Sexual Dynamics: Memoirs of a Discerning Dom

An inventory of implements: 5 cane

2012-01-25T09:24:00.000Z

There may be submissive girls who have not yet tried the cane. But I cannot believe there are any who have not thought of it, with a mixture of fear and fascination. It is, is it not, the ultimate weapon in the dom’s armoury. There may be other implements that hurt as much (though I have yet to discover them), but none which have quite the mystique.

What is the source of the cane’s aura? In part it derives from a solid basis of fact, that, properly wielded, it can impart a impressive level of pain, and is capable of leaving bruises that, depending on the susceptibility of the girl, can last for days or even weeks. The cane delivers its force to a highly focussed area. It’s thin, and so the effect is not diffused, as with a belt or tawse. And because of this, the pain is penetrating. It seems to go right down through the flesh, to reach the core beneath, the tender, throbbing core of the poor trembling submissive.

Perhaps part of its mystique derives from its history. Traditionally the cane has been, together with the whip, the implement of choice for judicial purposes. In some benighted countries it is still in use. Fortunately, in the civilised world it merely carries echoes of its use in legally sanctioned punishment. For men of my generation it is associated mostly with the headmaster’s study, an implement kept hanging behind the door or perhaps hidden in a drawer, and produced with due solemnity. ‘Six of the best’ has such a ring to it that I still tend to cane girls in bursts of six, hopefully followed by six more.

In some ways the cane is an easier implement to wield than the belt or the tawse, which, being flexible, are not so controllable and which, if you are not skilled, can land on the edge and not full on, thus producing a cutting effect which may be more than you desire. The only problem with the cane is making sure you get it in the right place, because if you stray too high you run the risk of hitting the coccyx, and that’s nasty.

I shall not discourse on the ideal length for a cane, or how thick it should be, or the relative merits of different materials (though simple bamboo is what I prefer). Each to his choice. Nor shall I express a preference for the method. Cold caning has its advocates, I know, though I do believe that the more warm-up she gets the more strokes she can absorb. But each dom will experiment to get the best results.

I have a sneaking suspicion that no girl feels she has truly earned her spurs as a submissive until she has undergone the cane. I tend to take that view myself. Hand, belt, whatever, are delightful things to use on an inviting bottom. But I am always looking for the girl to graduate to the cane. That’s when things get serious.

The forbidden word

2012-01-20T07:58:00.000Z

I told the brown-eyed girl to do something for me. What exactly, I can’t remember; it’s not important. I’d encountered moments of resistance on previous occasions: imploring looks, hesitancy, playing for time. But this was different.

‘No,’ she said.

Immediately I grabbed her by the hair and slapped her face. Then again.

‘Don’t use that word to me,’ I said. ‘Not ever.’

She looked hurt, not so much physically, but shocked by the forcefulness of my response.

‘I don’t allow that word,’ I said.

‘But I really did not want to do what you said.’

‘I know; that’s why I want you to do it. It’s a test.’

She looked doubtful; resentful, even. I could see I owed her a fuller explanation.

‘If I tell you to do something you don’t want to do, you have a number of possible responses. You can plead with me, beg me to change my mind. Or you can explain, calmly and rationally, why it would not be a good idea for you to do that thing. You can say that of course you will do it if I insist, but ask me to take into account your extreme unwillingness. Or you can take a deep breath and just do it. The one thing you never do is give me an outright refusal. You are a submissive girl. I am your dom. That means you have always already agreed to do as I say. You must trust me that I will never try to make you do something that is harmful to you, mentally or physically, or outside the boundaries of your capabilities. But if it’s something that I want, and I know you can do it, even if you don’t like it, then, after I have heard what you have to say, you will do it. Do you understand.’

She took her time digesting this. Then she nodded. ‘I understand,’ she said.

‘Then do what I said.’

She did it, without hesitation, though she didn’t pretend to enjoy it.

‘Good girl,’ I said and held her close.

Insults

2012-01-16T08:13:00.000Z

Many doms like to add insult to injury. The injury is the beatings, the nipple-clampings, the face-slappings, all the kinds of physical ‘abuse’ he engages in with his submissive. And insults would be the names he calls her while he’s doing it. I’ve never been entirely sure what I feel about this. I certainly have enjoyed calling a submissive girl a slut, or a whore, or, in special circumstances, a horny little bitch. I’ve even written such words on her body. But I’m always concerned that I don’t go too far. It’s my experience that many submissive girls are prey to uncertainties about what they are doing. They aren’t always sure they ‘ought’ to be doing such things, whether it’s good to be whipped or humiliated, even with their consent. It may be a moral thing (some submissive girls are religious; squaring that particular circle is not an easy thing to do; subject for another blog-post, perhaps). It may be a feminist thing (and I’m all for feminism, in case you are wondering). Or it may be the worry, where will it end? ‘I want this so much, I just want more and more; maybe I’m getting into a danger area.’

One of the main reasons submissive girls feel uncertainty is to do with self-esteem. This can be both a physical and a psychological thing. Girls often need a lot of reassurance that their bodies are appealing, not only when they are wearing a pretty dress with their make-up freshly done, but when they are on their knees with smeared lipstick and eye-shadow, or tied up in what feels like an ungraceful or awkward position, or when they are exposed for close examination. Some girls worry that their cunts are not attractive. It can take some time to convince a girl both that her cunt is perfectly ‘normal’, and that you find it irresistibly appealing.

And some girls have a real issue with being called names. They need to be very sure that when you call them a slut, it is basically a term of approval, even praise, that a slut is something you admire, something you very much want them to be. Just for you. For me, a slut is simply a girl who enjoys sex without reserve, and the dirtier or kinkier the sex the more she enjoys it. But there’s a line I try not to cross. I want a girl to feel proud of what she does with me. And so I would never ever tell a girl she is a useless fuck-hole, or a stupid cunt. It’s clear some doms like to demean their girls in this manner, and if the girl gets off on it, that’s fine, I suppose. But it would never work for me, and I wouldn’t like any girl I knew to want that sort of verbal abuse. I’d worry that she didn’t value herself. But maybe I’m having difficulty here separating out fantasy from reality, which of course is the accusation we make against vanilla folk when they say that d/s is all about men exploiting women.

Waiting

2012-01-12T07:41:00.000Z

The brown-eyed girl has a glass dildo. It’s a pretty thing, long and cool and elegant. I tell her I want a picture of it in her ass.

She doesn’t exactly refuse, but she stalls. It’s too big, she says. I’ve put three fingers in her ass; I know how much she can take. I’m sure the dildo will not stretch her to the limit. But still she hesitates. I think I know why. It’s not the fear that the thing is too big for her. It’s the sense of shame she feels. Of course there a few things that arouse me more than a pretty girl blushing.

‘No hurry,’ I say. ‘I’m a patient man.’ I don’t give her a deadline. Working between the two of us, we need to get her in the right frame of mind to do as she is told. She needs to understand that I would never ask the impossible of her, but nor shall I only ever demand she does easy things. What would be the point? If it isn’t a test of her obedience, or her sluttiness, or her love of edgy, kinky things, then what is the purpose? She needs to be pushed, to feel that there is a will that is greater than hers. When she knows that, she will do what I ask.

It’s going to make a lovely picture. Such a beautiful bottom, such an exquisite toy. I can wait, though my patience is not infinite.

(Later) She is a good girl. She finally did what I asked. They are lovely pictures. She has done well. Now I’m thinking what her next task should be. More images of penetration, I think.

Passing the test

2012-01-08T08:32:00.000Z

The brown-eyed girl is in a strange mood, brooding over something.

‘What is it? What do you want?’ I ask.

She hesitates. ‘I want to be spanked,’ she says eventually.

Ever the gentleman, I am more than willing to oblige. I haul her down over my knee and lift her skirt. Pulling down her knickers, I set to work, smacking her pretty little bottom with vigour. She squeals and wriggles. I grab her hair and twist it to keep her still. She continues to protest. It appears that the spanking has taken her by surprise. It’s harder than she expected.

I’m spanking in earnest now, stinging blows that have her writhing this way and that. She makes a determined effort to get away. I hold her down forcibly with my left hand and spank harder than ever. After a while the protests die down; she goes quiet and her body is still. Every now and again I stop spanking and caress her bottom, bright pink now and hot to the touch. Then I resume.

At last my hand is sore. I pause again, and while stroking her I explain that though she requested it, she is not the one who decides how hard the spanking shall be, or when it will end. I will stop when I think she has had enough. I ask her if she understands this. ‘Yes,’ she says, in such a small voice I can hardly hear.

I tell her to strip and lie face down on the bed. I fetch the flogger. I trail it up and down her back, over her red and smarting bottom, down the backs of her thighs. Then I set to, bringing the flogger down hard across the centre of her buttocks. The thud of the flogger brings gasps and whimpers, but no longer does she try to get away. Finally, when I am satisfied I have made my point, I put the flogger down and feel between her legs. She is dripping wet.

Later, the brown-eyed girl tells me that her ex spanked her once or twice, but would always stop if she showed any resistance. This is worse than useless to the submissive girl. If she has the temerity to ask for a spanking, she needs to get more than she bargained for. She doesn’t get to dictate terms.

‘Unlike him, you didn’t stop,’ she says. ‘You kept on going, harder than ever. You passed the test.’

An inventory of implements: 4 clamps

2012-01-05T18:29:00.000Z

All the submissive girls I’ve known have had a taste for nipple play. They like their nipples to be teased, pinched and sucked. They have varied in the amount of pain they could take. Some like a fairly gentle pulling, maybe a nibble with the teeth. But some need more than that; much more. That’s where the clamps come in.

You can hurt a girl a lot just using your fingers, squeezing as hard as you can, twisting the nipples around, or digging in your nails. And there are various household objects which can be put to excellent use. Clothes pegs (or clothes pins to our American friends), can deliver a powerful stimulus, especially if deployed in large numbers, making pretty patterns around the breast before finishing off with a final one right on the point of the nipple itself.

Some girls, braver than most, or simply wired to need more pain, can take a bulldog clip in their nipple, though in my experience not many. I’ve also got some small but vicious little clips I found on the curtains in my last flat. There’s a girl I know who regards them as the ultimate weapon; their tiny little serrated teeth inspire something like terror. But actually, they are not the worst, as one day she will discover.

I’ve got two sets of custom-make clamps. One is the so-called butterfly or clover clamps, designed, I think, in Japan. When you press the sides, the jaws open up. They are fitted with little rubber pads, which at first seems a merciful touch, but which in fact stick to the skin, so that when the clamps are removed the pain is for a moment really intense. These clamps are ingeniously designed so that the harder you pull on them the tighter they grip. Ultimately, if you pull hard enough, they will come off, though the girl will suffer acutely before you get to that point.

I’ve kept the best for last. I’ve got a pair of clamps that have sharp metal teeth, that grip fiercely, and which are adjustable. Turn a screw and the spring gets tighter and tighter. There are about 5 full turns from minimum to maximum force, so you can calculate a scale of 1 to 10 by using a half turn. I’d say a 5 is probably enough for most submissives. It’s painful enough to stop her thinking of irrelevancies, forcing her to concentrate on the matter in hand. A 6 or a 7 will ratchet up her level of submission, and make her think about begging for mercy. It’s at this point that I am likely to take them off and soothe her sore nipples with soft kisses. But this is only a preliminary to asking her if she will submit to having them put on again. If she says yes, I’d tell her that now it’s going to be a 7. I hear her intake of breath and I begin to get very aroused. I want to hurt her, and the more I see her suffer the more I want to do it.

It’s a very brave and/or masochistic girl who will ask for an 8. It’s not just having the clamps put on. They are connected by a chain, and pulling on the chain produces a powerful response. Twisting the clamps is even worse. She’s breathing hard now, and there is a film of perspiration on her brow. It’s close to unbearable. But when I take the clamps off she can’t help thinking about what they would feel like if they went on again. This is so characteristic of the submissive girl. When the pain is too bad she begs for release. Yet a moment later she thinks, perhaps I could take more.

But I’ve never yet given a girl a 10. It’s not because I’m squeamish. I like to push a girl, to see just what she is capable of. But for almost any girl, a 10 is the point at which the pleasure of pain is no longer enough to cancel out the instinct for self-preservation, the need to get relief on any terms.

There is a girl who knows that one day I shall demand 10 of her. She tries not to think about it. She likes to think that if ever this is required of her, she will not be found wanting. But she’s not sure. The memory of those nasty little things from the curtains that I put on her nipples is bad enough, and yet a 10 on the adjustable ones will be even worse.

We shall see.

An inventory of implements: 3 belt

2011-12-17T08:59:00.000Z

A belt is merely a strip of leather. As such it can deliver a stroke of variable force, depending on how it is wielded, and depending too on the thickness of the leather. It’s certainly capable of imparting serious pain, but used more playfully it may merely sting.

And yet, it’s more than that, far more. To many submissive girls, a belt is an implement of almost mystic properties. Because it’s not merely an instrument in the hands of a dominant intent on making a forceful impression on her bottom. A belt has a very personal connection with its owner; it seems to be imbued with some part of his personality. After all, men choose belts according to their sartorial image of themselves. If you are the outdoor type who cultivates a macho image, you’d go for something heavy, maybe even with a large, Western-style buckle engraved with some fancy design. If you like motorbikes, your belt may be embossed with steel studs, which I imagine might make a girl quail somewhat. If you are more of a city sophisticate you’d want something slimmer, more elegant. Whatever you incline to, the belt is certain to display some of your character. It’s a lot more personal than a tawse or a cane could ever be.

So when he takes off his belt to her, the submissive feels this is a more intimate kind of beating, that he is employing something of himself in imparting pain to her bottom. But there’s still more to it than that. To spank her with his belt, he must first remove it. Some girls experience a special frisson from that little swishing sound as the belt slithers off, often accompanied by a slight metallic clink as the buckle is released.

I’ve heard of doms who use the buckle itself to strike the bare bottom. I can’t say I’d ever do that. You’d be likely to draw blood, and that’s a hard limit with me. But there are some choices to be made in exactly how the belt is wielded. First, do you use it long or short? Do you swing wide and let the whole length come into play? Or do you wind it round your hand a couple of times, reducing the length, perhaps sacrificing a little potential force but gaining in accuracy? In my opinion accuracy counts for a lot in spanking. You want to create a nice pattern, not a mishmash of strokes going every which way. And it’s not just a matter of aesthetics. Landing your strokes within a narrow range ensures they have the maximum effect.

One way to guarantee extra power is to double the belt. This will deliver a heavier downstroke and a lot more force to the target, and is highly recommended if you want to make a really forceful impression, and marks that last.

One more thing. Belts have other uses to the inventive dominant mind. In the first place, you can tie a girl up. It’s not quite so effective used on the hands, but looping the belt around her ankles and then doing up the buckle is s very reliable way to bind her feet. And a belt is also a highly effective makeshift collar and leash, wound round the neck and pulled through the buckle.

Just be sure while you are doing all this that your trousers don’t fall down. A sniggering sub is an affront to domly dignity.

Hard limits

2011-12-11T12:57:00.000Z

We were talking about hard limits. She told me a few that she had. Mostly, they were unexceptionable; I would have no problem respecting them. If something would distress her, I wouldn’t do it. It’s no pleasure to me to see her upset. I want to make her do things she wants to do, even if she thinks perhaps she ought not to do them (too dirty, not what nice girls do), or even if she thinks she really doesn’t want to, but finds out in fact that she does after all (all sorts of deviousness go on in the submissive mind!).

Of course a little resistance now and then only adds to the dom’s pleasure in enforcing his wishes. But you have to be careful to find out the true nature of the resistance. Once thing she said was a hard limit because it involved some humiliation. When I probed it turned out that what was troubling her was her vanity. She thought that when performing that act she wouldn’t look elegant. I’ll look ugly, she said. So, I replied, it’s vanity that makes you resist. Yes, she said, but girls are that way, aren’t they? I told her I didn’t think vanity was a good reason for not following instructions. But I’ll be upset if I have to do something that makes me look awkward and silly, she said.

It seems to me that sometimes you have to insist, have to break through the reluctance, because pride and modesty and vanity are all very well, but what the dom wants is that she gives him everything, holds nothing back. If she’s always glancing in the mirror when you are working on her, she’s not focused on pleasing you. And that needs to be dealt with.

I think I can tell if she’s really upset or whether she’s just trying it on. And I’m not easily discouraged. But after this conversation had gone on a little while, she said that perhaps she was a very bad submissive and that I would get bored or weary with her if she didn’t simply submit. I’ve heard things like this from submissives before. They often lack confidence (which is why they try and hold back). They don’t think they are good enough for their dom.

I don’t allow that sort of thinking. My response is, I have chosen you. How dare you think I would choose someone who was unworthy! That’s a slight on my judgment as a dom. If she lacks confidence, it’s part of the dom’s job to instil it, make her feel that she is the best. Sometimes you hear of doms who insult their submissives, calling them useless pieces of shit, etc, etc. I would never ever do that. I want her to feel that she is supremely valuable to me.

Taking a break

2011-11-22T07:46:00.000Z

I need to take a break from my blog for a week or two. I'm grateful to all my readers for their continuing interest, and I hope to be back with you before long.

Greedy

2011-11-18T10:23:00.000Z

One thing I know about submissive girls: they are greedy. However much you give them, they always want more. So they like to have their nipples teased and tormented? No matter how much they squeal and writhe and look at you with eyes that implore you to be merciful, you can depend on it that the moment you stop they are looking to have just a little more. Their nipples were a moment ago suffering unbearably, like red-hot needles piercing them, but once the pain stops they are hoping you may insist on more. Don’t tell me it isn’t so. I’ve been there with them, I’ve seen how they feed on the pain, how the more it hurts the more they need.

It’s the same with a beating. A mere hand-spanking, across the knee, just whets the appetite. Something a bit harsher, a belt maybe or a tawse, convinces them that you are serious. And the one thing a submissive girl needs to know is that you are not a dilettanti, you aren’t just messing around. You really mean to give her a leathering. You mean to make your mark. She wants it to sting so that at each stroke she gives a little jump and hops around and tries to position herself so the next one won’t hit quite the same spot. But if you truly know what you are doing, that’s exactly what it will do, land precisely on the place that is smarting from the previous blow. But for the true pain-slut (and I’ve been lucky enough to know a few), all this is merely the warm-up. What she needs is something cruel, something that will take her breath away, something that will deliver more than she bargained for. That something is probably the cane (about which I have written before, and will again soon).

So, with a greedy little slut bent over and squirming and moaning, you want to make sure you don’t disappoint. You don’t want to hear her say afterwards, very softly yet in a voice that has an unmistakable note of, if not complaint, then entreaty for next time, ‘I could have taken more, Sir.’ To which she adds, careful not to be thought of as topping from the bottom, ‘If that had been your wish.’

And yet, despite all your best endeavours, you may still be left with a sneaking suspicion that you could have, should have, gone further. You didn’t quite take her to where she really was sated with pain and humiliation. Still, in her dark heart, or in her greedy little mind, she craved just a little more.

So what is to be done? How to satisfy the insatiable? I think what one has to bear in mind is that a submissive girl longs not only for pain but also for control. She wants to feel that things have been taken out of her hands, that she no longer makes the decisions. Doing what she is told is a source of no less pleasure to her than is a beating at your hands. So, instead of trying to squeeze every last bit of masochistic desire out of her, make it very clear that you intend to leave her wanting, that this is all part of the plan. ‘Yes,’ you say, ‘I think you can take more. Perhaps next time you will take more. But right now you need to know who decides when enough is enough. And I think it’s very clear it’s not you. Wouldn’t you agree?’

An inventory of implements 2: tawse

2011-11-14T07:58:00.000Z

The classic tawse is a strip of leather about three inches wide. One end is fashioned into a handle, and the other end is slit down the middle, for up to a third of its length. I’m not sure I have ever pinned down the reason for the slit. I’ve seen it argued that the gap allows air to escape at the moment of impact, air that would otherwise act as a cushion and thus mitigate the force of the blow. But I’m not at all sure this is plausible technically, and the slit may be merely a design feature whose original purpose has been lost in the mists of time.

Certainly the tawse has a venerable history, being traditionally favoured by the kind of old-style Scottish schoolmasters whose motto was ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ (a saying that I only recently discovered comes straight out of the bible, that source of so many lurid tales of sin and punishment). Be this as it may, it’s an implement I cherish. One of the reasons I like it so much is the sound it makes. A properly wielded tawse delivers not only a sting to the right place, but also a loud, sharply defined crack. It’s a quite different noise from what you get with a belt or a whip or a cane, a very focussed, clear retort which I think has an excellent effect on both the spanker and spankee. For the latter I think it can induce a sense that she is being spanked just a little harder than is really the case, thus augmenting the effect of the blow itself. If it’s that loud, it must be really hurting.

Another thing I like about a tawse is that it makes good marks. If I wanted to make sure that a girl would have a well-marked bottom the next day, and even a week later, I wouldn’t use a tawse, or at least I would augment it with something else. To really make your mark, I think you need a cane. But a tawse will produce a most pleasing shade of pink, becoming red if plied for long enough. A belt or a crop will do the same, but a tawse ensures a more diffused patch of colour that can be aesthetically gratifying.

The pain that a tawse delivers depends, obviously, on the strength with which is it applied. But it’s also dependent on the thickness of the leather. At present, mine is rather thin, which means it creates a most pleasing sound, and induces a delightful colour. But I don’t find it hurts a girl as much as she needs. It’s perfect for a warm-up, but if I am not to disappoint her then I have to follow up with something more severe. Perhaps for Christmas I shall treat myself to a more sturdy model. I find one cannot have too many instruments of correction.

Cock-tease

2011-11-10T09:39:00.002Z

‘Take your clothes off,’ he says.

He pushes her down onto her knees, then stands over her and unzips. When he takes out his cock she sees that it is thick and engorged but not yet fully erect. He strokes it slowly and she watches it lengthen and stand out proud.

‘Don’t move,’ he says. ‘Don’t move an inch.’

He steps closer. He pulls back his foreskin and holds his cock just under her nose. She breathes in the sharp male scent; it catches in the back of her throat. She can feel her cunt start to throb.

‘Keep still,’ he says.

He runs the tip of his cock slowly across her lips. The urge to open her mouth and take him in is all but irresistible. She grits her teeth, forcing her mouth to keep shut.

‘Close your eyes,’ he says.

He takes her hair in a firm grip and slowly twists, forcing her head down. He runs his cock across her eyelids, then down one cheek, back across her mouth and up the other side. He turns her head and rubs his cock against her ear. She whimpers.

‘Now watch,’ he says. She opens her eyes as he starts to stroke himself, one hand still in her hair. His hand moves slowly at first but gathers speed. She stares at the tip of his cock, waiting for what she knows will come. Suddenly he gives a cry. His semen spurts from his cock onto her face, her nose, her lips, her cheek. Still he holds her head firmly. She feels the semen begin to drip down her face.

‘Now you can suck,’ he says.

Carefully she cleans his cock with her lips and tongue. He scoops up the semen on her face onto the end of his finger and gives it to her to lick. At last it’s all gone.

‘Good girl,’ he says.

An inventory of implements

2011-11-04T14:04:00.000Z

1. Flogger

I love a flogger because of the variations it allows. It can be hard, it can be soft. You can trail it lightly over the skin, arousing goose-bumps, hearing her sigh with pleasure at the leather’s gentle caress. Or you can lay it on hard, the flogger thudding against the flesh, as she grunts at each impact. And there are all the variations in between. Flicking it repeatedly against a sensitive spot, gradually increasing the force, teasing her with the thought that it will get harder and harder; there’s a lot of fun in that.

A flogger is very adaptable. You can use it on her ass like any other kind of implement, getting the same impact effect as a strap or crop, though more diffuse. But because it still works well even if used only lightly, it’s good for the most sensitive parts. Trailing the flogger over her breasts, then every now and again flicking the nipples, is something I enjoy very much. And doing much the same to her cunt, insisting that she spread her legs wide and keep them spread, no matter how strong the urge to close them, while you first stroke then flick then sting, is wonderful discipline for a submissive girl who needs to have her obedience reinforced.

Floggers come in different forms. The softest deerskin gives the best results, but the very best can be expensive. If the leather is stiff and heavy, it ceases to be a flogger at all, and becomes more of a whip, a fine thing to have but with an altogether different purpose. My current favourite is made of thin but strong strips of rubber, in a starting pink colour. It gives excellent results.

I think what I love most is watching how her skin gradually darkens, at first the faintest pink flush, but as you step up the strength of the strokes it gets darker, turning from pink to red. Her breathing gets heavier, accompanied by little whimpers and moans, and eventually, if you are in the mood, erupting into full-throated cries as the flogger lashes across the tender flesh.

I think I’m getting quite carried away….

First time

2011-10-30T12:49:00.000Z

It’s their first time on the webcam in private, away from prying eyes. He can see how nervous she is; she can hardly bring herself to look at him. She’s not wearing much, because she’s in bed already; just a nightie and a pair of white knickers, she says. She thinks she knows what’s coming, and she’s right, but only up to a point.

‘Take off the nightie,’ he says without warning.

She doesn’t hesitate. Perhaps she thinks that if she does she will only make it harder for herself. Best to obey instantly, not think about whether she can do it. So she peels it off, giving him a glimpse of her bare breasts as she does so. It’s the first time he’s seen them in motion, as it were.

She looks different, her hair tousled, her face more open. He sees her more intimately, sees how shy she is, yet how much she hangs on his every word, eager to please. He’s not going to be nasty tonight. She looks too fragile and trusting. But he feels his power.

So he teases her. He knows she’s waiting for the order to take her knickers off too. Instead, he tells her to turn round and show him her back. It’s lovely in the soft light. Turn back again, he says. Now, surely, will come the order to take off her knickers, show herself to him. Instead, he plays with her, talking gently but insistently. After a while he tells her to put her finger in her knickers, touch herself, then hold it up. He sees the light gleam on the wet finger-tip. Such a slutty little girl, he says. She smiles, embarrassed.

He tells her he’s taking things very slowly. They have time, there will be lots of times, there’s no need to hurry. He knows exactly what’s in her mind. One part of it wants to show herself, wants to flaunt herself, be her slutty self. She wants him to want to see her. But another part is shy, wants to hide. And yet another part can hardly bear the tension, the waiting. Just let him make me do it, get it over with.

All in good time.

For ever

2011-10-25T07:28:00.000+01:00

Suppose that, instead of orgasm denial lasting for a day, or a week, or even a little more (hard enough for most girls, I think), just suppose it lasted much, much longer. Suppose it lasted for a month, or even several months. That would be a real test of obedience. This would put any girl, even the most submissive, on her mettle. I can imagine the whining and mewling, the heartfelt pleas for mercy, the anguished cries of frustration, even the anger at the unfairness of it all. But maybe, if you have submissive leanings and denial is something you respond to (I don’t say welcome; I don’t think any girl wants it, not really, it’s just that when it’s imposed it has its compensations…), then even such a draconian regime might be bearable, given enough training, given enough determination by the dom, that you will bend the knee to him, no matter how much you protest.

But, now I’m going to ask you to think the unthinkable. What I’ve been talking about up till now is not unimaginable, even though probably 99% of submissive girls would never volunteer for anything as severe as a period of denial lasting several months. But just suppose instead of a fixed-term embargo on orgasm, that he decreed a life sentence. Suppose he said, you are never going to come again. You will get close to it, you will never stop wanting it, but orgasm will always be denied. Without exception. Without time off for good behaviour. Without any prospect of release. This is what I want, and I think that, however much you resist, you want and need it too. Ultimately you will thank me, after you have stopped hating me.

Is this, do you think, the way that madness lies? Could only a lunatic try to implement such complete and utter control? And would only a lunatic accept it? I’ll say one thing; it’s certainly a game-changer, isn’t it? No more negotiations. No more, if I am a very good girl, if I say pretty please, will you let me come? No more counting down the days until the end of the period of denial, dreaming of the mother of all orgasms once the ban is lifted. Just an endless future of orgasmlessness stretching out in front of you.

Of course there would be pleasure. It’s not that you couldn’t masturbate. He’d let you touch, from time to time, just so long as he trusted you to stop before it was too late. There would be other pleasures too. The pleasure of pain, for example, that deep-down need you have to be whipped until your ass is red and raw, or have your nipples twisted until the sweat breaks out on your brow. There would be the pleasure of servicing his orgasms. Because don’t think that for one moment he’s going to join you in denial, out of some spirit of fellow-feeling. On the contrary, knowing that you are denied only arouses him the more.

And then of course there is the purest pleasure of all, the pleasure of knowing that you are doing his will. That you are making this supreme sacrifice for him, the renunciation of that moment of jouissance, that spasm of ecstasy. You become a nun, one of the sisters of submission, dedicating yourself to service, denying yourself the relief of your desires in perpetuity. (If you’d like to do a little reading round this topic, I suggest you go here: http://agonizingabstinence.blogspot.com/)

Of course the dom that makes you do this recognises his responsibilities. It’s a tough ask, no? So he vows to give you all the time and attention that you need if your resolve is not to weaken. He knows how much this is costing you, how very, very hard it will be. And he’s willing to dedicate himself to managing you. He knows that in exchange for your sacrifice you will need reassurance, encouragement, praise, admiration. He’s not going to issue his edict and then park you somewhere on your own, locked in a cold dark cell (though maybe a secret part of you might even welcome that; I have never under-estimated the perversity of submissive girls). He’s going to make you feel it’s worth it, making the ultimate sacrifice.

Thinking about all this, I begin to wonder if being under sentence of permanent orgasm-denial would give one a whole new perspective on physical pleasure, and on submission. You wouldn’t be quite the same person, would you? I suspect it would affect every aspect of your sexuality, which would be no longer goal-oriented (when can I come again? is this going to get me off quicker? etc, etc). Instead, it’s about reaching a particular state of mind, what the religious call a state of grace. What that would feel like I’m not quite sure. I‘d need to talk to a girl who had achieved it. But I don’t think that is likely any time soon. Even though the idea of it might intrigue you, I don’t think I’ve sold you on it, have I.

Tight

2011-10-20T07:01:00.000+01:00

She stands in front of him as he’s seated on the edge of the bed.

‘Lift your skirt,’ he says.

He pulls her knickers down and stares at her cunt.

‘Look at me,’ he says.

She forces herself to look him in the eye as he reaches out and squeezes her hard between the legs. Then he pushes a finger inside her. He moves it around, takes it out and holds it up.

‘Wet already,’ he says. ‘Such a slut.’

She blushes and looks away. He puts the finger to her lips. ‘Lick it clean,’ he says.

‘Good girl,’ he says. He turns her round. ‘Now bend over.’

At least she doesn’t have to look at him this way. He pulls her cheeks apart. She can feel his eyes boring into her. He pushes his finger into her cunt again, makes it wet, then slides it gently but firmly into her ass. She grunts.

‘It’s tight,’ he says. ‘We have some work to do.’

He strips her naked, lays her face down on the bed and spreads her cheeks again. Then without warning he plants a kiss right in the centre of the little puckered opening.

‘Oh,’ she says.

He begins to lick, rimming her. He can feel her start to dilate. He fetches lube, works a finger into her tight little hole, then two. She groans. He lubes up the smallest of the butt-plugs and slides it in carefully. He feels her tense, then relax again.

‘When I take that out you’ll be ready for cock,’ he says. ‘I wonder what we can do in the meantime?’

Suddenly he smacks her ass. She squeals. He does it again. She tries to wriggle away but he holds her down with his free arm and starts to spank in earnest.

Spanking and fucking

2011-10-15T07:27:00.001+01:00

Love and marriage go together like a horse and carriage, or so says the song. But what of spanking and fucking; are they equally inseparable? Well, clearly not; there are millions of folk round the world who are fucking away even as I write and who have never heard of recreational spanking, and would run a mile if they did.

But what about the other way round: can you spank someone and not fuck them? I know for a fact you can. I’ve done it. Because pace Bill Clinton, sex and fucking are not the same thing. Sometimes after you have spanked her there are other things you want to do which at the time seem preferable to fucking. No, I’m not going to elaborate; the girls who know me know what they are. I’m not saying fucking doesn’t happen, only that a lot of other things might intervene. But they are probably best regarded as substitutes for fucking; the furtherance of fucking by other means, perhaps.

I don’t know if you ever look at the blog of the Spanking Writers. (http://www.spankingwriters.com/blog/) It’s certainly worth a little of your time. Abel often describes scenarios in which there’s a lot of very erotic spanking, but rarely if ever any mention of fucking. Now of course it’s his business (and theirs) whether he fucks the girls he spanks. If he does and wishes to draw a veil over that part of proceedings, that’s fine. But I can’t help being nosey about what happens once the cane is laid down. Does she simply stand in the corner, silently weeping, until she’s dismissed? Is the spanking sufficient unto itself? Maybe we shall never know. Maybe it’s none of my business.

Anyway, let’s agree that spanking and fucking are not inseparable. But what about spanking and sex? Can you spank someone in a non-sexual way? Yes, clearly you can. At my boarding school it happened all the time (though there were possible erotic overtones to punishment in the headmaster’s study, even if not acknowledged at the time). But leaving aside the practice of corporal punishment inside institutions (schools, prisons, the family - all frequently, it has to be admitted, the subject of erotic fantasy, even if not much fun irl), can we conceive of spanking scenarios in which not only is there no fucking, but no physical contact of any kind except that of cane upon bottom?

I don’t find it difficult to imagine such a thing. But this embargo on any touching is likely only to enhance the eroticism of the scene. Knowing that she will not be touched, that there will be no relief afterwards for her pent-up desires, or for his, would surely only serve to stoke them up even more. There’s something rather delightfully perverse about it. I’d venture to say that for most d/s folk the pleasures of spanking are largely engendered in the mind. Yes, there’s the physical pain, and that can be extremely stimulating. But it’s the sense of power enjoyed or submitted to, the feeling of humiliation or helplessness on the part of the one who bends over, and the rush of adrenalin in the one who wields the cane, the heady sense of dominance, which connoisseurs most value. You could, if you had to, or you were enough of a deviant, do without the post-spanking meeting of bodies. But you couldn’t do without the fever in the brain. What would be the point of any of it without that?

Dressing for the occasion

2011-10-11T07:37:00.000+01:00

Men, I’ll be the first to admit, have minds that tend to run along the same tracks where sex is concerned. I’m thinking in particular about what they like girls to wear. In this respect there isn’t maybe much difference between kinky guys and vanilla types. Almost all of us like stockings, preferably with suspenders (OK, garter-belts to our American friends). We like high-heels. We like corsets. We like black underwear (or maybe red), usually in slithery materials like silk and satin, although in fact I like anything that’s got style; white or cream can be very fetching.

I read something in the paper the other day in favour of women wearing shorts, now popular as daytime wear even for those who work in the City. The writer, a woman, said she was all in favour and seemed somewhat mystified why on the whole men don’t like them, even though you get to see a lot of leg. I thought the answer would be obvious to anyone, but it seems not. Men have atavistic feelings about such things (a fancy way of saying their ideas are rather crude). They don’t care for shorts the same reason they don’t care for tights (pantyhose to my US readers). The woman is not so available as in a skirt and stockings. Not to put too fine a point on it, you can’t get your hand inside, not so easily. So if you are dressing for a d/s date, my advice is, don’t opt for shorts.

Of course there are other options. There are many kinksters who are into fetish wear. I know a girl who likes to wear latex, and she gets remarkable results from guys who want to look at her in her tight catsuit, and even touch the smooth, slithery material, if she allows them the privilege. Latex and rubber seem well adapted to girls who switch or are dommes. Does it give them a feeling of power? Does the sensation of being tightly enclosed offer protection, like an extra skin, and so give them an edge?

There can be other variations in the somewhat stereotypical clothing which men favour. Maybe you like her to be your little girl, in which case you’ll prefer pink to red and black, and frills and flounces to whalebone. But the question I’d like to pose is, what is the preferred uniform for a dom? I’ve heard girls say they swoon at a guy in a well-cut suit. Is a tie an added attraction, or is that a trifle conventional nowadays? I’ve rarely put my suit on to spank a girl. I feel it’s rather too formal; I normally only wear it for weddings and funerals (and yes, I’ve only got one). I am more relaxed, more myself, in smart-casual, jacket and trousers but no tie. But I wouldn’t go very far towards informality; I’d only wear jeans if I knew her really well and it was more of a friendly encounter than a session.

Maybe I’m showing my age here, in a preference for something smart. What I can’t understand is some of the clothes you see guys wearing in porno video clips. Scruffy vests or t-shirts, cut-off denims, dirty old trainers, or even no shoes but black woolly socks. I can’t help feeling this shows a lack of respect to the girl. Would you take her out on a date dressed like that? One has the uncomfortable feeling that yes, some guys would.

I’d be interested to know if it makes any difference to a girl who’s about to receive a spanking if he is well-dressed or not. And if she is.

Going to extremes

2011-10-07T07:12:00.000+01:00

Have you ever wondered what it would be like if he hit you as hard as he could, brought the tawse or the cane down full across your bottom with all his force, instead of the controlled strokes he usually practices? Do you secretly dream, with a kind of horrified excitement, of the abandonment of all restraint, even if for just one short, sharp instant? Where the pain is all but unbearable? No, where it is completely unbearable but you have no choice, and your whole body shakes with the impact. Or does that sort of talk make you shrink away, muttering about psychos and vowing never to put yourself in harm’s way?

As a dom I too have this fantasy, that maybe just once I cast restraint to the winds and bring my arm down with full force, eliciting doubtless a scream and seeing an angry welt erupt, perhaps even flecked with blood. And probably ruining the relationship irreparably. I’ve never done it, and I don’t suppose I ever shall. But the thought is there, I can’t deny it, and I think for many submissives and doms it’s a compelling fantasy, that the dom might go out of control, and one that gives the whole thing that extra charge of excitement, the whiff of real danger that imparts to a d/s encounter its distinctive flavour.

There’s another kind of extreme. Instead of maximum force, you have a fantasy of total control. I am not just talking about a few orgasms denied here and there, a little session with some nipple clamps maybe, or instructions to go out without her underwear and maybe with her butt-plug in place. I mean total, 24/7 control of her whole life. You tell her what she may wear every day, what she must (or must not) eat, what she can read, how to spend her leisure time. When to sleep, when to wash, when to study the texts you prescribe. You set her daily tasks; write about this or that (her feelings on being indefinitely denied orgasms, for example), or clean the bathroom naked. Her body is no longer her own; she may not touch it without permission. If you want her pierced or tattooed, she does it. You tell her who she will fuck, and when and how, in what manner she will be used and abused. You colonise her mind. And there are many daily rituals, of cleansing and exercising and obedience, kneeling at certain times, the regular infliction of pain on herself, while speaking your name out loud. I could elaborate, but the principle is that every moment of her day is accounted for and carefully controlled, and that there are no limits.

Of course this is a fantasy. Who has the time? And who really would want it? But as an ideal it has a certain perverse appeal. In d/s there is a constant desire to go further and further. There are limits? You want to press against them, to find the limits beyond the limits, and press up against them too. You want her to take more, to press her face even harder to the floor, to make her ass a brighter red, to threaten her with all kinds of humiliation and public exposure. She trusts you; of course she does, or you would never have got this far. But she knows there’s a demon in you, and she is fascinated by him, even as she hopes (well, sort of) that she will never see him face to face. Just catch a glimpse now and again.

A perfect fit

2011-10-04T07:07:00.000+01:00

The store has no windows: you can't see in from outside. And to gain entrance you have to press a buzzer. As they wait to be admitted, she has a strong desire to run away. Sensing this, he takes hold of her hand, partly in reassurance, partly to keep her close.

Inside there are rows and rows of fetish clothing, in rubber, leather, latex. There's a long rack of paddles and whips, and an umbrella stand full of canes. There are gags of all descriptions, red and blue and yellow ball gags, gags like the bits that horses wear, gags with big penis-shaped plugs. There are wicked-looking clamps, for the nipples and maybe for even more tender parts. Restraints of all kinds are displayed for sale: hand-cuffs, neat little pairs of steel thumb-cuffs, leather cuffs for the wrists and ankles, spreader-bars to hold the legs apart. And then there are the butt plugs. Plugs in silicone and rubber and steel and glass, some so large she winces just to look at them.

An assistant approaches, a good-looking young man in a close-fitting black t-shirt. She isn't sure if he's gay, but she thinks he's attractive.

'Can I help?' he asks.

'I believe you have a personal fitting service for butt-plugs?' her dom says.

'Indeed we do, sir,' the assistant replies.

She blushes bright red. The assistant leads them into a small booth, drawing the curtain after them. There's a bench with a padded top.

'If madam would care to arrange herself?' the assistant says.

She hesitates. Her dom puts his hand on the back of her neck and steers her firmly to the bench, pushing her down over it. When she's in place, he lifts her skirt up to her waist. On his instruction, she isn't wearing any knickers that day. She blushes still more as she imagines the young man staring at her bare bottom. No doubt he's thinking, what sort of girl goes around with no knickers?

'First I'll do a measurement,' the young man says.

He produces a curious little device, a small tube split down the middle, the two halves joined by springs. At the end, attached to the handle, is a small dial.

'All our equipment and sample plugs have been carefully cleaned and sterilised,' he says.

He snaps on a pair of latex gloves, then takes a tube of lubricant and squirts some on his fingers. Gently he pushes a finger up into her ass. His touch is confident, assured. Even so, she is mortified to be spread out in front of a stranger and be invaded in this way. After removing his finger, he lubes up the device and inserts it. It's cold, but not uncomfortable. The assistant checks the reading on the dial.

'Squeeze,' he says.

Blushing still further, she contracts the muscles around the device.

'As I thought,' he says. 'She's not a big girl. She needs a plug at the lower end of the scale.'

He goes out. Her dom strokes the back of her neck. 'Good girl,' he says.

The assistant soon returns, carrying a tray with three black silicone butt-plugs, in ascending order of size. The first is reassuringly small. He lubes it up and quickly pushes it into her ass.

'You see how that one slipped in very easily,' he says. 'She can certainly takes a larger size.'

'Indeed she can,' says her dom.

The assistant pulls out the first plug and inserts the second. It feels notably larger, though still not uncomfortable.

'Perhaps a larger one still?' the assistant asks.

'Definitely,' says her dom.

The assistant carefully inserts the largest of the three plugs. She grunts as it goes in. She feels it stretching her, filling her. It's a good feeling, despite the embarrassment of a strange man performing such an intimate act. Her dom takes hold of the plug and turns it gently, then presses it in a little further. This is the one, she thinks. I feel really opened up, so aware of its presence.

'A good fit,' says the assistant.

'The thing is,' says her dom, 'she needs a really big one. If it's too comfortable it's not doing its job. Ideally it should hurt a little going in, so she is really being stretched to the limit. I'm training her to accommodate a really large cock.'

She cringes with shame. She wants the ground to open up.

'I see,' says the young man. He glances down at her dom’s crotch, as if to enquire, is the large cock in question yours, sir, or that of another gentleman?

Her dom ignores the implied question. 'Please bring me the next size up, and also the size after that,' he says.

She's left with the biggest of the three plugs still sticking in her ass. The assistant soon returns, with two plugs wrapped in cellophane.

'Should sir wish me to try them in her?' he asks.

'That won't be necessary,' says her dom firmly. 'I shall insert them myself once we are home.'

She turns her head and stares at the two plugs in the assistant's hands. The largest one is a terrifying size. No way will I ever takes such a thing, she says to herself. Quite impossible. It would split her in two. Even the smaller one looks scary. Her dom gives her a little smile, but it's not a look of reassurance, rather a 'just you wait till I get you home' sort of smile.

Deftly the assistant removes the plug from her bottom. He hands her a tissue to wipe herself. She gets gingerly to her feet, her skirt at last falling down and restoring her modesty. But she still can't look at the assistant for shame.

'Will there be anything else, sir?' the assistant asks.

'Not this time,' says her dom.

She can tell he's eager to get her home as soon as possible. Her bottom tingles at the thought, and she blushes once more as they leave the shop, the two enormous plugs safely stowed in his pocket.

On denial

2011-09-30T07:19:00.000+01:00

Orgasm denial is one of the most valuable strategies in the enforcement of discipline and obedience. It’s especially useful, I have found, in long-distance d/s relationships, where you can’t do all those things that submissive girls thrive on, like hair-pulling and face-slapping and nipple-twisting and bottom-spanking. So you have to be a bit more inventive.

Orgasm denial is a bit of a misnomer, because much of the time it’s not about complete denial but about imposing restrictions or perhaps simply complications. However, complete denial is certainly good for her. It’s my experience that submissive girls are more orgasmic than most (though whether they are so because they are submissive, or whether it’s the other way round, I’m not sure). And so denial produces a strong effect, which is after all what the dom is looking for. It’s good when she tells you how much she is suffering, how her cunt aches and throbs, how desperate she is getting and how she can’t think of anything but her need to come. I find this makes me want to be even more strict in managing her desires.

I’ve experimented with two types. In the one, denial is for a specified time, as in, ‘you can’t come till 3.30pm next Friday.’ So she spends the intervening time counting down the hours and minutes, and the closer it gets the more desperate she is, to the point where her need fills her whole mind, and she thinks she might go crazy before the deadline is reached. The other tactic is to impose an indefinite ban; ‘you can’t come until further notice’. It’s a moot point which is the most difficult for the poor girl. If she knows how long it’s going to last, at least she has a goal. But if the goal is several days away, it can seem like a lengthy ordeal. If the ban is indefinite, there is the hope that it might end at any time, but there is the awful prospect that it might go on and on, an orgasm-free future stretching out into eternity. I tend to think that for the purposes of discipline and control, learning acquiescence in the dom’s will, an indefinite ban is best. She needs to be taught that her role is acceptance, and her goal the peace of mind that comes from total submission; focussing on the moment when the ban will be lifted is not what it’s about.

I like to vary the outright ban with all kinds of restrictions. Some of them are merely inconveniences. She can only come after a certain time of day, or in a particular place (for example, ‘for the next week you can only come in your car. That’s tough? Too bad.’) Or she may not use her vibrator, or even not use her hands at all. (Ingenious and needy girls find all kinds of ways…) Maybe she must wear her butt-plug while she does it (a submissive girl without a butt-plug is like a fish out of water), or/and penetrate her cunt with some object while she masturbates.

I like to hear her responses, how hard it was, what it made her feel. I always tell her I am open to requests, and I do like to hear submissive girls beg. Of course I also like to turn them down; there’s no guarantee they will melt my hard heart.

I think it’s important that it is a true learning experience, not a pointless exercise, because girls really do find it hard; nothing makes a girl want to come more than knowing that she can’t. Girls need to know there’s some purpose behind it. They need to realise that it’s essentially about teaching respect for the dom’s power and about obedience and patience and all the other submissive virtues. At the same time they need to learn that the actual restrictions imposed have no significance in themselves; they are purely arbitrary. How long a ban lasts is simply a matter of the dom’s whim (and woe betide a girl who moans that it’s not fair!).

Sometimes it’s not a matter of imposing bans or restrictions, but of ordering mandatory orgasms. ‘You will come at 6pm on the dot. You will come again at 7pm and again at 8pm. Then no more until tomorrow.’ This is just as effective as a ban in teaching compliance. I also spoke recently on this blog about ruined orgasms. They are best to give in person, where the dom can assert full control, but it’s certainly good for a girl to be made to bring herself to the brink, stop, wait, start again, stop again, and so on. And on. And on, maybe, until the poor girl is reduced to a wreck of sodden neediness. Even though it’s most effective in real life, this is also a good scenario to practice online when the webcam is going; the look on her face when you say ‘stop’ is most gratifying.

It goes without saying that in order to do these things without the webcam you need absolute trust in your girl. You have to be convinced she is totally honest and sincere. If you have any doubt that she is actually doing the things you tell her to do, or not doing the things you forbid her to do, then it’s pointless. The whole thing breaks down, not just the strategy of denial, but I think the relationship itself, which surely cannot survive an absence of trust.

I’ve known one or two girls who successfully argued me out of orgasm denial. I think there are some for whom the act of masturbation is not just a pleasure and the relief of a need. It seems to be about reinforcing the girl’s sense of herself, providing her with the comfort and reassurance that she needs to feel secure and fulfilled. If it’s important to her in that way, I wouldn’t want to take it away from her. There are other ways of teaching obedience. But I think if a girl tried to use this argument when it wasn’t really true in her case, that I’d know, and would be quick to take appropriate action…

Doing it well

2011-09-26T07:35:00.000+01:00

‘Come in the bedroom,’ he says.

He sits on the edge of the bed. She stands in front of him, waiting for instructions.

‘Take your clothes off,’ he says.

She can tell from his mood she should not play the coquette. She removes each garment slowly, almost solemnly, unbuttoning, unzipping, letting them fall to the ground.

When she’s naked, he says, ’Come closer.’

She stands with her knees almost touching his.

‘Open your legs a little,’ he says.

He sits watching her for a moment, looking into her eyes. He reaches out and pushes a finger up into her cunt. She knows what he will find. Not for the first time she wonders if it is seemly for a girl to get so wet so fast.

He circles his finger around inside her, removes it and puts it in his mouth, sucking slowly. He takes it out.

‘Nice,’ he says.

He pushes his finger back inside her, takes it out again and pushes it into her mouth. She sucks. She’s never quite sure how she feels about this.

He puts his finger back in her once more, then a second finger, and begins to finger-fuck her. She puts a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. God, she loves this.

He takes his fingers away. For a moment she feels bereft. He wipes them on her naked belly.

‘Time to suck my cock,’ he says.

She gets down on her knees. He unzips and takes it out for her.

‘If you do it really, really well, I’ll fuck you the way you like it best,’ he says.

She bends to her task.

Exposure

2011-09-22T07:52:00.000+01:00

Here’s a paradox. I haven’t met her in the flesh yet, but I know that when I do I’ll have no problem getting her clothes off. But when we chat online, she’s shy and reluctant to show me anything. Surely it should be the other way round? When I see her on a computer screen she’s half a world away. I can see but not touch. She’s in no danger that taking off a few garments will lead anywhere she doesn’t want to go.

Most girls, I think, have an exhibitionist side. They know how much men like to look, and they know and enjoy how much power that gives them; even submissive girls can feel that way. They like to tease, they like to arouse. And yet, she’s coy, almost virginal in the way she blushes and giggles nervously and turns away if there’s just a hint I might ask her to show me something. Maybe lots of submissive girls aren’t like this. Maybe they wait impatiently hoping their dom is going to make them do bad things. And maybe deep down, in a place in her mind not yet accessible to me, she is the same. But it’s not obvious. Not yet.

I don’t say that in the flesh there wouldn’t also be shyness. She’s not one to flaunt herself, I think. But she would know that I intended to fuck her, and so there’s no point in endlessly delaying revealing herself. Whereas on-screen there’s no such end result. There’s only the dance.

Is her hesitancy on-screen because she fears I may be not just looking but recording, storing away images of her for she knows not what purpose? I do think she trusts me, that I would never misuse any images I had, so I don’t think that’s the reason. I think part of it is vanity. It’s not so much that I can see her; it’s that she can see herself, in that little square frame at the corner of the screen they give you on gchat. Now girls, it has to be admitted, are inclined to vanity. They care deeply about how they look to others; to other girls and to men. They want to look their best.

If you are physically present with a man, you certainly hope he likes what he sees. But the immediacy and excitement of the situation are apt to overcome your hyper-critical thoughts about your appearance, and anyway you can’t see yourself (unless you sneak a glance in the mirror, which has been known.) Whereas online there’s that picture of you there all the time. Is your make-up smudged? Is your hair just right? Surely that isn’t the roots showing. This lighting is so unflattering to the shape of your nose. Your eyes are surely a deeper blue in real life? And then if you were to take something off, how much more critical would you be of your appearance. Does he like my tits? Are they too big? Too small? Not quite the right shape? Are they quite as firm as they should be? As they used to be? Etc, etc.

The thing is, I know, and I believe she knows too, that eventually I’ll have my way. Eventually the last vestige of modesty will be stripped away. It’s only a matter of how long it takes to get there. I’m very patient. That’s because I don’t want her to do things under pressure. I don’t want her to show herself because she thinks I’ll be disappointed if she doesn’t, or because she’s afraid I’ll be pissed off by her shyness. I want to bring her to the point, however long it takes, when she is ready to offer herself. When she so much wants to please me that she will do it, anything I ask. It’s even more than that. I want her to want me to see her naked. I want her to crave it. I want her to yearn to offer herself online, to be impatient for me to ask her to show all, to do anything at all while I watch. The greatest pleasure for me is not in seeing her, it’s in knowing that she wants me to see her, in knowing that she wants to give me her all, despite all her instincts towards modesty. And then there will be just one extra exquisite pleasure for me. When I hear her beg, ‘please, sir, may I undress for you?’ maybe I’ll answer ‘Not now, little girl; later, perhaps.’

Kind

2011-09-17T08:12:00.000+01:00

‘This will hurt a little,’ he says. ‘Perhaps more than a little.’

There’s a sharp intake of breath. ‘I’m going to do it again.’ he says. This time she whimpers.

‘Poor baby,’ he says. He does it again. ‘It hurts. I know it hurts. But it’s good for you.’ His voice is soft and low.

He does it some more. ‘Good girl,’ he says. Then he does it again. She gasps.

He waits for a moment, then he tells her, ‘It’s going to be bad this time.’

She moans; it’s really bad, like he said. ‘Please?’ she says. Is it a plea for mercy or a request for more? Perhaps she doesn’t know herself. He twists again.

‘Oh god,’ she says between gritted teeth.

‘I know it’s bad, baby,’ he says. ‘But it’s not over yet.’

He does it again and watches as she writhes in vain against her bonds. There’s a film of perspiration on her brow. She’s never so desirable as now.

Once more he does it, then he kisses her.

‘You know how much I love to hurt you,’ he says. ‘So a little more now, just for me.’

He does it one more time, harder than ever, though not quite as hard as he can. She cries out.

‘Say thank you,’ he says. ‘It’s my gift to you.’

He wonders why he is finishing at this precise moment. Could she have taken a little more? Next time he won’t be so kind.

Greedy

2011-09-13T07:39:00.000+01:00

Submissive girls are apt to be greedy. I don’t think I’ve ever heard one complaining that she gets too much spanking, is just dying for a rest from all these relentless impacts on her ass. But I’ve heard a lot of them rueing the fact that they don’t get nearly enough, haven’t been spanked in a week, or a month, or a lifetime. Or that it’s the wrong kind of spanking, or even the wrong spanker. Of course I could come over all domly and tell them, it’s not for a submissive girl to decide when or how she gets a spanking, she’ll get one when she needs one, etc, etc. I could say that; but I don’t think they’d be listening. Their longing for a spanking is just too great.

So what’s a girl to do if she isn’t getting enough? Let me say first of all, that I am with Gordon Gekko on this; ‘greed is good’, if only in the realm of d/s. I like it when women want more and more; I like to give it to them. But what should I say to her if she doesn’t belong to me, if her dom is another guy? A guy who, whatever his undoubted qualities, is less engaged in the spanking process than she is.

I don’t know if I have any handy tips. It depends on the people involved. Some girls provoke. They deliberately do things they ought not to, in the expectation of a punishment. If that works for you, fine. Personally, I prefer a girl to be good. I might very occasionally try a punishment scenario, just for fun (‘so, the dog ate your homework; hmmm…’) But it’s not really my style. I suppose it could become so if I met a girl who really got off on this. I’m a very adaptable dom, and there are few things I can’t be enticed into. But, as I say, engineering a punishment is something I tend to take a dim view of. It’s manipulation, and if there’s any manipulating to be done, I know who is going to be doing it.

A girl who’s trying to provoke her dom into a spanking always runs the risk that she ends up topping from the bottom. I’m not a purist; I realise a certain amount of this is always going on, in any d/s relationship. It’s a two-way street, after all. But at the end of the day, she doesn’t really want to be the one making the running. She wants to be overcome, not obliged.

Even so, one thing that never does any harm is communicating. If you need more spanking, simply let him know. That’s not topping. But what if that doesn’t work? You have to try and explain, difficult though it may be, exactly what it is about spanking that excites you so. And when you do get spanked, don’t be afraid of letting him know how it feels. Most doms, I think, enjoy getting a response. It’s not enough to spank; he wants to know the spanking is achieving its desired effect. I don’t necessarily mean every girl should be a screamer. But suffering in a passive way runs the risk of him thinking it isn’t doing much for you. If he can see the profound effect, he’s more likely to do it again.

I can’t teach you what body language or sounds will inflame him. I know one thing that works for me. It’s when I see she’s a bit scared, rather apprehensive about what she’s got herself into, wondering if this might end up going too far. Usually she goes a bit quiet. That’s very arousing for me. I don’t like her accepting a spanking with too much alacrity. A slight degree of resistance, or at least hesitation, gets my adrenalin flowing. But of course if he’s a reluctant spanker in the first place, you run the risk of giving off the wrong signals.

It’s a difficult business, this spanking caper. You might think, oh, he likes to spank, you like to be spanked, off you go and have lots of fun. But you learn eventually there’s more to it than that. Still, things really worth doing are never easy, are they?

The need for discipline

2011-09-09T07:15:00.000+01:00

Her skirt is bunched up around her waist. His hand forages in her knickers.

‘Let’s see what kind of girl you are,’ he says, pushing a finger into her cunt.

‘Oh dear,’ he says.

He takes it out and wipes it on her cheek. ‘Dripping wet already,’ he says, ‘and we’ve hardly started.’

She can’t look at him; her eyes are rooted on the floor.

‘There’s a word for girls like you,’ he says. ‘And I think you know what it is.’

‘Maybe,’ she says.

‘Being a slut isn’t a punishable offence. In fact I rather admire it; I’ve even been known to indulge it. But sluts do need guidance and control. They need discipline. Do you understand?’

‘I suppose so,’ she says slowly.

‘And I think you know what I mean by discipline.’

‘I’ve got some idea, yes.’

There’s a slightly sulky look on her face. Something about her stance expresses, if not resistance, then a reluctance to give in too easily.

‘Bend over the chair,’ he says.

She hesitates. ‘Don’t you think,’ she says, ‘that my wetness is not entirely of my own making? That it might not be all my fault?’

Without a word he grabs her by the hair and twists, forcing her down over the chair. She squeals. While he holds her in place, he takes off his belt with his other hand. She knows that sound, the slithering of the leather, the clink of the buckle. There’s a knot in her stomach. It seems that he means business.

Back to school

2011-09-05T08:10:00.000+01:00

Reading through the stories in The Spanking Collection (as I hope you will too), I was struck by how many of them are set in a school or some very similar institution. Of course I’ve read enough spanking material not to be surprised. It’s clear that memories (or imagined memories) of schooldays still exert a powerful influence on the adult mind when kink is in question. And I think the reasons for this are not hard to find. In the first place, spanking is inevitably a top-down process. That is to say, I doubt one could construct a very exciting spanking scenario that did not depend on one party having all the power and authority. Spanking is not really an equal opportunities activity. (Of course I recognise that some people like switching, but that doesn’t alter my point that in the actual performance there is always one who is top, and one who is bottom, even if it’s not always the same one.)

School is probably the only time in our lives for most of us (except of course early family life) when someone has actual physical power over us. It’s true that some spanking stories are set in an office (and I’ve written one or two myself), in which a girl whose work is unsatisfactory is offered the choice of dismissal or a spanking. But the employer doesn’t have anything like the authority and power that a teacher wields.

Even those too young to have experienced actual corporal punishment in school can imagine themselves into such a situation, especially since there is such a wealth of material, both kinky and not, set in such an environment. Moreover, a powerful element in a spanking scene is often that sense of humiliation experienced by the one getting spanked. Being made to bend over puts you in an inferior position; having to partly undress and reveal your underwear (and probably bare your bottom too) is calculated to strip away both modesty and dignity. Added to this are other rituals, for example of having to count the strokes, and/or say thank you, and perhaps having to suffer a scolding first, and corner time afterwards, all designed to add insult to injury. At such moments the one being spanked reverts to a state of child-like helplessness and vulnerability.

An appearance in the headmaster’s study puts all these things into play (though of course they aren’t exclusive to that particular scenario). In addition, the favoured instruments of the headmaster are almost certain to be either a leather tawse, or a cane, both of which are conducive to a good thrashing. They promise that what will transpire will be no mere tap on the bottom, not the symbolic spanks you so often see on websites, which deliver neither pain nor bruises. The tawse or cane promise both, in full measure.

However, I do wonder whether the aura of school has quite the same effect if you aren’t British. I am old enough to have gone to a school where corporal punishment was routine (now of course it’s outlawed); was that the case in other countries? I have to say that the experience had no sexual overtones for me at the time, or if so I was unaware of them. One’s emotions were a mix of fear and shame, and not the sort of shame that is sexually stimulating. But perhaps the passing years have cast a somewhat rosy glow (ahem!) over the memory, and what was once an experience of terror (on the receiving side) can now be a highly arousing scenario to a dom dishing it out, and hopefully to the naughty schoolgirl on the receiving end.

The Spanking Collection

2011-08-31T08:20:00.001+01:00

A few months ago I was invited by Abel of the Spanking Writers blog (see below) to contribute to an anthology of spanking stories which he and his partner were publishing in aid of charity. Now at last the anthology is published. It contains a score of stories, all with a spanking theme. The authors are a mix of men and women, for the most part established writers on spanking and other kinky subjects, many with their own blogs. I’ve read all the stories and enjoyed each one, and I think my readers will too. My own contribution is a story I’ve never published anywhere else, so even if you are my most devoted reader you won’t have read it before.

You can find full details of the anthology (including, most importantly, how to buy it!) on the Spanking Writers site here:

http://www.spankingwriters.com/blog/2011/08/31/thespankingcollection/

I do hope you will all get a copy, not so much because you are eager to read my contribution (though I’m rather proud of it) but because there are lots of good writers here, and it’s all in a good cause.

Cold caning

2011-08-29T07:23:00.000+01:00

He closes the door behind them. She walks to the middle of the room and turns with an expectant look.

‘It’s going to be different this time,’ he says.

‘Different? How?’

‘Do you know what is meant by cold caning?’

She thinks. ‘Is it when you get caned without any warm-up?’

‘Correct.’

‘That sounds cruel,’ she says. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘Because I can,’ he says. ‘Because that’s how I feel right now. No frills, no concessions. We just get straight to it.’

She looks apprehensive. ‘Do I have a choice?’

‘You know the answer to that,’ he says.

She’s not quite sure that she does. There’s always a way out, it’s true, but she hates to take the easy option. That’s not how she got to where she is, and she likes where she is. On the whole; on the other hand, just right now…

From a bag lying on the bed he takes a cane. It’s about eighteen inches long, made of thin, whippy bamboo. He swishes it from side to side while she watches warily.

‘Take down your jeans,’ he says.

She hesitates for a moment, but she knows that prevarication won’t change anything. She unzips, pushes her jeans down over her hips.

‘I’m going to have to restrain you for this,’ he says.

She fears that means it’s going to be really bad. Reaching into the bag again, he pulls out a little pair of steel thumb-cuffs. He clicks them on, securing her thumbs in front of her, neatly, efficiently.

‘Bend over the armchair,’ he says.

He pulls her knickers down to her knees.

‘It’s going to be twelve,’ he says. ‘Hard.’

‘Must I count?’ she asks.

‘Only to yourself. So you know how many are left.’

She braces herself, takes a deep breath. She feels the cane tap lightly against her bare bottom. As she waits for the first stroke to detonate on her bare behind, the butterflies in her stomach are going crazy.

Maintenance

2011-08-25T07:47:00.000+01:00

He likes to make sure she gets a thorough spanking every week. He’d prefer if it could always be at the same time, like six o’clock on a Friday evening, but their lives are not regular enough for that. Even so, each week he sets a time, and informs her an hour or two in advance. At the allotted hour she knocks on his study door and waits for the call to enter. He likes there to be a certain formality about proceedings; a bit of ritual helps to give the occasion more significance. She has to walk over to where he is seated on an upright chair and stand just in front of him, legs slightly apart, hands behind her back, and wait for him to speak.

At this point he will ask her if she has anything she wants to say to him concerning their sexual relationship. If she has important matters to raise, he will make a note and they will talk things over later. It’s also an opportunity for her to confess if there is anything she needs to own up to. The weekly spanking session is not intended as punishment, but if some degree of correction is needed he will incorporate it into proceedings.

Spanking begins with him putting her across his knee. The skirt is lifted (trousers are not acceptable clothing for these occasions) and the knickers lowered. He starts by stroking her bottom. He never ceases to admire its smoothness and whiteness and invitingly round, firm shape. But the whiteness will not last for long. He begins to spank her with his hand, alternating from one cheek to the other, pausing every now and again to soothe the smarting skin, and to feel its warmth. After several such pauses he will feel between her legs, which is always a reliable guide to her state of mind.

A maintenance spanking is intended to make her feel grounded, centred, to reacquaint her with the feel of his firm hand upon her. His lap beneath her, offering support, and his hand imparting such bracing stimulation to her bottom, provide her with reassurance that all is right with the world. There may be other spankings in the course of the week, spontaneous ones born from a need for instant correction or mere gratification, but the regular spanking is a fixed point on which she can depend, which puts her in the place she needs to be.

Sometimes the spanking will go no further than the use of the hand. But often there is a progression. In the drawer of his desk is a selection of implements: a flogger, a tawse, a heavy leather belt, a crop, a wooden paddle, a braided leather whip. Any (or on rare occasions all) of these may be employed as means of providing reinforcement to the beneficial effect. If he is going to administer any of them, he will require her to bend over his desk, gripping the sides with her hands.

Standing in the corner of the room is a long, thin bamboo cane. Every time she comes into the study she eyes it nervously, unable to ignore its threatening presence. It is unusual that the cane will be wielded during a maintenance spanking; its effects are too pronounced, almost guaranteed to reduce her to tears, and emotional meltdown is not the object of the exercise. All the same, it is hard for her to keep her eyes off it while bent over his knee or over the desk. And there have been one or two occasions when it has been brought in play, occasions which she can well remember, when it seemed to him that something extra was required to bring home to her the lesson that he wished always to teach her, that his authority is supreme.

Does it have to be so hard?

2011-08-22T07:52:00.000+01:00

He unbuckles his belt, undoes the top button of his trousers and slides down the zip. Reaching inside, he pulls it out. He cradles it in his hand, then strokes it gently. She watches it swell. Slowly he peels back the foreskin to reveal the glistening purple-red bulb. She stares at it hungrily.

‘I know what you want,’ he says.

She nods.

‘But tell me anyway.’

She hesitates. Must she?

‘Or else I’ll put it away,’ he says.

‘I want it in my mouth,’ she says.

‘That’s not going to happen,’ he says, still stroking. It’s reached full size now. ‘At least, not yet.’

She makes a little whimpering sound.

‘Only good girls get to suck cock,’ he says. ‘First I have to make you a good girl.’

She can see where this is going. So when he asks her if she knows how good girls are made, she has the answer ready.

‘They get spanked,’ she says in a small voice.

‘Are you ready for that?’

She nods.

‘Then you know what you have to do.’

Still staring at his cock, she reaches up under her skirt and pulls down her knickers. She shuffles across to the armchair, knickers round her knees, and bends over it, her skirt raised up to her waist. She hears the belt slide out of his trousers, hears the clink of the buckle as he doubles it. I can be good without this, she thinks; but perhaps I can’t be quite as good on my own as he can make me. As she braces herself for the first, stinging stroke, she imagines his cock still sticking out rigid. It will be worth it, she thinks. Then the belt hits her.

‘Jeez!’ she says.

Does it have to be so hard? She’d be good with a lot less than that. The second stroke seems to cut right through her. She grips her hands together to stop them going behind for protection. The belt whips across her bottom again. She gasps and hops from one foot to the other. He puts his hand on the small of her back to steady her, then hits her again.

Once he’s finished she can have all the TLC she can absorb, and pleasure too, but right now he wants it to really hurt, and he wants her to know that’s what he wants. He’ll decide just how good a girl he wants to make her, he’ll decide when she’s good enough. And until that moment, the belt will continue to do its work, ruthless, implacable, relentless. She knows that, and he knows that she knows it.

Ruined

2011-08-17T07:33:00.000+01:00

There’s a practice which seems to be widespread among dommes and the men who are submissive to them, generally known as ‘the ruined orgasm’. She manipulates his cock to the point where he is desperate to come. She may fellate him some, but it will be mostly done by hand, so that she can closely observe his face, and his cock too. She wants to bring him to the point where orgasm is imminent. Then, just at the moment when he thinks he has reached the point of no return, she will stop, leaving him in sexual limbo. When he has pulled back from the brink a little, she will resume, once more inducing a state of near-ejaculation, only once more to disappoint him. She enjoys hearing his groans of frustration, feeling how his cock twitches under her fingers. Strictly speaking (and is there any other way where d/s is concerned?) it’s not a ruined orgasm if he doesn’t get to come at all. But, if she is very skilled, she may allow just a few little drops of semen to dribble down his cock before stimulation ceases again; he knows that whatever happens, the full load will not be released. Or there are other ways of inhibiting the orgasm, by blocking the outlet with a thumb, or distracting him at the last moment with some shock, like an ice cube or a sharp slap.

This activity, of constant arousal and refusal, can go on for a long time, until she tires of the game. At the conclusion of the exercise the submissive reverts to his default state, under strict orgasm control, or even total denial. She has enjoyed demonstrating her total control of him; his pleasure is in submitting to her power, and perversely gaining satisfaction from her delight in his discomfiture.

My question is, can one imagine a reversal, in which a submissive girl is tormented with the orgasm which is dangled in front of her, but which is never to come quite within her grasp? I think for this I’d want to tie her down, naked on her back; you won’t want her trying to ‘help’ in any way. I might begin with a little cunnilingus, just to get the juices flowing. Then perhaps some lube to make her cunt extra slippery when I put my fingers in her. I’d work on her clit, but very slowly, much more slowly than she wants. It’s a tease, after all. It might be nice to find her g-spot with my fingers while I lick her clit, but most of the time I’d want to be paying close attention to her face and watching her body language. I need to know when she is close. Of course I’ve made it clear beforehand that she is not to come without permission. She’s still under the illusion that if she asks nicely enough I’ll allow it. (This deception only works the first time around!) I bring her as close as I dare without triggering an unstoppable reaction, and if I can I’d hold her poised on the brink, my finger still touching her clit but not moving, while she’s suspended between coming and not coming.

We’d have a little rest and start again. There are some girls, I know, who can make themselves come without any touching (though I’ve never actually met one). But remember, coming has been forbidden, under pain of something so extremely severe she’d better not even think about. So if she’s the kind of girl who can get herself off even once the masturbation has stopped, she’d better think again and not do it.

After doing this for a long, long time, she wouldn’t be the only one desperate for an orgasm. So maybe I’d just have her watch me do it, and let her see my pleasure erupt and spurt onto her belly. And then I’d leave her tied up, my semen drying on her skin, while I got myself a drink. Being a nice guy, not mean in the least, I’d probably let her have a sip.

A gentle hint

2011-08-13T08:07:00.001+01:00

A long time ago, in my salad days when I was green in judgement, I met a girl. She was great, the sex was great, but I didn’t know then what I know now. This was in the days before the internet became the cornucopia of information and stimulation (and, yes, misinformation) that it is now. There were not too many ways to find out about kink, and although I was interested in a general, theoretical way, I had no experience of it.

She was a smart girl and she sensed my mix of interest and ignorance. One night beside the bed I saw a book. It was The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty by A N Roquelaure. I started reading it. If you don’t know, it’s a tale of d/s, set in a sort of mediaeval never-never land, about a young girl who is carried off and subjected to various indignities by a succession of libidinous men. It’s not as hard-core as Story of O, but it’s artfully told and would interest anyone with a penchant for spanking.

I asked my friend if this was the sort of thing she liked. She was rather coy, or perhaps she wasn’t, perhaps it was me who was slow on the uptake. I remember asking whether she identified with the ones dishing it out or the one taking it. I think she thought that rather a silly question. Realising at last that I needed, in my naivety, to be led, she said to me, in the middle of the night, ‘Whip me.’

That’s where it all started. I suppose the point of this little story is that I had instincts towards dominance, but no understanding of them, and no confidence that should they manifest themselves they would be welcomed. I didn’t really imagine there were girls who actually wanted to be spanked, that I already had a licence to do it if I was so inclined. So I had to be introduced to things by a girl who understood me better than I understood myself. Needless to say, I’ve always been grateful to her for that.

And so, dear reader, if you have a man who you think might have a bit of the dom in him, you may be able to draw it out through putting some reading in his way. I know it’s difficult to sit him down and tell him face to face exactly what you want him to do to you. Not least because if it is presented as something that you want rather than something he wants for himself, it’s not going to work very well. The submissive girl wants to be taken, controlled, ‘forced’; she doesn’t want to be obliged. But if you leave something in his way, something that puts ideas in his head, he may want to spank you for himself.

I can’t guarantee this will work. As I have said many times, if he doesn’t have a drop of dominance in his head, you cannot put it there. But it just may be that the wellspring is waiting to be tapped.

A source of unending fascination

2011-08-09T08:09:00.000+01:00

‘Take off your skirt,’ he says.

She’s not prepared for this, having come over expecting to be taken out to dinner. But she does it anyway.

‘Now your knickers.’

She lets them fall to the floor.

‘Come and sit opposite me on the sofa,’ he says, patting a place. ‘Turn towards me, knees bent, legs open.’

She does it, not without shyness. He stares at her exposed crotch.

‘You feel uncomfortable, don’t you?’ he says.

She nods.

‘Why is that, I wonder,’ he muses. ‘I’ve seen it all before.’

Somehow it doesn’t seem to get easier.

‘It’s because you aren’t sure about your cunt, are you? You aren’t sure if you like it. You aren’t sure if I like it.’

She can’t look at him. She can feel herself blushing.

‘But I do like it, very much,’ he says.

‘You don’t think,’ she says, finding her voice at last, ‘it could be a little less….’

‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s perfect.’

She absorbs this, trying, not for the first time, to believe him.

‘It’s a source of unending fascination to me,’ he says. ‘And a thing of beauty.’ He reaches out and strokes it for a moment.

‘It feels good,’ he says. ‘Touch it.’

She puts her hand there, feels herself gently.

‘When did you last masturbate?’ he asks.

She starts to blush again. She knows he will wait till she answers.

‘This morning,’ she says.

‘While you were still in bed?’

She nods.

‘With your hand?’

She nods again.

‘Show me,’ he says. ‘Show me how you did it.’

I don’t know if I can do this, she thinks.

‘I want to see it,’ he says.

She knows she can’t win. She starts to touch herself with more purpose, her fingers sliding over her lips, prying, exploring, one slipping inside. She closes her eyes, to concentrate, but also so that she doesn’t have to see him watching.

‘Show me your clit,’ he says. ‘Pull back the lips and show it to me.’

She does this. She can feel his eyes on her.

‘It looks a little swollen,’ he says. ‘Coax it.’

She rubs her finger up against her clit, the way she likes.

‘Keep touching, and tell me what you thought about,’ he says. ‘While you were doing it.’

It’s hard to speak. She has to force the words out. ‘There were men. Lots of men.’

‘Fucking you?’

‘Everything. All over me. Abusing me.’

‘Were they rough?’

‘A little. Quite a bit.’

‘Did they take your ass?’

‘Yes.’

‘And your mouth?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did they come on you?’

‘Yes, lots of them.’

‘They soiled you with their semen?’

‘Yes,’ she says in a whisper.

‘Come now,’ he says, ‘as soon as you can.’

When it’s over he tells her to get dressed. She feels bolder now. ‘Aren’t you going to fuck me?’ she asks.

‘After dinner.’

‘Promise?’

He kisses her. ‘You can count on it.’

Online

2011-08-05T07:38:00.000+01:00

They chat often, talking for ages, about everything under the sun, though much of it is sexual. Sometimes it’s with the webcam; he loves to see her pretty face. Often she’s in a public place, so while her words, delivered sotto voce, may be suggestive, even lascivious, her demeanour is modest. At least on the surface, because he has a rule: whenever you appear on camera to me, he said, it will be without your knickers, and often he demands proof. Shyly, she holds them up so he can see them, crumpled up in her hand lest anyone else might see.

Sometimes, though, she manages to find somewhere private. She’s always nervous when this happens. What will he make her do? Whatever it is, she knows she has no choice; she has renounced her freedom to refuse. But sometimes she wishes she could. It’s shaming to show him things, to have to lift her skirt or take off her top. She can never quite convince herself that out there in cyberspace someone isn’t spying on them. And even if it’s just him looking, well, nice girls don’t do the things he makes her do. Except, he doesn’t always have her do them. Sometimes, he’s content to sit and talk. Afterwards, she’s never sure if she’s relieved or disappointed.

Now and again, not often but she remembers these times well, she’s very conscious of the power a submissive women has. She has something the man wants. He wants it very badly, and she knows it. And so she’ll play the coquette, going along with what he asks her to do, but so slowly, flirting with the idea that she might even say no, just for once, to see what happens. (The idea scares her half to death.) And one morning she felt so strong and confident, wanted him to see but on her terms. She took her laptop into the bathroom and undressed in front of it. Then she stepped in the shower. She washed herself carefully, soaping her breasts, her belly, between her legs, turning to wash her ass. She didn’t look at the camera once, there was no provocative smile. It was like, I’m doing this ordinary everyday thing. You can watch, but I’m not doing this for you, just for me. Although of course she knew exactly what she was doing, and what effect it had on him.

When she’d finished she stepped out and dried off, then gave a look at the camera and turned the computer off. Would he make her pay for her – what was it? Not insolence or defiance, just a brief statement of the fact that she exists independently of him, whatever she chooses to allow him to do.

Cock-hungry

2011-08-01T07:49:00.000+01:00

She thinks about cock a lot, many times in the course of a day, and again at night. She thinks about holding the cock, so limp, so vulnerable at first, but then it swells and stiffens in her hand. She marvels at how hard it is, yet how warm and soft is the skin. She examines it closely, staring at the veins that pump the blood. Slowly she peels back the foreskin, sees the skin stretched so tight and glossy over the purple bulb.

She thinks of that first kiss, her lips just brushing the tip, then little feathery kisses all the way down the shaft to his balls, and back up again. She kisses the head, then licks it, her tongue sliding across the glassy surface. She wraps her lips around it, holding it just under the rim, not sucking yet, but licking still, her tongue darting around, nudging into the little hole. Then she imagines taking it all in, inch by inch, sucking it in deep.

Sometimes the cock is gentle, wanting the most sensuous of pleasures, slow caresses. Other times it is urgent, rough, fucking her face with repeated thrusts. Sometimes it forces its way in, right to the back of her throat, lodging itself there, blocking her breathing till she gags and chokes then comes up for air spluttering, saliva drooling down her chin.

She thinks of the cock spurting creamy, viscous streamers of semen across her face, or maybe the cock resting on her lower lip as she milks it, dollops of thick, salty ejaculate hitting the roof of her mouth; she holds it all in the hollow of her tongue, rolling it around before swallowing, every drop, and licking up the last bead as it seeps from the tiny hole.

Would he ever give it to her for a plaything? So she could flip it this way and that, fiddle with it, fondle it, squeeze it, nibble it, nip at the foreskin with her teeth? Would she dare to give it a slap or two? Or maybe she would decorate it, write a word along the shaft, her name perhaps, or draw a pattern with her lipstick, What would it look like with a ribbon around it, a little pink bow at the base? Or bound with a rope? Or chained?

She likes to rub the cock against her face, over her cheeks and nose, eyelids, lips. She likes to rub the cock against her nipples, or cradle it between her breasts. And if he lets her, she lies on top and spreads her legs and rubs her cunt up and down the shaft, teasing herself, crushing her clit against the hardness.

Sometimes she wants nothing so much as the cock inside her. It’s a weapon, a battering-ram beating against the door to her womb, or a dagger, deadly and sharp, piercing her cunt, or a stake rooted in the ground on which she impales herself. Or she wants it penetrating her ass, so tight, forcing its way in, even hurting a bit, but she welcomes the violation, opens herself up so completely, is filled so utterly, until the semen anoints her bowels.

And then it’s small again, such a funny little thing, so defenceless as it nestles in her palm. How long before she can coax it back to life again? She’s cock-hungry.

The first step

2011-07-29T07:29:00.000+01:00

Sometimes things happen spontaneously, before you have had time to prepare the ground. What I mean is, you find yourself alone in a room with a girl, one you know to be submissive in a general sort of way. But you haven’t had time to find out exactly what she likes. Yes, I know as a dom it’s supposed to be about what I like, and it is, but all the same, when it comes to d/s there’s not much I don’t like, and other things being equal I’d prefer to do something she likes rather than something she doesn’t. You get a far better response that way. Of course some girls want to be made to do what they don’t want to. And you have to be able to understand the difference between wanting to be made to want it, and not wanting it at all.

But you don’t yet know quite what she wants, and it’s awkward to just sit her down and say, ‘Tell me, dear, do you favour nipple clamps at all? Or should you rather I walked you round on a leash?’ So you try to intuit what she might respond to. You’re flying by the seat of your pants – or more precisely, by the seat of hers. There’s a lot of fun in this, but at the same time it’s a severe test of one’s skills as a dom, trying to judge, from the comparatively little you know of her already and from her reactions on the spot, what is the most productive line to pursue.

Fortunately, she’d given me one or two hints. I don’t know whether she didn’t say more from shyness or a desire to put me to the test or simply that she thought since I was the dom it was up to me. But I find you can’t go far wrong with a plain old-fashioned spanking, over the knee. So that’s how we started, just my hand on her bare bottom. Hard.

A better girl

2011-07-25T07:12:00.000+01:00

He pulls her down over his knee, lifts her skirt.

‘I’m going to spank you,’ he says.

‘Yes, sir,’ she says. What else is there to say?

‘But do you know why I’m going to spank you?’

She thinks. ‘Because you want to? Because you can?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘But also, because I’m going to make you a better girl.’

She thinks about this. Is she not good already? He’s stroking her bottom gently. It’s soothing.

‘And the harder I spank you,’ he says, ‘the better girl you will become.’

She’s still thinking as he continues to stroke her bottom. He’s now pulled her knickers down. His hand feels delicious against her bare bottom, but she’s tingling too, in anticipation.

‘Are there particular areas of improvement you are looking for, sir?’ she says.

He considers carefully her exact tone of voice. Is there, just faintly, a suspicion of cheekiness? Suddenly he brings his hand down hard onto her right cheek. She squeals. There’s a brief pause, then the other cheek gets the same treatment.

‘What I hope,’ he says, ‘is to purge you of even the slightest trace of brattiness, skittishness, or sass.’

He starts to spank her hard, left, right, left, right. Then he pauses. ‘Do I make myself clear?’ he says.

‘Yes, sir,’ she says breathlessly.

He resumes the spanking, talking over the sound of loud smacks and occasional whimpers. ‘By the time I’ve finished, and this is going to take a good long while, I shall expect your manners to be perfect, and your attitude entirely without fault.’

He spanks her harder, and still harder.

‘Am I getting through to you?’ he asks.

‘Yes, sir,’ says a small, quavering voice. She wonders how long before he takes his belt to her.

Domspace (cont.)

2011-07-21T08:01:00.000+01:00

As I moved up through the gears, as it were, from flogger to belt to tawse, I was paying close attention to the responses I was getting. But at the same time I was becoming more engaged myself; hence the title of this post. Submissive girls have sometimes said to me, I know what excites me about spanking, but I don’t quite see what the dom gets out of it. I always find this a strange question. Here’s a naked, pretty girl, at your mercy, and she actually wants you to spank her bottom; what’s not to like? But perhaps it’s not immediately obvious to all why what in another context would be an abusive act can be the source of such intense pleasure, as much to the spanker as to she who is spanked.

It’s not easy to put into words what I feel, because the sensations are visceral, atavistic. Mostly, it’s a feeling of power, the heady pleasure of being able to do as I please with another human being. But why is spanking the thing I choose to do, rather than any of the other things I might choose? I suppose the easiest way to know you are really getting through to someone is if you can see and/or hear their response to your actions. So as she squirms and squeals I have instant feedback, I know without a doubt that the strokes of whatever implement I am wielding are having an impact, on her mind as well as on her bottom. That makes me feel strong, in command. I want to exercise my power by playing with her, testing her, teasing her, giving her pleasure but only on my terms, because the pleasure she is getting comes at a price, the price of total surrender and the price of accepting as much pain as she can bear.

However, you could get not dissimilar responses, wriggles and whimpers, from bringing her to orgasm, and indeed I enjoy that just as much (see below). I think one of the things that most excites me about spanking is the knowledge that she perversely gets pleasure from the pain I inflict. Girls aren’t supposed to want those sorts of things. They aren’t supposed to enjoy the humiliation of being put across the knee, aren’t supposed to enjoy being tied up helpless, aren’t supposed to get pleasure from having their behinds beaten until they beg for mercy, until the bruises show. One of the great satisfactions for me is in making girls admit just how much they like forbidden delights, how much they enjoy perversity. I’ve always wanted to corrupt girls, to debauch them, to make them own up to guilty pleasures they wouldn’t dare confess to their mothers, or their friends, or to their vanilla partners. Making girls admit to the enjoyment of pain is a particularly perverse pleasure, and a very powerful one for me.

(I hope it goes without saying that the pleasure I get from inflicting pain is not the only pleasure I get from spanking. I also delight in knowing that she is getting what she wants and needs. There’s the pleasure of giving, and it’s a big part of my enjoyment of the experience. But that’s another story.)

So, at the moment that it was time for the ultimate, the caning, I was in a kind of domspace, totally focussed on my actions and her reactions. I don’t think domspace is exactly the same as subspace. The submissive girl wants to be transported, taken out of herself, put in another place, a place where she can scarcely articulate any longer what she wants, even though there’s a safeword there if she needs it. She has entirely lost control. But the dom, I think, can never lose control. He is the one who is responsible for her well-being. I can just about imagine, if I try hard, becoming so excited with giving a beating that I want to go on and on. I can imagine myself disregarding her wishes, taking no notice as she cries and screams. I say I can imagine this; but I would never do it, because I’m a responsible grown-up, and I care about the girls I spank. I would never ever harm them. So I need to stay in control, not just of the girl but of myself.

Nevertheless, there is a kind of place I get to where the intensity of my pleasure in spanking her is an almost spiritual experience. What I seek is the moment when she thinks she’s had enough, really can’t take any more, and you hold her and stroke her neck and whisper in her ear that you want her to be a good girl for you, and what would please you more than anything is if she would take just a little more. Another six strokes, you whisper, and then I’ll stop if that’s your limit. And she hesitates. She wants to please you, she wants to be made to take more, but the cane really, really hurts. And then she nods. That’s a magical moment for me, to know that I have led her beyond what she thought she could endure, that I have put her in a place where pleasing me is more important to her than the relief of pain. A place where the pain becomes pleasure because it’s endured for your pleasure, which is hers.

In that state, I often want to delay fucking the girl, because I think that would bring me out of domspace. (I find it hard to explain why that should be so.) I’d sooner, when the time comes that she really cannot take any more, hold her and whisper in her ear and give her the care she needs. And on the occasion I’m remembering right now, what she needed besides kisses and kind words was to come. I could tell that her whole body was poised on the crest of a wave of desire. So I put my fingers in her and finger-fucked her, and found her clit and caressed it. That gave me as much pleasure as the spanking. (It was a good thing she was still tied, because she came with such force I think she might have fallen out of bed otherwise.) Later, I did fuck her, and was very glad to do so, but I was in a different space then.

Reading this over, I still don’t think I’ve quite pinned down what it is that I experience during a spanking. I think I need to do a little more hands-on research...

Domspace

2011-07-17T10:35:00.000+01:00

It’s never easy the first time. You’re trying so hard to get off on the right foot. I suppose what I want to project at the start is a firm but caring attitude. I want her to be in no doubt about who is in charge, while at the same time having confidence she can trust herself to me. Because it takes a lot of courage for a girl to put herself in my hands, knowing that I want to hurt her.

She’d been reading my blog for a while, and I’d been reading hers, so there was a general level of understanding, and a mutual respect and attraction, or we should not have been in the same room together. But it’s a very different thing, no matter how many emails you may have exchanged, to find yourself alone with someone, face to face. You don’t really know this person, you don’t know how they will respond or how their responses will modify your own behaviour. It’s a two-way process, after all.

What I was trying to do, from the very start, was to establish in her mind, without doubt, what my intentions were, that I knew what I wanted and that I knew what I was doing. Diffidence is not helpful in such situations. At the same time, I liked her a lot and I didn’t want to scare her off. I thought I could take her to the place she wanted to be, to the place where I wanted her to be, and I wanted her in the right frame of mind to go there.

If I describe my actions precisely, it may all sound very clinical, mechanical even. I don’t think it was. When I put my arms around her it felt like a very natural thing to do. When I then put my hand on the back of her neck, stroked her there and applied pressure, that felt natural too. But at the same time I was very alert to her body language. She went quiet. I wouldn’t say she was putty in my hands, because she was responsive, not passive. But I felt a great surge of reassurance, that I could lead her on. It felt right. It was going to work.

Suddenly I wanted to get right to it. I don’t know if she was surprised it happened so fast, but in a moment I had sat on the bed and pulled her face-down across my lap. She’d never said, in any of her emails, that she wanted to be spanked. She’d never said what she wanted, only that it would be good to meet me. True, she once mentioned something about a cane, about wanting to try it. Isn’t that a pretty clear invitation? Well, yes and no. It’s not a simple matter, caning a girl, at least not the way I do it. The cane has a symbolic importance in the d/s world, not least in my blog. It’s invested with a great deal of significance, as the ultimate weapon in the armoury of the experienced dom. It’s not something to be used lightly. For one thing, it hurts, it hurts a lot. That’s the point of it, that it’s more painful than the bare hand on the bottom, or the flogger or the belt or the strap. Submissive girls are often fascinated by the cane, yet fearful. Of course that’s exactly how the dom wants it. But because of the fear, you need to prepare her properly.

Over my knee was the first step. I pulled up her skirt and gave her a couple of hard swats over her knickers, one on each cheek. I meant them to be harder than she expected, I meant them to take her breath away, I meant them to move her into another space. I paused for a moment to let this sink in, then went to work, left, right, left, right. Soon the knickers were pulled down. What a pleasure to see her pretty bottom already a pale pink.

I spanked her by hand for a good long time. I wanted her to feel my body against hers, feel my knees under her, and feel my hand coming down on her bottom, over and over again. At this stage I don’t think it’s mostly about pain. It’s more about establishing physical contact, the reassurance of the weight and solidity and tactility of another body. And also about what’s going on in her mind. Putting her across my knee was saying, yes, you are a grown woman, a sophisticated, worldly, independent woman. But for the duration I’m going to do with you as I please, and you’d better leave your dignity and shame outside the bedroom door, because I don’t allow any of that in here.

I don’t say a hand-spanking doesn’t hurt. I hope it does. But its force and duration are limited by the fact that after a while the dom’s hand is stinging too. Being the one who’s calling the shots, he’s not going to suffer too much discomfort. So eventually, since there are suitable implements at hand, he moves to a different mode. Just one thing to decide before that happens. Are you going to restrain her? It’s not an obvious decision. She has to have a lot of confidence in you if she is going to let a man whom she only set eyes on a short time ago tie her up so tight that she really cannot escape even if she tries. Some girls might panic at this point, which is why I admire the courage of those who don’t.

I do like tying girls up. There are few prettier sights than a trussed-up naked girl, and few which offer such an alluring promise of future delights. But another reason for tying a girl is that I want to spank her hard, perhaps a bit harder than she thinks she wants. And she might struggle at times to keep in position, might, despite stern warnings, be unable to stop her hands from protecting herself. It’s best that she has no option but to take what you are going to give her.

I picked up my flogger and trailed it down her back, between her buttocks, up her back again, across her neck. I wanted the flogger to caress her, make her feel good. But I knew at the same time that the hand-spanking and now the gentle touch of the flogger were making her skin more responsive to what she knew what coming, something which would soon mix pleasure and pain in a different proportion.

This is getting rather long. I think I shall have to continue it next time. Unless, dear readers, you’d rather have my thoughts on Rupert Murdoch?

Teasing

2011-07-13T11:26:00.000+01:00

He’s got her hands tied to the top of the bed. There are pillows under her tummy, lifting up her bottom. He starts to spank her; first with his hand, then when his hand begins to sting he uses his belt. The harder he hits her, the harder his cock gets. He pauses and keels beside her on the bed.

‘Look,’ he says.

She turns her head and sees the outline of his cock pressing tight against his trousers. He resumes the spanking, then pauses again. This time he unzips, takes it out. She stares at it. He pushes it forward so that it’s an inch from her nose. He pulls back the foreskin.

‘Smell it,’ he says.

She sniffs delicately, catching the acrid male smell of it in her nostrils. Her cunt clenches.

He leaves his cock exposed and resumes the spanking. At the next pause he brushes the tip of his cock lightly against her lips. Instinctively she opens her mouth to take him in.

‘No,’ he says. ‘Not yet.’

He uses the heavy leather tawse on her. It’s a good job she’s tied, because otherwise she wouldn’t trust herself not to try and protect herself against the insistent, stinging lashes. It hurts and she gasps as she wriggles a little, but her bonds are secure. She visualises his cock still exposed, standing out rigid as the tawse slaps against her bottom. He pauses and strokes her, squeezing, feeling the warmth.

He kneels beside her again. ‘Open your mouth,’ he says.

He pushes the tip of his cock into her mouth, just an inch. ‘Don’t suck,’ he says.

She has a terrible urge to wrap her lips around it, to feed on it. He touches it against the side of her mouth, rubs it against her tongue. Then he lays the shaft lengthways across her lips.

‘I’ll let you suck it all you want if you take the cane first,’ he says.

She fears the cane. It cuts, it bites. It hurts like fuck.

‘How many?’ she mumbles, the cock against her lips.

‘I won’t bargain with you,’ he says. ‘As many as I please.’

She hesitates. She feels the heavy cock against her mouth. She’s never been so hungry for it. She nods; whatever it takes. He picks up the cane, taps it lightly against her red, inflamed bottom. She braces herself, takes a deep breath.

Anniversary

2011-07-10T08:56:00.001+01:00

It’s two years to the day since I began this blog. Lot of water under the bridge since then, lot of changes in my life, but that’s not primarily what my blog is about.

It’s a hybrid genre, the anonymous sex blog. They come in all shapes and sizes. Some are instructional; they give advice on which implements to use for spanking, they road-test new vibrators, they check out the providers of goods and services, they even give advice to those with problems. I’ve done a little of that, saying what I like to use for a spanking, and so forth. I’ve even tried to assist readers who email to ask my opinion on a problem they have. I guess the most common question I get is: ‘how can I persuade my husband/partner to spank me?’ Or, another way of phrasing it, ‘how can I tell if my husband/partner is a dom or not?’ I’m not going to give an answer here, but it’s a subject I might come back to sometime; not that there are any easy answers.

Some blogs are confessional; the author wants you to participate in their sexual life, wants you to follow the progress of their relationships with sexual partners. Some are highly graphic. You get to see exactly how she gets spanked or tied up (I tend to read only the ones by submissive heterosexual women, and to a lesser extent by dominant heterosexual men, but of course the full spectrum of sexuality is represented across the blogosphere). Sometimes there are pictures, even videos, of the poor girl on her knees, being spanked, or splashed with semen, or having her nipples tormented. It’s not hard, I think, to tell when it’s genuine.

As you know, my blog isn’t like that. I’ve never put up any pictures. From time to time I have given more or less graphic accounts of things I’ve done with girls. Or things I intend to do with girls. I’ve had complaints that I don’t always make it clear which are which. When is it for real? I understand why people might want to know that. But I hope they understand why I’m reluctant to say. This is definitely not a confessional blog. You can’t chart the course of my various relationships by following the bi-weekly entries. You don’t know at the moment, do you, dear reader, whether I am in a relationship with a submissive girl or not. And I’m not going to say.

I’m not trying to tease. I’m simply trying to identify what this blog is and what it’s not. What it’s for, and who it’s for. If you want the thrill of seeing a girl’s bottom get the full treatment (and there’s nothing wrong with that; I like to watch myself sometimes) you would be better off going elsewhere. It’s not, I hope, a blog that is essentially about me. I don’t give a list of 100 things you might like to know about me, as some bloggers do. You won’t ever learn if I prefer cats or dogs, or what my favourite food is. (I don’t know why you’d care.) Of course I realise there is a sense in which it is very much about me. Le style, c’est l’homme, as the saying goes. But it’s a blog about what I think, what interests me about the whole d/s experience. It’s a meta-discourse (which makes this present entry, I suppose, a meta-meta-discourse).

Perhaps I exaggerate the extent to which I keep myself out of this blog. From time to time people I know flit in and out, but there’s no consistent, coherent narrative. There’s no real structure; it’s just me rambling on about what comes into my head. And I guess I’ll go on rambling until I start to bore myself. All blogs are an indulgence. No one asks you to write, and certainly no one pays you. You do it because you want to, because it amuses you. If you get readers that’s nice; no one wants to be talking to an empty room. But I hope I’m not into crowd-pleasing either. Some of my readers I know, and I suppose I write for them, as well as myself. And if other people want to listen in, that’s great.

Well, that’s enough about me and my blog. I promise you some smut next time.

Unsatisfied

2011-07-07T08:07:00.000+01:00

From time to time I get emails from readers whose husbands or partners don’t understand their need for spanking (I use the term as a short-hand for all the varieties of d/s experience). Often these women have been in a relationship for a number of years, but it’s only comparatively recently that they have come to realise how much their sexual needs are focussed on submission. They want to be spanked, tied up, humiliated, used, abused or whatever, because that is the way in which their sexuality expresses itself. This is not a choice for them, it’s something deeply engrained in their psyche, to the extent that vanilla sex offers merely superficial pleasures.

It’s not uncommon that these women have come to realise the true nature of their sexuality only later in life. Perhaps when they first married they were not aware of their underlying need for control. Belatedly, they now realise that this need is insistent, and increasingly so. Their first port of call in attempting to satisfy such needs is, obviously, their husband or partner. But all too often they find that his sexuality is not complementary to theirs. He doesn’t want to dominate. Sometimes, it appears, he’s a nice guy who is very supportive of women and thinks it wrong for men to want to control them sexually. Such men, possibly, can be educated to see that if a woman freely chooses to be sexually dominated, it’s not misogynist for the man to make her submit. He may be brought to an awareness that feminism is all about women having the freedom to choose; what they choose is up to them. It’s not for men (nor for other women) to tell them what is appropriate.

Unfortunately most of the women I hear from find themselves in a much more difficult situation. It’s not that their partners think that out of respect men ought not to want to spank them. Instead, the man thinks that a woman’s desire to be dominated sexually is weird, totally incomprehensible, or else that it is sick and perverted. Or perhaps the man is simply indifferent to his partner’s sexual needs. He really doesn’t much care if she is getting what she needs.

It’s not easy to see how such a relationship can be developed in the direction that the woman wants. It’s my experience that if the man is not wired up to want to spank, you will never make him into a dom. With some men, though the latent dominance is well hidden, with patience and understanding the woman may be able to bring it out. But if it’s not there in the first place you can’t put it there.

I’ve had women in such situations say to me, I feel selfish wanting these things, why can’t I be satisfied with what I’ve got? He’s a good husband in other ways, it’s just that he can’t or won’t deliver what I need sexually. I’m wary of giving advice. I don’t, after all, know these women intimately; all I know is the little they tell me. So it’s not my part to recommend a particular line of action. Maybe it’s right for them to take the unselfish route and deny themselves sexual satisfaction. But I don’t think they’d be writing to me in the first place if they were at peace and had learned to live with an unsatisfied libido.

Some women, despairing of finding sexual pleasure at home, go looking for it outside their marriage. I understand why that happens; I’ve been there myself. (Obviously there are also men who want to be doms whose partners don’t reciprocate their desires.) I neither praise nor condemn those who look to another partner for what they need. It’s a serious decision; but resigning yourself to never achieving sexual fulfilment is also a pretty serious matter.

The tipping point

2011-07-02T07:23:00.001+01:00

Often in the course of a spanking there comes a tipping point. Let’s say you start with a slow build-up. You put her over your knee, skirt up, knickers down, and you use your hand until her bottom feels pleasingly warm to the touch and has turned a pretty shade of pink. Now you wish to apply something more forceful. You have her kneel or maybe lie face-down, and you select your implement. Let’s imagine that first up is the flogger, which is capable of being wielding with a gentle caress, but can also sting if you use it hard enough. Now she’s really getting into it. Her breath is shorter, there are gasps or moans, even an occasional wriggle, which needs to be steadied with a hand on the back of the neck or the small of the back.

Now it’s time for the next stage. It’s at this point I’d probably want to introduce my tawse. It delivers a very pronounced sting, and a satisfyingly loud crack as the heavy leather strap slaps again the bare bottom. By now she’s a darker shade of pink, even bright red, and her bottom is so warm you can almost feel the glow.

If she really needs a good thrashing, and you are doing it right, it’s after the sustained application of the tawse that you may get to the tipping point. For some girls all of the time, or for some girls some of the time, it may be enough already. The beating has done its work, pushed them nicely into sub-space, where you can do pretty much anything you like with them, but further pain may not be what they want most. But sometimes, it’s just at that moment you become aware that everything up till now has been but a preliminary, the overture to the opera, as it were. The spanking so far endured is not, for some girls, the end in itself, but merely a stage that prepares them for something more. The pain inflicted has merely made them more sensitive and responsive to what is to come. It’s the moment when pain and pleasure truly merge.

What exact form the next stage will take will of course depend on the dom’s preferred method, and on his reading of her state of mind, his feeling about just what she needs now. It’s possible the dom may choose to ask her, but in my experience girls are often not fully coherent at this point. Either they don’t really know what they want, or they can’t articulate it, so it’s your responsibility to take the decision. Having ascertained, as you believe, that she has indeed reached the tipping point, you embark on an escalation designed eventually to bring her to the moment when she has taken as much as she can, or as much as you think is good for her.

What exactly you do to achieve that is, as I say, up to the individual dom. We all have our preferences. In the past I favoured the cane as the most effective means of bringing matters to a satisfactory conclusion. But just recently I’ve discovered the potential of an implement which was not actually designed for the use I put it to. I discovered it in the wardrobe of a rather swanky hotel I was staying in, and it immediately took my fancy, so I brought it home with me. It’s a length of highly polished wood, about an inch wide and eighteen inches long, slightly grooved and curved. Clearly it was designed as a rather elegant shoe-horn, but it’s well-balanced and weighted and makes a perfect spanking tool, delivering a firm stroke, a little wider than that of the cane but still nicely focussed and producing a good, strong mark. I have found that rightly administered it brings a girl without too much delay to the point you wish her to arrive at, where she is struggling to take any more, squirming and squealing, coaxed only with difficulty to take a few more strokes ‘just to please me’ and earn the encomium of ‘good girl’.

Spanking stories no. 4

2011-06-29T12:22:00.000+01:00

Howard Brampton sat staring at the file which lay on the desk in front of him. ‘Susan Ripley’ it said on the cover. Mr Brampton opened it. Inside was a picture of a pretty, dark-haired girl. Eighteen last birthday, said a form; place of birth, home address, scholarly qualifications, the usual things. He flicked over the pages until he came to the comments of various teachers. ‘Susan is a talented girl. With a little more application she can go far.’ ‘Susan’s talents are such as to allow her to fulfil her ambitions, if she can overcome her occasional waywardness.’ ‘Susan needs both discipline and self-discipline, otherwise her achievements will be wasted.’

There was more, much more, to that effect. Mr Brampton couldn’t deny the truth of what was said. He himself had plenty of first-hand experience, both of Susan’s exceptional academic gifts, and her ‘waywardness’. Mr Brampton’s subject was Latin, and Susan was the only member of the sixth form taking this subject. It was a pleasure to teach a girl with such a quick mind, such a retentive memory and such a vivid imagination. Mr Brampton looked forward to their classes together. But the pleasure was double-edge. He was old enough and wise enough to recognise the nature of the feelings he had for the girl, and the danger they represented, if they were not checked.

That is why he had taken upon himself the responsibility of dealing with Susan’s latest infringement of school regulations. Ordinarily it was the housemaster’s job to administer correction. Only in cases involving very serious breaches, possibly meriting expulsion, was the headmaster called upon. But Mr Brampton had, through a process of somewhat tortuous reasoning, persuaded himself that this time he should deal with Susan personally. His ability to do so, in the correct manner, would be a good test of his resolve not to let his feelings get out of hand. As, latterly, they had shown signs of doing. If he could deal with Susan as she ought to be dealt with, no favouritism, no special treatment, he would have shown himself that he could handle himself as a headmaster ought. And he would show Susan too that their relationship was wholly a proper one. Just recently, he had come to feel that the girl showed him more than the deference a pupil owed to a teacher. She had, he could feel it, turned on him a little of her particular brand of charm, one which he had no doubt could be, and perhaps already had been, used to devastating effect on other males, both young and old.

There was a knock at the door. Mr Brampton closed the file. ‘Come in,’ he called out.

Susan entered and stood in front of his desk. Mr Brampton looked her up and down. Susan returned his gaze, her startlingly blue eyes frank and confident. Mr Brampton looked back down at the file. He cleared his throat.

‘I have a report here from Miss Simpson. She says she found you smoking in one of the bathrooms.’

‘That is correct, sir,’ Susan said. There appeared to be no note of contrition in her voice.

‘This is not the first time.’

‘No, sir.’

‘I hope it will be the last time.

’I hope so too ,sir.’

Mr Brampton looked up at her closely. Was there the merest hint of mockery in her voice? Mr Brampton got to his feet and walked towards the chest of drawers at the side of the room. He opened a drawer and took out a leather tawse.

‘You know the punishment for smoking,’ he said. ‘Six on each hand.’

‘There’s another matter, sir.’

‘Another matter?’

‘Miss Simpson said I must report a further infringement.’

‘A further one? When? What?’

‘Last night, sir. She saw me behind the bicycle sheds. Obviously she was spying, lying in wait.’

Susan spoke in such a way as to suggest that it was Miss Simpson who had committed an offence, the unpardonable one of spying on pupils.

‘But what were you doing?’

Susan hesitated for a moment. ‘Something with a boy, sir.’

‘Something with a boy? Well, what?’

‘I don’t think it would be decent to say, sir.’

‘Not decent?’ snapped Mr Brampton. ‘You were committing an indecent act with a boy?’

‘If you want to put it that way, sir.’

‘And how would you put it?’

Susan was silent. Mr Brampton’s imagination began to fill in the empty space. Images came unbidden into his mind. Stop it, he told himself. For god’s sake.

He was in a quandary here. The punishment for being caught with a boy in a compromising position (and whatever Susan had been doing exactly, it surely came under that description) was invariably the cane. To be administered on the bare bottom. Mr Brampton found himself getting hot under his stiff white collar. With much mental effort he had steeled himself to deliver Susan a few strokes with the tawse on her hands, by way of demonstrating to each of them that he was capable of dealing with her unemotionally. But a caning would require of him an altogether different level of self-control. The tender feelings he harboured for this lovely but wayward girl would be violated by something as brutal as a caning. He could not bear to think of her rare and delicate flesh bruised by his assault, nor of the tears that must surely follow. Mr Brampton was tender-hearted.

It was true, Mr Brampton admitted to himself, that he was instantly jealous of whatever boy had committed whatever act with her. And jealous of her, that she should, as he could not help but feel, betray him in this manner. In some small part of his mind he wanted to take it out on her. But he would not let such feelings rule him. He must not punish in anger. But neither ought he to flinch from the punishment due. Yet the more he thought about it, the more he doubted his resolve. He thought he simply could not bring himself to cane her.

‘I – I feel perhaps I need to consult with Miss Simpson on this matter before taking action,’ he said.

‘Really, sir?’ Susan answered. ‘She told me just now, before I came in, that I was going to get the cane and that I deserved it. She called me a name, sir; not a very nice name.’

‘A name? Well, we won’t go into that,’ Mr Brampton said. He hoped she couldn’t see that he was flustered.

‘May I say something, sir?’

‘Very well,’ said Mr Brampton, happy to play for time.

‘Well, sir, I don’t think it would really be fair if I had psyched myself up for the cane, which I have done, and I don’t get it till later. Making me wait for it surely increases the punishment.’

‘I see,’ said Mr Brampton. There was a kind of logic there; evidence once again of Susan’s powers of reasoning. But it was strange, all the same, that the girl was actually trying to persuade him to cane her. He had heard once that some girls regarded a caning as a badge of honour. Was Susan enough of a rebel to actually wish to be marked?

‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d rather get it over with now. Shall I bend over the desk?’

Before Mr Brampton could reply, she took a step forward and lowered herself onto the desk, gripping the sides with her hands. She turned her face sideways to look at him. He stared back, but found it impossible to interpret the look on her face. Perhaps Mr Brampton had not experience enough of young girls to read her expression. He was, after all, a middle-aged bachelor; many young girls had passed through his hands, but only in an academic manner of speaking. His actual physical experience of females was limited. He had always felt himself somewhat above the crudities of bodily contact.

Despite this, Mr Brampton was not completely an innocent. And so perhaps his seeming inability to know what to make of Susan’s expression was more a matter of his refusing to believe what he thought he saw. He looked away. The moment of truth had arrived. If he ducked out now, he knew he would lose her respect. She would interpret his reluctance as evidence of his inappropriate feelings for her; or perhaps, more mundanely, of cowardice. Either way, he did not choose to have her think such thoughts. But he had an uncomfortable feeling that he was no longer in charge of events.

He reached into the drawer for the cane. It was rattan, about eighteen inches long. He had never before used it on a girl’s bottom. But he must steel himself. And it would be no good holding back, delivering only token blows. If she told her friends, he would be laughed at. The thought of ridicule made him bolder.

Mr Brampton stood behind Susan and lifted her skirt. Caning must be on the bare bottom; there must be no compromise. Mr Brampton pulled down Susan’s regulation navy-blue knickers. The bottom that was revealed was of such sumptuous perfection that for a moment Mr Brampton’s mind reeled. The whiteness of the skin, the perfect roundness of the shape, the firmness and tautness of the flesh; all this Mr Brampton saw in a moment. But the bottom had not been revealed for purposes of admiration. He had a task to perform, albeit a task made more difficult by the thought that he was to set his mark on such a delicate and beauteous behind, and bring a tear to such lovely eyes.

Those eyes now looked once again at Mr Brampton. What he expected to see was them imploring him, begging for mercy. Mr Brampton had mentally steeled himself against just such an appeal. His duty was clear; punishment must be carried out, without flinching. But as he raised his arm to deliver the first blow, a dreamy, other-worldly look came into those blue eyes, as if some kind of mystical revelation was manifesting itself. And as his arm descended, making its unerring way towards her peerless posterior, Susan smiled.

Mr Brampton did not see the smile, for he was concentrating too hard upon the accuracy of his stroke. Had he done so, would he have arrested his arm in mid-air, utterly disconcerted? Or would he have undergone an epiphany which would have shaken his world to its core?

‘Ah,’ said Susan as the cane hit home.

Spanking stories no. 3

2011-06-25T18:18:00.000+01:00

MRS FANSHAWE'S REQUEST

‘Please sit down,’ said Mrs Fanshawe. ‘Will you have some tea?’

Smiling sweetly, she began to pour from the Spode china teapot before the boy had finished his mumbled response.

‘One lump or two?’

‘Two, please,’ said the boy. He looked around the room, taking in its arrangements of expensive-looking porcelain figurines and knick-knacks. The furniture looked antique to him, not that he knew anything about such things. Shyly, trying to do so unobserved, he stole glances at Mrs Fanshawe, taking in her black silk dress, the hem just above the knee (a rather fanciable knee, he thought), and the row of pearls at her neck. He’d never really looked at a woman of her age before, not looked in that way, eyeing her up. She had a well-shaped bosom; the dress buttoned up the front, and the top button was positioned very slightly below where her breasts began to separate, offering a hint of cleavage.

He’d been surprised when she had invited him in to tea. He’d finished mowing her grass and had rung the bell for his money, and when she opened the door he’d been standing on the doorstep, feeling slightly sweaty, because it was a hot day. But she didn’t seem to notice that; or perhaps she did but was too polite to mention it. She had impeccable manners, there was no doubt about that.

‘You must be thirsty after all your hard work,’ she said, handing him his tea. ‘Especially doing the borders, having to bend to clip the edges.’

It occurred to him that she might have been watching him from a window. Why? Women of her age didn’t watch boys, surely. He wondered where Mr Fanshawe was. On the piano there was a photo of a middle-aged man with a moustache. Was that him? He’d never seen a man about the place.

‘Which school do you go to?’ Mrs Fanshawe asked.

He told her; a minor though expensive public school which not many people had heard of. She asked if he liked it. He was non-committal.

‘My dear late husband often talked of his schooldays,’ she said.

So that explained the absence of a man.

‘Of course things were different in the old days.’

‘I expect so,’ said the boy.

‘For instance,’ said Mrs Fanshawe, ‘in those days the prefects were allowed to beat the boys. Does that happen now?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s no corporal punishment now.’

‘I wonder if that’s a good thing,’ said Mrs Fanshawe.

The boy said nothing.

‘Sometimes when my husband described such practices, I suspected that perhaps he rather enjoyed it. I mean, handing out the beatings, not receiving them. Do you think that was rather naughty of him?’

The boy glanced sideways at the photo on the piano. ‘Naughty’ wasn’t a word he could imagine applying to the rather stiff-necked individual in the picture.

‘Perhaps it was, a little,’ the boy said.

‘Of course, schools were single-sex in those days,’ Mrs Fanshawe went on. ‘So he never had to beat any girls.’

‘No,’ said the boy.

‘And I suppose you’ve never had to either?’

The boy blushed slightly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Certainly not.’

‘More tea?’ said Mrs Fanshawe.

‘No, thank you,’ the boy said.

‘I don’t suppose you’d like a sherry?’ said Mrs Fanshawe.

The boy looked at her, braving the risk that she would observe him staring. Mrs Fanshawe crossed, then recrossed her legs. They weren’t bad legs, he thought. Not bad for a what? A forty-year old maybe? A little older, perhaps. He felt a sudden twitch of desire. She certainly had something; it was just that he had no idea what to do with someone like her. Even girls his own age could be a little intimidating. They always seemed to be one jump ahead. He felt obscurely that Mrs Fanshawe was several jumps ahead already.

‘Well, yes, all right,’ he said.

Mrs Fanshawe poured them each a glass of sherry. It wasn’t something he had drunk often. It said ‘Fino’ on the bottle. What did that mean exactly? Mrs Fanshawe clinked glasses with him in a conspiratorial way, as if they shared a secret. But what could it be?

After a couple of sips of sherry, Mrs Fanshawe spoke again. ‘I shouldn’t say this, but I feel I can confide in you. Mr Fanshawe had rather a taste for it.’

‘Sherry?’ said the boy.

Mrs Fanshawe gave a flirtatious laugh. ‘No, spanking,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ said the boy.

‘Of course at first I was shocked. Or pretended to be.’

‘Yes,’ said the boy. He looked again at the photo. Who would have thought?

‘But when he explained to me that it was just for fun, just play-acting, of course I took a different view. I thought, well, he is my husband. If that’s what he wants, well…’

‘I see,’ said the boy. And he thought that at last he did see. Mrs Fanshawe was steering the conversation. And with her foot hard down on the accelerator. Was it too late to jump out? How much did he want to?

Mrs Fanshawe sipped more sherry, then topped up their glasses. ‘He was kind enough to say that I had just the right shape for it. He said I had a perfect posterior.’

The boy wondered. Sitting down as she was, he had no way of assessing the accuracy of the old boy’s judgement. But something was going on in his trousers as he tried to imagine Mrs Fanshawe lifting her black silk dress to reveal her perfection.

‘Sometimes I miss it,’ said Mrs Fanshawe wistfully. She looked at him steadily. The boy knew he was expected to respond.

‘I don’t think I’d know what to do,’ he said. He didn’t want to have his awkwardness exposed.

‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs Fanshawe, ‘you aren’t too proud to accept a little guidance?’

Is this really happening, he wondered? The guys at school would never believe him.

‘Well,’ he said uncertainly.

‘If I’m encroaching on your time,’ Mrs Fanshawe said, ‘I’m very happy to remunerate you further, on top of the fee for mowing.’

The boy blushed again. He couldn’t bear her to think he was hustling. ‘No, it’s not that,’ he said hurriedly.

Mrs Fanshawe stood up and drained her glass of sherry.

‘Come upstairs for a while,’ she said, taking his hand.

It was a large bedroom, with a generous amount of chintz, and more knick-knacks, not a room in which a man had any influence, not for a long time. There was a double bed, and two armchairs. Mrs Fanshawe came close. He became aware of her perfume, which smelled expensive. She kissed him on the cheek.

‘You’re a nice-looking boy,’ she said.

He blushed, again.

‘Don’t be shy,’ she said. ‘It’s just the two of us being friends, with a little secret.’

She kissed him again, on the mouth. He liked it. He started kissing her back, then she broke away.

‘Will you do as I ask? I’ll make it easy for you.’

‘Very well,’ he said.

She went to a drawer, rifled through some underwear and produced a thin bamboo cane. She handed it to him.

‘In the centre of my bottom,’ she said. ‘Try to be as accurate as possible. And don’t hold back. My husband was very forceful.’

She went over to one of the chairs. Lifting her skirt up to her waist, she pulled her knickers down to her knees. The boy stared at her posterior. It wasn’t at all a bad shape. It was white and smooth. He liked the way it curved. There were dimples at the top of each buttock.

She bent over the chair, her head resting in the cushions. ‘Go ahead,’ she said. ‘Be firm.’

He had no idea how hard to strike her. What was ‘firm’? If he hit her too hard she might scream and make a scene. If too softly, he’d show himself up as inept. He swished the cane from side to side to get the feel of it, then tapped it against her behind to get the range. He heard Mrs Fanshawe take a deep breath. He raised his arm and brought the cane down with what he thought was the correct amount of force. Mrs Fanshawe made a little noise. Was it a noise of satisfaction? Or of protest? He raised his arm again. He wondered how many she wanted. How would he know when to stop?

Mrs Fanshawe made another little sound as the cane hit home a second time. It wasn’t an altogether ladylike sound. He prepared to raise the cane again.

‘Harder,’ said Mrs Fanshawe.

The boy tried to increase force without losing accuracy. Already he could see the red welts the cane had raised across the white skin. Something strange was happening to him, there was an unaccustomed sensation in the pit of his stomach, though the feeling lower down, in his cock, was somewhat more familiar.

He struck her three more times, then paused. Mrs Fanshawe was breathing heavily. The marks on her bottom were a little alarming. He didn’t want to damage her.

‘Keep going,’ Mrs Fanshawe said.

The cane rose and fell. He was getting better at it, laying a neat set of parallel lines across the centre of her rump. Her legs were slightly parted. He tried to see between them, to look at what she had there. His cock was now pushing hard against his trousers. If she turned and saw him it might be embarrassing.

‘Harder still,’ said Mrs Fanshawe. ‘Another six.’

He duly obliged. When he had finished Mrs Fanshawe lay still for a while, bent over the back of the chair. Then she stood up. Her face was flushed. For the first time he saw her front, naked. Her bush was dark and neatly clipped. She pulled up her knickers and smoothed down her skirt, then put her arms around him and kissed him.

‘Thank you, dear boy,’ she said.

She slid down to her knees. To his surprise she unzipped him and felt dexterously inside his trousers before pulling out his cock.

‘One good turn deserves another,’ she said, and took him in her mouth.

Afterwards they went downstairs. Mrs Fanshawe offered him another glass of sherry, but he said he had to leave.

‘Come back at the weekend,’ she said. ‘There’s something else my husband liked to do which I wish to discuss with you.’

Spanking stories no. 2

2011-06-21T05:44:00.001+01:00

THE NOVICE

‘Father,’ said Isabella, ‘May I speak with you concerning something that troubles me greatly?’

‘In the confessional, my child,’ said Father Anselmo, ‘you may always speak of what is in your heart with openness and honesty.’

Isabella was on her knees on the cold stone floor in Father Anselmo’s confessional room in the convent. Apart from a wooden table, the chair he sat on and a crucifix on the wall, there were no other furnishings. She took a deep breath. It was going to be difficult, but she knew she must speak.

‘As you know, I am due to take my final vows and make my perpetual profession in just three weeks time.’

‘Yes, my child,’ said Father Anselmo, ‘and I believe that you are ready. Your superior has closely followed your progress through your novitiate and I know that she has been impressed with your devotion and earnestness.’

‘Yes, Father. Thank you. But I myself do not feel I am ready. I wish to renounce the world, but the world will not yet renounce me.’

Father Anselmo look perplexed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘May I speak to you of very intimate matters? Matters I do not think you would expect any young girl to talk of, especially one about to enter holy orders.’

Father Anselmo’s experience of so-called ‘intimate matters’ was not extensive. He had been chaste all his life, even before entering the priesthood. But his work had occasionally obliged him to confront such problems.

‘Continue,’ he said.

‘My sins are sins of thought, not of deed. But I do not believe that they are any less sins on that account, Father.’

‘That is so, child,’ he said. ‘We may sin with our hearts as grievously as with our bodies.’

‘I have thoughts, Father, and try as I may to put them behind me, they will not let me be. They come unbidden in the night, and will not go away.’

‘I see,’ said Father Anselmo. ‘I trust you allow yourself no bodily response to such imaginings.’ He had only a vague idea of what kind of thoughts such a young girl might have, and an even vaguer notion of what sort of bodily response a girl might make. Perhaps, he thought, it might involve some touching of her person. In a private place, a place such as Father Anselmo had never seen and never would.

‘No, Father, I keep myself chaste in my body.’

‘I think, then, that once you have taken your final vows, these thoughts will fade away. The devil will recognize he has been defeated.’

‘I fear not, Father,’ said Isabella with some vehemence. Then she paused, gathering herself. She took a deep breath, but she was blushing as she spoke.

‘In the night I have thoughts so intense they almost feel as if it were really happening.’

‘What is really happening?’ asked Father Anselmo. How bad could it be? He looked down at the innocent young girl on her bended knees, her head bowed, the blonde hair pulled severely back into a braid. Men in the word outside would find her desirable, Father Anselmo knew that. How fortunate she was to be protected from them.

‘I am cruelly used,’ Isabella said, her voice almost a whisper. ‘Men lay hold of me. I am stripped naked. They tie me to a post and then they whip me. On my back and, well, lower down. My screams are disregarded. The whipping goes on and on, until I am marked with their stripes.’

‘I see,’ said Father Anselmo. Despite his unworldliness, he was not unacquainted with the yearning of nuns for chastisement. It came, he thought, from a wholly understandable, indeed admirable, desire to share in the sufferings of Christ, to be scourged and humiliated as he was scourged and humiliated. There was no real sin in this; it was a fault of over-enthusiasm and could usually be cured by the adoption of a strict regime of prayer.

‘Before you get into bed tonight,’ said Father Anselmo, ‘say fifty Hail Marys. No less.’

‘Father,’ said Isabella, a note of desperation creeping into her voice, ‘I have tried prayer. I fear the only cure for me is to have these thoughts whipped out of me. To have them physically driven out of my body.’

Father Anselmo looked rather stern. ‘It is not for you to determine what is an appropriate discipline for your situation, my child.’

Isabella was silent for a moment. Then she spoke, quietly, but with determination. ‘I do not wish to be presumptuous or to usurp your authority, Father. But I earnestly entreat you to consider what I have asked. Because unless these thoughts can be expelled by the means I have suggested, I honestly do not think that I can proceed to the taking of my final vows.’

Father Anselmo was shocked. This was a serious matter. If Isabella did not take her vows, the yearly quota would not be met. Every year the number of girls presenting themselves declined. Father Anselmo blamed the irreligious nature of the times, and the worldly temptations that young girls were subject to. This year the bishop had impressed upon him that the quota must be met. Or else. Father Anselmo had forborne to ask, or else what? Perhaps he might be banished to some bleak, far-flung outpost of the faith.

‘Very well,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I will speak to the Mother Superior about it. Go about your business now.’

Isabella got to her feet. ‘Thank you, Father,’ she said meekly.

Faltering a little, knowing he must convey enough of what Isabella had told him to be coherent, but too bashful to be entirely frank, Father Anselmo explained what the problem was. The Mother Superior’s response surprised him. She gave a long slow smile.

‘These things are not unheard of,’ she said. ‘Impressionable young girls get these bees in their bonnets about guilt and atonement and suchlike, and get carried away. It’s happened before.’

‘I told her she must pray,’ said Father Anselmo earnestly.

The Mother Superior laughed. ‘I doubt that will do much good to a girl possessed by such religious zeal. I think we should give her what she asked for. It’s worked before.’

Father Anselmo was shocked. ‘Beat her?’

‘Flagellation has a long and honourable history in our faith,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But such a young girl.’

‘You’ll have to do it with care,’ the Mother Superior said.

‘Me? Oh, no! I cannot possibly.’

‘You are her confessor, Father,’ she said. ‘You are the one with authority, the one she looks up to.’

‘Don’t you feel it would be improper?’

The Mother Superior assumed a pious look. ‘There can be nothing improper in the deeds of a priest in holy orders,’ she said.

Father Anselmo wasn’t so sure about that.

‘In any case, there will be witnesses to ensure propriety.’

‘Witnesses?’

‘I shall attend,’ she said. ‘And we shall need two of the older nuns to assist. It must be done properly.’

The Mother Superior got up and went to a cupboard in the corner. She opened it and took out a long thin bamboo cane. As she came back towards Father Anselmo she swished it from side to side. She handed it to him with a smile.

‘Spare the rod and spoil the child,’ she said.

Father Anselmo took it gingerly. He wondered what the bishop might say if he heard of this. But then he thought of what the bishop would undoubtedly say if this year’s quota was not met.

‘When ought it to be done?’ he asked nervously.

‘This evening,’ said the Mother Superior firmly. ‘Before she goes to bed.’

At the appropriate time Isabella was brought to the Mother Superior’s room.

‘You know why you are here, child?’ said the Mother Superior.

‘Yes,’ said Isabella.

‘You are to be beaten until we are satisfied that these thoughts of the devil have been driven from your body.’

‘Yes, Sister,’ said Isabella humbly.

‘Strip her,’ said the Mother Superior to the two attendant nuns. They removed Isabella’s habit. Underneath she was naked. Father Anselmo looked away, though not before he had caught sight of the shapely, graceful limbs, the smoothly curving flesh, the haze of blonde curls at the base of the belly. The nuns turned Isabella around and bent her over a table. Father Anselmo glanced at her again, but briefly, knowing it was a sin to enjoy what he saw: the round, firm buttocks, with an adorable dimple at the top of each one.

Each of the nuns caught hold of one of Isabella’s wrists and held them securely.

‘Proceed, Father,’ said the Mother Superior.

Father Anselmo swallowed hard. A sensation had come over him, unaccustomed yet one he recognized, as one would recognize a former adversary. It was a feeling that had first been engendered when as a fifteen-year-old boy he had inadvertently caught a glimpse from the rear of his sister’s friend, naked. This vision of a teenaged girl’s bare behind had occasionally risen unbidden into his mind in the intervening years, along with the emotion that it aroused at the time, a desire to do something to that naked bottom which no man, not even her husband, ought ever to contemplate. In early years Father Anselmo had managed to banish the image through the use of his hand; but when he began to study for the priesthood he vowed to renounce the sin of self-abuse. Through long years of rigorous self-discipline Father Anselmo had forced himself to suppress thoughts of that round inviting young bottom and his desire to mark it.

Now, with a supreme effort of will, he thrust such thoughts from him again, resolved to think only of his duty. Slowly he raised his arm, carefully calculating the distance to Isabella’s rear, her buttocks taut and tensed. Then he brought the cane down with what he thought was sufficient force. Isabella let out a gasp and shifted from one foot to another. The nuns gripped her wrists tightly. Father Anselmo noted that a livid red welt had appeared across the centre of Isabella’s rump. He congratulated himself on his accuracy and raised his arm again.

A low moan fell from Isabella’s lips. A second welt, parallel to the first, had appeared. Father Anselmo glanced sideways at the Mother Superior. Her eyes had a glint that he didn’t much like the look of. Was it possible that the woman was enjoying this display of cruelty towards a poor innocent girl? Shame on her, he thought, then raised his arm again. The third stroke elicited a whimper from Isabella. He saw her struggling in vain to free her wrists, doubtless to rub her hands against her smarting bottom. But the nuns held firm.

Father Anselmo wondered how many strokes would be appropriate. Six? He raised his arm again, then again. Before the sixth stroke he tapped the cane lightly against that pure white flesh, now marked for all to see. He had decided the last stroke ought to be just a little harder, to make the point, even though there was pity in his heart for his blameless victim. Steeling himself, he lashed the cane against Isabella’s defenceless behind. She cried out and her whole body shook.

Father Anselmo turned to the Mother Superior and held out the cane. But instead of taking it and returning it to its cupboard, her eyes flashed.

‘Go to it, man! More, and harder!’

‘Harder?’ said Father Anselmo hoarsely.

The Mother Superior looked at him sternly. ‘Half measures are no use. They will only encourage the very thoughts they are intended to suppress.’

Father Anselmo swallowed hard. He glanced down. Something deeply disturbing was happening to his body, the effect of which must surely be visible to the Mother Superior if she were to look carefully enough. He feared discovery. He always felt at a disadvantage with her anyway; were she to discover he was giving way to the mortal sin of concupiscence he would forever lose face. On the other hand, he knew that she would despise him for weakness were he to cease the beating now. And if he stopped short, and wicked thoughts still obstinately lodged in Isabella’s mind, then he would have the bishop to answer to when she refused her vows on the grounds that she was not worthy.

Father Anselmo raised his arm once more. The cane came whistling down. Isabella cried out, the sound plucking at his heartstrings. But duty hardened his resolve. The cane rose and fell; Isabella writhed and squirmed, sobbed and moaned. The markings criss-crossed the round, ripe behind. At last, when he had completed a further dozen strokes, Father Anselmo looked at the Mother Superior.

‘One more for luck,’ she said. ‘A really hard one to finish the job.’

With a heavy heart, yet more disturbed than ever in that part of his body a priest should be oblivious of, he raised his arm once more. The cane caught Isabella full across the rump, on the spot which was the deepest red, the place which burned the most. She screamed. Father Anselmo put the cane across his knee and snapped it in two, tossing the pieces to the ground.

The two nuns let go of Isabella’s wrists and helped the stricken girl to her feet. She staggered and would have fallen had they not caught her. One of the nuns quickly threw Isabella’s habit on to hide her nakedness, then the girl was led away; as she passed Father Anselmo she looked at him and smiled. On her face was such a look of blissful serenity as he had never seen.

Isabella was taken to her room. The nuns stripped her again and rubbed soothing balm into her lacerated bottom and put her to bed. Though forced by the ache in her behind to lie on her front, she nevertheless fell instantly into the deep, dreamless sleep of innocence, her face a picture of peaceful beatitude.

Father Anselmo, on the other hand, tossed and turned in his narrow bed, tormented by images of Isabella’s peerless behind, now pure white, unblemished, now cruelly marked by the cane, the delicate skin scored by a pattern of deep red stripes. He knew it was a sin to entertain such thoughts; but the only way of bidding them leave him was to commit an even worse sin. As the small hours dragged slowly past, it was scant consolation to him that he had taken the poor girl’s burden from her shoulders, only to place it on his own.

Spanking stories no. 1

2011-06-17T10:52:00.001+01:00

I’ve published quite a lot of erotic fiction, or ‘smut’ to use a more down to earth term. For various reasons I don’t offer a tie-in with this blog. I prefer to let the separate literary enterprises stand on their own feet (there’s another blog too, which I don’t shout about). Anyway, I’ve been invited to contribute to a forthcoming anthology of spanking stories to be published on behalf of charity (I’ll give you the details when the volume appears). So I’ve been drafting out a few little tales. But I’m not at all sure I have got it right yet. My efforts so far are perhaps not completely without merits but I still think I can do better (this may prove an illusion, but writers always live in hope that the next one will be the best.) In the meantime I thought I might publish some of them here, for the amusement of my readers. I’m not fishing for compliments (no, honestly!) but any constructive criticism would be welcome. Here’s the first one:

RESEARCH

‘Come in,’ said the man, standing back to allow her to pass. He closed the door behind them. ‘Follow me,’ he said.

He wasn’t quite what she expected. A little older, in his fifties perhaps, with greying hair, smartly dressed in a suit and tie. She had imagined someone a little more, well, artistic looking. Her master hadn’t given her much to go on; repeated questions had been sidestepped. You will be told only what you need to know, he had said. In reply to her request for information about the man’s appearance, her master had said, it’s not a pleasure trip for you, so what difference does it make if he’s good-looking?

It was a serious offence, her master had said. I can’t see you again for some weeks. I don’t want punishment delayed; I shall find a proxy to act for me. You will be informed. All she had been told was, the time and place of the appointment, the restrictions on sexual activity (the man would not touch her private parts nor would she touch his), and the fact that she was attending for the purposes of being punished.

And so there she was, following him down the hallway, a complete stranger, like a lamb to the slaughter. Perhaps that was a bit melodramatic; Cynthia liked a bit of drama. Anyway, she was apprehensive. No, worse; she was more than a little scared.

The man opened a door, ushered her in. It was a study, the walls book-lined, with two leather armchairs, one each side of the fireplace, in which a log fire burned. And seated in one of the chairs was a girl. A young girl, scarcely out of her teens, in a short dress. A very short dress, which showed a lot of leg.

‘I wasn’t told there would be company,’ Cynthia said, in the haughty voice she sometimes assumed when she made a complaint.

‘This is Angela. She’s doing a PhD,’ the man said. ‘Tell her what your topic is, Angela.’

‘Contextual variations in female responses to algolagnia,’ said Angela.

‘What the hell is that?’ Cynthia demanded, somewhat aggressively. She didn’t like surprises.

‘Algolagnia? The sexual enjoyment of pain,’ said the man.

‘Why wasn’t I told about her?’ Cynthia said.

‘I’ve had several detailed discussions with your master,’ said the man. ‘Nothing that happens here today is without his prior approval.’

Cynthia bristled. She didn’t like the idea that they had been talking about her, behind her back as it were. And she didn’t like it that this child was apparently to observe her imminent humiliation. Punishment by a complete stranger was bad enough; having it witnessed by a girl scarcely half her age would be doubly shaming.

‘Thus,’ the man continued, ‘in submitting to me you submit to him.’

Cynthia didn’t feel particularly submissive to anyone right now. But knowing her master as she did, she had no doubt that he would require a report from this man. And if the man did not give a good account of her, there would be trouble. There was trouble enough already. Did she really want more?

‘Very well,’ she said grudgingly.

‘You know why you are here,’ the man said. ‘You know what you have done wrong.’

It wasn’t a question.

‘Yes,’ said Cynthia.

‘You accept that you deserve whatever punishment your master decrees?’

Cynthia looked at the girl watching her, scribbling in a small notebook. Master had set her up for this. He knew her vulnerabilities so well.

‘Yes,’ said Cynthia in a small voice.

The man fetched an upright chair from against the wall, placed it in the middle of the room, and sat down.

‘Come here,’ he said.

Cynthia approached cautiously. The man took her hand and pulled her across his knees. Then he grabbed her hair, twisting it harshly, so that she cried out. With the other he lifted her skirt up to her waist, and yanked down her knickers. Wasn’t he forbidden to touch her there? He had gone close. But a protest seemed pointless. The man began to spank her bottom, left, right, left, right. It hurt, it hurt a lot more than she was expecting. She wriggled to and fro, trying to get comfortable on the chair, but also trying to move away from the hand relentlessly spanking her bottom. She glanced up at the girl, who sat watching, expressionless. Cynthia resolved that whatever the severity of the punishment, she would not give this girl the satisfaction of seeing her cry out.

The spanking went on until Cynthia’s bottom felt hot. She ceased struggling. The man was very strong. One of her hands had involuntarily tried to cover her behind, to protect herself, but, letting go her hair, he had caught hold of her arm and pulled it sharply up behind her back till she squealed. Her resolve to keep silent had not lasted long. She resented the girl all the more for it.

‘Keep still,’ he had said sternly. And so she had stopped wriggling.

While the spanking continued, Cynthia glanced again at the girl, still scribbling. Cynthia felt like a specimen in a laboratory. At last the spanking stopped.

‘Stand up,’ said the man.

Cynthia got unsteadily to her feet.

‘Go over to Angela and present your bottom so that she may inspect it.’

Cynthia was mortified. Exhibit herself to this slip of a girl? It was too shaming.

‘Do it,’ said the man.

Cynthia’s knickers were still about her knees. She shuffled reluctantly over to the girl, lifted her skirt and turned her back disdainfully. The man came and stood next to the girl.

‘You see, Angela, the effect of ten minutes of medium-strength hand-spanking. A dark pink colour. You may touch.’

The girl put her hand on Cynthia’s behind, stroked it and squeezed gently. Cynthia blushed for shame.

‘These marks won’t last,’ the man said. ‘However, the marks made by the next phase will endure for a day or two.’

The next phase? There was more? Cynthia felt she had suffered punishment enough; a harder than expected over-the-knee, coupled with the indignity of being watched, was surely sufficient. Her offence had not been that heinous.

‘Bend over the back of the armchair,’ the man said to her, pointing to the one opposite where the girl sat.

With a sigh (would that be reported to her master?) Cynthia did as she was told. From a chest of drawers the man fetched a leather tawse. Master had one of those at home. Cynthia hated it. It was heavy and it stung like mad.

‘While I beat you, you will keep your eyes on Angela so that she may observe,’ the man said.

Cynthia’s stared into the girl’s face, who still showed no expression, nor did her face change as the man raised his arm and brought the tawse down squarely across Cynthia’s bottom. Cynthia cried out. This was worse than over the knee; this was punishment indeed. The tawse made a loud crack each time it landed upon Cynthia’s bottom. The effect of the blows, delivered with chilling precision, was cumulative. Her bottom felt inflamed, it throbbed. She had to force herself not to rub herself. After a couple of dozen vigorous blows the man lowered his arm.

‘Come and observe again, Angela,’ he said.

Cynthia watched the girl go round behind her. She and the man discussed the state of Cynthia’s behind, remarking on the colour and how hot it felt to the touch. The man traced the lines across the centre, expressing his opinion that they would cause some minor bruising. Angela wanted to know how long it would last. Only two or three days, the man said, but he added that her master had requested marks that would last at least a week.

‘And you know how to make them?’ Angela asked.

It seemed to Cynthia that there was an unseemly, unprofessional eagerness in the question, a suppressed excitement. Was it possible that this girl, masquerading as a disinterested observer, was actually stimulated by what was going on?

‘Yes, I do,’ said the man in a matter of fact tone of voice. He, by contrast, sounded detached, unemotional. He went back to the drawer and took out a thin bamboo cane. As he came back towards her he swished it to and fro. Cynthia felt dread. Anything but this, anything at all. It crossed her mind to fall at his feet and beg for mercy, to offer him anything he wanted if he would renounce the cane. But, although it was a close-run thing, she feared her master’s displeasure even more than the cane, and she held her tongue.

‘Take a seat on the chair she is bent over,’ said the man to Angela. ‘Catch hold of her hands and observe her face closely. I want you to see at close range what a cane can do to a girl.’

Every nerve in Cynthia’s body was on edge, quivering. Angela took hold of her hands, gripping them tightly. Cynthia braced herself. She felt the cane tapping lightly against her bottom, finding the range. How hard was it going to be? Her master knew just how hard she needed, knew how to take her right up to the edge, but this man knew nothing of her. Whatever her master had told him, he couldn’t know her limits. What if he were brutal, unbearable? She might shame herself and disappoint her master if she resisted, but a girl could only take so much.

She heard the cane swish and felt a searing pain full across the centre of her behind. She whimpered. Dear god! How many like this? The cane whistled again and struck on the same spot. Cynthia moaned. The rhythm was slow, deliberate, each stroke sinking in deeply, right through to her inner core, before the next one landed. Did she wish it were faster, so that it might be over sooner? Or slower, that she might have more time to recover? Either way, the choice was not hers.

She glanced at Angela. The girl was watching her with rapt attention. Was it possible that she was enjoying the spectacle? The caning went on. Cynthia moaned and cried out and shifted from one foot to the other, trying not to wriggle, trying not to make the noises that betrayed her, but in vain. Her humiliation was complete. At last the man lowered his arm. Cynthia’s whole body was shaking. She sobbed.

The man put his hand on the back of her neck. ‘There, there,’ he said. ‘You did well.’

She appreciated his attempt to comfort her, but what she most required right now was the tender loving care of her master. Where are you when I need you, she thought forlornly.

She tried to stand up, but the man held her down. ‘Take some pictures,’ he said to Angela.

The girl stood behind Cynthia. The camera clicked and flashed several times. Master always wanted pictures. He wanted to see, he wanted a record.

‘You didn’t hit her as hard as you could, did you?’ Angela said. ‘It wasn’t full force.’

‘No,’ said the man.

‘What would happen if you did?’ Angela said.

‘I’d draw blood,’ said the man. ‘And that might leave permanent scars. Only her master could take that responsibility.’

‘Oh,’ said Angela. Was that disappointment Cynthia could hear in her voice? Did she want Cynthia beaten to a bloody pulp just to provide experimental data?

‘You may stand up now,’ the man said.

Cynthia got to her feet, rubbing her bottom. She pulled up her knickers and smoothed down her dress.

‘That’s it?’ said Angela.

‘Not quite,’ the man said.

‘Then what?’

‘It seems to me,’ the man said slowly, ‘that your understanding of the process would be greatly enhanced were you to have first-hand experience of it. I think researchers call it participant observation.’

It took a moment for his words to sink in. Angela gave a nervous laugh. ‘Oh, no, I don’t think so.’

‘I shall have to insist, if you wish for further access to these encounters.’

Angela giggled hysterically. ‘I really don’t think it’s necessary.’

‘I am serious,’ the man said. ‘Bend over the chair.’

There was something in the tone of his voice that was almost hypnotic, irresistible. Cynthia could see why her master had selected him; he really does have what it takes, she thought. The man put his hand on the back of Angela’s neck and pushed her firmly down over the chair. He sat in front of her and gripped her hands in his.

‘I wonder,’ he said to Cynthia, ‘if you would oblige.’

Half an hour ago Cynthia would never have dreamed of spanking another person, male or female. But there was something about the way the man spoke to her that gave her licence. And had not Angela tried to egg him on to excesses? At Cynthia’s expense?

‘What would you like me to use?’ Cynthia asked.

‘Oh, I think the cane,’ the man said. ‘And don’t hold back.’

The girl started to wriggle and cry out. The man held her tight.

‘Commence,’ he said.

Do you want to see a picture?

2011-06-13T08:16:00.002+01:00

In my experience, submissive heterosexual women can be divided into two categories. On the one hand are those who enjoy looking at pictures of cocks. And on the other, those who do not. (Doubtless there is a third category, those who can take it or leave it where pictures of cocks are concerned.) I’m assuming that all submissive women like cocks in real life; if not then they may have a problem. But liking to look at pictures of them is a different matter.

I haven’t been able to correlate such preferences with other factors. Do submissive women like cock pictures more than vanilla women do? Do those who like to see pictures also like other voyeuristic or exhibitionist practices? I really couldn’t say. It may be that the distinction I have observed is a trivial one to which no significance should be attached; just as some women like cheese, or knitting. All the same, I find it curious.

I’ve had women ask me, even beg, for a picture of my own cock; and women who, whatever their feelings about it in the flesh, have no particular desire for a representation. I hasten to say that it’s not a cock with any remarkable features. It’s statistically average in size. Naturally I’m rather fond of it, and it does the job it was designed for, but you wouldn’t pick it out in a crowd, except perhaps for a slight tendency to incline to the left when erect, which I’ve always seen as emblematic of my political sympathies.

I’ve also had women say, please don’t send me a picture, I don’t care for that sort of thing. Of course I would never send one uninvited (and rest assured that you will never ever see a picture of me on this blog). Some men, I know, have an overwhelming urge not only to thrust the cock into anything that moves, but also to force pictures of it on reluctant viewers. I once advertised on Craig’s List for a guy to make up a threesome with me and my girl. I insisted that under no circumstances should they send pictures of their cocks; we were more interested in the size of their brains. Of course we were deluged with pictures of cocks of all shapes and sizes. Ugh!

My impression is that men don’t divide in the same way. I imagine most men are happy to look at pictures of cunts, tits, asses, whatever, even if their actual consumption of such varies a lot. It’s hard to imagine a guy saying to a submissive girl he’s developing a connection with, ‘please don’t send me a picture of your cunt.’

Some might wish to relate the difference I observe to the received wisdom that unlike men women are not great consumers of porn. Actually, I have found that to be a gross over-simplification. Some women like porn a lot, though the type they like may differ from what men habitually consume. So, I don’t know whether there’s anything to make of the fact that some women don’t like cock pictures. It may not be significant. But for all I know some earnest sex researcher is even now completing a study on ‘Differential female preferences for visual representations of the penis, correlated by age, nationality and socio-cultural background.’

Geography

2011-06-08T10:41:00.000+01:00

It’s gratifying to discover I have readers in all five continents (not as far as I know in Antarctica, though what else do they have to do down there on those long dark nights?). Statistics show that by far the greater number of readers from a single country are from the USA. No surprise there, I guess. Fortunately for all of us, a kinkier nation there never was. What’s a bit more surprising is to find one has readers in Saudi Arabia (I hope those girls keep covered up while they are doing whatever they are doing while reading). I also have a fair few readers in my native land. But, here’s a mystery. I get comments from the USA (lots of them), from Australia, Denmark, Brazil, Hong Kong, wherever. But very rarely from the UK. Unless, of course the Brits are masquerading under cover of Anon, as some commenters do. People are entitled to their anonymity, though it’s not hard to give yourself a nom de plume, which at least removes any confusion that you may be the same Anon who commented last week. So why not differentiate yourself by calling yourself Funkybottom or Poutylips or anything that takes your fancy?

But I digress. So why do I so rarely get any identifiable comments from Brits? Are we a nation of shy, retiring types? Is No Sex Please, We’re British not only the title of a stage farce but a reflection of our national character? When I come to think about it, I’ve also never had a d/s partner who was a British girl resident in the UK. This may be just an accident. I’m not saying I have encountered a representative sample of the world’s submissives; my range of acquaintanceship is extremely modest. All the same, it seems to me significant. But of what?

Actually, I don’t think the British are sexually inhibited, not once the bedroom door is closed. But I do think that we are often socially reticent, reluctant to push ourselves forward. You can take good manners too far sometimes. Of course it may be me; does something about my writing make British readers withhold comment? Have I got the literary equivalent of bad breath? I can’t quite see it. It’s not that they aren’t reading, it’s that they are lurking.

That’s their privilege. I’m not complaining. I’m lucky to have readers at all, silent or otherwise. It’s just that I’m a guy who always wants to know the reason why. It’s a mystery I wish I could solve.

Can she obey them both?

2011-06-04T11:04:00.000+01:00

In theory, I always thought a girl could not submit to two masters. Yes, you can lend your girl to another man. That’s a very dominant thing to do, letting her know that she is your property and therefore disposable at your whim. Or maybe you are an indulgent dom (yes, there are some), and you have a girl who’s prone to naughtiness, and curious about whether two guys are more than twice as good as one. And so you set it up, just as a one-off, no strings attached. Though probably, being a dom after all, you want to impose one or two restrictions. The first time I did this, I wouldn’t let him fuck her. Anything else, but his cock was not to penetrate her cunt. Nor her ass, though he could have her suck him to his heart’s content.

But all this is a very different matter from a girl having an ongoing relationship with two doms, submitting to two masters equally. Because, wouldn’t jealousy inevitably creep in? Wouldn’t she be drawn more to one than the other? Wouldn’t she come to want to spend more time with one, and so less with the other? Wouldn’t she increasingly make her preference felt, and perhaps even without really being aware of it start to favour one more than the other, be more submissive to him, try to please him more?

And men are competitive creatures. Wouldn’t each of them, however hard he tries to keep such feelings in check, want to make the girl prefer him to the other man? And wouldn’t each man, even if ever so subtly, try to let the other know that he was top dog, that she preferred him? Or if he sensed that he was not, wouldn’t he resent it? So isn’t there an inherent instability in such an arrangement? Is the dynamic such that the two doms could not keep their status in balance, the submissive not remain perfectly poised between the two?

Yet maybe it’s possible to imagine circumstances in which it could work despite the obvious dangers. Suppose that the two doms simply aren’t jealous types. Suppose they each enjoy sharing with another guy, enjoy putting their heads together and dreaming up new tests of their girl’s submission, each trying to out-do the other, but in a generous spirit, with ideas to titillate her, to encourage a deeper submission still, and greater pleasure for them all in its expression. Perhaps in the nicest possible way they enjoy ganging up on her, pooling their resources of time and energy and ingenuity to help her towards fulfilment.

And perhaps, and I think this would help a lot, their circumstances differ. Maybe one of them has the girl as a long-established partner, they share a home, a life. And the other dom isn’t looking to muscle in on that, doesn’t want to share her 24/7 but wants her submission within the limits that are offered. That might help too, each dom recognising his own sphere, not looking to expand beyond it.

And what of her? Can she accept to obey each equally? Will there never be conflicts of loyalty, or of disagreements about priorities? Maybe; but with good will perhaps they can be resolved. It’s easier to see, in some ways, what she gets out of it. She’s not limited to the energies and desires of one man; she can receive double the attention, if she’s got the appetite for it. And after all, they are two different men, so she gets variety; each will have his own style of domination.

But perhaps there’s something more fundamental at stake for her. I’ve heard some women say they are aroused and excited by the idea of being made available. It goes to the heart of their submission, that their man offers them to another, not just for casual sex, but offers him her submission. She is his to use as he pleases, and it pleases him to share her. Some women find that stirs them, and even empowers them. They like to be desired by other men, they like to please other men, and they like their man to want other men to use them for their pleasure. If you don’t feel this, it’s probably very hard to explain it. I wouldn’t dream of suggesting this is for everyone. It’s an idea I’ve thought about, that’s all.

Bad things

2011-06-01T07:47:00.000+01:00

‘Come here,’ he says.

She approaches warily; she knows that look. He puts his hand round the back of her neck, strokes her gently, then folds her hair in his hand. He twists it, forcing her head back.

‘I want to do bad things to you,’ he says.

‘What things?’

He doesn’t answer. Instead he puts his hand up under her skirt, between her legs. He gathers her cunt in his hand and squeezes hard. She gasps. He squeezes harder. She groans. He takes his hand away.

‘Ask me to do it again,’ he says.

‘OK,’ she says. ‘Please?’

‘Ask me properly,’ he says.

‘Please will you squeeze my cunt?’

He grips her again, as hard as he can. For a moment she thinks she might pass out from the pain. He takes his hand away. The blood rushes to her cunt. She can feel it pounding.

He strips her to the waist. ‘I want to hurt you,’ he says.

She is silent.

‘Are you scared of me?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Maybe you should be,’ he says.

He takes each of her nipples between finger and thumb, twisting them, pulling upwards so strongly that she is forced up onto her toes. She moans. He lets go and starts to unbuckle his belt; she watches, like a mouse watching a snake. She shudders as the belt slithers from his jeans. He doubles the belt, holding each end together in his hand. He’s only used it like that once before, and she had marks for days.

‘Bend over the chair,’ he says.

He lifts her skirt, pulls down her knickers. She braces herself, takes a deep breath. He lashes the belt across the centre of her bare bottom. He can feel a terrible beauty in his cruelty.

Who do you talk to?

2011-05-26T15:10:00.000+01:00

The other day I had a brief conversation with a woman about female masturbation and the different techniques women adopt to perform this normal and essential function. She said she didn’t know much about what other women did. She wasn’t in the habit of talking to them about such matters.

I remember in the past being told more than once that women were far more intimate with each other about sexual matters than men were. When it was all women together, they weren’t inhibited about telling what they did and what they liked. I think a criticism was implied; that men were less honest, less in touch with their feelings. At the time I accepted this; this was in the days when I still felt some residual guilt at being born a man, and was willing to believe that women were better at managing their emotional lives. Nowadays, I’m happy to recognise the extent to which the world is skewed by patriarchy and I believe that in so many ways women get the short end of the stick (is there a Freudian meaning lurking in that phrase?). But I’m less inclined to believe that women have got it better sorted when it come to sex and emotion. This is partly because I have finally come to terms with my urge towards sexual domination. I don’t feel the need to hide it or apologise for it, because I’ve learned how to channel it in ways that are satisfying and rewarding, for me and I hope for my partners. It’s my view that d/s, once properly understood, solves many of the problems which bedevil sexual relations between men and women. Of course most of the world is not inclined towards That Thing We Do. They have to work out their own path to salvation.

However, while I am no longer automatically inclined to credit women with being more in touch with their feelings sexually, I would be the first to concede that in general men are no better when it comes to talking freely and frankly about sex. I have very rarely had a conversation with another man about what I actually like to do in the bedroom, or about what I think women like, even with men I know to be d/s. Whereas I’ve had a lot of conversations about such things with women, and not only with those women I was sexually involved with.

It’s a shame that we can’t all be more open, because I think that being d/s, while wonderfully liberating and satisfying, can be a lonely business. You sometimes feel that you are a bit of a freak. And if you try to talk to people who aren’t into it you can get some uncomprehending, even hostile responses. Guys who like to tie girls up and spank them can be viewed by the vanilla world as sexual abusers. Guys who treat their woman like a little girl can be seen as paedophiles. Such responses don’t encourage openness and frankness. All the more reason why it’s good to have someone to talk to. I’m lucky. I have two or three very dear women friends with whom I can talk about anything sexual without fear of being frowned on or mocked. They know pretty well everything there is to know about me. I don’t say they necessarily approve of everything I’ve done, but that doesn’t get in the way of our friendship. One of them is vanilla, but fortunately she has an open mind, endlessly curious about all the vagaries of human sexuality.

I feel that everyone ought to have at least one such friend. Whether it’s a man or a woman doesn’t matter. But I think that it’s easier to open up to someone of the opposite sex (assuming you are straight). I’m not quite sure why. I think (I realise this is a long shot, and may be very wide of the mark) that men are often leery of opening up to another man about sexual matters in case they are suspected of being gay. Sounds silly? Maybe so. But one should never under-estimate the straight man’s nervousness of such suspicions; even guys who are heavily into kink.

Open your legs

2011-05-20T09:53:00.001+01:00

They’re fooling around on the bed, stark naked, mock-wrestling. It looks like it’s going to develop into rough sex any time now. She hopes so. He’s got her on her back, in an arm-lock, and she’s laughing and squealing, and her legs are flailing. Suddenly, he smacks between them, hard.

‘Ouch!’ Instinctively she shuts her legs tighter than a clam.

‘Open your legs,’ he says.

‘No!’

He gives her the look.

‘No, please. It hurts.’

‘Of course it hurts.’

‘No, really, I don’t want it.’

His look is very stern now. ‘Don’t say no to me.’

She’s silent.

‘I’m waiting,’ he says.

Very slowly she parts her legs, not too far. He smacks between them, full against her cunt. She yelps and shuts her legs again.

‘Open,’ he says.

There’s a fearful look in her eye. But she knows she can’t say no again. She opens her legs.

‘Wider.’

She whimpers. He pulls her legs even wider apart.

‘Don’t move,’ he says. Taking careful aim, he smacks her harder than before.

‘Ow,’ she says. But this time she keeps her legs open. He continues smacking her, slowly but forcefully. She stares at him, wide-eyed, as if at any moment, like a frightened doe, she might take flight, if only she could.

He lowers his arm. ‘Next time I do this I’m going to use my belt,’ he says.

‘Oh god,’ she says. He can see how much she fears this; but he knows her well enough to see that behind the fear she is in thrall to the idea. She’ll be thinking about little else until he does it.

Over the knee

2011-05-15T08:02:00.000+01:00

An OTK spanking is one of the most satisfying. By preference you sit on an upright chair. She lies face down across your lap. One of the things I like about it is that she has to struggle to get into a good position and hold it; it’s good when she has to work a little. Maybe she grasps the leg of the chair or your ankle with her hands, to keep her balance; maybe she has one foot on the floor, or two. It's hard for her to be dignified. This is partly because of the precariousness of her position, and partly because inevitably this position has something humiliating about it. Perhaps there are memories of being a little girl, being spanked as a punishment. Perhaps it’s just because it’s a bit ungainly. And of course ideally I’m going to do it with her skirt raised up to her waist, and her knickers pulled down. I so much prefer this to her being naked; it’s less dignified to be dishevelled.

There’s something about a hand spanking that’s different from using an implement. There’s a particular pleasure in the close bodily contact, in subduing her physically, holding her down, that you don’t get with other kinds of spanking. It’s more intimate, your flesh in direct contact with hers. She feels you; but you feel her too, feel the weight of her body, and the delicious softness and increasing warmth of her bottom. Oh, didn’t I mention the bottom before? OTK gives you an unrivalled perspective on that most submissive part of a girl’s anatomy. After all, what is a bottom for if not for spanking? Other parts have a more directly sexual function, and they are interesting too, but a bottom seems constructed for the sole purpose of being spanked. Its shape, its size, the delightful smoothness and yet firmness if it is bent over, all invite the spank. And of course that lovely whiteness, so soon to be pink, and then darker colours too. Yes, I know you can use a bottom for sitting on, and that’s useful (though if the spanking is a good one she might not want to sit immediately). But if you were going to design a part of the body perfectly adapted to spanking, well, a bottom is what you would come up with.

In an OTK spanking she’s not usually restrained, and some girls can’t seem to resist putting a hand behind for protection if the spanking gets really hard. Foolish girl! Doesn’t she know this will only increase the severity? Trying to restrain her with one hand while continuing to spank with the other can be tricky, but a little practice helps. And after all you are a big strong man. Girls are also inclined to wriggle when the going gets tough. (They squeal too, but I never mind that. It only confirms I am getting through to her.) A good trick is to get one of your legs over one of hers, helping to pin her down to the chair, and that way she can wriggle all she wants but it won’t do much good; the spanking can continue without interference.

Recently I showed a girl a clip I had found, of a guy carrying out an OTK spanking. She said he was going too fast. How fast is too fast? I think every dom will have his own rhythm, but if he’s good at his job he will find out her rhythm too, the one that works best for her. Though alternation between fast and slow can be good too. A series of measured, hard swats followed by a volley, a veritable fusillade, of lighter ones, can have a very dramatic effect.

I think ideally it would go on until your hand is sore. Not being the sort of guy who does hard physical labour, my hands aren’t hardened and perhaps she gets off lightly as a consequence. But of course the hand-spanking is rarely the end of the matter. What comes after can still be done OTK if you have the implements to hand, but I prefer that for a belt or a tawse or a cane she is either lying flat on the bed, or kneeling on all fours. One has to sacrifice the element of physical intimacy, and it’s not so delightfully undignified, but this way, the arm gets to swing freely and can apply the strokes with accuracy and sufficient firmness. And there’s the compensating ritualistic pleasure of having her kneel in precisely the right position: arch the back, present the bottom, head up, keep still.

But OTK is best for the spontaneous spank, where you suddenly have an irresistible urge to grab her and do without the elaborate build-up to set the mood. There’s much to be said for catching her off-guard, and reducing her in a few short, sharp minutes to a squealing, wriggling, breathless, quivering little girl.

(PS. Blogger had a nervous breakdown last week and ate the comments on my post 'Good girl'. They said they would bring them back but they haven't. I'm sorry about that.)

Good girl

2011-05-11T08:03:00.000+01:00

‘Good girl,’ he says. She smiles with pleasure, basking in the glow of his approval. At first she was uncertain about the good girl thing. Because he told her more than once that he really, really liked bad girls. He even said he liked sluts. How can you be a slut and a good girl at the same time?

After a while she began to understand the apparent contradiction. She realised it was mainly a question of attitude. It wasn’t so much a matter of what you did or didn’t do that got the approving pat on the head, but what her state of mind was when she did those things. And so she found she could do really bad things, things she had scarcely dreamed of (and when she dreamed of them she never told), and still do them in such a way that got the magic words of approval.

(If you think patting a submissive girl on the head is patronising, then you are probably reading the wrong blog. David Cameron got into trouble the other day for telling a female Member of Parliament to ‘calm down, dear.’ Quite right; that was deeply patronising. But a submissive girl has a different status from that of a professional colleague. She wants to be told when she has done the right thing, she wants to know she has pleased her dom, she wants a tangible sign of his approval. ‘Good girl’ is a verbal pat on the head. If you don’t like that, your head isn’t in the right place to be a submissive. No reason why it should be. If you don’t want to be one, don’t be. It’s a free country.)

Anyway, as I say, it’s a matter of having the right attitude. The attitude of wanting above all to please, the attitude that says, it’s not so important exactly what he wants me to do, or how much I want to do it, what’s important is that I do it anyway, and what’s more, do it with a good grace. No pouting, no sulking, no sighs. If you do it because you genuinely want to make him happy, then he’s a very surly dom if he doesn’t say ‘good girl’.

I know some girls struggle with this a bit. The first few times they bristle. It seems inconsistent with the respect they feel is their due, as an independent, adult woman, albeit one who is willing to accept sexual domination. But a dom never loses his respect for his sub. It’s just that he expresses it in a different way, and the way he responds to a female acquaintance in ordinary life is not the same as the way he responds to his sub.

It may take a bit of getting used to. She needs eventually to shake off her dignity, her sense of amour-propre, her disposition to bridle at any disrespect. She needs, both literally and metaphorically, to get used to being on her knees, to being comfortable with that. When she is, each time she hears ‘good girl’ she will know she has done really well. And that will be her reward.

Further thoughts on breaking her

2011-05-08T08:24:00.000+01:00

He pins her down and forces his cock into her mouth, deeper and deeper, till she’s choking. She tries to pull away but he holds her firm, her head in exactly the position he wants, and he keeps pushing his cock in as far as it will go, till she coughs and splutters and gasps for air. No sooner does he pull out, just far enough for her to gulp in a breath, than he forces his big hard cock in again. Over and over; he’s relentless. Her mouth is overflowing with drool, it’s running down her chin, her eyes are watering, her nose is running, she knows she looks a mess, but still it goes on. Where is her poise and her amour propre, her sense of self-worth, her freedom and independence? Fast ebbing away, that’s where. He senses there is still some resistance, that she can’t quite bring herself to let him push his cock right into her throat. She’s scared; not to put too fine a point on it, she’s scared she will choke to death. And what he’s determined to do is take her beyond that point, to make her give up the struggle for air, for dignity, for life, have her lie there accepting the cock, letting it go in as far as it will, no longer fighting, no longer allowing her instinct for survival to deny him what he wants, but at last passive, lying there, letting him do as he will.

Or, he ties her, hand and foot, face-down over a bench. She’s stark naked, her bottom presented. He forces a ball-gag into her mouth. He tells her he’s going to thrash her. He’s going to indulge himself to the full, he’s going to beat her until he’s had enough. He shows her what he will use: first, his hand, then the flogger, then the tawse. But all this is just the warm-up. He shows her the cane. That’s what is going to achieve the effect he desires. Her eyes open wide. She’s scared of the cane; she’s only had it once before and it made its mark; on her ass and on her psyche. So when at last he arrives at the point when he’s going to take her further than ever before, he picks it up and flexes it, swishes it from side to side, taps it menacingly against her red, throbbing bottom, getting full value from its power to cow her into complete submission. The cane bites deep, it raises livid red welts across her behind. She tries to cry out, but only muffled sounds of protest emerge, sounds that he ignores. After a while, he pauses, rubbing her poor lacerated bottom with a soothing hand, whispering in her ear. But they are not words of comfort. He tells her that this time it doesn’t matter if she protests, he’ll only stop when he’s had enough, when she has nothing left to give, and he’ll be the judge of when that is. When her whole body shakes uncontrollably, wracked by sobs. When she no longer has anything left with which to say ‘no more’.

Or, he strips her naked, buckles on a dog-collar and fastens a steel chain to the collar as a leash. He pushes a butt-plug into her ass, a plug that has a rubber tail on the end, a curly puppy tail. He writes an obscene word on her rump, and takes pictures of her indignity. He leads her around, having her wag her tail, making her bark, eat from a bowl on the floor, do tricks like catching a lump of sugar in her mouth, fetch a ball he throws, over and over again, depositing it at his feet. His riding crop is always near to hand in case her performance is not satisfactory. There’s worse to come, much worse. He makes her pee on a pile of newspapers in the corner, he takes her into the bathroom, puts her in the bath and pees on her, then jerks off on her face. She looks a mess but he won’t let her clean herself. She’s his pet, a little animal he’s training for his pleasure. That’s the only reason he keeps her, because it’s fun. After he’s used her again he makes her sleep on the floor at night, chained to the bed. He tells her he’s going to buy a kennel and make her sleep outside in the yard, chained to the wall. She believes him., And he says when he’s got her properly trained he’s going to invite men round and show her off, make her do her tricks for them. And he’ll let them use her, doggie-style. She believes him. She’s a puppy, not a girl; what else can she do but wag her tail and bark?

Or… Or… What I’m doing is describing a number of scenarios in which the submissive girl is broken. The last vestiges of resistance are overcome. Not only can she no longer say no; there’s not really any coherent self around which a refusal could organise itself, just an inchoate mess of tears and a body open to all depredations, and a need, a deep, deep need just to be used, to be whatever he wants her to be. She’ll be nothing, if that’s what he wants.

I’ve never reduced a girl to that state. I know I could, and if I sensed some part of her wanted me to. But it’s never come to that. I’ve been thinking about why. It’s not that I am squeamish, and I know the pleasure would be intense. I’ve got part of the way there, far enough to know how exciting it would be to go all the way. But I suppose at the end of the day I don’t want her to be nothing. I like what she is, that’s what attracted me to her in the first place. All the same, I can’t help wondering what it would feel like, to use that much power, to have a quivering, cringing, tear-stained wreck of a girl at my feet. I don’t say it has no appeal. I’ve never really believed that you can have too much of a good thing. It’s what happens after that worries me. What would I do with such a girl when I’ve done everything? I know I’d have to be there to pick up the pieces. But would there be anything left for me to relate to? Perhaps one day I need to take the responsibility and see what happens. But it’s not something to enter into lightly.

Breaking her

2011-05-02T07:57:00.000+01:00

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again.

I’ve sometimes read descriptions, both by dominants and submissives, of the sub being ‘broken’. What does this mean? At first sight, it’s not an appealing idea. Why would you want to break such a rare and delicate creature as a submissive girl? (‘Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?’) She should be treated with care and compassion. Yes, of course, she needs spanking and all the other things you love to do to her, even the nasty things she says she doesn’t like. A dom can’t be squeamish or too soft-hearted. But break her?

But I think I know what the phrase means. Inside every submissive is an inner core of resistance. When you first set out to control her, you overcome with relative ease her attempts to put up barriers, erect limits. These are just the initial skirmishes in the war. I don’t mean she’s not allowed limits. But I know from experience that the limits she first tells you about are unlikely to be those she will still have further down the line. They are limits she thinks she has, but only because they haven’t been really tested. Sometimes you even find out that what she said was a no-go area is the thing that excites her most of all. It doesn’t mean she is playing games, telling you she won’t do this or that while knowing very well, and hoping, that this will only lead you to push harder in that direction. I think a girl can honestly say, I don’t like that, and yet such is the wonderful mystery of d/s, you one day find you are pushing at an open door. So my advice is, never accept at the start what she says about the things she will and won’t do. Don’t accept them till you have made a real trial.

But eventually, when you get past all this, you find that there is still an inner citadel unconquered, a castle keep where she will make her last stand. That’s where she guards her innermost secrets. She knows that if you gain entrance there, all is lost.

What is this ‘all’ exactly? I think it’s a kind of bedrock sense of her self, that part of her which is left when all else has been offered up to you. It may take the form of some specific acts she simply will not do, or some secrets she will not tell you, or simply some part of herself that will not bend the knee. Everything else she has surrendered, but there is still some part of her that she wants to keep inviolate, that she withholds.

The trouble is, to a dom that’s a provocation. It’s hard for him to have her say, I submit to you, utterly and completely, I belong to you, and yet still know that there is something she won’t give up. I guess the dom has two strategies here. Either he can say, OK, I won’t pursue that, I’ve got everything I can get from her. It’s all I need, and let’s not worry about the rest. Or, he can refuse to allow her to keep that one last piece to herself. He can lay siege, plotting with whatever forces he can assemble, until the citadel is breached. At that moment, I would say, he’s broken her.

He might feel a great sense of triumph at this point. There’s nothing left to conquer. She lies prostrate before him, utterly surrendered. Broken. The problem is, if you break her, can you put her back together again? Is there anything left of herself that is separate from you, is there a self at all? I’m not sure if I’d want to take the chance.

Markings

2011-04-29T07:51:00.000+01:00

I have her write on her body. Small symbolic designs. Or else my name (no, not Discerning Dom, though that’s a thought). Or I make her wear a badge by writing SLUT, just above her cunt or just over her nipple. It’s very pleasing to me to see these marks. They are proof of ownership. Anyone finding her as lost property would know who to return her to. Or anyone who needed to know what sort of girl she is would only have to read the label she has written on herself.

All these marks fade. ‘Permanent marker’ it says on the pen. But a night spent naked between the sheets has more or less effaced the mark by morning. This opens the question of whether I should go so far as to make her wear a truly permanent mark. 99% of the tattoos I see, I think, poor girl, why has she disfigured herself like that? Has she so little regard for the beauty of her body that she is willing to deface it? And people are so changeable. What one day is an affirmation of undying love can turn out another day to be an awkward reminder of an episode you’d rather forget. I don’t think I’m a cynic, but I’ve reached an age when I know the difference between romance and reality. Sometimes they overlap, and sometimes they do not.

So I’m cautious about anything truly permanent. But it’s still there, at the back of my mind, that I might order her to be marked for good. Something discreet, something tasteful, something perhaps that’s a secret sign between her and me. Where should it go and what should it say? In idle moments I muse on the possibilities. I haven’t decided anything yet. Of course I’ll ask her for her thoughts. I wonder if she is submissive enough to accept that I shall have the final say.

Random thoughts on sucking cock

2011-04-25T08:12:00.000+01:00

When a woman sucks a man’s cock, it isn’t necessarily a submissive act. A domme might suck a submissive man’s cock to tease him to the brink of orgasm, only to deny him relief. A vanilla woman might suck cock because she wants to please her partner (I don’t think wanting to please someone is proof that you are submissive). Or else she might want to please herself; maybe she just likes it, or maybe it’s a means to an end, getting him hard enough for his cock to serve as the instrument of her pleasure.

All the same, I would think sucking cock is one of the more popular items on the menu of d/s activities. (I suppose there are submissive girls who don’t specially like sucking cock, just as there must be submissives who don’t much care for spanking, though I have yet to come across any.) Most doms will enjoy the feeling of a service rendered, precisely in accord with their instructions. Some girls have a remarkable instinct for doing it, such that you wonder, how can someone who hasn’t got a cock of their own possibly know just how nice that feels? Yet however talented the girl, she will benefit from a few lessons in which particular moves he likes best, or what style (rough or smooth, say). That’s one of the pleasures of being a dom; you can have it done just exactly how you like it, whenever you like it, for as long as you like it

I don’t think deep-throating is a trick that comes naturally to most girls. It requires a bit of patience and experiment to find out exactly how to take the cock right in, all the way up to the hilt. Because unless the guy has a remarkably small one, his erect cock will be too long to fit comfortably in her mouth without blocking the windpipe. So a girl has to learn to take it that far back without gagging, and has to find out how and when to breath.

I must admit to a particular liking for this. Forcing my cock right in till she chokes is an extremely pleasurable form of control. I’m not one who gets a special thrill out of stopping her breathing per se, with a hand over her face or round her throat. I feel it’s risky; I know some girls are excited by that, but not any of the ones I have known. But having my cock rammed down their throat till they coughed and spluttered and gasped for breath; yes, sure, some of them have liked that a lot, and so have I. And it would be hard to see that as anything other than an act of control and dominance.

How hard is hard enough?

2011-04-21T09:56:00.000+01:00

‘It is a difficult task to get sexual domination right – go too far and your partner feels devastated, not far enough and they feel short-changed. Domination is less popular than is generally imagined – it carries too many responsibilities.’ A Defence of Masochism by Anita Phillips

Submissive girls suffer from a number of anxieties. One is a fear that he may go too far, that sexual excitement may turn into sexual frenzy. It’s a serious matter if a dom loses control. That’s why drugs or too much booze don’t really mix with d/s. If you get carried away you are likely to spoil everything. I don’t say total sobriety is essential. I’ve been known to imbibe a glass or two prior to some spanking activity. But I don’t like to feel I’m not in control, of myself as well as her.

There’s another fear a girl has, that she won’t be able to take enough for him. Maybe she thinks she isn’t sufficiently submissive, or just not enough of a pain-slut, and he will think her a wimp. It’s true that girls vary a lot in their ability to absorb pain, and it’s also the case that the same girl will vary from time to time in what she can put up with: if he doesn’t get her in the right mood, if it isn’t the right implement for her (girls can be surprisingly picky about what they prefer; a girl who fears the belt might let you really lay into her with a flogger). And of course the time of the month can affect her susceptibility to pain.

However, it’s my belief that such fears of disappointing him are usually groundless. If a dom is understanding and sensitive he will know that it’s not objectively about how many strokes you get to deliver, with what degree of strength. It’s about how many are good for this particular girl. If you can take a girl right up to her limit, and even persuade her to go a little bit beyond what she thinks her limit is, then you have achieved exactly what you wanted. The fact that another girl could take more is irrelevant, because the effect in the girl’s head is the same: she’s submitted to you totally, she’s given you her all.

But there’s one more worry that girls have, and it’s one that is real enough, even though a submissive girl might wonder if it’s right for her to think this way, since it’s her role to please, not to have demands. Sometimes she’s afraid she might be disappointed, that she might not get enough. I think this can sometimes happen with people who are new to d/s The dom is a nice guy, he’s very fond of the girl, he wants to spank her, sure, but he wants to take care of her too and make sure she enjoys it so she will allow him to do it again. So he holds back, afraid that if he goes too far she will run away screaming and never be seen again.

There’s no doubt that some girls really want it hard. They want to feel the burn, want to feel the warm intensity of the pain seeping into their vitals, where it is mysteriously transmuted into pleasure. They want to be pushed. They want to feel in his power; perhaps, in a sense, they actually want him to go too far. But he, fearful of the consequences, holds himself in check, so she doesn’t get quite what she hoped for. It’s very hard to get the balance right first time. You need experience, and you need to be alert to her signals, especially the non-verbal ones. I can’t say I’ve always got it right. Ah, the dreadful burden of those ‘responsibilities’. But then, there are compensations….

On this subject, a reader writes to ask how hard I think doms actually hit their girls. I don’t think there’s an internationally agreed objective standard, a measurement of spanking intensity, like the Richter scale, so it’s hard to make comparisons. She’s a little sceptical, given what she’s seen on the internet, that they actually hit as hard as they say, or as hard as their subs claim. Because when you see pictures of the girls’ bottoms, there’s often not much marking, just a bit of redness. And in the rare videos they make, again the degree of force employed seems quite low.

I think she has a point. OK, we all know of those commercial sites, many of them originating in eastern Europe (those old Communists certainly have something to answer for!), where the girls are literally beaten black and blue. But what my reader is talking about are real genuine subs, and real live doms, like me, or like the doms who read me (I think there are a few), or like the doms who spank my female readers. Do they really lay into them? Or is it largely a symbolic activity?

I suspect my reader is one of those girls who can take a lot, and who fears disappointment. As I say, it’s not a matter on which one can be very precise. Not only do girls vary so much in terms of how much punishment they can take, so it may not look like a lot to a real pain-slut, but it may feel like a lot all the same. And girls differ greatly in their liability to bruising. I have known girls who soaked up considerable punishment, yet the next day their bottoms were almost unblemished. And others, a few taps and you have bruises welling up everywhere.

It’s also the case that different implements make different kinds of marks. Something like a tawse or a paddle tends to spread the force of the blow over a wide area, so what you get is a lot of redness, which to my mind is always a pretty sight. But I also like proper bruises, ideally ones that show exactly where the cane or crop landed, that bear the trace of each individual stroke. Those are the marks that last, whereas with a tawse her bottom can be bright red when you have finally finished with her at night, yet show barely a trace in the morning.

So I’m not sure I can answer my reader’s question. I don’t know exactly how hard doms hit their girls, and I don’t know if I hit harder than the average. I don’t actually think I’ve ever hit a girl quite as hard as I wanted to; I tend to err on the side of leniency. But I wonder now if I have left one or two of them wanting more.

Rope

2011-04-17T08:52:00.000+01:00

Because she’s far away, he thinks up little tasks for her, things for her to do which will bring him to mind, help her remember exactly what she is and who she belongs to. And so one day he says, take a length of thin rope or cord. Tie it round your waist, not really tight, but tight enough so it doesn’t fall down. Make a knot at the back. Pull one end of the rope between your buttocks and between the lips of your cunt. Then pull it up across your belly and tie it to your waist, at the front. Now you have a rope bikini. I want it tight enough that you are aware of it, but not so tight it hurts. I want you to wear it in public, under your skirt. When it is done, send me a message. And I will tell you when it can come off.

When it’s on he asks her how she feels. She sends a message to say it is quite tight around her (especially when she sits down, he later discovers). It makes me feel restricted, and exposed, she says. I am very excited, she says. And although he hasn’t asked for it, she sends a picture so he can see. She knows how much he loves to look.

Later he tells her, sometime I’ll make you wear it all night. Tighter. She says, I won’t be able to sleep; it will make me want to do it to myself, you know, the thing I like to do, and the rope will get in the way. His reply is curt. So? You’ll do it anyway, whether it stops you sleeping or not. And I know what a slut you are. You’ll find a way to get off, despite the tightness of the rope.

Later still, he says, I’ve got a few more little tasks lined up for you to do. But I won’t tell you what they are.

He likes to keep her simmering.

Fit for purpose

2011-04-13T07:30:00.000+01:00

She’s lying on the sofa reading a book. He’s sitting at the other end, with a book of his own. He sets it down.

‘Is your cunt fit for purpose?’ he asks.

She’s a little taken aback by the question. ‘I hope so,’ she says.

‘I'll make an inspection,’ he says. ‘Come and lie across my lap.’

She does as he asks, face up. He lifts her skirt, stares at her knickers for a moment, then pulls them off.

‘Bend your knees and open your legs,’ he says.

She stares up at the ceiling. She knows she’s blushing, and she can’t quite bring herself to look him in the eye. He puts his hand between her legs, cupping her in his palm, then moving it around a little.

‘It’s a well-made cunt,’ he says. ‘I like it.’

She’s glad about that, even though she is still shrinking at the thought of what he’s going to do next. He puts both hands to her, prising apart the outer lips of her cunt.

‘You missed a couple of hairs,’ he says. ‘Shave more carefully next time.’

She’s speechless with embarrassment. Could anything be more shaming? He pushes his index finger in between the lips.

‘You seem to be a little wet,’ he says. ‘Why is that?’

She can’t think of any answer that would be acceptable. He moves his finger in and out several times.

‘Even though you’ve been fucked a lot, you’re still quite tight,’ he says.

‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I assume that’s a good thing?’

‘Yes. Women often worry about getting slack, perhaps from over-use. But really, a cunt is very elastic.’

She doesn’t respond to this. He puts two fingers in now, moving them around.

‘Squeeze me,’ he says. ‘Let’s see what your grip is like.’

She contracts the muscles as much as she can. He takes his fingers out without comment. She doesn’t know if she did well or not. Was it some sort of test?

‘Turn over,’ he says. ‘I’m going to inspect your asshole now.’

Oh god, she thinks, this is excruciating. At least now she can hide her blushes in a cushion. He parts her cheeks with his hands. She can almost feel his gaze boring into her, penetrating, invading. He licks his finger, pushes it into her ass.

‘That’s really tight,’ he says. ‘Sometimes I worry I’m going to damage you when I bugger you.’

She can’t bring herself to use that word. Just hearing it makes her cringe.

‘I’m going to stretch you a bit,’ he says, ‘before I fuck your ass. See if that makes any difference.’

In truth she doesn’t mind if it hurts a little sometimes, if he really wants it enough. And she knows he does. She likes him to use her as he pleases.

He fetches a butt-plug, a big cone of black silicone. He lubes it up and works it slowly into her ass. It’s strange how she never knows how empty she is until he has filled her. She feels opened out and filled in at the same time.

He spends half an hour toying with her; nipple-pinching, finger-fucking, clit-sucking, bottom-spanking, cock pushed down her throat till she chokes. Then it’s time for fucking.

‘Ask me for it,’ he says. ‘Ask me nicely to sodomise you.’

So she does, though in a very small voice. After he’s done it, he asks how it was for her. He says she felt a bit looser to him; is that how she experienced it?

‘Maybe.’ she says. ‘But I like being tight for you. Fit for purpose.’

On a leash

2011-04-09T07:11:00.000+01:00

‘See what I’ve got for you,’ he says.

In one hand is a collar. It’s not a pretty one, not one of those little pink things with bells on. It’s made of thick black leather, an inch wide, the sort of thing you might get for a mastiff, not a little lap-dog. It’s decorated with steel studs.

In his other hand is a leash, a steel chain with a leather grip at the end. She stares at these things, fascinated. And ever so slightly appalled.

‘Take your clothes off.’

It’s become a kind of pavlovian reaction; she could no more disobey such a command from him than fly in the air. She strips naked.

‘Kneel,’ he says.

He buckles on the collar. It feels heavy, rather rough. She has a brief vision of herself chained up in the yard. All night. She shivers; hopefully it won’t come to that. Of course it won’t.

He clips the leash onto the collar and tugs it, pulling her towards him.

‘We’re going to do a little training,’ he says. ‘Pay attention to my commands.’

She’s never done this. Of course she’s thought about it. Thought about this, and about even worse things, in theory. But this isn’t theory. It’s actual. It’s never quite the same as you imagine it. This is, what exactly? It’s embarrassing. She feels awkward. Even silly. OK, it’s just the two of them. But really it’s three, because she’s outside herself, watching, and thinking, I can’t be graceful crawling around the floor. I can’t be the creature of elegance and mystery I’d like to be.

He sets off walking round the room at a brisk pace, tugging on the leash. She struggles to keep up. Suddenly he yanks hard on the leash, jerking her head back.

‘Heel,’ he snaps.

She stops.

‘Sit,’ he orders.

She squats back on her haunches, hoping this is the right position. He pulls hard on the leash and they start off again. They stop, they start. Then he sits down. She sits too, on the floor, back on her heels.

‘Beg,’ he says.

What? How?

‘Paws up to your shoulder, head up.’

Paws? This is silly. But she does it.

‘Mouth open.’

She does it. He tosses a piece of chocolate towards her. She manages to catch it in her mouth.

‘Good girl,’ he says. They do the trick again. He scratches her gently behind her ear.

‘Now,’ he says, ‘I want to hear you bark.’

No, she thinks. Not possible. No, no, no.

There’s a long pause.

‘I’m waiting,’ he says. She knows that tone of voice.

Another pause. No, really, no, she thinks. I can’t. I won’t.

‘You know you will do it in the end,’ he says. ‘So why not do it now?’

The self-respecting slut

2011-04-05T07:01:00.000+01:00

A submissive girl sometimes fears that if her dom knows all the dirty things that are in her mind, he won’t respect her any more. He’ll just think she is a nasty little slut. Personally, there’s nothing I love more than a nasty little slut, but it has never stopped me giving a girl all the respect she wants. But what if the reverse is true? What if the dom is so awed by her, thinks she is so wonderful that he can’t bring himself to make her do bad things any more? What if he wants to put her on a pedestal instead of putting her on her knees? That’s just as bad for her, isn’t it?

I guess some of the things that submissive girls want can seem pretty extreme, even shocking, if you are just starting out as a dom. But we like to be frank here, and I’m going to list a few. I think any novice doms out there should know the worst. I don’t know if there are necessarily any girls who want all of these things, but with each one I think I know at least one girl who wants it. So, look away now if you have illusions about the purity and high-mindedness of women.

She wants to be put in a corner with her bottom bared and made to wait till he scolds her for her stubbornness, her cheekiness, her brattishness. Until he lectures her on the need for obedience. Until he punishes her for speaking out of turn or for her dirty habits (fiddling with her cunt when she’s no right to). Until he decides to whip her recalcitrance out of her.

She wants to be called names: dirty little slut, filthy whore, tramp, fucktoy, cunt.

She wants to be prostrate on the floor, writhing with unsatisfied lust, her cunt throbbing and drooling, whimpering and begging for release, pleading that he let her come. And then she wants to be denied. Or at least, half of her does.

She wants to be his darling little girl, his sweet little baby girl, his naughty little girl.

She wants to be debauched, degraded, defiled, debased, abused.

She wants to be exhibited to anyone he wants to show her to. She wants to be examined and inspected, prodded and probed. She wants to have her modesty outraged and her shame stripped away.

She wants to be buggered. She wants her ass to be penetrated, invaded, stretched, violated. She wants her ass to be pounded by a big hard cock. She wants to be his little ass-slut.

She wants to be tied up so tight she can’t move, then interfered with and subjected to all manner of indecencies.

She wants to be slapped and pinched and choked and hurt till she aches all over.

She wants him to fuck with her head.

But here’s the point. There’s one other thing I know for sure they all want, not instead of the above, but as well as. They want to be cuddled and kissed and loved and respected and valued. I don’t see a paradox here. On the contrary.

It’s what the dom wants too, I hope. He wants a girl who wants those dirty things I’ve listed above, but who’s got self-respect, who’s independent and stands up for herself and doesn’t take shit from guys and who knows how much she’s worth. He doesn’t want a doormat, because where’s the fun in degrading a girl who really thinks she’s worthless? But he doesn’t want a goddess either, stuck on a pedestal. One of the reasons he respects her is because she’s not afraid to admit to him what she is and what she wants. In fact, he wants her to be proud of it. Proud to be a self-respecting slut.

Spank me

2011-04-02T07:59:00.000+01:00

‘Spank me,’ she said.

It was the middle of the night. I put the light on. Ever the gentleman, I decided to oblige. I sat up in bed, pulled her across my lap and got to work with my hand. She was naked already, which always saves time, though there is something very pleasing about the ritual of lifting up the skirt and pulling down the knickers. Soon her bottom was a delightful shade of pink.

Since she had had the temerity to ask for it, I decided something more forceful was called for. I made her kneel on the bed and fetched my leather tawse. A few strokes of that soon had her hopping from one knee to the other, accompanied by little squeaks. To keep her still I had to grab her hair and twist it hard with my free hand. Her bottom went a darker shade of pink. I kept spanking, but the way she was kneeling, I could see her cunt winking at me and I realised there was something I wanted to do to her even more urgently than I wanted to spank her, so I set the tawse aside.

Later, when I was cuddling her, I got to wondering. She was a submissive girl. At least, that’s what she said. But ought a submissive girl to ask for a spanking? Should she not wait until I want to give it to her? Isn’t this our old bugaboo, ‘topping from the bottom’? On the other hand, it was good to know she wanted it, wanted it enough to take the risk of asking, even though it might have got her into trouble. Doesn’t the dom want to know what goes on in her head? Isn’t his whole purpose to get inside that head and make things happen?

It’s a sort of d/s Catch 22. The girl who wants a spanking enough to ask for it is the one above all who ought not to receive it, because submissive girls mustn’t take the initiative. The girl who doesn’t ask is the one who should get it. But if she doesn’t ask how can you be sure she wants it? There’s no pleasure for me in doing things to girls they don’t want done. It’s not as though I want them to not want it (though an initial show of reluctance can add a little spice to the proceedings). On the contrary; the more I know she really wants it the more enjoyable it is. But if she doesn’t ask how can I be sure? Am I a mind-reader?

So, should she ask? They say that those who don’t ask don’t get. But what if those who ask don’t get either? What’s a girl to do? I sometimes think it must be tough for submissive girls, hoist on these contradictions. And then I think, who makes it tough for them? Guys like me. So, I feel I ought to be sympathetic to their predicament. I do at least understand it.

With all these conundrums (conundra?) it’s a wonder there’s any spanking going on at all. But it seems there is. Lots of it. Not here, not right now, but soon maybe. And when it happens, she won’t need to ask. It will happen willy nilly. Even if she doesn’t want it? She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t.

Negotiation

2011-03-30T08:03:00.000+01:00

‘Can I see it?’

‘Any reason why you should?’

‘I’d like to.’

‘Why?’

‘I like to look at it. And I want to see if it’s big.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Just curious.’

‘What if it’s not? What then? Is that important to you, if it’s big?’

‘Maybe. Kind of, I guess.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know, it would be a sort of tribute.’

‘What if it’s not? Would that be an anti-tribute?’

‘Maybe if it’s not I could make it so.’

‘Answer the question.’

‘Hmmm. If it wasn’t I’d wonder if there was a reason.’

‘Why it wasn’t big?’

‘Yes.’

‘You might be wrong.’

‘To wonder?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why would I be wrong?’

‘Just because it isn’t big, doesn’t mean I’m not interested.’

‘Are you? Interested, I mean.’

‘I’m always interested.’

‘I’d still like to take a look.’

Pause.

‘I think you finally talked it up.’

‘Then let me see it.’

Pause.

‘Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.’

Giggles.

Teddy-porn

2011-03-26T07:18:00.003Z

Bears are sexy. Hard to say why; it’s all that fur, maybe. Some animals have erotic power: cats and dogs, of course, and there’s a whole essay to be written on the subject of horses and sex. I’m not talking about bestiality, just the anthropomorphic sexual aura that some animals have. We all know the connotations of pussy, bitch, stud (‘hung like a horse’). Some homonyms are very suggestive, too; bearskin/bare skin. And I always thought that the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears had obvious erotic undertones. I mean, what’s with her lust for porridge, an off-white, warm, creamy substance that she has such an appetite for?

Teddy bears, as is generally known, derive their name from US President Teddy Roosevelt (whose motto when bestriding the world stage was ‘speak softly and carry a big stick’; good advice to doms everywhere?). They’ve been popular for over a century. But I’ve noticed that there is now a whole mini-subgenre of softcore porn around pictures of girls with their teddy-bears; little girls who are really grown-up girls pretending to be little. Undoubtedly my taste for these pictures draws on my interest in age-play, which I’ve alluded to here but never been very explicit about; it’s an edgy subject and all too prone to misunderstandings. Be that as it may, I seem rather rapidly to have acquired a small library of such pictures. Let me describe a couple, then you will know why they appeal.

In one, a very pretty blonde girl (quite clearly well above legal age) clutches her teddy-bear to her chest while looking innocently at the camera. The act of holding the bear has caused her very short dress to rise up, just to the point that we can see she isn’t wearing any knickers. Her expression appears to show that she in unaware of this (oh, sure, I hear the cynics say!). Of course she is shaved bare. I know there’s a lot of argument about whether the current fashion for denuding the pudendum is a way of infantilising women. Let’s set that aside for a moment. What one can say is that the picture wouldn’t work so well if she weren’t shaved, because the viewer would then find it difficult to maintain the tension between the twin modes that it mobilises: childlike innocence and mature erotic allure. It would be too obvious that she was a grown woman dressing as a little girl; the (admittedly slight) teasing ambiguity would be removed.

I’ve got some photos which are rather more explicit, for example of teddy bears with strap-ons, misbehaving. There’s one of a d/s teddy with a knowing look, sitting on the floor next to a girl, holding a length of rope which has been used to tie the girl’s ankles. In another, a girl is apparently being gang-banged by teddies; there’s a deftly amusing touch as one teddy, much the smallest, is peering round the corner of the door, watching what’s going on with an expression of some concern.

In all of these pictures, the girls are naked or nearly so, or wearing very suggestive clothes, short skirts, skimpy bras, long thigh-length socks, and often showing their knickers, or absence thereof. I don’t think the appeal is to paedophiles. You couldn’t possibly think they are actually under-age girls. What they are trading on is a certain innocence, on the surface. It’s the Lolita-syndrome, I guess; are they sexually over-developed little girls, or older girls playing at dressing (or undressing) as nymphets? I think it’s pretty clear it’s the latter.

But there’s something else going on. Often the girls look at their teddies with an expression of adoration. It’s as if they actually prefer a stuffed toy to a real man (is this the love that dare not speak its name?). That’s why I think these pictures aren’t necessarily for male consumption, or at least not exclusively so. I start to wonder about why a girl might prefer a teddy to an actual live man. A sobering thought for a dom.

Keeping him company

2011-03-22T07:28:00.003Z

He wakes and can feel the warmth of her naked body next to his. He pulls her against him, kissing and stroking and cuddling. She can feel his cock hard against her belly and she’s hopeful of something more. But it seems not yet; he gets out of bed and goes in the bathroom, telling her to join him in the shower. He has her wash him all over; she kneels to wash his cock and she’s so tempted to take him in her mouth, but she’s a good girl now, after all the training, and she knows she isn’t allowed to do this unless told to. She hopes he will wash her body too and that this will make him want her, as often happens. But not today. He gets out of the shower and goes back in the bedroom. When she enters, wearing only a towel, he is nearly dressed. He tell her to take the towel off. He looks at her naked body for a while, then speaks.

‘No clothes this morning. Just put on some white cotton socks and a pair of sport shoes. And tie your hair up with a ribbon.’

When she comes down to the kitchen he’s making breakfast. They sit opposite each other at the table. It feels odd to be eating toast naked; odd but sexy. But he’s reading the sports pages, just as he always does at breakfast. She knows what this is all about; making her know her place, showing her that he wants her naked body as decoration around the place, but he isn’t necessarily going to do anything with it. Certainly not in order to please her.

‘I’m going to be working on my computer all morning,’ he says. ‘I want your company. But you mustn’t speak or do anything other than what you are told to do. I don't want distractions.’

‘OK,’ she says.

He pours himself another cup of coffee and carries it through into his study. She follows.

‘Curl up at my feet, under my desk,’ he says.

She gets down and makes herself comfortable, rolling herself up into a little ball, resting her head on his feet. She hears the click of his keyboard. She dozes for a while, quite content. Then he speaks again.

‘Take out my cock and put it in your mouth. But don’t suck or lick. Just be my little cock-holder while I work.’

She does exactly as he says. A few weeks ago she would have been unable to resist trying to get him hard. But now she knows better. Weeks of training and some hard spankings have taught her the meaning of discipline and obedience. And it has taught her that satisfying her sexual desires does not come high up the list of his priorities. Her primary pleasure derives from servicing his needs. That is as it should be.

After a while he pushes back his chair, pulling his cock from her mouth, and stretches. ‘Will you get me some coffee?’ he asks.

‘Of course,’ she says.

When she comes back with the coffee she sees, to her disappointment, he has zipped himself up again. He tells her he wants her standing by his chair, within reach. She’s not to move or speak. He resumes his work. From where she stands she can read the words on the screen. He’s writing one of his erotic stories; she’s fascinated to read along as he composes the words. Time passes. Then he reaches out a hand towards her bottom. He grasps her right buttock in his hand and squeezes. She almost manages to suppress the little smile that forms on her face. Things might start happening at last. But then he takes his hand away and resumes writing.

After a few minutes more he reaches out and slowly strokes her left buttock, then grips it hard, so hard she gasps.

‘Shhh,’ he says, staring at the screen.

He takes his hand away. He writes another paragraph. Then once more he stretches out his hand, this time sliding it between her legs, his fingers just brushing the lips of her cunt. She can’t stop another gasp emerging.

‘Be quiet,’ he says firmly. He takes his hand away. She can feel how wet she is. Is that a little drop running down the inside of her thigh?

His hand comes back again. This time he pushes a finger forcefully up inside her cunt. She grits her teeth to stop herself crying out, but she has to grip his shoulder to steady herself.

‘Hold still,’ he says, not unkindly.

He takes his finger out of her, wipes it casually on her bottom and resumes typing. It looks as though the story is coming to a climax. I wish I was too, she thinks ruefully. Once more his hand comes out, and the finger goes back up inside her cunt. He takes it out and pushes the finger up inside her ass. He leaves it there while he re-reads what he has written. He seems satisfied.

He takes his finger out of her ass and pulls back from the desk. ‘Time for lunch,’ he says, standing up.

She’s determined to hide her disappointment. Nothing is so sure to get her into trouble as letting it show that she isn’t getting what she wants. And nothing is so likely to ensure that she will remain frustrated.

They eat their lunch on opposite sides of the table. At least this time he isn't reading the paper. Instead he engages her in conversation, about various topics, none of them sexual. As they are eating their dessert he says, ‘I’m going to take a nap after lunch. Keep your hands away from your cunt. Maybe when I wake up I’ll feel like fucking.’

‘Let me know if you need any help with that,’ she says. It’s cheeky, but she knows she’s got away with it when he smiles and strokes her face.

‘We’ll see,’ he says.

Coming for the camera

2011-03-17T07:37:00.003Z

I’ve been watching women masturbate. Not, alas, in person, but online. Some people have dramatised a few of my blog posts and made them available on their site, sonicerotica.com,which is primarily designed for kinky folk who are blind, though I think it’s fun for anyone. It’s an odd experience, to hear my words spoken by a couple of actors, especially ones with Australian accents, but they do it very well. Anyway, by way of payment they have given me a free subscription to another of their sites, called www.ifeelmyself.com. It contains short videos of girls masturbating. That’s it, really. The girls lie in bed or on a couch, start touching themselves, take their knickers off and get to work. After ten or fifteen minutes they have an orgasm, after which they put their knickers back on. End of the show.

The girls are relatively homogeneous. Aged, one would guess, between eighteen and thirty, with fit, pleasing bodies, they aren’t necessarily all stunning beauties, but rather attractive girl next door types, though perhaps on the adventurous side, with lots of tattoos and/or piercings. They don’t dress up for their performance; their underwear, before they remove it, is mostly plain cotton knickers, nothing fancy. Some girls have shaved pudenda, some are au naturel.

The ethos of the site, I’d guess, is to demystify masturbation by showing it as pleasurable and natural. There’s a certain anthropological interest in observing differences of technique. Some girls attack themselves fiercely, some stroke themselves seductively. Some finger-fuck themselves, some just rub their clits. Some use two hands. A few have vibrators or dildos but mostly it’s hands only. One girl smacks her cunt till she comes. Some touch their tits, some don’t. Some make a noise, others are silent. It’s not always easy to tell exactly when they have come, but then I’ve found that’s sometimes the case in real life, until you really get to know her.

There are a few variations. Occasionally there’s a pregnant girl, and sometimes two girls together; not so much Ifeelmyself as someoneelsefeelsme. Some girls do it outside, in a garden or a wood, or even on a window ledge overlooking the city or in a car parked by a busy roadside. Very occasionally there is a guy getting the girl off, with his hand or his tongue. In the forum where people can talk about what they’ve seen, some viewers object to having men on board, believing this should be not only a female-friendly site, but a man-free zone. There are a small number of clips which are more fantasy-driven, venturing into d/s territory. In one, a naked woman lies on a couch in an operating theatre while three women in surgical masks manipulate her body till she comes. In another, a girl in high heels drags another girl, gagged, across the floor. While the girl on the floor masturbates, the high heels press against various parts of her body. I’ve only seen one clip (altogether there are hundreds) which would be right up the street of my readers. You hear a knock at a door. The door opens to reveal a blonde girl not wearing much. ‘I’m here to see Mr Spanky,’ she says brightly. A man pulls her inside. We never see anything of him except his hands; the rest of him is kept artfully in shadow. He puts her across his knee and begins to spank. Soon her bare bottom is pink. He pauses for a while and feels between her legs, pushing his fingers inside her. She squirms and squeals. He resumes the spanking. He makes her suck his thumb while he does so; it’s pretty good. I could do with more of that. (Hint to the site owners!)

One can speculate on the motivation of the girls performing. It’s surprising how open they are, no shame or even modesty. I guess they like doing it. And I think some feel they are doing a bit for the cause of liberated female sexuality: this is what we do, it’s good, we enjoy it, there’s nothing wrong with it. Of course commercial considerations come into play. The site may have campaigning motives, but it’s still a business. So there are no obese women here, nor old people, nor handicapped people, though all of them masturbate too. I’m not criticising; that’s the world we live in, after all. I think this site probably does good, especially if you have any guilt feelings about touching yourself.

Lately, any time I’ve watched a girl masturbate in real life, it’s been a submissive girl doing what I’ve told her to do. I think there’s a big difference between choosing to masturbate on camera, knowing that lots of people will see you, but not being directly confronted with their presence, and being made to do it in front of a man who is going to make a very personal response. The girls in the videos seem remarkably unselfconscious, quite happy to exhibit themselves. But then it’s easier when there’s no one present. Except the cameraperson, of course; is this usually a woman? (Some of the videos are obviously self-shot; there’s no one else there.) And though the girls know that eventually people will be watching the video, they don’t know, and presumably don’t much care, who they are. Whereas the girl I’ve ordered to do it in front of me is forced to confront a very personalised voyeur. A large part of the pleasure for me is in seeing how shy she is, seeing that it’s a bit humiliating for her to perform such a private act to order, in front of a witness. She’s shy to be exposing her body in this way, shy of having me stare directly at her cunt, shy of letting me see how much she wants to do it (will I think her a slut?), and shy of letting me see her lose control as the orgasm overtakes her.

'This is going to hurt'

2011-03-12T08:19:00.001Z

‘This is going to hurt.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve been wanting to do it for a long time.’

‘I know.’

‘And I very much want you to want it. Do you want it?’

‘Yes, I do. If you want to do it.’

‘Ask me to do it.’

‘Please will you do it to me?’

‘I shall be the one who decides when to stop. Do you understand that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you ready?’

‘Do it. Please?’

A sharp intake of breath.

‘It hurts, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much?’

‘A lot. A very great deal.’

‘Good girl. Just a little more.’

‘Yes, sir.’

A whimper. ‘Oh, god.’

How to spank

2011-03-07T09:37:00.002Z

Spanking, I am convinced is an art, one which I am still learning. But I already know a couple of things, which I’m happy to pass on to those who may still be gaining experience. Firstly, you get the best results if you put her in the mood. It’s funny, but for some girls, you can simply bounce them into it. ‘Come here,’ you say, out of nowhere; no warning, no preparation. Just straight to it. The shock seems to go straight to that part of their brain where all their submissive feelings lurk, and instantly they are ‘on’. But with other girls, that doesn’t work. You need to talk them into the right mood. Perhaps she’s done something she ought not to have done, or been remiss in carrying out an instruction. You give her a little lecture on the error of her ways and how, though you are reluctant to punish, it will be necessary for her own good. An unpunished girl, you say, is a girl who will ultimately feel neglected, because if you don’t bother to follow up on these matters, she will think you don’t care. Sometimes, after the talking to, she needs some corner time to reflect on her misdemeanour and prepare herself for chastisement, so that when at last the spanking comes, she understands its significance.

Of course a spanking doesn’t have to be a punishment. You can spank her just because you feel like it, or because you think she needs it for her well-being. It’s my view that no submissive girl should go for too long without a spanking. Even those who are not pain sluts, and whose preferred modes of submission may be bondage or humiliation or objectification or whatever, need to feel something across their bottom from time to time. That way she gets to feel physically connected to you, especially if it’s a hand-spanking. She feels grounded, centred, in touch with herself and her submissiveness.

So, having prepared the ground and got her ready mentally, how should you proceed? I’d like to offer two or three principles which, if followed, should ensure good results. First, do it hard enough. I don’t know if this sounds like an obvious thing to say; you might answer, yes but how hard is hard enough? My definition is this: it should be harder than she expects, and just a bit harder than she wants. You need to take her out of her comfort zone. It’s very important for a submissive girl to feel that though the spanking might be administered for her own good, it’s not for her pleasure, but for yours. It’s not designed to warm her up a bit so she starts to get nice tingly feelings between her legs. That may or may not be a side-effect; it’s not the purpose. She needs to feel that she is being dominated, after all, and the best way to ensure she feels that when she is being spanked is to make it really sting, make her whimper and wriggle, and wish it would stop (while half of her brain wants it to go on). And then when it’s over she can feel a sense of achievement, that she took more than she thought she could, which makes her a good girl.

I hope it goes without saying that whether your girl is a glutton for pain or not, you need to respect genuine limits. Everyone (unless they have pathological tendencies) has a point beyond which they cease to get satisfaction from a beating. There’s no way to tell in advance what that point is, any more than you can tell without practice how hard is harder than she expects. You have to advance carefully and with sensitivity and then you will understand her needs. I say needs, not wants, because we all know a submissive girl may want all sorts of things her dom thinks are not good for her. By contrast, he knows best what she really needs.

The next thing I’d say is that spanking is not a game. That may sound odd. What’s the point of it if it isn’t enjoyable? I don’t mean no one’s allowed to giggle. But if I spank a girl, I don’t pretend to spank her. I really do it, with conviction. I’m serious about it. I know why I’m doing it and what effect I want to achieve. The result matters to me. It’s not something I do to pass the time, to lightly amuse myself. And I expect her to take it seriously too. That doesn’t mean a long face. It means, something is going on between us. There’s a power exchange, an interaction, an expression of the fundamentals of our relationship. Of course there are people who fool around with spanking who aren’t d/s. That’s OK. People can do what they like. But for me, spanking is a meaningful activity.

Next point: I know I’ve said this before, but I do think there’s good spanking and bad. Good is when you do it with accuracy, even with flair. You don’t just lay into her with abandon. Each stroke is measured, landing on just the right spot; one time flower showed me where one stroke of my flogger had strayed off target, onto her hip; being spanked on the bottom is arousing, but being spanked on the hip less so. I was chastened. You want to make every stroke count, and if you should manage to hit the wrong place, you disturb the rhythm, break her concentration, and the momentum is lost.

Another thing I’ve thought about is, what is the best position for spanking? Some doms much prefer the girl across their knee, and there’s much to be said for that, especially if it’s a hand-spanking. You can really get to grips with her, and for many girls there’s a definite sense of humiliation in being put across his knee, which in my view is always a plus. On the other hand, there’s an inherent instability about this position, especially if she wriggles. Personally, for a hand-spanking I prefer her lying across my lap while I sit on the bed, which means both she and I are well supported. If I am using an implement, I prefer the girl kneeling on the bed, especially if I am using a tawse or belt or crop (though for the cane I think lying prone is best). The act of kneeling makes the buttocks taut, which I think makes spanking more effective. And she can hold steady, so that you don’t miss your aim. Whether you tie her up is a matter of preference, though if it’s going to be really hard she might want you to, just so she can’t be a wimp and run away.

One more thing. I think it’s almost impossible that a couple will achieve a perfect fit in terms of their enthusiasm for every aspect of d/s. Each individual has their own idiosyncrasies where kink is concerned, as with everything else. And so it’s likely that their pleasure in spanking will vary. Maybe she is a real glutton for a sound thrashing, while he exhibits a certain squeamishness. Or (and I do think this is more likely, because after all he is the dom), he will want to give her just a little more than she can take. She fears that this is so. Yet, at the same time it excites her to think he may go a bit too far. She’s playing with fire, after all, since releasing his inner dom sets free all sorts of powerful urges, and does she not want to satisfy them? For his part, it’s an immense pleasure to coax a girl into taking more, stroking the small of her back, whispering in her ear words of encouragement. ‘I want you to be my good little girl and take just a few more for me. It will hurt but it’s going to please me so much. Do you think you can do it?’ I don’t think I’ve ever had a refusal when I’ve put it like that. But I do know when to stop.

The d/s cook

2011-03-01T07:02:00.002Z

I like to cook. And I think there’s some part of my mind where this connects up with my liking to spank girls. It’s a common enough observation that despite cooking being associated with domesticity and that being traditionally the woman’s sphere, in fact many if not most great chefs are men. A kitchen, especially a commercially established kitchen, is a very hierarchical place. There’s only one person in charge, and his word is law. Chef, after all, means chief, or boss. Some well-known chefs, like Gordon Ramsey, exhibit an autocratic tendency to an extreme, even parodic, degree.

It’s true there are plenty of well-known female chefs. Are they dommes? Older British readers may remember the fearsome Fanny Craddock (her real name, I kid you not), whose husband was her kitchen skivvy and who was bullied to a point where you could hardly bear to watch. I guess Nigella and Delia are not in that mode. The former may be a vamp, a seductress, but she’s not the type to order guys about. Delia perhaps has some attributes of the schoolmistress, but even so not a particularly bossy one. So there are other models.

Nevertheless, I find some of the satisfactions of the kitchen are akin to those of playing with submissive girls. The material you are working with is completely under your control, you can shape it to your will. But skill is required to get the best out of the ingredients. You don’t want to over-heat things so the dish gets spoiled. Nor do you want to serve up anything too bland; spice and zest is of the essence, at least in the dishes I like to prepare. The ultimate goal, of course is pleasure. You want your guests to enjoy the food; you want your submissive to enjoy the experience. Either way, you look to satisfy their hunger. You bask in the knowledge of a job well done, and your reward is the smile of blissful satisfaction on the faces of diner and submissive alike. It’s not undomly to take pleasure in the pleasure of others. But the chef and the dom enjoy the tributes that come to their talent and expertise. Doms, like chefs, are not, where their work is concerned, shy, retiring types.

Cooking, like d/s, is both a highly physical and a mental activity. You need to be imaginative and show flair. It shouldn’t be just routine, dishing up the same fare every time. There are only so many different foodstuffs, and only so many things you can do to a submissive girl, but the best chefs find a way of adding a touch of individuality to even the most basic recipes. And a good dom will always try to work some variations, offering little surprises now and then. But you need to be able to perform the basic functions well, whether it’s chopping onions or spanking accurately. More than one girl has complained to me that not all doms are careful enough about accuracy, and spray the strap around in all directions. Such slapdash methods do not get the best results, either in the kitchen or in the bedroom. Finesse is all.

And another thing. Eating, however much you refine it, is basically both a physical imperative and a sensual pleasure. And so is fucking. At the same time, both these activities are profoundly influenced by culture. Since they are so central to our everyday life, we seek to invest them with a range of rituals and refinements in order to increase both the satisfaction of their performance and their significance in our lives. Eating just to still the pangs of hunger is to deny yourself the richness of gastronomic knowledge built up over centuries, just as fucking solely to relieve the sexual urge is a poor thing when there are so many ways to elaborate and enrich the experience.

Of course there are differences. In order to enjoy the best culinary experiences on offer, we pay to go to restaurants where chefs delight us in exchange for our money. Not many of us find the best sexual experiences are those which are bought. Sex is one activity where you get the best results from improving your own skills, after selecting the best ingredients to work with. As Mrs Beaton would say, first catch your hare….

More personal than usual

2011-02-22T06:59:00.001Z

Before she arrived on her latest visit, flower and I had several online chats about the future. A few weeks back in this blog I touched on the problems of long-distance relationships. It’s not easy being thousands of miles apart. However well-intentioned you are, and however strong your feelings for each other, you can never really give the other all they need. When we meet, things are amazing, just perfect. But there’s always the knowledge that we might not meet again for months. And in the meantime I long to see her again.

I think she won’t mind me saying that she’s a girl who needs sex. Not just the physical act, but all the emotion that goes with it; she does need, and deserve, to get fucked regularly, and kissed and cuddled and hugged. And I’m not there to do it. It’s the same for me. I miss her so much when she’s not here; which is most of the time. There are reasons I can’t go into why we can’t do anything to alter our physical circumstances. So either we continue with what is a very rewarding but frustrating relationship, or we decide to be very grown-up about it and face up to the reality that radical action is the only solution.

We talked this over some more while she was here. She thinks I need more than she can ever give me; and I think she deserves more than I can give her. It’s been hard, very hard, to confront the only sensible solution, but with great reluctance we have decided to set each other free. I couldn’t imagine not remaining friends with her, special friends. But we shall no longer expect to have the other’s exclusive attention. How exactly this will work out in practice I don’t know. Maybe we might see each other again one day. Maybe not. But we won’t in the meantime deny ourselves other possibilities, if they present themselves.

I suppose what makes me really sad about this is that we aren’t parting because we are incompatible, because we don’t get along or don’t like each other any more. On the contrary; the longer it’s gone on the closer we have become. What’s pulling us apart is the damned intractability of the world, the unavoidable fact that reality simply refuses to conform to what suits us. And we can’t think of any way round this. We’re stuck with things are they are, not as we want them to be.

She’s a really wonderful girl and I’m going to miss her terribly. Right now I can’t imagine how anyone could replace her. I’ll have to feel myself into a different mindset, one in which I don’t have a submissive girl of my own any more, just some sweet, sweet memories and a big gap where she used to be. And maybe, eventually… who knows? I guess if I should meet someone else, my first question will have to be, what is your postcode?

What she knows

2011-02-19T08:29:00.001Z

‘I’m afraid she’s rather a bad girl,’ he says.

‘So I see,’ the man says. She’s wearing a short skirt and she’s positioned herself in such a way that the man can see right up it, if he tries. And he’s trying.

‘She’s got a spanking coming already,’ he says to the man.

‘What did she do?’

‘Her hand is always in her knickers. She’d be masturbating all day if I didn’t put a stop to it.’

‘She knows that’s not allowed?’

‘Oh, she knows. I’ve impressed that on her, several times. Literally.’

‘Do you think she’s wet already?’ the man asks.

‘I’m certain of it. I’ll let you feel when we get upstairs.’

‘So she’s a tramp?’

‘Slut is the word I prefer.’

‘May I watch while you spank her?’

‘Of course. Then I’ll let you do a couple of things to her yourself.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘She’d like it too, the little slut. But if she likes it too much she knows what will happen to her.’

‘How much is too much?’

‘She knows.’

Nipples

2011-02-16T06:10:00.001Z

I’ve never seen a pair of nipples I didn’t like. That, despite the fact that they come in all shapes and sizes. Some are as big as raspberries, and as succulent, just inviting you to suck them between your lips and run the edges of your teeth across them and maybe bite a little. Some are as small as redcurrants, round and pliant and you want to roll them against the roof of your mouth with your tongue. Some are no bigger than a shirt button, but I remember a girl whose nipples, once erect, were as long as the first joint of my thumb.

Then there are the intriguing differences of shape. You get girls whose nipples are cylindrical, flat at the end like the little erasers you get on the end of pencils, while others are more rounded, like a miniature cupola. Some girls’ nipples seem permanently erect, while others’ stay soft even after careful attention. It’s not necessarily that the hard girls are always ‘on’ sexually. It just seems to be an anatomical difference. They vary in colour too. I’ve seen nipples so dark brown they were almost black, and nipples the palest pink. Then there is the areola, the dark circle surrounding the nipple, which in some girls is really big, like the roundels on an RAF fighter plane, and in other girls almost vestigial. The possible combinations of these variations make for an almost limitless number of possibilities, and when you first get her to reveal herself you never know what to expect, except that you know you will want to look at them and touch them. And I’m not even getting into specialised topics like inverted nipples, painted or pierced nipples, or the fascinating changes that take place during pregnancy.

There’s another side to this. Men have nipples too, and they may have no natural function, but that doesn’t mean they are useless. She has discovered that mine are very sensitive, and that if she pinches them I get aroused, and the harder she pinches the more aroused I get. Which is why after her most recent visit I had a couple of days when they were very sore indeed. Does it surprise you that a dom would let himself be treated like this? Or that a good little submissive girl (and she is undoubtedly that) would dare to be so cruel?

I know what she’d say. That all she ever wants to do is please me, and having discovered that it pleases me to have my nipples pinched, she’s going to go on doing it till I have had enough. And I’m sure that’s most of it. But I wonder if it quite explains the enthusiasm with which her strong little fingers go to work. I can’t help feeling it’s not entirely altruistic, and that she likes the result she gets, and which is all too obvious when she looks down at my cock. Does this make me a masochist? I don’t care, really. I will say this. She’s willing to really hurt me, but for my pleasure; she’d never try to take control. She knows I wouldn’t allow her to do that, and anyway she’s not that sort of a girl.

Protean

2011-02-11T08:00:00.001Z

I never cease to be fascinated by the dynamics of d/s (or as some prefer to say, in a more inclusive term, TTWD). For example, since I’ve been with flower I have got deeply into a couple of specific modes of d/s that I’d never tried with anyone else. No, I’m not going to tell you what they are. I’ll just say that they are different ways of expressing the dominant/submissive dynamic in our relationship. As you will know from this blog, we have engaged in spanking and a bit of bondage and other common acts that d/s couples enjoy, and I’ve also described one or two things that perhaps aren’t so common. But on top of that we discovered that we both had a taste for other things, rather specialised, edgy things we had never tried with anyone else. And it wasn’t that I had been dying to try these things, waiting desperately until I found a girl willing to experiment. Quite the contrary; even though I had heard about these practices, read up about them, it simply didn’t cross my mind that I would enjoy them. And I don’t think I would have with any other girl. It needed someone who tapped into that hitherto hidden side of me. It’s been just the same for her; these things we have got up to she’s never tried with anyone else either, never even really thought about it. There’s just something in the chemistry between us that triggers in each a desire for that particular kind of play.

It’s also the case that I have done things with other girls I have no desire to do with flower. Other girls sparked particular parts of my sexual personality, brought them out, made them active. I’ve no wish to activate those parts with flower. I don’t need it. It’s not as if they are still bubbling away, looking for an outlet. I’m more than happy to let them fade away. Whether, one day, I might meet another girl who would reactivate them, or perhaps reveal even more, hitherto hidden, aspects of my sexual personality, I can’t say. All I know is, my sexuality takes different forms with different people. The core stays the same. I couldn’t go back to vanilla; I do need a power exchange. But the particular way in which that manifests itself can vary according to what input I get, what stimulus the other person provides. I’ve been amazingly lucky with flower, that she has actively developed my sexual interests and broadened my horizons no end. I’m very grateful for that. And I think she’s found it fun too, exploring parts of herself she hadn’t previously been in touch with. British readers may remember the old beer commercial: ‘refreshes the parts other beers cannot reach’.

Tears

2011-02-07T07:26:00.002Z

Georgie porgie, pudding and pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry.

I’ve made a girl cry from time to time. I wouldn’t say I enjoyed it. I didn’t necessarily mean to do it. And yet each time it felt like a very significant act. I felt I was in the presence of true emotion, and that’s always a moment to be cherished.

When I say I made her cry, what I mean is, I was there, and because of something I did or said, she cried. But whether I ‘made’ her is questionable. Sometimes girls do things and you don’t really know why. But I think you always try and find out. You can’t just shrug your shoulders and murmur something about girls being different from boys. I think most men are terrified of women’s tears. They want to run away, because they don’t know what to do. A man, faced with a difficult situation, always feels he must find a practical solution. He has to do something, something that will fix it. But sometimes that isn’t what is required. Sometimes all that is needed is to be there and hold her. And if you stick around, the reward is not only that she will like you the better for it, but that you will learn something. You’ll know more about her, what’s deep inside her.

What was going on was a brimming-over of emotion, emotion rising up to the point where it can’t be contained, it has to find physical expression. I can think of at least half a dozen reasons why submissive girls cry. Sometimes, it’s just that the orgasm is so overwhelming there’s nowhere else for the emotion to go except out through the tear-ducts, gushing, emptying her out. At other times it can be because she’s taken aback by something that’s unfair. Submissive girls have a very sharply defined sense of right and wrong. They know when they have done wrong themselves, but they also know when they have been badly treated. Just because they have vowed always to obey, just because they have said that their dom’s pleasure is all that matters to them, it doesn’t mean their feelings are of no account. It doesn’t mean they have no value. Sometimes it can be an ill-considered blow, sometimes a harsh word, sometimes it’s coldness and neglect. Why wouldn’t a girl cry at such things?

A girl can cry because she’s sad. And many things may make her sad. The cruelty of the world, or merely the recognition that the world is not, and never will be, just as we wish it to be. Or perhaps she has intimations of the evanescence of all human emotions. That nothing lasts for ever, despite what the poets and preachers may tell you. Sometimes she’s crying for a lost love, one that slipped away, or one she never had.

But the tears that have meant the most to me, the tears that have brought me close to crying too, are the ones that come from a place so deep that no words can be formed there. Wordsworth has a phrase about ‘Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears’, but I’m not sure that the deepest thoughts of all aren’t those that draw on a well of tears but can’t be expressed in words. A recent post on onesubsmission.blogspot.com talked about crying because she was ‘broken wide open’. If you can make her cry because of that, you really have reached into her. But how many girls trust themselves, or trust a dom, to go that far down?

Two types of humiliation

2011-02-03T08:06:00.002Z

If I have learned one thing from the submissive women I’ve known, it’s that submission takes many forms, and there’s no right way to do it. Some thrive on pain, some on control, some on service, some on humiliation. Some of course (greedy little sluts!) love all of them. These modes of submission aren’t a matter of either/or. A submissive could experience some or all of these mingled together in a single act.

Nevertheless it is possible, for the sake of clarity, to separate them out. And if we confine ourselves to humiliation for the moment, I think that too could be separated into two types. On the one hand, there is what I’ll call private humiliation, something she experiences when she and her dom are alone together. And then there’s public humiliation, which occurs when a third party is involved. Doubtless the psychological mechanism is much the same in each case; I suspect the difference is largely a matter of degree.

Let’s get more specific. What kinds of thing am I talking about here? I can list a few forms of private humiliation. For example, being made to expose herself to him, and perhaps masturbate while he watches. Or being subjected to an intimate bodily examination, put across his knee, naked below the waist, while he probes and pries, both front and back, possibly making highly personal comments on her anatomy as he does so.

Being made to kneel or crawl or sit up and beg is another procedure. This may extend into making her your pet, who drinks from a bowl on the floor or eats from your hand, who barks when ordered and will play a game of fetch, chasing her bone each time you throw it. Another form of humiliation, which triggers something very strong in some girls but leaves others indifferent, is what one might call toilet training. Being made to sit and pee to order while the dom watches is a highly erotic situation for some, but I can see that others find the appeal simply mystifying. There’s a ‘stronger’ version of this, in which it’s the dom not the submissive who is doing the peeing. But I’ll spare you the details in case there are any nice girls reading. The pervy girls can imagine for themselves, I’m sure.

Verbal humiliation has a powerful effect on some submissives. Being told she’s a dirty little slut or a filthy whore can reduce some girls to jelly. As can being made to confess to thoughts that only bad girls are supposed to have, fantasies of degradation, of abuse, of objectification. I think all these situations involve one or other of two feelings, often combined. On the one hand, there is bodily shame. Girls are brought up to keep their bodies hidden, or at least certain parts of them. Good girls do not let men see or touch the secret places of their bodies unless they know them very well indeed, and even then they often feel that certain acts ought not to be witnessed even by their nearest and dearest, and maybe that certain places ought not to be explored by anyone. There’s a taboo, and breaking that taboo causes shame. But because the places and the acts are sexual, it can also cause arousal. A good dom will know how to trigger these feelings and set them to work for his benefit, and ultimately for hers.

In addition to bodily taboos, nice girls are taught they shouldn’t want to think about certain things, and they certainly shouldn’t do them. Being forced to confront the fact that, however demure on the surface, underneath she is a seething cauldron of dirty desires, makes her ashamed, and at the same time the contemplation and the open admission of such thoughts makes her wet. It also, if handled properly, can have a liberating effect. It’s good to think that her dom accepts what she is, that he actively wants her to be his dirty little girl. No longer does she have to bury nasty thoughts deep in her mind and pretend they aren’t there. She now has a licence to be bad, since it’s not her fault, she’s ordered to do it, and she’s only being a slut for her dom, not for anyone else.

However, anything that’s humiliating when only her dom is present is likely to be doubly so in the presence of a third party. There’s a certain humiliation in being put across his knee, having her knickers pulled down and being spanked like a naughty schoolgirl. But if another man is watching, how much more humiliating is that? I think this would apply to any of the acts I’ve mentioned above, that the humiliation is compounded when another person is present. Not only is her modesty outraged; it is seen to be so. Not only is she a slut; she is known to be a slut.

Certain acts performed in public prey on the fear of exposure. If a girl is ordered to go in public without her knickers, she has an atavistic fear that the wind may blow her skirt up, that she might sit down in such a way as to reveal there is nothing underneath, that she might fall over in the street and be shamed, or even that she might suffer the same catastrophic event that befalls Katharine Hepburn in Bringing Up Baby. And even if none of these things occur, she can’t quite rid herself of the suspicion that everyone who looks at her already knows she is knickerless. Surely they can see it from her face.

Being made to perform sexual acts before witnesses breaks a very powerful taboo. Animals know no shame and fuck in public, human beings do not. However, it all depends. I certainly wouldn’t say that engaging in a threesome is necessarily a humiliating act for a girl. On the contrary, it can be empowering, or just plain fun. But the potential for humiliation is certainly there, if only because, if she seems to be enjoying it a lot, doesn’t that make her a slut?

Acts of public humiliation often turn around some form of display. The girl is exhibited, put on show, perhaps to all and sundry. Again, this isn’t necessarily shaming. Some girls like to show themselves off; indeed, it’s a fundamental instinct, one might say. You only have to look at the behaviour of very small girls, and you can’t help noticing that they don’t at all mind showing their knickers. At what age does the shame kick in? I’m not a girl, so I’m not quite sure. What I do know is that for me, as a dom, it’s very exciting to provoke this shame, to force a girl into acknowledging it, and yet give her no choice but to perform the shameful act. Of course it only excites me because I know that, despite herself, this is what she wants and needs. If doing these things reduced her to tears of genuine distress, I wouldn’t dream of continuing.

Cuffed

2011-01-30T08:03:00.001Z

‘Look,’ he says. He opens his palm. She stares at the two steel clamps, joined by a thin chain.

‘You know what these are for?’

She nods.

‘Take off your shirt.’

She unbuttons it, puts it aside.

‘And the bra.’

She removes that too.

‘You have such lovely tits,’ he says. She blushes just a little. He tells her to sit down on a chair and stands over her. ‘Do I need to tie you up?’

She looks up at him. ‘Will it be bad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you’d better cuff me.’

He fetches the little steel thumb-cuffs and pinions her hands behind her. He strokes her nipples gently, getting them stiff. Then he picks up the clamps and carefully fits them on her nipples. She is breathing deeply. He takes hold of the chain connecting the clamps and gives a little tug. She gasps.

‘Hurt a bit?’ he asks casually.

She nods. He tugs the chain a little harder. She whimpers softly. He takes the clamps off, and bends to suck her nipples gently, each in turn. Then he puts the clamps back on.

‘Hurt a little more now?’ he asks. She nods. He takes hold of the clamps and twists them. She groans.

‘I need to do this,’ he says.

‘Yes,’ she says.

He twists the clamps cruelly. She cries out.

‘Poor little girl,’ he says. He twists them again.

‘Oh god,’ she says.

He leans down and kisses her mouth, a long deep kiss. Then he takes the clamps off. He plays with her breasts, squeezing them, rubbing the nipples between fingers and thumb.

‘I haven’t finished,’ he says.

‘I know.’

‘Ready?’

She nods. He puts the clamps back on. She moans. He pulls hard on the chain, so hard she has to rise up in her seat. Then he lets go.

‘I don’t think we’ve ever found out just how much of this you can take,’ he says.

‘No.’

‘But a bit more, certainly.’ He twists the clamps again. She squeals. ‘Hush,’ he says.

He steps back and looks at her, enjoying what he sees in her face. He knows the pain is building. Eventually he takes the clamps off, and his gentle hands soothe her nipples once more.

‘I know it hurts bad,’ he says. ‘I also know you want them back on again. Of course at the same time there’s nothing you want less. But if you ask me nicely I will put them back on.’

He waits. She stares up at him, as if a look will soften his heart. He stares back, implacable.

She takes a deep breath. ‘Please, sir, will you put the clamps back on?’

He does so. She makes a kind of a grunting sound in the back of her throat. He thinks that what she really wants to do is scream.

‘Good girl,’ he says.

Very slowly he begins to twist the clamps. Her face shows pain.

‘Oh please,’ she says, ‘please?’

‘Shhh,’ he says. He takes his hands away from the clamps, waits a while, then twists them again, harder than ever.

‘Beg,’ he says.

She’s silent for a moment. There’s a film of perspiration on her brow.

‘Please, please sir, will you take them off now?’

He waits a moment, then complies. He presses her head against his chest. ‘I’m proud of you,’ he says.

‘If I ask for them back on,’ she says, ‘will you fuck me?’

Varieties of pain

2011-01-26T07:41:00.001Z

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I enjoy hurting submissive girls. It excites me to see them wriggle and squirm, to hear them gasp and whimper. Most of all it excites me to feel how wet they get between their legs, to know how much pain arouses them.

Over the years I’ve become quite a student of pain, exploring its different modalities. Of course I’m only talking about erotic pain here. To hear a child cry or see an animal in distress is unbearable to me. But to see a pretty girl writhing against her bonds, to see that look in her eyes, half-scared yet wanting it despite herself, that’s pure pleasure. And it’s always fascinating to see exactly how each girl responds. They vary a lot both in how much they can take, and in what sort of pain gets them most aroused.

For me there are only a small number of specific kinds of pain I am interested in inflicting. I know there are some doms who punch and kick their submissives, and the girls seems to like it, or they say they do. But that has no appeal for me. I’m not looking to cause serious damage, and that kind of bludgeoning doesn’t have the right kind of aesthetic attraction.

What I like to give is a pain that is very focussed, a short, sharp, stinging pain, and one that is delivered to an erogenous part of the body. Thus, I very much enjoy face-slapping, though it has to be done with control, and you need to monitor her responses carefully. Not all girls respond well to this. The same with hair-pulling; a well-judged sudden twist of the hair can achieve excellent results; some girls go straight into subspace.

Nipple-clamping is a favourite of mine. The right sort of clamps can deliver a pain like white-hot needles piercing the flesh. I especially favour my Japanese butterfly clamps, with their sweet little rubber-covered teeth, which grip harder and harder the more you pull on the clamps; so ingenious. As I’ve said, girls vary greatly in their tolerance. I’ve known one or two who, once you start in with the clamps, seem to get actually greedy for pain, wanting more and more. You take the clamps off and it’s clear they want them back on again, even if a sub isn’t supposed to ask for what she wants. Not so long ago I made a girl masturbate with her nipple-clamps on; watching her face as she enjoyed that special combination of pain and pleasure was a wonderful experience for me.

And then of course there is spanking. Again, I prefer implements that impart a stinging rather than a thudding pain. I don’t like paddles (I remember a farcical episode with a ping-pong bat once, a most ineffective instrument). I like to use my hand; there’s something about receiving a bit of a sting oneself that gives an extra frisson; it’s as if I am prepared to suffer just a little myself in order that she may suffer more. How noble is self-sacrifice in a good cause!

I love a leather strap or a tawse, which not only makes a beautiful ‘crack’ as it strikes the skin, but leaves a good, well-defined stripe across the bottom, warming it as it imparts a lovely pink flush. I love to use my belt too, though flower is nervous of it as a result of a couple of miss-timed blows on my part; I was mortified by my clumsiness. It’s salutary to realise that there is such a fine line between pain that arouses, and pain that alienates. It’s all too easy to hit a girl in the wrong way, at the wrong angle or on a spot that doesn’t produce the right arousing effect. That’s why it’s always a bad idea for the dom to get carried away and just start lashing out. Concentration is essential.

I can’t end a post on pain without a mention of the cane. There’s no doubt a cane can hurt more than any other kind of implement, and lots of submissive girls are scared of it, though often in the way that people are scared in horror movies, scarcely able to look yet too fascinated to turn away. The right kind of cane can send the pain down really deep and can make the best marks of all, parallel welts right across the centre of the bottom, a fitting testimony to the skill of the spanker and the spirit of the girl.

What's it all about?

2011-01-22T07:39:00.001Z

From time to time I am asked if I can explain the appeal of sexual dominance. One reader said that despite her best efforts to describe to her husband what d/s is all about, he just ‘doesn’t get it’. Well, I’m not sure I can put it into words that will bring home to a sceptic what the secret is. I can try to explain what goes on in my head, but while he may grasp it intellectually, it probably still won’t really mean anything. How would you explain to a gay man the sexual allure of women’s bodies? Whatever you say, it isn’t going to enable him to share your pleasure. Or even make him want to.

But ok, let’s try. The buzz, the rush of excitement comes from the exercise of power. It comes from the feeling of knowing that when you say ‘come here’, she will come. She won’t argue, she won’t ask why or what am I going to do. She just knows from the tone of voice and the expression that I am in dom mode. And that gives me a power over her. It’s not a power I can exercise over any woman. She has to be receptive, she has to be submissive by nature. And of course she has to respond to me personally. She has to like me, find me attractive, interesting, sexy, whatever. And dominant.

The special feeling of excitement I get from exercising my power comes, I think, from the knowledge that this is a different kind of sexual interaction from what is considered normal, or vanilla. I don’t have to ask her if she likes what I’m doing, I don’t have to persuade her or cajole or bribe her into letting me do what I want. I don’t have to do some things she wants in return. All that has been put in abeyance, parked, if you like. It’s not that I don’t care what she likes or haven’t taken the trouble to find out. I have in fact a very intimate knowledge of exactly what she likes, including, especially, all those things she isn’t quite sure that she likes, or only likes when she gets into subspace, or is ashamed of liking because they are ‘dirty’ or risky or whatever. But the question of whether she will let me do what I want has already been settled. She’s already agreed in advance. I’ve got carte blanche. Yes, of course there are limits; there are always limits. But that leaves a lot of space to work in.

So when I say, ‘come here’, she knows I am going to do with her as I please. And I know that she knows, and that she knows even though she might resist it won’t do her any good. But the excitement depends on more than this. There has to be a connection, the circuit has to be joined. I have to know that she is excited by this. The real pleasure for me comes from knowing that she wants to surrender. There’s no pleasure whatsoever in spanking a girl who hates it. That’s not domination, that’s abuse. The excitement for me comes from knowing that she can’t help herself, she wants this, she needs it, but at the same time she needs me to make her do it. I will then show her just how much she wants and needs it, even more than she’s prepared to admit.

And what are these things I want to do? Essentially, I want to impose myself physically, by spanking, tormenting her nipples, or whatever, or psychologically, by forcing her to do things she instinctively feels are shameful, such as making her expose herself, to me or to other men, submit to humiliating instructions (to kneel, or beg, or crawl), or simply let herself be used for my pleasure. The essence of sexual domination for me is in making a girl do things which girls are normally resistant to. If it’s something she can’t wait to do then it’s hardly domination. A girl might actually enjoy spanking; but I think for it to be a d/s act you have to spank her just that bit harder than she’s prepared for. Make her gasp, or squeal.

The pleasure is in getting inside her head, of feeling her responses, almost literally, at your fingertips, sensing her desire to be controlled, to be used, despite herself, and exploiting this to the limits.

Well, I’m not sure this really makes it any clearer to someone who ‘doesn’t get it’. What more can I say? Perhaps ultimately it’s something you can’t explain, only experience. I do think you know it when you feel it. You can’t mistake it for anything else. And once you’ve felt it, vanilla sex is, well, it’s nice, and fine if that’s your taste, but I like a stronger, more complex flavour.

Going down

2011-01-18T07:58:00.001Z

I kiss her cunt. I roll her clit around my tongue. I take my time, because I’m enjoying it so much. And also because she said to me previously that it was very unlikely she would ever come this way, and so there’s no reason to rush things; it’s not as if I am keeping her waiting.

I think it’s not uncommon that even highly sexual women like her sometimes find it difficult to come from oral sex alone. I believe I know how it goes. They enjoy it, they get aroused by it, they think just maybe they actually will get to come this time, but then it’s taking a while and they start to worry whether the guy is getting tired. Full marks to him for keeping going, but isn’t his jaw starting to ache? Once she starts to think like that there’s no chance she’s going to come. She’s lost it. She’s no longer enjoying her own sensations, she’s worrying about him. It’s part of what makes women so likeable, that they do worry about things like that, when a bit more selfishness might make for a better experience all round. But that’s the way they are; not always, but often.

Afterwards, when we’d found a different way for her to come, we discussed it a little. (That’s one of the things I like so much about her, that she’s articulate and open and always ready to say what she feels about things, especially sexual things. She’ll tell me what she likes or how she feels about what I do. I think this sort of feedback is absolutely priceless.)

Anyway, she said, and of course I was pleased, that it felt very good when I was going down on her, and that maybe she would eventually be able to come that way after all. She just needed to relax and take me at my word, that she shouldn’t worry about how long it was taking. I assured her that I was more than happy to keep going, that it was a pleasure not a chore. But really, it’s so enjoyable playing with her like this, I’ve even got mixed feelings about her coming. I might have to be cruel and tease her by making her wait a little. Because once she has come it will be over, and it’s so good doing it I think I’d like it to go on and on.

On spanking

2011-01-14T08:04:00.001Z

While I think you have to be a dom to enjoy spanking (otherwise, what would be the point?), I don’t think you have to enjoy spanking to be a dom. I’m sure there are doms who much prefer other kinds of power-play: orgasm denial, nipple-clamping, public humiliation, pet training, etc. Each of them fun activities, and I’ve engaged in them all at one time or another. But for me spanking is kind of the default d/s act. I sometimes think I enjoy spanking as much as I do fucking; fortunately no one has ever asked me to choose between the two.

What is it about spanking that appeals so much? Maybe there’s some deep psychological reason why I like it, but I haven’t the gift of looking deep enough into my character to discover it. I can think of several objective reasons, however. In the first place, it has a great aesthetic attraction. There’s no doubt in my mind that a girl’s bottom is a thing of beauty (and a joy forever, as the poet said). I’ve rarely seen a bottom up close that I didn’t like a lot; and which I didn’t feel an urge to spank, as well as caress, kiss, lick and, yes, penetrate. There’s something wonderful about the way it moves when she walks (or wriggles around on the bed), and there’s something deeply pleasurable about the roundness, the symmetry, the softness, and indeed the colouring of the female behind, the way it changes from unblemished whiteness (I’ve only ever spanked white girls) to a deeper and deeper shade of pink, and then, if you go on long enough, to red and even purple (and other colours too once the bruises set in).

Another attraction of spanking is that almost inevitably the act carries a certain overload of humiliation for the one who receives it. Whether lying across the knee, or bent over a desk or table, or kneeling on the bed, the girl is at a psychological disadvantage. You can’t be anything but in a subservient position if you are about to be spanked; it’s no good trying to stay dignified. And reducing a girl to such a state holds great satisfaction for me.

What I also like is that with spanking you get a very detailed response. If you tie a girl up or put clamps on her nipples, of course you are likely to get a lot of feedback, but it’s not so systematic. When you spank her you get a response to each and every whack. That doesn’t necessarily mean she gasps or whimpers or squeals every time. But mostly she will, and even a certain amount of silence is expressive. (Sometimes a girl is just absorbing the experience, step by step. But you’ll get an audible response eventually. If you are doing it right.)

One of the great things about spanking is that it delivers stimulation to just the right place. It’s true that with some girls their nipples seem directly connected to their cunts. Twist or pinch or bite their nipples and they’ll get wet almost instantaneously. Spanking is a bit more subtle in its effect on the primary erogenous zone. What it does, if you handle it right, is get her warmed up, and this warmth spreads in between her legs and soon you have tumescence and lubrication, to put it technically. Any dom loves that, the feeling that he’s arousing her by doing something he really, really wants to do.

Another thing is that spanking lends itself to so many different scenarios. If you like role-play or acting out little fantasy scenes, spanking fits in naturally, whether it’s the naughty schoolgirl who hasn’t done her homework, or the slovenly maid, or the sweet little girl caught playing with herself, or a pet who isn’t learning her training lessons properly, or punishment night at the girls’ reformatory – well, I could go on and on, but I think you know what I am talking about. In each and every one of these little scenarios, and dozens more I could think of, spanking is an essential part of the ritual.

There’s also pleasing variety in the kinds of implements one can use. By spanking I mean any sort of beating on the bottom. (Personally I only like to spank on the bottom, or sometimes between the legs. I don’t like doing it to the front, especially not to the breasts. Besides, I think that can be dangerous.) So there are whips of various kinds (quirts and single-tails and martinets and so on). There are floggers and straps and crops and paddles. And of course the cane. Ah, the cane! I think that’s worth a blog post all to itself.

The kind of spanking I’ve been talking about is when the dom simply wants to make her squeal, just for his pleasure. I’m not talking about real (as opposed to ‘pretend’) punishment spankings. That’s a separate subject, perhaps for another day. The spanking I have in mind for now is the kind of scenario that might be preceded by one of those phrases which I always find sets my pulses racing just as much as it does for my intended victim. I’m thinking of such brief commands as ‘Lift up your skirt’ or ‘Pull down your knickers’ or simply ‘Bend over’. What a delicious sense of anticipation that arouses; there’s nothing quite like it.

Le mot juste

2011-01-10T08:09:00.001Z

He told her in advance exactly what he wanted to do, down to the last detail. She listened carefully, her heart beating faster. She feared there was a flush on her face and that he might perceive what an irresistible effect his words were having. But then, surely he knew that by now. That was the point, after all. As he had got to know her, and coax from her more and more of her inner thoughts, even the ones she was ashamed of, he had gained a clearer idea of what it was that excited her, even despite herself. He didn’t claim to know everything; not yet, and perhaps he never would. But he knew enough now to have gained a rather frightening power over her, frightening because she knew he could make her do things she never imagined she would, things that scared her, things that were edgy and even a little dangerous.

She told him at the beginning, when they were first starting to swap lists of things they did and didn’t like, that she didn’t care for humiliation, didn’t want to enact any of those kinds of scenarios. And then, little by little, as he wheedled things out of her, she was forced to admit that this was a sham, that in fact humiliation excited her beyond her power to control herself. It was, she admitted, the thing that aroused her most.

And so now she was at his mercy. As he went through the little scenario he planned, she wanted to say, no, please, I can’t do it, I just can’t. But she knew that wouldn’t do any good, not now, not after he had found out the truth. So she listened in silence, until the end, when he asked her what she thought.

‘Is that what you want?’ she asked. ‘What you really want?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is. I really want it.’

‘Very well,’ she said. She made it sound as if she was doing it for his sake, just to please him. But she could be honest with herself, if not yet completely honest with him. She wanted it too. When she thought about it her knees trembled, and there was a tell-tale wetness in her knickers. Her body didn’t lie.

In the intervening days before the date he had set for the event, she thought about what he had said, over and over again. Sometimes she wished it wasn’t going to happen, sometimes she even thought about pleading with him, ‘please, I just don’t think I can go through with this, please don’t make me.’ But she knew if she said that she would feel a fraud. Because he knew what she was. He knew what he could make her do, and the reason he could make her do it was not just that he had power over her (and what power he had!). No, the reason he could make her do it was because he knew that she had thought about such things, had thought about them long before they had even met. She hadn’t changed. The only difference now was, he was going to make her thoughts a reality.

Even so, when he told her he had found a man to do what he wanted, she nearly panicked. She looked at him imploringly, half hoping he would say, are you OK with this, because if not we’ll call it off. But he didn’t say that. Instead he said, ‘he’s what we’ve been looking for. He’ll be just right. I’ve explained to him exactly what he can and can’t do.’ She thought about asking him to go through it again, what was and was not to be allowed. Had anything changed? Was what he had told the man exactly what he had told her? But then she thought, best not to know any more details. I’ll only obsess about it. Better that I put myself in his hands. In their hands. I’ll just submit, go with the flow. What will be, will be. That way I’m not responsible. That way he can’t blame me for being a slut.

Funny how that word came to occupy such a pivotal place in the proceedings. They met the man in a bar, early evening. Not too many people around. They found a quiet corner. Conversation rambled for a while. Then the man asked a direct question. ‘Is she a good girl?’ ‘I’m afraid not, not really,’ was the reply. And her companion turned to her and said, in that tone she knew so well, that turned her to jelly, ‘Show the gentleman what you’ve got written on you.’ And right there and then, there was not the slightest possibility that it could be avoided, she had to raise her skirt, looking quickly around to see they were not observed, and then lower her knickers slightly, and there it was, that word, written in red on her belly: ‘slut’.

The truth about blogging

2011-01-06T08:31:00.001Z

When I first started a blog, I felt a tremendous sense of liberation. I had spent the previous few years, ever since I fully realised the nature of my sexuality, living a lie. Well, maybe that’s too melodramatic, and melodrama is not the natural genre of a middle-class Englishman. Let’s say that part of me, a part that was more and more assuming an overriding importance, had been kept in the shadows. One or two close friends knew the truth of what I was, what I wanted and what I did about it. But very few. I think anyone reading this blog is likely to know how almost impossible it is to openly admit to one’s sexual preferences if they are kinky. People don’t understand. They don’t want to understand. They prefer not to have to think about those sorts of things at all. And I suppose I do feel they shouldn’t have their noses rubbed in it if they don’t wish it. But it’s lonely, knowing how important these things are and not being able to tell anyone.

So when I started the blog, I thought, this is wonderful. Nobody knows who I am and I can say exactly what I think and how I feel. I can tell all about the things I do, and things I want to do, with total frankness. No more furtiveness, no more beating about the bush (an interesting metaphor, given the d/s context, but let’s not get sidetracked). I can tell people about my liking for spanking and other weird desires, I can even tell in detail about the actual things I’ve done. Of course names will have to be protected. But under the cloak of anonymity all can be revealed.

How little did I know! I can see I was naïve in the extreme. It didn’t take long for me to realise, for example, that just hiding names didn’t guarantee anonymity. Already I was starting to leave clues to my identity (I won’t say what they were, even though that blog no longer exists). It’s a small world and once you let a couple of things slip about what you do for a living, smart people begin to put two and two together. One or two readers got in touch through email and I let them know my first name. In a flash a really clever girl tracked down my identity. That was a reality check, though as it turned out, she was totally trustworthy.

But it wasn’t just that staying undercover wasn’t as easy as I thought. I soon found that I couldn’t in fact say just what I liked. I couldn’t be completely frank about what I did and what I thought, because it always involved someone else. And I knew I would have to respect others’ wish for privacy. It’s my blog, and I decide what gets said here. But that doesn’t mean I only have to think about myself. People do vary in the extent to which they are willing to go public. Some girls don’t mind me making the occasional revelation about what I’ve got up to with them, as long as I don’t give away their identity. But I don’t have any right to tell things they’d rather keep hidden. Everyone has to keep up appearances, to protect themselves, to protect their family or whatever. And some people simply don’t care to expose intimate details about their sex life, even if no one could possibly tell it was them. I’ve tried to respect that, though my own instincts are to be as open as possible.

I still feel that having a blog is a liberation. I can say things here I can’t say anywhere else in a public space. It helps to compensate for the fact that, even though I’m in a much freer situation than I used to be, I still haven’t ‘come out’, as it were. Lots of people who know me don’t know what I get up to. But at least I have an outlet in the blog. It’s just that I don’t have any naïve notions about telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Love and sex

2011-01-02T08:15:00.003Z

The other day I was watching a film, a rather vapid science-fiction story called Never Let Me Go, performed by a couple of English actresses of the kind that Americans often dote on and I find just anaemic. Anyway, at one point someone says, in effect, ‘Girls are always nasty to the boys they like the most.’ And I thought, always? Hmmm. Maybe it does happen. And then I thought about a novel I have just finished, one which gave me a lot of pleasure. It’s called The Bad Girl, and it’s by Mario Vargas Llosa, who recently won the Nobel Prize for Literature.

Don’t let that put you off. It’s a compelling story of a lifelong erotic obsession by a Peruvian translator and interpreter who lives in Paris. Early in his life he falls for a girl, who is also from Peru. For decades she torments him, now and again allowing him to make love to her, living with him from time to time and even at one point marrying him. But at each encounter it’s only a matter of time before she leaves him, going off with some other man with better prospects: an English racehorse owner, even a Japanese gangster (whose kink is to watch her being fucked by other men). Each time the hero vows to forget her, and each time he takes her back.

Why? Sometimes, I guess, we don’t do what’s good for us. We pick the one who excites us, not the one who will make us happiest. If there’s one thing I have learned, and it’s cost me a lot to learn it, it’s this: love and sex are not the same thing. Sexual excitement and emotional fulfilment don’t always go hand in hand. OK, I know that’s obvious. Maybe women instinctively know it better than men do. The problem is, there’s a myth of how it’s supposed to be: the one you lose your heart to is the one who heats your loins. Or vice versa.

We’re all grown-ups here, I hope. We should be able to distinguish one from the other. But actually it’s not that simple. Because if you meet a woman who truly loves you sexually, who takes you onto a different plane, who opens up sexual vistas you never even knew were there, is it surprising that you feel an emotional bond? Great sex unlocks you emotionally. You can get carried away; maybe to a place you have always longed to be, but maybe to a place where you shouldn’t go. The lover of the Bad Girl never sits down and asks himself if he would have been happier not knowing her. Certainly he’s aware his life would have been a lot more peaceful, and maybe that’s what a lot of people want. But not everyone.

You might ask what’s this got to do with d/s. Nothing much, except that I tend to think that d/s sexual relationships are more intense, and thus are more likely to generate the kind of seismic shifts that bring the apparently solid edifice of a life crashing down:

‘A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.’

I saw another film recently, a French movie called in English Leaving, starring Kristin Scott Thomas as an apparently happily married middle-class housewife who starts a tempestuous affair with a builder who comes to work on her house. He’s utterly unsuitable, a penniless ex-jailbird; their passion tears apart lives and ends in disaster. I don’t know if you could exactly say it was worth it for them. But the way the movie tells it, there was no way to avoid it. Sometimes you just aren’t in control of where things are going.

I’ve wondered now and again whether the white heat of a d/s relationship is always destined in time to burn itself out. Yet might it leave behind embers of affection that still glow and can keep you warm for ever? It hasn’t quite happened for me in that way yet.

Sideways

2010-12-29T08:43:00.001Z

‘Come here,’ he says.

It’s not a request, not in that tone of voice. She approaches cautiously to where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. He turns her sideways, then puts both hands up under her skirt, one at the front, one at the back. Hooking his fingers in the waistband of her knickers, he slides them down to her knees. He moves his right hand up again, slipping between her legs, just cupping her cunt, nice and comfortable. His left hand strokes her bare bottom, caressing the skin slowly, then kneading the flesh.

He dips the index finger of his left hand into her cunt. She’s wet already. He moves it around a little, takes it out and pushes it in her ass, all the way up. She grunts and shifts from one leg to the other.

‘Keep still,’ he says.

He pushes the middle and ring fingers of his left hand into her cunt, so that with one hand he’s penetrating her fore and aft. He works his fingers around a little. Then he thrusts the middle finger of his right hand into her cunt too. When it’s nice and wet he pulls it out and slides the tip over her clit, spreading the slippery wetness. She gasps and puts a hand on his shoulder to steady herself; she’s feeling a little weak at the knees.

He takes more wetness from her cunt and spreads it over her clit. He circles it slowly, taking his time. She wouldn’t mind if he did it a little faster, maybe even pressing a little harder. But she knows better than to ask. Even so, she feels he needs to know how things are.

‘I don’t think I can come standing up,’ she says.

‘Who said anything about coming?’ he answers.

Oh, so it’s going to be like that. Well, of course it is, she thinks. What did I expect? His fingers are still working, one hand inside her, the other hand solely dedicated to her clit. She thinks a bit more. Maybe, since what he’s doing is so lovely, if it goes on long enough, she might manage to come after all. But would she need permission? Or did he mean, she doesn’t get to come at all? She doesn’t know what to think. He’s fucking with her head, that much she does know.

She’s so wet now she can feel it dribbling down the inside of her thigh. And then she says to herself, why am I doing all this thinking, about what he wants and what he’ll let me do? He’s told me often enough, when it’s like this don’t think, just surrender and be guided. After all, she wants what he wants, doesn’t she? And this is so obviously what he wants, just a girl who will stand and let him play with her, in any way he cares to, for as long as it takes. What could be simpler?

Violation

2010-12-24T08:19:00.001Z

‘Safe, sane and consensual’ is the mantra of the d/s community. It’s not a bad set of guidelines. Novices won’t come to much harm if they stick to that; though one might query the use of the word sane. Who decides what is sane? I’ve done some things that many vanilla folk would regard as crazy, or at least seriously weird. But I suppose we all know a psycho when we meet one. At least I hope so.

However, when you get deeply into another person and they share your sexual kinks, there’s often an urge to go further, to push the envelope. This isn’t necessarily out of boredom, though it might be; it can happen that even kinky stuff can get to be a bit routine. But I’m thinking more about a situation where you have an intuition about the other person, a sense that they are open to much more than you have done so far, that you are pushing against an open door. What were once perceived as limits, not to be crossed, can in themselves become the focus of excitement. I think this is how some people suddenly find themselves switching, find their inner dom where once they had been only a sub, or else discover a taste for bisexuality. Some people just strike sparks off you and bring out things no one else can see in you, perhaps not even you yourself.

I can feel this with flower. I know I can take her further than she’s ever been; in some ways I have already. One area which appeals to me, and which I suspect she might be open to, is pushing against the notion of consent. I’ve held back from this so far, probably from vestigial feelings of political correctness. I was brought up to accept that no means no. And I still believe it. Except that in d/s it’s more complicated than that.

A lot of women, and not necessarily only those who would call themselves submissive, have fantasies of forced sex. They imagine themselves kidnapped, imprisoned, maybe even chained to a wall in a deep, dark dungeon and used mercilessly and relentlessly by their captors. I think it’s not only harmless to have such fantasies of abduction and rape; it can be fun, even healthy, to act them out (as fantasies, of course), if you can find the right person.

In a sense, all domination of a submissive woman is a kind of violation. A violation by consent, if you will. She voluntarily gives up her right to deny the dominant what he wants. Yes, I know all about hard limits, and of course only someone who wasn’t sane would behave as if there were truly no limits. But what d/s allows is the exploration of that area between on the one hand the absolute ne plus ultra of those limits which are necessary for self-preservation and well-being, and on the other, the safe, willing and mutual indulgence of fancy. This is the area, somewhere between danger and safety, where the edgy stuff gets done, where the excitement really mounts. Is he going to go too far? Does she really have such limits, or can I push her past them?

Does it make any sense to speak of consensual non-consent? Probably not to those who have never experienced the urge towards such things. But to those of us who are willing to explore what may make others uncomfortable, it makes all the sense in the world. What the submissive really wants is not to be forced to do things that truly have no sexual appeal for her (well, she might, but in wishing for them she perversely sexualises what was previously of no erotic interest). What she wants most, I think, is to be forced to do the things she only thinks about (or does when they are put in her mind) and doesn’t dare to do, that she’s ashamed to do or too nervous. She wants to have her inhibitions overpowered. Some readers objected in the post titled ‘Exposure’ to my putting up flower’s pictures when she didn’t like the consequences, as if I had put them up solely to satisfy my own selfish wish to brag about her, ignoring her misgivings. What I maybe should have made clear was the delicate and fascinating negotiations which took place between us, during which she went from horror at the idea to a kind of fascination with it. She’s not stupid. She knew what would happen in a general way, that guys would jerk off to pictures of her naked. And she increasingly found the idea of being flaunted to be, perversely, rather exciting.

One night when she stayed with me, after we had worked our way through two or three exciting little sexual scenarios and it was time to sleep, she asked me if I wanted to chain her to the bed. She was wearing a collar and leash, and she allowed me to padlock the leash to the bedpost so she couldn’t get away. And that’s how I know she’s interested in forcible restraint. Against her will. Sort of.

Woman as object

2010-12-19T08:47:00.002Z

Let me describe some images. In the first, two men, smartly dressed in suits, are seated on a sofa. In front of them stands a girl, naked. The point of view shows the girl from behind; she has a pretty bottom. It also shows the expressions on the men’s faces. There’s something slightly disdainful, arrogant, even indifferent. It’s as if there’s nothing unusual about having a naked girl parade in front of them; almost as if it’s their right.

Another image. Another naked girl. She is lying on a table. One man stands by her head, his hands on her shoulders. The other man, facing the camera, is on the far side of the table, bending over her. One hand is flat on her belly, as if holding her in position. His other hand is between her legs. We can’t see whether his fingers are inside her, only that what he is doing is intrusive. Each of the men is dressed in a dinner jacket; obviously it’s not a medical examination. Their expressions are calm, unemotional. The girl looks slight dazed. Maybe she’s on drugs, or in subspace.

A third image. A man in a suit leans nonchalantly against a mantelpiece, his gaze directed at the girl who stands in front of him. We see her from behind. Her skirt is about her ankles. She’s dressed in a black bra, stockings and suspenders. Her knickers are semi-transparent, in a pale blue that matches the colour of her skirt. We can’t see her face, but her stance suggests she is poised as if ready for some sort of movement, perhaps expecting the man to order another item of clothing to be removed.

In the last image a girl kneels naked on the floor, her back to a man seated in a chair. The girl is tied up; her wrists are bound to her ankles, and another rope binds her thighs up tightly to her waist, so that she is bent double. The man in the chair, who is fully clothed, is reading a book, ignoring the girl.

What interests me about all these images is not that you see a pretty girl naked or nearly so (though that’s never unwelcome). It’s the mood of aloofness, of studied indifference displayed by the men. The girl is available, but they appear in no hurry to use her. In only one image is anyone touching the girl, and this is in the manner of a dispassionate inspection. Something may come of it, but possibly not.

I find these images highly erotic. Either we don’t see the girl’s face at all, or if we do it expresses no emotion. The pictures communicate the essence of objectification, that particular mode of dominance that removes from the sexual equation any possibility that the girl could have an input into what might happen next. She isn’t being shamed into admitting that she’s a slut, she isn’t being made to avow her obedience. She can’t even be sure that the men actually want her. From their expressions they might simply be bored. Perhaps they’ve seen too many pretty, naked girls. Perhaps there’s another girl waiting in the wings whom they might prefer. Perhaps they’ll eventually get round to using her, if they feel like it.

It is of course the essence of sexism as defined by feminists, this treating the woman as merely an object. Let me hasten to say I like feminists. I approve of them. So why do I allow myself to enjoy these images? Because I know that some women are excited by them too, even women who would call themselves feminists. In a d/s context, these images are acceptable. If a woman is aroused by being used as these women are, if in the moment of sexual engagement she wants to be treated like an object, by a man who understands her motives, then the experience is liberating for her, not oppressive.

Cock-tease

2010-12-14T08:07:00.001Z

‘Come here.’

She crosses over to where he stands by the window.

‘On your knees.’

She gets down in front of him. The hotel faces onto a tall building not far away; another hotel perhaps. An alert observer looking out of an opposite window might just possibly spot them.

He unzips, takes out his cock. It’s tumescent, thick but not yet hard.

‘Do exactly as I say. Nothing else.’

He peels back the foreskin and holds his cock under her nose. She inhales his scent; her cunt feels flushed, hot. He rubs the end of his cock slowly across her lips. She resists the urge to open her mouth.

‘Kiss it,’ he says. ‘Just the tip.’

She does so, slowly, tenderly.

‘Now kiss all the way down the shaft to the bottom, and back up again.’

She puckers up her lips and slowly kisses down, then up.

‘Lick the tip,’ he says.

She curls her tongue around the head, sliding it slippery over the so soft skin.

‘Good girl,’ he says. ‘Now, wrap your lips around the head and hold in it your mouth. Don’t suck.’

He makes her hold it there for a minute or two. He’s fully hard now. Then he grabs her by the hair and puts her face into position before thrusting his cock slowly and steadily right into her mouth, until the head is at the back of her throat. After a while she begins to choke. He pulls back to give her air, then pushes in again. He does this a third time, for longer. She’s gasping for air when he finally pulls his cock from her mouth.

‘That was just a taster,’ he says. ‘Amuse-bouche.’

He puts his cock away. She knows better than to register her disappointment.

‘The main course comes later,’ he says. ‘When I’ve worked up your appetite.’

Exposure

2010-12-09T11:07:00.002Z

I’ve taken quite a few photographs of her. One of the things that most impressed me about her when we met is that she let me snap away without trying to control what pictures I took. When a girl gives you that freedom, you feel really honoured by her trust. She didn’t turn her face away, or cross her legs, or try to be prim or bashful. She let me do what I wanted. Of course she’s submissive, and isn’t that what submissive girls do? But it’s not as simple as that; not by a long way. Even girls who will let you do all sorts of things to them may not let you make a visual record.

You’ll never see these pictures on this site. It isn’t that kind of blog. But once, for a brief moment, if you got lucky, you might have seen some of them somewhere else. We got to chatting online and I was teasing her a little, as I have been known to do. (She says I’m mean but I can’t help it. I never knew a girl that was more fun to tease.) Anyway, the subject of my pictures came up. Like any girl, she’s hyper-critical of her physical appearance, and what she looks like in a photo. But I said, the pictures are lovely and you are so hot. It’s a shame to keep them all to myself. She said, what do you mean? I said, I think I might just post them somewhere. You wouldn’t dare, she said. I think she must have known, she’s a smart girl, that this was unlikely to deter me; quite the opposite. Of course I won’t display any pictures that show your face, I said; but I think there are one or two that would bear public exhibition. She was starting to get a little scared now. But I know her well; she’s a girl who likes to push the envelope. She’s brave and daring and always ready to explore another way of being kinky, and I think she was starting to think there might be pleasure in it for her too. All submissive girls are a bit narcissistic, aren’t they? They like to be the centre of attention, show off a little bit, and they like their dom to be proud of them. So it didn’t take long for me to persuade her. If you really want to do it, I will agree, she said. I said, you know what’s going to happen. Pimply youths will jerk off while goggling at a picture of your ass. So let them, she said. She’s a generous girl.

She asked me why I wanted to make her pictures public. It was a good question, and I thought about it. I said, it’s a bit like the idea of sharing you with another man, making you common property. Or my property, to be disposed of as I please. And I like the idea of others guys perving on pictures of your ass, because they will never get to do the things to it that I have done. It’s a kind of bragging, I suppose.

I chose a few pictures that I thought were very sexy but safe (no face in view). In one I like very much she is lying face-down on the bed, hog-tied. Her hands and feet are cuffed behind her back, then chained together. She’s completely immobilised, a very pretty naked body trussed up ready for whatever one has in mind. I chose a couple of other pictures which are, shall we say, not only revealing but show just what a girl can achieve when she puts her mind to it. I put them up on Yuvutu. (Yes, they show photographs as well as videos.)

And there they stayed for a couple of days. There were one or two comments from viewers, but nothing very arresting (‘nice ass!’, etc.). There are so many pictures up there that yours soon slip to the back of the queue. I thought that was the last I’d hear of them. Until one day I chanced to look at some tumblr site, and there was one of my pictures of her, reblogged. And with a comment. And the reblogging had been in its turn reblogged. The picture had spun off into cyberspace, being endlessly reproduced and recirculated.

Well, fine. I suppose we should have foreseen that. And indeed, if no one liked the picture of her ass enough to reblog it, perhaps we’d have been disappointed. All the same, it’s a little disconcerting to realise you have absolutely no control over your own pictures once you have put them up there. Forget intellectual property rights. What upset her was, it got reblogged by scruffy little sites that were using pictures of her lovely bottom to enhance their rather tawdry displays. Unfortunately you can’t control what people do with your images once they are out there, and you can’t control the context in which they are recycled.

Even so, we might do it again sometime. Perhaps even a video. No! she says firmly. But doms don’t take no for an answer.

The Killer Inside Me

2010-12-06T08:22:00.001Z

A few weeks back I wrote about Leap Year, a movie in which a woman finds a lover to subject her to the series of sado-masochistic acts which she craves. I thought the movie raised the question of whether a taste for this kind of sex can be traced back to some trauma in a woman’s upbringing. Now along comes The Killer Inside Me, about a psychopathic cop who gets his kicks from the sadistic abuse of women.

The film is directed by Michael Winterbottom, a British director I have admired for some time. It’s based on a novel by Jim Thompson, who wrote several successful noir thrillers in the 1950s. Casey Affleck plays the cop, who half-kills one girl with his bare hands and succeeds in beating another to death. Once again there is a suggestion that an explanation for the central character’s sexuality is to be found in a childhood experience. The cop’s father used to beat his mother for pleasure, and one time she invited him, when a child, to spank her bottom (an experience liable to turn anyone a bit peculiar in later life, one might think).

The two principal beatings of the film are carried out because the cop needs to frame someone else for the crimes. They are savage, almost unwatchable. Much of the commentary on the film concerned the issue of whether the depiction of such violence against women could ever be justified. However, I think there’s another issue. Does the film try to make a psychological connection between murderous violence against women, and a taste for spanking?

The cop is not only a killer; he enjoys beating his girlfriends’ bottoms, and they enjoy having him do it. It’s made very clear it’s consensual. The issue is whether his enjoyment of this is seen as pathological, and whether there is some natural progression from spanking for pleasure to beating a girl to death. It’s a movie, not a clinical case history; it doesn’t try to argue anything, it just shows things happening and you have to work out for yourself what the connection between them is, if anything. But even though it’s a very well-made piece of work, it did get my back up a bit. Once again, it feels like d/s folk are being demonised.

Perhaps I’m paranoid; although misunderstood minorities (and I think as d/s practitioners we can include ourselves in such a category) are very apt to sense they’re being got at, because so often they are. I don’t think the film provides any clear answers about what makes men interested in sexual domination. It certainly isn’t saying all men who like to spank girls are potential killers; at least, I think not. But all the same, as a man who does like to spank girls, it left me feeling a bit defensive.

It also left me wondering, not for the first time, why men do like to spank. When discussing Leap Year, my readers had some extremely insightful things to say about the relation some submissive women have to their mothers. I learned a lot from what emerged from those discussions. Now, I’m trying to think about these matters from my own position. Unfortunately, looking into my own experience doesn’t help me much. I can’t find anything in my childhood that explains how I am sexually. Perhaps a Freudian would say I’m repressing things; but if I am you’ll never know, and nor will I, because they are repressed, and I’m not about to let someone go digging around inside my head on the off-chance there’s a killer in there. You’ll have to take my word for it that my upbringing was normal. (Though of course if you are a strict Freudian you believe that what passes for normality is pretty weird in itself. I mean, the Oedipus complex isn’t something that makes you feel exactly comfortable about your mummy and daddy, is it?)

Recently I had a long lunch with a charming woman who has her own, highly successful, blog. Our conversation was pretty wide-ranging, but at one point we did get on to what makes us what we are (she’s kinky too, though I won’t say how). She told me about a man she knew who was abused by his father, sexually and physically. His mother, who might have protected him, didn’t raise a finger in his defence, being herself in thrall to his father. The result was that when he grew to manhood he started to take his revenge on women, not through murdering them, but through seeking out women who would allow him to subject them to extreme pain. In this way he could ‘punish’ his mother for her failure to safeguard him.

I think that’s quite a compelling case-history; you can see the logic. But it doesn’t remotely come close to my own situation, nor I suspect to that of many doms. I guess if I had to think really hard and come up with some sort of account of my own psycho-sexual make-up, it would be something like this. The English middle classes are notorious for their suppression of emotion and of sex. At least they were when I was growing up, in a world rather different from today. In our house sex was never ever mentioned. And nobody raised their voice. Emotion was undoubtedly present, but it was battened down. Don’t express yourself. Stay buttoned up. Letting your feelings show was something for vulgar people, or other nationalities. I absorbed this way of behaviour and it came to control my sex life (such as it was in those early days!). Be polite to girls, even diffident. Good manners is the ultimate virtue. And nice girls don’t really like sex, so don’t expect much.

It took me years to realise that women were as much volcanoes of seething sexual passion as I was, and even longer to see that, just as I desired to bring women under my control sexually, there were women who wanted exactly that, to be controlled. I think that my eventual self-liberation, when I felt free to express what I wanted, and indeed take it when offered, was in some sense a process of freeing myself from those early days of repression, and of good manners. Perhaps you can’t imagine what a liberation it is to be able to say to a girl, come here, bend over, lift up your skirt. Without having to add please, without wondering if I am being too forward, without manners coming into it at all. I occasionally wonder whether all men would be doms if they dared. But I’m probably wrong about that.

Yuvutu

2010-12-02T08:23:00.003Z

When the internet first got going (which already seems like half a lifetime away), like many people, men especially I’d guess, I was seduced by internet porn. It was a cornucopia, anything you wanted, any time of day and much of it free. So I indulged. But I soon became sated. It wasn’t long before I wearied of the hopeless acting (all that screaming and grunting), the plastic tits, the tacky tattoos, the appalling taste in clothes (when there were any), the endless repetition of the same acts (girl strips off, sucks man’s cock; he sticks it in her, fucks for a while then comes on her ass/tits/face. The End).

So I more or less stopped watching. But now and again, if I’m bored for a moment, I’ll take a look at Yuvutu. Much of that too is tacky and repetitive. The production values are almost zero. Few of the people doing the filming have any idea where to put the camera, or even how to focus it. Lots of the clips are so dark or fuzzy you can hardly make out anything at all. But its saving grace is that (with very few exceptions) the acts recorded for our consumption are real, between real people doing things for no other reason than that it excites them. Now and again you get a genuine feel of the erotic, when a couple is really getting off on each other in a way that makes you wish you were there, or somewhere where you too were getting off with someone.

Since it is real people, they don’t conform to stereotypes of what sexual performers should look like. There are all shapes and sizes, and I mean, all sizes. There’s no way round this: some of the people on the site are, um, big. Actually it’s not always the slim ones who are the most sexy. But it has to be said that it’s a sign of bravery that some of them expose their bodies to public gaze, and indeed take pride in it. ‘Fuck a fat woman’ was the heading of a recent clip, and it was true to its word. Sometimes there are cruel comments from viewers, and I’ve stopped reading the comments now because although they can be funny, they usually aren’t very nice. People feel they have the right to say all sorts of things they would never say to someone’s face, and somehow I don’t like that.

Several things strike me about what’s on offer. First, most of it is shot by men. It’s their point of view that you see (not that there’s any great surprise in that). And maybe that’s why there are so many blow-jobs and facials. If it’s the man holding the camera then just about the easiest thing for him to shoot is a woman sucking his cock. Interestingly, I’d say that most of the clips shot by women are not of men doing things, but of themselves masturbating for the camera. And not just masturbating; there are some quite eye-watering insertions on view. By contrast, it’s very rare to see a guy jerking himself off, though it’s my personal observation that women quite like to see that.

Sometimes, if a clip is boring, you get sidetracked into looking at the décor: what a hideous chair; where on earth did they get that carpet? There are a few kinks, though mostly not too extreme. Women pee for the camera, either in their knickers or sans. (I don’t think I’ve ever seen a clip of a man peeing; why is that? Would women like to see it, I wonder?) Footjobs, often delivered by rather domme-looking women in boots, are quite popular. You can see guys getting pegged. Anal intercourse (guy on girl) is common (again, it’s an easy thing for a man to film). Threesomes and moresomes are not unknown, and I have to say the girls always look to be having fun.

Surprising numbers of people show their faces. Maybe they don’t care if the world watches them sucking a cock or two, though that seems strange to me. Don’t they have jobs and families? Do they think their work colleagues or parents or children don’t watch these kinds of sites? They could be wrong about that. It’s truly international, with clips from Latin American, the Far East, eastern Europe and wherever, though plenty from Britain and the US, as you would expect. It’s interesting to try to work out a taxonomy of practices by nation. The French seem keen on gangbangs and alfresco sex. In Latvia and Poland they have a lot of sex in cars (I suspect there may be a socio-economic explanation for that; i.e. a lack of sufficient housing and thus of privacy). Latin women like to strip for the camera. Americans are really quite obsessed with blow-jobs and facials. The Brits are into cuckoldry, and are often out in the car park dogging, of which they seem to be the supreme practitioners.

One thing I note is that sartorially women usually make an effort. They are done up in short skirts or fancy underwear (ok, much of it the type favoured by men: stockings and suspenders, corsets, etc). Sometimes they strip off, with evident pleasure at displaying themselves. The men, on the other hand, are almost always dressed like slobs. They wear, if anything, jeans or those dreadful things that are too long for shorts and too short for trousers, and surprisingly often they wear their socks in bed. Is anything more likely to kill a woman’s passion than a man wearing nothing but a pair of grubby ankle-length socks? (PS. It’s not just some of the girls who are big; some of the guys look like if they lie down they might have trouble getting up again.)

What is a bit of a mystery to me is that there is so little d/s. Now and again you see a girl, or even a guy, getting a spanking. But it’s always very tentative; it lacks conviction. I don’t understand why this is so. Do the hosts of the site believe that showing out and out d/s acts, in which someone gets a real thrashing, will open them to legal proceedings? Or is it that there is no market for such things (I find that hard to believe)? Or is there another amateur site I’m unaware of that caters for my particular perversions?

Keepsake

2010-11-28T08:18:00.002Z

I love women’s underwear. Lingerie, smalls, frillies, unmentionables. Intimate apparel? That’s what they call it in American department stores, a passion-killing term if ever there was one. For myself, I love the word knickers. That’s what they actually call them at Agent Provocateur, one of my favourite dispensers of such items; that’s calling a spade a spade. I know to American ears the word has different connotations, but to the English, knickers is a word redolent of the bedroom and what goes on there. It’s a slightly raunchy term, not quite totally polite. I suppose if you want to be neutral and not summon up expectations of naughtiness, you can call them panties, like the Americans do. But I never would.

She sent me a pair of hers. I asked for them. I was very specific: a pair that you feel really sexy in, and I want you to wear them all day. I knew she’d get wet and soil them. I told her to take them off at the end of the day, when they had become infused with her scent, and put them in a little plastic bag to preserve it, and send them to me. I’ve got them in front of me as I write. The label on the back says ‘passion play’. You bet. They are black, made of some gauzy material I wouldn’t care to find a name for. In my thesaurus there are over two hundred names for types of fabric (percoline? jaconet? fearnaught? ‘Her knickers were made of the finest fearnaught.’ Hmmm). Maybe these are of voile – ‘thin, semi-transparent material’. They certainly are that. When I wrap them round my hand they don’t hide much; I can even see my fingerprints. Not really semi-transparent; more like four-fifths transparent. Of course there’s a reinforced section around the gusset, but it’s just a tiny two-inch strip of opacity which only serves to make the transparency elsewhere even more patent. Around the front, at the waist, there’s a frill, and more frills on the legs at the back, which I find charming. The general effect is of frivolity and provocation. These knickers are made to be seen; seen by a man. There’s utterly no point to them otherwise. They wouldn’t keep you warm, or decent.

Inside the gusset there are some slight stains, evidence that a living, breathing girl was in them, a girl who got wet. Thinking about me, I hope. I know she’ll blush to read that, that she sent me her knickers stained and perfumed with her secretions. But it was so exactly what I wanted.

I suppose I have a fetish about knickers. I don’t mind admitting to it. It’s a harmless hobby; I don’t go around stealing women’s underwear off clothes-lines, or trying to catch a peep of a girl’s knickers when I’m not invited. I’m fairly well civilised. But it’s always a big plus for me if a girl really understands about such matters, if she realises what a wonderful effect pretty underclothes have on me, how I delight in silk and satin, in pink and black and red and purple. Flower got a lot of brownie points with me right from the start because her bra and knickers always matched (except now she’s left with a bra made of black gauzy material and no knickers to go with it…). Sometimes I like white cotton ones when she’s being a good little girl and butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

Thinking about it a little more, and why I like them so much, one reason must be because when a girl is down to her knickers, there’s usually only one way to go. But while she’s still wearing them you have all the pleasure of anticipation. A girl in her knickers is a girl who’s going to be naked soon, hopefully. I wouldn’t say it’s better to travel hopefully than to arrive. I do always want to get them off in the end. But there is a special pleasure in the knowledge that there’s another stage to go, that whatever the pleasure you have now, there’s even greater pleasure coming when she gets them off. When I was a little boy I always ate my crusts first so that I could save till last the soft bit of bread in the middle with all the jam on. It’s a habit that has stayed with me.

Needy

2010-11-24T08:02:00.002Z

He kicks off his shoes and lies full-length on the sofa. He’s been playing with her all afternoon. Sometimes she’s been sitting on his knee getting kisses and cuddles, sometimes lying next to him with her head in his lap while he strokes the back of her neck, her back, her bottom. Gradually her clothes have come off and now she’s down to her knickers. They are soaking wet. He puts his hand in them and slides two fingers into her cunt till he finds her g-spot. He presses on it, releases, presses again, releases.

‘I want your cock,’ she whispers.

‘No,’ he says.

She pouts. She’s not supposed to do that, but she feels a touch of desperation. ‘Am I being punished?’

‘Of course not. You haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘Then why won’t you fuck me?’

‘I think you know.’

She considers this. ‘Because you can deny me if you feel like it? Because it’s a power thing, you like to show what you can do with me?’

‘Something like that,’ he says.

‘But I know you want to. Aren’t you cutting off your nose to spite your face?’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ he says. ‘You can be sure I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t want to.’

She’s quiet for a moment. His hand is still inside her knickers, working.

‘Do you think one can die of sexual frustration?’ she asks.

‘No. Remember the bard: "Men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love." In any case I haven’t denied you a release.’

‘So I can masturbate?’

‘On two conditions. One, I get to watch. Two, you can’t use your hands.’

She thinks about this. ‘But maybe if I rubbed up against you then at the last moment you’d move and spoil it.’

‘You fancy a little frottage? It wouldn’t be fair if I stopped you,’ he says.

She thinks some more. ‘You aren’t always fair,’ she says.

‘You’ll have to take a chance.’

‘Pull my knickers off for me?’ she says. ‘Please? Pretty please?’

He draws them down over her ankles. She bends down and pulls off one of his socks with her teeth. Clasping her hands behind her neck, she straddles his foot and impales herself on it, ramming his big toe and a couple of others into her cunt. She begins to hump him, not looking at him as he watches, because isn’t it more than a little humiliating to be so needy?