Wordsworth once said that poetry is emotion reflected on, during tranquillity. So this is poetry: Everything was movement and heat, barely controlled and pleasurable chaos, just minutes before.
Now, there’s a long moment of peace. She is still, and her mind is still. Her body is warm, and her mind is cool. No thoughts, just body-memories.
Tranquility.
John swung the stick, making an audible impact and leaving a vertical fire-line down her left buttock. Lena shook for a second, though she felt it as heat rather than pain, and arched her back. He was right: she felt very beggy. The rod struck again, leaving a streak of fire where it landed, which slowly calmed to warmth and a kind of mental and bodily peace.
“You know, you have no idea how beautiful you look. And hot.” This wasn’t quite true. She knew she’d made him hard, and that he liked her current posture, prostrated on her knees, with her head touching the carpet between his feet, beyond reason. She waited for the next stroke, but he grasped her hair and pulled her up so her open mouth was level with his cock. Lena rubbed her forehead against that hardness, through his pants, like a cat claiming a human’s hand. He put his hand against the back of her head and held her to him. She waited, and the rod landed again, then again. Lena hissed in breath, then turned to kiss his inner thigh.
With that kiss, some things became urgent. John unbuckled and unzipped. His cock, finally free, pronged the air in the direction of Lena’s nose. She felt his grip tighten on her hair, and he guided her onto his cock. Her lips kissed a soft ring around the head, and he pressed forward. They said, “Hahh,” at more or less the same instant.
Her buttocks and hips burned from the stripes he’d given her. The rod he’d used to inflict them brushed her right shoulder when she took him deep, brushing her nipples against the wool of his pants. She knew that he was happy, and so was she: his cock was velvet stretched over steel, and though it tasted only of skin, it was his skin.
She was sure, though, that she could feel some of the sugared, shaky excitement of his pleasure, through a kind of body reading that comes close to mindreading. She could feel the pleasure that he felt, as well as the heat and joy that came with serving.
She knew she was providing a soft paradise for his cock. He was moving faster in her mouth, loosening his grip on her hair so she had room to move. Her knees hurt a little, and that was good too. She loved serving him, but there was another Lena in her mind, who watched her and considered her, and was excited by the abjectness of her submission. She wished he would bring that rod down again. He was distracted.
This is a hot scene but it’s had to leave my blog because it’s published now, and publishers don’t like their stuff to be available for free. I’ll put up a link to where you can buy this very hot text, shortly.
Stephanie had been sitting in my lap for most of my party. That was complicated, in some ways. We’d been friends while I was with my last girlfriend, and we’d flirted but always safely, because I was committed. But I wasn’t committed any more, and the flirtation wasn’t safe, and we both knew it. We kissed, and the kisses weren’t the friendly kind; they had promise and exploration.
I had my hand under her shirt on her warm belly, kind of indecisively wandering sometimes closer to her cunt and sometimes towards her breasts. I hadn’t made contact or a choice yet, but she knew that I was teasing her, and I was getting smiles for that.
Our position was also complicated because I had a new girlfriend, Maires, and she was at my party too. But Maires also fancied Stephanie (she called her “Stiffener”, knowing the effect she had on me), and because Stephanie was very straight, Maires figured that her best chance was for me to fuck Stephanie first, and then for us bring Maires into bed later.
With negotiation, by Stephanie’s invitation, or it wouldn’t happen. So I had Maires’s blessing for my campaign to get Stephanie’s clothes off and her body into my bed, if I could manage it. She, Maires, could amuse herself with the other party guests in the meantime.
But Stephanie’s and my kisses were getting more intense. She’d twisted her body so she was facing me. Her nipples pressed against my shirt, and she arched her back to press tighter. We paused, eyes closed, and rocked together. I looked at her, and she opened her eyes too. “I really want to fuck you.”
She said, “Can we talk?”
“Of course. My room?”
“Hah. There are people in your room. I’m not ready to throw them out yet, just so you can have your-“
“Wicked way?”
“I hope it’s wicked.”
That was all I needed. I took her hand and helped her up. “We’re going for a walk. Now. It’s a lovely night outside. Moon. Shadows. Kid’s playground across the road.”
“All right.”
So we walked off, Stephanie leading the way, so I could admire her walk in little shorts, cut slightly above the crease of her ass and thighs. Maires was dancing with a guy who’d painted his face red and blue, but she caught my eye, and made an “ok” hand gesture.
It was warm out. I kissed Stephanie, but we’d already been doing that. There was a danger of awkward silence. So I put my hands on her ass, and we pressed together properly. I’d had an erection from about the moment she’d dropped her ass into my lap and we’d had our first kiss. But we’d ignored it. Now it pushed against her lower belly, and I held her tight against me, and it. She sighed. A good sigh. I’d declared myself in every way. Now we had privacy there was no way to not acknowledge our sexual intentions and desires.
So we talked about the things we had to talk about. I had Maires’s permission for my current disgraceful behaviour. Stephanie knew that Maires wanted her as well. And she’d never been with a girl, but she liked Maires. She also wanted to know: was I going to fall in love with her, Stephanie, if she came to bed? I said I probably wouldn’t; at least we should start with friendship and fucks.
She wanted me to wait until the party had emptied a bit before she came to bed. Even by the standards of this provincial university town in a cold climate, where students sometimes fucked simply to save on heating costs, Maires and I were pushing the envelope a little. There’d be gossip, and Stephanie wanted deniability.
I nodded. “Ok. It’s after midnight. Give it another half an hour. Then we’ll come back, I’ll put on early Yoko Ono and everyone will say, oh that’s really cool! And then they’ll leave, fast as they can. I don’t think she broke up the Beatles, but she sure can break up a party. Then we can fuck in bed and comfort. And if Maires hasn’t scored with the red and blue guy, she’ll come in later.”
“How will that be?”
“Wonderful! Oh, I see. It’ll be cuddly. It’ll be kissy. It’ll be all warm bodies rolling round. Me wishing I could have my cock in both of you at once. And what you do then is up to you. I know she’d like – Well, she’s good at cunnilingus. And she likes it a lot. I mean, giving.”
“Oh yeah. Do you know how many boys have told me that about their girlfriends?”
“God. Is that a thing, is it?”
“No. The answer is: none at all. Ever. No one has ever said that to me. I’ve never met a guy who’d think he had information to go on, to judge that.”
“Um.” Maires and I had actually met in a threesome.
Stephanie had her eyebrows up. “Or would talk about it if they could. It’s the gossip thing. You two could be forgetting how weird you are.”
“Good weird.”
“I’ll believe it for now. So what do we do for half an hour?”
“We play a game. Simon says.”
“Hmm. Dangerous. But it figures. Ok.”
“Good. I’m Simon. Lift your hands up. And keep still.”
“Hmm.” But she did as she was told.
She wore a white blouse of rough cotton. It was cold out, but it was beautiful and we were turned on. Magic was the warmth. She watched me, gravely, while I undid her buttons and took the shirt off, over her arms.
“Ok. Can I be Simon now?”
“No. There’s only one Simon. But you can tell me what you want.”
“Then, take your jeans off. We’re going to the playground. I’m going to be topless. You can keep your underpants on.”
“Um.” It’s always interesting, when you think you’re leading, and you get leapfrogged.
So I dropped my jeans, and stuffed them into the mailbox. It was cold, and it didn’t matter at all. I dropped Stephanie’s shirt in there too, trying to keep it relatively uncreased. And I got her bra off before we passed the gate, so it went in there too.
So we raced across the road, looking frankly stupid, with my cock waggling about, not entirely contained in underpants. But we felt sure that no-one else was going to be watching the neighbourhood at that hour and climate.
So at the playground Stephanie plonked herself on one of the swings and demanded pushes. She got them.
Note
I just can’t do short short stories. I tried. Sorry. But I hope you’re enjoying yourself so far. And it gets more climactic this time next week. That episode’s here.
A dancer’s grace. A submissive’s promise.
A world of knowledge and thought, ancient and recent.
Erudite Elegance.
And not so far away, quite close to the camera, in fact, an Erection.
I’m a writer. For money I mostly write about things like water distribution rights, health policy, social housing and other things for organisations who pay me for the research and writing work.
This is what happens to starving writers. Thomas Chatterton, dying in his garret. The model, oddly enough, is George Meredith, who was also a starving poet when he posed for this.
You don’t want me to die in a garret, in my snazzy blue pants, do you?
But I’d like to complete the shift to being a purely creative writer, who makes a living by selling stories I want to tell.
I’ve written a non-fiction book on bdsm, and two novels. I’ve put off the actual selling part of the writer’s job, because although I’ve sold many other products for paying customers, self-promotion doesn’t come naturally to me.
But you can help me, and it won’t cost you a cent. Please subscribe to this blog!
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I know that about 2,300 people visit my blog each week. The value of subscribing, for you, is that you get notified by email of my posts as they come out. I post four times a week, and the posts tend to tell stories, sometimes sexy, sometimes funny, sometimes both. I also write occasional information and opinion pieces, though mostly I’m a story-teller.
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Note
The previous episode is here.
The story so far is that I took my slavegirl Arethusa to the local bdsm club, Club Bento, after months of begging.
I’m running this “Arethusa and the late essay” pic again, because I’m quite proud of my aim and spacing.
It took months because I was monitoring her university work, and she kept fucking up and having to be caned, and then grounded. Finally, she was good, handing in all essays and studying for her tests, for a whole month! A Master’s life is hard, but at last I could reward her!
We met Delores there, an ex of mine, who was showing the club to a girl called Cash, who turned out to be yet another ex.
Cash was Qing, when I’d first known her, and she was still dressing like a mainlander Chinese girl from a small city. Because back then she was. (You should hear what diaspora Chinese say about mainlanders. Hollywood writers being rude about the deep South doesn’t even come close.)
In the years since we’d lost touch she’d transformed herself into a zippy, leatherette, platinum blonde bobbed style icon, who moved at twice the speed of everyone else, though I bet she had less amphetamine in her system than most people there.
They hadn’t actually kissed yet (they would later, in Arethusa’s and my kitchen and bed), but this was on their minds five or so seconds after they’d met
So we all met, and I introduced Arethusa to Delores and Cash. Cash and Arethusa contracted a case of lust at first sight, while Arethusa and Delores didn’t hit it off.
I took Arethusa into the dark part of the club, to feed her champagne while fingering her under her tutu, keeping her close to coming but not giving permission.
Delores went looking for a man to bruise and fuck her. Cash picked up a girl on the dancefloor, and dragged her off to the women’s toilets to facefuck her up against the wall. Then Cash went back to gthe dancing, followed by the girl, who was smitten, and then by the girl’s master, who sensed a threesome.
Cash didn’t want any part of his body anywhere near her body, but she wanted to be polite, for the girl’s sake more than his. So she said she’d love to, but she’d have to get permission from her Mistress.
Now read on.
The Kiss 7
Delores (now we’re following this story from her point of view again) was also a girl who’d come from a small town, but she’d never re-packaged herself as a big-city girl the way Cash had.
She still thought it weird that girls might want sexy stuff with girls, when there are men around. She had many lesbian and gay friends, who loved her and who she loved. She genuinely was not a bigot. It was just she had no perspective from which same-sex desire made any sense to her.
Similarly, she was submissive and that’s that. She was assertive in her life, with her children and her work and so on, but in a bdsm context she couldn’t switch to save her life. She could no more spank another submissive, or give one an order, than she could flap her arms and fly.
Cash kissing Delores (Cash’s perspective)
So she was a bit taken aback when Cash raced up to her, kissed her passionately on the lips, and whispered, “I’m going to call you Mistress and ask you for something. You have to answer no. Save my life. Ok? Just say no!”
So Delores wiped the girl-kiss off her lips, and said, “Just say no… What? To drugs?”
But the dazed girl and her Master arrived. Out loud, Cash said, “Mistress, darling Mistress, can I please go off with these two tonight?”
So Delores, still thoroughly confused, saw the girl and her Master, there waiting for her permission, which gave her an inkling of the problem. So she gathered up all her wits, and said in the most Dommely voice she could manage, “No.”
Cash whined, “Pleeeeease?”
“No. No, you may not go off with… these two tonight.” It was the most unconvincing domme voice ever heard, according to both Delores’s and Cash’s account, but it was enough to disappoint the dazed girl and her Master. They were sad, but they knew they’d won Cash over, and their threesome had only been thwarted by the despotic and arbitrary rulings of a jealous and mean ol’ Domme.
At least, they thought they knew that, and that made them feel better. So they slunk back onto the dancefloor, and paid more attention to each other. They’d both just been certified sexy, by an independent party. The girl more than her Master, but his honour was satisfied.
Meanwhile Delores was still giving Cash the thousand-yard stare. “What,” she asked, “the buggering hell was that about?”
Cash kissing Delores (Delores’s perspective)
Girlgerms!
So Cash explained, the pick-up on the dancefloor had led to Cash fucking the girl with her face, in the women’s toilets, and the girl’s Master wanting Cash to go off with them, and she didn’t want the Master to get shitty with his girl because she’d scored with Cash and he hadn’t.
So she’d done the right thing to get everybody out of a difficult situation.
And hey, thanks for your help, Delores, that “no” of yours was really powerful, just like the real thing.
But Delores hadn’t got past the “face-fuck in the toilets” part of Cash’s story yet. “And… you kissed me with THAT mouth?”
[The End.]
Another note:
Obviously, that’s where that story has to end. More events happened, when Arethusa and Cash and I went off together a bit later, and our night together. That was a steamy night, and some time it’ll make a good story too. In a different way.
But next Wicked Week, I’m going back to fiction, and Maddie’s saga with her Wicked Headmaster.
