Zille Defeu’s Fetish Fantasies

Posts Tagged ‘spanking/slippering’

A Boy and a good (bad) Girl — Part 2
OR
A lesson in loving

Continued from A Boy and a Good (Bad) Girl (Part 1)

Eve asked, “May I undress you, Sir?” I thought about that, and as I did, my penis showed signs of coming back to life. “Go ahead; I warn you, your punishment isn’t over.”

“I know, sir….”

“What remains, Eve?”

“I broke a serious rule twice, Adam would cane me severely.”

“As I will. You may undress me, and then fetch me the canes.”

Eve undressed me as gracefully as she did everything; every time she turned her back to me I had to admire her beautiful red arse. Running my hands over her so-hot bottom was very arousing.

By now my arousal was prominent. Eve looked at me and smiled. “Sir, you like me, don’t you.”

“I would say that’s fairly obvious.”

“Would you like me to deal with that?” “Not yet, you have considerately more pain to suffer, before your receive the benison of this within you. Did I not tell you to fetch those canes?”

“Yes sir, sorry sir, right away.”

She went to an almost invisible cupboard next to the fireplace, opened the door, clipped to the door there were six canes of different diameters. Eve looked questioningly over her shoulder at me. “Bring them all,” she collected all of them, “and put them on the table and clear away the coffee things. Good. Now tell me about these canes, starting with the thinnest.”

“Yes, sir. The ‘girl’s cane’ really stings and lights a fire and it turns me on no end; a fun cane! The ‘boy’s cane’ stings more: I can take fifty or sixty without any real damage. The ‘senior girl’s cane,’ is a real punishment cane: thirty or forty and I know I’ve been whipped! The ‘senior boy’s cane’ is Adam’s favourite: thirty with that and I’m sleeping on my tummy for a couple of nights! The penultimate one is the ‘junior penal cane;’ when I did something really bad I received twelve, and I hope never to experience that again, the penal cane, Adam gave me six moderate strokes to taste it, the pain lasted for three days and the welts for more than a week.”

I looked round the room for a good place to cane Eve, espied an ottoman behind an armchair: it looked solidly built. “Help me pull this out,” I instructed her, and we pulled it out in front of on of the sofas. “Eve, lie lengthways over the ottoman, no, that’s not quite right; take two of the seat cushions from the sofa and pile them on the ottoman … now lay down with your chest and belly on the cushions, that’s right, reach down and hold the front legs with your hands … good … now put your feet by the rear legs, that’s perfect. I want you to stay in position: break position and you will earn three extra strokes, do you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Eve, eighteen strokes,” one, gasp, two, gasp, by the time six were taken, Eve was breathing hard. I moved ‘round the other side to balance out the strokes: seven, eight, ahh! … by the time twelve was reached, Eve’s legs were kicking with each stroke.

Image courtesy of Girls Boarding School

“Only six to go, you are doing very well,” I told her, and then started again: thirteen, oh shit!, fourteen, fuck!, fifteen, oh god!, sixteen, jesuuuus!, “Hang on,” I warned her, “The last two will hurt….” Number seventeen was hard across her sit spot: her body jerked. I thought she would let go, but she didn’t. Eighteen was just below the last one almost as hard as I could, this time she shrieked … but she didn’t let go!

Eve was lying there sobbing and moaning, although the moaning wasn’t all pain. I raised her to her feet, “Girl, I’m proud of you! That was very well taken! Here, let me clean you up.” Eve put her arms ‘round me, “Where did you learn to cane like that?”

“Oh … I was trained by an expert! Do you have anything to put on your arse to help with the swelling?”

“No … but I’m beginning to like the way I’m feeling…. Oh! Talking about swelling, I see you still have a problem….”

“You could say that. Eve, where is your bedroom?” She took my hand and led me upstairs. “Would you like to shower first?”

“No. Kneel on the bed, girl, present yourself!” I stopped to think. “Hang on. Do you have any rubbers?” In response she pointed to the bedside table, “In there.” I took out a small handful, they would do for the moment.

I tore the packet open and rolled the rubber on, I tapped Eve’s thighs wider, ran my hand gently over her pussy: she was very wet and her labia were swollen … like the weals on her arse, and my cock. I slid my fingers through her inner labia, found the entrance and slid a wet finger in; Eve moaned. With my left hand I searched for and found her clitoris, it was already poking out of its hood and very erect. I slipped another finger into her and start to gently finger-fuck her. Meanwhile my left hand was playing with her clitoris stroking and pinching; suddenly Eve gave a great shudder, her fluids gushing over my hand. Her head dropped to the bed and she was still.

After a few moments, Eve lifted her head and looked at me, “Are you ever going to fuck me, or do you intend to play with me all night?” I laughed, slapped her bum hard, “All in good time greedy girl!”
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A Boy and a good (bad) Girl
OR
A lesson in loving

I was sitting at a table in the Black and White Milk Bar on the Odeon side of the Edgware Road, just a hop, skip and a jump away from Marble Arch.

It was late October of ’52 I don’t remember the day; it was about a week past my 17th birthday.

I was dawdling over my cup of coffee: it was the only one I could afford, and when I drank it, I would have to go back to my lonely room. I was about to take the last swallow when a woman, at least 25 years old, entered the bar. What’s so unusual about that, you may ask? Well, the bar is a teenage bar, we don’t normally see adult women in here.

She wore a white coat and red shoes with 2” heels, and an air of confidence.

She looked ‘round and smiled, I imagine every boy in the place was gaping at her, I know I was.

She looked at me and touched her chin, I realised my mouth was open and shut it, nearly biting my tongue in the process. “Are you looking at me?” she asked.

“I’m looking at you, yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you are worth it,” was the first thing to come out of my mouth. She shook her head, and went and ordered a white coffee.

She brought her coffee over to my table and looked down at me. “May I join you?”

I stood up, and said, “Of course, be my guest.” She stuck her hand out and said, “Eve. “A little overdressed aren’t you…?” I asked, trying to make a little joke. She smiled. “And I’m Paul, very pleased to meet you…” my hand was a little sweaty when I shook hers.

“To what do I owe the honour,” I asked, as she settled down in the chair across from mine.

“I beg your pardon…?”

I looked around slowly at the other tables. “There are empty tables and better looking boys. I may have just come from the country, but I’m no hick, are you after something? You don’t feel like a Pro, and if you are, there is no one here who could afford you.”

“If you will walk with me I’ll tell you,” she replied. Fascinated, I decided a walk with her could not hurt, and we left her white coffee untouched.

“My boyfriend is away on business abroad; he only returns twice a year … you appear to have some of his qualities, when you looked at me you looked straight at me, you weren’t shy about telling me that I’m attractive, and you joked about my name.”

“Where is this leading, Eve? I don’t do one night stands.”

She answered sharply, “Neither do I!” She took a deep breath. “Look, I need to explain, and I can’t do this in the street. I live just ‘round the corner … will you trust me for an hour? I have real coffee and even some biscuits.”

“Lead the way, Miss Mysterious, you’ve talked me into it. It was the biscuits that did it, you know. Always my downfall, biscuits!”

We entered a house with only one bell on the door, brass fittings on the door, very smart.

Eve took of her coat, hung it on a coat rack, underneath she wore a calf length skirt and a sweater, a tight sweater, both were muted green. I liked what I saw. She took my jacket and hung it next to her coat. She kicked off her red heels, and left them by the door.

She led into a sitting room with some very expensive furniture. She seated me and went and drew the heavy curtains. I wondered at that.

“How do you take your coffee?”

“Strong, no sugar and a little cold milk.”

I heard her walk down the hall, shortly she returned bearing a tray with cups, saucers, a dish with biscuits, and milk and sugar. “The coffee will be about ten minutes,” she said.

“Why don’t you start explaining what this is all about?” I asked her.

“Can it wait until we are settled?” she asked, seeming a bit nervous.

“Alright – but at least sit down, you are making me nervous.”

She sank down to the floor, half kneeling next to me. It was surprisingly graceful and strangely comforting, her head was level with my thigh, she looked up at me and smiled, she was calm and composed as if she had finally come home.

I took the opportunity to look her over. Long shining brown hair which hung halfway down her back, continuing down the top half of her bum. As I looked, she leaned forward to pluck a loose thread from the rug letting me see the whole round of her bottom, beautiful. She looked up at me again, clear grey eyes under well-formed and defined eyebrows, a sweet, rather long face with full lips, and a firm chin. Her neck seemed long and slender, resting on good shoulders. A very good chest: nice breasts, double B or perhaps C, and then a slightly rounded tummy sitting on nicely rounded hips, the thighs were firm and the legs long. “Like what you see, Paul?” she asked somewhat acerbically.

“Yes, Eve, very much – your boy friend is a very lucky fellow.”

“He thinks so. Oh – I’ll fetch the coffee.” As she walked away, I had a perfect view of her posterior; it had that tilt and sways that called out for a pair of male hands on it, yes I thought, very nice indeed.

Eve carried in a silver coffee pot, the steam coming from it smelled divine. She put the milk in first and then poured, and I took a sip: first class coffee.

Eve sat down again, next to me, this time she kneeled upright with her hands open on her thighs. Looking up to me she said, quickly as if nerving herself, “Paul, the reason I’ve asked you here, is to put a question to you. Now I want you to give me an honest answer, don’t worry about my feelings.”

“OK fire away.”

“If I was your girl and I told you that I’d been a very bad girl, what would you do?”

“Well, obviously I’d spank you. But to make sure that you got what you deserved, I’d need to clear a few things up. Are you sure you mean bad, not just naughty? Bad gets you a real spanking … naughty gets you a fun spanking. And furthermore, have you broken faith or trust? These aren’t cured by punishments, but by splitting up.”

“No, Paul I have not broken any faith, but I’ve been bad, and I need to be punished.”

“Are you quite sure? This isn’t a game, if I punish you will know it, and might regret it,” I warned her.

“I understand, Paul.” Eyes downcast.

“Well then, Eve, I need to know your offence before I can punish you.”
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My Master came home last Friday night, and left this morning. We only had two full days together, and one of them was spent running around the Folsom Street Fair, so even less one-on-one time.

Saturday he was jet-lagged and worn out. We spend an indolent day in our apartment. I served him breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner. And we cuddled on the sofa all evening.

Sunday did not go as it was supposed to go. I had an outfit planned, and then there were a serious of clothing malfunctions, and I had a hell of a time finding something to wear, which was compounded by waking up to a serious sore throat. (Which, of course, after spending the day running around a crowded street fair, is much worse today!) The outfit needed to do a number things:

1. it had to be sexy
2. but it had to keep me covered up from the sun
3. because I already had a sore throat, comfy shoes were called for, because while I can handle the pain of walking all over The City in six-inch stillettos when I feel well, when I don’t feel well, adding extra stress and discomfort is not a good idea

Finding an outfit that fit all of the above was darn near impossible, after both my prefered option, and my “Plan B” were shot. And we were supposed to get to the fair early, and the clock kept ticking as I kept getting more and more stressed out about finding the right thing to wear.

Finally, he took the useless upset puddle of me, held me lovingly, and ordered me to go put on a traditional schoolgirl uniform (“I don’t care that the Americans won’t get why what you are wearing is really a fetish outfit, it will please me and that’s what matters.”)

So, instead of getting to the fair early, by the time we got there it was already crowded — too crowded to really do the photography I wanted to do.

But we did get there in good time to shoot Luke Degre rigging up the lovely Miss Maggie Mayhem, upon whom I have a serious crush. We got some great shots of their really intense scene. (I have to say, I’m glad my Master isn’t interested in using staple guns!)

I’ll be spending the day processing those images, and I’ll share the best with you lot over here. Although at the moment I’m on the sofa, eating a grapefruit and drinking lots of fluids and trying to do the right thing for my throat, which is very displeased with me!

Before my Master left for his business trip today, made the kind of love to me that we both like best.

He indicated I was to give him a hand-job, and as I did he pinched my nipples, making me moan in that lovely combined pleasure/pain. Suddenly he rolled me over on my back, and started spanking my pussy. As I shrieked (mostly in delight, but also in pain as the slaps became heavier and heavier) and he said, “You have kaya to blame for this!” I managed to say, in between gasps, that kaya would be most pleased, but reconsidering it, I know kaya is not a sadist and would never wish pain upon her fellow slaves, so I think actually it will be kaya’s wonderful Master S. who would be most pleased!

After he’d had enough of spanking my pussy, he rolled me back around tightly into his arms, and started spanking my bottom with serious intensity. (Honestly, I think my motto as a slave should be, “A warm-up? What’s that?!”) I clung to him and just hung on for the ride. It was actually really thrilling! Warm-ups are possibly over-rated!

When he was done, as we re-adjusted positions, his leg came up against my pussy, and the liquid evidence of how much I love his sadistic attentions.

Nothing more needed to be said, and suddenly he was on top of me, fucking me in missionary position. This was never really a favourite of mine, I was always more of a doggie-style girl, but with him I just come and come and come when he fucks me that way. (Well, I really just come whichever way he fucks me. But it’s always a surprise for me to enjoy missionary so much.)

Then we ended up in our usual final position: me on top. We’ve worked out a good rhythm for this, because after I come, often my legs go all like jelly and I can’t keep on riding him, so after I come hard, I take a break and go down on him, then climb back up and ride away to another orgasm, and then, ahem, rise and repeat until he comes, either in my mouth or in my pussy. Today it was in my pussy. We came really hard together, and I love how connected that makes us feel.

Then we took a shower together, which is another of our favourite ways to connect. We started the tradition when I first started sleeping over at his place, and I still lather him all over with body wash. I still giggle when washing his genitals. I still love running the foamy soap over the strong muscles of his thighs and calves. We often kiss in the shower. Kissing as water runs down your bodies is so purely romantic, at least to us: we are water creatures for sure!

Now he’s gone, but I still feel all warm and connected to him. If only my throat wasn’t aching so much, I’d be just perfectly happy. I joked to him that sex should be mandatory on Monday mornings!

Previously…

I moved in during the week-end, and every time that I went in or out, Mel seemed to be there.

I called her over, “Sweetie, is there something that I can do for you?” She blushed, giggled and moved away.

Mrs S— had stocked the fridge, bread, butter, milk, eggs and other comestibles. I knocked on the kitchen door to thank the lady and ask what I owed her; a voice that I recognised said, “Come in Sergeant-Major!” I asked, “Afternoon, Mel, is your mother in?”

“Yes, she is in the front garden, would you like me to call her?”

“No, that’s all right, I’ll walk ‘round.”

“I’ll come with you….”

“OK.”

As we walked round I explained to Mel that she need not use my rank, that Paul would be fine, or if that made her uncomfortable, I would answer to Mr Paul, “but why,” she asked, “aren’t you proud of your rank.” “Not really, it was necessary for my job, military titles belong in the army, and you don’t call your daddy general all the time, do you?” “No” she replied, “he wouldn’t really like it,” “I feel the same; in a civilian environment it isn’t appropriate.”

After about a month the children and I got on like a house on fire, Mrs S— mothered me, I didn’t see a lot of the general, his duties kept him fairly busy.

All this time while I was settling in, the children had more or less accepted my presence, Mrs S— tended to treat me as a grown-up son; this felt strange, nobody had done that for me before.

The feelings between Mel and I weren’t going away.

I had bought a bicycle and had permission to take the children on rides in Regents Park, and occasionally I took them on the boating pond. Mel was good with her brother and sister; she wouldn’t let them play me up.

After about nine months, I’d been in the army nearly six years. I had signed on for twenty-one years with the option, of discharge, should I wish, at the end of every three year period. Mrs S— persuaded me to discuss my plans with the general. I told him that I needed to go to university and that I had seen an opening for a career: I was very interested in the new and growing science of Information Technology. I wanted to get degrees in Computer science and Language, and see if I couldn’t set up an agency.

The general agreed, he considered that as far as promotion went I’d be marking time in the army, so I ought to go for it. In July ‘58 I applied for and obtained a place in the first IT degree course offered by the London School of Economics; I also applied for an honourable discharge from the Royal Army which went through with no problems.

In June of ‘58 Mel was fifteen, and her parents bought her a pony – well a small mare. She called it Suki. I bought her a hard hat and riding gloves.

Teaching her to ride was a thrilling thing; she was a very responsive pupil. I had learnt to ride as a child at the orphanage, and it was a good way to get round during the war, since hay wasn’t rationed.

The Saturday morning after Mel’s birthday weekend I was lazing about the flat. I’d been out the night before and hadn’t got to bed before two AM. There was a ring at the door, and I when looked down the stairs, there was a very nervous Mel. “Mel? What are you doing here? You know the rules.”

“Oh please, Paul, I’ve got to speak to you!”
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An Oriental Fantasy

The Emir reclined in his Chair of State; he was a man of late middle age with wise brown eyes and many laughter lines. His beard was full and streaked with grey; he was sipping a sherbet.

There was a stir and much murmuring at the audience hall door. A plump – nay, fat – chamberlain hurried forward and bowing low, said, “Mighty Lord, your Vizier seeks audience….” The Emir raised his hand and beckoned, the chamberlain still bowing and stepping backwards signed to the door warden to admit the Vizier.

The Vizier was a frail old man of many summers advanced, supporting himself with his staff of office. In a surprisingly strong voice he asked, “May I approach, O Mighty Lord?” The Emir who loved this old man said, “Come forward, O Fount of Wisdom and Support of My Throne.” The Vizier approached close to the Emir, because the Vizier was as a second father to the Emir, and he was allowed privileges given only to equals.

Speaking in a much softer voice he said, “My Prince, knowest thou that thy favourite wife, and my own beloved niece, the Princess Willow hath 25 years this very day.” “Hath she indeed,” said the Emir. “Hmm, what doest thou advise?” “My Prince, thou knowest that thy Willow loves thee greatly and mourns that affairs of state keeps her from thee. Grant her the privilege of entertaining thee in a manner of her choosing.” The Emir with a smile, clapped his hands and said, “Let this be done.”

The Vizier left the audience hall after instructing the chamberlain to clear the hall, as the Princess would be unveiled. He walked to the Emir’s harem, knocked at the entrance; a wicket in the door opened and the Harem Mistress looked out. Seeing the Vizier, she instructed the slaves to open the door.

The Vizier entered and said to the Harem Mistress, “Our High and Mighty Lord desires the presence of the Princess Willow: lead me to her.” The Harem Mistress bowed her acquiescence, turned and lead the way to an inner chamber; there she despatched another slave to inform the Princess that her Uncle the Vizier wished to see her.

The Princess hurried out, as she hoped that the Vizier bore a message from the Emir her husband. “What news hast thou, mine Uncle,” she asked, looking rather nervous. The Vizier smiled, “The Prince your husband graciously awaits your presence and the divers entertainments that you offer.”

“But now tell thou to me, Niece, the nature of the divers beguilement that you offer your sovereign lord.”

“I will enter the audience hall with mine attendants, and with musicians in the blind gallery. I will dance while mine attendants remove my own garments with their whips, leaving my very skin unblemished.” “Hmm,” quoth the Vizier, “And the next…?”


“As the dance continues, Uncle, the attendants’ change their whips for the Dragon’s Tail, heavy straps with a six inch slit at one end, which as you know is generally used to punish disobedient concubines and wilful wives, and the straps will be used on my back, my buttocks, and my thighs until I collapse in supplication before my Prince….”
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