Letter from Emoryville

Dear Shoeblossom:

My wife and I really have enjoyed your letters. It has been a major help to us in the changes we've made in our relationship. For one thing, my wife is not a woman-born woman. In fact, Monisha used to be my teammate when we played soccer for San Francisco State University.

We were living together, just a couple of guys, chasing girls and drinking beer, but one night Monisha (who was then called Monson) told me that he fantasized about me whipping him with a belt.

It's hard to believe that I am married to the former James Monson McCormick, almost a Heisman trophy winner, one of the toughest dudes I've ever known. But that was then, right.

Monson had always noticed that I was into weird BDSM literature and stuff, it was the off-beat thing about me, as otherwise I'm just a business major who plays a few sports, right? But, although I've banged my share of girls, I like fooling around with guys, too...and Monson had always been really cool about that.

But I was sure surprised when he told me this about being whipped. He has always struck me as a real regular guy, Monson has...super straight, blonde girlfriends, all that good shit. But, I can't say I wasn't attracted to him, and of course I've had a few experiences like what he wanted.

So, I ordered Monson to take off his clothes, and then he knelt before me, all muscled and handsome. "Master Brett, sir. Please whip me!" When would I get another chance like this?

So I ordered Monson to lie across the bed, and I took my belt off and thrashed his bubble butt, really hit it, but only for a few moments, possibly five times, and then I threw it down. We drank some more and passed out.

I figured that Monson would forget about the whole thing. You know, with classes, and sports, and dating and all that good shit. But he was really into it, I guess.

Monson kept bringing up what happened, though—he laughed about it, and said he must've been real drunk, but then he got kind of weird. He would make these bizarre bets with me

"C'mon, Brett, if the Dolphins win, you give me five bucks, if Atlanta wins, you give me a paddling with this wooden paddle I brought home. I'm backing Miami, even though it doesn't look good."

And Monson knew lots more about sports than I did, and he always backed the losers, and I'd end up taking down his pants around his ankles and whipping him with this creepy paddle that had holes in it—called a Spencer paddle. Not quite as long as a frat paddle, but really deadly—sometimes Monson would cry when it was over, but his dick was straight out!

It was sort of satisfying hearing Mon scream and howl, as the paddle came down again and again, and it probably helped my racquetball game as well!

And I guess I had resentments towards Monson—he had lots more dough than I, and got better grades, and chicks wanted him more. So I really gave it to him with that freaking paddle. Then sometimes, laughing I'd make him sob in the corner with his drawers down.

Once I'd been whipping Mon's ass, just because he'd "accidentally" taped some radio music over my precious Green Day. He'd said when I got on him about it "Why don't you whip my ass then?" I'd grabbed Monson by the arm, and threw him across the couch, yanking down his cargo pants and his drawers, and I'd really given it to him hard with the Spencer paddle thing.

Then I had Mon stand in front of me, with his pants down around his ankles, and I tied a cord around his cock and balls, and began pulling it tight while Monson winced...I got off on it.

The doorbell rang and I made Mon stand there, while I went to answer it. "Don't you move, faggot" I warned him as I opened the door. And son of a bitch, if it wasn't Monson's girlfriend Candace!

I was so pissed at Monson, I mean , I taped that Green Day concert under my shirt, totally stoned in the seventh grade! It was a precious memory. So I opened the door, and invited Candi in.

She's not all that cute, a bottle blonde with bad skin, but Monson thought a lot of her, and Mon sure blanched when he saw Candi. "Don't you move...you want to ruin my tapes, bitch? Candi can see what an asshole you are."

Candi cracked her gum and stared at Monson, and looked at me as I walked back over and sat on the couch, grabbing and pulling the cord so Mon buckled over again. Obviously, Monson was bigger and better built than I, and his hands were free, but he kept his hands at his sides, feeling, I'm sure, quite humiliated.

"God, Candi, I can't believe you get pleasure from this wimpy dick of his" I said as she came to sat down next to me. Any other girl might've been shell shocked, but Candi was taking it all in stride. "This gives you pleasure?" And I yanked the cord hard again, and casually shot my foot up, lightly kicking Monson in the nuts.

"Eeh" Candi shrugged to answer my query about her satisfaction. "He's just another dork, and I've had a few. I was wondering if Monson was a little bit gay, and apparently, you both are, huh?" I laughed and slammed my foot in Monson's balls once more.

"Queer-boy pissed me off royally, and so I'm giving him a little bit of shit, that's all." I answered. "I whipped Mon's ass and I'm thinking of tying him to a chair and whipping him just a little bit more...but I'm not gay, I'm just bi...I can prove it to you, Candi!"

So then I fucked her on the couch while Monson watched, crying. After this I tied Mon to the chair and gave him some more with the Spencer paddle, and then we left Mon bound there, weeping onto the floor. We went for fajitas and discussed what an odd duck Monson was...and what I was. But Candi thought it was great.

Women are much more laid back about sexual weirdness, I've discovered!

The next day I came home one day from school, and Mon was kneeling on the floor in front of the door. And he had a martini in front of him!

"Master, I want you to have a drink, so I can help you relax." I was really a little nervous about this, I don't even drink Martinis, but I bent down gingerly and took up the drink and sipped it, while I watched Monson kneel and look subservient.

"Dude, it's all right about the Green Day tape, and Candi—" I didn't know what to say about Candi, I worried that I'd gone too far with that one. But Mon had forgotten her, I think.

"Master, I will replace the tape, I'll tape their next concert, or pay for you to see it wherever you like. But I know what I need now, Sir...I want to suck your cock."

My first cock sucking by a guy was impressive, Shoeblossom. I was truly surprised at how good Monson was at it. I made Mon lick out my balls and stick his tongue in my hole...why not? I have some M/M DVDs of rimming, and always wondered what that would be like.

The next day, I caught Monson masturbating while watching Anderson Cooper on television, and I told him that there would be no more of that! Of course he began arguing with me, that he had pleasured my cock, and he "deserved" pleasure, too.

I marched Monson out to the park near our apartment building. While Mon watched nervously, I cut a long switch from a birch tree. Then I cut two or three more birch switches, and bound them together. I spent three years at a British boarding school and was whipped by this concoction, three to six birch branches bound together a number of times.

"Now, Monson, you're going to strip from the waist down." I instructed, and after a pale look into my determined eyes, Monson unzipped his corduroys and stepped out of them, taking off his shorts, too. Mon kept his shoes and socks on, as it was chilly in early December.

"Jesus, Brett, what if someone sees us out here?" Monson looked scared shitless. The park was quit deserted, but I was heartless.

"What, like a mother with children? Hell, I'll just take off, maybe I'll grab your clothes and go, and you can wind up in a cell for indecent exposure. Put your hands behind your back, and jut out your crotch a little bit."

Monson obeyed, and I lifted the bound birches. Mon's cock was absolutely bursting, so I knew I was handling this well...I swung the birch and it landed, hard, on Mon's stiff penis. Monson's face crumpled up, with tears coming down his cheeks, but he kept his hands behind his back.

Actually, Mon was quite a sight, wearing a button down shirt, tie and cardigan, Doc Martens and nothing else!

I lifted the birch and swatted his cock again, and Monson screamed. Dude, Mon was like, gritting his teeth something awful, and Mon's dick was looking kind of boiled. Astoundingly, though—it was still rock hard.

I'm a bio major—experiments are my game. I lashed his cock about five more times, and it got redder and a little purplish and more welted, but Mon didn't grab it, or grab me, and he could've—the guy's rock ribbed, or was.

Finally I said. "Now do you think you can keep your hands off that miserable little dick until Master Brett gives you permission?" Mon, tears streaming down his cheeks, nodded, and so I took him behind a tree, and let him get on his knees and suck my dick.

Then we dressed and went for a beer, and didn't even talk about what happened. I think Mon put some calamine lotion on his dick when he got home, but there were no complaints.

But then I came home once again, and there he was, jacking off—this time watching some old home movies of when I was in high school. My mom must've left them here when she came last year. I was appalled. What a fucking pervert—jerking off to shots of me playing soccer!

When he saw me, he dropped the Astroglide and stood up, trembling. "You fucking weirdo...you're a pedophile, I think!" I had purchased a cane the week before, a nice whippy thing that I also remembered from my boarding school days, and I grabbed it and came close to him.

"Go on, take off your clothes, you bad boy. This time it's not going to be as pleasant as that little paddling in the park!" When Mon was naked, I instructed him to put his hands behind his head, and I landed the cane across his dick four times, hard.

Mon was crying openly, and his dick was shrinking slightly, but I could tell how horny he was. "Is the problem your balls? You get too excited? Let's take care of that" I made Mon put his left leg up on the couch, like he was doing ballet, and I did a neat little swipe and caught his balls with the cane, and he screamed bloody murder.

Then I swung the cane against his nipples, and the tit-swat almost did Mon in, he grabbed his breasts, and buckled over, and as he fell I slashed his buttocks four or five times until Mon was crumpled at my feet, weeping bitterly.

Then I tied boxing gloves on Mon's hands. "Now then, you're going to wear these whenever you're in the house, to keep you from handling yourself." And that became the rule, but Mon looked terribly miserable. But hey, you gotta keep discipline!

It wasn't like I never let Monson masturbate, I told him that if he was a good boy he could jerk off every other Friday morning, after we'd gone to shoot hoops, and before we went to Econ 104 class. I'd let him whack off kneeling in the college gym shower. It was a great experience, as lots of guys came to watch, and throw wet toilet paper rolls at him.

But it just wasn't enough. One day Mon called me and told me he'd been caught masturbating in a public lavatory, and I had to go pick him up. When we got home, I tied his balls to a cinder block and chased him around the block naked at midnight, swiping at his bare ass with the cane I'd bought until he cried and begged me to stop!

I must say, though...running with a cinderblock hanging from your nuts and actually going about seven miles an hour shows real progress with your wind, don't you think?

After we'd gotten home, I butt-fucked Monson, and came in his ass. Then I bound and gagged him and shoved him in our fireplace, and went to bed. The next morning I pulled his soot covered body out, and poured hot, soapy water all over it, and then gave him a freezing cold enema, and he howled like a maniac.

I didn't let him release it for about twenty minutes, and just sat around watching Mon dance, as he cried bitterly. Finally he voided it in the tub, and I let him dress and go to class. But I think that took his mind off jacking his dick, just for a while, right?

One day, Mon sat down with me and told me that he thought his obsession with masturbating was really getting out of hand, and he felt perhaps we should castrate him. I was a little shocked. Twenty years old is way too young to make a decision like that.

But he went on about it, and finally I got some ice and froze his balls until they were numb, and then got some gardening shears and did the dirty! A friend of ours who is pre-med sewed Mon up, and we thought that might be enough.

But of course, it wasn't. For a time, Mon was content to be a eunuch, and he joined a ball-less support group of some sort in Berkeley. But Monson can't ever just be an ordinary ANYTHING. The eunuchs were too boring for him—he needed more!

When Monisha came back from overseas, she looked quite different. She was still a muscular girl, but with big boobs and a narrow waist, she pulled it off quite well, kind of like Lynda Carter in those old Wonder woman shows.

I didn't want to really be further involved with the whole thing after this, and I vacated the apartment while Moni was getting her surgery done. I graduated from San Francisco State, and kind of kept my distance while working on my graduate degree at UC-Hayward.

But Moni and I still had dinner now and then, and she told me about her experiences with men. "They're so predictable" she said. "Having been a guy, Brett, I just laugh at how they behave. It's too bad, really."

But of course she started dating troublesome types, and calling me when they got obnoxious. I would accuse her of leading them on, and telling her that you had to be fair and see both sides of an argument.

But she was like most bitches, she made you buy her jewelry before she'd put out, and all that kind of shit, and one night she called me because some guy was refusing to leave her apartment. This, coming from a former tight end for a competitive college football team!

I went over there and threw the guy out, an obnoxious Arab sheik type. And then I began shouting at her. "What the fuck's wrong with you, Monisha, you get the guy to buy you coke, and then you bitch at him, and call me, what do I get out of this!"

Moni was pouting. "You're right. I deserve to be spanked, don't I." She really looked cute. I almost forgot that she used to be my male buddy. I was going to leave, but she threw herself in front of the door, her fake boobs heaving attractively in her cashmere sweater. "Please, Brett...spank me like I deserve."

So I got really pissed off, and I took up a hairbrush and threw her across my knee, throwing up Moni' s skirt and pulling down her panties.

I gave her about forty whacks before she began sobbing. Then I told her I was leaving again, and she grabbed me around the knees, tearfully begging me to stay. It was freaking weird, Shoeblossom. I finally took off, but the phone calls started coming.

By this time I'd gotten my PhD, and was working in a lab, and Monisha was a wreck. She was on welfare, as she'd never gotten her degree, and was spending a lot of time chatting up men in singles bars.

But you know, I missed her. We had so much in common, we'd lived together for three years, and the other (real) women I dated just didn't give me that much of a connection. So I called her up one night, and we went to a movie and then back to my place.

I told her to strip and kneel on my living room rug, and I whipped her big silconey boobs a bit, and then tanned her ass and told her what a whore she'd become, and Monisha sobbed silently. She knew it was true. But she was totally surprised when I handed her a little box containing a diamond ring!

"This doesn't mean you're sharing my bed, Moni." I said as she put it on, jumping up and down with glee. "You're going to sleep in the tiny maid's room, and I'll let you service my cock, and take care of me. But the spoiling days are over. No one cares that you're a Heisman runner-up, or that you used to be a bouncer at a Tenderloin strip club.

"You're just a pathetic slave bitch...but you're mine. Okay?"

And hey, it was okay with her! (or him)

Thanks again,

Brett and Moni Kvorka

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Kvorka:

It takes all kinds to make a world, and you've added your share. And why not? But it's no surprise you live so close to San Francisco!

Best,

Shoeblossom