Diary 1st April

April fool’s day.


In which case should I write about the Fish woman leading a tartan clad army in an invasion of England? A fish unable to let go of the distant past; a Fish consequently obsessing about irrelevancies?

No modern leader of Scotland can ever live up to the example set by Mel Gibson. Now there was a first minister worth dying for!


Alas, freedom is not a quality found in Brussels. As the Irish like to say: “Imeacht gan teacht ort” which tells us everything, doesn’t it?


I would like my fiction to profoundly disturb. It should be an open door that leads where the reader would never normally have consented to go; a door that simply twists reality into mind warping arabesques…


School days in mind, again. Teachers, male and female, observing their young charges (us) during the lunch break. Noisy Cherubim and Seraphim are we, scattered around the playground in small gossiping groups (no ball games are allowed).

What thoughts filled the heads of those blackgowned masters and mistresses, standing together like big black bats beside the stacked milk crates?

Their job, after all, was to forcibly conventionalise us as potential miniatures of themselves. But children are such unruly barbarians, aren’t they So did they perhaps, these teachers, envision myriad bare bottoms, offered up as targets to their swishy canes?

We Cherubim and Seraphim had ‘normal’ bourgeois backgrounds. But many of us harboured infantile fantasies of burning schools, and the spontaneous combustion of hated individual members of staff.

Like Miss Boil…

Boil the Bitch” she was nicknamed. And bitch she most certainly was. Quick tempered. A firey Irish redhead, with a short fuse. She liked to group three rulers together on her desk; she’d use these to lash out and strike the backs of the hands of any child within easy reach – when the mood was upon her. She took an unspeakable delight in this, and the tears of her victims…the red marks on soft flesh.

It seemed to us at the time, that her pleasure was heightened when her blows landed on bare legs or arms. She was our form mistress and always condemned our slovenly dress or poor hygiene or careless homework – there was something almost fetishistic in her behavior! As if, deep down, she hated children. Hated us.

Once Ken B was caught picking his nose and eating the secreta. Boil, screaming, hacked at him with her rulers. Vicious blows to legs, backside. The rulers broke. Backing away from her, Ken tripped over a chair; ended up on the floor, his legs in the air supported by the chair – and the Boil grabbed and twisted between his spread legs.

All in that classroom were shocked by the unexpected severity of her outburst. It was bad even for the Boil. Worse, of course, for snot-eating Ken, who fainted through pain and the shock of what she did to him…

And what of Mr Varmā our teacher of mathematics? He spent most of his time having the class learn theorems. He enjoyed (apparently) having his pupils recite them from memory. The rest of his time he spent telling us, the Cherubim and Seraphim, of the mind blasting punishments that lay in store if we should fail in our recitation. He took particular delight in describing an occasion in some other school when he had caned a boy who’d failed to memorize his theorems –

‘I caned him and caned him and caned him ‘til the blood flowed…’ This recounted in the high, shrill voice of a closet sadist.

‘But surely not, I hear you cry.’ This must be an exaggeration or make-believe. Teachers like that couldn’t possibly exist!

Au contraire mes enfants.

The above is true. Certainly I’ve played with chronology. Miss Boil was form mistress at Chester Collage; Mr Varmā was maths teacher at Riverside in Harrow Weald. There were a couple of years between these unhappy encounters. But both were unstable individuals in positions they should never have held.

But we, the Cherubim and Seraphim, daily underwent psychostasy at their hands. We had to put up with the trials and tribulations; the ordeals and outrage. The pair of them were nutjobs who managed to fool the powers that be for a time. Ultimately, we, the Cherubim and Seraphim, should throw roses into the abyss in thanks that we weren’t devoured by these monsters.


You bury the past, but with a will of its own it digs itself free to confront you again. Was it not Max Beerbohm who wrote: ‘The past is a work of art, free of irrelevancies and loose ends.’ Well, recalling my past now, in relative tranquility, it seems full of ‘loose ends’ and ‘irrelevancies’…


June 17, 2016

Arslan Ahmedov

Two serving-girls in Tavistock said that the Pixies were very kind to them, and used to drop silver for them into a bucket of fair water which they took care to place for them in the chimney-nook every night. Once it was forgotten, and the Pixies forthwith came up to the girls’ room, and loudly complained of the neglect. One of them, who happened to be awake, jogged the other, and proposed going down to rectify the omission, but she said, “for her part she would not stir out of bed to please all the pixies in Devonshire.” The other went down and filled the bucket, in which, by the way, she found next morning a handful of silver pennies. As she was returning, she heard the Pixies debating about what they would do to punish the other.

Various modes were proposed and rejected; at last it was agreed to give her a lame leg for a term of seven years, then to be cured by an herb growing on Dartmoor, whose name of seven syllables was pronounced in a clear and audible tone. This the girl tried by every known means to fix in her memory. But when she awoke in the morning, it was gone, and she could only tell that Molly was to be lame for seven years, and then be cured by an herb with a strange name. As for Molly, she arose dead lame, and so she continued till the end of the period, when one day, as she was picking up a mushroom, a strange-looking boy started up and insisted on striking her leg with a plant which he held in his hand. He did so, and she was cured and became the best dancer in the town.

Classic and Contemporary Fairy Tales


Yet another Mind enriching post from:
Peedeel’s Blog
smut, literature,
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so much more!

lashed at his balls…

December 20, 2015


‘Strip,’ Jude said. ‘Everything off, then on your knees.’

She slapped that damned leather crop against her right leg in emphasis…or, perhaps, impatience. Mac, already naked, lay on his back. His wrists were shackled to thigh cuffs, his legs spread with a spreader bar. His cock stood stiffly to attention, jutting up at an angle from his taut belly. Dee, half-naked, sat astride his face, queen of all she surveyed.

‘Lick her arse out,’ Jude ordered. ‘Work that tongue right up where the sun don’t shine.’

She flicked Mac’s cock with the crop. Finally naked, I lowered myself to my knees. She brushed my right cheek with the tip of the crop.

‘Suck his cock,’ she ordered. ‘I want to see you gagging on it. Understand? Throat him…’

I did as instructed, and without hesitation. Jude was not to be messed with today. I took the head of his cock gradually into my throat, my eyes half-closed, fighting to control my gag reflex. Somewhere above me I heard Dee moan as she climaxed over Mac’s face again.

I felt Mac’s cock grow even stiffer; he was about to shoot his load. I continued to work it, greedily. He cried out and thrust his arse up from the floor. I didn’t taste his sperm: it shot straight down my raw throat in a half-dozen spurts.

‘Did I give permission for that?’ Jude yelled. ‘Did I?’

Her high heels click, clicked across the vinyl flooring. She tapped the back of my head with the crop. I raised my face.

‘Move away,’ she said. Without any other warning she stood on Mac’s left thigh with her right foot, pressing her weight down on the spiky heel. He cried out, twisted, but she shifted all her body weight onto the right foot.

‘Please, Mistress…pleeeaaase.’

Jude lashed at his balls with the crop. Twice. Dee reseated herself on his face.

‘You,’ Jude said, indicating me with her crop. ‘Come through to the bathroom. I need to pee…’

I went down on my knees in the shower. Jude peeled off skin-tight black leather trousers and stepped in to the shower with me. Her vee area was smooth and pink, her sex slightly puckered.

‘Open your mouth,’ she said. ‘Open it wide. You mustn’t spill any…’

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.’

Reading this morning

December 8, 2015


Punishing your woman…

November 4, 2015

Subtle, but very effective...!

Subtle, but very effective…!

The playground…

August 2, 2015


“You are the playground of which I have free reign.”

Nenia Campbell


The woman who first introduced me to BDSM was a genuine misandrist who, for the purpose of this blog, we’ll call Zenobia. Her condition, I now recognise, was pathological: her denigration of men, her violence towards them, was ingrained – urges inside herself that were totally beyond her ability to control or suppress. She believed, ultimately, in the coming of the “Übermensch Womon” and felt herself one of the first of this “new species”.

Zenobia married young, eighteen, and produced a daughter the following year. She worshiped her child but marginalised her hubby. He existed to provide a roof over their head and to be humiliated in a thousand-and-one different ways. In the fifth year of marriage he ran a hose from the exhaust of his car and sat inside listening to the night with the engine running. His suicide came as a shock to all those who knew him, but not necessarily a surprise.

Had Zenobia’s behaviour caused her husband to top himself?

I have no idea. But it certainly must have played its part. Her hostile sexism towards men and towards him in particular was very apparent throughout their short sad marriage.

I knew very little of this when I first met Zenobia. To me, then, she was an attractive woman touching thirty, who thought men to be “hateful little boys”. We met at her birthday party and danced together all through the night. I have to say she “prick-teased” me mercilessly. Dancing cheek-to-cheek, she must have felt my hard-on…and that acted like a red-rag to a bull; she took every opportunity from then onwards to grind her hip against it, press it, catch it glancing blows, until I was almost ejaculating in my pants.

About three in the morning she kissed me good night. She said I could stay, sleep in the spare room. Her guests had all departed.

She asked, ‘Have you ever masturbated in front of a woman?’

‘I have, yes.’

‘Would you do it now. For me?’

‘I’d like to make love with you.’

‘No way. But you can wank off. That stiff little thing of yours has been prodding me all night long.’ She laughed. ‘Go on. Get it out. Let’s see what it can do…’

And I did exactly as requested. Moments later, sitting on the arm of her sofa and staring hard into her eyes, I ejaculated over the parquet flooring.

‘Not a bad effort,’ she said, smiling. ‘If you want me, why don’t you lick that up?’ She pointed at the long creamy spray of cum. ‘Lick that up, and I might let you have me in the morning…’

And so began a relationship that consisted of verbal and physical abuse, interspersed with erotic moments of intense love and tenderness. That first morning, she said to me, in her best bitch voice, ‘You want me? You really want to fuck me? You think in that little testosterone-riddled brain of yours that licking up your muck off the floor’s going to give you the right to stick it in me? Think again, boy. Fuck you. If you want me, you need to make sacrifices. Meaningful sacrifices…’

We sat at the table in her kitchen. Her little girl was round with her grandparents for the weekend. I said to her, ‘I want you, truly, as a friend…As a lover.’


‘Because you’re beautiful.’

‘Because I’m beautiful I have to submit to your limp ego? Because you’re attracted to me, I should be passive? Vaginas don’t have the right to say no, eh? Is that what you think?’

‘God, no…!’

‘So what would you give to fuck me this morning?’

‘What do you want?’

‘Would you drink my pee? Are you that big a perv?’

The idea repulsed me, but I so wanted this woman. Hungover, still a little tipsy probably, I acquiesced, said I’d do anything…After all, I was sure she didn’t mean it; that this was just a test of my commitment.

She stood up walked to the cupboard beside the sink and took out a large crystal jug. She was wearing a white nightdress that came down just below the knees. She crouched, put the jug between her slightly spread thighs and pissed in it. She was looking straight into my eyes all the time she was pissing. ‘Nothing good in my life,’ she said, ‘has ever come from a man. I’ll be honest with you, Peedeel, you won’t cope with my fuckedupness. It’ll be like riding a car down a one-way street at eighty miles-an-hour – but going the wrong way.’

She put the jug on the table.

‘Drink all that before it gets cold, darling. Drink it and I’ll let you take me into the bedroom…’

I was young, stupid, couldn’t see anything beyond the physical. It’s hard to explain but it was as if my brain was split into two halves. One half was saying, ‘What the feckin’ hell…’ While the other kept repeating, ‘Go ahead…get it down you. It’s nothing.’

So I drank. Tasted the warm, salty liquid. Her “wine” she called it. Drank all of it.

‘What a despicable little pervert you are,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Go on through to my bedroom. Strip off. I’ll give you a little reward. Wag your tail a bit…’

I did as instructed. She came in and told me to stand with my hands clasped behind me back. I did. She used the belt from a dressing gown to bind my wrists together. She pushed me forward onto the bed, two pillows beneath my penis and hips, my arse raised. Unexpectedly, she pulled a pillowcase over my head. Then my ordeal began…

I had always had a submissive streak. Even as a child. I fantasised about restraint, and being sexually used. In part Zenobia took control of my fantasy life; she provided the spark. Took me to the edge of infinity by inflicting the most incredible pain on me. Clothes pegs were attached to testicles and penis. She took a cane used to support a potted plant in the bedroom window, and lashed my backside into a throbbing numbness. It went on and on. Her eyes took the aim, and the cane striped my bum and the backs of my legs. And when she grew tired, she got a candle and matches.

Candle wax burns like feckin’ hell. I screamed inside my pillowcase. I begged. I cried with the pain of what she was doing to me. The torture continued and my mind drifted into this kind of fugue state. I was there but not there. I felt as if I were approaching ecstasy. As if I could reach out and touch the hand of God…

Zenobia burned me with the candle and with a lighted cigarette, but I hardly felt it. I had gone beyond pain, beyond desire. It was like an out of body experience.

The next thing I became truly aware of, was lying on my back. The pillowcase had been taken off, and Zenobia was stroking my head. ‘Poor thing,’ she said. ‘Poor poor thing.’ Her free hand went to my stiff cock. ‘Let’s wag his tail for him…’

I drifted. In the whole wide world there was only the sound of her voice, and the gentle ministrations of her slender fingers on the head of my penis. When I came it was suddenly, unexpectedly, the first spray of cum arching over my head.

Later she said to me, ‘I did warn you I was a fuckup – told you, didn’t I? You’ll never survive me. I’ll break you down into a sniveling shit-eater before I’ve finished.’

And then she went to get some gel to put on my burns and bruises.

Zenobia was lethal for sure. Whatever was between us, be it mistress and slave or predator and victim, continued for some months. I promised myself after that session, I’d not go back to her – but I did. I went back and continued to go back. She was like a Gestapo interrogator, a dark haired torturer, and I was like a moth attracted to the flame of hatred inside of her.

In some terrible way we complemented each other. I was yin to her yang. She was Nero fiddling while I burned. And each of the hours spent in her company left a fresh scar on my flesh; on my soul.

Eventually, like all things, our “special relationship” came to an end. Zenobia nearly put me in hospital one winter’s night, and I realised that I need to escape her influence if only for my own preservation.

And that’s what I finally did.