sex-pourri

She has still not allowed me to touch myself, a deprivation she maintains with wicked glee. She knows I attribute my unrequited yearnings to her. Abstinence is my obedience, my submission to her hand of dominance reaching across the country.

I would never defy her, intentionally plunging my oiled fingers between my wet labia lips and into my vagina. (Sigh.) But it spurs thoughts of how it could happen “accidentally.” It wouldn’t take much to send me into shudders of orgasm.

(Suddenly, I long to ride a horse.)

The real temptation is in the shower with a soapy loofah sponge. I have to clean myself, right? Yet cleaning time seems to be slightly less than what it takes for orgasmic “accidents” to happen, however primed I already am. My “Amanda-conscience” will not let me linger long enough.


On the phone I tell Amanda I now will consent to sex with total strangers.

She laughs, saying, “This is a new thing?”

“I maybe never said it before.”

“You gave me full control long ago.”

“I know. Just sayin’.”

“You,” she says, “would fuck anything right now, wouldn’t you.”

“Pretty much…”

“I like keeping you this way,” she says.


When Amanda visits in a couple weeks, she says she will allow me to climax. She says it will be in the woods where I like to go these days. She will make me naked. And she will watch.

thursday night

Thursday night she took possession of me again.

Around seven, she switched into formal with me. Had me refer to her as Mistress. Made me naked in heels and a collar. Ordered me to pour her wine. Told me to stand beside her as she sat and read a book on the couch.

She asked for water, and I brought her a glass. She looked at my nipples, chilled and pointy in the open air, and decided she was cold. I fetched her favorite throw and arranged it around her shoulders.

She took her time reading, letting me become accustomed to my slave nudity in the house, giving space for her formal assumption of dominance to sink into me.

It was perhaps forty-five minutes later that Mistress had me fetch my wrist and ankle cuffs.

She attached me to the wet bar.

It was as I’ve written before: I am bent over, forward, at the bar top, which is the depth of my midriff. My breasts hang over the other side. My legs are spread eighteen inches, my ankle cuffs attached to hooks at the base. My arms are extended the length of the bar, my wrist cuffs hooked at the ends.

Mistress sat on the stool beside me, the bottle of pinot noir and her wine glass between her and my extended body. With one hand she cupped and fondled my ass cheek, at one point slapping it lightly. Her other hand was under me in front, lifting my right breast and squeezing it.

We had talked already about my trip to Kevin’s. But now she queried me again about him, about my servicing him. “Do you prefer doing him while he’s standing or sitting?” she asked.

By asking, she was not interested in him or in the image of him with me. She was wanting to humiliate me by having me recount it intimately. She was watching me virtually in her mind’s eye. She was enjoying my sexual response vicariously as I told her and painted for her the picture of my sex with him.

“Standing,” I replied.

“And why is that?”

“I think you know,” I said.

She slapped my ass hard, and I groaned. “Of course I know. I told you to tell me. Again.”

“Yes, ma’am. With him standing, I can more easily get to his balls underneath.”

“You like sucking his balls, don’t you.”

“Yes, I do. You know I do.”

I felt her hand between my legs. Her fingers touched my open pussy lips from behind. One finger slid between my labia at the mouth of my vagina. I was wet, lots, and that pleased her.

“When you cock-suck him, do you prefer him to be already hard or soft and flaccid?”

I must have sighed. I certainly paused, not wanting to detail my every thought and feeling while giving fellatio to Kevin. Mistress slapped my ass again, this time harder.

“In-between,” I said. “He is usually in-between, semi-hard.”

“And why do you like that?”

“It arouses me to see him excited by me. But I also like how he grows more and grows harder when he’s in my mouth.”

Mistress poured herself another glass of wine. She sipped it, set her glass down on the bar top, and then sat quietly for a while. Her fingers found my pussy again, and she fondled me silently.

Amanda’s phone rang, and she went into the other room to answer it. It was a business call, after hours. She talked for a while, then went to her office to check something on her computer. More phone talk, then they finished.

She walked past me, still bound to the wet bar, and sat down on the couch with a file folder. She took some time reviewing the pages in it.

Later she brought the file to the wet bar and set it on my naked back. She opened it there, and looked at one of the reports as she sipped her wine once again. I know she is emphasizing my irrelevance to her focus and work and life. I am useful because my back is a flat surface for her file fiolder.

In time, while still reading, she fondled my pussy again, playing with me there at some length, making me hot and squirmy.

“Do you want me to make you come?” she said incidentally, the report still in front of her.

“Yes. You know I do.”

“Beg me.”

“Mistress, please let me come.”

“I’ll think about it.”

I felt in back her hand doing something. Then I realized she had the wine bottle there, between my legs, close to my pussy.

“You know you’re a whore, right?”

“Yes. I know.”

“Let me hear you say it.”

I paused, holding back, but just as long as I know I can get away with. “I am a whore.”

I felt the wet rim of the wine bottle press between my pussy lips. I moan.

“Why are you a whore?” she prompted.

“Because I love sucking cock. Because I am yours to have in any way at any time. Because I am available to others for sex.”

“Good answer. Seems you haven’t forgotten your purpose.”

“No, ma’am.”

The lip of the wine bottle pushes into me. I breathe in sharply.

“Do you think Kevin and his friends think of you as a whore?”

“I don’t know. Yes. Probably.”

“Say it out loud.”

“Kevin and his friends think of me as a whore.”

“Of course they do.”

She pulled the wine bottle back, setting it on the bar top.

I sighed, regretfully.

She got off the stool and knelt behind me. I felt her tongue licking my pussy lips. Her tongue slid between them and she lapped at my sex. I moaned, now hopeful for more, much more, but she stood, saying, “A good vintage,” and then walked away, leaving me unfinished.

Later she unshackled me and handed me a glass of wine. “Sit in the easy chair,” she ordered. “Legs open. I like seeing you so slick.”

silence two

I have been preoccupied this week with other things, and I’m sorry about not writing and posting, especially for not finishing writing about the experience I had being made silent early in the week. More about that:

As it happened, the one day of silence became two. Or maybe she intended that from the beginning. Amanda and I worked from home both days. There were Zoom calls, but she arranged it for me to sit off-screen taking notes.

At first, you don’t think being silent is all that hard. Later you realize how necessary speech is just to get things done in daily life. I took to writing comments or questions to Amanda on a notepad.

Monday night, I read my books, sipping wine on the sofa. Amanda talked, I didn’t. Sometimes I wrote something on my notepad in big letters and held it up to her.

I had thought part of the exercise would be “silence during sex.” That was intimated in her initial instruction to me. But Amanda did not invite me to her bed on Monday night.

I had trouble falling asleep. Wrapped in your own silence for hours on end — and because you’ve been made to be mute — you question yourself in different ways. Other ideas started pinging within my head: I did something wrong. Of course, she intentionally said in her instructions this was not a punishment. She is tired of my voice. I talk too much. Amanda has never complained, but that didn’t stop me from fretting. I have nothing worth saying.

Tuesday morning was uneventful, silent and more of the same — until lunchtime, when it became different.

Amanda was in the breakfast nook, having making toast. She recently found a boysenberry jam, made locally, that she likes a lot on buttery toast. She was sitting in a chair, finishing her lunch, when she called for me.

She told me to sit on her lap. “No, straddle me,” she said.

I sat facing her, my back against the breakfast table, my skirt hiked up to my thighs and pooling over her lap.

Amanda put her finger to her lips . “Shhh. No sounds.”

I nodded.

She slowly unbuttoned my top, opening it to reveal my breasts. She pushed it over my shoulders but keeping it hanging off my upper arms and back. Amanda mentioned recently how she likes the outline of my shoulders and collarbone, and here she traced them slowly, somehow erotically, with her fingers, as if their ridges were like the crevices of my labia.

Amanda took her hands and took each of my breasts from below against her palms, pushing up, pressing them higher and into me, and then she released, letting them drop and bounce.

I closed my eyes, but she said, “Look at me. When a man fucks you silent, he’ll have no sound from you to go by. He needs to see your passion in your eyes.”

Amanda’s right hand slid under my skirt and up my thigh. She found my shaven pussy with her fingers. There was much of my wet to play with.

She fingered me, and I swooned, biting my lip and trying like hell to keep my eyes open.

At one point Amanda said, “Shae girl, breathe. No vocals, but you need to breathe, for god’s sake.” She pulled my skirt up and back, so I could look down and see my swollen sex.

I was puffy-pink and glistening. I almost audibly sighed at the sight of myself, but didn’t. Deep breath.

She was slow with me, skirting the ridges of my pussy lips with her finger, taking my own gooey lust and spreading it evenly around, as if she were icing a cake. It was methodical and damnably slow. I wanted her to quicken and finish me off. Amanda, evil temptress, was making it slow-build within me, as if beckoning a moan.

I did not give in.

In retrospect, it seems to me this was the point of inner conflict between my submissive obedience and my sexual desire. It was the intersection of “sex” and “slave” in “sex slave.” Did she intend this? I don’t know. But in this moment I was desperately trying to obey her order of making no sound, yet eagerly giving myself to her sex with me.

I don’t know if it was one minute or many minutes later, but sometime Amanda’s finger graced my clit. The electric rippled through me and I shuddered. I breathed in sharply and spasmed, but bit my lip and made no sound. My orgasm peaked, and I threw my arms over Amanda’s shoulders and leaned into her, covering her face with my hair.

Amanda gave me time. We just sat there as I was coming down. No sound, but a lot of heavy breathing.

“That was pretty,” she finally said with a smile.


She kept me silent until happy hour. Then, over wine, I finally was permitted to speak again. She asked what it was like. I talked about it, but oddly, didn’t have a lot to say.

I’m not sure what was learned from this.

When someone mutes you, it’s a powerful act of dominance. It robs you of communication, of course, but also of a lot of your personality, much of which is expressed through tones and inflections and sounds. What is left, in a way, is your body. You are reduced to that, whatever tasks your body can perform. Or else just becoming an erotic presence.

I don’t think Amanda very much played out that aspect with me — not as she might some other time. I can’t help but think she will eventually make me naked, heeled, collared — keeping me mute for days — rendering me literally as a sexual object.

All that may be part of what this was meant to be, but actually Amanda never did give her reasons for the exercise. I have learned not to ask. She did say at one point that there are times she doesn’t want to ball gag me, yet wants me to be utterly silent. And there’s something about me silenced with men that keeps coming up.

In the end, I suspect she did this because she simply wanted to.

silence

It is morning, seven-thirty, and I stand high-heeled, bearing a tray of coffee for Amanda.

She fills her mug on the tray, mixes in some milk, takes a sip. “Today,” she says, I want you to be utterly silent. No words. Think of it as an invisible ball gag.”

I nod, not sure when my silence is supposed to start.

“There’s more,” she says. “I don’t want to hear any vocal sounds from you at all — squeaks, moans, sighs — even if you’re having an orgasm.”

I nod again, wondering if she is promising me an orgasm, which would be lovely. Probably not. But is it even possible to be perfectly silent in the throes of climax?

“This is not a punishment,” she says. It’s a preference of mine today. I want to see my sex whore but not hear her.”

This will be interesting.

sunday night

It is the briefest of moments.

He is inside me, thick with the swell of lust.

I am wet for him. I know I am just his woman of convenience, yet I can’t help myself. I want him. So I am open, cavernous. Hungry. Juicy.

His body lies atop mine and his hairy weight slides back and forth across my smooth skin, rolling my breasts and rocking my naked flesh. His mouth lies beside my ear and he whispers to me directions — “slow,” “easy,” “let it come” — and I almost laugh at this dominant man who cannot help but issue commands even during sex. Even this he must control.

My arms are draped over his shoulders and my hands cling to the back of his head. It is as if I loved him, and maybe I do in some way. Maybe I love all the men who fuck me like this. Perhaps I just love anyone who makes me orgasm, as he just did moments ago.

I suppose it’s not befitting a prostitute, to love the guy. Or is it more of a prostitution to not only give the guy your pussy but also your heart?

He changes his angle and his cock pumps me more, now gracing my clit every other stroke or so. I close my eyes.

He thrusts himself farther in. His balls slap me underneath. And suddenly he stops, holding himself there.

It is the briefest of moments.

And then, from a rock solid standstill, he erupts and gushes his semen into my deepest places. It is warm and thick and demanding. It coats and marks me. It claims me.

I am Kevin’s once again.

I am such an easy lay.

fiction: fragments of a story


The first time Eleanna and I met, M had my wrists and ankles shackled to a table in the massive living room, and he was impaled inside my vagina, fucking my body with such force as to make my breasts roll like ocean waves. She’d walked in, watched a while, and casually said, “I see you’ve met my husband.” Between moans, I nodded. Eleanna held my hand during the remainder of my violation, and soon I came in shudders. Grunting his last, M pulled out, his cum oozing out over my labia, dripping on expensive Tuscan marble.


It would be months later that Eleanna, again, would hold my hand as M was doing me in another relentless intercourse, and I would come to orgasm. And she would come too, just from holding my hand, feeling my climax as it rippled through me into her. She’d be standing in her swoon, her knees buckling a little, and blood would rush from her face. She’d then lay herself, shuddering, over my naked breasts, forming a cross with our two bodies, as if it was a sign of heaven.


friday night talk, 1

Amanda had her promised talk with me last night. It was casual conversation, conducted over our usual glasses of white wine.

I should explain that from time to time we have talks like these. Not formally scheduled, and not so regular as every month, but they aren’t unusual. We started doing this when we moved here, which for a time was necessary as we had to coordinate on settling in and getting home stuff done. Later it became more about her and me as mistress and slave.

Friday night, then, wasn’t a talk time only to address my current state of deprivation. But indeed she started with that.

“I want to be clear that I will keep you in whatever state I will keep you,” she says. “You have no personal right to an orgasm. If you are truly my property, you need to accept this.”

Of course she is right, I sit on the opposite side of the couch from her, my legs curled under me. “I know.”

Amanda assures me that my current deprivation is not a punishment for anything. This was a little bit of relief to me, for while I didn’t really think that, I kind of worried a little. “I just want to control you sexually,” she says. It is such a simple statement, obvious, yet the only justification she needs.

“I think it helps me to know you have some intention and purpose,” I say.

“More than you know.” As it happened, more would come out later this evening.

She says she will let me orgasm “sometime soon,” but she wouldn’t be specific.

I ask if “sometime soon” was measured in hours or in “coronavirus time, when things will get back to normal in a year or two.” I can’t help my sarcasm.

She laughs, takes a sip of her wine. “You’re cute when you’re desperate,” she says with a smile.

I shake my head. “I’ll have to try harder not to be.”

We sit drinking wine, looking at each other. I don’t know what she is thinking, but it feels she is looking at me as her prized possession. She would say something later to that point. It is a good feeling. I like belonging to her.

“I want you to depend on me for your sexual pleasure,” she says.

“Yeah,” I reply, “I’m starting to get that.”


It becomes clear this chat time is a potpourri of short, random topics — clearly a chat list of things Amanda has been thinking about.

“So I want to talk about your begging,” she says.

Uh-oh. I was expecting something about this, as I’ve been at times whiny and sarcastic during this deprivation time, and she’s put up with it. I’ve known this and I have been scolding myself about it. “Well, about that, I’m sorry,” I say. “I know. I shouldn’t have—”

She stops me. “No, I like it when you beg. It’s how I pleasure in that. It’s cute.”

That cute thing again.

“But it’s sometimes annoying. I have to work with you on how you do it. I like it a certain way and not another way. I’ll teach you. Not now. Maybe over the weekend… “

“Sure.” I think about the actual idea of begging for sex, what kind of person stoops to that level. Well, a sex slave does, I guess…

“Oh, and I want you to write it up for me,” she says. “We’ll both go over it.”

OK then. Begging 101. Then a term paper.


“What’s it like in this state of deprivation?” She asks it like she’s sent me on a trip to Venus and we’re on an interplanetary phone call.

I realize by asking the question that she herself is clearly not deprived. She is pleasuring herself whenever she wants. Her body, her breasts, her smooth delta have been amply massaged and piqued and released. She’s rosy and relaxed. It’s her right, of course, but she is speaking from her place of self-indulgence to me in my place of self-deprivation, Venus.

I come back down to earth. “I’m at a point, to be honest, where I’m looking longingly at household tools with handles.”

Amanda laughs. “So what’s your most desired household tool?”

I blush and tilt my head at her. “You really want me to go there?”

“Yes.” Amanda is actually giggling.

“If you must… I am deeply infatuated with the feather duster with the pink handle,” I admit.

“But you hate pink.”

“I really wasn’t thinking of it as a fashion statement.”


Amanda is in a good spirit tonight and enjoys these desperate, sardonic flashes of humor from me. She has drained her glass, and I offer to pour us some more. “I assume,” I say, “we have more to talk about.”

“Much more.” She might say that even if it weren’t actually true, as she loves this —the wine, on the couch, being with me. But I sense she actually does have a longer list of Shae topics to go over.

I decide it’s a good time for something sweeter, so I open a bottle of Chardonnay and provide us both some healthy pours.

I hand Amanda her glass. “Here you are, Mistress and Sex Torturer.”

“Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.”


postcards from the ledge

OK, that title is overly dramatic, but I am referring to my head space and emotional state a week and a half ago. Even that was not a ledge to jump off of in any real way, but it was a depressed frame of mind, for sure, and I was struggling.

Nothing has changed in terms of circumstances — we are still cocooning from the pandemic — but Amanda made a calculated turn with me ten days ago, and it has mostly shaken me out of my malaise and has refocused me, or at least has distracted me, in a good way.

By aggressively prosecuting my slavery to her, she has changed my priorities — such that my obedience to her is all that matters. She has returned me to the basics of what a sub-slave is to be with her domme. Her dominant uses of me over now two weekends and the kind of sexualized work routine she established for me during the week have been all that I can handle.

Or think about.

She’s made me into a horse in the derby, a mare with blinders on, able to see only the finish line and to feel only the sting of her words and whip.


So I have stopped wondering if the world is going to hell…

…but I have started wondering when the hell I will be allowed an orgasm.

Seems that part of her plan for me is to play with my body and arouse me sexually, and then only to deprive me of my own climax. I know it’s part of her “Distract Shae Program.” And it’s damn distracting.

In light of the seriousness of the pandemic, trading existential depression for sexual frustration seems reasonable enough, and it is. Even to suggest my sexual brimming right now as a comparable hardship seems trivial and superficial.

And so I say nothing.

But if you are one who would enjoy watching a woman’s sexual desperation, her cheeks and chest a-flush from her sexual ache, and her sometime beggings pushed out by the sheer wanton lust filing her, this is the time to come to our house. In those terms, my little agony must be pretty entertaining to watch by now.


I’m not sure Amanda took this new turn with me ten days ago just for my sake. She needed a change too. She wasn’t anxious as I was, but she was bored. The last thing you want as a slave is for your mistress to be bored. Partly because there’s nothing you can do for her. As the slave, you can’t take the initiative; she has to un-bore herself by using you more and differently.

Which is what Amanda finally did.

I knew she was bored, but I didn’t take it personally. Amanda is very driven by getting things done, but largely in the context of other people. She’s social and public and derives her energy from that. This quarantine is making her crazy because she needs people around her.

In fact she said one day, “If I didn’t have you, I would die.” It wasn’t a romantic sweet nothing. It was a statement of fact — that I am, at least another human being whom she, as a people person, desperately needs. Nice to hear, but I am just one, and she needs ten or twenty.

But she figured it out — a personal strategy of using me more actively. By ramping up things with me, she not only “distracted Shae,” but she gave herself a project to un-bore her. In this, she is working toward the future day when she can open up the house — and her slave Shae — to others. She’s anticipating me with other people — one plus ten or twenty. That’s why she’s binding me to the wet bar — she’s planning a party for the after-future. It’s why she’s walking me outside — she wants to show me — and all of me — to the neighbors.

I think she is less bored now. She has given herself a mission.


“I will do anything for you,” I say, “If you will let me come.”

She looks at me with a wicked smile. She is utterly, gleefully enjoying my need. “You already will do anything for me. I own you. You have nothing to offer me that I don’t already possess.”

We’ve been here before many times. My same plea bargain. Her same verdict. Once you’ve sold yourself to someone, you have no bargaining chips.

“If you let me, I could be very entertaining for you,” I say, and as soon as it comes out, I know it’s lame. Clearly I have nothing. I am terrible at poker: “Here I have a pair of twos. So please let me come.”

“You already are very entertaining to me,” she replies. “Just like this. I’m enjoying your ache very much. Besides, if I give into this now, who knows what it’ll be the next time? It’ll become a slippery slope.”

I don’t quite know what she means. “Mistress,” I say, “with all due respect, my pussy is already very much a slippery slope.”

For me, it’s gallows humor, but she laughs at my words. I am humiliating myself before her, begging on tiptoes as if I desperately have to pee.

She is loving it.

But here’s the thing: I haven’t thought about coronavirus for days.

beaten

Thursday, I am on the front porch, nude and cold. She said the thought of beating me has been crowding into her mind all day at the new office.

We have taken to the language, her and me, of calling it what it is, a beating, which is politically incorrect and so very wrong, except in the crevices of wanton need between a sub girl and her mistress. It is not a punishment for wrongdoing. It’s actually more humiliating than that. Because there’s no reason for it.

She had called ahead on her way home to tell me to make myself naked in tall heels and stand on the front porch, hands to my side.

So I am on the front porch, nude and cold. The weather has been warmer here of late, low sixties, but the sun has gone down beyond the treeline, and it’s now in the fifties, I’m sure of it. This makes me shiver. It cools the titanium barbells of my piercings, which suck the cold literally inside my nipples.

The beatings are a very recent development for us, and I don’t know how exactly they started. I remember a conversation, pillow talk — her commenting on Kevin and how he manhandles me and my reply that I thrill to a certain kind of treatment sometimes, rough and hard, corporal, thudding. At one point I said there was something about needing “my flesh to be hurt.” It blurted out of me as a confession of sorts, sounding like self-abuse, and I was ashamed. “It’s not like cutting,” I say to her.

“I know,” she says. “It’s OK,” she says, meaning I can tell her anything without fear of judgment, which I can. Somehow she has a hand free to stroke my hair. I say “somehow” because there are fingers of another hand inside me, in the act of some kind of intercourse.

On the phone she said four o’clock, and I didn’t want to cut it too close should she arrive early, so I assumed my nude stance outside at 3:50. Now I’m regretting it. The house is set back from the road, but I am still visible to cars passing by. There aren’t many, but some, and maybe they are neighbors. We don’t really know our neighbors yet. Maybe from afar with binoculars someone will ogle my bare breasts and shaven pussy. Maybe they’ll want me, or else feel sorry for me. No, people don’t really look while driving by, not with binoculars or even iPhones set on zoom. But you never know.

Amanda has said at different times she doesn’t want my body to be marked. My flesh, the soft pale of my skin, is somehow precious to her. She has argued against Kevin having me inked with a tattoo. She said absolutely not to Kevin’s fantasy thought of having me literally branded. And she’s kept him from caning me to a degree that leaves permanent scars. Not that I enjoy being caned hard, but I would perhaps counter-argue that the image of a slave’s fleshy ass cheeks bearing stripes is a beautiful humiliation. I might desire the effect of it while not the process to achieve it. Even having others see me as such, while another layer of humiliation, would feel like, perhaps, a red badge of submissive courage and put me into a delicious subspace. But Amanda has said no to those things.

Even so, Amanda has assumed control over my body, and she has an agenda for it, which everyone knows: having me pierced, narrowing my waist, putting me on a diet, retraining my ankles and feet into high heels, and (soon) subjecting me to permanent hair removal. She does want to leave her marks on my body, but in a different way.

So Amanda said a couple months ago, “Mind you, I have no reluctance to hurt you, girl.”

“I never doubted that,” I replied.

And that was the beginning of this.

On the porch, I am now beyond cold. I want to wrap my arms under my naked breasts and try to hug some warmth back into my core, but I know when Amanda’s car flashes into the drive, she’ll be looking immediately to see if my arms and hands are to my side, as she ordered, or if I am quickly assuming the position to make it look as such.

Just then, she pulls in.

She drives up close to the garage, then sits there, taking a long moment to watch me. I know it fills her dominant soul with warmth to see her girl there, naked, high heels together, arms to the side as she ordered. It demonstrates her absolute remote control over me.

Amanda exits the car, grabs her leather briefcase from the back seat, then retrieves a wool blanket she keeps in the trunk. When she comes to me, she slings the blanket around my shoulders.

“Happy to see me?” she asks.

I nod.

She takes a finger between my legs and slides it along my pussy crease, pausing to slip it inside.

“I guess you are,” she says. She pulls her finger out, now warm with my wet, and pushes it to my lips. I open, and suck it clean, tasting our chemistry.

She ushers me inside, back into warmth. And more.

Times before, it just happened. Once and then again, then one more time, as I recall. This would be the fourth. I haven’t written about it before. (There’ve been a few other things happening in my life!). And then too, this isn’t a big event between us. It just has been happening of late.

We don’t talk about it ahead of time, it’s not scheduled. If there’s a signal, it’s her making me naked. Like this. For us each it’s an unspoken need, though as different, obviously, as alpha and omega, domme and slave. There are different cycles for her need and mine, yet they have somehow aligned in opposite, like skaters looping around each other on the ice. It has occurred to me that for both of us it’s prompted by absence. We are apart, and the needs are suddenly there. I need sub and she needs domme. Somehow we both intuitively know about the other. And when. Then it simply needs to happen.

Amanda goes into the bedroom to change clothes. I huddle under the wool blanket to recover some body warmth. After a while, I assume my position, standing behind the easy chair, spreading my legs just to a point my high heels can support me, then bend over forward at my waist. Doubled over as such, my ass and thighs are presented, my head is resting upside down on the the cushioned seat, and I stretch my hands to grab the arms of the chair.

This trinity of times before, I have made myself spread behind and folded over an easy chair. Ready for my beating.

Amanda emerges from the hallway, dressed in a vintage red shirtdress and matching heels. She looks amazing, like Donna Reed in fifties retro carrying a flogger. So much to like about that image, and I catch my breath, feel myself go a little limp, and think about how in hell Jimmy Stewart could ever imagine taking his own life while married to such a piece of heaven. “It’s a wonderful life,” I say, still bent over the chair, ass high, splayed an expectant.

“Not here tonight,” she says. She unfolds me from the easy chair and leads me into the entryway, scene of one of my earlier defilements. “I have a surprise for you,” she says.

As I’d written before, Amanda had done some decorating while I was in Pennsylvania. In the entryway at the site of her prior sexing me, she has had installed three sconces, in a gentle arc, each carrying pillar candles.

From the drawer of a side table (she’d planned this long ago) Amanda produces my titanium slave collar and titanium wrist cuffs, and has me put them on.

Then, as I am watching, she lifts the top sconce out of its mooring hook, and sets it on the floor against the opposite wall. Then she repeats it for the other two set farther down on each side.

What’s left are iron eye bolts deeply embedded into wall studs.

She tells me to stand with my back against the wall. I obey. My neck is perfectly aligned with the top eye bolt, and my arms, outstretched, are even with the side eye bolts. Amanda fastens my collar and cuffs to each of them.

I look at her in awe and surprise and amazement. “How did you—”

She doesn’t answer, just steps back and admires her handiwork. “I had help,” she says. “Blake.”


It’s a heavy flogger. The leather fails are wide and thick, thus weighty. It’s a thudding flogger not stinging. She has been using this on me these times.

She seems to believe this does not damage my “precious flesh,” as it doesn’t break the skin or welt, but it reddens me in a pink glow. She says it’s good therapy for my skin. I don’t think she really knows that, just tells herself that, a kind of permission to beat the hell out of me.

Which she proceeds to do.

She starts on my midriff and abdomen. Donna Reed swings the flogger with all her might and it lands on me solid, making me grunt. Truth is, as she has said to me another time, it doesn’t matter much how hard she swings it. The flogger still lands a strong blow. She just likes pouring all of her torque into it. And into me.

There is no talk during my beatings. We didn’t decide not to, just settled into the silence of it, knowing it was beyond words. My responses are not cute or quaint, decidedly unfeminine, a language of moans and grunts and a lot of gasping.

Amanda executes my beating with a goal — to make all of my flesh red and rosy. I think she has this as a strategy to give her a purpose in it. We both know there is no purpose and that she simply gets off on it. In any case, the flogging touches all of my skin, all of my parts. She flogs my thighs and knees and ankles, even the upper slope of my high-heeled feet. She does my arms and shoulders.

She then lands the flogger on my breasts, which elicits from me a yelp. She spends some time on them, changing her angle so the flogger comes up from below and lifts my tits slightly, making them rise and then fall back down. Side to side then. She enjoys making me jiggle. She likes watching.

She swings the flogger down, hitting my abdomen and scraping across my vulva. She repeats that, and while it doesn’t hurt terribly, it roses me pink and makes me tremble for what is to come.

She swings upward between my legs. Just one time. Always just one time. She aims it. The flogger lands square on my pussy, leather slapping my labia and one leather fail gracing my clit.

This is the one thing that makes me scream.


That is the first movement of a two-part symphony.

She unhooks me from the wall, turns me around, and then refastens me, my back and ass facing out.

And she wails on me again.

It is a physical hurting but it’s not profound pain. More, it is the hurt of shame, each flogger blow representing not so much the ignominy of giving myself to this, but the humiliation that somehow I need it.

If she didn’t give it to me, I would beg for it. That is my disgrace.

Amanda roses up my back then the back of my legs. She is nearly done pinking me.

Finally, the crescendo to the symphony is my ass, the one place she can be violent without regret.


Being chained to the entryway wall was a surprise, new. The aftermath is as usual, our wordless ritual.

She leads me by my collar into her bedroom. Makes me stand there while she undresses before me, then slips to the bath, where she showers. She takes her time. As always.

Later, with me still standing, she takes a bottle of lotion and applies a thin coating over all my body. I think this is her atonement. So she needs to beat me from time to time. She loves doing it, but doesn’t like herself doing it. Later she wants to make me feel better.

That’s my theory. Maybe I’m wrong.

She takes me into her bed. We lie, naked, side by side. She holds my hand. With her other hand she masturbates herself.

She comes.

It’s a beautiful thing. It’s a wonderful life.

As usual, I ask, “May I make myself come?”

As usual, she replies. “No, you may not.”

These are the first words we’ve spoken since the beginning of my beating.


Later, as we are falling asleep, I ask, “Who’s Blake?”