“if I do hear you guilt-tripping again, then you’ll be back here.”
“I do understand, Master.”
“Or I’ll deal with you at my home. I don’t make empty threats.” But I held her tight against me. I was hard for her now.
“Will you fuck me, Master? Please. I need your cock in me. Including where … that glass thing is.”
“I think I can safely promise that. I want you very much.” I checked my watch. It was only ten to three. So very much had happened, so very quickly.
Tender in the night. The beautiful Zoë. She glows.
I don’t like saying this, because it’s so unlikeable, but I am scarily intelligent. When I was 11, I was top of the school at Maths by a sufficiently terrifying margin, I’d read all of the surviving dialogues of Plato, and the books attributed to Aristotle, and I’d worked my way through Principia Mathematica and found the joke at theorem 110.643. I’d read more English literature than my English Lit teacher. I’d decided that I was going to be either a poet or a philosopher.
But the girls around weren’t exactly interested in any of that. And I realised, looking at the underside of Debbie Brown’s thigh when she crossed her legs, that I was really, intensely, focussedly interested in girls. So I tried to talk to them more and make friends. And I hoped I’d get a girlfriend, and we could kiss and hug and stuff. Maybe I could stroke her thighs.
But I had no small talk at all. I only knew how to talk seriously about big topics. I didn’t watch TV, and barely knew anything about pop music, except that the Beatles had been good, and kind of unusual. I was a Beethoven, Mozart and Wagner guy. I couldn’t dance.
So I bought a stack of albums so I knew Bowie from Beck, and both from a hole in the ground. I bought some magazines that talked about people on TV as if they were real people, and studied them. I learned to gossip. I had my hair plaited. I learned to say mildly amusing things, without trying to be Oscar Wilde.
It took about a year, because the girls at my school remembered the little professor, and he wasn’t boyfriend material. Also, I still couldn’t manage to pretend interest in sports or belief in any religion, and I sometimes let it slip that I thought both were boring and stupid.
So my first girlfriend was a new girl, who’d just transferred from another school. I made some missteps, like taking her to a film society screening, but next time we went to the beach. And she, bless her soul, taught me to kiss, which was a head-spinning sexual revelation.
And she taught me how to be interested in everything she thought and felt. So I was 13, with a girlfriend.
I should say that it’s not that I thought girls were dumber than me. It was that my IQ was off the charts. At that school, everyone was dumber than me. But I didn’t care about the guys. I know that saying so is not very likeable.
So I had transformed myself from an intellectual who was never going to get laid, or at least not for years, into some sort of would-be hipster, who was obviously faking it but who could usually more or less pass. There were rewards, obviously. Sexual desire has always been the most important motivation in my life, and the new version of me, the new guy, got laid.
But there were costs, too. I had to hide, or at least tuck away, quite a lot of who I was and what interested me. At university I had a lot of wonderful sexual adventures, but not marks that identified me as all that smart.
I don’t think I regret the self-transformation. But who knows what would have happened if I hadn’t done it?
I think I’d have spiralled further away from people, becoming more and more eccentric. And maybe become famous for solving some abstruse intellectual problem. I can’t imagine which one, now. I’m not that man.
Claire said, “I wish… I wish you’d be mine. I mean my Master. Even if only for a while. But I need someone guiding me at the moment. Standing behind me. For me. I’ve gone so wrong.”
I said, “Then you’re under me, until further notice. You may call me Master. And your first order is to remember that your past is paid for. In full. If I hear you express any guilt about fucking that guy, ever again, we’ll go through this once more. Understood?”
Claire closed her eyes. At last she said, “Understood. Master.”
In Roland’s bed, Teresa rested her bottom on the sheets, finding the heat and slight soreness from her spanking unexpectedly pleasant, and lay back. Roland was only seconds behind her, and he said nothing. He lifted her knees and then parted them, his body pressing urgent between her thighs.
He still said nothing as he entered her, not slowly or gently. He fucked her energetically though warily, pushing her head to the side whenever she got her teeth too close to his chest.
Pleasure built within her, steadily and then suddenly, so she felt as if she’d been caught by a huge wave and she knew no way of getting down safely before it crested.
She opened her eyes, head resting back on the pillow, and gazed at him almost in terror.
Something gave in her, then, with Roland still riding her hard, held firmly by her thighs, his hand on her mouth to stop her from biting. Teresa struggled against him, making frantic, incoherent noises. He grazed her nipples with his teeth, and when that sensation reached her cunt and her brain she came. Her mouth wrenched open and she cried her orgasm syllables, “Tard ah! Ahh! Kit too!”
Roland grunted, as if he were pleased with her and himself, and sped up, while Teresa still felt aftershocks, a series of smaller orgasms. He tensed, making his own high-pitched sound through his nose when he came. They lay together, Teresa taking his full weight on her body, looking up at him tenderly and hoping to find that tenderness reflected back at her.
But Roland still had his hands under her arse, holding her tight and still moving in her. He was spent but not yet tender. At last he slipped them out and used them to support himself. Teresa took a deep breath, now that she could.
He smiled down at her. There it was: tenderness. Her heart was still pounding.
At last he rolled off her and lay on his back. Teresa took another hard breath, to celebrate, and let it out slowly. She kissed his shoulder. They were peaceful, and they had nothing to say. She turned onto her side and curled towards him, her leg over his, for comfort and possession.
“No, of course I haven’t finished dealing with you. Stay where you are until I call you. And if you let that cane fall?”
“I’ll get double, Master?”
“At least. And the same again tomorrow. So… don’t. Just stand still and wait.”
She was learning, the hard way, that I wouldn’t accept her not telling me an assignment is due, and then missing the deadline. She’d do the assignment after punishment, and she’d hand it in, though lateness meant it would only be marked out of 80%.
And she’d be sitting very uncomfortably while she did the work.
As usual I pretended to do other things, but really I just watched her. The beauty of her submission, and the bright blush of her well-spanked ass. She made my living room beautiful.
Love had everything to do with it. But love sometimes hurts.
Photo courtesy of Deviant Succubus
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Breast cancer awareness – check your boobs
Metamorphosis: Fat, Fit and In Between
Contraception- life without birth control
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!
Take It To The Limit
Marshmallows
Spank me Red
Custom Made Cuckold Porn
Control
The Image (1975): The Celluloid Dungeon
Return to CMnf
Latex for the Curious – Catsuits
Negotiating a stunt cock
Ruby Ring Piece
13 reasons why I love play parties
You Got a Piercing Where?
Alice’s Minotaur: A Ravishment Tale
Shadow of You
Punished
The Jealous Wife
What we both want
Rugby world cup I only care about the fucking
The Red Thread
Frigid
Loosing My Virginity
5 things that encourage Dominance
My Happy Place is an 80s (Sex) Mansion
Sex Work – How My Views Have Changed
Golden Brown
Paradise Lost – Vale Sir Lust
My Nexplanon Implant Story: The Procedure
So I kissed her mouth, and we held each other like lovers. She could feel me hardening for her. Because the sexiest thing, between her and I, as the punished and the punisher, was not her beautiful naked body.
Nor her helpless presentation over my desk, or her gasps and stripes as the cane did its work, wonderfully hot though those things all were, but her acceptance and submission. We were going to take each other, fiercely, s soon as possible after this had finished. I knew she felt that desire too, that powerful sexual heat from her own submission. We didn’t speak about it.
Roland had just told Teresa that he wasn’t going to let her into his flat any more, or not with clothes on. She wasn’t sure he really meant that. There were practical objections; she was sure she could think of several. But there was only one sexy answer, and just then the sexy answer was the only one possible. Teresa said, “Yes, sir.”
He knew, his grin said, that he was being silly. But at the same time, he’d meant what he said. He said, “My bedroom’s down that corridor. First on the left. Bed, Teresa. Now.”
Teresa turned to obey. She took a step, then stopped. “You should take photos of my arse.”
“I suppose so. This is your first spanking, at least from me–”
“No, that makes it the first. At all. Don’t forget that you’re a weirdo. Statistically speaking.”
“But it’s not going to be the last, is it?”
Teresa looked back at him. “I’ve got a feeling it might not be.”
“So, hold still. You’re right: you should have a photo of your first. Put your hands on your head.”
“Yeah? Why?”
Roland looked surprised. “In all honesty, I don’t actually know. It just makes you look sexy.”
Looking sexy was no bad thing. Teresa obeyed, and watched him gawk at her. Then he took her in with his phone camera. “Yeah. First photo. Teresa spanked. The day your life changed, and you became accountable to me.”
She turned back to face him. “Oh?”
“Don’t you think?” Then he suddenly looked much, much less cheerful. “Sorry, I should have said that better. I wasn’t really thinking, and I just blurted out what I feel. I’m sorry. So this is a question: do you feel that you’d like to be accountable to me?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “You mean you’ll beat my ass if I don’t do as I’m told?” She tried to make that sound absurd. She knew that in this room, with just the two of them, it didn’t sound absurd at all. It didn’t even sound wrong.
“That’s exactly what I mean. And more. Well?”
“Then yes, ok. I do. And more.” She thought for several long moments about what she felt like saying, and then said it. “Sir.”
“Also, I should take more photos of your arse right now because you look incredibly sexy. Now stand in the corner.”
Teresa moved to the corner, glancing facing back at him. “This better?”
“You look spectacular. Just … debauched.”
“Heh. I’m ‘debauched’. You’re the pervert. Can I move now?”
“No. Stay there. And look pretty. And… hold.”
She heard him taking photos, from different angles.
Eventually he smacked her bottom, lightly, with his phone. “Off you go, spank-victim. Bedroom on the left.”
The beautiful Zoë bends over a prie-dieu. Waiting for the riding crop.
The prie-dieu was once a religious tool, for waiting humbly while addressing a god: why is life so hard? Why are you punishing me? How can I serve you better?
I saw this one in an antique shop somewhere in the Australian outback, and immediately knew that I had to have it, for depraved, kinky purposes. The overlap between religion and bdsm is deep and emotionally complex. But it’s not today’s topic.
Today’s topic is peace. There’s always great calm before the storm, and there’s a different kind of calm afterwards. So here she is: beautiful, calm, conscious of the future.