Delicious Pain - a BDSM Collection Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  An Appointment with Her Master

  Forbidden Treasures

  In Sebastian's Hands - introduction

  Life, the Universe and Sebastian

  It's Time

  The Roses in Your Cheeks

  About Portia Da Costa

  Also from Portia Da Costa

  Delicious Pain

  Copyright 2012 Portia Da Costa.

  This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. With exception of quotes used in reviews, this story may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  Please be aware that this story contains sensual content that is only suitable for adult readers who are comfortable with frank language and descriptions of erotic scenarios

  Please Note: An Appointment with Her Master, Forbidden Treasures and In Sebastian’s Hands have all appeared as separate ebooks on a variety of platforms

  *** *** ***

  An Appointment with Her Master

  I have an appointment. An appointment with a master. My master. It's real this time. It's really going to happen.

  Mary-Anne Green smiled to herself, her grin nervous, her heart in a tizzy as she remembered the very start of her obsession.

  It'd all begun when she'd picked up a book in a second hand market several years ago; a fantasy set in an imaginary realm in olden times, when richly dressed princes had taken their beautiful young brides across their knees and administered old fashioned discipline across their vulnerable bare bottoms.

  It'd been a shock. What the book did to her. The luridly overwrought descriptions of tingling red bottoms, and the strange sweetness that came with them, had scared her at first. Not the stories themselves, but what they'd done to her. Cries of pain, and cries of pleasure had rung in her mind as she'd read, and at the same time her body had roused. At first she'd been horrified by her own reaction, and tried to ignore her own flesh, the heavy, needy ache and the wetness. But pretty quickly all that had changed, and transformed into a sense of elation, and relief. At last she knew herself, and since that day, it seemed she'd just been waiting for this one.

  From books, she'd graduated to magazines, and from magazines to exchanging ideas with people she'd met on message boards and in chat rooms. It had been a delicate foray, not mentioning the pain/pleasure at first, until she'd ascertained as best she could that they were like minded. But still she'd remained circumspect, she'd stayed guarded. She'd relished every crumb of information she'd discovered about those who spanked, and those who were spanked, but always held back from revealing her own experiences, or lack of them. She'd concealed her own goals and remained an enigma.

  And then one day, she'd found a new correspondent. A very special one, as enigmatic as she, but irresistible. By then already a writer of some small notoriety herself in BDSM circles, Mary Anne had reached out to a fellow author she admired. Not the one who'd written the fairy tale fantasies of minor royal personages with majestically tanned bottoms, but another writer, with a far greater talent.

  When she'd first read his books, Mary Anne had discovered her true home - a dark, seductive world of profound and ritualistic severity. The descriptions of spankings and thrashings had thrilled her, the talk of canings had made her unable to resist touching her sex. Again and again she would read his books, and again and again they gave her pleasure, conjuring up pictures she could place herself within. Scenarios, inner visions, where it was her bottom beneath the strap or the hand. Night after night, day after day, she imagined herself bare bottomed across the great man's lap, with all her intimate secrets exposed. She imagined waiting, almost in a state of near-climax, for his strong hand to fall, and when it did, she dreamed that she loved the pain with all the fervor she might come to love the man. She asked him if he'd send her a photograph, and when he did, it was his inscrutable, pale, seemingly fathomless eyes that looked down on her as she lay in her dreams at his mercy.

  As their correspondence opened up and grew more explicit and wide-ranging it was inevitable that she'd be driven to try and flirt with him. To hint, however obliquely, that for him alone, she could really bare her all. That for his sake she could suffer a real beating, and that his blows would be welcome on her flesh. She could hardly believe what she was doing as she typed the provocative words, and she couldn't believe that they were real even after she'd pressed "Send".

  Of course, the great man called her bluff, seeing straight through her hints and allusions to her yearning heart. His reply was confident, and knowing, yet beneath it, she read a yearning that matched her own.

  You could come to me, and I could make it real for you.

  The words were simple, yet so seductive she was lost. Without committing herself at first, without a single word to her Svengali, she was already set on the road that led towards him.

  Telling herself it was all crazy, she still experimented. To prepare herself. She stole a ruler from work, an old thing, quite heavy and sturdily made. When she swished it down fiercely on her inner thigh, the pain was sharp but fleeting, and afterwards came a sweet, rosy glow. The heat of it bloomed in her skin, yet spread out, instantly to her pussy, so close. It sizzled as if he'd smacked her, as if he'd exalted her to a new level of perception. Insanely pleased with herself, and more aroused than ever, she masturbated furiously, embroidering her fantasy, and ready for more, much more. So much more.

  The next stage, in fact.

  In a bold maneuver, that turned her on as much as the experimental spanking itself, she sent the man himself the same ruler that she'd used on her own thigh. It was accepted with a magnificent, amused arrogance that thrilled her, the perfect answer to her call, exactly what she'd wanted. He described what he would do to her, what she would do to him, and specified the logistics of their meeting. Reading his response, she was a teenager in love again; but this time in love with the right man. With him, it wasn't weird to be submissive, and obedient to his whim... it made her powerful, and right feeling, not an oddity. Lying in her bathroom, on her back, swishing her bottom with the sturdy wooden ruler, she imagined herself miles and miles away, lying on her front, across his knee, and trembling before him. Or, in an exciting variation, he might put her across the back of some beautiful antique chair, and thrash her buttocks with whatever implement he chose.

  All the dreams in her mind made her she smile, something she did more and more these days. And all because he did these fantastical things because she willed it as much as he did.

  But what anguish might the pain, the real pain, cause her? What would the stinging, the smarting, the pure fire scorching her untried bottom, do to her? Would the real thing be way beyond her fancies?

  And now, oh God, the momentous day was here.

  Dressed carefully, according to his exhaustive instructions, Mary-Anne made her way towards his house. She'd been amazed to discover that he actually lived quite close to her. Had she met him, or seen him in a street or shop and never known it was him? What did it mean for her that he lived so near? Did it mean... did it mean there was a future if today went as well as she hoped?

  Riding in a taxi, she kept her face straight, amused yet keeping it inside. Nobody would have thought her sexy today, to look at her; but she felt like a goddess, high above them all. Beneath her sober skirt were the exquisitely beautiful black lace panties that her Master would be expe
cting to see, although, after the thoughts she'd been having for the whole of the journey, certain areas of them weren't nearly as pristine as they'd been when she'd started out. She'd been sticky wet almost before she'd been out of her door.

  Arriving at the posh address he'd given her, she reached out with a shaking hand for the doorbell. Its tuneful ringing announced a point of no return, and for a microsecond it scared her. What if it was all a disaster? What if he wasn't up to the job, not what she'd wanted or hoped for? What if the subtext of need and yearning she'd sensed in his letters, that so accurately matched her own, was an illusion? It wasn't too late to turn and run for her life, but just as she dithered the door opened.

  There stood her Master, just as tall and lean and distinguished as he'd appeared in his photo, but far more handsome in the living, breathing flesh; a wealthy bohemian with dark, wavy hair and a twinkle in his eye. Her heart went "bingo" as he took her shaking hand in his that felt so hard and so strong. She could already imagine its power on her bottom.

  "Mary-Anne, at last. How wonderful to finally meet you. Do come in."

  His smile was a wonder, and of course she knew him. He was minor local celebrity, a famous and respected scholar, an author in his everyday life, over and above his secret identity. He was slender, and elegant, and she wanted to laugh, to shout with joy at the prospect of being punished by such a beautiful man. He was single too, a widower, unattached.

  All this ran through her mind as he conducted her courteously into his home, his manner gentle, yet alight with expectation.

  "Would you like a cup of tea first? Or a glass of wine?" He touched her on the arm guiding her forward and her body thrilled. "Or perhaps a moment to yourself? To... to 'freshen up' as they say, after your journey?"

  The first she declined; the second, she accepted, yes, please, but in a moment; the third she accepted with gratitude. A moment was essential, to gather her scattered wits.

  In his old-fashioned, potpourri scented bathroom, she quaked with a delicious swirling trepidation, almost triumph. Pulling down her panties to answer nature's call, she discovered a truth she'd been pretty much. Her knickers were damp with anticipation.

  What would her Master think of her? She knew his real name now, but the title still felt right in her mind. Would he be amused by her uncontrollable horniness? Repelled? Disgusted? She didn't think so... in fact she was absolutely certain he'd be pleased, more than pleased.

  Returning to his exquisitely furnished study, she nervously accepted her wine. It was wonderful, absolutely luscious, but she was too strung out to really appreciate its finesse.

  "Look, do you think we could start? Sorry to sound so impatient... it's just... well..."

  "So eager," he murmured, his enigmatic eyes sparkling.

  Mary-Anne's heart skipped. He was already in his role.

  "You'd better kneel down now, Mary-Anne. And pay attention. I'm going to tell you now what's going to happen to you. The things that I'm going to do to your bottom."

  It took all Mary-Anne's strength not to fall down, much less kneel. The way he said "bottom" was so stern, yet so deliciously sexy. He made the single word sound like poem.

  Slowly, meticulously, he outlined the "bill of fare". First it would be long, heavy spanking with his hand, then he'd administer certain other punishments of his own choice, ones which he'd decide on as the session progressed. Her buttocks would be punished to a state of perfect, painful, simmering redness - and only then would satisfaction be provided. But he didn't say if it would hers, or his own.

  "On your feet again now. Raise your skirt," he ordered softly, and with a suppressed gasp, Mary-Anne obeyed him. Now was the moment to reveal the pretty panties for his perusal, and also seamed stockings and a narrow lace suspender belt.

  "Very nice," he said, steepling his long narrow fingers, the touching their tips to the center of his sculpted lower lip, "Very pretty... Now slip down your panties to your knees."

  It was exactly the command she'd expected, but hearing it made her shake, and get wetter than ever. This was no longer a fantasy, a supposition, a story written by either one of them; it was real and the pain would soon come. Her face flushing, she grasped her skirt with one hand, and used the other to lower her underwear. Mortified with embarrassment, she parted her slim legs, so the knickers - perceptibly fragrant with her feminine aroma - would remain caught around her knees and not fall.

  "Come to me," her Master quietly ordered, then he smiled as her discomfiture increased.

  It was very difficult to move with poise and grace when your panties had to be prevented from falling. Hobbled, and feeling inelegant, she scuttled towards him, her face now bright red.

  "Very good," he said, his pale eyes glinting, then in a movement that was completely unexpected, his passed his narrow hand between her legs. "You're very wet," he teased, "and that's so naughty. This regime hasn't come a moment too soon."

  Unable to help herself, Mary-Anne moaned. The touch of her Master upon her, even one so fleeting and casual, had almost precipitated her climax. She felt her intimate flesh quiver, and her silky fluid run and run in helpless flow.

  "Come along, let's have you across my knee," he continued, his velvety baritone magisterial and businesslike. "That bottom needs the weight of my hand." As he spoke he reached around her and squeezed it, and Mary-Anne gasped as her arousal grew stronger.

  Still feeling graceless and clumsy, she arranged herself across his strong thighs. Moving his legs slightly, he adjusted her position, and made her bottom rear up perfectly before him. Mary-Anne closed her eyes in an ecstasy of shame, then whimpered as he began to examine her.

  Clever, clever fingers traced the curves of her cheeks the dipped into the deep cleft between them. She cried out, as shrill as a little girl, when his touch lingered against her tiny rosy portal, then she shook and kicked as his finger patted and teased her there. "Tut-tut," he said sternly, as he circled and tantalized, "Don't you realize this bottom here is no longer your own property? That it's mine to play with and to do with as I will."

  Sobbing her apologies, she felt her sex surge and ripple, roused to pleasure by the profoundly rude play.

  "Now, my dear, to business. Let's proceed with the task that you're here for.."

  His voice was low and crisp, and a second later his hand was fiercely hard. Mary Anne had never expected this much force from just a simple bare palm, and she squealed out in her pain and pure shock.

  "Ah yes, my dear, it smarts, doesn't it?" he observed in amusement as that hard hand rained down a fearsome volley. The spanks seemed to come faster than a human arm could deliver them, and cover her whole bottom with an uncanny precision.

  Smack! Smack! Smack! The impacts continued remorselessly, covering her bottom cheeks with glowing veil of pink. She could feel her skin tenderizing, becoming incredibly hot, and the wetness between her legs gently flowing. Cupping one cheek in his fingers, her mentor stretched her open, then laid a series of smart spanks across her anus.

  More excited than ever, Mary-Anne cried and cried, tears of confusion, and wonder, and yes, pain. It hurt like hell, but she didn't even try to escape him. It was his will to spank her thus. His will to seek out the most sensitive and intimate parts of her bottom, and turn them to flaming soreness with hot blows.

  His will, but also hers equally. A befuddling miracle, but exactly what she'd craved for a long, long time.

  When her bottom was a steady throbbing scarlet, her Master paused for a moment in his task. Once again, he began a close examination; pressing and squeezing at the redness he'd created, and letting his fingertips rove freely in her cleft.

  "So wet," she heard him murmur, and one digit bored inside her. "It's unseemly that a girl could flow so much."

  His words were absurd. He called her a girl, but he wasn't even all that much older than she. It was simply a strategy, and a fulfillment of all they'd discussed, in correspondence. She'd played the role in her letters of a naughty, confused ne
ophyte, which was true in a lot of ways. She'd expressed faux horror at getting aroused over the thought of pain, and of her bottom being bared and punished, and he'd promised to teach her a lesson about "real" punishment. The fact that her sex was wet and swollen was a sign of sweet success in their mutual endeavor, not a wrong-doing in need of further discipline.

  "Clearly, a hand-spanking goes nowhere in taming you," he said. His severity was feigned too, but it still made her tremble, "We must now progress to harsher measures."

  Tipping her off his lap, he instructed her to stand in the corner, with her skirt raised and her pants still round her knees. Mary-Anne was aware that her crimson bottom would be on show to anyone who came into the room now, and almost longed for her Master to have a guest. She imagined herself standing there for quite a considerable period, while tea was served to a number of interested visitors. She heard imaginary conversations. Unknown people discussing the condition of her bottom: its shape, and its redness, and its suitability for various canes and whips. She almost felt inquisitive observers reaching out to finger her fieriness, and test the firm resilience of her cheeks. Some might even slip a finger into her sex.

  She was almost swooning as her Master came across to her.

  "Still nice and hot?" His voice was like silk as he tested her flaming bottom cheeks with an ungentle hand. "Answer me, please, Mary-Anne," he commanded, pulling her this way and that, then massaging her cleft, slowly and wickedly

  "Yes... Yes, sir, I'm still v... very hot," she faltered, gulping furiously as he slid a hand round and caressed her at the front too, fingertips working in a pattern.

  "Then it's time to make you even hotter," he said, whisking away the delicious pleasuring touch. "Come with me, and we'll see what we can do."

  Still hampered by the knickers dangling around her knees, and flooded by the tantalizing shame of it, Mary-Anne followed her master out of the room and up a flight of stairs. At the top, he urged her to shuffle along a corridor, and around a couple of corners, and then conducted her into a sober, mahogany-paneled room. It was another elegant bookroom in reality, but in her imagination, and possibly his, it was a dungeon. She imagined them surrounded by punishment implements of every kind, hung from racks and from pegs, fearsome but imaginary.