‘I’ll start by beating your backside 20 times with the paddle,’ Isabella said. ‘I want you to count off each strike and thank me for it in the proper respectful manner. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, mistress,’ Dee replied, her voice unsteady.
Isabella raised her arm up to shoulder height and brought it down vigorously.
Thwack! That first blow nearly knocked all the breath out of the slave.
‘One, thank you, mistress,’ Dee managed to pant.
Thwack!
‘Two, thank you, mistress.’
Thwack!
‘Three, thank you, mistress.’
Thwack!
And on and relentlessly on.
‘All right, Dee, you can keep quiet now,’ Isabella said once the young slave had gasped her way through the full 20 strikes. The scorched cheeks of her backside were now flushed an even deeper and angrier shade of red. Isabella continued, ‘Yes, you can keep quiet and you can stay quiet too. I don’t want to hear another word out of you. From this point on you are to be obscene but not heard, comprende?’ Dee nodded her understanding.
Isabella carried on using the red paddle on her backside and upper thighs, beating her ever harder until she raised her back as an involuntary reflex action. ‘Down, slave,’ Isabella commanded, placing a hand in the small of her back and pushing her firmly down.
Isabella continued paddling Dee until she felt as if her backside and thighs were on fire. And then the dominatrix stopped, putting the paddle to one side.
‘That makes a lovely picture, slave. You can take my word for it,’ Isabella commented. ‘But we don’t want just a uniform red. Let’s introduce some variety into the picture. I’ve just the thing – my braided leather flogger.’
Isabella picked up the vicious black and red whip from the top of the side table, positioned herself behind Dee again, and raised it. The whip hissed sharply when she swung it through the air and when it landed with a crack on its target the sudden pain that seared across Dee’s backside nearly overwhelmed her. She was still trying to draw breath when Isabella brought the whip down again. It was even more agonising. As the savage whipping continued, the furious pain Dee was suffering became almost unbearable. She raised her head, about to register a protest.
‘Stay put, you tiresome bitch,’ Isabella demanded sharply, pushing Dee’s head back down before she had a chance to speak. ‘I thought I’d already made it clear that you’re to suffer in silence. You’ve got nothing to say that I want to hear unless it’s to beg for mercy or ask for permission to come. Otherwise, just shut the fuck up and take your punishment.’
Isabella continued to thrash Dee’s backside without mercy, causing numerous welts to spring there like fresh-cut stems. Finally she put the braided flogger back on the side table.
‘Now I’m going to use my most vicious cane on you,’ Isabella announced, her dark eyes glinting with malice as she picked up the thin length of smooth rattan and showed it to her victim. She gave it a couple of experimental strokes through the air. ‘Listen to the sinister swishing noise it makes as it slices through the air,’ she said, ‘and feel its painful sting.’
And Dee did indeed hear the low swish as the cane was drawn back, and the louder one as it descended, and, oh, how she suffered the sharp sting of its first searing stroke as Isabella brought it down hard across the punished cheeks of her backside.
‘Ow!’ she squealed.
‘Silence,’ Isabella snapped. ‘Be warned, I shan’t tell you again.’
The room resounded with the sound of punishment once more, this time the swish and crack of cane against flesh. Isabella caned Dee’s backside with unrelentingly hard, rhythmic strokes until it was criss-crossed with clear stripes and the young slave’s eyes were welling with tears of pain.
Isabella stopped and stroked the cane gently over Dee’s rear, admiring the well-striped cheeks. She carried on rolling it tantalizingly over her backside and legs before recommencing the beating. This time the swipes of the cane she inflicted on her rear were less frequent but much harsher as she brought her arm right back before striking. Three final, vicious swipes in swift succession left Dee whimpering in agony. Isabella examined with cruel satisfaction the intensely painful red stripes that now covered her backside and thighs.
‘On your knees,’ demanded the pitiless dominatrix, ‘That’s right, slave, like that … Kiss the cane … Good … Keep your backside in the air …’ Dee’s rear burned ferociously and her breath was coming in little gasps as she put her lips to the thin, hard rod.
‘You’ve been exceptionally wilful and stubborn, Dee,’ Isabella said. ‘But I trust you’ve learnt your lesson now.’
‘Yes, mistress,’ she responded meekly, looking up at her ruthless tormentor.
‘I hope you’re truly sorry for the disobedience and lack of respect you’ve shown to Master John,’ Isabella continued, leaning down and gripping Dee by the hair so she could look her directly in the eye.
‘Yes, mistress. I’m truly sorry.’
‘And I really hope I don’t have to see you here again,’ Isabella added, staring at her with a gleam of pure menace in her black eyes.
‘Yes, mistress,’ Dee replied softly as she grovelled at Isabella’s feet, her severely punished rear in the air. But what she was actually thinking as she looked up adoringly at Isabella was that she couldn’t wait to see her cruel new mistress again.
‘I keep telling you, Dee,’ Isabella rasped, harshly interrupting the slave’s reverie, her eyes now black pools of anger, ‘I know what you’re thinking and, frankly, it simply won’t fucking do.’ With that she lifted the cane high above her head and rained blow after ferocious blow on Dee’s backside.
‘Mercy, mistress,’ the distraught slave screamed, as she wept uncontrollably. ‘Permission to come … Please mistress … Oh, permission to come,’ she begged in desperation. Isabella gave consent and Dee was utterly overwhelmed by an orgasm that was long and violent, the most savage climax she had experienced in her entire life.
Isabella paused for a while before speaking again, waiting for Dee’s earth-shattering orgasm to subside. ‘I don’t think you quite understood me,’ she said calmly, looking down at the thoroughly chastened slave. Dee’s face was stained with tears and she whimpered and shook pitifully at her feet. ‘I really – and I do mean really – don’t ever want to see you here again. Do you understand me now?’
‘Yes, mistress.’ Dee looked up at her with her large, brown eyes. Tear-filled and thoroughly remorseful, at long last, they contained not even the smallest, not even the tiniest glimmer of disobedience.
Isabella glanced out of the window and saw that it had finally stopped raining and the stormy dark clouds had cleared. Inside, the storm was over too.
One-Way Swap
It was a fine day, bright and warm in the Californian sunshine, and Christine and Peter were both naked in the pool area. They were completely private there as the neighbouring properties were screened from view by the high wall that surrounded their garden. The sky above was clear apart from threads of thin clouds, and reflected sunlight danced on the shimmering water of the swimming pool. A solid bed of flowers presented a bright swathe of colour on the smooth lawn around it and a light breeze made the flowers tremble.
Christine, her shapely body tanned all over to a honeyed brown, was lying on her front on a sun lounger, basking in the afternoon sunshine. The beautiful brunette was resting her chin on her arms, and her eyes, which were shielded by sunglasses, were turned in the direction of the pool by her side where Peter was swimming. She watched as he dived to the bottom of the deep end and swam underwater, holding his breath. Peter broke surface near the edge of the pool right next to Christine’s prone body. ‘Put some suntan lotion on my back, would you please, darling,’ she said.
‘Sure,’ her darkly handsome husband replied. He hauled himself out of the water, rivulets of water running down his tanned skin. Reaching out for a towel, he dried himself in a p
erfunctory way, rubbing quickly at his face and torso.
He dried his hands more thoroughly before picking up the bottle of suntan lotion. He poured some of it onto the palm of one hand and got to work. Folding his hands around and over Christine’s shoulders, he kneaded the suntan lotion into her skin, smoothing her flesh with it. What a magnificent body she had, he thought as he worked his way slowly down her back: the swell of her beautiful breasts, her narrow waist, that gorgeous curvy rear: perfection.
Peter had thought once that he could never have enough of that wonderful, voluptuous body. They had made love as much as they possibly could when they’d first met, he reminded himself, and that had been just the beginning. They had made love all the time when they’d been on honeymoon, lost to themselves in sensual delight. And when they weren’t making love, they talked and talked: of books and films, of childhood and family and friends, of good times and bad, of dreams and fantasies. Their talk turned inevitably to sexual fantasies.
Like fucking each other’s brains out at night time on the beach under the moon and the stars.
So that’s what they did at midnight one night. The sandy beach was only a stone’s throw from their holiday apartment and they rushed down to it, hardly able to contain their sexual excitement. Once there, they threw down their towels and stripped naked. Christine got on to all fours and told Peter to take her right there and then. Her pussy was hot and wet and tight as he pushed into her from behind, his cock forging deep into her. He pushed and pushed into the hot warmth of her sex, slick and oozing for him and she pushed and pushed back They thrust together hungrily on the warm sand, before plunging into the ocean itself and making love in the water in hopeless abandon as the waves crashed over them again and again, their only audience a crescent moon and the stars that glimmered above them in the endless sky.
And when they finally drifted back to the edge of the shore and back to their apartment and back to their bed Christine had wanted more. She said she couldn’t help it, he’d made her insatiable. She had fallen onto Peter, grabbing his shoulders and making him lie on his back. She had raked her fingers over his smooth, hard body and then, her thighs pressing wetly against his, had guided him inside her. They went on to devour one another feverishly again. But eventually, inevitably, the fever turned into something else and their lovemaking became ever more languid and drowsily sensuous until sleep took them at last. And when they woke in the morning, locked in each other’s arms, it started all over again. They couldn’t resist going back to the beach at night either, most nights actually, to become one yet again with the elements in all their naked, uninhibited passion.
Their honeymoon had been a tough act to follow, Peter said to himself as he continued to massage Christine’s back with suntan lotion. Even so, their lovemaking had carried on being almost as abandoned, almost as all-consuming, for a long time afterwards. They’d continued to trade sexual fantasies as well, fantasies that seemed to come from out of some murky dark nowhere in the mind. Christine said she fantasised about masturbating in front of him while he jerked off at the same time, and so they did just that, frequently.
Peter told her on one occasion – about two years into their marriage, it was – that he’d started having a recurrent fantasy of actually watching them making love. So, at his suggestion, they started fucking in front of their wardrobe mirror.
That was how it started, with that wardrobe mirror, innocuous really judged by all but the most puritanical of standards. But then things got more elaborate and they arranged – Peter’s idea again – to have a mirror fitted to the ceiling above their bed.
What used to happen was this: Christine would straddle him – she liked that, she told him, being on top – and they would make love, with him watching her in the ceiling mirror and her looking down at him. She said she liked that too, loved it, said it gave her such a feeling of control.
Peter remembered her saying that. She remembered it too. Christine remembered it all. She remembered how he would sigh and let his body collapse into submission as she straddled him, pressing her groin on his, and how she would moan with pleasure as she felt the thickness of his cock slide into her pussy, so tight and moist. She remembered how Peter would reach up to her and she would grab his arms and pin them above his head. She remembered how he would groan with her movements as she pushed her hips down, fitting them around his hardness. She remembered the short, throaty cry Peter would let out, looking up at the mirror in the ceiling as he watched her grinding into him. He could see it all in the mirror.
Christine could see it all too now in her mind: the expression on Peter’s face when she looked down through half-drawn lids at him, the wonder in his eyes and his slack, open mouth. She could hear it all too, and feel it: how when she shoved herself down on him with force, he gave out a soft groan and whimper and would stiffen even more inside her.
Then Christine would grip his arms more tightly and push her weight forward, falling down on him, while still moving her hips, so that the pressure on them both remained unabated.
And she could smell it now too, smell the scent of his excitement and sweat as he began a long drawn-out moan and started to thrust his hips up rhythmically, pulsing with a climax she knew he’d do his very best to restrain until she’d had her own orgasmic release.
Christine remembered that at this point she would begin to moan and flush and rock back and forth, so conscious of Peter’s stiffness steely-hard inside her and ready to burst, and her hand would start to rub out a complementary rhythm, sticky and frantic, over her stiff clitoris. Then she would let go of herself altogether and shudder frenziedly as exquisite oscillations began to pulse through her. And as she climaxed she would watch his mouth widening in exaltation as, taken along by her orgasm, he allowed himself his release. He would begin to tremble uncontrollably beneath her before shooting his liquid, spurt after vigorous spurt, deep inside her sex.
Peter finished massaging Christine’s back with suntan lotion and plunged back into the swimming pool with a splash. Christine stayed where she was on the lounger, alone with her thoughts once more, and her memory leapt back three years almost to the day. That was when Peter had told her he had another fantasy, one he just couldn’t get out of his mind: a fantasy, “now don’t be shocked, Christine”, of seeing her fucking someone else.
But surprise, surprise, she hadn’t been shocked, far from it. The idea turned her on too, she had to admit it, turned her on a hell of a lot. And they were a broadminded couple, a liberated couple, a couple who made their fantasies a reality, weren’t they? You bet your sweet life they were.
Christine and Peter got rid of the ceiling mirror, bored with that now anyway. They arranged to have another mirror rigged up – a large one-way mirror this time, between their bedroom and the one adjacent to it.
Everything was all set for the big event.
They say you always remember the first time. Christine certainly remembered the first time she picked up a stranger to have sex with, knowing that her husband would be watching it all from the next room and jerking off.
What had been his name now, that first one: Jay was it, Jake? Fucked if she could remember. But she could remember the fuck. In fact she could vividly recall the sharp, nasty thrill of the whole experience from start to finish.
She remembered what she’d been wearing, or nearly wearing, when she’d picked him up at the bar. It had been a diaphanous little dress that was cut indecently high on the thigh and low over her breasts. She wasn’t wearing any underwear either, as was her wont. She had on strapped black sandals with very high heels as well, to complete her fuck-me ensemble.
Christine couldn’t remember what he’d been wearing, this Jay, Jake whoever, only that he’d been tall, well-muscled and handsome with longish, raven-black hair. She remembered kicking her shoes off as soon as they’d entered the bedroom, pulling her miniscule dress over her head; remembered telling him to get naked too and put on the condom she was now handing him. She remembe
red pushing him down on to the big bed after he’d done that and straddling him, positioning herself so she could manoeuvre the head of his cock against her pussy lips, against her clitoris. She remembered rubbing herself against his cockhead gently at first and then more vigorously, making him breathe heavily with sexual arousal.
She remembered sliding herself onto his shaft right up to the hilt, and then up and down, up and down, on and on. She remembered riding him in a mounting frenzy of lust, the blood pounding in her veins, until she was completely absorbed in the pleasure she was giving herself and the pleasure she was giving to the man behind the one-way mirror.
‘Was it good for you?’ she said when it was all over.
‘The best,’ sighed her companion as he lay spent and damp on the rumpled sheets. But Christine hadn’t been talking to him, the sex machine she’d just used, the human dildo. She’d been looking in the mirror, through the mirror to the person she’d really been making love to.
That had been three years ago now. Since then she’d let Peter watch her having sex with a host of other strangers. It was what he said he wanted. But Christine wanted it too, make no mistake, wanted it in her imagination and wanted it in reality too. That was the number one rule from her point of view: she had to really want it. If she did it meant she was in control, which was crucial. But Peter said he liked to be in control as well, and he got his wish also for, as he was fond of saying, what person is more in control than the masturbator?
Which was essentially what Peter became from that first time, because from then on he and Christine seldom made love together. Instead they played out this kinky surrogate ritual with ever more frequency, both coming to crave it like a powerful drug, and enjoying it immensely too, each time they did it. And Christine simply loved to give Peter something really worth watching – worth wanking over. She would always put on as good a show as possible for him.
Sweet Torments: The Best of Alex Jordaine Page 2
