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This blog showcases spanking fetish stories and poetry; plus some other random thoughts and ideas, written by a thirty-something female switch.
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Shellshocked
"What is it, Master?" she whispered as she knelt at his feet. Her hair was loose and flowing around her shoulders, her eyes bright with anticipation, her heart pounding. The white dress she wore with the halter neck chafed at her bare breasts unsupported under it, her feet curled into the gold sandals.
He laid a hand on each side of her face, moved in to kiss her. A long, deep, kiss, savouring the taste of her, consuming her, drinking her.
"My little one."
Persephone had been in the house exactly nine days, dressed like this, mainly in this position. He'd unleashed her a couple of times a day and bound her to the bed when it was time for him to take his pleasure of her and then leave her to sleep, but he enjoyed seeing her servitude, her supplication.
"Do you love me, little one?"
She swayed back in the brief expanse of air between them, her frightened brown eyes meeting his baby blue ones, commanding, loving, with just a touch of vulnerability which had come and gone in a second.
"I love you more than I love life. I love your imperfections, sir, because they are yours. I love the way you move, the way you touch me. I love the touch of your hand and the sound of your voice. I live only to serve you, to kneel before you, to obey your every command."
Henrik smiled. He had chosen Persephone out of a room full of sweet young submissives, mainly because he could see her spirit and her filthy mind despite her shy and prudish demeanour. He had not been disappointed. He had loved punishing her, breaking her, moulding her.
He picked up the whip, swishing its tail against her, almost imperceptible but enough to make her shiver with anticipation and pleasure. She bowed her head and breathed deep in their shared excitement. He stroked her hair and she pulled his hand towards her, hungrily licking and sucking the fingers, nibbling them.
"Take your dress off."
She obeyed, easily as the dress was in one piece and one movement left it at her feet. She stood before him, naked, white as the most beautiful statue, flecked only with the marks of their shared play standing out against the skin, flogger marks over her breasts and her stomach, marks from the switch and the cane livid against her bottom, red dots on her thighs where he had hand spanked her, hard, as she struggled and wriggled against him.
Henrik smiled at his own arousal, mimicking hers, he thought as he surveyed the damp patches on her inner thighs.
"On your hands and knees, girl."
Persephone crouched as instructed, her mouth drying and her mind racing. She so wanted to please him. At first she always struggled with her punishments, even with the gentlest of hand spankings. Then she relaxed into it, to his dominance and mastery of her, to his touch, his warmth, his command of her mind and body. He who instructed her in what she was to feel, he who made her scream with pain or pleasure as he desired, he who made her come or held her at bay, laughing inside at her frustration, before letting her loose.
She felt the new sensation before she could place it. The cool, yet rough, feeling of something foreign being placed inside her. The natural, barbarous, smoothness of the shell frightened her at first, hurt her as her muscles rebelled against it. Then, as she relaxed, she welcomed this new interloper as a gift, as he intended.
"Good girl," he said, stroking her back, running his hands down over her bottom.
The first cut of the whip dug into it, its fierce white heat leaving a barely perceptible line which soon bloomed into a red track. Persephone arched her back and clawed at the floor as the pain shot through her.
Again and again he struck her. The sweat from her and the heat and the smell, the sounds as she wailed and cried and panted, but never begged for mercy, pleased him greatly. He put down the whip and knelt behind her, his fingernails clawing and scratching at her, leaving other, complimentary red tracks.
He kissed her back, her bottom, the backs of her legs. He licked her feet and nibbled her toes, before licking up the whole of the leg and into the area where he had inserted the shell.
Henrik removed the shell and started to kiss the lips, still parted with surprise from the visitor. This was beautiful. She was beautiful, and she was his.
They held each other, her lips in his hair, his lips on her neck.
"Are you mine, little one?"
"Oh yes, my Master, only yours. Always yours."
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Posted: 10:24 PM, Dec. 9, 2006 |
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