Come with me,” I’ve used the voice. I know you’ve felt the thump of butterflies rushing to your knickers. Felt the compulsion to obey without question.

I take hold of your arm and guide you through your friends, across the dance floor and out of the party at the beautiful Oxford College.

The Quad outside is warm, quiet, and the light of the summer night glows from the stonework. Calming.

I walk you to the top corner of the ancient courtyard, our footsteps softly echoing in the night. You follow my guiding hand leading you behind the raised stone planters. It’s not much of a shield, but it’s enough. Unless any of your friends decide to leave.

Lift your skirt,

Looking down, you raise the front of your skirt. Slowly gathering it, gathering your petticoats inch by inch, revealing to me your legs, your thighs and your knickers.

Don’t let go,

You feel my hands around your head, raising it, raising your mouth to mine, being kissed deeply by me as you hold your skirt up.

Take your knickers off,

Your hands keep hold of your skirt and underskirts but wriggle your knickers over your hips, more wriggles of your legs making them fall to your ankles.

I slowly lower myself to my knees. My hands follow me, stroking from your head, over your breasts, your stomach, past the clothes bunched up in your hands, over your precious little cunt and down your legs. Reaching your knickers, you step out of them.

You feel my tongue on your thighs, seeking out the drips from your little cunt. Tracing their path upward, reaching their source. My lips close around it, sucking your clitoris deeply.

I feel your legs falter, all your strength focused on obediently holding your skirt. I stand, threading my arm under your shoulders, behind you, taking your weight, my other hand between your legs,  pushing up, hooking my fingers inside you, closing my palm over your clitoris, you feel me squeeze, feel the hard movement inside and around your tight cunt, lifting you again and again, only my arm behind you preventing you collapsing at my feet. Your only strength left concentrated in your hands, holding your skirt for me.

Through our kiss I feel you suck in your last breath, your body tighten, the breath forced out into my mouth in two convulsing sobs as I hold you through your orgasm.

Letting your wet run on your thighs as I take my fingers from you, raising my palm to my mouth to suck the rest from it, tasting you.

You can let go now,

You let your dress fall from your hands, smoothing the layers a little as you gather yourself.

From somewhere distant, you hear me tell you proudly “My good girl, all mine,

I’m all yours, Mister,” We both know the truth of it.

I’ll keep your reward until we’re back in the Bad House. For now, you feel my guiding hand on your arm again, taking you back into the party, your knickers safely in my pocket, to dance. Knowing you’ll feel my hand on your knickerless bottom, reminding you of the bruises I put there earlier, and the promise of more to come.


© Charles Rochester 2016


The Bad House

Locked up. The door closes behind us. The heavy wooden door in the low doorframe of a converted prison cell. A place for being locked up, restrained, punished.

The party isn’t for a couple of hours, and although we have to get ready, it’s been half a week since we saw each other. Half a week since I had you under my hands. Half a week since we enjoyed the sensations of each other.

So there’ll be no waiting until after the party.

Your knickers have been in my pocket since the car park. I’m acutely aware that you’re wet, that you’re accessible. But however beautiful you look in that dress, it has to go.

As your dress falls away, unzipped and lowered to the floor, my hand on your neck guides you to the bed, holding you close to me as I move you, making sure I feel your body brush against my trousers, against my cock, hard within them.

I steer you slowly, but unquestioningly onto the bed, kneeling you. My hand leaves the back of your neck and you feel it stroke over your beautiful skin, down your spine, no less slowly, but no less certain, until it strokes over your bottom and underneath finding the wet, soft cunt between your kneeling open thighs.

I let you feel my fingers on you for a moment. Long enough to wonder how many times you’ll come before we check out tomorrow. Long enough to wonder how I’ll take those orgasms from you. Long enough to know I won’t stop the orgasms until I’ve stolen your consciousness.

But I step away, open my bag and take out the rope I’ve brought. Instinctively you move your hands behind your back, but I move in front of you, drop the rope between your knees and place my hands on your shoulders, stroking downwards, drawing your arms in front of you as my hands move lower, bringing your wrists together above the rope. holding them in one hand now, firmly, I reach beneath them and taking the rope, begin to loop it around both wrists in loose circles, before you feel them tightening into cuffs as I wind the rope through the middle, leaving long tails of rope from the centre of the cuffs.

Letting the tails fall between your knees, I take your head in my hands and bring your mouth to mine, a long deep kiss, feeling yourself weaken in my hold, before the kiss breaks, and you’re pushed forwards, not quickly, but in a slow, controlled descent until your face and shoulders meet the mattress.

Your eyes close, and as my hand strokes again from your neck, over your back I feel the deep sigh of relief that leaves you along with the last vestige of control.

My fingers stroke over the tight hole between the spread cheeks of your bottom, knowing I’ll be inside it before we check out tomorrow. Further to the soft wet folds of your cunt unable to resist lingering there for a moment, then to the ends of the rope between your knees.

You feel pulling, the rope binding your wrists to your ankles, forcing your back to arch, opening your thighs and lifting your bottom, presenting it to me to harvest. To crop.

Of course, you knew this would happen. We smuggled the crops past reception in your dress hanger, the only thing long enough to conceal the four foot long whip.

You’ll have six of each crop, only six. A taster of what’s to come after the party. Even so, the first stinging line across your bottom comes suddenly. Your gasp, your plea for another making my cock twitch inside my trousers. Two, a pause as I watch a line of red rise on the pale skin of your perfect bottom. Three, another pause as I relish the sight of the drips on your cunt as it twitches. Another gasp. Four, Five and Six coming quickly one after the other, the hot lines losing their neat, parallels in the flurry.

You have an awareness of my fingers gently stroking the livid colours for a moment, before I reach for the longer crop. The knowledge it’ll be next the only thing stopping you begging for more.

I wonder if you hear the sweeping sound of the long crop in the air as it swipes through before making its hard, sharp contact with your pure skin. You don’t flinch or tighten before it strikes. But the angry line of red it leaves as it whips around the side of your hip is there before your whimper dies away.

The next five come quickly, each harder than the last, each rewarding me with another twitch of your increasingly wet cunt, framed so beautifully by the way you’re bound.

You’ll be feeling these twelve marks, my marks, at the party later. Every time you sit you’ll be reminded what I did. Every time I put my hand on your tender, bruised bottom when we’re dancing, you’ll feel my ownership of you.

But now all you feel is the heat of your skin, and my fingers pushing inside you, making your tight cunt yield to them, moving inside you, the pleasure of them there contrasting with the burning skin above. Their movement quickly changing your twitching into deeper, consuming contractions as your orgasm breaks over you, your body straining against its restrictions as it takes a hold of you.

You’re blurting gratitude at me while I release your ankles, and pull you from the bed, to the floor, to your knees and open my trousers. You’ve earned my cock, Earned the feeling of it between your lips, in your throat. And I can’t wait any longer to let you draw your reward from me, to feel your reward dripping from your face onto your body.


© Charles Rochester 2016

Sinful Sunday 34 – Table

My 34th #SinfulSunday picture…

Her ankles, bound apart to the legs of the dining table, her body presented to me, the taste of her skin, the flavour of her orgasm, served up for my enjoyment…


Other blogs this week…

I hope you all find me on Twitter: @OlderMan_Blog

See who else is being sinful this Sunday, touch the lips!

Sinful Sunday


© Charles Rochester 2016

The Meet

It’s a short drive to the cabin in the woods. I know you were here yesterday, readying the cabin, stocking it with food and drinks for our time here.

Looking around, I quickly take in the table and chairs, wood burning stove, the bedroom through the doors. It’s going to be even more private in the winter.

You watch as I set our bags down. I can sense your nervousness, even though you know what’s going to happen.

A drink, a kiss. Your hair tangled in my hand, your head pulled back, you feel control leaving you, flowing into me, mine. My teeth on your neck, your skirt pulled up by my hand, the smooth skin of your thighs against my fingertips as they stroke upwards, finding your knickers. Wet. Soft inside. Yielding to my pressure, my fingers moving on you, pressing the material against you, into you.

Taking the strength from you, taking what’s left of your control, taking your orgasm from you as I hold your body up against me.

Your breathing slows, becomes more regular as I hold you safe, but as it does and before you can quite gather yourself, you’re turned away from me, bent at the waist, pushed forward until your shoulders rest on the bed. You feel my firm hand on your back, there’s no fight in it, just command. As the pressure leaves your back, the idea of moving doesn’t even enter your mind.

You hear my footsteps on the wooden floor as I move to my box. A smile forms on your beautiful lips as you listen for the sound of me opening it, knowing what I’m taking out. Footsteps on floorboards again, my hands on you back, something hard, slender in one of them as you feel them stroke over your body, lower, reaching your bottom. The hard slender knife, you knew it was a knife, resolves to a point between the cheeks of your bottom, pressing inward, cutting a hole in the back of your dress. A hole large enough for my fingers to push inside and tear your dress open.

You feel the thin line of your knickers moved aside, and cold steel against your bottom. Blunt, this time. Blunt and cold, wet from my mouth to lubricate it slightly, pushing slowly at you before you yield and allow the plug to open you, enter you for the first time, before you close around it, holding it in place.

The long fake fur tail adding some weight, tickling you, rests over your thighs.

Beautiful, Baby,
Thank you, Mister,

You know later you’ll have my cock where the plug is, feel it’s warmth instead, feel it pulsing when I come inside you, but you know what we’ve come to the woods for. You know I’m going to hunt you, catch you, take possession of you. But as I stand you up and turn you toward me, holding the knife in one hand, duct-tape in the other, a long belt over my shoulders as well as the one around my waist, you know too, there’s something you’ll have to do if I’m to hunt and catch you.

You know what’ll happen when I catch you.

So when you see the glint in my eye, and you hear my instruction, you don’t hesitate.



© Charles Rochester 2016

Sinful Sunday 33 – Pride 

My 33rd #SinfulSunday picture…

The second of our recreations from the cabin in the woods. My girl takes pride in her place at my feet, while I watch over her with just as much pride that she’s mine.


Other blogs this week…

I hope you all find me on Twitter: @OlderMan_Blog

See who else is being sinful this Sunday, touch the lips!

Sinful Sunday


© Charles Rochester 2016

First Impression

I promised you this, too. So as I lift you from the floor with a hand in your hair and one between your legs, propelling you roughly to the bed, not quite letting you get your balance, not quite letting you lose it, then holding you still as I sit, before pulling you down you over my lap, the thumping in your chest is from the excitement of knowing what’s about to happen.

I can feel your weight against the erection in my open trousers, I know you can feel it there, I know that the wriggling against it isn’t just you struggling before your spanking, it’s deliberate.

I like the wriggling. I’m going to make you wriggle.

I reach for your wrists, and hold them behind your back in my left hand. Pressing down with it, using my right to pull your skirt back to your waist, hooking my fingers into the back of your knickers and pulling them roughly down to your thighs, tearing just a little.

So beautiful. Your lovely bottom raised and ready for my hand. Your wet cunt framed by your thighs, pouting needily at me.

From being on the floor to being over my lap, your pale smooth bottom exposed and vulnerable, has taken seconds. The first spank on your bottom happening so quickly. But I’m sure those wriggles are deliberate. I’ll be spanking that awareness out of you.

You gasp with that first sting of my palm on your bottom. Again before you can fully draw breath. Each contact hard on the last, each met with another gasp, another wriggle.

You feel me stroke you, feeling the warmth of your skin, the heat of the spanking radiating from you.

Please, Mister, Don’t stop,

The catch 22. It’s for me to decide, but you earn more correction by asking.

I lift you from my lap, standing together, I pull your mouth to mine for another kiss before finding my grip on your dress and tearing it open, ripping it from you, letting it fall to the floor.

You stand proudly as I step back to admire what I find beneath. The basque you’d hinted at enclosing the beautiful body I can’t wait to reveal. But not yet.

Steering you back to the bed, you obediently comply as I kneel you on it and push your shoulders and face down onto the soft duvet. Your bottom raised, naked and needy for more. Presented. I hadn’t thought I’d use my belt this first time for you, but I know now that you want it.

Standing off to one side, I raise my hands, the buckle and end held firmly in my right hand, doubling the strap, the leather heavier, less flexible through wear than my brown belt. My left hand holding the loop high, then releasing it.

Swinging the long black belt back-hand onto the precious skin of your bottom, tender and pale on one side, pink on the other from my hand.

Your gasps louder, as the belt makes contact across you, a longer pause as I raise my hands again, long enough to enjoy the sight of your beautiful cunt, wet, pulsing, framed by your thighs again, each glimpse a reminder of how much I want to push my hard cock inside it, make it open for me. But with each crack of my firm belt you want more. Wide red welts rise from your soft skin, the edges of the belt cutting in, leaving dark marks. The purple bruising beginning to show, to deepen even before I’ve stopped.

All you know is the sensation, the impact, all I hear is you begging for it not to stop, but me knowing it must, that you don’t realise how this will feel later as you sit to drive home, or tomorrow in the office. But both of us feeling the deep satisfaction of a bond forged in the sound and fury of leather on skin.

A bond we’ll make stronger with your body still kneeling, yielding for me as I push inside you.


© Charles Rochester 2016

Earning It

The check-in desk are being excruciatingly slow. I can see you’re nervous, you don’t know whether to cling or to run.

I turn to face you, ignoring the clerk behind reception, and reach with my hand, placing it on your chest between your breasts, feeling the thumping of your heart. Heavy. Fast. You visibly relax, knowing I’ve recognised your nerves.

The eternal wait for the key card comes to an end. I pick up our bags and walk you into our room. You stand inside the door as I walk past you, placing our bags on the floor. Returning, you’re against the wardrobe, watching every move. I told you what I’d do to relax you if you were nervous. You know exactly what’s going to happen.

I close the door and turn again. Watching your deep breath, your body weakening a little at the sight of the hunger in my eyes.

Things happen in a rush, you’re only able to keep up because you’ve known what’ll happen now, how I’ll take away your nerves. You feel your head pulled back by the hair, my mouth on yours tasting you, your lips, your mouth, my arm lifting your skirt as my hand reaches under it, finding your knickers, wet, hot. Your legs weakening further at my touch. I catch the whimper that my touch elicits from you in my mouth. My hold under you stopping you falling as the pressure of my fingers on your cunt becomes movement. Fast, hard, like your heart, like your breathing. The breathing that quickly loses rhythm, the orgasm you’ve needed me to take since Tuesday crashing over you. Spurred on by your cries, stifled by my kiss, but still loud enough that anyone outside our room must be able to hear, my hand between your legs unrelenting, not allowing your orgasm to wane, your wet soaking my fingers through the fabric of your delicate knickers, my body supporting yours as it begins to buckle.

You’re suddenly aware you’re on the floor. A little away from where you were standing, the skirt of your dress around your waist, your stockings exposed, your legs spread wide for me, my hand still between them, but stroking more softly through your wet knickers, my left hand no longer in your hair but around your throat. not tightly, just firmly enough that you know not to try to get up.

Your hand reaches for my trousers, feel my cock inside. You stroke its length, and the same hunger I had a moment before takes you over.

Your cock, I want your cock.” Not waiting for an answer your hands are both at my belt, undoing it, pulling at the buttons, grasping inside for what you want.

Your hand closes around it. The sigh you try to give becomes a short sob, a relief that it’s in your hand. With a firm grip you’re pulling it to your mouth. I have to move my hand from your throat back to your hair, pinning you to the floor. My fingers become firmer on your knickers, faster on the sensitive clitoris, the wet cunt inside. Your sobs stifled now by my cock as I feel your lips close around it, your tongue licking the underside as your hand reaches between my legs to rest behind my hips to pull me into you.

I can feel your breath rasping through your nose as another orgasm builds. The look in your eyes as it sweeps over you. Your hips rise up, but the tremor in your thighs make them shake in my hand as you try to suck air in through your full mouth. The muscles of your chest and neck begin to judder with your hips, your head trying to shake but anchored by your hair and by the cock impaling your face.

The cock you didn’t ask for.
The cock you took without permission.
The cock I told you you’d have to come enough to earn.

The cock that has just earned you a thorough spanking.

After reading this, you may want to see Sinful Sunday 31
Other stories of the girl I call Mine

© Charles Rochester 2016