Masturbation Monday: Swinging 1

Posted on February 5, 2018 by jaime

Stephanie had been sitting in my lap for most of my party. That was complicated, in some ways. We’d been friends while I was with my last girlfriend, and we’d flirted but always safely, because I was committed. But I wasn’t committed any more, and the flirtation wasn’t safe, and we both knew it. We kissed, and the kisses weren’t the friendly kind; they had promise and exploration.

I had my hand under her shirt on her warm belly, kind of indecisively wandering sometimes closer to her cunt and sometimes towards her breasts. I hadn’t made contact or a choice yet, but she knew that I was teasing her, and I was getting smiles for that.

Our position was also complicated because I had a new girlfriend, Maires, and she was at my party too. But Maires also fancied Stephanie (she called her “Stiffener”, knowing the effect she had on me), and because Stephanie was very straight, Maires figured that her best chance was for me to fuck Stephanie first, and then for us bring Maires into bed later.

With negotiation, by Stephanie’s invitation, or it wouldn’t happen. So I had Maires’s blessing for my campaign to get Stephanie’s clothes off and her body into my bed, if I could manage it. She, Maires, could amuse herself with the other party guests in the meantime.

But Stephanie’s and my kisses were getting more intense. She’d twisted her body so she was facing me. Her nipples pressed against my shirt, and she arched her back to press tighter. We paused, eyes closed, and rocked together. I looked at her, and she opened her eyes too. “I really want to fuck you.”

She said, “Can we talk?”

“Of course. My room?”

“Hah. There are people in your room. I’m not ready to throw them out yet, just so you can have your-“

“Wicked way?”

“I hope it’s wicked.”

That was all I needed. I took her hand and helped her up. “We’re going for a walk. Now. It’s a lovely night outside. Moon. Shadows. Kid’s playground across the road.”

“All right.”

So we walked off, Stephanie leading the way, so I could admire her walk in little shorts, cut slightly above the crease of her ass and thighs. Maires was dancing with a guy who’d painted his face red and blue, but she caught my eye, and made an “ok” hand gesture.

It was warm out. I kissed Stephanie, but we’d already been doing that. There was a danger of awkward silence. So I put my hands on her ass, and we pressed together properly. I’d had an erection from about the moment she’d dropped her ass into my lap and we’d had our first kiss. But we’d ignored it. Now it pushed against her lower belly, and I held her tight against me, and it. She sighed. A good sigh. I’d declared myself in every way. Now we had privacy there was no way to not acknowledge our sexual intentions and desires.

So we talked about the things we had to talk about. I had Maires’s permission for my current disgraceful behaviour. Stephanie knew that Maires wanted her as well. And she’d never been with a girl, but she liked Maires. She also wanted to know: was I going to fall in love with her, Stephanie, if she came to bed? I said I probably wouldn’t; at least we should start with friendship and fucks.

She wanted me to wait until the party had emptied a bit before she came to bed. Even by the standards of this provincial university town in a cold climate, where students sometimes fucked simply to save on heating costs, Maires and I were pushing the envelope a little. There’d be gossip, and Stephanie wanted deniability.

I nodded. “Ok. It’s after midnight. Give it another half an hour. Then we’ll come back, I’ll put on early Yoko Ono and everyone will say, oh that’s really cool! And then they’ll leave, fast as they can. I don’t think she broke up the Beatles, but she sure can break up a party. Then we can fuck in bed and comfort. And if Maires hasn’t scored with the red and blue guy, she’ll come in later.”

“How will that be?”

“Wonderful! Oh, I see. It’ll be cuddly. It’ll be kissy. It’ll be all warm bodies rolling round. Me wishing I could have my cock in both of you at once. And what you do then is up to you. I know she’d like – Well, she’s good at cunnilingus. And she likes it a lot. I mean, giving.”

“Oh yeah. Do you know how many boys have told me that about their girlfriends?”

“God. Is that a thing, is it?”

“No. The answer is: none at all. Ever. No one has ever said that to me. I’ve never met a guy who’d think he had information to go on, to judge that.”

“Um.” Maires and I had actually met in a threesome.

Stephanie had her eyebrows up. “Or would talk about it if they could. It’s the gossip thing. You two could be forgetting how weird you are.”

“Good weird.”

“I’ll believe it for now. So what do we do for half an hour?”

“We play a game. Simon says.”

“Hmm. Dangerous. But it figures. Ok.”

“Good. I’m Simon. Lift your hands up. And keep still.”

“Hmm.” But she did as she was told.

She wore a white blouse of rough cotton. It was cold out, but it was beautiful and we were turned on. Magic was the warmth. She watched me, gravely, while I undid her buttons and took the shirt off, over her arms.

“Ok. Can I be Simon now?”

“No. There’s only one Simon. But you can tell me what you want.”

“Then, take your jeans off. We’re going to the playground. I’m going to be topless. You can keep your underpants on.”

“Um.” It’s always interesting, when you think you’re leading, and you get leapfrogged.

So I dropped my jeans, and stuffed them into the mailbox. It was cold, and it didn’t matter at all. I dropped Stephanie’s shirt in there too, trying to keep it relatively uncreased. And I got her bra off before we passed the gate, so it went in there too.

So we raced across the road, looking frankly stupid, with my cock waggling about, not entirely contained in underpants. But we felt sure that no-one else was going to be watching the neighbourhood at that hour and climate.

So at the playground Stephanie plonked herself on one of the swings and demanded pushes. She got them.

Note

I just can’t do short short stories. I tried. Sorry. But I hope you’re enjoying yourself so far. And it gets more climactic this time next week. That episode’s here.

Sinful Sunday: Erudite Elegance. And something Else

Posted on February 3, 2018 by jaime

A dancer’s grace. A submissive’s promise.

A world of knowledge and thought, ancient and recent.

Erudite Elegance.

And not so far away, quite close to the camera, in fact, an Erection.

Subscribe to this lovely blog!

Posted on February 3, 2018 by jaime

I’m a writer. For money I mostly write about things like water distribution rights, health policy, social housing and other things for organisations who pay me for the research and writing work.

This is what happens to starving writers. Thomas Chatterton, dying in his garret. The model, oddly enough, is George Meredith, who was also a starving poet when he posed for this.
You don’t want me to die in a garret, in my snazzy blue pants, do you?

But I’d like to complete the shift to being a purely creative writer, who makes a living by selling stories I want to tell.

I’ve written a non-fiction book on bdsm, and two novels. I’ve put off the actual selling part of the writer’s job, because although I’ve sold many other products for paying customers, self-promotion doesn’t come naturally to me.

But you can help me, and it won’t cost you a cent. Please subscribe to this blog!

There’s a subscription note at the top of my right-hand sidebar. If you can’t see the sidebar, just click the Jerusalem Mortimer banner above, and it’ll appear, along with the other posts on my front page at the moment.

Fill in your email, click subscribe, and, well, that’s it. That’s all you need to do.

I know that about 2,300 people visit my blog each week. The value of subscribing, for you, is that you get notified by email of my posts as they come out. I post four times a week, and the posts tend to tell stories, sometimes sexy, sometimes funny, sometimes both. I also write occasional information and opinion pieces, though mostly I’m a story-teller.

So I wouldn’t be flooding your in-box. I generally wait till I have something substantial to say before posting. If it’s just a joke, an opinion, or something small, I’ll probably just tweet it. (You can also subscribe to my Twitter feed, using the link on the right sidebar.)

Books should not be free, or there won’t be any new books that people have put hard work into.
But bodies and minds should be free. Helping writers helps everyone!

Your subscription helps me because it shows potential publishers that I do have an audience, and so it might be worth giving me money and sticking my writing between covers.

As well as in e-books, but I do have a fondness for paper. You can spank someone with a paperback, without needing complex electronic repairs to your e-reader. For example.

So… please subscribe to this blog! The subscription button is at the top of my right-hand side bar.

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The space my books should go is currently overrun by wooden cats. It’s a wilderness! Subscribe and help fill this space with new and beautiful books!

Wicked Wednesday: The Kiss 7

Posted on February 1, 2018 by jaime

Note

The previous episode is here.

The story so far is that I took my slavegirl Arethusa to the local bdsm club, Club Bento, after months of begging.

I’m running this “Arethusa and the late essay” pic again, because I’m quite proud of my aim and spacing.

It took months because I was monitoring her university work, and she kept fucking up and having to be caned, and then grounded. Finally, she was good, handing in all essays and studying for her tests, for a whole month! A Master’s life is hard, but at last I could reward her!

We met Delores there, an ex of mine, who was showing the club to a girl called Cash, who turned out to be yet another ex.

Cash was Qing, when I’d first known her, and she was still dressing like a mainlander Chinese girl from a small city. Because back then she was. (You should hear what diaspora Chinese say about mainlanders. Hollywood writers being rude about the deep South doesn’t even come close.)

In the years since we’d lost touch she’d transformed herself into a zippy, leatherette, platinum blonde bobbed style icon, who moved at twice the speed of everyone else, though I bet she had less amphetamine in her system than most people there.

They hadn’t actually kissed yet (they would later, in Arethusa’s and my kitchen and bed), but this was on their minds five or so seconds after they’d met

So we all met, and I introduced Arethusa to Delores and Cash. Cash and Arethusa contracted a case of lust at first sight, while Arethusa and Delores didn’t hit it off.

I took Arethusa into the dark part of the club, to feed her champagne while fingering her under her tutu, keeping her close to coming but not giving permission.

Delores went looking for a man to bruise and fuck her. Cash picked up a girl on the dancefloor, and dragged her off to the women’s toilets to facefuck her up against the wall. Then Cash went back to gthe dancing, followed by the girl, who was smitten, and then by the girl’s master, who sensed a threesome.

Cash didn’t want any part of his body anywhere near her body, but she wanted to be polite, for the girl’s sake more than his. So she said she’d love to, but she’d have to get permission from her Mistress.

Now read on.

The Kiss 7

Delores (now we’re following this story from her point of view again) was also a girl who’d come from a small town, but she’d never re-packaged herself as a big-city girl the way Cash had.

She still thought it weird that girls might want sexy stuff with girls, when there are men around. She had many lesbian and gay friends, who loved her and who she loved. She genuinely was not a bigot. It was just she had no perspective from which same-sex desire made any sense to her.

Similarly, she was submissive and that’s that. She was assertive in her life, with her children and her work and so on, but in a bdsm context she couldn’t switch to save her life. She could no more spank another submissive, or give one an order, than she could flap her arms and fly.

Cash kissing Delores (Cash’s perspective)

So she was a bit taken aback when Cash raced up to her, kissed her passionately on the lips, and whispered, “I’m going to call you Mistress and ask you for something. You have to answer no. Save my life. Ok? Just say no!”

So Delores wiped the girl-kiss off her lips, and said, “Just say no… What? To drugs?”

But the dazed girl and her Master arrived. Out loud, Cash said, “Mistress, darling Mistress, can I please go off with these two tonight?”

So Delores, still thoroughly confused, saw the girl and her Master, there waiting for her permission, which gave her an inkling of the problem. So she gathered up all her wits, and said in the most Dommely voice she could manage, “No.”

Cash whined, “Pleeeeease?”

“No. No, you may not go off with… these two tonight.” It was the most unconvincing domme voice ever heard, according to both Delores’s and Cash’s account, but it was enough to disappoint the dazed girl and her Master. They were sad, but they knew they’d won Cash over, and their threesome had only been thwarted by the despotic and arbitrary rulings of a jealous and mean ol’ Domme.

At least, they thought they knew that, and that made them feel better. So they slunk back onto the dancefloor, and paid more attention to each other. They’d both just been certified sexy, by an independent party. The girl more than her Master, but his honour was satisfied.

Meanwhile Delores was still giving Cash the thousand-yard stare. “What,” she asked, “the buggering hell was that about?”

Cash kissing Delores (Delores’s perspective)
Girlgerms!

So Cash explained, the pick-up on the dancefloor had led to Cash fucking the girl with her face, in the women’s toilets, and the girl’s Master wanting Cash to go off with them, and she didn’t want the Master to get shitty with his girl because she’d scored with Cash and he hadn’t.

So she’d done the right thing to get everybody out of a difficult situation.

And hey, thanks for your help, Delores, that “no” of yours was really powerful, just like the real thing.

But Delores hadn’t got past the “face-fuck in the toilets” part of Cash’s story yet. “And… you kissed me with THAT mouth?”

[The End.]

Another note:

Obviously, that’s where that story has to end. More events happened, when Arethusa and Cash and I went off together a bit later, and our night together. That was a steamy night, and some time it’ll make a good story too. In a different way.

But next Wicked Week, I’m going back to fiction, and Maddie’s saga with her Wicked Headmaster.

Sinful Sunday: Victoriana, a victor, and an old-fashioned girl

Posted on January 27, 2018 by jaime

That moment, and position, of penitence.

Fiery, faerie sex 1

Posted on January 27, 2018 by jaime

There is a word for having a fetish for fire: pyrophilia. It involves setting, or watching, fires for sexual arousal and gratification.

Fire is dramatic!

It’s supposed to be different from pyromania, which is compulsively setting fires for other, non-sexual, reasons.

Me, I’ve been a psychiatric nurse, and I’ve studied psychology as part of an undergraduate degree. So although I’ve seen how the diagnostic system works in practice, I’m not any sort of expert at all.

Still, I know there’s evidence that for various reasons (academic publishing pressures, the fact that getting conditions into the DSM makes it easier for patients to claim financial support for treatment, among others) psychiatrists are – perversely – rewarded for finding new diagnoses. So behaviour that has a range of motivations may get labelled as if the motives can be separated into, for example, sexual and non-sexual.

Flames of passion, and so forth, didn’t become cliches for no reason at all

Still, a very small number of people have had their genitalia hooked up to various devices measuring sexual arousal, and responded more strongly to images of fire than to images of an attractive person of their preferred gender. The fire is hotter than the hottie.

Still, in most cases it seems that there’s a range of motives when someone starts a fire, especially one that places lives and homes at risk.

One motivation is hostility to the people who are likely to suffer from the fire’s impact. Even if they’re unknown, the arsonist may think of them as “rich bastards”, or “adults”, or whatever. They may also be a hated racial minority.

As well, there’s anger, especially in young men, that they’re not getting the things – female company, money, fame, respect, etc – they think they’re entitled to. There are other motives.

At the same time, fire is warmth, it’s energy, it’s wild, unpredictable and free. Though it can be tamed. Those are sexy qualities.

Guess who likes fire? Jerusalem Mortimer, that’s who

If I’m with a girl on a beach, and I pile up some driftwood and make a fire, and we sit together staring at it, the chances that we’ll have sex are as close to 100% as makes no difference.

Setting a safe fire, and enjoying it together, is one of the basic human sexual scripts.

And from hotties to flames of passion, burning love and fires of desire, so much of our sexual language uses fire images and metaphors. We’re just… drawn to fire.

I’ve got a bdsm-flavoured fire story of my own to tell, I mean a true one. I’ll write it in the next couple of weeks.

Wicked Wednesday: The Kiss 6

Posted on January 25, 2018 by jaime

Note:

The previous instalment of this story is here. But we finished with Cash having girl on girl sex kisses with another girl on the dancefloor, then racing her off into the Women’s toilets.

Because Delores didn’t go in after them, we’re going to switch to Cash’s point of view for the next half hour or so of this story.

Cash in the Women’s

Cash had a starry-eyed girl in tow, hand in hand. The wide-eyed girl had never done anything girl on girl before, but music, dance, alcohol and Cash’s irresistible energy had turned her on, massively, and she was very keen to experience whatever happened next.

Cash had liked Arethusa, and fancied her. The knowledge that she was invited into Arethusa’s and my bed, some time early in the morning, or later that night, was exciting too. But in the meantime she had a pretty girl, obviously submissive, wanting her attention. So she grabbed the girl’s hair at the back of her head and kissed her again.

There were other women passing, so the couple pashing near the door were a bit on display. A sort of tasteful centerpiece.

Club Bento isn’t the sort of place where anyone, including straight women, will mind the sight of two pretty girls making out. So the starry-eyed girl got compliments for being a good girl for her Mistress.

Cash never even asked that girl’s name, and never knew it, but she did know that the girl was finding the compliments mildly humiliating and hot as fuck, all at once. So she upped the ante and pushed her up against the wall. She flipped up the girl’s little tartan skirt, and pulled her panties down. The girl closed her eyes. Once the panties were at her knees, Cash pushed them down to her ankles with her boot, and kissed her again, with her hand on, and then partly in, her cunt.

Club Bento isn’t a sex-on-premises venue, by the way. If a bouncer had found them they’d have been thrown out for putting the club’s licence at risk.

But the bouncers didn’t go into the loos, or the seating in the dark where the girl next to me had just sucked her Master off, and I was using Arethusa as my cunt-puppet, still at the edge of coming with three of my fingers in her, but not allowed to come. Or make a sound.

Cash stroked the girl, who was now wild-eyed and trembling, until she was nearly ready. At the last second she dropped to her knees, and finished the girl off with her tongue and lips, getting her face quite thoroughly wet. Eventually the girl moaned, then shouted, her arms flat against the wall as if she were being crucified, and she fell forward, onto Cash’s back, moaning, stroking her and calling her mistress.

But Cash was done, for now. She stood up, kissed the girl, face shiny-wet with her fluids, and helped her with her panties. She said, “You’re really cool! And fucking pretty! But I’ve got to dance now.”

Cash left, and the girl followed her out: she was a bit dazed, and she wanted more of that sort of thing. And she, the girl, bumped into her Master, who’d seen her go into the toilets with another girl, and knew something good was happening that he wasn’t part of. But now the two girls were out, and one of them was his submissive, and there was another girl with her. He knew he had a threesome lined up.

His idea was on these lines, except he’d need a bigger shirt

But he didn’t. He was a little softer-bellied than Cash liked, and he had unfashionable hair. So this dom spanked his submissive, standing up, for going off without him. And then he said to Cash, “Come with us.” He was using the command voice to someone who hadn’t submitted to him, and for Cash that absolutely confirmed his complete unfuckability.

The scene in the toilets may make Cash seem a little heartless, but she’s not that at all. She was just living in the moment. So she knew that if she turned the guy down, he’d take it out on his girl, and she’d have a horrible night instead of the brilliant one she’d been having until then.

She remembered seeing Delores, just before going into the toilets. “Yes, that’d be great,” she said, politely. “I’ll just ask have to ask my Mistress for permission.”

[To be continued]

I am the god of hellfire! And I bring you

Posted on January 24, 2018 by jaime

Fire!

I woke up about one in the morning on Monday, and out my bedroom window there was this:

So I pulled clothes on and went outside. Even in the five-ten minutes since I woke up it had spread. And it was closer, now about 50 metres from my house. The firefront now looked like this.

I went off and hooked up my hose pump, and put the inlet in my swimming pool. It can pump out water at the same volume as the pump on a firetruck. Hooked up to the pool it can keep on pumping at high volume for 45 minutes. That should be enough for me to cover my place, and the neighbours on both sides, wetting the houses and the bush around them thoroughly, and then take care of fires started by flying embers.

I primed the pump, started the engine, and… no water came out.

Fortunately the Rural Fire Service people turned up with about ten trucks, and got to work.

So I ran around, making sure the neighbours were okay, the firies had the access they needed, and stuff like that. I’m not the hero or even a hero; lots of people in the hood were doing stuff like that.

I went back to the pump, and finally got it working. So the professionals were now tackling the fire, and I just patrolled the perimeter, ready to douse any local fires started by embers blowing in the wind. By about four in the morning it was mostly out.

I got back to bed about five, adrenalin and exhaustion battling it out. In the morning I went and inspected the scorched earth. There’s a very clear line between the fire and the green. That line is about 45 metres from my bedroom window.

Yesterday, I had a chunk of, well, meat, pulled out of my face, to get biopsied to see if I have cancer. I don’t think I do, by the way. But a biopsy is a significant assault on the body, so all I’m capable of writing, at the moment, is this bit of factual reporting.

I’ve got some thoughts about why we (I mean humans, but possibly especially kinky people) think fire is sexy,

Especially arsonists, it seems. This fire was deliberately lit. People heard four incendiaries exploding before the flames started. But I haven’t got the focus to write about that at the moment.

I’ll write Wicked Wednesday tomorrow morning. And the Fire and Sex post will be Thursday or Friday. Good luck to everybody!