Quick & Dirty - F/f - D/s - S/M - bondage - blindfold - whipping - fisting. Fantasy, not reality.
*****
I would never have called myself a sadist, but lately I've had to consider it.
I enter the bedroom dressed only in a shimmering silk shift, my soft feet sinking noiselessly into even softer carpet and I find her lying there, waiting for me. Of course she is. I left her there fifteen minutes ago, with the single option of waiting for me.
The room is dark, the soft heavy darkness of a shared space; the warm darkness of intimate silence. I have punctuated the room with whispering candles. That's for me. The rest is for her.
She is spread naked on the bed, on her back, arms and legs wide, her skin a glowing miracle of boisterous, adventurous tan, except where she is pale from her long-forgotten bikini. Blonde hair in a sumptuous nest around her head. Her only permitted movement is her gentle breathing, a hushing sound which only seems to deepen the silence. Soft cords pull her limbs taut and secure her wrists and ankles to the bedframe. Simple and efficient, and just how she likes it. And yes, the cords are soft, so they don't hurt her. But I'm afraid that's incidental. She is under no illusion: she is here to be hurt.
For her benefit she cannot see. Who knew you could buy contact lenses so darkly tinted that they render their wearer blind in all but the brightest light? She knew, of course she did, little perv. At first I didn't like them because they made her eyes unnaturally dark, like a stranger. But of course she was a stranger, bound like this, surrendered to me. Not the everyday girl-next-door I knew. I had to acquaint myself with this dark-eyed, dark-souled creature, and I fell in love with it.
Finally, for her benefit, a gag. Turns out she likes the taste of latex, and she knew where to find a fat rope of the stuff, so I've passed it between her lips and tied it in a squeaky knot, which her teeth now tightly squeeze. It's a pleasure to gag her. Not because her voice isn't lovely, but because I know that right now, like this, she has nothing to say.
I sit on the edge of the bed, and she flinches. This isn't fear, but a delicious apprehension. I watch her flickering eyes in silence for a while and listen to her quickening breath. She knows what's coming, but she isn't afraid.
"Sadism," I muse quietly, and she flinches again, gently creaking the bedframe. When I speak, I focus on my tongue: strong and deliberate behind hard white teeth. My lips feel plump and they soften the edges of my voice. "Such a strange idea. It's even a strange word."
When my fingers touch her pussy they are cold, and I smile as she twitches, squeaks and giggles. My palm is cushioned by a yielding brush of hair as my chilly fingertips begin to explore her delicate flesh. She has loved the coldness of my fingers ever since I explained that it meant all the warmth had rushed to my throat, my cheeks and my own stirring sex.
"Masochism," I whisper, and she hears me well enough in the candle-thickened silence. "Masochist. Even weirder. An even stranger creature."
I sit alone in the gloom, toying affectionately with her yielding labia, talking to myself, for her benefit, in abstract terms, about punishment and pain and words which push my breath insolently from my mouth. I become my voice, all moist sibilance and sensuous plosion. I line myself up behind my lips and teeth and tongue, stop talking, and feel myself becoming a dark threat of cruelty.
My fingertips are warmer and a little wetter, and she is angling herself towards them, trying to make herself more available to them. I start to tease her with fleeting caresses that make her sigh and squirm, which in turn excites the bedsprings.
My fingers grow moist as they play with the blossoming petals, and I deftly expose her clitoris. With little dabbing motions I tease her some more, eliciting moans from behind the latex. She has nothing to say. What would she say? Please don't tease me? Please tease me? Irrelevant. Would she tell me she loves me? We both know none of this is pertinent. So let her moan, and let her eyes search for me in vain.
I stand up and her body flexes, instantly missing my touch. I smile and lick my fingers, taste her. Let her hear me tasting her. In her darkness, in the stillness, the tiny wet noise of my tongue is a tantalisingly remote point of contact and she savours it. Now I stand over her and I can smell her scents: delicate adornments of shampoo and soap that fill me with affection; honest tones of fresh perspiration; the always-surprising peppery sweetness of her sex.
With a smile I slip out of my shift. It caresses me and whispers flattery to my curves as I lift it away and leave myself naked. We are naked in this soft bubble of candlelight. I gently drape the silk over her gaping, staring, pretty face, and I watch her draw greedy breaths as she loses herself in my fragrance. Her body undulates beneath my gaze. I am a powerful nothing beside her helpless, supine glory.
I toss the garment aside and wait until her darting eyes settle on where she imagines me to be. She is not scared, and that makes me strong.
I know that as she stares my way, all she will see is darkness and maybe the distant haze of candles, haloed with a psychedelic confusion of strobing, polarised light. She won't see my pale, insignificant body. I open the drawer beside the bed, and she flinches, knowing what we keep in there, knowing it's full of pain. A little whimper escapes her throat. Not afraid. She has nothing to say. What might she say? Please don't hurt me? Please hurt me? Impertinent. In this space, the things that happen are the things I want to happen. She has nothing worth saying.
She hears the dull rattle as I draw out a whip. She pictures it: a short vinyl handle and a few feet of springy, elastic rubber. Another thing she loves. She's knows it can tease her. She knows it can playfully sting her. She knows that if the mood takes me, it can make any helpless part of her burn with pain. She knows me.
She tenses and her eyes beg. Her throat emits fluttering gasps. Her lips move, but don't try to form words. She struggles against her bonds, as if that has ever worked.
I enjoy the firm set of my jaw, the wry twist of my lips, and the gibbering panic of my beloved as I begin by stinging her abdomen.
The sound of the whip is jarring: loud, sharp, cruel. I am not striking hard yet, but it is already leaving little pink dabs on her supple skin. She whines and squeals, the latex knot creaks as she bites it, and her dark eyes are everywhere and nowhere.
Again, no attempt at words. We had a safeword once. I suppose we still do, but she has never uttered it. If she did, I would feel I had failed in the only task that ever mattered to me: to make her feel safe.
I stop for a moment and let the whip dangle and dance harmlessly against her open, defenceless vulva. I watch her gulp and suck in air, watch her chest rise and fall. Her hands and feet flex and pull at the cords, while her teeth champ squeakily. After a while she groans oddly and it takes me a moment to see why. She has just noticed that her elegant nipples have stiffened and stood up absurdly, and become irresistible targets. I allow myself a chuckle as she tries to shake them into subsiding, or perhaps move them beyond my reach. But the noises of resignation tell me she knows how futile this is.
"If they didn't want it," I murmur, "they wouldn't beg for it." I smile, unseen, as her head bobs wretched agreement.
Now I flick the whip with greater force, and greater control, working with the quiet pride of a practised artist. The tip of the rubbery tail pecks at first one nipple then the other, back and forth. She howls in her throat, contorts herself this way and that, but I don't miss. With each peck, a hard little peak leaps as though startled. Between blows I watch her wide, panicking eyes. Searching for me. Yearning. My free hand is roaming my body, stroking my skin and indulging my pleasure. My occupied hand torments the woman I love. I never thought of myself as a sadist, but these days...
My whip is still attending to her poor nipples. Her mouth clamps closed over the gag for a moment, and she stops making any noise. Then she releases all of her voice in a throat-shredding growl, eyes blinking tears, her body suddenly muscular. Then she closes her mouth, holds her breath, falls silent. Then this repeats. This has its own rhythm, a counterpoint to the simple tick-tock of my whip on her breasts.
