BDSM Stories

To, Not With

The bed has been stripped, its bare mattress only hidden by the crisp sheet pulled taut and smooth over it. The large wooden headboard, shaped and carved as it is, stands in stark contrast to the simplicity it rises above.

And then there is her; my girl, my slave, my muse. Like the bed, she’s stripped, standing before me naked, as unadorned as she is unashamed of being so before me. My eyes caress her, roaming over her with the intention of a lovers touch, sweeping over the curves and rises of the land I know so well and never tire of exploring.

She looks at the bed and a frown creases her brow. She makes to speak but I silence her with a finger against my lips.

‘You will not speak until I tell you that you can,’ I say in a soft voice. ‘Do you understand?’

She nods and no more, but her eyes are bright and curious.

From the pocket of my gown I take the blindfold and she stands still as I fasten it securely in place. I feel my desires surge as the scent of her hair floods my senses. While she lies there, calm and patient, I open the bedside cabinet and take out the length of black rope.

 

I lead her to the bed, laying her down like an offering in the cool expanse of fabric, and while she lays there, calm and patient, I open the bedside cabinet and take out the single length of black rope. This I pass it behind the headboard, wrapping it around the fluted wooden posts at each end and bind her wrists with the two ends.  The bindings are far from tight and allow her to flex and move with a great deal of latitude but, as she will discover, not enough to feed herself. As the pulls out one hand, so the other hand will be pulled back.

Ah, the agony of the cleft stick.

 

And then I begin.

 

Standing at the foot of the bed, I lean forward and lay my hands upon her feet, stroking and caressing even as I part them and open her to me.

Rough hands on smooth skin, gentle in touch and harsh in texture, lazily making their way up and out, turning from the inner calves to the top of her thighs, fingertips meeting at the centre of her.

On their way back down, they pass over the smooth heat of her, a brief touch, a lovers kiss upon that flesh and she gives a sigh, her body tensing for a stolen second before my hands continue on.

From the inside of her thighs, then, back out to the flat of her shins and back to her feet. I bring them together again to close her to me for now. My lips lay a lingering kiss on the tops of her feet and then as my hands sweep back up the length of her, so I move onto the bed properly, straddling her legs, knowing she feels the need in me hard against her flesh.

My hands smooth their path onwards and upwards, over her tummy and then to her breasts. I watch, heart in my mouth, as already hardened nipples tighten even further, blush pink on pale.

She gives a slow, languid sigh that, before the end, I turn into a moan by simply running my palms over the hard nubs of flesh. Her back arches under my touch, moving to greet me but, again, I move on, never lingering, not yet.

Not yet.

 

As my hands move up, so I lay onto her, flesh to flesh, bringing my face to her, breathing her in as you would savour the aroma of a dew-dipped rose. Her aroma saturates me, intoxicates me. She needs no perfume other than her own glorious, seductively beautiful scent and my senses strain forward, each seeking their own reward, their own sustenance.

Fingertips trace a path, slow and intentional, up along her neck and I feel her swallow under my touch as I move my hands over her open, waiting mouth. I feel her tongue flick out like a hunter as she seeks to ensnare me, to draw me into her warm and ravenous mouth but I cannot stop, cannot delay and I leave even that delicious temptation behind me.

Fingers find their path down the side of her face and into her hair, curling there like lovers in the summers grass and as they do so I lay my lips against the smooth flesh between her breasts, kiss her and then, because I can and because I want to, I taste her.

My tongue slips out like a thief and I continue my journey upwards so it can trace a path, slowly, inexorably, up to her neck, to her chin and to her own mouth.

She again arches back, again rises to meet me, lips parted and pouting, seeking their quarry, seeking their prey.

I brush mine against hers, flick my tongue between them as I pull back on her hair, fingers wrapped in her hair, twisting and pulling.

She gasps and I feel her thighs rise and press against me, feel them trying to open, trying to give me a permission I’m not seeking.

Not yet.

 

I turn my head and see she is reaching for me, left hand with fingers stretched in hope of a touch she can call her own whilst her right hand is pulled back. She twists underneath me, a keening frustration in her throat that turns into a gasp of unfulfilled longing as, with equal patience and deliberation, I retrace my path back down and then onto the bed.

Bracing my arms, I raise myself back up and then down and off of her, feet on the floor long enough for my hands to again open her to me so that, when I lay back onto the bed it is to kneel between her open legs.

She glistens in the warm light of the room, desire and hunger given physical form. I inhale and the scent of her arousal floats like the breath of a kiss into my senses.

Back down know, leaning forward further, hands back on the bed, palms down, supporting me as I dip forward.

She moans as I breathe hotly onto her skin and, again, rises to meet me.

And this time I stay the course and my mouth meets in a lovers kiss with sultry flesh, warm and soft and welcoming, offering pleasure and sustenance as I push my tongue deep into the folds of her.

The heat increases as I get nearer the core of her.

I bring my hands up again, over her thighs, fingertips to her sex, parting her, opening her, spreading her. I push deeper, the desire to explore this promised land consuming me for the brief few seconds I can allow. As much as I wish to feast, I cannot.

Not yet.

 

And having drunk from her, I stop far, far short of having my fill and, lips wet and heavy with the juice of the fruit, I lift from her and move up again.

As I kiss her, as I share the promise of willingness with its creator, so I fold my hands around her breasts and press the centre of my own need against the centre of hers. I feel her shift underneath me, her body seeking to pull mine into her, aching and famished.

I break the kiss and leave her lips glistening with her own moisture. Her tongue flicks out as her lips curl in and she devours herself with a red raw passion, the flower craving its own nectar.

As she does this, my thumbs and forefingers close over her nipples and squeeze. The higher she arches, the harder I squeeze and, as I do so, I brush the tip of me against the entrance to her.

She cries out then, an unintelligible exclamation of pure, unsated lust. Need radiates from her like a heat-haze and I bathe in the sheer abandonment of it.

 

I leave the bed again and lean over her to the rope behind the head board. This I Lift up and loop twice over the central post of the headboard. That pulls her hands back, removing most of the slack she’s taken for granted. At the foot of the bed, I reach under the mattress and pull out another length of rope. This is already fastened to the bed at one end and, pulling her feet together, I wrap the other end around her ankles, tying it off to leave her properly bound, restricted more than restrained.

She has enough rope to torment herself with, though, and that’s what matters. And before I leave, I push the soft foam plugs deep into her ears so that the loudest, clearest thing she hears while I let her hang from the hook is the rasping, panting need of her own breath.

 

And so she will lie until I return to make love to her again.

 

I return to her in the twilight hours. Her ardour has long since cooled and I can tell from the state of the sheet that, without instructions forbidding it, she has writhed and twisted in a vain attempt to bring herself release. And that same sheet is too clean for her to have accomplished much beyond making her condition worse.

Right now she’s sleeping, albeit a little fitfully, body twisted onto its side in an attempt to adopt her normal position. The blindfold is, surprisingly, still in place as are her ear plugs.

 

I tug on the simple knots of her ankle ropes, freeing the lower half of her, and then mount the bed between her legs. She stirs, dumb and thick-headed, mouth open in an unasked question as she feels her legs lifted up and apart over her head.

She is still deliciously moist, suffused with a kind of damp heat, her body refusing to accept the defeat. I penetrate her with a deep, guttural grunt and she cries out at the violation. Moist she may be, but only enough to ease my passage into her and that’s all I care about. My flesh slams into hers, a dull slap of body to body contact, and I grind myself hard against her, seeking to push myself as deep into her as I can.

And then I withdraw, leaving just the tip of me barely inside her hungry body and she gasps.

I slam back inside, a shudder of exquisite pleasure shimmering up and down my spine as I feel her body fighting to catch up, almost flooding itself in desperation. Bliss.

In and out, over and over, and every one of those thrusts, every one of those violations is considered, loaded with intent and intention.

She hisses her approval, mouth open, head thrown back, urging me on as she rises to meet me. Anger rises inside me like a new dawn and my hands curl round her throat, squeezing until she starts to darken in the face and, keeping one hand in place to hold her fast, I draw back my other and slap her hard across the face. Her mouth gapes open, shocked at the blow received with neither warning nor anticipation. Again I strike her and the sound of flesh on flesh, sharper and drier, resounds round the room.

I plunge back into her, a low and ravenous moan escaping my lips at the feel of her body closing around me, holding me deep and seeming somehow to treasure me, savour me. I can see those twin needs writ large upon her face; part of her, the kind that both needs and appreciates the casual brutality, seeks to suck pleasure from it, leech-like, any port in a storm, taking pleasure from whatever source it can. And then there’s the pain that comes with understanding why those blows came and what they mean, what they say about her and her service of me.

I lift my hand from her throat and she draws a hasty, ragged breath. Saliva runs from her lips as she coughs and gasps, filling her lungs.

And as she does this, so I pound in and out of her, feeling my own pleasure building inside me at the pure delight of sensation her mere flesh provides me with.

Inside me, inside my head and my body, the ecstasy draws to a sharper and sharper point, like sunlight under a magnifying glass.

And, again, I withdraw, lifting myself from her, kneeling between her legs for a few silent seconds, trying to catch my breath and regain my senses. Sliding from the bed, I release her wrists and then, wrapping a hand in her hair and taking a hold of such severity I can feel roots being pulled, I drag her forward over herself and onto her knees in the middle of the bed. I grind her face into what is now, after recent events, a very wet spot indeed. She takes the hint, remains in place.

Kneeling behind her, I pull her ass into the air and then part her cheeks to see her tightly puckered anus. She gives a low moan as she feels my saliva dribble thickly onto it and then my fingers pushes inside, working this meagre lubricant. I spit into my own hand and stroke my almost painfully throbbing shaft, adding to the thick and sticky coating it already has.

I am not inclined to be gentle. My fingers grip the flesh of her hips and hold her hard and fast as I probe with my tip for the sweet spot. And once I find it I simply push, hard and fast, pinning the prey under the spear until it breaks and grants me the access I am entitled to.

What starts as a low cry of anguish resolves itself into a brightly senseless wail of pain as her body gives in, suddenly and thoroughly and I embed myself deep inside her. She is exquisitely, almost worryingly tight, but I feel no pain of my own so I presume either my flesh is intact or my need is so peaked it doesn’t care.

I hold myself there, allowing her to savour the violation, to appreciate it and understand the honour it signifies. I wonder if she comprehends those things or if the pain has overwhelmed her manners.

And then, like a punch-drunk fighter, she begins to push back, slowly but unmistakably. I smile and, as a reward to us both, curl both my hands into her hair once more. I feel strands snap like overused guitar strings as I begin to sodomise her with calculated violence. I withdraw to the tip and then plunge back as hard and fast as I can, sending her forward with enough force to push a thick, gasped grunt of pain from her lungs.

Again my pleasure begins to overwhelm me and I realise that my girl has been reduced to little more than meat on the skewer and that won’t do.

With a shudder from us both, I withdraw completely and let go of my grip on her hair. She sags forwards as I brush a few broken strands from round my fingers. Leading from the bed, I bring her to a space on the floor and hold her steady until she understands she is to remain in the position.

 

I kneel before her then, my need hard and unrelenting, and indulge my own desires once more. Tongue and hands to skin, trailing up and down the length of her, stopping here and there to savour a taste or texture or scent. The hot, aching desire builds inside me over and over and over, growing in such a way that I feel it will simply rip me apart.

And above me my girl responds to my delicate and urgent attentions, legs and body moving sinuously as her own desires reassert themselves. I push fingers inside her as my lips and tongue tend to the nub of her and her fluid runs down my wrist. She shudders in anticipation, murmuring low and incoherently.

And, again, I stop. Her spirit has returned to her body and so I can indulge myself and set about vanquishing it again.

As my fingers slide from her and she understands there will still be no release, I look up to see her face crumple in on itself, lips trembling. Tears run from under her blindfold, down her cheeks and I stand to kiss them from her skin. Nectar should never be wasted, after all.

 

Before she can respond in her dulled, dark world, I sit on the edge of the bed and drag her over my lap. I close my eyes as I raise my hand and let the red eyes flare inside me. My own needs are as distraught as she is by the denial of release but, unlike her, they get to express their disappointment.

I do not spank her; I beat her, hand a flurried blur, the sound of skin on skin like a machine gun. Ass to thighs, down and across and back up again, hard and fast as I want. And I do so want.

When I finish she is little more than a sobbing mess and I have to roll her from my lap before I can stand. She falls to her hands and knees, tears and mucus and saliva all running freely now. I almost want to hug myself at the realisation of such increasing beauty.

I drop behind her and again take her hips in my hands, holding her fast, relishing the slight tremor in her flesh as I put my tip to the feverishly hot entrance and push inside her with almost insouciant ease. She lowers her head with an exhausted sigh and I begin to stroke in and out of her with something akin to kindness, gentle and measured.

By the time she again remembers her place and begins to respond, begins to push back in belated appreciation, I am gritting my teeth and sweating with the effort it takes to hold back my own desires.

But I cannot yield to them, I just simply cannot. We are too far down this path, too involved in the lesson to end the class, for either of us.

Just as she responds, as hope blooms inside her that this torment is at an end and that, finally, she may have earned the release she craves, release from pleasure and anticipation and exhaustion and pain, I snatch it from her reaching hands.

I withdraw from her with a shudder, shaking with the effort of containing those flashing red-eyes for a while longer. My girl just falls forward with a gasp and then lies still bar the motions of her breathing, each breath hoarse and laden with effort.

I stand and she doesn’t move. I wrap my hand in her hair and she doesn’t tense. I pull her up to kneeling again and she doesn’t make a sound. I put the slick, sticky tip of me to her lips and she parts them to welcome me. The knuckles of my hand whiten against her hair as I secure my grip and hold her in place.

I start gently at first, allowing her to relax and find her own rhythm in accordance with mine. Slowly, thick and glistening with spit, I glide between those pouting lips and the red-eyes again rise inside me.

And so I abandon myself to them by degrees. I feel my teeth gritting, grinding together and a kind of self-righteous fury begins to swell inside my head and my soul. I allow myself to realise why we are here, her and I, what events brought us to this place and why this is a lesson she still has to learn, still has to accept, still has to believe in. I find I’m unsure if the fact I have to remind of these things, of her place and purpose, is proof her failure as a slave or mine as a master.

Either way, I think we both deserve the chance to rectify matters.

She gags explosively and her hands raise to push on my thighs. I slap them down with my free hand but they soon rise again as thick ribbons of spit and mucus begin to fall like wet ropes form her mouth. With a growl of frustration I push her aside and take one of the ropes from the bed. I push her on her front, grip her wrists in the small of her back and wrap the rope round them, tying them hard and tight.

I lift her back to her knees by the hair and set about indulging myself again, this time free of unwanted distractions. The sounds she makes as I plunder her mouth and throat with increasing ferocity are almost comical, a succession of jerked gulps and choked gargles. Her eyes run with despairing tears from behind her blindfold and her nose runs to her mouth, joining the spittle and phlegm to make a translucent mess that hangs from her lips and chin like shame and sin.

I spare her the wretch-inducing thrusts long enough to slap her face or push my fingers deep down her throat, thrilling to the liquid feel of her throat contracting with the gag reflex she can no longer even hope to suppress, even if she were trying.

As I push back between her lips, I pull the plugs from her eyes and yank the blindfold off and throw them aside. Her eyes take a few seconds to focus, red rimmed and full of a delicious suffering. She has the look of a girl who no longer asks questions, no longer seeks answers but, instead, just seeks for the misery to end. She is almost where I need her.

Almost.

I push as deep into her mouth as I can and then, I start hitting the back of my own hand, the one wrapped in her hair. The sound is dull and flat and I feel myself driven deeper into her mouth and throat by increments. She gives a wail that starts in the very pit of her gut and rises like an elevator up the length of her body and I smile, turning her face up to my own, smiling at her bulging eyes and puffed cheeks, bathing in the light of simultaneous creation and destruction.

She vomits explosively, a hot gush accompanied by a final shudder that emanates from her and through me. It jets from her mouth, around my forcibly expelled shaft to splash like a wave against my own skin.

As soon as I feel myself pushed out, I push back in, flattening her tongue against the underside as I reclaim lost ground. She gags again and another, smaller jet rushes from her and over me but I hold fast and she begins to gag on what she is being forced to swallow back down, self-fulfilling prophecy of nausea. The smell hits her nostrils and I see a kind of uncomprehending panic roll over her traumatised face like a thunderstorm.

My grip on her hair twists another degree and I push her head back to look up at me. And with the other hand I squeeze her nostrils closed. She stares at me in mute astonishment, beyond pain, beyond suffering and far, far beyond mere humiliation and degradation.

Now, finally, she is afraid. Now, finally, she understands just where she is and just what rests on her shoulders in that place.

I lift a barefoot between her open legs, feeling warm soup underfoot as I lift it between her thighs and push my toes into the soft folds of her flesh. She stares at me, tries and fails to breath around my flesh and still I hold her there. I push harder between her legs and feel my toes penetrate her, move inside her body and she starts to blink furiously. Sanity starts to leech from her eyes and she begins to try and shake her head, mentally denying what she cannot deny physically.

Deep, deep inside me, the red eyed beast nods his approval.

I look down at her and she looks up at me and we grant each other the release we crave.

 

I orgasm with shocking intensity almost lifting her from the floor by her hair as my back arches and I empty myself deep into her throat. And as my own muscles lock up in a rictus pose of utter bliss, so she finds the last vestiges of strength to respond in kind. She goes as tense as if a live current had passed through her, arching her back, pushing herself towards me, legs kicking like the ropes just pulled taut.

I feel my seed almost torn from me and such is the ferocity of my pleasure that it transcends pleasure and pain and instead haunts a no-mans land in between. I am beyond words, beyond sound. I just let go.

And in doing so, I let go of her almost entirely and the force of pressure inside her forces me out like the intruder I am. From her mouth tumbles a mess of spit and phlegm and mucus and vomitus and cum and, even as it tumbles over her lip and down her chin, she draws a long, shuddering breath and then begins to sob, wretchedly and uncontrollably. I hold her head back and deliver the last few spasms of my pleasure into her closed eyes, smearing it over them with the tip. She doesn’t notice.

I stagger back as I release her entirely and she just rolls over onto her side, gasping, eyes closed. Beyond the ragged rise and fall of her chest, she doesn’t move and doesn’t speak. I sit on the edge of the bed and begin to wipe my foot clean on an unspoilt patch of carpet almost subconsciously.

And then, like a moment of clarity, I remember. One more nail is needed, one mail to nail to ensure the ghosts of inadequate submission never rise from the coffin they’ve been locked in. I stand on shaky legs and bend down, opening the bedside cabinet.

From within I take the bucket that holds scrubbing brushes, cloths and cleaner. I drop it in front of her and then I leave her to it. As I close the door I hear the sound of fresh tears and smile contentedly to myself.

 

I will leave her to clean until I return to make love to her again.

 

Hours pass before I return to find she looks like little more than something that has been chewed upon and then spat out. Not an aspect of her remains unspoilt.

When I stand before and reach a hand out, she looks at me with the dull, shocked eyes of a victim, barely comprehending, let alone understanding, the fate that has befallen them. She looks at me with something akin to fatalism and, after a few seconds, puts her hand in mine.

After gently helping her to her feet, I put my arm round her waist and steer her towards the bathroom. Her head is down; she lets me decide her course and her fate and that’s how it should be. Down that path lies true reward.

I twist the shower on and, as the water heats, sit her on the toilet. She pees without thinking about it, lost in a pure world of stimulus response. I wipe her clean and then bring her with me into the shower.

And I wash her.

I start at the top and work down, front and back, scouring the proof of service from her skin with a rough sponge, building up sweet lather and washing away the sour, cleansing and cleaning. I lather her hair with shampoo and work it thoroughly, gently but firmly, easing out the knots and broken hairs as I go until, rinsed clean, it shines anew.

The water running from her carries the physical aftermath but, as her eyes attest, the mental is not so easily shifted. But we will address that in due course.

Eventually she is clean, from her hair to between her toes and everywhere in between. I lead her from the shower and gently towel her dry, patting a soft path up and down her, no fold or crevice left untouched. I towel her hair dry last, brushing out the knots and broken strands afterwards with as much care and delicacy as I can.

 

When I hold out my hand this time, she looks into my eyes and gives a small, hopeful smile before putting her hand into mine and I help her stand. Wordlessly I lead her back to the bedroom. And so we start again.

The bed has been stripped, its bare mattress only hidden by the crisp sheet pulled taut and smooth over it. The large wooden headboard, shaped and carved as it is, stands in stark contrast to the simplicity it rises above.

And then there is her; my girl, my slave, my muse. Like the bed, she’s stripped, standing before me naked, as unadorned as she is unashamed of being so before me. My eyes caress her, roaming over her with the intention of a lovers touch, sweeping over the curves and rises of the land I know so well and never tire of exploring.

I smile at her, a calm and contemplative look that, after the rigours she has endured, brings a frown to her still dazed features.

‘Where to start,’ I whisper to myself. 

           And then I am upon her.

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