Posted at 12:15 on 17 Jul 2009 by Pandora / Blake
I just about met my deadline on Wednesday, and emailled it to D. (we're working together on this project) moments before racing out of the house. I paused just long enough to get his message asking me to bring my lacy dress and some high heels. The dress was bought at BoundCon; I don't have a picture of me wearing it yet, but will probably be taking it to my next shoot with Lady Sonia at the end of July, so I'll be able to show you after that. It's more hole than dress: black crocheted lace, with a tiny skirt barely skimming decency at the front and showing more of my bottom than it covers. The first time I tried it on to show D. I was instantly pounced and molested, which I thought was pretty good going.
I arrived at his; we talked about work a bit (he was happy with what I'd done; I'd had to race to finish it after spending the morning on more frivolous things) and then had dinner with his housemate. By the time we went to bed I'd drunk quite a lot of wine. I borrowed his camera to take the Vilena-style photos, and he grinned at me from the doorway, making helpful suggestions as I wiggled and occasionally fell flat on my face. "Arch your back more! Bring your knees as close to your boobs as possible! Lift your face higher! Now lift your arse higher!" (YES YES I AM IN FACT TRYING. Cheers for that useful advice, sir.)
So then I'm naked on his bed, a bit worn out and giggling after my exertions, and while I was innocently flopped on my front he proceeded to kneel on the back of my legs, reaching over the side of the bed and bringing out his biggest cane. It's long and thick and only bamboo, not particularly dense or heavy, but he enjoys how melodramatic it looks.
"Is this because I didn't do your work this morning?" I asked, flushing.
"Yes. That's exactly what it's about." I felt the tip of the cane trail lightly up the backs of my thighs, skimming the curve of my bottom. I swallowed, enjoying his dominance, and whimpered plaintively. My recalcitrance didn't impress him. He paused, lifting the cane away. "Of course, I could always not beat you?"
"I don't mind you beating me," I whispered hastily, "as long as you're not actually cross with me."
More feather-soft caress of bamboo. He followed it with his body, his hips pressing gently against me and his lips touching the back of my neck. "I'm not cross with you," he murmured, "but I am going to beat you. Because I like watching you wriggle. And because you're a naughty wench."
He spanked me first, harder than he normally does. He hadn't risen to my play-complaints, so I didn't indulge in them: instead, I responded with fervent enjoyment. I'd been thinking about this scene all day. I'd hoped for it, hinted at it. I hadn't been sure if he'd initiate it, and now he had I didn't want to put him off by pretending I wasn't into it. There's a time and place for resistance play, but as far as he was concerned, this clearly wasn't it.
By the time he started caning me the atmosphere was intensely sensual: strange for a punishment caning, especially one I knew I deserved. Usually punishments for real misdemeanours aren't fun for me at all. But my procrastination had been unprofessional - I knew that - and he hadn't had a go at me about it when I admitted I hadn't started work yet, so I'd guilted myself about it instead. But I'd also worked extra hard to make up, finished the job, and produced something he was happy with, so no harm was done. This was a deserved punishment, one I'd anticipated and needed, but there was no need to "teach me a lesson" - the lesson had already been learned. Partly it was just an excuse; partly it was cleansing my remaining guilt; and partly it was straightforwardly, without viciousness, reinforcing my existing awareness that I really shouldn't be doing that sort of thing until I've finished my other work.
Anyway, it was delicious, not brutally hard but stinging and satisfying, with a few strokes landing right on my crease. I hung onto the headbars of his bed, trying to keep quiet for the sake of his housemates, hissing through my teeth and flinging my head back as the harder strokes broke through my self-control.
When he stopped I knelt up, and my eyes widened at the iron hardness of his erection. For someone who claims not to be a spanko, he'd certainly enjoyed that.
"Put your pretty things on," he told me, smiling. I couldn't take my eyes off his cock. I leant forward to give it a quick kiss on my way off the bed, but he pushed my face away with his hand, still grinning. "Not until you're dressed, wench. We get distractedly too easily. Scoot."
I grinned back, and obediently tied the skimpy lace around my neck and hips. I'd forgotten to bring heels, but by that point he was too turned on to bother punishing me again, and I can't say I minded.
Of course, what better position to fuck me in than facing the mirror, head up and arse in the air? I watched my own face as he entered me, cheeks flushed and pupils the size of the moon; I watched his pecs flexing as he moved, his lean shoulders and sharp cheekbones; I watched looking at my body in the mirror, looking at my face, looking down at his cock sliding into me. I looked right back at him until I couldn't keep my eyes open or my head up any more, and then I buried my face in the mattress and cried out, no longer thinking or caring about what I looked like.
Perfect for more than just spanking, indeed.