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~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Small Breasts

Watching Her Cum

An Ode to Blow Jobs

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Of Skeletons and Secrets
Would you be bored?

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

jerusalemmortimer.com/silent-night-some-christmas-thoughts-on-gags/

Lust Fish

Erotic Fiction

Unbroken by Oleander Plume
A Meal And A Show
Fucking Snow
Getting Off Is So Much Fun
Wicked Wednesday – Merry Christmas
Advent Calendar 24

Erotic Non-Fiction

Christmas Drinks At The Y
Nothing But Mouth
The things he does
The First Submission
Canadian Mist, Eggnog, Ginger Ale and You.
A Peachy Night
Skeletons In My Closet
Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 28
a most pleasant fuck
Sex on Meth
Unwrapped

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Stat
Masturbation Fantasy’s Unintended Consequence
All Health Care Costs Are Not Created Equal
Keep Private Lives Private
The Myth of Magnum

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

My Subby Not-Quite-Year
He’s Got The Look
On femininity and rebellion
What Fifty Shades Doesn’t Tell You
Humiliation: hotness and hard-limits
Beginner’s Guide to Electro Sex – Essentials

Poetry

Because of the Way He Held Me
Cricket – A Lusty Limerick

Writing About Writing

7 Signs You’re An Erotica Writer
Why Do I Do What I Do

Blogging

Best & Worst of 2014 & New Years Resolutions

Events

Munches, The Club and Beyond (Part 1)

Thoughts and Advice on Sex and Relationships

He brought me bacon.
Menstruation. Does it weird you out?

I also wondered if I’d been unreasonable. I’d felt that it was right to punish Raylene, and I’d acted on it. But being called sir wasn’t usually something I insisted on. I supposed it was that I’d given that order, and then warned her. She’d given me authority, and so she had to take it seriously.

I said, “That’s better, girl.” I leaned forward, over her shoulder so she could see my face. “And look, you won’t always have to call me sir. Not with everything you ever say. But for now it’s good practice, and I’ll give you double if you miss again.”

“Two … of those? Um sir.” 

“Yes. And if I have to remind you again after that… Well, you do the math.”

I watched her thinking, and her face fall a little, when she imagined getting four strokes like the stinger she’d just had. “I see. Sir. Oh god.”

“When I tell you to do something, I want you to do as you’re told. I think you’ll remember now. Don’t you?”

“Oh god, yes sir.”

I kissed her, and we paid attention to nothing but the kiss for a minute or so. When we separated I had my hand, the one holding the strop, resting on her ass, and she was smiling.

I said, “This is all new, love, and I know you’re trying to be good. I’m going to help you learn to do as you’re told. Sometimes that’ll hurt. But you’ll learn.”

Raylene nodded. I suspected that this was comedy, and that we both thought so. But we were prepared to be solemn about it. “I understand that, sir. I am trying, sir.”

So I’d convinced her, at least, that I was being reasonable. Perhaps I was. “You’re a good girl, love, and I do know it. Now give me your clothes.”

Raylene was still holding her jeans, panties and jersey, all she had been wearing, in a tight bundle against her breasts. It had become her security.

She looked at my face, but I wasn’t smiling at her. The tension felt good, and I didn’t want to dissipate it.

I took the ball of clothes in my hands, but Raylene resisted, holding them back. Then she realised what she was doing. She took her hands away as if the bundle had turned into a hot brick.

Now I did smile at her. It may not have been reassuring.

Raylene’s eyes were wide open, but I doubt she was looking at anything in particular. But I was still watching the band left by the razor strop declaring itself across the lower slopes of Raylene’s bottom, a clearly defined stripe, darkly pink, about two inches wide. In a few more seconds the pink had brightened to fiery red, and the skin was raising itself a little where the edges of the strop had impacted.

The pain, like the colour, was still becoming deeper and brighter. Raylene had frozen for those seconds, shocked to find herself punished, and then by the sheer ruthless pain left in the razor strop’s wake. At last she gasped for breath, then another, then another.

Then she found her voice. “Rii! Ooooah! Oh fuck! Jesus fuck!”

Which, I suppose, is the sort of thing you might as well say, under those circumstances.

I put the hand that held the razor strop on Raylene’s hip, to let her feel comfort and authority. I brushed the fingers of my other hand gently down her bottom, to explore that broad welt. I could have found it with my eyes closed.

Raylene’s skin was cool above the mark, then suddenly hot at the thin, raised horizontal line along the top of that vivid stripe. Below that were two inches of heated flesh. Raylene held her breath again, concentrating on the feel of my fingers, and fearful that I might add further punishment. Her skin glowed heat against my fingertips. At the stripe’s lower edge there was another thin raised line.

I explored lower, stroking the soft, intimately curved flesh below the stripe, slipping my fingers between her buttocks to press lightly against her anus, and then the delicate skin beyond. Raylene shivered at that touch.

She said nothing. I smacked the undercurve of her bottom lightly, then again. There she was soft, and cool, and still unwhipped. She wouldn’t stay unwhipped for much longer, I thought. I was going to make her glow from the crown of her buttocks to the top two or three inches of her thighs. And then I’d enjoy that heat while I fucked her from behind.

Raylene froze again when I patted her, though I’d meant the pats fondly and reassuringly. Perhaps reassurance wasn’t what she needed. She had urgencies to deal with: her pain and the knowledge that since she’d just been punished so firmly, she must therefore have done wrong.

She said, “Oh sir, I’m sorry, sir, I knew I’m meant to call you sir, I’m so sorry, sir.”

I wondered how many times you could fit sir into a sentence.

Raylene nodded, indicating the further door with her head. “My room’s at the end of the corridor. You’ll have to excuse the mess a bit. I wasn’t expecting … Oh well.”

And that – her failure to say “Sir” after so many reminders – is how these things get decided. Just a few moments earlier I’d thought that I couldn’t wait and I was going to fuck her on the stairs, here and now. The razor strop experience could come later. But we’d got to the stage that we both understood that Raylene was supposed to do as she was told, and I felt genuine indignation when she didn’t. So I didn’t even think or hesitate before I lifted the razor strop and swung it.

The leather lashed across her lower buttocks, the end wrapping round and biting into her right hip. The sound of that impact filled the corridor. It seemed to fill the house. Silence echoed, afterwards. I’d struck her much harder than I would have, if I’d thought for even a second.

But I wasn’t shocked by that; the force that had made me punish her still drove me. “Raylene, you’ve been told. What do you call me?” I used the command voice. That also seemed quite loud. 

Raylene’s eyes were wide, as this sudden event and the pain it had brought continued to sink in. The stripe was already rising and prettily red. She clutched her bundle of clothes tight against her breasts. Her mouth opened, silently. She hadn’t cried out.

I watched her, fascinated. Her pain was still building.

Like this.

A lot of art directors, glamour photographers and such, assume that if a woman is dressed to be sexy, then she must be wearing a garter belt, which holds up the suspenders that hold up her stockings. 

There must have been a time, maybe no later than the 1950s, when women wore that stuff for practical reasons, like having their stockings stay up. Because bare legs or jeans were “common”, and pantihose hadn’t happened yet.

With occasional help from the wind, or bicycles and such, men would sometimes get glimpses of thigh with the suspender stripe. That was definitely something they liked. So suspenders became a turn-on. 

When a man got lucky and undressed the woman, there’d be this yummy bit of bare thigh between the lower edge of her knickers and the stocking tops, with the suspenders providing a sort of racing stripe down the thigh.

I can see why it appealed to men of that generation.

But to me it means very little. It’s like a historical re-enactment of something I never experienced and that doesn’t mean much to me. When a woman dresses up for me in suspenders and the rest of it, I know she’s trying to look sexy, and that is the thing that’s sexy. Not the suspender belt.

Very silly.

You see the odd schoolgirl spanking photo shoot in which the “schoolgirl” wears suspenders. To me it just looks incongruous and kind of silly, in a very unsexy way. 

The girls I fancied as a boy, and the women I fancy now, generally wear cotton knickers with jeans or a skirt, and shoes’n’socks. So that’s my experience, and what I encountered once I had the social skills to start unwrapping women’s clothes.

One girlfriend of mine would wear a pair of cotton knickers with monkeys on them when she wanted to get spanked. It generally worked within ten seconds or so. (There’s probably a book in that: “How to train your dom”.) 

This is the maiden all forlorn, whose tights are thoroughly tattered and torn.

If I do have a women’s underwear-related fetish, it’s probably laddered or torn pantihose, with a bit of skin showing through. That does give me an urge to take that nylon ladder or tear and rrrrrip it all the way until I can get at the woman inside.

That “if” was bullshit. Of course I have a women’s, um, smalls-related fetish, and that ripped tights thing is it. They go well with boots.

These thoughts were sparked off by a post by Girl on the Net, at: www.girlonthenet.com/2015/01/04/sexy-lingerie-versus-casual-sleepwear/#more-4048 

Raylene paused for a second, then opened her mouth obediently, releasing the razor strop into my hand. There was a wet semicircle bounded by teeth marks. Raylene had taken great care not to let the strop fall.

The thought made me smile, though she couldn’t see me. She knew I’d punish her if she disobeyed, so she tried hard to do as she was told. So long as the orders I gave her were possible, and hot. We had each other where we wanted.  

Always an option.

I hadn’t made up my mind what I wanted to do next. Whipping her with that strop would certainly be a pleasure. I’d hurt her nipples back in the kitchen, and that had made me hard. That lust was still driving me. I imagined her gasps and cries when I used the strop, her bottom jerking under the lashes in that beautiful dance of pain and excitement, and the progressive reddening of her buttocks and thighs.

And I imagined how soft and giving she’d be when I’d finished, and how much she’d want to feel me hard and inside her.

Those were heady ideas, and images. But I also wanted to fuck her immediately, here on these steps, my cock in her right now, no delay.

While I considered these two options I held the leather to Raylene’s lips for her to kiss, which she did without instruction.

And, I noticed after keeping the leather to her lips to show that more than a casual salute was required, she kissed it with her eyes closed, and something like passion. She worked earnestly at the leather as though pleasuring a lover with her lips and tongue. She was in her own world.

So I decided I’d take her to her bedroom and – though I’d swing the strop across her hips and sides while I fucked her – we’d fuck in relative comfort. She’d be expecting to get to get a good hard taste of the strop first, but we could get round to that later. First and urgently, I wanted my cock in her.

I took the strap away from her mouth again, and swung it lightly across her hip. When Raylene had focussed her attention on me, I said, “Which door? Which one’s your bedroom?”

2014 was perhaps the worst year of my life. My mother died, my father lost his senses, and I lost my slavegirl, the woman I loved. I wasn’t prepared for that stuff, and hadn’t guarded myself against how much it was going to hurt. As years go, 2014 sucked, for me (I hope you had a better time). I spent a lot of 2014 grieving.

To have and to hold. And to love.

It’s probably wrong to say so, since death, dementia and the loss of love are all weighty events, important in anyone’s life. A man should grieve. But I’m bored with it now. I’m bored with my sad self. I’m bored with grief.  

I know that love doesn’t happen because you look for it. I even know that love seems to hide when you’re looking, and it only comes to you when you’ve given up. I don’t know why this is, bu