23rd July

Living here with so many ghosts I feel like a caretaker of the restless dead – a protector of spirits who haunt my life – so that I’ve become my own haunted house, attempting communication with partially glimpsed movements at the edge of perception, or the sound of a creaking stair, or a noise in the attic which might only be the patter of falling rain…My ghosts can be cranky on occasion: they can whisper words, the meaning of which I’m unable to determine.

It’s been a long time since anyone treated them well –


So the Saturday evening play-party. With our friends from the local munch, people possessing the emotional bandwidth to comply with our safety standards, while sharing similar aesthetic tastes to ourselves.

Like a small film club, are we, eagerly awaiting the main attraction: crisps, freshly roasted nuts and popcorn are liberally distributed to ‘the audience’ in small china bowls. Missy A has been naughty and is to be disciplined while we watch. Furniture has been moved to accommodate this tableaux.

Seeing Missy A bent over a chair with her skirt hitched up is breathtaking. Hearing a hand slap against her buttocks, is so very arousing – how could it be otherwise? Savouring the slight trembling of flesh with each fresh impact. Her yelps of discomfort –

Then E rising to join T who is tiring. E has a riding crop. She takes T’s place. Her skin-head hair cut is intimidating. She uses the crop with consummate skill –

Yelps become cries. Missy’s poor glowing bum is criss-crossed with red stripes –

Missy’s now estranged husband used to take her to play-parties in the boot of their car. Almost nude, gagged and handcuffed, even in winter, she would endure this humiliation without complaint. His treatment of her became harsher and harsher, until she finally left him eighteen months ago.

It should serve as a lesson to us all, how quickly such consensual abuse can become pure abuse –

I’m reminded of Jean-Paul Sartre and his theory of emotions as ‘magic’. Because Missy has simply exchanged one sadist for another. The new man in her life allows his fantasies free rein. She is, it seems, one of life’s natural victims –

E’s skill with that crop is superlative. Her strokes are hard enough to mark Missy’s naked bum but not to break the skin. I can’t take my eyes from Missy, her tear-filled eyes, parted lips, writhing as if in the grip of some invisible power. Sex is inherently ritualistic, a symbolic act whose meanings extend beyond itself. And there can be no doubt that Missy’s submission is sexual, that she takes pleasure from E’s practiced flogging of her backside. And every face in ‘the audience’ is slightly flushed with sexual excitement as they look on. And my own arousal is equally obvious –

Finally, aftercare. Caresses, kisses, gentle stroking. A smile on Missy’s tear-stained face. She experienced some sort of climax near the end of her ‘punishment’, and all the tension is now drained from her.

I finish my popcorn (which incidentally is homemade) as E takes Missy upstairs to the bathroom to fix her make-up.

‘I hope they don’t wake the ghosts,’ I say to no one in particular.

And no one, as expected, bothers to reply.


Hamlet experienced an encounter with a ghost and it ended in massacre. Macbeth was confronted by Banquo’s ghost during a great banquet, and lost his peace of mind forever. It’s more than likely that Shakespeare’s ghosts are simply psychological manifestations of guilt – imagined apparitions, in other words.

But what of my ghosts?

Trish, for example?

She used to love me reading out loud to her. At bedtime I always had to read to her or she couldn’t sleep. On occasion she would perform an act of fellation upon me as I read –

She once described herself to me as ‘Terribly thin’. And her body, I must admit, was like a sabre slash in silk. As flat chested as a boy, was she. ‘You’re fine,’ I’d tell her. ‘I love you as you are.’ And then laid her back and performed cunnilingus on her for almost an hour –

I read her ‘The Story of O’ and we both got turned on by it. It was Christmas Eve I remember, and Trish guided me between her buttocks. I gently sodomized her for the first time while she masturbated herself.

We talked a lot about art, writing, music and cinema. One time I told her about André Gide, his enormous influence on the young, which sprang from his teaching that one’s only duty is to oneself, that one should never be ‘encumbered’, either by material possessions, memories or other people –

‘Often the best in us springs from the worst in us.’

And so I read ‘Isabelle’ to Trish, and we both visited le chateau de la Quartfourche with Gerard Lacase, and accompanied him on his quest for Isabelle in the grip of ‘amorous curiosity’.

Books, reading, more reading and fucking. ‘Why don’t you read me something you’ve written?’ she asked. It was a bridge too far for me. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Never that. It’s all too awful.’ But she insisted, so finally I recited some of the poems in ‘Summer Births’ from memory. And while the words spilled gently from my mouth like little lost souls, Trish fondled me erect and masturbated me –

Trish had always had a thing about India. For her it seemed a magical, mysterious, exotic place. One day she announced she was finally going to go there. She’d saved the money. She was going for six months – longer if she could!

And so she drifted from my life almost as casually as she’d drifted into it. And now she keeps company with the crowd of ghosts occupying this place; a spectre who loves to hear me read out loud late at night –

Bare Bottom Spanking

December 17, 2015


Memory maps.

Light and dark entwining. Shadows in the small back parlour persist, despite the lamp with its rosette shade and the coal fire burning in the hearth. Beside that fire, her armchair with its pattern of rambling roses and its old-fashioned red and white antimacassar. She stands beside the chair, Aunt Deborah, in a plain cream dress, front buttoned…like the wife of some Reverent gentleman whose hobby is the collection of butterflies, which he kills in a bell jar kept for that purpose in the study. Her expression is severe; she’s a typical Christian matriarch, today judging our misdemeanours and dictating punishment.

It’s a weekly ritual. Friday night is punishment night. Aunt Deborah keeps a hard-covered ledger where she notes down any little “naughtiness” during the week. On Friday she adds up these childish wrongs, and pronounces sentence on the guilty party.

Angela has been good and is dismissed. Tansy, on the other hand, has two bad points. Aunt Deborah sits in her armchair and takes Tansy over her knee. She lifts the girl’s skirt and tugs her knickers down to below the curve of her buttocks.

‘Ten hard smacks,’ she says. For this she uses her hand, slapping first one cheek of Tansy’s backside, then the other. This bare bottom spanking happens in front of me. The sound of her hand slapping Tansy’s backside is unforgettable. Imprints itself on your psyche. When punishment is completed Tansy stands, adjusts her underwear and thanks Aunt Deborah. She is then dismissed.

‘I don’t just discipline for actions,’ Aunt Deborah tells me, ‘but for attitude, too. At times I find you a very wilful boy. The only solution to this, in my experience, is very strict discipline.’ She glances at the side table: here lays a paddle, a hairbrush, cane and belt. ‘Heavy punishment is the only antidote. And I will not shirk my God-given duty. No, I will not. Whatever corrective is necessary, I will apply, young man. Do you understand?’

The atmosphere in the parlour is heavy, close. I can smell coal dust and lavender furniture polish. Aunt Deborah tells me to recite the ten commandments. I manage six of the ten.

‘After your punishment here,’ Aunt Deborah says, ‘You’ll go to your room and copy them from your bible forty times. You’ll make sure you memorise them. I shall ask you each day to recite them. Any error will earn you ten hard strokes of the cane. Understand?’

‘Yes, Aunt.’

‘Good,’ she replies. ‘For now I’ll be lenient with you. Forty hard smacks with the hairbrush. Lower your trousers, please.’

Watching Tansy’s punishment, her bare bum, had aroused me. As I pull down trousers and underpants I’m still tumescent. Aunt Deborah notices (how could she not?) and I blush.

‘Come here, young man.’

I advance, face on fire. Uncooperative cock jutting to attention beneath my shirt.

‘That,’ she says, ‘is disgusting. Exercise more control, if you please – now over my knee.’

And so I lower myself across her lap, but in the process my stiffy ends up trapped between her closing legs…wedged, tightly enclosed. Aunt Deborah’s expression is ferocious as she raises the brush. I’m aware of my cock crushed between her legs above the knees. Then the burning impact of the brush on my backside.

‘Count off the strokes,’ she ordered.

‘…two, three, four…’ Fire flaring across my buttocks. No softening or slowing of the blows. The awful stinging is almost unbearable. But each fresh smack of the brush sends a delicious tremor through my stiff, trapped cock.

‘…fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…’ My backside is now splotchy red, burning. Still Aunt Deborah strikes, aiming at the cleft, then the right cheek, the left. Hard, harder, hardest.

I groan aloud with sudden realisation of what is happen. ‘Oh, Aunt Debor…’ I try to say her name, but too late. The stiff pencil of my cock jerks involuntarily, once, twice, three times…Head spinning, spunk spurting –

‘Beastly boy,’ says Aunt Deborah. No let up in the blows she’s delivering to my raw bum. ‘Keep counting.’

Eventually my punishment ends. However, because I’d ejaculated between her legs, she makes me bend over a chair. She mixes oatmeal and baking soda together and adds enough water to moisten the ingredients, enough to make a paste and this she applies to the bare red skin of my backside. It stings like hell on the freshly spanked skin.

‘That’s for being totally disgusting,’ she says. ‘It’ll teach you a good lesson. Now clear the puddles of your muck off the floor and go to your room. You’ve got some commandments to learn, young man.’

wonderwomansupergirlArt by Andy Price

Artwork by Andy Price…