Wanton Weekend

On a bright Saturday morning, Kirsty enjoys a leisurely shower while waiting for her man to arrive. Dabs on the perfume he likes and appraises her reflection in the mirror. Amid stirrings of desire, she's apprehensive, a mix of trepidation and good old-fashioned lust. Kirsty hears the key in the lock and footfalls across the hall.

"Our relationship will be one of consensual coercion," he'd explained at the beginning. A silver fox, charming, amusing, and intelligent companion who orchestrates their erotic rendezvouses with consummate authority and the unspoken assumption she'd do his bidding.

"But I don't know your name, "Kirsty had protested.

"No, you don't," he'd agreed with annoying equanimity.

"You know mine," she'd continued fruitlessly.

"Quite so, if it becomes important, I'll tell you."

"Important to whom?"

"Me, obviously."

The only clue was a glimpse of a credit card, Doctor... Of what, medicine, divinity, letters? Initially, Kirsty found his confident instructions constraining, yet here lay the paradox, strangely reassuring. Far from surrender being a problem, his autocratic direction offered the perfect way to realise her fantasies; left to her own devices she'd never have summoned the nerve.

"I'm here," announces a resolute, unruffled male voice. Preparations complete, Kirsty walks downstairs to meet her visitor. Dignified and composed, a loosely fastened silk gown failing to conceal her curves, moving with fashion model-like grace and elegance as he indulges the voyeuristic pleasure of perusing every inch of her body.

As Kirsty had anticipated, he gets straight to business, reaches out and tips her unresisting, across his lap. Had he not done so her disappointment would have far outweighed any feeling of relief. Methodically he spanks her, initially over her knickers and then, tugging the diaphanous nylon up into her bottom cleft, on trembling bare skin which quickly turns a fetching rose-pink. Breathe quickening, a series of involuntary cries escape Kirsty's lips. Between chastening applications of his palm, her master allows interludes of respite. His hands delicately stroke and soothe the hot fullness of her buttocks, teasing and exploring the moistening gap between her legs. Holding her waist firmly, ignoring pleads for clemency, he then resumes spanking her backside to a glowing crimson.

Squirming across his knee, Kirsty knows better than to attempt escape and grips the sofa cushions - kicking her feet while her bottom burns and stings. Carnality courses through her loins and Kirsty grinds against the muscles of his thighs to heighten the sensation.

Once the alternating pattern of chastisement and caresses has been repeated several times he halts, and Kirsty's knickers are drawn down to her knees. She meekly lets him spread her buttocks and open her thighs, yelping in shock as something hard, smooth and spherical is insinuated deep into her vagina, a second object follows.

"Japanese love balls," he explains. "The more you wriggle the more they'll stimulate you from within." He resumes the spanking; five minutes pass in a blur, Kirsty's arousal increases and with it her capacity to endure the pain. Any movement on her part sets the two balls in motion, sending waves of pleasure pulsing through her body.

"Sit up," he orders suddenly.

"Why?" Kirsty enquires instinctively, instantly regretting the perceived insolence of her question as her legs are peppered with a volley of stinging slaps.

"You don't learn very quickly," he observes crossly, lifting Kirsty into a sitting position, knickers around her knees. Her lover tips Kirsty unceremoniously backwards. Fully exposed, legs up and apart, she's powerless to protest when he tugs the cord linking the two love balls, creating electric jolts of excitement throughout her erogenous zones. Laconically he manipulates her clitoris with his thumb while a finger teases her tightly puckered anus. Panting heavily, dignity surrendered and horny as hell, she begs for release. "Please let me come."

"When I'm ready," he replies, unflustered, still neatly attired in contrast to her dishevelment. Lifting Kirsty unsteadily to her feet, the older man approvingly inspects her heat-radiating orbs. Grasping her hair, he kisses her long and hard, Kirsty responding vigorously, pushing her tongue deep into his mouth. He opens her gown to reveal prominent pink nipples, erect and available, twisting and tormenting them, making Kirsty gasp and groan. She instinctively reaches for his swollen cock, wrapping her fingers around the shaft and guiding it toward her glistening pussy.

"Not yet," he cautions and slaps the underside of her exposed breasts, sardonically amused as they quiver with each cruel impact. Her sticky sex glistens, Kirsty's traitorous libido revealing her readiness for penetration.

Overtly challenging the last taboo, he softly spanks her pussy and then fingers her now stinging vulva, hard and fast. Desperate to climax Kirsty is yet again denied; edged to the brink, but no further.

"Get dressed, we're going out now," he announces shortly. Kirsty sulkily obeys, and within minutes is sitting in his car with no idea of their destination. Desperately frustrated, she wonders what else she must endure today.

"Kirsty."

Shaking her head, she struggles to focus on the present.

"Sorry," the gorgeous young woman replies automatically.

"I said," he repeats, smiling enigmatically, "we're going for a woodland walk, you won't be requiring your knickers, please hand them to me." Kirsty blushes vividly, and after minutes of furtive fumbling, twisting and turning, during which an adjacent van driver is treated to an intimate flash, manages to inch the black lacy panties over her ankles and submissively pass them to him.

"Thank you," he laughs, "I enjoyed watching that." They pull into a picturesque car park. Fortunately, the woods seem deserted, save for a solitary dog-walker several hundred metres away. Kirsty winces as he squeezes each naked buttock through her skirt.

"Ow, don't you think my poor bottom has suffered enough?"

"I'll take that as a rhetorical question," he answers, grasping her elbow and departing from the sunny main path to a darker, less well-used track. "They've planted some saplings in this section," he continues," just the thing for my experiment." Stopping, he examines a thin, supple branch. "A definite possibility," her man muses, reaching into his pocket for a penknife and cutting a metre-long wand. Deftly stripping off the leaves to leave a pliant switch. Kirsty shivers as the whippy rod whistles through the air. "This is ash, there's hazel and birch over there. The experiment being, which is the better to thrash you with?"

"So, we take them home and..."

"Not quite," he smiles. "We'll try each in situ - alfresco."

"Here, in public? People might see."

"True, adds to the spice, doesn't it?" he interrupts. "Now bend over and touch your toes, my dear." Kirsty obediently bends, gasping as her skirt is lifted.

"Oh no!" The first searing cut delivers a line of pain quite unlike either the cane or crop, both of which she is intimately acquainted with. She rocks, gripping her ankles for support as another equally agonising stroke follows.

"Ow!" Kirsty wails.

"Shush, have some consideration," he chides. "People come here for quiet. Still, I see what you mean, that did make a livid mark. Two strokes will suffice for the moment."

He strides ahead leaving Kirsty to stagger stiffly after him, rubbing her burning bum. The hazel is even worse. Two more cuts etched into her overheated bottom, leaving Kirsty with tears in her eyes and a woebegone expression.

"Just the birch to follow," he announces breezily. Fortunately, he's skilful enough not to overlap the final two strokes across earlier wheals. Equally luckily, Kirsty catches a glimpse of movement and manages to stifle her cry of distress into a cough, lurching upright as an elderly woman appears, walking what seems to be a rat on stilts.

"Good morning," the Doctor hails her affably, stick in hand.

"And to you," replies the woman warily, giving Kirsty an enquiring look as she passes.

"It hurts,' whispers Kirsty, "even walking is sore."

"Yes, a tad more severe than I'd expected," the man is unapologetic. "The question being which to choose, any preference? The birch spreads its favours too widely," he continues, ignoring her petulant silence, "whereas the hazel cuts cruelly. Best stick with the ash." He might, thinks Kirsty, be debating an academic matter for all the consoling she's receiving. Whatever next, she wonders as they walk back to the car. Sadly, not the sexual release she craves, delayed until her return home and the self-help attentions of her favourite vibrator.

On Sunday afternoon Kirsty is summoned to join him on another car journey. Sir arrives promptly outside her flat, nodding approval as Kirsty walks carefully to the car in unaccustomed high heels.

"Hop in," he says by way of welcome, the mere sound of his voice sufficient to send a shiver of pleasure down Kirsty's spine. Despite trying to enter the car decorously, when she swings in her legs Kirsty's tightly belted raincoat parts to reveal a momentary glimpse of pale stockings, taut suspenders, and a depilated pussy, beautiful breasts braless beneath a silk chemise.

"You look enchanting," he says and Kirsty glows at the compliment. Fleetingly he lays a proprietorial hand on her thigh before, to Kirsty's regret, moving it to shift the car into gear. "It seems discipline has improved your demeanour; today we'll sample other delights, however, I intend to test your obedience to the limit. By the way, henceforth you may call me James."

Feeling as if she has passed some sort of test, Kirsty is on an emotional edge. Schooled in obedience it doesn't occur to her to question or ignore his instructions. Half an hour later James swings into a tree-lined drive and halts in front of a country house. Striding around to the passenger side he helps Kirsty out of the car.

"Come on in," James gestures, leading her meekly inside the echoing entrance hall, through an oak door in a far corner and down a spiral staircase to what was once a cellar, now transformed into a modern-day adult playroom.

"We have the uninterrupted use of these facilities," James answers her unvoiced question. "As you can see, fully equipped." This proves something of an understatement: ceiling and floor rings for securing hands and feet, vaulting horse with ankle and wrist restraints, massive bed, footstools, and bolsters to accommodate any imaginable activity. A capacious wardrobe contains rows of neatly hung costumes. "All the clichés; maid, nurse, air hostess... lots of leather," clearly at ease with the surroundings, James opens a wooden chest and Kirsty peers inside. Her blood races at the sight of neatly arranged straps, crops, martinets, whips and paddles. Canes of varying size and thickness, plus a bundle of birch twigs - not something she cares to suffer again. "You're not saying much," he prompts.

"You hinted at something special, but this is intimidating, Kirsty gasps feeling out of her depth"

"No need to fret, I don't intend to tie you to every piece of apparatus, nor beat you with every implement," James explains. "You're free to leave at any time, or you might choose to stay." Up until this moment, Kirsty's heart has been beating furiously, fuelled by adrenalin and anxiety, bewildering emotions now replaced by a feeling of calm certainty. No need to debate her decision; she need only remain in the moment.

"I want to stay," she states plainly.

"Wonderful," his pleasure is evident. James slides the raincoat from Kirsty's shoulders and leads her to the centre of the floor, where two loops of soft rope hang from hooks in the ceiling.

"Reach up," he commands, binding each wrist until she's stretched aloft, allowing the cords to take just a little of her weight, bound and helpless. Standing behind her he slides a hand up each stockinged leg, nudging her feet outwards to bind each ankle to rings in the floor. Delicately James lifts the chemise to bare her breasts, deft tweaking her nipples, which stiffen in response. Kirsty sways on her high heels, arching her body, pushing her buttocks towards his insistent erection, he can smell the scent of her arousal. As if from the perspective of a spectator, she hears herself utter a groan of pure animal lust.

"Bad girl," counters a stern voice. "Have you any idea what a lewd exhibition you're making?" James blindfolds her with a length of black silk. She stiffens, then shouts in shock as his hand repeatedly slaps her bare buttocks. Heat quickly builds and her bottom throbs, until gradually the sensation becomes a glowing warmth. Kirsty senses him kneeling, her sex oozes with expectation, and this time it isn't neglected. James crouches to grasp her hips and lap at her damp pubic mound. Minutes pass blissfully, she groans delightedly, lewdly pushing forward as his probing tongue circles her engorged clitoris, pushing rudely between her labia, adeptly teasing the soft folds. Kirsty moans and implores, desperately seeking a long-denied climax. Then suddenly he's gone, leaving her aching and empty. She struggles powerlessly against her bonds.

"You aren't permitted to move," he admonishes her coldly.

"How could I not, with you tonguing me?" Her words hang in the air, affording her ample time to regret them. Kirsty hears a faint rustling sound; every muscle of her body tightens as she waits, tense with apprehension. A riding crop impacts her right buttock delivering three perfectly horizontal strokes. Kirsty's firm flesh quivers as each indents her flawless skin, immediately followed by three similar impacts to the other cheek.

Mercifully James halts, enabling Kirsty to catch her breath. Next, the tip of the crop flicks the underside of her sex-swollen breasts. She cries out, twisting on the rope.

Then silence, darkness; breasts and buttocks stinging madly. The chastising crop revisits her hindquarters. He's certainly laying it on hard. Time ceases to have meaning, James might and perhaps will continue indefinitely. Kirsty has no protection other than an abiding trust in his awareness of her limits. Her hips jerk and weave in a frantic dance.

"Please," Kirsty begs, glistening tears running from beneath the blindfold, heels tap-dancing a staccato protest, visibly turned on despite the livid red lines marking her legs and buttocks. James frees her ankles, unties Kirsty's wrists and makes her squat. Holding her hair, he insinuates his cock between rouged lips, urging her to accommodate him in her warm mouth. Anxious to please, she expertly works his erection, head bobbing, licking and sucking, sensations so exquisite it's all James can do to hold back from coming. Kirsty's jaws are aching when James eventually lifts her upright and propels her across the room to kneel obediently, head down and buttocks raised on the bed, labia gaping in implicit invitation. Renouncing foreplay, her chosen master decisively enters her pussy from behind, sinking the full length of his member into Kirsty's velvet slot. After only a few of James' vigorous thrusts, the experience of being taken in such an assertive manner tips Kirsty into a long-awaited and very noisy orgasm.

Somehow, he manages to hold back and pushes her face down on the bed. Dazed by the intensity of his domination she can only whimper helplessly as a probing finger smears lubricant around her rosebud, preparing the small opening for something of greater girth. As Jame's cock slowly enters her tight rear passage, Kirsty surrenders to the inevitable. "OMG, you're fucking my bottom! It's wonderful," she gasps, "please don't stop, come in me."

They enter a detached realm of the senses, simultaneously present yet floating out of their bodies. Fully embedded, unable to hold out a second longer James cries out and comes, the catalyst to Kirsty's second orgasmic release, squirting uninhibitedly in the throes of climax, love juices mingling with James's sperm leaking from her hitherto virgin arse.

Later, flushed and dreamy, Kirsty sips red wine; her lower body stiff from the aftermath of his attentions, orifices sore from the consummation of their passion, she'll have marks for days. She smiles conspiratorially, recalling the reason for this blissfully satiated state.

"What are you thinking?" James enquires.

"About our wicked weekend," Kirsty replies wistfully. "I suppose it's back to real life now," she adds, voice tinged with regret.

"Plenty of opportunity for future debauchery," answers James, "if that's what you wish?"

"More than anything."

The next day at work, Kirsty gingerly slides behind her desk, bottom still tender beneath her skirt.

"Get up to anything exciting at the weekend?" enquires a colleague.

"You'd be surprised," replies Kirsty, contentedly.