Girl, spanked, fucked, sleeping. So peaceful, and so beautiful.
(Note: this is also a self-portrait. I hadn’t noticed the mirror at top left of this photo. But there your photographer is, awed at what nature, and he, have wrought.)
“Go to your room.”
“Yes, sir.”
He watched her mount the stairs, the beautiful, compact strength of her as she climbed. Framed in stone, as the woman in the painting behind her is framed in wood.
Strength is sexy, he thought, as is submission. How lucky he is that they go together so well.
She knew she wasn’t allowed to masturbate without his permission. And she knew he was making breakfast and he’d be back any second.
She didn’t often disobey just for the sake of being punished. But although she could still feel last night’s marks, his hand and his cane on her flesh, this morning’s fucking had been gentle, loving. That was good, but she wanted something different now.
She heard his steps in the corridor. She arched her ass.
She imagined him gasping. Happily: he loved the way she lay on her front, ass up, to wank. Then he’d remember he was supposed to be angry. Then the sound of his belt. Then he would be fast and loud, and hot and sweet, and there would be no more gentleness between them until they were both exhausted.
Note:
Natural light. Not in the castle
Still in the dining room, over that enormous table.
Marked, sore, knowing she is not to get up. That she must wait for whatever is to happen to her to happen.
She makes no choices, except to endure and obey. Submission can be so simple.
Note
It’s the light. And in this case the framing. Such a lovely place. And a lovely girl.
Time slowed almost to a stop. The cane landed, branding its line of pain and fire across her body. She would absorb it. Eons later the cane would land again.
Perhaps time was all submission and fire,. Perhaps this never would end.
Note:
Still in the dining room of the castle. The light: wood and leather. And girl. And bamboo.
A naked girl bends over a chair. Looking at her lover’s belt.
But there’s something else needed, to start things happening. Terrible things, wonderful things, out of her control.
Magic words are needed, and she speaks them: “Yes, Sir.”
Note:
The dining room in the castle. I love the woody light. The magic words are nice, woody words.
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…
Click on the lips for more Sinful Sunday goodness!
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.
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.
“Whip me, Spank me, Love me,” said the stockings he’d bought her.
“Well, of course,” said the man with the flogger. “I love both of you.”
NOTE
The stockings came from Agent Provocateur. The mirror came with the house, and was just a stroke of luck.