Thursday, May 16, 2013

Star Cock and Spank Tease

Here's a segment of "Dance of the Flogger, Part Two," just so you know it's coming. I hope to post the complete second half of the story soon. I also hope you enjoy this rendered picture of the flogger handle. I love how this came out, and am now seriously reconsidering my sexual attraction to this smooth, beautiful, apparently galaxy-filled piece of wood. If Mr. W and I were to be spanking superheroes, I think I might want to name us after this picture and this tiny segment of story: Star Cock and Spank Tease. If nothing else, I hope the stories I post on this blog conquer your erotic hunger, if not your darkest enemies.

I start to breathe with my mouth open, breathing out each time leather meets my skin. The panting rhythm of my breath along with the sound of the flogger’s tails striking in tandem turns us both on. I close my eyes again and the light behind my eyes flashes turquoise and emerald. This isn’t a painful whipping; it’s new, luxurious, exotic. The light mirrors that feeling. Bound and under the lash though I am, I feel like a queen, a goddess. “Worship me with whipping,” I murmur.

My eyes flash open again as I realize I just said that aloud. The unintentional phrase is not lost on him. “Oh, this isn’t worship,” he says, continuing to flog my breasts, which are more pink with the flush of pleasure than the pressure of the strokes. “This is communion. I’m taking just a little bite of you, just a little bit to sustain me, before I truly give you all my praise.”

“By praise you mean punishment,” I gasp, suddenly all too aware of the praise even a loving sadist might bestow on the body of a woman bent and bound.

More to come soon. Once again, because I love it so, the flogger is the Wood Master Thuddy Flogger, by I am not affiliated with them at all, this was just a surprisingly pleasurable purchase. 

Sunday, May 12, 2013

Dance of the Flogger, Part One

“Hands behind your head, young lady,” he commands. I’m already not wearing any clothes, but the position he’s requesting makes me feel vulnerable, even more naked. I turn to face the wall and slowly raise my arms, interlocking my fingers and resting my palms on the back of my neck.

He smacks my backside hard enough that I yelp. “Did I tell you to face the wall?”

“N-no, Sir. Should I turn back around?”

He pauses. I shift my weight from one hip to the other and back again, not sure what to do. Then his hand caresses me across the full of my bottom. “Your wiggling has helped me decide. Stay where you are.” He removes his hand and I whimper. He’s crossed the room to the area where the implements are kept. Whatever touches me next will not be the gentle palm of a lover’s hand.

He returns and whips the space behind me. I know better than to look. “Flogger?” I ask. He lets it fly again, a rush of sound through the long, black leather tails. The air cracks at the end of the stroke.

“I wasn’t going to whip your bottom just yet, but since you’re so nicely in place…” he lets the sentence trail off, tickling me with the leather tips. He swings lightly a few times, the tails bouncing off my flesh, lighter and softer than if it was his own fingers dancing on my flesh.

He puts the flogger between my legs, its long polished wooden handle touching the insides of both my thighs. Tapping backing back and forth, the wooden shaft is my instruction to spread my legs. I widen my stance, my bottom presented in full as I lean slightly forward to allow my forehead to rest on the wall. My nipples also touch the wall in this new position and I arch my back to let some of my body weight rest against my breasts. Balanced, I nod my head.

The strokes come hard and fast and I can’t help but moan. The harder he whips, the more sensual the blow, warming my flesh without sting or stripe. He gets in a few lighter strokes that actually hurt more than the harder ones. He tilts his wrist at the end so that the tails whip into the crevices of my body. These bite my skin, though they do not mark. I crave the heavier falls of the leather, the ones that light up behind my eyes as rose, cherry, scarlet.

After a solid minute of whipping, he stops and touches me, gauging my warmth. He slides his finger between my thighs, testing my wetness as well. “Good girl,” he says, his voice rougher and deeper than when the session began. “You have much more to come. Now turn around.”

I turn and begin to lower my arms, craving his embrace. He flips the flogger in his hand and taps my elbows with the handle. Returning to position, legs still spread, I tilt my head and frown. I don’t want to ask what we’re doing, but I want him to know I’m confused, that I need his guidance for what is coming next.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he asks, as if, for the first time in all the years he’s spanked me, I might want to be surprised by the next punishment my body is to receive.

I nod, biting my lip. This is going in a different direction that I’d been expecting when I first threw myself over his lap while we were watching TV. “I feel dirty,” I’d announced, counting on him to know that I didn’t mean I was in need of soap and water.  He’d taken a deep breath as I felt his cock stir beneath my thigh. “Are you my filthy girl?” he’d asked. “Let’s go,” I’d answered, climbing up and nearly running to the bedroom, removing my clothes as I went. But now that I stand facing him, bottom pink but now ignored, I’m not sure what’s coming next. The unfamiliarity has  me wet with anticipation. I’m trembling from my clasped hands to my bare toes curling and clutching the carpet as I wait.

He cocks his head as he says, “Alright,” as if he’s saying, “You asked for it.” He goes to my nightstand drawer and pulls out a twelve-foot length of soft black rope. He wraps it around me from back to front, leaving the length at the sides of my breasts. “First, I’m going to bind your breasts, each individually, so that I have two perfect, beautiful targets for my whip.”

He wraps the left side of the rope length around my left breasts three times, squeezing it forward. He does the same to the right, then ties the two lengths behind my wrists, which are still behind my head, and leaves the rest to trail down and tickle my back. I realize that if I pull back, the rope will lift my breasts higher. I tug experimentally.

“That’s right,” he says, his voice now in that place that melts me, as if lust has coated his vocal cords. “Lift them up, you dirty girl. Present them to me.”

I pull my elbows back then press my wrists against the rope. He squeezes my left nipple then the right, then takes each in his mouth, leaving them wet and chilled in the expectant air. I know what’s coming, but I need him to put it into words. “Are you going to whip my tits?” I ask, giving him both the opportunity to tell me what’s going to happen and approval to use vulgarity in his description.

“Of course I’m going to whip your tits. First I’m going to smack them, lightly, teasing you into thinking it’s something that you want. Then I’m going to step back and raise my flogger to them. You’re going to keep them lifted, so I can whip them in full. Every now and again I’m going to lick them, wetting them, so that the leather drags across your skin. If I stop, you’re going to beg me for more. If you don’t beg for more, I’m going to lay down the flogger and get the junior cane. I’ll cane you here,” he rests his finger horizontally across the top side my right breast. “And here,” he does the same on the underside. “And here. As many times as you can take without collapsing.” His finger rests directly on my nipple, hard beneath his touch, beneath his threat. “And if you do collapse, I’m going to fuck you. Wherever I want.”

Surprising me, he leans forward and kisses me, then rests his face against my throat. “I want you so much,” he whispers. I know it’s true. He’s naked too. “What do you want?” he asks.

“Are you going to spank my bottom again?” I ask in reply.

“Before I take you, I’m going to whip that ass so hard it glows.”

I take a deep breath, then draw myself up to stand with my back arched, shoulders pressed back against the wall, wrists pulling the rope so that my tits are at attention, ready for his mouth, his flogger, even his cane if he can’t resist. “Don’t warm me up. I just want you to whip me. Everywhere.”

He smiles; I close my eyes. Twenty leather tails land on the side of my right breast, curling up and over my flesh, licking the nipple as it pulls away. My knees buckle, not in pain but in delight. With one stroke, my body is on fire, every nerve-ending on edge. I return to position quickly, ready for more.

One of our new favorite toys, the Wood Master Thuddy Flogger from FlogMeBaby.Com

Saturday, May 4, 2013

A Tawsing Clip for You

The clip here is part of the tawsing section of my favorite film we made, Fierce Foreplay. It's the most like what we do in the bedroom, though there is no sex. That part is just for us. Even so, the film goes through everything from light spanking to the cane, and I have a very marked bottom by the end. I have a fantastic memory of making this movie. I squeal a good bit, but I can honestly tell you, this spanking was painful,  fulfilling and amazing.

I like sharing these videos, because I am not your regular spanking model. I am a working woman who loves to cook, and my body shows it. I have a little bit of extra flesh but a girlish squeal, and just a love of spanking that I hope translates to film. This movie was made in 2008, a year after Mr. W and I were married. It's not HD. This clip is all panty-clad. They get removed later in the film, but there's no need to put that unexpectedly on the blog.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

Boston Strong

April 20, 2013. 6:00 am.

“Take everybody out of the bedroom,” he says.

I lift the two cats and our little dog out of the room. I close the bedroom door from the hallway side. I go to the kitchen to fill their separate bowls with breakfast. I refill their water bowls. I start the coffee. The ritual feels good. Today is the same as every day, I tell myself.  Last night the surviving bomber was captured. My home is still Boston. I'm 3,000 miles away, but it is still home. And we are all safe. In the back of my mind I know it isn‘t true. It doesn’t take an actual bomb to change absolutely everything. But it isn’t time to think about that right now. I return to the bedroom, ready and aching to be taken out of myself.

I re-enter the bedroom wearing only black cotton panties, my pajamas of choice. I hear the coffee pot start to percolate behind me as I close the door. I’ve been making the coffee too strong lately. The grocer was out of our normal breakfast blend and I’d had to purchase a darker bean. My husband is already sitting on the edge of the bed, his legs spread, his knee ready for me. I hope I’ve gotten the coffee-to-water ratio right this time, not because I’m afraid of not doing it right, but because I want so much to make it right for him. I know I’ve been a disaster lately. “Coffee’s cooking,” I say, hoping he catches the hint after my post-wake-up breakdown. I don’t want to go back to the images of disaster in my hometown . I want to play.

“Did you make it the way I like, young lady?” he asks.

“Of course, Sir,” I respond, falling into character, hoping I’m not lying.

“Not too strong, not too light?” he asks.

“Yes, Sir. Just the way you like it, Sir. I think I‘ve made it just right.”

He nods and pats his thigh. “That’s the way I’m going to spank you now. Not too strong, not too light. I’m going to spank you just right.”

I step towards him and straddle his thigh. This spreads my legs, leaving my bottom and thighs open to his administrations while my upper body rests on the bed, secure and stable. He sets his hand on my hip. “That’s my girl,” he whispers, and I realize he’s whispering to himself. I’ve been so caught up in my own worries, I hadn’t realized he needs this just as much as I do. “Please spank me, Sir,” I say. “I’m yours.”

The first smack is startling, if only because it’s early morning and my flesh has barely had time to wake up. He smacks the other cheek and I squeal. “Quietly,” he reminds me, because it’s Saturday and we haven’t heard the upstairs neighbors’ dog bounding about their apartment. If the dog isn’t up, they’re probably not up yet either.

“Don’t spank me so hard, then,” I reply, testing how much sauciness he feels like taking from me.

“Don’t make me spank you harder,” he says. Not much sauciness, I realize. This is to be intense, but connected. No characters after all. Just us.

A steady flurry of strokes comes next, bouncing from cheek to cheek, each one stinging but I maintain control of my voice. I don’t count, but after about twenty smacks he lets off and rubs my bottom while I breathe out a sigh of “Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch.”

“Good girl,” he says, still letting his hand circle my backside. “You’re doing so well. Are you ready for twice as many?”

“I think so.” I reposition myself, letting his knee fully rest between my legs so that he can feel the warmth of my body reacting to the spanking. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but you can pull my panties down. If you want. Sir.”

He yanks my panties to my thighs. “I was going to do that anyway,” he says. I look back over my shoulder and he looks towards me, both of us smiling. “Ready?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for my response.

He spanks me hard, but not too hard. Enough to draw a gasp out of me with each slap, but not enough to make me howl or squirm away. I don’t think about anything outside of the moment. I focus on the heat of his body close to me, the sting of each slap, the warmth spreading through my own body and the moisture growing between my thighs. If he keeps this up, I’m going to slide off his knee. I wiggle forward, trying to prevent the inevitable.

The spanking stops and he once again rubs my bottom in soft, circular strokes. I sigh beneath the touches. I want him, but I know it isn't time yet. After he rubs me for a few moments, he reaches under the blanket and pulls out a square leather paddle. He’d hidden it beneath the covers while I went to make coffee. “What else is under there?” I ask.

“Ssshhh,” he tells me. “I’ve got you.”

The phrase wilts me. It’s what we say to each other when the other is having a hard time, or not feeling well, or even completely falling apart. These past few months, I’ve been completely falling apart. “Tell me again?” I beg.

“I’ve got you,” he tells me, holding the leather paddle against my pink bottom. I nod.

As the leather paddle falls upon my warmed backside, I realize that instead of leaning away from it, I am thrusting back towards it, meeting it mid-stroke. He realizes it as well, and increases the speed and strength. Soon my body is rocking over his thigh as I would his cock, but the spanking overtakes me as no sex could. My face feels flushed; I am dizzy. I reach forward, grabbing blanket into my palms, clutching the fabric like reins and riding the pain.

“More,” I say, and he knows what I want. He slides his leg out from under me, pushing me up onto my knees on the bed. He grabs a pillow and shoves it under my hips. He slides the senior cane out from under the blanket.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his hand traveling over the warmest parts of my bottom, now throbbing with heat, pink and tender, but nowhere near where I need to be. I nod. “Don’t forget. This is for you. I’ve got you,” he tells me again. I know it’s not just for me, but instead I say the words he wants to hear:

“Cane me, Sir. Please, please, cane me.”

The cane is our everything. It’s our way to sex, to redemption, to escape. The cane is the physical representation of the electricity between us when everything is right. It’s the reconnection when we’ve disconnected and need to find each other again. More than anything else, I trust him with the cane. More than anything else, it’s the implement he uses when he needs to tell me he loves me.

This morning, it’s the way to show each other how much we need one another. I give myself to him. He trusts his strokes to me.

Six strokes, then another twelve. Another six of the best after that. This particular morning, it was not the strokes that were important. It was that he gave them to me, and that I took them. Willingly. Wontonly. And afterwards, my thighs parted and dripping, it was that he took me as if I were the only woman on earth. Perhaps, in that moment, I was.

When we finish, I am exhausted but exhilarated.. He asks me to lie still, and he takes photographs. In between shots, he strokes my stripes. He makes me feel beautiful. The world, in this moment, is not so terrifying after all. I am strong.

I am not afraid.