The sacrament of a thrashing

aveburysarsenTNShe’d been away. We talked about things that she’d done whilst we’d been apart and agreed a spanking was needed. I told her that I’d missed here a very great deal and, to bring us back to being tight and close and us I was going to paddle her too. “You haven’t been marked for a while and I need to mark you”.

She hates the paddle. And she hates how hard I have to hit her to mark her. She likes the marks we make, but when we make them she cries so much I feel shabby and almost abusive in doing this. But, that is part of why the marking is, once in a while,

I let her sleep on it, of course. Or rather, not sleep. She was jet-lagged anyway, but I know she prefers as little notice as possible of impending violence. Which of course means I take pains to make sure she has plenty of time to think about it.

It arouses me to think of what I will do – and I awoke deliciously drowsy and behaving like a rampant Jack Russell with a piano leg.

I asked her if she’d like to wait until the evening, as she went off to make coffee. “Get it done”, she said.

She came back with coffee, the kind of unctuous, milky brew that can only mean breakfast, and bacon, mushrooms and toast. And, when we’d done, she made a great big pile of pillows and cushions on the bed and bent herself over it.

I leant down close to her face and asked her to open her eyes and give me a smile. She did, as well as a stuck-out tongue. I reminded her that the spanking was a punishment, as we’d agreed, and that the paddling was just for me but that being for me meant it was for us: She bit her lip and nodded.peachy

I set to. We’d agreed that the spanking would also be her warm up so I started more gently and rapidly than I would normally do when we do pure punishment. I leant down to her again and her brow had cleared the way it does when we play. Maybe it had been wrong to try to combine the two?

Oh well. I just started striking her hard. The tingling in my palms grew and her rump began to glow. I thought if I could make it really red she’d bruise more easily and I would not have to hit her so hard, or often, when it came to the paddling.

I knew I could not take the stinging in my palms for much longer. She had begun to weep – and the tears and the tone were those I’ve come to expect from punishment and not from play. Objective one achieved.

I stopped, rubbing my hands and leaning down close to her face again. “Time.” I said. She nodded.

I lifted the heavy, red, wooden, paddle and held it firmly. I’ve had it almost since I met her and I’ve used it less than half a dozen times. It feels special to take it to her, not least because she fears it so.

I brought it down hard on her left buttock. She jumped and screamed. Really screamed. I was rocked with anxiety. But I knew swift was best. I tried to apply equal force to the right cheek – but she’d shifted and I mishit. I hit her fair and square again, instantly and then struck her left again – symmetry is all. I stopped. She was sobbing. Really sobbing: “No more” she said.

I leant down to her face and asked her to look at me. She wouldn’t. I asked her to open her eyes. She didn’t. I held her. No response.

I knew she wanted me to stop. “Use or abuse” I asked. She said nothing. I could see slight bruises rising on her bum. But just slight, not what I’d achieved before and I had promised myself we would go above and beyond.

“Look”. I said: “I can stop. You aren’t marked much and I think I can do better. You must tell me if you are at your limit or not. If you can go further you must let me. If you can’t then you have done your best and all is well and I can stop. There will be nothing bad between us”.

My heart was in my mouth. For us “no” means “no”. I trust her to be true to herself and me. Only she knows if she’s reached her limit. This isn’t the same as enjoying something or not. It was quite clear that I had done something that was hurting and that she was hating.

At that instant, our entire relationship was on a knife-edge. Was our dynamic true? Did the submission she had given me mean I could do as I wished with her? Did I even want to go through with it seeing how distressed she was? Had she gone as far as she could? Would she deny me because she hurt so much right now? Would she let me abuse her because that would look true? If she’d not reached her limit would she be true to herself and let me carry on?

“So ‘no’ doesn’t mean ‘no’?” She asked.

“It does. Darling, if you have gone as far as you can go there is no dishonour between us. I can be content with what I have done because you went as far as you can for me. I want to hit you again and mark you better. If you can take more, you should. If you can’t, you must not. May I hit you again?”

She thought. I waited. It wasn’t one of those times when seconds feel like minutes. It took redminutes. She said nothing, but, then – almost – nodded. “I can hit you?”. She nodded.

It was over in seconds. I rose, took the red paddle and brought it down hard on each cheek . The noise of the blow filled the room, overcoming her shout of pain. I threw the paddle off the bed and pulled her down to hold her. She didn’t want me to hold her. But I held her anyway. She was the very model of passive resistance and I panicked again. Had I gone too far? Had I ruined us? I turned her face to mine. She resisted. I kissed her. She did not respond. My heart pounded and my pulse roared in my ears.  I kept kissing. I licked her lips. I told her I loved her.Again and again. I licked her tears away. I humped her leg. She did not smile. Nor stop crying. But she relaxed and let me hold her.

Minutes later her brow had cleared in a way it only sometimes does and I knew all was well. She had submitted to me. I had taken what I needed to take but what was not willingly given. All was well between us.

Later that morning I made her come, twice. I did that for me too. Then she emptied me and I slept.

It was mutually, selfishly, perfect.

Take two girls…

… And tie them together.

I had the opportunity to do that at the weekend.

We were at Kage ( first time for her and me – we’ll be back) and a new young friend. There looked like quite a queue for the available dungeon kit and, frankly, I couldn’t wait to get my floggers out.

So, why not use one sub to support the other?

Quickly ( not to mention nervously and cack-handedly) I roped each of them into a inelegant but practical body harness. Our new friend, demure in ivory, looked terrifically fetching in red silk rope.

Then, the secret ingredient: cable ties. Amid much giggling and wriggling I ran one tie around

English: Assortment of cable ties
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

the ropes between each girl’s breasts and pulled it as tight as it would go. if they had not been intimate before, they were now. I repeated the process with the belly rope: now they had no choice to embrace or topple. Who needs an A frame?

Of course, administering a royal leathering in these circumstances has its own challenges. I learnt lots. Not least of which is just how sexy it can be to watch a little girl try to shrink into the protection ( perhaps solace) is a better word?) of her friend’s bosom. And to see the friend looking reproachfully at you as if to say ” you bwute” as you take yet another backswing in an effort to blacken her friends bum.

More seriously, I learnt some more important lessons.

When you play with different people, you get to understand that what pushes their buttons is, errr, different. What was good pain, barely-to-be-borne to one was, in her mood that day, barely a fly swat to the other.

So, subby self esteem is an issue. One does not want to seem less pleasing to me than the other (and they aren’t; the ability to induce a maidenly swoon is all that matters).

And fair share is an issue too. Because making it turn and turn about meant neither got the constant drubbing they deserved. So, next time I might make one look after the other and look to deliver my undivided attention to whoever played A frame later.

But it was good play. And I did blacken her bum. Our new friend was a good girl and c_b and I were pleased with her. And ourselves.

Originally blogged in Informed consent, 2012.

Waxing her fou-fou

BelasariusLast night I waxed her fou-fou. Not for the removal of hair – she’s quite well disciplined in matters depilatory – but for my pleasure. Mind you, when it comes to hair I think this experience has probably taught her to pay more attention to those that grow in the folds around her cunt.

“I’m going to wax your fanny” I said. “OK” quoth she, and shuffled off to pop on her wrist and ankle cuffs and her collar.

I spread a blue tarpaulin on the sofa and the floor (wax gets everywhere) and lit two candles. I use Spa’s cheapest – after many years I find them the best – not only the lowest melting temperature but also when it cools the wax is quite brittle – making it ideal to peel away, mould-like, if one wants a memento (and I did), but also by far the easiest to brush off carpets and furniture. It also clings like a limpet to hairs, as she was to find out.

Bent Candle
Bent Candle (Photo credit: Opspin)

Low temperature candles are good for accuracy too – you can hold them quite close to the victim without the screams becoming unendurable.

She positioned herself , thrusting outwards and stretching everything for me as I attached my longest spreader bar between her ankles and a second, slightly shorter, to her collar and then her wrists. At first I fastened it behind her neck but she whinged and I relented, re-fastening it in front. After all, it was not my purpose that she should not be comfy – just that she should not be capable of interfering.

She closed her eyes. I dribbled a little wax on the inside of her thigh. She seethed. I let the dribble move closer until a steady two or three drips per second (these Spa candles burn fast – another advantage in my book) was dripping onto the top of her business end and dribbling down a little further before it solidified, creamy white. At this point she was roaring and I was ignoring it.

For twenty minutes or so I dribbled the pool of first one candle, then it’s twin, onto my darling’s lotus until the whole thing was covered by a carapace of wax, around 5mm thick. We’d used more than half of both candles.

I took pains to make sure I did not just create another layer, but always covered some fresh flesh too: we didn’t want the bellowing to stop, did we?

But, I could see her becoming more uncomfortable (more from the bondage than the wax) than I desired, so I let her blow out the tormenting flames and released her legs and arms. And took a gentle finger to lady jane. She moaned – but quite differently to the angry hippo bellows drawn from her by streams of hot wax.

“Is that nice?” I asked. Fervent nods. Sighs through half-parted lips. “would you like to try?”. “Yesssss”.

She took three fingers and began to rub the wax back to a state of warm translucency. I gently bent away two of the fingers, reminding her that this was a spectator sport and not for her satisfaction, and let her carry on for just a little while.

Then we started to strip the wax. Most came away in a single chunk – a sort of plug (I think, someday, she may be taken out in this condition: It would amuse me greatly). And I got my memento – the wax cap clasping her clitty came away easily and now resides in my treasure box, along with two nipple moulds from an earlier session.

Some of the bits running along each side of her slit refused to budge though, caught on unshaved hairs. I volunteered to deal with them and just pulled hard (and fast – most unsubtle). The bellows were the evening’s best.

We cuddled, we talked. She obviously wanted to play with her clitty again. “Was it strange? I asked, “when it was covered with wax”.

“Uh-huh: It didn’t feel like it was me doing it, not quite – it felt like we’d been separated. It was good. Different – but good”.

“Would you like to do it again?”. Vehement nods. “Now?” “Mmm – err, yes” she said, quietly and unsure whether she’d be allowed the privilege. I re-lit a candle.

Originally posted on Informed Consent, May 09.

First night; an exhibitionist’s tale


I took her home. I told her to make ready.

It was her desire, her fantasy. But she would not have done it except for me: she needed to know she was pleasing me.

She wore her reddest lipstick and almost her reddest nails, her red, lacy, bra and 286723panties and beautiful sheer black stockings, her scarlet heels and covered herself up with her black macintosh. Before we left I insisted she wear her ankle and wrist cuffs. What colour? Red of course.

She walked proudly to the car – but I knew she was nervous, terribly nervous. She wasn’t the only one. She had smudged her nails readying herself – but I was taking wrong turnings to the destination, 20 minutes away, where we had promised to meet our first audience.

I kept glancing at the tom-tom and gave her a countdown. “Just 9 minutes to go” I said. “I think I am going to vomit”, she replied.

She was breathing heavily. I squeezed her hand.

We drew into the appointed place. At first I could just see one white van – but then, further down, Other dark shapes lurked.

We parked between them, switched off. I kissed her, held her for a moment and asked if she still wanted to please me this way. She looked terribly scared but nodded, tight lipped. “Sure?” , I said. She nodded again.

I told her to take her mac off and asked if she were ready. She pulled a black mask from a pocket and tied it around her eyes. “Your public awaits” I said and switched on the interior lights.

She changed, in an instant – and, as the car doors slammed around us, I saw my showgirl grin.

She lay back on the reclined seat as I asked her to play with herself. I told her she had four, maybe five observers, all watching eagerly, attentively, quietly.

I told her to take her bra off and hold up her breasts for her viewers. She did better – one by one, she pulled her titties up to her moth and bit and sucked her nipples til they were, I think, harder than I’d ever seen them before.

I told her to turn over and kneel – to push her arse in the air and pull her panties tight over her cheeks. She knew she was being naughty, so I spanked her. Not hard, because this was good naughty – but hard enough to produce an attractive wiggle.

Now it was time to reveal all – I asked her to remove her panties and to show everyone her freshly shaved and sopping pussy.

She was really into it by now and I knew she’d do anything I asked, without disturbing her showgirl smile.

I told her to raise her legs onto the dashboard to give everyone a clearer view. She did so, eagerly, and slammed a heel into the wheel, setting off the horn. Our audience took a step back – and she started to laugh, almost hysterically. Within a moment the guys outside realised we hadn’t wanted to scare anyone off and gathered around again. They took a pace back again when I started the engine – our windows had got rather steamed up and the air conditioning rapidly cleared them.

By the time our public could see her clearly again she had taken the silver dildo from the glove compartment and was sucking it suggestively in true porn-star style.

She lowered it and pushed it into her dripping fanny, smiling eagerly. I asked her to use her fingers and had to instruct her to spread herself properly and use just one red talon to rub, so as not to obscure people’s view.

She knew what she was there for, to show herself off for others’ pleasure, and she obliged, touching herself slowly and sensously, with much pouting and wriggling.

I was so proud of her.

I turned her over again and invaded her anus wih my finger. She moaned and sighed and then bucked hard into my fist: She was enjoying herself: “My turn” I said. She knew what to do.

I reclined my seat, unzipped my fly and pulled my penis out. She covered it instantly with her clever mouth and sucked and licked. I was ready and took only a moment. She held it all and licked me clean.

Then she sat up, holding my semen in her mouth and smiling, closed-lipped. She straightened, looked – for the first time – at the guys outside and then back at me. I assented: She gulped and swallowed – just like she does at home. I kissed her.

“Time to switch the lights off?”. She nodded.


BelasariusHe did not speak. He shut the door of the flat. Her heels clicked sharply on the paving as he  marched her swiftly up the hill toward the pub, two minutes away. They both knew precisely what the evening held. Neither wanted it, both agreed it was needed.

Today, they arrived at the munch well before anyone else. Only the greeter was there, her A-Z prominent on the table. They sat and talked for a while, although she knew she was making little sense, her mind too full of things promised.

More people arrived. “Shall I?” she asked, almost eagerly. “No” he said, “We don’t want to frighten the newbies”.

Friends came. Kissed her. Hugged her. She felt his hand grip her shoulder as he left her side. Now, she knew, it was down to her. Her dignity; her strength.

“It’s time,” said a friend. “Come,” said another. They led her to the pillar in the middle of the room. She placed her nose against it and knew she was alone.  She felt voices echo around her but was not conscious of what they were saying. No one she knew approached her. A drunken man asked her if she was with anyone. She knew she should not answer but blurted, “I don’t know anymore”. Another friend led the drunk away (“He’s gone home”, her friend smiled, softly in her ear; “not long now”). She knew her friend did not mean the drunk.

The voices of the munchers around her were a dull drone. Her ears held a far-off roaring, like sounds from shells picked from childhood’s beaches. She felt bereft and tried just to feel small instead: to remember the smell of sun-dried seaweed and salty seaside donkeys. She wanted to hug the pillar but braced her arms behind her and stood straight. She allowed herself the luxury of pressing her forehead against the pillar’s wooden warmth, rubbing it slightly to feel the grain. She blinked away a tear

Back in the flat, he waited. Anxious and earnest, he stared at the red paddle on the table and put his head in his hands. His palms itched and tingled, though he had done nothing yet. He felt beads of sweat forming in his scalp. He took a handkerchief and wiped his neck. He picked up his phone, breathed deep – and dialled

A red-nailed hand touched her cheek; She turned to see two familiar, concerned, anxious faces. They took a hand each and led her from the bar. Arm in arm the two pulled her over the cobbles, too fast to be steady on her heels.

“Are you sure”, one said to her. She bit her lip and nodded. “I can cane a man”, said one “but I’m not sure I can see a woman get hit”. “Please” she said “Don’t leave me”. They squeezed her and the smallest woman reached up and kissed her. Hard.  They crossed the road, a car weaving around them. She wanted to thank them but already her breath was too ragged and her throat too dry.

They pushed her though the open door and slammed it shut behind her. Ahead she could see him: She caught his eye – he looked startled – almost scared. He shook as he rose and took the paddle from the table. She let herself be pushed over the arm of the sofa. In an instant her swirling, brown ruched skirt was tossed over her back. She felt her legs pulled up and off the floor – one of her attendants was hauling her legs out, holding her straight. The other was holding her by her elbows and looking right into her eyes. She teetered on the brown leather sofa arm.

The first blow came. No warning. Not even time for a deep breath and to brace: Her world exploded. “One” She screamed, her captors in shrill chorus with her. She shuddered and she felt insanely alive. Three more followed – too quick to count. She knew she was already bruised. She exulted.

He had never needed to forgive her. Her return was enough. But they both knew she could not be his once more until she had driven out her needless guilt.

“Go on,” said a firm female voice behind her. Again the pain in her behind seared her brain. “Five” they yelled.

Four more followed. She was sobbing now. The woman holding her elbows was stroking her hair and telling her it was half over. He stopped. She felt his hand on her cheek and turned. She imagined she saw her reflection in his face, red and wet with tears. “Be brave,” He said, ”Be proud”

“I have to have to pay” she said

Three more blows landed. Much softer. She gritted her teeth and swore. He stopped.
“You bastard” She said. “My bastard” She said. “Again” she said. “Now” trembled the female voice that held her ankles. “You want this. Do it right” said the woman holding her elbows.

The blows began again. She could feel him breathing between each one. She knew his passion had gone. That now, it was purely technical. She felt him searching her buttocks for the least bruised areas. Could feel the paddle almost touch her as he measured his next target, aiming to create a dark and even blue. She heard the rush of air as he took the biggest back swing he could. She had time to grit her teeth before her world dissolved in helpless tears once more

They were counting for her now. She tried, through sobs, but the numbers meant nothing. She heard what they said and mumbled in repetition. “ Nineteen” they said. “Nineteen” She responded. The paddle raced skyward once more. “Wait” She cried

“Let go of me” She grumbled and twisted and tossed trying to rid herself of her captors. The attendants, her friends, looked at him. He nodded.

They dropped her and she collapsed in a heap on the cushions. She stood. She wobbled. All three caught her. She brushed them away and stomped to the end of the sofa. She laid her head and shoulders on its arm, rearranged her skirt and put her hands behind her, fiercely pulling her buttocks wide apart. “Hit me” She said. She had stopped crying. She waited

She saw him move behind her once more and raised her hand. “Not yet” She wept – but he heard her determination. She fussed behind herself and pulled the string of her thong to one side knowing he would see the little puckered anus he  adored. Again she pulled her cheeks apart and flat.  “This is not defiance,” she whispered. He knew it to be true and he swore to remember the pride in her voice.

He steeled himself to make the perfect final stroke, flat across both buttocks. Centre of impact – that perfect, accommodating tiny pink rose. He stepped back, measured the paddle carefully over his intended target. He frowned. “Your hands” he said, caressing one set of carefully grown, cherished fingertips

“Buggar my hands” She said. She needed to feel his anger this last time.
The blow came instantly, crushingly: She couldn’t even think about the pain in her arse – because the pain in her hand was all she could feel. She shot upright sucking on her knuckles, tears streaming for the final time. He grabbed her hair – jerked her to him, held her, squeezed her. He waved her friends away. Quietly they closed the door.

She collapsed, He broke her fall and pulled himself into her. She tossed her head back and stared at him – terror in her eyes. Had she done enough? He reached for her throat and squeezed. Hard.

“is it over?” She wheezed. “It has begun,” he said.
She fainted.

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