Receipt

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Why keep a slave and beat them yourself?
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VMKane
VMKane
56 Followers

(Author's note. This is one of my very rare experiments in heterosexual erotica, and it started off in a bit of a meditation on the discomfort we can sometimes feel if we think too hard about what turns us on. If you've just skipped forward to the first paragraph and are now getting concerned, don't worry, it's not really about that. It is about power, but it's more of a D/s story than a BDSM one -- please don't expect much hardcore beating and bondage.

Thanks, as always, to Lisa Jones for editing, advice and encouragement.

Enjoy ...)

©2013


There comes a point at which horror is incomprehensible. The average mind, the person of normal imagination and sensitivity, finds themselves unable to cope with the true scope of industrialised cruelty. Until some tiny detail on the human scale catches our attention, one small thing that stands emblematic of the whole. Six million individual cases of pointless murder cannot really be grasped, so we focus on the one schoolgirl hiding in the attic; the pile of discarded spectacles. That becomes the image that haunts us.

And sometimes, if our tastes turn out to be a tad more esoteric than our innocent expectations in childhood led us to believe, that emblem of horror that haunts the mind becomes something else as well. It causes us guilt, of course; because we know that it happened for real the first time round and we should have the common courtesy not to make it into a game. But sexual compulsions compel us, hence the name ...

*****

His mobile shuddered and beeped its text alarm at exactly the right moment. The petite chestnut-haired dominatrix laid the final cane stroke across his bare buttocks, then prowled slowly round him as he hung from the cuffs and panted out his pain. She finished the way she always did: end of the cane sliding slowly along the underside of his sheathed cock from balls to tip; ending with the lightest little upward tap to get his attention.

She strolled across to his clothes piled on the chair: took his mobile from his pocket and casually read his message. She hung the crook of the cane on her shiny catsuited forearm and turned back towards him.

"Lift's waiting."

"Thank you Miss."

She put the phone back down and arched the brow of one peacock-beautiful eye at him. She was highly professional and he never felt that she despised him, but the meaning was clear enough: I've had 'em all, pal, but your setup is fair-to-middling weird. She unshackled his wrists and pottered off to her study while he negotiated the delicate task of easing pants and trousers over the erection before and the burning stripes behind.

When she returned, he took a sealed envelope from his jacket and gave it to her. She turned it in her hand, noted the very prettily written initials on the front and the lipsticked imprint over the flap at the back. She handed him a single folded slip in return. Neither of them checked the contents: when your long-term business relationship involves nudity, restraint and helplessness; it's simply tacky to show distrust over something as inconsequential as money.

"You really want to, don't you?"

"Yes, Miss. Every time."

"Well you can't. I don't want that from you; I can't imagine Mistress would appreciate it either. Go on with you, tease yourself."

He knelt in front of her; put his face down to the floor before her dainty bare feet. He softly kissed the lino tile in front of the ruby nail of her big toe, once for each foot.

She tapped the cane once on his shoulder.

"Time to go, else she'll send you back again for being late."

He went down the bare concrete stairs and out into the street where She was waiting in the car. He settled hesitantly onto the wooden beaded seat cover She insisted on fitting to the passenger side on days like this, doing his best to keep the pain inaudible.

"Something for me?"

He passed the folded paper across without a word and She pocketed it for later. Engine on; eyes checking the mirror; left hand reaching down ...

... and across into his lap. One brief hard grip of his still-erect penis through the cloth; one swift possessive squeeze. Then Her hand went to the gear stick, and they were driving away.

*****

In Laura's second year at university, she took a module on slavery in nineteenth century America. It wasn't particularly pleasant: it wasn't supposed to be, of course, and in fact she became a little concerned that it wasn't worse. She read the statistics and a few of the narratives; it appalled and disgusted her. Somehow the parade of atrocities repulsed her intellect but left her emotions almost untouched: as if the cruelties of the system had succeeded inside her mind, and made its victims into something other than people. Until she came upon the whipping house.

She had never realised. You don't, it's not a part of the stereotype. In the naive mind, it's all sadistic owners and psychotic overseers -- people who actively enjoy the infliction of suffering on those who cannot answer or defend themselves. Bullying carried to its pure, unconstrained conclusion, to death itself in some cases. In truth, it wasn't necessarily so. In truth, as often as not, it was the casual act of necessary maintenance on a piece of unreliable equipment; no more consciously sadistic that sending your car to the garage for a minor repair. Off down the whipping house with you, get your two dozen on the back, and bring Massah back the receipt. The sheer cold-blooded banality of the discovery left Laura nauseous and ruined her sleep for a week. She found herself resenting that reaction for a few minutes, and then hated herself for the resentment. It never quite went away from her, it became her emblem of depravity.

By the time she was twenty-five, Laura had come to the conclusion that she was one of the army of women short-changed by four decades of sexual revolution. She wanted a man to share her life and her bed, to be her companion and helpmate and give her truly satisfying sex. She didn't want a thirty-year-old adolescent to sit around the house and let her do all the work; she didn't want some self-righteous wimp in bad hair who insisted on sharing all the bills and letting her open her own doors all the time; she didn't want a constant cavalcade of amusing cocks that disappeared when it was time to wash the dishes. Having looked around at the few among her friends who did seem happy in their lot, she came to the sad conclusion that she wasn't really cut out for sharing her years with a good woman or an impressive vibrator collection either.

She met Geoff at a concert; one of those Breton folk groups playing what the untrained ear would call Cajun. He wasn't the expected type for the venue at all. Six-two of inverted triangle -- Geoff was unquestionably six-two, she could think of nobody she had ever met less likely to think of himself as 1.88 meters -- and suggestive twinkle in his eye. He seemed to have played almost every sport she knew at some point, and come through them all with his nose intact. She had assumed he was, for whatever reason, simply on the prowl for folk club totty; but they got talking and it seemed he even knew what he was talking about. Sorry, not really up on your actual French-French but I like the traditional Louisiana stuff: the Balfas, of course, and Menard's great. Either not a bullshitter, or a pretty good one. Laura became very interested. By the third drink out, she had come to the conclusion that he was so perfect he simply had to be gay. She invited him home. As it turned out, he wasn't gay.

They found themselves in bed very quickly, but once there he didn't hurry her at all. Kissing and stroking, and all those little teasing things with the mouth; and then his weight bearing down and his length inside. Feeling so safe and secure under the steady thrusting and the gentle voice saying the most beautifully ugly things that made her feel strangely proud of her body and what it did for him.

It was, emotionally speaking, as good as it could possibly be. From the physical viewpoint, Laura and vaginal orgasm remained the strangers they had been throughout her life. Geoff kissed and stroked, and made her very happy but slightly regretful that he was not where he belonged when it happened. The second time he took her from behind, kissed her neck and stroked her until she came around him: she wanted to see his face. The third time he said he wouldn't mind in the least if she joined in. She was shy, of course, but he kept on very gently until she slid her hand between them and he let her dictate his rhythm. He talked to her very quietly, telling her everything was fine and beautiful and never to be ashamed of anything she wanted with him. She wrapped her free arm hard around his neck and herself around his cock, and screamed into his shoulder as he kissed her hair.

Sex together was wonderful, in so many ways. Some she had expected, a few had come as complete surprises. Talking was among the latter. She had never understood the compulsion to talk dirty, not until she met Geoff. Not that it felt 'dirty'; oh yes, if you'd written it all down and looked at it in daylight, it was pure obscenity, but at the time it was poetry. He had shocked her -- for a few short seconds had almost completely ruined it for her -- by telling her sweet and loving things about her c-word. It was not something she was used to, but he certainly meant nothing ugly by what he said, however ugly the word might be elsewhere. When you can feel that someone truly loves you -- feel it in your heart, and in their movement inside you, feel it in their lips soft on your eyelids -- when that person whispers into your ear that your sweet tight cunt around their cock is the most beautiful feeling in the world ... Honestly, it's hard to find that a dirty thing. She had, in fact, developed quite a taste for both the hearing and the saying herself.

After a few months, she knew for a certainty. This isn't good, this isn't simply great. This is Daniel Craig in the shower great. This is It! As if it wasn't perfect enough already, she was still screwing up courage when he proposed to her.

So far, so unbelievably wonderful ...

"Listen, Laura, there's ... There's something I need to be quite open about before the wedding."

She could tell from the tone: it wasn't going to be some weird genetic thing in the family that made it unwise to have kids, or I did three months inside when I was a stroppy teenager. It was sex, she could tell.

"You are gay after all, aren't you? Well, you know ... Bi or whatever?"

"No, love, I'm really not. Can we come back to that one in a while please, it's sort of connected."

Eh what? What, exactly, is sort of connected to that, other than that itself? He was twenty-eight, surely too young to have started out as Jennifer. What's the big secret Geoff?

The secret, as it turned out, was that Geoff was everything he had proved himself to be: big and strong and protective, not to mention enthusiastically and skilfully heterosexual. He wanted to share his life with her, to protect and pamper and carry the shopping; he wanted to be strong for her. Maybe ninety-five percent of the time. Just once in a while, it got a bit much; just once in a while, he felt the need to let go. Now and again, for a short time, not to be the strong one ...

"Not a problem, silly. I didn't want a thug, did I? I know you've got a soft side, it's what I like about you. One of the things ..."

"Sorry, not making myself clear. I don't want ... Need. I don't need to show you that I'm vulnerable. I need you to show me. I'd rather you didn't ask."

"Errrr ... Geoff, sweetheart, are we talking about a bit of spanking or something like that?"

"'Something like', yes."

"Ohhh-kay ... How 'like'?"

"Not really talking about 'a bit' of anything. Don't want to play around: real thing or nothing."

They had the long awkward conversation demanded by the subject. It wasn't a huge part of his life, but when the need was there it was real enough. They weren't talking about a bit of a giggle and down to Ann Summers for the pink furry handcuffs. It was not something that Laura had ever been drawn to, but she loved him and she wanted to understand; everything was fine, as he had said in another context, don't ever be ashamed of anything we do together. Oh, and by the way, what was that bit we were going to come back to?

People, it seemed, misunderstood. Women in the past had entirely misunderstood. He was very happy being a man; he was happier than he could say that she was a woman; there was ... No polite way round this one, he found anal stimulation both very pleasurable and very embarrassing. The thing was, he wasn't talking about gentle extra stimulation when they made love. He wanted it to hurt, he wanted to feel ashamed of enjoying it. As soon as you tell some people you like it rough in your arse, they assume you really want a man doing that for you. Not the case, not for him.

It was awkward, the mood was a little broken; as so often in moments like this, she became a little giggly. Would he like Nursie to give him a prostate exam? Not even anger, just soul-deep disappointment in his eyes and reaching for his clothes. She tried to stop him but he just shrugged her off. He stormed out and she felt wretched. He had trusted her, she had laughed: what else mattered other than that? As always, she replayed the argument endlessly; noting all the things she had done wrong.

At length she found herself pondering more than letting him down. She found herself imagining. Imagining at the most unsuitable and inappropriate times. She found herself imagining in the ladies at work, and was horrified to realise what her hand had started to do without any conscious prompting. She liked him being big and strong and capable, but the idea of him sometimes not ... The idea of all that strength at her command. That wasn't such a bad idea, was it? That was, in some ways, a very good idea indeed. Not all the time, just once in a while, as he had said.

She went round to his place and apologised for her insensitivity. It was a bit of a shock, she had never meant to laugh at him. She had thought long and hard and none of this changed the way she thought about him. If he could ever forgive her for being such a bad friend, could they please go back to the way it was? They ended up in bed, holding and kissing, feeling the closeness of shared nudity without the need to charge straight into fucking.

He had twisted his back. He hoped she would understand; he wasn't sulking and it wasn't rejection, but he really needed to turn over now. Of course she understood, she cuddled into his back and felt the closeness.

"I'm so sorry, Geoff. Forgive me?"

"Nothing to forgive, my fault for being weird. Disgust you too much?"

"Of course not, love. Not at all. Sorry, that's probably the wrong answer, isn't it?"

Little shared chuckle between them at that. Of course it was. 'There, there, all better now' wasn't his need at all, even she could see that. She snuggled between his shoulder blades and felt his breathing against her. True contented happiness. True companionship ...

They had been disturbing thoughts at first, but then more curious than anything else. Sometimes you just have to know, one way or the other; it becomes necessary to lean on that wall with the 'wet paint' sign just to see if it really is.

"Sorry, Geoff. I know it's wrong of me. I know I shouldn't, but I can't lie to you ..."

"What is it?"

Her hand was stroking across his hip, a casual restful thing as they both drifted towards sleep. She reached over and laid a firm hold on that good thick cock that gave her so much pleasure.

"Really am a little disappointed. To be honest, I really am disgusted at you and your nasty dirty inclinations ..."

Pulse throbbing hard against her closed palm. He started to raise his head from the pillow but she pushed him down with her other hand.

"... Of course I am, are you really such a depraved fucking pervert you don't understand that? I can only guess what kind of cheap whores you hang around with if I'm the first woman you've met who is prepared to tell you just how disgusting. Worst of all, Geoff, you don't have the simple decency to be ashamed of it. Feel quite proud of yourself, don't you?"

Not a lie, was it? Something certainly felt proud in her hand. Too fucking proud, time to take him down a peg or three.

"I ..."

"Silence now. Get your face in that pillow and listen. I'm going to ask questions, but I don't want answers; I just want to listen to the sound of my own voice. You have a good whimper into the mattress for me, because I'm not listening to you. This 'not gay' business: just not your thing, or a teeny bit repulsive when you think about the mechanics, or just completely grosses you out and makes your dick limp? Nice loud groan for me if it's the latter."

No groan. Panting, but no definitive groan. No sign of limpening at the other end either. That was good, she really didn't want limp.

Laura didn't stop to think or analyse, she was too caught up in the moment. Later she would; later she thought back to those disturbing fantasies of her teens and realised for the first time that she had quite misinterpreted them at the time. It wasn't the victim she had identified with at all, was it?

The techniques of dominance are skills that you have to learn. But dominance itself can't be learned, it's an innate taste that you cannot acquire through practice. Like the song says, you've either got it or you haven't. It can lay dormant and unsuspected -- or dimly-realised but denied -- for decades, but if that trigger is pulled one day ... It wakes inside you, and you understand who you are. Just like that earlier discovery, the one about talking dirty. How she wanted to talk dirty right now.

"Listen carefully to me, I want you understanding everything here. Now I'm sure -- with your grubby tastes I am quite sure -- that there's lubricant stashed round this place somewhere. I'm not going to demean myself by looking for it, so you've got a choice: you can give my hand a nice wet suck, or you can get yourself hurt a bit. What's your fancy, Geoff, want me to rip you up a little?"

Desperate attempt to shake the head under her hand. She had never felt his cock so hard before, she was becoming more than a little concerned it might go off at any moment. She put her mouth to his ear and whispered.

"Baby. Big scared fucking baby, thought you said you wanted it rough? Alright then, make it easy for you: open your cowardly little mouth and get my fingers nice and wet for your arse. Going to use my right hand, Geoff, going to move it straight from your disgracefully hard penis to your open mouth, and then I'm going to force it up your bum. You just think whatever depraved little thoughts you want about that sequence, OK? Head to the side and mouth open now."

She pumped her fingers in his mouth, relishing the choking and swallowing of his reaction; amazed at the fire and need of her own.

She pulled her fingers out and pushed his face back down into the pillow. Fingers pressing on that tight ring of resistance behind him, and then it parted to her and she was pushing inside. He groaned and twisted; he frantically spread his thighs against the invasion, she called him a cheap fucking dirty bitch-slut for opening his legs to her.

It was appallingly irresponsible, of course; she had no idea what she was doing or what he was used to. That initial fierce exultation of entry subsided slightly and she was horrified that she might have caused real damage. Thank God she kept her nails short as a matter of course. She stopped pumping at him and put her mouth back down to his ear.

VMKane
VMKane
56 Followers
12