Category Archives: Wicked Wednesday

In the realm of the Sensei 2

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Seamus continued until Asuka was well lubricated and anyway better relaxed, so he could slide two fingers, then three, easily inside her. He said, “This may hurt you a bit. Like the very first time you fucked, perhaps. That sort of pain doesn’t matter; it’ll get better. But if it really hurts, too much, you’re to tell me at once. Is that understood, Asuka?”

“Hai, sensei.” He was sensei again. He supposed it was sexier, to be buggered by your sensei. He assumed this was a virginity for Asuka, about to fall to the lightest, slightest siege possible. He put a condom on, and put the head of his cock against that little dilated orifice, and then, holding her hips tightly, pushed forward.

Asuka hissed again, and said, “Oh!” Then her rectal muscle suddenly gave way and let him in. “Oh.” She breathed slowly, getting used to this intrusion, while Seamus trembled, holding himself just inside her, her muscle just admitting him. At last she said, “Aaah. Yes. But slowly. Please, sensei.”

Seamus smacked her with his right hand, so she could feel she was still being disciplined, and pushed further forward. He took her slowly, feeling that virgin muscle clasp him tight, letting her pause and get used to him each time he made progress. He’d wait until she was again breathing normally before he’d move to take more.

At last they closed with each other, until he was fully in her, belly pressed to her buttocks, cock fully lodged inside her. They stayed together, perfectly still, for a long time.

Eventually it was Asuka who moved, just a very little, and he held himself still while she began to fuck him, in millimeters, then centimeters, always slowly. At last he couldn’t stop himself and moved forward into her as she pressed back at him. She exhaled savagely in response and they fucked hard and fast, forgetting about care or pain.

Seamus could feel his orgasm building until, as orgasms will, it suddenly became urgent. He stopped still, and Asuka swore at him. But in a few seconds he had himself under enough control so he could move again without instantly coming, so long as he moved slowly. That turned out to be good, from Asuka’s point of view.

She began making little noises as he took her, squeaks and little gibbers that he knew as her pre-orgasm cries, her head shaking. So he continued, just a little faster, but pressing as deep in her as he could go, and tightening his grip on her hips so that, he hoped, it hurt her.

Her little sounds rose in pitch and stopped being little, and Emiko came, wailing and loud. Seamus thought he should really try for more, for her, but he had his own urgencies and his own orgasm was just seconds after hers. Time passed, or stopped, he wasn’t sure which.

In the Realm of the Sensei 1

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(A thing from a Work in Progress. I should say that many of my stories start as autobiography, before having details changed to protect the depraved. But in this story, Seamus isn’t me. He’s a guy I used to know.) 

Then, naked except for her socks, Asuka walked carefully to the door to collect her sandals, and put them on, while he admired the movements of her cane-striped bottom. She shuffled to the kitchen and took a shovel and broom from the cupboard under the sink. 

Seamus sat and watched his well striped girl, pretending to read Sei Shonagon while she picked up the pieces of plate.At last she’d swept all the shards and dust onto the shovel and then the kitchen bin. When the kitchen was tidy again, if lacking in crockery, she stood and looked at him, questioning.

“That looks … acceptable. Oh, and bring me the peanut oil.”

Asuka looked puzzled, but she’d accepted that if she was being punished and if her man wanted to cover her in peanut oil, then that was what would be.

She lifted the little bottle from the cupboard, and came back to Seamus, holding the oil in both hands in front of her.

He took it from her gravely. “Now, Asuka, I’m not finished with you. Turn round and bend over again.”

“”Yes, sir.” She wiggled as much as she dared, once she had her back to him, since she was confident that he admired her ass. Then she bent over, and touched her toes as she’d been while he’d caned her.

“Good girl. Feet apart a little more, Asuka.” She shuffled obediently. But he smacked the inside of her right thigh and said, “Further.”

She obeyed, less puzzled. But she made an interrogative noise when he lubricated his forefinger and pressed against her little asshole. Then there was realization, and she said something like, “Whoo.” In wonder.

Seamus pressed his forefinger into her, to the first knuckle, then less slowly to the second. He twisted his finger inside her tight, clinging orifice, and then withdrew, to put more lubricant on his finger.

Asuka held herself very still. Her face, upside down between her knees, was wide-eyed, mouth open. He smiled at her, and smacked her left buttock, then her right, with his hand, and then lubricated two fingers.

Wicked Wednesday: The Yellow Room and changes in porn styles

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Recently, because I was too busy to write, I posted some Victorian whipping porn, here and here. And I discussed the style differences between erotic writing from 100 years ago and the present here.

But there are some specific differences between the bdsm porn of 100 years ago and now, and it’s worth taking a moment to consider them.

This is where she cries Uncle.

First, incest was a very popular theme in Victorian porn, and it seems to have been especially popular in bdsm contexts. In The Yellow Room it’s all about an uncle and his two nieces, but in other novels – First Training, for example – it may be mother-son and father-daughter. Lesbian whipping and post-whipping scenes between sisters, in particular, are common.

But someone writing a scenario like The Yellow Room today would probably have the dominant male be a friend of their father’s, and not a blood relative.

Second, consent is not a serious issue in Victorian porn. The young lady isn’t asked if she’s feeling submissive. Instead, she’s stripped and punished, and then forced to obey orders to avoid further punishment.

In a modern storyline the writer would have to make it clear that the submissive enrolled in a special school, or met the friend of her father at some social function, and was intrigued by his promises of strict treatment that she went to meet him privately.

I’ve got mixed feelings about that. Mostly I think it’s an improvement. On the other hand, there are many people who enjoy the fantasy of being overwhelmed, not of their own free will. It’s not “real”, any more than the female rape fantasy is anything like real rape. But in fantasy anything goes, so long as it’s hot. So our care not to send inappropriate messages erases one quite popular fantasy.

This lighter birching, with suspension, looks more fun

I guess overall that our current care is an improvement. But I know submissives who really do want to feel they have no choice, at least sometimes. As a fantasy, it should be allowable. Anyway, those are my mixed feelings, and they’re not the hill I shall die on.

The third thing that seems noticeable to me is blood. In the section of The Yellow Room I quoted, it’s mentioned quite early in the proceedings that the lovely Alice’s bottom is bleeding, under the birch. 

I took out the bits where the blood sprays round the room, and trickles down to the floor.

Actually, Alice’s bottom spend many lines bleeding, in some volume, and felt I had to edit most of the blood-flow out, because I think for most people – certainly including me – it would be a turn-off rather than a turn-on. 

I once wrote about how hard you have to birch someone to cut their skin, because I did that, once.  To draw even a spot of blood you have to whip like a maniac, and though I can be strict, that’s a level of discipline I’m just not comfortable with. 

However, the Victorians loved it, both first-person submissive accounts, and from the flogger’s point of view.

By comparison, we moderns are a bunch of softies.  

 

 

 

Wicked Wednesday: The Yellow Room and Victorian porn 1

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This isn’t an ideal Valentine’s Day post, but it’s a sort of Valentine to Porn of Yore.

Porn usually loses its sexiness over the years, and becomes amusing kitsch. There are people alive today who were shocked by Debbie Does Dallas and Behind the Red Door, two very scandalous films of the 1970s.

You can leave your hat on…

That isn’t even a lifetime away: it’s just less than fifty. But I doubt if anyone could get off on either film now. Body styles have changed, and the actors in those films now seem pudgy, puffy, not toned. Their haircuts now seem quaint, and there’s no getting away from the unintentional absurdity of the dialogue. (That’s probably the part of the porn movie that’s changed the least. Porn people on film still talk tosh.)

But a similar effect also happens in prose porn. People must have gotten off on this, reading one-handed: 

Here’s an extract from Pleasure Bound:

 

“Mr. Silverwood blinked. Little Miss J was very, very pretty, and the ankles which had made him feverish in the twilight on deck, were now supplemented by deliciously-proportioned calves, which swelled up in graceful curves to delicately moulded knees, not quite covered by the lace frills of the pantalons garnis des rubans ecarlates. There was a little bare, pink flesh above each garter which made the Chicago multimillionaire delirious.

Miss J had a very dainty china-shepherdess skin tint, obviously her own, blue and very bright eyes, naturally her own, and a mass of bronze hair which was open to doubt-at least, so Mr. S decided as he noted the gap in the little darling’s drawers which disclosed a forest on her Mount of Venus which was quite a different tint.

She caught his eye, and, with a cheeky grin, put her two bejewelled hands between her thighs.

‘Hullo, hullo,’ she giggled, ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

‘Well?’

‘You’re thinking, either my head, or my-what ma’s got-is dyed.”

But Mr. Silverwood didn’t care whether Miss Jepps’s hair was dyed or not. His whole body flamed with desire; he seemed to swell all over, and the buttons on his trousers strained at their cables. He sank on the floor by the side of Miss Jepps and flung one arm round her knees and the other round her waist, pulling her down on to the soft carpet.

Miss Jepps made no protest. She opened her mouth to let his tongue run in between her ivory teeth and laid her pretty bejewelled hand on the throbbing swelling between his legs. Mr. S nearly went mad.”

 

Somehow, the sexiness up and flew away…

So the prose style is a sort of wordy jocularity, like a lot of not very good Victorian humorous writing. As a result I defy anyone to be aroused by the saucy situation in that extract.

Though it’s nice to remember that drawers were once quite like to reveal pubic hair if the lady sat facing you.

Next week we’ll look at some of the oddities in that slice of Victorian Bdsm porn I used, from the anonymous classic, The Yellow Room.

It’s much better written, and it retains its hotness better, than Pleasure Bound. But it’s still an extremely interesting interesting source on Victorian kinks. 

 

 

The Yellow Room – 2

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This is a section from a Victorian porn novel. 

The lovely Alice is being birched by her Uncle, while her cousin Maude counts the strokes and strokes her uncle’s cock. Uncle, being a wicked Uncle (TM), spends some time birching Alice’s cunt. Now read on… 

The Yellow Room

After several of these strokes had been given, her uncle asking her whether he was a wretch and a monster, as she had called him last night, she replied with vehement denials.

“No! oh no! oh! oh! oh! oh no! Not a monster! Not a wretch! My own dear uncle, whom I love! Oh! oh! oh! My bottom burns! Oh! oh! It is on fire!”

“Will you be a good obedient girl, miss?”

“Yes! Yes! Oh, indeed…”

“And thank me for whipping you?”

“Yes, indeed I do.”

“Whip well in, uncle,” said Maud quietly, in her rich voice.

And he did so. Alice shrieked, and fainted. 

Maud, beside herself, threw herself backwards on the long and broad divan – her breasts exposed, her legs (without drawers) wide extended.

Sir Edward, throwing down the birch, flung himself upon her with fury. He inserted his enormous affair into her burning cunt, and he fucked her so violently she almost fainted from delight.

When Alice came round and Sir Edward had risen from Maud’s bosom, Maud,  said, in clear tones, “Uncle, I told Alice yesterday morning, when she kept me so long before I could succeed in tying her down, that I would take care that it secured her an extra half-dozen.” 

Wicked Wednesday: The Yellow Room

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Your author is too busy to auth today. But here’s something from an anonymous Victorian filthmonger. The lovely Alice has been sent to stay with her uncle, who wastes no time in making her accept corporal punishment and the mild humiliation of being chronically underdressed. Probably not “mild” humiliation, really, for a Victorian miss.

Here Alice is being birched by her uncle, while her cousin Maud, already fully submitted to him, counts the strokes, and strokes her uncle’s cock under his kilt, to encourage him to keep the strokes hard. 

Alice’s birching (excerpt)

Maud’s even voice continued to number the strokes, and she herself seemed aflame; the sight of the agony her uncle was inflicting seemed to excite her sensuality to an extraordinary degree. Her lips were moist, her eyes swam; the eyelids dropped and all the indications of a very lovesick girl appeared in her.

Alice’s bottom, now bleeding, her tightly strapped limbs, her piercing cries, and the relentlessly inflicted punishment excited her strongest passions. She could have torn Alice limb from limb, and she encouraged her uncle, by rolling his balls and pulling squeezing his prick, to continue the punishment in the severest manner.

She gloated over the numbers as she called them out. 

Sir Edward, too, seemed beside himself. His eyes as two flames, he watched every motion of Alice’s body glossed upon all she displayed, and lacerated her flesh with the rod yet more severely as his organ, already excited to an enormous size, was still further enlarged by Maud’s hand.

At length, Alice’s lower bottom having been well waled from left to right, as well as from right to left, there remained but the nine strokes to be given lengthwise. 

For these, Sir Edward took the third birch from Maud, who by this time was standing with her legs wide apart, uttering little sounds and breathing little sighs of almost uncontrollable desire. 

The unhappy Alice’s cries had somewhat lessened, as the birching had been so severe that her sensitiveness to it had been much diminished. But now, feeling the birch rod curling round her cunt, which being all open and wet, was more than ever exposed, she yelled in a perfectly delirious manner. 

[To be continued next week.]

The Ojastara Tales: Tale the Second, Part 2

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Ojastara, hands tied behind her back, leash around her neck, followed her young captor. He was wearing a brown t-shirt, with German words on it. The forest equivalent of a Hi-Vis jacket. His shorts were small, and tight.

She watched him walking ahead of her, her leash in one hand. Ojastara wasn’t worried by her captivity, or concerned that he was, perhaps, not a good man. He wasn’t, but she liked watching him walk. A nice ass and good legs went a long way, in her mind.

So after a time she she risked stopping, and pulling back on the leash, The movement tightening the bowstring round her neck, but it also made him turn. He smiled, not nicely. Such a lot of contempt for such a young man, thought Ojastara. He said, “Did you trip?” 

Ostajara fell forward, as if she’d tripped. The movement brought her knees between his feet, her head against his crotch. She said, “No, not really, but I beg you: not the Landgraf! Couldn’t you look after me?” She stared at the bulge of his cock.

He stared down at her head. She let her shoulders slump, which displayed her breasts as she guessed he would want: weighty, not proud. He considered her and at last said, “And how would you like to be looked after?” 

She looked up at him, without leaning forward yet, so he could consider her breasts fully. “I think a woman is happiest serving a man’s pleasure, don’t you? So you have… with you” – she looked at his shorts – “a means to my happiness.” She opened her mouth, then, and made an O of her lips.

The young man looked at her, ideas and possibilities finally dawning on his face.

“Ah. Well, the Landgraf is more… complicated in his pleasures than I am. But if it’s hard cock you want, I am your man.” 

Ojastara leaned forward. “Then I could care for your cock. Though I’ll need my hands.” 

He slapped her, hard. “You think I was born yesterday, cow? You can suck my cock. Doesn’t need hands. Not even yours.”

The was a low, vulpine growl when the sound of that slap filled the clearing. Ojastara shook her head then, and the foxes subsided. The young man hadn’t noticed the foxes following them, and so her headshake meant nothing to him. She looked at him, as if imploring, and he pushed his shorts down, and his cock sprang free. 

Ojastara lowered her head and kissed the tip, and then, sucking him so he could not think, took him into her mouth.

The Ojastara Tales: Tale the First

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Once upon a time there was a girl called Ojastara…

[Ojastara wailed, “Oh, I like stories about me!” 

“I’m giving you a dozen with the riding crop before you go to work. Would you like me to double that?”

She had one hand on her cunt, the other squeezing her left nipple, so she couldn’t look sorry, but she said,”Sorry Master.”

“Shut up and don’t interrupt again.” She had the sense not to say anything in answer. She closed her eyes and listened.]

And Ojastara so loved the world that she tried to fuck everything in it. One day she was walking down a beautiful wooded lane, followed by a string of dogs, male and female, all attracted by the wonderful heat smells she was giving off, when she saw through the trees beside the path the most beautiful swamp there had ever been.

The bottom was soft mud with a layer, perhaps 30 centimetres deep of clear, warmish water above. The leaves floating in it were brown, like her own eyes; it seemed that she and the swamp stared at each other. She took off her red and blue polka-dot dress and laid it on the ground. She was naked, beautifully curved, and somehow blacker than coal, shining radiantly. Some of the more intelligent dogs simply sat and gazed at her, while she showed herself in all her sexual perfection and glory.

She waded in. Behind her the dogs began fighting over her dress, and it was clear that she would spend the rest of this walk naked. But she wasn’t thinking about that.

Her feet descended through the mud, and only stopped when they found a firmer surface perhaps a metre below. The water reached just under her breasts, and the mud reached her cunt. Ojastara wasn’t alarmed, because she could feel sentience from the swamp. Benevolence.

Then the mud at her cunt began to move, to stroke her, even penetrate her.The mud pressed her backwards a little, and then supported her, lying back, her breasts now caressed by the water, her hair floating around her.

Ojastara thought, “This is a lover, I guess. It’s the biggest, weirdest lover I’ve ever fucked.”

She heard the swamp, in her head, “No. I am fucking you.” It was more male than female, though both were there, and it sounded amused.

Ojastara didn’t reply, because the swamp pressed her legs apart, and took her, the mud quite manlike and determined, in her cunt and then – she felt it parting her buttocks first – in her asshole. The two protuberances inside her were firm, cocklike, and they pistoned her, the one in her ass alternating thrusts with the one in her cunt. She relaxed, perhaps a little too much, and her lover raised her a little so her head was mostly out of the water.

Then the mud held her breasts, squeezing hard, pinching her nipples with pain that sang in her cunt like a blessing, and the two cock-like projections began to ram her in unison, fucking her hard, now, and fast.

The voice in her head growled hungrily, but she was quite unafraid. Her cunt and ass were both aflame, it felt, but a sweet, gentle kind of flame, and she felt something build up inside her, demanding release. She came, hard, and screamed, so loud the dogs all ran away, each with a fragment of her dress in its teeth.

The swamp was infinitely pleased with her. “That’s a lovely sound, my little one. I think I’ll hear it again.” And it resumed fucking her, hard and quickly now with no build-up. Within a couple of minutes, feeling no longer completely in her body, she heard herself scream again. And wonderfully filled and held, she came again, screaming and wailing.

And you, Ojastara in my bed, have been told a moral tale, that all good things will come, and sometimes that includes you, if you’re a good girl. 

The end.

(Those were that words that told Ojastara that she had fifteen seconds to come. She – the Ojastara in bed with me – shut her eyes tight, blowing air hard from her mouth, and, palm clamped against her cunt, fingers still working busily, her other hand torturing her breasts, she opened her eyes and her mouth, and screamed.

She kept her eyes on mine right through her orgasm, and I realised that was something some previous Master had trained her to do. I decided that I liked it. In fact there was nothing about Ojastara, slavegirl, that I didn’t like. I kissed her. “Good girl. You did well.”

“Master? Am I still in that swamp?”

“Of course you are, darling. The next story will start from there.”  

“Will I be whipped, in some of your stories?”

“You’ll be whipped before you go to work this morning. But you don’t get to say what happens in these stories, love. Who’s that up too?”

She nodded, resigned. “You, Master.” 

“Now go back to sleep, little one. And don’t you dare wake me again till seven.” 

“Yes, Master. Thank you!” And she rolled over, pressing her ass against my cock, in case I woke up and needed to awaken her.)

The Ojastara Tales: Prologue 2

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Continuing the story from Monday.

By the time we’d got to her place I had my hand down the back of her skirt and inside her panties, feeling the muscles in her arse move while she walked. The muscles ball, then roll and stretch. It’s very rewarding, in a tactile sense. 

By the way, I used the word “panties” in that sentence, I guess you noticed. I used to not like the word “panties”, but now I do, precisely because of its unpopularity and lack of dignity. People who think they’re probably about to fuck aren’t always interested in their dignity. As a main concern, anyway.

She thought me putting my hand on her bare ass was a bit of a liberty, but on the other hand (oh, stop it), it showed my interest and intensions in very certain terms, and that gave her something to play off. Also, I knew by then that she wanted me to do something that she hadn’t consented to. She’d communicated that to me, which is a kind of consent anyway, but these things can get complicated. Often we deliberately complicate it so that we don’t have to admit how much of what happens to a submissive is at his or her will. Still, she hadn’t consented to that, specifically, so I did it. Anyway, that was how we were till we got to her front door. 

She turned to do the door. I grabbed her and kissed her. So we were ripping each other’s clothes off in the front doorway. Then she got the door open, and we fucked, for the first time, on her carpet. Later, in her bedroom, she showed me a broken riding crop. She said her last Master (he’d moved overseas) had broken that on her arse, and it had been a wonderful, beautifully sexual moment. 

I was mildly intimidated by that. I’ve never broken a riding crop on anyone. I’m pretty sure I never will. I thought about the force you’d need to use, and shook my head. Out of my range.

Still, I said I was going to whip her arse with my belt and then fuck her arse, so she’d have a hot, welted arse and my come in her ass to remind her of me when I left. 

She liked that plan and rolled over onto her front. I lashed her with my belt while she squirmed. Eventually it reached her, and she half turned and looked up at me, beseeching with big sad eyes, as if I was a monster to hurt a poor girl like that. So I put my hand on the small of her back, pushed her back down and continued.

I was demonstrating fitness to be her Dom. She’d told me she liked strict discipline, so I was enjoying myself but also making sure I got invited back to be naked with her again. Then I lubed her ass, and fucked her anally.  

Some time during that roaring, grunting fuck she stopped calling me Sir and switched to Master. I hadn’t asked for that but it seemed heart-felt. I accepted the gift, which is huge; the gift of herself, all of her, is the greatest gift one human can give another, and in a way only Doms get to experience that. So I was more moved than I pretended, but I called her slavegirl, and that was well.

Though she wasn’t really a slave; she was a stroppy lawyer, and even her Master didn’t really own her. But it meant we were in a relationship. The usual rules for a Master and a woman-who-has-a-Master applied. 

Which meant, for example, that she could wake me up at two in the morning, and demand to be fucked again.

 

To be continued on Monday 13!

 

 

Writing Plans for 2020

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I was writing the adventures of Claire, and an unnamed Headmaster. And his secretary Maddie.

I like them, all three of them, though I initially saw my headmaster as a villain. Over time he became more thoughtful, and kinder. That’s an inevitable process in my writing, because I mostly write about people whose worst deeds are accidents, the product of need and carelessness, and not “villains”. 

My observation of life is that almost no one is a “villain”. Everyone thinks they’re a hero doing the right thing, and fiction, to be realistic, needs to include more about the damage done by people who think they’re doing right.

I think I’m going to end the Headmaster story now, at least on my blog. The saga – and it really is a saga – is better suited for books, and in particular in books for sale. The headmaster books will be for sale soon. 

That leaves me with a question about what I should do with this blog space, “Wicked Wednesday”. I think I’m going to do two things for a while. The first is to tell you something more about a Tamil girl I knew, because that passes the five-year rule. The five-year rule is that I don’t write about sexual things that happened in my life until they were at least five years ago, 

The second thing is, I’ll pay more attention to prompts.

I once told the Tamil girl – I’ll call her Ojastara, on the excellent ground that that wasn’t her name – a sexy story while I stroked her to orgasm because I was exhausted. She loved that, so I did it again, many times. So I might start with the stories I told her. It may become a more single-mindedly sexual Thousand Nights and a Night. 

Beyond that, I should tell you that I, Jerusalem Mortimer, am also another writer, under another name, which name I’m not going to speak, here, and in 2020, I’m going to be spending more time on his writing career. Sometimes there are Sexy Bits in his books, but he’s not an erotica author like your humble host here.

I’m going to spend a lot more time being him. But Jerusalem Mortimer is a part of me that I like, and I’ll keep writing as him.

For sure.  

So watch this space.