Catch 22

The catch.
Until a girl submits to a Dom, he should be a gentleman. He should talk with her, laugh with her, get to know her, and let her get to know him. He’ll flirt with her, perhaps push at her boundaries a little…
But he should not dominate her, instruct her or expect her to do as she’s told. Because she’s not his to dominate or instruct.

But a girl who’s worth taking care of, who’s looking for a man who she knows can dominate, instruct and be trusted, is not going be excited, or feel a spark with a man who isn’t showing that side of his character. But he’s not showing it, because it’s not appropriate until after she is his.

It’s a bit of a catch-22. How do you get the trust to express the kink, without the spark that’s needed to bother building the trust, a spark that won’t be there unless you can both express the kink?


Thoughts On Mess

Mess. Mmm.
Pardon me if you don’t like a mess during sex, but how do you expect to enjoy yourself?

Are you always thinking “Ew, I must – at the moment I least want to have to think about it – make sure there’s no sticky hot come to wipe up later.”?
Or “This girl I’m with is so incredible, I must make sure she doesn’t see how much she’s made me come.”?
Or “Oh, this is amazing, I hope he has a tissue so I don’t get any of the icky stuff on me.”?

It’s very simple really: if I’m enjoying myself, if you’re beautiful, sexy, and good, the last thing I want to do is hold back. I want to enjoy the moment. And if that means relishing the sweet wetness all over your inner thighs, feeling it, tasting it… It’s the evidence that you’re enjoying our sex as much as me. That’s just going to make it better. If my face is between your legs, I’m not going to be thinking “I must be careful only to touch that with the tip of my tongue, I wouldn’t want it smearing on my face!” I want your wet cunt smearing its slick on me. Delicious.

And why would you be okay with my cock in your mouth, okay to swallow my come, or have it flooding from my cock inside your cunt, your ass, but think it unpleasant to have it on your breasts, you ass, your face, running out of you onto your legs while I use it to lubricate your clitoris and make you come some more? Why would you not be excited by me wiping the remains of my orgasm on your cheek or in your hair?

It’s like kissing you after I’ve come in your mouth, or going down on you: why would I care if my come is there? It’s my come! And kissing you, licking your cunt, that’s fun. You like it.

Sex is a complete, all consuming activity. When I’m enjoying it, it’s all I care about: our sheer enjoyment. I want to feel and see how much you’re loving it. If you’re enjoying it to the same degree as me, my excitement and the outcome of that, will heighten your excitement, too, surely?

Mess isn’t essential, it’s not necessary. But that’s true of most sex acts: I don’t need my cock in your mouth for it to be satisfying sex, or anal, or to yank you around by the hair, or to spank you, or to come more than once.

But sex is better with all those things. Why take any of them, including mess, off the table? It just bewilders me.

And, ultimately, who wants prissy, Victorian clinical sex?

I’m excited by you. Mess is one of the ways I might want to express that. Doesn’t that excite you, too?

© Charles Rochester 2014

Thoughts On Spanking

There is a great joy in putting a girl over my knee, feeling her body weight over my lap as she rests across it with her shoulders lower than her hips. Then tenderly lifting her skirt up over her waist, pulling her knickers most of the way down her thighs but still above her knees to expose her bottom. I revel in her vulnerability, knowing that although at my mercy, she trusts that I’ll spank for her as much as for me.

I start by touching her bottom, stroking her skin, preparing her. Then I draw my hand away and wait, raising her anticipation, before the stinging contact of hand on bottom. There’s satisfying clap, the gasp of the girl, her wriggle, and her relaxation as she submits to the next contact, and the next.

I thrill at the weight and the movement of her body on my lap, against my hard cock through our clothes.

The pinking, reddening of her skin, more with each spank, the heat of her smarting skin and its sensitivity rising. With her over my knee, her bottom her highest point, and her hips bent so her legs hang down, I can see her manifest arousal, visible between her thighs, and I can hear her desire to make up to me for whatever provocation led to this sanction.

Because provocation there must be. A spanking ought never be gratuitous. Did she tease me too much? Not enough? Is her skirt too short, too long? A reason, or at least a pretext, can always be found.

Before she can make it up to me, once she has been spanked enough, I like to show her that she is forgiven, that my affection is undiminished. I might stroke and kiss her bottom better, soothing her sore skin with my lips, my tongue. Or I might allow my hand to drop between her thighs and use my fingers to let her come, sometimes urgently, sometimes tenderly.

Then, she will be allowed my cock again, to make up to me for her provocation as she promised, and show me she is grateful for her spanking, and her affections, too, are strengthened.

Spanking is an act of trust and love as well as of undisguised lust. An unbound submission, an expression both visual and vocal. There’s a union in the shared pain of the smack shared by both bottom and hand, the reason I spank with a bare hand, nothing else. In fact I can only think of a few things more intimate. So intimate that I can count the number of girls I’ve spanked on the fingers of one sore hand.

Spanking is to stay. If I don’t want to spank you, then you’re not the girl for me. If you don’t want to be spanked, then you’re not the girl for me.



I love a good sleep. Going to bed after a tiring day, and waking up the next morning after a solid night’s sleep feeling refreshed. I also like getting around a golf course in under 90, but that rarely happens either.

I’m a lifelong insomniac. Why am I so crap at something most people can do with their eyes closed? I spend my nights not blissfully drifting through the soft mist of the subconscious in the arms of Hypnos, but staring through the dark at the ceiling.

This has happened throughout my life. Every couple of weeks or so I simply lose a whole night of sleep. It’s like the opposite of jet lag. Certainly the opposite of that extreme fatigue virus that’s going around – I spent three days a couple of months ago barely able to rouse myself into something vaguely akin to ‘awake’. But I’m so used to losing a night now and then that you’d never guess the next day. After a lifetime of this, I just don’t need to sleep every night like ‘normal’ people.

Some people blame their wakefulness on worrying through the night, trying to work out what went wrong in this situation or how they could have done better in that one. A case of The Night Will Always Win. I’ve had my fair share of that, but not recently. That’s not for proper insomniacs, that’s for worriers. Not me: Life’s pretty good, work is going well, and much to most people’s chagrin I get up in the mornings eager to get started.

So for the last few nights I’m not taken by sleep demons any more than I was taken by sleep gods. No, proper insomnia is when you don’t have any real problems, except you can’t sleep.

I’m so tired.

First Times

In hindsight we were too young. She was a year younger than me, and that night was my last lower school disco. It was the 80s, so we had these discos every month, but this was the leavers’ disco in July, so it was a big deal. We’d been together since February, and I’d had my hand inside her bra on a few occasions, not to mention once up her skirt, so when we left the disco for the music block, where I’d strategically left a window unlocked earlier in the day, I was hopeful that as well as some snogging, I might be able to get into her knickers.

There’s nothing you can do to disguise your erection when your girlfriend is sitting straddling your lap as you kiss, and you’re fondling her firm breasts. She seemed surprised it was there, and asked if I always got hard when we “get off with each other.” Of course I did, I was a teenager. And seeing as she had opened the subject, between kisses and stroking her nipple with the tip of my finger, I told her I often got hard fantasising about having sex with her. Again, she seemed surprised, but I’m sure I was more surprised when, as we rubbed against each other through our clothes she told me she thought about it too.

More kissing, more urgency, the elephant in the small room pushing us closer, raising the temperature. We were going to go further than we had before, perhaps I’d get to finger her tonight? My hand left her pert little breasts and stroked down to the waist line of her leggings, then inside the elastic and over her knickers. No objection as I stroked her through the cotton. God how I hoped she’d put her hand in my trousers. Hoped and feared it in equal measure.

Now to the knicker elastic. I’d tried to get beyond it before, and been denied. Maybe tonight, maybe. Yes, my fingers ventured inside, still no objection. Down through her light flush of pubes, still no objection. Yes, this was it, this wasn’t a drill, I was going to finger her. And oh my god she was wet. So wet. No one had ever said anything about her being wet. Was that normal? Should it be like that? It felt slippery and then my finger was inside her!

I remember her words exactly: “Do you want to put your thing in there?”

Do I want to? At that moment I’d have given any of my limbs to put my “thing” in “there”. In hindsight, I think she was just curious, but after I’d said “Yes please,” we were just carried along by the passion and inertia.

I took my hand out of her pants and started to undress her, and she tried to wrestle with my belt. I helped and between us we managed to find ourselves naked in the little music room, standing looking at each other. Well, she was staring nervously at my “thing”. My big hard “thing”. I was staring at her breasts and between her legs.

I held out my hand, took hers and helped her to the carpet in front of one of her beloved pianos and as one of our favourite songs played on the mono tape recorder, I lay on top of her and we both negotiated my cock into her.

At that innocent time when HIV was something that you could only catch if you were a gay man, or drank from the wrong glass, it didn’t occur to us to use a Johnny (excuse me, a condom) The thought that she might get pregnant didn’t seem to occur to either of us (she didn’t, don’t worry). We just quietly, sweetly, but passionately gave each other our virginity.

I’d love to pretend that I was amazing, but I was young and excited. In only a few minutes I came inside her and it was over. She didn’t come, although she said she had enjoyed it, and I think she did. We stayed, naked and cuddling for a few minutes, before getting dressed and bashfully returning to the end of the disco.

The DJ was playing “Oh, What A Night.” which made us smirk knowingly at each other.

I never boasted to my friends about it. Nor did she, but we only did it once more months later. I was better second time. I’m glad it was her.