Monica’s knees

Monica undid my pants, and pulled them and my underpants down below my knees. My cock flicked free, bobbing about near her mouth. She touched the head with her tongue and of course it flicked higher. She had to reach and take it firmly in her left hand, so she could kiss the end, her lips wonderfully soft, without it leaping out of range.  I helpfully pulled her t-shirt off, so she was naked on her knees to a clothed man. It seemed right. 

When her arms were free of the t-shirt she said, “Nice cock.” Then she moved forward and took the glans into her mouth.

I said, as men will under those conditions, “Ah.” I tried and mostly managed not to move. Partly that was because I didn’t want to seem rude, and discourage her from sucking my cock at all, and partly because I liked the idea of her doing all the work. At this stage.

I thought, as she moved forward and took more of me into her mouth, still tonguing and licking me, more than sucking, about her saying my cock was nice. I’ve always been puzzled by that, when women say it to me.

A cock is a cock, if you ask me, and I can’t see how one is nicer than another, though it might be bigger or smaller than average. Maybe there’s something loveable about mine, or maybe it’s just something that some women say to all guys, once cock becomes an issue at all.

I don’t know, and I’ve never queried it. 

I swung the belt down, not hard, so it slapped her bottom, vertically, and wrapped down the underbum to her left thigh. She made a noise of surprise rather than pain, and I did it again, but on her right. She said, round the cock in her mouth, “Why you whipping me?”

“Make you feel good. You’re not just serving me, you’re under my discipline. And the belt helps you know that. Feel it.”

Monica licked the underside of my cock. “Interesting.”

Then she took me deep, all the way into her mouth, so it was jammed into her throat. I said nothing, but my legs were shaking. I reached down at last and took a handful of her hair and pulled. She made a sound of acknowledgement: that was right, and expected.

I began to control her movements, moving her forward and back while I thrust in her, fucking her mouth and throat. I gave her two more strokes with the belt, and she took that as encouragement, sucking harder and moving her head faster, only partly under my direction. So I gave her two more. Her mouth opened a little at each impact, as she gasped lightly, then resumed her task.

Monica put her hands on the backs of my thighs, and sucked hard. She wanted to show she was good at this, and she was. I looked down at her striped backside.

Vertical stripes crossed the earlier horizontal ones, so that her ass was marked out like a noughts and crosses game. Or two.

Danny the cat was watching this, the human female apparently serving the male, receiving pain as her reward and apparently enjoying that. He might remember that scenario, from the days he still had his balls. He moved, ignoring hs mistress, and began wrapping his body round my feet and ankles. Monica and I both noticed. She did eye contact and I shook my head. I had no idea what he was up to either. Cats are weird.

Monica said urgently, while my cock pistoned in her, “Belt!”

I’d forgotten my duty. I laid down four more strokes, while she took me deep and hard. And, of course, the force both of her service and her submission was too much for me.

I started to say, “I think I’m about -” And then I came, body shaking with the sugary sweetness of it, and thrust and spurted into her mouth, while she sucked hard, urgently trying to take it all, and not spill. I thought she’d expect to be punished if she let a drop escape. She was probably right.

I released Monica’s hair and caressed her face. She had her head down now, focussed on sucking and licking my cock clean. She smiled up at me at last, and put her tongue out, so I could see my come on it. I said, “Swallow.”

She did. “Yes, sir.” Then returned to nuzzling my cock, now going soft in her mouth. 

I said, “Well, bed, I suppose. Though I’m not going to be able to fuck you for at least an hour.”

Monica released my cock at last, and shooed Danny. He made his way to the top of the fridge so he could glare down at us. “We’ll be able to pass that hour pleasantly enough. Anyway, sir, I think I know how I can get you hard, whenever I like.” 

I helped her up, then held her to me while I smacked her bottom, six times, with my hand. Monica made no complaint, and didn’t squirm. She just arched her bottom out to make a better target for me. They weren’t light spanks but she was laughingAnd she was right. I could feel signs of returning penile interest, a little flow of blood. Though I still couldn’t manage an erection just yet.It had been years since  I’d been a teenager.

I looked around her kitchen and saw a wooden spoon on the shelf with eggbeater and the grater.I took it in the same hand that held her belt. I looked at her. She smiled, knowing what the spoon was for. 

So I said, “Yeah. Have you ever had this used on your perfect little ass?”

“You’re my first pervert. Sir.” She grinned. Calling me ‘sir’ was silly. As well as hot. “So, no. I’m a wooden spoon virgin.”

“Lovely! Well, I think I’ll give you a hundred strokes with this.”

“And then you’ll be hard enough to fuck me, won’t you? Sir.”

“I expect so, Monica. Bed.”  

Sinful Sunday: A Hard Lesson

About half of Arethusa’s canings were punishment canings, while the other half were just for the sex of it. Punishment canings tended to be a little bit harder, and I was usually growly and lecture-y throughout, so she knew she’d been a bad girl. She didn’t like to disappoint her Master, so that made the strokes hurt more.

This one was for being late with a university assignment. That had happened before, and it was time to drive that lesson home. So this was a hard caning, and there were more strokes to come. 

But even punishment resolves into sex, eventually. She was watching me, for most of it in the mirror, and she said she loved the way my cock got harder, just at the moment of delivering each stroke. “Glee!” she said, when it was safe to say things like that. “You love caning me, and … your cock and your face: it’s just glee!”

Arethusa was very seldom wrong. Except about getting her assignments in on time.

 

 

 

 

Monica’s home, and puss

Monica’s place in Annandale was part of a tiny bungalow, down a long path and dwarfed by trees. It had been subdivided by a landlord of exceptional greed, so her section comprised an alcove with a sink, a fridge and a stove, a small living room, and beyond that a door that must lead into her bedroom.

I’d expected her to live with other people, arty and theatre people, but where she was. She touched my cock again, to make sure I didn’t get bored and wander off. So I said, “Take those jeans off.” 

She looked at me. It wasn’t a hard order to obey, since she intended to do that soon anyway. But now it had meaning, and she thought about that. But I didn’t want her hesitating, so I put an arm round her waist, pulled her to me, and smacked her bottom three times with my other hand. “Now, Monica! And call me Sir.” 

She grinned. “Oh yeah. Yes. Sir.” She undid the button, all she needed to do because I still had her belt. She pulled the jeans down past her arse, let them drop to her ankles and stepped out. 

She said, “Puss! Puss! Puss! Danny! Food!” Then turned to the fridge and opened the door. I tugged her panties down to her thighs while she doled out cat biscuits and some ends of meat, and water into Danny’s dishes.

I’d done a better job than I’d thought when I’d belted her arse in the taxi. She had four pink but clearly defined stripes on her lower bottom, where I’d had to whip her through her jeans. The first two stripes, delivered on higher, bare skin, blazed merrily red. Her arse was a cheering, rousing sight, and I smacked her again. She turned to face me and said, “Does it show? Photo?”

“Yes, right now it’s kind of obvious you’ve been a bad girl.” I took out my phone. “Turn round again and I’ll show you.”

As she turned, there was loud yowling from behind the catflap. Then, as I took photos of Monica’s perfect and nicely striped little arse, the flap burst open and Danny stalked in, coal black, ignoring us, to guzzle deep in the food bowls. 

Monica said, “Rude boy. Greedy guts. I suppose I should say I don’t mean you. Sir.”

“Probably. Here.” I held the phone so she could inspect the studies I’d just taken of her whipped arse.

“Wow. I know you like those, sir. Or you wouldn’t have put them there. Actually they do look sexy as fuck. They feel nice and warm too.”

I confirmed that, putting my hand on her lower bottom, squeezing, then nodding. 

“Would you send me those shots? Please sir?”

“Yeah.” We did the exchange of phone numbers, and she took on seven studies of her bare, belted bottom.

She said, “My first whipping. Also, it’s the most spectacular molesting I’ve ever had in a taxi.”  

“Yes. Not the last, I think. Whipping or molesting. You’ll have to open a file to keep them in. Monica’s library.”

Monica grinned, but Danny, a black cat, was glaring. Not because I’d whipped his mistress, but because I was there at all, hogging all the attention. I crouched and gave him my hand to sniff. When he seemed to think I was acceptable I scratched behind his ear. Cats are sluts.

“Oh dear,” said Monica. “But at least you know what to do with pusses.”

“Puss-es?”

“Don’t like ‘pussy’. I mostly say cunt. Or puss. You did OK with mine. In a taxi. But I’ve brought you home to molest me again.”  

I stroked Monica’s own puss, or cunt, then slid my fingers inside. She was still a wet girl. She closed her eyes and leaned against me, letting my fingers work in that sweet, tight, clinging space. Her panties fell the rest of their way down her legs, but she didn’t bother to step out of them. She said, “Uh.”, and rested her head on my chest.

Eventually she regained consciousness, shaking slightly. “Danny’s shocked.”

“Only one way to deal with that.” I let her belt down, so it was full length rather than doubled over. “On your knees, Monica.” 

“Danny will be appalled!” I held up the belt. I was too polite to say so, but it was clear her next six wouldn’t be long in coming. Nor would she. Monica dropped to her knees, kissed the hard lump in the front of my pants, and undid my fly. “I think there’s a cock in here.”

 

Sinful Sunday: Chiaroscuro

Chiaroscuro is strong contrasts between light and dark, the contrasting light giving fullness and body to the image.

Here’s the beautiiful Zoe in a painter’s home, framing herself with the ladder and the mirror. The light and her beauty do the rest.

 

Monica gets her arse belted, in a taxi

Monica looked at her belt in my hand. Then she looked at me.

I smiled at her. “I’m going to do a magic trick.”

“Oh?”

“Turning a bad girl into a good girl. Turn over, Monica, and look out the back window.” 

“Just a moment.” Monica kissed me, so I kissed her back, as was only fair. We were snogging in a taxi. Suddenly we were ordinary. Monica touched my cock, and grinned while still kissing me. She was giving me power over her, but my cock was hard because of her: even without hypnosis, she had power over me too.

Then she broke away, still stroking my cock. Her eyes were innocent. “Am I really such a bad girl?”

We were still whispering. There was a taxi driver in the front seat, wrestling with the traffic. “Bad enough to deserve this belt. Now turn around. Knees on the seat.”

“A woman can’t ‘deserve’ to have her arse belted. She can decide that it might be hot.” 

“I’m not going to argue with that. It’s true in a way. But I bet you’ll come to see that it’s not true, as well.”

“I see. Like mind control. This is a bit like hypnosis, isn’t it?”

But she was delaying things I felt urgent about. “Knees on the seat, Monica. Now, or I’ll pull you over my knee. And that’ll get the action into his rear vision mirror.”

Monica nodded. “Strict.” She turned and climbed onto the seat, looking out the taxi’s back window as instructed.

I whispered, “Hot. And you said if I’m strict, what do you call me?”

“Sir, sir.” There was something almost orgasmically pleasurable in hearing her say that. It conceded and promised me so much. I wondered if it had felt as hot to say it. I decided to assume that it was close. I tugged her jeans down a little further, so they left, clumsily covered, the under curves of her bottom.

I whispered, “First one’s on bare skin. The way it has to be. You keep your mouth closed, girl, till I’m done.

Monica nodded. Mouth closed, lips pursed. I folded her belt in two and wrapped it once round my hand so the swinging part was short: I didn’t have a lot of room. I swung it back, and then struck.

The leather cracked across the fullest part of that beautiful little bottom, deeply curved. Monica’s head jolted up, eyes wide, and her mouth open.

But she stayed silent, so I didn’t punish her for that.

The second stroke was about three centimetres higher. It was as loud as the first, but though I’d made sure it hurt, Monica was less surprised by the pain. Her eyes were still wide, but she kept her mouth closed. I wanted to kiss her.

As Monica’s hand edged down to reach under her belly and stroke her cunt, the driver said, “Uh, you guys OK there?”

I said, “Oh, fine. She just looking in her briefcase. It’s got a ridiculously loud catch. Sorry.”

“Uh huh.” The driver had heard bullshit before, but he couldn’t risk turning round, not in this traffic.

I laid the last four strokes across Monica’s underbum, protected by her bunched jeans. I made the strokes harder to compensate, but it was clear that, with Monica’s hand pressing and working on her cunt, it didn’t hurt her any more. Her mouth was open again, and she seemed … happy.    

After the sixth stroke I said, not whispered, “Good girl.” I tugged her jeans up, then smacked her with my hand.

Monica did up the top button, then turned and sank back onto the seat. “Thank you, sir. Yeah, I felt that.”

I reached for her and we kissed again. She looked at me. “You’re weird. That’s so not proper behaviour.” 

“Is that a complaint?” I still had her belt in my hand. 

“It is as far from a complaint as I can manage. Sir. You can,”- she dropped her voice – “whip me in a taxi any time you feel like it.”

 “I know.” 

“Ha! Said Han Solo. Um, we’re getting close. I mean, to my place.” 

I paid the driver. There was five bucks’ change, and he put that into his pocket, letting me know he wasn’t asking. As we got out of the cab he said, “Nice briefcase.”

We had, of course, no briefcase. And I still had Monica’s belt in my hand. I shrugged and smiled at him. He didn’t know what had just happened, but he knew he’d missed it. He didn’t smile.

Monica said, “Thank you! It’s a magic briefcase, and only a very pure taxi driver can see it.” I bet that was her stage hypnotist voice, but it didn’t seem to be working. He waved once, and drove off.

I took her hand. “Let’s get you home.” 

Sinful Sunday: Spread

Arethusa. She’s been paddled. And fucked. 

Right now, catlike, she’s sleeping, despite her unrestful position, and the fact that she can’t move. 

But her Master hasn’t undone her bonds yet. They both know one important thing, though they know it from different sides: there’s more to come. 

But first, sleep. I loved the way she always fell asleep after deep D/s sex. She’d given her all, holding nothing back, and she always conked out for a while afterwards. 

 

 

 

Monica gets her ass into a taxi

Monica slipped her hand into my back pocket while we walked to the taxi ramp. She said, “I bet you’re NSIT.” 

“What in the world is that?” 

“Schoolgirl code. I went to a very snobby school. We’d give each other warnings about boys. That one means ‘Not Safe in Taxis.'”

“Oh. Then I must be NSA.”

She frowned. “Funnily enough, we had that too. Did you mean ‘Not Safe Anywhere’?”

“Yup.” I tried to sound smug. 

“Oh,” she said. “An NSA man. Oh no. Help.”

“Take your belt off and give it to me.”

She stopped walking and looked at me. “Why?”

“First, I think you should do as you’re told. It’s more fun, and it’s safer for the state of your arse, and arguably your dignity.”

“Ok…” She didn’t sound at all convinced, but she undid the catch on her narrow, black leather belt and passed it to me.

I took it from her, and dropped it into my jacket pocket. “It’s so I can wallop your arse with it in the taxi, if you don’t do as you’re told.”

“You’re hoping I’ll take that as a dare, ren’t you?”

I kissed her. “I’m hoping you’re a good girl. But I’ll know what to do if you aren’t.”

“Hmmm…” Calculation was going on, behind that forehead. I didn’t mind which she chose, but I supposed it mattered more to her.

We were close to the ramp now. There were no cars there. While we waited, I said, “In the taxi you’ll undo the button of your jeans and tug them down a little.”

“So you can, ah, ‘wallop’ my poor arse?”

“Actually, it’s so I can keep my fingers warm and wet till we get to your place. Might keep you wet too. So I’d advise you to sit where the driver can’t see you in the mirror.”

She grinned. “You’re a very rude boy. Even by my standards.”

A taxi pulled up. She got in and sketched over to the right, where she wasn’t in the mirror or the camera. I sat in the middle of the back seat, so I could reach. “And you’re a rude girl.”

The driver said, “Where we going?”

Monica gave an address in Annandale. Then she looked at me, making sure I was watching while she undid the button on her jeans, and wriggled a little while she tugged them part-way down.

The driver said, “Annandale.” We were off.

I put my hand into her pants, and found the nicely damp gusset of her panties, and pulled that aside to reach soft, feminine flesh below.

I smiled and said, “Good girl. Also beautiful,” and slid two fingers into her. She was nicely wet, and she squirmed.

She said, “Uh,” when those fingers entered her, and then, a few seconds later, while I lightly finger-fucked her, “Ooooh.”

Monica whispered, “The driver…”

I kissed her, fingers still wetly held, slowly moving. I pressed deep into her, held it and then very slowly withdrew, and Monica seemed to lose her train of thought. I whispered, “Can’t see you. Or my hand.”

Actually, the taxi smelled headily of female arousal, and probably male, too. But there was a faint acrid smell of tobacco in that cab: the driver was a smoker. I thought there should be a new health warning: “Every cigarette is making it harder for you to smell turned-on girls.” 

I chuckled at the thought. I hate the word “chuckled”, but that’s what I did. Monica whispered, “What?” 

“Tell you later. Spread your legs more.” 

Monica closed her thighs on my hand. She looked at me, amused. I whispered, “No, spread them.”

She squeezed her thighs on my hand. It was far from unpleasant. But she’d dared me to belt her in a taxi, and I was going to have to do it. Traffic was terrible. We were still a long way from Annandale. I took her belt from my pocket.

Silhouette Sunday

Cheating a bit on the silhouette front. But the mix of that sharp outline of Arethusa’s body, and her sweet thighs, is too good to pass up. 

Your humble photographer appears in this one. Because if you’re going to sneak into the women’s changing rooms because you’re buying your slavegirl some lingerie …

Well, you take pictures, and that’s that. 

 

 

Sinful Sunday: Punishment and pleasure: is there even a difference?

Punishment is over. Arethusa’s Master had plans to take advantage of her nicely warmed ass, but he got a work call and had to go and sit at his computer, doing stuff he’d rather not be doing just then. 

But at last he returns. He trod softly, because he thought Arethusa might be asleep. But she’s not.

She’s quietly pleasuring herself, without waiting for Master. He watches her ass rise and fall, because that’s always worth watching. And, still quietly, he picks up the paddle…