Wulfrunner
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Joined: 3/5/2011
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There's nothing more delicious than a submissive who has surrendered to her yearning for pain, who has accepted that the deepest pleasure lies within the most intimate of tortures and who has surrendered herself to the embrace of that pleasure. And when that submissive is my savannah ...
The breaking of day had been wrapped in gauzy soft-focus, like the drowsy warmth that follows the inevitable exercise in holiday gluttony, the lingering slowness which echoes aching desire once long-pent when it has been shrieked, spent, exorcised, when last night's perfumes wrap the day's beginning and set its tone. I'd reached for her as I'd woken, and our joining had possessed that sensuality that comes from a total lack of impatience, of rush, of need. The satiety had lasted through my trip downstairs, returning with a tray of coffees and another of corn muffins and bagels, just a bit of a bite to get the blood moving once again.
And then ...
Caffeinated, awake, I saw savannah's chestnut eyes creep across the basic but spacious hotel room to where her DVD recorder watched, cyclopean, from atop its tripod, its mission to record the high points of this weekend, giving her something to hold onto once I'd left. Anticipation began to glint from those eyes as they settled upon our waiting digital witness, and I knew it was time to begin our final session of the weekend.
Rising from my perch upon the end of the bed, I moved into the middle of the utilitarian room's surprisingly expansive central openness, looking theatrically about in the visual equivalent of a stage whisper. After a long moment passed in silent, exaggerated contemplation of the chamber's possibilities, I turned a sly, appreciative smile upon my companion.
Savannah sat cross-legged at the head of the bed, glowing in the morning light that stole in through the chamber's windows. Her frame was broad, powerful, and she delighted in the fact that she had half an inch or so in height on me. She was a woman who was dangerous in her own right, though never to me. Only in summer did her coloring even hint at the Cherokee that lurked within her, darkening her light perpetual California tan. The hair that cascaded past the middle of her back was a reddish-brown, this time -- her color cycled in variations of red and brunette and dark blonde, both due to sun and to the wonders of modern coloration. Her naked form gleamed where it was licked by the buttery morning sunlight. Raspberry nipples jutted high from her full, expansive breasts, quislings betraying her interior state as she sat quietly watching me, anticipating what was to come.
Secure in the knowledge that I had her undivided attention, I turned toward the over-stuffed, chestnut-brown easy-chair in the far corner, near the exterior wall, its color a deeper variation on the mid- dirt-brown that grew upon the chamber's floor, a color chosen because of the impossibility that it might "show dirt" -- being the color of such, normally (classic Hotel Management logic). "Now, let's see ..." I muttered as I knelt before the chair and experimented with positions. This would do, with a few items to assist me. "Give me just a minute, my love," I said, flashing my Cheshire grin as I rose from my experimentations.
Moving stage left from the easy-chair, recessed a bit from the line between it and the tripod holding aloft the unblinking red eye, I dropped to one knee in front of the display of tools, toys, and implements that was assembled upon that part of the floor. I hesitated, thinking with dramatic effect, drawing out the moment in contemplations decided long ago. I smiled to myself as I pointedly drew forth each item from its place in that assemblage and laid them like a welcoming honor guard along the approach to the chair I'd chosen before turning back to my waiting lover.
The glint in her eye matched the flush that darkened her expressively dark tan, a glint that leaked fear and desire, and dripped their union, heat. I hadn't lost my lock upon her gaze, drawing it with me as I moved as if it were anchored upon my hands like the motions of a marionette, but with the joy of an entranced yet enchanted awareness mutely acceding to the pantomime in which it was embedded.
"My dear," I began, relishing the anticipation that danced gingerly upon her face, "please come over here and kneel in front of the easy-chair, facing into it." I loved watching the ripple of muscles counterpointed by the swaying of full woman's breasts and kidney-length hair as she rose from her perch at the head of the bed and took the position I'd indicated. "Like this?" was her only reply, as she settled into position.
It took a few moments to encircle each wrist and ankle with supple black leather, steel rings hanging from each like festive ornaments festooning her extremities. A few minutes more and her face and chest were lying upon the chair's bottom cushion, arms stretched across the armrests and bound outstretched towards the rear legs, thighs bound wide by additional loops of the soft, white nylon hawser rope, ankles bound forward to immobilized wrists. The full, round globes of savannah's ass, highlighted by their relative paleness next to the surrounding flesh, were forced high, above the plane of her back, and forced back, beyond the plane where her legs rose vertically from upon her knees. It was a slut's display, hips high, ass back and begging to be filled, and it presented her perfectly for what was to follow. Then, a few more moments to adjust the focus of the gleaming black rectangles that were the DVD recorder, framing savannah perfectly within her viewfinder, and we were ready to go.
This position begged for flogging. We had yet to capture on DVD a good, prolonged flogging session, having been too much in the moment to remember before this morning. It was time to fix that. "Are you ready, my dear?" I whispered in her left ear as I ran the nails of my left hand hard and insistently across the arc of her buttocks.
Her gasp was like escaping steam, her body attempting to press itself yet more fully against my roaming claws. "Yes, oh yes," came the choked, husky reply. A moment of withdrawal to press the "record" button, and we were ready to go.
The heavy handle crawled in straps of black leather, a handle ending in a thick clump of tails about the length and thickness of large earthworms. It had been a gift from savannah on our last meeting, a cross between "sting" due to the size of the individual tails and a "thud" due to their aggregate weight -- magnificent for warm-up. My trembling submissive hissed as I slowly stroked the weight of the falls upwards along the gleaming curve of her ass. Lather, rinse, repeat, I thought, as I stroked the other cheek, then pulled it with almost glacial slowness along the valley dividing the hemispheres of her body.
The first blow fell, shattering the silence, its falling shards the gasp that accompanied the unannounced, full-strength introduction. The impact was dull and deep, solid, focused. Heavy, on a solid beat; sharp, quick, repetitive; a bare wisp, on the quiet. Establishing rhythm just long enough to escape from it, to deconstruct it, to disappoint the expectation and leave it gasping. Each blow brought blood into the skin, fed the glow that slowly deepened to pink amid a quiet, rippling stream of moans. And, crescendo, hard, harsh, over the top, stinging falls tearing hissing steam and breathless wails as the limit is pushed, as the mark is laid, and the final flourish. And silence, as I stood back for a moment to catch my breath.
Roses bloomed upon pale tan globes that twitched and gently rocked before me, trailing off into individuated flaming fingers that radiated from the central flames like a stylized crimson drawing of sun and sunshine, enframing the curves of her full, solid ass. Her flesh continued to reach, it seemed, to stretch, searching for the lashes now withdrawn, searching with a blind, insistent, even unthinking futility.
Leaning my left hand upon the top of the crease that split her ass like a peach, I reached my right down and into the dark cleft between her splayed thighs. Steaming, fluid contours of slippery flesh and gaping wetness embraced my exploring digits, welcoming them, drawing them in as my wondrous sensation-slut tried to thrust herself back upon my hand, her body seeking mutely, yet, to replace the storm of sensation so abruptly withdrawn. Mmm ... time to begin tenderizing my favorite tissues.
It took only a moment to retrieve from their ready position an initially odd-looking assemblage of black plastic and cylinders and rectangles and wires. As I dropped to my right knee between my wondrous, powerful pain-slut's thighs, facing the hungry loins that gaped and gasped in shapes of rose and purple and shadow, I thrust two fingers without warning into the beckoning vaginal opening. "I think this pussy of yours is getting ready," I purred. "What do you think? Tell me."
Savannah's husky voice was thick and partially muffled by the pillow upon which her beaming, panting profile, lay. "My pussy is ready for you."
"This pussy is already so wet, and all I've done is whip your ass. You are such a pain slut." I slapped both globes of her ass twice, quickly, for effect. "What are you?" I demanded.
The voice that floated to me was broken, more choked, this time, like a river congested and blocked by trees swept up in its floodwaters. "I'm your pain slut. Please hurt me," she whispered. "Please hurt me."
I reached my left hand into the shadows between savannah's strong thighs and took the left outer labial lip tightly between my thumb and forefinger, drawing it strongly away from her. With my right hand, I reached forward the rubber-tipped jaws of the weighted, vibrating clamp whose bite tore forth a high-pitched moan as it closed deeply upon the stretched labial flesh. Lather, rinse, repeat, I thought, as I repeated the process with the other lip.
The weights drew my pain-addicted lover's labia majora in a loop of stretched flesh away from her body, their very swaying itself sufficient to draw a series of gasps from her still-muffled face. Tugging gently, alternating, I traced my hands down the thin, black wires that trailed from the hanging weights to the small black plastic control at their terminus. Seconds later, the clamps were humming gently, a counterpoint to the dull tapping as they vibrated against one another. The gasps gained an octave for a moment before settling back in.
Rising, I faced my powerful lover's flaming ass once again; this time, it was my medium flogger, all half-inch falls of black leather. With glacial slowness, I drew the bundle of 20" tails upwards along the joining of her legs and the crack dividing the already-awoken globes of that ass. Broad, nearly immobilized hips rocked minutely as the body before me attempted to move to embrace the stroking leather.
The first strokes were soft, underhand, vertical strokes that crept into the dark shadows at the joining of her legs. Whimpers crawled across savannah's flesh as the vibrating weights were struck, causing them to bounce and sway against the tender pale flesh.
The fourth stroke, however, was hard, fast, strong, resounding against the right ass-cheek and drawing forth a cry that broke from my beloved bottom as we raised her to a new plateau, an interminable cry yet sounding as a twin of the earlier stroke descended upon the other cheek. Several, now, that hailed upon each side, before I dropped the intensity and began an extended campaign to set afire the flesh that stretched helplessly before me. Alternating strokes, now, firm, solid, long descending from each shoulderblade, strokes between the legs to impact flesh and plastic, then back to the ass. Harder, now, still with steady, extended rhythm. Without warning, hard, alternating, full-strength slashing strokes that landed fast, accelerating, the welts of individual tails rising from the deep scarlet surface. And silence.
It's hard to pass up on the invitation posed by helpless flesh, bruised and enflamed, and I ran my fingernails like claws across the burning skin, relishing the steady stream of keening wails that my digital attack drew from my helpless, entranced submissive. (Entranced she was, already climbing the plateaus of subspace as yearning flesh attempted to force itself upon my assaulting hands.)
Now, one does have to beware of timing when applying clamps to tissues, and the droning weights that clattered dully between trembling tan thighs had been there for a while. Oh, well, to everything a season. Reaching into the shadows, I took the first clamp in my right hand, pulling against it to stretch the flesh long and tight within its grasp. With one quick movement, I released the pinioned flesh, allowing it to snap back into place with an agonized scream as blood rushed in. Now, as savannah's hips rocked in response to the burning of sensitized flesh, I took the remaining clamp in hand and stretched hard against the pinned tissues, locking her in position by the tension. Again, I released the jaws abruptly to the accompaniment of a high-pitched wail.
The best was yet to come, I thought to myself as I reached both hands forward and took an external labial lip between each thumb and forefinger, feeling for the marks left by the clamps just removed. I tightened my grip upon those marks and rolled the already bruised flesh hard between those digits, gripping more tightly than the clamps' jaws ever had. I felt my lover pulling against me, but knew her well enough to know that she was trying to increase the stimulation, not escape it, and stretched the flesh hard towards me, tethering her with it as I wrung that flesh within my merciless grasp. "Oh, god, yes! Oh, god, harder!" were the choked shrieks that greeted me in response.
"This is really the best part about applying clamps to labia, you know," I observed with an appreciative leer as I played. "Well, that and making handles, especially when the hands are too tired or the pussy is too wet. But we'll get around to that, later." I chuckled my best stage-chuckle at this last, knowing that the thought of what I'd just described would build her anticipation nicely like a coal smoldering in a bed of tinder. A noise of nearly desperate yearning crawled through the air as I released the intimate flesh whose ownership had passed from my lover to me.
Such response could not be left entirely in the lurch, though we did have a task to resume. The medium flogger yet had a purpose to fulfill, I chuckled to myself. The best stance was alongside the left hip, facing across the plane of her body, bringing my right hand into position. Long, slow vertical strokes, bottom to top, arcing upwards between her thighs, solid yet not insistent, echoes of things to come, promissories, almost, landed just long enough for her to begin to flex her thighs, for her to attempt to spread herself for the leather. That would do, for now.
"You are the most eager pussy-torture slut I've ever known. Do you know that?" I asked, rhetorically since I wasn't sure she even heard me. I decided to fix that. "What are you?" I demanded of her. "Tell me what you are."
"I'm a pain slut," came the husky reply, thick with advancing subspace.
"And what do you want?" I demanded, filling time while I changed implements.
"I want you to hurt me. Please hurt me." The words were like thick honey, breathless and pleading.
"You said the magic words, my love," I laughed with satisfaction at having trained this pain slut with care and patience, having encouraged and guided the desire for pain I'd seen in her very early on, long before our first physical encounters. I loved to make her speak the words, acknowledge who she was and what she wanted in a way that she couldn't forget. That was one reason for the DVD record that was being made. So she would know, would remember, would have to come to acceptance of, precisely who she was and what she wanted. Saying it for the first time had been a powerful moment for her, one that she'd seen coming but resisted. I never lost an opportunity to remind her and reinforce that knowledge.
We were going to move up a notch. In my hand was a gift from my Cherokee lover the last time we'd met. It was a heavy leather flogger of potentially extreme severity, so much so that I'd laughed with glee when it had been given. I'd taken pleasure in pointing out how its heavy, individually braided falls could potentially bruise and even cut if wielded with strength. Quite honestly, I'd barely wielded it before this, and wasn't planning of pushing it, today. There was plenty of intimidation factor left to savor, and it was a serious piece. But for warm-up ...
I took my position alongside my beloved bottom's right hip, careful not to obstruct the view of the unblinking witness atop its elevated platform. Stretching the heavy dull black tails outward across the firm, glowing peach globes of savannah's ass with my left hand, I released the tails and brought the flogger down with just a bit more than its own rather considerable weight to drive it. Even at such, the reaction was electric as my bound nymph's body jerked to its touch. Again. Lather, rinse, repeat, went the mantra, with each cycle a little more impact to the heavy, braided and abrading delivery, with each cycle adding to the mosaic of crawling welts that were beginning to take shape upon the curved surface of raspberry butter. A few cycles of leather falling upon my love's broad, powerful back, then back to the evolving flesh of her ass. The moans had become a deep, rolling music, the wind given flesh and voice, as the cycles continued, steadily increasing in rhythm and force. A pause, then ten strokes that insisted, harsh though yet restrained enough, strokes that pushed my lover to her edge and beyond, that overwhelmed her screams and ceased just as her reserves were exhausted, leaving her panting at the edge of the abyss into which she would later plunge.
I took a moment, straightening and moving away from the swaying, twitching, flame-streaked tableau. Shaking the fatigue from my right arm, I reached with my left for the water-bottle that waited on the desk just beyond the camera. I'm not sure that she even noticed my absence at that moment, and I had no reason to break the spell as I drank my fill and returned to my still-shivering lover, wrapped in a nimbus of morning sun, this time taking my stance directly between her splayed legs, facing her body's line. Now, however, it was my heavy, dried-blood red elk-hide flogger, solid, thuddy, almost sensual in its stroke, its texture. It had been described like being slapped solidly by a giant hand, a distinct change from the stinging impacts with which we'd been playing so far.
The first blow was full-strength, shattering the white noise generated by the hidden television with a resounding "crack!" It was, in fact, something that sometimes kept me from breaking out that particular flogger ... its signature noise quotient. It announced itself when wielded with the authority that I was currently delivering. Eight strokes in alternating pairs fell upon each quivering ruined cheek. Her flesh grasped with invisible tendrils of desire as the blows ceased. The disappointed moans were replaced by choked gasps as the silken elk-hide fell upon her back, deep muscle massage upon shoulder-blades, stroking the broad plane for a long moment before descending once again below her firm waist to linger rhythmically, mercilessly upon the globes already burning, there.
I was moving from side to side, now, placing the falls across the line of her body, taking aim at the opposing cheeks and the soft, delicate flesh below the curve of the ass, where cheek joins thigh. The flogger was falling with full-arm strokes, its impacts cutting through the room in harmony with the gasping, choking, keening desire that echoed from my baby's lips in time with its relentless assault.
The crescendo, a series of full-strength blows to be delivered from each side as mercilessly as any I could land ... and it happened. I was delivering what was probably one of the final handful of blows before I planned to break, standing alongside the left hip and swinging low, aiming for the delicate sensitivity at the very base of the ass-cheek, and I missed just enough. The tips of several broad leather lashes bypassed their target, continued along their trajectory, wrapped across the back of her left thigh, and, accelerated by the wrapping effect, slapped solid, direct, brutal and dead-center upon the vagina hidden between her legs.
The chair to which savannah was bound cleared the floor as her body jumped to the accompaniment of her unabashed shriek. "Goddamn it!!" came her thick scream. "You said that wasn't a fucking pussy flogger!"
Yes, I was, indeed, laughing my ass off even as I checked to make sure that no real damage had been done. She was smart enough not to curse me too roundly, though I didn't begrudge her a few choice expletives as the ache of the impact settled in. I couldn't have done it better if I'd been aiming. I was laughing, still, as I changed the DVD, the current disk being within minutes of filling on us. We had hardly yet begun. Couldn't have our witness running out of steam. I wanted her to have a record, a memorial, to what I had planned, to what I'd been planning since I'd tested the waters, so to speak, the night before.
However, it was also now time to change the playground, so we'd wait before turning our all-seeing eye on. It took a few minutes to release my still-squirming submissive's bonds, to raise her upright on shaking legs, and reposition her upon the overstuffed easychair. She was facing the ceiling, now, head against the chair-back, the leading edge of the seat-cushion hitting right under the central curve of her ass. I bound her legs wide, open, gaping, ankles in the grip of the spreader bar's full 3 ft. extension. A loop of soft, nylon rope around each thigh, ropes drawn around the chair and anchored to that furniture's rear feet, guaranteed the helplessness of her spreading and her exposure.
She was flushed and breathing deeply, slowly, as I finished. Clearly, anticipation was already settling in. Roses bloomed on her cheeks, and a slow drip crept from between her legs. Her full, tan chest rocked slowly from side to side, sending sinuous ripples through heavy, rolling breasts whose hungry, over-ripe nipples reached toward the ceiling.
I took a moment to activate our silent watcher, and then returned to my play, this time with the thin, 6-inch leather lashes of my black leather pussy-flogger hanging from my hand. My savannah's hips bucked as I laid the bundled leather strips against the vertical slit dividing her loins and drew them slowly, gently upwards along that hungry smile. And then, again. The anticipation grew rapidly as I repeated the stroking motion, her hips rising subtly in the attempt to increase the stimulation tantalizing her flesh.
This was our second morning, and my lovely bottom's body was already well conditioned; there was no need to start with exceptional delicacy, shall we say. The first blow fell along the length of that vaginal cleft, the edges of the thin lashes biting hot and sharp against delicate flesh. I began by playing with the anticipation, pausing between strokes so that she never knew when the next would fall, letting her feel her need for the flogger's impact, watching as my wondrous pain slut attempted to spread herself yet further, to invite the lashes into her most private places.
Savannah's slit was wet and dripping by the time I stopped tantalizing her and began to rain blows upon her loins, leaving fine red imprints alongside that slit as I pounded her vaginal region with leather for many long minutes before settling into a rhythm of slashing impacts that fell insistently upon the ever widening gap between her labia, the rosy inner flesh attempting to open itself in hospitality to the torment raining upon it.
Broad, tan hips twitched, rocking subtly, telegraphing my beloved victim's yearning for more, when I finished with a crescendo of blows as hard and fast as could be delivered with this relatively small implement, maintaining that climax for several long minutes until savannah's cries turned to agonized whimpers and I knew that I had reached the limits of her endurance at this moment. Suddenly, the leather hail ceased; the moans of yearning elicited in response showed that my lover was right where I wanted her.
Stepping away, I took a moment to admire my handiwork. My lovely pain-slut's pussy gaped wetly, her loins shining, spattered with juices splashed from within that pussy by the tails of my flogger. Her body was rocking sinuously, gently, from side to side. The moans that provided this morning's sound track rippled from a serene, rapturous face, eyes closed, head back, framed by a corona of butt-length red hair like some demented halo. "My, my," I muttered with sincere appreciation, "you can't get enough, can you?" I chuckled. "That's what I love about you, my dear. What are you, my dear? Tell me what you want."
I had to repeat my question to get savannah's attention, to draw her from whatever psychic space she was occupying. Finally: "I'm your pain-slut. I want you to hurt me, please," came her thick, whispered reply.
"Oh, my dear," I replied, "I will most gladly and certainly hurt you, as intimately as I can. One day, we'll even find out if there's a real limit to how much pain you crave. But, for now," I continued, "we'll just have to continue upon our 'tortured' journey."
I knelt between my lover's splayed thighs, bringing the twitching swamp between her legs into easy reach. From where it waited off to the side on the floor, I plucked a blue Crown Royal bag; from that bag, I drew a first clothespin. With my left hand, I took a solid pinch on her right pussy-lip and pulled, drawing it tight. With my right, I took a deep bite towards the top of that fleshy cleft with the wooden jaws, pinioning close to an inch of delicate tissue within its grasp. The ecstatic gasp that accompanied a violent twitching of my pain-wrapped submissive's hips drove me forward, and I repeated my motions to place another bristling assemblage of wood and spring upon her left labia. Back and forth I worked between the two lips until four clothespins bristled from upon each lip. The moans and rocking of hips were nearly constant, now. My lover's labia majora erupted from her loins in a wide, stiff, fan-like arc, a stretched semi-circle of agony in whose grip the pussy thus framed was slowly dripping its juices to the floor beneath. Hmm ... I took a moment to place a towel there on the floor to save the room's carpet.
I spent a moment flicking and batting at the wooden bristles, watching savannah's face as the jostling of the clothespins caused them to pull and twist against the flesh pinioned in their grasp. Quiet moans flowed like music from a woodwind as I moved my hand between the columns of pale wood and ran it slowly, repeatedly, up and down the length of her dripping cleft, shifting and displacing the clamps as I did so and causing her loins to rock as she attempted to bring her pussy more fully to my hand.
There's nothing like torturing a pussy. The tissues involved are the most personal and intimate there are, and for a woman to hand herself to you in such a way, prepared to submit, to provide her vaginal tissues as the playground for your sadism, is an utterly magnificent feeling. There's a high, a sense of elation, as well as the warm feeling that comes from watching one's victim squirm.
Withdrawing my hand from its moist channel, I gathered the clothespins together in my hand, making of them a roundish bundle, forging them into a handle securely attached to the lips of my lover's cunt. A high-pitched wail burst from her lips as her body arched, chest high, head back, pussy forward, as labial flesh was stretched yet more tightly by my action. "Mmmm ... very, very good," I said with appreciative relish. "My pussy-slut likes her clamps. Now, let's show her what a handle is good for," I finished with a chuckle.
I began to pull slowly, inexorably, with my grip upon my new handle, drawing at about a 45 degree angle toward the ceiling and stretching already-agonized flesh yet, impossibly so, further. When I was pulling as hard as I could without wrenching the clothespins from their beds, I held her there, twitching, rolling, alternating between trying to raise herself to my grasp to alleviate the torture and pulling hard in resistance against my grasp to increase that same torment. The loudest cry, however, came when I released my grip and allowed the stretching of her flesh to subside. Lather, rinse repeat ... I reprised the process several more times, each time putting more strength into the stretching of her labia, taking more of her resistant weight upon those tissues.
"Now," I began, releasing my handle for the final time, "the best part about clamps on the labia is that they just keep on giving." Without warning, I took a clothespin in each hand and opened its jaws, removing the pressure and allowing blood to flood brutally back into bruised tissues and bringing a half-choked shriek from my beloved victim. "Isn't it wonderful when they come off?" I asked as I removed another pair. With the final four, I took my time, pulling each tight, one at a time, before releasing it and allowing the stretched flesh to snap back into place, drawing a scream from her with each repetition.
"My favorite part," I continued, "is this." The jaws of the now-removed clamps were clearly imprinted in reds and violets upon her now-lonesome labial flesh, and the sounds that came from savannah were ragged as I took each pussy lip between a thumb and forefinger and began to roll the imprinted flesh tightly, brutally, between those digits, massaging the tormented tissues deeply. My powerful submissive thrashed almost mindlessly as her pussy exploded with sensation beyond anything that she'd felt yet in this session. "Oh, god, yes, don't stop, please," burst from her flushed face, and I felt obligated to put everything left in the muscles of my hands into the activity. Juices literally shot from her gaping vaginal opening as her massively sensitized flesh was crushed in my grip, long minutes passing as I savored the intimate agony unfolding before me.
However, one must properly spread the joy around, and there is flesh that is more deeply intimate, yet, than labia majora. The minora nestled, glistening, within the crimson flesh of the wide-spread vaginal cleft, delicate petals already, themselves, flaming. Her gasp came hard and harsh as I took each of the delicate inner lips in one hand and moved the grinding torment deeper within, and her hips bucked wildly as the clamping pressure grew, and yet more wildly as I began to pull those tissues, stretching the thin bits of blazing flesh away from her my beloved submissive's body, lengthening those inner lips until they exited far above the outer.
She was swaying at the end of her inner labia, deep moans rolling through the room like distant surf. I held her there, perched upon that precipice of agony, as I slowly lowered my face toward my playground and, with glacial pace, touched the tip of my tongue to the rigid nub of flesh that awaited at the apex of her genital smile. My tongue's touch was electric, sending her into paroxysms against the delicate tethers within my grasp, and I could feel her effort to push excess force, excess demand into that wild, pinioned struggle, feel her body attempting to maximize its tormented ecstasy, seeking desperately for more, yet more.
My hands were beginning to cramp, and it was time for a break. I stretched the labia minora in my hand as hard as I could for a moment before releasing them without ceremony, savoring the scream that was drawn from my beloved Cherokee as the flesh snapped back, no-longer clamped tissues filling explosively, agonizingly, with blood.
A long pull on the ready-to-hand water bottle ensued, followed by a photographic recording for posterity of the flaming ruins between my lover's thighs. She was still quivering, rolling from side to side as if in search of the stimulation that had been withdrawn. A shiver rolled through me in response to the wanton tableau being embodied upon the cushion of the chair, before me.
I took up my position along her outstretched right thigh, this time, my right hand perfectly positioned to land with a sharp "crack" upon savannah's vaginal area, my middle finger landing within the gaping open cleft. A shrill cry ripped through the room, and her entire body bucked, the heavy easychair, itself, seeming to rise with her into the air before slamming back to reality and gravity. Without warm-up, the pussy-spanking launched into high gear, sharp slaps echoing one after the other through the chamber, my lover's bound, spread body convulsing in futility as the blows fell.
The choked wails that burst from the unseen face, behind me, were shrill, yearning, the twitching of her hips revealing more of an attempt to rise towards and embrace the hail of blows rather than one of escape. After many long minutes, I redoubled my pace, breaking into a sweat as my fatigued arm complained at the demands. She was apoplectic by now, caught in a fit, an electric current running directly between cunt and brain, mindful of nothing but the indescribable stimulation exploding through her from within that cunt. Finally, it seemed that she was beginning to lift towards orgasm, something that could not yet be allowed. We were going to have to change the dance, once again, to divert that release for a bit.
The black leather clapper of my riding crop fell squarely across the vaginal slit that gaped and gasped in blind desire before me. The blows exploded like subdued shots through the air as that square leather surface slapped repeatedly, mercilessly, upon her loins, loins the bloomed like flowers in the face of the dew. The moment was timeless as we were both lost in the process, wrapped in the rhythm, the blows, the music of her body as I played its percussion. Hard, fast, a drum-roll, sharp, hard, pronounced, many are the notes that can be played in such a way upon such a drum. Then, a crescendo, the Valkyries spreading across the sky, the heavens erupting for a long moment as the crop swung with near-wild, full-armed abandon, flaming imprints turning once-alabaster flesh from crimson towards purple as we passed her limits and held her there, not-quite screaming; the scream we now sought was the one that broke as the impacts stopped, as the crop and its symphony became quiet.
My broad, quivering victim jerked as my right hand stroked across her burning-hot flesh before scraping back and forth across those tissues with fingernails hungry for her gasps. I teased her starving, yearning pubis with my hand, letting her guess as to my intent, anticipation a wonderful form of torment. Suddenly, like a striking snake, my intent burst upon her as my right hand closed tightly, thumb to forefinger across her cleft, labia smashed between them, the scream breaking from her before she could silence it.
I released my handles after a few seconds, for this was not my project of the moment. I placed my left hand upon her crotch, my thumb and little finger facing one another across her clitoris. Spreading my fingers, I held her pussy splayed wide, helpless, gaping, dripping, and open before me. With my right hand, I drew from its waiting place upon the floor the short pussy-flogger that had patterned her external flesh so recently.
The blow fell within the center of that wide-spread carmine pussy, its tips landing full upon the gaping vaginal sphincter with a sharp snap, pulling a deep-throated "AH!" from my recumbent victim. My pattern was slow, deliberate, placement the key. You want to have full control when flogging the inner tissues, the clitoris, the vaginal mouth. With each blow, a squirt ejected from her spasming pussy, and it was like I could feel the electricity from her body as it passed up my own spine. The inner lips flowered, blossoming, expanding before my eyes into corrugated petals that reached explosively in escape from where they framed my love's grasping, gasping, gaping hole. Slowly, the force of each impact increased, though I held their rhythm slow, staccato, pronounced. Minute after minute passed as the torture continued, its pace designed to emphasize the inescapable nature, my love's helpless inability to do other than to embrace the tidal sensations overwhelming her. Without warning, my rhythm exploded, and I began to swing with solid abandon in a frenetic tango that carried savannah to the edge of frenzied madness, reason long forgotten in the thrashing of a body whose concepts of pain and pleasure had become decentered and indistinguishable.
I held my wondrous bottom upon that razor edge for a long, long moment, taking her just past that moment at which her tolerance, her limit, had been passed, letting her quiver upon that point before bringing silence explosively into the room.
Her entire body was trembling, shaking, as my right hand descended once again upon outer and inner tissues, rolling, pinioning, stretching, and establishing ownership thereof in a tattoo that went deeper than the physical, taking personal ownership. She ceded me control eagerly as I stretched and then rolled the unthinkably enflamed flesh, and I felt my love's hips ripple as she pulled back against my grasp, stretching herself yet further upon those tethers, making her torture her own agenda, her desire becoming synonymous with my own.
Long minutes passed as I kneaded that tortured, intimate flesh in my crushing grip, savoring the gasps and moans that flowed like a rapid forest brook to my ears, my eyes locked upon a face set like a diamond in the sublime peace of subspace, the face of a being in utter, ecstatic union with their surrender. Only once the moans passed, my beloved victim having entered so deeply into her ecstatic state that she was beyond the stimulation I was inflicting, only then did I cease my ministrations.
Savannah barely seemed to notice as I rose from her, so far away from this plane was she. One more round of preparation, I thought to myself as I studied the instruments available to me upon the floor. The medium flogger, I decided, yet had one final role to play. Bringing it to my hand, I turned to my swaying, twitching, drooling target, deciding upon the proper position -- what was to come was something normally delivered standing across her body when she was prone upon a bed.
I chose a stance with my right leg pressed against her outstretched left thigh, facing three-quarters out along the plane of her body, my back not quite turned to her, leaning into her just enough to give my right arm a reasonably straight downward stroke. I swung the flogger gently with a few test swings that came nowhere near reaching flesh, gauging the motion to come and targeting it in the still-awkward position. Finally, I was comfortable with the context.
I stretched the forearm-length falls carefully forward, towards my submissive's widely-parted knees, with my left hand, holding them there as I became one with my target. With a swish that broke the air, a blur of black leather slashed down upon the wet, gaping crimson flower between her legs, landing with a crack like a breaking tree-bough. A strangled scream gurgled through the room in accompaniment, and hips rocked upwards as knees reached for the walls of the room. The body before me attempted to open itself to the lash, reason standing upon its head, as the next merciless blow fell, and the next, and the next. Only the twitching of my beloved's belly and the rising of her hips to the rain of leather betrayed her consciousness; the moans were hushed -- more grunts than wails, almost imperceptible to my probing ear.
The force of the impacts grew steadily until they crossed her limits and her legs strained to close. I stopped, telling her, "Spread yourself when you're ready." After a moment, my victim's legs spread wide, hips tilted upward, and again the blows fell, now full-arm, full-strength, pushing until savannah's limits were once again passed. Thus was set the rhythm: lather, rinse, repeat, until my arm was aching and the sweat was dripping from me within the coolness of the room. My dusky bottom was rising once more towards orgasm, and such could not yet be allowed.
I stepped away, and the waiting water bottle replaced the insidious leather instrument in my hand. I stood, surveying the puddle of animal heat into which I had transformed my treasured submissive. The glow of a nigh-mystical state surrounded savannah, a haloed being wrapped in the sublime, as a steady stream of honey dripped from enraged, blazing loins to the towel beneath her.
Finally, my arm had recovered enough to continue. My companion's powerful tan body was writhing slowly, tremulously. Her eyes were closed, her face wrapt in glowing rapture. Moving silently, careful not to reveal my movements by contact with the thighs which trembled, waiting, I crouched before the still-dripping crimson mess enframed by those thighs.
Reaching forward with both hands, I took the flaming, engorged tissue of my delectable victim's outer labia in a crushing grip between my thumbs and forefingers. Thus anchored, I slowly, inexorably stretched those tissues towards myself, watching as they became two handles of flesh several inches in angry, burning length. I gauged my activity, my slow increase of pressure, by the twitching of attached hips, the spasming of taut belly, the faint gasps and whispers that rolled forth in rapturous testimony, the faint pulling as the attached submissive tried to increase my pressure. Holding at what seemed to be her anguished limit, I slowly changed the direction of that pressure, pulling upwards towards the ceiling above. I held her there whimpering, quietly wailing from a face whose eyes seemed focused on a scene for themselves only, until my hand began to fatigue, then released my stretched handles with a snap, relishing the cry that burst forth as blood flooded back into those tortured tissues. For a moment, I watched the slow, sinuous convulsions that rippled through Savannah's body, watched as her hips arched forward, reaching, begging silently for more. Her face shone, her eyes fixed upon a place far, far away. Reaching towards those handles of flesh, I established the rhythm that I would maintain for a seeming eternity in that chamber: stretch, lift upward, hold, release, relish.
The time had come. Subspace had become my lover's world, her body answering upon its own, begging, yearning. The towel beneath the monstrously engorged ruin of her loins was soggy with the rivulet flowing from them. My hands and arms were beginning to tire, and it was becoming difficult to maintain my grip upon the wet, slippery tissues. It was now or never.
Taking the crawling, undulating flesh of fire in my hands for one final, crushing grip, I rose to my feet and began inexorably drawing upward against the inescapably intimate tethers that her outer labia had become. Slowly, mercilessly, I increased the pressure, feeling the strain build in my arms, shoulders, chest, feeling the growing pain in my hands as my grip tightened, held. I rotated my hands a bit towards the tops of her thighs, rolling the flesh of her labia with me, making a crude pulley-system out my thumb and forefinger to increase my grip strength, like taking a rope around a tree. And still I lifted.
Then the unthinkable, never-before attained happened. At an excruciating, glacial pace, savannah's hips began to rise. Taking more of her weight, now, in my back and my thighs, I pulled upwards towards my chest. Bit by bit, my powerful submissive's weight shifted from the cushion beneath her to rest suspended by tethered, tormented tissues of the most intimate degree. I watched as the cushion beneath relaxed, releasing her burden. She was mute, now, barely twitching, utterly transfixed, her face glowing as with glory, as, with one last effort, I raised her buttocks from their support and held her before me, swaying, suspended from knee to shoulders, hanging there, surrounded by air and agony and passion. Long minutes passed as she swung gently in my grasp, surrendering to an act about whose possibility I'd never been certain, a vision that I'd never thought to see in actuality. The only sound was our breathing and the pounding of my heart. Reluctantly, I finally lowered my treasured victim back upon the chair that had, it seemed an eternity before, held her cherished mass.
I'd become nearly unaware of my own body, so enchanted, ensnared, enraptured had I been by what had just occurred. I realized that my erection was fierce, raging, demanding. Kneeling between glistening thighs, I reached forward again and took back those handles that I had so recently released. Wrapping their slipperiness in my grip, I pulled her brutally upon my cock as it descended like a spear into her womb. Holding her by that flesh, I slammed us upon one another in a spasm of animal lust, heedless, sadistic. Her cries began instantly, cries of ecstasy, the song of paradise, the music of life and the sphere filling the room as we crashed together. I released her labia only when that grip was no longer enough, when nothing less than her hips could serve to my needs, our bodies colliding in fury as she rode the full length of my shaft and my passion, my need, rode her.
I was blind, animal, conscious only of the searing, moist cavern within which I plunged, taking her as an animal does, with fury and heat and lust, mindless of either of us or of that point where one ended and the other began. Our bodies convulsed, raged together, burned as one, welded into an unthinking unity as by a white-hot inferno which had taken shape around us.
I still don't know which one of us first burst forth with the howl, the shriek, of the tidal wave that slammed into us. I dimly remember the crushing spasms of her vaginal muscles as burning lava spewed from me, pouring forth for a time that stretched forever, leaving me drained, weak, near collapse. She was convulsing, screaming, wailing as the orgasms slammed into her, one after another without respite.
I was capable only of holding her there, upon that perch, as the orgasms wracked her body. She spasmed as if in a fit, shaking, squirming, in ceaseless motion as the earthquakes within went on and on and on. Half an hour passed, and still she shook. Finally, the tremors abated, though they would return through the hours and days to come as involuntary orgasms settled upon her from the blue.
Now, then, I suspected that there would be time for one last pussy-flogging before this weekend came to an end. With that thought in my mind, I began to release my beloved's bonds.
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Crossing the Threshold: Chapter 2 - 
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