It’s been a long time since Claire has had a cock in her mouth. But it’s the first time she’s ever pleasured a man while wearing nipple clamps and having another woman, Maddie, around to “encourage” her with a ruler.
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.
Teresa led Roland by his hand to her bedroom, but excused herself, took a robe from behind the door and went into the bathroom, leaving him, she knew, to potter about her bedroom seeking clues.
One thing he’d learn was that she wasn’t a tidy woman. There were piles of clothes, similar to the outfit she was wearing, on chairs and a dresser. He could make what he liked of the old-fashioned, framed, drawing of a witch, nearly naked, resting after riding on a broomstick, and another picture, drawn by her, of a kitten with a knife between its teeth.
Sudden thought
She was freshening up the concealer on a spot above her left eyebrow when she remembered the books on the chest of drawers by her bed: two were the kind of novels that get considered for major literary prizes and the other three were steamy romances. Masturbation aids.
If he looked at those, he’d find they were by a woman who wrote as Cerise Nates, and concerned dominant men and virginal girls, far more innocent than Teresa.
Often their sexual education began after they’d lost an important file, been rude to a client, or faked the boss’s email. If he took Amanda’s Duties, for example, and swung it gently by the front cover he’d find that the pages naturally opened on:
“No,” Alexander said, implacably. “You’ve asked for this, Amanda. Now do as you’re told.”
And… after the spanking? The anal sex!
Amanda tossed her golden locks defiantly, but she knew she would always want to obey that honeyed, impatient voice. Her pussy moistened as she turned to face his desk.
When she had bent over as he demanded, and her nose touched the leather top, she felt a thrill, a surge of pleasure in her pussy. She arched her derriere, knowing she was presenting all of herself for him.
Amanda worked for Alexander, a handsome young billionaire with an authoritative presence, and she was about to be spanked and – to her shock and then pleasure – taken anally, still with her nose touching that desktop.
All Roland had to do was pick that book up and he’d know too much about Teresa’s sexual dreams. Any one of the other two Cerise Nates books would tell him a similar story. “Shit,” said Teresa, as a girl like Amanda never would. But she took a preemptive piss, took off her clothes and put the corset back on, and the robe over that. Then she flushed the toilet and hurried back.
Amanda just can’t catch a break. But a witch can always take a break.
Roland was studying the picture of the witch when Teresa returned. Of course, he’d have heard the toilet flush. She glanced quickly, not too closely at the pile of books. Had it been disarrayed? But she met Roland’s eyes. He was gazing openly, the male gaze, letting her know he was admiring and desiring her.
He indicated the picture. “Lovely tits, that witch. But nothing like as wonderful as yours.” He stepped towards her, and pulled the robe away from her body, crouching a little to kiss each of her nipples as they balanced just above the upper edge of the corset, licking, sucking and biting them thoroughly and in turn, and only then kissing her mouth.
This is my girl, over my knee in a hotel in a strange city, getting spanked. Oh, because she was late home, and more importantly because she hadn’t been spanked for a whole ten hours.
But – stop me if you already know this – it’s actually pretty tricky, delivering a spanking with one hand while taking action shots with the other. This sort of thing is the result.
Oh, the good photo of the same scene, same spanking? It looks more like this:
Bdsm is an unusual acronym, because it combines six words into just four letters. It’s short for bondage and discipline, dominance and submission, and sadism and masochism. Bdsm is a group of three related sets of sexual desires and practices:
Any one of those things is bdsm, though most people involved in bdsm seem to like at least two out of three, or all three.
Strictly speaking (and in bdsm someone has to speak strictly), you don’t need a single one of these items for bdsm. You just need hands, a tongue and genitals
Another way to describe bdsm is to say that it’s a kind of sensibility. Bdsm includes many experiences and feelings shared by people who don’t consider themselves to be involved in bdsm.
Anyone can have moments of sexual surrender when they lie back, close their eyes and let their lover do whatever they want with them. Many people enjoy the fiercer experience of pushing a lover beyond their control so they are no longer capable of reticence or caution.
Not everyone who sometimes feels that way during sex would say they were into bdsm. What’s specific to bdsm is the way it takes these common desires and sensations and seeks to extend, prolong and intensify them.
Another defining feature of bdsm is the way it gives sexual significance to things that don’t usually carry much sexual weight. Someone who kneels before their lover, forehead pressed to the floor, is aware of the posture they’re in and its meaning. That awareness is sexual.
There’s nothing sexy about kneeling. Until it acquires sexual meaning. Bdsm is very much about assigning and enjoying sexual significance to actions and words
In other contexts there’s not much sexual charge to be had from kneeling. Bdsm involves physical intimacy and physical sensations, sometimes intensely, but it focuses not only on how actions feel but also on what they mean.
To an unusual degree, bdsm pleasure involves something almost abstract: the partners’ awareness of their relationship, and the symbols, gestures and words by which that relationship is expressed.
The practices – I suspect – aren’t as important as that awareness between the partners. Which is why it’s true to say that bdsm is both a form of sex and a form of love.
Claire is on her knees with Will’s cock in her mouth, very focused on her task. Then Maddie enters the room. Claire’s never been watched, in that position, before. After a second’s shock, she begins to find something deliciously humbling in that service and its audience.
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.
This is a sequel to an older post I wrote, about what erotic writers who consider themselves to be generally on the side of the angels should and shouldn’t write.
TC (Teresa) Dale wrote, on Twitter, that my rejection of forced sex scenarios was a bit hard-line, and inconsistent with my general principle that writers should be free to write fantasies that wouldn’t really be acceptable in practice. Readers, after all, can tell fantasy from reality, and can scratch itches in fantasy that they can’t in the real world.
It’s a valid point, and it got me thinking more about forced and non-consensual scenes.
I used the words “on the side of the angels” purely so I could use this image again. It’s by an artist drawing as “Schpog”, and I think it’s gorgeous.
Firstly, there are many stories about non-consenting sex written from the “victim’s” point of view. Those tend to be stories where the aggressor is incredibly hot, and the woman (could be a guy or transgendered person, but usually it’s a a woman) dutifully says no, but finds that the hot aggressive one overrides their objections and forces them into sexual acts anyway. And the “victim” shocks herself by being into it.
And I have no objection to writing that at all.
It’s writing from the other side, the “aggressor’s” side, that troubles me. If someone wrote a story that went, “she let me in after our date, but she didn’t want to fuck me, so I forced her, and she was, like, totally into it”, I’d find that kind of creepy.
I don’t think reading that story would make it more likely that someone will actually commit rape. That’s far too simplistic.
But I’m not going to write that story, partly for personal reasons: I don’t want to spend any time in that headspace.
But also, I hate those “rapist’s POV camera, stalking the woman” scenes on tv and in movies. I don’t want to write the prose equivalent. I guess it’s the idea that rape culture is pervasive enough already, and writers shouldn’t contribute to it.
So it’s writing about non-consent from the aggressor’s point of view that I have reservations about.
If you have a scenario like, “the auctioneer has to test every slave girl before the auction”, it’s rapey, but somehow less appalling because it’s so obviously fantasy
There’s another issue: realism. It’s one thing to write about a James Bond villain with an underground lair and a desert island, or an alien with a spaceship, kidnapping some woman (or man or trans-gendered person) and forcing her into various sexual scenarios. Somehow that seems like it could be written from the aggressor’s point of view and not trigger my concerns, because it is so obviously fantasy.
Realistic stories seem much creepier. “I raped my girlfriend because she didn’t feel like having sex with me, and then she loved it.” Or: “I stalked her through the park, attacked her, and fucked her on the grass where no one could see us.”
The principle is the same – it’s all forced sex – but it’s “realistic stories of non-consenting sex, from the aggressor’s POV” that make me most uncomfortable. A writer who really was celebrating the way rape happens in the real world would strike me as an asshole.
Finally, this is personal. Part of my discomfort is simply that my persona, and my reality, is very clearly male dom.
I’m subject to some prejudice, based on the ignorant idea that bdsm is about cruelty, not consent. As a dom, particularly a male dom, I don’t want to do anything to encourage the idea that doms get off on non-consent.
The end of the caning. I’m quite proud of those closely spaced marks, and the story they tell.
But I like the combination of those hot stripes and the warmer blush surrounding them, and the warmth of the light. Which was more luck, for me as photographer, than good management. But warmth, in every sense, is right.
Photo courtesy of Floss Does Life
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Sensual Indulgence, Familiar and New
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Teaching (from) the bottom (part 1)
An Intro to Ethical Cum Tributes
What is Dominance?
Reader Q&A: Femdom Podcast 105 [w transcript]
Unmentionable Lifestyle
In the wild
Laughter, The Best Aphrodisiac
I Hate Bullies!
Devilish Threesome Fun
Cumming Awake
Flying Chaste
How Taking Nudes Taught Me To Love Myself
Guest post: Trans access to abortion
Milky Way
More Than Friends Prologue
Desperate
Twisted ~ Into The Woods ~ Lana’s Story
A Gift to the Gods
A New Fetish
Coitus Interruptus Vampyr
Making herself available
Smut Marathon – Round 4 Thoughts
A True Friend
Trust your landmark and run through the smoke
I’m not interested.
I’ve written two novels, and one day will write the third in the trilogy, about a probation officer who spanks and then fucks one of his clients. In the novel he is fired, and decides he should never again work with clients. Other complicated things happen.
I’ve been a probation officer. But I’ve never fucked, or spanked, one of my clients. Though I did meet one client after she’d finished doing probation and I wasn’t a probation officer any more. We had sex, as we’d wanted to do since we first met, and the conversation we had in the morning about our mutual attraction is part of why that series of novels exists.
This is the other source. I had a client, a girl of eighteen (I was a boy of 21) who kept getting arrested for absurdly trivial offences. She was a Pacific Islander, and impossibly pretty, with huge eyes and a beautiful mouth and – when she wasn’t in a probation office – enough vivacity to power the planet.
It was obvious that the cops were gunning for her. A bit of investigation established that one cop in particular wanted her in jail, where he could rape her. That’s how the system worked.
So I was preparing a case against him. She didn’t trust a white guy involved in what she saw as law enforcement, so it was always hard getting information out of her, and she never really listened to the things I said to her.
Anyway, I was a probation officer as part of my degree in social work. It was a practical part of the course, called a “placement.” And my supervisor went round visiting all the students doing placements.
He was as abrupt and challenging as he knew how to be, and said I should be doing more to make a difference.
I later learned that this was how he was approaching everyone, to see how they’d react, but I didn’t know it at the time. I was quite badly shaken. Then he took us out to lunch, where wine was served.
My first client interview after that lunch was this girl. As usual, she sat, mostly looking at the floor, while I tried to tell her how to avoid getting arrested, and to report police harassment. We were getting nowhere.
Finally – my shaken state of mind, and the wine drove this attempt – I told her how frustrating this was. I said I wasn’t part of the law enforcement system; I was doing my best to keep it off her. I said we should know more about each other, and then we should actually talk. She glanced at me briefly and went back to staring at the carpet.
I had the urge, very strongly, to use a particular tone of voice and tell her to Come here! And I’d make her pay attention to what I wanted her know about how to handle cops without getting arrested, and why she shouldn’t let her arrest record get any longer. And of course she was very pretty, and I’d learned that, though I couldn’t see it myself, I was a pretty boy; it wasn’t hard to imagine what would quite probably happen after that attention-getting spanking.
I realised I was being, from her point of view, as bad as the cops. If I did what I’d just imagined I’d be far, far worse than them.
So I finished, kind of lamely, “But that’s up to you, of course.”
And so I stood at the door of some very bad things. And I shut that fucking door.
I’m not sure how near a miss it was. The urge was very powerful. My brain knew me well enough to couch it in terms of being real and doing good. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I actually did anything of the sort. Even in a more than slightly fucked-up state of mind that was stronger. Thank fuck for that.
PS:
I got the Probation Service to warn the cops, which knocked the harassment on the head. For her, at least.
I should say I don’t want or expect any applause for resisting an obviously nasty and destructive impulse. Nor do I think I deserve much condemnation for having an evil impulse. No one has a spotless mind. It’s what you do about its worst impulses that counts.
Claire reflects on loneliness, and the joy of being found. Then she sinks to her knees and opens her mouth.
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.
