Saturday, April 21, 2012
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
A Trip In The Bush
A Trip In The Bush
We had been looking forward for several months to a week. The planning, the scheming to make sure we would be the only ones up there. We had to make sure that there wouldn't be any surprise visits by any other family members or friends. We planned for a week in mid August when we could have the cottage all to ourselves. The forecast was even going our way, beautiful, clear, warm days for the week ahead. Everything was packed and we were on our way.
It was a long drive, eight hours, but well worth it. It was so beautiful, back to nature, out in the middle of nowhere, in complete solitude. Sure, there would probably be other vacationers on the lake, the boaters and campers, but in our little cottage, we would be the only two left on the planet. The distance between the cottages was far enough also that you have privacy up there. I had spent many summer vacations, wearing next to nothing, and sunbathing in the nude.
I could remember going up there since I was only 5 years old. The fun and games we had played as children. I was always so excited to be going up there for summer vacation. I was just as excited now as I had been when I was a kid. I knew there was a week of pure excitement, pleasure and new adventures that lay ahead. I only had to pack the food and the clothes; he was going to pack the rest. I had no idea what to expect for the week, but I trusted Him, and knew He would keep me safe.
We left early, 5 am; He wanted an early jump on the traffic. I think he was just anxious to get up there, and leave the rat race of the city behind. He had been so busy at work for the past month, he needed this vacation simply to be able to replenish his energy.
Try as I might to stay awake, my eyes would close and my muscles would flinch as I slipped into dreamland. Driving on the highway was always perfect conditions for naps for me. I looked up at him, "Master, please may I have a quick nap, please?"
Giving me a nod, "You can have a nap, as long as you slip out of that skirt and masturbate for me first." He enjoyed putting me in situations where I was doing something pleasurable, but would be uncomfortable doing them. Such as masturbating in public, where there would be a risk of someone seeing. There weren't many vehicles on the road, and our windows were tinted. Feeling safe from too many prying eyes, I reclined my seat, pulled my skirt off and got comfortable. Spreading my legs apart, I looked over to see if he was watching, he watched the road the entire time. He did have a smile on his face though, from ear to ear. That was enough for me, I knew, he would be watching, would be control the whole time.
I slid my hand down between my breasts, slowly, seductively. I wanted him to be proud of my play, this was for him, yes, I would derive pleasure from it, but ultimately, this was all for him. Everything I do is for him, for his enjoyment, there is nothing more exciting then when I have made him happy. With him in mind, I continued. The palm of my hand sliding down, my fingers outstretched, gliding across my stomach down to its final destination.
It was a long drive, eight hours, but well worth it. It was so beautiful, back to nature, out in the middle of nowhere, in complete solitude. Sure, there would probably be other vacationers on the lake, the boaters and campers, but in our little cottage, we would be the only two left on the planet. The distance between the cottages was far enough also that you have privacy up there. I had spent many summer vacations, wearing next to nothing, and sunbathing in the nude.
I could remember going up there since I was only 5 years old. The fun and games we had played as children. I was always so excited to be going up there for summer vacation. I was just as excited now as I had been when I was a kid. I knew there was a week of pure excitement, pleasure and new adventures that lay ahead. I only had to pack the food and the clothes; he was going to pack the rest. I had no idea what to expect for the week, but I trusted Him, and knew He would keep me safe.
We left early, 5 am; He wanted an early jump on the traffic. I think he was just anxious to get up there, and leave the rat race of the city behind. He had been so busy at work for the past month, he needed this vacation simply to be able to replenish his energy.
Try as I might to stay awake, my eyes would close and my muscles would flinch as I slipped into dreamland. Driving on the highway was always perfect conditions for naps for me. I looked up at him, "Master, please may I have a quick nap, please?"
Giving me a nod, "You can have a nap, as long as you slip out of that skirt and masturbate for me first." He enjoyed putting me in situations where I was doing something pleasurable, but would be uncomfortable doing them. Such as masturbating in public, where there would be a risk of someone seeing. There weren't many vehicles on the road, and our windows were tinted. Feeling safe from too many prying eyes, I reclined my seat, pulled my skirt off and got comfortable. Spreading my legs apart, I looked over to see if he was watching, he watched the road the entire time. He did have a smile on his face though, from ear to ear. That was enough for me, I knew, he would be watching, would be control the whole time.
I slid my hand down between my breasts, slowly, seductively. I wanted him to be proud of my play, this was for him, yes, I would derive pleasure from it, but ultimately, this was all for him. Everything I do is for him, for his enjoyment, there is nothing more exciting then when I have made him happy. With him in mind, I continued. The palm of my hand sliding down, my fingers outstretched, gliding across my stomach down to its final destination.
My mound was freshly shaven, smooth and silky. Exploring every inch with my fingertips checking for any stubble, stubble was never acceptable and the crop was used if detected. Creamy smooth it was. Using my entire hand, I grabbed myself and massaged, feeling and awakening. I could see in the distance ahead a transport truck; we were gaining on the truck. I knew that the driver would have a clear view into our car, and would have an eye full. That too excited me as well as panic. There was something arousing about being watched, yet part of me also feared it. I continued to massage and knead my pussy using my middle finger to separate my lips. Branching out my fingers as I pulled back, leaving the middle finger to slide up the middle, I spread myself open. I was already wet, and when I brought my hand up, my finger was nicely coated.
"Would you like a taste Master?" One must always offer first, proper etiquette after all.
"Mmmmmmm yes that would be wonderful." I reached over and brought my finger up to his mouth, hesitating a second as he inhaled the scent, and then he sucked my finger into his mouth. Teasing me with his tongue, flicking it back and forth on my finger. As I drew back my finger, he sucked hard on it creating a stir in me.
We were now even with the back of the truck. "girl, you will continue, no time to be shy." He reached over and pulled my left leg over closer to him, separating my legs even more. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I felt a rush of humiliation. My hand returned between my legs. Both hands gently pulling my lips apart exposing my cunt my middle finger found my clit and began rubbing it. Slowly at first, tiny circles, there was no use moving too quickly. The middle finger on the left hand slid into my cunt. Warm, wet, I fingered myself, wiggling my finger at the entrance to my cunt. Pulling my finger out and then darting it back in again. As we came even with the truck cab, I could see the driver looking down. It was actually funny to see as he did the double take. Looking down, looking ahead, and then a look down again. I could just imagine what he was thinking. How often does one see a woman masturbating on the highway. Just as we were passing him, the truck started to pick up speed, and he was there again.
Master only gave him a couple minutes of watching the show, before he accelerated and pulled ahead. My fingers gained momentum, the right hand taking over rubbing faster and faster on my clit, sliding down to my dripping cunt and quickly back to the clit. My hips began to rock in the seat as my knees pulled even wider. My left hand slipped three fingers into my gaping hole, fucking it, and then bringing it up to my mouth to suck on. I did love the taste of my own juices, especially when I was cleaning myself off my Master's cock.
By this point, I was no longer aware of the trucks we were passing on the road. "Are you enjoying my pussy girl? It is quite tasty this morning." Moaning my response, I brought myself close to climax. Just on the edge. I slowed down, bringing myself back down, taking a deep breath. "Good girl, that was very impressive. The truckers are enjoying the show immensely as I am my girl. Ready for round two?"
"Yes Master, I'm so happy you are pleased with my play"
My hands returned to their toy and began the ascent again. Building up the tension between my legs, my hips began their rocking motion, working together with my fingers as they danced on my clit. "Pinch that clit girl, pull on it." Naturally, I snatched my clit between my thumb and index finger, rolling it between and then pinching it hard and pulling gently on it. "Harder girl! You know better!" Pulling harder, pinching harsher, I winced at the pain that shot through. Not letting go, not letting up until I was given the word, I continued my torment on my clit. Using my other hand, I fingered myself, hearing the slosh of my cunt juice. "That's better girl. You need to feel it when you pinch. Let go." Releasing my clit, I returned to rubbing it.
Again, close to climax, I slowed down and brought myself under control. Master required me to have more control of my orgasms. It had taken quite a bit of training, but after a month of daily training and punishment, I finally did learn control. My orgasms now were so much more powerful and intense. I was required to play, bringing myself close to orgasm twice and stopping. On the third time, as I was ready to erupt, I had to beg for permission to cum.
Once under control, I began my third time. I was literally sitting in a puddle by this time. I was soaked. I looked up at the truck that we were passing. The driver was looking down and I could see that he was talking on his C.B. I'm sure they were all talking to each other, giving the heads up to drivers up ahead. I just realized now, that a few even were blowing their horns. I guess I must have caused a stir on the highway.
For the third time, my hands found familiar ground. Again, I slithered over my drenched pussy. The aroma in the car was sweet, almost intoxicating. Master pulled out of one of the compartments, five wooden clothespins. Handing them to me, I took them, knowing full well what to do with them. Laying them all on my stomach, I placed one at a time on my pussy lips, two on each lip. The third was for my clit. That one, I was never ready for. I rubbed myself a bit more, pinched and pulled at my clit, then finally placing the pin in place. It took my breath for a second. Rubbing just above my clit, it didn't take long and I was ready to explode.
"Please Master, I'm ready to cum, please Master, may I have permission to cum?" Not a sound came from Him. "Please Master, I'm begging." Moaning and gasping for air, I tried to control myself, just hovering above my orgasm. "Master please, I can't hold it much more. Please Master, oh please." Tears started to roll down my cheeks, my moans turning into groans that are more vocal and cries. "Master, your slave is begging for mercy, please Master let your slave climax, please Master, I'll do anything for the release." I was grabbing at the seat with the left hand, the right still rubbing harder and faster, pins hitting off each other.
"Good girl, it's so wonderful to hear your voice begging, pleading. You put on a wonderful show this morning. You've pleased me immensely. Yes my girl, you have my permission to cum."
Not waiting a second, I exploded. Faster and harder, I rubbed my clit, oblivious to the pain of the brutal pin on my clit. I cried out relinquishing my being to the power of my orgasm. Both hands grasping the seat, digging my nails in as my hips thrust out and quivered. Little tiny seizures and spasms until my entire body lay back, sinking into the seat. I closed my eyes and drank in the wonderful moment. "Thank you Master for the wonderful gift." My voice was barely audible, a whisper.
"You're welcome girl. I hope you enjoyed it."
Opening my eyes, I looked over at him. "Oh yes, very much." Looking down, my blouse was unbuttoned and soaked. My body was dripping and flushed. "Master, permission to remove the pins please?" A nod of his head and I removed each pin, returning them to the compartment. I reached behind on the back seat where there were a couple towels and a blanket. Taking the towel first, I wiped myself up and lifting up, I soaked up the puddle on the seat.
Taking the blanket and wrapping it around myself, I curled up on the seat. I laid my head on His lap and slipped into subbie dreamland. It was the start of our vacation, a wonderful start. It was going to be a week of uninterrupted "us". It was going to be a fabulous week.
I woke to stillness. The car was no longer moving. Startled I sat up and realized even Master wasn't there. I looked around to see that he had pulled off the road into one of those rest stops by a service center. No one was around, not another soul, as Master came walking out from between a clump of trees. When he realized I was awake, he motioned with his finger for me to go to him. Holding tight to the blanket around my shoulders, I slipped out of the car.
As I came to the front of the car, he motioned for me to stop. I waited as he approached, and pulled the blanket from me. The air was warm, the sun shone down and felt good on my skin. He then pulled the blindfold out of his pocket and handed it to me to put on. Obediently, I put the blindfold in place as he walked away from me with the blanket. Butterflies started in my stomach at the excitement.
I waited for him, realizing that I was standing, naked in the middle of nowhere, in an area that was fairly secluded, although not entirely risk free. That was part of the rush. I strained to try to hear what he was doing, where he was, I heard nothing but the birds and the odd bee buzz by.
"Girl, drop to your knees and crawl to me."
I lowered myself to my knees and then down on my hands. He kept talking to me as I made my way to him. He wasn't that far away, only a dozen or so steps, it was the symbolism of his slave crawling to him. As I approached, I was now crawling on the blanket he had laid out and he was sitting in the middle. I stopped, but remained on all fours until he told me to sit back. He removed the choker chain, my public collar, which I wore at all times except for play. He then put on my leather collar, the one with three rings, fastening it with the buckle and then putting the lock on it. He was the only one with a key to my collar. The way it should be. "You can now sit back girl."
I sat back on my heels, my knees were spread apart, and my hands rested on top of my thighs. Smiling I waited. He brushed the hair from my face, he traced my jaw with his finger and then my lips, parting them slightly as he leaned in and kissed me. He was a great kisser, gentle, teasing, commanding, and demanding, different intensity for different moods. It wasn't just about playing tonsil hockey, as so many men are known to do. Most important, I never came away from a kiss dripping wet. His kiss was playful and teasing, sensual and arousing. Right now, it was a loving gentle kiss, almost brushing my lips with his. His magic fingers moved down my neck and shoulders, making circles, just barely touching my skin. A tease that sent shivers through my body as I wiggled under his touch.
He took my right hand, kissed it, then placed my cuff on and kissed it again. Placing it back on my thigh, he reached for the left, doing the exact same thing, kissing, cuffing and kissing again. It was a ritual, one that I have come to expect, cherish and find comfort in. He is taking care of his slave, loving her, making her is most prized possession. He rose, and as he did so, I placed my hands in front of me and rested on them. He moved behind me, gently taking on ankle up and placing a cuff on it, and then the other. A swat to each ass cheek, and then he patted me to sit back down.
Sitting back in front of me, he took my hands in his, "Dee, you will now wear your collar and cuffs for the rest of the trip. Yes, even in public, you will wear them with the pride that I know you have when you wear them. Give these people a little bit of shock, let them wonder, and for some, let them realize, they aren't alone with their kink."
"Yes Master, I am proud to where your collar, I am proud to be your slave."
"Now, present that ass to me, I think it is the wrong colour." He laughed, he was in a good mood. "We can have that, I think a nice red glow. Yes, that's it, to keep you just a bit on edge for the rest of the car ride. What do you think?"
"Um, well, um, yes Master." It would make for an interesting car ride, might also make it a bit longer.
I leaned forward on my hands, lowered to my elbows and then lowered my chest to the ground and stretched my arms overhead. My ass raised up, ready for him to begin.
He started with his hand, caressing, holding, caressing again, and then a swat, alternating cheeks. Starting out gently, warming up the skin, and gradually getting harder and harder. Yes, the heat started to rise and I could feel the sting more and more. At times my ass would rise up to meet his hand, other times it would wiggle under is touch. As the intensity grew, I would anticipate flexing my muscles and pulling back slightly.
"Stay there girl, don't move." I could hear him walk away and come back within seconds. I could also hear the swish in the air. What did he have, what did he go get?
Bracing myself, for the unknown, his hand came down and caressed my burning skin, patting it gently. I relaxed under his soft touch. Bad move relaxing, before I realized it there was the swish through the air and a swipe across both ass cheeks. He had found a switch and was whipping my ass with that. Sting? Oh my god it had bite to it. Hit just on the lower part of the ass, where you do most of your sitting, it wasn't going to be a comfortable drive.
He stopped, leaned over and caressed, inspecting his handy work. He kissed each cheek gently and rubbed some more. His hand slid up and over my ass gliding up my back. His other hand found its way under me, probing his property. He headed directly for my dripping cunt. As he did, I pressed myself lower down and raised my ass up even more for him, presenting myself to my Master. I couldn't help but moan as he fingered me. I pushed myself deeper as he pumped his fingers in and out.
"You are a wanton little slut aren't you? Who's slut are you girl?"
"I'm your wanton little slut Master, your slut to be used for your pleasure."
"Yes you are, and don't forget it." With that, he pulled his hand back and swatted me hard, and repeated it ten more times. I was counting each one of them.
"Up girl!" He commanded. He stood up straight, and I rose to my sitting position, turning myself to face him.
I tilted my head up to him, "thank you Master." My ass was burning and my cunt was dripping. This would be a long drive, and I was going to love it. I smiled to myself, content that I had pleased him so.
He sat back down with me and he lovingly kissed me again, pulling me close, wrapping his arms around me, and holding as if he would never let me go. Feeling safe from all harm, I nuzzled in closer to him. We sat there a few more minutes, quietly, holding each other before he pulled the blindfold off and stood up.
He helped me up and we folded blanket. With his arm around me, we walked back to the car. At the car I put my skirt and blouse back on, just as finished dressing, we could hear the crunching gravel, of another car entering the picnic area. "Wow, now that's timing!" he laughed.
"My dear, you are blushing?" I giggled at the thought of it, what if they had arrived five minutes earlier, what a surprise they would have had.
Looking at the clock, we had another four hours ahead of us. Yes, it would be a long four hours as I felt the heat and the tenderness of my ass on the car seat.
First Weekend
First Weekend
She looked around the house in astonishment. She’d been unsure what to expect, and had a clear idea that it would be out of the ordinary, but this was a church of enormous proportions, converted to make a home. In her minds eye she tried to picture it as it must have been when wedding cars had made their way up the long drive through the churchyard, turning slightly left through a pair of iron gates that he carefully closed behind them. That left them with about forty feet of lawns between the hedges before the end wall of the church reared up, its arched windows filled with abstract stained glass. She estimated the church at eighty to a hundred feet long, the sanctuary at the east end built as if it had been a later addition, lower than the main body of the church, and narrower. And all the time he talked, an amused stream of anecdotes, facts and details about this, his home. As they walked through the front door he gestured upwards, into the bell tower.
“As you can see, we had to take the ceiling down to drop the bells out, so I thought I’d make a feature of it with the wrought iron balcony. It does service as a landing for the guest bedrooms as well…”
She’d noticed the heavy wooden staircase climbing the side wall of the bell tower, turning with the walls of the tower until it reached the balcony.
“…of course, for parties it’s tempting to have someone obedient tied to the railings up there, as a welcoming sign to guests, but it is unfair to leave someone up there when so much of the fun is downstairs…”
She tried not to flinch; she’d noticed his habit of leapfrogging from the ordinary to the extreme in the same sentence with no suggestion of any difference. Instead she stepped inside the inner doors and stood in the main body of the building, looking around at the imposing size of the building. To her left the guest bedrooms hung from the southwest corner of the building, their bulk diminished by their height, the floors suspended twenty feet up the walls. To her right a spiral staircase twisted its way out of the former pulpit, leading to an open gallery that ran the width of the building. Dan took her hand.
“The gallery is the master bedroom, and playroom. Would you like to see where we’ll be spending so much time this weekend?”
She knew he was testing her; just as he’d been testing her the first time he’d smacked her bottom while they were making love. It was part of his power trip, she knew, to make correct guesses about her reactions, and her desires. She smiled, and turned to face him.
“Let’s go upstairs shall we?”
He smiled, and stepped back, letting her walk in front of him, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. At the bottom of the stone steps leading up to the spiral staircase built into the pulpit she felt his hand on her shoulder.
“You’re entering the playroom Bea, remember? Red for stop, amber for wait…”
She stood stock still, her hands by her side, conscious of a heavy dragging sensation in her stomach that resolved itself into a pressure against her pelvis, a weight of expectancy and desire.
“Do I have to say green?”
He shook his head, and gestured towards the stairs.
She felt her posture, her body, maybe even her entire being change as she walked up the stairs. She entered the room, and stood at the top of the steps, waiting for instruction. His voice, too, had changed, He wasn’t trying to amuse now; the lilt and the smile had gone to be replaced by a voice that was more reflective, more considered.
“Obviously I prepared for you Bea; please stand on the rug in the middle of the floor, below the end of the bed.”
Standing on the rug she was three feet from the end of the bed, and six feet from the balustrade that ran the width of the gallery. Above her were the beams of the church roof, braced with wrought iron framework, aged and darkened by the ears. Descending from the beams was a length of chain that hung in the centre of the room. Attached to it was a leather collar. She found she couldn’t look at it; instead she stared past it towards the guest room sat the west end of the church. Out of the corner of her eye though, she could see it; the two chrome buckles, the D rings attached at the sides and front, the roll of thinner finer leather around the top and bottom of the collar, designed to reduce the friction on her skin. Nothing had prepared her though, for the feel of his hands fastening the collar around her neck. He stood behind her, testing the fit of the collar with a finger against her skin, then adjusted the chains in some way that she wasn’t sure about, but which held her neck still. All the while he described each action in an assured, calculated way.
“We need the collar to be tight enough not to slop around on your neck, but not so tight to accidentally restrict your breathing…”
Was it her imagination that registered the stress on the word accidentally?
“…and of course I can’t tie your hands when I haven’t undressed you can I? So I have to undress you first…”
She’d imagined these moments, even while making love to him, in a hotel room, or once, memorably, in a roadside toilet. She’d tried to anticipate the speed at which he might move, the instructions, and yet now, when her brain screamed out to comply, to encourage him with a movement or gesture, she felt listless, unable to move or express an emotion.
She started to feel, to experience, when he pulled off her panties and ran a finger between her labia. For a moment she looked at her clothes, neatly piled by the balustrade, and wondered how they’d got there. She couldn’t describe, even to her closest friend or to some imaginary confessor, the relief that flowed through her as she realised that she had passed this stage of the process. She was naked, and he was walking around her, surveying her. She straightened her back, pulled her head back against the collar and chains, showing herself off but only understanding the gesture after she’d done it. She squeezed her thighs together, and felt liquid at their junction. She wanted to laugh, and shout at the top of her voice. I’m wet, and turned on, and showing myself off to him.
He had a way of regaining her attention. His hands folded around her breasts, standing behind her and cupping them, his fingers resting between her breasts and her ribcage. She waited for him to speak, to move, to give her a sign. She held her breath until she was sure the only sound she could hear was the controlled measure of his breath. And then his voice intruded, insinuating its way into her brain so that she wasn’t sure it wasn’t a telepathic phenomenon rather than an auditory experience.
“…they will look lovely in a corset, just as stockings will frame your body so well in future, but now, right here, I want you naked but for your bonds… imagine it as the beginning before I dress you for your new role…”
The forefinger and thumb of each hand were acting on her nipples, squeezing and manipulating. She tried to understand what he was doing, why his hands would twist one way or another, why the ball of his thumb would roll the flesh of the nipple against the anvil of his finger, why the movements of his hands would speed up and stretch all of the nipple away from her breast, then move more slowly. And still there was that rhythmic pacing of his voice…
“…of course costumes and role play are going to dominate your future, and be central to your pleasing me, but right here, right now, a blank canvas is the name of the game…”
His hands released her breasts, and slid along her belly and down the sides of her hips. She tried to wriggle away as his hand traced along the line of the scar where the caesarean had been performed; he slapped her right buttock as simply as if he were caressing her.
“..but today all I need is to be sure you can’t wriggle or move as you are beaten… so we’ll restrain your hands and feet and get on with it…”
For the first time she felt as if the liquid inside her, the warmth and wetness that she’d felt since he put the collar around her, was turning cold. This was the moment when she would find out if her excited passionate responses to being spanked had been genuine pleasure in punishment, or whether she’d merely been getting her kicks from being wicked. If she was going to give in and beg for mercy, she decided, she’d do it with style and a flourish. She watched as he prepared a spreader bar, a thick length of wood with chromed cuffs at either end for her ankles. He stood in front of her, adjusting the width of the bar, turning it over so that she could see the sheepskin padding inside the metal.
“…slaves tend to twist and move during their first serious beating. The sheepskin is one way of preventing any too visible injury to the ankles and lower leg…”
She wanted to speak, but just an indeterminate sound came from her mouth. He silenced her by stroking his thumb, wet with her juices, across her mouth.
“Shhhhh Bea, you’re here because you trust me…”
She had to swallow hard before licking the ball of his thumb, but relished the taste, and the unforced, patient way he rested his thumb against her mouth until she reacted. Had time stopped completely, or was he really that patient, the certain that she would comply?
The feel of the padded cuffs closing around her ankles was utterly confusing. Did she want to be spreadeagled in this way, her thighs held apart? The housewife in her wondered if her juices would drip on the rug, and how would you ask for the appropriate stain treatment in the dry cleaners. Another voice in her head asked if her thigh muscles would be able to take the strain of her legs being held in the one position. And a new voice, a voice that she didn’t recognise, simply muttered ‘yes’ inside her head, as if it was recognising an achievement. Of course, she thought, that’s the slave in me. It’s the slave in me who wants my juices to drip on the rug for him to see…
It’s the slave in me who’s wanting to plead with him to do it, to beat me and make me his…
His voice was a relief from the confusion in her head.
“…of course we don’t want your hands flailing around either do we Bea… Let’s fasten them to your collar… Lots of old fashioned hand cuffs were made like this…” Like this was a rounded steel cuff at either end of a twelve inch long steel rod. She didn’t see what he did, but within seconds the steel rod was passed through the D ring at the back of her collar, and her hands were trapped above her shoulders. The position, elbows high, hands turned inwards towards her neck, pulled her breasts upwards. She moved her head to look down at the erect, engorged tissue of her nipples.
“…it’s a shame you’re so averse to nipple clamps Bea, I think they’d look lovely, and you are so enjoying this…” Each touch of his hands was more assured now, asserting his proprietorial rights over her breasts, her hips, her labia. As he moved away he kept talking
“…when we’re young we learn the baseball language of sex… first base, I touched her breasts, second base I touched her bottom, third base I touched her pussy, and hurray, home run, we did it.”
He’d adjusted the lights in the well of the church so that she was looking out into darkness illuminated by evening sunlight streaming through the sections of the west window that weren’t obscured by a balcony linking the guest bedrooms.
“..but life isn’t a game of baseball, and neither is sex… Sex is a game of roles and rituals, of ideas and indications of who we want to be and might be…”
He was out of her line of sight again, and she heard that clicking, dragging sound, like a drawer being opened, or a wooden box closing tight.
“…and it’s a transfer of power and responsibility, so that we can give up something of ourselves…”
The first blow came on the side of her right breast, and was followed, seconds apart, by another blow fully across her left breast. The first blow came from her right side, so that the tips of whatever she was flogged with wrapped themselves around her nipple. The second blow came from the same side, so that it was the body of the flogger that struck her left nipple, the thongs reaching under her arm. She blinked, closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, seeing the world anew. The next pair of blows were as evenly paced, as evenly weighted as the first two, and she felt the first intimations of pain. Not the direct stabbing pain of toothache but a throbbing warmth, as if someone had burnt her flesh inside her skin. She closed her eyes again, and sagged a little against the restraint of the chains. She was expecting, anticipating the next blow. She opened her eyes, looked at him standing in front of her, the suede flogger in his right hand. She knew from his gaze that she should stand up straight, should prepare herself for the next blow, and show herself off. The only voice she could hear in her head now was the voice of the slave, laughing as she straightened her back. The handle of the flogger rubbing between her pussy lips before he turned and walked away was a reminder, that he was the master, that everything he was doing was sexual.
He walked behind her, his hand insinuating its way between her legs, stroking between her lips again, pushing past her flesh to stroke her clit. He smeared her juices over her nipples, as if it might magically ease the throbbing, burning pain.
“You’ve a right to know what comes next… three strokes with a cane on each thigh, then six strokes with the crop on your buttocks…. Unless you chose freedom that is…” He kissed her on the mouth, hard, an urgent, pressing invading kiss. When he withdrew she smiled, licked her lips, flexed her hips to ease the tension in her thighs, then said
“I choose slavery…”
He nodded, as if it was only the answer he’d expected, and reached for the cane.
The blows with the cane were precise, and rhythmic. She sobbed with the last three blows, her mouth hanging open, all words stolen from her by the force of the blows. She could see herself as he could see her, her mind momentarily leaving her body completely and looking at her from beyond the balcony rail, seeing herself renewed and seeing herself straighten her back, blink back the moisture from her eyes, shuffling her feet so that her hips were level, her mound on view, her pubic hair matted with juices that wouldn’t stop flowing. She wanted to lick her lips, to wipe her face, to stem the tears pricking at the back of her eyes. All she could do was rotate her hand within the cuffs before pulling her elbows back. The quiet voice inside her head now, almost drowned out by the waves of emotion and arousal, was the voice of her past. She didn’t want to be questioned, didn’t want to think about anything, about anything,…, about anything about the thumb and forefinger that had hold of her clit and were pulling her, pulling and squeezing her to orgasm, to a screaming, shouting, gasping orgasm that held her rigid in its grip.
“…I thought you might need that release Bea, might want that moment before we go on…”
“Amber, please Dan, amber,,,, “
“..of course Bea, I’d decided I wanted you in a different position anyway… moving you will give me a chance to give you a break..”
She wanted to scream back at him not to pre-empt her reactions so much; what right did he have to take her desire to slow down and make it just another part of his game, his plan?
She didn’t scream. She waited, and watched as he stood to one side of her, stripping naked. She remembered his unabashed manner from their previous lovemaking, the way he made the transition from dressed to nude as easily as others might put on a coat. But then, how easily had she made the same transition, allowing him to strip and beat her? He moved around in front of her, the soft light from behind them casting shadows and shapes around his erection.
“…I’m going to release the bar from your collar for a moment Bea… It’s a necessary part of moving you to the position I want you in, and I need another adjustable spreader anyway…”
The position he wanted her in was bent forward, her head resting on a pillow placed on the wooden balustrade. When he was satisfied with the way she turned her head to one side to breath her rested the bar between her cuffed hands against the back of her neck, then secured it to the balustrade with two belts. The adjustable spreader reached from the base of the balustrade to the bar between her ankles, making a T shape that would prevent her from moving forwards or backwards. She couldn’t resist the mewl of pleasure that the touch of his fingers on her clit brought from her mouth. He was paying attention to her nipples again, stroking and pulling them with a repeated stretching action, testing their length and their responses to being stretched. Each time she felt as if she should groan or complain he would switch his hands back to her clit and her cunt.
God, she thought, I just thought of it as my cunt. I’ve always shied away from that word, I’ve never said it or used it, but with two of his fingers inside me and his other hand at my clit, I thought, yes, finger my cunt…
“…this is a good position for you to learn in Bea… Another time I can have you any way I want you, but tonight, tonight is about beating you, then fucking you…”
Give me time she thought, time to adapt, time to learn, time to get used to being fucked when you want to fuck me, to being fingered when you feel like fingering me, time to…
Time to hear the whistle of the riding crop moving through the air, time to swallow the first cry of pain before the crop was whistling again, lighting a line of fire across the opposite buttock, time longer than the actual pause so that she could swallow the saliva and the gasps and the cries before the crop was moving again, and again, and again and again….
Her final scream bounced back from the walls of the old church, a gasping, whimpering noise that was still echoing as she felt his hands on her hips and his erection at the mouth of her pussy, forcing its way in, opening her out even as her body was still burning with the shock and the pain of the blows from the crop.
He paused once his erection was deep inside her, paused and waited. Did he know she wanted to squirm, to wriggle, to get the sensitive, burning flesh of her buttocks away from his thighs, to try and stretch every inch of her insides around him? As she started to move underneath him, writhing as much as her restrained legs would allow she felt his thumb at her bottom hole. The pressure of his thumb breached the muscular ring and impaled her, holding her still. Her body longed to move but her brain understood. He was using her for his pleasure. Her brain understood, just as her brain could recognise the base of his thumb rubbing against her ring as the rest of the thumb was inside her, but her body?
Her body wanted more of him. Her body wanted his cock in every hole at once, wanted his hands on her nipples, on her clit, wielding a cane against her thighs as he fucked her from behind. Her mouth wanted more words than god, and please, and ohhhhhh, and her hips wanted some release from his pelvis ramming against the bruises on her buttocks where the crop had struck. She experienced him coming inside her with the muscles of her vagina, with the skin of her back as he bent forward and gasped her name, with her hair as his fingers tangled in it and tugged her head against the restraint of the collar. And then, in a moment, he was holding his softening erection against her mouth and commanding her
“Lick me clean… I have come, but you’ve arrived Bea..”
She looked around the house in astonishment. She’d been unsure what to expect, and had a clear idea that it would be out of the ordinary, but this was a church of enormous proportions, converted to make a home. In her minds eye she tried to picture it as it must have been when wedding cars had made their way up the long drive through the churchyard, turning slightly left through a pair of iron gates that he carefully closed behind them. That left them with about forty feet of lawns between the hedges before the end wall of the church reared up, its arched windows filled with abstract stained glass. She estimated the church at eighty to a hundred feet long, the sanctuary at the east end built as if it had been a later addition, lower than the main body of the church, and narrower. And all the time he talked, an amused stream of anecdotes, facts and details about this, his home. As they walked through the front door he gestured upwards, into the bell tower.
“As you can see, we had to take the ceiling down to drop the bells out, so I thought I’d make a feature of it with the wrought iron balcony. It does service as a landing for the guest bedrooms as well…”
She’d noticed the heavy wooden staircase climbing the side wall of the bell tower, turning with the walls of the tower until it reached the balcony.
“…of course, for parties it’s tempting to have someone obedient tied to the railings up there, as a welcoming sign to guests, but it is unfair to leave someone up there when so much of the fun is downstairs…”
She tried not to flinch; she’d noticed his habit of leapfrogging from the ordinary to the extreme in the same sentence with no suggestion of any difference. Instead she stepped inside the inner doors and stood in the main body of the building, looking around at the imposing size of the building. To her left the guest bedrooms hung from the southwest corner of the building, their bulk diminished by their height, the floors suspended twenty feet up the walls. To her right a spiral staircase twisted its way out of the former pulpit, leading to an open gallery that ran the width of the building. Dan took her hand.
“The gallery is the master bedroom, and playroom. Would you like to see where we’ll be spending so much time this weekend?”
She knew he was testing her; just as he’d been testing her the first time he’d smacked her bottom while they were making love. It was part of his power trip, she knew, to make correct guesses about her reactions, and her desires. She smiled, and turned to face him.
“Let’s go upstairs shall we?”
He smiled, and stepped back, letting her walk in front of him, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. At the bottom of the stone steps leading up to the spiral staircase built into the pulpit she felt his hand on her shoulder.
“You’re entering the playroom Bea, remember? Red for stop, amber for wait…”
She stood stock still, her hands by her side, conscious of a heavy dragging sensation in her stomach that resolved itself into a pressure against her pelvis, a weight of expectancy and desire.
“Do I have to say green?”
He shook his head, and gestured towards the stairs.
She felt her posture, her body, maybe even her entire being change as she walked up the stairs. She entered the room, and stood at the top of the steps, waiting for instruction. His voice, too, had changed, He wasn’t trying to amuse now; the lilt and the smile had gone to be replaced by a voice that was more reflective, more considered.
“Obviously I prepared for you Bea; please stand on the rug in the middle of the floor, below the end of the bed.”
Standing on the rug she was three feet from the end of the bed, and six feet from the balustrade that ran the width of the gallery. Above her were the beams of the church roof, braced with wrought iron framework, aged and darkened by the ears. Descending from the beams was a length of chain that hung in the centre of the room. Attached to it was a leather collar. She found she couldn’t look at it; instead she stared past it towards the guest room sat the west end of the church. Out of the corner of her eye though, she could see it; the two chrome buckles, the D rings attached at the sides and front, the roll of thinner finer leather around the top and bottom of the collar, designed to reduce the friction on her skin. Nothing had prepared her though, for the feel of his hands fastening the collar around her neck. He stood behind her, testing the fit of the collar with a finger against her skin, then adjusted the chains in some way that she wasn’t sure about, but which held her neck still. All the while he described each action in an assured, calculated way.
“We need the collar to be tight enough not to slop around on your neck, but not so tight to accidentally restrict your breathing…”
Was it her imagination that registered the stress on the word accidentally?
“…and of course I can’t tie your hands when I haven’t undressed you can I? So I have to undress you first…”
She’d imagined these moments, even while making love to him, in a hotel room, or once, memorably, in a roadside toilet. She’d tried to anticipate the speed at which he might move, the instructions, and yet now, when her brain screamed out to comply, to encourage him with a movement or gesture, she felt listless, unable to move or express an emotion.
She started to feel, to experience, when he pulled off her panties and ran a finger between her labia. For a moment she looked at her clothes, neatly piled by the balustrade, and wondered how they’d got there. She couldn’t describe, even to her closest friend or to some imaginary confessor, the relief that flowed through her as she realised that she had passed this stage of the process. She was naked, and he was walking around her, surveying her. She straightened her back, pulled her head back against the collar and chains, showing herself off but only understanding the gesture after she’d done it. She squeezed her thighs together, and felt liquid at their junction. She wanted to laugh, and shout at the top of her voice. I’m wet, and turned on, and showing myself off to him.
He had a way of regaining her attention. His hands folded around her breasts, standing behind her and cupping them, his fingers resting between her breasts and her ribcage. She waited for him to speak, to move, to give her a sign. She held her breath until she was sure the only sound she could hear was the controlled measure of his breath. And then his voice intruded, insinuating its way into her brain so that she wasn’t sure it wasn’t a telepathic phenomenon rather than an auditory experience.
“…they will look lovely in a corset, just as stockings will frame your body so well in future, but now, right here, I want you naked but for your bonds… imagine it as the beginning before I dress you for your new role…”
The forefinger and thumb of each hand were acting on her nipples, squeezing and manipulating. She tried to understand what he was doing, why his hands would twist one way or another, why the ball of his thumb would roll the flesh of the nipple against the anvil of his finger, why the movements of his hands would speed up and stretch all of the nipple away from her breast, then move more slowly. And still there was that rhythmic pacing of his voice…
“…of course costumes and role play are going to dominate your future, and be central to your pleasing me, but right here, right now, a blank canvas is the name of the game…”
His hands released her breasts, and slid along her belly and down the sides of her hips. She tried to wriggle away as his hand traced along the line of the scar where the caesarean had been performed; he slapped her right buttock as simply as if he were caressing her.
“..but today all I need is to be sure you can’t wriggle or move as you are beaten… so we’ll restrain your hands and feet and get on with it…”
For the first time she felt as if the liquid inside her, the warmth and wetness that she’d felt since he put the collar around her, was turning cold. This was the moment when she would find out if her excited passionate responses to being spanked had been genuine pleasure in punishment, or whether she’d merely been getting her kicks from being wicked. If she was going to give in and beg for mercy, she decided, she’d do it with style and a flourish. She watched as he prepared a spreader bar, a thick length of wood with chromed cuffs at either end for her ankles. He stood in front of her, adjusting the width of the bar, turning it over so that she could see the sheepskin padding inside the metal.
“…slaves tend to twist and move during their first serious beating. The sheepskin is one way of preventing any too visible injury to the ankles and lower leg…”
She wanted to speak, but just an indeterminate sound came from her mouth. He silenced her by stroking his thumb, wet with her juices, across her mouth.
“Shhhhh Bea, you’re here because you trust me…”
She had to swallow hard before licking the ball of his thumb, but relished the taste, and the unforced, patient way he rested his thumb against her mouth until she reacted. Had time stopped completely, or was he really that patient, the certain that she would comply?
The feel of the padded cuffs closing around her ankles was utterly confusing. Did she want to be spreadeagled in this way, her thighs held apart? The housewife in her wondered if her juices would drip on the rug, and how would you ask for the appropriate stain treatment in the dry cleaners. Another voice in her head asked if her thigh muscles would be able to take the strain of her legs being held in the one position. And a new voice, a voice that she didn’t recognise, simply muttered ‘yes’ inside her head, as if it was recognising an achievement. Of course, she thought, that’s the slave in me. It’s the slave in me who wants my juices to drip on the rug for him to see…
It’s the slave in me who’s wanting to plead with him to do it, to beat me and make me his…
His voice was a relief from the confusion in her head.
“…of course we don’t want your hands flailing around either do we Bea… Let’s fasten them to your collar… Lots of old fashioned hand cuffs were made like this…” Like this was a rounded steel cuff at either end of a twelve inch long steel rod. She didn’t see what he did, but within seconds the steel rod was passed through the D ring at the back of her collar, and her hands were trapped above her shoulders. The position, elbows high, hands turned inwards towards her neck, pulled her breasts upwards. She moved her head to look down at the erect, engorged tissue of her nipples.
“…it’s a shame you’re so averse to nipple clamps Bea, I think they’d look lovely, and you are so enjoying this…” Each touch of his hands was more assured now, asserting his proprietorial rights over her breasts, her hips, her labia. As he moved away he kept talking
“…when we’re young we learn the baseball language of sex… first base, I touched her breasts, second base I touched her bottom, third base I touched her pussy, and hurray, home run, we did it.”
He’d adjusted the lights in the well of the church so that she was looking out into darkness illuminated by evening sunlight streaming through the sections of the west window that weren’t obscured by a balcony linking the guest bedrooms.
“..but life isn’t a game of baseball, and neither is sex… Sex is a game of roles and rituals, of ideas and indications of who we want to be and might be…”
He was out of her line of sight again, and she heard that clicking, dragging sound, like a drawer being opened, or a wooden box closing tight.
“…and it’s a transfer of power and responsibility, so that we can give up something of ourselves…”
The first blow came on the side of her right breast, and was followed, seconds apart, by another blow fully across her left breast. The first blow came from her right side, so that the tips of whatever she was flogged with wrapped themselves around her nipple. The second blow came from the same side, so that it was the body of the flogger that struck her left nipple, the thongs reaching under her arm. She blinked, closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, seeing the world anew. The next pair of blows were as evenly paced, as evenly weighted as the first two, and she felt the first intimations of pain. Not the direct stabbing pain of toothache but a throbbing warmth, as if someone had burnt her flesh inside her skin. She closed her eyes again, and sagged a little against the restraint of the chains. She was expecting, anticipating the next blow. She opened her eyes, looked at him standing in front of her, the suede flogger in his right hand. She knew from his gaze that she should stand up straight, should prepare herself for the next blow, and show herself off. The only voice she could hear in her head now was the voice of the slave, laughing as she straightened her back. The handle of the flogger rubbing between her pussy lips before he turned and walked away was a reminder, that he was the master, that everything he was doing was sexual.
He walked behind her, his hand insinuating its way between her legs, stroking between her lips again, pushing past her flesh to stroke her clit. He smeared her juices over her nipples, as if it might magically ease the throbbing, burning pain.
“You’ve a right to know what comes next… three strokes with a cane on each thigh, then six strokes with the crop on your buttocks…. Unless you chose freedom that is…” He kissed her on the mouth, hard, an urgent, pressing invading kiss. When he withdrew she smiled, licked her lips, flexed her hips to ease the tension in her thighs, then said
“I choose slavery…”
He nodded, as if it was only the answer he’d expected, and reached for the cane.
The blows with the cane were precise, and rhythmic. She sobbed with the last three blows, her mouth hanging open, all words stolen from her by the force of the blows. She could see herself as he could see her, her mind momentarily leaving her body completely and looking at her from beyond the balcony rail, seeing herself renewed and seeing herself straighten her back, blink back the moisture from her eyes, shuffling her feet so that her hips were level, her mound on view, her pubic hair matted with juices that wouldn’t stop flowing. She wanted to lick her lips, to wipe her face, to stem the tears pricking at the back of her eyes. All she could do was rotate her hand within the cuffs before pulling her elbows back. The quiet voice inside her head now, almost drowned out by the waves of emotion and arousal, was the voice of her past. She didn’t want to be questioned, didn’t want to think about anything, about anything,…, about anything about the thumb and forefinger that had hold of her clit and were pulling her, pulling and squeezing her to orgasm, to a screaming, shouting, gasping orgasm that held her rigid in its grip.
“…I thought you might need that release Bea, might want that moment before we go on…”
“Amber, please Dan, amber,,,, “
“..of course Bea, I’d decided I wanted you in a different position anyway… moving you will give me a chance to give you a break..”
She wanted to scream back at him not to pre-empt her reactions so much; what right did he have to take her desire to slow down and make it just another part of his game, his plan?
She didn’t scream. She waited, and watched as he stood to one side of her, stripping naked. She remembered his unabashed manner from their previous lovemaking, the way he made the transition from dressed to nude as easily as others might put on a coat. But then, how easily had she made the same transition, allowing him to strip and beat her? He moved around in front of her, the soft light from behind them casting shadows and shapes around his erection.
“…I’m going to release the bar from your collar for a moment Bea… It’s a necessary part of moving you to the position I want you in, and I need another adjustable spreader anyway…”
The position he wanted her in was bent forward, her head resting on a pillow placed on the wooden balustrade. When he was satisfied with the way she turned her head to one side to breath her rested the bar between her cuffed hands against the back of her neck, then secured it to the balustrade with two belts. The adjustable spreader reached from the base of the balustrade to the bar between her ankles, making a T shape that would prevent her from moving forwards or backwards. She couldn’t resist the mewl of pleasure that the touch of his fingers on her clit brought from her mouth. He was paying attention to her nipples again, stroking and pulling them with a repeated stretching action, testing their length and their responses to being stretched. Each time she felt as if she should groan or complain he would switch his hands back to her clit and her cunt.
God, she thought, I just thought of it as my cunt. I’ve always shied away from that word, I’ve never said it or used it, but with two of his fingers inside me and his other hand at my clit, I thought, yes, finger my cunt…
“…this is a good position for you to learn in Bea… Another time I can have you any way I want you, but tonight, tonight is about beating you, then fucking you…”
Give me time she thought, time to adapt, time to learn, time to get used to being fucked when you want to fuck me, to being fingered when you feel like fingering me, time to…
Time to hear the whistle of the riding crop moving through the air, time to swallow the first cry of pain before the crop was whistling again, lighting a line of fire across the opposite buttock, time longer than the actual pause so that she could swallow the saliva and the gasps and the cries before the crop was moving again, and again, and again and again….
Her final scream bounced back from the walls of the old church, a gasping, whimpering noise that was still echoing as she felt his hands on her hips and his erection at the mouth of her pussy, forcing its way in, opening her out even as her body was still burning with the shock and the pain of the blows from the crop.
He paused once his erection was deep inside her, paused and waited. Did he know she wanted to squirm, to wriggle, to get the sensitive, burning flesh of her buttocks away from his thighs, to try and stretch every inch of her insides around him? As she started to move underneath him, writhing as much as her restrained legs would allow she felt his thumb at her bottom hole. The pressure of his thumb breached the muscular ring and impaled her, holding her still. Her body longed to move but her brain understood. He was using her for his pleasure. Her brain understood, just as her brain could recognise the base of his thumb rubbing against her ring as the rest of the thumb was inside her, but her body?
Her body wanted more of him. Her body wanted his cock in every hole at once, wanted his hands on her nipples, on her clit, wielding a cane against her thighs as he fucked her from behind. Her mouth wanted more words than god, and please, and ohhhhhh, and her hips wanted some release from his pelvis ramming against the bruises on her buttocks where the crop had struck. She experienced him coming inside her with the muscles of her vagina, with the skin of her back as he bent forward and gasped her name, with her hair as his fingers tangled in it and tugged her head against the restraint of the collar. And then, in a moment, he was holding his softening erection against her mouth and commanding her
“Lick me clean… I have come, but you’ve arrived Bea..”
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Monday, April 16, 2012
One Man, Twelve Women
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