Myths and Metawhores

For the past twelve months this gentleman has been a wonderful part of my life. While silent on the page, he’s been here held safe in my words and vicariously appreciated by you. He wrote this for me and I’m delighted that he consented to having it published here. Thank you my darling for this and for all that you are to me.

Gentle readers may I introduce my Lictor and ‘The One and Future Kink’.

***

The Once and Future Kink.

It is still only mid morning, but the day is shaping up to be hot; already so hot that we are driving with all the car windows open, front and back. The roaring wind noise makes conversation difficult at all but the lowest speeds, but the cooling it brings, especially when we bore through a still yet unheated green tunnel in the trees, started as welcome but has become essential. At a junction, not just of roads but of valleys, we swing a decisive right. I take my foot off the accelerator and we freewheel down this wooded valley, with craggy peaks graphing this dramatic land’s highs and lows against the sky. A fairground switchback of bends, a lake, cottages; you crane your head from your open window to miss nothing. Trees and fields of late springs lush promise down at our level, then soaring up a at a neck wrenching angle, the vivid purple of the heather and the acid green of the bilberry strewn slopes are enhanced by the neutral greys of boulders and scree.

We swing into a drive past a lodge house; its windows attractively divided into diamond panes, the divisions meticulously picked out in a buttery cream. We chug sedately up the drive, Cheshire rail on one side, a stone wall, neat and recent on the other. Two hundred yards on, we draw up in the National Trust car park. Our dilapidated Volvo slots into a vacant space, and is now one of many. Doors creak open, and we both get out and survey the car park. The others gleam, but ours…it is the grey rocks and mountain colours in reverse. Shabby and distinctly pre-owned beside the metronomically parked and pristine siblings of the Trust’s clientele.

“You don’t think we’re lowering the tone?” you say, only half joking.
“ Patina” I insist, running a hand over the tired and faded paintwork.

I open the boot and extract the prepared and packed small day rucksack. After having to converse at the tops of our voices en route due to the wind and engine noise, the drop in the volume of the background noise makes all seem whisperingly quiet. Somewhere a stream trickles on the edge of audibility. A raven’s guttural croak carries faintly down from beyond the Scots pines which surround us. So now we are arrived, is it the drop in ambient noise or the serried ranks of Volvos that makes us almost exaggeratedly polite to each other? The question of who carries the sack degenerates affectionately into a small war of mock - obeisances, before I settle matters by firmly taking it from you and shouldering it, the delicacy of your shoulder and back deciding the matter. I lock the car, wondering if we need bother among so many tempting brethren. But finally we set off, gravel crunching underfoot cool at first, but when we leave the trees, the sun of only the second or third really hot day of that year focuses on us with a lenses intensity. But we don’t follow the drive to the big house – not for us the imperfect periscope to a manicured past and its blue rinsed acolytes which is the Trust experience.

With barely a sideways glance we take the left hand lane, scrunch past stables, a red phone box, then a walled garden, the wall newly and precisely lime pointed. The gravel walk ends here, then we have soft grass underfoot and the oppressive order and neatness begins to be left behind. We shrug gratefully into the unkempt countryside. I feel like cheering at a bedstead gate teetering at a crazy angle, and that it is weighted to close with some unidentifiable rusty cogwheel fragment is a gourmet touch at which I cannot suppress a grin of delight. We catch each other’s eye and laugh. You nod back towards the perfect ones. “Try too hard, don’t they?”

Then we are through the gate and following a tall and still substantially built wall, with a century’s thick moss clinging to it. This follows the angle formed between the flat valley floor and a steeply rising hillside, scrubbily wooded and craggy. And we follow this natural line too, as others have before us, for there is a well-defined path, cool and dappled. Clear morning light, green and gold, slices into the shade of trees we pass beneath. You are in front, and I follow you to better enjoy your otter smoothness, the archipelagos of sunlight which slide across back, arms, down to the denim and its taught promise. You don’t see this, but from time to time, quite unable to help myself, I stretch out fingers to trace those random islands outline in the green air between us.

It is maybe half a mile further before we hear the water, something between a chuckle and a roar. We hear it, but it is not until the path rounds a craggy projection do we see it. An arrangement of slabs, venerable and massive, span a mountain stream in a primitive but effective bridge. Just upstream is a deep green pool, fed by a waterfall easily as high as a house. You think we’ve arrived, as it fits in with the little I’ve told you –mountain stream, pool, clear water. But lovely as this pool and the stream feeding it is, this is not the perfection that is Merlin’s pool, and I have to stop you from eagerly kicking your shoes off by enfolding you from behind, whispering into the nape of your neck.
That it is further.
And higher.

I take your hand and lead you across the bridge. Once over, we leave the path and strike off up the hill through bracken and heather. It’s rough underfoot and the path is so slight as to be non-existent. There are many rocks, arranged with some vague purpose, as though at some point a wall was planned, but then abandoned. Scrubby birch and willow catches at our hair as we shoulder through. We emerge from the trees on a craggy promontory above the thicket and beside the stream. Below, now but faintly audible, it throws itself in a headlong plunge into the pool by the bridge. Upstream, it slips towards us over and under flat lichened stones, down a small and perfect hanging valley carpeted with heather and bilberry bushes. We stand and catch our breath, panting from the exertion. Our eyes slide together, meet, then a teetering moment as we ourselves slip inexorably towards our other purpose. Without a word, for no words are needed, I take a folding knife from my pocket. I open the small but effective saw blade, then hand it to you handle first, and nod towards the nearest birch tree. Your eyes slide again up to mine and hold my gaze as you take it. My words remembered. “We’ll cut a birch on the way there” Then, an afterthought, thrilling and ominous to you in equal measure, “Usual rules, my darling…”

High above a small bird peeps like radio interference, and the air seems no longer the empty void of our day-to-day insulation from the world and others. The climb here, or this moment, or impending events, or all of these have acted on it so that rather now it is some thin, focussing liquid, rendering all perception halucinatorily clear. Up to now we have been hikers, Swallows and Amazons, Livingston and Stanley, but now…now the base of your stomach convulses, melts, then drops away in chalky apprehension. Your mouth is drying, and your tongue feels thick and unfamiliar. But the day and the valley and the sunshine are so perfect and I can hear the words crystallising almost before you manage to control your tongue sufficiently to utter them.

“Can’t we just….”

But no, we can’t, my look says, because I know that at whatever level this is something you want and need too. And again, no words are needed.

A minute later you are cutting long fronds of twitchy birch while I look on in approval, giving an encouraging nod when you select a particularly worthy switch. And you are well aware of what a risky business this, as our modus operandi is that you cut and collect ten sprays of twiggy, sappy birch branches, of which I’ll choose the best. I could choose two or three, or I could choose eight or nine. But we both know each rejected frond is a lip gnawing, extra stroke for you, while each one not rejected contributes to a bigger and heavier rod. I think about the times you have protested – to no avail - at how unfair this is. I smile inwardly, and direct your attention to a particularly lean and whippy spray you have overlooked. And you thank me, and how could I doubt your sincerity? You don’t look at me as you cut the tenth, and your head is held high, determined not to betray your feelings. The target number reached; you, impassive, pale, return the knife to me. I bundle the twigs and secure them with the flap of the rucksack, then reshoulder it. Then turn and begin to pick my way upwards through the bracken.

A little higher the path crosses a tumbled slope. Below there is a sheer drop of thirty feet to the stream, so caution is needed - a bad fall if anything should go awry. I help you negotiate this, eyes averted from the drop, each hand clasped around the others wrist. A final scramble with fistfuls of heather as handholds and the last craggy ledge is easily reached.Then we follow the stream, stepping from stone to stone until, quite suddenly, we are there…

You are transfixed, speechless. I look sidelong at your face, enjoying your delight, for haven’t I imagined your face at this point so many times? A pool, perhaps fifteen feet across and seven feet deep is retained by a fortuitous quirk of geology, which has left a natural dam of harder rock. This is pierced by a narrow channel two feet deep and a foot wide, through which the entire stream pours with mesmeric intent. Towering above us on the far side is a vertical face of rock down which washes lacy trickles and green moss intermingled. Above us stretches heathery mountainside. Across the valley brilliant purple smudges of rhododendron blossom bleed from crags pierced by ruined copper mines and the ochre scree of the spoil tips.

“Oh” you say, as if hurt, breathtaken and suddenly shy. You turn to me, almost angry, tears glinting. “You didn’t say it was this beautiful….”

Your movements are slow in your reverie, so I’m the first to get my clothes off. Then I’m in the water near the exit cleft, you ask if its cold, but I’m diving and spluttering, and I don’t answer until I find the rock.

“Not bad…not bad at all” I’m distracted, trying to get a firm hold on the rock. It’s lighter underwater, of course, so its not too hard to lift it, but harder to slot it in so that it fits the cleft and fills it, restricting the exit flow. You’ve been watching puzzled; but when the rock rumbles into place I see understanding lighting up your eyes. I pull myself out. The pool hasn’t raised its level perceptibly yet, but the wedged stone will – eventually - mean another foot or two of depth. Deep enough to leap from the top of the waterfall, or dive safely from the sides. You are quiet and contemplative, sitting still in quiet wonderment, sleek and golden skinned beside a pile of clothes on the warm rock. From across the pool you could be the water sprite of this place; my golden girl a lithe echo of the past in the present, for this is undoubtedly a place both venerable and venerated, an old and sacred place, the water gate to the otherworld of the Celts. Quieter echoes of the old times still reverberate whispering in ours, the local tales of the fair folk, the many stories of Arthur. I sit beside you, dripping and whisper…in a crevice in that very crag across the valley a man from the village found the cave of the Sleeping Knights, and between us and it, that wooded hilltop is the site of the citadel, where Merlin, Myrddin, or Emrys as he was sometimes known, the great Welsh magus, unearthed the two dragons.

And did he come here?
So close, he must have.
And if he did, was his purpose ritual…or recreational?
Did he come swim here with smooth girls of the castle retinue? Perhaps whip them too? Stripe their bared skin for something between power and pleasure? Did he draw his energy from the sacred mirror otherworld of the pool; did he dive through to it? I point out the hill where the fort once stood, and we talk quietly of Merlin’s might-have-beens as the water rises.

You sprawl face up in a fleshy soft centred star on the hot living rock, the sun soaking in to you like spilt water into desert dust. I’m nearly dry now, and in the time we have been talking the water has risen a good few inches - I could of course make it rise faster by caulking the damwith bits of turf, but I have other intentions which would not be improved by speeding the waters rising. You sit up, curious to see what I’m doing. I scrabble about on the bank until I find a riverworn pebble. You see me scratch a line midway up the chockstone. I beckon, and when you come, fold my arms around your shoulders, and explain matter – of – factly to the nape of your neck that that it is the starting line.

“When the water has risen to that line”, I murmur, confidingly “You, my wayward and deserving nymph…you will begin to be spanked…”

I breathe into your neck, savouring your smell, the spun gold hairs, the arousal which I know this announcement has precipitated.
Drips fall from me to you, and you shiver.

“And how shall I spank you”? I am smiling but insistent “ and how shall I spank you? How do you deserve it? Tell me…Tell me now”

You swivel your head to whisper over your shoulder, eyes closed, teething your lip before the words leave. Eyes open wide, find and lock to mine. “I deserve it hard”; you say quietly, quietly and levelly and bravely. And consider, then again, now dreamy and rapt “Really so hard…”

“Hard it will be, my girl”, I confirm, then gather the hair at the nape of your neck and twist it in a hard and silken knot. “And” I gather you to me, then continue, in a whisper” when the water reaches the top…there…” and I gesture to the top of the makeshift dam.

“When the water runs over the top”, and I tug gently but firmly on the knot until your eyes swivel back and lock to mine.“Then I’m going to birch you, my darling. Correct my girl…whip her for her faults” The phrase is one of exquisite resonance to you, and you flinch but with a delicious relish.

I smile, for this in you delights me more than I can say.

Then I continue the catecism.” You have six strokes of punishment coming, don’t you?”
“Oh..h..h..” you exhale in woebegone fashion, for the birch is always punishment…at some level. You slide your eyes from mine, and examine and twist your fingers.

“Six strokes” You admit, then meet my eyes winningly, lip between teeth “…plus the extras…Sir…”

I quickly select and place the four best birch sprays in your hands, then delve in my pocket for the knife. You begin to cut and
remove the more untidy twigs not wanted in the finished article, at first with some distraction, then with more purpose. You will make the birch this time, we agreed. And you know that in this matter too, like your harvesting of the fronds, I require certain standards, for which I will exact a penalty if not met.

I settle back in a warm nook in the rock, and close my eyes to slits against the suns glare. I give sidelong glances to check your progress. At times you look a little awkward, and there’s a moment when all twigs escape your hand like a collapsing fan…still, eventually you cinch the ribbon tight, and all draws together. You present the rod to me in trepidation, eager and not eager for my opinion. But I am not consistently unfair, and this time give praise where it is due, pronouncing it excellent and complementing you on its neatness. You look both relieved and pleased, less so when I pick up the discards and count.

“Six, my dear. So you will be receiving…?”
“Twelve strokes, Sir”
“Louder, and don’t mumble”
“Twelve strokes Sir”
“Exactly…and now…shall we begin?

We are both naked, and the sliding of sun-warmed skin over sun-warmed skin as you span my thighs as I sit on the heated rock is pleasurable and beyond this when you then lower yourself into a comfortable position, secure over my lap - the feeling then is overwhelming, indescribable. It is like coming home and honey and longing and getting, all rolled into one. And if there is a little more wriggling and twisting than is strictly necessary as you settle yourself, then …so? I feel the fur of the brown mouse at your groin gritty-soft against my right thigh. I skim and circle your cheeks with my fingertips, sweep my palm edge with gentle, even pressure from behind your knees…up…up until my palm docks with and cups your nearest cheek. My fingers are dipping into your divide up to the knuckle, and I graze the tips across the pucker of your fundament making you convulse, then gape.

“Such a bad girl…and so immodest, to show yourself to me like this”
Your response is to convulse again, thrusting mound and mouse hard to my thigh.

“So very bad…very, very bad”, I whisper and begin to slap. The slaps are dry and quite quiet in the open air. The stream laps a quiet commentary and I spank with a measured laziness all over this white unblemished canvas, each a little harder than a pat, but not much.

A long minute with minimum of exertion on my part has you even rose -pink. I pause, then trace from the dimples in your lower back – God’s thumbprints – down the divide, until I reach the split juicing fruit that is your sex, slick and welcoming to my fingers. You raise a little, wayleave for a finger, two, and you are juicy fruit inside too, gripping and rough – slippery. My other hand slides over and presses its point at the other entrance. And yes, admission is gained there too. And, entrance gained, I rotate and toy with this new possession to some effect.

“I wriggle, twist and twiggle, like a crocodile” I sing gently, to your bafflement.
So you do.

Timeless and elastic minutes while I allow you your goodgirl reward for your conduct so far. Then hands have a more convoluted road to pleasure back on the agenda. I slap harder and with more weight now, and deliver upward slaps catching the jut of your cheeks. You squirm between the rhythm of the slaps. The moisture that runs down my leg is warm, and there is no question about its origin. I draw your attention to it.

“I’m sorry, Sir”, you murmur “but I can’t help myself. Please…Please punish me for it”
“I will. Oh, I will indeed.”

And I do. I slap harder now, displacing yielding flesh with each slap. You draw in breath sharply at some, and moan protestingly at others. I stop cupping my hand and slap you with fingers loose and open. You acknowledge the change in texture and increased discomfort with a grunt and a sharp exhalation. Minutes of this and you are vocally protesting.

“Then I’m getting through, am I”? I enquire, pausing.
“Yes you bloody well are”, and the reply is through gritted teeth.

I deliver six slaps, harder still, to each cheek in turn. The silence after the final one is punctuated by both our panting. Then I reach round with my left hand and grip and push your furthest cheek away, the divide not so much a divide now, more a declivity. A declivity I slap hard, surrounding and covering that tender, so secret and shaming place with stings and smarts. Your murmured protests are of outraged violation but so quietly and unconvincingly given that I’m not fooled for a minute. I slide you off my knee and you stand unsteadily, rubbing, at first, then exploring with fingertips and trying to see over your shoulder whether you’re as red as you are sore.

When you look up it is to see me retrieve a small tailed martinet from the daysack. I’m worried about your knees on the bare rock, so with slow and deliberate movements both our towels are spread on the flat rock, folded double to give some cushioning. And I haven’t even had to speak – some telepathy is in operation, and you have clambered on to the rock, and are kneeling, legs spread, facing away from me. You lower your upper torso to the towels, breasts deforming against the towelling, rear high and proud towards me. Curves intersect and sweep from one to other with infinite subtlety. A wriggle, a showy dip of the back – you enjoy my gazing at you - then you reach back, both your handsgrasp a cheek and you pull the widest exposure. And I flex and toy absently with the martinets tails between my fingers, quite entranced by the vista you present.

When I whip you, it is hard, fast and unstructured. I target the brown button you present for me with strokes that come in stinging flurries, deliberately arythymical. And it hurts, and you begin to weep, silently at first. I know because your shoulders shake, and your breath comes snagged and teetering.

“Six more” I murmur encouragingly. “Only six. And just look at the water”.

I pause while you take in what I am saying…all the same, seconds pass before I see your head turn and take in that the water now laps a bare half-inch below the top of the stone.

“See…nearly there. With a little recovery time in hand. So…tell me when you’re ready.”

You rise, you rub, I rub too, before my hand is taken and …placed. Fingers explore, and fingers become slippery and perfumed. The water has risen half the remaining distance, is millimetres from the top before you are composed enough offer a shaky and gulping

“Ready…please, not too hard.” and resume your position.

The strokes are firm, no nonsense, but not brutal, given at a stately pace After each I trail the tails between your legs, a so-slow advance from the gape at the junction of your spread thighs, up past and catching that tight and private knot, then ending at your tailbone, at which point the lashes are raised, to crack home a second later with purposeful effectiveness. The penultimate stroke has you dancing on the brink, tears imminent. I push you over with a stroke which lands low and hard, stinging the tops of your thighs.

“There’s something you must say, now, isn’t there”? I have you enfolded in my arms, and am speaking into hair, over shoulder and into strangely exultant sobs.

“Thank you…thank you for caring about me enough to discipline me. Sir.And Sir?”
“Yes, my darling?”

And she is sliding away, down my body. I feel her hair at my groin, and then fingers, teasing and skilful, encourage tumescence, growth, solidity. Then…then her verbal answer is just not a possibility for some minutes, by which time sobs have ceased.

So it is a little later when your diction is again clear, unmistakeable when you say “Sir? Do you think I’m ready to be…”, and you swallow, then continue more firmly “…to be whipped for my faults now?”

And I look, at you, at the rock. And the first few drops trickle and spatter over the chockstone into the warm, water worn channel… I estimate that you probably are, and pick up your birch by its black velvet handle and whisk it authoritatively through the air.

“Now, my girl…where shall we have you?”

You stretch across the flat rock, a tilted tabletop that might have been made for the purpose. With your dancers grace you extend your arms, hands, fingers, with a grace and arabesque that recall the oriental, the ceremonial. Then, decisively, you grip the far edge. You separate your ankles wide, move feet on the stones until stability is found, then tilt up your backside, until it is offered raised and high, and quite ready for the rodding it is about to receive. I pick up your creation – it is a darling birch, carefully made, and a truly Victorian example of structure following function. Then, I extend arm and birch until I can touch flesh with those twig tips, the rod a tangent to those expectant curves.I only have to wait a moment.

“Whip me for my faults, Sir. Twelve strokes, Sir, but please give me more if you think it will benefit me”.
“Thank you, my dear. I will”.

And the twigs are raised then descend in their swishy arc, spattering red dots and wine clear pain as the tangent is reached and passed. Your “Oh” is surprise and, yes, delight too. Then you collect yourselfand intone “One”.

There is an inimitable streaky and speckled quality to the blush imparted by the birch. A unique roughness under the hand as well, with which I reacquaint myself. Then the rod is raised again and delivers its implacable, impeccable message. You gasp this time, as there is a cumulative quality to a birching, of which the exponents of previous generations were well aware. Nevertheless, your “Two” is even and controlled. I aim the third visitation at the top of your thighs, already caught and sore. Your “Three” is, as was my intention, distinctly less composed. You are able to hold composure at this plateau for four and five, too, but “Six” is delivered in a panicky gulp, and I sense a need for respite. I slide hands and fingers over the twiggy roughness and heat, cupping each tender orb comfortingly. You settle back on the rock, and push against my hands, particularly when my fingertips delineate the
division between scored sore cheeks.

“Six more” I remind you gently. Your hand appears, searches for and takes mine, delivers it to kissing lips, sliding tongue, enveloping mouth. Fingers taken one by one and given a treat. The minutes slide by like the glassy water, until you are calm, and I am in your thrall. Then with a final sigh and a kiss to each tip my hand is relinquished. You ask sweetly and meekly for the last six to be laid on hard. I kiss each offered orb reverently, and part them to kiss the privacy hidden in their divide, once, twice, thrice, before replying that I will indeed.
And I do.

And it takes you quite to the brink, and when I deliver strokes five and six in unexpected and conflagratory rapid succession, you sob your release, are quickly enfolded weeping happily in my arms, your breasts squashed against my chest, my hands stroking down your back - spine, thumbprints, tailbone, and the swell of the two hillocks, streaked, dotted and hot to the touch. When the last sob has shaken itself loose I stroke your hair, kiss your eyelids. Then, telepathic again, we leap together, hand in hand, in an inelegant bum first bomb dive into the living glass of the pool. It is cold, but not too cold. We swim circles, play catch, dive and duck each other, children again. When I pull you to me and you lock your legs round my hips, I reach down with both hands to cup your buttocks andfeel your stripes; you close your eyes, and grind moss against my awakening interest. And I can’t decide whether I should spank you some more for your forwardness or kiss you for it.
And I still can’t