A good man, with a belt 4

Maureen didn’t know she’d shredded my back until I turned away from her to check the time. She saw the blood on my back and on the sheet where I’d been lying. “Oh god, sorry, Jaime.”

Blood-letting commences in 3, 2, 1…

When Maureen got excited, and a well-strapped bottom followed by a hard pounding was guaranteed to achieve that, she tended to reach up and dig her nails into her lover’s back.

It seemed to be more or less instinctual; she didn’t decide to do it, and I don’t think she really knew, at a conscious level, when she was doing it.

It had been one of the things she did when I’d pushed her down into her animal brain.

I was some way into my own animal brain, because all I could see was that Maureen, contrite and sorry, was too good a thing to pass up. I growled, “Oh. So you think ‘sorry’ is good enough? Maires?” 

Maires was my lover’s name for her. When we’d been a couple I hadn’t really minded her nails. It never hurt, because when I’m sexually excited I don’t seem to feel pain.

I discovered that inability to feel pain when I was 18 and a girl accidentally slid a shower door shut on my erect penis. For a tenth of a second or thereabouts I could see it about to happen, with not enough moving room or time to get out of the way. I’d been horrified. But when it hit I was astonished to find that it didn’t  hurt.

When my cock was pumped hard with blood, and I was intent on following that girl who’d just left the shower, the pain seemed to come from a very little, far-away place, and to be completely irrelevant. But if I hadn’t been so turned on I’d have been dancing in agony and howling at the moon.

This is different from what submissives do. When I’d been warming up Maureen’s ass and thighs with my belt, I was certain that she felt it and that it hurt her: but she could take that pain and turn it into arousal.

And that’s why she said, “Oh. No, Jaime, I don’t think my saying sorry is enough at all.” She waited, horrified and delighted, for me to pronounce sentence. 

Tied and from behind: the only safe way to fuck Maureen

The really important thing for a species is to keep reproducing, and that means that fucking should override almost everything else.

Still, I wonder if that is a Dom/sub divide; for doms, sexual arousal cancels or overrides pain, while for subs the right kind of pain builds sexual arousal.

That’s my half-arsed theory #213.

Anyway, fucking Maureen, at least in missionary position so she had access to my back, meant coming away with wounds. Overall, when I was her boyfriend I was kind of proud of the wounds on my back, because I felt that they showed how much passion I’d roused in her. 

I said, “No, Maires. It’s definitely not enough. I want to see and hear that you’re sorry. Tomorrow I’m coming back. You’re to have a cane ready for me. Ok?”

“You’re going to make me wait? Can’t you cane me now?” 

“I have to go now. But the waiting will do you good, Maires. Make sure you’re in the kitchen waiting for me, same time as I arrived today. Alone, naked, facing the table, holding the cane between your thighs. You’ll get at least a dozen. Whether you get a second dozen depends how well you behave.”

Hard to pass off as a motorbike accident

“Jaime!” She was wide-eyed. Whiny and thrilled, at once.

I wanted to push her down again then and there, down onto the sheet and down into her animal brain. Make her rest her feet on my arse while I rode her to the end.

But I really had run out of time. My problem was that I was due home in a bit over an hour.

I was due home because my new girlfriend, Fliss, was coming over for dinner. She expected to be fed and fucked, of course. Fucking involves nudity. 

And Fliss was not going to be pleased with the state of my back.

The end of Maddie’s virginity

“So, when school was finally over I walked back to the headmaster’s office. I wasn’t exactly skipping along, because getting the cane for the first time, and then having my first fuck: those things are too serious for skipping. But I was certainly happy. I remember that, for sure. And I was so incredibly aroused.”

Maddie lay beside me, on the mattress in the storeroom. She was telling me about how she’d lost her virginity. She’d been cheerfully turning me on, stroking my cock during the sexier parts of her tale. But that was over. She still lay beside me, her body pressing against mine, but her hands had crossed over her belly. They were still. She had something bad to tell me.

“And I got to his office. Or nearly there. I was wondering, I think, whether he’d make me strip of my clothes for him, or if he’d undress me. I wasn’t sure which I’d prefer. And then there was Rob. I nearly screamed.”

“Rob?” I looked puzzled. I’d lost track of the dramatis personae in Maddie’s tale. 

“He’s the boy the head was caning, when I went to see him at lunchtime. And he’d been terribly humiliated.”

“Ah, yeah. And he hated you for seeing him. I remember.”  

“Hate is right. But he stepped out from the little side passage to the boys’ cloakrooms. He’d been waiting for me, I know now. I don’t think I realised it then. He said, ‘Hey, pretty bird. Going to see the head?’ He made it sound like it was the most disgusting, the most slutty thing in the world.” 

I had my arm around Maddie’s shoulders. I held her tighter.

“But then… He’d called me pretty. And no one ever had before. I knew the headmaster thought I was beautiful. But he’d never said so. So I was confused. I didn’t know what to feel. And that was my first mistake. I should have screamed, and run towards the head’s office. But I let Rob come closer.”

I said, “Maddie, love, you don’t have to – ”

“No. Shut up. Sir. I’m going to tell you. I want to tell you.”

“Ok. I’m here. And just in case you need the reminder: I think you’re wonderful. I beat your ass and I’m on your side.”

“I know you are. It’s all right. I hate him; I don’t hate you.”

I shut up. I’d made it about me. Male insecurity. I’m far, far from being a role model (I’m a fictional character, an ethically challenged one, in a sexual fantasy that’s briefly swerved into the real), but I always feel guilty when I hear about another man doing something horrible to a woman: we may know better, but we feel complicit.

As if the Y chromosome had rape and violence against the less powerful built into it. But it doesn’t. It’s not the chromosome, which we can’t do anything about. It’s patriarchy. And patriarchy sucks, and we can do something about that. I shut up and let Maddie talk. 

“So he got close, and he put his hand on my cunt. And this is the thing: it took me years to forgive myself for this: I was so turned on that it didn’t matter. I could have banged my cunt with the door, or walked into a desk. And it would’ve felt good. And so did being touched. It was creepy, but I moaned.”

“He heard me. He laughed. I’d given him some fantastic victory, in his mind. He said, ‘Horny little bitch, aren’t you. I know what horny bitches need.’ And he pulled me back deeper into the cloakroom, and pushed me through the door at the back, into the boy’s toilets. 

“He pushed me down to the floor. And then, well, he raped me. He stuck his cock into me, and he lasted, I don’t know, about a minute before he came. And this is the awful thing: I came too. It was all horrible, but I’d been so close anyway, so even though I didn’t want him, and it felt so wrong, well: the body takes over, I know that now. I didn’t know it then.”

“Oh Jesus. That poor little girl.” I held her, feeling inadequate. What else can you do?

“So he pulled out of me and stood up. I couldn’t get up. I stared up at him: it was the worst thing I’ve ever seen, I think even now, the utter contempt and hate in his eyes. I didn’t understand it. Then. Well, he laughed and he was gone. 

“I got up, and grabbed handfulls of tissues and tried to clean myself up, and get his come out of me. It wasn’t about pregnancy. I just felt defiled. And then I looked at myself in the mirror. And I knew – I mean I thought I knew – that it wasn’t rape. I’d never said No. And I’d come.”

I said, “Of course it was rape. That shitbag raped you.” 

“I know. I mean that’s what I thought then. What I thought I knew. And I started bawling, like I hadn’t since I was a baby, I think. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to die.    The first thing I could think of was, I could run in front of a car. And then I thought that wouldn’t be fair. To the driver.”

I couldn’t not smile. That was very her, the woman I held beside me. “You’re a good girl. Always. And you wouldn’t know how to be inconsiderate.”

“Huh. Splat! Well, they talk about schoolgirl crushes.”  She laughed. A second later, so did I. 

“So there was only one place I could go. So I went to the headmaster’s office. Howling with sorrow. I hoped he’d – I don’t know – whip me. I felt so worthless. But I knocked on his door.”

 

Note

I’m sorry this episode’s so heavy.

It’s kind of essential to the story, even though this bit’s horrible and the story mostly takes place in Sexual Fantasyland, the happiest kingdom of them all. I wondered if the story has sufficient heft to take this dark section, but it’s where the structure took me.

When I came to the bit where it has to happen, last week I couldn’t write it. Hence the beginning of another story, last week. I didn’t realise how much I liked Maddie and how hard I’d find this. Anyway, we leave the Valley of Death and the Slough of Despond here. Starting with the next episode we begin to crawl out.  

And last week’s story about the violinist in Ravenna will continue. Watch this space. 

A good man, with a belt 3

So I watched that first broad stripe form across Maureen’s bottom. She arched that ass up, making it clear that more of the same was required.

So I aimed the loop of belt across the crowns of her buttocks and made leather hit skin. I got a much louder smack this time.

Maureen sighed, and performed a rather neat, dancer-like, roll of her hips, first dipping towards the bed, then arching up again for the next smack.

I provided more smacks while Maureen squirmed about and made encouraging noises, until her bottom had achieved a good strong tomato-coloured glow.

Maureen’s complaint about her current boyfriends was that they didn’t understand about this kind of thing. Even if they tried to deliver a spanking, or something more ambitious, they were uncomfortable with the idea and generally clueless about how to do it.

In practice, she’d found, the main pain she suffered from was embarrassment. Alternatively they really hurt her, but not in the sexy way. When I’d been Maureen’s boyfriend I’d been unsatisfactory in a lot of ways, but not that one.

Then I aimed my belt a little lower, and started colouring in the tops of her thighs, slowly turning that deliciously soft skin from pink to crimson.

Maureen wriggled and bopped about, or at least her arse did. We had moved into a sort of rhythm, with the belt landing steadily though not fast across her bottom and the backs of her thighs.

Maureen’s hips performed her roll-and-present dance exactly in time to meet the belt as it came down, and her breath gasped out at every second stroke.

A lot of time passed like that, Maureen getting whipped, hotter and hotter. Though we had no idea how much time.

But Maureen eventually grabbed my belt, which was her right since she was not mine, and pulled me down while she turned, so that I fell onto her side, kicking and flailing about trying to get my own clothes off quickly.

But we sorted it out, and eventually I joined her, naked, supporting my weight like a gentleman, with her thighs – pleasantly heated by the belt – wrapped around me with her old enthusiasm. And I plunged my cock into the melony sweetness of her cunt.

And after a while Maureen closed her eyes and held her breath until her face turned red. That was something that she did and I remembered it fondly. It happened when I was doing the right thing and she was concentrating to enjoy it.

And then she put her hands on my shoulders, dug her fingernails in and clawed through my skin, drawing eight long lines of blood. And then she did it again. There was no pain. I was too turned on to feel pain. But I knew there was blood. 

Oh yeah, I remembered. There was that, too.

A good man, with a belt 2

The signal that this should go in anther direction was that Maureen said, “Jaime. Jaime, I miss Carstairs”.

And so I carried her over to her bed, lifted her off my cock, and dropped her.

Maureen bounced, something she did quite appealingly. I watched her breasts until they settled. Then she turned over onto her front. I looked down at her nicely contoured back and said, “well, yes, Carstairs. Those were the days.”

I undid my belt buckle, and made sure that the belt made a good loud leathery-slithery noise as it pulled free from the loops of my pants.

So we need some explanations. Why, for example, would anyone react like that to the name “Carstairs”? It seems a bit like Steve Martin in Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid, who would go berserk whenever someone said “cleaning woman”. (If you haven’t seen Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid, you should now.)

But I don’t really have a generic hair-trigger thing about the name “Carstairs”. If someone said it to me now, they might glimpse a bit of a smile if they were quick but they’d be boringly safe. “Carstairs” was specific to Maureen and me.

Maureen was one of the first submissive women I had ever found, in joyous mutual recognition some time after we’d already become a couple. 

She and I only had only ever done bedroom bdsm, and it was usually just a warm-up spanking followed by sex. But when we wanted to do something more intense, with tying up, and harsher orders from me, and the harder instruments, then we tended to use role plays. At that early stage in my bdsm career I found it more comfortable if the man who subdued and hurt Maureen wasn’t really me, or not quite; and if the woman who suffered but enjoyed those things wasn’t quite Maureen’s everyday self either. The games were silly, but they allowed us to do harder things that we wouldn’t do as ourselves.

Most of these games started on the pretext that Maureen had just insulted a grey, spindle-nosed neurotic husk of a woman called Vera Carstairs, who might be a teacher, prison warden or an office senior, depending on the game being played. I would deliver stern justice in retribution for the insolence that Maureen had shown our imaginary Miss Carstairs.

I don’t use role play any more, since I’ve learned to be as harsh as the situation and mutual pleasure warrants, as myself, and without a qualm. But the “Carstairs” games games were an important stage in my bdsm learning.

So the game was afoot, though we didn’t bother to invent a reason: I didn’t  think of exactly what Maureen had done to poor Miss Carstairs this time. I just doubled the belt, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then her shoulder, and then pressed my other hand down on the small of her back, holding her firmly down.

There would be squirming once I started her strapping, but, safewords aside, she wasn’t going anywhere until I’d finished.

Maureen arched her bottom up, and waited. It felt odd, for us to be so sexually intense together months after we were supposed to have broken up. But I was happy to be there with her, in this room and in this mood. So I pushed the small of her back down even more firmly, raised the belt, and brought it down, lustily and loud, across the crown of her buttocks. There was a beautiful creamy ripple where the strap landed, and Maureen sighed, though she kept herself still.

A few second later, a beautiful red band magically emerged across the pale, lightly freckled, domes of her bottom. It was a beautiful and intensely, immensely sexual sight. I hadn’t expected this, and it was good. I said, “Yeah, little Mo. I’ve missed this too.”

I raised the belt again.

That’s where I’ll break, for today. There’s trouble ahead, I should say.

Wicked Wednesday: The Barber of Seville

I went to Barber of Seville in the Ravenna opera house a couple of years ago. It was off season, but the Ravenna Festival was on, so they put on a student production.

I was going to skip it, but I’d met a woman in an antique shop, where I’d found an old ivory dildo, made in eighteenth century China, probably, and traded into an Italian sailor’s hands some time since then.

I didn’t have the vocabulary to ask the old man behind the counter what he knew about its provenance. 

But an Italian woman carrying a violin case was looking at old clocks, and she could speak Italian and English. She thought I was mad, so she helped me out. I offered to take her to a cafe, because I was grateful, and she had a nice mouth and eyes, and she looked good in jeans, though a raincoat obscured most of her. But she’d laughed and said I was an obvious pervert, and she was a good girl.

But her tone of voice suggested another try. “Um, but I’m a great admirer of classical musicians. Especially, someone who’s as obviously talented a soloist as you.” I happened to have passed the Ravenna Festival Hall that morning, where the doors were all closed for a youth orchestra rehearsal. Something told me she wasn’t a busker. So I guessed she was a soloist.

She given me dimples, and an enthusiastic “Grazie!” So we went to the Caffe Il Nazionale. I had a glass of pinot grigiot, while she had something with chocolate and ridiculous amounts of cream. She showed me the CD she’d just released. 

The cover showed a violin abandoned on the beach, and a little further away, her wearing only a thing, about to plunge into the water. I looked at her bum, as seen on disk, and at the more demurely dressed reality of her. She rolled her eyes. “It’s the photo Marketing wanted for the cover, if they were going to put it out at all. What can you do?”

So I said, “But you look absolutely  beautiful.” Then, since it seemed a little early to pay compliments to her arse, I said, “I mean, now. In this caffe.” She rolled her eyes, but there were dimples again. She wasn’t displeased. So I risked, “Well, you look pretty good on a windswept beach, too.” 

“Windswept! Oh, that shoot was so cold! I was freezing my tits off! I mean, literally. There was no way I was actually going to get in that water.” 

“Very wise.” I looked at the back of the CD cover, There was another picture of her, wearing a soloist’s dress,beaming and holding her violin as if it were a baby. And the track listing. It featured sweet semi-classical music: solo violin arrangements of opera hits, “Nessun Dorma!” and so on. And the first dance theme from the overture to Il Barbiere Di Siviglia, as a duet double-tracked with herself. 

She looked more embarrassed at that than she’d been at her arse. “Look, I’m a serious muso. I wanted to do Shostakovich sonatas. And the Respighi 2. Do you know it?”

“No. I didn’t even know Respighi wrote sonatas.” 

“He’s so underrated. He wrote opera, serious stuff. He’s not just some guy who wrote Fountains of Rome.”

She had more to say, because the English-speaking world pathetically misunderstood one of the greatest twentieth century composers. Or so she said.

As an English-speaker I was too good a chance to miss: I was going to cop an earful about Respighi’s stature. I didn’t argue, because I’d heard Il Tramonto and thought it was serious and wonderful, and because you don’t get to be a active pervert by ignoring girls with obscure enthusiasms. 

Note

I’m taking a temporary break from the Maddie/Jennifer story, because the next episode is proving hard to write. This story gets steamier as it goes along. 

A good man, with a belt 1

I was riding my bike back home from the university. It was a blue, moonlight evening, on a road that glistened with rain. There was something about the moonlight and water that made me think of my ex-girlfriend Maureen. 

I was finishing my degree, and earning money by cleaning the Psychology block at the university. I knew more about the shit of rats in Skinner Boxes than any young man needs to know. One interesting thing, for example, is that the turds of rats who were in operant conditioning experiments involving electric shocks were slightly olive in colour, while the poo of rats that were conditioned only by rewarding them with food pellets could be dark or light, but it tended to be brown. There’s a potential thesis in that, isn’t there?

Norton Dominator. Note featherbed frame, if you can

I had a Norton motorbike at the time, an old one with what was called a featherbed frame, though in reality you still felt every bump or crack in the road, through the bike and your arse.

I’d seen the bike in a shop, and when I learned its type was Norton Dominator, I just had to buy the thing. 

I should say that I’m not a motorbike guy any more, though the black leather jacket and the knee-high leather boots are still useful.

Anyway, there I was, riding the moonlit main road into the city, and thinking about how much nicer this night would be if I were riding a sleigh pulled by the Parisian Women’s Nude Iceskating Team. It’s a long ride, from the university to the city, and I often found myself passing the time in mildly lustful reverie.

Monique et Giselle, patineuses nues et Parisiennes

I started thinking about an ex-girlfriend of mine instead of the Parisian nude ice-skaters, and I decided to go and visit her.

I’ve told a story about her in this blog before. It was about the first spanking I gave, in my life, where I was bold and competent and everything had been hot and sexy and very right. I’ll call that woman Maureen in this story too.  

We’d split up because we’d both done some stupid things, and she’d left me for a lawyer who played in a mildly famous rock band. At that time she was single again, but I wasn’t. I was with Felicity, a girl who called herself Fliss. She pops up in this story a little later. 

I turned off the main road and took the streets that led to Maureen’s place. I suppose I just wanted to look at her and possibly hug, for my sake, and for her sake to listen sympathetically while she told me about her recent boyfriends. Mutual friends had told me that her recent guys were even less reliable, sensible and even more appalling than I’d been. A bit of sympathy was definitely called for.

I parked my bike under a tree round the back, outside her kitchen, just like I did in the days we were together. So Maureen knew it was me. She came out to welcome me, wiping something nasty off her hands with an old tea towel.

This isn’t really what Maureen was wearing, but it’s how I tend to remember her

She was wearing tight, ripped jeans and the sort of t-shirt you wear when you’re cleaning the oven. We hugged. I kissed her, but managed the hug without squeezing or smacking her arse, despite the temptations posed by those jeans. Maureen had always had the kind of body that most men like, just a bit more voluptuous than the women in women’s magazines.  

I let her lead me into the house, watching her walk with nostalgic admiration. She sat me down on the couch in the living room, and went to the kitchen, coming back with wine instead of the tea I’d asked for. I moved over and she sat next to me.

I asked her about her current love life, as if I didn’t know anything about it. Her facial expression confirmed that she wasn’t having a great time, and her grunt said she didn’t want to talk about it. So we talked about our time together instead.

We laughed about pleasant times, like camping beside a river and going into the water late that night to fuck, the glade we were in made magical by the moonlight on the trees and the water. We talked about the less pleasant times too, and we forgave each other for our stupidities, selfishnesses and lies. And so we kissed. The kisses were for, oh, friendship and affection’s sake.

Then we kissed some more, with more intensity, and we shared breaths, and Maureen undid buttons on my shirt so she could stroke my back. 

It was only about an hour from when I’d parked my bike when I got off the couch to help Maureen off with her t-shirt, jeans and panties. That was all she was wearing. It was a warm evening and she hadn’t expected company. Anyway, she knew she looked good. 

When her jeans and panties were round her ankles I put one foot on the gusset and pushed her feet down to the floor. When she lifted her legs again she was naked. 

She wrapped those legs round my waist, so I couldn’t get away, and when I straightened up she came up with me, a nice firm limpet with her breasts pressed against my chest and her arms and legs around me, holding tight. 

Happy to be, madam, your beast of burden. (In a domly sort of way)

I walked her, to keep my balance, until I pushed her back against the wall. She laughed at me. That laugh used to disconcert me a little, when we were first together, but I’d learned that it just meant she was happy.

I was thinking we were about to have one of those stunt fucks, where we’d adjust out position a little so that my cock, currently bouncing up against her buttocks, could slip home into her, and I’d march us round the room while she bounced on my cock until she came or I was exhausted. Whichever happened first. 

But Maureen had a suggestion to make. 

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 140: Raylene’s pain does not matter

Raylene looked at the bed. While her freshly-thrashed arse burned, she didn’t want anything to touch her bottom, not even the air. So a simple order like, “Bed,” presented her with challenges she didn’t know what to do with.

I kissed her. “I said ‘bed’, Raylene darling. Yes, you’ve had your ass caned. Looks nice and sore, too. Now you’re going to get your ass into bed.”

She grimaced. “If you don’t mind, Master, I think I’d prefer to stand for the next couple of years.”

I held her to me, her head pressed loving and trusting against my chest.

And I reached down and gave her ass an open-palmed spank, as hard as I could. Raylene cried out in pain and some indignation. If I wasn’t going to feel sorry for her under those circumstances, then … when?

“Darling, you’ve got a Master. What does that make you?”

“A slave, a slavegirl of some sort?”

“Yes. We won’t say so too often, but yes, that’s exactly what it makes you.” I wasn’t sure that was true. But in the moment, sometimes I just say what I think will be hot.

“You’re property. I own you. I mentioned I’m falling in love with you, and I’ll look after you. But you don’t choose what you do, not anymore. Not once I’ve told you what to do.” 

Raylene said nothing. She put her arms around me and let her breasts weigh on my chest. She clung to me like a jasmine. 

“So you’re worried that the sheets are going to hurt your poor little ass, right?”

She looked at me, big-eyed. “Well, I can’t think of any way of being in bed where the sheets won’t hurt me. Even if I lie flat on my tummy.”

“Ok. Now, guess something. Does it matter, even a tiny bit, if the bed hurts your ass?”

“Oh.” That was a new thought. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

“That’s right. You just got a hard lesson in behaviour. It’ll go on hurting a lot for an hour or two, I expect. But it’s over. And I don’t care that your ass still hurts. Understand that. You having a sore backside: it’ll happen to you whenever I see fit, and it does not matter if it hurts. Your pain does not matter. Not during. Not afterwards.”

Raylene had listened to this open-mouthed. She didn’t disagree. These were just things that hadn’t occurred to her before. “Oh. Ok.”

“So, get onto the bed. I’d going to fuck you. I need to fuck you. I think you need to be fucked. As if what you need matters.”

She looked solemn. Then nodded. “No, of course that wouldn’t matter.”

I kissed her. I suppose I don’t cane for irony. “Get up on the bed. Hands and knees. Get your ass up, and keep it up.”

“Yes, master.” And she scrambled up onto the bed, pulling the top sheet and blankets aside, and posing like a cat needing fucking.

A cat with the yummiest, reddest, striped ass in the universe. She looked so beautiful.

“Good girl. I’m going to fuck you, pressed against that nice hot ass. I’m going to enjoy your heat. And I’m going to hurt you while I fuck you. What do you know about that?”

Raylene arched her back, presenting herself as spectacularly as she could. “I know now that it doesn’t matter if it hurts, Master.”

“Good girl. I knew you’re a clever girl.” And I took my clothes off and climbed up onto the bed with her, wanting her more desperately than I was going to tell her, and put my hands on her hips.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 139: The subtle threesome

Note: 

The last episode of this story was posted back in February, here. It’s very forgivable if you’ve forgotten, or never knew, that there is such a story. 

“Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive” is the click-baity but entirely accurate title of the story of something that happened relatively early in my bdsm career. I’d been interviewing Raylene in her kitchen about her time with a neo-Nazi gang, which she’d joined to annoy her mother, at a bad time in her life. But then we discovered that she was submissive and I was a dom, and that we fancied each other. Things happened very quickly from there, though I’ve been telling it excruciatingly slowly.

When we left Raylene, she was being caned in front of witnesses. The witnesses were Dorabella, her half sister, and Lynette, who’d been trying to get Dorabella into bed.

By now, Lynette had switched her sexual ambition to Raylene and, to my surprise, me. But although we hadn’t liked each other much when we met yesterday, we’d exchanged breath, our tongues had touched the other’s teeth, and we’d fondled each other’s genitals: through my clothes in her case, but fingertips to soft wet skin in my case.

The attraction was real, and starting to feel urgent. So we’d interrupted Raylene’s caning to take a kissing break. To Raylene’s disbelief.

Now read on. 

The subtle threesome

Raylene said, again, “Master?” 

I could see her point. Generally, if you’re getting caned in front of witnesses, you should expect to be the centre of attention. But I’d shown Lynette that being humiliated was one of Raylene’s most favourite, hottest things. She’d caught on quickly, and she’d found that humbling Raylene made her feel wicked. She was starting to enjoy feeling wicked. All this added a pleasantly perverse edge to our kisses. 

I slid my hands down to hold Lynette’s bare ass under her skirt, Lynette made a little “ah” sound, and straightened her back. She had a sensitive little arse: that was worth remembering. She explored my back under my shirt. Doing anything except pulling each other down to the floor and fucking then and there would clearly be ridiculous. But I said, “I said yes, Raylene. What do you want?” 

“Master, I’m sorry, I lost count. How many strokes do I have to go? Master?” 

I sighed ostentatiously, and said, still facing Lynette, “you’ve got the last six of your dozen to go. And there’s one penalty stroke. So far. So seven. Girl.” 

There was a pause, from Raylene. “Thank you, Master.” Her voice was small. 

Lynette smiled at me. She’d enjoyed our intimacy for its own sake and for its effect on Raylene. We hadn’t been to bed together yet – Lynette was to join Raylene and me at midnight that night – but we were already playing a pleasantly complex three-way sexual game. A subtle threesome.

Lynette pulled my shirt back down and picked up the cane, holding it the middle as Raylene had done, and passed it to me. She mouthed, “Duty calls.” Silently. She was still amused.  

I turned and shook my head at Dorabella, who was at the other side of Rayleme’s desk, holding Raylene’s shoulders down. She’d been watching Lynette and me while we pressed bodies and mouths. Since Dorabella was the only person in the room who didn’t want to fuck Lynette, she was no doubt relieved that Lynette’s interest had switched. Anyway, Dorabella read my look correctly and nodded.

Raylene was to have no warning. I swung the cane, catching Raylene hard across the other stripes I’d already laid on the lower curves of her bottom. 

The crack of cane meeting softly muscled flesh was followed by Raylene’s rising wail. Her legs kicked up, level with her body, and she fought Dorabella desperately to get up. She lost that struggle within a few seconds, and her toes touched the floor again. “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oooohhh…”

I knew I’d have to make the next stroke harder, to get the same reaction. So I made it harder. When Raylene settled her body again, she was still making that soft, almost mumbling cry. It was her pain song.

I gave her the remaining strokes at the same intensity, but she no longer reacted so dramatically. She was getting tired, and she was learning to take a hard caning. There was a kind of acceptance, which was deeper than the mainly verbal submission she’d given me to this moment. I wondered if she’d convinced herself that she deserved to be punished this severely, though she certainly didn’t. 

When the last, penalty, stroke was delivered, I said, “that’s it for now, darling. You’ve been very good, and very brave for me. I’m proud of you, little Raylene.”

She was still producing tears, and singing her “oh fuck oh fuck” song, but she paused for long enough to say, “Thank you, master. And I’m sorry.”  

“Good girl. My girl.” I raised my voice, into public speaking mode. “Raylene is going to thank you for witnessing her punishment. And she’s going to apologise to both of you for her rudeness last night. But she’ll make her formaI apology at dinner tonight. Right now, though, I think I’ve got a girl who needs looking after. Ah?”

It was Dorabella, again, who caught on fastest. She leaned down and kissed her sister’s forehead, then her cheek, and then walked to the door, bustling Lynette out with her. She said, “ok, we’ll leave you two alone for a while. And look in later and see if there’s anything you…”

Lynette said, “Need. Like cold cream?” She wanted to get back into the room. And maybe to get to apply it to Raylene’s glowing ass and thighs. 

Raylene stopped singing “oh fuck oh fuck” and said, “I’ve got some. In a drawer. We’re fine.” She looked at me. I nodded.

“We’ll see you guys later.” I shut the door. I considered jamming a chair against the handle, in case Lynette thought of another way to get inside. The thought made me smile. I knew Raylene wanted to fuck Lynette as much as I did, and if Lynette was getting keen, and devious, that was no bad omen.

I took the cold cream from her top drawer, where it nestled against knickers and a small collection of vibes, I helped her rise, though she moaned when she straightened up. “That hurt, master. Oh fuck, that hurt so much.”

It wasn’t an accusation. And we kissed. I grinned at her. She looked puzzled, but she couldn’t see how bedraggled and woeful, and how triumphantly sexy, she looked. Oh well: I had plenty of time to tell her.

“Girl. Lovely brave girl. Mine.”

“Yes, master.”

“Bed.”

Wicked Wednesday: Maddie’s orgasm

Maddie said nothing. She could enjoy whatever was to come, but what happened or how it happened was not her concern. I put lube, more that seemed possible, on my condommed cock, then put my hands on her ass and opened her a little. The moment she knew she was to be taken anally was the moment my cock pressed against her little ring.

She said, “O”, teeth still holding the cane. I pushed forward into her, slowly but in one long movement. Maddie didn’t breathe. I stopped, then, my belly tight against her buttocks, my cock throbbing deep inside her. My body was shaking with the pleasure of it. 

I’d intended to fuck her hard and fast, refusing her permission to come, but something in her acquiescence called to me.

She was submitting deeply. She was being a good girl. So I fucked her ass hard, but less brutally than I’d planned. Maddie rolled her hips with my movements, holding my cock tight, keeping me deep inside her.

Her breath sped up, after we’d rocked together for some time, and so I sped up too, pumping her hard and feeling my orgasm collecting, building, at the base of my spine.

I reached under her to stroke her cunt, and we moved hard, bodies joined, until she came, squealing and yowling like a fucked cat.

I said, “good girl, good girl,” over and over, while she came. It was the first time I’d praised her since this morning, though she’d worked all day to obey and please me.

Later I dragged out the spare matters from the sick room, and we piled up sheets and [illows and lay together, a girl and her master.

Companionably. 

 

 

Wicked Wednesday: Maddie trembles

Note: 

This was intended to follow the prompt, Recollection. Unfortunately, the story grew before the recollection part came up. So I’ll have to use this week’s prompt next week. Or, knowing me, it might be the week after. I’m slow. Sorry!

Jennifer’s pleats and pleas: Maddie trembles

Maddie returned, sinuous on all fours, with her panties in her teeth. She stopped at my feet, so the cane was beside her again. She straightened her back, remaining on her knees, and said, “‘Ay ‘anties, sir.”

I took them from her mouth, without speaking. Or smiling. She wanted the tension broken, and at the same time she’d have been horrified if it were. So I said, “You pick up that cane, and hold it out in front of you. Palms up. You’re not to grip it.”

“Yes, sir.” She took the cane and held it as I’d instructed, offering it, and of course herself, for me.

She knew I’d come back from my encounter with Jennifer highly aroused, and that I was going to take her far, as well as hard. We were going to be dramatic. 

I crossed over to the neatly stacked shelves. “Tidy means ‘clean’, girl. Do you think these shelves are clean?”

“Sir, please, I did my best.” It wasn’t like Maddie to beg. But she knew she’d lost any chance of influencing what was going to happen to her, and she was a little unnerved.

I rubbed her panties, white and lacey, on the upper surface of the top shelf. She watched me, like a trapped bird watching a cat. I said, without looking at the panties, “Because if that shelf is not absolutely clean, I should take that as an insult, shouldn’t I?”

She froze, stricken. There was no safe answer to that. Eventually she said, “I’d never want to insult you, sir.”

I held her panties in front of her eyes. There was, fortunately, a reasonable collection of dust there. “Don’t even try, girl, to say you think that’s acceptable.”

“No sir. Oh, sir, I’m so sorry!” Somewhere, she knew this was theatre, designed to ramp up her reactions, and to express my needs. But that part of her that knew that was no longer in control.For now she knew only that the man she’d surrendered to was going to punish her, and that events were happening too fast for her to even think about how to influence what happened. Her palms, holding out the cane, were trembling. 

I said, “Stand up.” This was hard, with her hands still stretched out in front of her, but she managed.

I took the cane from her at last, and said, “Now turn around. Bend over and touch your toes.”

“Yes, sir. Do I count the strokes aloud?”

“Count and thank.”

I caned her hard, poor girl, letting the stripes form from the crown of her bottom to about three inches down her thighs. And I took my time, letting her feel each one, while I watched her tremble and fight for control.

She stayed down throughout, keeping her fingers in contact with her toes. When the count got to “13, thank you, sir”, I paused.

The was a tremor in Maddie’s voice, and I liked hearing it. I’d intended to give her more strokes, but her well striped ass and trembling thighs called me, urgently.

I put the cane in her mouth, unzipped, letting my pants fall to the floor, and took condom and lube from my coat pocket.