First I tell you that I’ll put you on your tummy. And that I’ll tie your feet apart, and your hands together behind your back. And among other things, I’ll fuck you while you can’t move.”

“Tha’ would be your turn-on, would it?”

“I’d enjoy m’self, for sure. But the question’s what you want. Now: ‘yes, please’, or ‘no thanks’?”

“Ah… And how do -“

I don’t know what she was going to ask, but I know delaying tactics when I hear them. So I smacked her bottom with her saliva-soaked cord again. She said, “Aa-aiie!”

I smiled at her, as though I were a reasonable man. “So that’s a ‘no, thanks’?”

“No.” That sounded considered. “I mean, it’s not ‘no thanks’. It is ‘yes, please’. If you promise to remember tha’ I haven’t done this before.”

“Good girl. Very good girl.” I put my hand on the small of her back. “Now spread your legs.”

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 63: Dances with razor strops

on topRaylene wriggled while she absorbed this latest hurt. Her wriggling on my cock, I decided, is a good thing, and I lay back to enjoy it. It crossed my mind to give her another whack with the razor strop, just to set her a-wriggling again.

But I had a different goal, and when she was still I started thrusting into her from underneath, setting up a regular rhythm that lifted her ass on the up strokes.

I swung the strop down as her ass was rising so they met in mid-air, catching her at the highest point. I din’t strap her every time she arched her ass up; I’d give her a fresh stroke roughly every thirty seconds.

I watched Raylene’s excellently mobile ass writhe and rise and fall in its dance with the strap. She was beautifully firm and rounded, glowing with color and heat. After the second stroke she figured out that the strop would always land when her ass was up, and she could handle it best and avoid extra strokes if she dropped instantly to take my cock fully inside her. And, of course, it was sexier that way.

She reached back to hold my thigh with both hands, to reassure and anchor herself while her ass was caught between my cock and the razor strop. While she was being fucked, the hard leather across her arse added exclamation points to her sensations.

She concentrated fiercely, her face crimson. I took my time applying the last seven strokes. I made the middle strokes less hard, but put extra speed and force into the last two so that she cried out.

pinketteWhen I’d finished her strapping the tension dropped a little. Raylene’s eyes were gleaming a little: she’d come close to tears. But she ground herself luxuriously on my cock, seeming happy to have it where it was. She looked sideways at me. “Is that it?” I nodded, and her eyes widened. “I took thirty strokes! Co-ol.”

I said what a dom has to say, under the circumstances. “You were very good, Raylene. You’re a very brave girl.”

Raylene puffed out a breath, sceptically. Still, she smiled. Simple things work.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 62: Raylene strapped on the bed

I gave Raylene a warning shot, the razor strop biting across the already bright surface of her bottom. She gasped and her ass jerked up, almost losing my cock from inside her. I gasped. I needed warm wetness around my cock, not air.

bed spankedI said, “No!”, and swung the strop again, this time on her upper thighs. Raylene drew a hissing breath, and looked at me. Indignation showed on her face for a second, then she cleared it. I put my hand firmly on her ass, feeling and savouring the new warmth.

“Raylene, have you ever known a man to like it if you let his cock slip out of your cunt?”

There was the ghost of a smile. “No, sir. That’s not popular.”

“Right. Now, I’m going to give you your last strokes, and you’re going to take special care to keep your cunt on me. If my cock is out of your cunt before I’ve finished strapping you, I’ll be angry with you. I’ll strap you, hard. Do you understand?”

Raylene lowered her head again, to rest on the mattress. Her flush had deepened. “Yes.” Her voice sounded throaty. She coughed. “Yes, yes sir, I do understand.”

“While I’m strapping you, you focus on pleasing me. You can enjoy yourself too, I don’t care. But I’m your priority.”

Raylene looked confused. She was wondering if she had to respond to that. I resolved that issue by raising the strop and bringing it down hard on her ass. She bounced upwards, but she managed to stay on her fulcrum. She grunted loudly. I said “One!”

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 53: Ten fast strokes

Raylene bent like a bridge over the stairs on the way to her bedroom, her feet on the first step above the landing, her bottom arched up and decorated with 13 stripes from an old leather razor strop. Her forehead rested, her hands behind her neck, five steps above her feet.

It was an uncomfortable position. But I’d promised her she was going to get 30 strokes from the strop in my hand, so her comfort didn’t seem to be a priority. I’d raised the strop over my shoulder. She was watching me so I smiled at her. Raylene didn’t smile back. She was bracing herself. 

I said, “I’m going to give you ten strokes now. They’ll come fast, so I don’t expect you to count them and thank me. Understand?” 

strappierRaylene frowned. “Yes.” I strung the strop, quite fast, making it smack low across her glowing red bottom. Raylene jerked forward, then found the control to get her ass up and presented again. “Jesus Christ!”

“You can do better than that, girl.”

“Sir! I meant, Yes, sir! I’m sorry, sir.” 

“That’s all right.” I made my voice consoling. I was on her side. “Just try to remember.” 

“Yes, sir. Please, Jaime, though. Not too hard.” 

“You’ve got debts to pay, and you know it. And you need to learn obedience. Get the habit of doing what I say. So of course they’ll be hard.”

“Oh, sir…”

“So brace yourself. You can close your eyes if you like.”

“Sir.” Neither a thank you nor a protest. That was right, I thought. I doubted if closing her eyes would help deal with the razor strop. But I was going to take care not to hurt her too much, and I didn’t want her to see me taking care.  

stropped frontI made the first stroke genuinely hard, and Raylene was already writhing and squealing by the time the smack of leather on skin had echoed in that stairwell and ended. But the next stroke came quickly. It was lighter, as were the next eight strokes. She cried out continually while I strapped her, as heart-wrenching as a kitten in a vice. 

But her writhing, another measure of girl-pain, was much less dramatic. She was feeling pretty good. She’d taken a flogging that I hoped she thought had been viciously hard, and survived. And she had only seven strokes left of her promised 30. She was realising that she’d managed something that she’d thought would be impossibly challenging. 

strapped and rosieI said, “Good girl, really good. You’re a brave girl, Raylene.” But then I stopped talking. There were voices in the kitchen downstairs. I hadn’t heard anyone come in. How much had they heard? A woman called up, from the passage on the ground floor, below us. “Raylene? Are you okay?”

Raylene said, “Oh fuck!” I expected her to scamper up the stairs and hide in her room. But she did not move.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 52:

I said, “Keep your mouth open. This is going to hurt, and I want to hear you.” I liked saying that. It sounded cruel, and I expected that Raylene would find it exciting. It paid attention to her, close and detailed attention.

stropped 1Raylene opened wide, as though she was at the dentist. Her face had reddened a little more, because of her own obedience. But her ass was redder still.

I took another moment to admire her, that sweetly curved bottom, muscular and womanly, and red, splotched with stripes of an even deeper red. I liked her body more the longer we spent together.

Then I swung the strop, aiming for her underbum, just above the crease of her thighs. She was startled, but she was almost silent, though she was breathing hard.

stropped 3So I made the next four a little harder, and delivered them fast. Raylene’s ass and thighs shook with the effort of keeping still, and she moaned, a long, low note: “Oh-wo-wo-wo-wo-wo-wo”. It sounded like “woe” to me, though I doubt if she was making words. 

I paused at the fourth stroke. “That’s thirteen strokes, Raylene. You’re being very good. And very brave. I’m impressed.”

stropped 2I left a pause, so that if she wanted she could say she couldn’t take it, and make me reassure her that she could. But Raylene had no protest to make, not even an insincere one.

She stilled herself, getting her hips under control. She arched her ass up, in the hottest and best invitation of all, and waited.   

She was breathtaking, in that position. I took a breath. I let her watch me raise the strop over my shoulder.  


Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 51: Raylene’s flogging

“Ready?” I raised the strop. 

Raylene said, “Well…”

I didn’t wait. I swung the razor strop down, I hoped about half as hard as her first six. It landed diagonally, the leather crossing earlier stripes and licking round at her left hip. Raylene’s arse shook under the impact, and she began the dance of a girl getting flogged, rocking her hips up and down, and then shaking her arse from side to side. Then she breathed, “Oh-owie-owie!” 

So I was happy. “Owie” is a word. It’s a word about pain, that expresses pain, but it’s a word. The person who says it is able to speak. The noises she’d made for her first six, harder, strokes hadn’t been words; they’d been simply, directly, pain noises. She’d still been stung by that last stroke, but whether she noticed it or not she’d found it easier to take. If I kept the strokes at this level her remaining two dozen strokes would be easier for her. Well, twenty-three strokes, now.

much tearsRaylene stopped shaking and dodging, and arched her back, cat-like, to get her ass up and presented. She said, “Seven, thank you, Sir.”

“That’s a good girl. But you can stop counting the strokes now.”

“Oh? Thank you, Sir.”

“Because the next dozen will come too fast to count. And they’ll be hard.”

“Oh. Yes, Sir.” I noticed her expression. Raylene was serene, with a little half-smile. Maybe just a quarter-smile. But I was being mean. And so she was happy.

I raised the strop.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 46: staying brave

Raylene, decorated with two broad red bands across her bottom, her upper body supported by her forehead pressing against the stair, turned her head slightly, wanting to look at me. She said, “One, thank you, sir.”

I was touched. I hadn’t told her to count the strokes. She wanted to make this harder for herself.

40ffishI cupped my hand on her nearer, left buttock, feeling the cool of her pale skin, where the razor strop hadn’t yet heated her. Raylene edged her body over, trying to tough me with her hip. I rewarded her, stroking her vertically between her buttocks, getting my fingertips wet with her arousal. Raylene shivered.

I pushed my fingers a little further inside. “You really want to be fucked, don’t you?” The first time I’d asked that I’d meant to humiliate her a little, since nice girls weren’t supposed to say that sort of thing, and she hadn’t yet been fully comfortable with revealing her submission to me. This time I meant it with affection. And appreciation. Lust is good.

It turned out Raylene wasn’t speaking just then. I took her grunt as heartfelt agreement, and stroked her cunt again, fingers a little deeper inside. The grunt became a moan and rose in pitch.

I smacked her affectionately, but hard. “Good girl. You’re being brave. Now I want you to stay brave.” 

I raised the strop over my shoulder, and contemplated my target. The strokes would start crossing each other soon. But for now there was still virgin territory to colour in, the soft and sensitive skin of the undercurve of Raylene’s buttocks, an inch or two above the crease of her thighs. 

I put my free hand on Raylene’s back to steady and, I hoped, comfort her. And, aiming low, I swung the strop again.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 45: the razor strop’s work

Raylene had placed herself back in position. After a second she arched her back even further, so that her bottom, now decorated with two broad, parallel red stripes, offered itself in abject invitation for more of the same. Pain, please.

Her cunt, likewise presented, made a slightly different invitation.

Raylene waited for me to hurt her again. Her low moan had fallen away. She was breathing audibly, but more or less normally. 

I had now swung a razor strop, in earnest, exactly twice. I’d learned that its weight to some extent dictates how hard it’s going to land. It’d be difficult to swing the thing lightly without it being obvious that I was trying to spare her, to fake her beating.

I was certain that she’d be disappointed if she detected me trying to do that. So Raylene’s first beating was going to be a dramatic event. She might think of the events in her life as having happened before this afternoon, or after it.

When I’d set out the rules to Raylene, I’d been savagely excited by my promise to give her extra strokes across the backs of her thighs if she took too long to get herself back in position.

I’d imagined her desperation to obey me, to please me and avoid further punishment. I’d hoped she’d fail, so I would deliver those two biting lashes across her thighs. And I’d imagined Raylene’s cries of pain and repentance, and her struggle to  place herself properly for the next stroke, so it would be counted. 

I knew, with no doubts at all, that she’d submit to that discipline, and that I would savour the sweetness of it, of that inner “give” that Raylene would feel and I would read in her movements.

cryingMy cock was uncomfortably constricted. I’d decided I’d stay clothed and formal until it was time to fuck her. But I wanted to be in Raylene, pressed against the red heat of her ass, and savouring the sleek wet comfort of her cunt. I wanted the physical and psychological warmth of comforting and ruling a surrendered girl. We needed to fuck, and soon.

But now that I’d actually started I was on Raylene’s side. If she did waste any time in getting herself back in place I would certainly deliver those promised extra punishment strokes to her thighs. I would make them hard, to teach that lesson quickly and indelibly, and I’d enjoy that teaching.

But still, I also hoped that I wouldn’t need to give any extra strokes. Doms change sides, once a flogging has begun. Or I do, anyway. I was with Raylene now, hoping she’d find the physical courage and the pleasure in submission to get through this with no faults, and no faltering.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 44: the flogging on the stairs

stropped4The crack of the strop’s impact across poor Raylene’s buttocks was almost as shocking as the noise of that first stroke I’d given her, back in the kitchen.

Raylene was still for a whole second, eyes wide.

Then, stung unbearably, she began to buck her hips like a jolted rockinghorse, while the second stripe formed across both cheeks, broad and likely to be as bright as its predecessor.

She shook her head in furious denial, though she kept her forehead on the step and her hands behind her neck. She cried out, “Aaaaaaaaaaaa”, high-pitched and gritty.

I said, “That was one.” That was a warning, a reminder that she had to get back in position. The ritual demanded it.

Raylene stilled herself somehow, and straightened her legs again. Her cry, that long, breathy “aaaaaaaaaa”, continued, but quieter now, a moan to herself alone. She straightened her strong legs and arched her back, presenting herself for me.

She was back in position. I had no idea how many seconds had passed since I’d strapped her. But I said, “Good girl. You were quick. And brave. And good. We’ll make it.” I raised the razor strop again.