Wicked Wednesday: Hot and roughly is thoroughly

Claire knelt, hands and knees, at my feet. “I need you to fuck me, now, Master. If you want.” That was a silly thing to say; of course I wanted. But I guessed she wanted to say something submissive. Then she said, “Thoroughly.”

I took the cane, lodged between her buttocks, and removed the little butt plug. I stroked her, two fingers and then three slishing between wet lips, and pressed the cane between her labia. I said, “Thoroughly.” Claire caught her breath, then moaned quietly when I put a little upwards pressure to the cane so it lodged against her most sensitive skin, her cunt warmly and wetly clasping that length of rattan. Then I added, because it suddenly occurred to me, “That’s an anagram of ‘hot’ and ‘roughly’.”

That cane I stroked her with  had caused her pain, and she knew it was soon going to bring her more, but for now all was forgiven between them, that cane and her. I turned the cane so it rolled in her, and her moans became a little louder. She was very ready for… something. Anything. She was prepared to let anythng happen. Anything that had her in iit and was hard would be good.

I smiled at her, not that she could see me, and took as condom from my bedside drawer. I said, “As for thoroughly, let’s see what happens. You’ve got six penalty strokes still to come. You’ve had one penalty stroke, so that will bring us to thirty-seven. While I’m deliver them I expect you to stay in place, and count each stroke out loud. And thank me. So, the next one is ‘Thirty-two, thank you, sir.’ Can you do that?”  

“I don’t know how I’ll keep still, Master. Or quiet. But I’ll try.”

“You’ll do as you’re told, Claire. Unless you want to call out some higher numbers. You can count to fifty, can’t you?”

“I’ll keep still, Master!”

“That’s better. Brace yourself, Claire. These are going to sting.”

I raised the cane, counted silently and slowly to forty while she waited, then swung it down, to crack, loud and vicious, across the softer skin of her lower buttocks. Claire sucked in air, and her hands clenched, gathering up bedclothes as she fought to keep still and presented. She gasped, then sang out loud and clear, “Thirty-two! Thank you, sir!”

I’d wanted to remind her of her place, and bring back the mood we’d had in my office.

But after only that one stroke lust took over. I rolled the condom on and took Claire firmly by her hips, raising her ass a little further.

I pressed forward and my cock slipped easily into her cunt, till I was buried: wetly and tightly held. I took her in one long, slow movement. When I was pressed tight, finally, against the blazing heat of her ass, Claire groaned, low. “Fuuuck! Thank you, god thank you, Master.”

 

Masturbation Monday: Truth is rougher than fiction

Roland said nothing to that, but slowly withdrew his fingers, leaving a generous amount of the lube inside her. This time he coated three fingers with the lube, liberally, and pushed them into her. Her anus made the briefest resistance to this new, more challenging intrusion, and Teresa wriggled briefly on the desk. Roland said, “You all right? Comfortable?”

She smiled, which he wouldn’t see, then nodded. “You take a lot more care than Julian, that’s for sure. He just whacked it in. Poor Tessa. Though there was a hot side to that… On paper, anyway. And the last boy who had his cock up my arse wasn’t all that much better. So I feel cared for. Sir. You can be rougher with me if you need to be.”

“You’ll know when I need to be.” He pushed his fingers further into her muscled tube, past the second knuckle, and held them there for several moments. Then he pushed the fingers all the way inside her, as far as they would go. Her hips moved, and began to churn, back and forth, fucking his fingers while he held them deep in her.

But he withdrew at last, pressing a thigh against hers to make up for that absence, and lubed his cock. He pressed the head against her lube-glistened entrance, then held still. Teresa, still bent over his desk, raised her arse for him and tightened her hands into fists. She knew she was shaking lightly, trembling under him. It wasn’t fear. 

At last she made a questioning noise. Her anal muscles had accepted the head of his cock, and were holding it, tight but comfortably enough; but he wasn’t pressing forward. She wondered how much willpower that took. He said, “Would you like me to fuck your arse, Teresa?”

She made a gurgle of frustration and impatience. So he smacked her again. She was out of her floaty space, so the blow hurt and she yelped. She tried to push back, to impale herself on his cock, and he smacked her again, more firmly.

“Well? I asked you a question?”

Wicked Wednesday: A Glass of Water

I’d just told Claire that she would be naked whenever she was in my house. Claire nodded, wide-eyed. I smacked her cane-welted bottom hard enough to make her yelp, though she didn’t let the cane fall from her mouth. “Sio, you’ve got four more  cane strokes coming now, Claire. Making six, so far. Don’t you think you should acknowledge orders?”

“Oh god, I’m sorry. Yes, sir, of course I do.”

I gave her the robe to carry, and said, “Follow me.” I took her to the door that led into the living room. She looked around, still wide-eyed. It was a comfortable room, the furnishings and paintings old-fashioned, and not, apparently, having any sexual or disciplinary purpose. Two leather armchairs, with rolled arms, faced the fireplace. Mine was an innocent living room, and yet she knew she was not in here for any innocent purposes.

I smacked her ass again and turned her to face the corridor.

“Drop to your hands and knees, Claire. Crawl. The bedroom’s second on the right. Bend over the end of the bed, knees on the floor, well apart. Put the cane between your buttocks and hold it tight, and wait for me. Go!”

Claire mumbled, “Yes, Master”, round her mouthful of cane, and dropped to her knees, breasts bobbing appealingly. Maddie would have liked that moment. She put her hands on the carpet and set off, her ass beautifully round, the jewel of the butt-plug winking at me.

Her brightly savage cane stripes had turned black in spots where two stripes had crossed. The stripes rolled hypnotically as she crawled her way to the bedroom.She stopped, on hands and knees, before disappearing into my bedroom. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve asked so much of you. I really am sorry.” 

I would have liked to tell her she was a good girl, but I thought she’d rather earn the next praise I gave her. Still, I  said, “You’ve also given yourself to me. I treasure that, girl. And I’ll let you know when you displease me. But I’ve accepted you, sorry and all, and I’m going to keep you. So get on with you.” 

I watched her crawl away, plug in her buttocks still winking as she moved. I poured myself a glass of water in the kitchen, taking my time, thinking of Claire placing herself over my bed, and the cane, placed invitingly for me to use. Well, I was thinking of it, and her body, and I knew she’d be very aware of it and the possibilities it opened, too.

 When I judged she’d had enough time to think about her circumstances, I walked to the bedroom. Claire was bent obediently over my bed, hands outstretched, cane held tight between her cheeks. She was aware of my arrival but did not move or speak.

I undressed, and took a condom from my dresser, without speaking. Then I took the cane. She sighed, expecting that I was about to use it. But I said, “You need to be fucked, now, don’t you, Claire?”

Masturbation Monday: I endorse this plan

Roland put his hand on Teresa’s back. His cock pressed against her right thigh. He was very hard. Most of his mind had turned off, too, she expected.

He said, “Of course this is going to hurt. If it didn’t it wouldn’t be real, and it wouldn’t be sexy. So I mean to hurt you, Teresa O’Sullivan. Hurt you personally and particularly and deliberately. If I went lighter it’d just be mildly painful and feel kind of annoying. But if I go harder, your body responds to it. You won’t feel it as pain at all. Ok?”

He let her see his hand, suspended until she replied. She frowned. “That… might be right.” 

He held eye contact with her while his hand landed again across her arse, which was – if his phone camera hadn’t lied – already a blazing red. She could feel its heat. He leant down and kissed her ear.

He whispered, “So don’t you bother complaining that it hurts. Unless you want to turn me on.”

“Mmm. You’re such a cruel boy.”

He put his hand on her back to hold her down, and smacked her hard on the tops of her thighs, adding eleven very fast, very hard smacks while she wailed and squirmed.

“I don’t need to hear from you again, Teresa, until you thank me for your spanking when I’m finished.”

Teresa nodded, bowing her head. The explanation of why a hard spanking hurts less than a mild one was, she knew, Roland’s style. He liked a well informed submissive. But now he was being sexy billionaire Julian again, a man who never apologised and never explained. He pressed one hand just below the nape of her neck, holding her down across his desk while he resumed her spanking.

For a long time the room echoed with the sharp sound of Roland’s hard hand on Teresa’s soft, rounded, flesh and her laboured breathing and her occasional mews, which might have been little cries of pain, or pleasure, or both.

At about what she judged – she wasn’t counting – was the ninetieth or possibly hundredth spank he stopped.Teresae said nothing. She’d found herself, at last, in a strange, floating world of her own, an erotic world in which there was only a continuous heat and knowledge of her own acceptance of that.

It seemed an far away and unimportant fact, that he’d stopped spanking her.

She was aware of events – he pulled out the top drawer of the desk and took out a bottle of lubricant, pouring the gel liberally onto his forefinger and index finger – but she hardly thought of them as having importance to her. Until he pressed against her anal ring, and after a pause and a little more pressure she opened and admitted his fingers. She was still floating after her spanking, and very relaxed.

It felt pleasant and oddly comforting, though in a sense it was far away, barely connected to her. There was nothing Roland could do, just then, that she wouldn’t accept. She had abandoned herself to trust in him. He let the two fingers enter to the second knuckle, spreading the lube inside until she was slick and his fingers moved easily. Then he removed them, coated them again, and re-entered her.

This time Teresa’s eyes opened, and she made a languorous sound. “You’re going to fuck my arse. And give me your come. I, uh, endorse this plan. Oh! And thank-you-for-my-spanking, sir…”

Wicked Wednesday: Owned like a table. Or car.

Claire had gone inside, in her house, to return the bag of shoplifted clothes to under her daughter’s bed. If she returned to the car, then she would get extra strokes of the cane, and be fucked. I didn’t know which she would choose, but I waited without fretting.

And in about eight minutes she was back, running in her little robe lest the neighbours might see her. She’d hurried. I held open the passenger door, and kissed her once she scrambled inside.   

While we drove to my house I said, “Have you ever had a butt-plug in you before, Claire?”

Her face was already red. She knew she’d chosen whatever happened from this point, and believed that only a shameless woman would do that. “No, Master. It feels strange.”

I smiled. “It makes you very aware of yourself. As a possession, not an independent person, all alone.”

Claire considered that. “I don’t think I can say how I feel, Master.  But…. I’m very happy so far. Even though my ass hurts terribly.”

“There’ll be a time, some time tonight, when I ask you to say whether you belong to me. I know what you’ll say. Don’t you?”

“Yes Master. You’ll own me. Like you own a table. Or this car. I look forward to you asking me, sir.”

“Right.” There was a bone-gag in the glove box. I passed it to her. “I’ll tell you when I need to hear from you again.”

She accepted the gag. “Yes, Master.” She sounded puzzled. But she put the plastic bone between her teeth, and tightened the clasp behind her head.

Then we drove on to my place in silence, my passenger butt-plugged, nearly naked, and unable to speak. I squeezed her thigh reassuringly.  

At last I pulled in at my house, the garage door opening for us so I could park under the house. Claire was relieved, I think, to have privacy when she got out of my car. When she scrambled out and waited I took the cane from the back seat, where I’d thrown it.

“Turn around and face the door, Claire.”

She tried to say, “Yes, Masster,” through the gag. It came out as, “Eff affer.” When she had her back to me I unbuckled her gag and removed it, slipping it into my pocket. She worked her mouth. “Thank you, sir.”

I put the cane to her mouth. “Open, and hold the cane for me, Claire.” She obeyed, silently since the cane had replaced the gag, and she guessed that there’d be consequences if she allowed it to fall from her mouth.

Then I pulled the robe back from her shoulders, down until her breasts bounced free, and then let it drop to her feet.

“Pick that up. From now on, whenever you come to this house, this is where you remove your clothing. You’re not allowed to wear clothes in my house. Is that understood, girl?”

Girl. I don’t think it occurred to Claire, at that moment, that she was a couple of years older than me. She bobbed to collect the discarded robe.

Sinful Sunday: The razor strop has work to do

 

 

There’s a story behind that razor strop, and I once started to tell it on this blog. I’m going to get back to it soon. 

But every implement should have more than one story. Here it is in my library, having travelled with me for a couple of thousand kilometres, 

And finding itself with warm, sensual work to do. It helps to create and enhance beauty, among its many other talents. 

 

 

(Model: The lovely Zoë, whose blog is here.)

 

 

Wicked Wednesday: The call of desire

Claire, naked, shamed and caned, butt-plug winking crimson between her striped buttocks, stayed in position, hands on head. We were going through a ceremony together, the shaming of the committed submissive before the next stage, when discipline continues but becomes less painful and more openly and overtly sexual. 

I was pretending to ignore her, though she was beautiful, and her submission and the welts across her ass made her a vibrant sexual presence.

At the same time the clicking of my keyboard was a sign to her that she was not important, just a shamed woman waiting for the next part of her sentence to be pronounced.

Eventually I opened a new document and scrawled in it irrelevantly, just to make the sound of a keyboard while I studied her.

Her head was proud and high at first, but as the minutes passed, feeling the warm pain in her buttocks, and her own apparently ignored nudity, her head dropped, her pride gone. She knew that I thought she’d done no wrong, and had only punished her so she could forgive herself.

She knew that was beautiful and desirable to me. But the physical sensations, and her position have a message that reaches deeper than the conscious mind. 

I approved, though she had plenty to be proud of. Her chubby but muscled ass and upper thighs, showing off her new stripes, some raised, some red and some black, and the butt-plug firmly in place, her raised arms and her breasts and nose touching the wall: they were all powerful sexual signals.

It was ten past three. Her daughter, Tara, would be let out of school in twenty minutes.

I said, “Claire.”

“Yes, Master?” She spoke straight ahead, to the wall. She learned fast. Or she’d thought about giving herself in submission before.

“Put the robe on. We’re going to your place first. Then I’ll take you to mine. You need more, Claire. Isn’t that right?”

“I know you owe me two more strokes, Master.” Then she thought about that answer. “Yes! Of course I need more, Master!” She broke position, and stepped to the clothes rack, taking the robe from its hook.

She realized how little protection it offered, looked at me for a second, aware of my regard for her naked body, and shrugged herself into it. “And… I believe I need fucking, Master?”

I pressed my fingers against her butt plug, getting it a little deeper.

“Good girl. That’s right. Carry these.” I passed her the bags with her clothing, and the clothing her daughter Tara had shoplifted. She took them. They were, in different ways, heavy and meaningful burdens. I picked up the medium cane. She was due two more strokes, though I doubted she could keep it down to just two. 

She was a responsible adult. A mother with a child. A working woman. So I took her by her ear, twisted it till it hurt, and led her, cringing in my grasp, through corridors to the car park where my car waited.

I drove her to her home first, following her directions. I let her get out of the car and didn’t follow her while she put the bag of stolen clothes back under Tara’s bed. If she stayed inside there was nothing I could do about it. There was nothing to make her come back to me. Except desire. I waited.

Lewis Carroll’s Re-Joycings!

 I wrote a series of stories, in which the punchline was always a deeply stupid re-working of the celebratory chortle from Jabberwocky: “Oh frabjous day! Calloo callay!” 

I promised to collect them. 

I thought there were five or six of them, but tragically I can only find four. But here we go! And here they are:

  1. HP Lovecraft rang his friend Lewis Carroll. “My doom is upon me! The Great Dead Old One moved into the Alpine house next door! He’s tentacular, and his Doomed House keeps getting nearer and – AAARRRGH!” Silence. Carroll hung up. He breathed, “Oh frabjous day! Cthulu Chalet!”
  2. Lewis Carroll was concerned that moorland drainage and increased forest growth was leading to the extinction of a species of long-billed, wading birds.  But John Ruskin told him there were still plenty in France. “Oh frabjous day,” breathed Carroll. “Curlews in Calais!”
  3. After Lewis Carroll left the dentist, his fillings started picking a strange radio signal from the future: the B-52s singing “Love Shack”, through a fracture in time. He listened, appalled, and said, “O fractious day! Canoodle chalet?”
  4. Lewis Carroll fell asleep while he was out in his inflatable canoe. It got caught by the wind and blown across the channel. Eventually he saw a guy sunbathing on a beach. He called out, “Where am I?” The Frenchman realised this must be a lost Englishman. He said, “O frabjous day! Canoe to Calais!”

And, just for Jabberwocky re-working fans, here’s one more: 

5.    Lewis Carroll was talking to Dickens, after his triumphant American tour. Dickens told him one of the odder sights was what the Americans called, “eckdysiasts”. “What is that?” asked Carroll. “Essentially, they dance and take their clothes off. After they’ve undressed they still dance, but use balloons to cover certain bits of their bodies.” “Oh frabjous day!” said Carroll. “Balloon ballet!”