Masturbation Monday: Emilia’s tale 1

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It was the morning after my thirtieth birthday party. I’d got up, and started collecting dishes, glasses and ashtrays for the dishwasher. No one else was awake yet.

This is the t-shirt image. Emilia’s t-shirt was, er, longer

But a bedroom door opened, and Emilia Vivian emerged, in a manga tee-shirt that hung almost to her knees. Emilia was a doctor, a glowing light-brown woman with large, almost black eyes and an extraordinarily sweet face framed by medium-length black hair. She was small but contoured. She lifted weights.

Emilia was embarrassed to find me, and uncertain of her welcome. Last night she’d performed the party’s most spectacular piece of bad behaviour, launching a screaming attack on her best friend, accusing her of fucking her last boyfriend, of pretending to be sweet but always undermining her and some other girl on girl offences.

It’d been the least fun part of the evening, but I’d already forgiven her because the outburst had been so out of character, and because, only a few minutes later, Emilia had fallen asleep in that same friend’s arms. Wine sometimes solves the problems that it creates.

But Emilia was hung over, embarrassed and ashamed, so I hugged her. I let her go when she winced. But she emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, having dealt with her bladder and her head, and wrestled her way back into the hug. “I’m really sorry, Jaime. I don’t know what … Well, I’m sorry.”

My hand was, just then, the most important part of my body, and had all of my attention

“Ah, love, it’s okay. You’d had a bit of wine. And … you probably had reasons.” I found myself hugging Emilia with one arm while reaching down to squeeze her ass with my other hand. Affectionately, you know. We had history, Emilia and I. In the years I’d been with a girl called Susie, we’d sometimes talked and gazed earnestly into each other’s eyes, and we’d once almost had sex.

I’d had my penis partly inside her when conscience, hers more than mine, finally won. It’s quite a late stage to worry about fidelity, but we’d stopped and separated. I’d felt noble, though I doubted Susie would’ve admired it. So Emilia and I were intimates, without having had sex. Or not exactly sex.  

Emilia rubbed my chest with her forehead. “No, I didn’t have reasons. Not good ones.”

“Well, okay, but I still know you’re a wee love. You’ve got years of credit with me; you can’t blow it in one evening.” Emilia smiled up at me. “And I still don’t think it came from nowhere.” More smiles.

When your brain steps into manga-world…

A nice man was being nice to her. And the ass-squeezing was probably a great comfort in her time of self-recrimination.

Then information from that bottom-squeezing hand swamped my brain. I added, “Though … if you ever do anything like that again, Emilia, I’ll put you over my knee.”

Why I write such good books

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I’m being amazingly prolific at the moment. I’m writing four posts every week, as well as speeding along with the writing of a non-erotica novel.

That’s a weird kind of genre, “books that aren’t erotica”. It’s obviously an extremely obscure, niche market. But anyway, there I am.

Someone asked me, on Twitter, how I manage to do this, pumping out several thousand words, every week without fail. 

So here are my rules. 

Also, keep your audience in your mind. A writer needs bums on seats. It helps if, as I do, you have a thing for girls with books, and girls on chairs.

1  It’s easy to edit, hard to do the first draft. So when you’re writing the first draft, tell the story. Write the dialogue. It will be thin, almost for sure.

But it’s there, once you’ve written it. You can fix it later. 

2  When I’m about to do a first draft, I generally have earlier pages that I wrote yesterday. So I start by going back and editing, tidying it, thickening it with more character interplay, more detail of observation.

That gives me a sort of “run-up”, so that when I get to the end of the stuff I’ve already written I’m in the story, in the style, and I have a clear sense of where I’m going. So I’m ready to write the new stuff. 

3  With posts, sometimes I just scribble a few words, and save the draft, if I’m too tired, or uninspired to get it finished. It means that the next day, when I come back to it I’m not looking at a blank screen, but at some thoughts I need to clarify and arrange. 

“She’s just gratuitous, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”

4  Similarly, when I finish a chapter, I generally start the next one. Usually I only write the name of the book, the Part of the book, and chapter whatever number it is. Sometimes I suggest a beginning for the chapter. A knock on the door, a meeting on the street, whatever it might be. Again, that means that the next day, I’m staring at a beginning and not the dreaded blank page. 

5  Don’t wait for “inspiration”. You get more done by writing uninspired prose, and fixing it later. Write something every day. Even if you think it’s crap, and you can’t believe how bad a writer you are, etc, later – after a walk, maybe – you’ll see that there’s the germ of an idea there, and you fix it and fare forward. 

6  I plan. Every chapter, I know broadly what’s going to happen. So I can make sure that the characters get off their arses and do the work I need them to do. A plan means you never have a completely blank screen. You start each chapter knowing what’s ahead of you, what your goals are.

Don’t help yourself to too many good things by other people. Still, I stole the title of this post from Nietzsche. But it could have been worse. It looks like someone else stole a quarter of his moustache.

7  Get the games off your computer. You can tell yourself that you’re relaxing by playing Freecell or whatever, but they’re just a time-thief.

They give you an excuse for not working while you’re at the place you should be writing. Worse, they’re designed to be addictive, and I’ve found the best solution is to go cold turkey.

If you want to relax, get out of the chair and do something else. Read a book, do the laundry, tidy the kitchen, cook something, go out for a walk. Talk to someone. Masturbate. Fuck.

8  Music can help. For some reason I write happily to Norwegian death metal. It helps that I can’t understand the words so I don’t get distracted. But music can help you blot out the world, and focus on your imaginary world, the one you’re writing. 

9 Celebrate your victories. The end of a chapter always makes me happy. I party, in a small, happy way.

 

I have to go knock posts into the ground, now. I mean wooden posts, to attach the garden taps. A bit of physical work is good, too.

 

Another important rule is here.

Wicked Wednesday: Janie’s drop 7

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The previous episode is here.

6

Paul arrived on Monday morning. Janie clung to him while he listened to Monica’s report.

Monica had punished her twice on Sunday, till she’d cried. Paul noted that, of course.

janie sat up straight, her arms bound behind her back. Her bottom and legs still burned.

When they were home at last, he said, “You were good. Mostly. I’ll deal with Monica’s report on your punishments later. What does that mean?”

“It means you’re going to punish me, Master. Every stroke Mistress gave me, you’re going to give me again.”

“That’s right. But that can wait. By the way, she’s not your Mistress any more. Call her Monica.”

Janie nodded. “Yes, Master.” Memories of that party flooded her mind; she’d been paddled and spanked, and whipped and used. “She made me – ” Then Janie stopped. There was no point in complaining. 

“It was a lesson for you, Janie. You obey me because you enjoy it. I don’t think I could do anything that you wouldn’t get off on.”

“True.”

“But you don’t get to submit just for your pleasure, Janie. You don’t want to  choose what you submit to. You just submit. That’s what you want. That’s your deepest self.”

Something moved in her, and she felt herself dropping, down to her smallest, sweetest place. “You love me.”

“You know that.”

“You know me!”

“Well, I should, girl. We’ve been–“

“No Master, listen! I mean, please. No one’s ever known me, fully, and still loved me anyway. Before.” 

Paul was silent. He looked at her for a long time. She waited, somehow half terrified. Eventually he held his hand out to her. She took it.

[The end.]

Masturbation Monday: Mating Megan 3

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I’d slid easily into Megan, standing behind her, while she was still bent over the bench. I occasionally struck her flanks, the side of her buttocks and her upper thighs, while I rode her ass. I still held the belt, firmly in my hand. Whipping her was my duty, and my pleasure, and mine. 

When Megan submitted, she gave me continuous guidance about what she wanted.

For example, I knew that she could come within seconds if I told her to, but that otherwise she’d wait until I gave her permission.

I knew that I should delay that permission, because she didn’t want to be allowed release till she’d begged and reached an agony of tension.

She hadn’t said a word of that to me,  and I don’t how she’d let me know these fine and intricate things. But she had told me, somehow.

We fucked, still slowly, knowing we could stay slow for much longer, and I strapped her right side six times with my belt. In answer Magan made a harsh, sex noise: “Harrgh, harr, harrrgh…” Because my cock was no longer obstructing her mouth. 

I smiled, for simple happiness, and then applied the belt, just as hard on the left side, while she pushed back at me, possessing and riding my cock, and sang that low, harsh pleasure song again. Only then could I speed up. And though she wanted me to, she wouldn’t until I’d set the new pace. 

It had been a long time since I’d engaged with these complexities, and I loved returning to them. The intuitive link between dominants and submissives, the way we know each other, was where a part of me was most alive. The same would be true of her. We made happiness, if not love.

Megan lifted her legs off the ground, to hold me while I fucked her, and pressed her feet just below my buttocks, moving together with me, her temporary master, her cock and pain-giver. She sighed, and tightened the pressure on my buttocks. 

She said things (“fuck me fuck me sir please come in me”, and so on) that I won’t quote too closely here because they’d seem silly, while in that context they didn’t seem silly at all. She wanted my come, even in a condom; it meant so much. 

I smiled at her, since she couldn’t see me. Megan liked to beg. I said, as if grudgingly, “That’s better.”

And it was. Our carefully passionate meetings weren’t everything I wanted. We kept a certain kind of emotional distance because of the ban on falling in love, and that never quite felt right to me. But having this in my life was better. It truly was.

Sinful Sunday: Glowing

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After a really long, hard, spanking, the only thing a girl can reasonably do is stand in the corner, with her arse on display, radiating colour and heat, until it cools down a little. 

Or until her spanker says, “Come here.”

And, being a sensible dom (sometimes), he devotes himself to proving that life is better when she does as she’s told. 

Hyenas that look like Donald Trump

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This isn’t a political blog. And this isn’t an argument, just an expression of disgust. The trough-snuffling corruption, the ridiculous lying, the cruelty, the bullying, just piss me off.

I’m busy. I’ve got a book to finish, and the smell of the end in my nostrils. So I’m not going to write politics. But yeah: we have to stop voting hyenas into positions of power. It’s a really dumb thing to do. 

Wicked Wednesday: Janie’s drop 6

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The previous episode is here.

4

The party was in the countryside. Only women attended. Some wore dark, severe clothes. Others wore little outfits that emphasised powerlessness and accessibility. Others, like Janie, were naked.

Monica introduced her as “coquette”.

Janie found herself demonstrating her new skills, while Mistresses stood, skirts lifted. She wasn’t expected to make them come, just show obedience. But a blonde, plump woman, obviously a friend of Monica’s, whispered in Monica’s ear.

Monica replied so Janie could hear. “Certainly! We’ll take coquette upstairs. She’s new, and not very enthusiastic unless encouraged. I use a paddle.”

The woman took a hairbrush from her purse. Wooden. Janie knew the hairbrush well. Paul had one himself, and it was heavy and hard. It hurt. The woman said, “This works.”

“Stand, coquette.” Janie scrambled to her feet, redly aware of their gaze.

“She’s under protection, Maria, so I’ll be there too. But I won’t get in your way.”

The two women made Janie walk ahead of them, up the stairs.

Coming downstairs, Janie caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her bottom and thighs blazed red from Maria’s hairbrush, and her face wore two angry red patches, where Maria’s thighs had gripped her fiercely for the second and third orgasms.

Janie thought, I don’t think I’ve ever looked so … violated. She hadn’t desired Maria, but yes, she acknowledged, she’d been aroused by what she’d done.

Later, another Mistress took her upstairs, and made Janie serve her, again and again.

But when she was satiated, the Mistress demanded a taste of “little coquette’s cunt”. She put her hands under Janie’s sore buttocks and raised her a little before tasting her delicately.

Then not delicately. At last Monica said it was time that she came, and Janie screamed and writhed, as if her body were suddenly flooded with joy. She came gloriously, if not entirely willingly.

Afterwards she wept. But not unhappily.

The next episode is here.

Masturbation Monday: Mating Megan 2

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The previous episode is here.

I put my hand in her hair and Megan made a low, harsh sound of appreciation, so I tangled more hair in my fingers and pulled, hard. I moved a little faster, and stepped up the pace of her strapping. Megan tried to say something, but my cock obstructed her.

I paused. “What was that?” 

“Harggr.” 

Oh. I knew what she’d said, but I said, “You’ll have to be clearer than that.”  I swung the belt down again, hard, across her back and buttocks. She jerked forward.

There was a brief wet second in which she had almost all of my cock. Then she had to draw back again.

Megan said, with what should have been extreme clarity, “Har-weh. Deh! Deh.” There was urgency in that voice. I was charmed by her enunciation, given that I blocked her tongue and mouth. I decided I should get a gag for her, so long as it was only partly effective.

“Oh, do you mean, ‘harder’?”   

“Ess. Ess ease. Puh. Puh ease.”

“Good girl.” I strapped her harder, six times, while her cries rose in pitch and she sounded very close to coming. I withdrew entirely from her mouth and walked round the table. I touched the soft skin just below her left buttock.

Megan trembled, but the tension was not fear. I asked, as if I was offering a glass of milk, “Megan, would you like to be fucked now?”

I put on a condom, and then grasped her hips tight, fingers pressing as hard as I could. She said, in sexual rage, “Yes! Yes please.” 

“That’s right.” I stood behind her, between her feet, and leaned forward, cock disappearing into her. Megan was wet, and her bottom warm from the belt.