by Sarah Steel
In silence – a silence he managed to maintain – he placed the cane down on the sofa and motioned the naked diva to rise. She did, but refused to obey his gesture to stand at the end of the sofa, her eyes brimming with contempt, one hand hiding the nipples of her breasts and the other cupping her pubic mound.
He nodded, once more patiently indicating the end of the sofa, but she shook her head.
James smiled, and apparently baffled by his mood swings and the silence she undoubtedly mistook for grudging respect, she decided to obey him after all. Once in position she peered over her shoulder as he rummaged in her wardrobe, but quickly averted her gaze as he returned clutching several silk scarves.
The first he rolled into a ball and gagged her with it, smothering her attempt to protest. The second he wound around her head over her eyes. Then he gazed upon her naked helplessness and savoured the balance of power tilting back in his favour. He carefully avoided touching her as, applying the tip of the cane to the nape of her bowed neck, he forced her to bend down across the raised arm of the sofa. All was done in silence; no verbal instructions were given. He used the cane to conduct things as he arranged her to his satisfaction. He tapped her breasts and pubes to keep them clear of the surface, and standing behind her, he edged her feet apart with the tip of the bamboo rod. She stood trembling slightly, adjusting her position obediently as the mute cane gave its instructions. Belly and breasts free of the sofa, she bent over, raising her buttocks and supporting herself with her hands, her fingers splayed across a cushion. Her elbows were slightly bent, the tip of the cane tapped them, and she obediently straightened her arms. The position thrust her bottom up superbly.
He used a third silk scarf to bind her left ankle to the front foot of the sofa, nodding approvingly as he watched her toes curl up in dread. A fourth scarf bound her right ankle to the rear foot of the sofa, and she was utterly helpless, bared and prepared for the rod.
James savoured the moment, gripping his improvised cane tightly. It sprang up, quivering in his fist as if in a smart salute to the soft cheeks it was about to vehemently stripe. He smiled, remembering that amongst the many cuttings he had collected and collated on her journey to stardom, there was one detailing her demanding itinerary; a punishing schedule, the article concluded. A punishing schedule… he raised the cane and the ominous whisper made her body tense. He watched her vulnerable buttocks tighten in fearful expectation of the stinging lash.
Then at the last moment, the cane raised for the first stroke, he changed his mind. He wanted to hear her suffer. The reddening stripes would not be enough, mutely eloquent as they would be in attesting to her suffering. No, he wanted to hear her gasps and cries of anguish, and perhaps her pleads for him to stop between each pitiless stroke. He wanted to hear her raw sobs of agony.
So he eased the balled scarf from her mouth and flung it away. Then he poised the tip of the cane on the play button of the nearby CD player, and pressed it. La Traviata flooded the room. La Traviata; excellent! Lots of anguish in that lurid operatic tale of woe.
Swish! The cane thrummed the air as he struck a practice blow inches from her head to make sure she heard it. He was gratified to see her squirm in her bondage, the scarves at each ankle ensuring her bare bottom loomed up large and inviting. He fingered the shiny cane and, nodding decisively, decided upon a punishment of ten strokes. Ten measured, lethal strokes. Dispensed slowly, the discipline would leave her buttocks well and truly ablaze.
James took his time. He felt calm, unhurried. Nothing must be rushed. Every stroke must be slowly savoured. And every stroke, he told himself, must count.
He aligned himself, spreading his feet slightly apart so the levelled cane, when brought against and then pressed into her defenceless cheeks, bisected her cleft exactly. He craned his neck to study the effect, and saw the thin line of yellow wood dimple the crimson of her spanked bottom. The cane across the cleft quartered her bare bottom precisely. Perfect. The reach was absolutely perfect. Every stroke would count.
Swish! Swish! The first and second strokes whistled down. The naked diva jerked and writhed in response as two thin pink lines were drawn across the blushed crowns of her already punished cheeks. But James cursed himself. Not so fast. He must slow down. He must pace the experience. One searing swipe of the cane at a time, and then count to twelve. Let her suffer each stroke and learn to dread the next one.
Swish! The third blow swept up into the softness of her flesh just where her thighs ceded to the rich swell of her buttocks. The pink weal darkened more quickly than the two above it into a pale blue testimony of torment.
Swish! The fourth blow had her writhing and vainly attempting to squeeze her knees and thighs together, but the bondage at each of her ankles rendered her defenceless to the cut of the cane. Four strokes. James tapped the whipped cheeks with the bamboo rod four times. He found the tormented bottom beautiful to behold. He rested the cane gently upon the tender cheeks. Four strokes. It was a beautiful bottom, and unbidden, his cock stiffened. And as it rose, raking the stretch of his boxer shorts, the length of bamboo skidded down from the superbly rounded cheeks and dangled impotently in his loosening grip.
He must concentrate! Her pain, not your pleasure! He was here for her punishment and pain, so denying the stiff erection thrusting uncomfortably within his trousers, he lashed the proffered buttocks twice in quick succession. She cried out, but did not scream. As he had calculated, the soprano belting out La Traviata drowned the diva’s distress.
Four strokes left. He levelled the whippy wood against her striped cheeks, planting it across an as yet unblemished band of flesh – flesh still pink from the spanking but unmarked by the bamboo. He played the cane across her bottom as if it were a bow raking the cello of her cheeks. He would lash her there, etching twin bluish welts across the crimson.
Swish, swipe! She bucked and writhed and James stared spellbound as her hips swayed seductively, making her caned buttocks jiggle. He stared as if star-struck, like one of those hundreds of thousands of fans willing to shiver and shuffle in line to catch a brief glimpse of her or beg an autograph. He shook himself out of his reverie, reminding himself she was a diva bitch and deserved her discipline.
Swish, swipe! She screamed softly as the wood bit lovingly into her bouncing bottom. He followed the glinting bamboo down, grunting softly as it sliced her bunched cheeks and she sobbed in anguish.
Then he hesitated, suddenly uncertain. His erection strained painfully for her, for the diva caned in her bondage, and a flood of confusion swept over him. ‘Suffer, bitch, suffer like you made me suffer!’ he hissed, breaking his vow to remain silent as his detestation turned into desire. Then closing his eyes he lashed her across the buttocks five times, inadvertently rocketing her into a shrill orgasm, and the cane dropped from his trembling fingers as he watched her luxuriate in a furious climax, twisting her torso and thrusting her hips and thighs deliciously.
His bitterness vanished under a sudden surge of adoration. ‘Diva,’ he mumbled, quickly kneeling and burying his face in her angrily striped bottom. ‘Diva,’ his lips mumbled into her writhing cheeks. He remained on his knees, doomed like all her worshippers to adore her. Exposing his erection he curled his fingers around its hot length and pumped fervently, and the explosion of liquid heat erupted to splatter her caned cheeks.
Exhausted, he slumped down, and peering up between her thighs, he saw his beads of semen sparkling against the crimson flush of her suffering. Then his narrowed eyes caught another gleam. Like a dark oyster opening to reveal the fat wet pearl within, the wet pussy lips above parted to allow James a glimpse of the whipped diva seeping the cream of her own climax. He gazed wearily up at her glistening sex and at a disturbing, ironic truth. He was just another star-struck fan. Her legion of admirers brought bunches of roses to her feet. He had merely brought a bouquet of bamboo.
The Sweet Taste of Revenge
Drifting in and
out of those delicious stirrings between sleep and wakefulness, she parted her thighs and the weight of the duvet settled upon her pubic bush. The whispering rustle at her mound brought a slow smile to her lips. It had been a wet dream. The juice from her hot pussy seeped down her crease to tease her cleft before darkening the satin sheet beneath. Her skin sensed the damp spot. Grinding her buttocks against it luxuriously, she crushed the soft warmth of her left cheek into the mattress.
Beatrice felt the rush of excitement prickle behind her eyes and force them wide open. Staring up at the ceiling she recalled snatches of the dream, but the kaleidoscopic fragments remained elusive… a pair of grass-stained tennis shoes lying in a locker, a hairbrush, navy blue serge knickers tickling her cleft and the shrill whistle echoing across the hockey field. It had been another boarding school dream.
Seven-fifteen. She had woken early. Beyond the pink velvet curtains Notting Hill was waking up as well. Not that it ever actually slept. Milk bottles clinked on a nearby doorstep, and the tap-tap of stalls being erected in the Portobello Road could just be heard through the thump-thump of some neighbourhood reggae.
Beatrice closed her eyes and squirmed into the wet patch beneath her bottom. She decided to enjoy another hour in bed. She had a big day ahead of her – a busy, exciting day. She was scheduled to make a pitch at lunchtime for a lucrative contract. She had no need to worry; all the details were taken care of and everything was in place. A table booked at Les Yeux Ardents, verifiable facts and figures keyed into her laptop. Nothing was left to chance. She liked to be in control.
Stretching her naked body out beneath the duvet, she sank back into a blissful doze. The warmth of her buttock was drying the damp stain, but the sharp pleasure of its wake-up kiss haunted her… and followed her down into fresh dreams; dreams fuelled by illusive memories…
A decade ago, when she was only seventeen years old attending boarding school, she moved out of the large dorm into her own cramped, single room. She moved away from the ritual squealing and giggling every morning as naked young women struggled into their bras and panties while hurrying to brush their teeth or their tangled hair, bumping bottoms aggressively as they competed for a place at the white dorm basins or the mirrors above them. She moved away from the furtive rustlings and sly whispering of fingers caressing wet pussies after lights out every night. She moved away from the dorm, yes, but not – even in the seclusion of her cramped room – away from the predatory prefect who patrolled from dorm-to-dorm, a slipper gripped tightly in a clenched fist.
Beatrice murmured softly in her sleep. A tube train clattered across the points outside Westbourne Park… just like the brass curtain rings being dragged back in her small room, dragged back by the house prefect for early morning inspection. She was back in her boarding school and the curtains had been parted. Sunlight flooded the room and a hand dragged the bedclothes away. The sunlight played on her bare bottom as she lay face down in the narrow school bed.
The prefect was standing beside the bed, and in her dreams, Beatrice thrilled to the scent of freshly washed schoolgirl; a milky, carbolic smell with a dark, feral undertone – the smell of a freshly fingered sixth form pussy.
In her sleep Beatrice squeezed her thighs together tightly. The prefect was standing impatiently beside her bed thumbing the supple sole of her tightly gripped slipper. The single room was untidy; books and clothes strewn everywhere. Beatrice failed the early morning room inspection, which meant loss of a house point and extra Latin prep. She endured angry words from the prefect, and the curt tone reached her even in her dreams. She was ordered out of bed. Rubbing her sleepy eyes as she shivered in her nakedness beneath the prefect’s stern gaze, she gasped at the harsh swipe of the slipper across her defenceless bottom. Her sore cheeks reddened as they quivered, and the prefect bent to examine the bed sheet at close quarters. She fingered a tiny damp patch critically. ‘Dirty slut,’ she hissed. ‘You’re in for it now.’ Beatrice was ordered to kneel on the bed, her face buried in the moist sheet, her bare bottom thrusting upwards for punishment…
In her Notting Hill bedroom, writhing with mounting excitement and the thrill of delicious dread, Beatrice moaned in her sleep, a sweet, low moan just like the moan she emitted ten years ago when the slipper struck her buttocks mercilessly. ‘Dirty little slut!’ Again and again the slipper stung her helpless, upturned bottom. Then she felt the cool touch of the punishing prefect’s hand circling and caressing her beaten flesh…
Asleep in her bed of delicious dreams, the young woman squeezed her thighs together tightly to staunch the warm flow of arousal from her pussy. Then the squeal of brakes and the loud ticking of a diesel engine a short distance down the tree-lined street made Beatrice open her eyes. Sitting up in bed, she blinked away the dream of memories. A police siren screamed as it sliced through the congealing traffic along Westbourne Grove, and Beatrice, like the rest of Notting Hill, was now fully awake.
She slipped out of bed and, still naked, popped a brace of buttery croissants into the microwave and brewed some coffee. Her thoughts turned to the day ahead as the microwave chimed and her percolator spluttered a final gurgle.
Flakes of warm croissant tickled over her bare breasts as they fell from her lips. She sat on a leather-topped stool that received the warmth of her buttocks submissively. Reaching for the pot of apricot preserves, she felt the flesh of her cheeks peel away from the sensuous hide, but the strong coffee snapped her into wakefulness and sharpened her mind. She thought about lunch, and the pitch, and closing the contract. But the warm crumbs of croissant tickling her cleavage teased her mind away from the excitement promised by the day ahead – back to memories of past pleasures. As she casually brushed the flakes from her breasts, she suddenly recalled the sensation of the prefect’s fingers at her nipples. The prefect had held and cupped her teenage breasts before pinching each of her pink buds into peaks of pleasurable discomfort.
Pressing her bottom down and squirming onto the leather-topped stool, she deliberately kissed the hide with her slippery sex lips. A droplet of apricot preserve escaped her lips and was caught by her left nipple, and the dark teat thickened beneath the chill of the golden fruit. She idly cupped her breast, squeezing it firmly, and then absentmindedly offered it up as she had all those years ago to the prefect’s waiting lips; the prefect with the hazel eyes who cruelly spanked her bare bottom with a slipper. Her mind drowning in the memory of surrender and submission, her fingers worried her sticky nipple as the leather stool grew damp beneath her.
Then impatiently wiping her breast clean of the glutinous jam, Beatrice sucked the tips of her thumb and forefinger. A shower was what she needed to sluice away the beguiling memories of her boarding school days and nights, and to sharpen her focus on the day’s business.
In the shower she pressed her buttocks back against the tiled wall and wriggled deliciously under the forceful stream of hot water. Steam drifted around her, clouding the cubicle. She groped for her expensive scented gel and palmed it over her shoulders, breasts, stomach and arms. The fierce cascade of water rinsed her clean, leaving her skin smooth and radiant. She inched up on tiptoe, her thighs slightly parted, and offered her nakedness to the pounding water. The piercing liquid rods raked her belly and made her pussy throb. She then applied more gel to her hips, buttocks and thighs. Her pubic nest foamed and she knuckled it dominantly, as almost slipping on the slick surface, she twisted around and pressed her face and breasts to the hard tiles. The hot shower clawed over her shoulders and spine and drummed at the upper slopes of her bottom cheeks. Parting her thighs, she allowed her labia to bloom open, and the fierce flow deliciously scalded the deep shadow between her buttocks. Then quickly trying to suppress her simmering thoughts and drawing her thighs together she reached back blindly, her groping hand finding the tap and turning it off.
But even the soft touch of her fluffy white towel against her puffy labia caused her to gasp with pleasure. Dabbing gingerly
, she dried her naked body before padding back to her bedroom to dress for the important day.
Her deep green gaze met its reflection in the sharp clarity of her full-length mirror. Her eyes flickered down, noting the hard nipples crowning her full breasts, the flat white stomach and the gloss of pale pubic hair. Her eyes continued their cool appraisal, drinking in with both pleasure and pride the narrow waist and generous swell of her hips. It was a beautiful body, untouched by any man’s hand, but accustomed to the urgent demands of other women…
Beatrice shook herself, gathered her thoughts again, and attempted to concentrate on what to wear. Nothing too flirty; she already felt too old for such tiresome games, and there were plenty of younger girls out there with MBA’s and the killer instinct to cut a deal. No point in competing with the kittens when she was a sleek feline. No, she decided, flirty would be a mistake; she would play up the chic, focussed businesswoman.
Beatrice dusted her soft nakedness with a musk-scented powder, gently brushing away the surplus from her pubic curls. She chose French panties cut a little daringly at the thigh, cream-coloured and trimmed with ivory lace. They were deeply flattering to the taut swell of her bottom and very sensuous, an exact fit with no annoying seam caught up in the heat of her cleft. She knew that in order to be confident she must be comfortable. A matching silk bra was selected and gently encased her breasts. Her nipples were deliciously sensitive, so she eased off the bra and gently anointed each little throbbing berry with a single drop of baby oil. Then back in front of the mirror, she watched as her soft breasts filled each cup again, squeezing together beautifully as she fingered the thin straps over each shoulder. The effect was stunning; the resulting cleavage deeply inviting, the curves roundly contoured, the sheen of the swelling flesh deliciously sculptured.