Fair warning, this map is not to scale.
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Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Fiction: The Confession of Lucky John
“Looks like your luck has finally run out, Lucky John,” Captain Mangebeard said. The crew laughed at this statement of the obvious. It wasn’t a funny joke but bloodlust can make the simplest things hilarious.
Lucky John nodded in agreement. This was pretty bad. His hands were bound behind his back, his boots were loaded with old biscuits and his pants had been doused in fish blood. This was not how he wanted to take a long dive off a short plank. As for the plank, it was already bending from his weight. Down below in the warm waters, he was pretty sure he saw the fin of a shark. The only bit of land to be seen was too far to swim to and a complete unknown even if he could get there. This was as bad as things could get but then again, they didn’t call him Lucky John just because he had never picked up the French pox.
“Come on boys,” Lucky John said. “We’re brothers of the sea. Can’t you find it in your heart to forgive me?”
To read more, click Whole Post
“Forgive you?” Captain Mangebeard yelled. “You had my father’s compass stashed away in your pack! That was the only thing he ever gave me and you stole it!”
“You had my good dagger stashed in your boot!” Itchy Nuts Ned said.
“You had a bottle of good rum in your bunk, when everyone thought we had drunk the last of it a month ago!” Salty Rob said.
“You always snore and swear you don’t!” yelled Good-Ears Charlie. “What? He does and that pisses me off!”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Lucky John said. The plank creaked under his weight as he wobbled above the water. “It is clear that I have wronged you. Although we are all vicious pirates who once spent a wonderful afternoon making Spaniards die a slow death, I see now that I may have gone a bit too far.”
“That was a good afternoon,” Salty Rob said. The crew agreed.
“Right, but don’t let that pleasant memory sway you,” Lucky John said. “I have been a bad crewmate, and this certain death is a just reward. I only wonder though if you could indulge me before I meet my maker. I would like a chance to confess my sins. Although I have never sat in a pew a day in my life, I find myself getting a sudden craving for religion.”
The crew muttered among themselves. They were a band of dirty nasty cutthroats who would bugger their grandfather for a bottle of rum, but they were religious boys. A man shouldn’t die a drowning shark biting death without a chance to save his immortal soul. Besides, one day they themselves will face the Lord’s judgment and it might help their cause if they can say they once helped Lucky John save his soul.
“It’s only right,” Captain Mangebeard said. “Confess your sins, Lucky John and may God have mercy on your damned soul before he commits you to the eternal hellfire you deserve.”
Lucky John looked out to sea. When he looked back at the crew he had once called brothers, the sadness in his eyes was gone. The chance to unload all of his secrets had actually brought a smile to his sea chapped lips.
“Let’s see,” Lucky John said. “Dear Captain it is my sad duty to inform you that when last we were in Port Royale, your wife gave me a send off that I know for a fact lasted an hour longer than yours did. I know this because she said me your stamina was as long as the tiny dagger you call a cock.”
“I wouldn’t snicker if I were you, Salty Rob,” Lucky John said. “I buggered your wife too, as well as Fred’s, Tommy and Bart. They were all fine lasses but really guys, you need to spend more time with them. A kind smile and a saucy word was all that was needed to part their legs. Itchy Ned, I didn’t fuck your wife for obvious reasons, but I fucked her mouth and her ass, and not in that order.”
The crew muttered darkly but they let Lucky John continue. Despite his perilous situation Lucky John was getting into it. He bounced a little on the plank as he kept talking.
“Well, this feels good. Remember the virgin daughter of the governor we kidnapped and returned with her virtue intact? Well, she didn’t exactly go back with her treasures untouched if you get my meaning. Aye, I knew we all swore to not touch her but the pretty lass begged me seven times and I am ashamed to say I gave in seven times as well. It probably ain’t safe for you to go back to Martinique.”
“Parrot Pete? Your parrot didn’t fly away; I took him to the hat maker. There was this beautiful Spanish whore with the biggest tits you ever saw, and she wanted a hat made of feathers. I know he was your lifelong companion but by Christ I swear her tits were bigger than cannonballs. She was worth every feather let me tell you.”
“One Leg Larry, your last leg wasn’t stolen by street urchins while you were asleep like I told you. I stole your leg and used it as a dildo on a rather deep whore in Trinidad. I made her a bet I could reach her deepest waters so to speak and for winning that wager, I had her three daughters. I guess I could have cut you in for a share of the wenches but it had been two months since I fucked three wenches at one time.”
“What else? That missing cask of Amontillado? Sold it to a whorehouse in St. Kitts for an all night orgy. The pearl necklace we hung Hook Hand for stealing? I gave it to a whore in Monserrat in exchange for letting me give her another pearl necklace of a more personal sort. Oh, and the bag of emeralds? Sold to whores and I can’t quite remember who or what but rest easy boys in the knowledge that I fucked the Hell out of them.”
Lucky John stood taller despite the wobble of the plank. “This does feel good. I see why the bloody Catholics like this confessing business! What else can I remember?”
“Eric, I put my dick in your mum and I’m sorry about that because she wasn’t as nearly as good as she promised she would be.
“Manny, I am the one who shot my spunk in your fine French shirt but honestly it was a slow week of wenching so you can’t blame me.”
“Oh, and remember Dandy Dan? Well his real name was really Dana and he was a she, I swear to God. She ran off to be a pirate and kept her gender a secret. I found out her secret and I should have told you lads but damn, she had the prettiest cunt of any wench I had ever seen. I kept her to myself and we used to fuck every night in the crow’s nest. I feel really bad about that boys because she used to say she wouldn’t mind servicing the entire ship. I was a little too jealous to let her do that though and for that I am real sorry. She left when her belly began to bulge and now you know why Dandy Dan decided to dessert us when we reached Jamaica.”
Lucky John paused and looked back out to sea. “Sorry about all that. I think my soul is purged now.”
“How the fuck did you do all that?” Captain Mangebeard said. “How the fuck did you betray us, steal from us and in Dandy Dan’s case, fuck us without even a hint of remorse?”
Lucky John shrugged. “Just lucky I guess.”
He jumped off the plank before the crew could rush him. He sank into the water with barely a splash. Knives, spit and a cutlass fell into the water around him as the crew gave him their own version of absolution.
“See? See? That’s what I was talking about!” Captain Mangebeard yelled. “God, what a dick! I only wish we could kill him again!”
The crew muttered in agreement and went back to the business of sailing. They hoisted sails, swabbed decks and talked about that bastard Lucky John whose luck seemed to come off the sweat of other men. Some of them wondered if Lucky John had told them every sin, while the others tried to remember if Lucky John had meet their daughters, mothers and wives. All of them however wondered if there was a way to get Lucky John’s luck.
The crew was too busy to notice a certain bastard break the surface of the water. Lucky John’s rope was cut and gone, freed with the help of a hastily thrown knife. A stunned shark floated nearby, not used to having a cutlass rammed down its throat. Within an easy swim lied an island shore that was much closer now than it was before Lucky John’s speech. Confession did little for Lucky John’s soul, but it did wonders for the distance he needed to swim.
Lucky John began his lazy swim. He didn’t know anything about the island and he had no idea if he would survive the night but that was okay. Lucky John realized long ago that luck wasn’t something that happened to someone. Luck was something you took and when it came to taking, few people were as eager to take what they want as Lucky John.
Lucky John nodded in agreement. This was pretty bad. His hands were bound behind his back, his boots were loaded with old biscuits and his pants had been doused in fish blood. This was not how he wanted to take a long dive off a short plank. As for the plank, it was already bending from his weight. Down below in the warm waters, he was pretty sure he saw the fin of a shark. The only bit of land to be seen was too far to swim to and a complete unknown even if he could get there. This was as bad as things could get but then again, they didn’t call him Lucky John just because he had never picked up the French pox.
“Come on boys,” Lucky John said. “We’re brothers of the sea. Can’t you find it in your heart to forgive me?”
To read more, click Whole Post
“Forgive you?” Captain Mangebeard yelled. “You had my father’s compass stashed away in your pack! That was the only thing he ever gave me and you stole it!”
“You had my good dagger stashed in your boot!” Itchy Nuts Ned said.
“You had a bottle of good rum in your bunk, when everyone thought we had drunk the last of it a month ago!” Salty Rob said.
“You always snore and swear you don’t!” yelled Good-Ears Charlie. “What? He does and that pisses me off!”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Lucky John said. The plank creaked under his weight as he wobbled above the water. “It is clear that I have wronged you. Although we are all vicious pirates who once spent a wonderful afternoon making Spaniards die a slow death, I see now that I may have gone a bit too far.”
“That was a good afternoon,” Salty Rob said. The crew agreed.
“Right, but don’t let that pleasant memory sway you,” Lucky John said. “I have been a bad crewmate, and this certain death is a just reward. I only wonder though if you could indulge me before I meet my maker. I would like a chance to confess my sins. Although I have never sat in a pew a day in my life, I find myself getting a sudden craving for religion.”
The crew muttered among themselves. They were a band of dirty nasty cutthroats who would bugger their grandfather for a bottle of rum, but they were religious boys. A man shouldn’t die a drowning shark biting death without a chance to save his immortal soul. Besides, one day they themselves will face the Lord’s judgment and it might help their cause if they can say they once helped Lucky John save his soul.
“It’s only right,” Captain Mangebeard said. “Confess your sins, Lucky John and may God have mercy on your damned soul before he commits you to the eternal hellfire you deserve.”
Lucky John looked out to sea. When he looked back at the crew he had once called brothers, the sadness in his eyes was gone. The chance to unload all of his secrets had actually brought a smile to his sea chapped lips.
“Let’s see,” Lucky John said. “Dear Captain it is my sad duty to inform you that when last we were in Port Royale, your wife gave me a send off that I know for a fact lasted an hour longer than yours did. I know this because she said me your stamina was as long as the tiny dagger you call a cock.”
“I wouldn’t snicker if I were you, Salty Rob,” Lucky John said. “I buggered your wife too, as well as Fred’s, Tommy and Bart. They were all fine lasses but really guys, you need to spend more time with them. A kind smile and a saucy word was all that was needed to part their legs. Itchy Ned, I didn’t fuck your wife for obvious reasons, but I fucked her mouth and her ass, and not in that order.”
The crew muttered darkly but they let Lucky John continue. Despite his perilous situation Lucky John was getting into it. He bounced a little on the plank as he kept talking.
“Well, this feels good. Remember the virgin daughter of the governor we kidnapped and returned with her virtue intact? Well, she didn’t exactly go back with her treasures untouched if you get my meaning. Aye, I knew we all swore to not touch her but the pretty lass begged me seven times and I am ashamed to say I gave in seven times as well. It probably ain’t safe for you to go back to Martinique.”
“Parrot Pete? Your parrot didn’t fly away; I took him to the hat maker. There was this beautiful Spanish whore with the biggest tits you ever saw, and she wanted a hat made of feathers. I know he was your lifelong companion but by Christ I swear her tits were bigger than cannonballs. She was worth every feather let me tell you.”
“One Leg Larry, your last leg wasn’t stolen by street urchins while you were asleep like I told you. I stole your leg and used it as a dildo on a rather deep whore in Trinidad. I made her a bet I could reach her deepest waters so to speak and for winning that wager, I had her three daughters. I guess I could have cut you in for a share of the wenches but it had been two months since I fucked three wenches at one time.”
“What else? That missing cask of Amontillado? Sold it to a whorehouse in St. Kitts for an all night orgy. The pearl necklace we hung Hook Hand for stealing? I gave it to a whore in Monserrat in exchange for letting me give her another pearl necklace of a more personal sort. Oh, and the bag of emeralds? Sold to whores and I can’t quite remember who or what but rest easy boys in the knowledge that I fucked the Hell out of them.”
Lucky John stood taller despite the wobble of the plank. “This does feel good. I see why the bloody Catholics like this confessing business! What else can I remember?”
“Eric, I put my dick in your mum and I’m sorry about that because she wasn’t as nearly as good as she promised she would be.
“Manny, I am the one who shot my spunk in your fine French shirt but honestly it was a slow week of wenching so you can’t blame me.”
“Oh, and remember Dandy Dan? Well his real name was really Dana and he was a she, I swear to God. She ran off to be a pirate and kept her gender a secret. I found out her secret and I should have told you lads but damn, she had the prettiest cunt of any wench I had ever seen. I kept her to myself and we used to fuck every night in the crow’s nest. I feel really bad about that boys because she used to say she wouldn’t mind servicing the entire ship. I was a little too jealous to let her do that though and for that I am real sorry. She left when her belly began to bulge and now you know why Dandy Dan decided to dessert us when we reached Jamaica.”
Lucky John paused and looked back out to sea. “Sorry about all that. I think my soul is purged now.”
“How the fuck did you do all that?” Captain Mangebeard said. “How the fuck did you betray us, steal from us and in Dandy Dan’s case, fuck us without even a hint of remorse?”
Lucky John shrugged. “Just lucky I guess.”
He jumped off the plank before the crew could rush him. He sank into the water with barely a splash. Knives, spit and a cutlass fell into the water around him as the crew gave him their own version of absolution.
“See? See? That’s what I was talking about!” Captain Mangebeard yelled. “God, what a dick! I only wish we could kill him again!”
The crew muttered in agreement and went back to the business of sailing. They hoisted sails, swabbed decks and talked about that bastard Lucky John whose luck seemed to come off the sweat of other men. Some of them wondered if Lucky John had told them every sin, while the others tried to remember if Lucky John had meet their daughters, mothers and wives. All of them however wondered if there was a way to get Lucky John’s luck.
The crew was too busy to notice a certain bastard break the surface of the water. Lucky John’s rope was cut and gone, freed with the help of a hastily thrown knife. A stunned shark floated nearby, not used to having a cutlass rammed down its throat. Within an easy swim lied an island shore that was much closer now than it was before Lucky John’s speech. Confession did little for Lucky John’s soul, but it did wonders for the distance he needed to swim.
Lucky John began his lazy swim. He didn’t know anything about the island and he had no idea if he would survive the night but that was okay. Lucky John realized long ago that luck wasn’t something that happened to someone. Luck was something you took and when it came to taking, few people were as eager to take what they want as Lucky John.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Exhausted Pirate Nap
Arrggg, my holiday weekend was exhausting. Went to the pool twice, took loads of pictures, ate with friends and had many many scandalous kisses. Mmm, kisses. I wish I could fill a chest with kisses and hoard them for those lonely no-kiss days.
The picture is of Sara, a naughty pirate in her own right. She had a long weekend too. Luckily she was able to stop off at the Booty Lounge and have a refreshing mug before she fell asleep in her chair. I let her wear my hat because well, just look at those tits. They spill from her corset like gold from a loaded Spanish Galleon.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Fiction: How To Whore
Cabin boy has come of age
So down to the whores to spend his wage
He’s never had a girl to plow
But hear us lad and we will tell you how
In and out slow pump, wiggle grinding hump
Spank wrestle struggle in and out slow pump
Pull down her blouse, lift her skirt,
Take your fine time lad before you spurt
Kiss and bite every inch of her skin
You never know when you’ll taste cunt again
In and out slow pump, wiggle grinding hump
Spank wrestle struggle in and out slow pump
Squeeze her tits, and pinch her nips
Until she’s dancing against your hips
Now she’s ready to take your mast
Slip right in and give her the cannon blast
In and out slow pump, wiggle grinding hump
Spank wrestle struggle in and out slow pump
When you’re done, give her a kiss
Let her know how much she will be missed
For if you treat her very nice
Maybe next time she will lower her price
In and out slow pump, wiggle grinding hump
Spank wrestle struggle in and out slow pump
So down to the whores to spend his wage
He’s never had a girl to plow
But hear us lad and we will tell you how
In and out slow pump, wiggle grinding hump
Spank wrestle struggle in and out slow pump
Pull down her blouse, lift her skirt,
Take your fine time lad before you spurt
Kiss and bite every inch of her skin
You never know when you’ll taste cunt again
In and out slow pump, wiggle grinding hump
Spank wrestle struggle in and out slow pump
Squeeze her tits, and pinch her nips
Until she’s dancing against your hips
Now she’s ready to take your mast
Slip right in and give her the cannon blast
In and out slow pump, wiggle grinding hump
Spank wrestle struggle in and out slow pump
When you’re done, give her a kiss
Let her know how much she will be missed
For if you treat her very nice
Maybe next time she will lower her price
In and out slow pump, wiggle grinding hump
Spank wrestle struggle in and out slow pump
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Pirate Week Career Choices
Just in case you are a young man or woman debating your life path, please listen to this career advice from Tim Curry from 'Muppet Treasure Island.'
I am not embarrassed to say this song is on my daily rotation.
I am not embarrassed to say this song is on my daily rotation.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Spoiler Free Pirates of the Caribbean Review
So I saw "Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End" last night with the wife and Beth. Without giving anything away, I'll just say that I liked the movie but I was the only one in my group that did. This one was much more metaphysical than the previous two, and with only two real action scenes, this movie has enough intrigue, magic, betrayal, pirate history and tension to choke a Kraken. I'm not saying it's a bad thing. It was interesting to see Jack Sparrow's version of Hell; and I really enjoyed the meeting of the Pirate Brotherhood, but even I was itching for just one more sword fight.
There is a sense of sorrow that influences the movie. It is the end of the Age of Piracy and I could feel that throughout. The ending reflected that and I was prepared for it. My companions were not and I think it's why they didn't like it.
Stick around for after the credits. There is a final scene you'll want to see.
There is a sense of sorrow that influences the movie. It is the end of the Age of Piracy and I could feel that throughout. The ending reflected that and I was prepared for it. My companions were not and I think it's why they didn't like it.
Stick around for after the credits. There is a final scene you'll want to see.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Pirate Week 2007 Begins!
Oh I know. It's Thursday. Special week long events don't start on Thursday, that's just crazy. Well that's just how Pirates sail. They do crazy unexpected shit all the time. Here's a hint; Pirate Week might not even last seven days. It might be short, it might go long. You never know with those crazy bastards.
For those of you landlubbers who were not around for last year's Pirate Week, let me explain it to you. This is a special time when we give in to the lusty pirate inside us all. We tell authority to walk the plank, we relish the freedom that comes from bad English and we celebrate the inherent sexiness of a class of scoundrel that has captured the imaginations of people for hundreds of years. Instead of 'Talk Like a Pirate Day', think of it more as 'Fuck Like a Pirate Till You Get Tired'. Trust me, it's more fun.
In these troubled times of endless war tours, rising gas prices, global warming and everyone running your life except YOU, we need to be pirates more than ever. We need to set our own course. We need to defy society and do what really makes us happy. We need to dress in ill-matching but fancy clothes. We need to tell a lovely wench or a pretty lad just exactly what we would like to do with them. Life doesn't always make us happy, and sometimes it takes thinking like a lawbreaking, morality free spawn of a bitch to get the courage to do the things that make us happy.
Pictured is Beth wearing a very lovely pirate outfit you can't quite see. You are however getting a closeup of Beth's mouth and her awesome biting skills. Like any good pirate, Beth knows when and how to bite down on something. She also has a well packed treasure chest. Just look at that smile. She was giggling as she pulled something sharp from her tits. That was one happy pirate. She knows what she wants and I have no doubt that she will one day get it.
What do you want to get?
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Princess Paddle
"Hey Shon, why the Hell do you have a tiny little paddle with lovely Princesses on it? Plus, it's really small and all plastic, so it will sting like a motherfuck. Not to mention on the other side it's PINK!"
Good question. The simple anwser is that I save this paddle for when subs/bottoms are acting like spoiled princesses. It is small and stingy which makes it the perfect anwser for a whiney uppity voice.
Plus I think Jasmine is really hot.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Erotica Alert Level: Jolly Roger Black
There is a certain movie that I already have advance tickets for this Thursday. I've been downloading shanties, reading tales of dauntless thievery and digging 'Cutthroat Island' out of the video bin. I don't want to give anything away, but very soon we may have a week of naughty nautical posts of a certain Caribbean flavor. Try to keep it on the down low; loose lips sink trousers, I mean stories.
A week of debauchery is just around the corner.
A week of debauchery is just around the corner.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Open To Desire
Being a Buddhist erotica writer has always been a paradox to me. Buddhism as I understood it was a philosophy that felt that the source of unhappiness was desire. The more you want, the more you become dependent on the things that make you happy, which will ultimately lead to unhappiness. I understood that but man, I really like sex. I like sex so much that I read about it, talk about and create nice long stories about how desire drives people to have all sorts of great times. I don't have any shame about my erotica when it comes to society values or morality, but I did have a small itch of doubt that maybe I could never be a good Buddhist unless I stopped writing about Desire and all it's fun variations.
In the past few months though, this has weighed heavily on me. The more I become involved in the BDSM community, the more I have seen the results of endlessly pursuing desire. I look at couples who share a bond and I think they are almost in a state of grace they are so happy, but then I look at the people who come to every meeting, attend every seminar and socialize so hard it looks like they are campaigning; and I just see this hungry unhappy look in their eyes. I talk to them and they talk about how they just waiting for the one person, the one night of special play or the one new way of being kinky that will just make them satisfied. These questing souls play with one another while keeping one eye open for the One who will come and make their desires come true. While this is not true of all the people I see and know, it's true of enough of them that it makes me sad.
Lately I have been lucky to have my own play partners. None of them are the One but for some reason, that didn't bother me. The fact that it didn't bother me perplexed me. I don't have a submissive, I don't have a chained up pirate queen and I don't have an attentive librarian beauty but somehow that doesn't matter. I have a few friends who like to play with me and that is so much more satisfying than I thought possible. I don't keep an eye out for my next romance and it's amazing how relaxing that is. I want to fuck the hell out of my play partners and that isn't happening, but somehow that doesn't bother me. Weirdly enough, I'm even enjoying the craving I am feeling.
Let me try to explain how it feels. You know how at the beach you'll stand in the sand and the waves will move bast your feet, but then the undercurrent kicks in. It drags sand across your toes making you feel like you are in motion even though you are stock still. That's what desire has felt for me at late. I can pull Ashley's hair and whisper naughty things till I am as hard as stone, but I am perfectly fine with letting her hair go and walking away. I can grip Beth's throat till she whimpers but I don't need to make her suck me to have a big weekend long smile. Desire moves over me like gritty sand through my toes and it makes me feel so alive.
Then I read Mark Epstein's book, 'Open to Desire'. The book deals with combining Buddhist theory with Western psychoanalytical methods. It also talks about sex and desire as something Buddhists need to accept and use as opposed to the practice of denial that seems to be more prevalent here in the West. It's not Desire that is the enemy, it is the clinging we do to Desire. This book suggests that we stop being unhappy in our clinging and incorporate Desire as a chance to get to know ourselves. It made me look at my desires and appreciate them for what they are, as well as letting me come to peace with the idea that my desires will never be satisfied. There is a beauty in simply wanting beauty that is independent of actually having beauty.
I am really grateful to Mark Epstein for this amazing book. It mirrors a personal journey I have been on lately but it las it out in terms and concepts I can relate to. It was an affirmation to the progress I had been making as well as a guidebook for how I can keep doing what I am doing.
If there have been any side effects it has been that I know a little too much about desire. I am a little hyper-aware of my desires right now to the point that all I want to write about it is simple fucking. I listen to songs and realize how much drama comes from the suffering of clinging. I can't even masturbate without asking myself if I am masturbating to so-and-so because of who she is or because who I want her to be. Like any good book, I have been changed and it's taking me a little while to get my bearings. I need to close my eyes and write from my cock. I can edit with my spirit later.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Bondage Braids
The wrist belongs to my wife, the rope was braided by Beth. The issues with the lighting is all me.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Open Collar
In the BDSM world, few things make me roll my eyes quicker than when people talk about collars. For the longest time I thought there was something inherently wrong with me. I'm not talking about the collars kinky people wear to simply show they are kinky. I'm talking about the collars that become invested with so much meaning and formality that you almost expect the collars to glow with their self-importance. These collars are powerful symbols of commitment on both the submissive's part and the dominant's part. The collar is a material manifestation of the power exchange. The solid feel around the neck serves as a constant reminder of the grip a dominant has on a submissive.
I just think it's a misleading lie.
Now, as the child of divorced parents and the child of a woman who married the same kind of abusive asshole three times, I might be accused of being cynical. It's just hard to be have faith in happily ever after when my own fourteen year relationship to my wife is considered some sort of longevity miracle by my already divorced friends. As an erotica writer, I receive countless e-mails from the Wish-They-Were divorced and the When-Will-I-Find-Love crowd. I look at my my own wife and see at least three points where if things had gone a little different, I'd be single right now. A sustained relationship is a miracle and having a physical symbol around just seems like you are taunting fate to me.
In my terribly short years on this Earth, I have noticed a very simple fact: healthy people grow. We change and evolve over time. We change political parties, we change musical tastes, we change which side of the paddle we are on and the things we loved ten years ago now seem silly and foolish. Those of us who never change become living caricatures, suited only for amusing stories and appearances on reality television. It's not a matter of being easily swayed as much as we are constantly learning about ourselves and what we desire. We may want to be forever with our loved ones but what we really are hoping for is that they grow and evolve with us as we grow and evolve. If the loved one doesn't, then it's time to grow apart.
This almost seems self-evident to me in BDSM. Only a few of us have been doing BDSM for our entire lifetimes. The vast majority came into BDSM because we had outgrown our old lives. Normal society wasn't enough for us anymore so we turned away and made our own path. Yet here we are, imitating the concept of marriage with leather collars believing somehow that NOW, now I am who I will always be. This person who broke away from the mainstream is the person I want to run away with and be a loose cannon forever under this new permanent never changing rebellion. Worse, the collar feels like a physical attempt to lock a person down at a point in their maturation. As if we could somehow ziplock a person and keep their love and devotion fresh forever. There is so much power, control and domination in our lifestyle that I think we sometimes forget that symbols can be stronger than we ever intended. You slap leather and chain around someone's neck, you have effectively said "Stop this wonderful growth you are doing, I love you as you are RIGHT NOW."
If the collar must be a symbol, let's alter it a little. I want my collars to be unlocked and open. I want the submissive to know I adore her at this moment in time but I could never hold her from being who she needs to be. For that matter, she needs to know that I can change too. A few years, a few decades, or a few life changing events later and I might decide that I need something else in my life. Let the open collar represent just how fleeting and wonderful desire/love can be so that maybe we'll appreciate it more when we have it. Let the openness of the collar be an invitation to evolve while serving as a reminder of where they are now. Love someone enough to set them free; if they stay with you, fuck the hell out of them while you still can.
That's just my preference. Create your own definition and use for a collar. If you find a need for a lock around your neck then use it. I just want you to look at the symbols that bind your life and rewrite them to your needs. Love, grow and love.
Now I just need to figure out how to attach a leash to an open collar and I'm set.
I just think it's a misleading lie.
Now, as the child of divorced parents and the child of a woman who married the same kind of abusive asshole three times, I might be accused of being cynical. It's just hard to be have faith in happily ever after when my own fourteen year relationship to my wife is considered some sort of longevity miracle by my already divorced friends. As an erotica writer, I receive countless e-mails from the Wish-They-Were divorced and the When-Will-I-Find-Love crowd. I look at my my own wife and see at least three points where if things had gone a little different, I'd be single right now. A sustained relationship is a miracle and having a physical symbol around just seems like you are taunting fate to me.
In my terribly short years on this Earth, I have noticed a very simple fact: healthy people grow. We change and evolve over time. We change political parties, we change musical tastes, we change which side of the paddle we are on and the things we loved ten years ago now seem silly and foolish. Those of us who never change become living caricatures, suited only for amusing stories and appearances on reality television. It's not a matter of being easily swayed as much as we are constantly learning about ourselves and what we desire. We may want to be forever with our loved ones but what we really are hoping for is that they grow and evolve with us as we grow and evolve. If the loved one doesn't, then it's time to grow apart.
This almost seems self-evident to me in BDSM. Only a few of us have been doing BDSM for our entire lifetimes. The vast majority came into BDSM because we had outgrown our old lives. Normal society wasn't enough for us anymore so we turned away and made our own path. Yet here we are, imitating the concept of marriage with leather collars believing somehow that NOW, now I am who I will always be. This person who broke away from the mainstream is the person I want to run away with and be a loose cannon forever under this new permanent never changing rebellion. Worse, the collar feels like a physical attempt to lock a person down at a point in their maturation. As if we could somehow ziplock a person and keep their love and devotion fresh forever. There is so much power, control and domination in our lifestyle that I think we sometimes forget that symbols can be stronger than we ever intended. You slap leather and chain around someone's neck, you have effectively said "Stop this wonderful growth you are doing, I love you as you are RIGHT NOW."
If the collar must be a symbol, let's alter it a little. I want my collars to be unlocked and open. I want the submissive to know I adore her at this moment in time but I could never hold her from being who she needs to be. For that matter, she needs to know that I can change too. A few years, a few decades, or a few life changing events later and I might decide that I need something else in my life. Let the open collar represent just how fleeting and wonderful desire/love can be so that maybe we'll appreciate it more when we have it. Let the openness of the collar be an invitation to evolve while serving as a reminder of where they are now. Love someone enough to set them free; if they stay with you, fuck the hell out of them while you still can.
That's just my preference. Create your own definition and use for a collar. If you find a need for a lock around your neck then use it. I just want you to look at the symbols that bind your life and rewrite them to your needs. Love, grow and love.
Now I just need to figure out how to attach a leash to an open collar and I'm set.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Daily Reccomended Hug Allowance
I'm a toucher. It's something I became painfully aware of with my first girlfriend. She felt my touching was 'suffocating, overwhelming and just needy.' She planted that little tiny seed of doubt that spoke up when I wanted to hug later love interests. Now I can look back and see she had intimacy issues, but there is a part of me that hesitates during a hug. I never want to overstay my welcome
Because Fate has a sense of humor, I married a woman with chronic asthma and blond frizzy hair that would make Hermione seek out a flat iron. It's difficult to snuggle with a woman who could choke to death if she can't escape your arms quick enough during an asthma attack. It's hard to nuzzle someone who's hair crawls up your nose, down your throat and in your ears. We love each other, and are are always close, but there's that constant half inch barrier.
This is something I hadn't really noticed till now. The BDSM community I am in is touchy feeling. At first I thought they were all sleeping with one another but I have since found out that they just get a lot of affirmation through touching. A lot of BDSM play doesn't cross into sex, but the intimacy is there and after a good scene you feel like you just had sex. You've watched a friend slip into another mindscape and you've helped them come back to reality. How can you not feel a bond after that?
So now here I am and after playing with a few people, I find myself hip deep in hug buddies. I am in fucking heaven. I have forgotten how nice it is to just have a hand on my knee, or an arm around my shoulder. There is a sense of peace that you can only get when someone hugs you from behind. I feel sexy, but more importantly I feel comforted. I feel this abscence of loneliness that I wasn't aware was even there.
I don't want the hugs to ever stop.
Because Fate has a sense of humor, I married a woman with chronic asthma and blond frizzy hair that would make Hermione seek out a flat iron. It's difficult to snuggle with a woman who could choke to death if she can't escape your arms quick enough during an asthma attack. It's hard to nuzzle someone who's hair crawls up your nose, down your throat and in your ears. We love each other, and are are always close, but there's that constant half inch barrier.
This is something I hadn't really noticed till now. The BDSM community I am in is touchy feeling. At first I thought they were all sleeping with one another but I have since found out that they just get a lot of affirmation through touching. A lot of BDSM play doesn't cross into sex, but the intimacy is there and after a good scene you feel like you just had sex. You've watched a friend slip into another mindscape and you've helped them come back to reality. How can you not feel a bond after that?
So now here I am and after playing with a few people, I find myself hip deep in hug buddies. I am in fucking heaven. I have forgotten how nice it is to just have a hand on my knee, or an arm around my shoulder. There is a sense of peace that you can only get when someone hugs you from behind. I feel sexy, but more importantly I feel comforted. I feel this abscence of loneliness that I wasn't aware was even there.
I don't want the hugs to ever stop.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Anger In My Heart
Can't write today. Pissed off about little things and I can't find my focus. I want to forget my woes and sing angry metal lyrics. I want to shock my parents and sneer at authority. I want to rob a bank with heavy metal.
Maybe I'm just hungry. I've got an appetite for love tonight. I want to act out and bang a girl who's hair is bigger than my blue jean jacket. I want to thrust into a girl during a guitar solo.
With great Metal comes great slow ballads. You can only break so many laws and taste so many sweet things before the heart just gives out and you want to slow sway to a meaningful song played by leather men with spiky guitars.
Rock on today.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Bound and Wet
I had this dream. It was about a friend of mine and she was tied up with very wet hair. She looked sad, but she also looked like she was too aroused to stop what was making her sad. I felt bad for her and at the same time I didn't want her to be rescued.
I knew I had to take pictures of that.
So on Saturday night me and the friend I dreamed about, Beth, went to work. She brought the rope and I set up the bathtub. In the days since the initial dream, my creativity filled in the blanks that dreams always leave out. I knew I wanted her soaking wet and unhappy in the bathtub. I knew she had to be drenched and bound. I knew she had to be miserable and very horny.
I explained all this to her and she understood my goal. She tied herself up and then we drenched her in hot shower water. With her help, I bound her to the shower bar. She took a moment to imagine the feelings I wanted and then she gave me the perfect little sad and horny face.
I took the picture and said, "Beautiful."
Her face lit up. The sadness was gone and replaced with a shy pride. The beautiful sadness was gone.
"Get back into character," I said. She nodded, took a moment, and then she was poor little wet slut again.
"Perfect," I purred, and then it was gone. An encouraging compliment had wiped the pitiful set of her eyes.
"Back into character," I said.
Beth was not amused. "I was, but you keep breaking my mood."
I frowned at her. Really I was frowning at myself because I realized she was right. You would think I would know something about setting a mood and yet I was the one breaking her character. My frown must have been scary because Beth's face reverted back to sad and scared.
"I didn't mean to snap at you, I wasn't being disrespectful or anything."
What I wanted to do was comfort her and explain that she hadn't done anything wrong. Her apology was so sincere, I felt like dirt that she had taken any blame when it was I who was screwing everything up. I wanted to explain that, but the writer in me knew what I had to do.
I stepped forward and grabbed her by her throat. I pulled her head to me and looked her in the eye. I didn't speak. I let my fingers tighten a little and she groaned happily despite the fear in her eyes. There she was again. She was right where I needed her and this time, I was going to keep her there.
The pictures came easily. I didn't say another word. When she started to slip out of character, a tug on her hair, a squeeze of her throat or a pinch of a nipple put her right back into place. The tension was as strong as any d/s scene I had ever done. The euphoria of creativity was there as she endured every position I wanted her in. She stayed in character, falling deeper and deeper the more ruthless I treated her. I felt like I was writing with my camera.
Afterwards, I was in severe domspace. I was so giddy. I was so sated. There had been no sex but I felt like I had the biggest mental orgasm. I had a gig worth of pictures and the sense of accomplishment that can only come from when I finish something like BDSM Beach.
I don't remember the images in my dream anymore. They've been overwritten by the reality. From dreams, to discussion, to reality to countless moments of sad lust locked forever in jpeg; I can't shake the feeling that anything is possible now.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Siren's Tits
It was one motherfucking cold pool day. The sun was out and the lounge chairs were cooking but the actual water was freezing. Ashley and I spent thirty minutes hip deep in the water trying to work up the will to surrender our bodies to the icy chill.
Ashley plunged in. She went under the water and swam a few feet away. She poked her head back out of the water and lied to me that the water was fine. I forgave her because the water distortion made her already ample breasts gigantic looking.
"Come on Shon," she beckoned.
"Your boobs beckon to me despite my better sense."
Ashley laughed. "Come to the breasts!"
I paused. This was erotica simplified. The promise of something attractive will make us crawl through glass, brave fire or wade through really cold pool water. It's not like Ashley was offering me the chance to do something really naughty to her breasts; it was a public pool after all. It's not like I haven't seen breasts before and in fact, the person I am married to has a lovely pair herself. It's completely irrational that breasts would hold any sort of appeal when I was shivering from the cold water, but yet it was a tantalizing lure. If I could just take having my entire body coated in ice, I could be that much closer to big boobs.
I stepped into the water. I was shivering and my testicles withdrew so much I had a vagina, but I was in the water.
And I was so very close to really nice boobs.
Ashley plunged in. She went under the water and swam a few feet away. She poked her head back out of the water and lied to me that the water was fine. I forgave her because the water distortion made her already ample breasts gigantic looking.
"Come on Shon," she beckoned.
"Your boobs beckon to me despite my better sense."
Ashley laughed. "Come to the breasts!"
I paused. This was erotica simplified. The promise of something attractive will make us crawl through glass, brave fire or wade through really cold pool water. It's not like Ashley was offering me the chance to do something really naughty to her breasts; it was a public pool after all. It's not like I haven't seen breasts before and in fact, the person I am married to has a lovely pair herself. It's completely irrational that breasts would hold any sort of appeal when I was shivering from the cold water, but yet it was a tantalizing lure. If I could just take having my entire body coated in ice, I could be that much closer to big boobs.
I stepped into the water. I was shivering and my testicles withdrew so much I had a vagina, but I was in the water.
And I was so very close to really nice boobs.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Save Yourself
Women are not the only ones who dream of being rescued by a dashing dramatic figure. There were many a time growing up that I wished, prayed and begged for a beautiful woman to sweep in and give me all the love and happiness that I could handle. Granted, I wanted to be the heroic one and do all the dramatic stuff but if I am honest with myself, I have to admit that I have spent a few years waiting for a special someone to find me and be that important part that makes me happy.
Just like little girls have to learn that Prince Charming can't fix all their problems, I think boys sometimes have to realize that Cinderella is not going to pop into their life unexpected at a grand ball; and even if she does, she's not going to make everything else in your life perfect. Life is what you make of it, and sometimes the bastards that are writing our stories think we need to wait a few more chapters or years before they drop in the plot devolpment of your dreams.
I say fuck the writer. In the story of your life you need to take over editing duties. You need to make yourself happy. Part of that is to stop looking for happiness from others, but a bigger part is to realize that you can save yourself from the troubles of life. Be your own Prince Charming. Be your own White Knight. Get yourself out of the mess you are in. You deserve to be rescued and you know, I think you're up for the job.
With that in mind, I'm off to the pool today. I'm inviting a lovely woman to join me, but she's not coming over to rescue me from a week of stress. That's my responsibility and its something I am becoming quite good at.
Just like little girls have to learn that Prince Charming can't fix all their problems, I think boys sometimes have to realize that Cinderella is not going to pop into their life unexpected at a grand ball; and even if she does, she's not going to make everything else in your life perfect. Life is what you make of it, and sometimes the bastards that are writing our stories think we need to wait a few more chapters or years before they drop in the plot devolpment of your dreams.
I say fuck the writer. In the story of your life you need to take over editing duties. You need to make yourself happy. Part of that is to stop looking for happiness from others, but a bigger part is to realize that you can save yourself from the troubles of life. Be your own Prince Charming. Be your own White Knight. Get yourself out of the mess you are in. You deserve to be rescued and you know, I think you're up for the job.
With that in mind, I'm off to the pool today. I'm inviting a lovely woman to join me, but she's not coming over to rescue me from a week of stress. That's my responsibility and its something I am becoming quite good at.
Friday, May 04, 2007
A Hundred Promises
Promise me a hundred strokes every day. No matter what happens, no matter whom we meet or what befalls us, promise me a hundred strokes every day or night.
A hundred kisses.
A hundred tugs of your hand.
A hundred licks of your tongue.
A hundred embraces of your cunt.
A hundred clenches of your ass around my cock.
Just promise me a hundred every day to prove that you want me.
And every day I’ll give you what you need.
A hundred bites.
A hundred pinches.
A hundred dirty words.
A hundred slaps of my hand.
A hundred thrusts of my cock.
I’ll give you a hundred reminders that you are mine.
A hundred kisses.
A hundred tugs of your hand.
A hundred licks of your tongue.
A hundred embraces of your cunt.
A hundred clenches of your ass around my cock.
Just promise me a hundred every day to prove that you want me.
And every day I’ll give you what you need.
A hundred bites.
A hundred pinches.
A hundred dirty words.
A hundred slaps of my hand.
A hundred thrusts of my cock.
I’ll give you a hundred reminders that you are mine.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Fiction: The Right Punishment
Cathy was crying. My best friend since middle school was sobbing on my shoulder, and I couldn’t understand why. She had lost her wallet, and I had come over to help look, but that couldn’t explain why she was almost wailing in sadness. This is the girl who’d refused to cry when she broke her ankle in track, refused to cry when her grandmother died and hadn’t shed a single tear when her husband asked for a divorce. Tears were what I did, not Cathy.
“It’s OK,” I said, not feeling OK in the least. “Let’s make a list of what was in your wallet and then we’ll report all the credit cards and figure out what needs to be replaced.”
Cathy cried more loudly.
To read more, click Whole Post
What’s the matter?” I asked in my most comforting voice. Cathy wouldn’t say.
I held Cathy as she cried. Instead of thinking about what could possibly be bothering her, I thought about the weirdness of her not telling me. We were buddies. We were best friends. We told each other everything. She knew I was part of a kinky bondage community, although that sort of thing seemed silly to her. I knew the approximate cock size of every man she had ever been with. She knew I got a hard-on every time I heard a Stevie Nicks song, while I knew she liked to masturbate to football games. We had no secrets or shame anymore, but here she was, crying about something I couldn’t understand.
She said something, but I couldn’t hear her. I peeled her tear-stained face from my wet shirt and made her look at me.
“I used to lose my wallet all the time,” she said. “My parents called it ‘pulling a Cathy.’ ”
She went back to crying. Just saying it made it seem worse. I didn’t ask her to explain because there was nothing more to explain. See, one reason we’d become best friends was that both of our fathers were alcoholics. We understood the terror of never knowing if it would be the good father who’d come home from the bar or the bad, wicked father who would seem to hate your guts. In this case, though, Cathy was thinking of the insecure father who was angry that his daughter might have more self-esteem than he did. That bastard father who created little insults and running jokes that have one punchline- Cathy’s a fuck-up, so there’s no reason for her to judge him for hitting mom last night.
“Cathy, it’s OK,” I said again, but this time I thought I knew the right tack to take. “All kids lose their wallets or their purses at first. Your dad just had to be an ass about it. So you lost your wallet today; big deal. At your age, your dad was driving cars into ditches.”
“I know,” she whimpered. “But I still feel like I did something wrong. I feel like I have screwed up and I deserve everything my father is going to say about it.”
My mind raced along on various tracks. I wanted to fix her somehow, although I knew there were no magic words. I wanted to take away her shame. I wanted to go back in time and kill her father.
A solution occurred to me. In normal times, I wouldn’t even have entertained it. But these were not normal times. Cathy was crying, and I had to fix it.
“Your dad never spanked you, did he?” I asked.
She shook her head. Of course, he hadn’t. Drunks like our dads liked to bruise with words. They used guilt and shame instead of their hands. They piled on doubt and self-loathing in between times of sobriety.
“Come here,” I said. I walked her over to my couch and sat down. When she tried to sit down with me, I grabbed her by the hips and faced her against my knees.
“Over,” I said. Maybe it was my tone. Maybe it was just her distraught state of mind. Whatever the reason, Cathy bent across my knees and didn’t resist as I positioned her legs and pulled down her pants. I was tempted to leave her blue panties there, but they came down, too. There had to be no protection for her bottom tonight.
I placed one hand on her back. “Cathy, losing your wallet was a bad thing. You’ll need to get your driver’s license redone, and you’re going to have a mess of phone calls to cancel all of your credit cards. It was careless to lose your wallet, and you should have been more aware of where it was instead of realizing it was gone a day later. I’m going to punish you now for what you have done. Do you understand?”
Cathy didn’t say anything, but she did nod her head.
“You have to understand that once you have been punished, what you did wrong has been forgiven. It will never be brought up again, and there is nothing more for you to do. You have paid for your crime, and it will never be held against you. Do you understand?”
She nodded her head again.
Spanking can be slow, sensuous and very pleasant. That’s not what Cathy needed. She needed the other way. She needed it fast, cruel and painful. Because I am her friend, I gave it to her.
My hand came down on her bottom with a boom. Her whole body shook, and her ass checks squeezed together. I thought the sound had been worse than the hit, but the way Cathy sucked in her breath told me the hit had been just fine.
I smacked her ass again. As soon as her back arched from the hit, I smacked her ass again. Her hands clenched my thigh, and a pitiful sob whimpered from her lips. This was no fun for Cathy at all. It was no fun for me either, but sometimes, this is what friends do. They give each other what their families neglected to do. Today, I was giving Cathy the gift of atonement.
I spanked her. With each swing of my hand, I forgot every little tip I had ever been taught. Instead of caressing her bottom after each hit, I only swung again harder. Instead of a gentle building rhythm of swings, I gave her the escalating volley of relentless spanks that only the wicked deserve. Instead of whispering encouragement, I only gave Cathy stern silence. This was discipline; logical, ruthless and so much needed.
Cathy endured her punishment. Sometimes, my blows would come too fast, and she would squirm on my lap. Sometimes, her feet would kick and her hands would squeeze my thigh painfully in protest. And sometimes, she would shriek as the pain became too intense.
She never asked me to stop.
My arm grew tired. I pushed myself. I drew from my own relationship with my father. I thought of his snide comments. I thought of how he’d emasculated me during my childhood. I thought of the bastard and how he would have raised Cathy if she were his daughter. I tapped into my anger and a little of my own grief. No matter how sore I was getting, I kept going. Cathy deserved no less.
My hand was tingling from all the spanks when the dam broke inside Cathy. Deep within her, something released, and her crying exploded into full-blown grief. Her body hung limp on my lap except for the racking sobs. The shame her father had given her was pushed out by the cleansing sensation of a burning ass. When you’ve held shame that long, sometimes the only way out is through tears. I spanked my best friend till every tear, whimper and wail was exorcised from her body and soul.
The crying stopped. As the crying dying down, so did my spanking. My hand was sore as hell, but I knew Cathy’s ass was in far worse shape. I helped her stand up and then I insisted she pull her panties and pants back up. There would be no lotion or balm for her. She had to keep the pain. She needed to suffer for her transgression so she could alleviate the shame that she had been trained to feel.
“Oh, God, I am never losing my wallet again,” she said.
I laughed. “And if you do, I’ll help you find it.”
Cathy hugged me.
“I know.”
The end.
“It’s OK,” I said, not feeling OK in the least. “Let’s make a list of what was in your wallet and then we’ll report all the credit cards and figure out what needs to be replaced.”
Cathy cried more loudly.
To read more, click Whole Post
What’s the matter?” I asked in my most comforting voice. Cathy wouldn’t say.
I held Cathy as she cried. Instead of thinking about what could possibly be bothering her, I thought about the weirdness of her not telling me. We were buddies. We were best friends. We told each other everything. She knew I was part of a kinky bondage community, although that sort of thing seemed silly to her. I knew the approximate cock size of every man she had ever been with. She knew I got a hard-on every time I heard a Stevie Nicks song, while I knew she liked to masturbate to football games. We had no secrets or shame anymore, but here she was, crying about something I couldn’t understand.
She said something, but I couldn’t hear her. I peeled her tear-stained face from my wet shirt and made her look at me.
“I used to lose my wallet all the time,” she said. “My parents called it ‘pulling a Cathy.’ ”
She went back to crying. Just saying it made it seem worse. I didn’t ask her to explain because there was nothing more to explain. See, one reason we’d become best friends was that both of our fathers were alcoholics. We understood the terror of never knowing if it would be the good father who’d come home from the bar or the bad, wicked father who would seem to hate your guts. In this case, though, Cathy was thinking of the insecure father who was angry that his daughter might have more self-esteem than he did. That bastard father who created little insults and running jokes that have one punchline- Cathy’s a fuck-up, so there’s no reason for her to judge him for hitting mom last night.
“Cathy, it’s OK,” I said again, but this time I thought I knew the right tack to take. “All kids lose their wallets or their purses at first. Your dad just had to be an ass about it. So you lost your wallet today; big deal. At your age, your dad was driving cars into ditches.”
“I know,” she whimpered. “But I still feel like I did something wrong. I feel like I have screwed up and I deserve everything my father is going to say about it.”
My mind raced along on various tracks. I wanted to fix her somehow, although I knew there were no magic words. I wanted to take away her shame. I wanted to go back in time and kill her father.
A solution occurred to me. In normal times, I wouldn’t even have entertained it. But these were not normal times. Cathy was crying, and I had to fix it.
“Your dad never spanked you, did he?” I asked.
She shook her head. Of course, he hadn’t. Drunks like our dads liked to bruise with words. They used guilt and shame instead of their hands. They piled on doubt and self-loathing in between times of sobriety.
“Come here,” I said. I walked her over to my couch and sat down. When she tried to sit down with me, I grabbed her by the hips and faced her against my knees.
“Over,” I said. Maybe it was my tone. Maybe it was just her distraught state of mind. Whatever the reason, Cathy bent across my knees and didn’t resist as I positioned her legs and pulled down her pants. I was tempted to leave her blue panties there, but they came down, too. There had to be no protection for her bottom tonight.
I placed one hand on her back. “Cathy, losing your wallet was a bad thing. You’ll need to get your driver’s license redone, and you’re going to have a mess of phone calls to cancel all of your credit cards. It was careless to lose your wallet, and you should have been more aware of where it was instead of realizing it was gone a day later. I’m going to punish you now for what you have done. Do you understand?”
Cathy didn’t say anything, but she did nod her head.
“You have to understand that once you have been punished, what you did wrong has been forgiven. It will never be brought up again, and there is nothing more for you to do. You have paid for your crime, and it will never be held against you. Do you understand?”
She nodded her head again.
Spanking can be slow, sensuous and very pleasant. That’s not what Cathy needed. She needed the other way. She needed it fast, cruel and painful. Because I am her friend, I gave it to her.
My hand came down on her bottom with a boom. Her whole body shook, and her ass checks squeezed together. I thought the sound had been worse than the hit, but the way Cathy sucked in her breath told me the hit had been just fine.
I smacked her ass again. As soon as her back arched from the hit, I smacked her ass again. Her hands clenched my thigh, and a pitiful sob whimpered from her lips. This was no fun for Cathy at all. It was no fun for me either, but sometimes, this is what friends do. They give each other what their families neglected to do. Today, I was giving Cathy the gift of atonement.
I spanked her. With each swing of my hand, I forgot every little tip I had ever been taught. Instead of caressing her bottom after each hit, I only swung again harder. Instead of a gentle building rhythm of swings, I gave her the escalating volley of relentless spanks that only the wicked deserve. Instead of whispering encouragement, I only gave Cathy stern silence. This was discipline; logical, ruthless and so much needed.
Cathy endured her punishment. Sometimes, my blows would come too fast, and she would squirm on my lap. Sometimes, her feet would kick and her hands would squeeze my thigh painfully in protest. And sometimes, she would shriek as the pain became too intense.
She never asked me to stop.
My arm grew tired. I pushed myself. I drew from my own relationship with my father. I thought of his snide comments. I thought of how he’d emasculated me during my childhood. I thought of the bastard and how he would have raised Cathy if she were his daughter. I tapped into my anger and a little of my own grief. No matter how sore I was getting, I kept going. Cathy deserved no less.
My hand was tingling from all the spanks when the dam broke inside Cathy. Deep within her, something released, and her crying exploded into full-blown grief. Her body hung limp on my lap except for the racking sobs. The shame her father had given her was pushed out by the cleansing sensation of a burning ass. When you’ve held shame that long, sometimes the only way out is through tears. I spanked my best friend till every tear, whimper and wail was exorcised from her body and soul.
The crying stopped. As the crying dying down, so did my spanking. My hand was sore as hell, but I knew Cathy’s ass was in far worse shape. I helped her stand up and then I insisted she pull her panties and pants back up. There would be no lotion or balm for her. She had to keep the pain. She needed to suffer for her transgression so she could alleviate the shame that she had been trained to feel.
“Oh, God, I am never losing my wallet again,” she said.
I laughed. “And if you do, I’ll help you find it.”
Cathy hugged me.
“I know.”
The end.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Bound
BDSM is so misunderstood sometimes. Some treat it like it is one will conquering the other. Others treat it like an extended negotiation that resembles a Hollywood battle for DVD profits. Some argue that submission is a gift while there are days that even I think that it is the domination that is the gift. Romantic, dramatic and practical ideals tangle over one another obscuring what really lies at the core of every BDSM relationship- the fact that it is a relationship.
No amount of chains, leather, contracts or duty can bind two people more than mutual affection. At least that's been my experience.
The picture is of my hand and the lovely little hands of Beth. Neither of us are in a BDSM relationship, which makes for a lot of introspection.
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