My Girl in Havana

bananaPeople who read this blog regularly will know I was recently in Havana.

On my way there I dropped in on Antarctica, where – according to their profiles – the hottest submissive girls live. It must be the penguin down and the hot pools. I met up with a girl I’ll call Gretel. This was something we’d arranged, me on my mountain and her on the towering gloom of Erebus.

Gretel’s a bit of a name on the internet, much more so than I am, and she’s a quick, sharp, smart girl. She lives on her wits, though she has more than her wits to offer and entice a suitor.

For example the excellence of her breasts is matched only by the legendary cuteness of her ass and the inviting plain of her belly. She is pale, which I like, and when she smiles there are indeed dimples.

Annnnyway, that ass, though cute as mentioned, had been substantially under-spanked and generally lacked a history of pleasing mistreatment. We both thought that was regrettable. So one of our understandings was that after we’d explored the forests, rum joints, decaying buildings and corrupt police, secret and otherwise, of Cuba, we’d explore some more personal matters in our hotel room.

not here bunnyAnd so, one day, which wasn’t the first day because an undressed Gretel is more shy, in some ways, than a fluffy bunny who wants you to just go on as if she wasn’t really there, I undressed her. I put some gruff into my voice so she knew why, and made her bend over the bed.

And I smacked her bottom.

The sound, and the resilience and sweet round tactility of her ass was pretty well perfect, and so was her reaction. That is, she moved in response to the smack, so that I knew she’d felt it, but she stayed in place. So I counted that as an invitation, and gave her a long spanking, not at all hard, but setting out to build up some heat and colour.

And wetness. I had a wet girl on my hands. Under my hands, to be literal about it.

Have case, will travel.

The doctor is in. Also perverse. My flogger is the instrument on the left.

At a later time I put her down so that she was lying on the bed, face down and bottom up, and brought out my flogger. The lashes are made of soft leather, so although I can make it land hard enough to make a fairly whip-hardened girl cry out, it can also be used purely for pleasure.

Used at medium strength it’s practically a massage tool. It lands heavily, but the thud isn’t the sort of impact that has to hurt. It’s the dom’s choice whether the flogger’s contact with her flesh is a caress or a whip-stroke.

So I flogged her, in a series of very quick, light blows, that you get by swinging the handle so that the lashes spin in a circle, and land, at their lowest point, on her upper thighs and bottom. Gretel made no sound. She was smiling slightly, and it seemed that she might have found sub-space, and moved into it. Not all the way in. She stayed just inside the border, where details and events get a little vague, but you can come out if you need to.

Gretel's ass, half flogged. It was redder than that, really. Something about Havana light seems to bleach away the blush of flogged skin.

Gretel’s ass, half flogged. In reality it was redder than that, but something about Havana light seems to bleach away the blush of flogged skin, at least on camera. 

Occasionally I added a little extra force to the swing, and made her flinch. I did that to make sure she was still reacting, and hadn’t drifted completely away from her flogging and from me. And because I wanted it to be a sexy experience, it has to have a little bite to it or it becomes merely mellow and pleasant. There needed to be the odd moment that had an edge, that woke her skin and hurt a little, so that the next, softer strokes of the flogger were actually soothing.

It was a good introduction, I thought. I’d done okay at teaching Getting Flogged 101, but I was especially pleased with Gretel. Intelligence is one of the keys to sexiness: sharp wits, wet bits.

Note: Writing about very recent events is against one of my rules, but I made an exception in this case for reasons I won’t explain. It probably goes without saying, but I do have Gretel’s consent both for writing about her flogging, and to run that pic of her excellent ass.

Probation Officer #51: Dîner sur la table

The conversation wound up a minute or so later. Sa’afia came back, eyes sparkling. 

“That was Ana.” 

“I know.” Sa’afia paused, in my shirt, glowing white – with yellow curry streaks – on glowing brown skin. She seemed confident, now, that I liked her breasts. “Now take that shirt off.”

pretty brownShe obeyed quickly, as if she’d been waiting for me to get around to mentioning it. I held out my hand and she gave me my shirt. Now she glowed brown, except that her nipples were purple-black and Sa’afia was a pubic hair girl, neat but retro and shining raven-black. She smiled, tremendously amused by me, and certain that I liked what I saw.

I smiled back at her, less brilliantly. “Now come and sit down. Dinner.”

I put my shirt back on while Sa’afia sat across the table from me. When I’d finished doing up the buttons I topped up her glass and mine, and we silently toasted each other, looking into each other’s eyes.

A clothed man and a naked woman, at table. We were doing something perverse. We both knew and felt it. I said, “eat.” 

But Sa’afia took a sip of her wine instead. “I told Ana that you spanked me.”

Probation officer #50: Shirt-lifting

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. 

mans shirtEventually 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

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.

weightI 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. 

tableI 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 #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.

Probation officer #40: “Why spank her if she’d only enjoy it?”

I was puzzled by Sa’afia’s suggestion – demand, really – that I spank Ana. I knew that if I did I’d have a good time, so long as Ana was having a good time too. But I had no reason to think Ana was submissive, and if she wasn’t going to enjoy it what would be the point? I couldn’t imagine spanking someone who didn’t want it. So I said, “Why should I spank Ana? Do you think she’d enjoy it?”

Sa’afia looked at me. I’d said something genuinely strange. “What? Why would she enjoy getting a spanking?” She frowned. “If she was going to enjoy it, why would you do it? That’s…” We looked at each other, having achieved mutual incomprehension.

Then Sa’afia said, “Oh.” She laughed. She was still stroking my cock. “Oh, you mean, like a pervy sex thing? Oh Jaime, you palagi, you’re filthy.”

(Palagi is pronounced “pah-lang-ee”, where “lang” sounds like the German word “lang”, or perhaps “larng”, if you say larng quickly. Palagi can mean “anyone who isn’t Samoan”, but mostly it means “white people”, especially English-speaking ones. It’s not a derogatory term, though if you hear it snarled at you in a certain tone of voice, it might be a good idea to duck. Sa’afia said it affectionately.)

I said, disingenuously, “Well, I don’t know. I know some people enjoy it. Spanking or getting spanked. Or they do both.”

Not boney.

Not boney. Bonny.

“Palagi think everything comes down to  sex. No, I meant you should spank Ana because she’s been messing with you. That’s disrespectful. She deserves it. Put her boney little ass over your knee.”

“It’s not a boney little ass.”

“It’s not like mine. Yeah?” Sa’afia wriggled. She was facing me, but that wiggle worked on my imagination. 

Both asses were perfect, as far as I could tell, but Sa’afia’s slightly more womanly ass was the one on my bed. I said, “Oh yes. Yes, your ass is very very very fine.”

“Thank you.” She poked a finger at my chest. She was vehement about this. “And once you’ve got her over your knee, you get whatever she’s wearing off: right off. That’s how it works. And you smack her. And you do it right.  Not so she enjoys it. To make her behave, silly man.” She glanced down at my cock.

I didn’t want attention drawn to my cock just then. And I didn’t want to think about where this sudden fervour for the discipline of her cousin had come from: Was she jealous of Ana? Was it something she, Sa’afia, wanted herself? Or had Ana put her up to the whole thing? I’d have to explore that some time, but not now.

I said, “You’re a fine one to talk about being filthy. For starters, you’ve got lettuce on your …” And I dived and took a little fold of belly, and the lettuce shred, between my teeth. I bit lightly and shook my head like a terrier, so that she shivered. I speared the little piece of lettuce with my tongue and made it go away, and veered downhill, the further two inches to her cunt. Salty girl, she was.

Sa’afia put her hands on my head and fell back with a whumpff of pillows. So that conversation was over.

And though she’d stopped thinking, I now had a perfectly good explanation and justification for presenting her with an erection.

Probation officer #39: Making mischief

I frowned. “I doubt -. No, I’m pretty sure that’s not a good idea.”

“She should know what she’s missing. Since you’re so careful not to -. Well, she’s not going to find out from you.” 

Sa’afia was making mischief. If she was any cousin of Ana’s, looking worried would only make it worse. So I said, “You’re cousins, and you’re both Bad Girls. Both of you. So you tell Ana whatever you like. But it’s not going to matter. I’m still not allowed to tell you anything about Ana, I mean about Ana and probation. And I’m still not allowed to fuck her, no matter what you tell her.” 

“She’s been teasing you. You know that, don’t you?” 

I thought about Ana’s lesbian story, and how disappointed she’d seemed with my tediously helpful reaction. I’d believed the story at the time, but I’d started to have my doubts. “Maybe.”

“No maybe about it, Mr Probation Officer Sir. She’s been trying to give you another rere, because you get so cute when you’re embarrassed.” She looked at me to check, and of course I blushed. “It’s okay. It is cute.” She circled my cock with her fingers. It didn’t stir. 

“Huh.” (A ‘rere’, pronounced ‘ray-ray’, is an erection, in Samoan circles. But she didn’t mean my cock was cute; she meant my embarrassment was.) 

“Anyway, she says she tells you filthy stories, and she shows you what she had for breakfast, and she says you just sit there and react like a robot. She was starting to think maybe you were gay. Or something. So I can tell her she’s on the wrong track there.” Her hand, still on my cock, started stroking lightly.   

“She knows I fancy her. That’s not breaking any confidences.” I meant that I’d said it to Ana at the party, after we’d danced together, so it wasn’t covered by probation confidentiality rules. But that was too boring and priggish to explain. Fortunately Sa’afia didn’t question it. “But I’m supposed to be a professional. I’m trying to act like it.” 

How much had I thought about that? Far, far, far, far too much.

How much had I thought about that? Far, far, far, far too much.

“You know, you should give her a spanking.”

“No, I shouldn’t.”

“That’s what she needs, I reckon. I bet she deserves it, too. You should just put her over your knee and smack her bottom.”

My cock, treacherously, chose that moment to wake up in her hand. 

One swallow doesn’t make a spring #22

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”. 

cuntSvitlana 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 #21

Svitlana thought for a moment or two. I’d just told her I was going to punish her for disobedience. She wouldn’t have had any qualm, if I’d simply smacked her thigh. But announcing it in advance, and specifying that it was punishment, that it was for disobedience, that made it hard to take. 

This was not going to be a night she could discuss with Mayne and Barbs, the dyke couple who were looking after her, let alone with Kerry, the angrier dyke who’d told her I was a bad man who spanked women. Kerry had done me a favour, though that was another thing that would never be said. Not to Kerry, anyway.

It's the waiting that makes it hot.

It’s the waiting that makes it hot.

She said, with utmost wariness, “Okay. If I were going to let you punish me for closing my thighs, what would you do?”

I smiled. “No. Ask me how I’m going to punish you.”

“Punish me for what?”

“Ask me, nicely, to punish you for closing your thighs when I told you to open them.”

“You keep shifting the ground!” 

“Yes. So you should ask me, very sweetly, to smack your inner thighs, to punish you for closing your thighs when I told you to open them.” 

We looked at each other. I was grinning like a fox. We held each other’s gaze for a few seconds, and Svitlana burst out laughing. When she recovered she said, “All right. Would you please, pretty please, smack me on my inner thigh – is that right?” 

“Just do as you’re told.” That was a growl.

“On my inner thighs, to punish me for closing my thighs when you told me to open them.”

I kissed her, and we held that for some time, my hand caressing her scalp through a handful of her hair. Eventually she broke away for breath, and I said, “Since you asked so nicely.”


“Left thigh. Bend your knees, and keep your thighs right open, so I can smack you. And don’t move, or I’ll have to give you double. You know that.”

“Yes.” Svitlana obeyed, lifting and spreading her legs to offer me a delicious white, rounded target. I wanted to kiss her cunt, now most prettily framed, and fuck her. But first there was business.

spank handI raised my hand, hovered over the target, three inches below her cunt.

Svitlana drew in her breath. Her stomach muscles tightened. She looked away, and then, drawn by awful curiosity, gazed back into my eyes. I let her wait.  


One swallow doesn’t make a spring #20

holdMy 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…”

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.”