Monica’s home, and puss

Monica’s place in Annandale was part of a tiny bungalow, down a long path and dwarfed by trees. It had been subdivided by a landlord of exceptional greed, so her section comprised an alcove with a sink, a fridge and a stove, a small living room, and beyond that a door that must lead into her bedroom.

I’d expected her to live with other people, arty and theatre people, but where she was. She touched my cock again, to make sure I didn’t get bored and wander off. So I said, “Take those jeans off.” 

She looked at me. It wasn’t a hard order to obey, since she intended to do that soon anyway. But now it had meaning, and she thought about that. But I didn’t want her hesitating, so I put an arm round her waist, pulled her to me, and smacked her bottom three times with my other hand. “Now, Monica! And call me Sir.” 

She grinned. “Oh yeah. Yes. Sir.” She undid the button, all she needed to do because I still had her belt. She pulled the jeans down past her arse, let them drop to her ankles and stepped out. 

She said, “Puss! Puss! Puss! Danny! Food!” Then turned to the fridge and opened the door. I tugged her panties down to her thighs while she doled out cat biscuits and some ends of meat, and water into Danny’s dishes.

I’d done a better job than I’d thought when I’d belted her arse in the taxi. She had four pink but clearly defined stripes on her lower bottom, where I’d had to whip her through her jeans. The first two stripes, delivered on higher, bare skin, blazed merrily red. Her arse was a cheering, rousing sight, and I smacked her again. She turned to face me and said, “Does it show? Photo?”

“Yes, right now it’s kind of obvious you’ve been a bad girl.” I took out my phone. “Turn round again and I’ll show you.”

As she turned, there was loud yowling from behind the catflap. Then, as I took photos of Monica’s perfect and nicely striped little arse, the flap burst open and Danny stalked in, coal black, ignoring us, to guzzle deep in the food bowls. 

Monica said, “Rude boy. Greedy guts. I suppose I should say I don’t mean you. Sir.”

“Probably. Here.” I held the phone so she could inspect the studies I’d just taken of her whipped arse.

“Wow. I know you like those, sir. Or you wouldn’t have put them there. Actually they do look sexy as fuck. They feel nice and warm too.”

I confirmed that, putting my hand on her lower bottom, squeezing, then nodding. 

“Would you send me those shots? Please sir?”

“Yeah.” We did the exchange of phone numbers, and she took on seven studies of her bare, belted bottom.

She said, “My first whipping. Also, it’s the most spectacular molesting I’ve ever had in a taxi.”  

“Yes. Not the last, I think. Whipping or molesting. You’ll have to open a file to keep them in. Monica’s library.”

Monica grinned, but Danny, a black cat, was glaring. Not because I’d whipped his mistress, but because I was there at all, hogging all the attention. I crouched and gave him my hand to sniff. When he seemed to think I was acceptable I scratched behind his ear. Cats are sluts.

“Oh dear,” said Monica. “But at least you know what to do with pusses.”


“Don’t like ‘pussy’. I mostly say cunt. Or puss. You did OK with mine. In a taxi. But I’ve brought you home to molest me again.”  

I stroked Monica’s own puss, or cunt, then slid my fingers inside. She was still a wet girl. She closed her eyes and leaned against me, letting my fingers work in that sweet, tight, clinging space. Her panties fell the rest of their way down her legs, but she didn’t bother to step out of them. She said, “Uh.”, and rested her head on my chest.

Eventually she regained consciousness, shaking slightly. “Danny’s shocked.”

“Only one way to deal with that.” I let her belt down, so it was full length rather than doubled over. “On your knees, Monica.” 

“Danny will be appalled!” I held up the belt. I was too polite to say so, but it was clear her next six wouldn’t be long in coming. Nor would she. Monica dropped to her knees, kissed the hard lump in the front of my pants, and undid my fly. “I think there’s a cock in here.”


Monica gets her arse belted, in a taxi

Monica looked at her belt in my hand. Then she looked at me.

I smiled at her. “I’m going to do a magic trick.”


“Turning a bad girl into a good girl. Turn over, Monica, and look out the back window.” 

“Just a moment.” Monica kissed me, so I kissed her back, as was only fair. We were snogging in a taxi. Suddenly we were ordinary. Monica touched my cock, and grinned while still kissing me. She was giving me power over her, but my cock was hard because of her: even without hypnosis, she had power over me too.

Then she broke away, still stroking my cock. Her eyes were innocent. “Am I really such a bad girl?”

We were still whispering. There was a taxi driver in the front seat, wrestling with the traffic. “Bad enough to deserve this belt. Now turn around. Knees on the seat.”

“A woman can’t ‘deserve’ to have her arse belted. She can decide that it might be hot.” 

“I’m not going to argue with that. It’s true in a way. But I bet you’ll come to see that it’s not true, as well.”

“I see. Like mind control. This is a bit like hypnosis, isn’t it?”

But she was delaying things I felt urgent about. “Knees on the seat, Monica. Now, or I’ll pull you over my knee. And that’ll get the action into his rear vision mirror.”

Monica nodded. “Strict.” She turned and climbed onto the seat, looking out the taxi’s back window as instructed.

I whispered, “Hot. And you said if I’m strict, what do you call me?”

“Sir, sir.” There was something almost orgasmically pleasurable in hearing her say that. It conceded and promised me so much. I wondered if it had felt as hot to say it. I decided to assume that it was close. I tugged her jeans down a little further, so they left, clumsily covered, the under curves of her bottom.

I whispered, “First one’s on bare skin. The way it has to be. You keep your mouth closed, girl, till I’m done.

Monica nodded. Mouth closed, lips pursed. I folded her belt in two and wrapped it once round my hand so the swinging part was short: I didn’t have a lot of room. I swung it back, and then struck.

The leather cracked across the fullest part of that beautiful little bottom, deeply curved. Monica’s head jolted up, eyes wide, and her mouth open.

But she stayed silent, so I didn’t punish her for that.

The second stroke was about three centimetres higher. It was as loud as the first, but though I’d made sure it hurt, Monica was less surprised by the pain. Her eyes were still wide, but she kept her mouth closed. I wanted to kiss her.

As Monica’s hand edged down to reach under her belly and stroke her cunt, the driver said, “Uh, you guys OK there?”

I said, “Oh, fine. She just looking in her briefcase. It’s got a ridiculously loud catch. Sorry.”

“Uh huh.” The driver had heard bullshit before, but he couldn’t risk turning round, not in this traffic.

I laid the last four strokes across Monica’s underbum, protected by her bunched jeans. I made the strokes harder to compensate, but it was clear that, with Monica’s hand pressing and working on her cunt, it didn’t hurt her any more. Her mouth was open again, and she seemed … happy.    

After the sixth stroke I said, not whispered, “Good girl.” I tugged her jeans up, then smacked her with my hand.

Monica did up the top button, then turned and sank back onto the seat. “Thank you, sir. Yeah, I felt that.”

I reached for her and we kissed again. She looked at me. “You’re weird. That’s so not proper behaviour.” 

“Is that a complaint?” I still had her belt in my hand. 

“It is as far from a complaint as I can manage. Sir. You can,”- she dropped her voice – “whip me in a taxi any time you feel like it.”

 “I know.” 

“Ha! Said Han Solo. Um, we’re getting close. I mean, to my place.” 

I paid the driver. There was five bucks’ change, and he put that into his pocket, letting me know he wasn’t asking. As we got out of the cab he said, “Nice briefcase.”

We had, of course, no briefcase. And I still had Monica’s belt in my hand. I shrugged and smiled at him. He didn’t know what had just happened, but he knew he’d missed it. He didn’t smile.

Monica said, “Thank you! It’s a magic briefcase, and only a very pure taxi driver can see it.” I bet that was her stage hypnotist voice, but it didn’t seem to be working. He waved once, and drove off.

I took her hand. “Let’s get you home.” 

Monica gets her ass into a taxi

Monica slipped her hand into my back pocket while we walked to the taxi ramp. She said, “I bet you’re NSIT.” 

“What in the world is that?” 

“Schoolgirl code. I went to a very snobby school. We’d give each other warnings about boys. That one means ‘Not Safe in Taxis.'”

“Oh. Then I must be NSA.”

She frowned. “Funnily enough, we had that too. Did you mean ‘Not Safe Anywhere’?”

“Yup.” I tried to sound smug. 

“Oh,” she said. “An NSA man. Oh no. Help.”

“Take your belt off and give it to me.”

She stopped walking and looked at me. “Why?”

“First, I think you should do as you’re told. It’s more fun, and it’s safer for the state of your arse, and arguably your dignity.”

“Ok…” She didn’t sound at all convinced, but she undid the catch on her narrow, black leather belt and passed it to me.

I took it from her, and dropped it into my jacket pocket. “It’s so I can wallop your arse with it in the taxi, if you don’t do as you’re told.”

“You’re hoping I’ll take that as a dare, ren’t you?”

I kissed her. “I’m hoping you’re a good girl. But I’ll know what to do if you aren’t.”

“Hmmm…” Calculation was going on, behind that forehead. I didn’t mind which she chose, but I supposed it mattered more to her.

We were close to the ramp now. There were no cars there. While we waited, I said, “In the taxi you’ll undo the button of your jeans and tug them down a little.”

“So you can, ah, ‘wallop’ my poor arse?”

“Actually, it’s so I can keep my fingers warm and wet till we get to your place. Might keep you wet too. So I’d advise you to sit where the driver can’t see you in the mirror.”

She grinned. “You’re a very rude boy. Even by my standards.”

A taxi pulled up. She got in and sketched over to the right, where she wasn’t in the mirror or the camera. I sat in the middle of the back seat, so I could reach. “And you’re a rude girl.”

The driver said, “Where we going?”

Monica gave an address in Annandale. Then she looked at me, making sure I was watching while she undid the button on her jeans, and wriggled a little while she tugged them part-way down.

The driver said, “Annandale.” We were off.

I put my hand into her pants, and found the nicely damp gusset of her panties, and pulled that aside to reach soft, feminine flesh below.

I smiled and said, “Good girl. Also beautiful,” and slid two fingers into her. She was nicely wet, and she squirmed.

She said, “Uh,” when those fingers entered her, and then, a few seconds later, while I lightly finger-fucked her, “Ooooh.”

Monica whispered, “The driver…”

I kissed her, fingers still wetly held, slowly moving. I pressed deep into her, held it and then very slowly withdrew, and Monica seemed to lose her train of thought. I whispered, “Can’t see you. Or my hand.”

Actually, the taxi smelled headily of female arousal, and probably male, too. But there was a faint acrid smell of tobacco in that cab: the driver was a smoker. I thought there should be a new health warning: “Every cigarette is making it harder for you to smell turned-on girls.” 

I chuckled at the thought. I hate the word “chuckled”, but that’s what I did. Monica whispered, “What?” 

“Tell you later. Spread your legs more.” 

Monica closed her thighs on my hand. She looked at me, amused. I whispered, “No, spread them.”

She squeezed her thighs on my hand. It was far from unpleasant. But she’d dared me to belt her in a taxi, and I was going to have to do it. Traffic was terrible. We were still a long way from Annandale. I took her belt from my pocket.

Monica’s arse

Monica had just asked if I was proposing to spank her here, in a busy restaurant in Circular Quay. It wasn’t exactly a request, but it was a challenge. 

So I said, “Have you done as you’re told? You have so far. So you’re a good girl. I’ve got no reason to spank you.” 

That left it up to her. Suddenly we were doing a lot of eye contact. I smiled at her, deliberately smug, hoping to provoke her into some Bad Girl act. She had a half-smile, while she weighed up her options. And mine: was I bluffing? Surely that had to be bluff.

She reached for the button she’d undone, still looking at my eyes, and made to do it up again. So I grabbed her hands, and pulled them forward, across our table towards me. Then pulled a little further, so she had to raise herself from her chair. So she was bent over a table, arse up. She probably wasn’t as familiar with being in that position as I was with seeing girls in it, but she realised what it meant.

Still holding her hands – she made no attempt to withdraw them from my grasp, which she could easily have done – I got out of my chair, crossed the table, still holding her hands in my left hand, and smacked her jeans-clad bum with my right. She felt good under my hand. It was a game, a silly piece of showing off, and it was also sensual and sexual.

It was the first time I’d touched her body in a sexual way. The spank sounded like a thunderclap and even in a crowded restaurant it drew attention.

Monica said, “Yikes!”

Which suggested a total absence of pain and distress, so I smacked her again. And with that we had an audience. Monica didn’t know that, but she giggled, and didn’t stop laughing with the third spank.

I said, “I’ve told you and told you about your behaviour, Dottie! I hope you’re embarrassed, at having to be spanked in public like a Naughty! Little! Girl!” Those last three words, of course, were the last three spanks.

A woman waiter approached. Disciplining naughty stage hypnotists was probably against restaurant policy, somewhere in the rules. However Monica robbed her of her moment of glory by laughing, and saying, “You called me Dottie!” She laughed again. The waiter glared at me but backed off. I let go of Monica’s hands so she could subside back into a sitting position.

Monica sat, and pretended to wince. She said, “Dottie?”

I answered loudly. “So everyone knows your shame, Dottie Moncrieff!” There were probably photos taken, though they’d have got her jeans-clad arse and not her face. But the odds were good the photos would reach Twitter and such. So it was best that someone non-existent took the infamy and got the internet searches on their name.     

Monica nodded. She’d just gone through the same thoughts. “So … Dottie is very sorry. Possibly Sir.” She undid that disputed button again.

“Possibly sorry?”

“No, possibly I might call you Sir. If you were very strict with me.”

“Ah. I like that idea. Both those ideas. Taxi?”

She nodded, “A taxi seems to be a good idea.”

“Where would you – “

“‘Your place or mine?’ If you don’t mind, I’ve got a cat to feed. So unless you’ve got an Irish Wolfhound or something that outranks my Flivver, I’d like …” 

 “I have to meet Flivver. Your place it is.” 

“Probably a good thing. You’ve probably got whips and paddles and god knows what at your place.”

“My hand does all right. If called upon.”

She grabbed my hand, and pulled it to her mouth. She bit my thumb then kissed it soothingly. “Split the bill?”

“I understand it’s traditional that the person who’s going to smack the other person’s arse before they fuck them, has to pay the bill.”

“Wow. A gentleman.”

“Promise not to be.”

I stood up, and Monica did too. I put my arm round her waist as we walked to the counter where I paid a disapproving waiter, and then we walked out to the taxi ramp. We walked well together.    

Monica at the restaurant

Monica looked at me. This was an important moment. We were in a restaurant on Circular Quay, and I’d just demonstrated the awesome power of the Dom’s Command Voice. At least I hoped I had. 

Monica moved her hand to the button of her blouse just below her breasts. “When I make a suggestion in hypnosis, people just do it if it seems like fun. You probably want me to say something like ‘Yes, Sir,’ before I do as you say.” 

I shrugged. “It’s up to you. Whether it’s hypnosis or Domming, it only works if you want to do what you’ve been told. I haven’t told you to say anything in particular.” 

She nodded, then undid that button. Then she shrugged her shoulders too, but deliberately so the shirt pulled open a little, revealing her solar plexus and the inner slopes of her breasts. She wore a white sports bra. She didn’t say, “Yes, Sir.” 

She smiled, as if she’d managed to obey me but still won. So I reached forward and touched that place where her rib cage joined, my fingertips against her firm, slightly sweaty skin. I ran a fingernail very lightly, up to the bottom of the bra. She goose-bumped. Her left nipple, though oddly not the right, was slightly more visible through the bra and her shirt.

I wanted to squeeze that not-erected right nipple, to teach it its business, but we were in a public place. I said, “Now you say, ‘Yes, Sir.'” 

Her eyes widened. It is, of course, a hard thing to say, especially the first time, when it concedes so much. But she was turned on. She would only do as she wanted, but I hoped that her wants had expanded. It occurred to me that we would get a taxi soon. 

I wanted to smile while I watched her consider what she wanted. It seemed that she wanted me, as I wanted her, but that having me would come at some cost to her dignity. So I raised my eyebrows, to show I was being kept waiting. She blew her breath out through pursed lips. She looked into my eyes and said, “Yes, Sir.”

 I said, as any Dom will when hearing that, “Good girl.” 

She smiled. “‘Good girl?’ Is that supposed to make me feel good? A little dopamine rush?” 


“Yeah. Weird. Sounds patronising as fuck. And yes, there’s that little rush. Interesting.” 

“You could build it into your act.”

Then she frowned. “But what happens if I’m not a good girl?” 

“Oh, I thought you knew. I smack your bottom. Hard. Repeatedly. It’s quite loud. It’s called, ‘Monica gets a spanking.'”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” She glanced around. No one was watching us in particular, but there were a lot of people around. “Here?” 


Her name was Monica. I picked her up at the Opera House. There was a performance of Die Zauberflöte, and we noticed each other because we were the worst dressed people there.

She wore a pair of jeans that had been artistically torn and frayed to show off yummy bits of front and rear thigh. I wore a pair of jeans that had frayed at the crotch, because I’d been working in the garden, forgot the time, and had to race out in whatever I was wearing, it I didn’t wanted to get shut out. 

At interval I bought her a glass of champagne, and we talked about the opera for a while. She said it made no sense to her: she couldn’t see what it was about, the character Monostatos is a racist caricature, and she didn’t give a toss about any of the characters.

Except possibly Papageno, the bird-catcher, and she could see that he was a really obvious piece of “like me!” audience manipulation. 

As a paid-up Mozartean I shouldn’t have agreed with her, but I did. I told her that the guy who wrote the words, Schikaneder, had written the Papageno role for himself, so the audience would love him and he’d get all the laughs. She nodded. That figured. I had to warn her that if she wasn’t thrilled with the action at half-time, it was going to get worse. The plot turns extremely, annoyingly sexist, and nothing to be done about it. Even the racism gets slightly worse.

So at least Schikaneder gave us something to talk about: how crap he was. We got through two champagnes, and checked each other out. I decided that she had lovely tawny brown skin, probably Southern Italian or Greek, or maybe mid-Eastern, and I’d like to see every inch of that skin. And her mouth was a big sexy bruise, and her eyes were soulful and sad.

I’d certainly take her to bed. I just had to hope that she decided the same. After the show I took her to a restaurant on the Quay, and we talked briefly about how you could keep the Mozart music but lose all the Schikaneder. We worked out a completely different plot, that set new words to the same music. Maybe I’ll tell you about that some time. 

Then I asked her what she did.

“I’m a hypnotist.” 

“Really? Like telling people to stop smoking, or picking their fingernails and such?” 

“Well, audiences might be bored by that. I’m a stage hypnotist. I do my thing in a … well, it’s kind of halfway between a leotard and a corset, plus fishnets and heels.”

I said, “Ah-huh!” In case she didn’t know I’d like to see that.

“And I make guys think they’re swimming, or they’re little lambs skipping in the fields.”

“Really? I’ve seen that on TV. I’ve always found it unlikely that anyone could think they were a lamb. But they do the skipping. Do you think they believe it, or are they just playing along?” 

She frowned. “You know, I honestly don’t know. I think the hypnosis, when it works, makes them very suggestible. So it’s not so much that they think they’re lambs. It’s more that they think they should act as if they do. That’s where the suggestion works. And of course they’re having fun.”

“So it’s true what people say, that you can use hypnoses to make people do something they want to do? But not something they don’t want?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Like, if I have attractive male and female volunteers, I can tell them they’re lovers meeting at the airport. And it gets very steamy. That’s not for the matinees, of course.”

“Children’s shows? I guess not. So … what would I like to do? That I’d only dare do if I was hypnotised?” 

“No. You say. What would you like to do? If you were hypnotised and had no choice?”

“I’ve been thinking about the top button of your blouse since interval. It’s really not necessary.”

She looked at me. She said, “You are getting sleepy. Verry zzzzleepy. Now undo the top button of my blouse.”

So I did, trying to look blank while I did so. Once the button was free I tugged the blouse back at the shoulders, which wasn’t part of the command, and exposed some nice cleavage, held in a black sports bra.

“Yes,” I said. “I feel much better now.”

She smiled. “So that’s my secret power. I can make people do whatever they want.”

So I laughed. “I also have a secret power. Similar effect. Want to see?” 

She raised her eyebrows. “OK.” She sounded careful.

I pointed at the button on her blouse just below her breasts.

I spoke quietly but I used the command voice. “That middle button, Monica. I want you to undo it for me. Now.” 

She stared at me. That was interesting. And I could tell she knew what it was. She frowned. 

But before she could speak I said, “That button. Undo that button for me, as you’ve been told. Now, Monica.” 

She closed her mouth, still staring at me. I said, “I’m waiting.” 

I waited. 

Wicked Wednesday: In the Realm of the Sensei

The year continued. Seamus and his two loved girls lived together, generally in harmony. 

Both girls did better at school, particularly Yua, since Asuka had already been a good girl and devoted to her studies. But even Asuka misbehaved sometimes, though she would never be break rules as spectacularly as Yua. Generally, when either girl had misbehaved in class, or missed an assignment, the teacher of that class would send her to Seamus for discipline. 

So Seamus often caned Yua at school, and occasionally did the same for Asuka, who always seemed more genuinely sorry. 

And then that girl would come home, where Seamus would whip her soundly for having had to be punished at school.

Generally, the whipped girl was sorry, and would sniffle, lying face down on the bed.

Seamus and the other girl, whichever it was on that occasion, would rub oils and herbal mixes into her buttocks, thighs and upper shoulders. Eventually comfort and arousal would win the battle with pain, and comforting would turn into sexual consolation. 

The end of the school year approached. Both girls were on track to graduate with distinction. Seamus had started to wonder if he could marry Asuka, while taking Yua as a concubine. Both Asuka and Yua thought that was a proper arrangement, though it would be unusual for a concubine to be on such close terms with the wife. In any case, he loved them both, and he was securely certain that they loved him, and each other. 

Seamus attended their graduation ceremony with Asuka’s father, the jovial and lethal yakuza boss. The man had roared with laughter and slapped his back, when he saw Seamus was carrying – as discreetly as he could – the whip that had got both girls so far and so well. Seamus finally said, “I love your daughter. Sir.”

“I know. She loves you.”  

“I would like, with your consent, to marry her.”

“Ad what about the other girl: Yua?” 

“Asuka would be unhappy if I didn’t look after her too. Your laws don’t allow for two wives. Nor do ours. But Yua can have a traditionally honourable status.” 

Asuka’s father chuckled. “I thought you were an idiot, when I first heard of you. You’re not. And all things being equal, I’d be proud to have you as my son-in-law.” 

Seamus heard nuances. “But?”

“It’s a big world, Seamus. One of your poets has it: ‘Our own felicity we make or find.’ Relax and have faith. You will find your felicity.” 

Seamus frowned. “With Asuka?” 

“Hmm. Possibly. That depends on you.” 

.The ceremony was over, and both Yua and Asuka ran, in silly Western caps and gowns, to their Sensei.


[The end.]

Wicked Wednesday: In the Realm of the Sensei 33

Note: Sorry, I skipped a couple of weeks, with this serial. The previous episode is here.

But where we’re at now is that Seamus and Asuka’s friend Yua has just licked Asuka to orgasm while Seamus fucked her from behind. The three of them are now lying on the floor, in a pleasant post-sex haze.


In the Realm of the Sensei

Seamus found himself softening at last, and he had to withdraw from Yua’s cunt, with one finger pressed on the rim of the condom so it came with him. He saw Asuka watching him, amused. He knew she thought the faces he pulled, when he had to withdraw from her, were hilarious: she thought he looked like he was being tortured. Cast out of heaven, certainly. 

He rolled onto his side and looked at the two young womens. Asuka lay on her back, thighs parted and her hand on Yua’s hair. Yua lay on her tummy, now Seamus was no longer inside her, licking and kissing Asuka’s lightly trembling belly.

Seamus knew that immediately after she’d come Asuka felt her cunt was too sensitive to touch, and she generally directed his attention to her belly, or if he was still insistently horny she’d take his cock in her mouth, or turn and offer her asshole. That was always an invitation he found hard to resist.

But he was surprised that Yua knew not to touch Asuka’s cunt immediately after she’d come. Then he thought about that and stopped being surprised. Yua had had his girl before. Without his knowledge. Or consent, of course. He reached over and smacked Yua’s bottom, lightly and prettily cane-striped, and when Yua purred at that, he smacked her again. The stripes, he noted, were already starting to fade. He’d applied the cane lightly, to both girls.

He said, “All right, you two. Bed.” He helped Asuka to her feet. Yua stood without his help, and got another hard spank as reward. He wanted to make them walk in front of him, but both Yua and Asuka came to his side and put an arm round his waist, so he put an arm over each girl’s shoulder and they walked together.

When they landed on his bed Asuka tried to put her mouth on his cock, but he took a handful of her hair and pulled her back up. Asuka knelt facing him. “Sensei, we have something to talk about.”


“Yua. Yua wants to live with us.” Seamus glanced at Yua. She kept her face blank and said nothing. Then she got off the bed, and knelt on the floor, looking up at him. Obviously Asuka was to be her mouthpiece.

Seamus smiled. “Well, she can visit.”

“Please, Sensei. She knows that her and me, we can make yours the happiest cock in the world. We’d both like that. You can keep us happy.”

“I said, she can visit.” 

“But she trusts you. Same as I do. You will look after her, and she knows you’d make her work hard at school. Not just in your classes, but you could make sure she worked in all her classes. She should be a top student, shouldn’t she?”

Seamus glanced at Yua, who stayed kneeling and impassive. He said, “Well, Yua likes discipline too much. Even if I caned her every time she didn’t do her work – which would be every day – she’d still enjoy herself.”

Yua reached under the bed. She held a flat cardboard box, in gold paper, and handed it to Asuka. Then she returned to her kneeling position, looking up at Seamus.

Asuka held the box out to him. “She got you this. It’s to show you that she’s serious. And this … this is something she is afraid of.”

Seamus frowned, but took the box. He tore the paper off, screwed it into a ball, and, after a second’s thought, held it to Yua’s mouth. Yua opened obediently, and took the paper between her teeth. It was, perhaps, the first time he’d seen her do something submissive that wasn’t fun. He opened the box.

There lay, coiled, a little whip with a wooden handle and a tail of hard, woven leather, a little longer than his arm. He took it, wonderingly, and looked down at Yua. She was nervous, he saw. She bit on the ball of paper in her mouth, trying to swallow. Asuka said, “Yua says she can’t imagine enjoying this. She says you may use it on her whenever you wish. As hard as you wish. But she will do whatever she can not to deserve it.”

Asuka looked down. His cock, he knew, was hardening, lengthening. She knew that she, and therefore Yua, had already won.

She said, “Of course you will use it on me, too. But I already know that’s not my choice to make.”

Seamus took the whip in his hand and put the box on his bed. He turned to Yua, and took the paper from her mouth and dropped it on the floor. She closed her mouth but did not otherwise move. Seamus couldn’t hold back a smile, though he tried. “Yua, I suppose Asuka can find you space in her drawers and the wardrobe for your stuff.”

“I already have, Sensei!” Seamus ignored her.

“Yua, we have a lot of rules to talk about. And you know you’ve already deserved your first touch of this -” He shook the whip.

“Hoippu,” said Yua. It was the Japanese word for “whip”. 


“I mean, I’d like to think of you as Hoippu. The man with the whip, who whips me. Hoippu Sensei. May I address you as that?” 

Seamus didn’t answer. He knew that she already knew the answer to that. He would be Hoippu Sensei. He said, “Yua, this bed appears to be yours, now. A third of it, anyway. So, welcome to the household.” 

He wasn’t sure who moved first. But within a second he was on his back, completely covered in squealing girls. 

Wicked Wednesday: A bad President! (Trigger warning: Turn-offs!)

“Stormy! Stormy! I’ve got the hots for you, honey! The best hots! I know all the hots!” 

“Oh?” Miss Daniels looked up from her MAGAzine. “Sorry, I didn’t notice. Your tummy kind of hides that cute Mr Tadpole the way your jowls hide your neck. But…” She sighed, and held out her reader for Donald to press his firm proud, square-jawed credit card against it, with casual familiarity.

There was a pause. Stormy had learned not to move a muscle, Trump-ward, until the cash showed up in her account. At last, after a little electronic chirp, she put down her copy of Hustler and turned off Fucks News.   

(Not actually the real DT. More an artist’s impression.)

She put on a white latex glove and lifted the reality TV belly’s dewlap. “I see,” she said, with professional detachment, “these would be the flibbiity floppity hots, Donald?”

“Well, you know I’ve been a very bad property developer. I get harder when I’m punished, Mistress. I love it when you call me names.” 

“Racist. Incompetent. Narcissist. Lazy idiot. Creep. Rapist. Psychopath,” sighed Stormy. “Ok, I think what you want is a good spanking, isn’t it?” 

The future President brightened.

“I banned black tenants from all my apartments today! Was that bad, Mistress?”

Stormy waved her forefinger in circles, the get-on-with-it gesture. “Then I guess you’d best assume the position.” She moved an elegant thigh forward, and reached for her Hustler. 

Donald leaned forward, slowly, and bent, puffing audibly, so that one half of his belly hung over the right-hand side of Miss Daniel’s presented thigh, and the other half bulged over the left. “I’ve been the baddest. Like you would never believe. People come up and tell me, they say they’d never seen badness like mine. Some of them are even crying.” 

Stormy sighed again. She rolled the Hustler into a tight cylinder and secured it with a rubber band. “I bet,” she said. 

She began to spank her client vigorously.

Though she was trying to hit hard, the sound that filled the room was not the usual crisp spanking sound. It was more like a live gerbil striking a pillow full of custard. 

Stormy closed her eyes and thought about money. And long, hot showers.

Note: Marie at Wicked Wednesday invited us to write turn-offs, this week. I believe I’ve lived up to the assignment. 

Wicked Wednesday: In the Realm of the Sensei 32

Yua and Asuka turned to face each other. It was Asuka who put her arms round Yua, surprising Seamus, who’d expected Yua to be first to take advantage of their intimate position. 

He said, “Yua, put your thigh between Asuka’s; Asuka, let her. Good girls.” After a little graceful shuffling, the girls were pressed close, pussy to pussy, breasts pressing, holding each other tight.

Yua kissed her friend.  

Seamus waited for the first press of pussy against pussy, the first swing of hips. Asuka’s bottom arched back, in response to Yua’s slow thrust. Seamus swung the cane and stung his girl, just a little. When Asuka moved back at her friend, impelled a little by the new sting in her rear, and Yua retreated, he caned Yua, again lightly.

The girls fucked, standing, eyes wide, mouths open and exploring, with Seamus’s cane helping to choreograph and set the timing for them. They were beautiful together, and Seamus kept the pressure on till their bottoms were well, though lightly and pinkly, striped. 

Eventually, as he knew had to happen, Asuka lost concentration, at least concentration on matters like standing up, and she sank to her knees. Yua followed her down, pushing Asuka onto her back on the atami living room floor.

Yua knelt between Asuka’s thighs, her hands under Asuka’s buttocks, licking her intently while Asuka shook her head desperately, and muttered soft, high-pitched nonsense syllables.

Seamus gave Yua two harder strokes across her bottom, for reasons he could not have explained, but it helped increase Yua’s dedication to her task. Until Seamus knelt behind her, and entered her sweetly wet pussy. Yua raised her head for a second to squeal happily, and then returned to her task.

His hands gripping Yua’s hips with all his force, so he controlled her movements, he fucked the girl, slowly, savouring each movement. Seamus watched Asuka’s face as Yua industriously pleasured her.

He’d hoped to have eye contact with his love while he fucked her friend, but Asuka’s eyes were shut tight and she was lost, breathing in hard through her nose and mumbling sweetly with her out-breaths. Eventually Asuka reached up and put her hands on Yua’s shoulders, then reached under to hold her breasts. Yua yelped, happy, and Asuka squeezed, trying – not very successfully – to be cruel.  

But even the effort hit Yua, and in response she she thrust back at Seamus, needing all of his cock in her. Suddenly their fuck became hard and intense, and he had to hold Yua tight to keep her from bucking him out of her.

He smacked her with his hand and she growled, nose still deep pressed in Asuka’s cunt. Seamus wanted to slow down, prolong this, but Asuka suddenly opened her eyes and cried out. He hadn’t expected her to be the first to come, or to come so fast. She looked up and saw Seamus then, his face over Yua’s back, and smiled at him, still coming. 

Seamus didn’t smile. He was too focussed. Yua said, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Sensei!” He felt the flutter of her cunt contracting and releasing on his cock, and he pumped her in earnest, without holding back. They came more or less together, or at least in overlapping waves. “Oh, fuck me. Fuck me,” Yua said, though it seemed to him that it was a little late to suggest that. She slowly fell forward till she lay on her stomach, face on Asuka’s midriff, Seamus still hard in her.

Asuka smiled up at both of them, obviously still a little dazed. She put one hand on Yua’s mouth, and the other on Seamus’s. He saw Yua bite his girl. He kissed the hand at his mouth.