There haven’t been many photos of your humble narrator, of a Sinful Sunday.
But I dunno, this Sunday I was feeling relaxed and happy and not very sinful at all. So here I am, a rare selfie, taking sensual pleasure.
One thing I’ll say for this image: I’m very clean.
Yvain had looked up at the Seigneur, lying on her back, thighs parted as wide as she could for him, watching him raise the riding crop, wondering if he meant to lash her cunt or her thighs. She’d said, “Please,” and the word still echoed in her mind.
She knew she hadn’t been crying out for mercy. She’d wanted him to know that she needed his mark, no, his marks, on her thighs, so that when she wrapped them round his body, as she knew she would soon, she could hold him tight and feel that pain and his ownership even as he took her.
Or she meant, she wanted him to know that she was his, and that it felt right to be his, even as he hurt her, and had her casually punished by others, sometimes without even bothering to watch.
He smiled down at her. “You weren’t told you can speak, little Yvain. You keep demanding more punishment, don’t you?”
Yvain was wide-eyed. That couldn’t be true, and yet it was. “I’m sorry, my Seigneur.”
“That wasn’t an answer, Yvain.” He brought the crop down, on her inner left thigh, on soft, plump flesh close to her opened cunt. Suddenly, without build-up, there was a line of hot pain across that thigh, and the crack of the leather on her soft skin.
Yvan wailed, lost. “Yes! I meant yes, my Seigneur! I’m sorry.”
“You have permission to speak, now. I don’t want to have to punish you for every sound you make. In the meantime, keep your thighs well spread, Yvain. Don’t tense your muscles.” The Seigneur raised the crop again. It hovered, ready to strike. He waited, till she dared to look him in the eyes. Then he smiled at her and struck again. The crop wrote a fresh hot weal of pain on her right inner thigh.
Yvain gasped and writhed. She felt the urge to thank him. It seemed absurd and yet it was overpowering. “Thank you, my Seigneur.”
He laughed, mouth closed, inside her throat. “You have four more strokes, little one. Two for your squealing, out in the corridor, when you were giving Karl his exercise and you were told to remain silent. And we have to deal with the ‘please’. I like the sentiment, but you disobeyed me when you spoke.”
Yvain felt, again, her body yearning. She nodded, but said nothing.
“I’m going to give you two strokes for each. Is that fair?”
“Yes, my Seigneur. Of course it is. I hate disobeying you. I want to show you – ” But she broke off. She didn’t have the words.
“Good. You know you are aroused, Yvain. You know that if you touched your cunt now, you would come. Is this true?”
“Yes, my Seigneur. I’m very close.”
“The strokes hurt less when you’re aroused. I think you’ve noticed that.”
“Yes, my Seigneur. It’s true.”
“I’m going to make you come, soon, little one.”
Yvain nodded. That was true, too.
“Would you prefer to have your four strokes now, or after you’ve come?”
“Now, please! I mean, my Seigneur!”
He smiled, and applied the four strokes, unhurried, letting her absorb each one, and waiting till she met his eyes before delivering the next. At the end Yvain, with six reddish black raised weals burning on her inner thighs, wanted to scream, though not with pain.
The Seigneur knelt then. “It’s time you gave me your first orgasm, little Yvain.” He leaned forward till his head was between her burningly sensitive thighs. He lowered his face till she felt his tongue touch the sleek wetness off her cunt.
No man, or woman had done that before. It felt like a rush of pleasure, like th sweetest food she had ever eaten. Her thighs closed a little, so she could feel her welts against his face. His tongue moved, licking upwards. She moaned. Then, this time knowing what she meant, she said, “Please.”
This was early in our relationship. We were doing “Master” training. The rule was that Arethusa didn’t have to call me “Master” every time she spoke to me. But if five utterances went by without her using the slavegirl’s polite form of address, then she’d get a spanking.
I’d insisted on “Master” partly because she’d said it sounded awkward, to her. Right, I thought, as Doms will.
So this was instant punishment, without any formality. Standing, arms folded in front of her so she wasn’t tempted to bring her hands back to protect her arse, getting soundly spanked.
She’d said, “Sorry, Master!” at least fifteen times before I stopped.
“Right,” I said. “Now go to my room. Take your clothes off and wait for me. Hands and knees, on the bed.”
“Yes, Master.” Arethusa shuffled off, bed-wards, panties still down.
It became natural, true and not at all awkward, very quickly.
The Seigneur reached out and held Yvain by the hair, and pulled her upright. He said, “Were you asked to make a sound?”
Yvain looked at his chest, afraid to meet his eyes. “N-no, my Seigneur.”
The Seigneur’s voice was soft, amused. It frightened her more than if he had shouted at her. “No, you weren’t. In fact you were told to be silent. You’re not a very obedient girl, are you?”
Yvain was near tears. Not, she knew, because she was about to be punished, but because she had displeased him. “N-no, my Seigneur. I am sorry. It is for you to judge, but I think I need punishment for that.”
He pulled her face upright, so she looked at his. He kissed her again. Yvain closed her eyes, and relaxed her body against him.
“You do need punishment, my little serf slut. You need it badly. And you need it always. If it weren’t for Karl and the beldam here, you’d tire me out.”
Just the mention of those two servants made her conscious of the heat and pain in her buttocks, and the colour she still must be, where she’d had the strap.
She wasn’t sure what to say to the Seigneur, so she said nothing.
The Seigneur pushed her away. “Get on the bed, Yvain. On your back, with your knees up and your thighs wide as you can get them. Now!”
“Yes, my Seigneur.” Yvain hastened to the bed, feeling the self of the eiderdown soft and cool under her bottom. She raised her knees as instructed. Then she hesitated for a second before opening herself.
It took some effort to get her thighs as wide as she absolutely could, but she wanted him to see that she was trying.
But he did not look at her. He said to the beldam, “Beldam, put the strap on the bed beside the pillow, in case I need to persuade this slut to make better efforts. And fetch my riding crop.”
The beldam curtsied, “Yes, my Seigneur,” and obeyed. She looked sardonically down at Yvain while she placed the strap on the bed, for the Seigneur to use. She muttered, “He lays it on harder than I do.”
Then she went to a cupboard beside the bed, took out and shook a black length of whalebone, covered in plaited leather, with a hassle at the tip. She did not carry this by the handle, but carried it to the Seigneur on her two open hands. “My Seigneur,” she said.
“Thank you, beldam. I think I can take it from here. You may go.”
The beldam curtsied again, said, “Yes, my Seigneur,” and opened the door. As the door opened, all three heard the sound, from below them, of a muffled crack of leather on bare flesh, and a woman’s cry of pain and woe. The beldam said, “Karl is giving Gisela her schooling.”
The Seigneur looked irritated. “Just so.” He waved the beldam away, moving only his fingers. The door closed.
The Seigneur looked down at Yvain, riding crop in his hand. He pressed the tip of the crop between her parted thighs, against the soft skin of her perineum. Yvain knew she was in danger of moaning, if that tassel moved. She bit her lip. Then the tip and its tassel rose, up, a little way between the lips off her cunt, and Yvain jolted, her stomach muscles trembling as she tried to keep still.
Then he smacked her cunt once, lightly, and then showed her the leather tassel, wet with her arousal. “You do need punishment, don’t you, Yvain? Really need it.”
Yvain knew he was no longer talking about her small, involuntary acts of disobedience. “Yes, my Seigneur. It seems I do. It is how I am made.”
The Seigneur smiled. “Then keep still for me, Yvain. You have a lot to learn.” He let her watch while he raised the crop, very slowly, till it hovered in the air, over his shoulder.
Yvain couldn’t help it. She knew she was not allowed to speak. She said, “Please.” Even she wasn’t sure what she meant.
I took this photo in northern India, after the last Eroticon, the last time I travelled.
I’m taking a break from the wonders of the flesh this week. To celebrate the erotic stone friezes on the temples of Khajuraho. Where I’m longing to return, when the world opens again. The Indian economy is going to need visitors, urgently, once it’s safe again.
Anyway, this man is a Brahmin – I’ve forgotten the signs that tell you he’s a Brahmin – keeping three woman happy at once, with his cock and his hands. And the thing that impresses me, cause I’ve sort of done that a couple of times, when a night went wonderfully, fairy-dust beautiful, is that he is STANDING ON HIS HEAD while he’s at it.
I’ve never managed that.
I think you have to get born into the Brahmin caste so you can’t join it, but if they ever had a recruitment drive, this would be the poster!
The Seigneur still held her chin when he broke off the kiss. Yvain missed that contact. Her body and mind were responding to him and his treatment of her in powerful and unexpected ways. She found herself wondering what being taken by him, having his cock in her body, would be like. Apart from the sensations she’d given herself with her fingers she had little to go on. It would be lovely. But he was so cruel. She looked up into his eyes, confused.
The Seigneur smiled. “Is a serf entitled to look at the Seigneur without permission?”
Yvain shuddered. “No, my Seigneur. I beg your forgiveness.”
“You may possibly have that, after you’ve earned it. Put your feet wide apart, and bend at the waist, girl. Beldam, when I say, you may commence her punishment.”
“Yes, my Seigneur.” Yvain didn’t dare look back, but she was sure the beldam was smiling at her Seigneur, pleased with the situation. She heard the beldam step to her right side, slightly behind her.
The Seigneur said, “Girl, I take it you are unfamiliar with cocks. But I’m sure you know how to undo buttons.”
“Yes, Seigneur. I am.” She had unbuttoned and buttoned her sister’s baby’s vest often enough.
“Then undo my buttons, starting at my waist and working down. You will be freeing and stroking my cock. Understood?”
Yvain blushed again. “Yes, my Seigneur.”
“Good. You handle my cock gently, as if it is a dove in your hands. Gentle. If you are not sufficiently gentle, you will go outside, naked as you are, and pluck and strip me a switch, and bring it back to me to flog you wth. Now hold your position, legs apart, bent at the waist. Now, begin, girl.”
Yvain reached and undid the top button of his dark-blue silken breaches. Then the next. At the third button she was aware of his cock, hard, straining against the material. She undid the last two buttons, and released a cylinder of flesh, thick and hard, though the skin itself was deliciously soft. She clasped it between her hands, savouring its pulse and its warmth.
The Seigneur shivered, which she supposed was a good sign. She wondered what she should do to make him feel she was pleasing him.
“Now, little slut, stroke it. with a slow rhythm, your hands moving back and forth. Slowly at first. I’ll tell you when you speed up.”
Yvan obeyed, and was puzzled to find the cylinder somehow harder and a little larger in her hands. The Seigneur nodded at the beldam. “When I say ‘begin’, beldam. Yvain, you are about to be punished for looking at my face without permission. Sometimes when I have you punished, I will want to hear you count the strokes, thank me, and tell me the lesson you are being taught.”
The cock in her hand seemed to move, upwards, as he spoke those words. He continued, “This time I want only silence from you. The punishment of a serf girl is of no importance. The pleasure of a Seigneur is of total importance. Keep your hands and your eyes on my cock, throughout. Beldam, begin.”
“Yes, Seigneur.”
Yvain waited for one second of silence while the beldam no doubt raised the strap above her shoulder and took her aim. Then the leather smacked her, filling the room with that sharp impact. The warmth of her bottom sharpened instantly to pain and heat. Yvain suppressed her gasp, and kept her hands on the Seigneur’s cock, making sure she held him no tighter, nor sped up the stroking.
The second and third strokes lashed the tops of her plump thighs, and Yvain knew the beldam was trying to make her squeal again. She bit her lip, determined to remain silent, held her humiliatingly submissive position, offering herself to the strap and serving her Seigneur’s cock.
The next two strokes cracked across her bottom, which was now in exquisite pain. Still the beldam whipped her, remorselessly. At the twelfth stroke the Seigneur said, “Beldam, is this serf slut wet?”
“Oh yes, Seigneur. Glistening. She spoke the truth about punishment.”
“Good. Yvain, I want you to put the fingers of your right hand into that dripping little slit.”
“Seigneur?”
“And get those fingers as wet as you can. Then you anoint my cock with your juices. Begin, girl.”
Yvain withdrew one hand from his cock. She had the urge to kiss it, which was odd. Then she pushed her fingers into her cunt. The sensation was overwhelming. She moaned, knowing that the sound would only meant more of the strap.
It’s not often I got down on my knees for Arethusa. But I wanted my eye level at thigh level. And my view was beautiful, human, womanly, submissive, and also somehow mathematical. I don’t mean you can count the stripes if you like, I mean somehow both warmly living and abstract.
The beldam pushed Yvain through the door, then followed, closing the door behind her. “Your bride, Seigneur,” she said, and curtsied.
Yvain, naked, with a thick leather strap in her mouth, could not curtsy. You had to be wearing something for that. So she did not move, hoping that was the right decision.
The Seigneur regarded Yvain, smiling. It was not a friendly smile: he was pleased with his new acquisition. Yvain kept her head down, but risked a glance.
He was a young man, tall – she would fit her head under his arm, though she doubted that such gentle handling was likely between them. His face was narrow, but not unhandsome. His hair was blond and hung over his wide shoulders. He wore a russet robe, that came down his feet, which were bare. She expected that the robe was all he wore. .
He saw that glance and smiled. “You will be punished for that, girl.” Yvain dropped her eyes, blushing, furious at herself.
He said to the beldam, “Thank you. You may be required, for a while, so you will stay till I tell you to leave. Well, this girl. That was Karl I heard giving her her whipping, was it not?”
“Yes, Seigneur.”
The Seigneur smiled, not kindly. “He does like to lay it on hard. Turn, girl.”
Yvain turned her back to her Seigneur. She heard an amused, male, sound. “A perfect target,” he said. “And obviously he found it a tempting one. You have rewarded him?”
The beldam curtsied again. “I gave him Gisela, the Mayor’s wife, for tonight.”
“Ah, well chosen. The Mayor and his slut both deserve that. I’m sure she shall be vocal tonight, one way or another, till dawn. And be a little more humble for a month or two. Even when she can sit down again.”
The beldam said to Yvain, “Turn back and face your Seigneur, girl.”
Yvain, unable to acknowledge the order, and afraid of consequences, nodded twice, wide-eyed, and returned to face her Seigneur.
The Seigneur said to the beldam, “Report.”
“This is Yvain. She has just married a peasant, name of Marcello. A man of no importance, and it’s hard to see how he won this girl. Perhaps she is just foolish.” Yvain remembered the consequences, the last time she defended her husband. They still heated her bottom. She remained silent and still. “He must be foolish too. This girl is a virgin.”
The Seigneur put his hand under Yvain’s chin and lifted her face. “That’s a wonder. You kept it for me?” He smiled again, with a little more interest in her.
“How, er, complete is this virginity of yours? Has he had your no doubt delectably tight little asshole?”
Yvan, still with the strap in her mouth, shook her head.
“You peasants find it a fine way of avoiding babies. So has another man been in that little passage?”
Yvain, aware that her face was now as red as her bottom, shook her head harder. The hanging ends of the leather strap smacked lightly against the upper slopes of her breasts. “Well, girl. That’s an amusing and enticing fact. What about your mouth?”
Yvain could only look confused. She knew her cunt was the Seigneur’s first, then her husband’s. She had heard of the other hole being used by very depraved, unnatural men. But her mouth? She didn’t know what the Seigneur meant.
He sighed. “Your mouth, girl. I’m sure it will give me much pleasure before I let you go. But. Have. You. Sucked. A. Cock?” Yvain shook her head wildly, her eyes wide.
“Then you’ve restricted yourself to digital pleasures. You’ve had your husband’s cock in your hand, and stroked it till it spurted? Oh, in God’s name, beldam, take that leather out of her mouth.”
“Yes, Seigneur. Open, girl.” Yvain let the beldam remove the leather from her mouth, with some relief, though she knew the strap was back in play.
The beldam offered the strap to the Seigneur.
The Seigneur said, “No, it will be convenient if you hold that for a time. Anyway, girl, you may speak to answer questions, and when it is otherwise obedient. Have you had a man’s cock in your hands?”
“No, my Seigneur.”
“What an unenterprising peasant you’ve married. Well, has he at least pleased you? With his digits in your cunt, which I observe is very pretty.”
“No, my Seigneur. And thank you, Seigneur.”
“Well, has anyone?”
“Only me, my Seigneur.”
The Seigneur nodded. The beldam said, “With your permission, Seigneur. The girl has something to tell you.”
The Seigneur looked at Yvain, one eyebrow raised. “Yes?”
Yvain wished she could sink through the floor. “Punishment makes me wet, Seigneur.”
The Seigneur laughed. He put his hand under her chin, and when she lifted her face he kissed her mouth. Yvain, confused, knew that this too was far from unpleasant. He said, “It does? How very fortunate for you, girl.”
Her paddling is over, squeaky, squirmy fun though it was. She shifts her body, lifting her completely cute little ass in invitation. Me, I’m just a Master who can’t say no.
Yvain endured the next eleven strokes, thanking Karl, who stood behind her, applying the strokes with a thick leather strap, for each one. Then she said, to the beldam, though her eyes were blurred with her tears when she looked up at her: “I’m sorry I spoke out of turn, beldam. I beg you to forgive me.”
The beldam smiled and took a step towards her. Yvain did not dare to change her position. The beldam brushed a finger across Yvain’s face, collected salty liquid from the flow of her tears. She put that finger in her mouth, tasting Yvain’s sorrow. “Your tears are sweet, little peasant slut. The Seigneur will enjoy them, I’m sure. How is she behind, Karl?”
“Very red, Beldam. And I’m sure very hot to the touch. But that’s for the Seigneur to judge. But that cunt of hers is weeping. Flowing. There must be a hot little stewpot in there. I’d like to flavour it with some white sauce.”
The beldam said, “That’s a dangerous way to speak, Karl. You are not immune to the lash any more than her. Remember that.”
“Yes, beldam.”
The beldam touched her own ear, considering, and looked past Yvain. “You may take one of the peasant women to your room tonight, Karl. I might recommend Gisela, the wife of the Mayor. She has been looking a trifle neglected, and grumpy with it, of late. And he could use the reminder of his place.”
“Gisela is a tasty girl, thank you, beldam. I shall return her far better behaved that she has been lately, well thrashed and fucked, but undamaged.”
“Excellent. Now, girl, what was your name again?”
“Yvain, beldam.”
“Good. It’s a little more noble than your station in life, but we’ll let you keep it for now. If I had my way all you peasant sluts would be re-named ‘Jane’. It’s a plain, unpretentious name, and a reminder that you’re all of you the same. Interchangeable. But the Seigneur prefers a little variety. Stand, slut.”
Yvain stood, and looked for the robe Karl had taken off her. The beldam’s hand cracked across her face. “You have no further need for covering, girl. The Seigneur is waiting. He heard your flogging. And I’m sure he noted the little squeal you made on the sixteenth stroke.”
“I couldn’t help it! I tried so hard!”
“And yet you were told to remain silent. Karl, the strap please – ”
The beldam took the strap and held it to Yvain’s mouth. Yvain opened obediently, and held the leather lightly between her teeth.
“Good,” said the beldam. “Now, what have I told you to tell the Seigneur when he allows you to speak?”
Yvain mumbled as clearly as she could, terrified of dropping the leather, “That punishment makes me wet, beldam.”
“Correct, slut. Not that your condition isn’t obvious, perverted little girl. Your thighs are dripping and you smell like a whorehouse.”
This, Yvain knew, was true. She couldn’t deny her feelings. There was fear, and shame, and … anticipation?
The beldam said, “But we’ve imposed on his patience for long enough. Follow me, slut.”
There was an arched doorway with a heavy wooden door ahead of them. The beldam knocked, and for the first time Yvain heard her Seigneur’s voice. “Enter,” he said.
The moment had come. Her heart beat hard and fast.