I must say, even with the throbbing in my bum to keep me warm, this is shaping up to be one of the better days of my life. Sex, shopping, egg sandwiches, more sex…OK, caning, but that wasn’t sooo bad, I suppose. These are a few of my favourite things – forget whiskers on kittens and warm woollen mittens.
I hum the classic Sound of Music track as I prepare to offer myself once more to my lash-happy lover. I am quite conscious of the dull internal ache below from this morning’s session and worry that he is going to hurt me, but when he enters the room, murmuring approbation at my submissive position, it seems he has plans other than the immediate conjunction of our sex organs.
He kneels beside my prostrated form and begins to rub a divinely cooling gel into my welted posterior…oh, it feels so good…oh, those fingers should win an award….
“Don’t get used to this, Beth,” he warns. “I’m only doing it because it’s your first time with the cane. If I have occasion to punish you in this manner again, I will not offer you any kind of salve.”
His words melt like kisses into my ears as he soothes on and now the sting has abated to manageable proportions and instead of feeling uncomfortable I merely feel supremely horny.
“Of course, only a very foolish and heedless young lady would misbehave seriously enough to merit a second dose of the cane, don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir,” I sigh, feeling the cold gel warmed by my hot backside and absorbed almost immediately into its furnacelike embrace.
“Good. Some arnica to avoid bruising now….and then….” Sinclair is breathing heavily through his nose. I’m pretty sure that erection hasn’t gone anywhere. He moves a couple of fingers down to the puffy entrance of my sex. “How are you feeling down here?” he asks solicitously. “Sore at all?”
“A little,” I admit, trying to move away and prevented by his hand on my back.
“Hm, well, you’re quite wet,” he observes, circling a fingertip around and around. “Perhaps a little pain on entry, but you can get through that, can’t you, Beth?”
“Oh…” I whimper as he pushes the finger further in and wiggles it inside. “I don’t know.”
“You’ll see,” he hisses, and I can hear the sounds of unbuttoning, of divesting. “I’ve spent a long time imagining this day, Beth. The day I am finally able to penetrate you after administering a punishment.” The wet tip of his cock rubs against the tender spot and I whimper again. “You can’t begin to understand how frustrating it was for me, all those times I spanked you and had to let you go. All I wanted to do was bend you back over and fuck you hard, but the time wasn’t right. It’s right now though. And I certainly intend to fulfil my modest fantasy.”
He rams himself all the way to the hilt. I squeal at the initial wincey rawness, but once that has passed, he is quite right…it feels fine. More than fine. The luscious fullness cancels out the chafing; he feels thick and wide and inescapable. I grab a handful of duvet and bury my face in its fabric-conditioned softness, pushing back on his shaft, inviting him down deeper and deeper, stretched and slick and almost split with his amazing girth. His hands slap down on my hips and he pummels me hard, fast, furious, his pelvis banging repeatedly into the sensitive sorest part of my bottom where it creases into thigh, never allowing me to forget that I am recently punished and that this is all part of the performance. Fucking at this level of frenzy is pretty hard to sustain for long, and luckily the thickness of Sinclair ensures that he stimulates my g-spot with every stroke so it is a matter of minutes before I start to yell into the cool Egyptian cotton, feeling myself utterly possessed, totally taken and I wail his name…. “Sinclaaaaair,” which – don’t know if it’s coincidence – brings him gushing and roaring and slapping into his own orgasm, his hands landing sharply on my poor bottom as he shoots.
I remain in position, head pressed down, spine sloping, arse in air when he pulls out and watches his remnants trickling down my thigh. “Don’t move for a minute,” he says from behind me. “I want to take a photograph.” God. Here I am, spanked and shagged and exhausted, and that’s his idea of a Kodak moment. Pervert. Gorgeous, sexy pervert. I hear the click and flash, then feel the mattress plunge as he throws himself down next to me.
“You aren’t putting that on the internet, are you?” I ask suspiciously.
“Of course not,” he laughs. He forces my face out of the duvet and turns it to him. He is smiling, running a fingertip over the creases left by its submersion in his quilt.
“Is this the new look, then? The Duvet Facial?”
I giggle. Oh flip, we’re supposed to be going out in a little over an hour. I just want to stay here, languishing on the bed with my masterful lover.
“Tell me you belong to me,” he purrs, close to my ear.
“I belong to you,” I oblige and his smile broadens.
“Perfect. Come on, then, my naughty little schoolgirl, up and dressed! You’ve less than an hour to make yourself presentable.”
He jumps up off the bed and commences stalking around opening wardrobes and unknotting ties. I shut my eyes and try to fall asleep, having no energy left, but am not permitted to drowse for long. I am hustled into the shower, oiled up, perfumed, dressed and made-up according to a schedule of military precision.
“Why don’t you ever do anything with your hair?” he asks me, watching me as I primp in the mirror, adding a final layer of mascara.
“Oh,” I shrug. “I don’t really get hair.”
He sweeps forward and runs his fingers through it, lifting it off my neck. My hair is somewhat heavy, poker-straight and shoulder-length, of an indeterminate brownish shade.
“You’re quite presentable when you make the effort,” he says severely. “But you hide underneath this…veil of grunge all the time. Why do young women do that?”
“Perhaps your opinion of our looks isn’t the be-all and end-all of our universe,” I retort, rather daringly, I think.
I watch his eyebrow shoot upward in the mirror. “Feisty,” he says menacingly and a shiver runs through me. Almost unconsciously, he rubs my bottom through the thin fabric of my dress, reminding me of the dynamic of our relationship. As if I could forget. My tiny whimper at the contact brings a smile to his lips.
He begins twisting and manipulating my mane and I am astonished at his skill in this area. Closet hairdresser; who’d have thought it?
“You don’t colour your hair?” he says and I snort.