Symon & Michelle - Comfortable Sin

A few months into this hobby, I'd written a bunch of short, stand alone stories that wound up all being about the same couple. They are not in any particular order, and you don't need to know anything about the other stories to understand each one. Some stories are fairly tame, while others are more intense and explore fetishes, BDSM, and specifically S/m themes. I've carefully put each in the appropriate category so people know what they're reading.

I think of them as 'scenes from a kinky marriage.'

I hope you enjoy them.

Thanks, Belle

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Symon woke himself up laughing. If there was a better way to wake up, he couldn't think of it. Well yes, he could. But Michelle wasn't there in bed with him. So, as options went, waking up laughing was a pretty good one. The dream had been some absurdist, surreal mash up of their last night together, the big account meeting at his job from last week, and bits from

The Hangover

, which he'd watched while he was avoiding going to sleep without her. The images fading from his mind as he lay there, the smile still on his face and remnants of mirth bubbling from him.

He had one hand stretched toward her side of the bed, already missing her. He sighed and scratched his stomach, looking over at her empty pillow. He playfully cursed her conscientiousness. She'd left for a four day professional education conference. She'd been gone less than a day, and already his cock and balls felt out of sorts, and his hands itched.

Symon glanced at the clock on his nightstand and decided it was far to early to be awake on a Sunday. But now that he was, his mind kept drifting to the unholy places they both thrived in. The images from his dream, and even the clear memory of the other night began to swarm in his mind's eye, conflating with each other and with recollections of other nights, days, encounters.

He conjured her, his hand drifting lower to caress his cock. Her dark eyes, her long, long hair, the heft of her large pillowy tits in his hand, the smell of her pussy, her taste, her laugh. How she tasted different, depending on where he was licking, what they'd been doing, even what kind of mood she was in. But mostly he imagined her skin. God, how he loved to count her bruises. How he loved the feel of welts and scratches. Almost as much as the pleasure of causing the bruises, he loved looking at her after. Even better a few days later, when her skin had blossomed into a devil's rainbow of purples, blues, blacks, and reds.

He loved watching Michelle examine what he'd done to her. He knew she'd wait until they were ripe, then she'd poke at the deepest ones or run her palms over the swellings. She'd make herself wince, and the wince or the gasp would always be followed by a contented sigh, capped with a smile. She'd prod him to prod her, to layer new hurts over old. He'd learned that the absence of his mark on her unnerved her, made her antsy, likely to try to push for a session, to try to push his self-control. So, playing his own games, sometimes he'd use techniques that didn't leave marks, that gave them the satisfaction without the lingering proof. Like avoiding a favorite food for a while, so that it tastes so much better when you do indulge.

He reached over for the ever present bottle of lube, idly musing that they really should buy stock in that company. He kicked the sheets off and pulled her pillow closer to his face. He breathed in the lingering scent of her hair, running his hand over the sheet she'd last lain on. Wishing they'd left some more obvious stain, then remembering that they hadn't really used the bed for anything but exhausted sleep before she got up to catch her flight.

Symon's mind drifted. He recalled her standing in the shower some other, lazier morning, when he'd had time to join her. He reached down to his balls, trying to make believe that she was the one doing the touching. Acknowledging the inevitable, but wanting to prolong his own pleasure as much as he could, he refrained from touching himself more, and attempted to rewind the memory.

But what came was the memory of the second or third time they'd indulged their kink. When they were still fairly new to each other and he hadn't yet learned how tough she was. How much she'd ask from him. How much he could impose on her. She'd tried to explain to him, when they were talking about limits and boundaries, had tried to make him understand. They were both so young then, his assurance bordering on arrogance. He'd thought himself more experienced in the life than she. They'd made all the usual precautions, the safe word, the non verbal signal, the color system to gauge intensity. And she'd had none of it. She dared him to do his worst, then teased, provoked, and begged him for more.

He'd been shocked at the sight of her the next day.

She'd been beaming. She'd been grateful. She woke him up the very best way possible, with her mouth. When he'd opened his eyes and cataloged the damage, he'd been horrified, ashamed at his apparent loss of control.

He sighed, now, remembering that. The next memory not sexy at all, but of the argument they'd had, of what it had taken for him to finally understand; what she'd said.

Symon remembered his stammering apology, then implicitly blaming her for not stopping him. He kept repeating her safe word, as ridiculous as that sounded out of context. Even though it didn't absolve his responsibility.

Michelle had glared at him; she'd interrupted him. "This is me."

She'd declared it, even as he was hurriedly Googling information and planning supply runs at the pharmacy.

She'd stopped him, bodily, pushing him hard in the chest until he really looked at her.

"This is me. This is how I feel alive. This" she'd gestured at her naked torso, mottled with welts, bites, and nascent bruises "is what feels right for me. Feels comfortable." She'd poked him hard in the chest again. "You gave this to me. And I haven't had it in so very long. Stop beating yourself up, dammit. Beat me instead."

That had stopped him, finally. Had burst his burgeoning panic. That and her hand on his cock, her lips on his nipple, the incongruous imperiousness with which she plucked his laptop from his hand and tossed onto the night stand. She'd taken him then, straddling him and riding him, wringing an orgasm from what felt like the depths of his soul.

That was the end and the beginning for Symon. He realized that his previous partners had been tourists in their country, women trying danger on a lark, for a story. But Michelle was a citizen of the same dark forests he inhabited. He understood that together they could make a home. He fell in love with her in that moment. He laid back, absorbed by the sight of her, and running his hands over her pale skin. Everything had grown from there. He determined to woo her, to prove himself to her, to be as brutal as she needed and as he'd always pined to be. To be as gentle as she needed, when that's what she needed. To be the strong, respectful, thoughtful partner in the kind of relationship he'd not truly believed possible. She'd given all that to him, and more. Together they'd grown, had made a life together.

Now, here he was, however many years later. However many skins they both had shed in that time. However many scars he'd caused. However many tears and smiles. Alone, in their bed, his hand now loosely around the base of his shaft, love and lust coursing through him. He started stroking, slowly, closing his eyes, feeling himself getting harder.

Finally the memory he wanted started playing itself out. In the shower. Some lazy weekend morning a month or so ago. Michelle had gotten a head start, and by the time he stepped into it with her, her skin was already slick, perfumed with the body wash, and her hair soaking, hung down to her ass. They kissed, languidly, and she pressed against him, pulling him under the warm spray.

He'd stepped back, leaning against the shower wall, tracing his teeth marks on one breast. He ran his thumb over the inside of the other breast, where a yellowing bruise lingered from previous days. He smoothed his palm over her sternum and stomach, hatch marked with scratches, as she regarded him. She braced her hands on the walls of the shower, steadying herself for his inspection.

Moving his fingertips along her body, the water streaming down, deforming around the new indentations he made. Rivulets joining and then splitting off again as he continued his exploration. He didn't touch lightly; he pressed deeply, edges and the centers of the marks, he prodded, he poked. He roughly traced his fingers along the lines of welts. He listened to her hiss and then sigh, hum and exhale slowly. He could feel her watching him, but he concentrated on her skin. Her soft, smooth, damaged, beautiful, skin.

He'd squatted down then, eye level to her pussy, her feet now also spread so he could examine her thighs and vulva. That morning there was a row of nine evenly spaced, almost perfectly parallel welts on one inner thigh. He'd been practicing with the riding crop. The evening before, nine had been some meaningful number. But he couldn't have told her what the meaning was now. He recalled reaching for the crop marks, noticing the minute breaks in her skin at one end, the tiny scabs that had formed there. He'd brushed those off, then raked his nails across all nine welts. She'd gasped and moaned and he'd laughed.

Michelle yelped, laughed, "Sadist!"

"Yep," he'd agreed, "that's why you married me."

As her laughter continued, he'd turned his head and bit her other thigh softly. Her hand clamped onto his head and he turned again. Licking her labia, he gently spread her open and kissed her clit. He used his tongue and lips to tease her, drawing circles and zigzags over her and around her clit. He pulled her inner lips open and she leaned into him, sighing, and he heard a low moan over the patter of the water on his head. The warm spray splashed down around him and onto her skin as he wrapped her hips with one arm, holding her to him. He tilted his face up, trying to meet her eyes, but she'd thrown her head back, spine arched, one hand still braced against the wall and her other firmly winding in his hair.

He bared his teeth slightly, and when he pressed against the hood of her clit and the join of her inner labia she let out a surprised "ooh". She quickly settled back against him, helping him taste all his favorite spots by slowly circling her hips. Now she was hoarsely repeating, "yes, please, yesss, please," over and over, each syllable a little lower and more elongated than the last. He kept working, his fingers on her backside brushing against a welt, while his tongue danced faster and faster.

Gently and firmly he drew an orgasm from her with his mouth, drinking her while still prodding and massaging the injuries she'd begged out of him. After she shuddered to a stop, he rose, and they'd kissed again. He'd spent the rest of the day finding every excuse to poke or prod, to slap or pinch, and she'd used every excuse to avoid avoiding him.

This morning, here on their bed, Symon was now fully erect, and his hand slathered with the lube. He was stroking himself determinedly, varying his grip, trying to mimic how she'd clench and relax around him when they fucked. He couldn't have said how long it'd been since he'd had to resort to masturbation, but he certainly wasn't going to deny the urge.

Now that he was thoroughly in the mind to pleasure himself, he recalled that last session before her trip. Not the quickie bout of lovemaking they'd had the night before, but the scene from earlier that had started as soon as she got home from work, and lasted until dawn. The long goodbye they'd planned to mark their lengthiest time apart in a decade.

He'd met her at the door, forbidding her from entering further while clothed. She'd smiled, a little too amused for his liking. As soon as Michelle was naked he shoved her to the floor, denying her the chance to obey him. She'd put her hair up in two long braids coiled around her head, and he used the overlap as a handle, pulling her into the living room a little faster than she could comfortably crawl. He positioned her, still on hands and knees, in front of his favorite chair. He used her back as the ottoman, resting his feet on her spine as he explained his plans for the evening. How the session would have to last them both for more than a week, how'd she have to earn every mark he deigned to give her.

Having secured her understanding, Symon reminded her that furniture neither talked nor moved on its own, and proceeded to ignore her while he watched the news. The he fixed himself a sandwich and chips using her back as his table, occasionally stroking or pinching her to elicit some kind of movement. When he was done, he instructed her to carry his dishes into the kitchen and she crawled away slowly.

When she came back into the living room he'd pushed her onto her back and ground his feet and heels into each breast, each hip bone, then poked a toe into her pussy. He stood over her and ordered her to lick his feet clean, and that's when he saw the wildness in her eyes, the need rising, the thirst for pain.

She licked his foot and sucked his toes. He stood near her head, glaring down at her, feeling his own expression matching hers. He pressed the sole of his foot down on her mouth, her breath coming hot and fast from her nose at his instep. She lay still, legs bent, knees open, one hand loosely around his ankle. She watched him, hungrily. He pulled off his shirt, and he saw the hope building in her eyes as he unbuckled his belt and unfastened his fly partway. He used his foot to roll her head side to side.

"You haven't earned anything yet." He gripped his belt buckle, "This'll come later, if you're worthy of it."

She closed her eyes slowly and opened them again, her only way to acknowledge him. He pressed again on her lips.

He stepped back, freeing her, and barked, "On your knees."

Michelle scrambled up, knelt in front of him, and without another command kissed his feet. She kissed each toe, along the top to his ankle, and then back along each instep. He was glad she couldn't see his expression. He felt the first wave of power flow through him, the never ending rush of pleasure he got watching her perform these rituals, the prelude to the violence they both wanted.

He'd ordered her onto her feet then, and she'd stood in front of Symon, her eyes boring into his chest, her hands clasped together on top of her head. Her body was open to him and he explored her, gently at first, then roughly, then savagely. Michelle stood, unrestrained, unbound, unmoving except where he pushed against her. Her sex wet and dripping, flush blooming on her breasts and cheeks, her lips parted, panting, and grunting as he pushed and prodded. He'd pinched a nipple severely, scratched her side, shoved his fingers into her pussy and ground her clit with his thumb.

When she gasped and rose up on her toes he knew she was ready. He'd stood in front of her and started assaulting her breasts. He'd slapped viciously, rapidly, crushing her nipples and areolas down or between his two hands. Striking as close to the same spots as he could, waiting for the blood to rise to her skin, watching as his hand imprints stayed clear longer and longer. She'd always seemed to be proudest of the bruises on her tits, maybe because the skin is thinner, or just the ease with which she could play with them. He enjoyed hitting her there too, the way her skin rippled silky smooth under the rougher skin of his palm. He almost always used his hands on her breasts, and he knew that was her preference too. He lived for the sound of his hand slapping and cupping around; her sharp squeals and sensations of her physical arousal going into overdrive.

Laying on their bed that morning Symon craved that sensation, trying to evoke her sounds and smells, and the tingling in his fingers and palms. He was close to orgasm, and his hand was beating a steadily increased rhythm. He wanted to prolong his pleasure, and with a grunt, wrenched his hand away while letting the recollection continue to unspool.

He focused on his favorite parts of the evening, trying to linger in the memory of the sensations. Standing behind Michelle and battering her pussy. He'd clamped an arm around her ribcage, holding her to him. She writhed and pressed back against him, then thrust her hips out to give him better access. His chin digging into her shoulder. Listening as her breath came in hot gasps. As the words exploded from her lungs with each impact: "yes", "please", "more", "please".

At the peak she'd arched against him again, and he'd stopped long enough to brush her clit with all four fingers. Her orgasm had rushed through her so hard her legs had buckled. He'd held her up, kissed her sweat soaked brow, and she'd turned to face him, begging for his cock, reaching down, pleading to be put on her knees.

Later: tossing the thumb tacks on the coffee table before binding her face down on it. Angling the wedge pillow under her ass, to press her breasts down onto the pile of tacks. Her feigning boredom as Symon used her for a footrest again, his feet positioned on her shoulders, just to add more weight to her predicament. She'd pretended to yawn, had picked her fingernails, dropped her head and faked a snore as he'd ground his heels down while having a beer. He'd admired her acting skills and her creative ability to tease him, even as she was supposedly helpless.

After, he'd used the flogger on her, standing, circling her, varying the intensity so that she wasn't quite sure what to expect. Stripping away her nonchalance until her back and butt were nicely rosey, and she was once more moaning and pleading with him to keep it up. He obliged her, his own arousal growing, his erection liberated from his jeans and throbbing. He held himself back, teasing her by lightly brushing her sensitive skin with the very tips of the flogger's falls. His face cracked in a broad and slightly evil smile as she writhed under his ministrations.

"More," she groaned. Straining against the cloth ties holding her down. Arching her back, seemingly oblivious to whatever increased pressure she was putting on her breasts by trying to lift her back towards him.

"God. Please. Please. More." He gave her a few desultory swats, then settled behind her, kneeling.

He caressed her ass with both hands, taking time to spank and pinch her most tender parts. He scratched up her back, his fingers drawing eight parallel lines in white against the flush along her spine. He leaned forward, squeezing her shoulders, the back of her neck. Listening as she practically purred.

He'd leaned down then as whispered to her, "What do you think you've earned?"

Her response was low, a hungry growl, "Anything, babe, anything you want. Whatever you want. Fuck me, please, babe. Use me. I... Just.. Ooohhh." He'd bitten her on the nape of her neck, just below the hairline, sucking the skin around that tough muscle as much in his mouth as he could. Leaning on her with most of his weight, and gliding his hands down to clasp hers.

The head of his penis was pressing just at her entrance, Michelle could feel it and she arched again, blindly trying to change the angle of her vagina so he could slide in. Her hands clenching around his she was beyond words for want of him.

He let go of her hands, sat back and gripped his penis to push into her. She moaned a word that might have been "thanks". He settled himself deep in her and picked up the flogger again. With each impact she twitched, her back muscles rippling and her vaginal muscles pulling him deeper still. Soon, he discarded the flogger and gave himself over to thrusting in her, reveling in the feel of her sopping wet pussy pulsing around him. His orgasm tore through him shortly after hers. He leaned into her once more, as she sighed deeply, riding the myriad sensations of pleasure and pain that he'd given her.