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.
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.
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.
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.
The sleep of the observed causes dreams in the observer.
The dreams and the dreamer are both lovely.
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Cut Throat
The City I Love To Hate
Reader Q&A: Dating Advice ~ Autism Spectrum
Consent to proceed…
I fall in love everyday (kinda)
I don’t feel safe
The Key to Room 237 – Calypso
fleur friday no 1 – release
The Forbidden Beach
Natalie in the Cold
Power and Addiction
The Curse, Part One – Black Spots
Legend Told
The Adventures of Stephanie’s Ass
Dear Mortimer
When I get down on my knees it is not to pray
The Importance of a Blowjob
Last night he made me dinner
Recreate
Recall, Recollect, Recreate
Oral: Fetish, pleasure, something else?
The previous episode is here.
Monica had said that Janie was better, when she was afraid. There was a pause. Then Janie said, “Yes, Mistress.”
“So. Here’s why you shouldn’t come, little Janie, unless I tell you to. Have you ever spent a night hanging from the ceiling by your ankle cuffs, getting a whipping every hour, on the hour?”
Janie thought about what that might be like. She had no doubt that Monica would do it. “No, Mistress, never.” Her voice was awed.
“I’m half tempted to give you the experience, then. You’d never disobey me or your Master again. Would you?”
Janie shook her head, eyes wide. “No, Mistress!”
“But if you come, Janie, that is what will happen to you. So control yourself, little slut.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Monica fucked her for perhaps an hour, sometimes excruciatingly slow, while the little vibrator worked inside her, sometimes fast, pounding Janie’s bottom with her belly and thighs, the artificial cock bigger and longer than Paul’s. Janie had to fight the urge to release, sometimes gritting her teeth and crying with the fight to keep her orgasm at bay.
At last she begged, nearly exhausted, “Please. Please, Mistress.”
Monica withdrew. She rolled from the bed onto the floor. “You do not beg! Stay in place, Janie. Bottom arched up, just a little more.”
“Yes, Mistress.” Janie did her best to comply. The first stroke of the riding crop landed across her thighs, about two inches below the crease of her buttocks. It felt like pleasure, like the missing, vibrating cylinder. Janie huffed air through her nose. The next stroke landed an inch higher. Janie fought for control while Monica whipped her. She never been in danger of coming from the ministrations of the riding crop before.
Janie lost count of the strokes. Monica was panting lightly when she’d finished with her. Her body burned while Mistress warned her again about what would happen if she came, and allowed her, at last, into bed. Monica’s bed. It was after midnight, and Janie was exhausted.
Before she slept she reflected that there was nothing terrible about how Monica tasted, or anything bad about the feel of her wet pussy in her face. It was ok. But it hadn’t done anything for her, sexually. So why was she so wet? Why did she need, so hard and so desperately, to come?
The next episode is here.
Megan, who’d written to me, was pretty, clever and real. So I contacted her back. She insisted on a picture of me with my shirt off. I starved myself for a couple of days, which made no difference, and managed my own phone camera and bathroom mirror picture. It took nearly forty pictures to get one in which I wasn’t too obviously sucking my stomach in. But it passed.
She called me and made a speech she’d probably made before: she didn’t want a relationship; she wanted hard bdsm sex. In her bedroom, she wanted a man to take what he wanted from her and do what he wanted to her. But I wasn’t to think that I had rights over her when I wasn’t in her bedroom. Okay?
I said all that was fine with me. “By the way, you don’t like Dobermans, do you? I mean, romantically?”
“Dobermans?” I’d made her laugh. “You’ve been on this site, and now you ask all your girls if they’re into dobermans? Like that’s something you have to be wary of? You’ve had a time!”
“I could a tale unfold…”
She, fortunately, didn’t want to hear it. “Anyway I hate dogs. Do you want to, um, stick pins in me?” I said something crass about things I did want to stick in her, but not pins, and so she agreed to meet me in what was becoming my favorite bar.
Megan looked as good as her photos, and I looked no worse than mine. I knew I wanted her once she’d walked through the door. She took longer to decide about me, I think, because she was much prettier than me. But I clinched my case when she knocked our table, spilling wine, and I promised to leather the front of her thighs for that.
If I’d said “thighs”, or “the back of your thighs”, I might not have won her. But “the front of your thighs” showed ambition and attention to detail. She considered that, and said we had a date.
The date was for Friday night, at her apartment. Some time that night Megan was tied to a table, face down, with her knees spread and drawn up like a frog’s. I’d roped her knees to the tops of the table legs. Her thighs blushed front and back, since I’d over-delivered on my promise.
We were in a classic dominant-submissive configuration, Megan naked, bound and bent, and I standing clothed before her, my cock in her mouth. She suckled, slowly nodding, while I drew back and pushed forward, unhurried, as if absent-mindedly.
About twice a minute, I would swing my belt down her back so the end cracked and curled around her bottom and the insides of her thighs. Megan rewarded each stroke by taking my cock deeper for a second or two. She’d said it was safe to strap her hard because she never bit when she was strapped. Her mouth always opened, in response to pain.
I was impressed: it’s not something that most people know about themselves. She was more experienced and skilled than me. She was a technician of pleasure. She was also quite wise and cheerfully sensible, and though we were nearly strangers I liked her.
We’d never be lovers. But we gave each other truth. Accepting Megans measured submission let me expand to fill more of myself. It was like re-opening the disused wing of a house.
The next episode is here.
Note
I don’t have time to write another instalment of the Maires, Stephanie and me story. I’m writing a non-erotic novel, and dealing with crazed bureaucrats. So this is a story I prepared earlier.
Discipline is an energy transfer. Giving a spanking takes power and force. Receiving a spanking takes control and endurance, and alchemy: transferring pain into pleasure.
(Even when some dom insists it’s a punishment and it’s not supposed to feel good. There’s a kind of internal dissent that neither a submissive nor a dom can suppress: pleasure will out.)
But when the spanking’s done, and her ass glows, radiating red heat, she lights her dom’s heart. And she lights the room.
I just want to explain why perverts should be carrying me round in a sedan chair for the rest of my life.
The sedan chair life. I’d prefer my porters to be less male and less dressed, but the technology is right.
The first Australian Survey on Sexual Health and Attitudes (ASHR) findings were reported in 2003.
At that point I became part of the story. I was struck by the presence of a question about bdsm in a national survey, and by the utter beauty of the huge, randomly selected sample that the Australian researchers had reached. I love data!
However, I learned that the ASHR team had made no analysis of how the responses of people who had participated in bdsm in the last year differed from those who hadn’t.
So I contacted them. I explained that I was fascinated that they had a data set that could for the first time test the claim that bdsm is pathological, using a large-scale sample of the population in general. I met with the Australian team, Anthony Smith, Chris Rissel, Juliet Richters, Andrew Grulich, and Richard de Visser, who were a little amused by my very specific enthusiasm for their bdsm data.
Anyway, I suggested further data analysis to compare the responses of their bdsm and non-bdsm respondents, focusing on indications of mental and social health like the response to questions about education, career and income, whether people were in a relationship, how they reported their sexual happiness, and their self-assessment of their own physical and mental health. The data could also reveal whether bdsm people were more or less likely than non-bdsm people to have been forced into sexual activity when they were children, or as adults.
The team thought this analysis would probably turn up something that they could publish in a scientific journal, even if they weren’t as interested in bdsm as I was. None of us expected that the findings would make anything like the media impact that resulted.
This is from The Age, in Victoria, Australia. But we were in The Times, the NY Times, the LA Times, probably every major newspaper in the world
The key finding was that bdsm people showed no sign of being socially or personally dysfunctional, and every sign of being well-adjusted and happy. This made TV news and newspaper headlines across Europe, the Americas, Asia, the Mid-East, Australasia, Africa and so on. Much of the coverage was written in newspaper-ese, with headlines like: “Smack happy”, “You can’t beat bdsm”, “Bound to be happy”, and so on.
There was a lot of that sort of thing. Our news cheered many people who enjoy bdsm, but we made the world’s sub-editors absolutely ecstatic.
From my point of view the results contained their share of disappointments. For example, since bdsm relies on verbal and symbolic communication for much of its power, I’d expected that people attracted to bdsm would be more educated than average. However, there turned out to be no significant differences between bdsm participants and others, in terms of educational attainment.
So my self-flattering expectations were as wrong as those of the people who expected to find us haunting the mental hospitals and the jails.
Thomas’s pina colada milkshake is better than yours. Splooshie!
That’s the beauty of evidence. It’s a piece of piss to make up theories that “justify” bigotry. But evidence is a hard-shelled beast. Watching beautiful theories encountering evidence can be as messy as watching a wagon loaded with pina colada hitting an armadillo.