In the realm of the Sensei 6

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Asuka obeyed, lowering the panties so her pussy, now plumply visible, seemed to offer itself to him. Seamus could feel himself hardening. When the panties reached her knees, then fell to gather round her ankles, he said, “Step out of them, and give them to me. If you make too much fuss while I’m caning you I’ll put them in your mouth.”

“Hai, sensei.” Asuka stood, panties in her hand. She held them out and kissed his chest through his shirt when he accepted them and put them in his suit pocket. Then she turned, quickly and with just a hint of coquettishness, so that the skirt flared almost up to her waist before she jackknifed again, the uniform now protecting only the upper slopes of her buttocks.

Seamus lifted the hem and tucked it into her waistband. “I’m thinking of giving you twenty. The roaring twenties. Keep still, till I say you can move.”

Asuka said nothing, but made a sort of squeak. Something about that sound reached out to him; he was now fully erect. But he took the cane in his right hand and tapped it at the fleshiest, roundest part of her buttocks. So she knew where the first stroke would land. Asuka’s fear sound was lower in pitch. He supposed he’d become more familiar with these sounds, the sounds that Asuka made when she was under discipline, in the coming months.

Then, while he still had the nerve to do it, he raised the cane and swept it down hard against Asuka’s bottom. It didn’t land exactly where he’d aimed, but it wasn’t wrong either. The impact on bamboo upon girl was sharp and loud and it drew a white line across light brown skin, that soon blossomed into a bright red stripe, high on her bottom.

Asuka yelped, then sang out, “I’m sorry!” She held her position, her palms still pressed to the floor.

He followed the stroke quickly with another, this time aiming and landing it a little lower. She squealed and sang her apologies at mounting pitch and volume, but kept in place until the fifth stroke, the first across her upper thighs. That obviously stung more fiercely than the strokes he’d laid across her buttocks. Her upper body rose so she seemed to be bowing, and she took a step forward, breath hissing through her teeth.

The Ojastara Tales: Asking nicely in a Scots accent 2

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Ojastara knelt, her hands cuffed together over her head and suspended from a hook in the ceiling. Her knees were well part, the skin of her cunt inner thighs ablaze from the steady, insistent and insinuating lashes of Bridget’s flogger. 

Then Bridget increased the intensity, aiming the floggers lashes only at her soft, sensitive cunt. Ojastara closed her eyes,amnd her mouth hung open. She made no sound. Bridget increased the forces of the lashes, and Ojastara at last moaned, as though she was immersing her body into a warm bath. Then her brows arched, pleading, and she said, again, “Yeeees. Please. Please.” 

Bridget smiled. She leaned down and kissed Ojastara’s forehead, and pressed the handle of the flogger against her cunt. Ojastara seemed to collapse, her whole weight hanging from her wrists while she pressed forward and pushed herself against that hard, leather cylinder. 

At last Ojastara cried out like a cat being fucked, a high animal sound that was both need and satisfaction. It built and suddenly reached up to a higher pitch. There were years in Ojastara’s eyes, spilling, running down her face.

At last she breathed, “Oh yeah. Thank you, Bridget.”

“I think I’d like you to call me ‘Miss Bridget’.”

“Thank you, Miss Bridget.”

“Good girl. Not that you’re a girl, any more than, I don’t know, Eris was. You’re a trickster goddess. There aren’t many of you.”

Ojastara smiled. “That’s nice, Miss Bridget. But I’m not a goddess. Or a trickster.” 

“Just what a trickster goddess would say. But I have better uses for your lying tongue, Tara. Come forward a bit, still on your knees.”

Ojastara, who was still in charge there, and they both knew it, made an interrogative noise. Bridget sighed. “My cunt likes that sound. I think I want you forced to lean back a little, while you get me off.” 

So Ojastara crawled forward until her body hung back, from her uplifted, bound, wrists. Bridget stepped forward, thighs parted, and pressed Ojastara’s face into her cunt. She closed her eyes and sighed, as she felt her tongue in soft, wet, sensitive skin. And she let the flogger’s lashes rest against Ojastara’s back.

The third thing I try to do, with my writing

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The third thing is: clarity. 

Sex can be rough and tumble, with one person on top then the other, with their arms and legs entangled. That’s good when that happens, and sometimes you’re too busy feeling and doing to really keep track.

But as a writer, keeping track is your job. You have to know where your people are, and write it realistically and clearly. For example, if your characters are having rear-entry sex, the man cannot kiss his lover’s eyes. At best he can kiss one of her eyes, but you should mention, first, that she has turned her head. He will have to lean right down to manage it. 

If either of them has a tool in their hand, whether it’s a vibrator or a cane, it should be where it must be. If it’s in his hand, and the writer hasn’t mentioned him putting it down, then it’s still in his hand. If he has put it down to stroke his lover, then he has to pick it up again before he can use it. 

And the writer has to record that. And so on. 

I once read a book in which the hero has sex with the heroine at last. In the morning, the writer told me, he woke up naked, his withered hand resting on his thigh. So I leafed all the way back to the beginning, to see if he had a disfigurement to his hand. It turned out that the writer meant that his cock and balls, resting on his thigh, looked a little like a withered hand. Well, I thought, if you say so.

People often get metaphorical when writing about sex: waves crash, fires light, and trains even go into tunnels. Most of the best known metaphors are dead, really. Overuse has killed them, and they communicate a writer’s lazy boredom rather than sexual intensity. 

My preference is for saying what’s happening, in direct language that tells about the state and the action of penises, vulvas and mouths.

A note on metaphors and similes

Only after I’ve done that will I try to think of a good metaphor. Part of a metaphor being a good one is that it shouldn’t have been worked to death by other writers. The other part is that it should make sense, and communicate something specific to the reader.

For example, I once said a masturbating woman’s orgasm noise seemed “high and lonely, like a seagull’s cry.” Almost everyone knows what a seagull cry sounds like, so the simile communicates something about how it sounded, and also something about her emotional state.

Another kind of orgasm could be said to be like the sound a cat makes if someone rides a bike over its tail. That is arguably an accurate simile, for some orgasm sounds, but it’s a bad one because its too outlandish, too far removed from a sexual context.

Metaphorts and similes should be accurate, appropriate to the emotion of the situation, and not too outlandish, or too commonly used.

 

The fourth thing I try to achieve is… humanity.

 

In the realm of the Sensei 5

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Asuka at five. She knocked on the door and waited outside though she knew he left the door unlocked. He opened and found her downcast, head hung, mouth woeful. So although he’d meant to greet her harshly, he put his arms round her, and when she looked up he kissed her mouth, and said, “Welcome, little blossom.” But she was only briefly consoled. Once she was inside the door she sank to her knees, and gave in to sobs.

So Seamus, feeling he was acting like the worst villain imaginable, took her ear between his thumb and forefinger, and pulled her up. He smacked her bottom twice with his hand, through her light blue sailor suit. Then, still tugging her ear so that she had to keep her head down while she stumbled, he led her into the sitting room.

He said, “Asuka, I am not going to put up with any more of your stupid behavior.” He sounded false to his own ears, so he picked up the cane so she could see it and get an idea of what he had in mind. Her expression was unreadable. “Your behavior last night was stupid, and ugly. Last night was the omoni ni kuzuke. The last straw! I’m going to punish you.”

He stopped. This was where she could protest, and they both knew he’d drop the issue if she did. Or she could accept. She snuffled, still keeping her head down, and said, “Yes, sensei. Of course. I was very wrong, and I know I should be punished. I’m so sorry, Seamus.”

Her acquiescence seemed to come very quickly and easily. The thought crossed his mind: Did she engineer this? Am I being manipulated? He decided it didn’t really matter. “Then, bend over, Asuka. All the way down. Touch your toes with your fingers. No,” he said when she achieved that too easily. “Put your hands flat on the floor.” She obeyed again, and the uniform rose another inch, leaving a little more of her white-pantied bottom in the air.

“Hai, sensei.” Asuka was looking up at him, so her face upside down between her knees, her palms comfortably on the floor. She was, he knew well, a supple girl.

About half her panties and the plump intimacies of her lower bottom and upper thighs were exposed. Seamus wanted to kneel and kiss that feminine confluence, but this was something important, and a kiss would only be a distraction from it. They were both giving each other something that mattered to both of them. It had its own momentum and, he had to admit, its own pleasures.

“Take those panties down, Asuka. I’m going to cane you, not some cotton. Right down. Quickly, girl.”

The Ojastara Tales: Asking nicely, in a Scottish accent 1

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The flogger was reaching between her shoulders, and Ojastara, her arms outstretched and her wrists tied to pillars of either side of her. Her bonds were not uncomfortable, but she couldn’t slump and relax, the way she wanted. 

Bridget was applying the flogger almost lazily, letting its weight drive the impact as she swung it down on Ojastara’s back. Ojastara sighed. A happy sigh; this was good pain, and it was almost comfortable. Then there was movement within her, and her eyes widened suddenly.

Bridget had introduced a dildo into her cunt before the flogging started. Now it was as if it had suddenly woken up. “Remote control,” Ojastara thought.The stimulation was gently insistent, and exceptionally pleasant.

Then Bridget stepped in front of her. She was a tiny girl, with hair the colour of a fire engine. She wore satin black shorts, cut high, and a tiny black leather bra, and little black high heeled shoes. Apart from her hair, she was pale white, speckled with freckles. She smiled at Ojastara. “Oh, I am enjoying myself! It’s a pity you don’t colour much. But you have the yummiest skin.” 

Ojastara nodded. Just then, with the vibe in her cunt slowly becoming more insistent, she couldn’t gather her thoughts enough to form a sentence. She watched, helpless, as Bridget raised the flogger again, and delivered two slashing strokes to her breasts, left to right and then right to left.

One of the lashes caught at Ojastara’s dark plum-coloured nipple, causing an instant’s fiercer sting among the long, warm thud of the flogger’s path. Ojastara felt it like a kiss, or a kiss-and-bite, and she sighed, pleasured. The flogger lashed her breasts long and hard, with only occasional sharper sensations. 

The strokes came shorter and faster as Bridget worked her way down Ojastara’s body. The flogger swept across her thighs from left to right and back again, for a long, long, hypnotically long time. “Tara,” she said at last (no one but Bridget ever called her ‘Tara’), “I’d love to whip your cunt. Long and – mostly – slow, till you come. That all right by you?”

The flogging stopped, suspended, waiting on Ojastara’s word. Bridget bit her lip, supplicant though she held the whip, waiting. 

Ojastara smiled. “That’s you. You ask me nicely, in your Scots accent. I don’t think I could refuse you anything, little Bridget. “I mean, yes. Yes, please.”

“Oh, thank you. You’re so sweet, Tara.” And the flogger dropped, to lash upwards at Ojastara’s warm, dark, wet and tender lips.

    

The second thing Jerusalem Mortimer likes in his writing

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The second thing I like when I achieve it in my writing, and try to achieve is: “no inflatable darlings”.

2. No inflatable darlings

An inflatable darling is a character who doesn’t have needs and drives and desires, except perhaps for the desire to please the protagonist. She – it’s usually “she”, though some people write male characters in the same hollow vein – has nothing inside. No doubts, no worries, no insecurities, only lust. So the hero, Tex Turisedmeattube, says to his lover, “We’re going to have a threesome with Mona next door.” 

“Goody,” she cries, clapping her little hands in glee, “I love threesomes.”

So, as it happens, does Mona, who has been sitting at home, crocheting sleeping bags for mice, and waiting to be asked. For ages.

When the threesome happens they are jolly and jovial throughout.

In fact, they’re more committed to Tex’s pleasure than their own. Despite that, they both come noisily and often. Out of the blue, really. 

But I’m going to come back to one of my stories soon. I broke it off just as the threesome was about to happen. And at the time I just found it too hard to write.

There’s a man and two women, each of whom have their own desires and fantasies, and their own fears. He’s afraid of hurting his regular partner, or their guest. He’s afraid he won’t be able to keep them entertained. He’s worried about seeming selfish, or bossy in the wrong way.

One woman is worried about her body, and worries that the man will prefer the other woman. She’s worried about the other woman, and just how far she’s supposed to go with her, because she’s a little bi-curious but she’s basically straight.

The other woman is worried that she’ll cause trouble between the principal couple.

Perhaps she actually prefers the other woman, and is putting up with her mixed feelings about the man because the encounter will only happen if he’s present. 

And so on. There are three agenda. They’re all trying their best to please the other two, and to be decent, and to give pleasure and receive it.

But it’s complicated, because they’re real people. Erotic writing is still a kind of literature, and it should capture some of that complexity. In fact the more it does the realer it is, and the realer it is, the more more sexually powerful it is. 

Even when one of the characters is submitting, and dedicating themselves to serving the other’s pleasure, that person is still a person, and there are reasons why he or she chose their submission, and there’s usually a history to the pleasures they take from it. 

 

So, when I’m writing, I try to make sure I know what each character is wanting and thinking. Even if I don’t say all of it, there should be enough to make it clear to the reader than these people are real, feeling, wanting and alive. 

 

The third thing I aim for, and like when I get it, is clarity. So I’ll talk about that next week.

 

In the realm of the Sensei 4

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When Seamus got home it was about eleven and he was still drunker than he was comfortable with. Asuka met him at the door, kneeling naked with a cane in her hand, and another on the floor beside her. The one on the floor had a bow, and a card that said, “For School Use”.

“That’s so you can give the other one back”, she said. “But this one,” she passed him the cane in her hand, “Is for you. To use on me. Here, at home.” He looked at it, dumbfounded: it was thickish bamboo, about the length of his arm.

While he did that Asuka busied herself with his pants and took his soft cock into her mouth. He’d thought he’d be too drunk to achieve an erection, but Asuka was skilled and enthusiastic and, his desire roused, he used the cane vertically on her bottom while she served him.

But when he was confident his erection was going to survive, he pulled her up by her hair, turned her, smacked her bottom and drove her in front of him to the bedroom. He pushed her back onto the bed, and crawled up until he had a hand on each thigh, and pushed them wide. He kissed her just above her little furred patch, and when she wriggled, lowered his face and began to pleasure with his lips and tongue, getting his face greedily wet while she closed her hands into fists and her back arched.

Even so, Asuka took a long time to come, letting small pleasure sounds escape while she held her orgasm off. At last Seamus thrust two fingers into her, to stroke upwards at spongy flesh, and focused his tongue, for the first time on her tiny, hard clitoris.

She raised her thighs higher and cried out once, in what he guessed she thought was an unladylike manner, and let her body sink back to the bed while she sighed happily.

Her gift of the cane, the rod for her own backside, changed the nature of their relationship, of course. Especially since Asuka was proud of the marks he left and liked to skip though his apartment naked, so she could catch glimpses of herself in the mirror.

He liked that a lot, having a naked, pretty, happy girl about the house, and her joy was infectious. And he found that the cane made her sexually more urgent and passionate and he had to acknowledge that wielding it had the same effect on him. And, oddly since she enjoyed her “punishments”, her attention to schoolwork – particularly Maths – did improve.

The Ojastara Tales: The Landgrave 4

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He was begging her for release, his cock hard in the air between them. A small quantity of what the Germans called “yearning droplets” caught the light at the top of his penis. Ojastara leaned forward again, so her breasts touched his chect and his cock rutted against her stomach. She undid the leather round his wrist and thumbs, freeing his hands. Taking his left hand in hers, she held it to her mouth and spat copiously.

Then she sat back upright on his thighs, picking up the riding crop again and looking down at him fiercely. “If you want to come, little Landgrave, you can. Use your left hand. I’ll watch you.”

He stared up at her, desperation in his eyes. “Please…”

She flicked his cock warningly with the crop. “You know, I think you’d come if I just whipped this little cock. Would you like…”

He wouldn’t, it seemed. He reached for his penis, left-handed, and began to stroke. He gasped at the contact, and his stomach muscles tightened. He let out a great gust of breath, closed his eyes, and the circle of his thumb and forefinger stroked his cock at almost frantic speed.

Ojastara smacked his chest with the crop again. “Open your eyes! Don’t you dare close them again!” So he stared into her eyes as his body rose from the bed, his weight resting on his shoulder and ankles.

He said, “Mistress…” And he came, gasping as fluid spurted, in two streams, the first reaching nearly as high as her eyes, the second perhaps half that distance. None of it touched her. His head fell back.

Ojastara arose. The Landgrave looked up at her. His voice hardened, even as his cock softened. “An interesting moment of lust, to be sure. But you are staying with me.”

She looked at the riding crop in her hand, and then smiled at him. “No, Landgrave. I have taught you some things about yourself. I think you need to take the time to digest that knowledge. But I’ve done my part.”

And she walked away. The Landgrave scrambled to his feet, then stopped suddenly. Ojastara’s foxes had appeared at the pavilion’s door. All had drawn back their lips to expose sharp teeth. Foxes are smaller than wolves, but the Landgrave knew that a pack would have no trouble dispatching and then disposing of a human. He froze.

Ojastara left, but the foxes waited, still watching over the Landgrave. They were silent, teeth gleaming.