What will the neighbors think?

Her moans and screams and exclamations had been growing louder and less restrained, minute by minute, stroke after plunging stroke.

“Fuck me, Sir!!!” she cried, loud and clear. Since I was already doing exactly that, molto con brio, I interpreted the words as: don’t slow down, I’m so close to cumming.

But the words were distinct, her cry visceral and urgent.

A little bit later, while we were panting and cooling down, I glanced at the bedroom windows. Yup. Open.

The block party next Sunday is going to be a little bit interesting.

— Frenulum

Art appreciation

If you were the woman at the garden party on Wednesday afternoon, with well-tanned skin, wearing white bikini panties under a light-weight white cotton sundress, and standing with full sunlight shining directly upon you like an x-ray spotlight…

Thank you very much.

— Frenulum

Steam

The mechanism of the reclining airline seat hasn’t changed since I was flying Constellations in the early 1960s. In fact, even the form-factor and feel of the push-button hasn’t changed a bit, a remarkable consistency in the face of so much technological change.

What has changed, though, is the economics of the industry. One response by the airlines has been to order cabin floor plans with the rows closer, and closer, and closer together.

What once was a means to relax and enjoy a long flight has now become nothing short of an assault on the stranger behind you. Reclining a seat is an arrogant, selfish claim of importance and precedence. You are an insufferable moron if you attempt it.

Yes, 24C, I’m talking to you and all your insensitive self-centered ignorant kind. The reason you had so much trouble is that my femurs are exactly the distance between my seat and yours. And I have those old-fashioned non-telescoping kind. Jerk.

— Frenulum

P.S. I never call moronic insensitive jerks “assholes” because I quite admire assholes. Many are pretty and all are useful. Unlike, in both respects, 24C.

Study group

(A sequel to Once begun)

The hardest part for Carolyn…

The first hardest part had been meeting Tabitha after school, tacitly agreeing to help her. She could barely make eye contact with her best friend, let alone talk with her. Just by standing together in the hallway, Carolyn had yielded so much of her privacy and innocence.

The hardest part — well, the next hardest part — had been taking her panties off in Tabitha’s bedroom. She left her kilt on, in fact all of the rest of her uniform; not that it offered any coverage, but she felt less bare. Still: spreading her legs, and knowing that Tabitha could see her… her… Carolyn knew the proper words from Biology class, but she had always just thought of it vaguely: “down there” or “my parts.” Tabitha called it her “pussy” and nearly sent Carolyn running from the room, though she had heard the word before.

The hardest part for Carolyn was spreading her legs, with Tabitha watching closely, and masturbating, the afternoon after the night she had touched herself for the first time. Knowing how closely her intimate act was being watched.

The really hardest part was forcing her eyes to look at Tabitha’s…oh god… pussy… while her friend tried to copy the motions of her fingers. It felt so invasive, far too intimate despite their long friendship. “I shouldn’t know what she looks like there,” Carolyn thought, even as her attention and her gaze grew more steady.

Tabitha tried to mimic what Carolyn did. But as Carolyn started to breathe harder, to close her eyes, to rock her head back, Tabitha said “It’s just not working. Help me.”

Carolyn drifted back into focus. “Um… ok… I — how?”

“I don’t know,” Tabitha whined.

“Here… let me… I’ll…” Carolyn sat up, abandoning her own efforts, and her kilt fell back into place to offer a scrap of modesty. She leaned forward. “Can I… touch your hand?” She looked into her friend’s eyes.

“Um. Ok,” said Tabitha, not without nervousness.

Carolyn reached out, and placed her fingers gently on top of the ones that covered her friend’s vulva. ”Let me…” she said, beginning to move Tabitha’s fingers with her own. There was, inevitably, contact between Carolyn’s hand and Tabitha’s intimate treasures, and both girls blushed fiercely — but did not stop.

After a while: “It’s better,” Tabitha said, somewhat breathless. “I think I get it.”

“Good. Keep going.”

Carolyn watched her friend for a while, discomfort almost gone. “You are so pretty,” she blurted.

Tabitha colored even more. “You mean…”

“Yeah. I never… I mean, I never even looked at mine, really.”

“Yeah. Me either.” Tabitha closed her eyes. “Thank you.” A few minutes passed. “Oh, Caro, it’s so nice, but it’s still not working!”

Carolyn was thoughtful. Eighteen hours after her first sexual experience, alone in her bedroom, it seemed far too abrupt. But. But.

“Well…” she said.

“What?”

“There’s… I mean, I don’t really know, it’s just… Something I’ve heard about.”

“What?” asked Tabitha, searching Carolyn’s face.

“Just close your eyes for a minute.”

“Why?”

“Just close them, Tabby,” Carolyn said, softly but firmly.

Tabitha was curious, but they had a long foundation of trust. She closed her eyes and sank back against the pillows. Carolyn leaned closer.

New to the art, Carolyn had to learn as she went along But her friend’s strange taste became familiar quickly, and soon her tongue was dancing on Tabitha’s sensitive clit.

“Oh… oh… don’t stop… don’t stop… oh my… oh…”

“Mmmmmm”

“Oh Carolyn what are you doing to me?!?!?!? Oh — Oh Carolyn — it… it’s WORKING!!!”

“Mmmmmmmmmmmm”

“Oh oh OH OH AaaaaaahhhAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaah!!!”

“Mmmhmm.” Carolyn raised her head. “It’s like that,” she said, and licked her lips.

— Frenulum

Once begun...

(A sequel to Beginning)

Carolyn had no sooner been dropped off at school than she was accosted by her dear friend Tabitha, who grabbed her by the arm and pulled her far away from the crowd of arriving schoolgirls.

“So,” said Tabitha sotto voce. “Did you… you know?”

“Did I what?” Carolyn replied.

“After Mr. C. said it wasn’t wrong —”

Carolyn caught on, and her face flushed pink. “Tabby! You can’t ask stuff like that! Oh my god! That’s so private.”

Tabitha grinned. “You did try it.” Her friend’s deepening blush confirmed the conclusion. Tabitha glanced around once more to make sure they had privacy.

“Did it… work?”

“What do —”

“You know… climax.” Tabitha whispered.

Carolyn paused for a beat before nodding her head, admitting all.

“Was it as good as people say?”

“Oh, Tabby. It’s like… like nothing else at all. Wonderful and intense and… it rushes through you, it…” She trailed off, remembering dreamily. Then: “You never…”

It was Tabitha’s turn to blush. “I tried last night, too. And… it was nice, but it didn’t… work. I gotta know what it feels like. So, you need to help me.”

“What?” gasped Carolyn.

“Come home with me after school, and show me how. You could maybe do it and I can watch you and copy. Or… maybe you could do it for me once.”

“F-f-f-for you?” stammered Carolyn.

“Yeah, like, your fingers, on my —

The morning bell interrupted. “Think about it!” called Tabitha as she ran for the door. “See you in Bio!” Then, from a distance: “I helped you with math homework. You can help me with Biology!”

Think about it? Carolyn though of nothing else. Until the day’s closing bell sounded.

— Frenulum

Beginning

Carolyn finished her homework, said goodnight to her parents, and headed upstairs. She had been quiet and thoughtful all evening, but nobody had remarked on it.

She washed up, brushed her teeth, went into her bedroom, and closed the door. Slowly, distracted, she took off her shoes, socks, blouse, bra, and skirt. She got a nightie from the dresser and wiggled into it.

Earlier that day in Biology class, during a lesson on reproduction, her friend Ashley — not nearly as shy as Carolyn — had asked “Is it wrong to touch yourself?” At which many girls blushed or hid their faces, Carolyn included. But their teacher, Mr. Curtis, had explained that it was normal and natural and healthy, and even beneficial in certain ways. Carolyn had learned over the years to trust him.

With a little shiver, she reached under her nightie and slipped her panties off. She climbed into bed, and turned off the light.

“Natural and healthy,” Carolyn whispered softly. Then, under the covers, she pulled her nightie up to her waist, and began to learn about herself.

It was so good.

— Frenulum

Waiting

Her creativity is boundless. Her dedication thorough. Her ability to surprise me… still surprising.

I might wander in, hear ordinary domestic sounds from the kitchen, investigate and find her still in the skirt and blouse from her professional attire (and heels and stockings and garter and lacy panties, yum, just for me underneath), with an apron on, baking something.

Or I might find her right inside the front door. Kneeling, hands bound, eyes lowered, waiting to be taken.

Or up in our bedroom. In heels and panties, facing the corner. Something I need to hear about and fix.

Or on the dining room table, prostrate, surrounded by… a variety of suggestive toys. And my camera.

Or… someplace new, some new pose, a different outfit, another notion.

The point is not that she surprises me, although it’s true every day.

The point is, that as I travel homeward, the plane of the universe tilts. The point is that I know, in that last twenty minutes of the bus ride, that she is waiting, with nothing more important in her universe than that we will be merged again in a little while. The point is to be thought about and valued and desired. There is nothing in the world sexier than that.

— Frenulum

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

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

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

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.

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