Saturday, 24 September 2011

Bound to please ...

All around me is quiet.

I have been told to stay still.

I am kneeling. My eyes blinded by the soft purple silk. My body is naked except for the collar. I am not sure how long I have been waiting. In my darkness I cannot judge the passage of time. My other senses are heightened, I feel the slight change of temperature on my skin that signals that the door has opened before I hear the soft creak of the boards. He is moving slowly towards me. My heart beat quickens in anticipation. I do not know yet what He has planned for me, how He will stretch or test me. I can only wait...

He is close by now. I can feel the heat radiating from His body: hear His breathing. That heavy breathing that I love to hear. It brings a smile to my face, knowing that in His mind He has this evening planned; He is following a script that I am not a party too, although my role, my reactions, will be central to the play.

I become aware of a smell. He is standing in front of me. He has raised something to my nostrils. I inhale deeply...

Jute rope.

I do not have to see it. I know the smell, and my body will recognise that coarse texture soon enough. I have some clue as to where tonight is headed. The variations though are endless... my mind races, tearing snippets from my memories, the good and the bad, the pain and the pleasure. I know that I am growing wetter before He has even touched me. The ropes are Him. He is the ropes. The ropes are US. A shiver of anticipation runs down my spine.

His hands are on my arms, pulling them behind my back; crossing them so that my hands are against opposite elbows: He starts to weave.

I imagine the lines of rope as He binds my body. Each strand loving caressed into place, twisted, tightened and laid perfectly against the one before. I visualise the harness that He is creating around my torso, perfectly presenting my breasts so that they jut out provocatively. He deftly threads the rope, pulling a section vertically across the horizontal bands: a sharp tug and all the slack is removed, making me aware of the constriction that the jute is causing. The bonds are tight tonight.

His lips brush my ear, "You look beautiful" He breathes. I am grinning, ridiculously happy, all I want is to please Him.

My eyes are closed under the blinfold, but I know He is smiling. I visualise Him. I know He will be naked too. I know His cock will be proud and erect. I run my tongue over my lips, the memory of His flesh exciting my taste buds.

He continues to bind. The coarse rope is between my legs, the knots placed perfectly so that they are pressing on my sensitive bud. I sway my hips, feeling the delicious pressure.

A stinging slap bursts over my right buttock. "Did I tell you to move?"  His voice is gruff. I have forgotten myself for a moment, revelling in the pleasures of the ropes. Instantly I still my movements, bowing my head I tell Him that I am sorry.

I concentrate on keeping still. I am finding it so very difficult. From His heavy breathing I can hear how excited He is becoming. I want to move, to squirm, to show Him how much I love the ropes. All I can do is clench my muscles tightly, breathe slowly, try to relax. It heightens my submissiveness. Heightens every sensation; I cannot contain the arousal: moisure leaks on to my inner thighs.

He is binding my legs now, ankles to thighs. The weaver continues His art. With each twist, flick and pull of the rope He binds me closer to Him, binds us closer together. I cannot move now. He runs His hands over the ridges of the ropes. Runs them over the provocatively displayed flesh. The lightest of touches that sends shivers through my body. He tweaks my nipples. Pulls them, twists them till I bite my lip. He changes my position, turns me slowly onto my stomach, the rope between my legs tightens and reawakens my desires.

He moves away from me. Leaves me. I am sure He is still in the room watching me, I strain to hear the telltale sound of His breathing. I am alert: aware. I am His. I am open and displayed for Him. Living art for Him to feast His eyes upon. The control is His. Only He will decide what will happen next. In heightened sexual anticipation His toy waits...

Velvet <3

Wednesday, 13 July 2011

In His hands

They are His hands.
I have no control over them or what they do, nor would I want to.

They are His hands.
He has held me with them, touching, caressing and hugging me with them, from the moment he came through the door.
He has gently steered me with them, guiding me to my knees, positioning my own hands, my body, my mouth for His enjoyment.
He has held the glass with them, pouring wine from the bottle I chilled, placing the rim to my lips, controlling the liquid seeping into my eager mouth.

They are His hands.
He has taken me over His knee and warmed my flesh with them. The gentle rhythm of his slaps setting the bouncing orbs of my bottom aglow.
He has inflamed my desires with them, as well as my impertinent cheeks.
He has asserted His dominance with them, over my body and over my mind.

They are His hands
He has tied the blindfold with them. The purple silk blocking my view of the world, heightening my senses.
He has poured the luscious oil with them, soothing, stroking, massaging, till my body shines.
He has relaxed me with them, till I am drifting, floating: all else melting away to nothing.

They are His hands.
He has unzipped his black travelling bag with them, and carefully chosen an implement from amongst His sex toys in its hidden realms.
He has stroked me again with them, maintaining my dreamy state, so happy and relaxed I barely wonder what the item of His choice will be.
He has worked His magic with them, and I am under His spell.

They are His hands.
He has been moving towards this moment. His mind already had this journey planned, trustingly I follow the guidance of them still.
He has carefully adjusted the speed with them, my senses heightened, I hear the buzzing before I feel the touch.
He has placed the tip against my mound with them, and now it is his latest toy that sends sensations through my body.

They are His hands
He has me writhing in ecstasy with them, so much so that He has to lie across my body, pinning me down, restricting my movement to a minimum.
He is skillful with them, His iron grip holding me firm so that He finds the exact spot that He seeks.
He is persistent with them, never satisfied with the first orgasm He takes me beyond, until my whole body is on fire for Him, my mind consumed by the convulsions of my body.

They are His hands
He plays my body with them, He is the conductor, His baton the g-spot vibrator that He wields in His hands.
He plays my body again with them, my moans, my thrashing limbs, my tears reaching a crescendo at His command.
He stills them, a brief pause: the rest beats as much a part of the composition, the silence holding as much tension as the melody.
He moves them again, draining every last drop of moisture from my intimate places, every last shudder from my exhausted body.

They are His hands
He traces the dryness of my lips with them, strokes my trembling flesh with them, slowly, gently, he enfolds me in His arms with them, and we are one.

Our journey is always in His hands.
It is His hands, and what He holds within them, that make me come alive.

Velvet  <3

Saturday, 2 July 2011

I want to scream!

It's not that I haven't seen Him, it's not that He hasn't trained and disciplined me. It's not that He hasn't complimented me on how well I am progressing nor that He hasn't taken me over His knee and spanked me ... hard. It's not that He hasn't bound me with His ropes, pulled tight so that the marks fade slowly over the coming day. It's not that He hasn't clamped my nipples and my labia ... so hard that I almost orgasm on the spot.

It's not that He hasn't used me, played with me, toyed with me, exploring and owning every part of my body. It's not that He hasn't brought me to orgasm or that He hasn't held me in His iron clasp and made me cum again and again until exhausted and drained I collapse against Him. It's not that I haven't had the chance to sit at His feet and rest my head against His knee until He wishes me to serve Him again.

I have had all that... and more... and delighted in every second of it. I love Him deeply. I have sought in vain for a word to describe the way I feel more strongly: 'love' does not seem to touch the breadth and scale of how I feel. It is too small a word, just one sylable to describe emotions that are impossible to contain within my body; that spill over and shine out through my eyes and face: a radiance that even a passerby cannot fail to notice.... and yet I have a deep craving for more...

It has been promised in the past and I know it is to come, but I need it now! My body, my very being, is pent up and needs the cathartic release. I feel out of sorts with the world. I need to dance and writhe for Him, I need to scream and cry and sob for Him, I need to be in that place where pain and pleasure explode together and nothing else exists. I need His whips and canes and flogger...

For now the screams are silent in my head. He will decide. It will be when the time, the place, the state of mind are right for Him. I trust Him. He knows me better than I know myself, when it is right for Him, then it will be right for me too... I know that: I tell myself a hundred times a day, but right now... I JUST WANT TO SCREAM!

Velvet <3

Sunday, 19 June 2011

I am hooked

He fixes the blindfold over my eyes. It is the one I bought for Him, for Us, of beautiful purple silk. It does not block my sight completely, if I look down I see a thin sliver of light and the glimpse of my naked body. I close my eyes tight. He does not want me to see and therefore I will shut out this little slice of my world that I am not supposed to see...

Now all is darkness. My senses heightened, I listen for His breathing, knowing I can tell His arousal from what I hear. Gently He strokes the ropes against my naked body and I shiver with the anticipation of what is to come. Swiftly He gathers my forearms and secures them together behind my back. He binds and twists and tightens, positioning them so that my back arches a little, thrusting my breasts upwards towards Him and my bottom out at the rear.

He asks me to open my mouth. At first I am not sure what He has placed between my lips, but He tells me it is His leather cock ring. I am to hold it. I must not drop it. I must hold it there until such time as He needs it. It adds another dimension to my immobility. My teeth slightly apart it is difficult to talk, difficult to swallow the moisture that pools in my mouth. I hug the strap with my teeth, determined not to fail Him.

My breasts are next for His attention. He takes each strand of rope and carefully lays it beside it's brother. He pulls and smooths and straightens and I am slowly cocooned inside a tightly woven jacket: tits provocatively jutting through the only gap. I feel His hands running over the ropes. They find my breasts, fondle and caress them. He breathes into my ear, telling me how beautiful I am, how superbly my breasts are presented.  His hands never stop moving, roaming, exploring; my own hands remain bound and still, powerless to resist.

He takes His longest, blackest rope, I feel the softness of it as He slides it around my waist and secures it with the first tug and twist. Slowly, deftly He begins to lace, from the left, around my back; a twist, a loop and back from right to left. Steadily He weaves; shaping and moulding my body until my waist is encased in an intricately laced corset. He runs His hands over the patterns He has made and traces the contours of the ropes against my flesh. I shiver again; chills cascading through my body at the soft touch of His fingers.

He presses my body forward and I feel the coldness of the lube on His fingers gently probing my anal star. My heart skips a beat as I realise what is to come. Leaning forwards, my mind not on my mouth, I am suddenly aware of the drool which is escaping. Before I have time to act, the cold steel penetrates me. It is a new sensation, the hook is a new toy, but he deftly inserts it deep inside me before pulling the bar of it up between my hands and my back and securing it to the ropes already in place.

Before I have time to consider my reactions to this new sensation His hands are on my breasts, sliding gently towards the nipples, I gasp as suddenly the pressure changes, squeezing and compressing the sensitive buds. Pleased with my response, He extracts something from His bag and moments later my left nipple is tightly held. He has other tasks in mind for His hands, both nipples will be left with an understudy: the unrelenting grip of tight, black clothes pegs.

He is not finished yet. I feel another of His toys pressing deep inside. He squeezes the pump in His hand and it begins to inflate. I shuffle my feet further apart, trying to accommodate more easily this new sensation. Every part of my body feels pressed and squeezed and so much His. My mind is overwhelmed as the sensations grow; I relax and give myself over to the emotions as they build, the ache between my legs begging for release. I sway and He steadies me with His hand. I am no longer here. There are only feelings, beautiful sensual feelings.

From far away I hear the buzzing sound. It is such a small toy, innocuous when you see it or hold it in your hand. He touches it to the ropes and the vibrations travel around my body. He teases and torments my body and my mind. Each touch just enough to bring me to the brink, but never quite over. I moan from the pleasure: from the pent up desires: from the delicious frustration. I know that I am His to toy with. I am here for His pleasure alone. He alone will decide whether or not I have my pleasure tonight.

He shifts the tiny head of the vibe to my sensitive button. I am so close, so ready that it is only seconds before my whole body is shuddering, my eyes rolling behind the blindfold, my breath escaping in gasps. He pauses: deflates the inner toy and removes it. He continues. My body responds to His touch, His fingers, again and again. He takes me further and further, each orgasm more powerful than the last. His arm around my hips steadies me, I am barely able to stand. He drains the pleasure from my body until my mind begins to scream.

I am close to using my safe word, close to tears, when He gathers me into His arms. He takes the strap from my teeth and kisses my mouth with a violent passion. His hand reaches to release the pegs. Lips sealed over mine He sucks my silent scream into His mouth. Then He holds me, just holds me as I slowly descend.

My hands are released, my eyes uncovered, but the corset remains. Gently, wordlessly He guides me to the bed. This time the pleasure will be all His.

Saturday, 4 June 2011

Who holds your mirror?

It was just in the background, a song chosen to reflect the mood of the piece that was being delivered in a TV programme; but I heard it: heard every word: and once more was smitten.

'You know that she's half crazy, but that's why you want to be there...'
Is it me or is it Him who is half crazy? Crazy as in non-conformist: crazy as in passionate: crazy as in intensely enthusiastic, but this is not just a craze, this is who we are and there is no half about it... and I know we both want to be here.

'She gets you on her wavelength and she lets the river answer that you've always been her lover...'
It is so beautiful to be on that wavelength: to have that connection, that river of emotions both physical and psychological that let me know that this is it: that part of me that was always there: the underground spring that has finally burst through to the surface. We have always been lovers, always been together, I just didn't know that until now.

'And you want to travel with her, and you want to travel blind...'
Is there a more delicious way to travel? He takes the reins, the helm; He navigates and steers our erotic path. I would not wish to know the route. Being blind is a balm, the antidote to busy life.  I embrace His guidance, relinquish control and find release. Willingly I surrender to the mystery of the unknown as we journey on together.

'And you know that she will trust you, for you've touched her perfect body with your mind...'
The most beautiful, sensual and erotic organ in the body: the mind. It is because He has touched me here, that I can trust: though trust that I am able to acquiesce so deeply: through submission that I find freedom; and what freedom! Touch me again, most delicious of lovers: hold me, mould me, chain me, bind me and my cup will over flow.

'... and they will lean that why forever, while Suzanne holds the mirror...'
When He holds the mirror, the light shines and there are no shadows. He tilts it again and a thousand sunbeams dance. There is no darkness: only blessed radiance. There is no pain: only delicious pleasures. There is no deviance: only the highest peaks of erotic love... while He holds the mirror.

Velvet <3

Wednesday, 1 June 2011

Mid-week Mischief ... Cruise control

The wine, the meal, the chat, the inuendo, the laughter, the eroticism of a certain remote control device ...

It all meant that by the time we got back to the car I just couldn't help but show how much I wanted You ...

As we drove, holding hands just wasn't enough...

I'm just thankful for straight roads and cruise control...

Velvet <3

Sunday, 29 May 2011

Drinking Wine

The shivers run down my spine as I read the text. Just the briefest of details: no clothing, just the flimsiest of silky robes: no underwear, just stockings: no heels. Collar and all cuffs to be in place. Mouth and cunt wet, inviting and ready for use.

I love to get His texts, they never fail to arouse and excite me. There is something so erotic in being told exactly how He wants me to present myself. I am always left with some element of choice: some decision to make, but He owns the vision of how I will be.

Carefully I make my choice of stockings and robe. Although He hasn't mentioned them, I clip the silver nipple shields into place; they are a given: a long standing order: I wear them whenever I am with Him. I turn my attention to my hair. It has grown quite long now and if He is going to use my mouth I will need to tie it back. I briefly contemplate pig-tails, a look which He adores, but too cheeky and impish for tonight I think, and so I opt for a simple ponytail.

I examine myself critically in the mirror: and swap the robe for another. It is longer, but pure silk and I like the way it follows the soft contours of my body; exaggerating the peaks of my nipples as they stand proudly presented for my Dom. For a final touch I cut a short length from the purple ribbon that is in my drawer and tie it around the ponytail-band. I am ready.

I hear His car pull into the driveway and am at the door before He has time to press the bell. I love the way His face lights up when He sees me. I love the feel of the heat of His hands through the flimsy silk, stroking my silhouette as He drinks in the sight of me with all His senses.

He steers me through the open doorway, into the room that I have made ready with glasses and wine; and then I am on my knees before Him.

He has trained my mouth well: now like a conductor, he orchestrates my mouth, lips and tongue with gestures, movements and only the minimum of words. Before we met my mouth had been used little and I tired easily. Although I do not yet know it, tonight he will make use of my mouth for a full 90 minutes and still I will have more to give.

He is drinking the wine as He stands before me; occasionally I am allowed a sample: He dips His engorged cock into the glass and I lap and suck the liquid off His member, catching the dribbling liquid with my tongue. Too soon He is too erect to perform this manoeuvre again and instead He tips the cool wine into my mouth before following it with His manhood.

I must use all the tools I have at my disposal to please Him. On rare occasions I may use my hands but it is not such an occasion tonight. Tongue, lips, mouth and throat: He owns them: He owns me; and like any good owner, He knows that when He pushes me, when He stretches and challenges me, I will try harder. At the moment I feel I have to stop, have to breathe, His hand holds my position, and as always, He is right and I give a little more.

He changes position and I find that sweet spot below His balls. I lick and suck and feeling the involuntary thrust of His hips, smile secretly, knowing that I have pleased my Master well. Despite His pleasure He remains, as always, in control: of me and of Himself. There is no ultimate gift in my mouth tonight.

The wine is almost empty. My robe lies discarded where it fell. He crooks a finger through a ring on my collar and pulls me to my feet. Slowly, softly, He leads me up the stairs to bed.

Velvet <3

Wednesday, 25 May 2011

Mid-week Mischief ... Month of May

A colleague informed me that it is Rabbit Awareness Week.

I felt it my duty to remind her that is is also Masturbation Month.

I am not responsible if others make connections between these two...

And as for M: he just loves me being His rope-bunny.

Velvet <3

Saturday, 21 May 2011

His shirt

He didn't mean to, but he left His shirt behind. I found it in the morning when I rose, adorning one of the bed knobs. I held it to my face, inhaling the lingering scent, a smile radiating across my face. I always seek out the faint traces that he leaves in His departing wake: the warm dip in the pillow: the glass that His lips so recently touched: the towel that wrapped His body after the shower. A shirt is treasure indeed, and I hug it to me until at last I too must leave the house.

It's there when I return. In the evening I slide into it, revelling in having Him wrapped around me. Held once more in His embrace I relax and smile. My mind wanders to the memories of the night before and I am happy.

I am never happier than when I am His: never happier than when I freely submit to Him and willingly serve Him. The moments of the evening fade in my mind, what remain are the deep emotions. I inhale deeply and close my eyes. I feel Him still in my mouth: taste Him on my tongue, I crave Him deeply. In my mind I am kneeling before Him once more. He is using my mouth, owning every part of me and every part of me wants to be His and to worship Him.

My heart swells in my chest, my body is no longer able to contain the emotions. Even as I smile I feel the silent tears making rivulets down my cheeks. I hug His shirt around me closer, sinking deeper into His loving embrace; sinking deeper into my bittersweet dreams.

I feel the bonds around my arms, the burning sear of the crop across my cheeks, the unrelenting bite of the clamps on my nipples, the tightening of the leather at my throat; and through it all the aching passion burning between my legs. My body will tell Him no lies: just lying here with my dreams it does not lie. Though I crave release, I do not touch. My body is His property and not my own.

I pull His shirt up over my face, smothering myself in the last of His lingering scent. Less than a day and I already miss Him so deeply. In my dreams I call to Him: "Come back soon. Own me again and make me come alive." And together we sink down into bittersweet dreams.

Velvet <3

Wednesday, 11 May 2011

Common Courtesy

He is testing me.

Usually I grasp the ornate metal bars that decorate the foot of the bedstead; the cold metal reassuringly solid and unyielding as I hug it to me. I know that the frame will help me. It will hold me steady as the strokes fall, checking the momentum of my body as the chosen implement finds its target. This inanimate object has been my companion for a while now; my fingers find the familiar chips in the paint, souvenirs from the clash of buckles, clips and chains. Positions and restraints may change but we remain a resolute pair; stoically facing the next chapter of our story in one another's embrace.

Tonight is different.

He is quite clear in His directions. There will be NO bedstead to support me tonight. He is wise to my wiles. He wishes to test me alone without my companion. He wishes to see whether His girl is able to absorb the impact of His toys alone. Will she be able to remain not only still but balanced as the cane finds its mark? He explains carefully what is required. From my position on my knees I listen attentively, I have already failed Him, I dare not risk doing so again.

I am ordered to my room.

He has sent me ahead. I am to be in position and ready when He enters the room. I am to remove all clothing except the nipple shields, collar and stockings. The stockings are one of my favourite pairs: fishnets with PVC tops and laces, chosen for the detail that is only visible from the rear. Quickly I make last minute adjustments then assume the required position. Feet hip width apart, I bend and place my hands on my knees.

I wait.

I do not know for how long I wait. I know it is enough to have my heart beating in anticipation: enough to build pictures in my mind: enough to feel the moisture grow between my legs. Then He is there. Close. He takes my right hand and fastens a leather cuff firmly around it. The second follows soon afterwards. Further directions are issued: I am to clasp my hands behind my knees. The cuffs will not be locked in place to begin with. He will test my resoluteness and my balance. If I move my hands then the cuffs will be locked together until such time as I am able to control myself.

Punishment commences.

Today I am offered no choice of the implement of delivery; my corrector is long and firm and black. The number assigned is twelve. He considers it a well rounded number suited to a well rounded backside. He weighs the feel of the weight and length of the cane in His hand, flicking the tip lightly over my proffered posterior, sensitizing my rear and spreading a flush across my cheeks. The first stroke flies from His hand and bites hard into my flesh. The first is always the hardest to bear, not yet deeply grounded I fight to maintain my position, biting my lip and willing my hands to stay obediently clasped behind my knees.

The perfectionist.

He is careful in the placing of each stoke, the backhand stokes to the left cheek each finding a perfect partner in forehand strokes to the right. They are carefully ranged over the target area from the upper thighs to the fleshy globes. Each stroke must be clearly defined, if not, it is superseded by a better example. It is the strokes to the thighs that test me the most. My muscles scream as I will myself not to move. I do not wish to explore the consequences of doing so. Instead I grasp my wrists more firmly, hugging myself, taking strength from my own embrace.

I am counting.

My mind keeps count, but in reverse, counting down the strokes, each number more friendly than the last, they diminish not escalate. I am confident that I will past the test. Each burning stroke is one less to be endured: one stroke closer to the end: one stroke closer to having pleased Master: one stroke closer to His embrace. I am so absorbed in the counting, so ridiculously pleased with myself at not having moved, so chuffed that I have met the challenge set by Him ... that I forget...


"Did you forget something?" ... That heart leaping moment when I realise what I have done... or rather what I HAVEN'T done. It wasn't my hands that let me down, nor yet my tender derriere. My mouth has failed me, my manners, my common courtesy. Shame faced I mumble an apology, too late I offer Him my thanks. It is too late; I know it but I try. He turns the question round to me: What should He do? What way should His erring sub be corrected? With dry mouth and sinking heart I give the only answer that I know will be accepted...

... and the strokes begin again...

Velvet  <3

Sunday, 1 May 2011


The brightest sun,
       I bask in the light, in the warmth, in the glory of its radiance.

The brightest sun,
       I bow before its heat, its brilliance, its searing power.

The brightest sun,
       I hide my eyes from its glare, its blaze, its fearfulness.

And where the brightest sun shines, the darkest shadows fall,
        I thought I knew the shadows.
        I have been here before, we share a history.
I stumble, my footsteps falter, my eyes wide open I gaze blindly around,
       Darkness surrounds me, engulfs wraps me in its suffocating numbness...

Light and darkness,
          Love and pain.
                   It will always be that way.

Velvet <3

Sunday, 24 April 2011

Come to the Edge...

I am afraid. Excited, intoxicated, adrenalin pumping through my body, but nevertheless... I am afraid. We have not known each other long. Distance and circumstance keep our meetings limited, His playroom all too often lying fallow as we snatch an evening at a motel that cuts our journey time. But today we have engineered an open ended block of time. Today He has collected me from the station and brought me to His lair. Today He has already tormented me with pleasures that have made me gasp: tied and twisted the body I have given to Him: yet still He leads me closer to the edge.

Blindfold He leads me forwards. I falter, stumbling a little, uncertainty combining with the rush of blood returning to feet that have been kneeling. The cuffs are already on my ankles and my wrists, the collar firmly round my neck from moments after we entered His house. He halts me, raises my arm and deftly locks the clip in place. His hand guides my fingers to the wooden bar, gratefully I grasp it as I feel Him pull my other arm upwards. Upwards and out. He spreads my body, arms stretched wide, I know the same fate awaits my legs.

He positions my body for best advantage. Legs further back so that my back arches and my posterior thrusts towards Him. I final humiliating twist, He places the pony bit gag in my mouth and fastens it tightly. I am new to this device. I still fight against the saliva that fills my mouth, I have not yet learnt how much He loves to see His toy drool, I have not yet accepted totally that I am His, not yet learnt to love whatever gives Him pleasure. For now I fight the moisture in my mouth, tipping my head back to swallow it as best I can.

He strokes my body and I tingle at His touch. My nerves are tightly coiled: senses heightened by my loss of sight, I strain to add pictures to the scene that I can only feel and hear. The softest touch of leather brushes my skin, as velvet soft as my name it caresses my open body. Goosebumps flush across my body both with delight and with fearful anticipation; this is not my first introduction to the deerskin flogger, and a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. Master's floggers are not lone implements, they live on His shelf in families...

I hear the swish, I feel the deerskin, the first falls are on my provocative cheeks. They are light, repetitive, a rhythm that warms my flesh to a delicate blush. I smile softly as I feel the dampness grow between my legs, my body unable to lie about the affect this has on me. He switches attention to my shoulders. At first I tense. My back and shoulders are unused to discipline, they were virgin territory for Master's tools and in these early days are still sensitive. I swallow down the mild panic I feel, breathing deeply to calm my knotting stomach.

Steadily it grows. It is not the force but the repetition that slowly builds. Each kiss of the falls adding its rosy glow to the blush of those beneath. The minutes grow. Pink turns to red. I press my face against the polished wood of the door, my mind fighting my body to remain in position. He pauses. I breathe and shift position, hoping against hope that we are finished. 

What foolish thoughts. I hear the swish almost at the same time as I feel the bite. A senior member of the flogger family has come out to make me dance. The heavy thud sends my shoulders flat against the door. Steadily the licks find the raw flesh of my body. The tails curl around my lithe body as, despite my bonds, I twist: no longer listening to my mind's warnings to stay still. My breasts pay the price for my movement. His voice by my ear commands me calmly to be still. He pauses, repositions my feet, my hips, makes sure I am suitably presented once more before He proceeds.

The warm up is over. The speed and severity increase. I grasp the bar tightly with my hands. My body presses hard against the door, fighting to get away from the leather that rains down on me. He pauses again. As I return automatically to a position of presentation I feel His hand on me, in me. His fingers test and probe me, then He brings them to my mouth, smearing my flowing juices on the the lips of my gagged mouth. 

He begins again. The intensity notches up once more. This time He does not stop. My moans turn into groans. My knees buckle and tears leak from beneath the blindfold. My breaking voice falters past the gag pleading for Him to stop. His voice, controlled and measured informs me that He will take me just a little further. His belief strengthens me: I trust Him totally, I will not fail Him.
The speed quickens and finally I let go of everything. The endorphins rush through me and release me from my bonds. Sensation is everything: there is no world, no pain, no limit, there are only soaring heights and ecstasy. He has invited me to the edge, gently pushed me over, and together we have flown.

I sob, exhausted against the door. He holds me close as He releases the clips. Gently He guides me to His bed. He enfolds me in His arms, softly caressing me He whispers beautiful soothing words into my hair. Consumed by love, I melt into His body. There is no Him, the is no me, there is only US.

'Come to the edge', He said.
        She said, 'I am afraid'.
'Come to the edge', He said.
        She came.
He pushed her...
       And she flew. 
                               - Guillaume Apollinaire
Velvet <3

Monday, 18 April 2011

An Old Fashioned Lesson in Obedience

I knew it was coming. I had been on such a high that I had become reckless and cheeky. The imp was certainly to the fore, and I let her get up to her usual mischief unchecked. My texts were peppered with provocations, my claims of being 'good' stretched the meaning of the word to breaking point. I was steering along a perilous path and revelling in the sensual thrill the danger evoked. I had no thoughts of others, I thought only of myself and the giddy heights of my emotions that were so intoxicating.

I knew that there would be consequences. Somehow I had managed to convince myself that these would be way off in the future. Somehow I convinced myself that in some small way I would be able to control the delivery of the punishment, and certainly I had convinced myself that the chastisement would be purely physical and easily accommodated by my bottom.

That was before the announcement of the safe arrival by post of His latest consignment. A set of canes. A SET of canes, A SET of CANES !! Why would anyone need a set? Were the three He already possessed not already sufficient? What qualities could possibly be lacking in the ones He already had to require the acquisition of a further set of four? The only glimmer of hope I could see was that He might want to keep these new arrivals for a special play session...a distant session way off in the future...

Any thoughts of a delay in getting acquainted with these implements was dispersed by His text mid afternoon which stated clearly a desire to see my bottom 'framed by the bloomers'. I know full well there is a direct correlation between bloomers and cane. Somehow the old fashioned garments are only truly done justice to if the punishment is a good old fashioned rod applied to the proffered derriere. There was to be no delay then in breaking in these novice implements.

Two further texts:
The collar to be in place when He arrived.
I was to give serious contemplation to my behaviour.

My knees a little weak, I prepared for His arrival. He generally states only an impression in His text of how His sub is required to dress. The rest is left up to my interpretation, and I am always a little anxious as to whether I have read His mood correctly, or whether my attire will be a disappointment. Bloomers and collar: but did He have in mind over garments that He could peel away, or just underwear? It's a dilemma. I will be expected to make up my own mind, I just hope that the result is pleasing to Him...

He is just a few minutes late, the traffic our foe once more. I open the door for Him and know at once by the way He looks at me that I have made the right choice. Black lace up boots, thick black stockings, white calf length bloomers. white shift, black corset pulling my waist in tight: pressing my breasts up and swelling my sex down below, neck encircled by the black leather of His ownership. He drinks His sub in with His eyes. I know I have done well and I swell with pride that I have pleased Him. Slowly He makes me turn. I have tucked up the ludicrously indecent rear of the bloomers for now. For now they cover the round globes of my bottom. Separating the white cotton halves to reveal the flesh beneath will be part of His pleasure later.

There is little preamble tonight. He asks what I have to tell Him. My insides squirm, the words which flow so easily in my mind falter at my lips. The more He speaks, the more I cringe at the stupidity of my actions, the more He questions, the more it dawns on me that I have let Him down. I love Him and yet I have been deceitful in my actions. He has shown nothing but patience with me and yet my childish mood and actions have abused His belief in me. Trust- so central to my submission to Him, and yet I have not delivered the same to Him. I am ashamed.

He is right to take me over His knee and deliver a severe warming to my rear. He separates the cotton of my drawers and exposes the flesh of my behind. We do not keep a tally, this is just the warm up, the serious punishment will come in due course. I am mindful to keep as still as possible: no stray hands: no lifted feet, I listen carefully for instructions and obey instantly. Legs further apart! I am quick to respond and bite my lip as His fingers test His property for wetness.

I release the breathe that I did not know I was holding. He is satisfied. He allows me to kneel before Him and thank Him properly for His attention. I take Him into my mouth, eager to please, eager to make amends. He rests back in His chair, He will keep me on my knees for sometime as He relaxes into the pleasures that I stimulate for Him. It may be minutes, maybe an hour, He will decide when my punishment will continue. The punishment will come: He will not be hurried, He will make me wait: make me serve: make me think: make me feel: make me give everything. When I am fully His again, that is when the punishment will come.

I am focused only on Him, my eyes cast downwards. He rummages in the bag to His side, still seated, one hand resting on my head to ensure I maintain focus on the depth of my task. I can guess what He has in His hands. He has brought three, not the full set tonight. He plays a little, flicking them across my rump, sending me nuzzling deeper into His groin. At last He releases me from my task, pressing me to sit back on my heels He proudly introduces me to His new toys letting me feel the weight and flexibility of each. Finally He offers the choice to me. Of the three, which do I choose for my punishment tonight?

My mind is calm. I am dressed in white and black, it seems fitting to choose the one attired in the same colours. I tell Him of my choice. I cannot tell if He is pleased or not, but He accepts my choice. His next instruction is merely to proceed upstairs and present myself for punishment appropriately.

I stand before the brass bedstead. I bend at the waist, my arms resting on the metal bars, my legs apart. He keeps me waiting just long enough to set my legs trembling as the anticipation builds. I feel His presence in the room. He crosses to the bed, tugs the bloomers back further to reveal more of my thighs. He strokes the blushing flesh before deciding that further warming is required. The thinnest cane is called into action. He admires the 'whippiness' of it, only the slightest wrist action is needed to send it swishing round my curves. He flicks it against my inner thighs commanding my legs wider apart. Next on the tenderness of His property, involuntary I flinch and twist. He decides it is time. He switches canes.

To move is forbidden. It will earn me extra strokes. He lines up His aim carefully. The first cut sears across the top of my thigh just under my buttock. I draw in my breath, I bite my lip, I silently pray that my involuntary movements of self preservation were slight enough not to earn an extra stroke this early on. It has begun. I need it, I crave it, desire it, and yet at this moment I wonder if I can take it. My mind is in turmoil, yet my body obediently returns to the required position. My proffered bottom meekly requests the next stoke. At His pace, by His hand, the lesson in obedience will be deeply inscribed.

Velvet <3
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