@ 2018 Asmodeus
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It was a surprise. The voice on the end of the line was young, vibrant.
“Hi,” she said. “You said to call if I was in the area.”
I must admit to have been taken aback. Sure, we’d talked on-
But I’d been pleasantly mistaken.
But mistaken or not, she was there now. In the next town, waiting for me. There was nothing to do but pick her up.
* * *
She was looking very good indeed. A short skirt, a hint of stocking, a short top over her pert breasts and a lacy vest over the top of everything. But, and I must admit to being a sucker for it, her long black hair caught me fair and square.
“Hi,” she said.
She looked nervous. Despite an outer glow of serenity, there was a quaking nervousness under the surface. A novice, that was what I classed her as. She talked the talk, but other than a little dalliance with a Domme, she’d never walked the walk. She boasted of the spanking and whipping her Domme had given her but it was obvious where her true bent lay. With men. With male Doms. With sadistic, harsh male Doms.
I listened to her tales for almost half an hour.
“Finish your drink, it’s time to go,” I said.
Time for nerves were over. As much as she was a novice, she was checking me out too. Was I just a blustering Dom from a chatroom? Was I capable of walking the walk?
She followed me home in her car. It was a short drive, and she’d only had the one drink. Once there, I let the tension build. I could wait.
So we talked a little, about D/s, about this and that. About the chatrooms and insignificance of many things. Finally, I sensed she was ready.
“You realise we’re going to play now, you do understand that, don’t you?” I said softly.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“And you’re happy to play, yes?”
Another nod, more confident this time.
“Now stand up.”
She stood up, a hint of bare flesh as she got out the chair.
“Now remove your panties.”
There was a momentary flash of resistance, but soon the panties were in my hand.
“I take these as a symbol of your gift of submission,” I said.
Reaching behind the chair, I brought out a pair of leather wrist cuffs, firmly placing them on her wrists.
“And I give you these as a sign of my gift of Domination. You will wear them until I am finished with you, do you understand?”
“Now,” I brushed her hair from her eyes. “Give me your limits.”
She looked nervous. “Ah...... Kids....... animals...….. bodies....... er...... and scat.”
I smiled. Sensible, but undefined. But it at least showed that she’d thought about such things as limits. “Very well, I respect those. Any others?”
“No,” she replied bravely.
“Good. Well here are my rules. There are only two. You address me as Sir at all times, you obey me at all times. This is not a democracy. I am in charge. I do as I please with you. I do not disrespect you, just the opposite, you have given me the finest gift a woman can give, her submission, I will take that submission and I will use it as fully as I care to. But I will never forget it is your gift to me.”
She looked a little stunned that I’d come out with such a practised statement, but it seemed to work for her, I could visibly see her fears subside -
“Now, go to the top of the stairs and wait for me there,” I ordered.
Her stockinged legs disappeared up the 14 steps to the top landing. Stopping at the top, she stood, head bowed, and patiently waited for me.
Going into the kitchen, I took out three packs of icecubes. Dispensing them into a large dish, I went upstairs too. It was time to begin.
* * *
I grasped her hand. Firmly, but not too firmly, and led her into the room. It was just a bedroom, nothing special other than the purpose I had for it this night.
Standing her against a bare wall, I stood back to admire her. “Strip down to your stockings,” I instructed her.
Slowly, nervously, she shed her last protection from me. The skirt first, baring her naked pussy, the two labia rings glinting under the light. Then the lacy top, then the short top, then, finally, the bra. At last, she was naked except for her stockings.
“Good,” I said. Moving forward, I slid a hand between her legs. “Wet already I see.”
Her head dropped. “Yes Sir.”
I took my honey coated fingers from her pussy and smeared her perfume over her own lips. “Taste yourself.”
Her tongue darted out eagerly, obeying, wanting the decadence of being made a whore without the guilt of being one.
I sensed a need for crudeness with her. She needed the whorechild within drawn out fully. Not respect, which some women want when submitting, but simple crudeness.
“Rub your cunt, whore,” I ordered.
Her hands went straight down to herself. Vibrantly, eagerly. I stood back and picked up a crop.
Her eyes fixed on the crop as she masturbated. She worked feverishly. Rubbing her clit and slipping a finger in with ease.
As I sensed the build up of energy as she approached orgasm, I gently, very gently, cropped her breasts. It had been something she said she’d never had and for a second she was startled. Then, as the sensation registered, the feverish clit rubbing continued.
The leather smacked lightly off her breasts and nipples, as much in time with her rubbing as I could manage. As I’m left handed, her right breast took most of the “attention” and was soon reddened and puckered. She tried to protect it slightly by hunching her shoulders as she worked on her cunt, but I was too accurate and fast to miss my target.
“Fuck.....” she whispered.
“What?” I asked. “Did my little whore have something to say?”
“No...... No, Sir, sorry.” Then she tensed. Her head flew back. “FUCK!!!”
I was amused. An unauthorised orgasm so soon? She was aware of the most basic of rules. Was it simple inability on her behalf, or was it misbehaviour? Either way, the punishment would be the same.
The glazed look melted from her eyes and she met my gaze. I could immediately read that she’s simply been unable to control herself, there was no sign of rebellion, merely submissive ecstasy.
“Over the bed,” I instructed her.
She obeyed quickly. She knew she’s transgressed, and she knew better than to disobey any further.
I opened my “toy case” and took out my leather belt. It’s of Celtic design, intricate markings covering the heavy leather hide. Well used, but seldom to keep my trousers up, it was a favourite punishment for such misdemeanours.
Six times the leather met her butt. Six times she screamed. Six times she counted the strokes.
Her ass was red, a faint pattern of Celtic designs amidst the reddened weals. Finally, it was time to continue. My hand went to the dish of ice and withdrew a cube, slowly rubbing it over her reddened ass. She screamed again at the cold, but hardly moved once she was aware of the cooling effect of the ice.