A good man, with a belt 2

The signal that this should go in anther direction was that Maureen said, “Jaime. Jaime, I miss Carstairs”.

And so I carried her over to her bed, lifted her off my cock, and dropped her.

Maureen bounced, something she did quite appealingly. I watched her breasts until they settled. Then she turned over onto her front. I looked down at her nicely contoured back and said, “well, yes, Carstairs. Those were the days.”

I undid my belt buckle, and made sure that the belt made a good loud leathery-slithery noise as it pulled free from the loops of my pants.

So we need some explanations. Why, for example, would anyone react like that to the name “Carstairs”? It seems a bit like Steve Martin in Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid, who would go berserk whenever someone said “cleaning woman”. (If you haven’t seen Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid, you should now.)

But I don’t really have a generic hair-trigger thing about the name “Carstairs”. If someone said it to me now, they might glimpse a bit of a smile if they were quick but they’d be boringly safe. “Carstairs” was specific to Maureen and me.

Maureen was one of the first submissive women I had ever found, in joyous mutual recognition some time after we’d already become a couple. 

She and I only had only ever done bedroom bdsm, and it was usually just a warm-up spanking followed by sex. But when we wanted to do something more intense, with tying up, and harsher orders from me, and the harder instruments, then we tended to use role plays. At that early stage in my bdsm career I found it more comfortable if the man who subdued and hurt Maureen wasn’t really me, or not quite; and if the woman who suffered but enjoyed those things wasn’t quite Maureen’s everyday self either. The games were silly, but they allowed us to do harder things that we wouldn’t do as ourselves.

Most of these games started on the pretext that Maureen had just insulted a grey, spindle-nosed neurotic husk of a woman called Vera Carstairs, who might be a teacher, prison warden or an office senior, depending on the game being played. I would deliver stern justice in retribution for the insolence that Maureen had shown our imaginary Miss Carstairs.

I don’t use role play any more, since I’ve learned to be as harsh as the situation and mutual pleasure warrants, as myself, and without a qualm. But the “Carstairs” games games were an important stage in my bdsm learning.

So the game was afoot, though we didn’t bother to invent a reason: I didn’t  think of exactly what Maureen had done to poor Miss Carstairs this time. I just doubled the belt, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then her shoulder, and then pressed my other hand down on the small of her back, holding her firmly down.

There would be squirming once I started her strapping, but, safewords aside, she wasn’t going anywhere until I’d finished.

Maureen arched her bottom up, and waited. It felt odd, for us to be so sexually intense together months after we were supposed to have broken up. But I was happy to be there with her, in this room and in this mood. So I pushed the small of her back down even more firmly, raised the belt, and brought it down, lustily and loud, across the crown of her buttocks. There was a beautiful creamy ripple where the strap landed, and Maureen sighed, though she kept herself still.

A few second later, a beautiful red band magically emerged across the pale, lightly freckled, domes of her bottom. It was a beautiful and intensely, immensely sexual sight. I hadn’t expected this, and it was good. I said, “Yeah, little Mo. I’ve missed this too.”

I raised the belt again.

That’s where I’ll break, for today. There’s trouble ahead, I should say.

Wicked Wednesday: The Barber of Seville

I went to Barber of Seville in the Ravenna opera house a couple of years ago. It was off season, but the Ravenna Festival was on, so they put on a student production.

I was going to skip it, but I’d met a woman in an antique shop, where I’d found an old ivory dildo, made in eighteenth century China, probably, and traded into an Italian sailor’s hands some time since then.

I didn’t have the vocabulary to ask the old man behind the counter what he knew about its provenance. 

But an Italian woman carrying a violin case was looking at old clocks, and she could speak Italian and English. She thought I was mad, so she helped me out. I offered to take her to a cafe, because I was grateful, and she had a nice mouth and eyes, and she looked good in jeans, though a raincoat obscured most of her. But she’d laughed and said I was an obvious pervert, and she was a good girl.

But her tone of voice suggested another try. “Um, but I’m a great admirer of classical musicians. Especially, someone who’s as obviously talented a soloist as you.” I happened to have passed the Ravenna Festival Hall that morning, where the doors were all closed for a youth orchestra rehearsal. Something told me she wasn’t a busker. So I guessed she was a soloist.

She given me dimples, and an enthusiastic “Grazie!” So we went to the Caffe Il Nazionale. I had a glass of pinot grigiot, while she had something with chocolate and ridiculous amounts of cream. She showed me the CD she’d just released. 

The cover showed a violin abandoned on the beach, and a little further away, her wearing only a thing, about to plunge into the water. I looked at her bum, as seen on disk, and at the more demurely dressed reality of her. She rolled her eyes. “It’s the photo Marketing wanted for the cover, if they were going to put it out at all. What can you do?”

So I said, “But you look absolutely  beautiful.” Then, since it seemed a little early to pay compliments to her arse, I said, “I mean, now. In this caffe.” She rolled her eyes, but there were dimples again. She wasn’t displeased. So I risked, “Well, you look pretty good on a windswept beach, too.” 

“Windswept! Oh, that shoot was so cold! I was freezing my tits off! I mean, literally. There was no way I was actually going to get in that water.” 

“Very wise.” I looked at the back of the CD cover, There was another picture of her, wearing a soloist’s dress,beaming and holding her violin as if it were a baby. And the track listing. It featured sweet semi-classical music: solo violin arrangements of opera hits, “Nessun Dorma!” and so on. And the first dance theme from the overture to Il Barbiere Di Siviglia, as a duet double-tracked with herself. 

She looked more embarrassed at that than she’d been at her arse. “Look, I’m a serious muso. I wanted to do Shostakovich sonatas. And the Respighi 2. Do you know it?”

“No. I didn’t even know Respighi wrote sonatas.” 

“He’s so underrated. He wrote opera, serious stuff. He’s not just some guy who wrote Fountains of Rome.”

She had more to say, because the English-speaking world pathetically misunderstood one of the greatest twentieth century composers. Or so she said.

As an English-speaker I was too good a chance to miss: I was going to cop an earful about Respighi’s stature. I didn’t argue, because I’d heard Il Tramonto and thought it was serious and wonderful, and because you don’t get to be a active pervert by ignoring girls with obscure enthusiasms. 

Note

I’m taking a temporary break from the Maddie/Jennifer story, because the next episode is proving hard to write. This story gets steamier as it goes along. 

A good man, with a belt 1

I was riding my bike back home from the university. It was a blue, moonlight evening, on a road that glistened with rain. There was something about the moonlight and water that made me think of my ex-girlfriend Maureen. 

I was finishing my degree, and earning money by cleaning the Psychology block at the university. I knew more about the shit of rats in Skinner Boxes than any young man needs to know. One interesting thing, for example, is that the turds of rats who were in operant conditioning experiments involving electric shocks were slightly olive in colour, while the poo of rats that were conditioned only by rewarding them with food pellets could be dark or light, but it tended to be brown. There’s a potential thesis in that, isn’t there?

Norton Dominator. Note featherbed frame, if you can

I had a Norton motorbike at the time, an old one with what was called a featherbed frame, though in reality you still felt every bump or crack in the road, through the bike and your arse.

I’d seen the bike in a shop, and when I learned its type was Norton Dominator, I just had to buy the thing. 

I should say that I’m not a motorbike guy any more, though the black leather jacket and the knee-high leather boots are still useful.

Anyway, there I was, riding the moonlit main road into the city, and thinking about how much nicer this night would be if I were riding a sleigh pulled by the Parisian Women’s Nude Iceskating Team. It’s a long ride, from the university to the city, and I often found myself passing the time in mildly lustful reverie.

Monique et Giselle, patineuses nues et Parisiennes

I started thinking about an ex-girlfriend of mine instead of the Parisian nude ice-skaters, and I decided to go and visit her.

I’ve told a story about her in this blog before. It was about the first spanking I gave, in my life, where I was bold and competent and everything had been hot and sexy and very right. I’ll call that woman Maureen in this story too.  

We’d split up because we’d both done some stupid things, and she’d left me for a lawyer who played in a mildly famous rock band. At that time she was single again, but I wasn’t. I was with Felicity, a girl who called herself Fliss. She pops up in this story a little later. 

I turned off the main road and took the streets that led to Maureen’s place. I suppose I just wanted to look at her and possibly hug, for my sake, and for her sake to listen sympathetically while she told me about her recent boyfriends. Mutual friends had told me that her recent guys were even less reliable, sensible and even more appalling than I’d been. A bit of sympathy was definitely called for.

I parked my bike under a tree round the back, outside her kitchen, just like I did in the days we were together. So Maureen knew it was me. She came out to welcome me, wiping something nasty off her hands with an old tea towel.

This isn’t really what Maureen was wearing, but it’s how I tend to remember her

She was wearing tight, ripped jeans and the sort of t-shirt you wear when you’re cleaning the oven. We hugged. I kissed her, but managed the hug without squeezing or smacking her arse, despite the temptations posed by those jeans. Maureen had always had the kind of body that most men like, just a bit more voluptuous than the women in women’s magazines.  

I let her lead me into the house, watching her walk with nostalgic admiration. She sat me down on the couch in the living room, and went to the kitchen, coming back with wine instead of the tea I’d asked for. I moved over and she sat next to me.

I asked her about her current love life, as if I didn’t know anything about it. Her facial expression confirmed that she wasn’t having a great time, and her grunt said she didn’t want to talk about it. So we talked about our time together instead.

We laughed about pleasant times, like camping beside a river and going into the water late that night to fuck, the glade we were in made magical by the moonlight on the trees and the water. We talked about the less pleasant times too, and we forgave each other for our stupidities, selfishnesses and lies. And so we kissed. The kisses were for, oh, friendship and affection’s sake.

Then we kissed some more, with more intensity, and we shared breaths, and Maureen undid buttons on my shirt so she could stroke my back. 

It was only about an hour from when I’d parked my bike when I got off the couch to help Maureen off with her t-shirt, jeans and panties. That was all she was wearing. It was a warm evening and she hadn’t expected company. Anyway, she knew she looked good. 

When her jeans and panties were round her ankles I put one foot on the gusset and pushed her feet down to the floor. When she lifted her legs again she was naked. 

She wrapped those legs round my waist, so I couldn’t get away, and when I straightened up she came up with me, a nice firm limpet with her breasts pressed against my chest and her arms and legs around me, holding tight. 

Happy to be, madam, your beast of burden. (In a domly sort of way)

I walked her, to keep my balance, until I pushed her back against the wall. She laughed at me. That laugh used to disconcert me a little, when we were first together, but I’d learned that it just meant she was happy.

I was thinking we were about to have one of those stunt fucks, where we’d adjust out position a little so that my cock, currently bouncing up against her buttocks, could slip home into her, and I’d march us round the room while she bounced on my cock until she came or I was exhausted. Whichever happened first. 

But Maureen had a suggestion to make. 

Sinful Sunday: The comforts of being good

Sometimes a good girl needs a spanking. She just does. Her skin and her soul crave it. Not too hard, not too light. Just sensual. With lots of appreciation of her beauty. 

And sometimes a good girl gets what she needs.

 

Note:

The castle again. A couple of weeks ago I published an “aftermath” picture, showing my girl sleeping afterwards. But this was taken during the enwarmening process itself.  

Writing and money

I’m a reasonably good writer working hard on becoming better. Sometimes I’m sexy, sometimes I’m funny, and sometimes I get the human stuff about thoughts and emotions right. And when I read stuff I wrote, say five years ago, I usually think it’s good, but I can also see ways in which it could be a bit better. That means I’m getting better.

I have a non-fiction book on the historical, psychological and political issues raised by bdsm’s existence, and by the forming of a bdsm community right now.

I also have a bdsm novel, which is a literary novel with rom-com elements, set in the real world. That novel’s currently with beta readers. Once I get their feedback, and adapt and amend where necessary, those two books are off to agents and publishers, so they’d better watch out.   

When I said, “set in the real world”, I mean I don’t do vampires, werewolves or secret islands or dungeons, and, using the words “real world” in a different sense, I don’t do billionaires either. 

I’m currently working on a second novel, which is harder edged, though the bdsm incidents take place between adults who know what they’re doing and are doing it because they want to. The non-consensual aspect is where ordinary people get hammered by violence, racism and corruption. I’m working hard on that novel now, and I expect to have it finished by October. 

Butterflies are free. Unfortunately, good as butterflies are, they’re not the best things in life. If given money, I promise not to blow it on butterflies or cocaine.

With this blog, I guarantee to have four posts a week. Though I’m counting this post as one of them, which is cheating a little. My blog posts are mostly true stories of bdsm life, though the disgraceful long story that continues every Wednesday is most definitely not true.

Truth or fiction, my goal is to have it real, sexy, and funny, as life can be. When you find yourself doing life right.

I’m serious and passionate about some issues, but I think writers are entertainers first, and moralists and philosophers second, if at all. That’s one of the things I believe passionately

On this blog I’ve been writing a long story with the comically click-baity title, Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive, and that has many more episodes to go. However, I’m taking a break from it at the moment, because writing it takes a lot of mental focus. Right now I’m putting everything I have of that capacity into the novel I’m writing.

Fortunately, there are two stories I’ve been meaning to tell for a long time, which aren’t quite as demanding, and should be shorter. The first of those starts on Monday. Tune in! I think you’ll like it.  

 

Help me build one of these!

The reason I’m writing this is that I’m setting up a Hat-Tip Jar. I need money, to pay for the running of this blog, and to get to Eroticon in London in 2018. 

I don’t think I’ll put any content behind a pay-wall. I don’t want to run ads. But if you like what I’m writing, then please, chuck us some money. 

This hat-tip jar will exist soon. I’m a techno-klutz, and right now it’s late at night. But it’ll be here in the morning! 

Wicked Wednesday: Maddie’s virginity (not long now)

Kate Winslet’s robe goes down, on the Titanic

“But,” Maddie said, “I collected every bit of courage that I had. And I said it. I said, ‘Sir, please cane me, and then afterwards, please fuck me.’

“And he smiled at me, so that I felt like the most blessed girl in the world, and said, ‘Thank you, Maddie. You asked very prettily. And yes, yes, girl, I will.'” 

I said, “That sounds good.” Maddie and I were lying together on the mattress in the store room. Oddly, I’d just caned her and fucked her myself, not so long before.

We were both lying on our backs. I leaned back on a collection of pillows, and Maddie lay back on me, her head nestled in the crook of my arm. 

Maddie turned her head and kissed my chest, not so far below my nipple. “It did. It sounded so wonderful. I was in heaven. But don’t forget, sir. This is a cautionary tale. It’s why you should take Jennifer soon. She wants you to. And if you hold her off for too long, there’s a real risk it’ll all go sideways. Or down, like the Titanic. Jennifer should have her fairy-tale. I’m afraid I didn’t.”

Leo takes down Kate’s particulars, on the Titanic

I said, “Oh?” I’d forgotten that Maddie was telling me this story so that Jennifer wouldn’t have the same fate Maddie had had, at Jennifer’s age. Therefore this story didn’t have a happy ending.

“Yes. Oh. As in Uh-oh. So I danced out of his office, so happy. And although I knew I was going to get the cane straight after school, I was looking forward to it.

“I figured it would hurt like his spanking hurt, in a lovely exciting way. And then his cock – I’d liked it so much when it’d been in my mouth. I knew I was going to love it when he took me. Not just my cunt, but my whole body. I was going to be his.

“I squirmed all afternoon. God, I remember it. I was so wet and so wanting. I was hotter and hornier than I’d ever felt. If I’d even got a breath of wind on my cunt I’d have exploded. I would’ve screamed the whole classroom down. Shattered the windows.”

Kate enjoys a good lie-down, on the Titanic

I reached down idly and tickled Maddie’s belly, then a little further down and stroked her cunt. She was eleven years older now than she’d been during the events she was describing to me, and soon to turn thirty.

She was every bit as wet as her younger self. Maddie sighed comfortably as my fingers sank into her. I pushed my fingers a little deeper, and she rolled her hips, nuzzling her cunt greedily against my hand.

I had an idea that Maddie was going to need comfort after she’d finished her story. I kissed her. She kissed me back, but she broke the kiss first and turned her head away. “So, after school I went back to his office.” 

 

Note

I tell stories at a leisurely pace. If a thing’s worth doing it’s worth doing slowly, say I. So it’s easy to forget how Maddie’s story started.

In a deleted scene, after the Titanic has sunk, Kate learns to walk on water and saves herself, Leo, and the wooden panel. Certainly, it was a night to remember

Maddie’s lover, our narrator, has admitted that he has the desire and the duty to initiate his student Jennifer Perch into certain adult pleasures. Maddie tells him her story to advise him that he should make sure he looks after Jennifer properly and make sure her first sex is happier than Maddie’s had been.

So I’m foreshadowing that the next episode (or more, given the speed at which I tell stories) will be realistic rather than pornotopian.  

But don’t worry too much. I can say, without giving too much in the way of Spoilers, that there are happy endings all round, in the past and in the present.

Bdsm guilt, and doing good works

Being into bdsm means knowing that you’re different from most of the people around you. I learned that early. I was with my older brothers and sisters – who didn’t want a 4-year old’s company, but my parents hadn’t given them any choice – and they went to an abandoned forest workers’ hut, that happened to be in the neighbourhood.

For generations, children and adolescents had been going there to play sex games.

Bottles got spun and boys kissed girls, girls cuddled boys, and the penalty for losing a round of any game they played was taking off an item of clothing. And so on.

Anyway, I was much younger so I didn’t take part. I mostly climbed up the shelves on the wall, and found a place where I could look down if I wanted to. A lot of the time I just day-dreamed. But one day they played a game of “school”, where, at the end of each round, someone got spanked. A girl called Donna getting spanked caught my attention, very strongly.

With my little four-year-old hard-on. 

That’s not “why” I’m into bdsm, of course. I was already into bdsm before I entered that shed; I just didn’t know about it. Rather, it was the first time I realised that this was something I was into. It was going to be important to me. And it wasn’t important, it seemed, to anyone else who’d been in that shed. 

But it didn’t take very long to find out some other things. The first is that this is a minority sexuality. My friends weren’t interested. It was just me.

The second thing I learned was even less welcome: people who had this sexual interest weren’t admired and respected, to put it mildly. 

People like me were the villains in movies and TV shows. We were evil. We were sick. I was a priggish little bastard when I was a kid, so I wasn’t happy about being evil. I wanted a moral pass-mark, at least.  

So I devoted most of my life to Good Works. My first job was as a psychiatric nurse. Then I did a social work degree. I helped set up the first domestic violence women’s refuge in my part of the world. I set up the first union for unemployed people that’d existed, in my part of the world, since the 1930s. I helped set up Shelter in my part of the world.

I campaigned for, and won, changes to landlord-tenant laws that meant landlords couldn’t just go round to tenants and throw them out of the property and change the locks any more.

I went on anti-racism events and got clubbed by cops. Though ridiculously straight, I’d put on my pink triangle and go on gay rights marches and vigils. You get the picture. 

One thing that strikes me, looking back on this period, is that I hardly ever hung round with political people when I wasn’t doing politics. I didn’t actually like them very much.

I didn’t like their jockeying for power, and I didn’t want power for myself. The social changes I worked for all had the effect of sharing out power, not concentrating it. Especially not into my hands.

(The people I hung round with were more drug-oriented artist types. Much more fun, and much sexier.)

You can’t get more evil than Frank Thring. The thing simply can’t be done.

My point is that I wouldn’t have done all this, I don’t think, if I hadn’t felt guilty about being into bdsm. I wanted to be a good person. You know, not a saint, but at least not as floridly evil as a James Bond villain. Or Frank Thring.

They were all good causes, and I’m still proud of the work I did. But in part it was compensation.

It meant that in the self-critical darkness of the night I could argue to myself that I couldn’t be all bad. I might be one sick fuck, but at least I was a useful one.

Has anyone else had their life course shaped in this way, by social attitudes to bdsm?

Held prisoner in an SS Castle!

She was a prisoner in an SS castle!

But, brave lass, she didn’t tell the evil, gloating von Mortimer anything. Course, it’s easier when SS stands for Sinful Sunday.

Note

The text is kinda schlocky, I know. Though the model is anything but schlocky. It’s taken in the castle, of course. The light is just beautiful, as always. As is she.  

Click on the lips to see other Sinful Sunday entries!

 

Cunt as “a nasty word for a nasty thing”: a thought

The Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Captain Francis Grose.

In 1785 Captain Francis Grose published the first edition of his “Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue”. The book’s a useful collection of old, outdated slang. Gross claims he got most of the words by hanging out with soldiers.

The Dictionary is best remembered these days for Grose’s listing of “Cunt” and his definition: “a nasty word for a nasty thing”. 

That looks horrifically misogynist, and it’s always quoted as an example of Grose’s, or more generally of male, misogyny.

 

I’ve started to wonder, though. The first issue, for me, is that the Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue doesn’t really have anything else that comes close to the level of fear and hate of women, or at least their genitals, that definition seems to demonstrate. And it gives more space to thieves’ cant (language used by criminals) than to sexual words, So could Grose have been saying something else?

Nasty as she wants it to be.
(Drawing: Betty Dodson)

We know the word “nasty” has a strand of sexual meanings. It’s everywhere in rap. “Do the nasty”, meaning, “have sexual intercourse”, anyone? But “nasty” has sexual meanings in blues, too. Which takes it back to the 20th century, and maybe the 19th, in US black culture.

But it’s older than that. The sexual use of “nasty” may have re-entered non-black English from its preservation among black culture. It’s not uncommon for words to survive in one cultural group while they disappear elsewhere.

So we go back in time looking for early uses, and we don’t find much, because sexual words seldom made it into print, before the 19th century.

But it turns out that “nasty” meant “lewd” from the 17th century.

Francis Grose: Geddit? Just kidding, folks!

“Lewd” means something like “overtly sexy”, with a connotation of “slightly more overtly sexual than the speaker is comfortable with.” But the sexual meaning is clear. “Lewd” is always a compliment, in my book. 

So, remembering that this meaning of “nasty” was in use from the 1600’s, and that Grose’s Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue was published in 1785, it’s possible to see his definition in another way. 

Was Grose making a sort of joke? “Cunt:  a sexy name for a sexy thing”?

If so, he was Winding Up The Straights. And We Fell For It.  

Wicked Wednesday: Maddie’s virginity (last hours 9)

Maddie lay beside me on our mattress in the storeroom. Her head in my shoulder, staring at the ceiling, she told me the story of the end of her virginity.

She’d just told me that after being spanked by her headmaster, she’d sucked him off. Once he had his cock back in his pants, he’d said “Good. Now, stand up, Maddie.” 

I’ll let Maddie tell it, from here. 

Maddie’s story

I said, “Yes, sir.” I had to put my hand on the floor to steady myself. But I stood in front of him, my eyes at his chest. He was so close to me, and I wanted to hold him. But I waited for orders. He smiled at me. 

“You’re such a very good girl. You know you have to come back here after school.” 

It was a statement, but I said, “Yes, sir.” 

“And why do you have to come back?” 

“I was late, sir. And you’re going to punish me.” 

“How am I going to punish you, Maddie?” 

“You’re going to cane me, sir. Cane my bare bottom. Like that boy.” 

“That’s right, Maddie. Or nearly right. I didn’t undress him, not completely. You, on the other hand …” 

I’d hoped that. It seemed so daring to think I’d be naked in front of him.

I’d already been more daring than that, but being naked for him would be a new thing too. My legs trembled. It wasn’t fear. “Oh, sir…” 

“And you just made me feel extremely good, Maddie. Would you like to feel good after I’ve caned you?”

“Oh, please. Yes, sir.” 

“Good. Then ask me. Say: Please cane me. And then please fuck me.” 

I opened my mouth. Then I hesitated. It felt like he could already see me naked. I felt so shy.