Knickerless puzzle #1

The reason I’ve been talking about knickers is that a few nights ago I was at a university music department, watching a student performance of Don Giovanni.

It wasn’t a bad evening, and no-one was actually terrible. But there were no great voices that night, or singing actors in the making. I don’t think anyone in that production is ever going to be a star. The only one I’d have actually thrown tomatoes at, though, if I’d had them, was the director. That night’s Don Giovanni was set in a brothel in fascist Italy, and in that context a hell of a lot of the events, and the characters’ motives, made no sense at all.

But something odd happened in the interval. I was with a woman who was telling me that she was going to kill the next director who up-dated a Mozart opera to Nazi Germany, mafia gangs in America, Thatcher’s Britain, or had the singers come on-stage in their everyday clothes because this opera is timeless, really, isn’t it? It’s about today, really? 

And I said, “Yeah. Or they set it in the time it was written, because the composer was really writing for his own time. Which means Victorian gear for most operas. God, I’m so bored with that. And Victorian dresses are probably the worst clothes women have ever worn in the history of humanity so far. And – ”

lessI stopped because there was movement overhead. A wide staircase led down into the floor we were on, and the girl I was with had taken her drink to the wall under the edge of the stairs. I was facing her. 

The movement that caught my eye turned out to be a girl skipping down the stairs in a sundress. I said, “if they like Victorian costumes so much…” But the dress flipped a bit, mid-skip, and flashed the undercurve of her bottom. A nice slim bottom, pale, apple-rounded. She was either wearing a thong, or nothing at all.

I continued, “they could dress them in – ” Another step and I caught a glimpse of labia. She was wearing nothing at all. She didn’t shave, or wax.

This took maybe three seconds, at the most. But it seemed to have gone on for a remarkably long time. The girl with me said, “dress them in what?”

I’d been going to say something about how Victorians liked to wear costumes from the Raj, and then there was the Japanese craze. So you could dress your cast like that. Anything to get away from brown and grey crinoline. I shook my head. “Nothing. Sorry, lost my train of thought.”

I know. What am I, fourteen? The story’s not quite over yet, though. 

Probation Officer #43: How submissive?

two 1In my dream Sa’afia held Ana’s arms while Ana knelt, ass up, on my bed. She watched with interest while I took my belt to Ana’s arse, and leaned forward to be kissed while I positioned my cock against Ana’s little asshole. Ana’s strapped skin burned to the touch as I closed contact with her, though the sheets in which I dreamed were cool.

So were Sa’afia’s imagined breasts as she drew me into a tight hug while I pushed forward into Ana’s ass. The dream couldn’t sustain that level of detail. I drifted forward into a female world, a sequence of visual and tactile moments, of Ana’s softnesses and Sa’afia’s. When it all became too improbable, and too much mental work to sustain, I woke up.

It was morning. I  was back in a world in which I couldn’t have sex with Ana, and I shouldn’t really have a threesome with two cousins. They’d probably find it quite awkward, in practice. I didn’t let that worry me overmuch until, eyes closed to keep the images, and with spit and my cock in my hand, I came. Decorously, into tissues. 

In the shower I remembered the certainty I’d felt, while Sa’afia and I were fucking, that if I hurt and subdued her once she was excited she’d find a whole set of sexual pleasures that she probably didn’t know about, let alone know that they were in her. She’d seemed ready to let go of her own control, and to go under, to submit. That, or I’d imagined the whole thing. 

But there was an ethical issue. One that was more relevant to the real world, or my real world, anyway, than whether to involve cousins in a threesome. If I was right about Sa’afia I could easily get her consent.

two ladiesI could smack her ass just before she came, something a lot of vanilla lovers do to their vanilla lovers. It doesn’t need a separate consent. But I could smack her, and if it went well, do it again. If she became really excited, I could ask her consent to smack her harder.

Under those conditions, if the fuck is good, just the word “harder” can trigger a woman’s first submission-flavoured orgasm. 

Submissive women are all different. There’s no “key”. That approach will never work with someone who doesn’t like, desire and trust the person who smacks them. But it had worked for me, though I only did it when I already had some reason to believe that some small, self-revealing, steps into bdsm territory would be welcome. I wasn’t entirely comfortable about knowing things like that. It felt manipulative. Because it was. But it was also true that I’d done it accidentally, and then done it deliberately, and I’d been lavishly rewarded by the responses I’d gained. Submissive women had shown me something that some of them liked, and I’d paid attention.

But if I was right about Sa’afia, should I make any move to reach into her and show her her submissiveness? What about all the changes that bdsm would be likely to bring to her life? How long was I likely to be in her life? Maybe I should avoid changing her. Maybe I’d imagined that feeling between us anyway. Or maybe I hadn’t imagined it. What the hell did I know?

I got out of the shower and got dressed. I decided to go looking for Rodriguez before I went to the office, so I could catch him before he went to work. I called the office to tell them to expect me later. I didn’t call Rodriguez. I should be  a surprise.