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 3

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Some time after two in the morning, when I was blissfully sleeping it off, my cock feeling well-used and slightly sore, in a good way, from all the hard work I’d done, beating, eating and fucking Ojastara, I felt a hand shaking my shoulder.

Usually I wake up quickly, and pretend I was awake all the time. But this time I really needed the sleep, and I was reluctant to re-enter the waking world. But Ojastara pushed my shoulder again, and said, “More? Once more?” 

So I groaned and finally sat up. “Now I can see why that guy broke a riding crop on your arse. You are getting a dozen, hard, before you go to work. That’s a promise.”

“Excellent! I can’t see my marks. But I like to feel they’re there.”

Ojastara didn’t just mean that she couldn’t see her own arse without a mirror. I’d discovered that evening that you could raise welts on her bottom, and admire those, but her skin didn’t change colour under my hand, or my belt or any other implement. She wasn’t black in the American sense, where even a faint coffee tan is called “black”. She was simply black like coal is black.

I smacked her left breast, quite hard. “Glad to be of service. What do you want?” 

“Fuck me again, Master? Please?” 

I thought about it.”I’d like to, little one. But there’s no way I’m going to get a hard-on again until morning. Real morning. This is the middle of the night. And my recovery time.”

“Please, Master?”

A master’s job is to make his slavegirl happy, and keep her in that state. So I smacked her right breast. She was a big-breasted woman, and the sway was a gorgeous sight. I made a note to do that again, and then fuck her between her breasts, when I was horny again. Then I slapped her face. (I have some internal resistance to doing that, but with Ojastara I knew it would be right.) “All right. On your back. Sitting up a bit.”

So she made a pile of pillows and leaned back on them. “Like this, Master? Are you going to lick me?”

“You woke me. You’re doing all the work. You’re to stroke yourself until you’re ready to come. And you’re going to stay there, on the edge. But you’re not allowed to come until I tell you.”

“Yes, Master. Of course. But what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to tell you a story. While you wank. You’ve got fifteen seconds to come, after I’ve said the works, The End. If it takes you longer, then you weren’t edging.”

“Fifteen seconds!” She managed to sound outraged. I was the unfairest, meanest Master of them all.

“Fifteen seconds. I won’t let you after fifteen seconds, and I’ll find a way to really punish you. Understand?”

“Master!”

Ojastara had already begun obeying, thighs wide, fingers buried, working fast. I smiled at her, though she didn’t notice. “That’s a good girl. Now, once upon a time…”

 

[End of prologue.] 

Sinful Sunday: When will you learn to behave?

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I do a good headmaster, when I’m punishing a girl. So after the first four strokes, I roared, “I can’t believe I have to do this again! When will you learn to behave?”

There was a pause, while Arethusa composed herself. She sniffed and swallowed, then said, “I bet you hope, I never do.”

Reader, I kissed that girl. But cane stripes look like kisses, too. I picked up the cane again.

 

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!

 

 

The Ojastara Tales: Prologue 1

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I was in a relationship with Ojastara, a Tamil woman. We’d met at work, where I was policy consultant for the State Government and she was a lawyer working on a complicated land deal. Part of her job was helping me not screw up the legal niceties, because the issues were more specialised than I was used to.

I told her a story about how a couple of years ago the then Minister had insisted we discriminate against people who’d just been released from prison. It was wrong and outside of that organisation’s establishing Act. There was nothing there about adding to the punishment of people who’d served their sentence. It was socially unhealthy, it was illegal and it would hurt vulnerable people.

I knew the Minister only wanted it because a local shock jock was running a radio campaign to stir up his audience.

She thought I’d fight it on the constitutional issue, that it’s not a possible use of that government agency. But that would only make him mad at me and I couldn’t afford that. So I wrote the Minister a paper showing that  he could do that but if he did he’d have to apply the same policy to other groups, unless he changed the legislation. I knew he wouldn’t want to do either of those things.

So he sent back my advice and and I came up with another solution that would give him what the shock-jock wanted but be unpopular with everybody else. By then three weeks had passed and the shock-jock had got bored and moved on to something else. So my third paper went to the Minister’s office and never emerged again. As I’d planned. 

I meant it as a parable about how government works differently from law. She thought it was funny. So we had a drink in the pub across the road, after work.

Her name, as I mentioned, was Ojastara. She’d been in Australia since she was three, so she wasn’t culturally Tamil, or not much. I asked her if she liked M.I.A. (I do), but she said she liked Celtic music.

The main thing about Ojastara that was different from any other Australian girl was that she had the darkest skin I’d ever seen, at least on someone I’d actually met.

After a while I realised she had the darkest skin of anyone I’d wanted, very particularly and personally, to fuck.

That second category is smaller, but it’s more important to me, of course. She was so black her skin glowed, almost with a trace of blue-black like Superman’s hair. I thought it was beautiful. She was beautiful.

She had an apartment not so far away. She mentioned that after our second glass of wine, when it was clear that we were getting on well. So I put my arm round her while we walked to her place. After a block’s worth of silence she said, “It’s a pity you’re such a rule-breaker. Because I’m a girl who likes strict rules.”

I didn’t immediately realise that was meant as a hint to out herself in case I was sensitive to clues like that. I missed it it the moment, but I  whacked her bum anyway, not very hard, “Well, I’m the rule-breaker. I never said you could break rules. Especially not mine.”

She dodged, but not until after my hand had connected. She laughed at me. “Oh? What sort sort of rules would you want? And do you really think you could hold me to them? I’m a very stroppy lawyer.”

So I stopped, and held her for the first time and kissed her. She had such a sweet face. I said, “Politics beats law, every time.”

She nodded. We’d recognised each other. A policy-maker was going to beat a lawyer, and then fuck her. She said, “But lawyers, we’re famous for not taking any bullshit.”

So I smiled, held her against me, smacked her bottom again, but really quite hard this time, and kissed her.

And that’s this story’s first episode. Tune in again on Wednesday!

 

 

Sinful Sunday: The shadow knows

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Zoë gets up, drawn by the light, to look out at the dawn over this new city. Even though they’re directly over a building site and a tv studio, the world seems green and optimistic. 

She studies, fascinated, the the elegant beauty, the slowly moving interplay, of shadow and light. 

But someone who hasn’t got up is fascinated by much closer beauty. “Zoë,” he says, “Come back to bed.”

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. 

Wicked Wednesday: May I?

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Claire learns that she’s not a woman who’s allowed to come without permission. But some wonderful things are happening and holding herself back may be too difficult, punishment or not.

It’s a hot scene but it’s had to leave my blog because it’s published now, and publishers don’t like their stuff to be available for free. I’ll put up a link to where you can buy this very hot text, shortly.

Masturbation Monday: Proper, good and bad

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After a while of knowing nothing except the feel of Roland’s body and the need to be as closely pressed against him as possible, Teresa slowly became aware again of where she was. They were together on his desk, Teresa tightly bent over and Roland covering her.

They were still gasping like sprinters who’d breasted the ribbon and crossed the hundred-metre mark. He reached under her to hold and cup her breasts, his body still pressed tight against her arse, his cock slowly shrinking inside her.

His face was beside hers, over her shoulder after he’d collapsed onto her back. He looked at her with something soft, some form of adoration, in his eyes. His mouth opened, then closed. He had nothing to say.

But eventually Teresa said, “I felt that! You coming! Like a little splash in me. Little splash of you! It was lovely. I felt you come in me.”

Roland kissed her. “That was… amazing. You can have as much of my come as you like. Whenever you like. And wherever.”

She chuckled. That didn’t need an answer, but it was good to hear. He said, “How’s your arse?”

“You mean the spanking or the buttsex?”

“Let’s start with the spanking.”

“The proper spanking? I feel not sore. Very not sore. Warm. Lovely and toasty. And I felt all floaty, for a while. Not long enough. And while I was floating, nothing hurt. Is that supposed to happen?”

“Absolutely. Yes.”

“Then proper spankings are great! But… you’d give a girl that for being bad? How’s that supposed to discourage her? I want another one of those. Lots of them. I mean, once I’ve recovered a bit. But soon.”

”That was a good-girl spanking. A proper one. But there are bad-girl spankings, too, and I think if I ever have to give you one of those, you’d, um, modify your behaviour. To avoid me giving you another one. It’s not just that it hurts more, when I spank to punish. It’s the knowing I’m cross with you. It feels very different.”

“’If you ever have to give me one of those.’ You’re assuming a lot, aren’t you?”