Pleasantness



-or-



To Break a Butterfly Upon the Wheel



As you remove your shoes, I light a few candles, one scented with the woody spiciness of black pepper and cinnamon. The darkness of the room is broken and becomes progressively brighter with each flame, but never reaching the luminosity of a bulb, instead they bathe everything in a warmth fitting the mood.



I move towards you at speed and with urgency. My arm wraps around you, pulling you into me and holding you tightly. Without pausing to speak, I kiss you deeply so you can taste the sweet earthy whisky on my breath. Fingers slip into the elastic of your panties and fondle your pussy lips.



I help you out of your clothes. Dress slipped over your head, bra unclipped and panties taken down, allowing you to easily step out of them. All are discarded in a pile on the floor. I remove your glasses and place them carefully on the bedside table. I pinch your nipples playfully, causing you to wince and a sardonic smile to cross my lips. I'm still fully clothed, boots and all, but you stand completely naked, down to your pretty bare feet on the carpet. Your vulnerability stiffens my cock inside the confines of my jeans. Groping between your legs, you have already begun to moisten.



"Get on your knees," I tell you.



Wasting no time, you comply and instinctively reach for my belt, fumbling with the buckle and buttons to remove my turgid prick from my underwear. You lean in, open mouthed, but I pull your head back with a fistfull of hair.



"No. Go slowly. Kiss it first."



So you stroke me gently, feeling the heft of my raging member in your nimble hand, admiring the thick veins that run the length of the shaft to the glossy purple head. You kiss the tip, a delicate peck at first, then again, parting your lips and lasciviously glazing it with saliva. Your lips move all the way down to my gravid bollocks, which you lick, making me throb.



You've barely seen the end of your twentieth year, while I am fast approaching my fortieth. I've seen many things in that time and have long been afflicted with a passion for young girls. I've studied art and devoted myself to the pursuit of beauty, but never seen anyone or anything as transcendentally beautiful as you. Your cuteness belies your wicked nature. I made a faustian pact with the devil. In exchange for untold carnal pleasures, I've given up my immortal soul. I have read well and know how this story ends.



"Now suck it," I command and you obey.



Opening your mouth and protruding your tongue, I slide in. You slurp eagerly, cupping my testicles and going deeper with every bob of your head. If such a thing is possible, you're even prettier with my dick in your mouth. Somehow and for some reason, unbeknown to me, your beauty makes me angry. It makes me want to degrade and debase you.



Grabbing your hair, I force myself into your throat. You try to push me away, but I hold firm, thrusting my hips, pulling your head onto me, violently fucking your face. You gag and salivate, choking on me. Tears fill your eyes and I continue my vicious assault on your trachea. You offer resistance, but it is nothing compared to my libidinous determination.



Holding your head down, your lips at my base, nose in my pubic hair, your breathing completely cut off by my manhood filling your windpipe. Panic and dizziness take over. Head spinning, you fear you might pass out, but don't have the strength to get me out of your throat, no matter how hard you try.



Just as you feel your consciousness begin to slip away, your power to repel me greatly diminished and acceptance of your fate sets in, I release you. Coughing and spluttering, red faced and teary eyed, you struggle to catch your breath. I look down at you, petting your hair, pleased with what I've done.



"Too much," you say, trying to wave me off. "I can't take so much."



"Shhh, babygirl, it's okay. Trust me." I soothe you.



As your respiration gradually normalises, you try to return to the task at hand, pleasuring me with your mouth, but I stop you.



"No, baby. That's enough for now." Replacing my slippery organ back into my pants.



I could quite easily allow you to continue. It would be a matter of moments before I shoot my thick load into your mouth, but I don't want that. It's too soon and there are so many things left to do.



Still panting, you look up expectantly.



Moving your long, thick hair out of the way, I click a metal collar around your lithe neck and lock it in place. It's cold and heavy, the weight not just physical. You tug on it, feeling how secure it is. It pleases you, but is also troubling. You realise with it I can control your entire body. The slightest jerk can pull you this way or that and there is nothing you could do to stop me. As if to emphasise this point, I take hold and yank you forward, going in for a kiss. You feel a sense of perturbation as you consider the possibilities. What if you misread me and I'm not quite the man you thought I was?



My lips partly pacify these thoughts.



"Open wide," I tell you.



After a moment's hesitation, you do as you're told and open your mouth for me, expecting to taste my cock again. Instead I insert a rubber ball gag and buckle it behind your head. It's large and uncomfortable, stretching your already aching jaw, but I pay that no mind. I'm sure you'll get used to it and you're in no position to complain.



Wrenching the collar, I bring you to your feet and push you forcefully to the bed. You try to protest at this rough treatment, but the gag does its job and stifles your objections. The collar works perfectly to put you into position and hold you down. It's painful enough to make you realise struggling against me would be futile, as well as potentially injurious so you allow me to do what I have to. I lay you on your back, head on the pillows.



Both wrists are fastened in place, either side of your head. As I hover above you, you notice I smell different somehow. Similar to how you remember, but different nonetheless. There's a dirty, animalic quality you hadn't noticed before, like leather. I can smell you too, the sweet muskiness of pheromone laden sweat, a natural aphrodisiac.



I strap both ankles towards the lower corners of the bed, taking a moment to kiss your feet and suckle your toes. You struggle ineffectually against the restraints, as if testing how strong they are and soon realise you're not getting out of them unless I let you out.



I admire you as you lie there, naked, spreadeagle, unable to speak and utterly helpless. My hands glide over your immaculate body and silken skin, following every curve, before harshly squeezing your tits and twisting your nipples, making you cry out through the gag. I laugh a little to myself and plunge a finger into your exposed wet sex.



You try to speak, but the rubber ball between your teeth makes it impossible. I think you're trying to say, "gently."



"You're my little fuck toy now, aren't you?" I say, as I boorishly finger you.



You nod and make affirmative noises in reply.



I lick the juices off, not wanting to waste your flavour, even though we both know I'll be back for more soon enough.



I undress slowly, taking time to unfasten each button and place my clothes down neatly. A sharp contrast to the way yours ended up in a heap. You don't take your eyes from me. The orange glow of the candlelight casts eerie shadows, making me almost unrecognisable. I leave only my underwear, my engorged prick distending the thin fabric. There have been many times over the past couple of months when you have been cold and distant, avoided and disregarded me. You're not ignoring me now.



You know how I feel about you, I can't change that. It's my curse. I let it be known too quickly and too adamantly to ever deny it. I should've suppressed it, both for myself and for your image of me, but it's too late now. In my desire to express myself and prove you were so much more than another notch on my bedpost, that I wanted you for more than just your body, I revealed too much and it can't be undone. I showed you the overly emotional side of my character and gave you the impression that I'm soft. Perhaps a part of me is soft, but every coin has two sides and I'm no exception. It's true I try to treat all women with grace and delicacy, I want them to feel cared for and protected. However, there is a side to me, hitherto unseen by you, that is far darker, dissolute and perverse.



I may be a nice man, even a kind man, my generosity only fettered by my lack of means, but it has also been said, not unjustly, that I have the morals of De Sade. Although recently it seems I have been behaving more like Masoch and you my Aphrodite in furs. This must stop. You must cease to be my Cytherean deity and my sadistic proclivities be revealed. I could do absolutely anything to you right now. Who could stop me? Only myself.



The rattan cane is smooth in my fingertips. I tilt my head from side to side, cracking my neck. Swatting my calf a few times, I give myself the tiniest taste of what I'm about to inflict upon you. You know I'd never harm you and might've once believed I'd never hurt you either. Now though, observing me with cane in hand, looking into my eyes, can you be so sure? Am I the man who wrote a two thousand word ode to you and sent all those maudlin messages, or have I flipped? Am I someone else entirely?



The gag and the abuse I gave your throat make it difficult to swallow. The disquiet you felt mere minutes ago when I locked you in the collar is replaced by outright fear. That is what I want you to feel.



My sentimentality may have caused you to forget that I do want you for your body too. My eyes devouring you now are a succinct reminder. Your body is what I want and I will take it. The alcohol and pills I have consumed act upon me as Nepenthe. I stand like the Satyr Silenus, hirsute and lecherous, salaciously stroking my beard. This cannot be rushed.



The lithesome rattan rod caresses your inner thighs so gently it tickles, but you know what's coming. Again you try to wrestle against the restraints, this time with more fervency, giving the impression you really want to be released. Maybe you do and maybe you don't. I don't believe you do. I think you want what's about to happen, you've been waiting to see this side of me. As someone once said, we can believe whatever we want to believe.



Your legs, so pure and unblemished, it would be a shame to mark them. But then, how lovely they will look striped.



First they come lightly, mere taps, but soon more forceful, faster and plentiful, each one making a satisfying snap. Even more rewarding are the squeals of pain from your muzzled lips. The last dozen, distributed evenly between each thigh are the hardest of all. These are designed not just to hurt, but to leave the clearest bruises. Your squeals turn to screams, separated by low sobs. I can almost make out you pleading with me to stop, but the gag ensures I can't be absolutely certain of what you're saying.



That's the benefit of the ball gag and bindings. Many girls say they like to play hard, but almost all tap out too early. You have no such luxury. You're stuck in this position until I decide it's time to change or I decide to set you free. No safeword was agreed upon and even if it was, couldn't be used. For now, you are mine. I own you entirely and you are a slave to my whims. Those stinging welts covering your inner thighs mark you as my property for as long as they last. And I've only just started the punishments I want to administer.



I study my handiwork and it pleases me. Equally spaced, already nicely raised and in various shades of purple. I've done well. Now it's time to balance the pain with a little pleasure.



My coarse beard is prickly on the hypersensitive contusions as I kiss your thighs. I nestle my nose in your mons and lick your cunt, savouring your melliferous juices. The cane clearly agreed with you more than your protests suggested because you're dripping wet. My lips press against your labia, tongue flicking your clit. I insert a finger to massage your g-spot and bring you steadily closer to orgasm.



Soon you're moaning with delight, rocking your hips, pushing your pussy into my face, urging me onward. I can feel your vagina tighten around my fingers and I know you're just about to come, so I stop. Your eyes widen in disbelief, imploring me to continue and bring you to climax.



I said a little pleasure to balance the pain, I'm not ready for you to come just yet.



Your frustration is palpable as you writhe, unable to get your hand to your crotch and finish yourself off. It amuses me to watch you squirm uncomfortably, trying to achieve satisfaction by rubbing your thighs together.



To continue with what I have planned, I need you in a different position. This entails temporarily removing your restraints. It must be done carefully because I certainly don't wish you to be turned loose. With your hands free, the next stage of your ordeal would be nearly impossible and I fully intend to carry it through to its conclusion.



I release your legs and immediately you move your knees up to protect yourself. This doesn't bother me, I push them away easily and mount you. Straddling you like this would usually be the perfect opportunity to fuck your face, but alas, the ball precludes this.



When I unstrap your hands, they go straight to the gag around your mouth. I'm expecting it so clasp your wrists to prevent its removal. You fight me, but I weigh a full ninety kilos and overpower you without much effort. Naturally you buck your hips and try to turn over. Little do you know, getting you on your front is exactly my intention so I go with it. Once there, it is but a brief struggle to reattach your wrists to their shackles. I leave the ankles off, not to allow you any freedom, but because it suits me to have your lower body easily moveable.



"Present yourself to me," I demand and you shake your head defiantly.



A quick whack with the cane across the soles of your feet defeats your obstreperous will and you arch your back in a concave fashion. This creates a line, a shape so elegant not even Bernini himself ever carved such a thing in marble. Pushing your buttocks and pussy out for me, revealing the succulent pink vulva and alluring puckered arsehole, inflames my imagination in ways you cannot conceive.



"That's a good girl," I say as I run my hand over your shapely posterior. Your copulins so dense in the air, I can taste them.



My tongue moves across your wetness, lapping up those magnificent excretions. I thoroughly coat your anus in a delectable mixture of your own juices and my saliva, before inserting a finger. You're incredibly tight, perhaps overly so. I may be deluding myself, but I feel it may be too tight in its current state to take my substantial girth.



I bury my tongue in you, moving in circles, probing you as far as I can go. I hope this intrusion will open you up, relax you and prepare you for something larger. Holding your hips, I pull you into me and push my face forward, savouring the taste and smell of that forbidden tunnel.



Using no lubricant, save for what we have created ourselves, I fit the metal plug. You didn't know I had that, did you? I thought it'd be a nice surprise. It isn't big, but shocks you as it goes in and is ample enough to stretch you sufficiently to allow for my penis. I didn't want anything too large, that would loosen you too completely. I still want you to feel me when I finally enter you. It's also just the right size to cause interesting, not necessarily pleasant, but not entirely unpleasant sensations when I recommence the spanking.



A few slaps with my open palm ready you and blush your cheeks. As much as I enjoy using implements, there's nothing quite as satisfying as skin on skin. Like Jacob's wife, you are beautiful in both form and countenance. To beat you would be sacrilege. Fortunately, I don't believe in such things. I take my thick leather belt, the one I never wear, fold it over and snap the two halves together to let you know what I have in store. Yours is not the first backside it's seen and I doubt it'll be the last, but I'd wager it is the most sublime.



You whimper in nervous anticipation of the first blow and it comes quickly, down on your arse with a sharp crack. Such a lovely sound it makes. So sweet I need to hear it again. The pain shoots through you, dull at first when compared to the cane, but leaving behind a distinct prickle like a thousand needles all stabbing at once. The plug sends a shockwave through your colon, into your stomach.



I land more measured whacks, giving ample time between them for you to absorb each one and for me to revel in the sound of the impact and your whines. These broad red stripes will bruise up nicely in the coming hours, but I need to add more depth, more colour and texture. I'm an artist and your skin is my canvas where I shall create a colourful abstract masterpiece.



Belting you was just a starter, a prelude to the main event. I return to the rattan, my favourite implement. I adore its rigid flexibility and the fine lines it leaves behind. When I hold it, it feels part of me, an extension of my hand. The belt surely smarts, but you're about to discover a new level of pain and learn why flagellation is called the 'English vice'.



The flight or fight response is strong. A cascade of hormones wash through your brain and your heart beats like a dreadful war drum in your chest. Everything in your body is telling you to resist, to flee, but the straps hold you to my bed. You cannot run, you cannot fight, all you can do is accept and wait.



You stay in position, knees apart, back beautifully curved, arse up. This is your defiance. You want to show me I can do my worst and you can take it. I gladly accept this challenge.



The cane whooshes through the air and lands across your cheeks with a thrilling report. The sting is instant and acute, causing you to shriek and a welt to form. Very little else is so arousing. My cock strains inside my underwear, eager to be liberated from its cotton prison.



It's so exhilarating, I'm shaking. I breathe deeply to compose myself before delivering the next glorious stroke. Five more follow the first. Every one bites into your flesh with unimagined intensity. Each triggers a rush of dopamine in me and the most exquisite tingling in my limbs, up my spine and across my scalp.



You manage to stay in place for all six cutting strikes, but finally relent. You drop your body down and try to roll your arse from the path of the evil instrument. I cannot allow this. I'm not finished with you.



Paying no attention to your weeping or discomfort, I reposition you flat. Your feet come up in an attempt to protect your wounded derrière, but I move them with little difficulty and hold them down with a foot of my own.



I swing the cane, again and again in rapid haste. All restraint has left me, overcome by Dionysian ritual madness as I thrash you. Your screams and howls, your desperate pleas for mercy are just fuel to my wild frenzy. As efficient as the gag is at muffling sound, these noises cannot be silenced. They emanate from deep within you, from your very core.



Lashes criss cross your buttocks. You can no longer discern them individually. Instead they meld into a stream of agony, searing your skin, as if branding you with a hot iron.



After what feels to you like hours, I blessedly cease my attack. My breathing is heavy and beads of sweat have formed on my forehead as have small droplets of blood from the broken skin on your blighted rear. The beating may have stopped, but the burning remains and you wail uncontrollably into the soft pillows.

