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Day 13: Explain as best you can what the appeal of kink/BDSM is to you?  Why are you drawn to what you’re drawn to?

I am drawn to it because, ever since I started doing it, getting it makes me feel good and not getting makes me feel, well, not so good (grumpy and whimpy and self-destructive). I like the sensation an intense scene creates in me, and I like how peaceful I get when I simply kneel at my owner’s feet. Call me a simple girl.

I am also drawn to the kinky community, because I have found there, especially in the leatherdyke community of the Toronto-Ottawa-Montreal triangle, wonderful people who have become good friends.

Find the complete set of questions here.

Three years in a row I had been at that kinky event, and three years in a row I had contemplated it. I had seen it being carries around the room, depending on the needs of the other participants, I had seen other alluring queer women come in and out of it, I had seen people have sex on it or around it, be spanked, paddled and caned over it, sucking the whole spectrum of cocks through its bars. I had even watched a scene in which a woman had her long thick hair tied to it. Oh, and that extended scene where another woman has been peacefully lying in it almost all night long under the auspice of her sadistically benevolent top. I had been around the room myself, flogged on the table, whipped on the cross, fucked on a rug, and, a couple of times, I had been seen crawling on the floor, on the other end or not of a leather leash, but I had never been put in the cage.

I had looked at it closely and I knew its every details. It was not your regular dog cage, the foldable kind that you can conceal when you have guests coming. This was a dungeon, and the cage felt real, stable, impossible to fold and hide, resolute, definite, extremely appealing. Really, more than a cage, it was a small cell, with strong vertical bars on all sides including the door, and more bars on the top. The particularly attentive maker had even thought of putting a padded purple lining so the little pet or bad girl or slave locked in it could enjoy some comfort. I liked its cold bars and the metallic clunk of its door when it was being shut closed. I craved to be behind… within those bars, on the other side of that heavy door.

So, when my owner asked me what I was fantasising for the play party, I did not miss a beat and immediately replied: “The cage.” The other details did not matter much to me as long as they revolved around the cage. If I remember well, she just smiled and nodded.

So here I was, waiting by the cage. I had run to it the minute it had become available, because in that crowded space I did not want to miss my turn. Now I was waiting for them to come back. Them both, I mean, my owner and my girlfriend who, in this particular world I live in, are not the same woman. They would be two to cage me tonight, and I would watch two sets of feet walking around the cage when lying in it. Provided I did, because I was aware that I had no power over what would happen next. I could just hope that my plea had been heard.

I had expected my two torturers to beat around the bush, so to speak, that is, to leave me unbeaten around the cage for a while. But I guess they both knew how much I craved it, or maybe they craved to see me in it, for the minute they were back, standing next to the cage, with me standing in front of them in my shiny fetish outfit, they told me… to get undress. Or my owner told me and my girlfriend nodded in agreement. To take off my fishnet shirt, to remove my leather chest harness, to let go of the black kilt, to lower my black panties and pass them over my boots. Those I was to keep. And then, without further ado beside putting a bit in my mouth and buckling it behind my head, oh, and putting a collar around my neck, they ordered me on my knees and told me to crawl into the cage.

The cage was small but could accommodate my whole body. Standing on my hands and knees, I had my head touching one end when the door closed on my feet. But suddenly, it was like the whole world was obliterated, muffled by the bars of the cage. I felt as comfortable as I my moves were restricted, and as I was aware that they could, at any moment, slide their arms and feet and toys through the bars and that there would be nothing I could do to escape their caresses or their strokes. I was theirs, in the space of that cage more than anywhere else. Their drooling captive little thing to use, to beat, to fondle, and to neglect if they so felt inclined. And all along the way I trusted them to use, beat, fondle and even leave me waiting me just the way I needed it which is always my owner’s ways. I could only moan and make indistinct sounds because of the bit that was gagging me.

Everything, from the cage, felt blurred, but I have flashes of vivid memories. I remember a flogger, through the bars of the cage, that I received on my back, on my ass, both soft and harsh strokes, both leather caresses and bites that made me moan and wiggle and scream and want to move away from the pain—but of course there was no way out and I knew I had to send my body back towards the lashes. I recall a foot in the cage, my owner’s, under my lips, that I kissed and licked and would have kissed and licked forever, my nostrils close to the leathery smell of her boot, my drooling mouth making it wet. I have various memories of hands on me with no possibility for me to evade then—had I wished to. And between the fondling and the whipping and the beating and the more tender caresses, I could feel their kissing and fondling each other outside of the cage, and I had thoughts and images of the two of them fucking over my head, coming in my face as I was lying helpless in the cage.

Eventually, I was told to get out of the cage. When they spread my blanket on the padded lining of the cage, I knew what might be coming. Why would they bother to protect the furniture if that was not against the messy slut they were toying with… Or maybe their juices would drip all over me in the cage? My brain stopped spinning again when they sent me back in the cage on my back.

Being in that new position made me feel even more vulnerable. I was lying on the floor, in the bottom of a cage, with my owner and my girlfriend looking down on me, and they could have walked on me and I could not have escaped. She, my owner, walked on me. She slid a foot between two bars and pressed her boot on my face and on my chest, making my head light under the pain. She stuck a cock in my mouth after taking the bit off. I could watch the two of them kiss and being closed to each other as I lied on the floor. Soon they were sitting on the cage, my girlfriend was pressing her body against my owner’s—in that special world where my girlfriend can top my owner. Then flogging her, flogging me too with each stroke. The leashes were brushing against my bare pussy, sending waves of desires through my body, but all I could do was remain there, helplessly and desperately moving my pelvis back and forth to sooth away the desire and, in fact, only nurturing it.

And then, when I thought I would die of unfulfilled cravings, my owner directed her attention to my cunt. She did not insert her fingers or her hands, she did not use a dildo. No, from outside of the cage, she slid a condom on a stick, her holly pagan walking stick, and shoved the covered end in my cunt. Up to the hilt. And I welcomed it, opening my legs even wider, with my feet on the bars to offer full access to my wet pussy that was and is always hers.

And then commenced the long process of playing with my cunt with the stick, filling it wide and deep, and teasing it with its wooden volume. And all that time, they were kissing and fondling each other, only minding my exposed body to fuck me deeper and deeper, almost matter-of-factly. Also hitting the stick, which sent waves into my cunt, arousing it even more. And suddenly, while I had forgotten almost completely about the crowded space since I had entered the cage, I was suddenly aware of the people around, of all those leatherdykes who could witness what was happening to me, what turned me on. I was there, on my back, with my cunt in the air, being fucked like a—what? A slut? A whore? A dirty bitch that is craving to be filled with anything that comes handy. With the stick inserted between the bars of the cage, which my owner was thrusting in and out of my cunt, bringing me to the verge of coming. And I lied there, whimpering, begging softly to be allowed to come, overwhelmed by the sensations in the midst of my body, contained by the cage. And when I finally heard my owner granting me permission, I came hard with my juice oozing from the tiny interstice between the wood of the stick and the walls of my cunt, and oozing even more when the stick came out of my hole before diving back.

I came for a long time, in pulsing, constant gushes, making the blanket wet and pungent with my fluids. Even when I was ordered out of the cage, still on the blanket, I came holding my owner’s leg with mines, my pussy rubbing against her shin, feeling more than ever like her bitch in heat, shameless. Only because I am also a reasonable girl and knew she had to leave did I stop coming.

I was left in good hands, in the arms of my sweet girlfriend, who held in her hand the collar that, at some point, I did not remember when, had been removed from my neck. On the couch I sat with her, for a long time, my thoughts still a bit foggy, still sighting the now empty cage from the corner of my eyes, wondering when I would have a chance to go back between its bars.

I was called and dragged upstairs. I did not have my say and just followed them, the cute young dyke, the tall soft butch and the femme fatale, all three of them united under the same dark intention. I was led to the luxurious Victorian room, the one I had admired when we had visited the house earlier that evening, one of the so many inspiring rooms in that house that looked like my most wicked dreams. I was brought there and just left standing, abandoned waiting as they prepared for what they had coming for me, as, one scary utensil at a time, they set up the table for the bacchanal they had in mind with me as the main dish. One of them gave me a sweet and hungry kiss, looking at me like a piece of meat ready to be tenderized. I was undressed by the femme fatale and other hands, my cute little dress was taken off me, and so was my petticoat and bra. I remained in the middle of the room, half naked, thinking that the open-bottom girdle I had selected just to feel coquine that evening maybe was not such a good idea now that I was wearing only with striped stockings and patent leather boots.

I was feeling like the indecently undressed woman in Monet’s Déjeuner sur l’herbe with three alluring dykes playing the gentlemen’s parts. We were not in a dining room or at a picnic, though, but in a flower-patterned bedroom with gracious furniture all around, and yet I was not pushed on the bed to be fucked, but made to stand with my arms up in the air. I had contemplated those hooks earlier and, as I always do when I see that kind of hardware, I had wondered what it would feel like to be hanging from them, and now my wrists were being cuffed and my hands were raised above my head and chained to them. And I stayed there, not hanging, really, but not exactly free, all stretched up with nowhere to go or to hide, with no way to protect myself. Vulnerable. And the image of a piece of meat popped up in my mind again.

They looked at each other, they nodded at each other, they kissed each other, the three of them partners in a crime, guests at a feast in which I would be the bleeding flesh. All the implements that had been displayed on the bed could be used at any moment, but they began with their bare hands. Soon, they were toying with me, brushing my skin with their proprietary hands, pinching my arms as if they were testing my resistance, nagging my sides with the tip of their fingers. They probed me as if I had been an innate object and yet a sentient one, for they had a satisfied look on their face when my body responded, when they heard quiet moans in my throat. I was kissed again, and now that I was bound, the kiss felt possessive and definite, almost like a stamp on my mouth—and my destiny was sealed. And so were my lips between which a bite was inserted, before being securely buckled behind my head.

A skinny flogger was used on my flesh and I winced as its stingy leashes pinched my skin. The slim lengths of leather began their journey on my back, burning my epidermis like tiny tongues of fire, but soon they had been all around: on my bottom, where they bit that tender part between the cheeks and the legs, on the back and front of my thighs where they almost felt like ice on my warm skin, and on my breasts, that they hatched in red, then between my legs, where they sliced into my pussy.

The six hands were back for the next course, more vicious. They replaced the leashes on my back and bottom, leaving larger red sensations on my skin and beyond. They were everywhere, searching for sensitive spots, invading. Some of them even made their way to my mouth, parting my lips, sensing my teeth beyond the rubber of the gag. Fingers were pinching me all over, but especially in that tender space under the arm and from the armpits down. And they were not only pinching, all those thirty fingers, but digging in the flesh, penetrating me deep and making me squeal, then generating other sensations and drawing me deeper in that state of physical acceptance that I seek.

A weightier flogger hit my skin. It followed the path that had been traced by the smaller and landed heavily on my upper back, pushing me down toward the ground, my arms pulling on the cuffs. With each blow I felt more deeply penetrated by the leather and I heard myself moan although I think I had been from the first minute I had been brought up here. And as I was being flogged from behind, one of my torturers came in front of me, preventing me from being pushed further, but also biting and pinching the tender flesh of my arms, of my breasts, or maybe biting it too. The flogger moved to my ass and kept on falling heavily on my flesh.

It is hard to recall all the implements that were used on me, and in which order, as I was hanging loosely from the ceiling, but I remember stings and thuds and probes and punches, and kisses that turned into bites and caressing hands that turned into tight fingers squeezing my flesh. I also remember other people being around, some of them kissing and moaning and fucking and screaming, but a lot of them just watching my surrender between the three bodies that were handling me. One of my torturers came to me and whispered in my ear: “Have you noticed the mirror? Have you seen what you look like.” And I could see myself just as I was seen: a helpless, consenting prey with her skin reddened and already studded with a few darker spots.

And then came the stick. I had spotted it among the other instruments, then avoided thinking about it. I knew that stick as it had bitten into my skin more than once before. I knew it and craved it and feared it because, in the past, it had meant a more profound surrender. Not the superficial consent of the mind, the one that I grant in my fantasy and when I feel definite power over me. Not the one of the body that I gradually give as I am being painted in pain and pleasure combined. No, the one that I do not dare call of the soul, but yet that plunges me back in my deepest, ancient self. The one that makes my body melt and my head lighten.

The stick hit my back, and I screamed. It hit my ass and the back of my thigh and I yelled again. It fell heavily on the front of my upper legs, once, twice, and my screams were guttural cries, and with my eyes I begged my torturers to stop then not to stop. My hands were freed and I was made to slide along the body of a grinning femme fatale until I was on my knees, then lower, on all fours. The bite was taken off my mouth, but I was not left free for long. I was sat on, and the stick fell on my ass again. And now, I could not even walk a few steps away. I was pinned there, on the floor, submitted to the cruel piece of raw wood that seemed resolute to dive through my core submission, down to my marrow.

I was in pain. The deepest pain I had experienced that evening. The pinching and stinging and punching had been all but hors-d’oeuvres as compared to the suffering drawn by the stick for the benefit of my torturers. I now screamed animal screams, trying to walk away from the pain, failing because two strong legs were mercilessly holding me, and somehow grateful that I could not escape, that I was made to experience the pain to its very end, to their end and not mine. I remained there, my arms and knees grounded in the carpet, the pain resonating through my whole body, until my only resort was to collapse, both in tears and to the floor. I found myself weeping under the last blows on my now lying still body.

I still had to kiss their feet, one by one, each of them, carefully, gratefully. And as I was licking the tip of the last boot, I felt something liquid falling on my back. They were pouring water all over me, but it could as well have been piss, as they had made me theirs.

Je m’apprête à animer un atelier d’écriture érotique lors de l’événement An Unholy Harvest (ce qui peut se traduire par : «Une moisson impie»), un weekend cuir/BDSM pour femmes et personnes transgenre qui a lieu tous les ans à Ottawa (Canada). Cela fait bien longtemps que je n’ai pas eu la chance de donner un atelier d’écriture, et ce sera le premier que je donnerai à Harvest!

En français, mon atelier pourrait s’intituler «Plongeons créatifs au coeur de la friction» et se décrire ainsi:

  • Vous ressentez probablement déjà une pulsion créative érotique. Vous conservez sans doute, dans vos cahiers mentaux ou émotionnels, de ces histoires toutes spéciales dont vous êtes le personnage principal et dont vous et peut-être un public trié sur le volet êtes les destinateurs et destinatrices. En tout cas, c’est mon cas. Ces histoires qui nous font mouiller ou bander, nous les nommons fantasmes. Certains et certaines d’entre nous, toutefois, ressentent le besoin de partager ces histoires, de transformer ces scènes sexy décousues en fictions complètes destinées à un lectorat plus vaste. Une histoire érotique, par opposition à nos fantasmes intimes, est conçue pour titiller l’imagination sexuelle des autres lecteurs et lectrices. Cet atelier vous aidera à convertir ceux-ci (les fantasmes) en celles-là (les histoires érotiques), par la voie de brèves présentations suivies d’exercices pratiques fondés sur des techniques d’écriture de base tout comme sur des techniques plus spécifiques à l’écriture érotique. Parmi les éléments abordés dans cet atelier, il y aura: qu’est-ce que la littérature érotique? comment raconter une histoire érotique? qu’est-ce qu’un personnage érotique? comment écrire de manière érotique? comment construire une action érotique? Apportez de quoi écrire et préparez-vous à plonger!
  • Remarque: Vous serez invités-es à partager vos productions lors de la soirée de lecture publique du dimanche soir!
  • Lire la version anglaise de la description de Creative Dives into Friction.

I am facilitating an erotica writing workshop at An Unholy Harvest, Canada’s only annual weekend event for leatherdykes, trans folks and kinky gals of all bent persuasions! It’s been such a long time since I have had the chance to give a writing workshop, and it is going to be my first one at Harvest!

Creative Dives into Friction: An Erotica Writing Workshop
You probably already have the erotic writing drive. You most certainly keep, in your mental or emotional notebooks, those special stories in which you are the main character, and for which you and maybe a happy few are the select audience. I do, anyway! The stories that make us hard or wet we call fantasies. Some of us, sometimes, however, feel the need to share those stories, to turn those hot disjointed scenes into full-length fiction for a larger readership. An erotic story, as opposed to our intimate fantasies, is one designed to titillate other readers’ sexual imaginations. This workshop will help participants to convert the latter (fantasies) into the former (the erotic story), using brief presentations followed with practical exercises based on general writing techniques as well as ones that are more specific to erotica. Questions addressed in this workshop will include: definitions of erotica; the telling of erotica; erotic structures; erotic characters; styles of erotica; erotica in action. Bring tools to write and be prepared to dive in!
Note: You’re welcome to share what you’ve produced at the Erotica Open Mic on Sunday evening!

Lire la version française de la description de cet atelier.

I love Halloween, especially because I love to wear costumes–all kind of costumes, fetish or not. One of my favourite costumed party is the Meow Mix Halloween special that I attend every year in Montreal. Hot dykes in hot attire. I love to watch cowboys dance with aliens, giraffes make out with nuns. The following short story was written with that kind of evenings in mind.

She took a fistful of my hair and she pulled my head backward, toward her, until my back was arched and my face was touching hers. Still standing behind me on the dance floor, she brushed her lips on the tender skin of my cheeks, up to my right ear, and whispered: “I think you are in trouble, girl.”

I could not see her clearly, and I did not dare turn my head, but I knew exactly who had grabbed me so firmly and would not let me go. I had spotted her right away, the minute I entered this all-dyke Halloween party. How could I have missed her? There were still a few tables left, but she was just standing there, tall and fierce, in full Halloween butch attire. Only, it did not look like a costume on her. Tonight, she was the knight, dressed in leather and metal, and from her looks, one could tell she was prepared to face the dragon. Or the slutty damsel.

Feeling whorish in my saloon girl costume, I was there, dancing, showing off, revealing half of my tits, the tender skin between the upper band of my fishnet stockings and the seam of my underskirt, which I had rolled up and clipped up each thigh until it barely hid my crotch. The corset that was cinching my waist was putting all the attention on my pulled out buttocks and my pushed up breasts. My outfit made me look like an old fashion whore and made me move and dance like a genuine slut.

She had spotted me too; I knew it from the look on her face. She just stared at me calmly, confidently, as if she knew from the start that she would get me in her bed tonight. Her features remained undecipherable, but I could see her eyes following me as I moved about the room, going to the bar and coming back with a drink, getting up and jumping on the dance floor. All along the way, I knew there were greedy, butchy eyes studying me.

My friends did not feel like dancing, so I joined the wiggling lesbian crowd all by myself. Alone with a hundred of sexy dykes moving to the same beat, I could feel the sexual surge all around me, the collective desires of dozens of horny women, and the deep thrust of techno music into my willing body. Strong rhythms arouse me, and I feel as if I could make out right there on the spot if I met my match on the dance floor.

I knew she was watching. I could sense her. I was not looking at her; my back was turned to her, but still, I was dancing for her, and for her I was moving my ass and rolling my hips and shaking my breast, revealing more of my skin with every step.

“You are a very slutty girl,” she said, still holding my hair. She pressed her body to my butt, rubbing herself against my whore’s outfit. I resumed dancing, but I could not move much with her holding me so tightly. Finally, she added: “Perhaps you thought you could get away with teasing me the way you did, but girl, I’ve got news for you.” She let go my hair, grabbed the back of my neck with her strong, gloved hand, sending shivers down my whole body. Again, she pressed her mouth to my ear and said: “Do you want to follow me to see what I do with slutty girls who tease me?” The tone of her voice, the inflexibility of her grip made me weak in the knees. Without a word I let her guide me across the dance floor.’

I was led outside of the big hall, to a smaller room that was not used for the party. The tables and chairs had been piled up randomly in a corner, and the whole place was covered in dust. She turned me around and pushed me against the closest wall, and she stayed there, one meter away from me, staring at me. She was not holding me, I could have run away if I had wanted to, but I didn’t move, of course, and remained with my back to the cold surface, staring back. I knew I had a defiant look in my eyes. Looking at her watching me, I felt sluttier than ever.

“Lift up your skirt, slut, so I can have a full view of what you’ve been trying to show me all night long.” I raised my silken underskirt. “Higher,” she said, “so I can see your goodies.” I pulled on the skirt, aware that, since I had not bothered to put on some panties that night, she could see my bare sex, my pussy that had been more and more moist from the moment she got close to me on the dance floor. Now, following her orders, I had the impression that it was dripping wet. She gave an appreciative nod. “Spread your legs, and show me that cunt of yours. Wider, I know you can do it, can’t you, whore? I bet you do this all the time.” I caught myself moaning as she said that, and my head went light. Holding my skirt, I opened my legs and I stared at her with a seductive half-smile. “Put one hand between your legs and open your slut’s lips for me.” I knew I should not do that; I should not expose my sex in front of that stranger, in that public place where anybody could have shown up at any moment. However, I obeyed. I spread my legs even wider and, bending my knees a little bit, I put my fingers between my thighs. Oh, my pussy was indeed very wet, and this was all making me quite horny. Suddenly, I wanted her to fuck me right then and right there, to take me like a female in heat, to screw me like a bitch. She took two steps closer to me, her body almost touching mine. “Take out your tits, they’re almost showing anyway.” Complacently, I lowered the short sleeves of my blouse, and I showed my breast. “Raise your arms over your head.” Again, I obeyed. “That’s a good girl. Now, don’t make a single move,” she ordered. She leaned over toward me, with her hands on each side of my body, with her face just one millimeter from mine. She moved her lips over my cheeks, my chin, my mouth, without touching me. “You know what we’re gonna do, hon?” she said, still teasing me with her mouth. “We’re gonna teach the little whore a lesson she won’t forget. What do you think?” I sighed as my head started spinning again.

Her mouth moved from my face to my neck, where I could feel her hot breath, then to my tits. I wanted to move, to reach for her mouth, but I knew better. “And why exactly am I going to teach you a lesson, tell me?” She was moving her mouth from my nipple to the other, still not touching me. I was desperate to feel her touch. Suddenly, with her two hands, she reached up, took my nipples and pinched them cruelly. “I asked you a question, whore. Why do you need a lesson exactly?” I gasped and I moaned, and as my reply did not come quickly enough, she pressed my nipples harshly between her thumb and her forefinger while pushing her knee between my thighs. My legs were suddenly feeble. When I replied, it was a heartfelt answer, but also a question.

“Because I’m a dirty little whore?” I said tentatively.

She gave a cold smile.”Oh yes, she said, you are a dirty little whore. But I’m gonna teach you a lesson because I feel like it, that’s all. I enjoy teaching lessons to dirty girls like you. And I have the feeling that this is what you’ve been seeking all night long, isn’t it? All night you’ve been asking to get your little ass red, and I’m gonna give you what you want.”

The image of her spanking me left me voiceless again. I remained there, with my skirt in the air, exposing my cunt, horny, aroused and moaning. She made a serious smile again, looking at me straight in the eyes.

“Go to that table,” she said, gesturing toward the corner of the room where the furniture was piled up. “Bend over putting you palms down on the table. Open your legs.” I obeyed. I walked to the table and, bending, I placed my hands on either side of my head. And I waited there like a very obedient little girl. She was taking her time. I could not see her, but I knew she was standing there, observing me. Suddenly, she lifted my skirt and drew it over my butt for my ass to be exposed. I felt the chilly air of the room touch my warm skin. She put one hand on the back of my neck; securing me down on the table as she gently started stroking my ass cheeks with her other hand. Again, I moaned. “You like to offer your ass to strangers, don’t you? I bet you’re the kind of whore who’d do it for free.”

The first spank came as a surprise in spite of my building expectations. My body jerked, but she was holding me tight. She spanked me again and again, making my body bounce, making me moan. She was still wearing her gloves, and the harsh touch of the leather was both an agony and a delight. Pausing, she caressed my offered butt, and again she hit it hard with her full hand. She kept on spanking me at a regular pace, alternating between quick dry strokes and more gentle caresses. I was panting, and I knew my pussy was dripping. Waves of pleasures and pain were running through my whole body. Soon, my cheeks were burning, but she was holding me down with a firm hand, and I could not slip away, even if I had wanted to. She stopped and went behind me. She pressed her body against me and, through the leather of her costume, I could feel her cock rubbing against my buttocks. I groaned a low and needy groan. “You want it, slut, don’t you? You want it up your ass. Tell me you want it!” And I said yes, I wanted it, I needed it more than anything, I wanted her to fuck my ass. She slipped her gloved forefinger between my legs. The feel of the leather on my tender lips, so close to my pussy, made me quiver. I wanted more and I tried to push my body toward her hand. She slapped my ass harder than ever. She took my hair, raising my head a little bit from the table, and looked at me in the eyes. “What do you think you’re doing, slut? You think you can go and fuck yourself on my hand at will? Not until I’m done with you. And then, I just might let you get some pleasure. If you’ve been a good girl, and if I feel like it.” I gave a silent whine. She let my head go. “Now, stay still. Your ass isn’t red enough for my taste.”

I heard the sound of leather against leather. She lifted my head again and I saw what she was holding. She had taken off her large leather belt and had folded it in two. “You know what I’m gonna do with this, don’t you?” I nodded. I knew she could read the combination of fright and excitement in my eyes. “You want it, don’t you? Tell me!” Again, I agreed: “Oh, please, yes, whip my needy ass with your belt, I deserve it!” She looked puzzled. “You deserve it?” she said. “Why is that?” I sighed and I broke out:

“Because I’m a slut and I like it rough and hard, and because I need to feel my ass burning from your touch. Please, whip me until my skin is burning red!”

She went behind me, ordering me to lay still. With her feet, she opened my legs wider so my pussy felt like it was freely exposed between my thighs. And she hit me with the belt. She started with my cheeks. I wasn’t beaten hard, but each stroke on already red skin hurt me more. She was hitting not only my butt, but my thighs and the tender skin between my legs, and soon she was also whipping my pussy lips. I was whining, trying to remain silent after she ordered me to. I was also tremendously aroused, and I knew my pussy was soaked, as I could feel the juice running down my legs. And she kept on using the belt until I almost came. When she felt I was on the verge of an orgasm, she stopped. I moaned a helpless moan.

She ran her leathered hand on my buttock, nourishing the feeling of the spanking and the whipping, spreading the heat. “This is a good girl,” she said. “You took it so well. But now that you got what you wanted, you have to thank me. Get up.” I got up and she forced her way between my body and the table. “On your knees, girl, I want to see how good you are at thanking your benefactor.” I got down on my knees, my head at the level of her crotch. “Undo the buttons and see what I have for you.” I opened her pants and found a huge silicone cock. I looked up at her, as if I did not know what to do next.

“What are you waiting for, whore? You wanna pretend you don’t know what to do with this anymore? Put your hands behind your back and open your mouth. I’m gonna show you.” I obeyed clasping my hands behind my back and opening my mouth. Holding the cock with one hand, she took my head with the other and pushed me toward the cock, until it touched the back of my throat. I choked. She smiled. “Yeah, I like it when you choke, it shows me you wanna do a good job for me. Now suck!” She started plunging the cock in and out of my mouth. I had no choice but to suck, to take it deep into my throat, although it made me gasp and `gag. The strong thrusts into

my mouth made me drool, and I had saliva running down my chin, my neck, and my cleavage. Tears were filling my eyes every time I choked. But I was sucking like a good girl, thanking my benefactor with a first class blowjob, a blowjob she took from the toy between her legs It all aroused me so much, to a point that I was about to come when she came in my face, with her rubber cock still in my mouth.

She let go of my head and leaned back on the table. I stayed on the floor, kneeling, watching her between my half-closed eyelids. Finally, she regained her composure and looked at me. “Get up, whore, the night isn’t over yet. You like to dance? So let’s go back to the party.” I got up. “But first, she said, I’m going to show you something.” She led me to the washroom, at the back of the unused hall. It was empty, of course, when dozens of women were queuing in front of the other washroom, where the party was held. There was a mirror in the room, and she made me stand in front of it. I was a mess! My hair was disheveled, splayed all about my shoulders. My makeup was ruined: I had mascara running down my cheeks and my lipstick was spread all around my mouth. When she lifted my skirt over my butt, I could see how red and marked it was from the spanking. There was also the wet, sticky spot my juice had left on my stockings between my legs. I smelled like sex and sex was spelled all over my body.

“So, what do you think, whore?” she asked. I looked at her and said: “Well… huh… I’m a mess.” I smiled shyly. She smiled back.

“You look just perfect. You look like the perfect whore you are, a cheap whore who’s met her first client of the night. Now, come back to the party with me and I’ll try to figure out how I could use you some more in the course of the evening.” I followed her, wiggling my red and greedy ass, my cunt a big, empty, needy hole in the center of my body. “Come with me”, she had said, and I did.

This short story was first published in
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