Using silence as a punishment is like letting fly doves that carry freedom on their wings. That’s how you are. A dove open to my wishes, my desires – pleasing me, and in my pleasure finding yours …

craving to embrace

April 29, 2018

eye here

I was punished for clinging. I clung. I clutched all those I loved; I clutched at the lovely moments of life; my hands closed upon every full hour. My arms were always tight and craving to embrace: I wanted to embrace and hold the light, the wind, the sun, the night, the whole world. I wanted to caress, to heal, to rock, to lull, to surround, to encompass. And I strained and I held so much that they broke; they broke away from me. Everything eluded me then. I was condemned not to hold.

Anaïs Nin
House of Incest

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,
voodoo, hoodoo &
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…!