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CouvertureI haven’t written on my blog for ages, but today I have a good news for you. In the anthology Leather Heights, Toronto, Canada. Kinky Tales from Hogtown (that is a fundraiser created by Youkali MsLT 2013) that has just been prereleased (official launch is on April 16th), I have a short story called “Girls Don’t Talk about Cars”. A preview can be found here.

Woohoo!

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I can’t believe it’s been such a long time since I last posted something here. And I stopped on day 20 of my month of kink! Meanwhile, I have been busy traveling (I attended a conference where I spoke about kink), being with my top and my partner, and simply enjoying the Summer. Oh, and working as well!

I don’t have a real post today, but a link to Andrea Zanin’s latest post: « 24/7: what do you get out of it? some questions, some answers ». Not only is it interesting, but she also quotes me.

Enjoy!

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Je ne peux croire que j’ai laissé passer tant de temps depuis ma dernière entrée. Et je m’étais interrompue au jour 20 de mes « 30 days of kink »! Entre-temps, j’ai été occupée par les voyages (je suis allée à un colloque où j’ai parlé de choses kinky), par du temps passé avec ma Maîtresse et ma partenaire, et par les simples plaisirs de l’été. Oh, et par le travail aussi!

Je ne posterai pas vraiment de texte de mon cru aujourd’hui, mais un lien vers la plus récente entrée du blog d’Andrea Zanin (en anglais) intitulée « 24/7: what do you get out of it? some questions, some answers ». Non seulement est-ce très intéressant, mais en plus elle me cite.

Bonne lecture!

Day 6: Describe your weirdest/most interesting sexual fantasy.

I have this extreme jail fantasy. I wrote a story about it, that I might publish someday, but I can also envision it as a scene, with me as prisoner, someone as my jailer, and maybe other torturers. This scene would be a long one, so long it would feel it like it would never end. It would be some kind of intense D/s session, but aiming at pushing me beyond my last resistances – and the top’s, most probably. I do not see as roleplay, but just as regular play between someone I trust (my owner, for instance) and me. Trust would be paramount in that kind of scene. So for an extended period of time, I’d be stripped of everything, put in a cage, fed like an animal, beaten at my jailer’s whim, fucked, of course, whenever she sees fit. I am craving to lose all dignity… and that scares me at the same time. The scene could be interrupted by real life at some point, but it would resume eventually until everything has been pressed out of me. Is that a weird or interesting scene? I don’t know. But it sure is a fundamental one for me, a scene that dates back when I used to play Barbie (see day 4), although I am not so sure how far I could go without breaking down, and also how far would a dominant go into that scene before it became too much for them too.

Find the complete set of questions here.

Je viens de mettre en ligne une suite de mon roman bdsm Un emploi d’été.

Vous trouverez ici le chapitre 2: « Un bel objet ».

Bonne lecture!

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.

Je m’ennuyais de ma Maîtresse et je le lui avais dit. En fait, non, je ne le lui avais pas dit. Mon corps et ses réactions le lui avaient montré. Ce n’est pas que je m’ennuyais de sa présence… enfin oui, c’était le cas, mais là n’était pas la question. Je m’ennuyais de son pouvoir, de sa force, de son autorité, de son talent de me maintenir à ses pieds, de la douleur qu’elle n’hésitait pas à me donner. Un matin tandis qu’elle s’habillait pour partir, elle m’avait souffleté avec ses gants de cuir. Deux claques brèves sur chaque joue. Et je m’étais mise à pleurer. Non pas parce que cela m’avait fait mal, mais parce que cela avait réveillé la douleur en moi, celle de n’y être pas soumise. Le soir, nous en avions parlé et elle m’avait fait descendre ma culotte pour m’administrer une fessée à main nue, de ses longues mains nues qui savent si bien claquer contre ma peau et la rougir jusqu’à ce qu’elle en brûle. J’étais repartie heureuse d’avoir retrouvé ma Maîtresse.

Nous ne nous sommes pas revues avant le samedi suivant. Il y avait une petite soirée organisée dans une autre ville, chez une amie, et tout le monde s’en promettait de belles dans cette atmosphère intime.

Au milieu de la soirée, ma Maîtresse m’a ordonné d’aller chercher les sacs contenant ses jouets. Par jouets, elle voulait bien sûr dire tous ces beaux objets de cuir, de bois et de métal destinés à frapper, cingler, fouetter, fesser, et tous ces autres conçus pour immobiliser ou pénétrer. Ensuite, elle m’a dit de choisir trois objets de sa collection que je souhaitais qu’elle utilise sur moi. Rusée Maîtresse : elle sait combien j’ai du mal à choisir, et encore plus à demander. Lorsqu’on me demande de choisir, je veux généralement tout à la fois. Et j’ai du mal à demander parce que, malgré les discussions que j’ai eues avec ma Maîtresse qui m’ont fait comprendre que demander n’est pas décider, j’ai toujours l’impression, quelque part en moi, que c’est déjà avoir trop de contrôle sur la suite des choses. J’ai compris que la scène avait débuté.

La scène a commencé tout à fait lorsque ma Maîtresse m’a dit de me déshabiller devant elle de manière sensuelle, au centre de la pièce, au milieu de toutes ces autres invitées qui soit étaient engagées dans une scène, soit observaient tranquillement. Heureusement, il y avait de la musique, et j’ai pu m’engager dans mon petit numéro de strip-tease comme dans une chorégraphie. Et puis elle était là devant moi, qui m’observait, assise bien carrée sur sa chaise, les jambes légèrement écartée, un sourire amusé sur les lèvres, et bientôt plus rien n’a existé qu’elle que j’étais là pour divertir. Je l’ai divertie en retirant, tout en me frottant contre elle, mon soutien-gorge à jolis petits clous de métal, mon serre-taille de cuir que j’ai délacé puis lentement glissé le long de mon corps, puis mon kilt noir lacé qui est allé choir avec le reste. Elle m’a dit de garder ma culotte et mes hautes bottes. Celles-ci me faisaient sentir paradoxalement plus nue, et je crois qu’elle le savait.

Elle m’a dit de me placer contre le mur et elle m’y a plaquée davantage. « Tu te rappelles la dernière fessée que tu as reçue? » m’a-t-elle demandé. « Eh bien auprès de ce qui t’attend ce soir, ce n’était qu’un réchauffement. » J’ai frémi de désir et un peu de cette peur qui chez moi s’apparente au plaisir.

Le premier instrument que j’avais choisi était un lourd martinet qu’en anglais on nomme flogger. De larges et nombreuses lanières de cuir le composent, et lorsqu’il vous tombedessus, il le fait avec un bruit mat qui résonne dans tout votre corps. Le flogger de ma Maîtresse, ce soir-là, est retombé souvent sur moi. Sur mon dos. Sur mes épaules. Sur mes fesses. Sur mes cuisses. Encore et encore. Il ne me faisait pas vraiment mal, mais il me pressait contre me mur et, à chaque coup, me faisait symboliquement retomber plus bas devant ma Maîtresse.

Je n’avais pas le droit de crier, seulement de gémir. Après tout, l’hôtesse de la soirée ne voulait pas alarmer ses voisins. Bientôt, je gémissais en continu, tous mes sens réveillés. Je n’osais pas me retourner, mais à un certain moment, j’ai eu l’impression que ma Maîtresse avait changé de martinet. Ou alors, elle me frappait plus fort ou autrement, parce que les lanières s’étaient mises à pincer ma peau un peu.

Je n’ai su que ma Maîtresse avait troqué son martinet pour un fouet que lorsque j’ai entendu le claquement à mon oreille. Pas sur ma peau au début, mais tout près, pour que je le perçoive, le goûte, l’anticipe, et aussi pour tester la distance. Le fouet a continué de claquer mais s’est approché de ma peau, et j’ai senti ses coups comme de petites brûlures couvrant ma peau, pas douloureuses au début, mais qui, dans leur accumulation, réveillent toute la surface de mon corps et me rendent folle. À petits élans habiles, ma maîtresse a parcouru de petits jets enflammés mon dos et mes fesses, refaisant parfois résonner son fouet, sans m’effleurer, tout près de mon oreille. Et je ne pouvais que rester là, contre le mur, mon épiderme sillonné de petits traits électriques. Et quand elle s’interrompait pour passer sa main sur mon corps, c’était mieux et pire tout à la fois, cela mettait tous mes sens en éveil et j’avais juste envie de l’accueillir en moi, oui, sous ma peau.

Je savais que le troisième instrument que j’avais choisi était une canne bien fine et bien solide. Aussi n’aurais-je pas dû sursauter lorsqu’elle m’a cinglé le dos. Pendant un bref moment, je me suis dit que j’avais, décidément, sélectionné trois instruments générant des sensations bien différentes, et puis je n’ai plus eu le loisir de me dire quoi que ce soit, entièrement habitée par les coups qui s’abattaient sur moi. Je ressentais chacun d’entre eux en double : lorsque la canne me frappait et, quelques secondes plus tard, lorsque la douleur se diffusait. Ma Maîtresse me touchait partout où cela lui était possible : le dos, les bras, les fesses, les cuisses. Je ne sais pas à quel moment j’ai oublié que je ne devais pas crier.

Ma Maîtresse m’a fait mettre à quatre pattes. J’ai brièvement pensé que la correction était terminée et qu’elle me demanderait d’embrasser ses bottes, ce que j’aurais fait avec gratitude, mais c’était pour avoir un accès différent à mes fesses. Ou peut-être pour éloigner mes cris du mur mitoyen, je ne sais trop. Ce que je sais, c’est qu’elle n’en avait pas fini avec moi. Les coups pleuvaient sur mes fesses tendues par la position. Moi, je faisais mon possible pour rester bien droite, pour accueillir les coups, mais c’était comme si mon corps voulait les fuir malgré moi. Alors chaque fois que mon corps faisait mine de s’éloigner, je me remettais en place bien sagement. Et puis j’ai senti mon corps descendre vers le sol et les coups n’ont pas cessé. J’étais en larmes, mais ma Maîtresse ne se laissait pas arrêter pour si peu. Je l’ai suppliée : « S’il vous-plaît, Maîtresse. » « S’il vous plaît quoi, ma chérie? » Et j’ai su que je ne voulais pas l’implorer d’arrêter, seulement qu’elle m’aide à avoir la force de prendre d’elle tout ce qu’elle voulait me donner. « S’il vous plaît, aidez-moi, Maîtresse. » Elle s’est assise sur moi pour me garder en place et a recommencé à m’assener des coups de canne, et même lorsque mon corps s’est tordu pour éviter les coups, elle a continué à me frapper.

Je suis restée sur le sol, pantelante, sanglotante. Elle s’est étendue sur moi de tout son long, de tout son poids. Je la désirais en moi. « La prochaine fois », a-t-elle dit, « je vais trouver un moyen de t’immobiliser pour que tu prennes plus de coups. » J’ai soupiré et je pense que j’ai souri. Je savais très bien que, malgré la douleur récente, malgré mes larmes, malgré mon combat contre les coups, je désirais qu’elle aille au-delà de mes résistances, et qu’elle y reste, aussi longtemps qu’elle le souhaitait.

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 vais lentement recommencer à mettre en ligne les premiers chapitres de mon roman bdsm Un emploi d’été.

Vous trouverez ici le chapitre 1: « Les prémisses ».

Bonne lecture!

Voici une nouvelle écrite en 2004.

Pour vous Maîtresse, j’ai glissé la canule entre mes fesses, dans mon anus, et je me suis gonflée d’eau comme une outre. Le liquide chaud, en pénétrant mon corps, a excité mon sexe, comme toujours, et j’ai senti ma vulve se mouiller. Cependant, je suis restée calme, toute à mon activité du moment, ingérer l’eau par le bas de mon corps, et la garder, au-delà de toute douleur, transformer la souffrance en plaisir pour bien former mon réceptacle de soumise, pour bien vous plaire, Maîtresse. Enfin, j’ai couru vider mes boyaux et suis revenue les remplir, répétant le manège jusqu’à être propre comme un sou neuf, propre comme vous voulez que je le sois pour vous recevoir.

Pour vous, Maîtresse, j’ai rempli mon anus, j’ai glissé mon corps sur le dilatateur de gelée bleue, celui que nous avons choisi ensemble, celui que vous m’avez demandé de commenter, celui que vous m’avez fait anticiper, jusqu’à ce que je le réclame, le quémande, jusqu’à ce que je vous supplie de combler mon trou. À mesure que je descendais mes fesses vers lui, l’objet s’insérait en moi comme un corps étranger, mais que j’accueillais avec reconnaissance, comme si mon anus était fait pour le recevoir, pour vous recevoir. À la fin, il a été en moi dans toute sa longueur, dans tout son diamètre, j’ai senti sa présence jusque dans mon ventre. Et je l’ai gardé dans mon corps longtemps, afin de modeler le trou de mon cul à votre convenance, Maîtresse, et qu’ainsi il réponde à vos besoins. Devant vous, Maîtresse, je me trouve maintenant prosternée. Je dois avoir l’air d’un joujou de plastique qu’on aurait gonflé et sur lequel on aurait apposé un bouchon. Le réflexe naturel de mon corps est d’expulser cet objet qui l’envahit, de le chasser, mais la ceinture que vous m’avez faite enfiler le garde bien en place, et conserve la sensation en moi de trop-plein, d’intrusion, d’entrée par effraction. Je sais que vous regardez mon corps avec bienveillance, vous l’avez voulu ainsi, à vos pieds, à son plus humble. Vous aimez me voir ainsi abandonnée devant vous, j’aime me voir ici, là où je suis le mieux au monde. Cette pensée, autant que le plug qui m’habite, a le pouvoir de m’exciter, et je sais que vous voyez mes fluides dégouliner sur mes cuisses, se mêlant aux traces de lubrifiant. Je suis votre objet, votre chose, votre jouet, je vous en prie, redites-moi que je vous plais ainsi offerte, lorsque toutes les possibilités sont ouvertes, vous avez su tout de suite combien je goûte cet instant de flottement entre deux assauts, ce moment où je sais que vous réfléchissez à ce qui viendra, où vous me laissez m’emplir de cette attente honteuse et exquise. Jusqu’à ce que mon corps en tremble. Vous glissez un bâillon dans ma bouche et vous le serrez autour de ma tête. Ensuite, vous me dites de me retourner sur le dos, et je vous obéis, et de relever les genoux et je le fais, et d’écarter les jambes et je les ouvre le plus grand que je le peux, pour vous, ma Maîtresse, pour être votre pute consentante qui vous donne accès à tout mon être. Je suis nue, mais votre regard me déshabille davantage, va jusqu’au fond de moi, me sait mieux que moi-même. Lentement, avec des gestes presque amoureux, vous enroulez la corde autour de mes chevilles, puis autour de mes cuisses, jusqu’à ce que le haut et le bas de mes jambes soient immobilisés l’un contre l’autre, sans que cela me fasse mal, mais sans que je puisse désormais déplier mes jambes. Puis, tout aussi doucement, vous réunissez mes poignets à l’ensemble, de chaque côté de mon corps, et me voilà écartelée sur le tapis, les jambes ouvertes, les bras immobilisés. Vous vous penchez vers moi et vous pincez les lèvres de mon sexe. Je gémis, mais le bâillon étouffe ma voix. Mon sexe est si humide qu’il vous file entre les doigts chaque fois que vous voulez vous en saisir. Vous prenez une serviette et vous asséchez ma vulve, puis, une à une, vous épinglez mes lèvres avec des pinces de bois. Vous en disposez huit au total, ce soir le chiffre sera pair, mon clitoris sera épargné. Les pinces, en mordant la chair, provoquent une petite douleur aiguë qui se résorbe graduellement jusqu’à ne plus être qu’une présence un peu gênante.

Ensuite, vous vous rapprochez de ma poitrine. Vous enroulez une autre corde autour de mes seins menus, serrant plus fort cette fois, jusqu’à ce qu’ils ne soient plus que deux petites sphères perchées au haut de mon corps. D’une main experte, vous saisissez mes mamelons et les pincez cruellement. De nouveau je geins. Vous tirez dessus sans ménagement, comme si j’étais une pâte à modeler entre vos mains, puis vous les aplatissez entre deux pinces. Vous vous redressez et contemplez votre oeuvre. Vous me surplombez, je suis étalée devant vous. Je suis épinglée au sol, comme un insecte rare, comme un travail d’artisanat qu’il vous reste à finir. Avec votre pied, vous jouez un peu avec les pinces qui m’écartèlent le sexe. Je gémis, moins de douleur que d’anticipation. Je sens mon sexe se détremper, mais les pinces restent bien en place. Votre pied descend vers mon anus et pousse légèrement sur le dilatateur. Cette fois, je halète. Vous ne dites toujours rien, mais votre regard m’interroge : Tu veux que je t’encule, petite salope, hein ? Je hoche la tête en réponse à votre question muette. Et toujours votre pied qui travaille l’objet dans mon cul, toujours votre regard posé sur moi qui scrute la moindre de mes réactions, qui assiste à mon avilissement… Puis, votre pied retourne à mon sexe. La pointe de votre botte se glisse entre mes lèvres, entre les pinces, et agace mon clitoris déjà douloureux de désir, s’y attardant, suscitant des attentes qu’elle ne remplira pas. Je soupire, au bord des larmes.

Et puis, Maîtresse, vous continuez de me regarder dans les yeux. Tu veux que je te laisse jouir, petite pute, n’est-ce pas, me disent les traits de votre visage. Je gémis en signe d’assentiment, bombant la poitrine, ouvrant les cuisses plus grand encore dans mes liens. Vous retirez les pinces qui retiennent mes seins et le sang afflue dans mes mamelons. Très vite vous retirez votre culotte et vous vous asseyez à califourchon sur moi, votre sexe se frottant sur mon sein droit, puis sur mon sein gauche, tous les deux rougis comme au fer rouge, tous les deux gonflés à bloc, tous les deux douloureux et sensibles sous vos chairs tendres et humides. Vous utilisez mes seins durcis par la tension des liens pour caresser votre sexe, pour stimuler votre clitoris. Vous enfilez mon sein gauche tout au fond de vos lèvres, sur votre clitoris, et votre bassin se met à faire des mouvements circulaires. Comme j’aimerais vous toucher, caresser votre sexe jusqu’à vous soutirer de petits cris de plaisir, le lécher tout mon soûl, glisser mes doigts en vous… Vous vous mouvez gracieusement sur ma poitrine et malgré vos traits impassibles, je sens le plaisir monter dans votre corps, j’en sens les spasmes, j’en vois la rougeur. Vos fluides ruissellent sur mes seins et apaisent leur feu, votre chair tendre caresse mes mamelons à vif, vous jouissez sur moi si fort que votre eau me coule sur le ventre, dans le cou. Et vous ne cessez pas de me regarder avec un défi dans l’oeil, l’air de dire : Tu vois, je jouis quand je le veux… Et puis vous êtes agitée d’une série de spasmes plus forts et vous retombez un peu plus mollement, mais sans perdre votre superbe, vous vous asseyez sur moi après avoir joui en vous servant de moi.

Enfin, vous vous relevez. Je reste frémissante sur le sol, incapable d’étancher le désir que vous avez fait croître en moi. Vous avez un de vos sourires indéchiffrables et vous retournez entre mes jambes ouvertes. Cette fois, vous vous agenouillez et vous vous appuyez sur un de mes genoux. Vous êtes si près de mon sexe que vous pourriez le toucher. Mais pas encore. Pas avant de l’avoir contemplé, d’en avoir mesuré l’excitation. De votre index de la main gauche, enfin, vous touchez mon clitoris, qui va à la rencontre de votre doigt, gorgé de désir. Vous en faites le tour lentement, presque distraitement, et votre caresse me rend folle, je veux venir, si je ne jouis pas, je mourrai, j’en suis sûre. Alors, imperceptiblement, vos révolutions sur mon sexe s’intensifient, se font plus pressantes. Vous le touchez de plus près, vous le caressez avec plus de vigueur et, enfin, je sens le plaisir monter en moi et croître, mais je sais que ce n’est pas tout à fait le temps. Vous détachez la courroie qui retient le dilatateur en moi, mais vous ne le retirez pas de mon corps. Caressant toujours mon clitoris de votre main gauche, vous laissez le plug ressortir un peu de mon anus, puis vous l’y enfoncez de plus belle. Mes muqueuses endolories demandent grâce cependant que tout mon bassin s’ouvre sous cet assaut. Mon corps ne veut pas que cesse ce va-et-vient en lui, mon corps l’accueille de tout son coeur, de toute son âme. Sans cesser de prendre soin de mon clitoris, vous enfoncez ainsi le dilatateur plusieurs fois dans mon cul, sa surface texturée raclant mon anus, son bout arrondi s’engageant profondément dans mon bassin. Je gémis, je pleure, je tremble, je frémis, j’en redemande muettement sous mon bâillon, Vous me sodomisez avec le plug, vous me masturbez avec votre doigt, vous me dominez de votre présence, toutes ces sensations se mêlent et font naître une chaleur dans mon ventre, qui monte et monte et à la fin, je ne sais quelle partie de moi jouit le plus, mon clitoris qui se distend et se rétracte pour laisser gicler tout son jus, mon anus dont la brûlure se diffuse soudain dans tout mon bassin et le secoue, mon esprit, enfin, dominé par vous et qui jouit parce que vous existez.

Vous retirez très vite les pinces et mes lèvres brûlent de leur liberté retrouvée. Je reste ainsi une éternité durant, agitée de spasmes intérieurs et tout le sexe détrempé, bandant mes muscles autour de mon désir pour le retenir, secouée de frissons et de sanglots sous l’intensité de l’instant. Et je demeure là, sur le dos, ligotée, écartelée, avec vous qui tenez le dilatateur légèrement sorti de mon corps, qui avez toujours votre main posée sur ma vulve. Vous finissez par retirer le plug et mon anus se referme sur une absence maintenant étrange. Toujours de ces mêmes gestes posés qui vous sont propres, vous détachez mes poignets, puis mes cuisses, puis mes chevilles, et vous libérez mes seins. Ensuite, vous m’aidez à m’asseoir et je me redresse, un peu faible et chancelante. Vous vous asseyez derrière moi et passez vos bras autour de mon corps. Vous me tenez ainsi dans vos bras longtemps, murmurant des paroles apaisantes où revient souvent le petit nom que seule vous me donnez.

Toute reproduction interdite sans le consentement de l’auteure.
z.beline ©2003-2010

Vous pouvez aussi aller lire la version anglaise de cette nouvelle: Soumission.

Here is a short story I wrote in 2004, first written in French, then translated with some help (see below).

I slid the nozzle between my bum cheeks and into my anus and I filled myself full with fluids, as full as a water skin. This I did for you Mistress. The hot liquid penetrated my body, it excited me like it always does, and I felt my pussy getting wet. I stayed calm and concentrated on my present activity: my lower body ingested the water and held it until the suffering transformed into pleasure. I allowed my bottom’s receptacle to form, getting it ready to submit to you Mistress; in order to please you. Eventually, I had to run and empty my bowels. When I was done, I came back and filled myself up again, repeating the cleansing process so that I would be as clean as a new penny, clean like you want me to be when I receive you.

For you Mistress, I filled my ass and slid my body against the blue butt plug, the one that we chose together. The one that you made me decide on, made me anticipate until I begged for you to fill me with it. I brought my bum towards the plug and inserted the object inside me. It felt like a foreign object, but a welcomed and recognized one nonetheless. It was like as if my ass was made to receive it, to receive you. By the end, it was entirely in me and I could feel it penetrate upward, all the way to my stomach. I kept it in my body for a long time in order to mould my asshole to your liking Mistress, so that it responds to your needs.

I now find myself groveling before you Mistress. I must seem like an inflatable toy that has been plugged. My natural reflex is to expel the object invading it, but the belt you had me put on is holding it firmly in place, conserving the sensation of intrusion in me, breaking me in. I know you are examining my body. You wanted me like this – at your feet – in the most humble position possible. You like to see me positioned like this before you; I like to see myself here too. To me, it is the best feeling in the world. This thought – as much as the plug resting inside me – has the power to excite me, and I know you can see my fluids trickling down my thighs, mixing with the lubricant

I am your object, your thing, your toy. I beg of you to tell me that what I am offering you, pleases you, that you like that moment when I’m before you, when all the possibilities are still opened-up. You must have known right away how much I crave that uncertain moment between your assaults, the moment where I can reflect on what’s coming next, when you let me fill myself with that shameful but exquisite wait. Just until my body trembles.

You slide a muzzle into my mouth and you pull the strap tight around my head. Then, you tell me to lift my knees and to spread my legs. I do this and following your instructions, I open my legs as wide as possible. I do this for you Mistress, so that I can be your consenting whore, giving you access to my entire body. I am naked, but your gaze undresses me further so that you can see past my flesh and into my soul; so that you can see me better than I can see myself. Gently, with almost loving gestures, you wrap a rope around my ankles and thighs, so that the extremities of my legs become immobilized against one another. I am restrained tight enough so that I cannot stretch my legs, but loose enough so that the rope doesn’t hurt me. In the same gentle manner, you tie my wrists to the sides of my body and I am left spread out on the carpet with open legs and immobilized wrists. You lean over me and pinch my lips. I moan, but the muzzle stifles the sound of my voice. My pussy is so moist that the liquid runs between your fingers each time you try to grasp me. You take a napkin and wipe my vulva so that it be dry. Then, you pin my lips with wooden clothes pins. You use a total of eight pins, an even number – today you are sparing my clitoris. The pins bite into my flesh, provoking a small sharp pain that is gradually receding until it becomes a small discomfort.

Next, you approach my chest and bring out another rope, tying up my small tits. This time you tie the ropes tighter, so that my breasts become nothing but two small spheres perched at the top of my body. With an expert hand, you take hold of my nipples and pinch them cruelly. I whimper again. You pull on them as if you have no other care in the world, as if I was made of paste that could be molded by your hands. Then, you clench my nipples between two clothes pins. You straighten yourself again and stand up to contemplate your work. Here I am, stretched in front of you, pinned to the ground, like a rare insect, like an artist’s work in progress. You use your foot to play with one of the pins pinching my lips. I moan with anticipation. I can feel my pussy moisten, but the clips stay firmly in place. Your foot moves towards my anus and pushes lightly on the plug. This time, I gasp. You remain silent, but you look at me in a questioning manner: “Do you want me to screw you in the ass, little bitch?” Without uttering a word, I shake my head in response to your question. Your foot continues to push the object in my ass. Your eyes always remain fixed on me, examining my every reaction, assisting in debasing me. Eventually, your foot moves back to my pussy. The top of your foot slides between my lips, between the pins. It rubs against my clitoris, which is already suffering with desire waiting for you to pay attention to it. I take a deep breath and feel my eyes filling with water, on the verge of tears.

And, Mistress, you continue to look me in the eyes. “You want me to let you cum, you little whore, don’t you?” You don’t say it, but I can hear you, and I moan signaling consent, my chest rising, opening my thighs even wider within the confines of the bindings. You take off the pins retaining my breasts and the blood flows back to my nipples. Quickly, you take off your pants and you straddle me, sitting with your pussy rubbing against my left breast and then my right one. Both of them redden like hot iron, inflaming together, tender and sensitive underneath your soft, moist flesh. You use my hardened nipples to caress your pussy, to stimulate your clitoris. You thread my right breast through to the bottom of your lips, onto your clitoris. Your pelvis starts to move in a circular motion. How I would like to touch you, caress your pussy until you squeeze out little cries of pleasure, to lick you, to slide my fingers inside you. You move graciously along my chest and despite your calm and collectedness, I can feel the pleasure rising up into your body. I can feel the spasms and I can see your face reddening. Your fluids drip onto my breasts and sooth them; your flesh briskly caresses my nipples and you rub yourself on me so hard that your fluids flow down my stomach and settle into the nape of my neck. You never cease to look at me with a challenging gaze, as if to say: “You see, I orgasm whenever I want to”. Suddenly, your body trembles and stiffens, and you fall back lightly without losing composure. You sit back down on my body, after pleasuring yourself on me.

Finally, you get up. I stay there, quivering on the ground, unable of keeping a hold on the desire growing in me. The smile on your face is indecipherable. You focus yourself between my open legs and this time you kneel, supporting yourself with your hand on one of my knees. You’re so close to my pussy that you could almost touch it – but not yet. Not until you contemplate my level of arousal. With the index finger of your right hand, you finally touch my clit. It rubs up against your finger, replete with desire. You lightly touch me, almost absentmindedly. Your caress makes me crazy and I want to cum. If I don’t, I know I will die. The revolutions on my clit intensify and I can feel you adding more pressure. You press harder on me, caressing me more vigorously, and finally, I can feel the excitement rising and growing, although I sense that it is still not yet time to finish . You detach the strap that is retaining the plug, but you don’t take it out of my body yet. Still caressing my clit with your right hand, you let the plug slide out of my anus a bit and then you drive it in again. My membranes ache even though my bowel opens up upon the thrusts. My body doesn’t want this to stop, it is receiving this with all its heart and soul. Without forgetting to take care of my clit, you drive the plug several times into me, its textured surface scrapping my anus, its round tip penetrating deeply into my bowel. I groan, I cry, I tremble, and I quiver. Silently, I ask for more. You sodomize me with the plug, you tease my clit with your finger, you dominate me with your presence, all of the sensations melting together and giving birth to a warmth in my stomach, to a warm feeling of fullness that climbs and climbs and at the end, I don’t know which part of me feels the most pleasure: my clitoris that is distending and retracting in order to squirt out its fluids, or; my anus, where I can feel the heat diffusing suddenly throughout my entire pelvis, or; my soul dominated by you and pleasured because you exist.

You pull the pins off very quickly and my lips burn from their newfound liberty. I rest like this for what feels like an eternity, agitated by spasms. My entire pussy is moist; my muscles are strained from my desire to retain this feeling, shaking from the shivers and tears induced by the intensity of the instant. And I stay there, on my back, bound, spread, with you still holding the plug slightly out of my body, your hand always resting on my vulva. You finish by removing the plug and my anus closes from an absence that now seems strange to me. With the appropriate gestures, you release my wrists, then my thighs, my ankles, and finally my breasts. Then you help me sit up and I straighten myself again. I feel a little weak and unsteady. You sit behind me and wrap your arms around my body. You take off the gag. You hold me there for a long time, whispering soothing words over and over again – and in these words I sometimes hear the name that only you give me.

Thanks to Monica Frommer who helped me with the English version.
Reproduction of this text is forbidden unless authorised by the author.
z.beline ©2004-2010

Also check the French version of that short story: Soumise.