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Message-ID: <63003asstr$1405242607@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: The Bawdy Bloke <john@bawdybloke.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Please take baby steps (FDom, MSub, spank, humour, flash)
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Date: Sun, 13 Jul 2014 05:10:07 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

I've written a number of stories on my blog recently, and have been a 
little lax about posting them to the Newsgroups. As ever, I would love 
opinions and feedback as to what I have done right or wrong.
My site is http://bawdybloke.com
Thanks.
* * * * *

She sighed at me, perusing my choice of items from the sex exhibition in 
the paper bag. "Why?"

"Because they are all awesome," I cried excitedly. "I've read about this 
and ..."

"Yes, I know you've read about it," my lover muttered calmly and ran her 
hands through her flowing red hair.

"We discussed this and ..."

"Come sit down," she cooed, calmly. I felt an aura of reticence and 
frustration in her voice. I nervously joined her on the couch, sliding 
my naked body alongside her gorgeous frame as she dragged my selection 
of materials to her feet. She was my dominant, my lovely wonderful 
girlfriend who I was adopting a dom/sub relationship with.

It was new and exhilarating: an exciting new chapter in our lives as I 
sought to unleash my fantasies.

Bridget was fabulous: driven, confident and so sexy, I knew she was the 
person I wanted to submit to, the lady I wanted to drive me to untold 
pain that I had fantasised about. I wanted her to coax the yelps and 
squirms from me, forcing incredible pleasure and inhumane agony from my 
body. She was the one.

"What did I tell you?" She asked, her voice soft and gentle. "Before you 
went to the fair."

"Ummm ... don't go silly."

"No," she agreed, coughing as she peered into my bag. "Don't go silly. 
Baby steps. Small things. Don't go wild. Don't rush this."

"I haven't."

"One. A slave contract. Extreme Edition." I tried to hide my smile as 
she opened the paper and her eyes flickered across the top of the 
expansive document. "So, are we doing this?"

"Yeah," I cried, my stomach doing butterflies as she glanced over the 
top of the paper.

"So, clause five is, `the slave must drink all of his mistress's urine.' 
You OK with that?" She asked with a disbelieving edge to her voice as 
she watched me slide around on the abrasive seat.

"Yeah, I think so."

"OK, clause nine, `the slave will never be allowed to have intercourse 
with his mistress, but will clean up the mistress after other men have 
satisfied her.' I'll just go call the boys round. How about it?"

"Ummm ... well."

"You better. Because of clause twenty. The slave will be castrated if he 
ever disobeys." She raised her eyebrows quizzically at me as I writhed; 
maybe the extreme edition was a bit too far. "Park that one for awhile?"

I nodded. "Yeah OK. But ... how about ..."

"Wait!" She interrupted, slapping my wrist as my hand moved towards the 
paper bag. She pulled out the biggest toy, groaning as she held the 
giant black dong onto her lap. "The strap-on," she cried incredulously, 
barely able to fit both her hands around it's girth. The four-inch wide 
toy, and thirteen-inches long was crafted from dense black PVC with a 
frenulum to suggest a realistic phallic shape. She groaned. "It weighs a 
bit. But where do you think that's going?"

"Up my arse. You said you didn't mind thinking about pegging me, and I 
just want to bend over for you, baby."

"Then bend over. I have some lube here and, don't forget you could 
barely take your anal beads, so this is like going from a scooter to a 
Lamborghini for you. But hey, I'm sure you arse will stop bleeding after 
two weeks. Well it might do. Come on!" She got up from the chair, barely 
able to hold the giant strap-on toy in her hand as she gestured for me 
to get into position.

"Perhaps ..."

"Perhaps you should have started with a four inch toy?"

"But they look so small."

"Honey, when it's up your arse, everything will feel twice as big as it 
is, trust me." I looked at the floor as the giant rubber cock landed on 
the carpet with a thud. She pulled out three neon pink T-Shirts with 
provocative silhouettes on them, reading the slogans imprinted before 
shaking her head. "I love my mistress," she read. "I am a big sissy!" 
She dropped the T-Shirt onto the chair before unfurling the last one. "I 
love being fucked in the ass! Why?"

"Well because I do love you and I want to tell the world. Be open about 
my kinks in public ..."

"And you are going to wear a pink T-Shirt to meet your friends and 
family that says you take up the ass?" She stared at me wide-eyed as I 
hesitated. "Seriously, let's go to that barbecue tomorrow and you wear 
the `big sissy' T-Shirt. Because that's your boss, your brother, your 
two co-workers ..." She cocked her head at me as I hummed. "Maybe park 
that one too?"

"Well, no. I want to be open."

"Honey, be honest that's fine. Just be careful who you tell. There's 
open and then there's gaping. Park that one too until you work out who 
you want to tell?"

"Maybe." She raised her eyebrows at me. "OK," I conceded.

This continued: she was surprised by my pink panties, slipped the cock 
ring of spikes over my shaft until I screamed for mercy and touched my 
skin just once with the electro-torture toy that had me begging for her 
to stop.

"Genuine buffalo leather bullwhip," she read, holding out a desperately 
long weapon, and the last implement in the bag. "Bend over then."

"Ummm ..."

"Your mistress is telling you to bend over!" She commanded, slapping the 
weapon to her side. I whimpered, putting the palms of my hands on the 
coffee table as she stood up and the tail was dragged over my skin.

I flinched. Expecting the worst: my dreams and fantasies had run away 
with me and closed my eyes as Bridget slowly swirled the straps and 
slashed the whip against my thighs. I screamed, the rush of pain 
cascading through my body as the weapon wrapped itself around my legs. I 
did not expect that.

"Fuck! Oh fuckity-fuck-fuck!" I yelled, squeezing the profanity from my 
lips as I panted. I looked behind my shoulder at her, standing akimbo 
and focusing on the marks gifted by her new toy.

"I told you to do baby steps, didn't I?"

"Yes, but ..."

"Butt ... what a good idea!" She cried and with an undulating squeal of 
excitement slashed her weapon against my rump, causing my buttocks to 
feel the blade of the whip flashing across my backside.

It was agony. It was horrible, the sharp pain searing into my flesh as I 
screamed.

"Baby steps. Because one day, I may have you going to work in pink 
panties. Or going to the shops in a pink T-Shirt telling the world the 
you're a sissy. And one day, you might be a size queen and want that 
dildo. Or enjoy high end electro-torture. Or like the sharpest spikes on 
your cock. Or even enjoy the feeling of a buffalo leather whip. But 
right now, I'm not ready, and you're not ready."

I took deep breaths, feeling my painful buttocks and trying to soothe 
the pain away. "I just want to explore."

"Then let's explore. One step at a time. You are running when we've not 
walked."

"But just spanking me is so ... pedestrian."

She took a deep breath and let out a yell as the bullwhip swung from her 
hand. I was expecting it; I closed my eyes and tensed my buttocks as I 
felt the incoming leather from the hairs on the back of my leg.

It wasn't pain. It wasn't agony. It wasn't suffering, discomfort or 
soreness. It was torture. A moment of traumatic torture. The tail 
slashed against the wounds on my buttocks and they exploded; my rump a 
searing mass of excruciating pain that caused me to wail in desperation 
with tears flowing from my eyes. "Buttercup, buttercup," I cried, my 
safeword tumbling from my broken resistance. "No more!"

"No more?" She asked, with a raised eyebrow. "Or no more bullwhip?"

"No more whip," I muttered crestfallen.

"Then let's go upstairs for a spanking, yes?"

"Yes," I muttered as she tugged on my arm. "I'm thinking of getting 
something that signifies my ownership of you," she muttered as we left 
the room.

"A tattoo? A branding?" I asked.
"A collar," she snapped impatiently. "Quit running before you can walk! 
You'll enjoy it so much more if you just take baby steps."

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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