Sinful Sunday: the waiting game

He calls her into the room. “Strip,” he commands.

She feels his eyes on her. She is aware of the time she’s taking as she rushes to comply. She doesn’t like to leave her clothes in a heap nor does she want to keep him waiting, so she compromises, quickly folding and stacking the garments in such a way that they look tidy but will still come out wrinkled.

“Sit,” he says, pointing to the sheepskin.

She lowers herself delicately and settles, clasping her arms around her knees, which she has kept demurely up. She awaits his next order.

He eases himself into the leather armchair, picks up a book from the side table and begins to read.

She looks towards his chair, monitoring his every movement in her peripheral vision. After a few minutes, she shifts. The floor is no more comfortable than it was, but it is becoming more familiar.

He senses her movement from over the top edge of the book. He makes a point of turning the pages at regular, credible intervals. Time passes.

She leans against the trunk, stretches her legs out, takes up space as if to say, “I’m waiting.”

It’s what he has been waiting for.


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negotiating a photo shoot

My discussions with my friend Lucas about doing a shoot together have been continuing apace. We arranged to Skype last weekend, mostly so I could do some show and tell of clothes and accessories.

I would have liked to use my laptop for the purpose, but my internal speakers stopped working after my forced upgrade to Windows 10. It’s a driver issue and, because I usually use headphones or external speakers, not quite irritating enough for me to spend the time figuring it out. But it turns out that my microphone also doesn’t work. I figure that’s a driver fuck-up too.

I knew the call would be long and I needed the phone plugged in, so I started by finding the best-placed outlet. Then I looked around the house for something I could use as a stand, and found a soft plastic soap-dish thing with slats between which the phone would fit. But the slats weren’t deep enough to support the weight of the phone at the slight angle necessary to keep me in frame, so I put a book behind the soap dish and let the phone lean against that. High tech!

Over the course of an hour or so, I pulled various likely items out of the closet to show Lucas. He liked almost everything, so the limiting factor is going to be how much I want to pack and haul.

The nature of the shoot is starting to take shape too. The overall tone is going to be artistic. There will be some regular non-fetish photos, and we’ll also try some rope bondage, starting with ties that look cool but don’t actually restrict movement, and working up in intensity from there, within my comfort zone. There is a possibility of partial suspension if I’m inclined to try it.

A couple of days later, we exchanged some sample photos. He wanted to show me his rigging and editing skills. I wanted to show him the photography styles I like and some of the clothes in action, and just show off a little. He found my photos inspiring, which I consider a great compliment.

He likes the look of gags and suggested it as an idea, and my first reaction was that I should agree to try it, even though I wasn’t especially keen. But I realized that this was my old habit of going along with things because I think I ought to for some reason. So I informed him about that habit and gave him some ideas of how to help me avoid that pitfall. He acknowledged that gags are intense and not for everyone, and reassured me that there is no wrong answer and it’s important to him that I’m happy.

Our friendly discussion seems to be developing into more focused and deliberate negotiation, which reminded me that although this project isn’t about sex, it will be sexy. We haven’t had a BDSM checklist chat, but I’d be ready for it.

We’ve set tentative dates (a little less than two months away), chosen to coincide with a fetish club night. I think the whole trip is going to be a blast.

Boobday: rules of engagement

You’ll have to take my word for it that my arm position is inspired by a dance move.

I’m always reminding my students to keep their muscles engaged. To my eye, supporting the arms with one’s back muscles enhances the move in a subtle way and gives it strength and integrity beyond the superficial. It enhances the flavor, like making soup with stock rather than plain water.


Plans for the photo shoot with Lucas are coming together. I’ll post an update tomorrow.

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fiction: The New Principal 2

[Continued from Part 1.]

I looked at the principal blankly as I tried to make sense of his words. Over his knee? How…?

Reading my hesitation, he explained, “Your hips on my knee, your hands and feet touch the floor. Yes, it’s awkward — it’s meant to be.”

Oh hell. This skirt was so short, I’d pretty much be flashing him as soon as I got into position. Was it my imagination, or was he starting to look a little flushed too? I took a deep breath, stood beside the chair, then tipped myself forward over his legs — awkwardly — while trying to minimize the physical contact, utterly in vain.

“Mhmm,” he murmured, as I pointlessly attempted to get less uncomfortable.

He flipped the skirt out of the way and I froze. Then I flinched when the first stinging slap landed, though I’m not sure if I was reacting more to the feeling, the sound, or the idea of it. He started by scattering smacks all over, and after a few moments they began to land more heavily. My bum was feeling warm now and must have been getting red. Then he started to rain smacks down on one spot and I squirmed from the pain and tried to avoid the blows. But resistance, as they say, is futile. My breath caught as I felt a stirring in my gut and my abs clenched. I was breathing heavily and heard myself whimpering, as if from a distance. Between my legs it felt warm and sort of, I don’t know, swollen I guess, like blooming.

Suddenly he stopped and tugged at my panties. “Lift, girl” he growled, and tugged them down below my bum. Oh god! How much could he see? Was he looking? I imagined I could feel his gaze and I squirmed — to get away, to stop the spanking, to ease the feeling in my gut, to do something. I was mortified, but the nervous fluttering had connected with a throb low in my belly, and further south.

“Mmmm,” he purred. His legs were warm under me, and was that his…? Oh.

I wanted… I don’t know what. But, oh god, I wanted.

More slaps, and getting harder. More whimpering. That must have been me. Occasional low groans. Those were from him. Then I suddenly let go, my mind taking a step away from the pain to where the pain was still there but somehow didn’t really matter. Still breathing hard. I relaxed into it, ceased struggling, stilled.

After a moment, he stopped.

He began stroking my bum and thighs, gently, gently. Caressing. A squeeze.

A pause.

Somewhat hoarsely, he said, “Right. That’s that. Up you get.” He hauled me to my feet. I was lightheaded and red-faced, tears prickling at my eyes from the pain and embarrassment. My bum throbbed hotly. I was self-conscious and started to pull up my panties but stopped, unsure, and looked at him, then flicked my gaze away. I waited, frozen.

“Yes, you can pull them up now.” He moved the wooden chair back to the corner, wheeled the black office chair back to the desk and sat down.

“Have a seat.” I put my jacket back on and sat on the cool, smooth chair, trying to catch my breath and not make any noise, while I tugged my clothes back into place while moving as little as possible. If it had been hard to look at him before, it was doubly difficult now. After this. My hand jerked towards my hair when I realised it must have been a mess too. Everything about me was a mess.

His voice, when he spoke, was still a little gruff. “So that’s the skipping dealt with. Now, your marks, awards and extra-curricular activities clearly demonstrate that achievement is important to you. From this moment you have a clean slate as far as I’m concerned, but you may be thinking that isn’t enough to make things right, in your own mind. In fact, you might prefer to go above and beyond to impress me that you really are well behaved, but you might be at a loss as to how to do so.

“Well, I know a way. The punishment you just got was earned in full, but you can bank credit by taking punishments that you haven’t earned. It could be spanking, or maybe the strap. Do you know what a tawse is? No, you wouldn’t, I suppose. Anyway, there are options. Think on it.”

The bell rang.

“Ah, end of the first period. You’re done now. You had better get going — I know you won’t want to be late for your next class.” One corner of his mouth lifted.

I stood, and he walked me to the door. He put one hand on the knob, the other very lightly on the small of my back, and his mouth was close to my ear as he murmured, “Do think on the extra credit option, Alexandra.”

I walked out of his office — past the door to the still-humming photocopier room and the still-bustling secretary, into the tumult of the hall while everyone was rushing to their next class — feeling disheveled and spaced out, and wondering just how much of an overachiever I actually was.

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e[lust] #87

Photo courtesy of Understanding Flutterby

Welcome to Elust 87

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #88? Start with the rules, come back November 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

On Secret Identities

Dividing lines…

Ember and Ash


~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Bdsm: Our pleasures are our obligations



~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Change your Cookbook: a monogamuggle’s guide to cookin’ with poly folk


Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

When Love is not enough.
the fantasy and reality of my arrival


Shine a Light

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

When You’re Bad
How Women Use Their Sexuality As A Weapon
Dear Fans: Quit Kinkbashing

Erotic Fiction

Big Daddy
The Front to Back Challenge
GAME OF TWO HALVES – role shift
no. 106

Erotic Non-Fiction

He’s Cumming
Washing up
Chew Toy
So many friends with benefits


One Stroke
Early Morning Haikus


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Sinful Sunday: the wall

Last week’s Sinful Sunday post was about being open. Vulnerability doesn’t come easily for me – it’s an aspiration.


Protecting myself is the deeply ingrained default, learned at home. Damaging romantic relationships later on buttressed the wall that was already there, massive yet imperceptible (at least to me). Despite my blindness to it, I managed to open a Wolf-sized gate. My relationship with Gawan has helped me to finally perceive the wall and has inspired me to start demolition.

It’s a big project.

Edit: Guest judge Bambi from Girl, Uninterrupted chose my photo for the Round-up this week (thanks Bambi!) and said:

This is a truly beautiful image and evokes so many feelings in me. Being vulnerable is so difficult for so many of us and this image and her words really resonate with me. At first glance it looks as though she’s protecting herself, arms over her chest, afraid… but when I look further, I see a looseness in her hands as though maybe she’s thinking about letting go. Her stance doesn’t look afraid to me, it looks strong and empowered.

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Boobday: mile high 5

This is the last mile high photo for a while as I have no more trips planned at present.

Please excuse the grubby mirror.

Well, that’s not absolutely true, I suppose. I’ve been chatting with my friend Lucas lately, rekindling our friendship. (He’s the one who dropped me off at the airport, both on my way to visit Gawan and on the way back.) In addition to SFW topics, we’ve also been talking BDSM and erotic photography. It’s so nice to have someone to talk to about this stuff, and an incredible bonus that it’s someone who I’ve been friends with forever, and I get the sense that he feels the same way. Sure I can chat about sexy topics with the people I’ve been meeting at munches, but I don’t know them, and I’m not sure if I have anything in common with anyone other than a broad interest in kink.

So Lucas and I have been talking about our interests in photography, which happen to be complementary, and it was obvious to me that this could lead to doing a project together. But neither of us had vocalized that thought. He mentioned that he had a bunch of ideas and was considering hiring a model. I asked about the ideas. He mentioned that he had some burgundy rope. I told him that burgundy was my favorite color. (It’s true, it is!) My overture was a bit lame, the equivalent of “ooh my neck is so sore!” when trying to invite a massage as an excuse to touch, but it served to take the first half-step towards the point that I’m sure we were both aware that we were circling. And he then suggested we do a project together. Of course I agreed; it was my idea! Sure, I could have just suggested it myself, and I would have if he’d been obtuse, but the dance is fun too.

Anyway, we’ve been discussing his ideas, my ideas, his props, my clothes and shoes. And I’ve started thinking about planning a short trip out to see him. That should provide a couple more airplane loo photos, at least. And if I’m lucky, a variety of other good stuff that I can post here. He has done fetish photography professionally so I’m confident in his skills.

Although the photo above isn’t great, I’m glad that I had it to post because I’m really not feeling it today. I’ve been having some doubts about this blog lately. It’s not that I don’t have things I want to write about, but I haven’t been writing much lately. There’s an element of feeling that what I’m posting isn’t good enough, that I’m not accomplishing anything, and I feel a bit directionless. Today has not been a good day.

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fiction: The New Principal 1

This is my first fiction piece on the blog, and I might be jumping into the deep end by starting with a very specific genre: the schoolgirl spanking story.

It all started with a skirt. I’d been thinking that I could use a little pleated skirt, then remembered I had one in the pile of clothes to get rid of that, with alteration, might work. After I hacked off 7 inches, I found it surprisingly schoolgirlish. A back-to-school themed play party motivated me to cobble together the remainder of a school “uniform”, which sparked my imagination…

Ten minutes into first period, the intercom crackled to life with the high school secretary’s familiar voice saying words no one had ever heard before: “Alexandra King, please report to the principal’s office.”

My stomach lurched. Shit. Shit. I’d started skipping a class here and there. That must be it. But this was only the second week of school, and I’d been strategic so no one teacher would notice a pattern. And since they all liked me, I figured they’d give me the benefit of the doubt for a while at least. Assuming that getting a handshake at the end-of-the-year award ceremony didn’t count as “meeting”, I was about to meet the principal for the first time. Shit.

I felt the weight of everyone’s gaze as I stood and gathered my books. I usually sat more or less front and center, but in Calculus my friends all wanted to sit in the back corner. I slouched towards the door at the front of the room, trying vainly to disappear. Even the teacher’s eyebrows were headed for his hairline. Out in the empty hallway, I relaxed a bit.

This year, my last in high school, was going to be really different from the previous years. The new principal, Mr. Martin, liked to call himself “Headmaster”. Or rather, “Headmahstah.” I guessed on the basis of the accent that he was from somewhere in England.

New uniform. Dorktastic.

The uniforms that we now wore were his doing. I live in jeans and T-shirts. I hate skirts. And bloody blouses. Blazer, tie and knee socks. Ugh. And now all the guys are always looking at all the girls’ legs. How exactly is this supposed to make for an “environment conducive to learning”?

At the office, the secretary showed me to a chair and then bustled off to the photocopier room, which immediately started to hum. After a few moments, the Headmahstah’s door opened and he called me in. Despite the suit and tie, he looked too young to be a principal — mid to late 20s maybe. Sarah, who sat next to me in English, had a boyfriend who was 25. (She was nearly 18, while at 16 and three quarters I was about the youngest in the class.) But then Mr. Martin acted way older than 25, so I guess it balanced out. I could just see over his shoulder that the walls behind him were cluttered with class photos (from his previous schools, I assumed) and the metal filing cabinets were topped with an assortment of travel curios and a few houseplants.

“Sit down.” There was one sturdy straight-backed wooden chair facing his desk. I sat and studied my knees.

“Do you know why I called you in to see me?”

I was pretty sure I knew, but I didn’t want to say anything. Like my brother told me, if you get pulled over and the cop asks if you know why he stopped you: don’t confess anything, don’t make it easy. I shook my head.

“When I started at this school over the summer, I familiarized myself with the files of some of the more noteworthy students.” He crossed from the desk to the window and surveyed the grounds while I surreptitiously studied the room. “Your file stood out: straight As, awards, the whole lot.”

The dates on his degrees put him at 33 or 34. Huh.

“Imagine my surprise when I checked the attendance records of your various classes and found that you had been skipping. That seemed out of character.”

He turned toward me, his eyebrows raised imperiously during the pause, as though he were peering over reading glasses. Half-moon glasses, I thought, and then I had to stifle a smile when an image of Dumbledore in robes and long grey beard popped to mind unbidden. “You’re only harming yourself with that behavior. So now we’re going to correct it. It’s for your own good, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I guess,” I said.

Giving me a penetrating look, he said, “The correct answer is ‘Yes, sir.’ Try it.”

I took a breath, raised my head and looked into the middle distance, not towards him but vaguely over his desk. “Yes, sir.” Fine. I’ve said the words, but you can’t make me mean them.

“You know your behavior must be punished. Skipping classes is foolish and childish so your punishment will be too. I’m going to give you a spanking.”

My eyes flew up to meet his. I gaped. Shit.

“Now, Miss King. Stand up.” I couldn’t remember ever having been addressed that way before. The title and last name should have sounded grown up, but in this context it felt like a rebuke.

He wheeled his black leather office chair to the side and replaced it with another chair from the corner, which was straight-backed and wooden, like mine. He sat. “Take off your blazer and come around, now.”

The photocopier in the next room was still humming. What was the secretary copying? The phone book?

“Over my knee.”

[Continued in Part 2.]

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Edit: Marie Rebelle chose this post as one of her Top 3 for the week.

TMI Tuesday: the sexes

TMI Tuesday blog


1. What is femininity to you? Tell us in 50 words or less. Fifty words or less? Try fifty pages or less. But in blurb format: “femininity” is a set of behaviors and appearances that are coded in the culture as being appropriate or desirable for females to express. Because binary thinking is prevalent in the culture, the traits of “femininity” and “masculinity” are mutually exclusive, so “femininity” is thus inappropriate or undesirable for males to express.

2. How does femininity come into play in your sexual relationship? If I dress to be sexy, I tend more often to choose clothing and adornment that is considered “feminine”: skirts, dresses, toweringly high heels, makeup.

Note: It happens that I’m interested in BDSM and prefer the submissive role. It also happens that the cultural definition of “femininity” includes sexual submissiveness. But I categorically reject the notion that submission is an inherently female trait (and I’m sure male submissives would agree with me on the point). My submission is an expression of self in the context of a specific relationship. It is not an expression of gender.

3. What does masculinity mean to you? Tell us in 50 words or less. See #1, mutatis mutandis.

4. Men, we often hear about women’s body image struggles–what are your body image issues? N/A.

5. Men’s gender role conflict is a psychological state in which restrictive definitions of masculinity limit men’s well-being and human potential. Do you now or have you ever suffered from men’s gender role conflict? What are you doing to resolve this? N/A. But I will say that because men’s gender role conflict limits men, all men suffer from it in some way. However, if men don’t perceive that they’ve suffered from it, that may be because the culture is on the whole structured to benefit men more than women (viz. patriarchy).

Bonus: Does gender have any real meaning anymore? Did it ever have any “real” meaning? A person’s genitals are a physical fact, but nothing aside from a few obvious physical conclusions (e.g. a person requires ovaries and a uterus to become pregnant) can be deduced from this. The body has no inherent meaning – all meaning is assigned, and it’s almost entirely arbitrary. If gender appeared to have meaning before and appears not to now, perhaps it’s because the construct is starting to be seen as such.

How to play TMI Tuesday: Go to the TMI Tuesday blog and copy the questions. Paste them to your blog and answer them there (with a link to TMI Tuesday Blog). Then go back to the TMI Tuesday blog post and provide a link to your post in the comments.