Sinful Sunday: Blurred lines

But you’re a good girl; can’t let that past me – 

Smack that ass and pull your hair for you –

I love those blurred lines…

 

Note:

This was shot in the Italian castle. Such beautiful woody light. And a photographer trying to catch a fast girl…

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Sinful Sunday: Not as unmoved as he pretended

 

His hands had trembled slightly when he raised her dress. He was not as unmoved by her as he had been pretending to be. 

She had waited while he lectured her brief;y. And, ludicrously, told her off for requiring him to punish her. 

But then the first stroke came. It hurt; it burned across her bare skin. But somehow she felt it as intensity. 

Something in her began to awake. This was not a dream.

Sinful Sunday: In a dream

Someone spoke her name. She rose, passed him the cane she’d been holding. She sighed when the command came, and bent over his table.

He had sounded bored, resigned, as if her humbling and her pain were utterly unimportant. As if he would find punishing her tedious. She knew he was acting. 

But so in a sense was she. She had, to some extent, left the scene: her mind was elsewhere, or nowhere. All this was an enactment, a ritual. It was happening in a dream. 

 

 

Sinful Sunday: Hermaphroditos and yearning for oneness

I found this sculpture of Hermaphroditos in the Palazzo Massimo in Rome. In the myth Hermaphroditos is the child of Hermes and Aphrodite, who – because both gods are a little more magical than most of the Olympians – combined in one person and soul the beauties of both hir parents. 

It’s an image of gender ambiguity, and in our time that’s probably the meaning most often ascribed to the Hermaphoditos myth. But it’s something else as well (all myths have several meanings, or what’s the use of them?): that union of two into one body is what many lovers are yearning for in their deepest and most desperate sex. 

A living Image, which did far surpass
In beauty that bright shape of vital stone
Which drew the heart out of Pygmalion.

			XXXVI.
A sexless thing it was, and in its growth
It seemed to have developed no defect
Of either sex, yet all the grace of both, --
In gentleness and strength its limbs were decked;
The bosom swelled lightly with its full youth,
The countenance was such as might select
Some artist that his skill should never die,
Imaging forth such perfect purity.

(From The Witch of Atlas)

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Sinful Sunday: Slavegirls at the bottom of the garden

It’s 6.30 in the morning. A girl waits for me, pale pink with deeper pink in places,bending over a chair near the end of my land, looking down into the valley. The air is clear but still morning-fresh: she shivers a little.

She won’t come quietly, that girl. Echoes of the flogger’s impact, and quieter pleasures, and orgasmic cries, across the valley. It’s a beautiful place, but it’s never been more beautiful than that morning.

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Sinful Sunday: Without a word

“Arr-ffaa!”

As the first pain reached into her body she sobbed, not with the hurt but with relief. Her long, longing wait was over. 

He said nothing. He hadn’t spoken yet. But there had been two canes resting beside her right flank. Now there was only one.

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Skinful Sundae and Early Minimalism: One stroke

Time passed. The wooden tabletop was warmer under her body. Her wrists and ankles were still cuffed and tied to the table. She was helpless. In every sense at his mercy. His … woman who had a master. As much his property as the table he’d tied her to. That felt strong. It felt right. 

Time passed, long and longing. At some time she became aware of him behind her, though he’d moved quietly and he said nothing. 

Master! 

Shhh. 

Then she felt his finger, just inside her cunt. She gasped at the surprise and pleasure of it. He stroked along her left side, just inside. Then his finger was gone. Her cunt, her whole body, screamed silently for more. At least another stroke along her right labium, so she had balance. It was only fair. To both labia. To her. God, one more touch. 

Please … 

Shhh. Later.

He was gone.

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Sinful Sunday 302: Helpless helpless

She didn’t know how long she’d been there, tied over the table. The last thing he’d said before he left her had been to wait. Not that she had any choice about that.

Her wrists and ankles were cuffed and tied. Her thighs were widely parted, tied to the table legs. She could raise her head. She could buck under the impact of whatever he chose to hurt her with. She could buck under the force of his cock, deep inside her. 

He’d do nothing to stop those movements. He liked her to jerk and flop under him while he disciplined her, or rode her. So that was the only movement he’d allowed her to make. 

She wished she could press her cunt against the table edge. Just a little relief until he returned. But her position didn’t allow that. She could only try to fuck the air: he’d made that choice for her.

He’d taken off his belt, folded it and laid it on the table on her left side. The cane lay beside her on her right.

“I’ll be back to deal with you later,” he’d said. And he’d left, leaving the door open. How long ago had that been? How long would he make her wait? 

Wait for him, helpless. She smiled when that word crossed her mind. She liked being helpless. And he wouldn’t accept anything less from her, just now, than helplessness. 

She knew she’d been good. He wasn’t punishing her. But he’d been in a mood she knew well. She didn’t know when, but things were going to happen. And they were going to happen to her.

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