Wednesday, 27 February 2013

Stuff I don't understand no. 63

Daddy porn.

I don't understand why it's become so popular in the last 1-2 years.

I'm guessing, since the readership for most erotica appears to be female, that it's primarily read by women. Which suggests it strikes a chord in the psyche and, presumably, the desires of many North American/European/Western-orientated women.

My initial thought when it first rose to prominence, around the back end of 2011 and early 2012, was that it might be a reaction to the economic situation.

The idea that a strong daddy figure could bring order to an unstable life, that the world could be reduced to a sexualised version of a father-daughter relationship that might serve the needs of adult women whose own lives were complex and chaotic, that it would simplify issues of identity, security and sexuality in one psychological archetype - that kind of made sense as a place where many women's heads could go.

And then we started having sex scandal after sex scandal. Women (and occasionally men) describing how they'd been traumatised through abuse by those who were, if not parent figures, then having some combination of being in loco parentis, having some kind of authority, or misusing influence and celebrity status that had resulted in their being trusted if not idolised.

Did that change the context of daddy porn? Does it mean we're looking at writing that tries to negotiate a way through the idea that some form of sexual relationship based on the authority, privilege and control of older males - and the dependence and voluntary subjugation of younger women, who are expected to not grow up - might be acceptable and even desirable to some women?

I don't know the answer to these questions. What I can say is that:

- in the sociology of literature there's a strand that considers the writing of any particular era as reflecting the 'zeitgeist', the spirit of the age - and its problems (though the how, why and what of this is contested).

- in the sociology of literature there's also a strand that says the 'zeitgeist' approach is reductive and that writing is always exploratory and imaginative, actually constituting new ways of being.

- in any psycho-analytical approach to writing, you have to recognise that there can be no legislation of desire. Desire is never subject to minor details such as whether the things held to be erotic are legal, moral, acceptable, and so on. In fact the reverse is often the case: things acquire erotic fascination and strength because they're illegal, immoral and socially unacceptable. Because they represent an 'other' that isn't part of how we live our day-to-day lives.

I'm sure there are many other literary, sociological, psychological, semiological, psycho-analytic and, for all I know, astrological and pataphysical theories. Not to mention post-structural variants of all of the above. So I wouldn't want to say this particular kind of porn is a direct consequence of the economic climate, nor that it's a conscious and deliberate working through of issues thrown up by abuse. But the ideas that there's some kind of link, something that underlies and explains the growth in this particular kind of porn, is tempting.

Then again, maybe it's just that one of my kinks is a need for theory.

What do you think?


In case you didn't know: 

- pataphysics is 'the science of imaginary solutions, which symbolically attributes the properties of objects, described by their virtuality, to their lineaments'. It was invented, if that's the right word, by Alfred Jarry, one of the forerunners of surrealism. The quote is from his book Exploits and Opinions of Dr. Faustroll, Pataphysician.
- post-structuralism is not pataphysics. Or at least it's only a distant relation.


Sunday, 10 February 2013

Relieving the stress

With the demise of Oysters and Chocolate last month - its owners/editors have moved on to other projects - I remembered I had one story published there back in 2010. Rather than leave it to die quietly I thought I'd put it on here.

While I think of it another old favourite of mine, the UK-based fetish social network Informed Consent, has also ceased operation though there is now an Informed Consent group on Fetlife. That's the thing about the internet - nothing lasts for ever and people's interests change.

On the plus side, there are new sites opening all the time. You might be interested in Erotica Ebooks and DangerLust, both erotic book blog sites of differing styles.

By the say, the story refers to three books, all of which actually exist. Including the novel by Fulani (look in the right-hand sidebar for a link).

But I'm digressing, as normal. Here's the old story.

Relieving the Stress

It had been a tough week but a successful one. Jodie had bested the alpha male in charge of Marketing. The restructuring would have seen her department gifted to him, but she’d undercut his position. Marketing was now part of her management role instead. By seven on Friday evening, at the end of the deluge of memos and spreadsheets dealing with the changes, she was massaging her temples with slender fingers. The accumulated tension wouldn’t shift. Then a vision of what she’d be doing in a couple of hours flitted through her brain, and her stockinged knees slid together involuntarily. But of course actually doing the things she imagined would be the ideal way to relieve the stress...

Most of the large open-plan office was in darkness. Her team had left promptly at five, with excited chatter about which club they’d be going to and how much vodka they’d consume. The cleaners had been through at six. Since then she’d been alone in the office.

Gathering her things, Jodie headed for the ladies’ rest room. It was time to prepare.
The plain white work blouse could stay, though she decided there was no need for the bra. The blouse was tight and with her breasts free, her nipple rings were clearly outlined through the material. She experimented with the buttons. Leaving three undone was overkill. Two would do.

I’m going to feel like a slut however I look. That’s the point.

She removed her knee-length black skirt, and took another one from the overnight bag. A short, pleated, tartan skirt in blues and grays. It looked like a schoolgirl outfit, and that was because it was the actual school uniform skirt she’d worn, ten years ago, aged sixteen. It sat low on her hips, so that every stretch or twist of her body revealed skin between the waistband and the bottom of her blouse. It barely covered her ass cheeks and left a two-inch strip of bare thigh between the hem and the top of her stockings. Back in the day she’d worn it with ankle socks and heels.

I don’t remember it being that short. No wonder I was a boy magnet!

Why did she want to revisit her schooldays? She had no trauma, no obsession, that came from that time of her life. On the contrary, it had been a period of freedom and coquettishness. Yet it was a perfect scenario to play the fantasy that had gradually insinuated itself into her brain: being sexually dominated.

Being overpowered and fucked. Having no choice, no responsibility, no social niceties and manipulative game-playing and one-upmanship. In short, being a world away from the stuff she associated with her high-salaried professional life.

Underwear or not? Jodie was wearing a thong that had cost more for the barely-there style than for the amount of material in it. But Sir would almost certainly rip it straight off her, so it was sensible to go without. She took it off. Her fingers found the clit hood ring that had inspired tonight’s session. She’d had the piercing last month.

Feels nice. There’s time for me to bring myself off... No, I want the anticipation.

She re-applied eyeliner and dusky gothic eyeshadow, blood-red lipstick, put long blonde hair in a high ponytail, approved her look in the mirror. The other parts of her preparation would be done on the way. Putting on her long leather coat and grabbing the overnight bag, she headed out of the office and into the night.

Jodie parked close to her destination; a couple of refinements to her look were necessary before ringing the bell of the quiet suburban house. From the Merc’s glove compartment she extracted a packet of cigarettes, placed them in her left stocking top. She didn’t smoke, but that wasn’t the point. She opened the screw top of the wine bottle that had been on the car’s back seat and took two deep slugs. Unlike the people she worked with, Jodie had no intention of being drunk this evening. But she wanted the smell of alcohol on her breath.

One final thing: reaching into the glove compartment, she extracted a crumpled page torn from a notebook.

Homework. Done badly, because that’s part of the game.

Leaving her coat and overnight bag in the car, she walked the last hundred yards in the cool night air, feeling deliciously exposed and brazen in the microscopic skirt.

He kept her waiting at the door.

I know his nicknames, his online names, but after all this time I still don’t know his real name…

Jodie was very aware of her nipples, tight under the blouse, and her labia, just hidden under the skirt – both were tingling in the autumnal night.

God, look at me hopping on the spot with anticipation! Like a slutty teenager who’s decided to go all the way on a first date. Was I really like that when I was sixteen?

On a moment’s reflection Jodie remembered she had been. More than once.

Behind the door was a man perhaps in his early thirties, a tweed jacket and bowtie making him seem significantly older. He looked down his aquiline nose at her.

“Young Jodie.” He consulted his watch. “A little late, aren’t you?”

“Sorry, sir, I had to...” Her mind went into overdrive. “I had to finish something else. But it didn’t have anything to do with cybersex.” Tell the truth, offer a distraction. The technique always worked.

“Hmm. Well, make your way to my study. You know where to stand.”

The study was done in a period style, dark wood and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. There was a desk and a small rug in front of it. She was supposed to stand on the rug. Beside the desk was a tall, ornate plant pot. Instead of a plant, it contained a selection of canes. She knew from past experience the desk drawers held rope, handcuffs, gags...

Jodie ignored the rug, looked at the bookshelves. Chastisement Across the Ages, by Gervas D’Olbert. The Whip and the Rod, by Prof. van Yelyr. The Secret Circus of Pain and Degradation, by Fulani. She shivered with anticipation.

A cough. Sir had come in the study behind her. “You really can’t follow instructions, can you!” He sounded amused. Jodie half-turned but he was too quick. Rope slid easily over her wrists, pinioning them behind her back. Hands pulled on the rope, dragging her four steps to the centre of the room, standing on the mat.

“Obviously you need some encouragement to stay where you’re supposed to be,” Sir said. Jodie felt her hands pulled upwards.

Of course. Remember there’s a hook in the ceiling beam? The rope must run over it.

As her arms were raised, Jodie had to bend forwards to relieve the pressure on her shoulders, take a wider stance to keep her balance.

Sir was standing very close, securing the rope with one hand while steadying her with the other. The slightly doggy smell of his tweed jacket mingled with his cologne – a fresh scent with notes of cinnamon and leather. It was a heady combination that added to her sense of anticipation.

“That displays your ass very nicely,” Sir observed. He patted it proprietarily. In this position the back of her skirt hid absolutely nothing. She felt one finger slide across her flesh, exploring between her legs and tweaking her clit hood ring.

“You’ve committed quite a few infractions, I see.” His hands continued to rove, unbuttoning her blouse and feeling the warmth of her breasts – and the hard metal of her nipple rings. “Arriving late. No underwear, as I notice from your pose. No jewelry allowed at school, and I think these count as jewelry.” He pulled on the rings, enough to make her gasp. “Smoking.” One hand slid up the inside of her thigh, stroking the smooth material of her stockinged leg. It reached the cigarette packet, extracted it from the stocking top. “Drinking, since I can smell wine on your breath. That’s quite a collection of misdemeanors. I’ll enjoy punishing you for those.”

“But it’s not fair to have me tied like this, Sir! Surely that’s not approved practice?”

Any position where he can fuck me is definitely approved practice, but I’m staying in cheeky brat mode tonight...

He snorted. “My school, my rules.” The palm of his hand connected with Jodie’s left buttock. The noise of the slap resounding in the room made her wince more than the slap itself. Even so, she felt sure it had colored up her ass.

“Ow! Sir!” But it was a token protest, said with a pout. The real pleading would come later.
Another spank, this time on her right ass cheek. “This, by the way, is not the punishment. It’s just to improve the circulation so the cane won’t mark you as much.” Another half-dozen slaps and her backside was feeling distinctly hot. The warmth was seeping from her buttocks to the crevice between her legs, and she could feel a slight tingling vibration from the clit hood ring at each blow. She began to twist, flex her legs, but the ropes holding her wrists high behind her back were unforgiving. Any attempt to offer his hand a different part of her ass just put more strain on her shoulders.

Jodie found it in herself to relax and let the spanking happen. She focused her attention on her nipple and clit piercings, feeling the echoes of each blow at the three points as shock waves travelled through her body. Hot and moist feelings pervaded her. Whimpering sounds followed each blow, and to her surprise she discovered she was making them. She was vocalizing her need.

When Sir finally stopped, Jodie felt her rump glowing. But she was also intrigued to note that he was breathing hard.

Hah! Is that just from the exertion or because his trousers suddenly feel a lot tighter?

“Now let’s see if you’ve done your homework properly. If it’s of a distinction standard, I’ll be more lenient with the punishments. If not, of course, I might be tempted to treat you more severely! Where have you hidden it?”

It was tucked into the skirt waistband. Sir took his time about finding it, running his hands over her belly and under her skirt, until Jodie was unable to suppress a moan of desire. In this bent-over position, her mouth and her slit were both at the right height for– But Sir wasn’t going to let her off so lightly. They both knew that she needed the ritual and the punishment that would inevitably follow.
“I want you,” he said, “to read your work to me.” She felt the rope holding her wrists slacken and sank to her knees, grateful that the strain on her shoulders had ceased. Carefully, Sir repositioned her still-bound wrists in the small of her back and wound the tail end of the rope around her body, over and under her exposed breasts. The small amount of pressure they created drew Jodie’s attention to the gentle swelling of her pierced nipples.

With her “homework” on the floor in front of her, she began to read.

“Little Red Riding Hood is a metaphor for the female sexual organs, the clitoris and its hood in particular. It’s a warning about the danger of going with a strange man who might be a predator, but it has a happy ending because she finds the woodsman who’s supposed to be a good honest man. Though he makes his living with his big chopper, which is maybe a bit strange, but he can satisfy her...

Do you have a big chopper, Sir?”

OK, I already know the answer to that one!

“No reference to the history of the story? Perrault, or the Brothers Grimm?” Sir was not easily pleased. “How about the feminist revisionist versions in the eighties?”

Jodie shook her head. She knew the arguments but had deliberately left them out. Deliberately, because it would make Sir treat her more harshly. From her kneeling position, her impulse was to open her mouth, lick her lips and reach out for his cock with her tongue. But he didn’t make it easy. Sitting on the edge of his desk, Sir stayed just out of range of her mouth. She wasn’t going to get any cock unless she begged for it – or until she was delirious with pain.

“If that’s all you have,” Sir said, “I should teach you a little more about the story. Little Red Riding Hood doesn’t have a choice, you see. Wolves can be so very charming, with their big teeth and their smiles. And woodsmen can be so very skilful with their choppers. Either way, she’s going to get taken. Men. They can’t be trusted. It’s something you’ll experience in just a while, but there’s a small matter of chastisement first. So let’s get started.”

He grasped Jodie’s ponytail, used it to pull her up and forwards, and bend her over the desk. Her breasts met the cool wooden surface, caused her to gasp.

“Now, we had five infractions I counted, plus the homework wasn’t up to standard. That makes six.” He stood back and she could hear him suck his teeth reflectively. “I’d say that’s half a dozen strokes apiece, thirty-six in all.”

Shit. That’s more than I’ve taken before.

Her heart raced with excitement – and with dread. Thirty-six was a huge number. She didn’t know if she could take it.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sir said. “You don’t know if you can take that number. Of course you can. It’s just a question of whether I need to tie you down first, and whether you need a gag to stop you screaming. We’ll do a dozen here and the rest in the gym.”

She knew the cane was light and thin because Sir swished it in the air. She had ample experience of the different noises the various canes made. The first couple of strokes were stingy, made her squirm, but also made her hot. And he was barely even trying. The second pair were harder, and made her gasp as much with desire as with hurt. And the next pair were distinctly harsh.

“Owww... Ahh!” Jodie was aware she was giving out mixed messages: a response to the pain stimulus that was also an expression of excitement.

She sensed his breath, cool on the lips of her pussy. “There’s nothing quite like that scent of delinquent, writhing schoolgirl,” he observed. He was taunting her. She writhed more.

The next cane had a lower pitch as it whistled through the air. Jodie registered this and knew, a split second before it connected, it meant a thicker, nastier implement. It took another split second for her ass to register the impact and the pain to kick in. Jodie felt the blow reverberate through her body, throwing her an inch further forward on the desk. But at the same time it created a familiar vibration of need in her cunt.


“Stop squawking. If you do it again, I’ll use a gag on you.”

Do I care? At least I won’t need to worry about keeping quiet!

He allowed her half a dozen deep breaths to re-focus, and the second thwack found its mark, an inch below the first. She’d be tiger-striped with bruises by the time he finished. She was able, just, to stop herself screaming by biting hard on her lip.

“Think yourself lucky I’m not making you count the strokes out loud. In Swedish.” He’d pulled that trick before. She could count to twelve in eight languages.

By the fourth strike she’d worked out he was making a “five bar gate”: five parallel strokes, evenly spaced an inch apart. The sixth would be a diagonal stroke that crossed over the others.

The fourth strike was also her undoing. The pent-up energy she’d been trying to subdue broke out of her in a howl of anguish.

Sir just opened the desk drawer and extracted something that went in her mouth – a thick rubber ring that was drawn just behind her teeth by its tight leather strap, forcing her jaws apart. It wouldn’t block much noise, but with her mouth wedged open it would, she realized, have another use.

After the final stroke, Sir allowed her to collapse slowly to a kneeling position. He perched in front of her, on the edge of the desk.

“There’s a reason I used that particular gag,” he noted.

When he pushed into her mouth, her reaction was to try to close her lips around his shaft but that wasn’t going to happen. She had to accept that Sir was the one in control, determining how far down her throat he went. He held her by her ponytail, so she couldn’t bob her head or rock her body, though somewhere in her mind she knew that moving too much would cause the flaring pain in her ass to become an inferno. All she could move was her tongue, though the faster it moved the more he seemed to like it. Saliva drooled from her lower lip and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. It felt dirty, perverted. It felt great. She detected the waves of pressure building in his shaft, had a ten-second warning of the torrent that flooded her mouth. Some she swallowed, but he left strings of it across her cheek and on her chin. With wrists bound behind her she could do nothing to wipe them, and Sir seemed not to care.

“So now we do the other two dozen strokes in the gym.” Damn, she’d hoped him coming would make him feel more lenient. She’d been good. It must be worth half a dozen strokes off the total, at least?

“The piece you wrote was on Little Red Riding Hood,” Sir pointed out almost casually. “You said the name refers to the clitoris, which of course is important for sexual pleasure. You said the Wolf equates to a bad man who tries to seduce the girl and the Woodsman is someone with a big chopper who saves her. But in truth they’re just two aspects of male identity, and they’re two different ways of capturing the clit. This is where I teach you about nasty Wolf sex and nice Woodsman sex. And look, you even have a way for me to start the Wolf part of the lesson.”

Reaching back in the desk drawer, he produced a leash – and parting Jodie’s thighs, placed its clip on her clit ring. The leash hung slack, the weight of the thin chain pulling on her. He let her absorb the information, then took in just enough slack to give her a sense of what it would feel like if she tried to pull away. “Stand up. You’re going to follow me to the gym.”

It was a surreal experience, even for Jodie. Her arms were still bound, the gag still in place and Sir’s cum drying slowly on her face. And she was being dragged, literally by the cunt, to the scene of her next “lesson”.

The gym was a converted garage. It contained a weightlifting bench, a couple of exercise machines and a set of parallel bars on one wall. And it doubled as a very effective dungeon. Like the study, a selection of canes protruded from the mouth of a large china vase. Unlike the study, a couple of bullwhips hung from a hook on the wall. Sir could be extremely cruel when he chose.

“No whipping horse,” Sir observed. “But we can improvise.” He bent her forwards over the end of the weights bench, which was just high enough to meet the length of her legs. Spreading her ankles he slapped cuffs on them, securing each one to the bench supports. Then he began to unwind the ropes.
She wondered what he was intending, but the gag put a block on any conversation. Working quickly and methodically he stripped her of her blouse, cuffed her wrists, and extended her arms forward; a series of metallic clinks signaled the cuffs being attached to the head of the bench, where the weight bar would normally rest. She concentrated on trying to relax in this position, breathe slowly, and ignore the burning sensation as the flesh of her ass was stretched by the position he’d placed her in. It wasn’t easy.
Sir carefully rearranged the back of her short skirt, lifting it to expose her buttocks and tucking the hem into the waistband. And then he left here there, unable to move or protest. There was no reason to panic, but she had to fight to stop hysteria taking hold.

He’s doing it to increase the anticipation, raise the tension. Damn him, it’s working.

The leash was still threaded through her clit ring. Every tiny movement of her ass, as she tried to pull against her restraints, transferred itself to her clit.

When he returned, he was humming to himself, and dressed now in leather jeans and an open-necked shirt. His hair was damp and the smell of cologne as he moved closer to her was spicier.

“This one, I think.” She couldn’t see what “this one” was, but he’d tied her down for a reason...

The first half-dozen were little more than playful; he’d pushed her hard already. Then he ramped up the pressure. There was more force to the stinging swipes and Jodie writhed in genuine agony. She could feel it most where the blows criss-crossed the five bar gate, raising welts on skin that was already bruised.

The next series switched to a heavier instrument, one that tested her to her limits. The torment made her feel light-headed, almost out of her body. She knew that the beating should hurt, and yet her body had ceased to recognize pain. Instead, each new blow was another step on a road to ecstasy. An ecstasy that she voiced in muffled cries from behind the gag.

The remaining dozen blows were like the Stations of the Cross. Three from the end, it was too much. She came, hard.

It was only when she collapsed limply against the restraints that he entered her. Her body was ready for him, her slit quivering. He felt huge inside her, pumping remorselessly. Her mind and senses were already spinning out of control and the fucking, after the thrashing had taken her to orgasm once, pushed her into a trance state. She lost sense of time, place, wouldn’t even be able to remember her own name if Sir had asked. Yet it was a trance state in which she moved seamlessly from one climax to another. It wasn’t so much a multiple orgasm as a single long continuous orgasmic fugue.

Some time later he released the bonds, allowed her to sink to the floor. Carried her to the lounge and wrapped her in a blanket, lying on the sofa. Removed the gag, though it didn’t restore her powers of speech. Semi-conscious, she shook silently, taking her time to recover. In a way she didn’t want to come round, because as the trance state left her, the burning and throbbing in her ass became stronger.
Eventually she recovered the use of her mouth. “Sir? Thank you for my lesson. It was… hard. But fun at the same time.”

Sir laughed. “I was a bit rough at the end. No doubt I’ll have to go easier on you for the rest of the weekend.”

She stretched gingerly, wincing as skin moved against the fabric of the sofa. It had been a hard lesson. And she smiled. “Not that easy, I hope. You’ll just have to find different ways to punish me...”

“Hmm. Well, for tomorrow I have in mind the myth of Persephone. Abducted and forced to serve Hades in his underground lair…”

Jodie smiled. “A whole day being held prisoner and ravaged in your basement? Sounds good to me!”

Back from the dead

Well, not really 'from the dead'. I've just been busy, and you know when I've been busy I tend to let the blog slide.

This here isn't anything in particular. It's just an experiment, something I started playing with quickly just because I could, and because I've been having a conversation on Twitter about to replicate in eletronic format the icky stains you sometimes get on second-hand paper books. It's just a doodle, really. When I have time I might reformat as a gif file.