Christmas greeting! Undress us, one and all!

kiltI’ve always thought of New Year as the distinctively Scots festival. But I’ve got to acknowledge the fact that they invented the kilt and put girls in it, the perverts. And that you can’t have Christmas elves and such without pretty girls in kilts.

I suppose the rest of us fell into line with liking kilts, as worn by women, because the colours are cheerful, and with the right stride they’re very flappy little skirts.

They’re supremely, easily liftable, too, if the kilted woman is in that mood. Something like a tight little black cocktail dress can take a lot of tugging and shuffling, to get it off.

But a kilt … well, as I mentioned, a puff of wind can do it. Engineering genius.

seasons greetinAnd in Scots dialect “greeting” means crying. So there are lots of “Season’s greetings” puns right there. 

The Scots probably didn’t invent dakryphilia, which is the sexual appreciation of tears. Maybe the fact that “dakryphilia” is coined by a German from a Greek root is the clue, there.  

Still, the people who gave us the kilt and the word “greeting” are already bdsm legends. And let’s not forget that other Scots invention, the tawse.

germanHere’s a tawsed girl, showing the effectiveness of that implement in behaviour modification. And skin decoration, too. 

The girl is the beautiful “Linda”, and she’s German, not Scots. So’s the man wielding the tawse.

(I can always recognise that guy’s work because he always straps or canes on that angle, and – ask me – he aims a little too high.)

Anyway the Scots contribution isn’t as cool as their being mainly responsible for the Enlightenment. Still, perving up Christmas is a significant cultural achievement. 

So I hope you all have some sort of sexually complicated Christmas, possibly involving nudity and activity, and greetin’: the cheers, tears, yowls and howls of happy people. 

Closer to what I'd hope for

What I’d hope for (with a North American socket), but I hope everybody gets what they want.

For those who like blokes: here's a crew of thematic guys.

For those who like blokes: here’s a crew of thematic guys. I covet the antlers, but. 


Yikes 5: Tears are our pillow

I’d had high expectations of that night, from the moment I’d decided that tintanabula needed to find out what a paddle can do. That was because she’d got only mediocre marks in a university test. I was outraged, when she admitted her score, because I want her to pass near the top of her class. So I decided that she would feel a little warning twinge in her bottom, a painful memory, any time she felt like giving a test less than 100% of her effort. But to have a painful memory you first have to have a painful experience. That was where the paddle came in.

tears againThe other details, that I’d paddle her in the open air at night, with her bound naked over a whipping frame, filled themselves in. I’d just made the whipping frame, and obviously I was going to find a use for it soon. So I was expecting the experience to be memorable, in different ways, for both of us.

But all my expectations were exceeded. It was emotionally and sexually overwhelming. The source of all this extra power was her tears. They’d lifted the emotional and sexual stakes dramatically. At first, when tintanabula started to cry, I’d been pleased simply because it meant that she would be trying harder for her next exam. 

But tears and sobs can mean an ocean, a world, of feeling and communication between a dominant and a submissive.  

I’m not much of a fetishist, really. I don’t care about leather, or corsets, or gloves or shoes or any of that kind of thing. But I think I may have a thing for the tears of a submissive woman. There’s something intimate about her tears, the way she brings me this physical, surrendered, sign of her emotion for me to see and share it. Her tears make me both cruel and loving. Her tears move me emotionally, and they make me hard. 

There’s a word for tear fetishism, by the way: dacryphilia. It seems that I’m a dacryphiliac.

Yikes #4: Pretending not to care about pleasure

Paddled ass: the other partner in a love-hate relationship

A well-paddled ass: the other partner in the love-hate relationship between submissive and implement. An especially intense relationship when the implement is the paddle.

So this story hovers around a woman, somewhat ludicrously called tintanabula, with her feet and wrists cuffed to a wooden whipping frame, naked in the night air, her ass presented but her head, hands and feet close to the long grass.

She sobbed, unrestrained. Her body wasn’t. Unrestrained. Her buttocks and upper thighs were bright red, with patches of a darker, richer red which would develop into black and blue bruising in only a few more minutes.

tumblr_m6yonvLL7T1rai72mo1_500The paddle lay on the grass beside her, and the penis of the man who had hurt her – that’s me – was hard. I’d loved her tears and cries. She still whimpered as I pushed in and slowly withdrew in her rectum, I held her hips to keep her still and presented. I wanted her to feel, even if it wasn’t entirely true, that I had no regard at all for her pleasure. She was being buggered while her ass still burned with pain. She should get the full benefit of that.

She knew it’d never be quite true, but she loved feeling that I didn’t care about her pleasure. 

I don’t think she enjoyed being buggered just then. Two dozen isn’t a lot of strokes, but it is if you use the paddle. It was one of the most severe punishments I’ve ever given. It simply hurt, and afterwards I hadn’t been gentle.

But it was what tintanabula said was the hottest, the most rawly sexual night she’d ever experienced. Afterwards I’d wrapped her in a gown and taken her to a bed with cool, crisp sheets, and while I laid her down and fucked her I whispered in her ear that I’d paddle and bugger her again soon, but even harder, and possibly with an audience next time. She’d come harder and more often, that night, than ever before in her life.

Yikes #3: More about tears

One of the cliches of Italian opera is that the baritone, who never gets the girl though he’s usually much better looking than the tenor, will at some stage sing a jolly and slightly misogynist song about women’s tears, and how women use them as weapons against men.

Men, he will sing, can stand up bravely to swords and spears, But are helpless against a woman’s tears, tra-la. 

In rom-coms the man will give in on any point if the woman even appears as if she might be considering crying. She just has to pull out a tissue and he caves in.

This is what mascara is for, really.

This is what mascara is for, really.

If delivering my first spanking was a hard thing for me to do, which it was even though the girl had demanded it, the first time I made a girl cry and then continued because she didn’t want me to stop was harder still.

I was taught that hitting a woman or making her cry was the lowest thing that a man could do. When submissive women started teaching me something different, which fitted my own desires, it set up a real conflict.

It took a lot of will to force myself to stay merciless to a crying girl. In the end, submissive women and my desires were bound to win that conflict, and they did. I’m glad I persisted. 

Yikes #2: A note on tears

I mentioned, back in Yikes #1, that I told a girl I was going to give her twenty-eight strokes of a thick wooden paddle. We’ll call her tintanabula. I think using lower case for a submissive’s name, in print, is faintly ridiculous and so does she. But that’s exactly why she gets lower case: who said a submissive is allowed typographical dignity?

I’m going to leap ahead in that story, and say that I took her out, naked in the night air, and cuffed her to a whipping frame, with her head down, looking into a forested river valley. She began shedding tears after about five strokes of the paddle, and then sobbing aloud, serenading the valley, after eight. As she began to sob, she could reflect on the fact that there were still twenty strokes to come, and wonder what state she’d be in by the time I’d delivered the full set. 

The paddle: one partner in a love-hate relationship

The paddle: one partner in a love-hate relationship

This is a girl who can take a dozen with the cane dry-eyed. Sore, but not usually crying even when she’s dramatically striped. So she hates the paddle, because it reaches her. It reduces her to nothing but a warm, helpless creature being beaten, with no physical or psychological defences. 

I don’t have to use the paddle at all hard. A firm, controlled swing to bring it down across the centre of her buttocks, with not too long a gap for recovery between the strokes, will elicit a fresh outburst of pain and repentance every time. 

I worry that tintanabula will come to love being paddled: all that helplessness, and the hormonal ride of pain. But in the meantime, it’s the implement to use when I want to punish her and be sure she won’t enjoy it. 

Vampire girl #20

The previous episode is here.


But the next lash landed near that first stroke, on the softer flesh of her thigh. I would whip Diane’s cunt one day, but not now, not here. To compensate for what she might think of as mercy, I made this stroke harder, and her whole body shuddered when the switch bit home. I had to put my arm round her belly, holding on to her while she shook and fought to steady herself, still grinding her ass against me while the pain sunk in. She sang that low, “ooooooooo” again, and looked at me, her eyes shining with tears under the moon.

I smiled at her. “You’re beautiful.” It was true. Submission, when it comes, is so profoundly right and satisfying. It’s beautiful and moving.  She’d found her way to the sex of this, and to part of herself that answered part of me. Her thigh must have been burning but her hand still worked, stroking herself. I kissed one tear away from her cheek, tasting the salt of my girl’s pain, but I let the others run their glistening moonlit trails.

Diane’s hips still shook, her movements forced by the grip of the pain, but eventually she was able to relax. She leaned back, her left leg still bent and raised, letting me take her weight.

She took a breath, and then another before she could speak. “Oh, you’re cruel. You’re a cruel man. How can you be so cruel?”

I said, “You can put your foot down now.” She obeyed carefully, standing with her legs apart, not letting her thighs touch. I put my hand back on her hand, which still stroked busily in her cunt. Her inner thighs were wet. I patted my sopping girl, affectionately, then took her left breast and squeezed the nipple. She made a version of her pain song, but it was not pain. She liked having her nipples hurt.

So I pulled that nipple, then turned it a little, and squeezed it again, even harder. Diane had closed her eyes, and her breathing was fast and shallow. Her hand still worked at her cunt, and she was close to coming. I said, “cruel to be kind. Cruel because you need a cruel man. Don’t you?”

“Yes. Oh fuck yes.”

“That’s right. Now, don’t come until I’ve finished whipping you, Diane. That’s an order. Now get your right knee up. Quickly.” 


The next episode is here.