‘That’s it,’ I told myself. ‘I’ll be a fantasy dominatrix.’ I slid the diary and pencil back under the pillow and, feeling super horny, I left my room, retracing the steps I’d taken that afternoon when I’d first stripped.
The garden, like my bedroom, was painted a silver grey by the moon, which was hanging over the sleeping, silent town. I stood, breathing in the cool night air, and I let the dim light wash over my skin. Then I retraced my steps from the afternoon to the bottom of the garden, this time keeping to the path, which was hidden in the shadow cast by the fence between our house and Dean’s. The heels of the boots sank slightly into the soft grass, and I could feel the cheeks of my bottom swaying in time to each movement of my legs. At the end of the garden I headed straight for the gate and eased it open, careful to avoid making any noise.
Back in Dean’s garden I stood behind the bush and listened, my ear’s straining. There was the sound of a car’s engine somewhere in the distance, and something rustled in the branches of the hedge. I vaguely wondered whether it might be an owl. Then I caught the faint sound of laughter. Not real laughter, but the kind you get on a comedy show when the star’s just done something funny. I stuck my head around the side of the bush for a look. There was a sort of half light in the kitchen window, which I guessed was coming from a light in the hallway of the house. And there was a brighter light shining through the ceiling to floor curtains that had been drawn across the inside of the patio doors.
After watching for a minute or two I stepped out from my hiding place and strutted up the garden. My nipples were hardening and I could feel the familiar burning ache in my pussy. My breath caught in my throat, and I realised that I was being turned on by the thought of the risk I was taking. The last few steps seemed to take forever; if anyone came into the kitchen now I’d be in full view.
But nobody came into the kitchen, and I was standing next to the patio doors, safe for the moment, at least, from discovery. I placed one booted foot on the step that led up to the doors and leant forward. There was a small gap between the curtains and I had a clear view through to the living room. At ninety degrees to me was a settee with Dean’s parents, Rod and Glenys, sitting on it. From my side on view I could see that their faces were bright and filled with laughter. The light from the television was reflected in Rod’s glasses. And almost facing me, sprawled in an armchair, sitting with his legs apart in the way that men do, was Dean. I licked my lips at the sight of him, at his handsome face, his broad shoulders, and at the bulge I could see in his trousers. Without thinking, my hand ran down my belly and slid inside the black panties, my finger expertly playing chords of pleasure on the instrument of my womanhood.
I stood there, semi naked in black underwear and black leather boots, masturbating, while I stared at the object of my desire. I wondered what he’d think if he knew I was so close to him and so turned on. If he had walked out into the garden at that moment I would have laid down on the grass, parted my legs and insisted that he fuck me that very instant, even if his parents, and come to that my parents too, had been watching. But nobody came out and within seconds I was climaxing, clamping my teeth together to stop myself from crying out. Afterwards I stood there and rested my sweat sheened forehead against the cold glass of the doors.
As I slowly returned from wherever it is that ecstasy takes us I became aware of two things. One, the dominatrix inside me was angry at Miss White Panties for what she’d just done. And two, a burst of music from inside the house meant that the television programme was ending. Pushing the anger to one side I returned to the gap in the curtains. Dean was leaning forward in his seat, his elbows resting on his knees, and the three of them were chatting. Then, Dean stood up, stretched, and headed for the door.
I turned and ran. Halfway down the garden the dim light coming from the kitchen window brightened slightly as he opened the kitchen door, and then a flood of light arced out across the lawn as he turned on the kitchen light. I was caught as if someone had turned a spotlight on to me. Terrified, my legs pumped as fast as they would go, and as I reached the safety of the bush by the gate I waited for the sound of the back door opening and a shout from Dean.
But nothing happened. I stood there, breathless again, partly from the exertion but mostly from fear, and waited. And as I waited, Miss White Panties shrank back into the recesses of my mind and the dominatrix took over again.
‘He is going to pay for that,’ she growled. Somehow she seemed to have no doubt that the undignified run for cover had been entirely Dean’s fault.
Presently the light went off again and I squeezed back through the gate into my own garden. Instead of immediately returning to the safety of the house I re-entered the greenhouse. I stood there for a second, running a hand down the dildo-cucumber I’d looked at earlier, then, as my eyes became accustomed to the more intense darkness, I looked around. At the far end, which Dad used as a part storage / part dumping area, I found a bundle of bamboo canes, which he used to tie his tomato plants to. I pulled one out. It was about a metre long. I tried a few practice strokes through the air, imagining Dean’s bottom quivering in pain after each one. Then I took one end in each hand and tried bending it. It gave slightly and then stopped.
‘Not quite right,’ I said to myself thoughtfully. I examined the rest of the bundle, looking for one that might be a bit more bendy, but they were all the same. I shrugged and picked up the original one again. I supposed it would do. Then I spotted another, smaller bundle of canes. ‘Best rattan,’ I read. I pulled one out of the pack and tested it. It bent almost double with little effort, but when I let go it sprang back like a released spring. Conjuring up an image of a quivering male bottom again I swung it. It hissed through the air with almost no effort on my part, the end of it trailing behind for most of the downward flight, but catching up towards the end. ‘Wow,’ I said. I ran a hand down its smooth length. This was the one.
Chapter 3 – The Mechanics and the Art of Caning
After my adventures of the evening before I slept late, and by the time I woke up the house was quiet and empty again. I lay in the comforting warmth of my bed for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling and thinking about what had happened, then I wriggled across to the edge of the mattress and pulled the cane out from where it was hidden next to the boots. I examined it in the light of day. It was about a metre long, and smooth and dark. A bit like bamboo but not quite the same, I decided. I bent it between my hands, like I’d done in the greenhouse, fascinated by the spring in its length. I could almost sense the power coiled up inside, waiting for release.
I pushed the cane under the bedclothes and headed downstairs, returning a few minutes later with a mug of instant coffee and a plate of toast. I sat, propped up on my pillows, and ate in silence, taking the occasional sip from the steaming mug.
After breakfast I headed for the shower, enjoying the feel of the hot water on my naked flesh and the way my soaped hands slid over and into my intimate female parts. Standing with my back to the stream of water, I opened my legs slightly and ran a razor over myself, not because it really needed doing, but more because I enjoyed the sensation of the blade sliding over my wet, soapy skin. Exiting the shower, I stood in front of the large bathroom mirror and watched as I towelled myself dry. Finally, I walked naked back to my bedroom and put on a pair of white, cotton panties from the limitless supply in my drawer.
Freshly washed, perfumed and pantied, I got the cane back out. ‘I need practice,’ I said to the empty room. I thought for a second then I pulled a couple of pillows down to the middle of the bed and bent the top one over on itself. It didn’t look much like a bottom. After another moment’s thought, I returned to my underwear drawer, pulled out another pair of panties and pulled them over the end of the pillow. I plumped up and tugged at the pillow to try to make the panties look as much as possible as if they contained a rounded bottom, which I imagined quivering in fear and anticipation.
Taking up a position to the side of the bed, I l
ay the end of the cane gently across the seat of the panties. Then I raised it until it was level with the side of my head, paused for a second, and brought it back down. It swished through the air and landed with a thwack. In my mind, the male slave kneeling on my bed gasped and his body jerked in time to the stroke. I raised the cane again. This time I used my wrist to give it more impetus on the final part of its downward flight. It landed with a sharp crack. ‘Wow!’ I was impressed. The wrist action had really brought the rattan cane to life, releasing the spring in it so it accelerated sharply onto the target. My fantasy slave’s body shuddered and he cried out in painful despair. He turned to look at me, his tear stained face written over with disbelief.
‘Please Mistress!’ he begged. In reply I placed the cane back across his burning cheeks, resting it there for several seconds to let the dreadful moment build in his mind. Crack! The next stroke landed.
‘God, I need to cane someone real,’ I moaned to myself in frustration.
*****
I practiced my caning technique for another ten minutes, trying out various positions, raising the cane higher and then lower, and working on my wrist action. At the end I could reliably deliver the kind of stroke that I felt sure would feel like a red hot poker being applied to recipient’s cheeks. Afterwards, I pulled the panties off the pillow and returned them to their drawer and threw the pillows back to the top of the bed where they lay in a crumpled, unmade heap. I stood in the middle of the room, still holding my cane.
‘I wonder what it would feel like,’ I said to myself. I pulled my panties down to bare my cheeks and bent over slightly. Then I reached behind me with the cane. It took several strokes to get it right, but the fourth one landed across my posterior with an almost satisfactory snap. ‘Ouch!’ I jumped at the self administered caress of the cane. I bent over again and gave myself another stroke. ‘Ow! That’s enough.’ I headed back into the bathroom, and standing with my back to mirror I looked over my shoulder. Where the cane had landed there were two red lines running across my milky white cheeks. I pulled my panties back up over the now sensitive skin.
For the next five minutes I wandered, almost naked, around the empty house, prowling from room to room, looking for something to distract me and to take my mind off my frustration. In the living room I crossed to windows and peered out from behind the net curtains. Like the house, the road was empty. I noticed that the driveway of Dean’s house was as empty as ours, an area of unoccupied gravel with a dark oil patch in one corner.
The thought of his empty house made me think of the spare key, hidden in the crack in the wall where it had been ever since I was little. I thought for a second, then I went back out into our hallway, picked up the house phone and dialled. A second later I heard the faint sound of the phone next door ringing. I waited, ready to slam the phone down quickly if anyone answered. But nobody did. It carried on ringing and then eventually cut to the warm, friendly sound of Dean’s Mum and their voicemail message. I rang off and went back upstairs, my heart racing in excitement and fear at the thought of what I was planning to do.
Back in my bedroom I stripped off my cotton knickers and dressed in Jacinta’s black bra and panties. As my feet slid into the black, leather boots once again, my mouth was dry and my body trembling. I got up, picked up the cane and headed out of the door.
Outside, the day was sunny and light. Without giving myself time to think I walked quickly down the garden, squeezed through the gap in the gate, and strode up to Dean’s back door. The key was exactly where it had been the day before, and a second later the door swung open and I was standing in the kitchen. It was just as I remembered it. I picked up a lemon from the fruit bowl on the table where I used to sit eating cookies while Dean’s Mum busied herself at the sink. I ran a fingernail across the thick, yellow skin and held it to my nose. The sharp, citrus sting tickled my nostrils ‘Mmm,’ I breathed. Excited as I was everything seemed to be more intense, the layers of pleasure folding over, one on top of the other. I replaced the lemon in the bowl and headed for the door, enjoying the feel of the panties on my body as I walked.
I paused at the door, listening for any sign of life in the rest of the house, but there was nothing. I wandered into the living room and sat on the chair that I’d seen Dean sitting in the night before. Then I wandered down the hall and checked out the dining room. But I knew that I was just putting off what I had really come to do. I made for the stairs. The upstairs landing had four doors off it. The one at the far end, which looked out over the back garden, was slightly ajar, and through the opening I could see a hand basin and a blue, patterned towel hanging on a hook next to it. Memory told me that the door next to the family bathroom belonged to Dean’s parents, and the one next to that was a spare room. Ignoring them, I headed for the door at the other end of the landing, at the front of the house.
The door creaked slightly as I opened it, and as I entered I could smell the intense male scent of Dean. The room was large, with an unmade double bed to my right. Straight ahead were leaded windows that looked out over the driveway and the road. To my left was a long table with a television and a laptop computer on it, plus various books, papers and a couple of cans of deodorant. If Dean had been a girl I would have called it a dressing table. And next to the table was a door that I knew led into the walk in wardrobe where we’d played hide and seek when we were kids.
I went over to the bed and sat down on the edge, resting one hand on the crumpled sheets that had held the object of my lust only a few hours ago. I imagined his naked body asleep on the mattress, with me sitting just where I was, watching him. I swung my legs up onto the bed and lay back, looking up at the ceiling. Then I opened my legs, pushing them outwards until the muscles in my inner thighs were stretched taut and the gusset of the panties was pulled into a tight covering over the lips of my cunt. I lay the cane between my legs, its hard length resting in the slot of my moist crack. It occurred to me that this was similar to the way I had masturbated using the pencil yesterday afternoon, only much, much more exciting.
Working my hand I slid the cane backwards and forwards over myself. After a few times I could feel the moistness of my excitement as it soaked into the panties. I arched my back and groaned, trying to open my legs even further. I could feel the orgasm starting to build inside me, an intensifying ache filling my belly. ‘Naughty!’ I told myself, and I lifted the cane and tapped myself on the pussy. ‘I’m such a little whore,’ I whispered. ‘Maybe I deserve a pussy caning. ‘I tapped myself with the cane a few more times, but it only excited me all the more. I went back to rubbing myself, and as I approached my climax my bottom started writhing around on Dean’s bedclothes.
‘Oh god, yes,’ I moaned. The cane started pumping backwards and forwards, faster and faster . . .
. . . And then I froze. Downstairs, someone had just slammed the front door. I was no longer alone.
Still panting slightly and on wobbly legs I jumped up from the bed as quietly as I could and crept to the door. I could hear someone moving around at the bottom of the stairs. Who was it? Then they started singing and my heart nearly exploded in panic as Dean’s slightly out of tune voice drifted up the stairwell. A second later I heard a creak as he started climbing the stairs towards me. I backed away from the bedroom door, looking around for somewhere to hide. There was only one place. As my eyes fell on the door to the walk in wardrobe, Dean reached the top of the stairs, still singing to himself. I only had seconds before he found me, dressed only in black bra and panties and knee length leather boots, in the middle of playing with myself in his bedroom. I jumped over to the door and wrenched it open, flinging myself into it and nearly tripping over a pile of old shoes. I grabbed hold of the clothes rail that ran from one side to the other, and as I regained my balance I pulled the door to.
Chapter 4 – Caught, Stripped and Screwed
I was just in time. As the darkness closed around me I heard the bedroom door swing open and Dean came into his bedroom. I shrank back
, terrified that he’d open the wardrobe door. The back of the wardrobe was cool and slightly rough on my bare skin and my face was surrounded by freshly ironed shirts and the smell of fabric conditioner.
But he didn’t open the wardrobe door and after a few seconds I realised that the darkness was not as complete as it had at first seemed. Near the top hinge on the right hand door, was a small patch of light, and curiosity overcame my fear. I edged carefully into position until my face was pushed up against the hinge. The hole was tiny and all I could see was a small patch of bedroom, to the right of the bed. For a few seconds nothing moved, then Dean came into view. Despite myself, I gasped. He was wearing only a pair of blue briefs on his hard, sports toned body, and the bulge of what was obviously a large penis was clearly visible. Staring in fascination I licked my lips, and I leant even further forward, trying to get a better view.
And then it happened. There was a click as the catch of the wardrobe door freed itself and the door swung slowly open, revealing me standing there in my underwear. Dean glanced casually round as the door started moving, then he saw me.
‘Fucking hell!’ he jumped backwards. ‘Antigone? What the fuck!’
My face burning in embarrassment I climbed out of the wardrobe and stood there, still clasping the cane. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, the words coming out in a rush. ‘It was sort of a game.’ ‘A fantasy?’ I added.
First Time Femdom Page 2