Sweet Submissions II

by Kim Knight

  Five minutes later she is preparing for the next part of the session. Now her wrists are clipped to the chain which hangs from the centre of the ceiling, she wipes her sweat-matted hair on her raised biceps, tries to stop her spread legs from trembling in post orgasmic spasm and hollows her back, ready for the stock whip. She knows without being told that she must stand with legs apart and back hollowed. The whip will be heavy and she will need to have her legs parted to hold as steady as she can under the beating. Her back must be hollowed to allow the master sight of her cunt as he laces her buttocks with thin lines of fiery agony, each one overlaying the previous one before she can finish absorbing the pain, so that she dances and twists and groans - and maybe makes the odd scream echo around the old stone of the summer house. She looks around and sees the new master has stripped to the waist. His body is lean and toned. The pectorals shift excitingly as he sweeps the long, pliable lash in front of him a couple of times to get the feel of it. He surprises her by looking up and their eyes meet. He smiles and she lowers her eyes instantly.

  “I’ll stop the beating when you’re marked to my satisfaction. Then I’ll continue it for ten more strokes in punishment for that. Understand?” he tells her and she is pleased to note the hoarseness of excitement entering his voice. She knows she looks good, naked and in chains. She is certain he will beat her ferociously and then buy her.

  “Yes, master,” she says and tries to settle herself against the forthcoming storm. Her heels click and slither on the stone floor as she alters her stance slightly. She tries to focus on the view outside and ignore the hammering of her heart in the face of taking a thrillingly unpredictable beating.

  There is no warning. The lash is just suddenly there, thudding down across her upper back, the tip searing into the side of her already pulsing breast. She hadn’t expected it there and momentarily she chokes for breath, before she has regained a steady rhythm of breathing, the lash is back. This time the master has moved and is standing almost beside her so that it falls with even greater force as his arm follows through the stroke in a full blooded throw. It cracks across her buttocks and this time the tip digs agonisingly into the front of her pelvis, just above her groin. She is helpless to stop herself bringing one leg up instinctively and twisting away from the spiteful impact. This makes her spin at the end of her chain and as she does she catches a glimpse of the master. He is still smiling and is drawing the lash back for the next stroke. Sarah knows he will deliver it somewhere that will make her squirm and spin and hop. That is how he wants her; dancing to his tune. She feels the hot wetness inside her; she wants him. She is desperate to know how big and hard his cock is and what it will feel like when at last he deigns to put it into one of her holes. The third lash is delivered as she is trying to settle again. This time he curls the leather around the upper part of one thigh so that the lash wraps itself at dizzying speed and delivers a blinding flash of agony right below her passionately engorged labia. She hops and twirls at the end of the chain, ungainly, naked and vulnerable. But proud of how much skill the master is investing in this beating. She will treasure the marks from it, whatever the men decide about her future. She knows a real artist is at work on the canvas of her helpless body.

  By the time she hears her current master enter, she is wrecked. Sweat streams from her exhausted body, her head hangs between her shoulders and all she can do is watch beads of sweat drip from her nipples and from her rat-tailed hair as the whip continues to land. Ecstasy explodes within her, detonated when the new master stops and feels her cunt and her breasts. Now the beating is over, she has taken her ten extra. There is a pause. Her current master moves behind her to join the new one. There is the rustling of cloth and then heaven!

  The new master is naked. He stands close behind her and reaches around to fondle her seething breasts again and she can feel the iron hard length of cock between her buttocks.

  Suddenly ashamed of her slovenly stance she raises her head and tries to swing her pelvis and grind backwards onto the cock. There is laughter behind her.

  But then the new master is in front of her, strong hands lift her thighs and with a sigh of gratitude she wraps her legs around him and sinks down onto the wonderful, thick shaft of cock that slides into her so easily in the wake of her beating. Immediately she starts trying to grip the phallus inside her at the same time as she starts using her chained wrists to haul herself up by. Slowly and sensually she grinds and writhes on her new master’s shaft. Greatly daring she bends her head forwards and rests her face on his neck, inhaling the smell of aftershave, body lotion and fresh sweat. She sighs again as she feels him twitch inside her, it spurs her on to make greater efforts to lift herself and then sink slowly back down his divine length. Her stomach muscles begin to cramp both from effort and approaching orgasm. Fingernails are suddenly driven hard into the whipped flesh of her buttocks as the master begins to move inside her. She throws her head back just as the man behind her swings the heavy flogger in across her already flogged shoulders.

  She is launched helplessly into a frenzy of bouncing up and down on the impaling cock and a wild jerking of her upper body as the whip clubs and stings her. Her climax is so devastating she never feels the master spend inside her, she is only aware of being left hanging limply in her chains while her wrists are freed and then she slumps onto all fours. The new master clicks his fingers and slowly, semen leaking down her thighs, sweat stinging in her welts, Sarah goes to him.

  On the way back to the house she whimpers her need for a toilet and is allowed to half crouch, thighs wide spread in a flower bed. There she urinates while the men look on.

  They resume their seats on the terrace and she is allowed to stretch out on the cool grass before them. She lies on her back, letting the grass cool her blistered skin. Through half closed eyes she watches the summer sky and feels the warmth of the sun on her face. Vaguely she hears male voices discussing the loudness of her orgasms, how quickly she can be induced to orgasm a second time, how long she can stand hot waxing between her legs. On and on it goes. She smiles, a hot warmth melting her stomach once more as she relaxes in the knowledge that whatever the men are talking about, it is nothing that need concern her mentally. Her body is all they require from a slave.

  As the sun begins to set and the air cools, the men stand and she crawls indoors after them. They take her to the playroom and subject her to an hour in the breast press.

  She is shaking and sweating, face down across a leather bench, her squashed breasts and clamped nipples are pounding out a symphony of thudding pain and sharp agony beneath her when a sale agreement is put on the leather in front of her and both men sign it. Through heavy lidded eyes she watches the strong fingers of both men make the marks on the paper. There is no name on it for her, she is simply ‘slave’. The deal is struck and then sealed by both men coming in her mouth, one after the other; the semen of the old and the new mingling in her throat and on her face, symbolising perfectly the continuance of her slavery and the smooth transition from one master to another.

  Two weeks later she is standing in the hall, hitching up her pencil skirt and checking the seams on her stockings are straight. She is dressed according to the new master’s strict instructions, seamed stockings, high heeled court shoes, dark blue business suit and cream shirt. Beneath, she wears a bra, thong and suspenders. She feels over dressed but still harbours a hot softness at her belly from where Mcloud, as she can now think of him, bent her over the kitchen table a few minutes before and gave her a farewell fuck. He was on his way up to London to start looking for a new slave and was whistling happily as he left her frantically wiping herself between her legs before any of his sperm stained her clothes.

  Her few possessions are stacked behind her in one suitcase and a trunk. Assured that her seams are straight she stands, calm and patient, waiting for the car her new master is sending. She hears gravel crunching under tyres; there is a knock at the
door and she opens it. A powerfully built man in his mid thirties stands before her. He smiles and indicates the car. She follows and notices that it carries no taxi plates. The man holds one of the rear doors open for her and Sarah climbs in, making no attempt to keep her skirt down. She opens her legs widely to step into the car and shows her stocking tops to the nakedly lustful gaze of the driver. Sarah is experienced enough in the ways of masters to know how this will go. He is clearly a friend of her new owner and on the way to his house the car will pull onto a side road and park. The driver will come to the back door and open it. In coarse, brutal terms he will instruct her to open his trousers, take out his penis and suck it until he ejaculates. He will make sure that some of his spunk is spilled onto her face and into her hair. It will be done as coldly as possible, the man will make no move to enter the car; just stand beside it. She will not be able to see anything of him apart from his rigid penis jutting arrogantly from his flies. All that will matter to all concerned is that her mouth will passionately signal, by its humble offering of its soft lips and tight little interior to the careless spurting of spunk from a total stranger, that she is quite prepared to accept her new master’s complete authority over her body and to whom it is offered.

  When she arrives at her new home the new master will smell and see her state as she will have been forbidden to attempt any cleaning and the driver will have watched her in the mirror.

  The subsequent beating - her first in her new home will be bitterly hard and will set the pattern for all future whippings. She sighs in resignation at her own masochism as she registers the happy tingle of warmth that spreads through her at the thought of the coming cruelty.

  But then she is just a slave.

  She hears footsteps on the gravel and sees the man carrying her trunk out. It has her initial and name on its lid. She smiles as she watches it go by the window. Her new master will laugh when he sees it. Sarah Lave. S.Lave. Slave.

  It is her name, her function, her calling, her profession. It is her self. Perfect.

  Sean has also written;

  Church of Chains

  Taming the Brat

  Tales from the Lodge (with Falconer Bridges)

  The Story of Emma

  The Modern Arena series of novels have acquired one of the most dedicated followings of any Silver Moon saga.

  Into the Arena

  The Gladiator

  The Prize

  Slave’s Honour

  Last Slave Standing

  Girl Squad

  Naked Ambition

  Lost Property

  Bound for Glory

  Madame’s Neck

  By

  Joe Simpson-Walker

  (from Strange Desires)

  Seated before the mirror, Madame Pamela touched the right side of her throat. With the half-consciousness of habit, her fingertips tested the folds and stretches of her skin. The joints of her fingers were encircled above and below with deep wrinkles, but that seemed to her a minor defect, compared to the condition of her neck. Once it had been smooth and flawless; now it was a perpetual reminder that she’d ceased to be young.

  She remained an attractive woman, and one who in some respects defied time. Her figure was perfect, and she moved with an innate grace and poise; she sat at her dressing-table on a square stool with no back, effortlessly erect. Her evening dress was black velvet, and clung to her slim waist and slender arms in a way that was entirely flattering.

  But her ash-blonde hair would have been grey, if not for chemicals. Her eyes, dark in colour and sparkling in their expression, were beautiful in themselves, but crinkly little ruts had crept around their perimeters and sprouted from their corners. Something similar had happened to her mouth: large, wide and full-lipped, it could part and lift into a delicious smile, but her laugh lines had come to stay. And a stranger’s casual glance at her bare throat could sting Madame Pamela deeply, confirming her own belief in its unsightliness. Madame’s neck was her weakness: it was ‘a dead giveaway’, as people say.

  ‘Here. Let me.’

  As the words were said, a man’s white evening shirt appeared in the mirror, behind her. A hand reached past her shoulder and picked up from the dressing-table a long scarf, a broad band of black semi-transparent chiffon.

  He wrapped the scarf loosely around her, making three or four circuits of her head, winding it outwards from her throat down to her collarbone. When he was done, her neck was completely hidden, and her small, firm chin rested in a soft cloud of black.

  Bending over her from behind, he placed his hands upon her shoulders. They were large and smooth: their weight, and the sense of strength contained within them, made Madame shudder with pleasure. She turned and looked up into her companion’s face. Powerfully built, tall and handsome, he was only just twenty years old.

  Parted, with the edges of white teeth just visible, his lips were descending to meet her. Madame smiled, but tilted her head away.

  ‘Philip, we haven’t the time.’

  ‘I’m in the mood,’ Philip said.

  ‘I know,’ Madame said, ‘but - ‘

  She broke off. His mouth had pursued her. She’d turned her head as far away as she could, her chin sliding smoothly over the chiffon, but he held her pinned and her capture was inevitable. Pressing close, his teeth slid up on to the lobe of her left ear. They closed upon the sliver of flesh, pierced but ringless, deliciously sensitive to touch. Madame melted in his grasp.

  ‘Philip!’ she said faintly. ‘We’ll be late.’

  ‘I don’t feel like waiting. Spending two or three hours looking at you, not able to lay a finger on you. Not able to take my eyes off your neck. I want you now.’

  ‘You’ll enjoy it so much more if we wait, Philip. Be patient. Be good.’

  ‘Be quiet.’

  The more she appealed to him to stop, the limper and more pliant she became, and the more ruthlessly he handled her. He let go one shoulder, but only to take hold of her breasts, clutching each breast in turn and squeezing it into the shape of a cone. And he continued to subject her earlobes to sensual gnawing, changing from right ear to left and back again at irregular intervals.

  ‘Philip... oh, Philip, please!’

  ‘Be quiet.’

  ‘Be kind to me!’

  ‘Shut up,’ Philip said.

  Letting go a breast, he reached again to the dressing-table. Its top drawer was a few inches open. He reached in, and without searching brought out another scarf. It was a headsquare of black satin, embroidered with fine threads of gold. Spread out flat, it would have measured about thirty inches by thirty; but it was kept folded into a thick strip, four or five inches at its widest.

  Disengaging from Madame’s ear, he brought the strip of satin hard against her mouth and swiftly tied it around her face, knotting it at the back of her head. From the nose downwards, her features disappeared. Wide and full of helplessness, her eyes looked out of the mirror.

  Deprived of speech, she tried to protest, even to struggle, to reach up and pull the gag away. Silent in his turn, he caught her hands by the wrists. Drawing them down behind her, he forced them together, then opened one hand to clasp both. She was restrained with complete efficiency, while he was free to reach for the drawer.

  Dropping a knee to the floor, he let fall two white scarves, long bands of some thin lacy material. He kept hold of a third scarf, of the same kind, and drew Madame’s hands to one side of the stool while making a loop around the nearer of her wrists. He pulled the loop tight, leaving two long ends. Then he drew that wrist close up against the rear leg of the stool, and made a loop around the leg, another round Madame’s wrist, another encircling both, back and forth, till the length of white cloth was used up, leaving only enough material to make a firm knot. Despite working with a single hand, h
e bound her deftly and without a slip; and before the binding was complete, Madame’s other wrist could be let go briefly, and would hang limp, waiting its turn to be tied to the leg opposite.

  The last white scarf was passed under her arms and drawn tight behind her back, pulling her arms close to her sides, forcing her bosom to jut forward. Kneeling behind the stool, Philip hugged her, cupping her breasts in his palms and fingering flesh through velvet.

  Madame sank back upon him. Her head dropped on to his shoulder and their faces nuzzled together. The sound of their breathing became intermingled: his, heavy and low; hers, soft and constrained, unable to find exit by way of her mouth. With her ears half hidden under the satin gag, her lobes were inaccessible; instead he buried his chin in her neck, burrowing his jaw into its black wrappings.

  The evening’s engagement was forgotten. Gagged and tied, her eyes cast to the ceiling, Madame Pamela submitted to her young lover’s will, with silent thanks for chiffon, satin and lace.

  Syra has already contributed two novels to Silver Moon and is working on her third currently.

  New Orleans - The Unseen Lord

  By

  Syra Bond

  “I crossed the Mississippi on the ferry from Algiers - the best bargain in town, free - and, as I sat in the broad, wire grill enclosed passenger deck with exploding fireworks filling the sky, I felt as if I was sailing into hell. It was New Year’s Eve and in a less than reputable bar in the red light district that sprawls around Bourbon St - the noisy, brash ribbon of strip clubs, touts and prostitutes that lights up the French quarter of New Orleans - that frantic Creole city “that care forgot” - I met a young woman who told me a story so strange that, had I not witnessed it myself, I would have found unbelievable.

  I saw her sitting with several men in a barely lit cubicle on the other side of the patchily lit bar. She was very attractive, striking and yet demure and, in the company of the men and with the noisy bustle of waiters and customers around her, she looked rather intimidated, even a little frightened. After a few minutes, I watched the men get up to leave. Each of them touched her in a strangely familiar way as they went, one stroking her cheek, another fondling her shapely breasts, one bending down and kissing her so hard on the mouth that it made her flinch and the last, the tallest of the group and the only white man, slipping his hand down the front of her white blouse and tightening his fingers around her left nipple so unyieldingly that, although she bore it, she narrowed her eyes to the narrowest slit as she withstood the pain in silence. They all stood around her for a few moments, the tallest, standing in front of her as she remained seated, drawing her face towards his bulging crotch with his hand then, acting in unison and not saying a word, they all left together. She, this fragile girl, nodded to each of them as they went, as if she was sealing some contract of which only she was aware. She watched the last one leave then turned to her empty glass and, with her dark eyes, stared into it as though it were an opening abyss. A waiter, older than the efforts of such a job easily tolerated, with a haughty look and tightly slicked back greying hair, brought her a fresh drink on a slopping wet tray. She did not acknowledge him but, rather theatrically, he bowed nevertheless, took a pace back, turned and left, bearing the still slopping tray on extended fingers high above his head.