Quick And Dirty Safe And Sound

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.

I stop whipping and she continues her rhythm: silence then howl. Tense then release. She only slowly subsides. I lay a gentle palm on her breast and watch her gape with relief. She cries with abandon, knowing I'm there and watching her. Knowing I'm in perfect control. Knowing that everything in her world is in my hand. She sobs with release, her gaze picking me out of the darkness by chance. Her lips move ineffectually, probably trying to say my name. That's okay, but still irrelevant. She doesn't have to seek me out.

Even as I adore her and carefully watch her to be sure she's safe, I squeeze her traumatised nipple in the crook of my thumb. This makes her howl anew, even as her lips fumble for my name, even as she abandons herself to my power. My free hand stops on my breast, feels my areola under my palm, and squeezes my nipple in the crook of my thumb. I squeeze each as hard: mine thrilling to the playful tweak, hers electrified with pain. Then I cup and caress us both and for a while she stops even trying to make noises, simply breathing and pushing herself against my hand.

She has calmed enough, though I'm still abusing that nipple. It hasn't stopped hurting, but she is accepting the pain. Accepting it as my gift, my will. I slither my palm away from her breast, down her sweat-slick body, to once again rest on her pussy. It's astonishingly hot, glistening and yearning. I decide I want to fuck her.

I slide two, then three, then four fingers into the gently grasping aperture, for now letting my thumb caress her clit. As she heaves her breaths, whispering something meaningless, and lifts her body towards me, I tuck my thumb into my palm, lean into her, and sink my hand into the welcome embrace of her cunt.

Her noise is adorable, like she's never been fucked before. I squelch into her and enjoy the greedy embrace. The scent is delicious, but it's the desperate welcome she gives that I savour most. I twist and thrust my tapering hand inside her, delving down to my wrist, pulling out from the sucking wetness to watch the quivering flesh ease slowly back towards its resting shape. I grip the brush of hair for a moment, tug sharply to remind her she is mine, then plunge back inside her. I slowly form a tiny fist, letting her feel my knuckles rolling and pushing inside her.

She gasps and chokes and I'm pretty sure she's telling me she loves me. I laugh to remind her how absurd it for her to speak, and she lets the words devolve into something bestial.

She responds well to these reminders, so I pick up the whip in my free hand and let it play with her. I am less skilful with this hand, but it doesn't matter: this is all about hard, aggressive strokes all across her torso, the kind that will leave welts, the kind that crack and echo, that swish and thwip. She is reminded that she's mine, that it is absurd to speak. She growls and bucks and shakes the bed. Not enough though. I want more from her.

I work for long enough that her whimpers might suggest she is building to something climactic, then I snatch it away from her. I take back my fist and leave her wide and glistening. She wails in frustration, even as I stop whipping her.

I hum some meaningless tune so she can locate me as I step onto the bed. We rock and dip and the mattress pings as I stand with my feet either side of her torso. Her belly contracts hypnotically as she exhales, a desperate lurch of apprehension convulsing her. She knows what's next. But she has nothing to say.

Her pubis is glowing that aching pink which broadcasts her helpless sensitivity. Her clit is a beautiful, tight bud. She is open and waiting, with no option.

"If you didn't want it, you wouldn't beg for it."

And beg for it she does, with every twist of every inch of her body. Meanwhile her voice has retreated into some animal state, and it's an animal that hisses and yowls when it's cornered.

The whip sings its cheerful, jaunty lyrics: thwip, peck, smack. The animal twists and writhes and my body instinctively braces to retain its balance as the bed heaves and rattles. I torment that begging cunt, that yearning clit, that squirming creature who has surrendered herself to me. I am nothing but a focus: I am cruelty and care. I measure out her pain precisely and it is all she knows.

I measure out a minute of pain, and then I stop without warning. The shock of sudden relief makes her cry silently. I bend down and lay my empty hand over the hot, unhappy pussy, and it feels taut and raw. I don't move it, it's enough that she feels me there. I look back at her face, watching for distress, watching for signals that I have failed. But she throws out her sobs, unfiltered by any sense of self. She is submerged deep inside, or floating high above. Everything is darkness and I am only a source of sensations. But she doesn't close her eyes: she remembers that I want to see them no matter what.

I measure out five minutes of quiet, and she becomes still. Her breaths are ragged but deep. Adrenaline has wrung her out. Time to begin again.

She groans disappointment as I lift my hand, and her eyes dart like startled fish as I step off the bed. Once again I move silently on the carpet. She is relaxed and beautiful, and I can't resist. I never thought of myself as a sadist, but I swing the whip without warning and viciously strike across her blameless pussy. Not a sound from her gaping mouth, except the creak of the stretching latex, and the violent metal rocking of the bed as she thrashes and strops. I let her hear me laugh at her. In this moment of wanton cruelty we are perfect: she has forfeited herself, and I have taken possession.

She pays the price for surrendering herself to my perfect care, and in every way that matters she is perfectly safe. The ways which don't matter are her comfort and her dignity: this is something she decided long ago, and I have come to agree.

I don't grant her the comfort or dignity of warning this time, and I plunge my fist into her cunt, re-awakening her voice. It's like I never stopped: the squelching inside her, the careless thwip as I sting her torso, her growling and bucking and rising to meet me.

I'm working hard with both hands, and I realise I am doused with perspiration. My dark hair clings to my face and I have no free hand to push it away. I plunge with one fist and flog with the other, and my body rocks indecently as I ache to be fucked. Later I will get that from her. Perhaps I will leave her as she is, and ride her face, grinding against a mouth that is powerless to close, blocking what little light her dimmed eyes can see, stifling her hard-won breath. Or perhaps I will untie her, let her kneel on the floor, ungag her, unblind her, and let her look me in the eye while she laps at me and makes me shiver.

But that's later. For now she gurgles and writhes and my fist fills her and my whip makes her burn. That perfect, tanned body is alight with soreness and the blush of approaching orgasm. I don't relent. I go harder. She doesn't know that I'm hurting her, doesn't know I'm making her spasm with pure pleasure. She's in a different place, but my name still stumbles onto her tongue. I go harder, strike harder, little droplets of sweat leaping from me, and finally she reaches the peak, the beginning of the end, and her noise is long, drawn out, and utterly beyond her control. She is utterly mine, utterly in my hands, and I am nothing to her but surety, pleasure and peace.

I throw aside the whip, but stay inside her. She quiets. She relents. I still feel her convulsing around my wrist. She is coming back to me and it seems she's trying to speak again. So I remind her how things are, one more time, by jerking my fist from her cunt and making her buck and spasm just once more.

I never thought myself a sadist. And yet my lips twist and I look at that gaping, helpless flesh, and I smack my hand down on it hard. I laugh at the feeble squeal she makes, the exhausted twitch of her body. I laugh and do it again. There's no question. My power is absolute. She is mine. So I stop, and go to kiss her.

I kiss that hot, wet pussy, so beautiful still although it has been so roughly used. I kiss the welts on her belly. I linger over her nipples, letting my lips be grazed by the harshly sore peaks.

And I kiss her face. The lips distorted by that latex. Eyes searching hopefully. I flutter kisses over her useless, beautiful face. Those eyes can see my silhouette this close, and she smiles at me. She smiles and nods, and even that is futile, so I hold her face firmly between my hands as I kiss.

"Sadism," I hiss, and the word is wet now. "Not so strange. Feels apt."

I sit astride her, gripping her body between my knees, both of us gloriously slippery. I wrap my arms around her face, and kiss and kiss. And I know she can feel it in my kisses. I know because she smiles with a blind trust that has nothing to do with her dark eyes. She knows that I am nothing but a focus. I have no purpose, no value, no use, except to keep her safe.

"The night is young," I whisper, easing my breath around my delighting tongue, through my hard white teeth, and softly past busy lips. "The drawer is still full. You haven't suffered enough. And you have nothing to say that's worth hearing."

And, to prove me a liar, she fumbles the words: "I love you."