Archive for January, 2011

A Very Naughty Picture Story–first four chapters

January 31, 2011 5 comments

In August I published a very naughty novel that is being distributed as an e-book. As the plot is quite non-PC I’m reluctant to disclose the name of the book.

I’ll put up the first four chapters here, but before I do I’ll relate how this novel came to be.


I once wrote a story for, which is no longer in operation. TheStoryMill had many sets of pictures, and approved authors could select a set and write a story to the set’s pictures. Writing a story to pictures was more difficult than I first imagined, because one had to tailor the story to the images rather than go where one wanted. Later I wrote other picture stories, and once you get the hang of it they’re lots of fun.

I picked a set with the woman shown below, and because my tale turned out to be rather charged, it was not acceptable to the site. I wrote a different story around the same pictures, and it was eventually published on The StoryMill.

Over time I gathered other pictures and rewrote my politically incorrect story, and it eventually became the first part of a three part novel.

Here is the novel’s teaser:

Years have past, and many women, young and not so young, have come within the purview of Mr. Punire’s judgment and, likely, his lash. He has been many places, seen many things, met many people, rich and poor, and developed his art. Some say he is the greatest artist of his kind, yet he is an imperfect man, a rationalizing animal like the rest of us. Be that as it may, he fights valiantly against those who pretend to do what he does yet abuse their power, and he fights valiantly against demons thrust upon him during his youth, a private hell of which we know little. His profession is to punish—he is convinced of its efficacy—yet as he administers harsh justice he tries to do much good and no permanent harm. Does he accomplish these lofty goals while employing the base methods of the profession he is compelled to practice? That, one must decide for one’s self. And why is it said he is compelled to practice his profession? To learn you must read on.


Chapter 1. An Unexpected Assignment

The phone rang. The duty officer answered, “Warden’s office.”

“Hi. This is Jerry Adams from The Form. Is Sal Donato still at your facility?”

“He’s in with the warden. I think he’s getting ready to leave. Would you like to talk to him?”


The duty officer put The Form on hold and pressed the intercom Talk button. “Jerry Adams of The Form would like to talk to Mr. Donato.”

“Put him through,” the warden said.


“Jerry. Hi. I’m all done here.”

“Did you have a good day’s work?”

“Not bad. It went pretty much as expected. They’re good at keeping control here.” Sal Donato raised his eyebrows at the warden, indicating his appreciation.

“Would you have time to go over to Dominion School? They have a new principal there, a young guy by the name of Bob Haggerty. I asked around about him. He’s not well known, but he’s asking for training on disciplining junior college students.”

“Sounds like a sensible fellow. I’ve got some time I could spend with him. I have nothing on my calendar until I fly out on the twenty-fifth.”

“Do you know how to get to the school?”

“I was there once, many years ago. I’ll get directions from the warden.”

“Thanks. It saves me from sending someone from farther away. Check with me before you leave for the Far East, in case anything else comes in from that part of the world.”

“I will.”

“Have a nice trip.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

Sal Donato left Carlsen Women’s Prison and drove toward Dominion School. He wondered if there was a specific problem that needed attention or if the principal only wanted general training for future eventualities. Either case had its problems.

General training would be difficult without a student on which to put theory into practice. Sal could go over the rules that specify what is allowed under different scenarios, and he could give Bob Haggerty a copy of Procedures of The Form, but what the principal would be permitted to do would be strictly limited until he completed training using a real student as a subject.

On the other hand, if the principal had a specific student or students that needed correction, Sal was not well equipped. He was not expecting work other than at the prison, and he knew they had everything he would require. He did not bring his personal kit that included the restraints and punishment implements that he would want to be able to choose from when he was at a school. And he did not like to improvise, for he knew that the codes were in place for a reason, and as benign as any improvisation might seem there was no substitute for equipment that has been rigorous tested under controlled conditions. All he had were a few of the spank-sticks that were ubiquitous in his profession.

It was after noon when Sal checked into the hotel recommended by the warden. He called Principal Haggerty and made an appointment for 8:00 the next morning.

Chapter 2. The Infraction

“Sal Donato,” Sal said and put out his hand.

“Bob Haggerty.” Principal Haggerty put out his hand, and the men shook.

“They tell me you’re the best,” Bob said.

“I don’t know about that. There are a lot of us who are proficient, though the range of our styles would make an interesting study.”

“Don’t be modest. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I’m glad you called. Discipline can, at its best, be an art. At its worst it can be injurious and criminal.”

“I like to do things right. I plan to be a headmaster for a long time. I’m going to invest in training, as the school board and other headmasters have suggested.”

“That’s the right attitude. What prompted you to call at this particular time?”

“I have a discipline problem that needs to be dealt with immediately. It’s a serious offense, and we both know that when a punishment quickly follows an infraction the connection between the two is demonstrated most emphatically.”

“Indeed. Is it a young man or a young woman?”

“A young woman. Does it matter if it’s a girl or a boy?”

“I’m certified to handle women and men, but I’m a female specialist.”


Sal Donato could see the glint in Haggerty’s eyes. “Let’s get something out of the way,” Sal said. “We call it lesson number one. Punishment involves humiliation. The single most effective tool of humiliation is nudity, and nudity provokes sexual feelings. You’re a man, and you have a man’s feelings. For a man to deny that punishment of a naked woman can be arousing is a lie. Don’t deny it. However! To use punishment for your own gratification, or anyone else’s, is illegal, and though I’m not much of a God fearing man, by my God it’s a sin. What you think and feel is okay, but your actions must remain proper at all times.”

“I understand.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do, to a degree, but there’s a gray area the size of the Arabian Sea, as the saying goes. It sounds better in Arabic.”

He’s listening, but I doubt he’s taking the lesson to heart, Sal thought. Sal knew it was the rare man who when given the power to strip a young woman and handle her when she is naked and then spank her, could distance himself from his own feelings and truly care for hers.

“What’s her name?” Sal asked.


“From the Greek for wisdom, of that we shall see. Let me take a look at her records, and could I trouble you for a cup of tea?”

Bob Haggerty sent his secretary for tea, and he and Sal Donato sat in the principal’s office while Sal looked over Sophia’s records. “I see she’s an athlete, a swimmer,” Sal said”

“She just joined the team, and swim meet attendance is already up because of her in a bathing suit. She’s delicious.”

“Good looking?”

“She’s very cute in a youngish kind of way. And you’re saying I’ll get to see her without her clothes on?”

“What did she do?”

“It was at the end of freshmen boy’s gym. The boys were showering after a long run. Sophia’s friend dared her to run through the shower room, and she did.”

“I’ll ask you some questions and make a tally.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a useful technique. Many prefer it, because it attempts to be objective and therefore evenhanded. I evaluate subjectively, but it takes experience to be fair that way. To make a tally assign one point for everything bad and minus one for everything good, for example being truly repentant or trying to make a wrong, right. In a case like yours there’s controversy around scoring. How many boys were in the shower room?”

“Twenty-two are in the class, and two were absent.”

“Strictly speaking, that’s twenty infractions worth twenty points. A twenty-point punishment is very severe, and it’s not warranted. On the other hand the boys are young, and boys mature more slowly than girls. A freshman girl of eighteen is equivalent to a boy of fifteen or sixteen. We think of girls as being more vulnerable than boys, especially sexually, but young boys can just as easily be scarred by being forced to be naked in front of a woman as a girl can be scarred by being forced to be naked in front of a man. How old is Sophia?” Sal looked at her records, which were still in his hand.

“She’s in her first year,” Mr. Haggerty said.

“She just turned eighteen,” Sal said, referring to Sophia’s records. When did the infraction take place?”

“Yesterday, the eleventh.”

“Happy birthday Sophia. It looks like she gave herself a birthday present—feeling her oats, no doubt.”

“It was her birthday? What do you know?”

“So, we have an eighteen year old, not a minor, intimidating twenty naked boys who are, comparatively speaking, sixteen year olds. I’m going to give her ten points, which is serious.”

Bob Haggerty licked his lips. He had no idea what a ten-point punishment was like, but he was looking forward to finding out.

“Was she sorry for what she did?” Sal asked.

“It’s hard to tell. She said she was, but that was after I made it clear to her she was going to be punished.”

“What did you tell her was going to happen to her?”

“Nothing specific. She knows that the district allows corporal punishment—it’s in the school handbook, but the last principal didn’t believe in it. None of the kids know what my policy is going to be, and I’m sure they’re wondering. I didn’t mention corporal punishment or anything else. I want her to sweat.”

“I’ll interview her. I’d like to get her below ten points, if I can.”

“You would?”

“Yes, I would,” Sal said without further explanation. “You’re going to have to sign authority over to me for the duration of the punishment.”

“I don’t have a problem with that. Your reputation is that you are most careful.”

“And unless you just want me to punish her and be on my way you’re going to have to pay The Form for training.”

“Will this training count toward certification?”

“Yes, you’ll get two credits. One-on-one training is most effective. I’ve got a cost sheet I can give you.”

Sal Donato and Bob Haggerty passed papers. Haggerty signed up for one-on-one training and signed over responsibility for Sophia’s health and safety.

“It’s time for me to meet our lovely bathing beauty,” Sal said. “Do you have her schedule?”

Bob handed Sal Sophia’s schedule.

“She’s in… chorus,” Sal said. That’s a class that should put her in a good mood. Let’s meet her when she gets out.”

“That would be in twenty minutes, just enough time for us to enjoy our tea.”

Chapter 3. Mr. Punire Meets Sophia

They waited for Sophia outside the music studio. “That’s her,” Principal Haggerty said.

She is cute, Sal thought. Don’t get carried away.

Sophia saw Principal Haggerty and a strange man with him and blanched. She tried to pretend they weren’t there for her and walk away. Haggerty began to raise his arm to motion her over. Sal held Haggerty’s arm. “Let me do this,” he said and stepped in front of the principal. With a half dozen long strides Sal caught up with Sophia.

“Sophia Pavan,” Sal said her name quietly. Sophia stopped. Her friends backed away. Sal didn’t smile, and he ignored the other girls. He looked directly at Sophia’s eyes, opened his eyes wide, and pursed his lips slightly. His communication was a subtle combination of gestures—serious but unthreatening—as if to invite her to a meeting of the minds. “Come with me,” he commanded, but he said it gently. “I’m not going to hurt you.” At least not for the moment, he thought.

He walked side by side with Sophia, following Principal Haggerty through a doorway into the teacher’s quarters in which students were never allowed. They walked silently down a hallway and into a secondary corridor. Bob Haggerty unlocked a door, and the three of them entered a warm room filled with comfortable furniture.

Sal directed Sophia to sit. Her dress was short, and she sat straight, kept her legs closed, and put her hands on her knees. Sal directed Principal Haggerty to sit to the side, and Sal sat directly in front of Sophia. He could see she was frightened.

“My name is Mr. Punire,” he said to Sophia. “Pu‑neer´‑eh, he emphasized the correct pronunciation. Try not to be nervous. We’re just here to talk. I know that you’re aware that you are due a punishment. That won’t be today. I don’t know yet what kind of punishment you deserve. I’d like to get to know you before I decide, and you can ask me anything. I’ll answer with complete honesty, though there may be things I will politely decline to tell you.

“You came without a fuss. That is good. I respect that. I respect all young men and women if they are polite and respectful to me, and I will be polite and respectful to you. You just made a mistake—we all make mistakes. We just have to take the punishment due us and go on from there. Do you have any questions?”

Sophia looked downward and shook her head no. Then she looked up and quietly asked, “Who are you?”

“My name is Mr. Punire. You must always address me as Mr. Punire, or Sir, or Mr. Punire, Sir. If you wish to ask, ‘Who are you?’ you must say, ‘Who are you Sir?’ I take this quite seriously.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Good girl. I am called a Master of Punishment. I know that sounds scary, but if you understand what I will say to you it should give you some comfort. I am paid for my work, and I travel all around the world doing it. It is a strange profession, and you may judge me harshly for it. That is not my concern. My concern is for your welfare as it is connected to whatever punishment I decide you are to receive. And only I get to decide. Principal Haggerty is not responsible for you or in charge of you in any way until I am done. He will not be able to decide what will happen to you, and he will not be able to punish you in any way other than what I might allow. This is by law and for good reason. Punishment can be light or severe, and I know how to do it well. And by this I do not mean that I know how to hurt you. To do it well means that even if I should hurt you no permanent harm will come to you. That I promise, and a Master of Punishment, a real one, an accredited one, always keeps his word.

“Please don’t hurt me. I said I’m sorry.” Sophia looked up, imploringly, but Sal wasn’t convinced.

“Tell me about the other girl. There was another girl who put you up to this, isn’t that right?”

“What other girl?”

“You are forgetting. You must say, ‘What other girl Mr. Punire?’” Mr. Punire raised his eyebrows and waited for a response, but Sophia pretended none was due.

“Stand up,” he ordered, but he still kept his voice quiet and unthreatening. Sophia stood. She was not contrite. Her expression said, I’m getting sick of this crap.

“Lovely dress. Is that what you always wear to classes?”

“Chorus was a dress rehearsal for a play.”

“Mr. Punire, Sir,” he reminded her again, and again she did not respond.

“Stand against that wall,” Mr. Punire ordered, a sternness beginning to come into his voice.

Sophia stood against the wall. She placed her hands on her hips, defiantly.


Sophia thinking I'm sick of this crap

“I’ll be right back,” Mr. Punire said to Principal Haggerty. Mr. Punire left the room.

He was gone five minutes. When he came back Sophia was squatting. Her legs were no longer closed. He could see that she was making no effort to prevent Principal Haggerty from looking up her dress. Her panties were showing, and her expression was even more defiant than when Mr. Punire left.

Sophia being defiant and showing her panties

Sophia saw that Mr. Punire was holding a wooden slat almost as long as a man’s arm, as wide as two fingers, and very thin. She didn’t know it, but it was made of maple and was highly polished and waxed. Her eyes widened, and she stood quickly. She backed away. “I’m sorry Mr. Punire, Sir,” she said. Her expression was fearful. “I’ll cooperate…Sir,” she quickly added. “The other girl was Karen Kramer, but her sister, Tina, and Sue Bonnovitch were also teasing me. Lily Holloway was there too. They all made me do it.”

“Bend over the back of that big chair,” Mr. Punire said. Raise your dress, and show me your thighs.”

“Please. I’ll do whatever you say.”

“Mr. Punire, Sir.”

“Mr. Punire, Sir. I’m sorry. I keep forgetting. I’ll tell you whatever you want. Please don’t hit me, Mr. Punire.”

Mr. Punire pointed the spank-stick toward the chair. Sophia, torn between submission and defiance, went to it, leaned over the chair’s back, and lifted her dress to expose her thighs.

Mr. Punire put the slat on the seat where Sophia could look at it as he adjusted her. He moved her forward and pushed down on her back. The chair was a heavy piece of overstuffed furniture, and she was bent over its peak, balanced precariously, with her toes barely touching the floor. “Don’t move,” he said as he picked up the slat.

He stepped behind her, brought the slat back, whipped it through the air, and stopped his arm just before the stick hit Sophia. But as he stopped he flicked his wrist so that rather than slow, the stick travelled toward the girl with an extra burst of speed to which was added that of the releasing spring of the tautly bent wood. Yes, Mr. Punire was a master, and the spanking stick whipped into the backs of Sophia’s thighs with a smack that made Principal Haggerty cringe.

Sophia breath stopped, moments passed, and then Sophia shrieked in pain and frantically tried to rise, but Mr. Punire had anticipated that, had his hand on her back, and he held her down, raised his slat, and whacked her again, even harder. She kicked and squealed in pain and outrage, and she yelled out, “No! Don’t! Don’t hit me again. I’ll tell you what you want.”

“What I want…” Mr. Punire said, and he whacked her with third stroke even harder than the first two.

“Ahhhhhh,” Sophia screamed. She tried to slide off the chair and out of range of Mr. Punire’s paddle, but he had a handful of her dress that had risen to expose her panties and the flesh of her buttocks swelling beyond the margins of the minimal covering favored by young women.

“…is for you to address me as Mr. Punire.” He smacked her again, this time applying the spank-stick to her buttocks, eliciting another squeal and shriek of pain.

Principal Haggerty’s penis rose into an erection as he watched the reddening bands that marked each of Sophia’s four whippings. He longed to be wielding the spank stick slashing her girlish, yet womanly, thighs and rear end.

Mr. Punire yanked Sophia to her feet using her dress as a handle. He grabbed her arm and turned her toward him. Her hands flew to her buttocks and thighs, and she rubbed furiously, trying to lessen the sting. In front her dress just covered her pubic region. In the rear she was exposed.

“Sit down and cover yourself,” he said.

“Yes Sir,” she said. “Yes Mr. Punire, Sir,” she added. Sophia sat, but she positioned herself on the edge of her seat, and she pulled her dress down to cover her legs as modestly as her short hemline allowed. She still rubbed her thighs.

“Where were we?” Mr. Punire asked.

He saw Sophia wipe her eyes with her hand. He took a package of tissues from his pocket, opened it, handed one to her, and gave her the package.

“You were saying that the other girls made you do it.”

“They threatened to do bad things to me if I didn’t. Like hang a tampon, you know, with ketchup on it, from my backpack when I wasn’t looking. Stuff like that.”

Mr. Punire saw Principal Haggerty sit up straight at the mention of this antic. “Are they the ones who have been doing that?” he asked.

“Mm hmm,” Sophia said, nodding her head.

“There have been a number of incidents of that sort, recently, and worse,” Principal Haggerty said to Mr. Punire.

“Were you involved in these incidents, Sophia?” Mr. Punire asked.

Her mouth opened and then closed. “No,” she said. “I just watched.” Mr. Punire knew she wasn’t telling the truth, or at least not the whole truth. Lying—her score went up to eleven, make it an even dozen, Mr. Punire thought.

Principal Haggerty was thinking of the panties that barely covered Sophia’s backside and of the glimpse he’d gotten between her legs.

“You’ve been a bad girl,” Mr. Punire said to Sophia. He stood and asked Principal Haggerty to step out of the room. They talked quietly in the hallway and then came back in.

“Go back to your classes,” Mr. Punire said to Sophia. Your last class ends at ten minutes of three?

Sophia shook her head yes.

“Do you know where the detention room is?”

“We don’t use it anymore,” Principal Haggerty interrupted.

Mr. Punire looked at Sophia and raised his eyebrows. “Yes Sir. I know where it is,” Sophia said, her voice trembling.

Every student knew of the dreaded old detention room, because they had heard stories of the dreaded vice principal who ran the place before Principal Haggerty’s lenient predecessor took over and fired the man. The old vice principal was prone to whipping girls on the legs, as high up as he could get away with, but there were administrators who kept tabs on him, and he knew he could never whip a girl very far under her skirt and not get fired. Fortunately, for Sophia, he was no longer around, but Mr. Punire was, and Sophia was panicking thinking of what he might to do to her.

“After your last class I want you to be wearing the dress you have on now. You will leave your friends and go to the girl’s bathroom. You will remove your bra. Leave your panties on. Put your bra in your backpack. I want you naked from the waist up under your dress. Do you understand?”

“What are you going to do to me? You wouldn’t hit me…” Sophia put her arm across breasts.

“I’m sorry, but that is one of those questions I am not inclined to answer at this time. Make sure that you don’t even think about running away. That little spanking I gave you will be nothing compared to what I’ll do to you if you try to hide from me. Do you understand everything I have instructed you to do?”

“Yes Sir, Mr. Punire, Sir.”

Don’t tell any of your friends what you are doing or where you are going. Don’t tell them about this meeting. Don’t tell them anything, and I’m sure they’ll want to know all about it. If I find out that you talked to them about any of this, any of it, I’ll punish you severely. After you take off your bra come to the old detention room. Don’t dawdle. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes Mr. Punire… Mr. Punire, Sir?”

“Yes Sophia?”

“You said that you weren’t going to punish me today.”

“That is correct. I’m glad you remembered. I’ll see you right after three.

Chapter 4. Sophia’s Apology

At ten after three Sophia was outside the door of the old detention room. She did not want to go in. She was very conscious of her breasts being bare beneath her dress and afraid of what Mr. Punire would do to them, but she was more afraid of what he would do if she did not go in. She turned the knob and tentatively pushed the door open. Mr. Punire was waiting for her, and took her wrist and pulled her inside.

Desks and chairs were pushed against one wall. On the opposite wall Principal Haggerty stood alongside a group of boys. “They’re all here, the twenty from the shower incident and the two who were absent,” Haggerty said,

Mr. Punire pulled Sophia to the center of the room and had her face the boys. The boys shifted nervously. Some looked serious, and others grinned foolishly.

“This is not a laughing matter,” Mr. Punire began, though none of the boys were laughing. I don’t take kindly to boys sneaking looks at girls when the girls are not properly dressed, and I frown, equally, on girls doing the same to boys. Being naked is more often than not a private affair, especially between youngsters, especially when they are of different genders, and especially when they are not invited.

“Young men, you are here so that Sophia can apologize to you. She looked at you improperly. I know that some of you didn’t have a chance to cover up when she came upon you unexpectedly, and you may have been embarrassed. I think it is only fair that to apologize, Sophia show herself naked to you.”

Sophia’s jaw dropped. No, her head was shaking. “Please Mr. Punire. That isn’t right. I don’t want to show myself to a bunch of boys. And they’re too young, Sir. You said so yourself, Sir, that it isn’t good for them, Mr. Punire, Sir.”

“I said that it might not be good for some of them to be looked at by a woman who is older than they are.” Mr. Punire turned toward the boys. “How many of you have looked at pictures of women in a state of undress?”

No one raised his hand.

“Come on, be honest, or I’ll send Sophia away, and we can forget her apology.”

A few hands rose quickly. Every other hand followed.

“How many of you have seen a real grown-up woman who is not clothed—not a woman in a picture? And you can include a sister, if you have one, or a cousin.”

Some hands went up tentatively.

“How many have seen a woman who is not your sister or cousin naked?”

One hand went up and quickly came down.

“What’s your name, Son?” Mr. Punire asked the boy.

“Beau,” he said, and he looked fiercely toward the other boys, daring them to make fun of his name as they often did. He was a big kid, tough looking and none too clean. Mr. Punire put him down as a troublemaker.

Sophia was shifting from one foot to the other and looking at the floor.

“Beau, I want you to come here and unzip Sophia’s dress.”

Sophia took a step backward. She looked at Mr. Punire. She was horrified, and she begged him, quietly: “Please, please not him Mr. Punire, Sir.” She took another step backward, and when Beau stepped forward Sophia bolted for the door. She just got the handle turned when Mr. Punire caught up with her and grabbed her arm. She turned and started hitting him with her other arm, and then she kicked him hard on his shin. She tried to get away and out the door, but Mr. Punire held her tightly, being careful to turn sideways to protect his crotch. He pulled her up close by her arm and said in a menacing voice, but quietly so only she could hear: “You’ll do what I say or I’ll strip you naked and let those boys give you a spanking that will set your ass on fire for a week. Then I’ll punish you myself. You’re in a world of trouble girl. Get a hold of yourself!”

The news that Sophia was going to have her dress unzipped was enough to cause many boys, and Haggerty, to have erections. The suggestion that Sophia might be stripped completely naked and that the boys would be able to take turns spanking her made the others have erections too. One boy ejaculated in his underwear.

Mr. Punire let go of Sophia, daring her to run, and he lifted his pant leg. He and Sophia could see a rivulet of blood welling from a bruise and dripping toward his sock. Shit, he thought. This is what happens when I’m not prepared. Usually a punishment master would have an assistant, someone who knew what he was doing, not someone like Haggerty.

Mr. Punire took Sophia’s arm and against her will dragged her back to the center of the room. “Beau, do what I told you, but don’t you dare touch her,” Mr. Punire said in a threatening voice.

Beau shuffled forward, and Mr. Punire raised Sophia’s arm and turned her sideways toward the boys. “Stop resisting,” he ordered Sophia who was still pulling back.

Beau struggled to figure out how to open her dress. He found the zipper along the side and struggled to get his fingers on its small pull.

“Open her dress,” Mr. Punire said impatiently.

Sophia pushed Beau away and opened her dress exposing her breast, her side, and the upper band of her panties. Mr. Punire ordered Beau back to the line of boys.

Sophia’s was mortified, but in no way did she want to let on how she felt. She did her best to stare at the boys, challenging them to act up. She hoped that some of them would, particularly Beau, and that Mr. Punire would punish them.

Sophia forced to strip

Mr. Punire made Sophia stay in position and display herself. He knew that if he let them the boys would stare at her all day, but his leg was hurting, and he wanted to get this over with. He turned her front on toward the boys and ordered, “Take off your dress!”

“Noooo, Please, please, Mr. Punire. Don’t make me. Pleeease.”

Mr. Punire was not in a forgiving mood. “Maybe if you hadn’t kicked me… Get it off.”

Mr. Punire was out of patience, and Sophia was holding her dress tightly to her body. Mr. Punire stepped behind her, grabbed the hem of her dress, and peeled it up, exposing her panties and then her breasts. He pulled the dress over her head and threw it far away, so it was out of reach. Sophia was separated from her dress and was dressed only in panties. Her arms quickly folded across her breasts.

“Lower your arms,” he said. “Be a queen. Keep your dignity. Show the boys you’re stronger than they are. Let them look and get it over with. Then I’ll let you get dressed.”

Sophia did the best she could. She faced the boys. She lowered her arms and let them look, though she clasped the fingers of one hand with the other and covered the junction of her legs, hoping that Mr. Punire’s would allow it. Her head tilted—it was the most she could do to hide. She looked at the boys and tried to be brave, but she wanted to die.

Not so defiant anymore

“Put your hands at your sides,” Mr. Punire ordered.

Sophia reluctantly complied, though she kept her legs tightly together.

“Open your legs,” Mr. Punire ordered.

“Please,” she pleaded. “Why do I have to?” She was on the verge of crying, and again she unconsciously moved her hands to cover between her legs.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” Mr. Punire said angrily. “When you looked at the boys they were naked. Shall I take your panties off and then make you open you legs? That would be fair. Wouldn’t it boys?”

“Yes Mr. Punire,” the boys said in unison, many of them grinning.

“Ohhhh, Mr. Punire, Sir,” Sophia whined, but she put her hands at her sides and opened her legs quite widely, for she was very much afraid that if she didn’t Mr. Punire would run out of patience and take off her panties.

Mr. Punire looked at his watch and let the boys study her, in silence, for a full five minutes. Their gazes drifted over the swells of her pubescent breasts, her flat abdomen, and the rise of her pubic mound hidden within her panties. They paid particular attention to her breasts that were not hidden and especially to her nipples, saucy bumps that had risen uncontrollably in the cool cellar air, much to Sophia’s embarrassment, on areola that swelled as if they were little breasts of their own. Puffy nipples, boys would call them, but they weren’t cotton, they were the hormonally swollen flesh of a pubescent girl fast becoming a woman.

Most of all they studied her vulva that was clearly displayed by cloth wrapping in a cute package one could imagine holding and milking with one’s fingers. The fluff of her hair softened the depression of her crease, yet the presentation of that alluring valley in soft shadow was unmistakable. Haggerty thought he could even see the bump or her clitoral shaft peeking from between her lips, but he was not sure if it was that or a tuft of her downy adornment.

Sophia was embarrassed and humiliated, but being stripped naked and paraded in front of a group of men who remained clothed was a fantasy she had indulged in, many times. She was aroused, but her fantasy had never included being shown to classmates who would talk about her and relive her humiliation forevermore. Her face vacillated in a display of a complex set of emotions.

“Boys, do you accept Sophia’s apology?”

“Yes Mr. Punire,” they chorused.

“You boys are to leave now. Sophia, hold the door open for them as they file out. Any boy who touches Sophia, I’ll whip his penis so he won’t want to touch it for a month.”

They filed out, staring hard at Sophia as they passed but giving her a wide berth. She hung her head in shame.

“Get dressed,” Mr. Punire said after the boys left. Sophia put her dress back on. She started to zip it.

“Put your bra on,” Mr. Punire said.

Mr. Punire and Principal Haggerty watched Sophia put on her bra and zip her dress. Mr. Punire turned to the principal. “I need to spend time with Sophia alone. I need to ask her some personal questions, and she’ll be more forthcoming if her principal is not around. Would you excuse us?”

Mr. Punire knew that Principal Haggerty would not like this. Punire knew Haggerty’s feelings better than Haggerty himself. He knew that for all the principal’s noble rhetoric he thought of Sophia as a toy, which was why it was critically important for Mr. Punire to have legally established authority. Punire was aware of all the emotions surrounding his profession—his own and those of the people around him. He knew it was time to separate Sophia from emotional responses that could be harmful to her, for to punish a young woman and have her come out chastened but emotionally sound required that a bond of caring be established between her and the man who was going to teach her the lessons she would be forced to learn. That alone—developing a bond, was what made Mr. Punire the best. He was acknowledged to be the world’s greatest female disciplinary specialist, a skill inspired by the great trauma of his boyhood.

The End

The end, at least for now, and a beautiful rear end it is.


The Quarry

January 30, 2011 3 comments

Illustration by Brett Thompson

The quarry is a mystical place that really exists, where young people go to watch nymphs swim naked and bask on granite heated by the summer sun.

The Quarry was the first erotic story I ever wrote, not including one I wrote when I had just entered puberty. I don’t have that one. My mother found it and took it, presumably for my own good. She never mentioned it, but it disappeared from my desk drawer. She should never have been in there.

I’m an electrical engineer, but I’ve been a writer my whole life and unofficially minored in creative writing when I went to Cornell. I took six semesters of it.

For all the writing I did after college, I hadn’t tried to publish any of it, and then one day I decided to try to determine how good a writer I was. I looked around on the Internet, and saw that lots of erotica was being written and self published, so I wrote and dropped a couple of stories into where readers would read and rate stories. I got grades of 4.6 to 4.8  out of 5.0, but this wasn’t real recognition. To be recognized as a good writer I wanted someone to pay me for my work.

I looked at the Erotic Readers and Writers Association call for submissions page, and decided that I would submit a story to, a pay site no longer in existence. I picked RuthiesClub, because it had been in existence for a long time (by Internet standards), it paid more than most sites ($45 for a 4000 word story), and for every story it published it also paid an artist to create an illustration. RuthiesClub had high standards and invested in its artists and writers. My story, The Quarry, was accepted.


The Quarry

by Matthew Dyne

I lived in northern Vermont with my brother. It was a very rural area. There weren’t many jobs—in the winter it was mostly working in the woods cutting trees for lumber or pulp, or on the railroad laying rails at thirty below with the wind whistling through the cuts.  In the summer it was working on farms. Family farms—mostly dairy.

It was summer time. My brother and I and three friends were baling hay, which meant running a baler behind a tractor, breathing diesel fumes, getting eaten by black and deer flies, and tossing eighty pound bales onto a wagon for hours on end. It was hot, sweaty, demanding work and, when we’d finally finished, we knocked off and decided to go to the quarry.

The quarry was old and abandoned and a wonderful place, especially at the end of a hot day. When we got there, we parked our car off the road and walked for almost half a mile through a mature hardwood forest growing mostly sugar maple and yellow birch. It was quiet, peaceful, almost mystical, and the long walk gave people a chance to mellow out.

At the end of the path, the trees opened into a great bowl—well, really, a small bowl. It was dainty by quarry standards, but the walls of tumbled granite gave it grandeur befitting its age, and at the bottom of the bowl was a crystal clear pond fed by underground springs. The water was clean enough to drink and icy cold, even in midsummer.

The quarry’s isolation and beauty made it a prime spot for stripping and swimming naked. Except for the most shy, it was always used that way. There were five of us guys, hot and dirty, and hoping we’d get lucky by finding a few women to swim with, or maybe watch basking on the rocks.

I was in my twenties, and my brother and friends were a couple of years younger, and though we were disappointed to find ourselves alone, we still had a fine time drinking a little beer, cooling off in the water, and sitting naked, warming back up on the hot rocks.

We decided to leave and go someplace to stoke up on calories. The work and swim had primed us with a fierce appetite. Yet, no one seemed in a rush, and so we dressed and sat and told stories while we passed around the last bottle of a six-pack. We finished and were about to grab our gear and get on the road when we heard footsteps rustling in the leaves. We turned, and to our astonishment two girls walked into the clearing. They could have been wood nymphs with the way they looked and how they surprised us. I guessed them to be about eighteen or nineteen but all grown up, if you know what I mean.

“Hi,” we all said, or nodded, trying to be as friendly and unthreatening as we could. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that each of us guys had exactly the same thought: Are they going to take their clothes off? I was also pretty sure the girls knew exactly where our thoughts were. This was the quarry, after all.

One of the girls came forward, but not too close. The other girl hung back. She seemed uncertain, and maybe a little frightened. “Hi,” the one that came forward said. “How’s the water?”

“Cold and refreshing,” I told her. I was trying hard not to stare, but she was more than an eyeful and I failed miserably. She didn’t seem to mind, though. There wasn’t much doubt that they’d come to swim. The thought of their nudity continued to race through the pleasure centers of my brain. I imagined her thinking Do I dare?

“My friend, Connie, has never been here before. She’s visiting. I’m Melina.”

“I’m Matt.” I turned to her friend. “Hi Connie,” I said. “It’s okay, we’re friendly.” The rest of the guys grinned and nodded.

Connie took a shy step forward and smiled hesitantly. “Hi,” she said, still not sure about us. I could sympathize with her fears, but I’d never known anyone who ever went to that magical place to be disrespectful, let alone dangerous.

Melina took the towels and a cloth bag from Connie, put the bag down, and spread the towels out to make a nest. She took Connie’s hand, and guided her to their spot, and Connie sat. Melina began unbuttoning her shirt.

The five of us guys watched her undress. She was turned sideways but stood back far enough to give us the whole view. She took her shirt off and stood in her bra and jeans fitting tight to the curves of her ass. The bra fitted loose to breasts that didn’t need one. She waited, watching ripples of breeze blowing across the water.

I couldn’t believe the perfection of the moment, watching this nymph of a goddess, anticipating her going the next step. Every one of us—me, my brother, our friends, and even Connie— hung on every movement of every fine muscle of this divine creature as she so generously shared herself with us.

It couldn’t get any better I thought, but it did. A trout jumped, and grabbed a fly, and disappeared into the dark, leaving concentric rings spreading across the pond. It broke the ice, and we all laughed, even Connie. We boys looked knowingly and sheepishly at each other.

Melina undid the button of her jeans. She peeled them down and off, bending and showing us her backside while she balanced precariously, pulling the jeans off her legs and feet. Then she stood again to show us the progress, and I swear that every living thing in that great bowl, and every thing that wasn’t living, every tree that had forced its roots into a niche seeking life among those massive blocks from a time gone by, and every grain of quartz and microcline within those thousands of tons of ancient hard rock, and especially all the souls of all the men who’d ever blasted, sweated, broken and died among those monoliths from earths deep guts—everything, everything—turned her way.

She smiled. She was the center of attention. It was what she had come for. After a moment, she reached behind her in that gesture only a woman can make  and unclasped the catch of her bra and peeled it down her arms and off her breasts, to reveal them to us in all their glory.

Breasts are wonderful things—a pleasure to touch and be touched—but the breasts of a girl just come to womanhood are rare and budding flowers. And, that fine day, Melina’s breasts were a gift to the five young men she found before her, and a gift, I believe, intended even more for her young friend.

There was still one more gift to give, and she gave us that too. She turned and stripped that last slim garment down her legs and stepped out of them, and spread her legs wide enough to let us see her golden tufts and swirls and the fullness of the sweet lips they had adorned. Thank you Lord, I thought, Now I can die in peace.

At this point, I believed Melina was a little embarrassed by her performance. She looked to the side and said, “I’m going to jump,” and she gestured to the cliff over the pond, about twenty feet from the water where lots of people take the plunge. I was sure she was embarrassed, because then she said something silly—she said “I hope I don’t break a tit.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” I replied, and I felt as foolish for my lame comment as she must have felt for hers. The moment had really called for something grand or insightful, or timeless, but I wasn’t at my best.

We all watched while she jumped, and then watched as she swam and gamboled in the water. And, finally, she swam to the shore and began to get out. I’m sure she must have felt cold, because she looked down at her breasts and then got really embarrassed. Her nipples were turgid and distended—as much so as I was sure they could ever be—and pointing right at us. I could see that, for a moment, she didn’t know what to do—get back in the water, or cover them up. She chose to cover them with her hands as soon as she stood, but the hiding of them seemed to embarrass her even more, so she took a good hard swallow, stood straight, let us look, and then she turned and showed herself to Connie who was watching her as intently as any of us guys. I imagined Connie getting wet between her legs. I’m sure she did, her wetness welling from deep, dark and secret underground springs all her own.

Melina dried herself. Her nipples stayed hard for a long time, but she got used to us enjoying them and, after we’d been together long enough to get comfortable just hanging out, she got to like showing them off and even flirting with us by sticking her chest out to us from time to time.

“Where do you live?” I asked Melina?

“I live in Woodbury. What about you?”

“Noyesville. We must have missed each other in high school.”

“I just got out a year ago. You must have been ahead of me. You look like you were haying.” My scratched forearms were a giveaway.

“Up at Palmer’s farm.”

“Bob Palmer’s my uncle. Actually, my father’s cousin, but we call him uncle. He’s nice.”

“He is. He pays us better than most, and Martha feeds us lunch, which most folk don’t. I’ve worked for him three summers in a row, and helped him skid logs last winter.”

“I’m surprised we’ve never met.” Melina took a deep breath, and drew her shoulders back a little—not that she needed the advantage. “I thought I knew all the cute guys around here.”

“Must have missed one. My loss, I guess.”

She laughed playfully. “I’d better pay attention to Connie,” Melina whispered. “She’s visiting from the city. She’s my girlfriend from college, and she gets jealous if I pay too much attention to guys.”

Connie was lying on the towels in the sun, and Melina lay down naked beside her as we watched her every move. She wasn’t showing herself any more, but she wasn’t hiding anything either. She went about her business, her legs would spread or close as her movements required, and we’d catch glimpses of her labia and the enticing swell of her clitoris.

She lay beside Connie and nuzzled her mouth into her neck. I could hear Melina purr, a sweet gravely growl from deep within her. The vibrations from her lips and throat seemed to close her friend’s eyes, and I could see Connie drift into another world where only she and Melina existed.

“You said you would,” Melina said.

“I don’t want to,” Connie whispered, turning toward her but with her eyes still closed.

“You promised.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I want you to.”

“Please don’t make me.”

Melina pulled the shirt from her friend’s jeans. Connie whimpered but didn’t resist, and Melina slid her hand beneath the waistband and part way down, resting her fingertips on Connie’s pubic mound. Her long middle finger was a bare fraction from the clitoris below. I could see her finger arching, pressing, and pulling the flesh upward, stretching the skin and teasing, but not touching the sensitive tissue nearby.

“If you do, when we get home, I’ll do what you like best,” Melina promised.

“And if I don’t?”

“I won’t.”

“You bitch.”

“You love it.”

“Can’t we go home now? Please?”

“Not until you take your clothes off.”

“I won’t.”

“I’ll let you do it to me.”

“My favorite thing?”



“I promise.”

“Oh,” she groaned. “You’d better, or I’ll never speak to you again.”

“I will.”

“Okay. You can take them off.”

“I want the boys to do it.”

“You bitch, I’m going to kill you.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“I don’t want them to touch me, okay?”

“I don’t want them to touch you either.”

Melina turned to me. I’d said the most to her, so I was chosen. “Would you do it” she asked?

I was speechless. I nodded my head, vigorously.

“Come close,” she said to the others. “You can watch.” She looked at me. “No touching.”

I nodded in agreement.

I straddled the woman’s legs and fumbled with the button on her jeans. They fitted her like a glove.

“Go slow,” Melina said to me, and then she passed her hand gently over Connie’s face to close her eyes again. She wrapped her arms around and under the woman now passively awaiting her fate, and kissed her long and wet, with her tongue deep inside her friend’s mouth.

Connie wrapped her arms around Melina and kissed back with equal passion. I unbuttoned her jeans, and slowly slid down her zipper. We all listened to the rasp of its teeth. Connie lifted her hips—Cooperative, I thought—and I walked backward on my knees. I took the cuffs and, with help from her most delightful arching and twisting of limbs and loins, I pulled her jeans down and off.

Wow, nice, I thought. Melina continued to kiss and nuzzle Connie, who continued to hug her tightly, probably for security as we guys leaned in close. She was still covered with a string bikini between her legs, but her prominent mons rose invitingly, and her vulva was a tight little handful in a cute, cloth pouch. I longed to squeeze her tenderly but firmly in my fist.

Connie raised her knees and closed her legs, but Melina wouldn’t let her, and pushed her friend’s legs flat again. She placed the fingers of one hand on her friend’s thigh, gently insisting she open for us.

“Ohhhh,” Connie moaned. I don’t know if it was Melina’s touch or her being exposed that caused her to cry out.

Melina looked at me. “Take her panties off,” she said.

“No, no,” Connie moaned and closed her legs tightly.

Melina moved and sat behind her friend’s head. She lifted and placed Connie’s head into her lap, and stroked her cheek. She leaned down and kissed her mouth, and then she slid her hands into her friend’s shirt and under her bra, cradling her breasts. I know Melina must have had two fingers around each nipple because I could see her hands working, and Connie’s writhing and moaning at Melina’s touch.

I slid Connie’s panties down and off, trying to touch her as little as possible. And there she was—all her womanly wildness bare, smooth, and exposed—not a hair to be found.

“I did that last night,” Melina said. “Do you like it?”

Yes, I nodded my head enthusiastically. Yes, yes, yes. “I wish I could have it,” I said sadly.

“It’s all mine,” said Melina.

I nodded. I understood.

Melina unbuttoned her friend’s shirt, and Connie lifted and helped take it off. Melina unclasped her bra and Connie helped take that off to. She looked at each of us, so close to her, leaning over her body now completely bared, and how we lewdly inspected each shadow of each hollow of every bone that we could find showing through her skin, every crinkle of each nipple and curve of each breast, the inward flow of her waist, the dimple of her navel, the swell of her abdomen and hips, and the treasure between her legs which she opened, now willingly, to let us admire.

“You’re a good girl,” Melina said. “Now I’ll take you home.”

“And you’ll let me?”

“Yes, I’ll let you do it to me,” she said, and she kissed her friend once again. As she did, Connie’s legs spread, and I could see the milky pool gathered there, waiting perhaps in anticipation of Melina’s fine fingers traveling the length of her insides.

When the last of the sun sank behind the hills, Melina and Connie dressed and we walked them to the road and said goodbye. We thanked them both for their generosity. “You’re welcome,” Melina said. Connie looked away, then back, and shyly gave me a smile and a cute little nod.

“Wow. I never seen nothin’ like that before,” my brother Billy said.

“I don’t think I can eat,” Dennis said. We all turned to stare at his prodigious belly.

“That’ll be the day,” said Rob, and we all laughed.

“What do you mean? It’s all muscle” Dennis retorted defensively. That really got a good laugh.

We piled into my pickup and, as I drove away, I glanced in my mirror and saw Melina behind her steering wheel and Connie straddling and kissing her in wild abandon.

Boy Toy

January 28, 2011 Leave a comment

I’m not too bad a singer, and I’m friendly with a few musicians, and a woman singer I know asked me to write lyrics for her to go with a melody her boyfriend composed on piano. I wrote Boy Toy.

Later, on Yahoo Answers, I found a young woman, a high school student in the UK, asking for lyrics she could write a melody around. I wrote a high school version of Boy Toy and sent it to her as A Gift’s Romance.

Boy Toy

You’re kind and treat me with respect

Ask me first and then caress

But I’m OK with your veiled ploy

To have me as your Big Boy toy

Boy Toy

Let’s play Boy Toy

I’m faithful and I never lie

Usually, I’m a little shy

But today I’m not too coy

To be taken as a Big Boy toy

Boy Toy

Let’s play Boy Toy

Here’s your toy, yes it’s me

To tickle and tease, take over your knee

I’ll be your bowl, of sugar n’ spice

Candy you can have twice

Boy Toy

Let’s play Boy Toy

A Big boy’s toy, I love to be

All lush, lovely, warm and free

You’ll never find, a finer gift

But the gift’s all mine to give or lift.

Boy Toy

Let’s play Boy Toy

Let’s play Boy Toy

Let’s play Boy Toy…

A Gift’s Romance

I’m a girl, who’s strong and free

Shy’s my nature, but don’t step on me

Given the choice, I’ll always be nice

But watch out! If you cross me twice

I’d like a boy, who’s kind and cares

Someone I trust, who’ll always be there

He’ll never have, a finer gift

But the gift’s all mine, to give or lift

I’m faithful, and I never lie

As I say, I’m a little shy

But when he asks, I won’t be coy

To be the friend, of a loyal boy

So if you can handle, a girl like me

A girl who’s nice, strong, and free

Be brave and ask, take a chance

And maybe you’ll find, a gift’s romance

Categories: Lyrics, Music, Poetry, Songs

Downblouse Delights

January 28, 2011 12 comments

Usually I like to have something to say before I blog, and then I find a picture or two to go with my thoughts. Today I was reading the blog of “woodynyou,” and I was reminded of how much I like downblouse pictures. So does woody.

I’m not a big collector, but every once in awhile I come upon a photo that tickles me, and I’ll save it. These are for woodynyou and others who love this genre. Enjoy—no more words needed.

Categories: Bodies, Downblouse, Nudity

To Gaze and Explore

January 27, 2011 1 comment

Domai Heart Breaker. Photograph by Mikhail Paramonov. Used with permission by is a delicious site that dwells on the beauty rather than the explicit sexuality of women. It has a newsletter section in which there are lots of gorgeous pictures of women, free of charge, for the pictures that is, and if you submit a newsletter piece and it is accepted (not a trivial task) then the site’s owner, Eolake Stobblehouse, will give you a year’s free subscription. I had a newsletter piece accepted, and the photo above is from one of Domai’s photoshoots.

Of the thousands of pictures I might have copied, it is interesting that I chose to only copy one–the one above. It is of a woman who is dressed, and though there were pictures of her otherwise, this photo was the one that knocked me to my knees. The model is just so damned cute she breaks my heart.

Here is another Domai photo, and then I’ll reprint my newsletter piece.

Another Domai beauty. Photograph by Stefan Soell. Used with permission by

To Gaze and Explore

By Matthew Dyne

To gaze upon and explore a woman’s body, without inhibition, engenders a complex set of emotions. Are some of these emotions sexual? Of course, but what that means is not well understood. Even experts say that what drives us, even just to look, is a mix of nurture and nature, of pleasure and the drive to propagate our genes, of lust, love, and the reading of subliminal messages that signal compatibility, security, status, and more.

And of beauty, a word oft mentioned here [at Domai]? Yes, Definitely, Yes, Yes, Yes! But describing beauty, especially of a woman, is also not a simple matter and is, perhaps, best left to poets. Yet, I will take a risk and say one or two thing about beauty, and that is that beauty dwells in the heart, a metaphor for feelings, and when beauty comes from the caressing of a woman with one’s eyes, and when those lingering looks mix with emotions of lust, love, and longing, our heartfelt desires become possessive.

Possessive? Yes, for in the animal kingdom, in which we humans reside, males compete and females choose, and if we men compete well, be it by being bad boys or being kind, we get to have and to hold, exclusively, at least for a time, the object of our desires. For better or worse, such is the nature of man, and even the viewing of a woman who turns our heads and enflames our souls is not something we wish to share.

It’s funny how memories of a woman can burn and linger like scars upon our consciousness. It was three decades ago, but I see her now as she was then, a girl not long a woman, standing before me. She would be in her fifties now. I wonder what she would think if she knew I still remember her. I wonder what she would say if she knew I can see her now as I saw her then. But she will not know. I never asked her name. I did not speak with her. I only looked and remembered.

It was not long after the turbulent sixties, the Vietnam War had ended, and among the young, thoughts turned toward the use of alternative sources of energy, like wind power, new methods of construction, like geodesic domes, and further liberation for women—forget about no bras—imagine no shirts.

I worked at a small college in rural New England. Among other duties I taught fluid dynamics in a simplified course describing wind and water power. One hot summer afternoon a friend of mine and I attended a lecture given by another teacher. It was in a large room with large windows, one of which overlooked a construction site not more than twenty feet, about six meters, from the building in which we sat.

Outside was a crew of students working in the sunshine. They were all men but for one, a woman wearing jeans and work boots and naked from the waist up.

I was transfixed as I watched her lifting stones from the ground and placing them on scaffold boards above her head. Her arms rose, and her breasts thrust outward as she strained with each load. Her efforts brought her youthful musculature into high relief, and her finely sculpted scapulae were as sensual as any breasts.

I couldn’t take my eyes from her—I didn’t want to miss even a single one of her movements—but in my peripheral vision it seemed that others in the audience didn’t even notice the beauty before them. It was hard to believe, but they seemed focused on the speaker as he droned on about a subject of which I have no recollection. Are they being politically correct, pretending not to notice? I wondered. It seemed inconceivable that I was the only one staring at this God given treasure, a Goddess in her own right.

To have her to myself made me happy, but then I noticed my friend, another man, and he was staring at this young woman too, and though neither of us acknowledged what we were seeing, I had pangs of jealousy. As I mentioned, such is the nature of man.

The young woman continued to work, and I dwelled on her wide hips, her flat abdomen that showed above her low slung jeans, her slim waist, the taught flesh of her breasts, her pretty face, and her ponytail that swished from side to side as she worked.

What was she thinking? I wondered. Did she have any idea how her sexuality and beauty affected me? Did she want to affect me that way? Was she making a political statement? Or was she acting naturally, letting her beauty shine and the chips fall where they may?  How aware was she and how much did she care that the sight of her would touch men and many women so deeply?

I know none of that, but of one thing I am sure. She believed that a woman should not have to cover up to shield herself from rudeness, and she was courageous enough, at least that day, to live by her beliefs.

No, I didn’t speak with her, for that would have made me rude. I just took in her beauty, quietly and politely, and let her be. I honor her with my memories, and I will for as long as I can appreciate the beauty and strength of women. And that, if the words of my father be true, will be for as long as I live.

US Women’s Water Polo Team

January 27, 2011 2 comments

2010 -- ESPN The Magazine -- The Body Issue -- USA Women's Water Polo Team. Photo by Art Streiber.

I love a good photo, and this one is amazing.

ESPN, for those who don’t know, is primarily a sports television network, and they are taking a page out of Sports Illustrated’s playbook.

Sports Illustrated has their very popular Swimsuit Issue that I’m sure makes lots of money, but the Swimsuit Issue has nothing to do with sports. It’s basically soft-core porn.

ESPN’s magazine is now putting out The Body Issue, which shows the bodies of world-class athletes. Besides the above photo, the following link will show you the other athletes ESPN has focused on in its 2010 issue.

In the magazine, the above water polo team photo also includes the following quote and attribution:

US Women’s Water Polo

2010 FINA World Cup Champs

POWER PLAYERS: “Water polo players believe our sport is the most physically challenging in the world. There’s no rest. We tread water the entire time. If you aren’t in good physical condition, you’ll die – literally – because you won’t be able to keep your head above the water. The stronger, faster, better-conditioned team will typically win, which is why we have two three-hour practices daily.” —Adam Krikorian, coach



Categories: Art, Bodies, Nudity, Photography, Sports

Feel Good Stories and a Tough Woman

January 26, 2011 1 comment

Over the years I put together a small collection of feel-good stories. I can’t testify to their veracity, but for what it’s worth I read them in newspapers. Here are three of my favorites.

Greco-Roman Wrestlers

Greco-Roman wrestlers are immensely strong. They specialize in grasping, holding, and throwing other men as strong as they are. Two Greco-Roman wrestlers were returning home from an international competition in Europe. On the airplane a passenger got drunk and was threatening other passengers and the crew. One of the wrestlers stood up, grabbed the drunk from behind, plopped into a seat with the man on his lap, and held him locked in position for three hours until the plane landed.

Linford Christie, olympic gold medalist

At the end of the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona a woman was sitting in the airport waiting for her plane. A man ran up to her, grabbed her purse, and ran off. Sitting near the woman happened to be the fastest man in the world, waiting for his plane. Needless to say, the woman got her purse back.

The fastest man in the world at the 1992 Olympics was Linford Christie of Great Britain who won a gold medal running the 100 meter dash in 9.96 seconds. To get a perspective on how fast this is, 100 meters is about the length of a football field.

I do quite a bit of writing. Yes, I know, I’d better keep my day job. Mostly I write fiction, and the women in my stories are always intelligent and have strong personalities. Here are some pictures of an intelligent mentally strong and physically tough woman from Hawaii.

The woman’s name is Elisa Au. She is a World Karate Federation (WKF) World Champion. The WKF is the only international organization recognized by the Olympic Committee, and at international competitions in 2002 through 2005 Elisa won 11 gold, 3 silver, and 2 bronze medals.

At her college preparatory school Elisa also participated in figure skating, gymnastics, canoe paddling, and track and field, and she maintained honor roll status throughout high school. Her hobbies are reading, movies, and swimming and surfing—she is Hawaiian after all. In 2003 she graduated the University of Hawaii with a degree in Civil Engineering.

Elisa is a real cutie. If she’ll let you it’s okay to go to bed with her, but this is one woman you don’t want to fuck with.

Categories: FYI, Sports, Stories