Sinful Sunday: Dungeon dreaming

Taken to a dungeon. Spanked, whipped, fucked. And… fast asleep. 

It’s one of the most satisfying moments for a dom, I think, when your sub is too tired even to get into the bed. Simply crawls some of her body onto the bed and drops deep asleep. It makes me feel powerfully tender, seeing her like that. It’s a different kind of surrender. It makes me happy.

And if she ever dreamt of being in a dungeon, in her cosy home in Antarctica, what is she dreaming of when she’s in a dungeon?

Sinful Sunday: There will be tears

She hears him return, though he says nothing. Her wait is nearly over. There will be pain. Two canes, medium and heavy, lie innocently beside her body, over the desk. And the tissues, because there will be tears. And afterwards, there will be lust and need, his body against hers, and the turbulent blaze of sex.

And his sexual fluids will mix with hers, and churn.

Sinful Sunday: In the middle of the night

it was three in the morning. They’d spent the night fucking, but – to her surprise – he hadn’t spanked her. His belt lay on the sheet beside them, as it usually did when they were in bed, and the cane hung on the wall beside the bed. Both were unused.

She thought they were going to sleep now, but he said, “Up, girl. Up!” The first time he said “up” it was as though he had a treat for her: there was mischief, and enticement, in his voice. The second time it was clearly an order. 

She murmured, “Yes, Master,” and rolled out of bed, and stood up. HJe got up and put on a dressing gown. He didn’t offer hers. He took her by the hand and led her out of the house. 

The night air was cool on her skin. She could feel goosebumps forming on her shoulders and breasts. She wore only her wrist and ankle cuffs, and her collar. She was grateful for the little bands of warmth they offered.

She could hear birds above, sleeping in the trees, mildly complaining at their disturbance, then deciding they were no risk and returning to silence. There were nocturnal mammals around, she knew, but they had heard humans and crept away. 

He led her down past the greenhouse, down the slopes to the bottom of the garden, a spot under the plum tree, over-looking the valley.

There was a trestle there. She’d never seen it before, or anything similar, though she knew what it was. And what it was for. He’d made it for her. 

“Bend over, little one. Legs apart, head down. And reach your arms right down.” She obeyed, and attached her wrist and ankle cuffs to the snap bolts he’d put in, low on each side. She experimented a little, so she could confirm to herself that she was helpless, held fast.

He fetched from below the plum tree a wooden paddle. She hadn’t seen that before either.   It looked very home-made.

He held it to her mouth, and she kissed it. Her heart was beating fast. It was hard, and it was nearly an inch thick. He’d made it, just to hurt her with it.

He took the paddle from her mouth, and stepped back. He said nothing.

Then it landed, against her lower bottom. Noise and pain overwhelmed her, and she yelped. She didn’t usually cry out at the first impact, but this was too strong. She was in its control, not hers.

By the third impact she was wailing continuously. Not loud, but uncontrollably. Except by Master. He was in control of the sounds she made, how she moved and what she felt, and when.

The paddle landed, over, and over. The strokes got no harder, but each one hurt a little more, burnt more fiercely, than the one before. Now she jerked each time the paddle landed, body rocking with the impact but held fast by her cuffs. If it was cold, naked in the night air, she no longer knew it. She knew nothing but pain, and the sound of her own wailing, what Master called her pain-song. 

Eventually she became aware that the paddling had paused. Her Master said, “Thirty-six.”

She’d had three dozen! Simply for his pleasure. But at least it was over.

He said, “So I think, just four more. You can count and thank me, for these last strokes.”

Then the paddle again, against her lower bottom, almost reaching her cunt. “Aiieee! Uh. Uh. Oh, fuck. Thirty seven, Master. Thank you!”

“Good girl.”

He concentrated on her lower bottom and upper thighs. But when she said “Forty, thank you, Master,” he didn’t tell her she was good.   

Instead she felt his hands holding her hips like talons, holding her as if her cuffs weren’t enough. His cock slipped into her cunt, deep, then all the way out, then deep, then out. She breathed in time with his movements. It was so good. But on the fourth withdrawal, his cock didn’t return. She stopped herself from protesting. That paddle was on the lawn beside her. He pushed her ass down, and she felt his cock pressing against her sphincter.

Her head dropped, helpless, as he thrust into her ass. He usually took his time when he butt-fucked her, but now he was urgent, insatiable need. She heard him grunt once, when he was all the way inside, his cock deep in her ass and his body pressed against the fierce heat of her buttocks. Then he fucked her, hard, fast, working on his own orgasm. Not hers. But soon, ruthlessly fucked, she heard herself wailing again. Not a pain song. 

Note

The halo of light above my girl’s body: I’m not sure what that was. But I like it. It was a night of mysteries, and there was something deep and sacred going on. I don’t know what it was, in technical terms, but to me it adds to the magic and mystery.

 

 

Sinful Sunday: Wait for me!

When he became her Master, he’d told her she’d be subject to discipline, of course. She expected that, and would have been disappointed if he’d said anything else. She liked the ritual, the way her obedience felt so very real and significant when he told her to position herself to make her body available for him to hurt her. 

And it was hot. The cane no longer scared her as much as it used to, but it still hurt her more than she could turn into sex, in the second of it landing across her bottom and thighs. It was a few seconds later that the pain would recede a little and turn into the right kind of warmth. He always fucked her after he’d punished her, because the dance of obedience and pain excited them both, and he wanted to show her that the punishment was over: she was his, and his good girl, again. 

But he’d told her that there were two things he could never accept, and would punish her hard for: disobedience, and things that caused her harm.

That evening he’d asked about orders he’d given her, and she’d had to tell him that she didn’t have the outline of her university course essay, and she hadn’t made a doctor’s appointment – about an intermittent pain in her side – he’d told her to arrange. So that was two counts each, of disobedience and acting against her own interests.

She knew she’d disappointed him. He’d lectured her, and though he’d made himself sound calm she knew he was very displeased. Then he’d made her lie down on their bed, and he’d strapped her long and hard with his belt. It went on for a long time, long enough for her to burrow into it, that living, sexual cave of pain he made for her. And when he stopped at last she’d thought it was over.

Instead he’d taken the cane from its place beside their bed, where it lived, and told her to get up. He took her by the ear and led her into the living room. He stood her facing the wall, and told her to put her hands on her head. And he’d lubricated her anus thoroughly, and put the cane between her buttocks.  

He said he’d be with her again, later, and take that cane, and she would bend over and touch her toes. And he would continue the punishment, until he felt she’d paid in full. In the meantime, she should think about obedience, about caring for her health, and not failing her course. 

And, he’d said, don’t you dare let that cane fall.

Then he’d sat down to read a book, while she stood there. In disgrace. Waiting for the cane. Hoping he’d let her come when he took her afterwards. Wanting it to be over. And wanting it to begin.

 

Sinful Sunday: A work of art

 

 

 

I like the light in this picture. The light likes her. 

An upstairs bedroom in the castle. The ladder is for getting up on top of the turret. I think. There must be a safe place to rest the ladder on and make the climb, but all of the places I could see out the window looked obviously unsafe. There must have been one safe route, but it’s a long, long way above the cobblestones below. I wasn’t game to try it by guesswork. Let alone by trial and error, given the consequences of error.

On the other hand, ladders are for placing girls on. Everyone knows that. 

Note:

Fans of my beautiful model may think this photo is too modest. But if you look carefully, this picture does contain nipples. So all is as it should be. 

Birched in the library

Bending over, in punishment pose, in the place she thinks of as The Library of Depravity. Waiting for Sir.

She’s already been spanked, but she’s about to feel the birch for the first time. 

She knows it won’t be the last. 

It’s comfortable, bent over the rolled arm of a leather armchair. But she knows she won’t be comfortable for long. In the meantime she waits, presented for him, hoping she’ll please him when he comes for her. 

She hears footsteps, approaching the library. She has a lot to learn, she knows. But some new information, and new sensations, are about to touch her.

Sinful Sunday: It’s that skin feeling

He hadn’t put the cane down, but he paused. She stayed in position, bottom and thighs stung, deep and warm.

He ran his hand, the one not holding that thick cane, lightly down her skin, grazing the blossoming welts with his nails. Her skin woke up, aroused. She felt the goosebumps blossoming, where he’d stroked her. 

He sighed with pleasure and admiration. And then his hand was gone. He’d raised the cane again.