Delicious Pain - a BDSM Collection Read online

  The only real dungeon fixture was a small, but sturdily made oak trestle that stood in the center of the room. The crosspiece was thickly upholstered and covered with soft red velvet, and each upright had a restraint at its base.

  Had he purchased it, or had it made, specially for her?

  "Now, Mary-Anne, I want you to take off all your clothes, then drape your beautiful white body across that bar, as elegantly as you can."

  Slowly, Mary-Anne obeyed him, taking every care to move as gracefully as she could. It wasn't easy. Her nerves made her tremble, and, aware of his preferences, she retained her panties around her knees as she removed her other things. She even kept them in place as she removed her stockings; unhooking her suspenders and holding the knickers at half mast as she tugged her hose down her legs from beneath them. The last item she dispensed with her suspender belt, spreading her thighs to retain her panties as she unhooked it.

  "That's charming, my dear," said her Master, sounding pleased, and if she wasn't mistaken, impressed. Keeping her smile to herself, she felt just as pleased herself. "So much so that I think you may keep your little panties."

  Mary-Anne tried not to breathe hard. Her tangled knickers made her feel even more naked, even more "presented" and subjugated. They were a symbol of her loss of free will and to be in that state made her sex ache and get wetter than ever.

  "And you may wear these too." He held out some objects he'd retrieved from the sideboard while she was busy undressing: a thin, black velvet choker, and a pair of very high heeled black patent leather shoes.

  Knowing she must look foolish in her hobble, Mary Anne fastened on the choker, then stepped into the high stiletto heels.

  In them she swayed, almost fell. She had no grace, no power, she was at the mercy of her own sense of balance. Nor could she set her feet apart and brace herself, with her panties around her knees she was next to helpless.

  "Come along, Mary-Anne," her master urged gently, "I'm waiting... Don't you want to obey me?"

  Befuddled by the gorgeous shame, she couldn't speak a word, but just nodded and began to totter forward. When she felt his hand on her arm, guiding her, she almost wept with emotion. She'd wanted to manage alone... and yet in another way, failing was exquisite.

  Melting with weakness, yet completely enraptured, she let her Master arrange her across the bar. His movements were neat and methodical, almost impersonal, and in moments she was cuffed and secured. Her belly was pressed tightly against the red velvet upholstery and each wrist was buckled firmly to an upright. At first she was surprised that her legs were left unfettered, but then she realized that her panties confined her as effectively as a set of manacles, forcing her to part her thighs to a precise, revealing distance so the black lace garment slipped no further than her knees.

  Mary-Anne felt fearful and defenseless, yet drenched in a strange sense of peace. There was nothing she could do, nothing she had to do, nothing she wanted to do. Her master had relieved her of all responsibility, and the heavy weight of choice. Life was very simple, very clear to her now; there was no decision to make, she only had to submit, and hurt.

  And hurt she would.

  "I will punish you now, with this," her Master said calmly, holding the familiar ruler before her blurring eyes. It different now, somehow; heavier, gleaming as if he'd polished it, strangely innocuous yet almost sentient with menace. "It will be extremely painful, and you may cry out if you wish to. In fact, I encourage it... But I will not stop until I've administered six hard strokes." He paused then, his cool hand delicately brushing her shoulder, then her throat, and then her jaw, as he raised her blushing face so he could see it. "And after that... Well, we'll have to see what happens afterwards, won't we?"

  With that he stepped away from her, behind her, and made ready. Mary-Anne could hear the sibilant swish of the thick ruler as he tested its flight through the air, and its passage seemed to cut her fear in two. She felt ready, accepting, perfectly willing, her peacefulness so deep it glowed in her heart like a radiant light.

  She'd never felt happier in her life. Never more in the right place and with the right person.

  Then the first blow fell and she screamed, the sound high and thin.

  "One," her Master intoned solemnly, while her bottom blazed along a wide, blinding line. White lights danced behind Mary-Anne's closed eyes, and she could hear a voice - hers - keening and whining like banshee or a mad thing. She tried to quiet down, but her mouth wouldn't obey.

  "Two." The pain came again, like a cable laid across her, shooting six hundred thousand volts through each soft cheek.

  "No! No! No!" she whimpered.

  Then heard "Three" as the next stroke whistled down.

  The pain was deeper each time: more solid, more biting, more intense. Four and five seemed to merge into one mass, and when six came, she no longer had breath to scream, but whispered "Master... oh Master... oh Master..." as her bottom leapt and danced, her lower limbs no longer under her control.

  The agony in her flesh didn't seem to diminish as the moments passed, it simply seemed to alter in its quality. From bright, piercing brilliance, it damped down to a heavy pounding throb. As it wound through her senses, Mary Anne found her perceptions sharpened and intensified. She could smell her Master's fresh, lemony cologne through the pungency of her own scents, and beneath she detected the faint odor of his sweat. On the highly polished floor, she could see a shadow moving slowly yet revealingly - a dark silhouette that seemed to merge and blend with hers. She heard sounds, crystal clear sounds; heavy male breathing, a sliding zip, a tiny gasp.

  Finally, and wonderfully, strong hands clasped her bottom, and as the torture flared, she welcomed its flaming kiss. She was lifted, adjusted, and painfully maneuvered. Her panties were ripped, yes, ripped from around her thighs, and then something hard, imperious and latex-clad probed her pussy.

  I love you, Mary-Anne's mind whispered as her melting body opened. She smiled in an ecstasy of joy as he forged into her, thick and imposing, shoving hard in rough thrusts. His animal enthusiasm was completely at odds with the controlled elegance of all his actions thus far, and even though every time he pushed in, he hurt her striped bottom cruelly, his desperation granted power, and equal pleasure, to her too.

  His wild, blasphemous shouts exalted her spirit. When she gripped him with her pussy, that made him sob. And redouble his efforts.

  It was a wild ride, an agonizing gallop, an ascension to bliss.

  When he reached beneath her, and touched her clit, she matched his profanity... then came like an avalanche, praising his name, his real name, sharing his climax.

  *** *** ***

  Later, Mary-Anne lay in his bed, face down, almost floating. Her bottom still throbbed ferociously, and she knew it was striated with six substantial and overlapping red lines, stark and vivid. But she'd never been happier in her life, and the weight of her master's hand... Benedict's hand... resting lightly at the small of her back, was like an angel's touch, a blessing on her suffering.

  "You're magnificent... you know that, don't you? Everything I ever dreamed."

  He was lying beside her, also on his front, with his face turned to hers. He was as exhausted as she, and she was in no doubt he was equally as happy. There was no way a man could fake that tell-tale glow.

  Gentle now, he'd been stringent earlier, freeing her from the trestle, half carrying her here, and plowing her again, and again, on her back, on this bed. His hammering her against the mattress had been like beating her buttocks all over again, but she'd relished it, out and out invited it, dragging his hands to her punished flesh and compelling him to clasp her stripes as he pounded into her, gasping incoherently.

  Locked in a combat of pleasure, they'd climaxed together, time after time, until exhaustion claimed them.

  "You were pretty fabulous yourself, considering," she murmured, shifting her pelvis against the mattress, aroused once more despite feeling wrung out and barely half awake. "I would never ev
er have known your secret... you were perfect."

  "Yes, I wasn't bad, was I?" She could hear the smile in his voice as the tip of his finger brushed the very end of one of her stripes, making her hiss. "In fact I think I was pretty damned outstanding for a 'master' who's never mastered anyone in real life ever before."

  "You were perfect. Everything I ever dreamed of too." Her heart fluttered. It was more than the pain. More than the pleasure. Everything they'd shared in their long, deep, no holds barred correspondence had been completely fulfilled in their meeting in the flesh. Fulfilled and exceeded beyond her wildest hopes and fantasies, both her erotic ones and her gentler dreams, borne of emotion.

  "So, we're both perfect..." His voice was thoughtful, as measured as his tantalizing hand, "In which case, wouldn't it be a shame not to... to continue? And progress?"

  He was still her Master, but the little hesitation made him her equal too. It only confirmed he too wanted more than just the sex.

  It made her able to say, "Yes, that's what I want too... And I think we should collaborate... write together. We've made fantasy into reality between us, so now we can make reality back into fantasy."

  He laughed, softly and happily. "I thought you'd never ask."

  Slowly, slowly, he ran a fingernail down the fiercest of her stripes, making her moan and hiss through her teeth; while at the same time he slid his other hand beneath her belly, working into her fleece and finding her clit with perfect accuracy.

  Scratch and circle, scratch and circle, scratch and circle. Within seconds she was coming hard, yet again.

  "Shall we make a story of this too?" he purred in her ear, even as she climaxed.

  "Yes... Oh God, yes, please!"

  While Mary-Anne groaned and laughed, all a-jumble in her pleasure, Benedict's answer was a happy sigh, a breath of triumph.

  "I love you," he whispered, still fondling her sticky sex.

  ###

  Forbidden Treasures

  "Now don't go crazy. Remember we're supposed to be economizing."

  Alice Porter quivered. Why did it turn her on so when her husband pretended to be stern with her like this? Julian gave her a wink and a cool kiss on the cheek as they were about to part at the entrance to the flea market, and it was all she could do not to grab him and drag him back to the car to make out.

  "I know, I know. I'll be careful." She grinned at him, defiant. He knew she was only paying lip service to his instructions, and the way his blue eyes narrowed made her heart leap and her pussy flutter. This morning, in bed, he'd been ferocious. Deliciously loving, but all power, all command.

  We should have stayed at home, in bed.

  As Julian walked away, no doubt heading for the militaria and the vintage engineering items, she watched his fine ass and his long legs in narrow blue jeans recede into the distance, and she wished she was beneath him, between the sheets.

  Trying to distract herself, Alice focused on the market. It was a fabulous one, the largest and the most tempting they'd visited in ages. Stall after stall was crammed with second hand clothes, crafts, records, and most of all bric-a-brac; a positive cornucopia of hand-me-down treasures, some genuinely antique and some quite modern.

  She and Julian never wanted to look at the same things, so it was much better for mutual harmony if they split up and each explored and scrounged alone. He was a swift and decisive chooser; she liked to linger and ponder. It was no use sticking together and losing patience with one another.

  After a few minutes wandering around, Alice discovered a treasure trove. What seemed to be the entire contents of a genuine Edwardian household, spread across several tables. For once, she found herself completely forgetting her lustful thoughts about her husband. There was so much in the hoard that she wanted to examine, and a lot she desperately wanted to buy. But Julian would go nuts if she splurged on everything she fancied. He wasn't miserly; he would probably come back laden with his own fair share of purchases. But he wasn't the wild spender that she was, not by a mile.

  Deciding not to worry about her husband's possible reactions, Alice plunged in eagerly amongst the delightful vintage hoard.

  The first thing she lit upon as must-buys were a couple of pretty gilt picture frames, perfect for their old-fashioned kitchen dresser. There were still photographs in them, and they looked as bygone as the rest of items on display. Were they genuine Edwardian? It seemed so, judging by the clothes and the faded quality of the prints. One depicted a very proper looking gentleman, standing straight and four square, his eyes level and direct as he stared into the camera. He was holding a walking stick clutched firmly in his right hand.

  Or is it a walking stick?

  Alice peered more closely. No, perhaps it wasn't. The stick didn't look sturdy enough to bear much weight. In fact it look much too slim and whippy for that, more like a lightweight rattan cane, the sort used by an old-fashioned schoolmaster to dish out daily punishments to lazy and intransigent pupils.

  Crikey!

  The idea of the Edwardian gentleman's cane being used for such a purpose made Alice's insides quiver again, the feeling much like the urges she'd felt when she'd been thinking about Julian fucking her, not ten minutes ago. Her face felt very hot all of a sudden, and in the pit of her belly a familiar ache gathered.

  What on earth is the matter with me? Have I turned kinky?

  In her mind, she pictured a pretty young woman, maybe someone much like herself, bent over and showing her bloomers to the stern gentleman in the photograph. Or perhaps showing him a good deal more than her bloomers? What would it be like to be that young woman, presenting her pale, bare bottom for chastisement with that cane? The image morphed again, and suddenly it was Julian she saw in dapper Edwardian dress, swishing the cane as if it had been fashioned just for him.

  "Good grief," murmured Alice, unsettled by the clarity of the mind-picture and the effect it had on her. Weird. Did she really want Julian to keep her in line that way? Would he even want to? He was a take-charge kind of man, but he was also tender and considerate, and he abhorred violence.

  But still. This was different, she knew that. Something about the eyes of the man in the photograph seemed to tell a hidden story, and it was a tale that was nothing to do with domestic discipline and everything to do with dark forbidden pleasure.

  The matched photograph only seemed to confirm her suspicions. It showed a handsome and rather buxom young woman of about her own age, with a wickedly impish expression on her face. There was nothing cowed or fearful about her. The picture was old, but smiling woman almost twinkled with satisfaction.

  Alice continued with her treasure hunt.

  The next box revealed more goodies from the unknown bygone household. There was a small delicate china jug, presumably part of a tea set, and a large silver spoon which would be ideal for serving fruit or puddings. Alice added these to her hoard, and with them put a beautiful old book about the language of flowers.

  The last receptacle she came to was a substantial ironbound chest, an object both impressive and ugly at the same time somehow. It would look amazing in their hall, but Julian might draw the line at the price tag. Still, there might be something interesting inside it, so Alice unfastened its heavy clasp and heaved the lid up.

  "Oh my God!"

  Eyes wide, she grinned at the contents of the chest, then reached for the picture of the Edwardian gentleman again.

  It's the same one.

  Almost in awe, Alice lifted out a slender, gleaming rattan cane. It was a little discolored in places, but still supple and disturbingly whippy. It was almost certainly the one in the photograph.

  The mental images surged back into her mind.

  She saw the voluptuous, smiling young woman lying face down across a bed, quite naked but for her shoes and stockings rolled down to her knees. The gentleman, presumably her husband, was plying the cane across her full and rounded bottom.

  Oh Julian.

  Running her fingers up and down the instrument
, Alice shuddered, imagining what her own husband could do with it. What would it feel like to have this laid across her own buttocks, perhaps with some considerable force? Out of control, her mind leapt ahead. Wouldn't this be the perfect way for Julian to express his displeasure with her extravagance? She seemed to see the slim length of rattan balanced in his elegant fingers. She wouldn't transgress again in a hurry after making the acquaintance of this beauty, no doubt about that.

  Don't be silly, you'd probably just transgress even sooner.

  For a moment, the cane hovered over Alice's growing pile of purchases, but with some reluctance she laid it aside. There was a big difference between fantasy and reality. She reached into the chest again, and drew out another item that'd caught her eye. It was a small book, bound in gleaming, well cared for burgundy colored leather, possibly a ledger of some kind. Alice flipped it open.

  The first page revealed its awesome purpose.

  Written in a large, flowing hand, in black ink, were the words Punishment Ledger and beneath that was the legend: Nathaniel Grayson, being the head of this household, and sworn to ensure its smooth running, and the chastisement of all those within it.

  The next page bore a name too -- Mrs. Prunella Grayson -- and beneath that were a number of journal like entries, each ruled off, one after another.

  The first read:

  Today, my dear wife, Mrs. Grayson, did speak rather improperly while we were entertaining the Vicar's wife, causing that lady to go dead white with shock. In punishment, I required my dear wife to present herself at bedtime, appropriately prepared for a beating. This consisted of her placing herself over the end of the bed, raising her nightgown around her waist, and then waiting until I selected an appropriate implement; on this occasion, my leather carpet slipper. To the accompaniment of much crying and protesting, I administered thirty strokes of medium force, which rendered my dear wife's bottom a charming shade of flushed and regal pink, and her nature far more biddable, both in public and in our private dealings.