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Sep. 21st, 2013 08:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
josephine_marrssummary/preview: There have been several nights when she has looked over to see that the dragon has completely melted away, with the only difference being that her torment has been lit by the grey light of dawn slowly coming, instead of the warm glow of the flame.
content notes: No standard notes apply.
They have been at this for an hour, now. The head of the dragon painted on the side of the clock-candle has been burned away and now is nothing but a collection of thin red and amber rivulets in the pewter dish underneath. It may mark the length of time that has passed, but it is no indicator of what the duration of things will be; there have been several nights when she has looked over to see that the dragon has completely melted away, with the only difference being that her torment has been lit by the grey light of dawn slowly coming, instead of the warm glow of the flame.
Her arms are bound to the headboard, wrists tied together with thin cords of soft flax. He’s gotten so good at tying the knots; they are things of beauty, the way that the cream-colored rope weaves and curls around her dark skin and is drawn up in a sinuous, inescapable package. He takes the same slow care when he’s winding the rope around the board, meticulous as ever. He likes for everything to look good, to be beautiful.
Her legs are not bound. It is her duty to hold them open, no matter what happens, no matter what he does. It is more of a challenge, sometimes, than it would seem to be. There have already been moments when, as the thin lashes of braided leather have crashed down on her labia, that she has hitched her knees toward each other, seeking respite from his pace. But, that’s not hers to dictate. And, every time she closes her legs, he waits for her to open them – granting, in a sense, that respite that she wants. Then, she must endure the lash on the inside of her thigh, or at the crux between her thigh and her sex, at the tender skin there. If she wants rest, she must pay for it; that’s the arrangement.
Now, he does stop, of his own volition. The sting of the blows melts into a hot throbbing in her thighs and her cunt-lips, as she waits. There is a small box on the table, by the candle, and he is taking something out of it. The candle sheds its warm glow on his face and makes his hair look as if it is made out of spun gold. His expression is neither hateful, nor cruel; merely determined, as if he were simply working out figures in his head. Somehow, it makes his actions seem all the more intense, because they are so deliberate.
She knows what the thing is. It is a beautiful thing, a tiny little clamp plated with gold, molded in the shape of a dragon’s head – complete with sharp little teeth in its jaws. It has two garnets for eyes, and along the scaly-looking plate that works as the fulcrum for the hinge, a small, diamond-shaped amethyst is set.
She knows where he’s going to put it, too, but that never lessens the sensation that comes. He leans between her spread legs and settles the tiny dragon’s fangs against the hood of her clit. He releases the hinge, and its jaws close, collecting the skin into a tight fold in its mouth. She gasps, and spreads her legs wide, and arches her hips, offering up her pussy, pushing forward the clit that is now exposed, unable to hide in its safe little fold of skin anymore. He lets her simply drink in the sensation and watches her rock her hips; she wonders if he can see the moisture trickling out of her cunt as she does it. It feels as if she’s runny with musk down there. It’s never the whipping that gets her so wet; that’s all for him. But that bite against her skin, and the very air seeming to press against her clit as it juts out…that’s what does it for her. Her toes curl in the sheets, her legs kept open, willingly now, offering the flesh that is tormented by the beautiful gold and jewels.
He lifts the candle, next, and tilts it over her. The fresh, wet wax drips down onto her clit and covers it, a parody of the safe enclosure that it has just been drawn from. He is careful with it, and it is not burning her; anywhere else, it would probably feel comfortably, soothingly hot. But there, on her clit, it falls like fiery needles. Her thighs tremble as she struggles to keep them open. Thankfully, it’s over in a moment; it just feels as if it’s taking forever. He takes his sweet time taking the candle back over to the table again. She wonders how it must look to him; her clit, encased in ridges and whorls of wax, with the flesh beneath it glistening and weeping with hot musk.
She has closed her eyes to try to imagine it. She is, therefore, surprised, when she feels the falls of his other whip thud down on her pussy. It’s not even a proper blow – he’s just draping the falls over her crotch, letting their own weight bring them down. It feels like some kind of strange, heavy hand with an infinite number of fingers slapping down between her legs. The pressure shoves down and kindles a warm trembling deep in her belly. The surprise of it makes her gasp again, and wriggle, and her movements make the thick bands of suede slip down between her folds and lick at her moisture with their dry, thirsty surfaces.
The nuzzling strands are drawn away, dragging little chunks of wax with them. Then the proper blows begin. Again, it is like some strange beast is slapping at her with a multitude of huge, flat fingers, from every side. Perhaps it is the strangeness of such a thought that makes her grow even wetter. She’s not allowed to dwell on such a fancy for very long, though; the blows grow harder, and harder, and harder – slowly, but surely. Soon, there is no room for fantasy, and she is living in the moment, unable to escape any aspect of it at all. The little dragon stays put – it always does – no matter how hard the whip comes down. The falls of the whip thud and slap at her lips and her clit, punching at her, over and over again. The buttery beeswax is long gone, reduced to tiny chunks, if not complete dust.
It doesn’t take long for her to start screaming, every time she feels the falls touch her clit. She’s always hated how sensitive it is, how the least touch feels sharp and painful to her; not just the careless or inexpert ones, but even a slow, careful fingertip…they all feel as if something blunt is being jabbed into her, there. She tries to endure it. She wants to hold out for him, as long as he cares to whip her; she knows that he loves to hurt her, knows that it’s making him hard to cause her pain, and she wants to please him…
…But there always comes a point where it’s too much. “Oh! Arthur!” She brings her legs up, still wanting to keep them open, but it’s so hard…curling up into herself seems to be the only alternative. The falls flick and lap and bite at her perineum. That’s a welcome change, for about three strokes, and then he manages to make them attack her whole crotch at once, slapping down so unbearably hard, on that tiny, jutting nub. “No more, Arthur, please! Please, please….” Her feet fall flat on the bed again and her hips writhe sideways, her body beseeching him.
The third ‘please’ is his cue to stop, and he does. He always does. She squeezes her brimming eyes shut with a mixture of gratitude and regret.
The bed creaks a little as he crawls up between her legs. His breath is hot on her clit, and it’s the first thing that has felt remotely nice on it. A second later, she feels his lips – not on the oversensitive nub, but beneath it, and his tongue is licking at its base. His fingers stroke alongside and then in her folds, carefully cleaning away the last of the candle’s detritus, massaging flesh made hot by the whipping. She sobs, and he takes the clip off, letting her clit enjoy its shroud again, and only then do his fingers touch her there, rubbing her through its fleshy little security blanket, polishing it between thumb and forefinger, ever so gently, as he tongues her slit. Her sobs of self-pity turn to exquisite pleasure; it explodes in her belly, washes out of her cunt in thick, hot waves of wetness to bathe his face.
He crawls atop her when she has finished cumming, and nuzzles her cheek. She can smell herself, and wrinkles her nose a bit. He laughs softly at that, and licks the tears from the corners of her eyes.
His cock slides into her, thick and hot and filling, gently rubbing the last itch out of her, deep inside, soothing them both. Her flesh feels bruised, but there will not be anything to mark the night of abuse between her legs when morning comes, except for a warm, dull ache deep in her flesh, and that will be gone by evening. He thrusts slowly inside of her, his movements as deliberate and controlled as always; when he is about to cum, he simply pushes up against her, a delicate sort of movement, and a low, shuddering groan comes from deep inside of him as he empties himself into her.
He kisses her chin, and slides out of her after a moment, with a low hiss. He settles up against her obliquely, wet heat resting against her hip as he twines a leg around hers. “Oh, my Gwen. My sweet, beautiful girl. My treasure.” He murmurs beautiful names for her against her cheek.
They curl in against each other, warm and pleased, and let the candle burn itself out, and the grey light of dawn creep in.
content notes: No standard notes apply.
They have been at this for an hour, now. The head of the dragon painted on the side of the clock-candle has been burned away and now is nothing but a collection of thin red and amber rivulets in the pewter dish underneath. It may mark the length of time that has passed, but it is no indicator of what the duration of things will be; there have been several nights when she has looked over to see that the dragon has completely melted away, with the only difference being that her torment has been lit by the grey light of dawn slowly coming, instead of the warm glow of the flame.
Her arms are bound to the headboard, wrists tied together with thin cords of soft flax. He’s gotten so good at tying the knots; they are things of beauty, the way that the cream-colored rope weaves and curls around her dark skin and is drawn up in a sinuous, inescapable package. He takes the same slow care when he’s winding the rope around the board, meticulous as ever. He likes for everything to look good, to be beautiful.
Her legs are not bound. It is her duty to hold them open, no matter what happens, no matter what he does. It is more of a challenge, sometimes, than it would seem to be. There have already been moments when, as the thin lashes of braided leather have crashed down on her labia, that she has hitched her knees toward each other, seeking respite from his pace. But, that’s not hers to dictate. And, every time she closes her legs, he waits for her to open them – granting, in a sense, that respite that she wants. Then, she must endure the lash on the inside of her thigh, or at the crux between her thigh and her sex, at the tender skin there. If she wants rest, she must pay for it; that’s the arrangement.
Now, he does stop, of his own volition. The sting of the blows melts into a hot throbbing in her thighs and her cunt-lips, as she waits. There is a small box on the table, by the candle, and he is taking something out of it. The candle sheds its warm glow on his face and makes his hair look as if it is made out of spun gold. His expression is neither hateful, nor cruel; merely determined, as if he were simply working out figures in his head. Somehow, it makes his actions seem all the more intense, because they are so deliberate.
She knows what the thing is. It is a beautiful thing, a tiny little clamp plated with gold, molded in the shape of a dragon’s head – complete with sharp little teeth in its jaws. It has two garnets for eyes, and along the scaly-looking plate that works as the fulcrum for the hinge, a small, diamond-shaped amethyst is set.
She knows where he’s going to put it, too, but that never lessens the sensation that comes. He leans between her spread legs and settles the tiny dragon’s fangs against the hood of her clit. He releases the hinge, and its jaws close, collecting the skin into a tight fold in its mouth. She gasps, and spreads her legs wide, and arches her hips, offering up her pussy, pushing forward the clit that is now exposed, unable to hide in its safe little fold of skin anymore. He lets her simply drink in the sensation and watches her rock her hips; she wonders if he can see the moisture trickling out of her cunt as she does it. It feels as if she’s runny with musk down there. It’s never the whipping that gets her so wet; that’s all for him. But that bite against her skin, and the very air seeming to press against her clit as it juts out…that’s what does it for her. Her toes curl in the sheets, her legs kept open, willingly now, offering the flesh that is tormented by the beautiful gold and jewels.
He lifts the candle, next, and tilts it over her. The fresh, wet wax drips down onto her clit and covers it, a parody of the safe enclosure that it has just been drawn from. He is careful with it, and it is not burning her; anywhere else, it would probably feel comfortably, soothingly hot. But there, on her clit, it falls like fiery needles. Her thighs tremble as she struggles to keep them open. Thankfully, it’s over in a moment; it just feels as if it’s taking forever. He takes his sweet time taking the candle back over to the table again. She wonders how it must look to him; her clit, encased in ridges and whorls of wax, with the flesh beneath it glistening and weeping with hot musk.
She has closed her eyes to try to imagine it. She is, therefore, surprised, when she feels the falls of his other whip thud down on her pussy. It’s not even a proper blow – he’s just draping the falls over her crotch, letting their own weight bring them down. It feels like some kind of strange, heavy hand with an infinite number of fingers slapping down between her legs. The pressure shoves down and kindles a warm trembling deep in her belly. The surprise of it makes her gasp again, and wriggle, and her movements make the thick bands of suede slip down between her folds and lick at her moisture with their dry, thirsty surfaces.
The nuzzling strands are drawn away, dragging little chunks of wax with them. Then the proper blows begin. Again, it is like some strange beast is slapping at her with a multitude of huge, flat fingers, from every side. Perhaps it is the strangeness of such a thought that makes her grow even wetter. She’s not allowed to dwell on such a fancy for very long, though; the blows grow harder, and harder, and harder – slowly, but surely. Soon, there is no room for fantasy, and she is living in the moment, unable to escape any aspect of it at all. The little dragon stays put – it always does – no matter how hard the whip comes down. The falls of the whip thud and slap at her lips and her clit, punching at her, over and over again. The buttery beeswax is long gone, reduced to tiny chunks, if not complete dust.
It doesn’t take long for her to start screaming, every time she feels the falls touch her clit. She’s always hated how sensitive it is, how the least touch feels sharp and painful to her; not just the careless or inexpert ones, but even a slow, careful fingertip…they all feel as if something blunt is being jabbed into her, there. She tries to endure it. She wants to hold out for him, as long as he cares to whip her; she knows that he loves to hurt her, knows that it’s making him hard to cause her pain, and she wants to please him…
…But there always comes a point where it’s too much. “Oh! Arthur!” She brings her legs up, still wanting to keep them open, but it’s so hard…curling up into herself seems to be the only alternative. The falls flick and lap and bite at her perineum. That’s a welcome change, for about three strokes, and then he manages to make them attack her whole crotch at once, slapping down so unbearably hard, on that tiny, jutting nub. “No more, Arthur, please! Please, please….” Her feet fall flat on the bed again and her hips writhe sideways, her body beseeching him.
The third ‘please’ is his cue to stop, and he does. He always does. She squeezes her brimming eyes shut with a mixture of gratitude and regret.
The bed creaks a little as he crawls up between her legs. His breath is hot on her clit, and it’s the first thing that has felt remotely nice on it. A second later, she feels his lips – not on the oversensitive nub, but beneath it, and his tongue is licking at its base. His fingers stroke alongside and then in her folds, carefully cleaning away the last of the candle’s detritus, massaging flesh made hot by the whipping. She sobs, and he takes the clip off, letting her clit enjoy its shroud again, and only then do his fingers touch her there, rubbing her through its fleshy little security blanket, polishing it between thumb and forefinger, ever so gently, as he tongues her slit. Her sobs of self-pity turn to exquisite pleasure; it explodes in her belly, washes out of her cunt in thick, hot waves of wetness to bathe his face.
He crawls atop her when she has finished cumming, and nuzzles her cheek. She can smell herself, and wrinkles her nose a bit. He laughs softly at that, and licks the tears from the corners of her eyes.
His cock slides into her, thick and hot and filling, gently rubbing the last itch out of her, deep inside, soothing them both. Her flesh feels bruised, but there will not be anything to mark the night of abuse between her legs when morning comes, except for a warm, dull ache deep in her flesh, and that will be gone by evening. He thrusts slowly inside of her, his movements as deliberate and controlled as always; when he is about to cum, he simply pushes up against her, a delicate sort of movement, and a low, shuddering groan comes from deep inside of him as he empties himself into her.
He kisses her chin, and slides out of her after a moment, with a low hiss. He settles up against her obliquely, wet heat resting against her hip as he twines a leg around hers. “Oh, my Gwen. My sweet, beautiful girl. My treasure.” He murmurs beautiful names for her against her cheek.
They curl in against each other, warm and pleased, and let the candle burn itself out, and the grey light of dawn creep in.