We left the bar and there was a limo waiting for her. I didn’t even know anyone who took a taxi, let alone a limo. When we entered her narrow stone house on a tree-lined street, she wasted no time and led me to the bathroom. She told me to strip, threw my clothes in a trash can, ran a bath that she filled with scented whatever, and gave me a toothbrush and paste to use immediately. It was a high Jacuzzi-type bath with two steps up in front and two steps down on the inside, with jet holes all around it.
It felt good as she washed me all over, not missing my armpits, ears, between my toes, my cunt and asshole. The very fact I’d agreed to go with her doomed me to her command, but she hadn’t told me about the luxuries of such a bath. I felt her touch, her lips upon me, “checking” my cleanliness by sticking her fingers in all my orifices, massaging my body with a soapy sponge and making me feel alive and sensitive. It reached the stage when I didn’t know if I was wetter inside or out.
I don’t know what soap, shampoo and conditioner she used either, but, oh boy, I’d never smelt so clean! When she was satisfied, she drained the water out and re-filled the tub, stripped and got in with me. She kissed my lips sensuously and then asked me to wash her everywhere too. She kept looking at me with her devastating eyes as though I was a succulent trophy, her prized possession. It made me blush – me – of all people, when I made her groan with appreciation and actually enjoyed the arousing accomplishment.
But it didn’t change her plans. She sat on the higher step and told me to bend over her left knee lengthways, so that my legs straddled her thigh with my arms and knees resting on the inner and outer steps. I discovered the position had a specific purpose. We were both warm and wet from the water and when she smacked my butt it had a different sting to it than on dry skin. It surprised and delighted me, because her slaps ranged from soft to hard and were sexily given. Some whacks landed with a closed hand and others with open fingers that produced a different noise and feel that varied with my reactions to them. Between times she splashed more water on my bottom and continued, first alternating a few on each side, then five or six in the same spot in rapid succession. “Ouch! Yeow! Oops – nice!” And then – aah! The purpose! As she continued, my clit pressed against her slippery thigh bone with each smack and gradually made me writhe to clasp and release my pelvis and eager cunt against her, until I was smitten with orgasmic shudders.
Then she told me to lick her dry – an impossibility – so I started from her ankles and finished on her forehead, sucking her boobs until her nipples nearly popped off, which made her groan even louder; then I returned with her guidance to her clit, while she masturbated herself with my hand holding hers, which was entirely sensual. Luckily the bathroom had no windows, because I really believe her screams would’ve shattered the glass in them.
She called it “punishment”, which bewildered me. It wasn’t that at all; it was erotic and highly pleasing and my squeals were from joy, not pain. She told me it was a lesson and if I didn’t clean myself properly in future – insert here a wink – I’d get another dose. I dithered with that; it posed an interesting conundrum.
However, my ordeal wasn’t over. After we dried off she took me to a spare room. It was sparsely furnished with only an armless chair, a small cupboard, a rack of implements, a hammock-style sling made of nylon webbing that hung from the ceiling supported by three chains and a rocking horse the size of a Shetland pony. She told me to wait and left, she said, to put on her gear.
She soon returned and told me to mount the horse.
“Not that way,” she instructed. “Sit with your bottom facing its head.”
I looked at her quizzically and got off to remount. It was an antique, a “Genuine English Rocking Horse,” she told me proudly, that she’d picked up at a yard sale and had carefully restored herself. The saddle was therefore small with a raised, rounded cantle at the front and a lower pommel than a real saddle at the back. The body was white/beige in colour and its other features were painted red, including the leather reins and girths holding the stirrups. The horse was supported by two wooden runners shaped like those on a sled, attached to which was an electric motor.
I was not positioned correctly and she grasped my hips, pulling me slightly backwards so that my clit and vagina were spread directly on top of the cantle, with my torso resting on the back end of the seat and hindquarters of the wooden beast. Then she pulled my legs up and tethered my ankles with ropes against the horse’s neck. Around the horse’s body and my waist, she fastened a long leather belt tightly and then secured my wrists to its tail. Thus limited in movement, the only parts I could shift slightly up and down were my head, pelvis and butt, which was raised up boldly waiting for her attention.
She stood at the back of the horse where I could see her, the tight PVC outfit clinging to her, accentuating all her curves with her vulva, breasts and bottom exposed enticingly.
She held a long riding whip that must’ve been three feet long and didn’t look fun. I was suddenly afraid. I hadn’t been flogged before and I told her it would be inappropriate, but she threatened that nothing could be too much for a naughty street waif and a drop out who was wasting her life. Then she asked me to tell her all my sins. I sensed that she’d lured me with promises she intended to break like all the other damn bastards I’d encountered and that she was a cruel bitch who was going to abuse me.
She swished the whip through the air and I quaked with angst. She ordered me to tell her. I refused. She walked slowly behind me and lightly slapped my clean, fresh, soap-scented backside a few times. Naturally, as her hand landed my bottom wobbled and, because I was expecting the whip to follow, it made me squeeze my buttocks together and forced my clit to rub against the cantle on the saddle. Then she stroked the whip across my skin, which made me clench my muscles, and again my clit was agitated from rubbing against the hard wood.
I didn’t want a whipping and so I succumbed. I told her my whole bad life’s sob story, hoping she’d go easy on me for my true confession. She neither interrupted, nor criticized, nor reprimanded me, except for sympathetically tutting now and then.
“All that,” she said when I finished, “is serious, especially your street habits, which must never be repeated – understand?”
I said that I did. Then she announced discipline to the tune of twenty-four lashes while walking around the horse menacingly. I nearly shit myself.
She slashed the whip through the air and I tensed again, forcefully, crushing my sex organs against the bloody wooden saddle. I was getting wet. But the whip landed on the horse, not me, so close I could feel it whiz by me as it swiftly passed through the air twenty-four times.
I didn’t know whether or not the lash would land on me – that was the scary part – and it heightened my fear, making me grind myself against the saddle, until eventually I had a peculiar orgasm. I say peculiar, because it was surprisingly jolting. The thing was, I couldn’t move easily, so my clit and vagina were prisoners of the horse, who had taken control of my sensibilities.
I had to ask her what the catch was – whether this was a game or trick, and she was only going to really flog me later on. I mean, her actions were strange.
“Toffee-Top,” she answered. “The catch is you; the game is tying you to the horse; the trick is to teach you the difference between pain and pleasure and the fear of a whipping that might happen . . . that’s your punishment.”
It’s what? I wondered. I asked in a shaky voice if she was going to flog me eventually. She replied maybe, maybe not – it depends on me; she’d wait and see. In the meantime I could stay put.
She switched on the electric motor and the horse began to rock back and forth in a constant, easy rhythm . . . and began to rock my clit against the wooden cantle, relentlessly.
It was then I began to learn what she meant. Do you know what it’s like being tied down, unable to move properly? Have you any idea how much the body can ache when you’re in a paralyzed position? It’s bloody aggravating and painfu
l, that’s what! Have you any idea, when you can only move your cunt area upon a jutting piece of wood, how many orgasms you can get? Well, let me tell you: a lot! Pain from pleasure and pleasure from pain is excruciating.
She smiled and drooled while she stroked my bottom with the whip for thirty minutes, but with so much tension and drama from not knowing, it seemed like an hour.
“You’ve been very, very naughty, Sweet-Pussy,” she said, raising the whip.
I knew it was coming; and this time she flicked it, tapping my buttocks continually, but lightly enough to cause only faint, blushing marks and to let me imagine what she could have done. “Expect six of those to really hurt if you displease me,” she said as she untied me.
After that will-I-will-I-not-get-whipped session, I breathed a sigh of relief. Then she told me I had to get rid of the dark rings under my eyes and needed lots of sleep. No . . . really? I was ordered to bed. I asked her where and she said her bed, silly – where else? In the meantime, I hadn’t been offered food yet. I could’ve eaten the rocking horse.
I got into the bed and she nestled down behind me spoon fashion, gently fingering my clit until I gave a little twitch that indicated I didn’t have the energy to come again with much enthusiasm. Yet, what I couldn’t understand was that nobody had made an attempt to please me before. It didn’t make sense. I couldn’t grasp what she was all about.
She let me sleep for a couple of hours and then she woke me up by kissing me on the mouth so tenderly, I wanted to hold her forever. Step one had been achieved; step two was five boxes containing full sets of formal and casual clothes, pairs of shoes, make-up and God knows what else. Her kindness filled me with gratitude. I mean, look at it from my point of view: I hadn’t done anything extraordinary for her yet and there she was, grinning at my pleasure. And my stomach was still grumbling for food.
“Now we’ll have a treat,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes that I got to know very well. “We’re going out for dinner and we’ll have dessert at home.”
It seemed we got back in a hurry, or I ate too fast – one or the other. She undressed me like a mare in heat and then shed her own clothing. She had a lovely, firm body and I felt like a lascivious, diminutive, skinny brat standing beside her. She hoisted me up easily and carried me to the bedroom, biting and kissing my neck and cheeks on the way, making me shiver with excitement. She put me on my back and straddled herself over my face. Her perfumed smells were intoxicating.
“Dessert,” she said.
I hadn’t “attacked” someone before, but she’d made me so happy I put all my knowledge into it. I licked, slurped and tongued her clit and cunt furiously, grabbing her butt, pinching and scratching it, sending her out of her mind, begging for more, until her yells of delirium overpowered her and she collapsed beside me.
She got off, shaking like a leaf, and enfolded me in her arms, clasping her leg around mine as if she never intended to let go. I said I belonged to her. She said we belonged to each other, that she was my destiny, but that I must continue to behave myself – meaning to obey her. I said I’d do my best.
Why she chose me when she could’ve had the pick of the bunch has always amazed me. I didn’t think I was that special then, but I know why now. She told me later she didn’t just want a lover, but also a friend and companion she could trust and care for; someone who would be part of her business life as well. She added it was because I’d looked cute and my toffee-top had pissed her off. Then she admitted that saving me from disaster was a challenge she found intellectually stimulating, yet she really wanted me too; but I soon realized her plans for me went way beyond an impossible dream.
She insisted I had to enrol for further education to study art. I wasn’t qualified for university or anything high and mighty and her suggestion was sensible, so I agreed.
Imogen told me she’d always been a dominant lesbian and when she wielded a paddle at a college hazing for the first time, she knew it was an activity she enjoyed. But, as I said, she’d seen me before in the bar and just before she chose me, she decided I looked too lost and frail for severity and thus created her “helpless-victim-rocking-horse-pain-and-pleasure” philosophy, which she thought would be effective enough, with some mild playing to spice it up.
Although I earned discipline sometimes, she said, with me it was different because I had a lovable bottom rather than one needing to be cruelly treated. She asked me how I liked it and we giggled when I said I liked her hand on the bare over her left knee. She preferred that too, but if I needed a real spanking she wouldn’t hesitate, and for excessive misbehaviour, I would get a whipping. I shuddered at the thought. However, her special way of administering punishment made us both hot and horny, with her acting the bitch while I pretended to scream and beg for mercy. I couldn’t say no to it, and perhaps you understand what I mean.
She told me that she’d drifted into the art world and became an antique dealer, operating in a swanky studio-type store downtown. She had a separate art gallery nearby, as well as an interesting warehouse on the edge of town, full of antique junk for general public sale, where she makes a bundle.
After I’d recuperated mentally and physically, as she put it, I was gradually introduced to her profession. She was obsessed that I learn properly, and I if I didn’t pay heed or was lax with my studies, she gave me what for, as promised, followed by the usual threat of whipping. So I passed the exams – a commendable accomplishment for me; and although I didn’t have a degree, my diplomas enabled me to use the right jargon competently. She was thrilled and said, “You see, Belinda, what you can achieve when you put your mind to it?”
I replied, “Yes – with a little help from a reddened butt,” which made her smile.
For my reward she took me to the spare room. This time she said we’d take it in turns on the hammock-sling, first me and then her. I’d never tried it before and it looked complicated, whereas it turned out to be a lovely contraption to sit on while being teased and fucked. Like the rocking horse, it could swing; unlike the horse, it was extremely comfortable.
She told me to relax in it with my feet on the webbing and my legs wide to expose my parts for entry. There was no tying up or anything like that, but the trick of aiming a dildo to slide in each time I swung forwards, and to exit on my return swing backwards, was something that I had to learn. Gradually, the motions made me wet and soon I was begging for it, with my tongue hanging out while I gasped and uttered my desire for her. She overwhelmed me by the minute as she stared at me with her beautiful eyes. The sensations she was causing were tantalizing me to a climax. The dildo going in and out and not staying put made me impatient and eager to have it thoroughly screw me into oblivion and put me out of my aching agony. She saw that and stopped the swinging, then worked the dildo fast and furious, tickling my clit at the same time. Finally I burst and made the hammock shudder with my twists and jerks, which were uncontrollable. Then I got off, jumped and clung onto her like a crab. I couldn’t stop kissing her, so wild and thankful was I for the way she loved me. Then I did it to her. I could make her emit grateful shrills, too.
When Imogen got worked up, her thirst increased and she fastened a strap-on dildo. I guess she was inspired by my crab-like hug, because she fucked me standing up while I enveloped her around the waist with my legs, my back supported by a wall and my arms clinging onto her shoulders. It was devastatingly effective and a wonderful feeling. I was pinioned but had full control of my movements and was able to guide the oh-so-lovely pink silicone penis as she manoeuvred it inside my dripping cunt to touch every sensitive part of it. My butt moved up and down as I squeezed my muscles; it made me feel so wildly impassioned, my whole body seemed to jiggle like a bobblehead doll. It was one position I couldn’t reciprocate. I tried, but she was too heavy for me to indulge, so I fucked her doggy fashion while she knelt on the hammock-sling instead.
Anyway, she started me in the warehouse and, as it happened, my scrounging days were not wasted. She taught me a l
ot, especially what, and what not, to buy. Practical experience is invaluable. She dubbed me “Special Picker” and we worked in tandem. She scoured the obits and houses for sale and then pretended to be a potential buyer, but in reality hunted for antiques, while I went outside to sniff about for potential bric-a-brac.
As a newcomer, I had a daily limit of $100. Anything over that required her permission. The day came when I tried to impress her by spending $250 without her authorization for something she valued at $50. I wasn’t learning properly.
When we got home she was in a foul mood and ordered me to fetch the riding whip for six lashes. I was filled with apprehension and scared to death.
I could see in her eyes she was serious and I’d no grounds to complain. What upset me most was her attitude. It was cold and she barely said a word. Instead, she took my arm and threw me over the back of an armchair and pulled my bandolino pants down, leaving me wearing a skimpy thong. Then she spanked me thoroughly – so hard, I cried. Certainly I deserved to be punished further and was therefore astonished when she said, “I love you too much and can’t hurt you with a whip; and I won’t. Just don’t bother me.”
While she didn’t want to cause insufferable pain, she didn’t speak to me for the rest of the evening, which made matters emotionally worse. My heart felt painful because I’d upset her. In bed, she turned her back on me, which was awful. I vowed never to err again, and I didn’t much after that.
When we woke up the next morning, she hugged and kissed me, rolling on top in the missionary position. We like that: the touching, caressing, looking at each other, rubbing our genitals together and against our thighs, kissing and licking our nipples and lips and roaming about, re-discovering our bodies, grinding our clits together again and murmuring our feelings until we reach our pitch and explode. Then we hold each other after our orgasms in an embrace of blissful contentment.
The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotic Confessions Page 15