My body doesn't react well to heat. Neither does my mind. It invades the crevices of my brain like a slowly, slithering droplet of water that rots away the wooden foundation of a house. I get irritated. I'm cranky. Most unfortunately, intimacy with my girl suffers. I've tried my best to wrestle with these annual demons, hoping to not let this weather that i cannot control get the best of me. As a result of this struggle, my girl's weekly maintenance has not materialized while the humidity super-saturated the air. I'm not proud of this, and sought to correct the absence of her corrections.
---------------------------
"What are you hungry for?" I asked her while leaning against the doorjam of our living room.
"Oh, gosh. I don't really have a taste for anything," The air wasn't moving in the apartment, and it was very easy just to remain stationary. I could tell she was fully sedentary - a state not conducive to her having a preference for much of anything. "Well, what do you want?"
"We really need to address a more important matter first." I gave her a quick wink with my left eye.
"You mean - oh...yes, spanking. How do you want me?"
I turned and left the room, walking back along the hallway, "Come to the bedroom - and remove those damn socks."
The socks were off before she entered the dark chambre. I guided her to the end of the bed, positioning her differently than what she's used to. Instead of her gripping the footboard, i laid her body over it so that her torso rested completely on the mattress, and her feet anchored to the floor. Lifting her dress, i took note that she'd also already removed her panties. The contrast of her pale, white mounds in that dim setting immediately aroused me.
"Please lay as still as you can," I told her, as i abandoned her backside for the bedside table. Pulling out the drawer, i retrieved the trusty - and hated - wooden brush. I developed an immediate kinship for this device, it being a long time since we last collaborated. He felt confident, secure, and solid in my hand. I brought him to her right buttocks, and stroked her snowy skin. My ears delighted at the familiar sound, rough abrading sighs of bristles sanding her cheeks. Over and over. Stroke. Brush. Burr and shine. The electricity of my movement soon came alive in her flesh, filling the area with a vibrant rosiness. I flipped the brush over and pattered her ass with a chorus of swats, inviting more of her blood to rush onto the corporal scene. When finally my favorite cherry color satisfactorily covered her derriere, i asked her for a number.
"12...?"
It being so long, i felt a lenient ambassador speaking on her behalf inside my head. I took his advice into consideration and made my determination.
"16 - and don't forget to count."
I placed the brush on the bed, near enough so that he didn't miss the festivities. I gave the air a few moments while i flexed my naked palm. It too hadn't been called upon for awhile. Pulling back my arm, i landed the first swat upon her left cheek. Because of how i'd positioned her over the metal frame, upon impact, her mid-section slammed into the black scrolled steel, magnifying the pain. Perfectly as designed.
I greeted her ass cheeks with an assortment of strokes - a collision of the full meat of my hand across her flesh; a downward onslaught from the top thirds of my fingers; a wicked, lightning-quick whip of just the tips of my fingernails (easily the most painful). Her response was remarkable. In a very short time, i spent my 16 lashes. Both of our breaths spilled rapidly into the atmosphere. I desired more.
Grabbing her by the hair, i pulled her up from the bed to face me, then pressed with both of my hands upon her shoulders, moving her to the floor. Her mouth opened and instantly accepted my rigid phallus. Hungrily, her head bobbed up and down, knowing that at the end of this, her full rewards awaited. For a moment, i held her head still, allowing her mouth to just nurse on the flesh gagging it. Finally satisfied with this act, i pulled out with a salivary pop. I lifted her from her knees and quickly swung her, stomach-first, over to the side of the bed. Without discussion, she opened her legs with an inviting lift of her rump. Filled with guttural excitement, i entered her from behind.
"Say: Thank you for fucking me."
Her voice raspily complied,"Thank you for fucking me."
"Repeat it. Don't stop." I continued to pound into her hind quarters, over and over.
"Thank you for fucking me."
"Thank you for fucking me."
"Thank you for fucking me."
"Thank you for fucking me."
Showing posts with label corporal discipline. Show all posts
Showing posts with label corporal discipline. Show all posts
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Reduce, Reuse, Recycle
In the city where i live, it is law that all citizens sort their garbage so that items that can be recycled are placed in separate (and color-coordinated) bags than regular refuse. In order to help educate the populace on which objects can be recycled and which cannot, the Sanitation Department has produced diagrams with smiling cartoony recycling containers and trash bins, illustrating the most common detritus that can be recycled and that which can be tossed. To me, it's pretty easy to decipher that which can be saved from that which should be junked. However, that is not apparently the case for others who reside in the city, because the Sanitation Department is frequently sending out these illustrations as well as issuing citations to those who fall in violation. People just can't seem to glean the fundamental guidelines. Unfortunately, my girl is among the guilty ones.
I attend to most of the hauling of our trash to the curb, including bundling it up. Invariably, since she and i began cohabitating, i have found some contraband in the recycling bins that should go in the wastebasket. Despite the fact that i would point out to her that syran wrap was not in fact an eligible item for recycling, i could expect in the intervening days to find an illegal ball of cellophane in with the perfectly legal glass bottles. Now, i realized that i treaded a very fine line here. I chose not to admonish her, to reduce her with humiliation in order to make my point. That would be counterproductive because the lesson rammed down her throat wouldn't stick, not to mention it would make her feel the wrong kind of grief. I'd gain nothing from that, and would come off as a complete boar. I knew i needed to address it another way.
One Friday, the opportunity arose for me to make our weekly corrections do double duty. I retrieved her locking leather wrist cuffs, placing them on the bed. I then went into the kitchen, and took down from the wall the aforementioned diagram from the Sanitation Department that i tacked above our trash can. Stepping back into the bedroom, i hid the diagram off to the side, then called my girl from across the apartment. In she scooted, offering her non-verbal acceptance of what was about to happen with her scooped shoulders, her retracted bottom lip and her raised eyebrows. After watching her remove her skirt and panties, I instructed her to bend over forward, lying her wrists across the railing of the bed's footboard. I shackled each of her wrists, then clipped the leather cuffs to the steel curvature just beneath the railing. Once she was securely fastened, i pulled out the diagram and laid it on the bed, right beneath her chin.
"What's this for?"
"Spread your legs, and stick your butt up. Up and out."
She complied, lifting the fleshy mounds of her naked buttocks up into the air, like hanging peaches rising to greet the morning sun. She studied the diagram before her - exactly what i had intended.
"I want you to read outloud all of the items on the list of non-recyclables. Read them out, one by one."
"Take-out containers, soiled paper cups and plates, paper towels and napkins, plastic wrap..."
She continued through the list, unsure quite where this was leading. Once she finished, i asked her to count the number of items on the ineligible list.
"17"
"Correct. That is the cycle of swats you will get today. Now, i want you to read out every item, and finish with 'Please may i have a spanking, sir?' Understood?"
"Yes sir."
"Proceed."
She took a deep breath and looked back at me in order to sneak a quick peak at whatever implement i may have in my hands. Her peak yielded very little, for i was intending to use only my fleshy digits.
"Take-out containers. Please, may i have a spanking, sir?"
*THWACK*
I slapped my palm across both of her prone ass cheeks. This locomotion stirred up a fresh perfume into the air that immediately greeted my nostrils. In the waft of odor, i could smell that my girl was most certainly aroused by this stratagem.
"Soiled paper cups and plates. Please, may i have a spanking, sir?"
*THWACK*
"Paper towels and napkins. Please, may i have a spanking, sir?"
*THWACK*
She made her way through three recitations of the list, enduring a total of 51 strokes across her exposed flesh. At the end, i do believe a good number of the off-limit items stuck into her memory. To this date, i can report that i have not yet found an ineligible item in the bins. That ultimately means either she learned her lesson, or finally learned to reference the diagram unsubtly tacked to the wall above the trash receptacle.
Either way, i can safely say recycling has become easier in the House of Deity.
I attend to most of the hauling of our trash to the curb, including bundling it up. Invariably, since she and i began cohabitating, i have found some contraband in the recycling bins that should go in the wastebasket. Despite the fact that i would point out to her that syran wrap was not in fact an eligible item for recycling, i could expect in the intervening days to find an illegal ball of cellophane in with the perfectly legal glass bottles. Now, i realized that i treaded a very fine line here. I chose not to admonish her, to reduce her with humiliation in order to make my point. That would be counterproductive because the lesson rammed down her throat wouldn't stick, not to mention it would make her feel the wrong kind of grief. I'd gain nothing from that, and would come off as a complete boar. I knew i needed to address it another way.
One Friday, the opportunity arose for me to make our weekly corrections do double duty. I retrieved her locking leather wrist cuffs, placing them on the bed. I then went into the kitchen, and took down from the wall the aforementioned diagram from the Sanitation Department that i tacked above our trash can. Stepping back into the bedroom, i hid the diagram off to the side, then called my girl from across the apartment. In she scooted, offering her non-verbal acceptance of what was about to happen with her scooped shoulders, her retracted bottom lip and her raised eyebrows. After watching her remove her skirt and panties, I instructed her to bend over forward, lying her wrists across the railing of the bed's footboard. I shackled each of her wrists, then clipped the leather cuffs to the steel curvature just beneath the railing. Once she was securely fastened, i pulled out the diagram and laid it on the bed, right beneath her chin.
"What's this for?"
"Spread your legs, and stick your butt up. Up and out."
She complied, lifting the fleshy mounds of her naked buttocks up into the air, like hanging peaches rising to greet the morning sun. She studied the diagram before her - exactly what i had intended.
"I want you to read outloud all of the items on the list of non-recyclables. Read them out, one by one."
"Take-out containers, soiled paper cups and plates, paper towels and napkins, plastic wrap..."
She continued through the list, unsure quite where this was leading. Once she finished, i asked her to count the number of items on the ineligible list.
"17"
"Correct. That is the cycle of swats you will get today. Now, i want you to read out every item, and finish with 'Please may i have a spanking, sir?' Understood?"
"Yes sir."
"Proceed."
She took a deep breath and looked back at me in order to sneak a quick peak at whatever implement i may have in my hands. Her peak yielded very little, for i was intending to use only my fleshy digits.
"Take-out containers. Please, may i have a spanking, sir?"
*THWACK*
I slapped my palm across both of her prone ass cheeks. This locomotion stirred up a fresh perfume into the air that immediately greeted my nostrils. In the waft of odor, i could smell that my girl was most certainly aroused by this stratagem.
"Soiled paper cups and plates. Please, may i have a spanking, sir?"
*THWACK*
"Paper towels and napkins. Please, may i have a spanking, sir?"
*THWACK*
She made her way through three recitations of the list, enduring a total of 51 strokes across her exposed flesh. At the end, i do believe a good number of the off-limit items stuck into her memory. To this date, i can report that i have not yet found an ineligible item in the bins. That ultimately means either she learned her lesson, or finally learned to reference the diagram unsubtly tacked to the wall above the trash receptacle.
Either way, i can safely say recycling has become easier in the House of Deity.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
I put my future in her mouth
Parading all over my hands, you would find at any random time minor cuts, burns, bruises and other evidence of me putting my appendages into precarious, and slightly risky situations. Slicing an onion incredibly thin; testing the temperature of a lamb tangine i'm cooking, and searing my skin on the edge of the lid; trying to do a pull-up using just the thin frame of a door. I view not just my hands, but all of my limbs as tools to be tested, stretched and challenged.
I remember when the idea for that night's correction flashed into my head. I was crossing a street i've crossed a hundred times before. But, this intersection rarely displayed a walk signal long enough for even the most athletic pedestrian to make passage. As i was bolting across, just missing the front fender of a speeding cab, the notion of risk popped into my head. I knew immediately how the evening's affair was to take place.
When i arrived home, i saw that my girl had preceded me by a few minutes. She knew that within some window of time from my arrival, the administration of whatever scheme i'd devised would occur. For that reason, rather than change out of her daily wear, she knew my preference was for her to remain fully laced until the conclusion of her correction. We kissed our hello's and i dismounted from the work posture i'd held all day, dropping off my satchel and coat in my bureau. Already, just glimpsing the prelude to the upcoming attraction, a thick bulge had grown in my trousers. I retrieved, from the corner, the wooden paddle with the long handle, placing it on my chair.
I called out to her in the living room, "Darlin, come into my room after you've removed your panties."
Sounds of a shuffle of undergarments came from the front of the apartment, replaced by footsteps on the hallway tile. The first thing her eyes fell upon was the paddle in my hands. In those moments, i'm curious what she's thinking. Is it dread? Is it comfort? I dare not pause the moment to inquire.
"Come here and kneel facing me. I want you to reach back with your hands, and lift up your dress so that you expose your buttocks."
I watched her unveil the white mounds whose curves dismantle most of my gentlemanly behavior. I unzipped my pants, and extracted the extremely rigid appendage, letting it point up towards her chin.
"We're going to have a lesson. Without using your hands, you will give me a blowjob. Throughout it, i will swat you with the paddle if i do not find any part of it enjoyable. Understood?"
She nodded her head, and opened her mouth. She swallowed me halfway, and then began to bob her head up and down.
*SWAT!*
"No teeth!"
She squirmed and groaned, continuing to stroke me with her mouth. Her lips bulged over the now fully erect girth.
*SWAT! SWAT! SWAT!*
"I said NO teeth."
More groans. Her fingers clenched on the material of her dress. Her sucking took on an urgency, a frenzy. She wanted to perform well, but being corrected mid-performance drove her to an edge.
*SWAT!*
"Noise, make some noise."
Her groans yielded to moans, as hungry hums traveled around the gag. Drool slithered down her chin, as she looked in my eyes with an animal fire behind them.
*SWAT! SWAT!*
"Faster!"
*SWAT! SWAT!*
"Make me believe you like sucking cock, make me see you need this."
The slurping sounds sprayed across the walls of my bureau, which intensified the sensations of my approaching orgasm.
*SWAT! SWAT! SWAT! SWAT!*
Just before exploding, i pulled out, grabbed the back of her hair, pointing her head up to the ceiling. I bent down and kissed her soaked lips deeply.
I whispered into her ear,"You did very good." Then lifted her from the floor, and led her to the bedroom. The risk i took with this limb needed some rewarding.
I remember when the idea for that night's correction flashed into my head. I was crossing a street i've crossed a hundred times before. But, this intersection rarely displayed a walk signal long enough for even the most athletic pedestrian to make passage. As i was bolting across, just missing the front fender of a speeding cab, the notion of risk popped into my head. I knew immediately how the evening's affair was to take place.
When i arrived home, i saw that my girl had preceded me by a few minutes. She knew that within some window of time from my arrival, the administration of whatever scheme i'd devised would occur. For that reason, rather than change out of her daily wear, she knew my preference was for her to remain fully laced until the conclusion of her correction. We kissed our hello's and i dismounted from the work posture i'd held all day, dropping off my satchel and coat in my bureau. Already, just glimpsing the prelude to the upcoming attraction, a thick bulge had grown in my trousers. I retrieved, from the corner, the wooden paddle with the long handle, placing it on my chair.
I called out to her in the living room, "Darlin, come into my room after you've removed your panties."
Sounds of a shuffle of undergarments came from the front of the apartment, replaced by footsteps on the hallway tile. The first thing her eyes fell upon was the paddle in my hands. In those moments, i'm curious what she's thinking. Is it dread? Is it comfort? I dare not pause the moment to inquire.
"Come here and kneel facing me. I want you to reach back with your hands, and lift up your dress so that you expose your buttocks."
I watched her unveil the white mounds whose curves dismantle most of my gentlemanly behavior. I unzipped my pants, and extracted the extremely rigid appendage, letting it point up towards her chin.
"We're going to have a lesson. Without using your hands, you will give me a blowjob. Throughout it, i will swat you with the paddle if i do not find any part of it enjoyable. Understood?"
She nodded her head, and opened her mouth. She swallowed me halfway, and then began to bob her head up and down.
*SWAT!*
"No teeth!"
She squirmed and groaned, continuing to stroke me with her mouth. Her lips bulged over the now fully erect girth.
*SWAT! SWAT! SWAT!*
"I said NO teeth."
More groans. Her fingers clenched on the material of her dress. Her sucking took on an urgency, a frenzy. She wanted to perform well, but being corrected mid-performance drove her to an edge.
*SWAT!*
"Noise, make some noise."
Her groans yielded to moans, as hungry hums traveled around the gag. Drool slithered down her chin, as she looked in my eyes with an animal fire behind them.
*SWAT! SWAT!*
"Faster!"
*SWAT! SWAT!*
"Make me believe you like sucking cock, make me see you need this."
The slurping sounds sprayed across the walls of my bureau, which intensified the sensations of my approaching orgasm.
*SWAT! SWAT! SWAT! SWAT!*
Just before exploding, i pulled out, grabbed the back of her hair, pointing her head up to the ceiling. I bent down and kissed her soaked lips deeply.
I whispered into her ear,"You did very good." Then lifted her from the floor, and led her to the bedroom. The risk i took with this limb needed some rewarding.
Friday, January 9, 2009
She was just here
Awhile back, i took a few of you on a tour of the House of Deity in order to demonstrate the ease at which one can conceal the kinky potential of their furnishings. Do any of you remember the wooden stool that normally resides in the kitchen? Good. Keep that on precipice of your mind.
Recently, i had accumulated so much paid vacation that i needed to take random days off in order not to lose them. I reluctantly took the Friday before Christmas off, to give myself a three-day weekend, but to also give myself enough leisure time to contemplate the minutiae of that evening's correction. Vesta had recently shared with me a story she'd penned that detailed a schoolmaster faced with testing out his recently acquired spanking bench. A detail from it had stuck in the soft gray material of my brain like a spoon in a cup of ice cream. To fasten the young spankee to the wooden bench, the schoolmaster had the craftsmen install a leather band that would be draped over the girl's back - holding her in place, but also positioning her prone buttocks pointing skyward. From this image launched my evil stencils, drafting and designing ways to rivet, bind, ply and adhere my girl's frame to the aforementioned stool. I tested the stool to find its center of gravity, to see how the weight needed to be distributed. I calculated how much rope would be required to accomplish my vision, setting out the required number of coils. I layed out a yoga mat, and placed the stool over it in order to reduce the chance of the stool slipping out from under her. Everything was ready. All that waited was for my girl to arrive home from work.
I greeted her at the door, opening it when i heard her in the stairwell. She plunked her bags onto the floor of her room, and immediately grabbed her back, as if in pain.
"Baby, my back is killing me."
The sound of deflated excitement wheezed into the air as i felt all of the carefully crafted plans slip into the abyss. In my head, i tried to devise ways my design would not tax her sore dorsal region, but they all felt contrived.
"Well, you do know it's Friday."
"Yes, that's why i'm telling you about my back right now. I can't do anything too taxing."
"Define taxing."
"The cane...i can't do the cane."
The cane! THE CANE! She couldn't do the cane! I didn't even plan on using the cane. When she identified that it was this kind of trauma she must avoid - the kind of jolts to the lower rump that caused her muscles to jerk in violent spasms - i realized my plans were not for naught.
"Meet me in my study, having removed your clothes in 5 minutes."
I switched on the stereophone player against the long wall, and checked one last time that everything was prepared. She peeped her head in, seeing the stool immediately. I held out my hand and guided her to stand next to it. I took a position behind her, and before proceeding further, hugged her. I squeezed her, caressed her naked flesh, feeling the raised indent of her just-removed corset. I took in her scent, her natural and boutique perfumes. All of this brought me closer to her. I'd been away from this, her, all day. I guided her down, bending her over the stool, and placed each of her arms parallel to the two forelegs of the stool.
Kneeling, i grabbed a coil of hemp rope, and quickly lassoed her delicate wrists to the black wooden stantion of the stool, affixing it with authority. I traveled up her arm and attached her elbow with rope to the hard wood. With haste, i mimicked this configuration with her other arm, wrist and elbow. Her flippers had become legs of a stool. Moving behind her again, i spread her legs, butterflying them around the stool's aftlegs, making sure her feet were positioned wisely so as to support her entire weight should it shift even an inch during her internment. I wrapped her ankles to the legs of the stool, then her knees. Taking the extra slack i anticipated, running the rope up over her outer thigh, i slid a tight line of rope slicing down into her buttocks, and in through her legs. I grasped a hold of her outer right cunt lip in my fingers, and with the rope, pinned it against the inner part of her thigh, tying off the rest of this line to the rungs of the stool. Her left side soon sistered her right, holding her cunt open and spread. Where was my girl whose presence had filled the room, but now lay conjoined with this piece of kitchen furniture? Where had she gone?
Satisfied that she could not move with much liberty, i grabbed the last coil. Starting at the small of her back, at the precise point she had grabbed upon entering our home, i anchored this section to the top of the stool, coiling the rope around and around, each pass further compressing her back to a completely static state.
"How do you feel?"
I caressed her cheek with my hand. Her form clamped over the stool with such beauty. I wanted to grab the camera, but i also didn't want to interrupt the flow that this rigging had established between us.
"I feel good."
I produced the wooden hair brush with the wide head, and bent down to show it to her. She sighed, a sign of pure relief.
"I thought you might still use the cane."
I scraped the coarse bristles across her rope-packed flesh, back and forth, quickly inviting a beautiful scarlet wave to brush across her ass cheeks. I turned the business end of the brush around and thwacked her cheeks, playing with their tautness. I enjoyed the sensation of the impact upon my hand. The target never moved, and for the most part maintained the same rigid texture. After several strokes, i could see her backside was ready.
"Give me a number."
She struggled at first to provide me with one. Her speech seemed to stick in her windpipes, perhaps constrained by the aromatic hemp strewn across her body.
"Sixteen."
"Really? Sixteen."
In my hands, i held the leather cat-o-nine, allowing its mahogany tendrils to twist in the air. With precision as my guide, i suffered sixteen blows across her bound flesh, pausing only twice to allow her to catch her breath. At the conclusion, both of us could sense our mutual excitement, and knew the next logical step.
"Do i need to undo these crotch ropes to fuck you?"
"I think you might."
Recently, i had accumulated so much paid vacation that i needed to take random days off in order not to lose them. I reluctantly took the Friday before Christmas off, to give myself a three-day weekend, but to also give myself enough leisure time to contemplate the minutiae of that evening's correction. Vesta had recently shared with me a story she'd penned that detailed a schoolmaster faced with testing out his recently acquired spanking bench. A detail from it had stuck in the soft gray material of my brain like a spoon in a cup of ice cream. To fasten the young spankee to the wooden bench, the schoolmaster had the craftsmen install a leather band that would be draped over the girl's back - holding her in place, but also positioning her prone buttocks pointing skyward. From this image launched my evil stencils, drafting and designing ways to rivet, bind, ply and adhere my girl's frame to the aforementioned stool. I tested the stool to find its center of gravity, to see how the weight needed to be distributed. I calculated how much rope would be required to accomplish my vision, setting out the required number of coils. I layed out a yoga mat, and placed the stool over it in order to reduce the chance of the stool slipping out from under her. Everything was ready. All that waited was for my girl to arrive home from work.
I greeted her at the door, opening it when i heard her in the stairwell. She plunked her bags onto the floor of her room, and immediately grabbed her back, as if in pain.
"Baby, my back is killing me."
The sound of deflated excitement wheezed into the air as i felt all of the carefully crafted plans slip into the abyss. In my head, i tried to devise ways my design would not tax her sore dorsal region, but they all felt contrived.
"Well, you do know it's Friday."
"Yes, that's why i'm telling you about my back right now. I can't do anything too taxing."
"Define taxing."
"The cane...i can't do the cane."
The cane! THE CANE! She couldn't do the cane! I didn't even plan on using the cane. When she identified that it was this kind of trauma she must avoid - the kind of jolts to the lower rump that caused her muscles to jerk in violent spasms - i realized my plans were not for naught.
"Meet me in my study, having removed your clothes in 5 minutes."
I switched on the stereophone player against the long wall, and checked one last time that everything was prepared. She peeped her head in, seeing the stool immediately. I held out my hand and guided her to stand next to it. I took a position behind her, and before proceeding further, hugged her. I squeezed her, caressed her naked flesh, feeling the raised indent of her just-removed corset. I took in her scent, her natural and boutique perfumes. All of this brought me closer to her. I'd been away from this, her, all day. I guided her down, bending her over the stool, and placed each of her arms parallel to the two forelegs of the stool.
Kneeling, i grabbed a coil of hemp rope, and quickly lassoed her delicate wrists to the black wooden stantion of the stool, affixing it with authority. I traveled up her arm and attached her elbow with rope to the hard wood. With haste, i mimicked this configuration with her other arm, wrist and elbow. Her flippers had become legs of a stool. Moving behind her again, i spread her legs, butterflying them around the stool's aftlegs, making sure her feet were positioned wisely so as to support her entire weight should it shift even an inch during her internment. I wrapped her ankles to the legs of the stool, then her knees. Taking the extra slack i anticipated, running the rope up over her outer thigh, i slid a tight line of rope slicing down into her buttocks, and in through her legs. I grasped a hold of her outer right cunt lip in my fingers, and with the rope, pinned it against the inner part of her thigh, tying off the rest of this line to the rungs of the stool. Her left side soon sistered her right, holding her cunt open and spread. Where was my girl whose presence had filled the room, but now lay conjoined with this piece of kitchen furniture? Where had she gone?
Satisfied that she could not move with much liberty, i grabbed the last coil. Starting at the small of her back, at the precise point she had grabbed upon entering our home, i anchored this section to the top of the stool, coiling the rope around and around, each pass further compressing her back to a completely static state.
"How do you feel?"
I caressed her cheek with my hand. Her form clamped over the stool with such beauty. I wanted to grab the camera, but i also didn't want to interrupt the flow that this rigging had established between us.
"I feel good."
I produced the wooden hair brush with the wide head, and bent down to show it to her. She sighed, a sign of pure relief.
"I thought you might still use the cane."
I scraped the coarse bristles across her rope-packed flesh, back and forth, quickly inviting a beautiful scarlet wave to brush across her ass cheeks. I turned the business end of the brush around and thwacked her cheeks, playing with their tautness. I enjoyed the sensation of the impact upon my hand. The target never moved, and for the most part maintained the same rigid texture. After several strokes, i could see her backside was ready.
"Give me a number."
She struggled at first to provide me with one. Her speech seemed to stick in her windpipes, perhaps constrained by the aromatic hemp strewn across her body.
"Sixteen."
"Really? Sixteen."
In my hands, i held the leather cat-o-nine, allowing its mahogany tendrils to twist in the air. With precision as my guide, i suffered sixteen blows across her bound flesh, pausing only twice to allow her to catch her breath. At the conclusion, both of us could sense our mutual excitement, and knew the next logical step.
"Do i need to undo these crotch ropes to fuck you?"
"I think you might."
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
THE THICKET
Since Deity will be back with you in just a day or two, this will be my last post. It has been a delight to make a contribution to this blog. I have gathered much inspiration from the pages here over time, and I have loved the opportunity to give something back.
He’s a special bloke, our Deity. When I wrote and told him how much I was enjoying writing the posts and that I found it liberating, he wrote back to say how pleased he was to hear it. He said that it had accomplished something that he had hoped when he first envisioned me writing for the blog. You see what I mean? Very special, indeed!
I’d like to leave you all with a memory. It was a very special day for me and I hold the memory dear. Now, it pleases me to share it with you...
One Saturday morning, quite early in the morning, my husband awoke me and asked if I had anything special to do that morning. Groggily, I told that I did not.
“Good. Then, have a quick shower, put on your blue skirt...that bohemian one...and the white crocheted top. No underwear. We are going to the Botanical Gardens for your punishment.”
“But, what about the children?”
“The children are old enough to be left on their own and you know it. Quickly now! No more delaying. Your punishment is well overdue.”
I prepared for our ‘outing’ with a sense of reluctance, together with a sense of heightened anticipation. I was quiet, contemplative and resigned to my fate.
There were few cars on the roads, but plenty of runners on the track that leads around the Gardens. I chose not to look into the faces of the running men. Could they know the reason the man accompanying me carried a thin piece of bamboo as one would a walking stick? In any case, I looked the other way to avoid the potential embarrassment.
As we made our way into the depths of the Gardens we travelled the paths that led past all varieties of plants, hand in hand. Neither of us spoke. When we reached ‘the thicket’, the vast planting of bamboo with an entrance that was denied to visitors (though not us), my husband searched the area for onlookers and on seeing none, beckoned me to follow him.
We passed the hundreds of bamboo plants, enough bamboo to make canes to last a lifetime, until we reached the secluded bench by the lake, deep in shade. It was a little area we had discovered and claimed our own. That is not to say that it was exclusively ours. Boys and girls from the local grammar school ventured here too, as disclosed by the cigarette packets they left behind. I reminded myself that no self-respecting teenager would venture to the Gardens this early in the morning.
“All right. I want you to tell me why you are about to be punished.”
“Because...because I didn’t fill up my car with petrol, and we ran out in the city last week.”
“Yes, that’s right. And, have you had many warnings about filling your car up well before it reaches empty on the gauge?”
“Yes. I have.”
“Yes, you certainly have. Perhaps once you’ve had a caning for it, you might decide it would be in your interest to attend to the matter earlier. All right. Now, I want you to bend over the back of the bench. Rest the palms of your hands on the seat, please.”
I did as I was asked.
He lifted the back of the light, cotton skirt over my back to reveal my bare bottom.
“There will be twelve strokes and extras if you come up. Remember, you need to be very, very quiet. Understand?”
I nodded.
He stood beside me and rested the cane across my bottom, tapping a little. Then, he lifted it up and brought it down on my bottom, hard.
“What do you say?”
“One, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
As each stroke created a new stripe on my bottom, I willed myself to be stoic, but the fifth stroke was searing and without a thought, I was up, and turned, with my arms around his neck and my head in his shoulder.
“Please, please no more. It really hurts. I will be good. I promise. I won’t ever do it again.”
“I’m sure you are sorry, sweetheart, but when I say there will be twelve strokes, I mean it. Now, you have been good up until now. Be a good...”
“Ohhh. There’s someone there. I can see someone with a backpack through the plants. He’s stopped. He’s listening.”
“Quiet now. Be very quiet, and he’ll go away.”
We waited, glued together, still as statues.
“Okay. He’s gone now. It’s safe. Back over the bench, little one. Be a good girl and after it is over, I will take you to breakfast.”
I let go of him, and returned to my whipping bench. I revealed my poor bottom to his cane. He proceeded on with the punishment and I willed myself to take the strokes silently. He had taken over the counting, softly declaring the number taken.
“Nine.”
“Nine!! That was number 10.”
“Oh, I see, you still have your wits about you. Yes, that was ten.”
If he was testing me to see if I would launch from the seat to hit him, he wasn’t going to win. I had come this far. I wasn’t rising without permission. My mind was settled on it.
Eleven was easy. Twelve, the final stroke, was hard. He had made a point to tell me that it would be memorable, and it was. The stroke landed on my thigh. The thick welt was immediate and I sucked in air and shook to contain the pain without sound.
He helped me to stand when I was ready and hugged me tight.
“Good girl. My good girl. I am proud of you. Come and sit with me so that I can comfort you.”
We cuddled and watched the ducks pass by in front of us for several minutes; he often caressing my thigh, as if to will the welt away.
“You must keep the car filled with petrol, now, darling, all right? It is dangerous to be so low all the time. Do you promise me you won’t do it again?”
“I promise.”
“All right, then. Let’s get some breakfast now.”
We left the thicket and made the way back along the paths to the cafe. Their seats are wooden and the sitting was anything but comfortable. But, I was happy, and proud of myself. I had never loved him more.
As this year comes to a close, we look ahead to a new year, full of the promise and hope that all beginnings bring. Our little community here knows the value of being true to ourselves, listening carefully to one another and looking out for one another. Each and every one of us, in our own way, can make a difference to the shape of this New Year around the world.
I wish you all a joyous and peaceful 2009.
He’s a special bloke, our Deity. When I wrote and told him how much I was enjoying writing the posts and that I found it liberating, he wrote back to say how pleased he was to hear it. He said that it had accomplished something that he had hoped when he first envisioned me writing for the blog. You see what I mean? Very special, indeed!
I’d like to leave you all with a memory. It was a very special day for me and I hold the memory dear. Now, it pleases me to share it with you...
One Saturday morning, quite early in the morning, my husband awoke me and asked if I had anything special to do that morning. Groggily, I told that I did not.
“Good. Then, have a quick shower, put on your blue skirt...that bohemian one...and the white crocheted top. No underwear. We are going to the Botanical Gardens for your punishment.”
“But, what about the children?”
“The children are old enough to be left on their own and you know it. Quickly now! No more delaying. Your punishment is well overdue.”
I prepared for our ‘outing’ with a sense of reluctance, together with a sense of heightened anticipation. I was quiet, contemplative and resigned to my fate.
There were few cars on the roads, but plenty of runners on the track that leads around the Gardens. I chose not to look into the faces of the running men. Could they know the reason the man accompanying me carried a thin piece of bamboo as one would a walking stick? In any case, I looked the other way to avoid the potential embarrassment.
As we made our way into the depths of the Gardens we travelled the paths that led past all varieties of plants, hand in hand. Neither of us spoke. When we reached ‘the thicket’, the vast planting of bamboo with an entrance that was denied to visitors (though not us), my husband searched the area for onlookers and on seeing none, beckoned me to follow him.
We passed the hundreds of bamboo plants, enough bamboo to make canes to last a lifetime, until we reached the secluded bench by the lake, deep in shade. It was a little area we had discovered and claimed our own. That is not to say that it was exclusively ours. Boys and girls from the local grammar school ventured here too, as disclosed by the cigarette packets they left behind. I reminded myself that no self-respecting teenager would venture to the Gardens this early in the morning.
“All right. I want you to tell me why you are about to be punished.”
“Because...because I didn’t fill up my car with petrol, and we ran out in the city last week.”
“Yes, that’s right. And, have you had many warnings about filling your car up well before it reaches empty on the gauge?”
“Yes. I have.”
“Yes, you certainly have. Perhaps once you’ve had a caning for it, you might decide it would be in your interest to attend to the matter earlier. All right. Now, I want you to bend over the back of the bench. Rest the palms of your hands on the seat, please.”
I did as I was asked.
He lifted the back of the light, cotton skirt over my back to reveal my bare bottom.
“There will be twelve strokes and extras if you come up. Remember, you need to be very, very quiet. Understand?”
I nodded.
He stood beside me and rested the cane across my bottom, tapping a little. Then, he lifted it up and brought it down on my bottom, hard.
“What do you say?”
“One, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
As each stroke created a new stripe on my bottom, I willed myself to be stoic, but the fifth stroke was searing and without a thought, I was up, and turned, with my arms around his neck and my head in his shoulder.
“Please, please no more. It really hurts. I will be good. I promise. I won’t ever do it again.”
“I’m sure you are sorry, sweetheart, but when I say there will be twelve strokes, I mean it. Now, you have been good up until now. Be a good...”
“Ohhh. There’s someone there. I can see someone with a backpack through the plants. He’s stopped. He’s listening.”
“Quiet now. Be very quiet, and he’ll go away.”
We waited, glued together, still as statues.
“Okay. He’s gone now. It’s safe. Back over the bench, little one. Be a good girl and after it is over, I will take you to breakfast.”
I let go of him, and returned to my whipping bench. I revealed my poor bottom to his cane. He proceeded on with the punishment and I willed myself to take the strokes silently. He had taken over the counting, softly declaring the number taken.
“Nine.”
“Nine!! That was number 10.”
“Oh, I see, you still have your wits about you. Yes, that was ten.”
If he was testing me to see if I would launch from the seat to hit him, he wasn’t going to win. I had come this far. I wasn’t rising without permission. My mind was settled on it.
Eleven was easy. Twelve, the final stroke, was hard. He had made a point to tell me that it would be memorable, and it was. The stroke landed on my thigh. The thick welt was immediate and I sucked in air and shook to contain the pain without sound.
He helped me to stand when I was ready and hugged me tight.
“Good girl. My good girl. I am proud of you. Come and sit with me so that I can comfort you.”
We cuddled and watched the ducks pass by in front of us for several minutes; he often caressing my thigh, as if to will the welt away.
“You must keep the car filled with petrol, now, darling, all right? It is dangerous to be so low all the time. Do you promise me you won’t do it again?”
“I promise.”
“All right, then. Let’s get some breakfast now.”
We left the thicket and made the way back along the paths to the cafe. Their seats are wooden and the sitting was anything but comfortable. But, I was happy, and proud of myself. I had never loved him more.
As this year comes to a close, we look ahead to a new year, full of the promise and hope that all beginnings bring. Our little community here knows the value of being true to ourselves, listening carefully to one another and looking out for one another. Each and every one of us, in our own way, can make a difference to the shape of this New Year around the world.
I wish you all a joyous and peaceful 2009.
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