[Note: This was written for Smutathon by The Wragger. He doesn’t have a blog, so I’ve posted it here.] 

At no point did he ever wish her to know what was happening next. Every step had to be a surprise, a new experience. Each breath the start of an adventure which knew no end. He wanted to own her very being, ensure that she felt totally in his command, under his leadership and guidance. He wanted that more than hed ever wanted anything in his life before. And he always made sure he got what he wanted. He got it through application, attention to detail and utter dedication to his cause.

He tightened the cuffs around her wrists and secured them to her ankles, hogtied, face down , behind in the air, ready for what was to come. The necktie was secured around her eyes, blindfolding her and focussing her attentions on the sensations and not on the surroundings. The senses are what feed the imagination and our animal instincts use them to prepare our bodies for what we expect. By harnessing the power of those senses he knew he could intoxicate her mind with conflicting messages, cause the adrenalin to pump through her veins in a fight or flee mode, just as easily as he could calm her and arouse her with soft gentleness and caresses.

She said she wanted rules and routine, that they made her feel safe. He wanted to break her habits, renew her beliefs and make him central to all she did. Rules will come but first she needed to learn to tear down those old walls so the new ones could be erected. And those new walls would be built with his own bare hands. Her panties were tugged down, not gently, making her feel the rush of air and the sense of exposure to her most intimate areas.

Despite her adventurous nature he new that her strict early upbringing still left her feeling embarrassed and vulnerable when put in compromising situations. It was as if her fantasies were safe in her mind but when taken out in the public domain they resurrected her fears, her nightmares of the past come back to haunt her. It was then that she needed absolution the most, to purge her of her black desires and guilt from having them.

He was her high priest of the dark domain ready to deliver her welcome into the light. He liked to build up her senses , turn her imagination in a whirl, have her smell the leather of the crop, make her feel the fronds of the flogger on her skin- or indeed as he was about to do, heighten her humiliation by making her taste her own wetness which he had on his fingers after he had felt her between her legs.

She sucked on his fingers greedily as he whispered her degradation in her ears. He knew she would be wetter now. Letting her catch her breath he quickly gripped the back of the rigid ring of solid steel that collared her neck, tugging on it lightly knowing it made her breathing more difficult. He heard her rasping in air as she knew he liked to hold her like this as his ministrations began. He saw her toes curl in anticipation of the oncoming pain. He waited a few seconds her body now heaving as it sucked in air waiting for his strike.

Then he let go of the collar and she filled her lungs heavily and rapidly, almost hyperventilating giving her a heady rush. He knew her body was pumping adrenalin and endorphins, as it waited for the onslaught, focussing her nerves in the area she expected it so making her feel even more lightheaded. Yet he hadn’t even begun.

The first strike of his open hand on her exposed buttock left a broad red mark which her gasp and light cry acknowledged. He waited no more than a few seconds for her to get used to the pain searing through her before he started on a series of spanks to the same spot, deliberately to that area which was now glowing red. Having her repeat her humiliating confessions in time to the beats would deepen her submission as well as oxygenate the blood with quick shallow breaths further fuzzing her mind to any ability to conscious thought of what was happening anywhere other than right at this moment and right at this place of her punishment.

He would occasionally leave her side. He knew she couldn’t see him but would sense it. He wanted her to be wondering what he’d come back with. It could be seconds later or even a couple of minutes. He‘d sometimes gently stroke her hair or soothe her redness causing her heart rate to settle, or just as likely grip the collar again readying her for another strike. He quickly gripped one of her buttocks, squeezing to produce a mound of flesh in his fist and then rapidly spanked that spot hard several times, watching her squirm in discomfort trying to push away but failing. Her squeals and breathing were laboured.

Then more rest. He knew these highs and lows of activity would be having a thrilling effect on her and he absorbed all her bodily reactions to every thing he did and just as importantly to those things he didn’t do watching her body at all times for signs of her state of pleasure.

As her breathing began to settle again he gently stroked her bare skin massaging it sensually moving down between her legs till he felt her wetness as if it was seeping from her aroused slit. Her neediness and lust were literally oozing from her and he knew he’d take full advantage of her in this willing and defenceless state before they fell into each others’ arms with a deepened love, a trusted bond that grew stronger with each minute and with a destiny that was etched into their souls.

[Note: This was written for Smutathon by The Wragger. He doesn’t have a blog, so I’ve posted it here.] 

His eyes are focussed, unwavering in their gaze, watching for the slightest sign, that indication of weakness and the perfect time to strike. To an onlooker, if there had been any, the scene would have seemed dark and oddly sinister.

Two people in the room starkly lit and in utter silence ,she on her knees, naked apart from the velvet collar around her throat, arms outstretched and hands crossed , head bowed and her long red hair covering her face, hiding the concentration in her eyes. He, stood over her, steady in his perfectly balanced pose, statue like steady, yet tense with latent energy like a cat about to pounce at its prey. He had told her of the pose he wanted, yet it wasn’t the pose he needed. The energy it takes to stand still seems incongruous but he knew that at the right time the body would ache and start its moan, building, slowly building, from a whisper to a scream.

That is when he’d make his move and his hand would swiftly deliver its reminder to her of his control. As he watched her he daren’t move. He didn’t want any of his own actions to influence hers. His breathing was soft and shallow, hiding the slightest flicker of his movement from her vision.

And so he watched her , eyes scanning her own breathing for irregular spasms, watching the sinews in her neck for that moment of tension that showed her straining against the tiredness of her raised arms. He strained to see the muscle tone in her arms and shoulders, trying to identify any contraction as the body involuntarily protected itself by tightening the fibres, letting blood flow through it.

His gaze caught that hollow of her breastbone just below the throat, where it glistened with perspiration when under duress, trying to identify moisture which would indicate that moment of surrender would come. He watched and waited, waited in silence , only one objective in mind, never blinking always scrutinising, unaware of time as time was immaterial. The only relevance in this room was to predict and know that precise moment when she thought she could no longer fulfil his command.

No thought was given to her state of mind, her own mindfulness, how she may dread that painful end to this dutiful task. He thought only of her body and the tiniest signal. He was totally absorbed in her. Even the strain he put his body through with his own motionless pose didn’t register. His was the mindset of the predator, where patience and determination sated the hunger and pain that grew inside. Nothing would prevent him from gorging his particular appetite from the burgeoning weakness that would undoubtedly unfold in front of him.

And at the first flutter of it, that is when the prey would be captured. The ambient noise dulled to nothing in his ears. His periphery vision was so narrow he could be in the darkest tunnel. He daren’t even acknowledge the fragrance she wore. Yet he had meticulously noted the shard of light that brightened the blaze of her red hair and focussed on the palms of her upturned hands, fingers curled as if she were pleading for alms. It was if the light reflected from the few square inches of her white palms also lit up the room, the e beam perfectly engineered onto that spot.

Suddenly he saw a tiny movement in her neck, a twitch , a weakening of the resolve. Surely this was it, all of his waiting was about to come to fruition and he’d deliver his reminder of his expertise to her. His hands gripped the long instrument he’d use fingers wrapped tight around it and thumb pressing down on the rim of it. He was ready to strike.

His eyes widened, waiting for the weakness to ripple through her body. Like watching the felling of a great tree. It began with almost impossible slow motion. Her neck started to bend,degree by tiny degree, her shoulder slumped almost imperceptibly but with utter certainty and then followed her upper arms softening and dropping.

And then all of a sudden all resistance was gone and her body slumped, shoulders falling into her torso head lolling forward and arms dropping lifeless. He had his moment. All this waiting and he had at last the opportunity to reminder her of the moment of her utter submission, the e moment of no going back the precise moment when her body gave in to him. He was more alive than he’d ever been: his brain was sharp and his senses alert like he was sensing electricity in the air and his hand sprang got life to do it what it had to capture her.

The shutter button on his thumb pressed and the camera took its one picture, preserving that moment of submission forever for them both.

She thought, while she could still think, that that second spanking was hurting more than anything else her Master had ever done. He’d held her tight while he rained down smacks on her bottom and thighs with that hairbrush. She remembered the pain, and the incredibly loud sound the wooded brush made when it impacted on her flesh. And she remembered his arm holding her waist, and his voice, telling her she was brave, and a good girl really.

She’d wailed, throughout. She couldn’t have managed words while it was happening, and anyway she dreaded what would happen if she complained or begged him to stop. It would start with him pausing, and saying, “Right: we start again,” and her new two minutes would begin, and the spanks would be even harder. She knew that, but disappointing him would be even worse. She wanted him to be proud of her. 

So she’d wailed and endured, and the heat burned into her skin and into her cunt. When he stopped he’d leaned down to kiss her bottom, and his lips felt so cool and so merciful. He murmured, “Now come for me, darling. Two minutes; you know you can, darling. And you will.” 

And she reached back under her belly and rocked while she stroked herself. The heat built in her cunt, and then the wave came back, fast and overwhelming, taking her and spinning her over and over, helpless. She imagined herself drowning, pulled under the water by this force. But she heard herself scream, the sound oddly distant, as if she was far away from herself. She was in an ocean and it was too much, too big: she screamed again, in fear and joy, and felt her body give.

She heard him saying she was his girl, and the best girl, a good girl, and he loved her. And she let herself rise back to the surface, where words and caresses mattered, and saw him looking at her. He looked so pleased and proud she laughed. But she still couldn’t access words. She lifted her free hand and fluttered her fingers at him.

He frowned, puzzled. Then his face cleared and he leaned down again, to kiss the back of her neck, then her ear. “Ah. Not drowning. Waving. Damn right. I love you.”

Note:

This photo was taken after that second spanking, seconds before her orgasm. It’s the last of the set, because after that there were better things to do than mess about with cameras. 

Click on the lips to see other Sinful Sunday entries!

Smutathon note: 

If you click on Home, or the words “Jerusalem Mortimer: Between the lines” at the top of the page, you’ll get my Smutathon contributions. Read them if you like: some of them make me laugh, even though I wrote them. It was an attempt to write as many banned content categories under UK’s cray-zee censorship laws as I could.

The bath scene is sexy rather than silly, so there’s that. Though if it had gone on for another episode, that bathroom would probably have been invaded by urinating ducks.

Smutathon involves writers pumping out filth for a 12-hour marathon of smut. It’s to raise awareness, and money, for two great causes: Rape Crisis Centres, and Backlash, an organisation challenging the UK’s insane censorship regime.

What I’d like you lovely, lively people to do, please is go here, and support Smutathon with your donation!

I’ve put in 13 hours, and written nearly 4,000 words, in 10 posts! 

I hope you enjoyed at least some of them, and if I made you smile, remember that a smile is precious, and go give all your worldly wealth to Smutathon! 

But it’s close to 2 in the morning here, and time for all filthhawks and smutmongers (your servant, I’m sure) to go to their cold, lonely beds, to dream about those
Antarctica girls who really should be here with me. 

Good night and Demogorgon bless you, every one!

(Give to Smutathon, supporting Rape Crisis and Backlash!) 

Amy took her mouth off me eventually and looked up me, bright-eyed. “So, how do you feel?”

“Appreciated, I think. I feel- That was amazing, Amy girl. You’re pretty damn amazing.”

She looked happy. I made her turn around, and shampooed her hair and soaped her, giving special attention to her breasts, and cunt, as one does. Then I focused on stroking in and around her cunt until she splashed a lot more, and her breath was hard, and vocal. 

But she reached for my hand, and stopped me. “I want- I want something a little weird. A lot of people think it’s degrading. To me, at least. But I don’t. I think it’s kind of … It’s to do with really wanting you.”

“Um… You don’t have to be shy. Or ashamed. Who just took his belt to your bum?” 

“You sure did.” 

“Did I look like I was enjoying myself?” 

She smiled, and nodded. Something was still making her shy. 

“So I’m weird. So, seriously, I don’t judge. Tell me and the odds are I’m up for it.” 

She leaned back on me, and I wrapped my arms around her. We relaxed together. I held the glass for her so she could have another swallow of champagne without having to use her hands. 

“I want you to piss on me. Does that gross you out?” 

I was, in fact, surprised. I knew about water sports, but the fact that I’d never done it was a fairly reliable sign of a lack of interest. Or, because no one knows themselves completely, maybe it was just that no one had ever asked me before. I realised that even five or six seconds was too long. Amy was starting to look embarrassed. “No! Hell no, I don’t think that’s gross. Not at all.” 

“It’s a kind of acceptance of you. That everything that comes from you is good. I want to… I guess, celebrate you.” 

“I can see that. It makes sense.” I’d always thought that the people who thought Piss Christ was blasphemous, or anti-Christian, were simply stupid.

That image is kind of beautiful, and its meaning is that Christ, immersed in humanity, even in human urine, is still radiant. She wanted to be immersed in me. It was, in its way, one of the best compliments I’ve ever received. 

“What I mean is, though, I want you to piss on me.” 

I thought about logistics. 

Amy took another mouthful, the trouper, and resumed, lowering her mouthful of cold champagne down below water level and onto my cock. She sucked diligently, moving her lips up and down on the shaft. I put my hand on the back of her head, so she could feel I was controlling her, but lift her head and gasp in air if the needed to. 

I didn’t think the thing would be possible, but this was working. That sensation, of tension and urgency that seemed to start at the base of my spine, was there, and building. I was going to come unless I stopped her. I thought about pulling her off me, getting out of the bath and carrying her to bed, but this was too good to interrupt.

I brought my forearms down to the bottom of the bath so I could lift my body slightly. It meant most of my cock was out of the water, so she could breath, when she wasn’t taking me deeply and I wasn’t obstructing her trachea. Most of the time.

But in a while I put one hand on the back of her head again, holding a handful of her hair, and pushed her down a little deeper, taking my cock all the way. Her lips, sweetly pursed on my cock, touched my groin and stayed there. 

More water splashed. After nearly a minute I pulled her up, so she could breathe. She gasped in air, but without taking her mouth off me, and resumed sucking. Still, she put one hand on the base of my cock so she didn’t go so deep.

I focused my attention on the soft and firm feel of her thighs between my feet, the movements of her mouth, and the hollow of her cheeks as she sucked me. The sweetness and tension came closer, and I said, “Um, Amy, ah.”

I’d meant to warn her that I was about to come. But it was too late for that: a second later I’d started to gush, my head falling back and my body taut, while I made the noise that a lion makes, when beginning to eat an impala.

Amy made her own high-pitched nasal sounds. She sounded happy, though she hadn’t come. She swallowed once, hard, and kept her mouth on me, sucking and swallowing, then cleaning and kissing me, until I started to go soft.

NoteS:

Breach of UK’s stupid censorship law: Asphyxiation, again.

Smutathon

Smutathon involves writers pumping out filth for a 12-hour marathon of smut. It’s to raise awareness, and money, for two great causes: Rape Crisis Centres, and Backlash, an organisation challenging the UK’s insane censorship regime.

What I’d like you lovely, lively people to do, please is go here, and support Smutathon with your donation.

In the bath I lay back, arms resting on the sides while Amy knelt in front of me, took a mouthful of champagne, and lowered her body so she could close her mouth on my cock. That placed her nose and mouth some way under the water. 

Amy liked breath constriction, but I’d been reluctant to choke her with with my hand. So, being a clever girl, she’d found a way. And this was a stunt: she liked showing off. 

She kept her mouth tight so the cold champagne didn’t mix with the hot bath, and laved my cock with her tongue and sparkling liquid, slowly losing its chill.

When it was warm she swallowed. The sensation was far more intense than I’d expected.

I sat up abruptly, splashing water everywhere. “Holy fuck!”

Amy smiled triumphantly, and took another mouthful of champagne. This time she moved her mouth deeper, her head almost entirely underwater. I watched her floating hair and her rocking, bobbling ass, still looking well striped from that morning’s touch of the belt, while she sucked me.

This time she swallowed the champagne more slowly, head nodding, her lips sliding up and down my cock. She disappeared under the water again to take my cock deep into her throat. After nearly a minute there was another chaos of water, when she emerged suddenly into the air, choking and gasping.

Note:

Breach of UK’s demented censorship laws: Sexual asphyxiation. Also the reference to Amy getting the belt hard enough to leave stripes on her bottom: that reference is forbidden too. 

Smutathon

Smutathon involves writers pumping out filth for a 12-hour marathon of smut. It’s to raise awareness, and money, for two great causes: Rape Crisis Centres, and Backlash, an organisation challenging the UK’s insane censorship regime.

What I’d like you lovely, lively people to do, please is go here, and support Smutathon with your donation.