St. Andrew's Cross in a Condo Dungeon

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cum/NOT cum

maybe i need to torture myself since there is no one else to do it. or you can take this as a cute and kinky little amusement as a gift to my loyal readers so they won't run from my sighs and tears. anyway, please enjoy this bit of grammatical fantasy.

23 April 2007
- - - - - - - - - - -

All she can think about is cumming.
He has made sure of that.

He has tied her bound hands to the hook in the living room ceiling.
He stands before her, crop in hand, and grins sadistically.
He's been grinning sadistically for days now.

She is naked of course.
Naked and whimpering.
Her eyes are wet with tears.
Her cunt is wet, too.
He checked.

"Conjugate 'cum' for me, kitten."

"To cum." Her voice chokes.
"i cum.
You cum.
He, she, it cums.
We cum.
You'all cum." (She always conjugates as if in French.)
"They cum."

He flicks the crop at her ass.

"But no, kitten. That's not right, is it?"

He hits her ass again.

"Correct it!"

Her voice is somewhat petulant, somewhat angry, definitely weepy, and
very exhausted.

"i DON'T cum.
YOU cum!
He cums, it cums, but she doesn't cum. Oh no.
We don't cum. Not any more.
Only YOU cum. All by yourself."

"That's right, kitten."
Whack.
"Ouch!"
"I cum. You don't cum. Not unless I specifically allow it. Right?"
Whack.
"OW!! Yes, Master. You cum. i don't cum."

"And why would I keep you from cumming?"
"i don't know any more! WHY??!!" she wails.

Whack.

"Not the right answer. Try again, kitten."
"Because you can. To remind me that you can," she mumbles.

"And why can I?"

"Because my orgasms belong to you.
Because my cunt belongs to you."

"Go on..."

"Because i am your slave.
my body is yours.
my soul is yours.
i am yours to use as you wish.
i am yours, and i must obey."

Her downcast eyes land on the crotch of his jeans.
He has taken out his cock.
He strokes it as she goes through her catechism.
Her mouth waters.
Her cunt burns.
But then, it has been burning for days.

"Why are you my slave, kitten?"

"Because i want to be..." very softly.

"Why, kitten? Why do you want to be my slave?"
Pumping faster.

"because..." she is sobbing openly now.

"Who owns you, kitten?!"

"YOU own me, John!
YOU do!
You KNOW you do!"

He cums.

She doesn't.

This had not been my intent

written for me by dominick. see my version of the story here.
11 March 2007

I wrote this for you, and whilst it does not convey the intimacy i would like, it seemed to sate a creative streak i felt...
- - - - - -

this had not been my intent as I set out that evening, and I did not know what she expected would happen, but the progression felt entirely natural. I was curious, momentarily, as to what she was thinking as she lay on the bed, her hands bound above her head, her legs splayed, her feet secured at the far corners of the mattress, face downward, her head turned to one side looking at her upstretched arm. i would not consider myself a sadistic man, and certainly not lacking compassion for others, and was genuinely interested as I listened to her talk at the bar. i cared for her troubles, and I felt empathy as she described her sense of alienation, the troubles and travails of everyday life. it was not even that she was particularly alienated, she merely experienced the moments of ennui that we all feel. I really wanted her to feel a sense of companionship when I took her hand in mine, to let her know that she did have a friend, that I cared for her, despite having known her only a short time. we had laughed easily together, our conversation had been one lacking pretence, our gaze was one of shared warmth. having said that, I knew exactly what I wanted to do to her as I led her to the elevator and into the room that I was staying in.

I lifted her head slightly to slip the gag under it, forced her jaw open with my thumb and fingers on either side of her mouth, pushed it between her teeth, then clasped it at the back of her head. I moved the strip of fabric over her eyes and tied it, not too tight, behind her, ensuring that no light would reach her. I had asked, as we entered the room, if she trusted me, and she had said that she did. I looked at her, prone on the firm mattress, stretched, agape, and recognized that she was helpless, open to violation, mine. i ran my fingers gently from her shoulders down her back, and saw goose pimples rise on her skin, despite the warmth of the room. I kept running my hands down - over her buttocks, down her thighs, behind her knees and over her calves and saw her twitch slightly. I touched her lightly under her arms, tickling her, largely to see if the bonds were tight. Her muscles contracted and she pulled hard at the restraints, but could not move. I moved both of my hands firmly down each of her legs and felt the muscles under her skin pulled taught. I moved my hands back up the insides her thighs and felt the tendons on either side of her groin stretched to her legs spread wide across the bed. I pressed hard with my short nails until I could see faint red lines trail behind them. I sat astride her, the woolen fabric of my pants rough against her, as my fingers moved over her, pressing hard, creating four lined figures of eight on her skin. I moved down her body, my hand between her legs, fingers moving along her wide open sex, finding her wet, casually pushing against the contrast of soft flesh made hard as it became engorged, wiry hair and soft, tender slick skin, enjoying exploring the way that she felt. I made my fingers damp with her secretions, then spread her cheeks apart and moved my finger to her butt, resting it gently for a second against the sphincter, then pushing it a short way inside, watching the involuntary constriction at the touch, feeling the tightness of the muscle. then I stood, moved to the chair, retrieved the long slender crop, came back to the bed, raised it high above my head, kept it there for a short time, then brought it whistling down through the air, continuing the downward pressure as it hit both her buttocks hard, quickly wrapped down around her body then sprang back again, much as she moved her hips downward to escape the sensation, then brought them back up again. As I took the black rod away from her skin, I could see the red welt forming, a line neatly creating a perpendicular intersection across the skin, extending from one side of her body to the other. I raised the rigid strip of woven leather again, and repeated the downward motion, noticing the tension in her jaw as she anticipated the imminent sting, coming into contact with her slightly below the previous line, leaving it there for a short time. I could see her body wince as leather hit flesh, her head rose from the bed slightly, her hips moved down and the muscles in her legs flattened. I repeated the motion with the crop, bringing it down to create striations at small intervals from the top of her thighs to the small of her back. I then chose a single spot and brought it down ten times at that one place. I could almost see the blood rising to the surface of her skin, which was not quite broken.

she now lay still, the tensing and relaxing of her body seemed to have slowed. the blows did not rain upon her, but came in steady, almost hypnotic intervals. I brought the lash down one last time, then slowly took it away and moved to the side of the bed, lent down and felt the red skin. it was unnaturally warm to the touch, a strange contrast in color to the rest of her body. I reversed the earlier process, removing the blindfold, unclasping the gag, untying her feet then her hands. I stepped back to the chair, lit a cigar and watched as she blinked in the unexpected light, slowly moved her body, trying to find positions that did not cause her pain as the blood came back to her limbs. she rolled herself into a fetal position and self consciously wiped the tears from her eyes.

- - - -

comment by the author on 24 March:

the greatest difference between the story and reality is the end - to purport that I would be that cold after such a session is a little ridiculous - it would imply that I am completely callous, and although I may fantasize like that at times, or carry a scene through to a callous end, such as lighting a cigar and sitting back, the real end is when I offer comfort and tenderness. the fun of a scene is, to a degree, the closeness that develops, the trust and the intimacy, and having developed that, it is impossible to not be tender having administered so much pain, irrespective of the degree to which the person receiving the pain craves it. the tenderness may be the two you lying afterward, having had sex as a natural progression from the play, relaxing, or, especially, after a hard spanking, having had anal sex, which seems to develop a special bond.

We met in a bar

[my response to dominick's story. i appended the note at the end when i sent it to him. read his first.]

11 March 2007

We met in a bar.

A bad way to begin. I don't go to bars. And yet. We
met in a bar.

We met in a hotel bar. I was at loose ends, waiting
for things to fall into place. It was Spring. I was
restless. And I don't think straight in the Spring.

I sat at the bar. Even if I did go to bars I wouldn't
sit AT the bar. But it was Spring. I was restless. Not
thinking straight. Pretending I was in a movie.

It was like in a movie. A man sat down next to me. He
offered to buy me a drink. He didn't flinch when I
requested a Coke. Not diet. When it came, he led me to
a table. With a strong hand and an outstretched arm.
Well, a strong hand anyway, in the small of my back.
He wasn't leading me out of Egypt. But he definitely
had a goal in mind. I thought I knew what it was. When
all the time the audience was yelling No! Don't do it!

It was like in a movie. We sat at a table. We talked.
He listened well, and revealed enough to make me feel
comfortable. I did feel comfortable. And something
else. He was clearly in charge, a trait that only
recently I'd begun to find appealing. He sat
kitty-corner to me, not across the table. Our knees
kept bumping. He put his hand over mine, out of
understanding, it seemed. With affection, it seemed.
With confidence, most surely.

It was like in a movie. It was Spring. I coudn't think
straight. He was in charge. Whatever he asked for, I
would agree to.

I excused myself to go to the ladies' room. I felt his
eyes on me as I went. I found that my panties were
wet. I was not surprised. He knew my panties were wet.
I was sure of it. If he didn't know it before, he read
it in my eyes when I came back to the table.

It was like in a movie. He paid the check, helped me
out of my chair, took my arm, and led me to the
elevator. There was no need to discuss it. It was
Spring. I needed to get laid. I trusted him. Must have
been the accent.

He asked me if I trusted him. I told the truth, though
suddenly I wasn't so sure. But I ignored my doubts.
Something was making me ignore my doubts. I no longer
felt quite in control.

It was like in a movie. But I was no longer sure what
kind of movie. He took me in his arms. His kiss was
perfect - soft enough, firm enough, commanding enough.
He knew what he was doing. And it worked. I was ready
for anything.

He undressed me slowly and deliberately, running his
hands meditatively over each part of my body as he
revealed it. He kept his clothes on. He led me to the
bed, reaching for a bag on the way there.

It was like in a movie. I was watching it and I was in
it. Everything seemed to be happening very fast, but
in fact proceeded with steady focused care. He pulled
me down on the bed, onto my stomach, and straddled me.
I observed from a distance as he bound my hands above
my head. I felt ropes go around my ankles, and my legs
were stretched further apart than I'd ever managed on
the machines at the health club. There was strain,
but nothing I would actually classify as pain. Not
yet. That would come later.

Part of me was becoming alarmed, the part that was
still in my body. The observer wanted to see how the
movie ended. So I did not protest. He stroked my hair
and I looked up questioningly, but did not protest.
And then I couldn't protest, because now there was a
gag in my mouth. And then I wasn't looking at
anything, because he had blindfolded me. And now i was
truly frightened. And also frightfully aroused.

I stopped thinking. Now that I couldn't see, I focused
on feeling. I felt my helplessness, I felt the
bondage, I felt my vulnerability, and I gave myself up
to whatever was about to happen. I knew this was
something I wanted. I might regret it afterwards, but
for now this was something i wanted.

I gave myself up to it. Whatever he had in store for
me, I would submit.

His hands started to explore me. This didn't seem so
dangerous. It was exciting. I gave myself up to his
hands, and looked forward to more.

When he moved away from the bed, I thought he was
going for condoms.

I heard the first blow before I felt it, although I
didn't recognize it for what it was. The pain across
my buttocks was sudden, sharp. I would have gasped if
I hadn't been gagged. The inability to make any
comment drove me deeper into myself, but didn't lessen
the pain any. If anything, it increased my focus on
it. I braced myself for the invariable next one. Which
came, quite dependably.

There was something particularly appalling about the
deliberate, cold nature of the assault. He didn't say
a word. He landed one stroke after another on my
thighs, buttocks, and lower back. Even as the pain
melded into one huge mass, I could tell with the now
very small observer part of my brain that he was
carefully planting the stripes in a predetermined
pattern. Finally, he started whipping the same spot
again and again, and the observer disappeared. There
was nothing left but the pain. The helplessness and
the pain.

Finally, it was over. Still silent, he removed the
restraints in the reverse order they had been applied.
He moved away from the bed. I heard him settle into
the chair. It felt as if he were watching me. I heard
a match strike, and then smelt a cigar. A small part
of my old self flared up inside me. I hate cigars. But
it wasn't enough to wake me from the trance he had
whipped me into. I curled up in a fetal position, the
only position that didn't add to the pain. I curled up
and wept.

We met in a bar. It felt like a movie. An indie movie
showing at Sundance. A movie the audience might not
understand. The audience would see me weeping. The
End. But there was one more challenge left for the
filmmaker. How to make the audience know that the
whipping had driven out everything that was inside me.
And that, as the tears subsided, all that was left was
a deep peace.

NOTE: The interpretation of the woman's response was
pure speculation. I would be interested in hearing
your observations from experience.