Pagan Dreams

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  She comes at me with a look I’ll never forget; with eyes darker than coal, they burn their way into me.

  “A hairbrush or a belt, which would you prefer?” she blurts out at me.

  “What have I done?” I ask astonished, as astonishing as this savage solution to her anger seems to me. Spanking? Is she really serious?

  “You lied to me,” she said.

  “I’ve never lied to you,” I answer indignantly.

  “These,” she says, angrily waving some letters in my face. “You hid them from me.”

  “No. No, not at all,” I try to defend myself.

  Suddenly, she turns an eerie calm, though I’m no less scared because her passion still remains. “Why then, tell me, were these tucked away in the basement?” she asks.

  “Why are you looking through my things?” I spit out angrily. I’m recognizing the private documents. Letters from lovers. “Those are mine, not yours. Besides they’re old, they mean nothing to me now.”

  “Old? Really?” she says sarcastically. She pulls one apart. “From Suzanne, in February. Three months ago, is that old?” She reads, “We have things to catch up on, Cassidy, I won’t let you forget Elizabeth. Who is Elizabeth?” she charges. “Who’s Suzanne? I thought you told me about all your former lovers.”

  Elizabeth, the name makes my stomach do anxious flip flops, just as it did when I first read Suzanne’s letter.

  “I’m screwing you nightly and you’re exchanging pleasant greetings with another woman. And this… Mark, in March. Was he your lover, too?”

  “Once, but not now,” I explain.

  “And you hide these from me?”

  “They didn’t seem important.”

  “Ah, but they’re important enough to hide from me as if you’re embarrassed by the feelings you still have.”

  “I don’t have feelings for any of them. Least of all Elizabeth,” I blurt out. I know when I say her name, it’s a mistake.

  “Elizabeth? Who is she?” Peach is intensely curious.

  I could tell her a dozen safe things about Suzanne, but nothing about Elizabeth. “Just a woman, a very nasty horrible woman. And I won’t tell you anything about her because she means nothing to me now.”

  “Suzanne seems to think that she means something.” I feel like she’s driving a knife in my gut.

  “Suzanne’s crazy, maniacally crazy, and so’s Elizabeth.”

  “Humph!” Peach moans nastily. “You say one thing, and do another. How many other things have you lied about?”

  “You’re being unfair,” I yell at her. I try to match her rudeness with my own, but with Peach, I never have the verve she does with anger. Not my nature. But, oh yes, hers! She bowls me over with her vitriolic ability, with the depth of her anguish, her woe, her sarcasm and her cruelty.

  “I’m going to blister your ass,” she says.

  “What!”

  “I’m going to take my leather belt and make you pay for your deception, make you hurt the way I hurt.”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this. I’m sorry, terribly sorry, but I’m not going to allow you to beat me with all that pent-up anger.”

  “Oh, yes you will!” she asserts. I know she’s likely right; I’m doomed from the start, but I’m not about to give in easily. “Besides,” she says again calmly. “The guilt is written all over your face. It’s so damn obvious, Cassidy, you wear your shame woefully bad. You know you fucked up, and now you’re going to pay. All this talk about honesty between us, I’m holding you to it.”

  I see how serious she is; she’s seriously hurt.

  “I’m sorry,” I plead again.

  “Of course, you’ll be sorry,” she says, “get my belt, the one I wear with my jeans, that should do.”

  “You really plan to punish me like a kid?”

  She peers at me with a determined grin.

  I’m shuddering deeply, not just for fear of pain, but for fear of who she is right now, what this altercation means between us.

  “You write about it, Cassidy, in flowing prose, in perfect detail, with all the pieces in place, as if you’d been through the scenario a hundred times. Domination, bondage, spanking, a hundred forms of brutality. Maybe that’s what used to get you off? With your other lovers, with Suzanne and Mark? And Elizabeth? Maybe I’m not giving you everything you really need?”

  “My writing is fantasy,” I tell her, with my voice hushed, my heart pounding, and my breath short. I’m aware of every feeling that’s suddenly rushing through me. They are, above all, erotic. And I hate that. I’ve never come so close to dreams turning real. I don’t know how I’ll respond, and if I could get out of this now, I would, but I—great creator that I am—am hopelessly without inspiration. Seems Peach takes it away with her own.

  “Well my love, today it’s the real thing. Today you taste your fantasies, or maybe it will be your nightmares, because you’re going to get this cosmic justice you preach about so well. The belt.” Her pointing finger orders me to the bedroom where I know it’s hanging in her jeans, where she left it.

  I find myself padding dutifully to the room, and retrieving the leather belt turned punishment tool. It feels heavy in my hand. I’m speculating how it will feel wielded against my skin. I know she’ll spank me with my ass naked. She’ll follow the formula I write so well, not letting me wear my clothes, even my panties. Like a kid, I’ll be spanked hard until I can’t stop crying. The picture is horribly vivid, frightening and provocative.

  Returning to the room, I find Peach still inordinately calm. I think I’m happier when she’s angry; then, she can change her mind on a dime, and we might find ourselves tumbling into bed together, taken with sexual abandon. Now, her calmness only suggests her resolve and I give up hope for happy endings.

  Peach takes the belt and doubles it in her hand. She does this so expertly I wonder how many other bottoms she has thus whacked. Probably none, I’ve just been too exact in my writings, giving her too much information. I’ll have to remember this next time, before I let her read another story.

  She nods her head at me, at my jeans. Bare as a babe, that’s how she wants me. My ass is a creamy white round one, with ample jiggle, and enough flesh to take a long harsh burn. I always thought that it was ripe to be punished. I wiggle from the jeans as she watches; it seems to take forever to remove each leg. I gaze at her unchanging look, desperate for some kind of reprieve. It doesn’t come. I push my panties off my hips and let them drop to the floor. Then I turn around so my bottom faces Peach and she can see the quivering cheeks that will be the target of her anger.

  Peach pushes me toward the dining room table.

  “Grab the other end and hold on,” she instructs.

  I feel as worthless and humiliated as my writings tell. Though there’s no doubt about the spark in me that craves this feeling. The desire to be overpowered, in the control of someone else, has been a lifelong picture that my mind has clung to with a passionate grip. I act now, as if a tape of this is playing in my head, telling me each move to make. Peach would have to tell me nothing.

  I bend over the table with my naked rear upturned for her. I’m thankful that Peach hasn’t the meanness to prolong the agony by making me wait longer still. The acute thrill going through me needs its satisfaction now! Or so I think.

  She strikes hard and fast, as if her anger has returned, or at the very least, come to the surface from where it had been momentarily buried. At first, the blows from the belt are merely warm, though as she continues it begins to smart. Stinging sensation after sensation, I wiggle to greet them and get away; I’m not sure which is more important.

  The blows continue, and I hear her determined grunts behind them. But I am crying now, saying god knows what, things I’ll never remember. Pleas, I suppose. Entreaties of the most woeful sort. But I can count on Peach not to hear them, until she’s ready, until she’s finished. She’ll make the most of this opportunity to control me.

  My bottom burns hot. I’m sure
I can’t stand anymore. I want to wrench away, but that would corrupt the picture of my admonishment, that must, beginning to end, be accomplished with a submissive ass, submissively offered for its due.

  Peach concludes with a flourish, with several well placed whacks on the center of my burning ass.

  “Now stay there until I tell you to get up,” she says. She takes the belt and walks away.

  I’m left wondering how long I have to remain so posed. Images from childhood surface; though these images are not real, since I’ve never had this treatment. My situation simply brings up the memory of feeling this exposed, for dishonesty, for a bratty disposition, or whatever the fault. I was tongue lashed then, but never spanked, even when my sense of justice and my body craved a physical correction. I believe that’s why I’ve fantasized about it so much, why my mind creates these curious writings with this crude mix of erotic pleasure and torturing pain.

  As I rest against the table, I begin to feel the burning sting turn to warmth, as a vibrant glow replaces any pain. I wish that Peach would return and make love to me. She knows the endings in my stories, knows exactly how the finale goes; but perhaps she’s deliberately punishing me more by abandoning me.

  “You look mighty pretty there,” I finally hear her voice.

  I turn my head against the table so I’m looking at her. She stands in the kitchen doorway, leaning casually against the door frame.

  “I like the look, we should have tried it before.” I can see the lust in her eyes, her changed mood means good times soon, but I’m still advised to be submissive to her. I want the game to play out as much as she wants it to. Maybe I manufactured this breach in our relationship so we could make this step. I trust her, when I’ve never trusted any other woman or man before. I often think I’m foolish, because she is so ruthlessly emotional. I think I should be afraid of that sometimes. I thought that before she spanked me, the savageness of her anger was so intense; but she didn’t let me down, not even for an instant.

  She began and ended just as she should.

  Peach swaggers to me as I watch her. She’s wearing only a dressing gown; I know she’s naked underneath. She stands before me at the table, then raises one leg and rests it on a chair so that I can see her pussy peeking at me. Her bush of black hair glistens, the dim light above makes it shadowy, though I can well imagine the luscious folds that surround her moist dark cavern. I want to take my tongue and feast on her cunt, but I’m obliged to remain in my place until I’m ordered otherwise.

  Peach taunts me with a pulsing cunt. It juices even more as I gaze at its intricate folds. When she spreads her legs wider still, her pussy lips part so I can see the purple pink flesh and her rock hard clit. I can imagine the smell and the taste. I want her to come closer, but she’s content to torture me from a distance.

  “I see why you write about it with such glowing detail,” she says. “The experience is as phenomenal as the vision.”

  “I wasn’t sure it would be,” I say. “You know it was my first time, like this.” She spanked me because she thinks I’ve been unfaithful to her, I never have been physically. But mentally, she’s right. I haven’t told her everything about my past or what’s often in my thoughts.

  “I know,” she admits. “I do like a real emotional donnybrook once in awhile. It had been a long time since I’ve had the satisfaction of revealing so much pent-up feeling. You’re as inspiring with this as you are with your sex. Seeing that nasty blush rise on your ass cheeks was invigorating as much as it was satisfying. It’s quite a relief.”

  “I’m glad I could accommodate you,” I say. “But can I get up now?”

  “No,” she states flatly, “you’re mine to use until I’m finished with you.” She’s obviously delighted with the idea of my submission to her.

  “Haven’t I suffered enough?” I ask.

  “You probably have. It’s just that your blushing bottom is so beautiful right now, I don’t want you to hide it away from me.”

  “Then touch me,” I beg.

  “You’re horny?”

  “Of course.”

  “How fitting, even punishment arouses you. Is there nothing that doesn’t?” I consider the question rhetorical, so I don’t answer. Besides, we both know the answer.

  “Crawl up on the table, Cassidy, and give me your ass,” she tells me.

  I comply readily, hoping I’ll get some reprieve from the restless brewing in my cunt. I feel awkward and thoroughly exposed, but it doesn’t matter now as long as the result is as fine as I imagine.

  She begins to lick me.

  “Did you juice while I was spanking you?” she asks. “Or after?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer. I groan and wiggle my rear against her face and tongue.

  “Such a slut,” she says, and goes back to tonguing my wet sex. She runs the gamut of my cleft, from deep down below where she finds my clit and the ring, then past my cunny hole to my puckering rosebud asshole.

  “Oooo yes,” I gasp in joyful reply.

  Her hands dive into my sore mounds. The pain has vanished, only to be recalled with her firm squeezing hand. The harsh sensations make me gasp all the more now. She slaps my ass, an act I’m not unused to in love making; though the significance this time is obvious. She still feels dominant over me and will continue to express that until she finishes with me. Her slaps are hard enough to hurt, but I don’t want her to stop them, the way I did earlier. And I do want more tongue on my clit and back hole.

  How well she knows me, complying with my need!

  Her fingers and her tongue violate me as she bites my ass flesh while inserting a finger into my anus. I wince to myself, wanting her to go deeper yet.

  Something cold against the opening hole tells me that she has the lubricant there, pouring it so I’m well greased. I’m not sure what will penetrate me, her fingers, a dildo or some creative device. I’ve had bottles, bananas and round wooden handles in my ass. When Peach feels particularly nasty to me, this is how she treats me. She knows that I love it and won’t stop her. Sometimes it’s so painful, I make her slow down so my body can catch up to the sensations, but most often I just want her to keep going.

  Today makes me realize the very basis of our relationship. Spelled out to me now, in bold relief, it’s clear, she’s always been sexually dominant with me. I give her ideas, she implements, it’s as simple as that.

  First it’s her fingers, two probe me deeply. I groan and try to play with my cunt while she focuses on my ass, but she stops me, pushing my hands away.

  “You’re mine, cunt,” she says.

  I feel the rod deeply in my ass, the large round ended thing could be many things, though I figure it’s a smooth black dildo she found in some seedy shop in Tijuana. Though I can’t see it, I recognize its large size. She pushes it deep, there is nearly eighteen inches of it, and nearly half of it will be embedded in my ass. As she pushes it deeper, she twists it, and then pumps it in and out. I’m beside myself in sensation. I can’t think or speak. The wildest incoherent cries of pleasure rise into the air around us.

  Peach finds a way to finger my clit again, and I can explode in seconds. But she holds me off, building me up, then letting me down, time and again, so my body aches to find its edge.

  “Don’t cum until I tell you to,” she demands.

  I force myself to back off and work with her, doing everything she asks. The picture of this must look like some beastly savage ritual. I must look like the foulest debauched whore, copulating a wooden thing with my ass.

  Peach pinches my clit lightly, then pulls my ring until it hurts and I beg her to stop. She does this until I can’t hold off any longer. When she finally lets up, I cum, grinding myself against her hands and against the dildo impaled in me.

  I need to collapse when it’s over; I’m so weak I can’t remain on my hands and knees even though the black rod remains impaled in my ass.

  “Did I tell you to cum bitch?” she asks, as she shoves the dildo deeper w
ith one hand while she slaps my ass again.

  “No, I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop,” I tell her.

  “Aw, that’s too bad, you just gave me another reason to punish you,” she says, though I know she’s just joking with me now.

  Peach pulls me from the table, as the dildo drops to the floor. She leads me to our bed where we tumble into the mass of sheets and clothes. She pushes my head down between her legs, and I nest my face against her steamy cunt. She’s ripe with sweat and her fine female liquor. I lap at every succulent place and feel her body cum as her head drops back and her groin pushes against my face. As she descends from her bliss, I lick her juices clean.

  I’ve clawed her thighs while I brought her to the edge. At first it shocks me seeing the red marks lingering on her flesh. I’m as harsh with her as she’s been with me. I never thought I was that ruthless. Peach sees them, too, and I wonder what she thinks.

  “You haven’t seen the last of this,” she vows quietly. I shudder as she says it, wondering exactly what she means.

  The sheets feel cool to me as we lie side by side on top of them. For a long time I think we’re both too shocked to say a word.

  “So?” Peach finally says. She jerks me from a little nap.

  “So what?” I reply.

  “So how’s your ass?”

  I feel a gentle happy warmth. “Just fine,” I tell her.

  “Does it still hurt?”

  “No,” I admit.

  “Shucks,” she says, “I was hoping for lots of nasty marks, and you’re not being able to sit down for a week.” She mocks me with her disappointed look.

  “Is that real? The marks? You really hurt me a lot. If you’d left marks, I might not have had so much fun.”

  “Fun? It wasn’t supposed to be fun,” Peach says. “I’ll have to remember that for next time, and hurt you more.”

  “Next time?” I question. “I wasn’t sure that was in the plans.”

  “And why not?”

  “I’m chicken.”

  “You certainly are, but not forever, if I have anything to say about it.”