Jerusalem Mortimer: Between the Lines

Jerusalem Mortimer wants a word

Mouth to mouth 11: Ropes for Qing?

Posted on November 6, 2015 by jaime

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Qing made a little noise of satisfaction, and we started to move together. After a while we sped up, and I found that I’d hit an obstruction inside her. It hurt. I thought that maybe I’d hit her spine, since she really was a slender girl and there didn’t seem much room inside her for my cock to go.

But it’d been her cervix. I changed my angle slightly and it didn’t happen again. Qing hadn’t noticed, as far as I could tell.

Her face was contorted in an extreme version of her pleasured expression, and she was making a sound I didn’t understand. (She was saying “cao wo”, meaning “fuck me”, but I didn’t know that till much later.)

Other things were clear enough without language, though, and I let her have my weight for a few minutes while I reached under her to grab her ass. I pulled her cheeks apart, and squeezed her hard, hoping to cause mild pain while she was close to coming.

In a minute or two, Qing opened her legs wide and put her feet on my arse. I sped up, hoping she’d come before I did, and put my right forefinger into her ass, up to the first knuckle. That did it: Qing stopped muttering cap wo. She screamed it, as if she was in a panic.

She wrapped her arms around me, so she was clinging like an octopus on eccy. She had three more orgasms, each a little calmer than the one before. I let myself come in her for the last one.

Qing sank back, arms and legs flat on the bed. I rolled off her, to lie on my side with my left leg over her. She said, “Well. You’re a dark horse. I didn’t think you even liked me.”

“Oh, I liked you. I just thought that guy was your boyfriend.”

“So does he, half the time. But he’s just a dickhead.”

“Mmmmph.”

Qing was falling asleep. I guessed I’d do the same, so I pulled some of the duvet away from the wall.

I found ties on the side of the bed, made of soft, furry rope. I could see knots on the other side of the bed, now that I was looking for them.

Four ties, near the bed corners. You could use that to hold someone spread-eagled and immobile.

I said “Qing? These ties … Is this something you’re into?”

But I was too late. She was asleep.

Probation officer #50: Shirt-lifting

Posted on August 10, 2013 by jaime

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Dinner, like Sa’afia, was had over the kitchen table, with wine. One curry was chicken and cocoanut with baby aubergines, and the other was long beans, tomato and okra. We drank it with a Catalunya rosado. I’ve told you that because the woman in the liquor store recommended the rosado. And I recommend it to you, for curries, though beer would also have been good.

It was warm in the kitchen, though the evening was getting chill. I wore my pants and no shirt. She wore my shirt and no pants. I was going to tell her to take my shirt off, because although the food was good, it hadn’t distracted me from her. But her phone buzzed. Sa’afia looked at me. It took three cycles for me to understand she was waiting for my permission to answer it. I said, “yes, of course. Take it.”

She fished the phone from her jeans pocket on the floor, glanced at the name and scampered into the corridor. I poured more rosado and didn’t listen. But I knew it was a girl. Sa’afia hadn’t casually off to the toilet, taking the phone and the conversation with her, as she’d have done if it was another boyfriend. And she laughed a lot but she didn’t have that seductive edge to her voice that she used when she talked on the phone to me.

Eventually I realised that the laughter was social. It involved me, and I was supposed to notice it. So I brought Sa’afia her wineglass, and because she had the phone in one hand – “just a second, uh” she said – and the glass in the other, I lifted my shirt at the back.

She wriggled frantically trying to dodge my hand, but that only made the resounding smack I gave her bottom even more satisfactory. So I gave her another.

Sa’afia yelped, then tried, too late, to cover the phone. I walked back to my chair while the laughter pealed out again.

Probation Officer #49: White foam

Posted on August 9, 2013 by jaime

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I undid the catch of Sa’afia’s jeans and pushed them and her briefs down her thighs. Once I’d undone my zip and stepped close so my cock touched her, I pushed them further down so that she could step out of them. She hadn’t worn a belt.

I smacked her bottom again, hard, though she was a good and blameless girl who had done no harm, to give her something to contemplate while I condomed up. She was wet when I touched her folds, and while we joined she puffed like a weightlifter psyching herself for a snatch and lift.

She said, “hooooooo”, when we paused. Then I said it too. I ground her, my soft brown mortar, and we made paste. A wet, sloppy paste. I did not stop, or speed up, for a long time. Eventually, I’m proud to say, Sa’afia screamed. The kind of scream that rattles windows, makes cats run for their lives and worries neighbours.

I decided not to come yet, and save it for later. I stroked her back and praised her. I said, shakily, “oh yes,” which was banal but at least it was something. She didn’t speak at all. She didn’t need to. She reached her hand back towards me and I held it.

I don’t think that Sa’afia had ever been bent over a kitchen table, or perhaps any table, and fucked before. It added something that I was still dressed while she was naked. Men can be criminally, pathetically, negligent. Those things should not have been left undone for so long. She’d liked them.

I decided that she’d spend a lot of time bent over that table. And a lot of time naked, in my clothed presence. Those seemed easy commitments to keep. They’d worked: there was white, girly foam at the front of my trousers. I hoped I could get it off with a wet cloth before I went to work tomorrow.

She wanted to finish her cooking, once we’d recovered. I refused to let her put her clothes back on. It turned out that she didn’t own any aprons. I let her wear my shirt.

My beautiful white shirt, for making curries. Greater love, or lust, had no man.

Probation officer #48: Just her

Posted on August 8, 2013 by jaime

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There was a picture of Minnie Mouse pinned to Sa’afia’s front door. I took that as a message to me. On Sunday she’d wondered why I had a framed, signed picture of Minnie Mouse on my toilet wall, and I’d claimed that I thought she – the mouse, that is – was sexy. Sa’afia’s printer was running out of pink, which is a bit of a disadvantage if you want to print out a picture of La Minnie. But it was a nice thought.

Instead of knocking and waiting I tried the door. It was unlocked so I let myself in, locking the door behind me.

A huge tapa cloth, tan, white and black, covered most of the left corridor wall. I knew the words “‘aiga” (family) and “alofa” (love), but I couldn’t make out what it had to say about those things, beyond that it likely to be favourable. There were doors to the right but I followed my nose and ears – I could hear Sa’afia humming – through to the back of the house and the kitchen.

Sa’afia wasn’t naked. She was leaning over the stove in baggy jeans and an ancient tee-shirt that must once have been red: Bic Runga, Pacific Voice. It had to be a bootleg, but that only made it cool. That’s enough connoisseurship from me, for a while? But I watched her rump wiggle in the baggy denim for a few long seconds before I said, “you must have a couple of glasses.”

“Jaime!” She charged me with a wooden spoon she’d just pulled out of something yellow and chilli-savoury. I put my bottles on the table and took the spoon off her, balancing it on the edges of a fruit bowl before I let her wrap herself around me. I was wearing a white shirt, and I’ve never been lucky with white shirts and yellow curries. I put my hands on her jeans and then slid them under her jeans to cup her ass, left and right, before I said, “Girl.”

I nuzzled her. I liked her flat nose. It was pretty, though it showed mine up as kind of pointy. “Yeah, you look good. You feel good.”

“You feel good.” She said it like an accusation.

I smacked her arse, something that despite her urging I’d not dome to Ana. It felt good and she didn’t stop kissing me, so I smacked her again. “You aren’t naked.”

“You’ve seen me naked.”

“Oh, that was it, was it?”

“And you’ve seen me in my party things. And you’ve me wearing your clothes, pretending to be a good Christian girl. Well, I thought you could see … me. This is just… me.”

I smacked her arse again. I had no excuse for that. “Well, just you looks pretty fucking good.”

She said, “Just you feels … Oh.”

She said “oh” because of the erection that confirmed what I thought of just her, and because I pulled her tee-shirt up and – she raised her arms – off. “I’m cooking!”

She had to say that because I’d turned her and pushed down over the table, and undone the catch of the bra.

I turned the stove off. There were curries. They would keep. And poured a glass of wine. We could share it. Then I said something so cheesy that even now the memory of saying it makes me cringe. “So am I.”

Probation Officer #43: How submissive?

Posted on August 3, 2013 by jaime

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In 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.

I 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.

One swallow doesn’t make a spring #22

Posted on June 19, 2013 by jaime

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Reader, I looked Svitlana in her eyes, and held that gaze while I brought my hand down, hard, on her inner thigh. She kept herself still, and though she gasped when my hand landed, and frowned and sucked at her lower lip, she did not move.

We watched each other’s faces while she experienced the sharp impact and then the after-warmth of having been deliberately smacked, and I enjoyed the memory of the cool firmness of her left thigh as my hand had landed. I held that memory in my hand.

She still stared at me, a little afraid, not of the potential pain of anything I might do, but of the strangeness of her own response to being out of her own control and under mine. I smiled at last, and Svitlana gasped again, relieved. I said, “good girl.”

She still had her thighs open as wide as she could present herself, and I touched her cunt, at the lowest edge of her lips, and stroked upwards. She was wet. My fingers swam in aroused Svitlana. She shivered slightly, wanting more, and I stroked her again.

Svitlana let her head fall back onto the pillow, and gave up her body to my stroking fingers, . After a while, she put her heels back on the bed and lifted herself, making her cunt and her other entrance available to me. In response I sped up a little, and Svitlana’s face took on that tenseness that said she was about to come. I let my finger slip all the way into her, and said, “nearly”.

Svitlana only moaned. She’d closed her eyes. She was only a second away.

With my other hand I smacked her right thigh. Not lightly; the sound was like a starter’s pistol, and her thigh rippled under the blow. I could see my hand[print, white against white. In seconds it would be a bright, clear red. Svitlana made a high-pitched noise, like a howl. There was a word in that howl. It was, “Harder!”

I smacked her left thigh again, as hard as I could, then put the hand that had slapped her against her mouth. “Now,” I said, “come.”

One swallow doesn’t make a spring #20

Posted on June 13, 2013 by jaime

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My cock, not quite comfortable, rested hard against her left thigh. She reached down and held it, cradling it and cooing, like a girl with a pet bird. Like Lesbia and her sparrow, I thought at the time, wanker that I am. She said, “Oooh, that was so good. That was … You are going to fuck me again, aren’t you?”

“Oh, you’ll probably get fucked again.”

Svitlana nodded. “I should think so.”

“Mmm. But first, you remember? Remember when I told you to get your thighs gynecologically open…”

“Ohhh.” She remembered. She’d disobeyed me. It had worried her for a second or two, then she’d decided that I’d forgotten.

“And you closed your legs a little, instead. You knew you were disobeying me. You thought I was going to punish you for that.”

“Ohhhh.” She was trying to sound amused. I think she was a little afraid. Not terrified, but nervous.

“Well, you were right.”

One swallow doesn’t make a spring #19

Posted on June 12, 2013 by jaime

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Svitlana seemed to be spent. But in that strange way that you sometimes know things that you haven’t been told, or shown, I knew that she needed more, and this time she didn’t want to be in control of her body. My fingers, still inside her, pushed up against the upper wall of her cunt. Svitlana grunted, a sleeping ship pushed by a tug. I pressed my thumb against her lips and bore down, finding her clit and hurting her. Svitlana opened her eyes and sighed. With my fingers pushing up against the spongy upper wall, and my thumb pushing down I could squeeze her cunt, and I did so, in a long, slow rhythm. Svitlana stretched, pressed her cunt hard against my hand and stayed with me. The good ship Svitlana was under way. Slowly.

I said, “Greedy girl.” I meant I was happy with her. She caught my eyes for a second, but said nothing. She closed her eyes to focus on something deep inside her.There was an extra reserve of lust in her, and she was connecting with it. She began to work with more urgency.

A few minutes later she was sweating with effort, every muscle in her body tight and relentlessly moving. My hand hurt, and I was getting cramp, but I stayed with her, pushing her hard.

Svitlana’s third scream was the loudest, and it shrilled the room until it died away in a wail of something like pain or despair, though it was neither of those things. She opened her eyes and looked at me in something like terror. I stroked her from inside one more time, fondly, and let her be still.

Svitlana subsided, lying back. Smugly half-smiling, she pulled me down onto her breasts and stroked my shoulders and the back of my head. She was supremely happy. So was I, though I was massaging the cramps pout of my right hand.

I kissed her breast and then bit her lightly when she tried to get her nipple further into my mouth. I suckled her, taking some more of her generous breast into my mouth. Svitlana pursed her lips, fearing that I was going to bite her harder. I bit her harder.

Her breath hissed, indrawn at the hurt, then she relaxed and moaned when I bit harder, grazing the nipple between my teeth.

I repeated with the other nipple, and Svitlana moved her hips, under me. She was ready to be fucked again.

But it was time to make her skin sing to her. I wanted her skin to burn like fire. I wanted her red, and I wanted to hear her whimper. With the right kind of pain, an awakening hurt. I considered whether to use my belt, or just my hand.