The silken fabric of Harry’s purloined panties stretched tightly over the spheres I was about to whip, clinging like a second skin to their firm roundness.
I arranged the satin folds of the slip over his back and slid my hand into the warmth of Harry’s knickers, lowering the clinging garment to expose the cheeks I was about to chastise. The material rustled sensuously as it slithered down his stockinged thighs.
‘Open your legs wide! Stretch those knickers taut between your knees! I must be able to see your dangling jewels for your ass to be properly positioned for my caning.’
I was beginning to enjoy this dominatrix power bit as I created our private punishment ritual. Harry was docile and silent in his acceptance and trust in my domination of his body. I felt between his open legs, fondling his dangling balls and teasingly caressing his dormant cock. I hoped a well striped ass would excite it to new vitality for our post-punishment pleasure. The thought titillated me and, presumably, Harry. His cock swelled sweetly to my touch. Such punishment ritual could become mutually addictive.
Harry’s ass cheeks were now perfectly framed between slip, stockings and knickers for my visual delight. I reached for my digital camera and recorded this unique moment in our budding relationship.
I gripped the cane firmly and whipped through the air to get the feel of it. I stood back and took a deep breath. My heart was pounding at what I was about to do. I raised my arm.
Crack!
‘We shall count each stroke together, Harry. One! That has left a most pleasing red weal across your tender cheeks. It shall be my marker for the rest.’
Crack!
‘Two! I’ve left a second scarlet line across your butt, just above the first. Do you feel its fiery imprint, Harry, my love? Your bottom is twitching most erotically to the painful rhythm of my cane. I am getting quite turned on by our scene. Are you?’
Crack!
‘Three! That one really hurt, didn’t it! Was it like this when you were caned at Eton? But you weren’t wearing my sexy lingerie then, were you! So I don’t suppose it was such a turn-on for you and your caner!’
Three parallel lines of stinging red had cut across those handsome cheeks, bringing a grunt from Harry as he counted each stroke. I paused to run my hand lovingly over the red welts I had raised, feeling their warmth, enjoying the squirming of his bottom cheeks to my tender touch which he obviously found as sensually arousing as I did.
‘Your striped cheeks look very beautiful in their red-lined pain. We must do this more often. Perhaps we can buy you some fine lace-trimmed stockings and a nice suspender belt of your own… and some high heels for you to wear when I cane you. Would you like that, Harry?’
Harry gave what I took to be an approving grunt at my inspired suggestion.
I decided to apply a fourth and last stroke of my cane; lower down on the tender crease between bottom and thigh. Since becoming an accomplished dominatrix with an adoring Harry seeking to cater to my every whim, I have learned that this is what Dominas call the ‘Sweet Spot’ because it is the most tender and erogenous spot on a bared bottom, engendering the most lustful desire for post-punishment play.
Crack!
‘Four! Aaaagh!’ Harry cried. He shot upright, clutching his tortured rump to protect it from further damage. I was really hot for more sex now and I could feel a wetness in my cunt that needed urgent attention from cock or tongue. The pain had been pleasure for Harry, judging from the massive erection he now sported after such a ritual punishment scene.
I put the cane down on the table and led Harry by his rampant cock to the sitting room couch. I sat myself down, opened my kimono and spread my legs wide, splaying my conch lips open with my fingers to present my clit for his immediate attention.
‘Kneel before me my darling slut stud and suck me!’
I pulled his head toward me and thrust his hot face to my pussy.
‘Suck, Harry! Suck my pearl! I’m your mistress now! Take me to Domina paradise!’
I was panting with desire as my climax rose, peaked and overflowed. I clutched Harry’s head, holding it to my cunt, pressing his slurping tongue to my Pleasure Fountain and came in a flood-tide of quivering waves that reached to every tingling nerve in my body.
Harry drank deep at the Pleasure Fountain of my fragrantly flowing love-juices and then abruptly stood. His cock, free of any restraining knickers, stood hot and hard ready for mistress; its succulent mushroom head throbbing enticingly before my hungry eyes.
I love to suck a hot cock full of cream, and this was a particularly luscious lollypop that was bobbing before my lips.
‘Since you have been such a good submissive to my first ever caning, I shall allow you to face fuck me while I fondle and milk your warm jewels of their precious nectar. But, next time, I shall have you better dressed for the occasion in a proper Slutmaid’s uniform. And when you’re dressed I shall collar you. Your Slutname shall be Harriet and you will belong to me, your mistress. Do you accept my bargain?’
The look on Harry’s face told me all I needed to know. I took that delicious cock in my mouth and began to suck. I had discovered a new lifestyle and I had a willing slave to share it with me!
Holding Out For A Hero
by Elizabeth Coldwell
I was about to leave the party when I spotted him. I’ve always hated fancy-dress dos. Blame it on too many weekends at university being persuaded to go to parties where the dress code was togas made from bed sheets, or had themes like ‘come as you were when the ship went down’, which always seemed to be dreamed up in the hope that the hottest babe in the hall of residence would turn up in a skimpy nightie.
But Gillian had told me that I needed to get out and meet more men, and her boss’s fortieth birthday bash would be an ideal opportunity.
Of course, she had bumped into Barry from accounts, who was the reason she had accepted the invitation on our behalf, within ten minutes of arriving; the two of them had disappeared to the kitchen together, leaving me to stand by the punch bowl and wonder how much longer I had to leave it before I could slip away without looking like Belinda No-mates.
‘Come as your hero,’ the invitation had read. For the male guests, that was someone they had particularly admired when they were 15, judging by the outfits on display. Two Indiana Joneses, one of whom was Tony, the party’s host, and three different incarnations of Doctor Who. In addition there was Laurel and Hardy, a bloke in full Chelsea kit and someone sporting a boiler suit and ski mask who could either have been Hannibal Lecter or a particularly sadistic plumber; no one who even inspired me to go over and chat, let alone pushed my erotic buttons.
So when I saw him strut over to help himself to a plastic cup of the vodka-laden punch, I thought he had been sent especially to treat me. Very few people could do justice to the costume he had chosen, but on him it looked magnificent. He was wearing very little more than a red cloak and a tight-fitting pair of leather-look shorts. His bare arms and torso were almost indecently muscular, his tousled, dirty-blond hair fell to his shoulders and I could happily have spent all evening licking his broad thighs.
The fact he was carrying an obviously plastic sword did little to damage the illusion that he was a proud Spartan warrior, and, even if it had, I could hardly complain. My own costume, cobbled together from what was lying around at the bottom of my wardrobe, consisted of a khaki-coloured T-shirt, black shorts and hiking boots designed to give me a passing resemblance to Lara Croft. I had scraped my hair back in a ponytail, letting a couple of strands fall over my eyes, and I had a water pistol strapped to my thigh. So, if nothing else, I had the fake weaponry as an opening conversational gambit – if only I could stop weaving dirty little fantasies in my head for long enough to say hello to him.
In my mind, I was already stripped to the waist and on my knees before him, hands secured behind me, while he lazily stroked his cock and looked down on me, smiling cruelly. In moments, that cock would be in my mouth, and I would be made to suck him till
he came. It would taste good, salty and male, and though I would display a measure of reluctance to be used by him in this way, in reality I would be loving every minute of it.
The realisation that he had noticed me staring snapped me out of my pleasantly filthy daydream, and I smiled sheepishly at him. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I was just admiring your – er – outfit. I’m Lisa, by the way.’
‘Darren.’ I thought he was going to offer me his hand to shake. Instead, he ran it through his hair in a gesture which sent a spasm of lust through me. ‘Yeah, well, you’ve got to look up to people who took such good care of themselves, haven’t you?’
That wasn’t exactly the point of being a Spartan, I thought, but I would let it go. ‘You must have to put in a lot of work to end up with a body like that?’
‘Tell me about it,’ he said. ‘I do four sessions at the gym a week. Mostly free weights, forty reps on each, then ten miles on the treadmill. I mean, I don’t want to look too bulky, but I do like to have defined abs.’ Defined? They practically screamed, ‘Look at me, touch me, eat your dinner off me…’ But while I was thinking about running my hands over his six-pack, he was still detailing his exercise routine. ‘And at the weekends I swim at least sixty lengths of the municipal pool. But it’s all worth it, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Er – yes,’ I said, reaching for a tortilla chip and loading it up with salsa. The look he gave me as I popped it into my mouth bordered on horror.
‘You don’t want to touch those things,’ he said. ‘Nutritionally, they’re complete rubbish. Now, me, I stick to a high-protein, low-carb diet. Lots of fruit and veg, and two litres of water a day. I don’t even normally touch alcohol, but tonight I thought I’d have a small cup of this stuff as a treat and then I’ll be on orange juice for the rest of the night.’
I kept up a façade of looking interested, but I was still trying to think of a way to bring the conversation round to a more carnal level. He might be a fitness bore, but I was willing to overlook that if I knew he was also into kinky sex.
‘Well, as long as that means you’ve got a lot of stamina,’ I said. ‘Because that’s what I like in a man. Someone who’s big enough and strong enough to pin me down in any position. Tell me what to do, you know the kind of thing…’
The way he was looking at me I knew that, frankly, he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. Here was I, practically begging to be dominated and fucked till I could barely stand, and he was more interested in how many calories there were in the guacamole.
It was no good. I was talking to a bloke with the body of a Greek god, but the brain of a Greek salad. Desperately, I looked round for someone to rescue me before Darren bored me into a coma, and caught the eye of a man I hadn’t noticed before. It was surprising, given that he must have been the tallest person in the place but then, in the admittedly well-cut suit and black shirt he was wearing, he didn’t exactly stand out among all the cartoon characters and teenage wet dream superheroes. He smiled at me, and I wondered just how much of our conversation he had overhead.
Darren excused himself to get a glass of orange juice and the stranger wandered over. ‘Haven’t you learned yet that the first rule of playing mind games is you have to do it with someone who’s got a mind?’ he asked.
Damn, so he knew exactly what was going on – or, rather, not going on – between me and Darren. I made a point of eyeing his suit up and down, trying to ignore that with his tufty brown hair and clear hazel eyes, he was actually rather handsome. Not in Darren’s league admittedly, but still not bad.
‘Don’t tell me,’ I said, ‘your hero is your bank manager.’
He smiled. ‘No, I was actually going to come as Neil Armstrong, but then I got stuck in a meeting with clients and I didn’t have time to go home and change. So I just turned up as I was. I know it looks like I haven’t made an effort, but if anyone asks, I’m searching for the hero inside myself.’
It was a good line and it made me laugh, even though I suspected he had been rehearsing it on the way over here.
‘So how do you know Tony?’ he asked.
‘I don’t,’ I said. ‘He’s my friend’s boss. You might have seen her – she’s the one dressed as Wonder Woman.’
‘Oh, yeah, she’s in the kitchen, wrapped all round Luke Skywalker. When I went in there, it looked like she was having a play with his light sabre.’ He reached for the ladle in the punch bowl. ‘More punch, or are you trying to keep a clear head for your brave warrior?’
I glared at him. ‘You’re not going to let this go, are you?’
‘What, that you were more interested in the size of the package than what was inside it?’ He ladled punch into my cup and I took a sip, wondering how much of the stuff it would take to blot out my memory of the night’s humiliation. The stranger’s next words made me realise that might not be the best option. He bent the considerable distance which was required to get down close to my ear and murmured, ‘Because you have to realise that some of us do know the kind of thing you were talking about…’
My words came back to me: ‘Pin me down. Tell me what to do.’ I shivered; I couldn’t help myself.
‘Why don’t we go into the bedroom and talk about this further?’ he suggested.
I drained my cup. ‘OK, but why don’t you tell me your name first?’
‘It’s Marc,’ he said, ‘but you can call me sir.’ From the tone of his voice, he wasn’t joking. That was fine by me. I didn’t want jokes. I wanted someone who would play the game on my level, and it seemed that was exactly what Marc had in mind.
I had thought the bedrooms might all be occupied, but Gillian’s boss had a big house which Marc clearly knew his way around, and, anyway, it didn’t appear to be that kind of party. We found a small guest room on the third floor. There was a key in the lock and Marc made sure to turn it, so we would not be disturbed.
I stood looking at him, stomach churning with lust and nervousness. I wanted Marc to take control, but part of me was still Lara, the defiant heroine, and felt the need to put up some kind of resistance. ‘So tell me just why you’ve brought me up here,’ I said, hands on hips.
‘I’ll tell you – but only once you’ve taken that T-shirt off,’ he said.
So this was what he had in mind: take away what power I had in the situation by stripping me. The thought of baring myself for him was making my juices flow, but still I stood there, defying him.
‘Do as I tell you.’ His voice was low, authoritative. ‘Or I’ll take it off you myself and make you walk back into that party topless.’
The images he was planting in my mind almost made me whimper. His big hands, tearing the clothes from my back while I made a half-hearted attempt to stop him… I stared at him for a long moment, then pulled off the T-shirt and threw it on the bed. Under it, I was wearing a push-up bra, bulked out with a couple of handkerchiefs to give me something approaching a decent cleavage, though nothing as pneumatic as that of my computer-generated alter ego.
‘That, too,’ Marc demanded. Again I feigned reluctance for a moment then gave a little sigh and let the bra join the T-shirt. Marc didn’t say anything as he gazed at me, but his expression told me how much he appreciated the sight.
He came to stand behind me, cupping my breasts in his hands. I was aware of how big he was, how confident – how much more of a man than Darren, whose charms were entirely on the surface.
‘So what does the rest of your little fantasy involve?’ Marc asked, squeezing my nipples. ‘You’re in a room with a strange man, half-naked, helpless – what happens next?’
Where did I start? I had imagined a moment like this so many times. I had plenty of dirty games I wanted to play, plenty of roles I wanted to adopt, but I settled for the thought my first view of Darren had awoken in me. ‘I want to be made to suck your cock – sir.’
He laughed. ‘I think that’s easy enough to arrange.’ He pushed me away from him, ordered me on to my knees. I obeyed, waiting as he unzipped his fly and br
ought out his cock. He gripped it and began to rub. As I watched, it stiffened into life. When he was satisfied it was hard enough, he caught hold of my ponytail and brought my face up to the level of his groin. ‘Suck me,’ he demanded.
I took hold of him, fed the head of his cock into my mouth. The fact he was still fully dressed, still outwardly respectable, whereas I wore nothing but my boots and shorts, now tangibly damp at the crotch, made me feel delightfully vulnerable. I almost wished that he had dragged me back into the party and forced me to worship him orally in front of all the other guests. As my tongue continued to play up and down the length of him, I sneaked a hand down into the waistbands of my shorts so I could touch myself.
He spotted what I was doing immediately. ‘Did I give you permission?’ he asked.
‘No, sir,’ I replied automatically.
‘Well, stop it, then. You don’t come until I say so. Now keep licking, slut.’
That did it. The use of the word slut, so deliberately demeaning, seemed to wake something within me, something dark and thoroughly deviant. I did as he wanted, sucking him till my jaw ached and I was convinced he was about to shoot his come down my throat. That was when he pulled away and hauled me on to the bed.
Before I could protest, he had turned me on to all fours and yanked my shorts and knickers down to my knees. ‘Stay like that,’ he ordered me. ‘I want to get a good look at both your holes.’
The crude choice of words, intended to reinforce the idea that I was nothing more than a series of orifices for his pleasure, reached right down to the deeply submissive side of me. I did as I was told, spreading my legs as widely as I could. It was not easy, given that they were still hobbled by my partially removed clothing, but I waited in that position, trying to imagine the view I might be giving him as he undressed rapidly.
The next thing I knew, he had climbed on to the bed behind me. He pulled my clothes the rest of the way off, and then I felt his fingers diving into the folds of my sex. He spread the wetness he found there around the entrance to my anal hole, gently stroking until I began to relax and he could slip the tip of a finger inside there.
Whip Me Page 14
