Wicked Wednesday: Monica and the road less travelled

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I’d just lubed Monica’s tight little asshole, putting the rest on my condommed cock. There’s a speech I usually make at that moment, at least the first time, where I check consent and make it clear that she’s in control. 

But Monica reached back and put her hands on the sides of her buttocks, parting them to give me better access. So I decided that consent was given, and that the rest of the speech wouldn’t be right: she liked the idea of me being ruthless, taking what I wanted. The whole point of Domming, and of hypnosis, is not to break the illusion.

So I growled, “Keep that ass up, girl, if you know what’s good for you.” 

Monica made a little vocal noise. It didn’t have words in it, but I took it that I’d said one of the possible right things. So I put my hands at the top of her thighs, squeezing hard enough to hurt a little, I hoped, and pushed forward. There was an instant’s resistance, and then she opened and I was inside, the head of my cock tightly held in slippery, lubed muscle.

I said, “Yes.” That was just pleasure. Then, for her, I said, “Good girl.”

Monica made another sound, a sort of gurgle. I looked down, feeling enormously fond of her. Her face was slightly turned to the left, and there was drool on her pillow. For some reason I found that utterly, absolutely hot, and I pushed further forward. Monica wailed. There was discomfort in that sound, but also celebration.

We moved together then, so I was fully in her, and my belly and thighs pushed against her bottom, still blazing hot from her wooden spoon spanking. We held still, both of us trembling, trying to savour the sensations and not move.

Eventually Monica said, “Ah, fuck … “

I said nothing, but took that as a request, and pushed forward to take one last centimetre, then withdrew a little. And then returned. Monica kept still at first, hands still holding her buttocks for me, but then she put her elbows back on the bed to support herself while she moved with me.

I smacked the sides of her ass, and then her thighs, while we fucked, and she made a sound, not in response to each blow but of gritty appreciation. So that was right too, but I soon lost the ability to coordinate the smacks and fuck at the same time, and simp[ly held her by her hips and fucked her. Time passed, with us focussed on movements, bodies and sensations.

Eventually Monica wanted to speed up, and I let her, keeping up, until she made a series of low, guttural grunts, and her anal ring tightened on the shaft of my cock. Then she screamed once, briefly, and then, panting hard, slowed to a stop.

I gasped, “Good girl. Very good girl.”

“You’re going to say that every time I come, aren’t you?”

“Probably. I like your sounds. And how you feel.”

“Heh. Then that’s good. You’ll just have to make me come often.”

“Dib dib dib,” I said.

“What?”

“Oh. You’ve never been a Boy Scout.”

“Idiot. No one has ever called my bum boyish.”

I was still hard inside her. I hadn’t come yet. But the break was good. “Don’t care about boys’ arses. Yours is perfect.”

She gave a little chuckle. Then she said, “I’ve never done that before. I mean yes, of course I’ve had anal sex before. But never as the first fuck. It was … Why did you do that?”

“Well, it’s very intimate. And to me it feels like it demands a kind of surrender from you. I wanted you to know that I want your, well, your submission. And it means that as far as I’m concerned normal rules don’t apply between us.”

She nodded. “Yes. They don’t. I feel that. I mean, as an emotional feeling.”

“Good. And it means to me, and I hope to you, that I, uh. I uh want this to be an important relationship. I mean I feel that it is. Going to be. No, already is.” I grimaced. I hadn’t expected to say that so clumsily.

“Yeah. I thought that’s what you meant. Glad I wasn’t wrong. You haven’t come yet, have you?”

“No.”

“Good. Fuck me now. Hard as you can, rough as you want. I want to feel you splash in me.”

“Yeah.”I could have made an issue of her giving me commands, but I just smacked her ass again, to preserve that whole Who/whom thing. Then I did as I was told.

Sinful Sunday: Fast Lust

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Lust is good. It’s especially good when things move so fast, for both of you, that you feel like you’re skating on time, downhill racing.

We thought we were just going to do spanking-merges-into-sex. But we got caught up in a tidal wave, a lusty one, and everything had to be fast and sudden.  

Bodies move, when they’re having fun. And lust is in the driver’s seat.

Wicked Wednesday: Monica – Stirred with the Wooden Spoon

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When a Dom has a naked girl bouncing on his lap, because he is naked too, and turned on, and he is spanking that naked girl hard with her own wooden spoon … Ah, I think I’ve lost my train of thought.

Oh yes, if she seems to be enjoying herself and getting into the spirit of the thing, it can be helpful if he lectures her, telling her she’s the sort of bad girl who deserves this terrible punishment. That terrible punishment she’s arching her bottom up for, mouth open and happy, eyes sparkling. 

So I said, “From now on, you do as you’re told, Monica. What do you do?” The wooden spoon spanked nice rounded girl, keeping her arse in motion.

“Uh. UH. As I’m told! Sir!” I took her arse in my hand and squeezed fondly. Warm, she was, and burning hot in places. She sighed when I squeezed her again. “That hurts, Sir.” 

“Is that a complaint?” 

“No! Definitely not, Sir!” That arse wriggled under my hand. “Actually it really isn’t.”

That was probably submission, I decided, and rewarded her by slipping my hand down between her buttocks and stroking her cunt. She shivered when I touched her folds, a wet girl, then froze when I slipped three fingers into her, and began her finger-fucking. Her head fell, forehead touching the sheet, her body abandoned to me. She said, “Duh.”

I continued the lecture. “Whenever you don’t obey me, Monica, you can expect to be over my lap again. And I’m going to bring a cane next time, and leave it in your wardrobe.”

“I’ve heard about canes. Yes, Sir!” I continued her spanking with my hand until her head was up again, and her whole body moved with those three snugly held, wet fingers.

She was in plateau, high, happy, and ready to come. I let her edge closer, and at what may have been the last possible second pulled my fingers out of her, took up the spoon and resumed her spanking.

The strokes were hard, and she yowled as I landed them on that round, red, moving target. It was happy, sexual yowling. She’d been expelled from paradise into another kind of paradise.

By then she’d had about fifty of the promised hundred strokes. I slowed the pace, and spanked harder still, so that she felt each one individually. She rode and rolled on my cock. She was receiving this as strong stimulation, but definitely not as pain. After fifteen very fierce spanks, I said to her, “Sixty-five.” 

“Oh. I wasn’t counting. That’s a lot. And there’s so many to come!” 

Actually, I hadn’t been counting very carefully either. Sixty-five was an estimate. I rolled her off me, onto the bed. “Hands and knees, Monica. Arch that arse up!” 

She obeyed quickly, though I smacked her with my hand for not acknowledging the order. But I didn’t bother to explain why, so it wasn’t good Domming.

But I was busy extracting condoms and a sachet of lube from my wallet. I knelt behind her, my knees between her calves, and admired her anus and cunt, perfectly presented for me. I tore a condom wrapper with my teeth and put it on, then, more carefully, opened a tear in the lube. 

Monica, tensely waiting for my cock, instead felt my thumb, slippery, pressing her anus and then entering. I added more lube there and to my condom. “Oh,” she said. “Oh. Sir.”

I edged forward so my cock touched against that little orifice. 

Sinful Sunday: A tanning

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Elena liked her day at the beach. I’m more of a moon tan guy myself, but she tanned more than she swam, and then she headed to the bar. Where she met me.

She drank champagne with me, and agreed to come over and …

Anyway, I do tanning too, with spank-curious girls. And she colours beautifully.

Then I dimmed the lights, like Bryan Ferry would’ve, back in the day. Yeah, you can guess the rest.

PS: I’ve written this as though it was easy. Yes, actually  it was, but of course life’s not often that way. Sometimes I’m a mouse and don’t offer the champagne or make the invitation. Sometimes I do try, and my charm, such as it is, doesn’t seem to work. But when everything goes right, it’s wonderful.

 

Sinful Sunday: There’s no justice

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There was no reason for caning poor Arethusa that day. She was innocent and good! 

At least, there was no disciplinary reason. She was doing well at university, with health, money and all the other things I watched. 

But it was Sunday afternoon. She hadn’t been caned in too long. We both knew that. So … What else can a Master and his slavegirl do? 

The score:

I loved caning Arethusa. The impact, the little shiver and gasp she gave each time the cane landed.   Each stripe appearing and forming under me.

She didn’t enjoy getting the cane as much as I enjoyed caning her. 

But she liked my pleasure. She liked the transgression of it. And she loved the warm/hot fuzziness that comes when it’s over. She loved Just Having Been Caned. 

And there’s something about immediate post-caning sex. Arethusa tended to be feeling very surrendered while I tended towards the savage. We fucked like she was a town being sacked and I was the Roman army. 

And afterwards … the marks. We loved those marks.

 

Monica meets the wooden spoon

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So we lay in Monica’s bed. Danny the cat had looked death at me as my foot blocked the way just before the door closed. But I was happy with his absence even if he wasn’t. Monica might have lost a smidgeon of protection but she didn’t seem to mind.

Monica had already been nearly naked before I tipped her onto her bed, but I had to pull off my shoes and socks, jacket and shirt, and pants before I joined her. While I was undressing Monica turned over onto her hands and knees and waggled her arse at me. She was right: I was hard again, wanting her, only about ten minutes after I’d come in her mouth.

So I lay down beside her, on my back, and pulled her over my lap, her hard little arse jutting gloriously upwards, Monica looked up at me.

“I know what this is! I’ve never actually been in it before. But this is the Famous Spanking Position!” I could hear the capital letters.

“Yeah.” I slapped her bottom lightly, then caressed her. She felt wonderful, firm and soft.

She said, “And you’re happy.” She meant she could feel my cock, hard, under her belly. I reached my fingers into the crevice between her lower buttocks and ran them further down, spider-walking with my fingertips until I touched her cunt. She jerked at the contact, my fingertips now a little wet and slippery, and then relaxed as I stroked her, very lightly. Her knees and her forehead dipped and rested on the sheet, all her consciousness, I expected, focussed on her cunt and my fingers.

Then, without warning I suddenly smacked her left cheek, hard. She sang, “Yiii!” But she looked alarmed only for a microsecond, then she grinned. It hadn’t hurt. Far from it.

I said, “‘Thank you, Sir; may I have another?'”

She looked at me, again with only a microsecond of disbelief before she nodded. “Thank you, sir. May I have another one? Just like that?”

She got another, and asked for more. And we continued, Monica learning that the Famous Spanking Position works, until her lower bottom, where I’d concentrated the smacks, glowed red and nicely warm. After the twelfth smack I stroked her cunt again, finding her comfortably relaxed and even wetter.

She sighed under my hand, and raised and turned her head to look at me. “Why is that so fucking hot?”

I considered not answering, because the explanation I knew wasn’t as sexy as it should be. Not as sexy as getting her even hornier and then beginning the promised hundred strokes from her wooden spoon. But it had been a serious question, so I said, “Have you ever manually tuned a radio? Or a TV?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Well, just before you reach the station, you get a loud burst of white noise, right?” 

“Yeah?” 

“That’s the carrier wave. It carries and boosts the signal.” 

“OK.”

“Inside the carrier wave, when you tune the receiver closer, you get the signal, all the creative stuff, the words and music, plus vision if it’s a TV. That’s the content. But without the carrier wave the content isn’t very powerful. I mean it probably wouldn’t reach your set, or only very weakly.”

“OK.” 

“Arousal works the same way. I smack your arse. Stimulation, right? Your body reacts, strongly. That’s the carrier wave: arousal. But on its own the arousal is just loud white noise. It’s the signal that gives it meaning. So if you’re already turned on, and the context is sexy, then each smack boosts your arousal and boosts the signal, makes it sexier. You’re creative too: you create a lot of the sexiness of it.”

Monica reached for and kissed the hand that had just spanked her. “Yeah, I see that. If I was at work and you were my supervisor and you slapped me on the arse: same stimulation but the meaning would be different, and it’d make me fucking angry.”

“Exactly. Of course it helps that every smack on your arse, your cunt feels it too. And, um, some people, they like to let go sometimes and have things just happen to them. They like to issue a good, helpless, sexual surrender. Not that you’re like that,” I lied, politely. 

“It’s not hypnosis,” Monica said, “but it’s still a mind game. And you still need the subject’s cooperation, just like I do.” She nodded. “I have to be turned on. And feeling a bit surrendered.” 

I pressed two fingertips into her cunt. She moved, trying for more, and captured my fingers to the first knuckle. I pressed further then withdrew a little, hoping it was good but still frustrating. Monica flopped up and down on my cock, in response, like a fish on the bottom of a boat.

I said, “Yeah.” I took the wooden spoon. “Now we’re going to make the signal … stronger.”  

I let the convex side of the spoon land, hard, on the crown of her right buttock, where – so far – I hadn’t warmed her with my hand. Monica yelped.

I struck her again, on her left cheek, so she knew this was going to be hard. And relentless.

Monica yelped and sighed, not at all unhappy. She said nothing more, but began to rock as the blows fell, using my cock as her fulcrum.

 

Sinful Sunday: Repentance

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Gala was very good at looking sorry. She did it when she really had dome something wrong and I was coming at her with a look in my eye that most submissives everywhere have learned to recognise. But sometimes it was mock-repentance, because the look in my eye was a little less cross, but still promising. 

But, as only small, deliciously spankable girls who know things are about to happen can do, she managed a pretty good impression of repentance. 

Wouldn’t make any difference though. Luckily for both of us.

 

Monica’s knees

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Monica undid my pants, and pulled them and my underpants down below my knees. My cock flicked free, bobbing about near her mouth. She touched the head with her tongue and of course it flicked higher. She had to reach and take it firmly in her left hand, so she could kiss the end, her lips wonderfully soft, without it leaping out of range.  I helpfully pulled her t-shirt off, so she was naked on her knees to a clothed man. It seemed right. 

When her arms were free of the t-shirt she said, “Nice cock.” Then she moved forward and took the glans into her mouth.

I said, as men will under those conditions, “Ah.” I tried and mostly managed not to move. Partly that was because I didn’t want to seem rude, and discourage her from sucking my cock at all, and partly because I liked the idea of her doing all the work. At this stage.

I thought, as she moved forward and took more of me into her mouth, still tonguing and licking me, more than sucking, about her saying my cock was nice. I’ve always been puzzled by that, when women say it to me.

A cock is a cock, if you ask me, and I can’t see how one is nicer than another, though it might be bigger or smaller than average. Maybe there’s something loveable about mine, or maybe it’s just something that some women say to all guys, once cock becomes an issue at all.

I don’t know, and I’ve never queried it. 

I swung the belt down, not hard, so it slapped her bottom, vertically, and wrapped down the underbum to her left thigh. She made a noise of surprise rather than pain, and I did it again, but on her right. She said, round the cock in her mouth, “Why you whipping me?”

“Make you feel good. You’re not just serving me, you’re under my discipline. And the belt helps you know that. Feel it.”

Monica licked the underside of my cock. “Interesting.”

Then she took me deep, all the way into her mouth, so it was jammed into her throat. I said nothing, but my legs were shaking. I reached down at last and took a handful of her hair and pulled. She made a sound of acknowledgement: that was right, and expected.

I began to control her movements, moving her forward and back while I thrust in her, fucking her mouth and throat. I gave her two more strokes with the belt, and she took that as encouragement, sucking harder and moving her head faster, only partly under my direction. So I gave her two more. Her mouth opened a little at each impact, as she gasped lightly, then resumed her task.

Monica put her hands on the backs of my thighs, and sucked hard. She wanted to show she was good at this, and she was. I looked down at her striped backside.

Vertical stripes crossed the earlier horizontal ones, so that her ass was marked out like a noughts and crosses game. Or two.

Danny the cat was watching this, the human female apparently serving the male, receiving pain as her reward and apparently enjoying that. He might remember that scenario, from the days he still had his balls. He moved, ignoring hs mistress, and began wrapping his body round my feet and ankles. Monica and I both noticed. She did eye contact and I shook my head. I had no idea what he was up to either. Cats are weird.

Monica said urgently, while my cock pistoned in her, “Belt!”

I’d forgotten my duty. I laid down four more strokes, while she took me deep and hard. And, of course, the force both of her service and her submission was too much for me.

I started to say, “I think I’m about -” And then I came, body shaking with the sugary sweetness of it, and thrust and spurted into her mouth, while she sucked hard, urgently trying to take it all, and not spill. I thought she’d expect to be punished if she let a drop escape. She was probably right.

I released Monica’s hair and caressed her face. She had her head down now, focussed on sucking and licking my cock clean. She smiled up at me at last, and put her tongue out, so I could see my come on it. I said, “Swallow.”

She did. “Yes, sir.” Then returned to nuzzling my cock, now going soft in her mouth. 

I said, “Well, bed, I suppose. Though I’m not going to be able to fuck you for at least an hour.”

Monica released my cock at last, and shooed Danny. He made his way to the top of the fridge so he could glare down at us. “We’ll be able to pass that hour pleasantly enough. Anyway, sir, I think I know how I can get you hard, whenever I like.” 

I helped her up, then held her to me while I smacked her bottom, six times, with my hand. Monica made no complaint, and didn’t squirm. She just arched her bottom out to make a better target for me. They weren’t light spanks but she was laughing. And she was right. I could feel signs of returning penile interest, a little flow of blood. Though I still couldn’t manage an erection just yet. It had been years since  I’d been a teenager.

I looked around her kitchen and saw a wooden spoon on the shelf with eggbeater and the grater.I took it in the same hand that held her belt. I looked at her. She smiled, knowing what the spoon was for. 

So I said, “Yeah. Have you ever had this used on your perfect little ass?”

“You’re my first pervert. Sir.” She grinned. Calling me ‘sir’ was silly. As well as hot. “So, no. I’m a wooden spoon virgin.”

“Lovely! Well, I think I’ll give you a hundred strokes with this.”

“And then you’ll be hard enough to fuck me, won’t you? Sir.”

“I expect so, Monica. Bed.”  

Sinful Sunday: A Hard Lesson

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About half of Arethusa’s canings were punishment canings, while the other half were just for the sex of it. Punishment canings tended to be a little bit harder, and I was usually growly and lecture-y throughout, so she knew she’d been a bad girl. She didn’t like to disappoint her Master, so that made the strokes hurt more.

This one was for being late with a university assignment. That had happened before, and it was time to drive that lesson home. So this was a hard caning, and there were more strokes to come. 

But even punishment resolves into sex, eventually. She was watching me, for most of it in the mirror, and she said she loved the way my cock got harder, just at the moment of delivering each stroke. “Glee!” she said, when it was safe to say things like that. “You love caning me, and … your cock and your face: it’s just glee!”

Arethusa was very seldom wrong. Except about getting her assignments in on time.

 

 

 

 

Monica’s home, and puss

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Monica’s place in Annandale was part of a tiny bungalow, down a long path and dwarfed by trees. It had been subdivided by a landlord of exceptional greed, so her section comprised an alcove with a sink, a fridge and a stove, a small living room, and beyond that a door that must lead into her bedroom.

I’d expected her to live with other people, arty and theatre people, but where she was. She touched my cock again, to make sure I didn’t get bored and wander off. So I said, “Take those jeans off.” 

She looked at me. It wasn’t a hard order to obey, since she intended to do that soon anyway. But now it had meaning, and she thought about that. But I didn’t want her hesitating, so I put an arm round her waist, pulled her to me, and smacked her bottom three times with my other hand. “Now, Monica! And call me Sir.” 

She grinned. “Oh yeah. Yes. Sir.” She undid the button, all she needed to do because I still had her belt. She pulled the jeans down past her arse, let them drop to her ankles and stepped out. 

She said, “Puss! Puss! Puss! Danny! Food!” Then turned to the fridge and opened the door. I tugged her panties down to her thighs while she doled out cat biscuits and some ends of meat, and water into Danny’s dishes.

I’d done a better job than I’d thought when I’d belted her arse in the taxi. She had four pink but clearly defined stripes on her lower bottom, where I’d had to whip her through her jeans. The first two stripes, delivered on higher, bare skin, blazed merrily red. Her arse was a cheering, rousing sight, and I smacked her again. She turned to face me and said, “Does it show? Photo?”

“Yes, right now it’s kind of obvious you’ve been a bad girl.” I took out my phone. “Turn round again and I’ll show you.”

As she turned, there was loud yowling from behind the catflap. Then, as I took photos of Monica’s perfect and nicely striped little arse, the flap burst open and Danny stalked in, coal black, ignoring us, to guzzle deep in the food bowls. 

Monica said, “Rude boy. Greedy guts. I suppose I should say I don’t mean you. Sir.”

“Probably. Here.” I held the phone so she could inspect the studies I’d just taken of her whipped arse.

“Wow. I know you like those, sir. Or you wouldn’t have put them there. Actually they do look sexy as fuck. They feel nice and warm too.”

I confirmed that, putting my hand on her lower bottom, squeezing, then nodding. 

“Would you send me those shots? Please sir?”

“Yeah.” We did the exchange of phone numbers, and she took on seven studies of her bare, belted bottom.

She said, “My first whipping. Also, it’s the most spectacular molesting I’ve ever had in a taxi.”  

“Yes. Not the last, I think. Whipping or molesting. You’ll have to open a file to keep them in. Monica’s library.”

Monica grinned, but Danny, a black cat, was glaring. Not because I’d whipped his mistress, but because I was there at all, hogging all the attention. I crouched and gave him my hand to sniff. When he seemed to think I was acceptable I scratched behind his ear. Cats are sluts.

“Oh dear,” said Monica. “But at least you know what to do with pusses.”

“Puss-es?”

“Don’t like ‘pussy’. I mostly say cunt. Or puss. You did OK with mine. In a taxi. But I’ve brought you home to molest me again.”  

I stroked Monica’s own puss, or cunt, then slid my fingers inside. She was still a wet girl. She closed her eyes and leaned against me, letting my fingers work in that sweet, tight, clinging space. Her panties fell the rest of their way down her legs, but she didn’t bother to step out of them. She said, “Uh.”, and rested her head on my chest.

Eventually she regained consciousness, shaking slightly. “Danny’s shocked.”

“Only one way to deal with that.” I let her belt down, so it was full length rather than doubled over. “On your knees, Monica.” 

“Danny will be appalled!” I held up the belt. I was too polite to say so, but it was clear her next six wouldn’t be long in coming. Nor would she. Monica dropped to her knees, kissed the hard lump in the front of my pants, and undid my fly. “I think there’s a cock in here.”