Spilt Milk

by Sarah Steel

  'It is time,' the matron said softly, 'to restore the loving friendship that binds each one of us to the other. After pain, there must be pleasure.'

  The punished girl slumped at her knees and wept softly, face pressed into the polished marble.

  'You have punished her, now pleasure her,' the matron ordered.

  The punisher knelt down and inspected the bottom she had just lashed. Tossing her whip aside, she raised her hands up and palmed the hot cheeks, cupping their softness and then spreading them gently apart. The bound nude screamed softly and jerked her hips. Picking the whip up tenderly, the kneeling nude inverted the mother-of-pearl handle and guided it up between her victim's parted thighs. A tense silence gripped all those watching as the thick whip-handle teased the penitent's wet fig before probing her glistening flesh lips.

  'Delicious,' Safira whispered, squeezing Nubia's hand. Bound to her pillar of marble, the nude tossed her head back and cried aloud - not in anguish, but in raw delight as the whip which had just punished her now pleasured her with the same merciless venom.

  'I believe I know who you are,' the purple-robed matron whispered softly to Safira. 'I know those green eyes.'

  Nubia let the little honey-cake slip from her fingers as her frightened eyes grew wide. She glanced at her mistress, holding her breath. Safira continued to sip her dark, aromatic coffee imperturbably.

  'I feel sorrow for you, my child,' the matron murmured. 'How hard it must be to struggle against sweet temptations, to struggle and strive to keep your maidenhead intact. Of course, once the elders in the temple have inspected and examined you - and anointed you as priestess - there is nothing to stop you visiting us here at the Pool of Desires, when your urgent need proves overwhelming. We do not entertain men here, so there would be no scandal. And be assured,' the matron continued, 'a woman truly knows how to pleasure and delight another woman. Believe it, for it is true.'

  Safira's green eyes sparkled. Nubia's quick little fingers retrieved her honey-cake from her lap and nibbled it in silence. Her mistress continued to sip her coffee.

  'The day of your examination and anointment is still far off?'

  'Yes. Another year, at least,' Safira told the matron.

  'Many long days - and longer nights - of suffering,' the matron murmured.

  Nubia felt her throat tighten, and had difficulty swallowing her cake.

  'There is, perhaps, a remedy. One which will satisfy your needs and those elders in the temple who would have you remain intact. Come,' she beckoned as she rose from the satin cushion and ushered her guests through a velvet curtain into a side chamber. Safira and Nubia followed the purple-gowned matron in obedient silence. Inside the chamber, the velvet curtain was drawn, muffling the squeals and laughter outside at the pool. A carved cedar-wood couch, upholstered in zebra hide, almost filled the small room.

  'I want you to stretch down, Safira,' the matron invited, patting the zebra skin gently. 'Girl,' she said, turning to Nubia, 'take the veils and robe from your mistress.'

  'I must not lose my—' Safira whispered urgently.

  'Be not afraid. I will show you how to obtain delight without any risk or danger. Trust me. You are at the Pool of Delights, where none are disappointed.'

  Nubia disrobed and unveiled her mistress quickly, folding the silk carefully so that no unseemly creases would betray their forbidden excursion beyond the walls of Safira's prison-home. As the slave-girl attended to her mistress, the matron prised open the heavy lid of a golden chest and produced a short, curved length of white ivory.

  'This tooth, or tusk, was taken from a strange beast found frozen in the ice high up in the Blue Mountains. The tip is smooth, the surface,' she purred, 'very sleek.' Offering her open palm to Safira, she allowed the naked young woman to touch it with her quivering fingertip. 'Perfectly fashioned for pleasure, is it not? Take it. Hold it. Imagine it inside you.'

  Safira accepted the ivory tooth and scrutinized it closely, her green eyes wide with wonder. 'But I cannot use this—'

  'Be patient, girl,' the matron said, her tone soothing and unhurried. 'Girl,' she continued, speaking to Nubia, 'I want you to take these bands of silk and tie your mistress by her wrists to the edge of the couch. I always use silk,' she explained to Safira, 'not leather. It leaves no mark. Marks always seem to excite the suspicions of husbands, lovers and jealous fathers.'

  The slave girl looked at her mistress for permission. Safira hesitated - then nodded and eased herself face down upon the zebra skin, offering her wrists up for bondage. Nubia took the short lengths of crimson silk and bound the proffered wrists tightly.

  'Watch very carefully,' the matron instructed Nubia. Taking the curved phallus from Safira's clenched fist, she bent down over the bound nude's bare bottom and tapped the curved flesh of the swollen left cheek dominantly with the tip of the white tooth. 'Are you paying attention, girl?'

  Nubia swallowed and nodded obediently.

  'Do so, for you will have to perform this for your mistress from this night hence. And it must remain an absolute secret. Betray it to anyone, and you will walk in the shadow of the whip for the rest of your wretched years. Understand?'

  Nubia, shivering, vowed solemnly to guard the secret closely.

  'Watch.'

  Prising Safira's buttocks apart, the matron quickly exposed the nude's tight little anal sphincter. 'See?' she tapped it firmly with the tip of the tooth. 'The door to paradise is firmly closed. Entrance, for the moment, is impossible.' She probed the rosebud with the phallus; Safira grunted her discomfort and jerked in her silken manacles.

  'To open the door, to open it up wide,' the matron purred, 'we must use this.' She produced a short, thin strap cut from a strip of supple goat skin. 'I will lash this spot,' she continued, dangling the tip of the whip down at the dark cleft, 'until it becomes hot and wet - and opens up willingly to receive and accept its delight.'

  Safira moaned into the zebra hide at her lips. Spasming her buttocks, she tried to trap the supple whip between her heavy cheeks. The matron inched it up, letting it spindle tantalisingly as it skimmed the left buttock. 'Observe, girl. This will be your task tomorrow and thereafter.'

  Guiding the phallus in between Safira's parted lips and lodging it firmly in the nude's mouth, the matron returned to the bare bottom, whip in hand. Mounting the couch - and the outstretched nude - the dominant matron straddled Safira, spreading the buttocks wide apart and trapping them with her knees. The exposed cleft yawned; the rosebud winked in the soft light of the oil lamps.

  Nubia shivered as the supple whip lashed down, licking the parted cleft with a tongue of fire. Choking on the phallus filling her mouth, Safira squealed softly.

  'After a dozen lashes, concentrate on the little pink door,' the matron explained, whipping the helpless nude methodically, each unerring stroke slicing down into the cleft between the pinioned, splayed cheeks.

  Safira squirmed and writhed, but the matron rode her ruthlessly, aiming the goatskin whip repeatedly down between her buttocks. Nubia saw the little pink rosebud sparkle. After eleven strokes, the tight little whorl was glistening.

  'The door is ajar,' the matron grunted, flicking the lash down directly onto the sphincter. 'Not yet open, but ajar.'

  Nubia craned to glimpse the whipped cleft and the puffed, pouting crater of the anal whorl. Safira bucked and jerked in a frenzy to dislodge her tormentress, but the heavily buttocked matron straddled the nude between her thighs supremely, whip in hand.

  'She is ready,' the punisher announced. 'Look closely, girl. You must flay her flesh until it softens and yields. See?'

  Nubia stepped up to the edge of the couch and peered down at the cleft, and at the pouting sphincter within. She gasped.

  'She is ready for her delight. Take the tusk from her mouth and use it. Bring delight to the mistress you serve.'

  Moments later, Safira screamed softly - then cursed Nubia, promising her slave-girl the whip - then blessed Nubia, promising her slave-girl oblats of gold.<
br />
  'Ignore her,' the matron urged. 'Your mistress is in paradise. She is like a man in his wine. She knows not what she says.'

  Nubia drove the wicked phallus in between Safira's plump buttocks with savage tenderness. Her own sex was hot and wet. Nubia rejoiced as her mistress choked aloud, drowning in forbidden delight.

  Sadean Methods

  I The Outer Room

  'Matthew, will you look at the three erotic prints on the wall behind you. Yes,' the attractive brunette added, 'that's right. Stand up and take a closer look.'

  The young man rose from the leather sofa and dug his hands into the pockets of his dark brown moleskin trousers. As he gazed up at the three graphic prints from the notorious Regensburg collection, the marriage guidance counsellor absently scratched her light tan nylon stocking at the softest part of her inner thigh. Twelve years older than her client, she tolerated his shyness patiently.

  'Which one,' she asked, after several minutes had elapsed, 'is the least appealing to you?'

  Matthew shrugged. 'That one. The one on the left.'

  The brunette uncrossed her legs. Her nylon stockings whispered as the sheen at her thighs kissed. She did not ask him to explain or elaborate. He had selected and dismissed the depiction of a lusty steel worker brutally enjoying his kneeling lover. The naked female was down on all fours, head bowed, her fingers splayed, as the sweating male speared her between the buttocks, his grimy hands gripping her wide, white hips. Her spilling breasts were grimy, betraying the squeeze of his large, fierce hands. It was a vivid portrayal of male dominance and female suffering and submission. She noted his choice carefully in the case notes.

  'Tell me. Which is your favourite?'

  Matthew raised his right hand and pointed immediately to the centre image. 'That one.'

  'Describe it to me.'

  There was a slight pause. 'It's just a picture of a young man sitting on a bed. He is undressed. There is a woman in the bedroom. She is clothed. And standing. Her arms are folded. I like it,' he added simply.

  'Yes. They say, don't they, Matthew, that every picture tells a story? I want you to tell me a story. Tell me what is happening in that picture. What you see can be the beginning, or the end, of the story. And why is he naked? Why is she clothed?'

  Matthew gazed for a full two minutes at the image on the wall and then resumed his seat on the leather sofa, burying his face in his hands.

  The brunette did not hurry him. Glancing down at the case notes, gleaned from three previous encounters, she refreshed her memory. He was twenty-eight. Married - three years - no children. Farmed two and a half thousand acres of arable. Enjoyed riding and rough shooting. Plenty of money. County family background. Wife: twenty-eight, similar background, tastes and interests. No problems other than a cold marriage bed. She closed the file and looked up at him expectantly.

  Given his monosyllabic responses up to that point, she was surprised at his sudden eloquence.

  'They are on holiday. They had a decent hotel room but suddenly ran out of money. They are now en pension in the poorer quarter. He took a big risk at the casino. Lost the lot. She discovered his foolishness. Of course, he lied at first. But she forced it out of him. She is making him confess. In a moment—'

  'Yes?' the brunette prompted.

  'In a moment, he will confess. He will kneel, naked, before her, and beg for forgiveness.'

  'And,' she murmured, 'will she forgive him?'

  'Yes. But only after...'

  There was a long pause. The brunette did not speak. As experienced marriage guidance counsellor, she knew that Matthew had to finish the story his way.

  He looked up, his eyes shining excitedly. 'She will forgive him, but only after she has punished him severely.'

  The blonde kept her gloves on. Her lips were blood-red.

  'You do understand why I am seeing you separately?' the attractive brunette asked. 'In marriage guidance, it is important that I gain your trust. Especially when lifting up the duvet and peeping into the secrets of the marriage bed. I spoke with Matthew—'

  'What did he say?' the blonde asked sharply.

  'I spoke with Matthew the day before yesterday. Now it is your chance to confide in me. But first, Susan, I would like you to take a look at those three erotic prints on the wall behind you.'

  Susan rejected - and then selected - the same prints her husband had done. Her story was quite different.

  'She has just punished him. She spanked him with her hairbrush,' she said enthusiastically. 'It is a frequent love-game. It makes him very hard, very excited and very eager to please. Sometimes, she ties his wrists to his ankles with her stockings and then slowly canes his buttocks. This time,' she gestured to the erotic print, 'she forced him across her lap and used the hairbrush. We cannot see it but his bottom is very red.'

  'And? What happens next?'

  'They screw. Like rabbits. All night long.'

  Susan had peeled both her gloves off and was twisting them savagely. The brunette noted the fact down quickly in the case notes.

  'Thank you, Susan. You have been very frank. I find your story very revealing. And very helpful.'

  At the next session, Matthew was content to remain silent as he sat on the leather sofa. The attractive brunette gently probed into his version of the failing marriage.

  He shrugged. 'Don't quite know why,' he said guardedly, avoiding her searching gaze. 'We grew up as neighbours. Great childhood sweethearts, though she bullied me unmercifully. Great fun. We took names out of a book in her father's library. Arthurian legends. She was La Belle Dame Sans Merci, and I was her devoted courtly knight.'

  The brunette nodded but remained silent.

  'No money problems. We both love the country, hate the town. We're just not—' he faltered.

  'Take off your clothes, Matthew,' she said, rising from her chair and walking slowly across the pale grey carpet to a table by the window. The curtains rasped as she drew them together.

  'What did you say?' he stammered.

  'I asked you to take off all your clothes. This is the Outer Room. This is where clients strip off all their defences, their masks. It helps to be naked, you'll find. No inhibitions as we work together towards the truth.'

  'But—'

  'I will take off my clothes, too. Naked, we can be completely honest with ourselves - and each other. If you are prepared to be honest with me, I may be able to salvage your marriage. And you do want to revive it, don't you?'

  'Yes,' he nodded.

  'Good. Just fold your clothes over that chair there.'

  Turning, she took a glass and filled it with sherry from a decanter as he peeled off his clothes.

  'All of them,' she instructed, noticing his hesitant hands hovering at the waistband of his boxer shorts. 'No secrets allowed in the Outer Room, Matthew.'

  He dragged them down. Sipping her pale sherry, she perused his nakedness. 'Sherry?'

  'No - Yes, please.'

  She poured out a glassful and approached the leather sofa. As she handed it to him, she deliberately let the glass slip. 'Quick,' she snapped. 'Catch it in your hand.'

  He juggled with the glass, his thighs and cock wet with sherry.

  'That was very clumsy of you,' she continued, sustaining the sharp tone of asperity. 'Get a hanky before it stains the carpet.'

  His cock thickened in response to her harsh tone. Scrambling across the leather sofa, he fished out a square of linen from his moleskin trousers and, kneeling, dabbed frantically at the carpet, mumbling an apology.

  'Never mind that, now; the harm's done,' she replied acidly. She swallowed her sherry, kicked off her shoes and shrugged off her frock.

  He gazed up at her as she stood before him, thighs parted, hands on her hips, superb in a black basque and sleek, seamed stockings. His eyes flickered down to feast at the dark tan material at her crimson-nailed toes. His erection twitched.

  'I thought—'

  'Thought what? That I would take all my clothes off? Are you s
ure you don't prefer to see me in this?'

  He blushed and squirmed on the leather sofa.

  'Now, Matthew,' she purred, arranging herself in her chair directly opposite him. 'I want you to tell me the fantasy you masturbate to. In the bathroom, when Susan isn't there.'

  He crimsoned. 'I don't—'

  'Now, you really mustn't lie to me. I know you masturbate. You do, don't you?'

  He avoided her stern gaze. 'Don't you?'

  'Yes, but—'

  'Then tell me.'

  Red-faced, he looked down to the spot where his whitening toes scrunched the carpet. It was, as she suspected, a punishment fantasy which fuelled his furtive masturbation.

  He spoke rapidly. 'Then the two store detectives strike a deal. Punishment on the spot,' he whispered excitedly, 'and there'll be no need to bring the police in.'

  Fingering the tight, stretchy basque cupping her breasts, the marriage guidance counsellor nodded sympathetically - noting how thick and engorged her young client's erection had become. 'Please continue, Matthew,' she murmured.

  'They order me to take my trousers down,' he replied eagerly, 'and one of the store detectives—'

  'A woman?'

  'Yes - they are both women - one of them unbuttons her cardigan and orders me across her lap. I can feel her breasts upon my bottom. Then the other woman kneels down and spanks me.'

  The brunette kept a cool, clinical note in her voice. 'Does she spank you very hard, Matthew?'

  'Yes,' he hissed, closing his eyes.

  'And does your bottom turn very red?'

  'Yes. Very red and hot. They make me look at it in a small mirror. I have to twist my head around and look over my shoulder and see my red bottom in her small mirror.'

  'And then?' she pressed, her voice a velvet whisper.

  'He opened his eyes and shook his head like a schoolboy. 'Don't want to say.'

  'Tell me, Matthew. I need to know.'