Zille Defeu’s Fetish Fantasies

This is a fantasy that has been running through my mind pretty much every time I’ve masturbated in the past couple weeks. I though I’d share it … and maybe if my Master likes reading it, it will come true!

I’m bent over the convertible step-stool-chair , which has been converted to its step-stool aspect. The wood is cold under my lower tummy and hips. My ankles and wrists are in the leather cuffs, which are clipped to the O-rings on the legs of the chair. I can squirm, but I can’t do anything else.

And I’m about to squirm. Because you have the ginger plug which you made me carve – how sadistic to make me create the instrument of my own torture….

You wet it with some cold water, and take a wet finger and tease my anus with it, making me involuntarily tighten up. You laugh and tell me that I can’t keep the ginger out – that since you want it up there, I have no choice in the matter.

When you first start to slide the ginger in, it’s just a cool, slightly wet penetration. I’m used to more lube, so as the wide end is slowly but inexorably pushed inside me, I moan with the feeling of being stretched. And perhaps it’s a moan of fear, as well, because I know it’s soon going to be burning me in my most sensitive place.

You’re talking to me, telling me that I have shown a distinct lack of discipline recently, and that you’re going to teach me some, right now. You tell me I will have this ginger in me for at least 20 minutes, maybe half an hour. At the moment, my biggest concern is how my hips will feel bent over this wooden stool for that long. But that will soon change.

You pull the regulation knickers up over my bottom. How I hate those things. But I move my hips accordingly to help. You take a moment to tell me how rude it looks, the ginger poking indecently up from inside the knickers. This is the moment when I really understand how helpless I am. There is nothing I can do to hide this view from you.

You’ve gotten settled on the bed, and I can tell from the sounds that you’ve opened a Janus magazine – or is it a Blushes or a Roué? – and are settling in for a nice half an hour of relaxation and stimulation. If I crane my head to the side I can see you on the bed, magazine in one hand, your other hand playing with your cock.

You decide to read aloud to me, and that is very kind of you, but soon I can’t concentrate on the spanking story, because the fire in my ass has started, and it’s just growing and growing. I’m doing measured breathing, now, and the burning builds up and then subsides a bit, and then builds up a little higher and subsides a little. All I can think about right now is my ass. A sweat breaks on my face, and I feel like the heat is spreading through my body. You keep on reading, seemingly unaware of how intense my pain is right now.

Now I’m panting. The pain still rises and falls, but now, each time it rises, it’s too much, I can’t take it, it feels like something is wrong, I start to panic. For the first three times I manage not to say anything. I knew it would be like this. I know it’s not really harming me. But then the burn blazes higher again, and this time I can’t help myself, I interrupt you, begging, “Sir – Sir, please take it out! Please! I can’t take it!”

You tell me it’s not coming out until the time is done. I beg with you, please, just let me have a little breather. It’s too much!

You tell me again it’s not coming out. And that I’m not convincing you that the discipline lesson is working. I hear you get off the bed, and, knowing you won’t be taking the ginger out makes me fear your approach.

You ask me if I need my mind taken off the ginger, but I know it’s a rhetorical question, and I’ll be getting that “diversion,” no matter what I say. Your hand starts slapping my ass – no gradual building spanks, just full force blows. Since my skin and muscle are pulled so taut, this is so much more intense than a usual spanking, and since my pain tolerance is already being pushed to the limit by the ginger, I start crying pretty soon into it. It does distract me, however. Soon the slaps make me forget the burning.

But, when you stop, the burning is still there, and when it builds again I can’t help but beg, helplessly, again, for you to take the ginger out.

You sigh. How undisciplined I am. How are you going to ever get me to learn? I hear you reaching for something, and then it slams into me, and I scream in surprise and pain. You’ve gotten the tawse. I can barely take the tawse at the best of times, lying prone on my tummy or bent over the side of the bed. Now, with my skin pulled to tight, the blows seem to be splitting my skin each time. I cry out with each blow, and soon I’m sobbing between them. I don’t know how many you’ve given me, I’m too upset to keep count.

Finally, you tell me I’m making too much noise. You come around to my face and tell me to lift up my head. I have just enough give to get my head high enough to take your cock in my mouth. I can’t move my head, so you have to fuck my face, holding a handful of my hair. It’s not a graceful blowjob. My face is covered in tears, and I can feel and taste the mucus running down from my nose. When you deep-throat me I splutter helplessly. Meanwhile, my ass burns on, and I have no space in my mind to process the pain.

After a while, you seem to take pity on me. You get me a tissue. All I can think about is how my ass is on fire. Maybe the time is up? My hips ache like it is.

But then you get the cock-gag. And I’m truly scared. Over the cock-gag you put a spandex hood, and suddenly I’m all alone. I’m faceless to you now, just something to use. My mind is either racing or I’m not able to think at all – I can’t tell, I’m too confused.

The cane bites into my skin, and the secondary pain lances up from inside before the first pain of the stroke has begun to fade. I’m screaming, but behind the layers of leather and spandex, it’s muffled, distant. As you move up and down my ass I find that I each part hurts more, that the top of my ass is terrible and unbearable, but the tops of my thighs are worse. I’m throwing my head around, in a panic, trying to get away from you, from the cane, from the ginger – but of course I can’t go anywhere.

Finally there comes a pause that is not followed by a cane stroke. You pull my knickers down to the tops of my thighs, where they rest against aching flesh. You pull the ginger out, and the pain starts immediately to subside.

But then the head of your cock is pressed against my ass. I start to try and beg you not to fuck my ass, that I’m not ready, that it’s so hard to take it in this position … but then I rediscover the gag in my mouth, and I know that you can’t hear what I’m saying, and that right now it doesn’t matter, anyway. You are going to use me for your pleasure.

Your cock pushes in, slowly, because it’s so tight, but too quickly for me. I’m moaning in fear and pain. Once it gets over halfway in, there’s a small respite, some of the pain subsides, but then you start in on your thrusts, finding a rhythm that suits you best. My pain, my pleasure, is not what this is about. It’s about my discipline – and your pleasure.

I can’t describe the pain. I know you’re not actually damaging me, but it still feels all too much – thrust after thrust and the pain levels, but any sudden very hard, deep thrusts and the pain returns. I’m still gasping for air around the hard rubber cock in my mouth, and the spandex is soaking up my tears. But, somehow, my ass feels like that’s its only purpose, and your balls slamming against my pussy feel better than if you were fucking it.

You speed up, you slow down, and then you speed up again, and I can tell you’re going to come. I can feel your leg muscles quivering, and I hear you gasp – and feel your cock jump inside me. And then you’ve fallen forward over me, and I have the hot weight of you pressing against me, your cock still buried in me….

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And that’s the end of the story, in my fantasies. (I mean, I’ve come by this point – how ‘bout you?) But if you want even more “happy ending” than that, know that in real life, if we do this scene, he will then unlock me, snuggle with me on the bed, run his fingers over the weals on my bottom and tell me what a good, wonderful girl I am. He’ll push his fingers in my (assuredly soaking wet) pussy and make me come over and over until I melt into a puddle in his arms, and murmur again and again how much I love him and how happy and lucky I am.

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