Monica gets her arse belted, in a taxi

Monica looked at her belt in my hand. Then she looked at me.

I smiled at her. “I’m going to do a magic trick.”

“Oh?”

“Turning a bad girl into a good girl. Turn over, Monica, and look out the back window.” 

“Just a moment.” Monica kissed me, so I kissed her back, as was only fair. We were snogging in a taxi. Suddenly we were ordinary. Monica touched my cock, and grinned while still kissing me. She was giving me power over her, but my cock was hard because of her: even without hypnosis, she had power over me too.

Then she broke away, still stroking my cock. Her eyes were innocent. “Am I really such a bad girl?”

We were still whispering. There was a taxi driver in the front seat, wrestling with the traffic. “Bad enough to deserve this belt. Now turn around. Knees on the seat.”

“A woman can’t ‘deserve’ to have her arse belted. She can decide that it might be hot.” 

“I’m not going to argue with that. It’s true in a way. But I bet you’ll come to see that it’s not true, as well.”

“I see. Like mind control. This is a bit like hypnosis, isn’t it?”

But she was delaying things I felt urgent about. “Knees on the seat, Monica. Now, or I’ll pull you over my knee. And that’ll get the action into his rear vision mirror.”

Monica nodded. “Strict.” She turned and climbed onto the seat, looking out the taxi’s back window as instructed.

I whispered, “Hot. And you said if I’m strict, what do you call me?”

“Sir, sir.” There was something almost orgasmically pleasurable in hearing her say that. It conceded and promised me so much. I wondered if it had felt as hot to say it. I decided to assume that it was close. I tugged her jeans down a little further, so they left, clumsily covered, the under curves of her bottom.

I whispered, “First one’s on bare skin. The way it has to be. You keep your mouth closed, girl, till I’m done.

Monica nodded. Mouth closed, lips pursed. I folded her belt in two and wrapped it once round my hand so the swinging part was short: I didn’t have a lot of room. I swung it back, and then struck.

The leather cracked across the fullest part of that beautiful little bottom, deeply curved. Monica’s head jolted up, eyes wide, and her mouth open.

But she stayed silent, so I didn’t punish her for that.

The second stroke was about three centimetres higher. It was as loud as the first, but though I’d made sure it hurt, Monica was less surprised by the pain. Her eyes were still wide, but she kept her mouth closed. I wanted to kiss her.

As Monica’s hand edged down to reach under her belly and stroke her cunt, the driver said, “Uh, you guys OK there?”

I said, “Oh, fine. She just looking in her briefcase. It’s got a ridiculously loud catch. Sorry.”

“Uh huh.” The driver had heard bullshit before, but he couldn’t risk turning round, not in this traffic.

I laid the last four strokes across Monica’s underbum, protected by her bunched jeans. I made the strokes harder to compensate, but it was clear that, with Monica’s hand pressing and working on her cunt, it didn’t hurt her any more. Her mouth was open again, and she seemed … happy.    

After the sixth stroke I said, not whispered, “Good girl.” I tugged her jeans up, then smacked her with my hand.

Monica did up the top button, then turned and sank back onto the seat. “Thank you, sir. Yeah, I felt that.”

I reached for her and we kissed again. She looked at me. “You’re weird. That’s so not proper behaviour.” 

“Is that a complaint?” I still had her belt in my hand. 

“It is as far from a complaint as I can manage. Sir. You can,”- she dropped her voice – “whip me in a taxi any time you feel like it.”

 “I know.” 

“Ha! Said Han Solo. Um, we’re getting close. I mean, to my place.” 

I paid the driver. There was five bucks’ change, and he put that into his pocket, letting me know he wasn’t asking. As we got out of the cab he said, “Nice briefcase.”

We had, of course, no briefcase. And I still had Monica’s belt in my hand. I shrugged and smiled at him. He didn’t know what had just happened, but he knew he’d missed it. He didn’t smile.

Monica said, “Thank you! It’s a magic briefcase, and only a very pure taxi driver can see it.” I bet that was her stage hypnotist voice, but it didn’t seem to be working. He waved once, and drove off.

I took her hand. “Let’s get you home.” 

Sinful Sunday: Spread

Arethusa. She’s been paddled. And fucked. 

Right now, catlike, she’s sleeping, despite her unrestful position, and the fact that she can’t move. 

But her Master hasn’t undone her bonds yet. They both know one important thing, though they know it from different sides: there’s more to come. 

But first, sleep. I loved the way she always fell asleep after deep D/s sex. She’d given her all, holding nothing back, and she always conked out for a while afterwards. 

 

 

 

Monica gets her ass into a taxi

Monica slipped her hand into my back pocket while we walked to the taxi ramp. She said, “I bet you’re NSIT.” 

“What in the world is that?” 

“Schoolgirl code. I went to a very snobby school. We’d give each other warnings about boys. That one means ‘Not Safe in Taxis.'”

“Oh. Then I must be NSA.”

She frowned. “Funnily enough, we had that too. Did you mean ‘Not Safe Anywhere’?”

“Yup.” I tried to sound smug. 

“Oh,” she said. “An NSA man. Oh no. Help.”

“Take your belt off and give it to me.”

She stopped walking and looked at me. “Why?”

“First, I think you should do as you’re told. It’s more fun, and it’s safer for the state of your arse, and arguably your dignity.”

“Ok…” She didn’t sound at all convinced, but she undid the catch on her narrow, black leather belt and passed it to me.

I took it from her, and dropped it into my jacket pocket. “It’s so I can wallop your arse with it in the taxi, if you don’t do as you’re told.”

“You’re hoping I’ll take that as a dare, ren’t you?”

I kissed her. “I’m hoping you’re a good girl. But I’ll know what to do if you aren’t.”

“Hmmm…” Calculation was going on, behind that forehead. I didn’t mind which she chose, but I supposed it mattered more to her.

We were close to the ramp now. There were no cars there. While we waited, I said, “In the taxi you’ll undo the button of your jeans and tug them down a little.”

“So you can, ah, ‘wallop’ my poor arse?”

“Actually, it’s so I can keep my fingers warm and wet till we get to your place. Might keep you wet too. So I’d advise you to sit where the driver can’t see you in the mirror.”

She grinned. “You’re a very rude boy. Even by my standards.”

A taxi pulled up. She got in and sketched over to the right, where she wasn’t in the mirror or the camera. I sat in the middle of the back seat, so I could reach. “And you’re a rude girl.”

The driver said, “Where we going?”

Monica gave an address in Annandale. Then she looked at me, making sure I was watching while she undid the button on her jeans, and wriggled a little while she tugged them part-way down.

The driver said, “Annandale.” We were off.

I put my hand into her pants, and found the nicely damp gusset of her panties, and pulled that aside to reach soft, feminine flesh below.

I smiled and said, “Good girl. Also beautiful,” and slid two fingers into her. She was nicely wet, and she squirmed.

She said, “Uh,” when those fingers entered her, and then, a few seconds later, while I lightly finger-fucked her, “Ooooh.”

Monica whispered, “The driver…”

I kissed her, fingers still wetly held, slowly moving. I pressed deep into her, held it and then very slowly withdrew, and Monica seemed to lose her train of thought. I whispered, “Can’t see you. Or my hand.”

Actually, the taxi smelled headily of female arousal, and probably male, too. But there was a faint acrid smell of tobacco in that cab: the driver was a smoker. I thought there should be a new health warning: “Every cigarette is making it harder for you to smell turned-on girls.” 

I chuckled at the thought. I hate the word “chuckled”, but that’s what I did. Monica whispered, “What?” 

“Tell you later. Spread your legs more.” 

Monica closed her thighs on my hand. She looked at me, amused. I whispered, “No, spread them.”

She squeezed her thighs on my hand. It was far from unpleasant. But she’d dared me to belt her in a taxi, and I was going to have to do it. Traffic was terrible. We were still a long way from Annandale. I took her belt from my pocket.

Silhouette Sunday

Cheating a bit on the silhouette front. But the mix of that sharp outline of Arethusa’s body, and her sweet thighs, is too good to pass up. 

Your humble photographer appears in this one. Because if you’re going to sneak into the women’s changing rooms because you’re buying your slavegirl some lingerie …

Well, you take pictures, and that’s that. 

 

 

Sinful Sunday: Punishment and pleasure: is there even a difference?

Punishment is over. Arethusa’s Master had plans to take advantage of her nicely warmed ass, but he got a work call and had to go and sit at his computer, doing stuff he’d rather not be doing just then. 

But at last he returns. He trod softly, because he thought Arethusa might be asleep. But she’s not.

She’s quietly pleasuring herself, without waiting for Master. He watches her ass rise and fall, because that’s always worth watching. And, still quietly, he picks up the paddle… 

Monica’s arse

Monica had just asked if I was proposing to spank her here, in a busy restaurant in Circular Quay. It wasn’t exactly a request, but it was a challenge. 

So I said, “Have you done as you’re told? You have so far. So you’re a good girl. I’ve got no reason to spank you.” 

That left it up to her. Suddenly we were doing a lot of eye contact. I smiled at her, deliberately smug, hoping to provoke her into some Bad Girl act. She had a half-smile, while she weighed up her options. And mine: was I bluffing? Surely that had to be bluff.

She reached for the button she’d undone, still looking at my eyes, and made to do it up again. So I grabbed her hands, and pulled them forward, across our table towards me. Then pulled a little further, so she had to raise herself from her chair. So she was bent over a table, arse up. She probably wasn’t as familiar with being in that position as I was with seeing girls in it, but she realised what it meant.

Still holding her hands – she made no attempt to withdraw them from my grasp, which she could easily have done – I got out of my chair, crossed the table, still holding her hands in my left hand, and smacked her jeans-clad bum with my right. She felt good under my hand. It was a game, a silly piece of showing off, and it was also sensual and sexual.

It was the first time I’d touched her body in a sexual way. The spank sounded like a thunderclap and even in a crowded restaurant it drew attention.

Monica said, “Yikes!”

Which suggested a total absence of pain and distress, so I smacked her again. And with that we had an audience. Monica didn’t know that, but she giggled, and didn’t stop laughing with the third spank.

I said, “I’ve told you and told you about your behaviour, Dottie! I hope you’re embarrassed, at having to be spanked in public like a Naughty! Little! Girl!” Those last three words, of course, were the last three spanks.

A woman waiter approached. Disciplining naughty stage hypnotists was probably against restaurant policy, somewhere in the rules. However Monica robbed her of her moment of glory by laughing, and saying, “You called me Dottie!” She laughed again. The waiter glared at me but backed off. I let go of Monica’s hands so she could subside back into a sitting position.

Monica sat, and pretended to wince. She said, “Dottie?”

I answered loudly. “So everyone knows your shame, Dottie Moncrieff!” There were probably photos taken, though they’d have got her jeans-clad arse and not her face. But the odds were good the photos would reach Twitter and such. So it was best that someone non-existent took the infamy and got the internet searches on their name.     

Monica nodded. She’d just gone through the same thoughts. “So … Dottie is very sorry. Possibly Sir.” She undid that disputed button again.

“Possibly sorry?”

“No, possibly I might call you Sir. If you were very strict with me.”

“Ah. I like that idea. Both those ideas. Taxi?”

She nodded, “A taxi seems to be a good idea.”

“Where would you – “

“‘Your place or mine?’ If you don’t mind, I’ve got a cat to feed. So unless you’ve got an Irish Wolfhound or something that outranks my Flivver, I’d like …” 

 “I have to meet Flivver. Your place it is.” 

“Probably a good thing. You’ve probably got whips and paddles and god knows what at your place.”

“My hand does all right. If called upon.”

She grabbed my hand, and pulled it to her mouth. She bit my thumb then kissed it soothingly. “Split the bill?”

“I understand it’s traditional that the person who’s going to smack the other person’s arse before they fuck them, has to pay the bill.”

“Wow. A gentleman.”

“Promise not to be.”

I stood up, and Monica did too. I put my arm round her waist as we walked to the counter where I paid a disapproving waiter, and then we walked out to the taxi ramp. We walked well together.    

Sinful Sunday: Possession

Possession means both ownership and the thing, or person, owned. 

Arethusa was my possession. Here she’s lying over one of my legs, ass up, held by her Master. She still shows traces of her last caning, but she has cool, pale, unspanned skin.

I’m holding her, and we don’t speak. That hand says all we need to say to each other.

She knows, ass up over my knee, that her unspanked state isn’t going to last long. But first there’s this pause, while we lie silently together. We feel each other and know each other.

Possessor and possession. 

 

 

Monica at the restaurant

Monica looked at me. This was an important moment. We were in a restaurant on Circular Quay, and I’d just demonstrated the awesome power of the Dom’s Command Voice. At least I hoped I had. 

Monica moved her hand to the button of her blouse just below her breasts. “When I make a suggestion in hypnosis, people just do it if it seems like fun. You probably want me to say something like ‘Yes, Sir,’ before I do as you say.” 

I shrugged. “It’s up to you. Whether it’s hypnosis or Domming, it only works if you want to do what you’ve been told. I haven’t told you to say anything in particular.” 

She nodded, then undid that button. Then she shrugged her shoulders too, but deliberately so the shirt pulled open a little, revealing her solar plexus and the inner slopes of her breasts. She wore a white sports bra. She didn’t say, “Yes, Sir.” 

She smiled, as if she’d managed to obey me but still won. So I reached forward and touched that place where her rib cage joined, my fingertips against her firm, slightly sweaty skin. I ran a fingernail very lightly, up to the bottom of the bra. She goose-bumped. Her left nipple, though oddly not the right, was slightly more visible through the bra and her shirt.

I wanted to squeeze that not-erected right nipple, to teach it its business, but we were in a public place. I said, “Now you say, ‘Yes, Sir.'” 

Her eyes widened. It is, of course, a hard thing to say, especially the first time, when it concedes so much. But she was turned on. She would only do as she wanted, but I hoped that her wants had expanded. It occurred to me that we would get a taxi soon. 

I wanted to smile while I watched her consider what she wanted. It seemed that she wanted me, as I wanted her, but that having me would come at some cost to her dignity. So I raised my eyebrows, to show I was being kept waiting. She blew her breath out through pursed lips. She looked into my eyes and said, “Yes, Sir.”

 I said, as any Dom will when hearing that, “Good girl.” 

She smiled. “‘Good girl?’ Is that supposed to make me feel good? A little dopamine rush?” 

“Yes.” 

“Yeah. Weird. Sounds patronising as fuck. And yes, there’s that little rush. Interesting.” 

“You could build it into your act.”

Then she frowned. “But what happens if I’m not a good girl?” 

“Oh, I thought you knew. I smack your bottom. Hard. Repeatedly. It’s quite loud. It’s called, ‘Monica gets a spanking.'”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” She glanced around. No one was watching us in particular, but there were a lot of people around. “Here?” 

Sinful Sunday: Jeune fille joyeux

La jeune fille est peut-être seulement heureux. Mais le jeun homme, il est certainement joyeux.

That’s because the young man is observing his young lady at rest, and marvelling at her beauty. And because he knows that the paddle lying discreetly beside her is about to come into play. And come out to play. 

A moment of joy? Absolument!