Crossing the Threshold

There's nothing more delicious than a submissive who has surrendered to her yearning for pain, who has accepted that the deepest pleasure lies within the most intimate of tortures and who has surrendered herself to the embrace of that pleasure. And when that submissive is my savannah ...

The breaking of day had been wrapped in gauzy soft-focus, like the drowsy warmth that follows the inevitable exercise in holiday gluttony, the lingering slowness which echoes aching desire once long-pent when it has been shrieked, spent, exorcised, when last night's perfumes wrap the day's beginning and set its tone. I'd reached for her as I'd woken, and our joining had possessed that sensuality that comes from a total lack of impatience, of rush, of need. The satiety had lasted through my trip downstairs, returning with a tray of coffees and another of corn muffins and bagels, just a bit of a bite to get the blood moving once again.

And then ...

Caffeinated, awake, I saw savannah's chestnut eyes creep across the basic but spacious hotel room to where her DVD recorder watched, cyclopean, from atop its tripod, its mission to record the high points of this weekend, giving her something to hold onto once I'd left. Anticipation began to glint from those eyes as they settled upon our waiting digital witness, and I knew it was time to begin our final session of the weekend.

Rising from my perch upon the end of the bed, I moved into the middle of the utilitarian room's surprisingly expansive central openness, looking theatrically about in the visual equivalent of a stage whisper. After a long moment passed in silent, exaggerated contemplation of the chamber's possibilities, I turned a sly, appreciative smile upon my companion.

Savannah sat cross-legged at the head of the bed, glowing in the morning light that stole in through the chamber's windows. Her frame was broad, powerful, and she delighted in the fact that she had half an inch or so in height on me. She was a woman who was dangerous in her own right, though never to me. Only in summer did her coloring even hint at the Cherokee that lurked within her, darkening her light perpetual California tan. The hair that cascaded past the middle of her back was a reddish-brown, this time -- her color cycled in variations of red and brunette and dark blonde, both due to sun and to the wonders of modern coloration. Her naked form gleamed where it was licked by the buttery morning sunlight. Raspberry nipples jutted high from her full, expansive breasts, quislings betraying her interior state as she sat quietly watching me, anticipating what was to come.

Secure in the knowledge that I had her undivided attention, I turned toward the over-stuffed, chestnut-brown easy-chair in the far corner, near the exterior wall, its color a deeper variation on the mid- dirt-brown that grew upon the chamber's floor, a color chosen because of the impossibility that it might "show dirt" -- being the color of such, normally (classic Hotel Management logic). "Now, let's see ..." I muttered as I knelt before the chair and experimented with positions. This would do, with a few items to assist me. "Give me just a minute, my love," I said, flashing my Cheshire grin as I rose from my experimentations.

Moving stage left from the easy-chair, recessed a bit from the line between it and the tripod holding aloft the unblinking red eye, I dropped to one knee in front of the display of tools, toys, and implements that was assembled upon that part of the floor. I hesitated, thinking with dramatic effect, drawing out the moment in contemplations decided long ago. I smiled to myself as I pointedly drew forth each item from its place in that assemblage and laid them like a welcoming honor guard along the approach to the chair I'd chosen before turning back to my waiting lover.

The glint in her eye matched the flush that darkened her expressively dark tan, a glint that leaked fear and desire, and dripped their union, heat. I hadn't lost my lock upon her gaze, drawing it with me as I moved as if it were anchored upon my hands like the motions of a marionette, but with the joy of an entranced yet enchanted awareness mutely acceding to the pantomime in which it was embedded.

"My dear," I began, relishing the anticipation that danced gingerly upon her face, "please come over here and kneel in front of the easy-chair, facing into it." I loved watching the ripple of muscles counterpointed by the swaying of full woman's breasts and kidney-length hair as she rose from her perch at the head of the bed and took the position I'd indicated. "Like this?" was her only reply, as she settled into position.

It took a few moments to encircle each wrist and ankle with supple black leather, steel rings hanging from each like festive ornaments festooning her extremities. A few minutes more and her face and chest were lying upon the chair's bottom cushion, arms stretched across the armrests and bound outstretched towards the rear legs, thighs bound wide by additional loops of the soft, white nylon hawser rope, ankles bound forward to immobilized wrists. The full, round globes of savannah's ass, highlighted by their relative paleness next to the surrounding flesh, were forced high, above the plane of her back, and forced back, beyond the plane where her legs rose vertically from upon her knees. It was a slut's display, hips high, ass back and begging to be filled, and it presented her perfectly for what was to follow. Then, a few more moments to adjust the focus of the gleaming black rectangles that were the DVD recorder, framing savannah perfectly within her viewfinder, and we were ready to go.

This position begged for flogging. We had yet to capture on DVD a good, prolonged flogging session, having been too much in the moment to remember before this morning. It was time to fix that. "Are you ready, my dear?" I whispered in her left ear as I ran the nails of my left hand hard and insistently across the arc of her buttocks.

Her gasp was like escaping steam, her body attempting to press itself yet more fully against my roaming claws. "Yes, oh yes," came the choked, husky reply. A moment of withdrawal to press the "record" button, and we were ready to go.

The heavy handle crawled in straps of black leather, a handle ending in a thick clump of tails about the length and thickness of large earthworms. It had been a gift from savannah on our last meeting, a cross between "sting" due to the size of the individual tails and a "thud" due to their aggregate weight -- magnificent for warm-up. My trembling submissive hissed as I slowly stroked the weight of the falls upwards along the gleaming curve of her ass. Lather, rinse, repeat, I thought, as I stroked the other cheek, then pulled it with almost glacial slowness along the valley dividing the hemispheres of her body.

The first blow fell, shattering the silence, its falling shards the gasp that accompanied the unannounced, full-strength introduction. The impact was dull and deep, solid, focused. Heavy, on a solid beat; sharp, quick, repetitive; a bare wisp, on the quiet. Establishing rhythm just long enough to escape from it, to deconstruct it, to disappoint the expectation and leave it gasping. Each blow brought blood into the skin, fed the glow that slowly deepened to pink amid a quiet, rippling stream of moans. And, crescendo, hard, harsh, over the top, stinging falls tearing hissing steam and breathless wails as the limit is pushed, as the mark is laid, and the final flourish. And silence, as I stood back for a moment to catch my breath.

Roses bloomed upon pale tan globes that twitched and gently rocked before me, trailing off into individuated flaming fingers that radiated from the central flames like a stylized crimson drawing of sun and sunshine, enframing the curves of her full, solid ass. Her flesh continued to reach, it seemed, to stretch, searching for the lashes now withdrawn, searching with a blind, insistent, even unthinking futility.

Leaning my left hand upon the top of the crease that split her ass like a peach, I reached my right down and into the dark cleft between her splayed thighs. Steaming, fluid contours of slippery flesh and gaping wetness embraced my exploring digits, welcoming them, drawing them in as my wondrous sensation-slut tried to thrust herself back upon my hand, her body seeking mutely, yet, to replace the storm of sensation so abruptly withdrawn. Mmm ... time to begin tenderizing my favorite tissues.

It took only a moment to retrieve from their ready position an initially odd-looking assemblage of black plastic and cylinders and rectangles and wires. As I dropped to my right knee between my wondrous, powerful pain-slut's thighs, facing the hungry loins that gaped and gasped in shapes of rose and purple and shadow, I thrust two fingers without warning into the beckoning vaginal opening. "I think this pussy of yours is getting ready," I purred. "What do you think? Tell me."

Savannah's husky voice was thick and partially muffled by the pillow upon which her beaming, panting profile, lay. "My pussy is ready for you."

"This pussy is already so wet, and all I've done is whip your ass. You are such a pain slut." I slapped both globes of her ass twice, quickly, for effect. "What are you?" I demanded.

The voice that floated to me was broken, more choked, this time, like a river congested and blocked by trees swept up in its floodwaters. "I'm your pain slut. Please hurt me," she whispered. "Please hurt me."

I reached my left hand into the shadows between savannah's strong thighs and took the left outer labial lip tightly between my thumb and forefinger, drawing it strongly away from her. With my right hand, I reached forward the rubber-tipped jaws of the weighted, vibrating clamp whose bite tore forth a high-pitched moan as it closed deeply upon the stretched labial flesh. Lather, rinse, repeat, I thought, as I repeated the process with the other lip.

The weights drew my pain-addicted lover's labia majora in a loop of stretched flesh away from her body, their very swaying itself sufficient to draw a series of gasps from her still-muffled face. Tugging gently, alternating, I traced my hands down the thin, black wires that trailed from the hanging weights to the small black plastic control at their terminus. Seconds later, the clamps were humming gently, a counterpoint to the dull tapping as they vibrated against one another. The gasps gained an octave for a moment before settling back in.

Rising, I faced my powerful lover's flaming ass once again; this time, it was my medium flogger, all half-inch falls of black leather. With glacial slowness, I drew the bundle of 20" tails upwards along the joining of her legs and the crack dividing the already-awoken globes of that ass. Broad, nearly immobilized hips rocked minutely as the body before me attempted to move to embrace the stroking leather.

The first strokes were soft, underhand, vertical strokes that crept into the dark shadows at the joining of her legs. Whimpers crawled across savannah's flesh as the vibrating weights were struck, causing them to bounce and sway against the tender pale flesh.

The fourth stroke, however, was hard, fast, strong, resounding against the right ass-cheek and drawing forth a cry that broke from my beloved bottom as we raised her to a new plateau, an interminable cry yet sounding as a twin of the earlier stroke descended upon the other cheek. Several, now, that hailed upon each side, before I dropped the intensity and began an extended campaign to set afire the flesh that stretched helplessly before me. Alternating strokes, now, firm, solid, long descending from each shoulderblade, strokes between the legs to impact flesh and plastic, then back to the ass. Harder, now, still with steady, extended rhythm. Without warning, hard, alternating, full-strength slashing strokes that landed fast, accelerating, the welts of individual tails rising from the deep scarlet surface. And silence.

It's hard to pass up on the invitation posed by helpless flesh, bruised and enflamed, and I ran my fingernails like claws across the burning skin, relishing the steady stream of keening wails that my digital attack drew from my helpless, entranced submissive. (Entranced she was, already climbing the plateaus of subspace as yearning flesh attempted to force itself upon my assaulting hands.)

Now, one does have to beware of timing when applying clamps to tissues, and the droning weights that clattered dully between trembling tan thighs had been there for a while. Oh, well, to everything a season. Reaching into the shadows, I took the first clamp in my right hand, pulling against it to stretch the flesh long and tight within its grasp. With one quick movement, I released the pinioned flesh, allowing it to snap back into place with an agonized scream as blood rushed in. Now, as savannah's hips rocked in response to the burning of sensitized flesh, I took the remaining clamp in hand and stretched hard against the pinned tissues, locking her in position by the tension. Again, I released the jaws abruptly to the accompaniment of a high-pitched wail.

The best was yet to come, I thought to myself as I reached both hands forward and took an external labial lip between each thumb and forefinger, feeling for the marks left by the clamps just removed. I tightened my grip upon those marks and rolled the already bruised flesh hard between those digits, gripping more tightly than the clamps' jaws ever had. I felt my lover pulling against me, but knew her well enough to know that she was trying to increase the stimulation, not escape it, and stretched the flesh hard towards me, tethering her with it as I wrung that flesh within my merciless grasp. "Oh, god, yes! Oh, god, harder!" were the choked shrieks that greeted me in response.

"This is really the best part about applying clamps to labia, you know," I observed with an appreciative leer as I played. "Well, that and making handles, especially when the hands are too tired or the pussy is too wet. But we'll get around to that, later." I chuckled my best stage-chuckle at this last, knowing that the thought of what I'd just described would build her anticipation nicely like a coal smoldering in a bed of tinder. A noise of nearly desperate yearning crawled through the air as I released the intimate flesh whose ownership had passed from my lover to me.

Such response could not be left entirely in the lurch, though we did have a task to resume. The medium flogger yet had a purpose to fulfill, I chuckled to myself. The best stance was alongside the left hip, facing across the plane of her body, bringing my right hand into position. Long, slow vertical strokes, bottom to top, arcing upwards between her thighs, solid yet not insistent, echoes of things to come, promissories, almost, landed just long enough for her to begin to flex her thighs, for her to attempt to spread herself for the leather. That would do, for now.

"You are the most eager pussy-torture slut I've ever known. Do you know that?" I asked, rhetorically since I wasn't sure she even heard me. I decided to fix that. "What are you?" I demanded of her. "Tell me what you are."

"I'm a pain slut," came the husky reply, thick with advancing subspace.

"And what do you want?" I demanded, filling time while I changed implements.

"I want you to hurt me. Please hurt me." The words were like thick honey, breathless and pleading.

"You said the magic words, my love," I laughed with satisfaction at having trained this pain slut with care and patience, having encouraged and guided the desire for pain I'd seen in her very early on, long before our first physical encounters. I loved to make her speak the words, acknowledge who she was and what she wanted in a way that she couldn't forget. That was one reason for the DVD record that was being made. So she would know, would remember, would have to come to acceptance of, precisely who she was and what she wanted. Saying it for the first time had been a powerful moment for her, one that she'd seen coming but resisted. I never lost an opportunity to remind her and reinforce that knowledge.

We were going to move up a notch. In my hand was a gift from my Cherokee lover the last time we'd met. It was a heavy leather flogger of potentially extreme severity, so much so that I'd laughed with glee when it had been given. I'd taken pleasure in pointing out how its heavy, individually braided falls could potentially bruise and even cut if wielded with strength. Quite honestly, I'd barely wielded it before this, and wasn't planning of pushing it, today. There was plenty of intimidation factor left to savor, and it was a serious piece. But for warm-up ...

I took my position alongside my beloved bottom's right hip, careful not to obstruct the view of the unblinking witness atop its elevated platform. Stretching the heavy dull black tails outward across the firm, glowing peach globes of savannah's ass with my left hand, I released the tails and brought the flogger down with just a bit more than its own rather considerable weight to drive it. Even at such, the reaction was electric as my bound nymph's body jerked to its touch. Again. Lather, rinse, repeat, went the mantra, with each cycle a little more impact to the heavy, braided and abrading delivery, with each cycle adding to the mosaic of crawling welts that were beginning to take shape upon the curved surface of raspberry butter. A few cycles of leather falling upon my love's broad, powerful back, then back to the evolving flesh of her ass. The moans had become a deep, rolling music, the wind given flesh and voice, as the cycles continued, steadily increasing in rhythm and force. A pause, then ten strokes that insisted, harsh though yet restrained enough, strokes that pushed my lover to her edge and beyond, that overwhelmed her screams and ceased just as her reserves were exhausted, leaving her panting at the edge of the abyss into which she would later plunge.

I took a moment, straightening and moving away from the swaying, twitching, flame-streaked tableau. Shaking the fatigue from my right arm, I reached with my left for the water-bottle that waited on the desk just beyond the camera. I'm not sure that she even noticed my absence at that moment, and I had no reason to break the spell as I drank my fill and returned to my still-shivering lover, wrapped in a nimbus of morning sun, this time taking my stance directly between her splayed legs, facing her body's line. Now, however, it was my heavy, dried-blood red elk-hide flogger, solid, thuddy, almost sensual in its stroke, its texture. It had been described like being slapped solidly by a giant hand, a distinct change from the stinging impacts with which we'd been playing so far.

The first blow was full-strength, shattering the white noise generated by the hidden television with a resounding "crack!" It was, in fact, something that sometimes kept me from breaking out that particular flogger ... its signature noise quotient. It announced itself when wielded with the authority that I was currently delivering. Eight strokes in alternating pairs fell upon each quivering ruined cheek. Her flesh grasped with invisible tendrils of desire as the blows ceased. The disappointed moans were replaced by choked gasps as the silken elk-hide fell upon her back, deep muscle massage upon shoulder-blades, stroking the broad plane for a long moment before descending once again below her firm waist to linger rhythmically, mercilessly upon the globes already burning, there.

I was moving from side to side, now, placing the falls across the line of her body, taking aim at the opposing cheeks and the soft, delicate flesh below the curve of the ass, where cheek joins thigh. The flogger was falling with full-arm strokes, its impacts cutting through the room in harmony with the gasping, choking, keening desire that echoed from my baby's lips in time with its relentless assault.