beauty, dominance, lust, short fiction, women

Sir v2.0 To Receive

You sleep that night with an ease that normally comes from a prescription. The following morning, in the shower, you catch a glimpse of the bruising on your buttocks and smile to yourself, badges of your courage and surrender that make you tingle with a set of emotions that resist analysis. A few days pass, you are allowed to access the well-stocked library; the meals are served in a communal hall and you notice that Inge and your roommates all bear the mark of instruction.

‘Who did you get?’ Inge asks you.

You describe the guard with the brown eyes, and when you accidentally refer to him as ‘Daddy.’ they all smile at you and shake their heads.

‘I’ve not seen Sir at all.’ Penny says.

You focus on your food, but your thoughts are already wondering when you will be selected again.

By whom, is a hope you already hold of yourself, unwilling to offer it the oxygen of debate.

You are trying to be a good girl after all.

Your name is called over the intercom to report to Room 8 this time. You get out of bed, pad to the shower where you wash with a vigour and care that make you feel especially girlish. There are clothes set on a hanger, a long blue skirt, a camisole top and a blue cardigan that you put on with bemusement and curiosity. The lights flash to mark your path and you enter the room with a press of your palm.

The room is set up like an office. A desk is set against the left-hand wall and a voice comes over the intercom. There is a closed door against the far wall. On the desk sits an LCD flat monitor and a keyboard with a mouse. In the corner across from you is a sink and a black marble worktop with a coffeemaker and a white porcelain jar marked SUGAR and a small dispenser of cinnamon.

‘Please sit down. You will be carrying out some administrative tasks today and expectations are high for their accuracy. There will be consequences for failure to follow instructions.’

Your stomach lurches with disappointment. Your imagination had taunted you with more time with the brown eyed Daddy but you go over to the desk and sit down. The monitor switches on and you see a row of icons across the top. One of them has PLEASE CLICK HERE and you move the arrow over it.

‘Well, this isn’t fun at all.’ you say.

Then you wonder if anyone is listening. You bite your lower lip and play along.

You have letters to type up and send as attachments. Three in total. You see, a timer start in the lower right-hand corner and you frown before looking around.

‘I have a time limit for this?’

You take a deep breath and play along. A small voice in your head whispers that this is part of the game and so you put some effort into the work. You manage the first two letters and half of the third before the timer counts down to zero.

‘Would you please prepare a cup of coffee and walk it to the door?’ the intercom announces.

You get up from the chair and walk over. You make a fresh pot and look at the sugar container and the cinnamon. You decided to risk a spoonful in the black ceramic mug and stir it with a dash of cinnamon. You cup it in your hands and walk then open it.

The room is larger than where you have been. The floor is polished and varnished wood, and the walls are decorated with ivory paint, with a large bay window that looks out onto woodland. At the far end is a large oak desk. The lights overhead are recessed, lending a soft aura to everything and you have to narrow your eyes to see who sits behind it.

His brown eyes gleam with anticipation as you walk towards him.

2.

Your breath catches in your lungs but you hide your excitement as you set the cup on the desk in front of him. His mouth is set in a firm, tight line and he still has the stubble from the last time you encountered him. He wears a white shirt with a black tie as he types something into the computer before him.

‘I took the liberty of reviewing your letters before you sent them.’ he says.

His voice is firm and you tingle at the authority he displays, the hint of displeasure sets sparks in your imagination as you feel your nipples harden through the material of your top.

‘I did as well as I could in the time allowed.’ you say.

He looks up, gazing into your eyes and taking in a deep breath before pushing his chair back and shaking his head.

‘No, this won’t do at all. Come here.’

You walk around the desk and stand at his left. He points at the screen, the red wavy lines stand out like scars and he looks up at you with a hard, knowing stare.

‘Its sloppy work and I demand better of you, little girl.’

Your heart races. His tone is cold and mean, but you press your thighs together as you grow damp with excitement.

He gestures to his lap, his thick thighs and the black tailored trousers that he wears so well.

‘You need to lean across my lap, so we can address this, don’t you?’

You bite your bottom lip and shake your head in bratty defiance. He stands up and reaches out, pulling the hair at the back of your head and staring into your eyes. The hot sting of where his fingers pull makes your eyes damp. You go to pull away but he clenches his fist and shakes his head. He sits down and pulls you with him. His other hand goes to the small of your back and starts to tug your skirt upwards. He forces the material up and you feel the warm air against the skin of your thighs. You are laid prostrate across his lap, with his hand on the back of your head.

He leans forward and whispers into your ear. It sends a shudder of ambrosial delight down your spine.
‘Check in?’

‘Green.’ you say. You gasp it.

He sits back.

‘Now, I am going to have to punish you for this, then you will have another opportunity to make amends, won’t you?’

You suck in a deep breath, testing his will with your silence. He chuckles and you feel his fingers in the waistband of your panties, tugging them down to your knees with a slow, deliberate care. He brings the palm of his hand down hard against the curve of your ass and the sting travels through you with the first contact.

‘Now, having to do this, little girl, is for your own good, do you understand?’

You nod, wondering if speaking would invite more punishment and a devious, naughty curiosity whispered the possibility to me. The attention and affirmation held a powerful appeal.

He spanks you again and you feel the warmth of the blow ease through you. The cleansing pain and the warm tide of endorphins, the partial nakedness and the formality of the professional setting align to suffuse you with the fulfilment of your desires.
He tugs your panties up and pushes you to your feet. He smoothes down your skirt and looks at you.

‘Now, I want these letters done again and this time, you’re to do them properly, little girl. Do you understand?’

You nod and struggle against the intoxicating wave of arousal that soaks you beneath it.

You leave him sat behind his desk, fighting against the urge to look back and test him. To crack that control and experience something unhinged and authentic. Your buttocks sting with each step and you sit down at the desk before you collapse.

3.

The chair makes you wince when you sit down. Your fingers are shaking too hard to type, but you open up the folder and start to write the letter again. You manage two sentences before the intercom crackles.

‘Little girl, come in here now.’

You look towards the door as anticipation flares in your chest and you get up, eager for his authority with a compulsion that is liberation itself. Your legs are hollow and barely keep you upright but you make it through the door.

He raises his right hand. You shut the door behind you and look at him across the room.

‘Take off your panties and get on your knees.’

You maintain eye contact as you slide them down your thighs and step out of them. They are warm in your hand and you pull your skirt up as you get onto your knees. The hardwood floor bites into them and you swallow, your mouth flooded with the adrenaline of the moment.

‘Put them in your mouth and crawl to the desk. Do not look away.’

You place them between your teeth and pad over to them. The motion, the action is utter primacy and your breath is hot and slow, thickening with each breath and it feels an eternity before you reach the desk. You crane your head to look up but he does not move.

‘How do I like my coffee?’

You frown and raise up but he tells you to get back on all fours.

‘Because there is sugar in this. I don’t take sugar, little girl, do I?’
You shake your head and he sighs before he tells you to crawl around the desk and onto his lap.

He is specific that you keep the panties in your mouth.

He has the chair pulled back from the desk and you start to move your upper body onto his thighs before he points to the drawer to your right.

‘Open it. This is going to require some additional motivation for you.’

You open the drawer and see two items. A small glass plug, flared at the base and reflecting the velvet that it sits upon and a white jar with the lid screwed on. He tells you to get them out and pass them to him.

You whimper as he takes the plug, opens the jar and scoops up a glistening dollop of oil. The faint, clean sweetness of coconut oil reaches your nostrils. The material of your panties is sodden with your saliva and you squeeze your thighs together.

He tells you to get onto his lap. His voice is thick and dark with power.

You remain still as he uses the fingers of his left hand to pull your buttocks apart. You cry at the first application of the oil, warm and slick against your tender, tingling anus. He massages it in with slow, deliberate motions. You feel his erection against your stomach, implacable and urgent as his breathing deepens. You sigh through the gag he’s made of your panties.

‘Check in?’

You mumble green light, stripped of vowels as you crane your head to look at him.

‘Now, take this like a good little girl. Breathe out hard and push.’

The insertion is a careful gesture, deliberate and practiced as the rush of tingling, excited fullness insinuates itself up your spine. It lasts an eternity and when he removes his hand, you clench against the plug and sag forward.

He spanks you hard on each buttock. The plug adds a new layer of sensation, amplifying the pain with the delicious shock of taboo, the exposure and the understanding that he demonstrates in action rather than word. You lose count of the blows, each one overwhelms you and you cry out hard through the gag.

He pushes your thighs apart and you feel the flat sting of his fingers against your pussy. A cracking, sudden blow that makes your eyes roll back in your head and buckle against the punishment. He strokes your hair and tells you what a good girl you are. You whimper through the gag and he spanks you between your legs again.
He hooks the material from your mouth and tosses the sodden wad to the floor.

‘Now, after each of these, you’re to say thank you Daddy. Do you understand, little girl?’

You nod, eager to participate, eager to surrender and prove that you can take what he has to give. You are empowered, free to give up your self to his authority and the stinging, shining attention of his will.

His hand comes down hard.

Thank you, daddy.

The pain makes you melt, embedded in the riot of conflicting sensations that takes away your thoughts, your doubts.

Thank you daddy

His fingers come away soaking wet and he parts the swollen lips of your pussy, finds your swollen clit and squeezes it between his fingers, massaging it in a slow pulling motion that makes you cry out, losing the small portion of will and personality that is left. You clench hard, against the first tendril of the orgasm that is pooled within every vein and nerve ending.

He smacks you hard again and you raise your hips upwards. He pulls your hair and whispers for you to check in. You whisper green and he does something unexpected.

He kisses the top of your forehead and tells you what a good girl you are.

Then, he lifts you up and moves you so that your upper body is flat against the desk. He kicks the chair away and grabs your wrists in each hand, brings them to the small of your back and tells you to hold still.

‘This is my pussy, isn’t it, little girl?’

You place your cheek flat against the desk. You give a strangled cry, knowing that you cannot see him, but he is everywhere within you. Pinned down and with his thighs pressed against you, you hear the soft whip of his tie being removed and he slides them around your wrists. He ties your hands together in a firm loop.

You hear the rasp his fly being unzipped.

‘Please, Daddy, let me see your cock.’

Your voice sounds strangled, raw with need and he pulls you up by your hair with a firm tug. He forces you to your knees and you are level with his groin. He has a neat scrub of dark pubic hair and his cock is erect, uncut and jutting out at an upward angle. Guided by instinct, you rub it against your cheek, gasping with the resolution of your desire. He guides the head of it between your lips and you wrap your tongue around it, pushing the foreskin back until you feel the velvet pulse of the head against your lips. He pulls it out and lifts you back onto the desk. You are immobile, hearing the rustle of the condom packet being opened and then rolled on.

You arch your hips upwards to meet the head of his cock as he guides it between the swollen, palpating lips of your sodden cunt. Between the plug and the slow, inexorable thrust, you spasm and twist with the fullness of penetration.

He moves inside you with slow, hard thrusts. He reaches forward, resting his palm on the nape of your neck. He gives an uncontrolled grunt that makes you push back against him.

‘Do you want to come, little girl?’

You scream yes. The friction cuts through everything, ungluing you from everything but physical sensation and raw, ultimate fulfilment.

‘Whose pussy is this?’

‘Yours, daddy, its yours. Please can I come?’

He thrusts into you, teasing with the denial of his permission and the insistent force of his fuck. You raise your hips and urge him deeper inside you. He knows how to make it hurt good.

‘You want to come, huh, little girl?’

You scream your affirmation into the air, shuddering and gasping as he continues to deny you permission.

He is going to make you fail again, and that sets off a series of chain reactions, explosions of neural fireworks, nerve endings singing psalms to the primitive god of his dominance. You ask him again and he ignores you, laughing as you sob with the need for his permission.

He does not miss a stroke as he leans forward, pumping and punishing your cunt with the power of his sweet fury.

Yes, he whispers, you can come.

You buck hard enough that he holds you down against the desk. You cry out how good your pussy hurts, your hair plastered to your head with sweat as you scream your abandon with every fibre of your being. You feel him tense up inside you, and although the latex barrier denies you the liquid splash of his come inside you, you feel your insides suck up the pleasure of him into you with a greed that outstrips your will.

He unties you with shaking hands and pulls off the condom. He places a palm against the small of your back and tells you to breathe out as he removes the plug. He is efficient and gentle, handling you with an expert care like the animal he’s made of you. He turns you around and pulls you into his arms.

‘It’s okay, you’re safe, just breathe.’

You can feel his heartbeat through his chest and he strokes your hair as you clutch at him, weeping with the shocking force of the drop. His embrace does not alter in pressure and you let go, testing his desire and expertise with the raw, ugly force of your emotions. What comes to you as he holds you, stroking your face and reassuring you in breathy, careful commands is that there is no ugliness to your expression.

He wipes your eyes, smooths out your hair and perches you on the edge of the desk as he dresses and composes you. His smile is wide and gentle, asking you if you are okay and paying a tender attention that feels more intimate and personal than the hard, constricted fucking that he has just gifted you with.

‘The coffee was fine, by the way.’ he says.

You laugh, bringing your hand to your face to hide your expression but he takes it away.

‘Can I ask you something?’ you say.

He frowns and looks around before giving you a quick nod.

‘What’s your name?’

He smiles and shakes his head.

‘I’m Daddy, for now. You’ll have to earn that privilege, little girl.’

He kisses your forehead and strokes your hair.

‘You’re a good girl, and you’re going to earn that if you keep this up.’

He walks you back out of his office and there are two guards who escort you back to your dorm.

You look over your shoulder and he smiles at you with a nuance of emotion that stabs into you with the same force as his hands or his cock.

That night, you sleep like you’ve been drugged.

Which, as the final observation comes before you dive deep into exhausted silence, makes you wonder if you have been.

Standard
beauty, dominance, lust, sex, short fiction, Sir, women

Sir v2.0 – I Got You, Little Girl

You are collected from the sleeping quarters, still damp and sore from the ropes and led to the shower area. The nozzles emit a fine warm mist, and you apply a coconut and cinnamon scented wash as the guards effect a discreet exit and allow you the pleasure of preparing yourself. Your skin tingles where you wash, and by the time you step out and towel yourself, you are almost convinced that last night might have been a feverish, anxious pleasure dream. With your hair brushed through, and in clean clothes – this time cotton slacks and a t shirt, you are instructed to report to Room 6.

There are lights inset into the floor that pulse in rhythm and you follow those to a single metal door. A handprint reader is set where the handle should be, and a sequence of LED lights flash on and off when you place your palm against it. The door opens with a pneumatic hiss and you walk inside.

2.

The floor has thick carpet, the colour of oatmeal sprinkled with brown sugar and you scrunch your toes into fists. The comfort is beguiling, but what draws your attention is the square metal frame set into the centre of the room. There are pulleys set at right angles, with Velcro cuffs attached by hooks. You hear a familiar voice behind you.

The guard who shaved you. He wears a black t shirt and trousers with polished black leather shoes. He checks a PDA in his hand.

‘It says here your safe word is curmudgeon. Is that right?’

He smiles as he says it. You see the corrugated muscles in his forearms, beneath the fine, dark hairs. He has a couple of day’s beard grown in and he rolls his shoulders as he appraises you.

You nod, your heart starting to speed up as he puts the PDA down on the table in the corner of the room.

‘We also use a traffic light system here. So, it’s green for keep going, amber for check in and red is slow down or stop.’

His voice is low, pleasant and professional. It’s the kind of voice that would make you sigh to hear on the phone, and a fluttering, gentle warmth stirs in your belly to hear it. He walks towards you and gazes into your eyes.

He smiles and brings his hand up to the hair on the back of your head and runs his fingers through it.

‘ I have you, and I can do any fucking thing I want to you. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

He shakes his head and pulls lightly on the hair at the back of your head. His grip is firm without being aggressive. Your eyes start to water, but your heart races with the speed and intensity of his grip.

‘I didn’t tell you to speak, did I, little girl?’

Those two words are a lit match tossed into petrol. You nod as much as his grip allows and he smiles with pleasure. You can smell his clean skin, the mint on his breath mingled with the coffee he drank.

‘Good. You want to be a good girl for me, don’t you?’

His other hand circles your wrist. The implied strength of him brings out the brat in you, and you pull away slightly but he tightens his grip and pulls you close to him. Your chest crushes against his as he looks down on you.

‘Oh, do you think you can get away?’

You bite your bottom lip and squeeze your thighs together. The rough authority of his voice excites you and there’s a curious, playful light in his eyes that endears him to you. He tugs on your hair to control you again, a little harder this time.

‘Check in?’ he says.

‘Green light.’

You whisper it to him, playing the coquette for your mutual pleasure.

He keeps a grip on your hair and lets go of your wrist, slipping his hand inside the waistband of your cotton slacks and over the curve of your pussy. He shaved it yesterday, and he runs his fingers over there in small circles before he uses his ring and index fingers to part you with care then slides the tip of his index finger inside you. You are wet to the touch but he frowns, acting the part to the hilt.

‘I expect you to be wet for me.’

You nod hurriedly. He slides the finger into you a little further and exhales with displeasure.

‘Now, I am going to have to be a mean Daddy, aren’t I?’

You shake your head, breathing hard as he drags his finger in a small, deliberate circle. You raise up on your tiptoe.

‘You can feel I’m wet, Daddy. You don’t have to be mean to me.’

He pulls on your hair again, your eyes water and he slowly withdraws his finger from you. He tells you to turn around and walks you over to the frame. He presses himself against your backside, and you can feel the outline of his erection against your right buttock. His mouth is against your ear and he tells you exactly what you are to do.

‘What happens if I don’t?’

He tugs your hair again.

‘Did I tell you to speak?’

You shake your head as much as his control allows. Your breath is molten in your lungs, your heart is thumping, almost angry in the pace of its rhythms. You shut your eyes and tears trickle down your cheeks. Your thoughts are foxes chased by the hounds of his will. He swats your backside with the palm of his hand, and it stings through the material.

‘Spread your arms above your head.’

You do as you are told and he lets go of your hair to carefully affix each cuff to your wrists then your ankles. He says check in and you say green light without thinking. He presses a small button on the side of the frame and the wires retract. Your limbs are forced up, firm enough to hold you in place but not so much that it tests your tendons or shoulder joints.

3.

He walks around you, eyes dark with power and excitement. You are unable to move and he retrieves a small razor from his pocket and cuts the clothing from your body in strips. He tosses each strip aside and stands back to view his work.

‘You know, I can do anything I want to you, don’t you, little girl?’

You nod and gasp.

He paces around you. Losing sight of him sends a jolt of mingled dread, anticipation and delight at the dread. His hand strokes down the length of your back, raising gooseflesh and making you shiver.

‘It’s such a shame that I have to discipline you, little girl.’

He stands in front of you and gazes into your eyes.

‘Daddy hates to be mean.’

You smile, giving in to the contradictory impulse to test him.

‘Liar.’

He scowls and strides behind you. You brace yourself and he cracks his hand against your left buttock. The air whistles and you cry out at the impact. The hurt forces your thoughts away, carried on a red tide of feeling that is clean and pure. The resulting endorphins surge in and your vision swims with blissful delight.

‘Do I have to do that again?’ he says.

He remains stood behind you, but his voice carries.

‘No Daddy.’

He smacks your other buttock and you cry out, your breathing fast.

‘I didn’t say speak, did I?’

You shake your head. He puts his hand between your thighs and pets you there. You shut your eyes and push against it.

‘That’s better.’ he says.

His voice is low and thick. He strokes between your lips, investigating and prodding with a confident, playful circling motion.

‘This is mine, little girl, you know that, right?’

Your eyelids are heavy as you take slow, deep breaths.

He smacks you with his palm there and you shudder in your restraints.

‘You answer Daddy, little girl.’

You nod, gasping and grinning as the hurt and pleasure travel through you, a perfect conjuring trick as your nerve endings riot in an orgy of blended synaesthetic sensations.

He starts to stroke you again, circling around your throbbing clitoris with his fingers without directly touching it. It is divine and maddening, how he controls your release, keeping it just out of reach.

‘Now, as this is mine, I get to decide something. Something that you need to ask for, little girl.’

You are drugged with the building, impending rush of orgasm. It pools in your stomach and thighs, a conspiracy of different physical sensations and pressures, made bold by their imminent arrival. You listen to him, intently but you cannot fight what is coming, no matter what he tells you. His fingers glide against your sodden, tender flesh and you can feel where your arousal has oiled the inside of your thighs.

‘You need my permission to come.’

The prohibition almost sends you over the edge. The relinquishment of responsibility, a simultaneous reduction and expansion of your primal, infinite self and all of it handed over to the man with the brown eyes and the knowing touch, who keeps you perpetually perched on the line between agony and ecstasy.

‘Please. Daddy.’

Speaking is like dragging someone from quicksand.

‘Please Daddy, what?’

‘Please Daddy, can I come?’

He starts to stroke closer to your clitoris, which pulses in time with your heartbeat, the blood hurtling through your veins as your nerve endings riot in an orgy of utter abandon. He does not rush, which is common in the heat of rut, where one has the responsibility of dominance and the other has the power of submission.

‘No.’

You cry out but he does not miss a stroke.

‘Please, oh please, let me come.’

You will yourself against it. Not because you fear the punishment, but because you want to cross that threshold. Nothing is your fault in that place, there are no nervous thieves looking to steal your fragile hopes from your day, only a complete set of feelings and emotions. There are no lists, no expectations only the force of will and your ability to ride it to the ending of a world and in the same instant, the birth of another.

You try.

Oh fuck you try.

You.

Try

You

Fail.

You hear someone saying no and please over and over, their voice breathless and rapid.

You realise it is you.

It is the last rational thought you know before you explode with a shuddering, sharp burst of delight pitched at a note that makes every cell in your body vibrate, spasming and twisting against the stroking motions of his fingers. Time dilates and everything goes away for a second. You don’t black out or anything so histrionic, but there is a perfect pause of self and when you return, tears stream down your cheeks.

‘I’m sorry.’ you say.

He presses his palm against you, tells you to take deep breaths. His other arm comes around your waist and he pulls you hard against his chest. His mouth is against your ear and there is none of the playful control in his voice. Only a warm, calming concern for you.

‘You’re here and I’ve got you.’

You’re here and I’ve got you.’

He removes his palm from between your thighs and wraps his other arm around you. You sag forward against your restraints and they relinquish their grip on you. He makes reassuring cooing sounds and you hear the rip of the Velcro as he takes each cuff off. You let yourself be turned around and he puts his hand at the nape of your neck.

You rest your cheek against his chest. The tidal, slow rhythm of his breath and the steady pump of his heart work together to lull you from the depths of the crash that such a climb can prompt. Your arms come around him as you sob and he remains a solid reassuring column.

You shut your eyes and drift off with his fingers stroking your hair.

He tells you what a good girl you are.

That he’s got you.

If this is a game, then it is one that you have decided to believe is real. Like a pawn feeling existential dread when a castle crosses diagonally towards it on fields of pitch black and pure white.

You have been taken and you want to keep on being taken.

 

 

 

 

Standard
love, lust, poetry, women

Such Is My Strength

Pushing you down

I would fuck the breath

From you

Like we were fighting

Show me the power

Of your surrender

I would pull your hair

Like playground games

Control you with

A loving dominance

A wild passion that

Lives in heart’s forest

And when you were full

Shuddering with satisfaction

I would pull you to my chest

Have you nuzzle my fur

Whisper your worried sorrows

Your bladed secrets

I can bear them

Such is my strength

Sweetness’ warrior poet

I do not prove myself

Because i know

And so do you

https://soundcloud.com/matt-blissett/such-is-my-strength20170101_110339

Standard
fiction, lust, sex, short fiction, Sir, Uncategorized

Sir 2.0 A Whispered Munch

art-beeandd-8966-500

You are directed to a small room, four single beds, a footlocker at the bottom with a single pillow and sheet. The lighting overhead is recessed, making the shadows thicken and giving a softness to proceedings that lends everything a dream-like hue.

The other women here inspect you with a cautious glance. You give a casual, awkward wave and scurry towards the empty bed. You sit down and one of the women, the tall lady with the braid smiles at you.

‘All done?’

You nod. The dissonance between the examination and this environment has caught your tongue. Your skin still hums from the guard’s hand between your thighs, Sir’s voice, the harsh buzz of the unseen audience and their laughter. You shut your eyes for a moment, trying to make sense of it all.

Humiliation occupies that part of your brain where you are more repelled than attracted by it. Whether it is a deliberate choice on Sir’s part, is not for you to say and when you try to figure it out, the only reward is the grey, fuzzy start of a tension headache.

You do not hear the woman sit across from you.

‘Hey, I’m Inge. What’s your name?’

You give it. It occurs to you that this might not even be your name. Memory alteration has become a subtle science, evolved and fed by money and novelty. However, the video of you appeared to be convincing and so you decide to yourself, that it is as good a name as any.

Inge gestures behind her, to the other pair of women and gives their names. Pepper has auburn hair, squints like she needs prescription glasses and a slight overbite that makes her endearing as she waves at you. She stands with the rounded shoulders  and upper back of someone used to slouching around shorter people to make them feel better. You note the pink marks on her wrists, not fresh marks of bondage but old scars.

It is a misnomer that an interest in these practices is a sign of damage. You know from experience in meeting other people in the scene that they all show signs of rude, psychological health. A quote from the sex columnist Dan Savage comes to mind, that it’s all ‘cops and robbers with your pants off’.  Pepper sees where your eyes go and lowers her hands down by her side. She’s used to hiding them, but here it will probably feature as part of her programme.

Therese has long, dark hair that falls in damp, cherubic curls around high cheekbones and warm, brown eyes. She is short, full figured and gives a broad, challenging grin as she nods her head in greeting. Inge called them over.

‘Apparently, it all starts tomorrow.’ Pepper said.

Inge chuckled and you look at her with bemusement.

‘It all started the moment we went through processing. We signed up for something we wanted, and agreed to have it as a new experience for us.’

‘We all want something new.’ Therese said.

We all had experience of bad doms and daddies, in their own way as dangerous to our bodies and self-esteem as needy, weak men or boys in adult bodies. We knew, intellectually, that we had the power in such an exchange and that comfort was as essential as the willingness to put oneself and their needs up for display. My hands began to shake at the memory of the guard’s hands, the steady glide of the razor against my skin and how he had looked at me, with hunger and respect.

‘I got a shave already.’ you say, and the women laugh.

Pepper giggled.

‘I got a shampoo and a comb. I guess I’m into the hair being pulled there, or something.’

Inge smiled and crossed her legs.

‘Waxing for me. The guard put a dildo in whilst she did it. I came twice before she was done. ‘

Therese ran her tongue over her lips.

‘I’m almost too excited to sleep. I mean, the whole thing of the guards, the atmosphere, I’ve been tingling all over since I got here.’

Pepper had flushed and sat down next to Therese.

‘What do you think Sir looks like?’

Her voice is breathless, and the adolescent nature of this makes you smile.

‘It doesn’t matter. He’s an idea, I suppose.’

Therese bit her bottom lip and gazed upwards.

‘The accent, it’s arrogant. British, I think. Like how they play the villains in movies.’

A loud clicking sound announces a statement. All participants are to be in their bunks. The voice sounds curt and efficient. The four of you look at one another and then depart, moving to your beds and getting in under the covers. The lights go out, and you continue to talk, whispers scouting through the dark as you share little details, hopes and dreams that you seek to hide from the all-seeing eyes and ears of Sir. Sleep comes by degrees and you find relief in it’s absolute certainty.

You feel your hands being lifted and a length of rope looped around it, bent double at the wrist before your head is cradled at the back and another loop is slipped around your neck. Then it is adjusted so that it sits between your breasts, taut against your stomach and down your thighs. You are rolled onto your sides with a professional care and the rope tightens, biting into the skin of your stomach and pelvis.

‘Put your hands behind your head, lace your fingers.’

You think you recognise the voice, not Sir though.

You do as you’re told. Your heart thumps in your chest, hard and fast. A pair of hands starts to work with a second rope and then adjusts the first one, so the pressure is taken from your neck and passed on down between your thighs.

‘Good girl.’

There are two knots that you feel at your sternum and navel then you gasp as you feel gloved fingers pinch your nipples. You arch your back in response and the rope begins it’s work, harsh but delicious against your pulsing clit. You hear the breathing deepen and you try to work with the perpetual discomfort of the ropes, gritting your teeth and biting back the sobs of sensation that assail you.  You bite your lip in an effort not to cry out and a hand brushes your cheek.

‘Oh, you are a fighter, aren’t you?’

You cannot move your hands and you find yourself rolled onto your front. The rope between your legs insists itself and you push against it, shutting your eyes against the harsh pleasure of it. You feel cool hands on your exposed buttocks then the mouth close to your ear.

‘I’m going to put my fingers in your mouth now. You are not allowed to let go of them until I say, understand?’

You nod as much as the rope work allows. His index finger slides between your lips, the skin tastes faintly of good coffee and vanilla extract. You wrap your lips around it and shut your eyes, eager to show what a good girl you are.

The first blow makes your eyes water but the rush of endorphins is a beatific sensation. You take it, the sting ebbs into a deep warmth before the next blow comes and relieves you of that. You suck on the finger in your mouth, your eyes fill with tears. The harsh, painful, heated pleasure surges through you and sets a reaction that starts from the points of pain, meeting and expanding through you. You piston your hips against the rope, sucking on the finger and breathing through your nose as everything gets reduced down to the sensations you are experiencing.  Two more blows against your buttocks and you buck hard against the rope between your thighs, eyes rolling up behind the closed eyelids and shuddering as you come.

The finger is removed and you are untied with careful efficiency. You are gently laid on the mattress and the voice appears at your ear again.

‘You are a good girl. I look forward to doing this again with you.’

The hand strokes your hair as you sob with relief, the understanding of the crash that comes after such a tumult of sensations is a subtle thing that good doms and daddies understand. It is not to be feared, but seen as the gift that it is. A simplicity of feeling, a tunnel from the confusing disparities of the everyday into a state of cleaner, brighter consciousness.

The hand strokes your hair until you fall asleep.

You could tell yourself it was a dream but when you awake, the marks are still there.

TO BE CONTINUED.

 

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love, lust, poetry, women

Escape Through A Rippling Heat

Hunting

The hot, rippling

Heaven

That you taste

On my lips

I am a flock

Of birds

In your sky

Coaxing delight

That gathers in swollen

Clouds

Until they

Burst in deluges

Of honeyed release

Kiss my fingers

Hold them in your mouth

As proof of surrender

How I would

Tell you

What a good girl

You are

As i

Had you feel

My fury

Whispers

Of all the places

I’m going to fill

Make you

Little and girlish

With want

Sourced in safety’s

Comfort

A gentle primacy

That knows itself

And seeks

To recall

To know

You

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Standard
creative writing, love, lust, men, poetry, women, writing

Belt

20161213_072741.jpg

Over my lap
Grinning with defiance
Here is where
You surrender
Or play at it awhile
I place the leather
In front of you
See it glisten
With intention
In a gruff voice
I tell you
That this is
For your benefit
More than mine
The crack of it
Tentative
At first
Physics
Chemistry
Endorphins
Blooming
Flow through your veins
Each blow
Lands like a kiss
You arch your back
Hungry for more
And the appetite
Transforms
Until you are soaked
Sated and ready
For
More
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