Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
If this story is to make any sense to you, you will need to have read parts 1 & 2. You should be over 18, as is everyone in this fantasy.
Life with Helen continued without much in the way of change for a week or so, then she told me we were invited to Simone’s house once again. This time, though, it was for a party, and my mistress had asked if we could take someone else along.
‘Oh?’ I asked.
‘Yes, darling, remember the waitress who was so interested in your tits?’ I did.
Helen told me she had called in at the restaurant on her way back from shopping, and invited the pretty girl along.
‘What’s her name?’ I wanted to know.
‘Bea,’ she said, ‘her parents saddled her with Beatrice.’
On the night, Helen laid out the clothes she wanted me to wear, and I saw that the long, grey, silky evening gown she had chosen was backless.
‘But you can still see the red stripes on my back,’ I protested.
‘Oh, darling, they’re fading, and anyway, I think they’re so pretty.’ That, then, was the end of the conversation, and if I had thought to leave my hair loose, to cover up my wounds, I had to think again, as my mistress insisted on me wearing it up.
In the taxi, on our way to collect Bea from her flat, I tried to assuage my curiosity.
‘Mistress, can I ask you a question?’
‘Of course, my dear.’
‘Will I be pun….hurt tonight?’ I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong, so ‘punishment’ wasn’t quite right.
‘Why, are you frightened?’
‘No, mistress, just curious.’
Helen smiled in the dark corner of the cab. ‘No, I don’t think so. But there’s to be a charity caning.’
She didn’t enlarge on this, so I had no idea what she meant, and forgot about it when we picked up the vivacious, black-haired Bea, who was waiting on the doorstep of her block.
‘Come and sit here,’ said my mistress, patting the seat between us, and Bea squeezed in. Her slender legs were bare, and her shapely knees were asking to be touched as she sat beside me, and her thick woollen coat fell open, revealing the flared and pleated silky minidress she was wearing, dark green in colour. I also took in her nice high-heeled sandals. I took her hand, and she exclaimed when she felt the decoration dangling from my right pinky, and held it up so that she could inspect it in the meagre light.
‘That’s really lovely,’ she said, ‘but isn’t it a nuisance?’
‘Sometimes,’ I said, ‘but it reminds me of………’ Helen finished the sentence for me: ‘It reminds her that she’s mine.’
‘Oh,’ muttered Bea, and looked from one to the other of us, but Helen wasn’t prepared to enlighten her further. She had, I thought, a charming quasi-innocent look, with her neat black pageboy hairstyle. I thought I might like to fuck her, then instantly looked at Helen, to see if she knew what I had been thinking. She looked back knowingly, and only the dim light in the taxi saved my blush from being evident.
We arrived early at Simone’s to find several cars already there, and Simone, in a towelling robe, directing the track-suited Chinese maid, Chi, and another Asian girl, similarly attired, who were moving furniture around in the huge lounge, creating more space.
‘We’re running a little late, darling,’ she said to Helen, ‘but we’re almost there. Why don’t you join the other earlybirds in the library, then I’ll call you when we’re ready. There are drinks in there.’
Helen offered help, but it was refused, so we walked into the library. I was curious to see Simone’s other guests.
When we got into the big library, we met three of them. A tall, Scandinavian-looking blonde, who introduced herself as Karen,looked striking in a black velvet gown with a huge slit right up one leg, virtually to the waist. Her hair was tied up with a matching black velvet ribbon. A rather voluptuous, once-beautiful woman with died platinum hair introduced herself in a thick accent from some northern country as Karen’s mother, Inge. And a quiet, slim girl with long brown hair and glasses looked as if she may not be prepared to speak at all, but got almost reluctantly to her feet, and revealed an American accent, when she told us her name was Kirsty. She was one of these people you somehow have to look at twice, and when I did so, I saw that she was, in fact, remarkably attractive. She wore a simple green button-through cotton dress over black seamed stockings and black patent stilettos. We chatted for a while, and she looked at me in an odd way when I told her that Helen was my mistress. I supposed that it sounded strange, but it didn’t embarrass me.
Soon another woman entered — a chubby black girl with beaded hairstyle, wearing a blue silk blouse and a long, Indian cotton skirt. She told us her name was Phoebe. She seemed ill-at-ease, so I took it upon myself to talk to her until, some minutes later, Chi came into the room, and said, ‘The room is ready now. My mistress and I are going to change, but if you would like to go in………..’ She bolted at that, as If she had forgotten her pendik escort lines, and we all made our way into the lounge, where space had been made for dancing, and tables loaded with food were along one wall. I couldn’t help staring at the whipping post, where I had been tied up and flogged cruelly such a short time ago, and that caused me to do a slow twirl in front of the wall-mirror when I thought no-one was watching .
‘Nice stripes,’ said Kirsty, who had, in fact, been stood behind me all the time, ‘did your mistress do that?’
‘No,’ I replied simply, not knowing how much to tell the American girl.
‘OK,’ she said, ‘just curiosity, I guess.’
We turned, then, to see who was entering. Chi and her colleague had changed into a parody, almost, of maids’ outfits — black minidresses, over white fishnet stockings, and white frilly pinafores. But their dresses were wholly transparent, the little pinafore barely covering their otherwise naked pussies — their sole undergarments being white garter-belts. Neither of the girls were looking self-conscious as they led in newcomers, some, mainly attractive, young girls, but mostly older women, some still elegant and beautiful, others a little past their best, but all gorgeously attired, silk and satin everywhere. All the younger girls, however, were dressed in more-or-less revealing clothes, some transparent, others with cut-outs, backless, even topless in the case of one dark-skinned, black-haired beauty.
Our host appeared, in an peach organdie harem-suit, quite clearly naked beneath, her lovely firm breasts thrusting at the translucent material. She announced that we could dance for a while, and started up the music, which seemed mainly to consist of slow rock numbers. I danced happily with anyone who asked me — and there was no shortage of partners. I felt supremely sexy, the feminine silkiness of my gown enveloping me, my breasts jiggling under the soft, loose bodice as I moved, my nipples now hard as bullets.
I was dancing with Bea when a record finished, and the lights were dimmed. A slow, romantic number started to play, and Bea made no move to separate from me, but moved in close, and lay her glossy black hair against my cheek. I pressed my body into hers, and we gyrated slowly, slowly. Then we were kissing, my tongue-stud searching, probing into her sweet mouth, as she responded by surreptitiously edging a hand between us until she had cupped a breast.
‘Oh Sara, I’m sorry. I so wanted to touch you,’ she breathed in my ear.
‘Don’t apologise, you silly girl,’ I told her, ‘I love it!’
We danced, if that is any sort of description of what we did, for five or six numbers — I lost count — then the music came to an end, and the lights were brightened.
‘Sorry to interrupt your dancing,’ said Simone, who was standing beside my mistress at one end of the room, ‘but we are about to have a charity caning.’
She paused to let this sink in, and perhaps a dozen pairs of women who had been dancing stayed where they were, whilst others, sitting at tables, were all looking in Simone’s direction — expectantly.
‘Some lucky lady,’ she continued, ‘will shortly receive thirty hard strokes of the cane, from Helen and myself. The honour will go to the highest bidder, and the proceeds will go to the fight against breast cancer. Now let’s start the bidding. Who’ll give five hundred dollars?’
For a moment, there was silence, as the women tried to assimilate the idea, then a hand went up — it was a slightly overweight lady in her late forties, dressed in a fabulous Armani gown.
‘Thank you, Diane,’ said Simone, ‘who will bid six hundred?’
There was no response.
A hand went nervously up — it was an elegant older woman in red velvet.
‘But for my girl,’ she said, and gently pulled a slender blonde, poured into a blue latex dress, to her feet.
‘Yes, that’s OK,’ said Simone, ‘now, come on, six hundred?’
The bidding carried on in this fashion, slowing as a thousand dollars approached, then, when it appeared that everyone had finished, Simone was about to knock down the auction at one thousand and fifty, to the woman who had started the bidding, when Kirsty stood up and said, ‘Twelve hundred! My mother died of breast cancer, and, anyway, I’d like to try your cane.’
A round of applause greeted her announcement, and Simone asked everyone to clear the floor. I realised that Bea and I still had our arms around each others’ waists as we walked off to one side, and saw that Helen was watching us. But there was no apparent jealousy in her face, just a wry smile, and I smiled back.
Simone had trundled a bench similar to the one my mistress had out into the middle of the floor, and Kirsty was stood watching, having handed her glasses to Helen.
‘I’m so envious!’ whispered Bea.
‘Of whom — Simone?’
‘No, silly, of the rich bitch, Kirsty!’
‘Oh, you know her then?’
‘I thought everyone did. Her father is Herbert Grange, and she has all maltepe escort the money in the world.’
I knew that Grange was a millionaire film producer. ‘But are you jealous of her bank account?’ I asked.
‘Of course not. But I am envious of her right now — aren’t you?’
I admitted that I would happily take her place, and felt Bea’s arm tighten around me, the nearness emphasised as she lay her head against mine.
‘This is terribly exciting,’ said Bea, as Helen tied Kirsty’s wrists to the legs of the lower end of the bench, and her ankles, about a foot apart, to the other. Then she lifted the hem of Kirsty’s dress up to her waist, revealing her naked buttocks above her black, seamed hold-ups. If she had worn panties to the party, she had already removed them in preparation. Simone walked across to sideboard, from which she picked up two long, supple canes. Keeping one for herself, she handed the thinner one to Helen, then bent down, and whispered something in Kirsty’s ear. Next she spoke to the gathering.
‘We shall each administer five strokes, and this will be repeated three times. Calls for us to stop will, of course, be ignored, but Kirsty has a “safe word.” I’ll begin.’
She stroked Kirsty’s slim buttocks with the cane, suggesting the precise target area, then, drawing her arm way back, brought savage stroke down on her soft flesh with all her might. Kirsty flinched sharply, and made an audible gasp, but didn’t cry out. A second stroke fell slightly higher, drawing another gasp from the American girl, but the next was just below the crease in the bottom of her buttocks, and must have hurt a lot, because Kirsty couldn’t stifle a deep moan. Even lower fell the fourth and fifth, at the tops of her thighs, just above the tops of her long stockings, and the red stripes were now evident where those last strokes had bruised her delicate white flesh. Simone stood back and Helen took her place. I was in no doubt of my mistress’s ability to cause pain, and the thin switch she held looked ominous. She concentrated on the top of Kirsty’s buttocks, and when she had finished her first five strokes, her buttocks showed a ladder pattern of deep red welts, and the girl was stifling a sob.
Simone’s second five strokes concentrated on the girls left buttock, and she was now crying out at each stinging, vicious blow, and writhing against her tight bonds. Helen took up the cane for another five, and went for the other, right side.
When they had paused before the last ten strokes, Kirsty was sobbing for real, and she was soon squirming violently and screaming with each new ‘thwack’ of the terrible instrument. Her arse was now red-raw, great blood-blisters forming where the canes had broken the blood vessels, ranging from her upper thighs to her lower back.
Finally it was over, and Kirsty turned her face towards Simone as she came to release her bonds. Simone bent down to hear what she whispered, then nodded, and went around behind her. She stood between the girl’s legs and put her slim hand down into Kirsty’s pink vagina, stroking her to the shuddering climax she had requested. It was a charming sight, and I felt Bea’s arm tighten around my waist. I turned towards her as she did to me, and kissed her fervently.
‘Kirsty’s not the only one who needs to cum!’ she breathed into my ear. But Helen’s eyes were on us, and I reluctantly told Bea that I had to go to the toilet. I spent time in there, relieving myself after the scene I had just witnessed, and came quickly, but had to stay a while as I returned to the planet Earth.
In the taxi on the way home, my mistress asked me if I’d enjoyed the evening.
‘Yes, thank you, mistress.’
‘I see you got on well with Bea,’ she said, a trace of something in her voice that might have been censure.
‘I think you’ll have to be punished, don’t you?’
‘If it pleases you, mistress.’ I knew how to respond.
‘Yes, darling. Tomorrow evening, then.’
I was silent then, thinking about Bea’s slender little body under her silky dress, and how enthusiastically she had kissed me, but when I went to bed that night, my thoughts returned to Kirsty. I couldn’t shake off the image of her being thrashed, because it was what she wanted — wanted enough to pay almost my month’s wage for it. And my last waking thought was that I would willingly have taken my mistress’s place, wielding that thin cane.
Next morning, the thought was still there, preoccupying me as I worked. I accepted wholeheartedly that I had become a Lesbian, and a…..well, pain-slut, to give it an ugly name, but could I be a sadist too? I had always hated violence, found it mean and demeaning, but this seemed altogether different — a ritual, somehow like theatre, but so real.
Helen snapped me out of it, and invited me to lunch. I accepted gladly, and her amusing conversation made me put darker thoughts from my mind, but as we walked back to the store, she said, ‘You haven’t forgotten this evening, have you, darling?’
‘No, kartal escort mistress.’
‘Good. I have something new in store for you.’
I suppose I should have been frightened at that prospect, but I just nodded. I knew my mistress would never do me lasting harm.
When we got home, though, my mistress was in a hurry.
‘I’ve decided to punish you before dinner, my dear,’ she said, trundling out the bench, but placing it at random, not under the false light-fitting this time.
‘Just take off your suit,’ she told me, ‘and you can leave your stockings on.’
Whilst I took off my jacket, skirt and blouse, I saw that Helen had peeled off the upholstery at the higher end of the bench, revealing a boss, to which she now screwed a monstrous polished wood dildo, slightly curved, and angled down towards the low end.
I stood now in a pair of long black hold-ups, my stilettos, my heavy waist-chain and my mistress’s lovely collar, and Helen, taking my hand in a gentle way, led me to the bench, then bade me get on. I lowered myself slowly onto the huge wooden prick, impaling myself on its massive thickness, so that my poor cunt was stretched to its limits. It literally brought tears to my eyes.
‘Lay down on the bench!’ ordered Helen, crisply, and when I did, I found the huge implement slightly more bearable.
As I went through this manoeuvre, I had taken my eyes off my mistress, and she was now behind me, out of sight.
‘Now, you little slut, fuck yourself!’ she rapped, and when I didn’t instantly move, I felt the terrible, familiar sting of her riding-crop on the middle of my back. I started to ease my whole body up and down, the dildo alternately dragging itself out of me with a pronounced sucking noise, and plunging deep, deep into my cunt, deeper now that my juices began to lubricate it. My mistress lashed me again, with all her considerable strength, this time the blow falling across my buttocks. I moved faster, up and down, up and down, then ‘Crack!’ as another cruel stroke cut into my upper thighs. On about Helen’s fifth stroke, I screamed out loud, as I came, my vaginal juices literally running out of me in a gushing stream. But she wasn’t to be deterred, and more awful, beautiful strokes stung my back and arse, then a new sensation! Helen had introduced a slim metal vibrator, already switched on, into my arsehole. I was now doubly impaled, and a second, thunderous orgasm swept over me — I think I actually blacked out then.
My next conscious feeling was of my mistress, crouching beside me, kissing me fervently, then helping me off the bench. We both giggled like schoolgirls at the loud ‘plop’ that announced the huge dildo coming out of my cunt.
When we were sat down to dinner an hour later, my mistress asked me: ‘Did you enjoy your punishment then?’
‘Oh yes, mistress.’
‘What do you like about being whipped, Sara?’
‘It’s just that moment, that delicious moment, when the pain turns… turns into…well, something else.’
‘I envy you really, darling.’
‘Envy me? You, mistress?’
‘Yes, Sara. I couldn’t take the pain, I know that — only secondhand, through you.’
‘But mistress, when I watched you caning Kirsty last night, it was you that I envied. You looked so…..’ I was lost for words, and never finished the sentence, filling my mouth with food to cover my embarrassment. We completed our meal in silence.
That night, Helen came to me in my bed, and we made tender love, both of us enjoying slow, building orgasms, but, as I bit my mistress’s hard little clit, it was that image of Kirsty, paying to be punished, then begging for relief, that came before me. When Helen had gone back to her own bed, the last thought I had as I drifted off into an exhausted sleep was that I should have to find the American girl. I didn’t, at that stage, know why, or what I wanted from her — I just knew that somehow our paths must cross.
Helen couldn’t have been nicer or more attentive towards me in the next few days, and life went on as before. One night, she asked me to take off the slip I was wearing as we sat having a drink before bed, then, when I had done that, she told me to kneel on the floor in front of her, and then ran her fingers along the still-sore welts she had given me at my last whipping.
‘Mmm,’ she said, ‘nice. Stay there — I’ve something for you.’ She got up and went into the kitchen, soon to return carrying a small pot. I thought she was going to rub balm into my wounds, but, immediately her long fingers touched me, I felt an awful, agonising pain right across my back, and yelled out.
‘Oh, oh, fuck! Mistress, what are you doing?’ I screamed.
‘Just a little salt, darling,’ she said, ‘I thought it might be amusing.’
She rubbed salt into my wheals and stripes until I was sobbing with the extremities of pain, then said, ‘That will help — it’s an antiseptic, you know,’ and laughed lightly as I wept.
Next morning she showed no sign of having been so cruel, even fetching me a coffee in bed. I shook my head at her back as she left my room.
In the store, a few days after the salt incident, I was going through some lists in the cubbyhole I used as an office, when the phone rang. I recognised instantly the voice that I heard.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32