Friday, September 28, 2012


She needs him too much. Too much. It has to stop.
Why? She rages. Why after all this time of denial can she not be her need. The need defines her. She sought him out of need, she suffers his too frequent absences out of need. Is one day too long, two days, three days an eternity? Between encounters, and they are becoming fewer, the high wears off sooner, the dullness settles again from the air, and she is back to waiting. Stupidly, like a blind and wounded animal, lifting her face to the sense of his return.
She is not a stupid woman. She is not inconsequential. The conflict sickens her. She has no appetite for food, exhausted from trying to cloak her appetite for him. She feels herself faded and fading, yet her physical allure intensifies. She has that translucence that is the mark of good character strafed by grief. She draws attention from men and feels only vague contempt, then terrible guilt at their hurt feelings. But she is helpless to return their interest. She doesn’t understand their words. Only feels a trail of hurt that drifts behind her.
There was that time that was so different. Usually he undresses her slowly, teasing, kissing and caressing, talking casually. She is shy, it’s her nature, she blushes and turns away and this delights him, he turns her this way, that way, gazing at her, watching her redden, feeling her rising, excited distress. But that time he pulled her to him roughly and yanked down her shorts and underwear. He stood her between his legs and smacked her hard and fast. It particularly disturbs and arouses her to be spanked standing up. With no preparation to his silent brusqueness she is shocked and almost frightened, clinging to his shoulder under the pounding of the blows. The smell of her surrounds them as she wettens.
He mutters something and drags her by the arm, tripping over her clothing, to the bathroom, forcing her down over the vanity.
"Look in the mirror," he says as he draws his belt out. "Look at yourself."
She shakes her head, squeezing her eyes closed tightly. It’s him that likes to look, she doesn’t want that image.
The belt cracks across her cheeks. No words, no warm up, hard and fast, again and again.
"Look," he says. "Look in the mirror at us."

She opens her eyes and gasps at his face in the mirror. His eyes glitter, his lips are drawn and wet. The cords in his neck stand out as he throws his weight behind the blows. He watches her mons bump the edge of the vanity. His rhythm is unvaried, as always, but his usual meticulous coverage is off, he hits the same places over and over, he’s watching the mirror.
She finally cries out. He stops and lies against her, panting, then stands and lifts her around the waist and carries her, legs bumping, to the big bed. He tosses her on her back, watching the pain shock spread through her as her asscheeks slam contact to the softest comforter that feels like sandpaper when she drags herself towards him. He can’t get his pants down before her legs are wrapped around his waist. Her body arched like a steel cable she pulls him into her. They clutch hands tightly, the time will be soon.
They can climax together. They’ve done it since their second time. She feels the hum of his blood change, he feels her clench high and to the left. They spill together, spasm together, whirlpools inside the granite of their union, the fierceness of their concentration.
This memory overcomes her. She straps herself, swinging wildly, catching her hip, her lower back, her shoulder blade. She falls onto the bed and straps her belly and her breasts, she spreads her legs and strikes in vain. The only one she feels from this stupid, inconsequential, too soft woman’s belt, is when it hits in her in the face. She’s never felt that before. She masturbates ferociously, knowing she’ll cripple herself for orgasm, not caring.
Finally she fumbles for the favored dildo and presses it between her beaten lips. Her cunt suck at it desperately, trying to make it come insider her.
She cries against her closed eyelids, cradling her burning clit. She doesn’t know any way to change this. She is this need. It’s all she wants to be.

Friday, September 21, 2012

Blue Heaven

For my birthday I bought myself art.

A soft sculpture.

Like all great art, it fires the imagination.

And stirs the soul.

The genius of this piece is in the knotting, that cascades down the strands.With its perfect weight, each swing is different, each strike is different, as the knots form and reform their patterns in kaleidoscopic blue.

The Custom Blue Flogger, by Conina, is available here.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

A Tribute

Hand Spanker to the World
Tool User, Stacker of Sting,
Player of Roles and the Nation’s Bottom Handler
Stormy, husky, brawling,
Spanker of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have been your painted woman under the gas lamps luring the farm boy.

They tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On my cheeks and legs I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.

And having answered so I turn once more to those who would sneer and say to them:

Come and show me another Spanker with lifted head singing
so proud alive and coarse and strong and cunning.

Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Building, breaking, rebuilding.

Bragging and laughing that under his palm is the pulse.

Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
Youth, half naked, sweating, proud to be Hand
Spanker, Tool User, Stacker of Sting, Player of Roles
and Bottom Handler to the Nation.

Parody of "Chicago" by Carl Sandburg, 1916


Thursday, September 6, 2012


I have diverse interests. I'll label this: F/F/f, spanking, anal, aftershave.


"I’ve found us a third," M says.
How sweet is this woman? How thoughtful? She’s found us another Bottom to play with? She reads my mind?
"Another Top," she says. "Her style is very different from ours so we’ve been talking about it, deciding what we wanted to do."
What you wanted to do to me?

Aloud I say, "okay?"

M is very thorough. Thinks things through. Safe word in place, boundaries clearly established, some restrictions apply. All I have to do is go along.

I say, "okay?"

We meet in the storeroom of the office building the woman manages. She knows where the custodial staff will be, no one will interrupt us. It’s not a bad space. Darkish. Smells like fresh paper.

She is darkish and smells like aftershave. She does. Perfumes smell different on different people. Or it’s aftershave.

She says, "you will call me Mommy."

Oh here we go. So not, no. I could get into that, I could call someone Mommy. But not you. You’re possibly the most unMommy-like creature I’ve ever seen. Handsome woman, I don’t mean that, but you’re not Mommy and you’re pushy and you’re standing too close. Tell you what, I’ll call you Ma. That’s the Chinese word for pompous overbearing bulldyke.

Aloud I say, "okay."

Ma lands one on my right butt cheek that hurls me into M, elbowing her left tit severely. Which I hope to hell hurts.

Ma’s right hand is a solid block of wood. Or titanium. The muscles of her arm have been removed and replaced with steel cables, powered by hydraulics in her shoulder. Ma’s a beast.

I right myself and glare meaningfully at M.

Do you even know this woman? "Her style is different than ours?" Her solar system is different than ours. She’s some kind of Spankbot. What did you get me into?

Aloud I say nothing, just grunt as I am slammed over Ma’s lap. What’s she sitting on? I didn’t see a chair.

Ma has one speed, Stun. There are no spaces between her fingers. They don’t cup, they don’t wrap. She must have thumbs, she got my clothing down with record efficiency, but in no other way is this appendage a hand.

It’s a baseball bat, it’s a club, it’s –

It’s over? She stands me up, facing away from her, facing M. My butt aches with that far off tolling bell feeling. As the pain rolls in, that bell is going to get louder and louder and it tolls for thee.

M steps forward and holds my arms above the elbows. Something smooth and slender and hard touches my anus. Twirls lightly at my anus. I hear Ma uncork a vat of lubricant. She pushes some into me and says conversationally, "Now you’re going to fuck this."

I say to M, "I don’t want to, don’t tell me to do this."

Now on top of everything else I have to deal with demonic possession? Something else is in here with me and it just said that out of my mouth because it wasn’t me that said it. I don’t beg. Ever. Once I locked myself in the bathroom but that was not begging. And in front of a stranger with a glass dildo? I need help. Get me an exorcist.

M pushes me down slowly, lowering me onto the thing. Being spanked standing up destroys me. Something in the maximum impact jiggle, I don’t know. Anal standing up, in this half crouch, is dizzying. There is something too perverse in a situation that makes you feel like you’re going to throw up and orgasm at the same time. It’s a paradigm shift even I can’t straddle.

"Do it yourself," M says softly, "do it to yourself." She puts my hands on her shoulders. My legs are long gone. I’m supported by her shoulders and a glass rod up my ass. How can something that slimed with cold lube burn?

I can’t cry. If this makes me cry I have to kill myself. It’s in the Code somewhere, I’ve read it.

M taking my victimhood. Making me complicit. Do it to yourself. Copulate in front of us.
She stands very close to me and my calves are pushed back into Ma’s legs from the knees down. Their woman heat sears me front and back. My heat rages through me, igniting that deep muscle burn in my bottom. I raise and lower myself, making unfamiliar noises in my throat.

Stay in the moment. Find the submission, find the surrender, find the reward.

M takes her hand from my waist and fingers me. She sets me free to come. I rock against the glass dick, my fingers digging into her shoulders. Brightness falls from the air. The inner scream. The little death.

Ma snorts and disappears. Off to clean her glass gun. M towels me down from a case of personal cleansing wipes she has thought to bring. She finds my clothes but we can’t go yet. I can’t walk. We sit on the floor forehead to forehead counting the heartbeats.

I've written about M before, here.