Nexus Confessions

by Various

  I couldn’t resist watching her mount the stairs. There wasn’t even a thong under her kilt. That reinforced my suspicions. Cynthia had set Babs on me, to seduce me, perhaps with the idea of creating a Domme/Domme/Brat threesome. I’ve nothing against threesomes, but not in that configuration. Babs was cute and Cynthia was lovely. I’d really enjoy them, but only on my terms.

  As I went through Babs’s cases, editing her wardrobe, I wondered how she was enjoying my playroom. It’s quite dramatic. The floor is blackened pine. The walls are stark white rough plaster, with some exposed beams. The furniture is black, heavy and leather and includes some benches with straps attached and a spanking stool I’d bought at the previous year’s Toronto Sex-hibition. I’d have loved to have seen her face when she opened the cabinet. It’s seven feet high and four wide, stocked with canes, crops, tawses, cats, paddles and every variety of ‘percussion’ I’ve ever come across. Considering Babs’s penchant for being spanked, its contents likely had her drooling with anticipation.

  I believe in the ‘carrot and stick’ method of training, even when the promise of ‘stick’ is the carrot.

  Babs came down promptly at seven with a dreamy look in her eyes. I could almost hear her brain work as she tried to think how best to get me to use some of my toys on her eager bottom. Being a brat, she chose precisely the wrong method.

  ‘I’m not eating this crap,’ she said of my paella.

  ‘Then you may go up to bed.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I’ve told you not to grunt. If you aren’t going to eat your supper, go to bed.’

  Her lower lip protruded and trembled. ‘When I’m bad, Cynthia punishes me.’

  I raised an eyebrow and lifted a forkful of rice and lobster to my lips. Babs stamped her feet on the floor and thumped the table with her fists. By the time I’d scooped up the last succulent sliver of pork from my plate, she was blue in the face and sobbing uncontrollably. While I was fetching my mango sorbet from the kitchen, she disappeared upstairs. At midnight, I went up and peeked into her bedroom. She’d cried herself to sleep. Her pillow was sodden. The bedclothes had worked down to let one perfectly globular breast loll exposed. My fingers reached for its pink button, but I pulled back. All in good time. Anticipation is half the pleasure.

  At eight the next morning I ground a measure of Blue Mountain coffee beans and laid half a dozen strips of bacon in a frying pan. The aromas of freshly ground coffee and sizzling bacon make effective alarms. Babs came down just as I was splashing bacon fat over a pair of eggs. She was dressed in a cropped singlet and the towel she’d knotted around her hips.

  ‘Dirty towels go in the hamper upstairs,’ I told her.

  ‘You took away my shorts,’ she accused me. ‘All of them. All I have is tops.’

  ‘And running shoes, for when we go out. Babs, if I’d wanted you to cover your bottom, I’d have left you the clothes to do it with. I’ve decided you will be naked from your waist down for now.’

  ‘But I’ll be embarrassed.’

  ‘I’ve watched you take a spanking on your bare bottom and listened to the obscene noises you made when you gobbled Cynthia’s pussy.’

  ‘Even so.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Please, Justine?’

  ‘Are you begging me?’

  ‘You can’t make me go around like this.’

  ‘Ready for breakfast?’

  She blinked at my non sequitur. I waited. She said, ‘I’m famished.’

  ‘Then lose the towel and sit down.’

  She sat at my kitchen table so that her lower half was hidden and then tugged the towel away but it was close enough to obedience that I allowed it. I piled my plate with bacon and eggs and presented Babs with the paella she’d left the night before and that I’d warmed up in the microwave.

  ‘I . . .’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She toyed with her paella until she’d tasted a couple of mouthfuls and then wolfed the rest down.

  ‘Good?’ I asked.

  ‘Mm, I guess.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s nice to try new things, new ways.’

  ‘Cynthia likes me just the way I am.’

  ‘I understand.’ I picked up my plate. ‘If you’ve finished, we’ll go for a run. Get your running shoes on.’

  ‘But . . .?’ She looked down into her naked lap.

  ‘It’s secluded. No one will see you, except me.’

  Trying a new tack, or so I imagined, Babs gave me a sly flirtatious look and asked me, ‘Did you like it, when you watched Cynthia spank me?’

  In all seriousness, I told her, ‘I was impressed. You took it very well.’

  She blushed. ‘Could your girl have taken a hundred like that?’

  I frowned. ‘Don’t try to compete with my Lila. Be the best you can be.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Runners, now!’

  Sulking, and with one hand covering her pubes, Babs met me on the back porch. I took off at a slow lope. I wanted her to overtake me. She did so with a sidelong grin that wasn’t quite a sneer.

  As each foot impacted the ground, the corresponding cheek of her bottom quivered. Babs had a pair of matching dimples, one each side of the pad at the base of her spine, that winked at me alternately. I let her set the pace, keeping back far enough to enjoy the view.

  After about a mile, the twisting trail came to a glade with a smooth fallen log and a stand of new-growth willow.

  I told her, ‘Take a break.’

  Babs sank onto the log, breathing easily still. I took a clasp knife from the pocket of my jeans-shorts and wandered over to the willows. When the girl saw the switch I’d cut, her eyes widened and glazed over, the way masochists’ eyes always do when they see that sweet pain is imminent. It’s as if half their intelligence dissolves.

  ‘Run,’ I said.

  Less coordinated now that her mind had gone fuzzy, she lurched to her feet and made off down the path. I trotted after her. She gave me a backwards glance that was more wistful than fearful. Not to disappoint her, I gave her bottom a diagonal slash. Babs yelped but she didn’t accelerate. In that state, a submissive can’t conceive that a torment could be escaped.

  Each four strides, I laid the willow wand across her lush young flesh. It wasn’t possible to make a neat pattern with both of us running, but I confined my blows to her bottom and upper thighs.

  Runners can get a high from the endorphins that extended exercise produces. A good spanking produces the same endorphins. By the time we got back to my house, Babs was glowing and mindless. In that state, a submissive has no will. I could have used her any way I wanted but I contented myself with having her do jumping-jacks on the veranda while I gave her a few more strokes. It’s more fun if you play your fish before you land it.

  When she was sweaty enough to make her singlet cling nicely, I sent her up for a shower. Her intelligence returned enough that she gave me a strange look before obeying, as if to ask why I wasn’t taking advantage of her willing subservience. I let her wonder. She’d be more malleable in the long run if she became confused and perhaps unsure of herself.

  I laid out crackers and preserves, with fresh butter and paté and some cheeses. After lunch, I got the Scrabble set out. She played quite nicely, even though I quickly drew a hundred points ahead, until I played ‘Qwerty’ on a triple word square. She challenged. I passed her the Scrabble dictionary. Once she found the entry, she swept the board to the floor, scattering tiles everywhere.

  I tuned Babs out and took up my current book, Michel Faber’s The Crimson Petal and the White. She put the TV on and cranked up the volume. I put headphones on and let Leonard Cohen and k. d. lang protect my ears. Later, when I went to the kitchen for a slice of game pie, there was a peanut butter jar in one sink, with a knife in it, a raspberry jam jar in the other sink, with a fork in it, and cracker crumbs all over the counter. At some point in the evening she must have gone to bed because when I went up at midnight she was a
lready asleep.

  I lay in the next morning, to give her a chance. When I went down at ten, the kitchen had been cleaned up, imperfectly, but cleaned up, and the Scrabble had been picked up and put away. Babs was sitting at the kitchen table, looking as demure as a girl who is naked apart from a crochet shrug can look.

  ‘Please may I ask a question, Justine?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Don’t you think I’m pretty?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Then why . . .?’

  ‘Haven’t I fucked you?’

  She blinked at the word ‘fucked’ and nodded.

  ‘Since you’ve been here, you’ve been good for a while, then – not so good. Good girls deserve love. Girls who aren’t good have to wait until they are good.’

  She wrapped a leg around the leg of her chair. ‘When I’m bad, Cynthia punishes me and that makes it all right. Then we make out.’

  ‘And you like that?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You like to be punished?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because you like to be spanked.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When we went running, were you naughty?’

  Her ‘no’ was hesitant.

  ‘But you got whipped.’

  Babs licked her lips and nodded. ‘I didn’t understand.’

  ‘Do you now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The way it is with me and my Lila,’ I explained, ‘is that she does whatever I want, whenever I want.’

  ‘Like . . .?’ She pushed her tongue out and vibrated its tip.

  ‘Yes, like that, or like anything else I require of her. She’s obedient and I reward her. Like you, she enjoys being spanked. That’s her treat. She gets it, often.’

  Babs’s eyes lit up. ‘Often?’

  ‘Usually, by the time her bottom has healed from one spanking, she’s earned another.’

  ‘Without being bad?’

  ‘Without being bad. If she’s very good, I have extra treats for her.’

  ‘Extra?’

  ‘Like being allowed to choose anything she likes from the playroom cabinet.’

  Babs went dreamy.

  ‘Or a figging,’ I continued.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Maybe you’ll find out.’

  ‘If I’m good.’

  ‘Yes, if you are very good.’

  Babs dropped from the chair onto her knees and crawled towards me. ‘I can be very good,’ she said, licking her lips.

  ‘No,’ I told her. ‘That’s not how I want you to be good. Just be a sweet obedient girl, OK?’

  And for the rest of the week she was. Babs helped around the house, ran with me without being rewarded with a switch, read quietly when I wanted quiet and kept her needs under control. The closest she got to sex was one night when I peeked in on her bedroom and caught her beating a pillow with a crop while fingering herself.

  ‘Ever felt one of those on your bottom?’ I asked.

  She jumped and dropped the crop. After a moment’s confusion, she lowered her eyes and confessed, ‘No.’

  ‘Would you like to be?’

  ‘No. It’s scary.’ She shivered. ‘You’re not going to . . .?’

  ‘You needn’t worry. I won’t crop you, not unless you beg me to.’

  ‘Beg for it? I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ I gave her a warm smile. ‘You’ve been a good girl all week, Babs.’

  She looked up at me. ‘Does that mean . . .?’

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon there’ll be some treats for you. Now get to bed and go to sleep. It’s going to be a very strenuous day for you tomorrow.’

  After breakfast I sent her upstairs to bathe and primp. While she wallowed in perfumed water, I took my ginger root from the fridge. Using a very sharp knife, I cut out a straight section of about six inches, then peeled and whittled until I had a smooth cylinder of raw ginger wood about as long as a cigarette but twice as thick, ending in an unpeeled bulb.

  I took a quick shower and got dressed. I like to present myself in an attractive way. I sprinkled talc all over and then rolled mid-thigh black latex boots up my legs. My choker matched. I considered opera-length gloves and perhaps a floppy picture-hat but decided those would be too formal.

  When I listened at Babs’s bathroom door, she was still splashing. I knocked and told her, ‘The playroom, ten minutes, naked.’

  She joined me in eight, looking timid, with an arm across her lovely young breasts and a hand shielding her pubes. Her eyes widened when she saw me naked for the first time. ‘You’re lovely, Justine!’

  ‘I’m not going to fuck you unless you ask me to,’ I told her. ‘If I do something to you that you can’t stand, you must ask me to stop. Understood?’

  Her face went blank while she absorbed my words but then cleared and she nodded. ‘Is it going to be – very bad?’ she asked.

  ‘As bad as you can stand, but no worse.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Are you going to ask me?’

  ‘Oh – yes. Please?’

  ‘Please what?’

  ‘Please fuck me, Justine.’

  I smiled. ‘There, that wasn’t hard, was it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I want you on your back, on the daybed.’ It’s a simple piece of furniture – a seven-foot square of padded black leather with a matching roll for a pillow.

  Babs sashayed to the bed, swinging her hips, and draped herself on her back with her arms stretched above her head and one coy knee lifted. I looked her over slowly, eating her up with my eyes. What a tasty morsel she was! I savoured every curve, every long lean line, every dimple and crease. I took my time, letting her relish my obvious admiration but protracting it until the intensity of my gaze started to make her feel uncomfortable.

  She began to fidget. I told her, ‘Get hold of your legs behind your knees and lift them up to your ears.’

  She obeyed, shivering. It’s one thing to allow yourself to be admired while you pose prettily. It’s quite different to lift and spread, blatantly displaying your sex and anus to close scrutiny. I gave her long enough for her shame to sink in, then put my left hand on her upturned bottom to hold it in place and further spread its cheeks.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  For a reply, I took my fresh-carved piece of ginger root – my ‘figg’, and presented its end to the crinkled pink dimple of her anus.

  ‘Justine?’ There was apprehension in her voice.

  ‘In Victorian days,’ I explained, ‘gentlemen of a certain persuasion used this method to discipline housemaids.’ I pressed just firmly enough to part her pucker.

  ‘But what . . .?’

  ‘It’s ginger root. I don’t need to lubricate it, or you, because it oozes its own oil.’ I pushed. Half the cylinder sank into her rectum.

  ‘I’ve had things put up my bum before,’ Babs declared.

  ‘I’m sure you have. You might find this different, though.’ My fingers twisted and they applied more pressure, screwing the figg deeper, until the bulb at its end nestled against the girl’s anus.

  ‘Is that it?’ she asked, sounding almost disappointed.

  ‘We’ll just leave it there and see, shall we?’ I pulled her legs down and arranged them, thighs parted, on the leather. Climbing astride her, I knelt with one shin trapping each of her thighs firmly but not painfully. My hands positioned her wrists above her head, crossed, and held them there.

  Babs looked up at me, arched above her, and licked her lips. ‘I’m helpless, aren’t I?’ she asked with a nervous giggle.

  ‘Yes, you are.’ My free hand stroked her cheek, then her neck, and wandered down to toy with the delicate button of one pale nipple.

  Babs’s eyes hooded. She sighed and arched to press her breast into my hand but suddenly froze. Her eyes widened.

  ‘Your bottom?’ I asked.

  ‘That – um –
thing. It’s cold.’ She frowned. ‘No – it’s warm. It’s very warm.’ Her hips wriggled. ‘It’s like – like it’s glowing or tingling or something.’

  ‘Painful?’ I asked.

  ‘No, not painful. It’s hot, like your mouth after curry, but . . . Oh – it’s spreading.’

  ‘Spreading?’

  ‘To my pussy’s lips. To my clit. Oh, Justine, it’s . . . It’s burning me up. Justine, I can’t stand it! It’s like an itch, a lovely horrible itch! I’m so fucking horny! Do me, Justine! I’m going crazy! Do something to my pussy. Fuck me! Do me somehow, anyhow!’

  Grinning, I gently parted the sopping lips of her pussy and laid the tip of my index finger on her throbbing clit. Babs humped up, desperate, but as she writhed at it, my finger retreated, maintaining contact but never pressure.

  ‘No,’ she whimpered. Her arms fought my imprisoning hand. Her head flailed from side to side. Sweat beaded in her cleavage. The sweet musk of her sex filled my senses. Her labia were purple and engorged, dripping nectar.

  ‘Please, please, please,’ she begged. ‘Make it stop or take me over the edge! This is torture! Do something, anything!’

  In my most solicitous voice, I asked her, ‘Would the crop help?’

  ‘The crop?’ She thought for a moment, still gyrating her hips beneath me. ‘Yes, the crop! Beat me, Justine, please?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Fuck yes! Yes, please. Anything!’

  I released and flipped her. Pinning her down with one hand in the small of her back, I snatched up my crop and laid precise lines across her cheeks, above and below where the knob of the figg protruded from her anus. After six, she was taut as a wire, quivering with tension, ready to explode. I plucked the figg out, flipped her again, thrust two ginger-oiled fingers into her pussy to her G-spot, clamped my thumb’s ball on her clit and worked her flesh vigorously.

  I really enjoy that, squeezing a girl’s pubic bone, crushing her two most sexually sensitive areas against it, one from each side. I gripped hard and shook her lower torso in my sadistic grip.

  It took Babs four gut-wrenching climaxes to come down from her lust-high. I let her sleep for a half hour before rolling her onto her back and straddling her head. My hips lowered until the lips of my pussy were kissing the lips of her mouth. Babs sighed, inhaled, and lapped up.