Archive for March, 2010

A couple of weekends ago the lovely March Middleton came to stay. It was a long-awaited visit. March and I have known each other for nearly six years – and the first time we shared a bed was over five years ago, when Tom and I went to a play club with her and her then-partner, and ended up back at Tom’s for an intense scene.

Skip ahead a few years, and March and I find ourselves flirting whenever we meet up through our group of mutual friends (a phenomenon which is exacerbated whenever she wears a trilby and tie) and in January I ended up spending most of an evening making out with her while Tom was on stage. Luckily, he chose to be forgiving about the fact that this caused me to miss large parts of his performance

This year I’ve suddenly gone from being almost-faithful to my two primaries for most of last year, to suddenly expanding my sexual and romantic horizons – a process catalysed partly by increased energy levels and lower (for a while at least!) work stress, and partly by the discovery that personal submission to women can in fact work for me after all. The downside is that my already-bursting calendar has exploded with new people I want to see as much of as possible – and these days “as much of possible” barely extends to one weekend every couple of months. Still, March applied just the right amount of patience and persistence, and by the time we’d exchanged a few naughty emails discussing the terrible things she was going to do to me, I wished that weekend would come sooner.

It turns out her way with words doesn’t stop at naughty emails. She brought with her a story she had written, about a strict but rather wicked prefect and a very wayward young fifth-former. (“I’m afraid your character’s underage,” she confessed to me charmingly as I started to read. I, as you might expect, was hardly complaining.) I rather desperately want to post all of it, but I don’t have permission; and in any case, it’s not finished yet, stopping abruptly mere sentences before the dreaded hairbrush descends. I intend to pester encourage her to finish it, and then let me show you all. In the meantime, I do have permission to share this tantalising tidbit:

“Right, that’s enough. You’re coming to my room. I’m not disturbing Miss Gibson at this hour,” snapped March. Something about her tone broke Pandora’s resistance.

“No, no, please, March, I’m sorry!” she pleaded, in a rapid whisper. “I was only –” She stopped, realising that to explain that she had been hoping to sneak downstairs to return a book illicitly purloined from the mistresses’ library would do her no good at all. And if March found out that it was a rude book (goodness knows how it had found its way into the otherwise staid collection on the staff’s bookshelves), there would be the dickens of a row.

I had thought that when we played we might capture something of this fifth-former/prefect atmosphere, but yet again, my plans went out of the window when confronted with the reality of a sexy woman. Once we were in bed the atmosphere was purely, delightfully playful. I giggled while over her knee (a habit I should really try to get out of…), and while the spankings were fun, the sex that followed was even more memorable. I won’t share all the gory details, but I will say that March is one of the most comfortably sexual people I have ever rough-and-tumbled with. Nothing seems more natural, with her, than to talk about all the explicit things we would like to do together; and doing them feels even easier, even things I have never done before. She inhabits her own body, and her own sexuality, with a cheerful ease that is thoroughly contagious. And I’m not sure I could tell you which of us was naughtier, although I was certainly the only one to be spanked for it.

We watched Secretary together, me for the first time, and heckled it a lot (I reacted pretty much exactly as I’d expected; the spanking scene and the second, not-a-spanking scene were hot – the rest of it was irritating and frustrating by turns). We played with a substantial proportion of the contents of our combined toyboxes, including a pleasing variety of phallic objects. On Saturday we visited Sh! Womanstore in search of a new harness for March (her share dildo was an awful lot of fun, but the silicone is heavy enough that gravity becomes a problem for the partner on top), and spent a happy couple of hours drinking tea, browsing dildos and talking lesbian sex with the helpful shop assistants.

Downstairs, while March was trying on harnesses (and bargain leather corsets – sadly neither of them fitted) I discovered, beside the in-store TV and DVD player, a collection of twenty Easy on the Eye DVDs. I’d been writing about Anna Span only the day before, but hadn’t yet watched any of her films; there was nothing to do but put one on. I flicked my way through Pound a Punnet while March modelled sexy garments for me, and confirmed that Anna Span’s work was everything I’d said it was – but, sadly, somewhat too vanilla to hold my sexual interest long. (Although there’s always a space in my heart for good-humoured, authentic girl/girl scenes with enthusiastic kissing and real orgasms.) We came home with a new purple harness for March and new nipple clamps for me, and spent the rest of the evening trialling them, with great success.

She tried out various implements on my willing bottom, favouring her hand (a rhythmic, rapid, stinging spanking style, lingering first one one cheek and then the next, letting the heat build like pepper) and our combined collection of hairbrushes. I got very turned on very quickly; and, as at other times, I found my pain threshold expanding the more aroused I got, so that her hardest strokes were barely making me moan.

I wondered how to ask for more. I am apparently a much hungrier bottom than anyone March has beaten before, and I didn’t want to be too demanding – on the other hand, there was no point her thinking she was pushing me, and me feeling unsatisfied; especially when we had found ourselves so adept at communication in other ways.

“Would it help if I told you how painful it was, in marks out of ten?” I suggested hesitantly. She agreed that it would help, and suggested that 5/10 should mean “just right”, with numbers closer to ten meaning I was reaching my limits. Looking back, I suspect I got a bit confused about how to interpret “just right”. I am a complicated creature, both masochistic and submissive; a spanking can sometimes be as hard as is physically pleasant without leaving me satisfied, because I usually want the sensations to break through that barrier before I’ll feel challenged. I suspect that when I was saying “5″ I meant “that feels nice; if you want it to properly hurt, please go harder”; and she was reading “5″ as “that’s as much pain as I want to take right now, thankyou”.

Knowing my internal competitiveness, I suspect that the very act of rating the strokes made me inclined to take more pain, but it’s hard to tell. It’s possible that I just like very hard spankings. I don’t think anyone reading this would be particularly surprised

I got what I needed in the end, though. Realising that our numbers system might contain an embedded miscommunication, I took a deep breath and did that thing that comes so hard to me: asking for more. She was using my leather strap on me, we’d been playing for some hours and I was ever so warmed up, and I wanted a good yell before we got distracted again. “Would you be willing,” I suggested tentatively, “to give me a few very very hard strokes with the leather paddle, before we stop? Perhaps, as hard as you possibly can?”

She was somewhat doubtful, but agreed. And oh my, she can pack a wallop when she really wants to. It was just the ending I’d been craving, and the fun we had afterwards was all the more enthusiastic for it.