Zille Defeu’s Fetish Fantasies

As you lot all know from recent somewhat maudlin posts of mine, my Master has been away. Well, he got home late Saturday night—which did leave me time to have Miss Maggie Mayhem over for flirting and planning world domination and Indian take-away—and after he got home we all hung out a bit, before she had to go catch the last train.

My Master was exhausted from travel, and he plunked down in front of the TV to unwind before bed. He looked through the recorded shows on our DVR, and discovered that the box had become full, so had deleted some shows. The ones it deleted were our entire saved-up Season Two of Skins.

I had said that while he was gone, I’d watch the Tess of the d’Urbervilles that was taking up space on it, but I totally forgot, having become entirely caught up in Coupling.

Now, he has at least six Top Gears on there, but he is the Master, so it’s Tess’ and my fault that the Skins were deleted. He was really angry about it, which I would get if it was episodes of Dr Who, but while I enjoy Skins, it wasn’t life-or-death to me. I went and hid in the bathroom for a little while, and overcame my feelings of resentment for being snapped at for something I considered so trivial.

Here’s where being a slave is so good for me: instead of snapping back at him when he snapped at me, I went off, licked my wounds, and came back, well, if not bouncy and effervescent, at least quietly accepting of my fault and ready to move on if he was. Happily he was, and I ended up snuggled against him as we watched … something, I don’t even remember what. And then we went to bed and there was more snuggling and everything was okay … and it was okay because I didn’t snap back at him and turn it into a fight (and how awful would that have been?! “Welcome home—now let’s have a fight about something stupid!”). I let go of my hurt feelings and accepted his. Sadly, the only way I’ve been able to accomplish this consideration and emotional intelligence is to become a slave and not have carelessness, selfishness, and stupidity as options anymore. (Well, they are an option, but they inevitably lead to the paddle, and perhaps some kneeling on rice, so they become considerably less attractive as options!)

The next day, after our usual leisurely Sunday morning, I asked if I should go have a bath and do my shaving. He said yes, and I went off to go splash and soak and generally enjoy myself while making myself all smooth. When I came out, squeaky clean and moisturised to supple perfection (I’m a wee bit fanatical about personal maintenance), he was in bed with a book. Wheeeeee! I thought, and headed right to join him, naked as a jaybird.

Snuggled together under the sheets (he was quite naked as well!) we had a long talk about punishments. I had been giving thought, after my last punishment, to how much he enjoys correcting me, and how I like and need to be corrected. And the intensity for both of us is of course unparalleled. So I suggested that besides me being punished in a big way for big mess-ups (that being the polite term for them!) there might also be smaller punishments for lesser infractions, that could either be dealt with right away, or marked down in the punishment book until they added up to a punishment.

You wouldn’t think that I’d have to suggest this, but it actually makes sense. He doesn’t want to get trapped in the “Dom must do everything, regardless of where they’re at” situation. He wants being my Master to be a pleasure, not a job. Also, there is the fact that if I suggest potential rules of the house, I’ll be more likely to resign myself to the consequences of breaking those rules in a graceful manner… i.e.—he enjoys letting me dig my own holes!

We talked about things for a little while, and then suddenly he was all business. “Put on the unusual punishment shorts, and bend over the bed,” he ordered abruptly.

“Umm, Sir, which shorts do you mean?” I asked, not only because I didn’t know, but I was extemporizing because my head was spinning from the unexpected and brusque change. The box of knickers and punishments shorts was still in the room from the uniform review, so he went and got them. They were thicker nylon (thank the gods!) and looser than he normally prefers. I really ought to learn that when he deviates from the norm, it’s not good news for me! Well, I figured that out pretty quickly as he started pulling a number of tawses out of the drawer. He added two firm leather straps to the mix as well. Gulp.

I put on the shorts (they felt weird and were not what you’d call comfortable) and laid down over the side of the bed in my usual spot. He pulled me to him and settled me over one thigh, as he sometimes does, the other leg trapping mine at the calves. My arm nearest him was trapped against his body, and my right arm was bent up on my back and held by his left hand. It’s an optimal position for him because I’m not going anywhere, and he can feel all my squirming. It’s also more intimate and less formal, which is good by me, but it does mean that with the longer toys, the right side of my hip gets more than it’s fair share of the worst part of the blow.

“Oh lord, no warm-up today,” I was thinking in that calm way you get in the midst of a disaster. But he put down the strap he’d picked up, and started spanking me. They weren’t light spanks, but it didn’t unduly distress me (that being one way of putting it!)

Then he went for one of those firm straps, and I thought, “Oh no, here we go—!” but both the firm straps turned out to be, if not friendly and gentle, at least not the sort of pain I can’t manage. The pain built up right quick, to be sure, but I was handling it well.

After he’d given both straps and my bottom a good workout, he put them down and started spanking me again. The spanks were hard and fast, but they were right on my sweet spot, and the exact right intensity and tempo that’s guaranteed to make me orgasm. And I did, delighted that he was gifting me with an orgasm at this stage of the game.

Well, my Master’s not Greek, but I should really beware gifts from him! He shifted me off of his left and onto the bed, stood up, grabbed a tawse, and started in on my bottom.

Yeeeeowch! The Scots are not a race of people who mess about—when they want someone punished, they make proper tools to do it with! I’d had the “warm-up” (my Master’s definition of warm up is somewhat more vigorous than most peoples!) so I was able to breath through the first half of it. But, eventually, there came the stroke that undid me, and as the blows were coming down relentlessly, remorselessly (and other words starting with “r” and ending in “lessly”) I couldn’t regain my masochistic balance, and so ended up yelping, dancing from foot to foot, and finally, crying. He got in a goodly number after the crying started. He used to stop when I started crying, and the fact that he’ll now push me on from there means he trusts me more and expects more from me (and, errr, that he’s been reading this blog and seeing my rather unsubtle hints about wanting more intense beatings…).

What can I say? It was pure hotness—and no, I don’t mean how my bottom felt to the touch afterwards! It was just like my fantasies, and I wish that I could cherish the moment when I’m in the moment, the way I do afterwards when I remember it—and when I replay it while masturbating. But, of course, it hurts a wee bit too much to cherish the sensations at the time! The problems of being a masochist!

When he stopped, he had me crawl on the bed and finish my cry in his arms. He really likes that—sadist that he is—likes hurting me and then comforting me; likes to make me cry and then hold me close and feel the result of his efforts.

When I’d calmed down, he then gave me a surprise. No doubt you all saw it coming, but I was quite take-aback to discover that I’d be getting twelve from the cane as punishment for making him loose those episodes of Skins. I must admit a quick flash of, “Oh fer fuck’s sake—” went through my head, but I uttered nary a peep and got into position: standing in the centre of the room, bent over. He was at least kind enough to let me rest my hands on my shins, and not touch my toes, and he let me bend my knees a bit (this is sort of vital, because I tend to fall over if I have to keep my legs totally straight. It’s not that I don’t have balance—I do yoga after all—but that I can’t do two things like process pain and stay upright at the same time.)

The caning went like you’d expect, and he did the final stroke nice and high up so he could hear me shriek in pain. I managed to keep count in my head, which I haven’t been able to do in the last few scenes, and I must say the internal countdown really helps, although there was a dicey moment halfway through when I wasn’t entirely sure I could take another six!

Then I was back over the bed for the sex part of the floor show….

Here’s where things get weird and I’m going to have to think about this a great deal (which means, you lucky ducks, that you get to read my incessant ramblings on the matter!) The fact of the matter is that after a beating like that, I don’t really want to orgasm. I want just to be used sexually, that part I get. But there’s more to it. He wants me to come, and he makes sure I do, and I don’t fight it because I know that’s what he wants. But I don’t want to come. Maybe I’m still holding on to the sensations of pain, and don’t want the orgasm washing them away? I don’t know, but this has been happening more and more, and I’m terribly confused, because, hello!—who doesn’t like orgasms?! I sure like them when I’m thinking about pain with Mr. Buzzy held up to my clit … so why not after the beating?

Stay tuned to this channel for more thoughts on that matter!

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