Tommy

My favourite

Now it's fallen off the blog's front page. It's not the best rated, not the most visited post, but it is, ever since I made it, my favourite caption. So I indulge in promoting it once again.

One at a time

I should have known it wouldn't be easy.

The cure

Into the sea

Get real!

I made a decision today. I will not wank anymore in front of the computer. I will continue this blog, read others, get horny... but I won't wank anymore here. I'll keep my cum for my girlfriend. She deserves it.

I am not ashamed of dreaming of being a girl. I am not ashamed of getting turned on by doing so. There's nothing wrong with being kinky, or a pervert, or whatever you may call it.

But it's wrong to spend so much time being horny and getting off alone when you can share it with some person close to you. In flesh and blood. A person you love. I am so lucky to have one. It's true I cannot realize all my wet dreams with her. But some I can, and there is room for progress. So were I not an idiot if I not tried to get my sex-life back to being real?

When I was eleven (reprise)

I met her in a club down in old Soho
Where you drink champagne and it tastes just like cherry-cola
C-O-L-A cola
She walked up to me and she asked me to dance
I asked her her name and in a dark brown voice she said Lola
L-O-L-A Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola

Well I'm not the world's most physical guy
But when she squeezed me tight she nearly broke my spine
Oh my Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola
Well I'm not dumb but I can't understand
Why she walked like a woman and talked like a man
Oh my Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola

Well we drank champagne and danced all night
Under electric candlelight
She picked me up and sat me on her knee
And said little boy won't you come home with me
Well I'm not the world's most passionate guy
But when I looked in her eyes well I almost fell for my Lola
Lo-lo-lo-lo Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola
Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola

I pushed her away
I walked to the door
I fell to the floor
I got down on my knees
Well I looked at her and she at me

Well that's the way that I want it to stay
And I'll always want it to be that way for my Lola
Lo-lo-lo-lo Lola
Girls will be boys and boys will be girls
It's a mixed up muddled up shook up world except for Lola
Lo-lo-lo-lo Lola

Well I'd left home just a week before
And I'd never ever kissed a woman before
But Lola smiled and took me by the hand
And said little boy I'm gonna make you a man

Well I'm not the world's most masculine man
But I know what I am and I'm glad I'm a man
And so is Lola
Lo-lo-lo-lo Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola
Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lol


The Kinks' song was the soundtrack of my holidays at eleven. It made a deep erotic impression on me. But only ten years later I understood it's meaning.
(I wasn't that good in English then...)

Nice

A treat

Coming out a little bit

This post is for Jamie. The picture. I'm not sure he appreciates the retro girdle - I don't particularly -, but the girl is pretty and the polka dots should do the trick.
And the text. Because it's the truth this time, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I know he appreciates that. But therefore it's going to be a bit dull, I fear, and I warn everyone who read until here hoping for a hot story to get off on to better stop and and click elsewhere - or browse my new tumblr archive just here on my sidebar.
The post is not only for Jamie. It's also for those of us who haven't come out and wonder how it would be if they did. No, I didn't actually come out, but I gave friends, close friends and not so close friends of my everyday life, yesterday's story to read. And it had some effect.
To tell about it I have to disclose some facts of my life I'd rather keep to myself because they contradict the young, pure, inexperienced and sexy persona I had planned to assume as author of this blog. So that's over. Hopefully only for the young and inexperienced part. (If you are still annoyed by my dishonesty, I apologize and beg you to read my page "on truth", also right here on the side-bar.)

I have a friend who is a writer and editor in a publishing company. I wrote yesterday's story answering her invitation to contribute to a collection of short stories she was preparing.
I am not a professional writer and it's not through work I know her. She's a close friend of my girlfriend's.
I have the lazy habit to leave it to my girlfriend to care for our social life, take initiative to invite people, remember birthdays and so on. The result is that I live socially in an environment dominated by women. It's quite a group, really. On almost every dinner or weekend activity they seem to outnumber us men. Even if they don't, arithmetically, they still do, when it comes to effect. The women create a community, a circle of friends - with conflicts, friction, envies, that's true - but a circle of friends. We men, even if equal in number, are never much more than their appendixes. It is, I believe, a quite common form of male submission, and not sexual. It's just the consequence of our - or at least my - lack of commitment to this kind of social life. Contrary to the girls, we guys are not much closer to each other than one is on a "Hi, how you are doing?" basis. And whether it is a general characteristic of our group, or whether it is just me, also my relations to my girlfriend's female friends were rather superficial. Friendly, but detached.

That changed after I started my blog. Not this one. I have another, ordinary blog with my name on it, where I post my general musings about what interests me - except the kinky part - and publish stories. No content warning is necessary for that blog.
To my surprise and my pleasure, I found that several of the women (and none of the men!) I had known for years as little more than my girlfriend's friends, became regular readers and correspondents, and some are now more my friends than her's.

One of the closest is Pamela, the writer and editor. She lives in a stable relationship too, and with respect to that neither of us has ever given in to temptation that would mess up our lives. But we both like writing, we respect each other in this realm, and that is a strong connection. We talk a lot, by mail or in person, also under four eyes. She is the only woman, for example, who confided to me that she likes kinky porn. Kink, not ordinary straight, vanilla porn. "You don't imagine", she said, "and I wont describe it to you. But it's really weird and depraved stuff that I watch and that turns me on."
Well, I could imagine, and happily recommended some sites to her. But we remained careful and responsible as ever and left it at that. And I did not tell her about my special interests that are manifest in the blog you are reading right now. Not at that time.

Back to the story. I declined the invitation first, for two reasons. I was absorbed in my job and with little time for other things, and I didn't like the collection's working title: "The beautiful life". Isn't that corny? But her publisher's idea was exactly this: A collection of happy, edifying stories that convince readers that life is beautiful and worth living!
It was summer. Everyone was on holiday except me, who was trying to meet a deadline. And then it came to me, in spite of lack of time: a totally happy story! I wrote it and mailed it to her, commenting that I knew well it was not publishable in the harmless context of the planned book, although I found it fitted perfectly with the title and the collection's purpose.
A couple of hours later I got an enthusiastic call from her. She was at the beach and had just read it. She had printed it out and taken it with her. "It's one of the hottest things I ever read!" she said.
And she found it publishable. If I would consent to her giving it to read to everybody on her dinner-party tonight. Her lover owns a country house near the coast. Many of my usual friends would be there, but not me. So it was decided. My kinky fantasy would become public knowledge in my friend's circle.
Next day she updated me on the reaction. It had not went very well. She reported that it had been mostly awkward, and that it had been difficult to extract any extended comments from our friends. Most people, all women except her, had said they didn't like it. Sleazy, was one word. Porn, another. One man commented he found it very curious I had written the story from a woman's point of view. And everybody had considered it not publishable in the planned collection.
I confess that, as much as I had been elated by my friend's praise, I was smashed now by the reported reaction.

End of story. - End of story? - No. Two weeks later, my work deadline met, I saw Pamela and all our friends on a great garden-party at her country-house. And to my surprise, Pamela's sister, a sexy and admirable woman who at the couple of times we met before had only showed friendly indifference towards me - and one of those who'd said she didn't like my story - made a very determined pass at me.
I wonder if I have been an idiot for most of my life at trying to hide my femininity, not only to avoid social disapproval, but because I believed it to be a turn off for women, who I presumed were not into femm boys.


(Picture from here)

Good times

Lisa is a beautiful, cheerful brunette and we know each other from college. At that time we both already were with our men, with whom we still live, but that did not hinder us to start making out. I'll always remember the first hot fucks we had in the library. Sure we knew we were cheating on our men, but we did not really feel guilty. We loved them, and we knew that our lesbian relationship, however passionate, never would endanger our devotion to our future husbands. What we were doing was just in another domain.

After a while, we found it would be great to let them know. There was a risk that we spoiled everything and broke our hearts, but we were confident we could avoid that. We both were submissive to our men, but that didn't mean we weren't able to manipulate things according to our desires. We were women, after all, and had learned how to get things to be the way we want through subtle ways. Or at least so we thought.

The first step was to make us four meet. I told my lover about Lisa and that I would love to invite her and her man over. To make my case stronger I told Jon how nice and how beautiful Lisa was, and I might have taken it a little too far, because I saw in his curious reaction that I had given away how much impression Lisa had made on me. But that was, of course, only one more reason for him to agree to the invitation: now he wanted to know who Lisa was.

So they came over. Lisa's lover is a stout muscular man, friendly without saying too much and less formal than my man, who likes style and good manners. (Thankfully never without some self-ironic touch.) I liked Robert immediately. You could not fail to feel his dominant charisma. More difficult was to predict how our men would get along. But the dinner went on nicely, and the first thing I could see that they came to agree on was us two girls, whose conspirative effort to make the evening a success did not pass unnoticed, neither the erotic friction between us. That was no accident. Lisa and I had believed it a good idea to show it off in order to promote our mission.

That went well. In the following weeks the four of us became really close, and spent a lot of time together. Lisa and I began to enact our show. A casual caress here, a sisterly kiss there, an innocent walk hand in hand in front of them on a weekend stroll in the woods. It didn't take long and we were in that situation of "I know that you know that I know..." or more correctly, "we know that you know...". Even so it was still scary when the moment came they confronted us. It was on a sunday afternoon in the end of the summer.
Until that moment it had been a beautiful day, happy and relaxed. The men had rented a sailing boat. There was not much wind, but nobody cared. We anchored in the shadow of some oaks in a lonely bay of the lake and unwrapped our picnic. I still remember the smells: ham, bottled coffee, the characteristic odour of lake water. With a trace of weed and foul wood, but fresh and agreeable.

"Well," said Robert, "I think it's time you end your theatre and explain what's up with you. We aren't stupid, you know. What do you have in mind for the future?"

I had waited for this moment, but I was grateful that it was Lisa who began to explain our idea.

"And you think we ever accepted that?" asked Robert. "You know us so little that you believe you can impose your affair on us and everything else remains the same? - Forget it! If you want to be a couple, go ahead! Perhaps you find even some wimps that accept to be your men under that conditions, if you still need them. It won't be us, for sure. Jon and I have talked about this, and we agree on that. Or you two stop fucking each other, or we stop fucking you."

Lisa and I had imagined this conversation, anticipated various lines it might take. In spite of that, both of us were failing the words now. We had prepared so much speech, but now neither Lisa nor I were able to say much. It wasn't that we wouldn't remember, it was rather their blunt assessment of the situation that shut us up and instilled a profound sense of futility.

"Except if..."

If there had been missing proof our men were sadists, here it was.

"Except if..." Jon said with an almost imperceptible smile, "...you submit your relation to our rules."

They were kidding. They were playing with us. Also Lisa and I had been playing in a way... and not. It's always dangerous to play with this kind of things.

"But how?"

"It's quite simple. You two can make out when we authorize it. We authorize for a certain period. And forbid for another period, Then we authorize again and so on..."

This made no sense at all! But still, it was better than a definite No.

"Yes?"

"To make things more interesting, we'll set it up this way. Robert authorizes or not Lisa, and I authorize or not you, Caroline. It won't be always synchronized. That means, it will happen that you are authorized to make love to her, but Lisa not at the same time. Or vice versa."

"And to make things even more interesting," said Robert now with a broad smile, "we'll introduce a third mode: the obligation to seduce. For example, Lisa may have orders to seduce you, Caroline, and you have orders to remain chaste. You'll have to sort it out... Ah, and any disobedience must be punished of course!"

What was there to say? It all ended up as a game! A marvellous and intricate game! All the tension gave way to joy and enormous excitement. And a sweet sentiment of complicity among us four. Lisa and I fell into our mens arms, and if it hadn't been for the shaky boat, it might have ended up in a menage a quatre that moment.

How do you say? The day ended in beauty!

Our men - our "masters" - wouldn't control what we were doing when we were out of their sight. But once a month we met for a "verification day". There our acts were compared to our orders. Proven disobedience would be punished with the crop. If our declarations did not coincide, both of us would be punished. So there was an incentive to tell the truth. Except if someone really wanted to be punished in every situation! That, I can assure you, was not the case!

In the following months, then, it was like this: Both of us had our orders, but we only knew our own. When I met Lisa in college, I never knew what was awaiting me. If we both were in authorized mode or seduction mode, it was simple: we could make love and no one would be punished. But if I had to remain chaste and she had orders to seduce me, she would try and either succeed, and I would be punished, or fail, and she would be punished. Of course we could tell each other what were our orders, but that did not help if we were in incompatible modes. And also we could not trust in that the other wouldn't lie. For example, to seduce a girl you presumed in chaste mode, it was a good strategy to pretend you were too. If it were the truth, both could we do whatever we like with eachother and our masters never would find out, because none of us would admit it on verification day. But if one of us in truth had not been in chaste mode, she would tell on verification day and the other girl would be punished.

Every day we met, the game of seduction began fresh and new. Delicious the feeling of power to have succeded to seduce her, by lying or by being irresistible, and knowing that she later would be duly punished for it! Still sweeter was giving in to seduction, suspecting or knowing that it would come out, and willingly take the risk or even accept the certainty of posterior punishment! And also exiting was the complicity of cheating on our masters, making sure that they would not find out, and proving that their power, how far reaching ever, was not total!

The game lasted for several months, before it wore out. Even afterwards, we remained good friends and occasional lovers until a couple of years later we moved away, me following my then already husband through Europe pursuing his career. We still maintain contact, e-mail and phone occasionally. I plan on that we meet again. To catch up on our gorgeous life those days. I will tell about it when it's time.


(Many thanks to Jennifer who provided, not knowingly, the adequate - and fantastic - gif right in time!)

Dream come true

This is not made by me. It's from Gerita. I found it deserved a translation.

What I would do if I were a pretty girl

have a ride with the boys:

a boat trip:

have interesting conversations with sophisticated men:

be decorative at a pool party:

wait outside while my lover is watching the game:

show my body off at the beach:

get proper training on a farm:

let others take care of what I feel:

find out if black guys really fuck better:

bend over when I have been naughty:

try to make a good first impression on my future parents in law:

and marry:

The sheltering sky

I read this book by Paul Bowles only recently. He's a reference, of course, for anybody interested in literature and lives led outside conventions, sexually and otherwise.
For me, adds to this that I love tales of travel. The whole book is fantastic, but what got to me most, and might get to you too as you seem to like things I post in my blog, is the last chapter: "Sky". Kit's adventure has haunted me ever since I've read it.

Improvement

Who was it who said he knows people who don't like braids?

The point

Desesperadamente loquita

If you are able to read even only a bit spanish, like I do, you should visit Gerita's blog. I myself am doing it regularly, and I tell you the effort is worth while. Her blog is beautiful, very feminine, has taste and charming, almost - but only almost - every-day-life stories.
The longer I read her, the sexier the spanish language sounds to me!

Probation

Another childhood memory

The day after a school's event, attended by our parents too, a classmate told me, with obvious malice, that his father had commented on me. That he considered me the prettiest girl of our class!
I didn't tell him that he'd made my day.

(I had long smooth hair at twelve, but certainly wore unisex clothes, probably jeans and sneakers.)

Not nothing

When I was eleven

A long time ago JamieLin answered somebody else's question of what he remembered from when he was eleven. Here's what I remember. The story is entirely true, except for a twist. Lets assume, for the sake of the story and for the sake of a deeper truth, that at eleven I was a girl.

Picture taken from here

I grew up in a rural area in northern Europe. I spent a lot of time outside, often in my older brother's tow, straying around with other kids of both sexes, climbing trees, stealing cherries and that sort of thing. I was what you call a tomboy.

The story:
We, that is my parents, my mother's cousin and her husband, their kids, myself and my little brother were at an holiday camp in Holland, similar to a camping-site only that instead of tents there were quite comfortable cottages for rent. I was eleven. As my older brother was not with us - that year he was on a boy-scout vacation, I was the oldest of us children and in charge. My parents counted on me that I would look after the younger ones. Also I decided what we would play, made the rules and attributed the roles to all. I enjoyed that very much.
There were other kids and groups of kids in the camp, too. Quite naturally, we befriended and cooperated in some games. Among them was a boy that I found really cute. He might have been a little older than me, but not much. I noted that he held a similar position in his group as I had in mine.
One day we agreed to play dodgeball, and we had to establish a rule to choose the teams, because family against family was not viable, the teams were too unequal. Normally you sort this out by a game of the type "paper/scissors/stone" or some counting-out rhymes. But he suggested something else: that we should shoot the ball away and then run after it. Who returned it first to the place would begin to choose the team-members. It was obvious to me that he made the suggestion because he was sure he would win this competition. That instigated my pride. I thought: Oh well, let's see! There might be a nice surprise for him in store! So the ball was shot off and we two ran after it. In fact he reached it first. But I wasn't to admit defeat so easily! I threw myself at him to wrestle the ball from his arms. The ball sprang off and no one followed it. Instead we two were rolling in the dust in a fight. It was not violent, but a wrestle that either of us took very seriously. I sensed his surprise when he realised that I was not an easy match and he redoubled his effort. He was panting and I felt his breath in my face. I don't know what triggered me then to do what I did. He had the upper hand, but the fight was not at all over when, out of the blue, I decided to let him win. I did not plan it, there was no conscious decision, but it was clearly a choice that I made: to cease resistance. In hindsight I imagine it was feeling his taut body, his commitment and his beauty that suddenly made me succumb to the lure of submission, so strong that it made me forget my pride. He sat on my chest, pinned my wrists with his hands on the grass over my head, and mercylessly put his knees on my upper arms. "Muscle-riding", that is called. I watched his face. As he looked up to our kid-audience I saw his expression of dedicated effort give way to the gleam of triumph. Then, for an instant our eyes met, and I turned my face away, bashfully trying to hide my extasy.
Until today I have not felt anything more intense than that moment! Was it an orgasm, my first orgasm? I am not sure if I can say so. In a way: yes. The feeling radiated from the belly, that area from beneath the navel and above the crotch, and flooded from there my body down to my toes, up into my fingertips and the roots of my hair. I have recalled this moment over and over, and my fantasizing certainly has not left my memory unchanged. But in the essence, I did not add anything to the original feeling, because there was nothing to add. Since that early moment in my life it is my quest to reencounter this experience: the overwhelming, ultimate lust of surrender!

I wish I could say this

.

Doubts

Otto Rudolf Schatz

Some time ago I stumbled over this forgotten austrian artist. Having been quite successful in his early years, he had a hard time during the nazi period because of his left wing convictions and also because of his partly jewish family. He even was sent to a concentration camp, but survived. In the years before his imprisonment he only managed to make a living by painting erotica and selling them to private collectors. I like to think that even if he had a shitty time then, at least, if his art was inspired by his personal life as I hope, he had some joys too.

I especially like the threesomes. I always imagine myself being one of the girls. What really turns me on here, and also gets at me sentimentally, is the cumplicity with the other girl, the bond coming from sharing the delights and ordeals of being mastered together by a strong man.

Attention whore

The itch

I was a boy once. But that is past. Now I am a woman, married to a loving husband who is helping me - and enjoying himself by doing it - to explore the depths of my submissive, masochistic and exhibitionistic feminine self.

Where we live, nobody knows that, and we want to keep it that way. We are in almost every other respect a conventional married couple, are socially adapted, and it is very helpful in our conservative town that I can pass well as the young woman I am.

Yet we are different, and we act it out playing "games" like the one I am going to tell about.

The opportunity for our game arose when a famous orchestra gave a concert in our town. These concerts, rather rare, were the pride of the council's cultural program, and thus important social events. We prepared and dressed up as one does for such an occasion, perhaps even a little more than usual. I had been to the hairdresser the afternoon, and I would wear my silken champagne-colored ball-dress, 12den white stockings with garters and 4-inch pumps, and lacy panties and bra. I was doing the final retouching of my make-up when my husband came in, kissed me on the neck and said I looked ravishing. I felt so too. Then he produced some fresh nettles and placed one carefully in either cup of my bra and one in my panties, over my shaved pussy. He checked that they wold not show in my silky dress, and was satisfied.

As always, we had agreed on a punishment for the case I failed the dare. Failure would be if I took the nettles out before we were back home, and my punishment would be twelve hard lashes with his belt.

The nettles were much worse than I had imagined! Already in the car it became unbearable and I recognized that I had overestimated myself. I tried to negotiate. That I would take them out earlier, in the restroom before the concert, but he just said "no way". In the concert-hall lobby I was so absorbed with maintaining countenance while enduring the itch and suppressing instinctive reactions to relieve it, that I was totally unable to enjoy, as I normally do on such occasions, being attractive and being watched appreciatively by men and women (and enviously too, in the latter case). In fact, I was hoping to be invisible. Because I was constantly blinking, trying not to press my thighs together and violently pinch my breasts, as I had done in the car, for the pinching pain was more sufferable than the itch. In the lobby we met a couple we knew, one of my husband's superiors and his wife. I had talked to them on one or another social occasion related to my husband's job. We changed some polite remarks. Then the woman looked at me and asked:

- Dear, are you not well?
- Oh, it's nothing, - I answered - there is only a little thing I have to fix with my clothing, I'll just be off to the ladies room!
I intended to go, but my husband grabbed me by my wrist before I could move, and discreetly held my arm down close to him.
- There is no time - he said, rather sternly. Our acquaintances looked astonished but said nothing, and went on.

I don't remember how I passed the next hour in the concert! How can an ordinary itch be so nasty? Even before the interruption, more than once I was ready to get up to relieve me of the nettles, and again was hindered by the firm grasp of my husbands hand. It's true that every time he did this, like in the lobby in front of the older couple, a rush of submissive lust flooded my body, and turned the itch bearable for a while. But not for long.
In the break then there was no more hesitation. Off I was to the ladies room. I almost ran, but even so there was already a queue. Finally I got into a cabin and ripped the nettles out of my bra and my panties. That is not so easily done as it is said when you have an evening dress that is zip-closed behind! But I managed without tearing it. I never saw my tits so red before! Red and with white spots where the little nettle-hairs entered the soft skin. My lovely venus-hill did not look better.
Pussy and breast bare, the itch was eased a little but still way too much. I had to do something about it! So I peeked out of the cabin-door: there still were women at the lavatories. Meanwhile the bell rang. I waited. Finally, when there was nobody anymore, I went out, dress and bra open as they were, wetted my hands and squeezed some liquid soap out of the dispenser and smeared it over my breasts and my crotch. It really helped, if not as much as I desired. I got some more liquid soap and smeared it over my boobs again, massaging the fluid into the skin. Then to my alarm the door opened and a young girl of the theatre-staff entered. Seeing me as I was, she stopped in shock. Fortunately she then remembered trying to be professional.
- Excuse-me, Madam, can I help you? - she said.
- Thank you! - I replied - I am sorry, it's just a little problem with my skin, but really it is nothing.
- There is a gentleman outside who asked me to see if his wife was in here. Is that you?
At that point, I had gotten fatalistic enough and said:
- Yes. Probably this is my husband outside. And yes, you can help me if you don't mind!
So I pulled up my slip, closed my bra and had her zip up my dress.
Outside my husband waited trying to look strict but was not doing so well at hiding his amusement. After we got politely rid of the staff-girl, he said: - So you took it out! You know what that means, don't you?
- Whatever you say. - I replied - Let's go home!
- Oh, not so fast, my dear! We'll attend to the rest of the concert, as civilized people do. Don't let you being such a weak little slut get in the way of that!
His expression watching me made me look down at myself and realize the mess I was in! The water and the liquid soap had soaked through the bra and the dress, not only showing the contour and the lacy fabric of the bra as even my nipples. And now I also felt the soapy water running down my stockinged thighs. The moment I would sit down, also the wet crotch would show in the dress.
- Oh please! You do see how I look! - I begged.
- I can see it exactly! - he said - No more arguing!
That moment I became excited again. Most of the time since he had placed the nettles on me the itch had overpowered all the erotic anticipation I had felt while preparing this dare. But now I would have to return to my place in the audience, making a really slutty appearance in this distinguished environment: wet underwear and nipples showing through my dress! How humiliating! But I also felt very sexy at the same time! How exciting! How scary, too! I would never have dared to go back there alone, but obeying my husbands firm command, I felt safe and okay. True that I still was full of shame, but that was in fact a rather delicious feeling...

So we made our re-entrance, were ushered to our seats during two sets of music, and I received besides the disapproving looks for our disturbance the one and other surprised and taxating glance for my deranged appearance.
During the rest of the concert the itch eased and I had time to think of what was awaiting me at home: the belt! I had never been beaten with the belt before, and I was afraid of it. I am quite sensible to pain and really do not like it in itself. All what we had done up to that day were red ass spankings - a caressing punishment that I really enjoy - and some correctional slaps with the crop, which I had experienced more as an instrument for guiding than one for punishment. It can provide a good sting that even might rush your tears to the eyes, but as in it's original use, it is rather a disciplinary reminder to get you to do immediately what you are supposed to do. As I can be quite a headstrong girl, the crop has been of great avail for my husband to improve my obedience, but he has never used it with cruelty. In fact, I very much like being disciplined that way!
But now it would be the belt. When I accepted the dare I was convinced that I would not let it come to that. I had been wrong. Yet there was some time until the moment came: we were still listening to the music, had to drive home. The more the itch eased, the more rose my anticipation and fear. Sure I could call it off, if necessary. After all it's only a game, and my husband loves me. We also had a safeword that I never had used. But it would be such a sad failure of mine, to give up! Almost a betrayal! No, my self-respect commanded that I would endure it. I had lost and deserved to be punished. It were only twelve lashes, but I had an idea what twelve well given lashes could do to a bottom. I tried to calm myself telling me that it will be okay because it's my husband who will give them to me and he loves me. But I also knew that he would not offend me by being too lenient with me. And he also believed in that a deal is a deal... There was in fact nothing to do but to pass the time as well as possible until the moment for punishment came, so why not listen to the music and think of what I could do about my disastrous appearance? - Though in that matter there was really nothing to do...

When the concert was over I urged my husband to get out. He however insisted in that we both behaved perfectly polite and dignified, obviously enjoying my shame about the mess I was. - We should have a drink at the bar, - he said, and if we would meet the couple from before again, so be it! I sure would be able to make some explanation if they dared to ask, wouldn't I?
And inevitably that happened. We met the older couple again. As we were left alone by the men who went to queue at the bar to get us drinks, the woman, a beautiful lady well in her fifties (she could have been my mother) said:
- Well, now you can tell me what happened to you! You look better healthwise now than before the concert, but what horrible things did you do to your wardrobe?
I stuttered something of having had an accident in the bathroom, not making sense at all. Just before our husbands were approaching, she looked into my eyes, knowingly (how on earth could she know anything!? She definitely couldn't!) and said:
- My dear, you better make it up to your husband when you come home, he has reason to be very strict with you!
Then we turned to smalltalk of the inoffensive kind. Feeling that I had not to explain anything anymore, I relaxed and began to enjoy myself in the lobby, in spite or even because of my messy appearance. I felt the eyes of several men on me, my sexy body in the wrecked wardrobe in general and my wet nipples in particular. Still there was quite some itch left.

On our way home I turned to have opportunity to meditate on the punishment awaiting me, and the fear built up again. My husband said little during our drive. All gentleman, he opened the car's door for me, and when I stepped out my knees felt quite weak. Holding my elbow, he steered me into the apartment. There he said: - I'll give you five minutes to get rid of that mess you made of your clothes, then I expect you in the living-room, stark naked, to receive your punishment.
I did as told, went to the bedroom and got rid of the clothes. Went to the bathroom and watched myself in the mirror. I still could very well see the burn-marks the nettles had left on my otherwise impeccable skin. In a few moments, there would be added other marks on my impeccable butt! It crossed my mind that I should take advantage of the five minutes to try some lotions to treat me, but I had not the nerve. I noticed that I was breathing heavier and trembling, and trembling surely not from cold. Better to get it over with! I stepped into the living room, stark naked as he had requested. I had not spent more than two minutes of the five he had given me.
He stood there, still in his trousers and shirt, belt in hand.
- You know what is going to happen now, don't you? - he asked.
- Yes.
- Tell me!
- I will get twelve belt lashes for not living up to my promise.
- Thats right! Any reason I shouldn't do it?
He looked into my eyes. This was not a routine ritual of spanking pro's, no studied dialog. It was our first time and he was well aware of my fear.
- No, I replied, with a lump in my throat.
- You know you deserve it.
- Yes, I deserve it.
How can I explain that I would have given almost anything for some miracle that would have spared me my punishment? And yet, though knowing that all this is a game, I felt so profoundly telling the truth when I answered that I deserved my punishment. That there was no other way for things ever to be fine again except by receiving it!
- So bend over the sofa and keep your legs straight!

I did. The first lash was hard enough, but no so hard as the following. And that one was not so hard as the next. He was obviously testing how much I could take. The lashes flooded me with pain... and anger! Anger is my immediate response to pain. But I kept my head down counting out the strokes as he had requested. The anger then turned into something different. A sort of feeling of humiliation, still very disagreeable because tempered with rage, but at the same time increasingly lustful. I already had made aquaintance with these mixed feelings before, but never so intensely. This transition from outrage to surrender is one of the strongest delights of real submission. From the seventh our eighth lash I was screaming out, in lust and in pain. At the end I was sobbing convulsively.

But this sobbing felt very good! He took me in his arms and consolated me and as I was regaining my breath I felt an intense relief and lightness. Bliss is not too strong a word for it! I had done what I had to do, I passed through what I had to pass through. Everything was as it should be! - And I was free, entirely free, so free that I would want to use my freedom to make the only possible choice, the happiest choice of all: love! To be his little girl, his slave, his wife, to be everything he ever would want me to be! This was what I wanted and I knew I could do it, could be it!

He took lovingly care of my sore butt and then we made love, had wonderful vanilla sex and then I fell asleep, cuddling at his side, head on his chest.

Bastard

Turkish bath

Early fantasies

I may not have seriously wanted to be a girl as a six year old kid, Stevie Stevens, but I definitely had erotic TG fantasies! At six I dreamt of being a slavegirl in a harem. Of course I had no clear idea of what that might mean sexually. And I wonder a little where my notion of a harem came from, but I have a good guess. As I was practically not allowed to watch any TV at that age, it can only have been the book "1001 Nights" that my mother used to read to me. A book not of the Disney type, rather an old illustrated edition. Probably intended for young readers, though certainly not for six year olds. I remember vaguely the opulent architecture, courtyards with fountains and flowers; beautiful, veiled princesses and a handsome prince, and a powerful sultan who everybody loved and feared at the same time. Even if it was a children's book, there is no question that I felt the eroticism of the stories, felt the breathtaking connection between sexuality and power. I still remember the fantasy, and I am absolutely sure it to be of that age, because I can date exactly the family holidays during which I daydreamt about it. I fantasized that we were various girls of my age in the harem, all made up beautifully, our hairdo, with braids of course and coronets, but then we were ordered to take off our skirts an panties and slide down a helter-skelter with our nude peepee (I knew what that was because I have a one year younger sister) into the pool!
I was to write that we were ordered to take off only our panties and kept on our skirts, which obviously would have been pulled up during the slide, but I suspect that I am making that up now in hindsight.
Ah, and sure, the Sultan was watching!

No caption today, but tomorrow.

Thank you

The call

Friction

Bobby's boyfriend

Shame...

Shopping shoes