Atelier Dreams

Together, we tumbled into the bathtub, and soon we were both thoroughly soaked. I found myself on top of her, pulling her blouse and her bra up to her collarbone. (God, did her ribs always show so clearly? When was the last time I'd seen her topless? A broken-winged songbird, not a hawk—a lion with a thorn in her paw.) With my hands hungrily fondling her breasts, I kissed her again; her hands found my hips and she pulled me tightly against her, then slipped under the waist of my jeans and knickers to touch my rear directly.

We sat like that for a few minutes, comfortably kissing and caressing each other under the warm shower of water. My hair was thoroughly slicked down, but she had a bunch of black locks messily adhering to her cheek. I lifted my hand and delicately swept them aside, tucking them back behind her ear, then sent a questing gaze into her eyes, which she matched perfectly with one of her own.

"So we're going to do this in our clothes, or what?" I was forced to giggle: she did have a point. I stood up and pulled off my sodden top and bra and peeled off my jeans; she wriggled out of her jogging bottoms and underwear and kicked them to the other end of the bath and freed herself from her tangled blouse-bra combination.

Casually, she grabbed the shower gel and began applying it to herself, thoroughly working the gunge up a lather while perched on the edge of the tub, while I was just standing awkwardly and thinking about precisely what I should do next. That was something I loved about her: total sang-froid and the ability to act, no matter what the situation was.

I caught the bottle of lurid green product when she threw it to me and I took her lead in lathering up. Before, she'd've probably wanted to wash me herself, but we weren't in the before-times any more and we still had to work out what we were going to do as a couple. We took turns standing under the water and washing; we'd come to a meeting of our minds and a silent, complicit agreement about what we were going to be doing later.

Standing up on my tiptoes, I wrapped my arms around the back of her neck and stole another quick kiss, then blazed a trail down her body with more light and fluttery kisses until I was on my knees and planting my lips on her thighs. Her breath caught in her throat; she sat back down on the end of the bath.

Even though most of it had been rinsed off already, the eucalyptus bodywash was getting right up my nose and it tasted of bitter, acrid chemicals. Not that I was going to let that stop me, of course. One of her hands brushed up and down my back languidly—ticklishly—and her other cupped the back of my head, half tangling her fingers in my hair.

She leant a bit further back, bumping into the array of toiletries kept there; I leant in further forwards, and planted a single kiss on her bare labia. Underneath my touch, she squirmed and squirrelled. I kissed her again, lips to lips. She lifted up her legs and put them on my shoulders, linking her ankles behind my back, then swept off all the bottles and tubs of goo and assorted products, sending them clattering onto the floor, and leant herself back against the wall.

Taking hold of the wrist of her roaming hand to hold it for a moment, I intertwined my fingers with hers; between her legs I planted more kisses across her folds—mixing in some playful licks, too. "Yes, go on," she breathed; who was I to refuse? My tongue pressed in more firmly, seeking her little clitoris hiding at the head of her slit, and, having found it, delicately feeling and teasing it with the tip of my tongue. There wasn't any unpleasant chemical taste down here; even though it was getting up my nose from her lower stomach more than ever, it was worth suffering through.

I loved her. There were no two ways around it. Nor had she evidently hadn't forgotten what the two of us had had together. Nothing else really mattered. We'd sort everything out in the morning; at that moment, I was busy forgetting the shower water, the bitter chemical smell, and the world at large—everything that wasn't her.

The effort to please her was succeeding. Her fingers tangled in my hair more comprehensively and she squeezed me between her legs, which happened to be exactly the sort of thing that made me keep going. I gave her hand an affectionate squeeze, which she reciprocated, and I put my other hand flat on her stomach; she pulled me in with more intent, tugging on my hair just hard enough to be painful, then sliding her hand down a little bit and digging her fingernails into my neck.

I moved my tongue more firmly and surely, pushing and pulling her clit back and forth a little. She liked that; She tightened against me, and I giggled into her pussy.

"Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes, fuck me," she said, not entirely wilfully. I'd've grinned if my mouth wasn't busy; she got even more foul-mouthed and sweary when she was getting properly excited, which meant I was definitely succeeding. She carried on in between pants: "Yes, shit, yes, with your filthy, dirty tongue, harder, go on, fuck me harder you fucking dyke."

Who was I to argue with that? I assailed her as fiercely as I knew how with my tongue, pressing roughly into her clit and sucking and rubbing and fucking. Her hand was almost crushing mine and her hips were trying to grind downwards against me, so I squeezed her hand back myself and sat up on my knees. Her breathing got shallower and shallower, and quicker and quicker, and I knew she couldn't be far off; I pressed on.

I wasn't wrong. She trembled and shook and voiced more obscenities—"fuck my cunt, fuck it"—and held me tightly with her legs and her fingernails sinking into my skin were hurting—"don't you fucking stop now"—and her back arched and I didn't know if I'd bear her weight and her pussy pulsed against my mouth—"yes, you beautiful slut, yes!"—until she finally began to quiet down and to rest her weight on the bathroom tiles instead of on my shoulders.

She stopped digging her nails into my neck—that was going to leave a mark for sure—and relaxed her legs' death-grip around me, putting her feet back on the floor. The shower water kept falling obliviously while the two of us re-aligned our thoughts and returned to the ordinary world, our panting quieting down and our breathing returning to normal.

I sat up and propped my elbows on her thighs; she grinned down at me, and messed with my hair, so I rubbed back against her hand like a cat. Her other hand cupped my cheek and stroked my face softly.

"So..." My turn this time.

"So."

"Would you like... um. For tonight. The same rules as before?"

She stopped grinning and instead beamed wickedly at me. I swear, I had never seen anything more terrifying or enticing or delightful. I was suddenly reminded of the second time I'd ever met her, when she was sitting in my room with that exact same grin and toying with me; the difference was that then I hadn't known what amazing depths of depravity she—or I—had or what she wanted to do to me, or that I could possibly enjoy such things. "Of course, my pet. For tonight. We'll take care of the ceremonies tomorrow, hmm?" She—Mistress—turned the shower off. "Up, then. Let's dry you off."

Mistress towelled me down firmly and efficiently. When she had me dried off to her satisfaction, she told me to kneel down and pulled the belt out of her dressing gown, then looped it around my neck and tied it in a bow knot. A makeshift collar. I was home.

"There. That'll do. For tonight."

I was tasked with combing through her hair; she sat down on the bath rug and wrapped her arms around my midriff and lazily kissed my stomach and navel, then leant her cheek against my skin and closed her eyes. One of her hands idly toyed with my pubic hair; the other, she put around my waist. I felt like saying something—maybe a joke about how she'd only just become my Mistress again and so I should be the one sitting down in front of her?—but I didn't think I could put anything into words perfectly enough to justify breaking the silence and disturbing her.

Her hair really had needed the wash; I thought it could've done with a second shampooing and then conditioner as well, if I was being honest, but I'd made a good enough start and it would keep. (I kept mine short precisely because I liked not having to spend hours each week tending to it—that, and Mistress liked it cropped close, but I'd had it short before I'd even met her.)

My hands put themselves on her shoulders and we cuddled like that for a little bit, until Mistress declared it was getting cold. She stood up—we were back to normal, with her a head and change taller than me—and bodily picked me up and carried me into the special bedroom. I was dumped onto the bed face-down, and she climbed on top of me, straddling my waist and pinning my wrists against the headboard, one on each corner of the bed.

"I missed you, you know," she said, while she was getting my hands into the wall-mounted manacles that'd keep my arms locked apart, one on each side of the bed. I put up a token resistance to her, tugging at the restraints though I knew they were very securely fixed—can't let her have my virtue too easily, with only a few words and her height and weight and strength advantage. "We've got some time to make up." Having finished securing me, she reached under the bed to rummage through her box of tricks. My gut twisted—that peculiar second of lightness, shortness of breath and the hot-cold squeeze that went with adrenaline being released, right before the panic kicked in. I'm in for it now, I thought, electric and helpless and terrified about the imminent escalation.

Mistress exercised her glorious mercy. The willow switch she brought out wasn't remotely the worst tool in her stash, but I knew that she could make me properly hurt with anything if she was determined to. I watched over my shoulder as she took a few practice swings, and it didn't do anything at all to make me less trepidatious.

She put one leg on the bed and opened up her body, standing almost square-on to me; I had a beautiful view of her pussy's lips, flushed and pink, either from her prior climax or the exciting prospect of inflicting some pain on a defenceless subject. "Ready, my dear?"

My voice was tiny and weak when I answered affirmatively. She didn't hit me right away—another practice swing, then putting the rod against my rear and lining up the stroke with another fake-out—I had been sure she would connect with that one. I was getting into more and more of a stew, only partly of my own making.

She drew back again and inhaled deeply; I was anticipating another feint, so it was doubly shocking when the sharp line of pain imposed itself on my buttocks. It took half a second to register that this time had been the real thing—even with the pain—and the sound, of the rod smacking against my cheeks was almost an afterthought. She exhaled measuredly; the pain lost its hard edge and bloomed into a warm tingling and heat between my legs.

"Wednesday," she said, as if that explained everything. I blinked—what? It was Wednesday, yes, but—

Whap. Another stroke, while I was puzzling out what she could have meant caught me off guard and made it sting more.

"Thursday." Oh. Of course. She was making up for lost time. At least I knew how many I was going to get this time; I wasn't always afforded that luxury.

Mistress climbed onto the bed beside me and ran a finger down my lower back and the curve of my backside, which was not that painful yet—muted throbbing and nothing more. I felt her presence get closer to me—felt the warmth of her body—and then a little pressure on my rear as she softly kissed me where a few moments earlier she'd been striking me.

"Poor little thing. Is it hurting?" All tenderness and care in her voice; not the matter-of-fact tone she was using moments ago.

"Um. A little bit, Mistress, but I can manage." I'm really in for it; I just gave her an invitation, clear as day. She was tenderly rubbing my skin now, but that wouldn't last for long before her sadism took over again. Not that it wasn't in charge just then—she'd taught me the hard way that it hurt more when you thought you were in the clear. Tough lessons stick with you better. She was a barbarian horde feigning retreat; the eye of the storm passing overhead; and a lion playing with her captured prey, giving me just enough of a head-start that I thought I might make it this time.

One of her hands slipped downwards, finding my pussy and slowly getting a little bit of fondling done. I was warm to her touch—tying me up and giving me dollops of pain does that—but she didn't linger too long there. The switch was left propped against my back, reminding me not-very-subtly of its malevolent presence.

She got up, and resumed her striking stance. I was half anticipating another couple of dummy swings, but she hit my rear cleanly on the first stroke this time. "Friday." My bum was starting be genuinely sore, with an accompanying sensation of warmth; I knew it'd be looking quite pink, quite possibly with some visible lines from where the willow had hit me. The mental picture triggered a fresh wave of warm arousal in my body—more precisely, in my pussy—and sent me squirming and tugging at the restraints again.

The next one definitely hurt more. I sucked in my breath sharply and couldn't help but whimper when she made contact—"Saturday"—while my cheeks felt like they'd been hit with a hot iron and not a thin piece of wood. Like I said, Mistress could inflict pain with anything if she wanted to, and she really wanted to.

Fuck, but this is good.

In preparation for the next stroke, I bit down on the sheet to try and stifle any cries of pain, and screwed my eyes up tight. It helped, but not all that much: instead of a little gasp, I moaned and the the bedclothes only half-muffled it. Mistress had rapped me across the backs of my thighs this time, and the surprise and the different sensation caught me out. "Sunday." Really, I should have been expecting the unexpected—but that's always a difficult task, especially when my Mistress was so gifted at subverting and twisting expectations in horrible, delightful ways.

The beating was taking a definite toll on me. I was trembling and sweating and physically dreading the next stroke; at the same time, I was getting more and more excited—I could feel that for sure between my legs. I hoped Mistress would exercise her mercy again and wouldn't keep me waiting too long before she brought me to my climax.

She got back onto the bed and cosied up with me again, cooing over how red the marks were and tenderly massaging my battered flesh while half-lying on my legs. "Shall your Mistress kiss these better?" she asked, but didn't wait for a reply to start. I was lying there, hands bound in place and utterly unable to resist anything she was doing, unreasonably aroused and desperate for her to give me an extra bit of impetus and finish me off—but she was being cruel by being kind and lavishing me with her comforting and soothing kisses when I needed hard aggression.

That is, that's what I was thinking until she bit me.

The sharp pain ran up my spine, filling my mind with white-hot suffering and blowing me to pieces faster than you can say 'selenium tetra-azide'. All my muscles tensed up and I gasped for breath and couldn't help a loud whimper; Mistress had innocently returned to kissing and licking as if she hadn't done anything.

"There, there, pet. Look at how red you are! Does it sting?" More kisses. "And look at how red you are down here, too." She gently rubbed the outside of my folds; I was burning hot and I could feel every microscopic ridge on her fingertips. "Do you want to come, my pet?"

"I—yes, Mistress, I want to come."

"Say please." She was suddenly firm again, with an extra tone of command in her voice; an extra note of poshness, too, like a fifties newsreader. Her finger pressed against me harder.

"Please, Mistress." A needy edge snuck in to my voice.

"Please what? Be specific, you silly little dyke."

"Please make me come, Mistress."

More firmly, she rubbed her palm against my pussy in a tight pattern—not quite enough to take me to the next stage, but more than enough to keep my mind focussed on the potential of doing so. "That's not enough." She pinched one of my lips, then went back to rubbing and teasing. "Say exactly what you want."

"Um. I want you to touch me please, Mistress." I was terrified that I'd fail her test and be left here, tied up and unsatisfied.

"Where? How? Use the proper words if you're going to ask me to do something so filthy." Her hand slid further forwards—now she was pressing against me with the heel of her palm, with no danger of penetration before I'd debased myself enough to ask for it; her fingers tangled in my public hair and then she pulled me by those short and curlies.

"I... ah. Ah! I would like it if you fucked my pussy, Mistress. Please put your fingers inside me and fuck me hard and make me scream and make me come. Please give your pet slut-dyke a solid fucking." I blushed at what she'd made me blurt out; entirely incongruously, because I was tied up and naked and she'd just been groping my pussy and I'd been asking her to go further, so saying some particular words should've been the least thing to feel embarrassed for, but I could feel ashamed about the most unreasonable things. Mistress knew that; that's why she'd been insistent and made me submit to the humiliation. Mistress knew how to tear me down and take me apart, and then how to put me back together again.

Mistress gave an evil little giggle. "Very good, pet." Her hand between my legs pressed and rubbed harder, stopping teasing and becoming serious; I needed this from her. Each back-and-forth cycle of her hand got a little gasp out of me—graduating to larger gasps, then small yelps; her other hand squeezed my sore rear. I was run through by perverse pleasure in the pain and adoration for her.

"I—ah—I love you, Mistress."

She bit me again. Her hand pressed more aggressively, too, slipping two fingers inside me as if it was nothing—I needed that, too. I wriggled, half in delight and half a reflexive escape attempt, but my hands were secured and she had her weight on my legs. I was well and truly stuck—no way to go but up.

Returning to kisses, Mistress kept her her hand tasked with insistently building my pleasure—I was hot, so hot, I could feel my pussy radiating my whole body and everything else with heat—I didn't know how long it'd be before I ignited and burnt up, except that it was due any second.

When the orgasm arrived, it drove the breath out of my lungs—or maybe that was Mistress smacking my bum, hard—whack! I didn't catch what she said—it pushed every thought from my mind, too, replacing them with swirling, spasmodic pleasure and love for the woman who could do such wonderful and horrible things to me.

When I came down and my thinking regained vague order, she gave me a friendly squeeze, murmured, "I love you too, my pet," and sat up to straddle one of my thighs. The warmth between her legs was apparent—especially as she began grinding herself down against me in a deliberate, slow and insistent rhythm. Both her hands went to knead my rear; the switch was still propped against me, reminding me I should expect another two strokes.

Mistress, however, refused to be so predictable and keep using the same tool when other, more suitable, methods were available. She didn't even reach for the switch and hit me with her hand before I'd been expecting it. "Tuesday." Her new position meant she couldn't get a clean swing, so switching made sense. It still hurt plenty and, if anything, hitting me less hard with something softer made my already-tenderised flesh sting more; Mistress's technique was exemplary, and though she couldn't hit me as hard, she was still hitting hard. Tears welled at the corners of my eyes. I screwed them shut, trying to hold on, and trembled and shook.