With apologies for the long delay, here is Grace’s encounter with her flogger.
She saw those long heavy falls in her mind, as she felt them tickling her back. Tracing over her shoulders with just enough weight to imply their texture. Then the spread of hard impact, of fast propelled leather on ivory skin. Something about that multi-layered pain began to speak to her from within sensation’s stimuli. A 2nd and 3rd blow confirmed that this device, in his hands, might be a new level of pleasure. As the teasing trace moved to the lower she listened for the blow to begin, but a 2nd trail of leather over expectant skin came first.
Then the blow that called pleasure forth from deep within, urging her to savour this moment. Only one this time, before the leather trail began again; over and over from curve of back to the beginning of her sore redness. Just the tingle of how those weighty traces might feel over her abused flesh was causing more juices to flow within her aching twitching pussy. The blows created a delicious pain but not as much as she might have expected. Was he holding back? Why?
The shudders started as he rested the full weight of those leather falls on her sensitised arse, pulling them so slowly up her curves, swirling them across her cheeks, circling upwards to lean them against her delicate buttocks. She struggled to quell her impulse to squirm, to raise herself upwards seeking force, impact, violence. Oh yes. Now! As he moved the flogger away, no contact, that air surely betokening the divine vicious impact she craved.
And contact she got, of the handle’s bulbous end opening her lips, juices coating the lovely leather and spread by it over the full extent of her vulva. That delicious lubed massage sending delirious signals running from pussy to nipples, to toes, to brain. When he started up a long luscious stroke up to and over her clit, her moans grew louder, desperate attempts to fuck into the pressure with her still swollen pussy. She was so close already.
‘Oh God, Fuck. I’m going to come.’
All contact ceased.
Frustration groaned from her.
Then she had no space for thought, no capacity for speech. The repeated blows started to be the only things in her existence apart from the sexual power surging through her body, she had no consciousness of her surroundings. Even the much desired presence of her lover, her Master, existed only as a lodestone within her heart, a dedicatee of her total tribute. Then a change in sensation, as blows whipped the arcing tips across her skin, instead of directly onto it. This continued as she heard his voice. She remembered what he had said later, but did not seem to have processed them at the time.
‘You wanted this
I will meet your need
With this and more
I give myself to you with every blow
As you give yourself to me.’
The direct blows after the voice showed her that before he had been gentle. She entered some weird timeless space. A space of dark warmth and delicious pain. In which she came, in which she was the earthquake within a body the volcanic aching surge, of building tension and orgasmic release.
Her partial return was to continued pain-stimulus, no longer in orgasm’s throes but still in what she would learn to call sub-space. When the lashes stopped and his hands rested on her brutalised flesh, she heard him call her name.
I am going to make you come again.’
The stinging pain on her pussy was tremendous. It was also unbelievably erotic, a direct trigger onto the electric switch of her clit. The narrow crop landed again and again on her pussy lips. Before his fingers thrust just inside her. Firm and hard against her sweet spot, repeatedly. Other fingers pinched her clit and moved. Her pussy walls moved with them, clenching in waves over his.
And he kept going, as she shrieked and moaned and shuddered as best she could within her restraints, driving her again up and over the peak, never letting her fall far before the next ascent. And then the crop began to land sharp and hard upon her arse. Her world became enclosed again, with this burning stinging pain as its centre.
She found herself being softly kissed, hands gentle on her body, her name being softly spoken in that voice she found she loved. Cuffs were still on her wrists and ankles but free to move. She began to kiss back eagerly but not too hard, her unconscious self perhaps recognising her emotional exhaustion – as it seemed did he.
Him. Her lover, her Muse – her need, her desire. Now, at last, her Master.
So they rested for a while, as he caressed her aroused skin, murmured the types of things she had longed to hear as pillow-talk for so long. They kissed softly, with passion and affection, as he held her. He praised her behaviour and her endurance, but insisted he must now treat her wounds of pleasure. From his bag he drew a small tub. ‘Arnica cream.’ He smoothed it softly over her arse which had received such cruel, divine treatment, before returning to cradle her in his arms.
‘When we have rested a little more, and you have refreshed yourself, I would like to see how many successive orgasms you can experience.’
The smile accompanying this statement was both loving and wicked, and Grace was melting again.
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