2012/04/30

Wednesday

One last time on my lap, by hand.

It was hard — the hardest all day.

Then the heart pain was gone; the bottom pain began its long fade. Atonement complete, absolution granted, gratitude all that remained.

My gratitude for her trust and submission: for the gift of her Self that I strive to earn every day all over again.

Her gratitude that I can show her my love even in the difficult ways we have found to suit us. For being care-ful of her.

The rest of the morning was for gratitude, and it was, as I can also say of my belovèd, very, very good.

— Frenulum

Wednesday: Strap

There were more episodes. More pauses. All careful, thoughtful, deliberate; good for both of us.

She had mentioned several times, over the years, that friends had a strong preference for leather over wood. I paid attention.

I reminded her of that as she stretched across my lap, the spatula discarded and rejected.

The strap was a surprise: I had not announced buying it, and I had not shown it to her in advance. Short, it was meant to be used in close quarters, over the knee. A bit like a belt doubled over, with a portion fastened tight as a handle. Stiff leather, heavy, but flexible.

It worked. Very… extremely… effectively.

Sting, yes, to be sure. I had tested that on myself ahead of time: I knew how it would feel, and was confident I could use it responsibly. But also… more than sting. The out-loud crack of the doubled leather. The very idea of being strapped. An edge for me; for both of us, as it turned out. Effective: in more than the obvious sense.

After a while, it was time for my belovèd to return to corner. She chose, for the first time ever, to stand with her arms crossed against the wall, leaning forward against it, with her bottom presented to me. Submissively, deliberately offered. She was, as we had discussed, “red, sore, crying.”

Standing behind her, I was still holding the strap.

— Frenulum

2012/04/27

Wednesday: Spatula

In time I had my belovèd return to corner. You may wonder at the odd omission of the definite article before corner: but I use the phrase to represent a traditional time of thoughtful waiting, not a location or a specific architecture. Sometimes I choose; sometimes she is free to, within limits that she understands. If memory serves, no actual corner has ever been involved.

I let her have her thoughts: about who we are together, and what we were accomplishing that morning. I needed time for mine as well. Nothing of this is routine or casual for us.

I told her to hold her hands out, palms up. I placed the bamboo spatula on them. And we waited together, quietly. When the time was right, I called her to bring it to me.

There was concern in her eyes as she placed the spatula in my hand. Perhaps part of it was for what her already-tender bottom was about to experience, but most was for me, and my “no implements” edge. Despite all our discussion, her chief worry was that I would push myself too far. Think about that.

I placed her prostrate at the foot of the bed, and began slowly and lightly.


When the smacks grew stronger, I grew more doubtful. When the business end landed absolutely flat, it lived up to potential: tons of sharp sting, next to no thud, and good surface color. But that “absolutely” is the problem. Any slight twist or tilt of my hand, or just a tiny bit off in the descending arc, caused the thin blade to land with a leading edge; being so thin, those edges were almost sharp. I didn't care for the way her skin was marking along those impact lines, and stopped quite soon. I released her; sent her back to corner, on her knees that time.

I do not like the bamboo spatula. My belovèd agrees. It is officially retired after one episode. May it enjoy the rest of its life as a kitchen tool.

— Frenulum

2012/04/24

Wednesday

To talk about pleasure I have to acknowledge pain.

I do not want to cause my belovèd pain — my purpose is her joy. She does not enjoy pain; has never wanted it despite life-long spanking fantasies.

But being spanked is the most submissive act she knows. Submission is sexual and therefore being spanked is the most sensual, arousing, sexual, satisfying act she knows. Similarly, dominance carried out in such an unmistakable, direct, emphatic way arouses and satisfies my nature.

The want/don’t-want tension is constant. Ultimately, if rarely, the former trumps the latter for both of us.

But on Wednesday, there was cause, meaning that pain was already present. Heart pain, the pain of not meeting a standard, of not correcting an issue, of falling short of who she wants to be for me and for her own self-measure. Heart pain lingers and worsens, as I have written elsewhere. It can be transmuted into bottom pain, whence it can fade away.

So… let us focus on the pleasures.

One, very strong for me, is to watch her wait for my word, come over to me from corner when I call her, wait for the silent hand signal to lie across my lap — and to obey without hesitation. Her face is such a beautiful amalgam of apprehension and anticipation, of anguish and desire: but it always bears trust as well, and the need, need, NEED to submit to her Sir. Because Wednesday consisted of a number of cycles of waiting and spanking, I was able to enjoy and appreciate variations on this lovely moment many times.

I will mention as well a pleasure strong for her. Submission is sex to a natural submissive, and there are very welcome, expected, and exciting manifestations of that truth over the course of a long morning. I do not find it concerning or distracting at all to let spanking and arousal and satisfaction blend freely; indeed, I think we would both say that spanking is a kind of love-making, and that the distinction is empty.

She settled over my lap. I adjusted her; I waited for her to get a good strong clutch of the bedclothes in both hands; I waited for her to settle. Then we began.

— Frenulum

2012/04/23

Wednesday

Heels and panties.

That is, in my book, the canonical “Waiting for a spanking” outfit. Others may have other preferences, and I don’t claim there is universal appeal or a reason for it, but it’s the dress I require.

Heels. Because, I suppose, insofar as parts make a difference to me, I could be called a leg-and-ass man, and I like the shape and emphasis that heels impart. But also for formality, grace, elegance, movement, and femininity, all of which appeal to me more than the pretty curve of a gastrocnemius muscle.

Panties. Because of this: there is nothing more emphatic about the non-equivalence of our relationship than that I can, without asking, without permission, without negotiation, without a moment’s doubt or hesitation, reach out, take hold of my belovèd’s panties, tug them down her legs, and bare her as I please. It is as true for lovemaking as for spanking — if there is a difference.

In heels and panties, standing, facing the window, she waited. She interlaced her fingers atop her head. I told her that she need not: that hands relaxed at her side would be fine. She replied that it was easier in that pose not to fret and fidget. Perhaps that is why it is such a classic.

Always, when I lower her panties that signals that the spanking has begun, with all of my rules of proper behavior in effect. Her friends who are spanked — and yes, dear reader, this is not the least unusual, despite the public hush shrouding the fact — deem me to be particularly exigent in that respect. Which does not relax my standards.

I wore a coat and tie for the occasion. We both find the marked contrast wonderfully sexy.

We waited, quietly, together. Edges beckoned. As it does every day anew, her gift of Self stunned and moved me with its incomparable, precious beauty.

— Frenulum

Wednesday

Although we never anticipated it, there came a time for discipline for cause. To address a certain behavior, to allow for atonement, to provide for absolution. I will not provide details: those are private; and in any case the issue is closed and forgotten now.

Of course we talked. One thing I am rarely accused of is impulsiveness :o|

I have chronicled here already the notion that good girls sometimes deserve spankings — that it isn’t fair that misbehavior can earn one, but that a flawlessly devoted submissive girl can’t have the handling she craves. That’s an idea I am — we are — still processing.

But this was not such a time.

She said: “Red, sore, crying.” She said: “Very, very hard.”

An edge for her: protracted, episodic spanking. Sent to corner repeatedly between events, their duration, spacing, and number not to be disclosed beforehand. I can’t spank harder than I do, so longer was my only option.

An edge for me: not just my hand. After I won’t say how many decades of nothing but.

I told her: “You will have to bring me the spatula and put it in my hands.” She gulped and nodded.

Which brings us to Wednesday morning.

2012/04/21

Wednesday

A couple of years ago, I was in a sort of international bazaar — a collection of small, mom-and-pop importers — just browsing among the varied wares. At one shop I found a pretty case for my sunglasses, embroidered by a Hmong craftswoman. And they also had…

Kitchen utensils made of bamboo.

A spatula.

Thin. Springy. Light-weight. With a broad, square business end.

Cooking was the furthest thing from my thoughts.

“I will use only my hand.”

A bamboo spatula. Sting.

I tried it on myself. Sting!

And I put it away. For a couple of years.

— Frenulum

Wednesday

“I will use only my hand,” I had often reassured her.

A hand can provide both of the sensations that make up a spanking, often described as sting and thud. Physical sensations, I mean: obviously there are other stimuli of mind and emotion, other aspects of the experience that contribute to it, including catharsis, absolution, and gratitude.

A hand carries a built-in safety measure: it feels the impact of every spank also. Not to the same degree by any means, but a tired, sore palm is a valuable gauge.

A hand doesn’t cut or cause welts, which to me are terribly unattractive.

A hand has a lifetime of proprioception to guide it with decent accuracy.

And most of all, my hand is me. When my belovèd is over my lap, I think she deserves the intimacy of touch. Not being spanked by a thing, but by her loving, care-filled Sir.

We looked at photos, sometimes, of paddles, canes, floggers, straps — and sore, pretty bottoms. Some of them arousing, some not. But always: “I will use only my hand.”

One of an owner’s responsibilities is to guide his belovèd up to, along, and occasionally across one of her edges, holding her safe as she explores. It is quite common.

And from time to time, she helps him across one of his.

— Frenulum

2012/04/19

Confidential

Yes, N., high heels in bed. Indeed. Sexy to look at, and convenient handles when needed. Besides, a girl always looks more undressed if she keeps something on.

Give it a try… and let me know if K. objects :o)

— Frenulum

2012/04/17

Trifecta

I have had a back-of-the-brain fantasy or desire for quite some time. I think it has been fueled mainly by the occasional photo crossing my desktop. The setting is this: a man, typically in a business suit, seated in a comfortable chair; a woman, nude or clad in some enticing bits of lingerie — certainly with heels, we couldn’t possibly do without that vital erotic touch — kneeling between his legs; his cock in her mouth; a snifter of Cognac in his hand.

Sometimes it’s a glass of wine. But usually brandy. Low lighting. Kind of an end-of-the-day feel to it. A brandy and a blow job. It always seemed to me like a combination that would suit me very well.

And then, to shift gears completely: I have long wanted to enjoy some oral attention while watching a baseball game. The major league average game was 2 hours 46 minutes last time I looked it up, which I admit is a trifle long for fellatio, but a few innings worth at least has always seemed like an attractive proposition. Enjoyment for the mind, enjoyment for the body.

I am happy — make that delighted — to report that there is nothing incompatible in these desires.

Brandy, baseball, blow job.

It just works. Marvelous.

Play!

— Frenulum

2012/04/13

Triumph

I keep pretty quiet about my intimate activities with my belovèd, both to respect her privacy (and mine) and in recognition of the fact that you’re not reading this blog for such details.

But a certain triumphant moment deserves to be shared with an appreciative audience — especially those of you who have enjoyed Cocksucking Considered as One of the Fine Arts.

During our get-away trip this week, my belovèd proudly reached a milestone we have both been patiently pursuing, with much happily dedicated practice and training.

She is a petite woman and… I am not petite, so there was always the possibility to be considered that this achievement would not be physically possible. I am happy to report a delightful, successful outcome.

I will just say: there is no longer any unconquered territory.

Thank you for sharing in my pride in her, and our joy.

— Frenulum

2012/04/06

Photo style

Imagine a photographer, a specialist in the subject of nudes. He has a shoot today, with a model of stunning beauty and elegant form. The studio is prepared, and the lighting arranged to his satisfaction.

The model arrives. The stylist sees to every detail of her hair and makeup. Little scraps of hide-nothing lingerie are selected and fitted and adjusted; the properly dramatic heels are slipped on.

The photographer guides her to her first pose. She is breathtaking, sensual, sexy, beautiful.

And he says to her:

Scowl. snap! A little more discontent, please. snap! Good, good! Spread your legs a little more… ok, give me boredom. snap! Great! More — like you’d rather be anywhere else. snap! Beautiful. Cup your breasts in your hands… Sneer. snap! Super! Can I get that look that says you’re so far out of my league I shouldn’t even come near you? snap! Beautiful, beautiful. Lift your hair like this. Show me hauteur, contempt snap! aloof snap! snap! Arch your back… Can I get some of that runway petulance? snap! Oh, you’re doing great!

I seems ludicrous, written out like that. But I swear about one photo in four that I run across has been produced like this.

Advice to photographers: beauty is not in styling or shape, but in happiness, desire, and engagement. IMHO.

— Frenulum

2012/04/05

Absence

Dear readers,

I apologize for posting so little recently. As usual, it’s a matter of allocating time to a cascade of priorities in which writing fiction and essays and blog posts falls regrettably low.

Next week, my belovèd and I are taking a few days away from ordinary demands, to reset and recharge. In the past, such adventures have been inspirational. I hope for more of the same.

And who knows… she has mentioned wanting to spend some time “helping me write” :o) If you’ve been following along, you will know what that means.

Thank you for your patience as always.

— Frenulum