Friday, May 17, 2013

My Night With The Whip

Looking back...

My Night With The Whip by Lizbeth
    -0r- My Knight With The Whip

My remembrance begins late in the evening, when mellow and lazily groping about in bed, the toys come out to play. In his hand they are magic, taking me to places unknown. He orders me to turn around, he wants my back, a canvas for his playthings, in particular the whip. This nasty number was expertly crafted by a friend in the scene, hand-braided leather with two long strands of cowhide anchored at the end. I recall its maker demonstrating the implement of torture on an obedient sub, and how one nasty smack of the thing left two long streaks on her pretty white shoulder. The marks were side by side, so close they blended into one wicked welt. Although she barely made a sound, I heard the pain screaming from her body and my entire insides reacted with arousal. What if it left a welt like that on me?


I lusted for it then, not understanding what damage that whip could inflict, or what pleasure. Once it became part of my master’s personal stash of toys I was enamored and fearful of it. And when I really wanted to get down and dirty, I lusted for it with an urgency that my body must have communicated to my master.  

He normally applied it lightly to start, warming up. Then again, he didn’t follow any sort of routine – not in the bedroom, not late at night when the dark gremlins from a day emerged from hiding and demanded to be appeased.

Light was fun. Light was easy and sensuous, but hardly what either of us craved, and not what either of us needed. He picked up speed when he felt my energy start to climb, and I could only wonder how hard he’d hit tonight. Into what demon realms would he take us?  I was smiling inside all the way down that rocky road to pleasure.

My crotch was wet. My breath shallow. The pheromones in the room signaled our mutual lust. Subspace didn’t take long, the point when pain turned into something quite different from pain. The altered states began, the spasms burst through my body and the cumming began. I sat on my ass before him on the bed, and rocked my crotch against the sheets as he delivered me into my happy world of surrender.

“Want more?” he’d ask, from time to time, just to fuck with my brain. I knew, I always knew that we stopped and started according to his plan…his whim.

Tonight was no different. The whip came down hard against my back, on my right shoulder and then the left. I began cumming in one long continuous flight of body nirvana. I quit my brain, forgot to think and rode the feeling for as long as he dared to love me with such intimate fierceness.

Any moment, I knew that he would throw the whip aside, gather me into his arms from behind, and stuff his fat prick in my cumming pussy. Any minute. Any minute…

Until then, I’d be there and waiting, as the whip struck and the pain moved through me, cumming happily in my prison of love. 

(c) copyright 1213, Unpublished, all rights reserved


In a more pensive mood today... just wanting everyone to know that there would be no Lizbeth Dusseau, no naughty erotica, no Pink Flamingo without my partner in this life, in my business and in love. Thinking of you especially today, wherever you are ... my sweet prince.You carved a place in my heart, and there you'll remain.

An excerpt from Ken’s favorite non-erotic book Illusions by Richard Bach

                you will
                practice being fictional
                for a while, you will understand
                that fictional characters are
                sometimes more real than
                people with bodies
                and heartbeats.

And from my novel… DanceFor Me Savannah
Ken was quite the voyeur and he loved taking sexy photographs, so it’s no surprise that this was one of his favorite Lizbeth Dusseau titles.

“Michael.” I knew her by the sound of her voice. Picking up the receiver while in the middle of developing film, something never do, I had to concentrate carefully in order not to ruin my work and still talk to her.        

        “Yes, it is. You do remember me?” she replied.
         It had only been three weeks since I’d seen her. “How could I forget?”
         I imagined her smiling that coy half smile that revealed so little.
       “Would you be interested in doing another photo shoot?” she asked.

       “Another?  Of course. When?”

       “As soon as possible. I have an anxious lover.”

       “So he liked the other photographs?”

       “I’ll tell you when I see you again,” she said, skirting my question. “When are you available?”

       “I think tomorrow afternoon, but not until after five.” I remembered that I was booked solid. Actually, I liked it better putting her at the end of the day. I wouldn’t have to squeeze her in-between other clients.

       “I’ll be there then.” She hung up, and I could already feel a surge of sexual arousal pumping through me, making my penis throb happily.

       For twenty-four hours I thought of nothing but Savannah appearing for me in the buff. I pulled from my files her proof shots and thumbed through them one by one, finding myself masturbating to the images on the paper and even more to the lusty quality she radiated through them, as if they were alive and moving, her limbs and lips reaching out to draw me inside them. I wanted her with my whole being, every fiber in me breathing Savannah, whispering her name, letting its soft syllables woo me to the energy that surrounded her. I forgot about my occasional girlfriend, Josie; I forgot about who Savannah really was and that some other man was behind her photographic quest. I forgot that she was a client, I a professional. I forgot my common sense, a reasonable thing to do when masturbating. I simply forgot everything but Savannah and me; my daydreams readily imagining a scenario in the studio, its finale with the two of us on the bed together, the camera sitting on the sidelines forgotten. I ejaculated to the picture of her rose red lips covering my cock, her tongue dancing on the tip and how after she finished, she’d fall against the bed like a limp flower past its glory.

       I considered my moments of pleasure self defense. With the edge off my arousal, perhaps I could objectively do the work she was paying me to do. I wondered if she had any idea how deeply she affected me.
Savannah arrived the next day wearing red: a severely cut silk suit, her hair already abandoned to its liberated state and her lipstick this time a wicked crimson. An impressive change. She gave off the allure of a much harsher woman, though I still detected the same sweet shivering vamp beneath the brave attire that I’d seen in our first meeting.

       “And did your lover enjoy the photographs?” I asked when greeting her. I was anxious to know, wondering if the speedy repeat performance was because the prints were somehow lacking.

       She hesitated. “As far as they went.”

       “As far?” I sought her explanation.

       “He wants some more stark,” she explained.

       “I see. And how do you see that?”  

       “Could we?” She motioned to the curtain that separated the outer salon from the studio. I nodded and followed her inside.

       I’d already placed the bed in the same position as it had been four weeks before. On seeing it, Savannah moved directly to it and stripped it of its sheets down to the bare striped tick. If it was stark she wanted, that certainly worked. “And the flowers,” she added, moving to the blue bouquet beside the bed. Picking them up she handed the vase to me. “He’s a very fundamental man, I think,” she mused to herself, though she spoke loud enough for me to hear. “Can you begin taking pictures as I undress?” she inquired.

       “Whatever you’d like,” I replied. She was less personal this time, perhaps even more nervous, and that formal attitude served to keep me at a distance, though I’m not sure that I could remain distant from her regardless of her efforts. Savannah invaded my psyche like some alien virus, the molecules of her elemental form having trickled through my system, implanting an erotic imprint that fused so completely with my own, I knew I’d be forever altered. If she needed distance now, for whatever reason, I’d give her that privilege, but I knew we’d come together in other ways. I would be patient.

       Retrieving my cameras, I loaded both the black and white and color, and worked on focusing the shutter. She waited, sitting on the bed as demurely as she had the time before. When I finally nodded for her to begin, she rose from the bare mattress and began to unbutton the black buttons on her red suit, moving slowly as if in time to music. Music would have made an appropriate background for her efforts, but she didn’t seem to need anything added. Her head slightly cocked, her face blank and passive, she continued unlayering herself before my clicking camera.

       The jacket, the sheer blouse, the bra carefully removed were discarded on the bare floor beside the bed. I was struck by the motion of her breasts swaying for my camera’s eye. I sensed her shudder once they’d been completely bared. The nipples tightened, her face became flushed. She was embarrassed, as though she believed herself indecent.

       Was she listening to some inner voice? Were the words of her lover directing her? For an instant she’d hesitate before continuing, and I wondered if she wasn’t fighting with herself—or the demon that invaded her mind—over her next move. Drawing her hands behind her back, her breasts jutting out, she released the zipper on her skirt and let the garment drop. Except for a black garterbelt and lace-topped stockings, she was naked. And unlike weeks before, instead of the soft bush of hair to protect the voyeur’s eye from seeing into her sex, she was shaved clean of hair. Vulnerable. Childlike, though the garterbelt and stockings defied the childlike quality of her appearance.

       Savannah stepped out of the high heels, an act that diminished her stature even more. In preparation to remove the stockings it was necessary, but I was beginning to understand that this calculated unveiling was designed to play inside her thoughts, transport her to a destination where she could continue with the shoot as her lover required.

       All these steps she did silently. As I moved about her snapping photographs, I caught as many angles as possible. She wasn’t playing for the camera, only for herself. If I were to accurately convey her sexual sense it would have to be a random act, some moment that occurred by chance where the camera for that instant caught the nuances of her erotic attitude. Once she finished undressing, she climbed on the bed and began to move for me. On hands and knees, Savannah swayed her hind end. Catlike, she clawed at the mattress. With her shoulders pressed to the bed, her ass still raised, she reached back for her bottom cheeks. Grabbing the flesh in her fist, she squeezed hard, letting out a whimper, as if it were someone else doing this to her body. She pulled at her cheeks so the camera photographed her anus, clear as day, and the shaved pussy and the wetness that could be seen clinging to her pussy. That display complete, the beastly blonde dropped to her back, parted her thighs and began masturbating.

       I watched her lick her juices from her fingers, then as she inserted the middle one in the in the pink hole and draw it out again. She smiled at it, as if it was a piece of candy she’d devoured. The camera snapped more pictures as she pinched her nipples and slapped her breasts, as her fingers drove deep into her hole and pulled out only to slap her mound with a harsh thwack.

My body jolted, as if she was slapping my genitals. I put down the camera for an instant to catch my breath.

       She hissed, seeing my vexed state, bidding me to continue. So I resumed.

       After that brief pause, her body drove her towards a climax. Forgetting me altogether, she enacted her masturbation ritual. I wondered how many times she’d played with herself that way,  how many orgasms had swept through her needy female form. To the end, it seemed no more than a dream from somewhere inside her fantasies, driven by that mysterious lover.

       Again, I would have made love to her, dropped my camera, thrown off my clothes and brought myself a pleasurable climax between her thighs. Yet even more this time, I couldn’t bridge the barrier that came between us. Perhaps another time when I finally had at least a tacit invitation.

       I left her when it was clear her climax was over, taking several shots just as she was recovering her sanity from its brief hiatus. I’d have been remiss not including photos of her at just that moment of consciousness, when she had the presence of mind to smile at me. Returning to the room fifteen minutes later, I found Savannah just buttoning the last button on her blouse. She bent down to retrieve the red jacket.

       “Would you like to have a cup of coffee?” I asked her. My question came as much a surprise to me as it was to her. She was startled by it, but then smiled again.

       “Yes,” she nodded. “Yes, I’d like that.” She put on her black pumps and then looked for her purse that had been tossed in a chair.

       For the life of me, I had no idea what I’d say to her, but if she felt comfortable with the invitation for coffee, I suppose I could find some words. I admit, I simply wanted to be with her a while longer. To have her disappear again for months or forever, no, I wanted just another few moments of her time before she was lost to forever.

 Copyright © Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved