Which is why I object to models starring in C.P. videos, models who are there for the money, not for the lovely erotic feelings the spanking/whatever will give them. They go home with bruises and cash, vowing, probably, never to do it again. We - submissive women - would go home with bruises, cash and a happy smile. There’s a difference.
But what difference did my protests make at that time? None. He never touched me again, nor did he ever make love to me again. But when I left him for someone else, as it was inevitable I would, he spent an hour - a whole long drawn out tortuous sixty minutes - on the phone to me at work, begging and pleading with me to go back to him, telling me he would give up his wife and the other women for me and me alone. And he would commit suicide if I didn’t. I held out, and he never took the pills.
Instead, he left a note under my windscreen telling me secret dark and evil things about the man I had found - he had gone straight out and investigated him. What he didn’t know was my new man was borrowing my car that night, he found the note and destroyed it.
When we booked a wedding date he said he would give it a year, if it lasted that long he would buy us the biggest wedding present we ever had.
Piano man, 1 thank you for your busy, merry fingers during the long drawn-out session we’ve had here, I’m sorry about the guilt and the blues band - oh, and the orchestra, too, but you did get drunk, after all, and I needed someone. But thanks anyway. The cheque will be in the post. Here’s where the words go rolling up on the screen to the trailing off sound of strings. Josephine Scott was married to her ‘new man’ for over twenty years. They have a daughter, she has a satisfying career and a lifelong companion. She only saw her ex-lover once, when he called one night after the baby was born, three years after the wedding. He didn’t bring a wedding present, and she has not seen or heard of him since.
Somewhen
(You just never know who’s watching you ...)
This is a story written around the Isle of Wight expression ‘somewhen’ – I played with the alternative and much farther into the future ‘anywhen’ but it didn’t seem to work as well...
Anywhere, anytime, anyplace, any person. Share the experience: share the life. Somewhen will take you there.
Amita stared at the small slim box, studied the gold lettering down the side, tentatively touched the controls and drew back with a hiss of pleasure. ‘Really mine?’
‘Really yours,’ agreed her mother, turning to smile at her aunt, a secret conspiratorial smile. ‘You wanted one, we bought you one.’
‘A Somewhen. Of my own! Oh thank you, Mother!’
‘Enjoy it, dear.’
‘Oh I will!’
A Somewhen. A link to the past. Punch in a date, the instructions said, any date anywhere, and you will be there, feeling, touching, hearing, smelling, experiencing what was going on right there. Right then.
Alone, Amita sat holding the Somewhen, feeling the power pulsing through it, wondering where to go. It was not a casual gift, nor would it be a casual trip. It had to be chosen with care.
***
Marsha left the office and, as always, paused at the step to look down the steeply sloping street toward the sea. Portsmouth sat on the skyline, a mass of buildings, an edge to the world. In between, white capped waves rolled eternally on, creating ripples which went around the globe, for all Marsha knew. Seagulls dotted the sky, visually and audibly intruding on the senses.
She turned to the man standing next to her.
‘I think Ryde’s the finest place on earth to live.’
He smiled. ‘Definitely. But don’t tell everyone, they’ll all want to come and live here. Listen, I’ll call you later.’
Marsha nodded, feeling a flood of excitement reach the hidden forbidden parts. The door of his luxury car slammed shut, he waved and she hurried home, smiling happily, noticing people look at her with vague curiosity. What did they think of a smiling happy person hurrying home after a long week of work?
That she loved her job? Fine, that would do it. They need not be told the smile was for what would come later.
***
Amita glowed. How wonderful to find someone good, first time out! Stories circulated of people with a Somewhen who’d tried for ages to find a suitable person to link with. Rough ones, ugly ones, smelly ones, evil ones, the stories raged and here she was, locking in to a woman with genuine womanly desires, first time out.
Amita hugged herself and her secret. That was the heart of the Somewhen, the reason she had wanted it, the reason all her friends craved one. Nothing to do with studying the past, nothing to do with experiencing another age, they all wanted to experience one thing.
The forbidden thing.
Men.
***
Humming happily to herself, Marsha pottered around her flat, preparing a quick meal, too excited to eat really but knowing it was necessary, to keep her strength up. Food thrust into microwave, tea-bag dropped into a cup, a glass filled with ice cold filtered water, it would do. It would more than do, it would satisfy hunger and give the body fuel. For later.
Later, when the phone call came, when she could go back to the office, climb the stairs and go into the torture room she had helped create.
Helped: in that she went to the shop to buy twenty ring bolts, and had the assistant count out twenty without so much as raising an eyebrow at the vast amount she was buying, had stood alongside her Master while he made holes, put rings in position, built a frame, added a winch, hung articles of bondage all over the wall, everything from ball gags to cuffs and leg spreaders, all there for the photographs, sure, but also all there for the use of - when and if and how and perhaps and maybes. The discipline items: tawses, canes and nasty dressage whip she disliked but was turned on by, all sat in a box elsewhere, away, secret, for their eyes only.
Tonight the eyes would have pleasure and the body would have pain.
And the pleasure would come flooding in, as it did before and as it always did afterward.
Tonight there might not be need for a vibrator with a rabbit whose ears twitched like mad and gave her orgasms which took off the top of her head. Tonight a real life, thick, solid, perfect, unmarked, unblemished, perfectly sized cock would be hers for the using of.
***
Amita sat, clutching the Somewhen, shock, horror and pure delight chasing each other across her face, each vying for attention, each wanting to be the one emotion she would settle for.
What was a torture chamber?
What was a tawse, a cane, a discipline item?
Rings, why did they want rings?
And just what did a real life, thick, solid, perfect, unmarked, unblemished, perfectly sized cock look like, for heaven’s sake and how in the name of heaven did you use it?
***
The evening was cool, crowded, touched with melancholy, even as the dark touched the edge of the clearest of blue skies.
Evenings bring out the poet in me, thought Marsha, pausing at her doorway to lock the door, hearing the tumblers fall satisfyingly into place. The courtyard glowed with trapped heat, golden bricks giving back the sun to the bonsai she so lovingly tended. The horse chestnuts nodded as she passed, the larch sat smugly in its dish, the willow brushed her with its leaves, begging for water. ‘When I come back,’ she murmured, clanging the wrought iron gate shut behind her.
Union Street was getting busy with evening strollers, promenading, window shopping, stopping at bars and hotels, gazing enviously into estate agents’ windows, wishing and wishing. Marsha hurried round and past them, her destination clear, her mind set, nothing allowed to get in her way. Her wishes were about to become reality.
The glass door was cold to touch, the metal bar even colder. It gave under the pressure of a trembling hand. Now wood, and a cold gold lock, opening to the sure touch of the key. Even
as she would open in a short time.
Drop latch, hurry up flights of stairs, find the room ablaze with strip lights and spotlights, with her Master sprawled on a blue/green sofa, smiling, relaxed, checking his watch.
‘Right on time.’
She acknowledged the comment with a small dip of the head as she swung her bag from her shoulder and dropped it on the floor. Then she stood, waiting patiently for her orders.
‘You can take your clothes off, if you want.’ It always sounded like an invitation, yet was an order she dare not refuse.
Blouse, skirt and panties hit the floor, all he ever allowed her to wear. She stood, proud, yet submissive, waiting.
Then her head turned.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
She frowned. ‘I don’t know, I thought someone called - silly.’
‘Someone outside,’ he suggested as he walked toward her, to take her nipples in his fingers and begin to pinch them, very, very hard -
***
Amita almost shrieked her anger. Damn Mother for calling her at that moment! It almost gave everything away! She would have to be careful, that woman, that Marsha, had heard her, or sensed something. That man: big, powerful looking, big shoulders, big body, strong arms, capable hands, Amita felt herself melting at the vision which remained behind her eyes. Marsha was lucky!
‘Coming, Mother!’
She reluctantly put the Somewhen down. Marsha and her lover would have to wait.
No, change that. She would have to wait to use the Somewhen and revisit Marsha and her lover.
***
Nipples hurting, screaming nerve ends shrieking their pain at her, Marsha watched as her lover buckled cuffs to her wrists and ankles, and then stood back as she lay face down on the black shiny bed, cushions under her stomach, pushing her bottom up in the air. Slowly he went round, locking the cuffs to the rings set along the edge of the bed, grinning as he tugged at her arms and legs, pulling them tight. Marsha closed her eyes, feeling excitement flood through her, feeling her limbs trembling with suppressed passion, feeling his hands sliding over her skin, touching, pinching, caressing, slapping, tingling. Feeling eyes on her, his eyes and -
‘We are alone, aren’t we?’
‘Funny question.’ She knew the door was locked, the place deserted, the feeling made no sense. Marsha knew it, and still could not shake the feeling. But all that was forgotten when the first stroke of the strap fell, stinging, burning, bringing a cry to her lips. The first stroke always shocked, the first pain always caught her by surprise, no matter how many she had. By the second, it settles down, by the sixth a rhythm of taking pain floods over, by the 12th the pain overwhelmed everything. But by the 20th the feeling was transmuted into the magical gut tearing eroticism.
‘Lovely marks. You’ve gone deliciously red.’ The hands slide and touch and slap again, pinch and press and caress and touch again and leave trails of fire behind them.
The strap is gone, replaced by the cane, a heavy one he favours, which bruises deeply and hurts a lot.
‘Just six.’ To start with, Marsha added silently, knowing that was the truth. It was six, and then another and then another.
Pain on pain, pleasure to follow. Tell yourself the pleasure is to follow, as the tears flow unchecked and the rings clank as you pull against them in an effort to twist but there is nowhere to twist to, the caning goes on. Change again, cat o’nine tails, fine leather strands to torment the backs of the thighs, to lash the curved underhang, to score the back with fire on fire and pain on pain.
***
Now I see why they want the rings! Amita stared, open-mouthed, feeling her senses standing on their
head. How could anyone enjoy that and yet she did for the feelings which flooded were not of anger or outrage at being beaten but of pure unadulterated pleasure! Pleasure in being made helpless, in being hurt, in being made to take -
Amita let the Somewhen roll on to the bed and leaned back against the wall, her nipples in her own fingers. Slowly she pinched them, harder and harder -
***
The man had undressed now. Strong legs, pillar like, sturdy, muscled. Back rippling as he moved, paunch, yes, but looking solid, not useless flab like so many who walked the streets in shorts and tee shirts, because they’re on holiday, by God and anything will do for a holiday! Marsha watched from her position, flat on her back, feeling every stroke, every weal, memory more exciting than the actuality, waiting with wet pussy and eager muscles for the cock which had risen firm, strong and beautiful from the confines of clothes. The silver ring at the base winked in the overhead light. It would be a long slow fucking, the kind which would bring her to the edge over and over again and yet not tip her over until the suspense became unbearable.
The cock, so solid and thick, slid easily into her waiting body. The juices she had exuded during her discipline had oiled every part; there was no opposition, just a clenching of muscles to tightly grip the instrument of sexual pleasure and ultimate joy.
‘Who loves you?’ he murmured into her neck as her legs rose and gripped his waist.
‘You do, Master!’ almost breathless, almost inaudible, as the waves of sensuality hit her.
‘You’re one hell of a slave.’
That was greeted with a smile but without words, all her mind concentrated on accommodating the heavy thrusts, the body rocking, swelling as the two moved as one, until the ultimate explosion rocked them, one after the other. Even as the orgasm shocked her brain cells into exhaustion, Marsha found herself looking around, wondering whose eyes were on her now.
***
Amita was shocked rigid. Shocked and surprised and mesmerised and overwhelmed. That was what they were missing, in this world of women, that ultimate possession, that superior being exerting his will and his body and his control over the weaker sex.
Now it could be seen, now the truth be told. Women alone were not enough. Not now, not ever.
And to hell with everyone who thinks differently, she savagely told herself, but silently, for fear of listening walls.
Her body ached as she had been spread out on the black shiny bed, as if her limbs had been secured, her body violated with a pillar of flesh which looked savage but which, by Marsha’s reaction, had been wonderful.
And too good to be missed.
Amita looked at the Somewhen, wondering if what she had been told would really work.
***
Marsha left the office and, as always, paused at the step to look down the steeply sloping street toward the sea. Portsmouth sat on the skyline, a mass of buildings, an edge to the world. In between, white capped waves rolled eternally on, creating ripples which went around the globe, for all Marsha knew. Seagulls dotted the sky, visually and audibly intruding on the senses.
She turned to the man standing next to her.
‘I think Ryde’s the finest place on earth to live.’
He smiled. ‘Definitely. But don’t tell everyone, they’ll all want to come and live here. Listen, I’ll call you later.’
She nodded and walked down the road, pausing at the kerbside, looking around as someone called her name.
Amita smelled the strange air, the strange atmosphere, and wondered how Marsha would like it in the all female world she had been transported to. How long did she have before Marsha found the Somewhen and began the process over again?
Long enough to experience that cock herself, if nothing else, she vowed as she walked home, wearing a huge and very happy smile.
Coins
This story was inspred through a visit to a very old graveyard. You will see why when you get to the end.
Coins. Two of them: shiny, bright, new, clinking together in my hand. Not in my purse, no: here in my hand, gloved against the cold.
Why do gravestones look
so stark in winter and yet so benign in summer? Does the sun really change the stone that much?
Could the sun have changed and warmed you, I wonder?
But if it had, you would not have been the Master I met.
The source of all my fantasies and rush of adrenaline – even now, as I stand before your grave and read the words. One year gone.
One long year of mourning and sadness, of grief and bereavement I could not and cannot and will not share with anyone.
Not even the master I have now.
Oh the memories! All brought back by standing here, coins in my hand. Here, let me sit: bench cold under my legs, touching the backs of my knees, that oh-so-tender place you touched so gently with the riding crop before bringing it down across the back of my thighs, scaring me half to death that you would strike my legs - I cannot bear my legs to be whipped. You threatened, you teased and tormented with that touch. First the fear of being whipped there, then the pain of feeling it across my thighs, mixed with the relief it didn’t strike my legs – a strange heady mixture, adrenaline rushing everywhere at once, explosive and wild and wonderful.
A touch as light as the coins I now hold in my hand.
Cream of the Crop Page 18