Myths and Metawhores

In the depth of winter I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer. - Camus

The butterfly is a potent image and metaphor for submissive women, capturing beautifully the transformation and promise of D/s passions. Butterflies are adorable, pretty and enchanting. Who doesn’t love butterflies?

Little flying creatures used to unnerve me; extracted from Redolence - The Aroma of Desire:

The last two days have been very warm and wasps have roused from their slumber. As I write this in my garden, my thoughts are momentarily swayed by the cutting antiseptic citrus odour of the citronella oil I’m burning to keep these vicious little beasts at bay.

As an aside, the way to deal with these creatures is to not run from or necessarily ignore them but to approach them in the spirit of ‘wasp tai chi’. Very, very slowly raise an open hand and move it towards them and away from you. They seem to interpret this as a wall of sorts and will fly away following the direction you describe. This controlled action is how I overcame my fear of wasps.

I also used to fear moths, until I discovered that they were only butterflies whose wings never saw the sun. As a creature of the night I identified with these dusky beauties. Their mystery inspired reverence and gently, I began to sense their visits were fragile blessings.

A butterfly alights and people coo over her pretty ornamentation. Her dark sister breathes in the shadows and waits. You have to feel fascination to seek her out, her allure is less obvious and yet she’s as fragile, maybe more so for the weight of assumption she must bear.

Sometimes I am overcome by a deep sadness that I am not a butterfly, it must be exquisite to be truly beautiful. My charm lies in the small hours. I am noctilucent - I shine by night, and cherish that for the enigmas it suggests and conceals. Leave the overt behind, come into my world. Strike a match, arch a protective hand around the flame lest in my captivation the fire consumes me.

Know the cocoon for what it is. Within these soft walls my metamorphosis is almost complete. I stir and graze fingertips along the protective enclosure. Soon my darlings, soon…

Nothing feels like coming home. Isn’t that something that just makes you feel warm and content, no matter what has happened in the world outside. Home is welcoming and a place you naturally rest at ease. Now, with me, this sense is heightened by simple indulgence. When you come home, and the house is silent I suggest you walk softly to the bathroom, push the door open quietly for here your waterbaby lies and dreams.

Drenched with lust and tender with the anticipation of your return, I sense you before I hear you. You approach, smiling. Your woman, naked, ripe, restless for you. It’s a threshold that justifies your lust. I need you to consume, envelop, devour me.

Knowing this, you gamble with my devotion to you, demanding a dominion drawn in blood bonds. I can choose to continually isolate myself, and indulge in the illusion of separation or I can unfold into your Mastery.

Warm, wet flesh recreates innocence, invites violation. Taking full possession of my will you wrap strong arms around me, and lift me from the water.

“Only the axis of blows is different: spanking is tangential, sodomy is radiant. In both cases it is a form of passive masturbation. Someone is interested in your fate, in your body.” - Jean-Luc Hennig

Let’s assume you are interested…..

Precision is the mark of a Master.
Your immaculate instinct charts my descent into a world where words are ciphors, a code nestling in the taste of blood.

Your blade is sharp. The havoc you wreak in my flesh conceals your searing intelligence, your devotion to detail. Subtle sensitivity is a honed skill and an elegant part of your control. This savage act is a virtuoso performance, a ritualized aggression, no casual violation. Every word and gesture is important, seeds in rich soil, nurtured and then relinquished in a blaze of creation.

The liquid fire of our depraved dance rapidly incinerates any need for intellectual games and while your steely weapon elicits fear, my social self stands mute. A passive observer and witness only.

Balancing familiarity with risk you blind my mind with riddles of life and death, and on that knife edge my vulnerability is sullied with the realisation that you cannot feign understanding.

Sacrifice is no small death and the beauty of surrender is to let your Mastery shine through. As you wipe my blood on your shirt, I see how you have carved a niche, a life story. Your signature is extreme but we are only ever identified by the strands of the web we climb upon and then sever.

As the vibrant colours of the weekend fade to memory, I interrupt their journey by gently calling them back. I need to live them again and again, and so I ensure their pathway from the velvet box of experiences known is smooth and easy.

You were wonderful and as always kind. Despite the heat of the day and the vibrancy of my attire, I have felt distinctly pale of late. Yet all colours are restored through reintroduction to our vice. Your hand bestowing a heat sharper than sunshine but easily as inflaming as sunburn. And like time in the sun, the longer I lie under your hand, the more tanned my skin becomes.

But not for this wanton girl the sun kisses of gold, no, my rewards are swellings of crimson and the dusky promises of plums and deepest purples. Passively I seek my centre; flesh throbs, heart and mind tenderise. Reaching the point where emotions flower, contentment sighs as each lick of pain pulses…staggers to my brain to be interpreted anew.

Discipline is the most divine undertaking and urged on by your hand, I am possessed with a jubilant grace. My wish is that you’d been there after when the fire of my whipping pierces the cold hollows of my psyche and my rich blood drips with a lesser known peace. You’d treasure the alchemy as much as I, and as the immediacy of the experience fades, my bruises serve as acupressure points for serenity, releasing the evidence of pleasure on warm inner thighs.

Later, I watched rose oil droplets shower like spring rain into my bath. I sank deeply, gasping at the surprise revivification of heat. Indulgently…slowly, I read your story, pausing momentarily to close my eyes allowing blissful eyelid movies to lick their soft way across my internal screen. Beautiful moments savoured in the underbelly, the backside of love.

The stakes are high for real prayer.
You must gamble for your self
and be willing to lose.
When you have done this,
and your self shakes off
what you believed your self to be,
then no prayer remains,
only a sparkle of the eyes.
Knower and known are one.

From The Secret Rose Garden by Sufi Poet Mahmud Shabistari, Thirteenth Century.

Head and heart are in harmony
the lifeblood connecting them pulses consistently.
My intellect is sharp.
My heart is sensual.
There is no battle of wills here
my surrender is conscious, chosen.

In luminosity, you blaze.
Your Mastery shines through me.

Some ask why I would willingly bear my throat to you.
We feed the other.
Our taste is for blood.

Each night I remove the veil of seperation and hold the mirror up to myself.

*update*
I’ve changed the photo accompanying this post. I actually agree with sandie (in comments) and didn’t much like the original picture but thank you kochanie and roper for your words. This picture I think displays the 4 marks of the cane much better and while I have one photo showing all six strokes, it’s not as pretty as this one.

***

Someone out there came searching late last night with a question buring their lips:

‘How does it feel to be caned?’

I completely understand the seekers curiosity, most especially if the knowledge is sought on the back of an impending experience. Or perhaps they are curious because it’s a desire that drenches their fantasies and they wish to pad the image with some sense of the feeling. Or maybe they simply want to know for knowings sake.

It’s a potent question and one I asked myself many times before I found out. So for that individual, here is an answer of sorts but do bear in mind, words have their failings most especially in translating a sensation so extreme you temporarily lose your mind.

It hurts.
Of course it hurts, I mean it really hurts.
It’s a sharp, cutting, breath stealing white flash of agony. Utterly precise and unforgiving. Think back to an incident when you burned yourself; do you recall how there is a passage of time between accident and feeling? You just know it’s going to hurt yet there is a space in which to think and recognise that the damage will flare in full, fleshy awareness.

Being caned is a bit like that. There is the strike and then the pain, a rolling, cruel, merciless pain that curbs reason and obscures sense. And in between resides a thrumming anticipation, a darkness before the lightening bolt that ignites your nerve endings in a blaze. On reflection, that was a curious and unanticipated moment for me. I though it would hurt immediately, I hadn’t counted on this fragile bridge from sentience to oblivion.

Snapping back from that threshold and grasping the rough edges of your dignity calls awareness home. And all there is, is pain. It’s a sharp, quick, liquid, fluid agony, not dull and heavy like a headache. It’s more immediate, slicing through your sexual consciousness to a point of pristine present moment awareness. In those seconds, nothing else exists or matters. I’ve mentioned elsewhere that your only choice is to hurt.

Of course the severity of the experience depends on different factors, such as the thickness of cane used. The thin, whippy ones if executed forcefully enough wll leave incisions in your skin, sharp curves of contrition. The birch, for all its mess is a master of such acute feeling, although it lacks the precision of a cane. The force of the strike is another obvious consideration. More subtle influences are your mood, the interaction between you and the Dominant, the situation and for ladies, the point in their cycle.

The experience of pain changes, as does your interpretation of it so there is no easy answer. Of course the only way to really know, is to experience a caning and then you may understand why a sensible reply is so elusive. But think clean and cutting brilliant white pain.

I haven’t been entirely honest with you but it’s a soft omission driven by protection over deception. On these pages my tendency has to be to describe my submissive experiences and reflections, essentially because this is my core nature and passion but it is not solely my way. I am a switch and have been for a long, long time.

Why confess that now? It’s Lupercalia, yet another bastardisation of truth into commercial fiction, once a bloody rite now the lovelorn’s devotion to love lotteries and skewed legends. Valentine’s Day is such bullshit and in true contrary fashion I have elected to dispense with some of my own.

This quote comes from a very interesting interview with Patrick Califia.

Sadie: In one of your less politically correct moments, you commented that ‘I cannot see a bottom who never switches as my equal, although it’s politically incorrect to say so. In my heart of hearts, I do not believe that such people are grownups. I think they are lazy, self-centered, and incomplete — and untrustworthy, to boot.’ Why do you think that a sophisticated player would be, by definition, a switch?

Patrick: “Oh, this is just pure self-interest. I want there to be more switches because I like to switch. Actually, there is also a problem here in terms of having a relationship between a top and a bottom. I know that there are many tops who prefer a 100% bottom. And there are some advantages, I acknowledge that. It can be really nice to have all that role stuff sorted out, so there’s no arguments about who will bottom for who at a play party, and no question who is the boss. I do enjoy that. But I think that sometimes someone who never tops just doesn’t understand how much it takes out of a person, what the moral dilemmas are, how much responsibility it can be. It’s really damned hard. And often, people expect to be able to solve problems by being bottoms that the BDSM experience is not going to give them.

Even a 24/7 slave is lonely sometimes, for example, or bored, or insecure or jealous. Bottoming will not cure you of depression or give you immortality. People who switch can have more realistic expectations, I’ve found, than someone who never ever wants to top.

But isn’t this also a sexual orientation issue? I mean, for all that I bitch about this, the fact is that some people just don’t like to top, they aren’t any good at it, and pressuring them to do it just makes them miserable. While I’ve certainly been catty about this, I think I’ve also been somewhat unfair.”

I admire Califia’s honesty.
While I am undoubtedly more sweetly, highly and finely aroused by submission, I have seriously contemplated how much my surrender is compounded by the fact that I am lazy and for all the conversations we subs have about challenges and depth, how much of that is a navel gazing indulgence? I’m a hedonist not a martyr, an idler not an idealist. I’d like to be bothered but I can’t be fucked and so have evolved a lifestyle that embraces my reverence for sloth, procrastination (oh well…best get on with not doing anything at all), late lunch and afternoon fuckery. So when I read Califia’s words I laughed.

Submission presents it’s own challenges. The invited violation of your heart, body and soul is not easy, for it brings you into very immediate confrontation with blocks and barriers within your psyche. It’s ferociously intimate and pleasurable, and if you let it be, it’s insightful. An oft repeated and true statement I’ve heard at Munches and other gatherings is ‘the best tops have bottomed’. This is one case where experience translates well. Knowing what it’s like to be so sublimely laid bare is an irreplacable wisdom, one that stokes the sexual telepathy so characteristic of great D/s play. It’s an understanding beyond empathy that has transformed how I play, love and lust.

I fuse Femdomme with my Tantrika skills, which for me puts the heart and soul back into a play that can seem quite callous otherwise. I care little for the sexual justifications of female supremacy and the wholly and weary calls to goddess empowerment. I’ve met with a lot of obnoxious women who consider the first flush of this knowledge to be a sign of higher evolvement. When taken at superficial levels such parody is disappointing but not surprising. I believe it’s something to guard against, since the line between enlightenment and simply being an asshole is very thin and is not one I walk with much grace.

Yet grace is one quality I endeavour to bring to my Femdomme encounters. Respect is another, because I know well the micro-muscular and mental battles my man is twisting through and I want it to be as beautiful and blissful for him as can be. The finer details of this as yet secret sexual side of my character I shall unravel over time for today my heart is set on the sweet ecstasy of Queening.

The Queening stools as displayed here are quite darling. But as much as I love them and all they represent, my preference is to straddle your face. I have strong thighs from years of dancing and can hold, grind and rotate for an obscenely long time. I love being licked. I can tease and torment myself on your tongue for longer than you can last, remember I am a consummate mistress of my own pleasure. Queening is one art I have nailed.

So in celebration of Lupercalia and the full moon, I spin on my sexual axis to let my bitch out. In ancient times, temples not only had their vestal virgins and sacred prostitutes, they were populated with holy bitches. Bitch was one of the most sacred titles for devotees of Artemis. Athena’s priestesses filled her temples with howling hounds in honour of the goddesses death form and the Vedic Bitch Goddess Sarama had her dogs too. The expression ’son of a bitch’ was an honour, a nod to the prestige of having a strong and dignified pagan mother.

For me, switching is a sacred exchange, a wild swing of the pendulum. I relish the sophistication it gifts me with, and in this I agree with Califia. There are so many fine points, nuances and details on the D/s continuum that we can fail to observe through strict adherence to one way. As a submissive, topping has allowed me to discern the acute attunement and sensitivity my dom needs, maintains and displays. It’s sharpened my appreciation of the dynamic, enriching my complicity and ability to go farther and deeper. That feeling of what happens from the other side is remarkable and very special.

This story is for someone very special. He will understand the references and the bliss of climaxing in my ass in a strange bedroom. Thanks for being my friend, this one’s for you.

***

Don’t let the fire go out.
Please let me come to you.
Let’s take a hotel room, which we can make ours.
Give me twenty-four hours of your life.
One day.
One night.

A small ceiling light casts a dim glow along the narrow corridor. Pausing before the door, I glance up and acknowledge the room’s number - 101. I smile at the converging universal codes, cyberpunk meets every sacred mythology the world has known. Ironically I know you care little for either thread but faith nudges a recognition that the ‘one’ embracing ‘infinity’ tonight has an entirely different connotation.

You’d cautioned me to relish these timeless moments outside the door and to ask myself one last time, if this is what I want. Your mail read:

“enjoy the odd realisation that an everyday act of knocking on a door is very likely to result in me ejaculating in your rectum”

And so my hand trembles as I raise it to knock. I pause, breathe deeply and lower my arm. I know you are waiting on the other side, that you are supremely aware of the struggle I must endure no matter how much I desire this. Lifting my hand again, I knock hard before the possibility of changing my mind hits and I wait.

The door swings open easily and I look up and into your deep brown eyes. All else is eclipsed. All thought. All action. For an indefinite time you hold my gaze, and then extend your hand. I know that in giving you my hand in return, I am granting you my full consent. Our fingers weave as you pull me gently into the room, pushing the door shut behind me. You bring my hand to your lips, and as you kiss my fingers your eyes flash to mine. ‘Are you sure?’ they ask one final time. I nod my assent and the climax of our long correspondance begins.

***

My underwear is the last item of clothing I remove.

“Give me your panties”

A command I expect, we had discussed this but upon hearing it I shake. I hand them to you. You turn them over in your hand for a while, letting the lace slip between your fingers, seeking out their wetness, and then you slip them into your pocket. Silly really, how that almost casual gesture sends a jolt of obediance from my brain to my cunt. My vulnerability is flushed with shame, as I feel your eyes venture over my flesh, taking an inventory. The information feeds into your mind, a complex of practical equations and lascivious possibilities.

Moving to a chair, you grasp the back and pull it to the centre of the room. I watch your muscular arms work and in a reciprocal gesture learn that the chair is heavy and that your body is strong. We are collating the final elements of necessary information about the other. Realities that our extensive online communications could never yield. We are learning about dimensions and complimentarity, scent and chemistry and soon the bloom of taste and the truth of touch.

“Come here”, your voice thick with an accent that I am not yet familar with. That momentarily too long processing time provides you with the excuse you need. I know you are a patient man and that you won’t hurt me. And since we both crave this flashpoint, the key to my surrender and your control, this is sufficient justification.

Swinging my body around, you seize both of my wrists in your hands. The room flashes with vivid luminosity as I concede cognitive control. My body reverts to a primal instinct and I struggle but you manhandle me to the chair and we collapse into a prime position. I am sprawled across your thighs, with my arms pinned behind my back. Spreading your legs slightly, you perfect my position for your own pleasure. I whimper with the realisation that this is the first time you have seen me this exposed. Certainly we’ve exchanged many photographs and in that frozen in time sense you know every aspect of my body but that revelation was free from shame. This is not.

Adjusting your hold, you clasp my small wrists in one hand. With the other you begin to strike me. Hard spanks with no warm up. A fierce, ruthless volley of blows aimed low, striking me in the most sensitive of places. I cry and moan, writhing and twisting in futile attempts to escape. My skin is so hot it burns. Releasing my wrists, you pull me farther onto your knees and my hands fall to the floor to regain my balance. Taking advantage, you cup one cheek with your hand, pull it back and deliver a series of hard strikes to the tender skin around my auns. I howl at the indignity but you continue.

Stopping as suddenly as you started, I suspect because your hand must hurt, you allow your palm to rest and soak up the heat of my tender backside. Your fingers travel, tracing, contemplating the imprint your hand has made over and over. A heavy knock to the door slices into our warm cocoon and I start. You lift me and issue a simple command.

“Go and stand in the corner”

I freeze.
The knock comes again.

“Now, Lena” and you grab my arm and force me there, before walking back to the door. In a jumble of panic and shame, I am so confused that I stay where I am. You answer, and the conversation reveals room service have made a mistake. As you close the door, I turn with a laugh bubbling. You meet my relief with a smile and the instruction to turn back around. Snaking your arms around my waist, I feel your lips tenderly kiss my shoulder.

“Place your hands on your head Lena, but sweep your hair up as you do”.

I do as I am bid, and the trail of gentle kisses mitigates the flush of humiliation this immodest posture awakes in me. Your hands leave me and I hear the distinct sound of your belt unbuckling, followed by the swoosh of leather running through fabric loops. Stepping away from me, you stand back and I feel your eyes admiring your handiwork. One second later the leather cracks through the air and contacts my ass hard. I stumble and almost fall, and so you instruct me to spread my legs wider.

I do, having time only to register the cool breeze between my thighs and increasingly exposed pussy as the belt whips through the air again. You deliver twelve lashes and then you stop. The agony in my flesh passes, changing from brilliant sharp pain to a throbbing, pounding ache. My skin burns. But more acutely I am drenched with utter shame, a psychological torment that physical pain cannot eradicate, only enhance.

Then you return to me, and I feel your warmth. Pressing into my back, you encourage me to relax into you, a mercy to my weak knees that have struggled to retain balance. Reaching around you caress my nipples, pinching but not too hard. Subtly the mood is changing. Your hands glide across my belly, spreading out to fan over my hips and then returning to my centre to find my molten sex. My cunt lips are wet, the outer lips swollen and slick with my juice. This is the real expression of my need and desire. Again you turn me around, but this time much gentler and we connect in an intoxicating kiss. Hot mouth to hot mouth.

My last act of submission is about to be given and claimed. Guiding me to the bed, you force me to adopt a dog bitch position, my reddened ass raised high for you. As I lift my hips, the scent of my own sex hits me and I know you can smell my heat too. I remain in this position while you undress and then come to kneel between my open, receptive thighs. A cool stream of lube hits my scorched ass, undulating down the cleft and pooling on my rosebud. You tease and caress my anus, gently sliding an oily finger in, and then out. Repeating this taunting gesture until you feel my sphincter yield and welcome you with ease and appreciation.

The seconds of slow and unstoppable penetration are never easy for me. I have to consciously breathe deep, harmonising breath with insertion, relaxing into the filling pressure. Depth is less of a challenge, the pain comes from the fragility of my screaming muscular ring as it fights this unnatural act. Finally I have taken the full length of your cock, and you celebrate this tender impalement by holding me still and safe for a few sacred moments. And then you resume making love to my ass, my reddened and full ass, while my fingers passionately care for my empty pussy.

“I want a girl, a brunnette. It’s essential that she’ll do anal.”

“We don’t have a brunnette available tonight. I have a new girl, a honey blonde. She’ll consent to anal.”

“Is this new whore good? I’m in no mood for further disappointments”

“She’s excellent. She’ll take good care of you”

“I want her ready for 7 prompt. Elegant dress, high heels but no underwear”a

“Of course Sir”

“And tell her to wear a coat, it’s cold”

When anal is specified I always self administer an enema. I find it a comforting and quite relaxing procedure and an essential for such play. The other requirements are easy to meet. After my shower, I walk to my wardrobe and select a simple black dress. Sliding it over my head and shoulders, the soft velvet slinks perfectly against my breasts brushing warmly on my nude nipples. Slipping into my court shoes, I momentarily rest finding both inner and outer poise.

He is still angry with me, hence this game.

I walk to the mirror, ostensibly to check my make up but in truth to see if I dare meet my own gaze. Looking up and all the way, I see a strangeness behind my eyes.

Why does he never fight back? Why these charades?

Leisurely, the disquiet dances back into the shadows and I grasp its deliberate exposure. If I am to play the whore for his catharsis I must do so with full presence of mind. This is no idle game or role play, and yet the serious undertone is cut with dark humour. Finding some amusement, I jostle the more uncomfortable emotions into an appreciation of the potential for sport.

“What the fuck” I murmer as much to convince myself. I’m practically shaking.

I wrap a midlength coat around my cool body and lean against the windowframe. He will be on time and I will grant him the courtesy of being ready. The clock downstairs chimes 7 as his dark green saloon swings through the gates and along the track. He will need to turn the car around and I take these moments to alight the stairs and open the door. As I turn back from the locking the door, I hear the car’s engine purr to soft halt behind me.

A wave of fear washes over me. I’d done my best to bottle this recognition but now confronted with him and the stark reality, I am afraid. I don’t know him well and am relying heavily on gut instinct. This primal power tells me that while my life and physical being are safe, my psyche had best prepare for a turn.

Breathing deeply, I materialise an appearance of cool, calm confidance and stroll to the drivers door. His window rolls down, our eyes meet. His eyes are dead, cold fish orbs and again I am struck by a wave of fear. He casts his indifferent gaze over my attire, looks directly back at me and says in a flat voice “get in the back”.

I use the precious moments of clambouring into the vehicle to scan his eyes, voice and demeanour for a sign, any clue as to how to play this. He gives me none. I have never known him be this way before.

“Move to the middle. I want to be able to see you in my mirror.”

I shift along the seat and he pulls away. I feel strange and vulnerable as he picks up speed. I cast my eyes to the side and notice the seatbelts but I cannot escape to their safety so instead I brace myself against the backs of the front seats and ride out his increasing speed.

“Look at me bitch.”

My eyes meet his in the rearview mirror. I don’t like this reflected reversal, it renders him farther away. It also means his eyes are not on the road.

“Lift your dress, high around your waist. Higher. Take your coat off, you don’t need that. Put it on the front seat. Good, now sit back and spread your legs wide. I want to see what I’ve bought.”

I do as I am bid, deriving a curious relief from the command. His eyes return to the road, leaving me feeling more exposed than when his look penetrated me. Sharply he takes a right turn and I realise we are running parallel with the farm tracks, driving down narrow country lanes into the heart of private land. He knocks off the headlights and allows the car to cruise gently into the mouth of a field. Bumping through the darkness, the vehicle comes to a halt and he cuts the engine.

He joins me on the backseat and I cower a little, uncertain.

“On your knees baby. Suck me.”

His cock is beautiful, freakishly big, heavily veined and uncut. Pearls of precome shine white in the moonlight, promising a familiar taste that could bring the comfort his actions intentionally avoid. Desiring to please him, I collapse into the passion of a pure cocksucker. Sucking hard, licking gently, forcefully, existing only for this act. Keeping my teeth well apart, my jaw aching, I suck like I am auditioning for the dream role.

“I’m only paying for an hour.” His fingers twist into the hair at the nape of my neck as he snaps my head up to face-to-face contact. Trading his previous gesture for tenderness he pulls me across his muscular thighs, and instructs me to relax down. His right arm snakes protectively beneath my throat, his hand clasps my shoulder. His left hand tugs my dress up a few more inches and then leaves the fabric to smooth an appreciative stroke along my back, coming to rest on my backside. Easing his left thigh up he raises my ass and involuntarily I part my thighs slightly.

“Spread your cheeks.”

I moan in dissent but reach back obediantly and expose my anus to him. He lifts his leg higher increasing my vulnerability and spits on my asshole. I flush with shame spiked indignity and am grateful only that he cannot see my face. He has never behaved in such an indifferent manner, generous always in his affections and lubrication. The marked absence of both lends a chill to my excitement. No matter what this man does, our chemistry is perfect and this ensures our mutual pleasure.

I feel his finger circle the rim of my rose before he gently, gently, gently pushes and penetrates. I buck, flinching at the almost dry onslaugh and in response his arm tightens around me. His finger pushes deeper into me, slowly, relentlessly. He shifts position again to gain better purchase. I try to relax against the filling pressure, finding pleasure in the invasion.

A second finger teases the lips of my pussy and in a gliding action, he slides one finger deep. I am held like a bowling ball, as he works both fingers. One in my ass, one in my pussy. Caressing the flesh wall between both openings, he confuses my desires. I don’t now know whether I want him to screw my dribbling pussy or fuck my throbbing asshole.

With a tense squeeze so that the two probing fingers contact through flesh, he signifies a withdrawel and slides his hand from me.

“Ride me you lazy bitch. Come on, you fuck me.”

I staddle him and yield momentarily to a deeper need. I reach for his face and murmer ‘I love you.’ I don’t mean to break the spell, spoil the game but I do adore him and this emotional distance hurts me more than any physical action. Moistness flashes across his eyes, he closes them to conceal the secret from me but I saw. I know that he won’t plunder my ass tonight for he needs to fuck hard and he never screws me there with anything other than tenderness.

“Not now baby” he breaths and plunges his still angry cock mercilessly into me. The stroke ends with a dull pain and a hoarse cry breaks from his lips. Impaled to the hilt he swings me onto my back and fucks me hard, slamming deep into my guts, knocking my bladder and awakening a need to urinate. He rams deeper and deeper, and then he shudders. I feel his body twitch as his cock spills white seed into my womb. And we lie there. His weight oppressive on my small frame, restricting my breathing and movement.

He gently kisses my lips and then pulls away. We lie in splayed silence for a while and then he says, “I must get you back, the hour is almost up.” I make to protest but seeing the steel in his eyes relent and sink back.

He drives me home in silence.

“Tomorrow we shall talk my darling.”

I watch him pull away. I unlock the door, drag myself inside and lean heavily against the solid comfort of wood. The clock chimes 8.