“Take a breath…” she whispered to herself, trying to slow her heart rate before she entered the bar.

The lights were low. She struggled to adjust her sight, but after a few minutes she spied him chatting to the bartender, nursing a scotch. She took a stool two spaces down from him and ordered, “I’ll have what he’s having,” nodding towards her prey.

He glanced over at her, “You have good taste. It’s on me,” then to the bar man, “I’ll have another too.”

“Thank you, that’s very generous. I’m Jules,” she extended her hand and smiled at him.

“Mac.” His hand swallowed hers in a tight grip, “Are you waiting on someone?”

“Nope, all on my lonesome tonight I’m afraid.”

“You needn’t be. I’m not going anywhere.”

She felt her heart race as she slid over onto the stool next to him. She was in…


She giggled as she unlocked her front door. They spilled in drunkenly; he stumbled and tripped, landing hard on her tiled hallway.

“Fuck, I must have had more than I realised,” he sighed as she helped him to his feet.

“Come on, you need to lie down,” she pulled him upstairs and into her bedroom.

He leered at her, “You taking me to bed then are you?” and reached for her. She deftly sidestepped him and pushed him down on the bed.

“Come on, you know you want to,” he groaned, hands in the air trying to grab her again.

“Steady, boy!”

“I’m not a b…” his world faded to grey.


She waited.

After undressing him and tightly securing his wrists and ankles to the bed frame with rope, she made coffee as he snored and revised her plan. She had been careful to make him think she was matching him drink for drink, adding an extra shot of scotch from her bag to his glass whenever he went to the gents. Now she was ready for the next stage.

“What the…!” he gasped as the ice cold water hit his face, rudely pulling him back to consciousness.

He tried to sit up.

“What the fuck?” his eyes widened as it dawned on him that he was completely restrained, “What’s happening?”

A slow smile spread across her face, “We are going to play a game… I’m in charge.”

She bent over and picked up the knife from the under the bed, relishing the flash of fear in his eyes.

“Untie me. Now!” he strained against the black rope that bound him.

“Oh I don’t think that’s going to happen, Mac…” she trailed the tip of the blade up along his calf, continuing to his inner thigh and pausing just before it touched his balls, “Just think of all the things I could do to you now,” she whispered, pressing the tip into his skin.

“Jesus! Are you fucking mad?” he gasped, trying but failing to twist his body away.

“Do you think it’s wise to be so rude to me right now?” she swiftly flicked the knife up and pressed it against his throat, “Well?”

She watched his Adam’s apple as he swallowed hard. She saw beads of sweat break out on his forehead and smiled, “You really don’t remember me do you?”

He frowned, a confused expression washed over his face. She felt the rage building inside her.

“Did you honestly think a fit young woman like me would pick up an old man like you in a bar? Really? Can you be that egotistic?” her voice trembled as she struggled to control her anger, “Look at yourself! How old are you now? 60?” She pointed the blade at his crotch, “I see that you dye your hair these days, but not down here… Aw, look at how tiny your pathetic cock is?”

Once again she pressed the knife onto his skin, buried the tip in his grey bush. He whimpered, “Please, I don’t know what you want from me…”

She took a breath, striving to stop herself from piercing his skin with the knife.

“What I want? Ha! What I want is to make you feel as scared and powerless as you made me feel… is anything coming back to you yet… well, Sir, or should I say Mr. MacDonald?”

His face drained completely of blood. She watched the slow dawning of recognition cross his face, followed by sheer panic.

“Jules… Julianne? Is it you?” his voice so low she almost couldn’t hear him.


She closed her eyes.

Nausea swept over her as she was transported her back to the school art room, empty but for the two of them. He had asked her to stay back to help him tidy the supplies away. As she gathered pastels and charcoal she heard the distinct click of the door locking and turned to see him walking towards her.

“We are going to play a game Julianne,” he had said, pushing her down to the floor, his hand around her throat, “Do. Not. Make. A. Sound.”


Opening her eyes she replied to him, her voice ice cold, “You told me to not make a sound but you can scream all you like. My neighbours are out of town and no-one ever comes by this way,” she began to cut into the skin on his chest, drawing thin rivulets of blood, “No-one will hear you.”

He screamed, a high-pitched wail as she cut deeper, dragging the dagger further down his body.


Copyright, 2016,

All rights reserved.


F4TF #3… Punishment or Pleasure?


This weeks F4TF opened with:

Within the D/s community, there are times when it is necessary for a Dom to administer a corrective spanking/caning/thrashing. Our question this week, however is directed to those on the receiving ends of such punishments.

Do you consider a corrective spanking/caning/thrashing as a pleasure or a punishment?

This is an interesting question that raises several further questions for me about the very nature of  D/s relationships. I think one thing that is very important in the world of kink is the acceptance that there is no one “true” or “right” way to do D/s. Being dictatorial about how D/s “should” be does not sit well with me.

As long as the basic principles of SSC or RACK or PRICK are at the forefront, (whichever phrase suits your mindset), there are no hard and fast rules that couples should feel they need to adhere to.

So, bearing that in mind, I have to challenge the opening line, “Within the D/s community, there are times when it is necessary for a Dom to administer a corrective spanking/caning/thrashing.” I think a more accurate phrasing might be,Within some of the D/s community, there might be times when it is necessary for a Dom to administer a corrective spanking/caning/thrashing, if that is part of the dynamic in that relationship.”

(You might think I am being picky and pedantic, but I think it is important to be clear in order for me to write my response to the question.)

So… without any further ado…

I am a submissive woman who loves experiencing pain… a spanking is, for me, always a pleasure.

To call a spanking a punishment simply doesn’t work for me for a number of reasons:

Firstly, and obviously, if I enjoy something as much as I enjoy being spanked, whipped, pinched or hit, it is impossible to think of it as a negative thing or as a punishment. If it were used in our relationship as a punishment then I am afraid I would spend all my time misbehaving in order to earn my marks!

Secondly, I identify as a service/natural submissive. By this I mean that I have a very deep rooted need to please and serve. I will always try to follow any instruction given to me to the letter and if I fail, that in itself is punishment enough for me. For him to tell me he is disappointed with me or feels I have let him down is crushing to me. For me to know this is unbearable and trust me, I will punish myself plenty for it.

Finally, I have a problem with a dynamic where he feels entitled to punish me physically. This may well be linked to my views about using corporal punishment on children, which I am 100% opposed to. I think if a child, (or a submissive for that matter), requires correction for bad behaviour, there are far more effective and fairer methods of achieving this than using a hand/cane/belt. I think, for me personally, the idea that my husband has the right to physically punish me sits too closely to domestic violence. (I know BDSM is not the same as DV, ok? I know this, but I cannot accept that anyone has the right to use any form of violence to punish another person for their behaviour – I know plenty of you will vehemently disagree with me! That is fine too.)

Add to this my personal belief that a D/s relationship is grounded in equality and respect, and that the D can make mistakes or engage in less than perfect behaviour just as easily as his submissive can, and I cannot accept the concept of punishment.

Our relationship is grounded in good communication. If he thinks I have fucked up he tells me. If I think he could improve his behaviour, I tell him.

For us, spanking, pinching, slapping, cropping, paddling… whatever… is a pleasurable form of release for me, as well as being a powerful representation and demonstration of my submissive status, and for him it is a potent and effective way for him to exert his dominance and control.

I am sure many people reading this will have completely opposite views on this topic, but that is one thing that, for me, makes BDSM/kink so wonderful. There is room for everyone!




All rights reserved.

How Would It Be…

I want to be spanked.


I crave it.

You say you want to spank me.

How would it be… if it could happen?

I would act brattishly. I would be naughty and mischievous. I would pretend to not hear instruction. When corrected I might pout, or stamp my little foot.

At first you would be amused at my silliness. You would find it endearing. How cute that the little girl acts up in order to provoke a punishment.

But soon your patience starts to wane. It becomes less fun dealing with my shenanigans.

You would warn me sternly to behave.

Sensing that I am close to receiving the spanking I ache for, a small, ever so slightly smug grin plays around my lips and I would tilt my head cheekily at you.

“Over here! Now!” you would command, demanding unquestioning obedience.

Perhaps you would be slightly surprised when I comply immediately. Perhaps you know me well enough not to be.

I move towards where you have indicated without hesitation.

Would you want me over your knee? Over a stool or bench? Bent over holding my ankles? Bare bottomed or clothed? Do you remove my pants or do you instruct me to?

I think you would direct me to lie across your lap. You would hitch my skirt up over my hips and pull down my underwear with a sharp tug. My face would flush with excitement and perhaps some shyness at being exposed so.

Your hand would caress my bare buttocks, gliding over them, stroking them. Abruptly you would raise your arm and, whack! Your palm connects with the tender skin of my ass with a loud slap, making me twitch in surprise. A giggle erupts unbidden from my lips and yes, I feel myself become wet.

Your hand would then rub my pink skin before administering another hard slap, building a rhythm alternating between each cheek. You would be relentless but always controlled. I think you would make me count the strikes out loud, enjoying hearing my voice become more breathless with each one.

I think you would know how turned on I would be as your hand repeatedly punishes my ass.

Would you know how much I would want your fingers to slide inside me? How much I would crave to feel you touch me, tease me, make me come?

Would I part my thighs ever so slightly to reveal my arousal? Show you my folds glistening wet, swollen with desire? Would you answer my silent plea? Would your hand desist with its punishment? Would you stroke me softly, feather light caresses from your fingertips? Would you smile to yourself hearing my helpless whimpers as I get closer and closer to my climax? Would I feel you growing hard beneath me? Would my mouth water at the thought of satisfying you, taking you into my mouth, licking and sucking until you explode on my tongue? I think that would tip me finally over the edge to orgasm and I would cry out and spasm on your lap, my teeth biting into my fist.

Is that how it would be? What would happen next?

Your turn…

Copyright, 2015,

All rights reserved.


The delightful Marie Rebel asked us to revisit an old blog post this week for Wicked Wednesday. I decided to try to turn a story around and tell it from the point of view of the other person involved.

If you’d like to read the original story, entitled Confession, its right here!


I listened to her leave the confessional, the door sliding shut, the clicking of her heels fading on the tiles. My head reeled from the experience, complete disbelief that it had happened.

Realising that another penitent could arrive at any second, I quickly adjusted my robes, red-faced at the sticky mess I had created and hastily left the booth. I hurried to the sacristy, desperate to avoid contact with anyone until I had cleaned myself up.

Keeping my eyes lowered as I passed the tabernacle behind the altar, overwhelmed with shame and unable to show my face to the sacred vessel, I locked the door of the sacristy, shed my soutane and used the sink to wash myself off.

How had I allowed myself to be swept along in such a way? How had I allowed that girl to tempt me so? Corrupt me? In the house of God?

Hot tears threatened to spill from my eyes and I bit my lip to stop them.

With a troubled mind I left the Church and sought the sanctuary of my house next door.


Waking with a start, drenched in sweat, I bolted upright in my bed.

Memories of my dream lingered; her firm breasts sitting high on her chest, hard erect pink nipples, her long hair draped to partially hide one breast from view as she spread her legs wide for my inspection of her bare, smooth pussy.

Between my legs, I throbbed and ached, blood pulsating against my taut skin.

In the dream she had smiled as her eyes locked onto mine. Her dark burgundy fingernails traced a line from her throat, over her breasts, pinching her nipples hard before continuing down to spread her lips wide for me. Her folds glistened, wet and swollen, deep dark pink. I longed to know what it felt like to put my lips on her there, to inhale her scent, to taste her flavor. Her fingers slid inside herself and she arched her back in pleasure.

“Father, would you like to do this? Would you like to touch me?” she whispered, taunting me.

My dream self nodded drunkenly and watched as she reached out her hand to guide mine, her fingers warm and slippery. My breath caught as my fingertips brushed against her heat for the first time; her skin as soft as gossamer and silk against my rough digits. Dipping my fingers inside her, my mouth agape with desire, stroking her velvety lining, I knew I wanted her.

“Oh! Father!” she sighed and grabbed my free hand to grasp her breast with it, forcing me to squeeze it. Before I knew what I was doing, my mouth was on her nipple, sucking it and rolling it between my teeth as she squirmed and moaned. Her scent was intoxicating to me, a mixture of vanilla and honey with a hint of muskiness that I inhaled deeply, as if addicted.

Feeling the hardening increase at my groin, slightly lightheaded and giddy, I pulled back to look at her. Her eyes were dark with desire, her lips wet and parted, cheeks flushed. She was beautiful. I kissed her mouth, pushing my tongue into meet hers as my fingers played with her pussy. She grew wetter and rubbed herself against me as she breathed into my ear, “I want to suck you Father. I want your cock in my mouth.”

As it happens in dreams, I was magically naked, with her on her knees before me, throwing her hair over her shoulder, a teasing glint in her eyes as she lowered her face and began to lick me from base to tip. The sensations were uniquely intense as I felt her wet tongue lap against my stretched skin. When she took me into her mouth and began to suck, I feared I would explode and knew I had to have her fully.

I wanted to possess her, claim her.

I wanted to fuck her.


Shaking my head to snap myself out of the sinful memory of the dream, I knew I must repent. I must quell these wicked thoughts and fantasies and seek forgiveness for my transgressions.

I went to the drawer of my chest and retrieved the cat o nine tails. Kneeling naked before the crucifix on the wall I began to whip the skin on my back, relishing the sting of the knotted leather. As the knots bit into my skin, without willing them to, more images from my dream came to mind again; her playing with herself for me, head thrown back as she writhed and moaned, bringing herself to her climax. Watching the flush of blood blossom from her heaving chest, up her throat and explode on her cheeks while her face contorted, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, her orgasm sweeping her away, I flogged myself harder and harder. Picturing her as she was in my confessional yesterday, her pants pushed down as she let me watch her come, I groaned aloud as I felt the tightening and contraction in my groin before my hot sticky cum erupted in an arc before me.

Lying prone on the floor, a mess of blood, semen and sweat I knew I had failed again.

I was a sinner.

I also knew I wanted her to visit my confession booth again.





Copyright, 2015,
All rights reserved.

Sir and Little Girl… Correction


Have a Wicked Wednesday! everyone!

“You’ve just crossed the line, little girl.”

His eyes glared across the table at her, burning into her, alighting a heat deep within her, a tightening in her thighs, a tingle between her legs, a flush spreading over her cheeks.

She knew how the night would end… with her naked, marked, bruised, and entirely used.

But not before he disciplined her fully.

They finished their meal without further conversation, the tension at the table palpable, making the pretty young waitress nervous.

He drove them home in silence, she knew better than to try to engage with him. Pulling into the driveway, he cut the engine and turned to her, “Out. Inside, now.”

She unbuckled her seatbelt and went into the house, directly to the living room and knelt on the floor, her head bowed, waiting. She listened as he locked the front door, walked through the living room, ignoring her, and went into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water, taking his time.

She heard him re-enter the room and kept her head lowered, watching his feet walk around her, circling slowly. Her head was suddenly, roughly jerked back. A handful of her hair painfully wrapped in his fist, her neck straining and stretched, he leaned down, his breath hot on her ear, “What did you do little one?” he growled.

“I disrespected you Sir,” she whispered, a tear spilling from her eye, her bottom lip beginning to tremble. She gasped as his other hand gripped her jaw, squeezing hard and then came the slaps, sharp, across one cheek, then the other.

“You will not repeat that slutty behaviour again, will you?”

“No. I am sorry Sir. I’m so sorry,” she wept, black mascara rivers running into her hairline.

His fingers brutally smudged her burgundy lipstick over her face, “Let’s make you look like the little slut you are!”

“Stand,” he released her hair and she rose unsteadily to her feet, “Strip.”

She immediately unzipped her dress and allowed it to fall to the floor, unclasped her bra, stepped out of her pants and stood before him in just her hold ups and black leather heels.

He struck her, a sudden, hard slap across her breast, followed by another, his fingers roughly squeezing and pulling her nipples, stretching them until she felt they would be ripped from her body. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks, still red and stinging from his blows. The trail of watery mascara and smeared lipstick ruining her pretty face.

“Go stand in the corner. Face to the wall. Think about what you did.”

Wiping her tears with the heel of her hand, she did as she was told, hating it. She would rather endure a beating than be left, ignored and alone as he settled in his chair to read his Kindle.

He knew this, which is why it was the perfect punishment for her. He smiled to himself as he read his eBook…

Shivering, cold and truly fed up, her legs and feet aching from her high heels, she tried to figure out how long she had been in the corner. She wished he would release her, but she knew she had brought this on herself.

He had read for a while and then left the room, coming and going several times, never speaking to her or acknowledging her presence. She longed for his arms around her, to be held and caressed. To be pardoned for her misdemeanor.

“Well, little one? Have you had enough time to repent?” she startled at his voice and the heat of his body at her back. Nodding her head vigorously, she replied, “Yes Sir! I am truly sorry. Please may I be forgiven?”

Hands gripping her shoulders, he turned her around to face him, “Good girl. Now… I am going to use you, and I am going to hurt you. You will be my little fucktoy tonight,” he grinned wickedly, and she felt the wet heat flare between her thighs again.

  Copyright, 2015,

All rights reserved.