KindredFlame
Lustful Libertine
- Joined
- Jan 27, 2019
- Posts
- 593
The heavy, iron-bound door clanged shut, a final, definitive sound swallowed instantly by the plush, padded walls. Emily, petite and trembling slightly despite herself, stood in the center of Samantha's private play space – a room designed for singular purpose, radiating an oppressive, sensual aura. Overhead, a single, focused spotlight cut through the gloom, illuminating a wide, black leather horse, its back arced seductively, its stirrups and restraints glistening under the artificial light. Ropes hung from ceiling hooks, toys of every description lay arrayed on velvet-lined tables, and the air itself seemed thick with unspoken desires and anticipated sensations.
Samantha, a woman of forty whose presence filled the room like a tangible force, watched Emily with a discerning, almost clinical gaze. Her lips, usually set in a firm line, softened with a hint of cruel amusement. "Ready, little bird?" she purred, her voice a low thrum that vibrated through the silent room.
Emily swallowed, her breath catching. "Yes, Mistress."
Just then, a side door opened, and Billy Sarks glided in. Barely nineteen, with eyes that held an unnerving depth for his age, he moved with a fluid grace that spoke of practiced intent. His hands, long-fingered and surprisingly delicate, were notorious for their ability to calibrate pain with unsettling precision. He carried a paddle carved from dark, polished wood, its surface smooth and inviting, yet promising wicked sting.
Samantha gestured to the leather horse. "Emily, position yourself."
With a shaky breath, Emily obeyed. She climbed onto the apparatus, her slim body adapting to its curves. Samantha adjusted the stirrups, pulling Emily’s legs wide, exposing her completely. Her hips were arched, her back pressed against the saddle, leaving her vulnerable. Then, Samantha secured the wrist and ankle cuffs, ensuring there was no escape, no evasion. Emily's pussy, already slick with nervous anticipation and arousal, was now thrust upwards, a perfect target.
Samantha stepped back, her gaze lingering on Emily's exposed flesh before she looked at Billy. "Tonight, she needs to feel it. Every inch of that tender skin. No mercy, Billy. But make it art."
Billy nodded, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. He ran a thumb over the paddle's edge, a silent promise of the agony and ecstasy to come. He approached Emily, his movements deliberate, unhurried. He knelt by her side, his dark eyes meeting hers for a fleeting moment – a silent acknowledgment of the ritual about to unfold.
He started gently, a feather-light touch of the paddle against her inner thigh, just a warning. Emily gasped, her body tensing. Then came the first strike. Not hard, not brutal, but sharp, distinct, a thwack that echoed only within Emily's own skull. Her pussy jumped, clenching instinctively.
Billy watched her reaction, learning her rhythms. His next strike was firmer, landing directly on her labia. A cry tore from Emily's throat, quickly stifled by the gag Samantha had anticipated and placed between her teeth. Tears welled in Emily's eyes, not from unbearable pain, but from the shock, the vulnerability, the absolute surrender.
The paddle whistled through the air, finding its mark again and again. Each strike was carefully placed, sometimes on the outer folds, sometimes against the clitoris, then sweeping across the delicate skin of the inner labia. The dark wood left angry red welts, blooming across her flesh like brutal petals. Emily bucked against her restraints, her hips thrashing, but the horse held her fast. The soundproofing swallowed her muffled screams, leaving only the sharp crack of paddle against flesh, the ragged gasps of her breath, and the low, guttural moans that escaped the gag.
Samantha watched, her expression unreadable, a silent conductor of this symphony of pain. She took a slow sip from a crystal glass, the clinking of ice the only other sound besides Billy's work.
Just an idea.
Billy was relentless, yet precise. He wasn't simply hitting; he was sculpting sensations. The initial sting gave way to a throbbing ache, then a burning heat that spread through Emily’s core. She was crying, gasping, her body a canvas of crimson and white, her mind unraveling with each strike. But beneath the agony, something else began to stir – a dark, forbidden pleasure, born from the absolute loss of control, from the intensity of being so utterly dominated and experienced. Her pussy, though bruised and tender, began to pulse with a desperate, burgeoning arousal.
With each crack of the paddle, her orgasm felt closer, a dark wave threatening to break over her. Billy, sensing the shift, increased the pace, his strikes becoming a rapid-fire assault. Emily’s body convulsed, her feet arching in the stirrups, her hips bucking with a primal, animalistic rhythm. The pain was exquisite, pushing her to the very edge, then pulling her back, only to drive her closer again.
Finally, with a last, searing strike that seemed to split her open, Emily shattered. A scream tore through her gag, her entire body rigid, then slack, as wave after wave of shuddering, agonizing pleasure wracked her. Her bruised pussy seized, contracting violently, releasing. Her insides felt liquid, her mind blank, save for the echoes of the paddle and the lingering burn.
Billy stepped back, his paddle held by his side, its dark wood now glistening slightly. He looked at Emily, still trembling and spent, sprawled on the rack, her pussy swollen and vividly red, a testament to his art. He gave a slight, satisfied nod.
Samantha lowered her glass. "Well done, Billy," she murmured, her voice silk-smooth. Then, her gaze returned to Emily, a dark possessiveness in her eyes. "Now, little bird," she whispered, leaning in close, "let’s see how much more you can take." The silence of the soundproof room stretched, heavy with the promise of more to come.
Samantha, a woman of forty whose presence filled the room like a tangible force, watched Emily with a discerning, almost clinical gaze. Her lips, usually set in a firm line, softened with a hint of cruel amusement. "Ready, little bird?" she purred, her voice a low thrum that vibrated through the silent room.
Emily swallowed, her breath catching. "Yes, Mistress."
Just then, a side door opened, and Billy Sarks glided in. Barely nineteen, with eyes that held an unnerving depth for his age, he moved with a fluid grace that spoke of practiced intent. His hands, long-fingered and surprisingly delicate, were notorious for their ability to calibrate pain with unsettling precision. He carried a paddle carved from dark, polished wood, its surface smooth and inviting, yet promising wicked sting.
Samantha gestured to the leather horse. "Emily, position yourself."
With a shaky breath, Emily obeyed. She climbed onto the apparatus, her slim body adapting to its curves. Samantha adjusted the stirrups, pulling Emily’s legs wide, exposing her completely. Her hips were arched, her back pressed against the saddle, leaving her vulnerable. Then, Samantha secured the wrist and ankle cuffs, ensuring there was no escape, no evasion. Emily's pussy, already slick with nervous anticipation and arousal, was now thrust upwards, a perfect target.
Samantha stepped back, her gaze lingering on Emily's exposed flesh before she looked at Billy. "Tonight, she needs to feel it. Every inch of that tender skin. No mercy, Billy. But make it art."
Billy nodded, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. He ran a thumb over the paddle's edge, a silent promise of the agony and ecstasy to come. He approached Emily, his movements deliberate, unhurried. He knelt by her side, his dark eyes meeting hers for a fleeting moment – a silent acknowledgment of the ritual about to unfold.
He started gently, a feather-light touch of the paddle against her inner thigh, just a warning. Emily gasped, her body tensing. Then came the first strike. Not hard, not brutal, but sharp, distinct, a thwack that echoed only within Emily's own skull. Her pussy jumped, clenching instinctively.
Billy watched her reaction, learning her rhythms. His next strike was firmer, landing directly on her labia. A cry tore from Emily's throat, quickly stifled by the gag Samantha had anticipated and placed between her teeth. Tears welled in Emily's eyes, not from unbearable pain, but from the shock, the vulnerability, the absolute surrender.
The paddle whistled through the air, finding its mark again and again. Each strike was carefully placed, sometimes on the outer folds, sometimes against the clitoris, then sweeping across the delicate skin of the inner labia. The dark wood left angry red welts, blooming across her flesh like brutal petals. Emily bucked against her restraints, her hips thrashing, but the horse held her fast. The soundproofing swallowed her muffled screams, leaving only the sharp crack of paddle against flesh, the ragged gasps of her breath, and the low, guttural moans that escaped the gag.
Samantha watched, her expression unreadable, a silent conductor of this symphony of pain. She took a slow sip from a crystal glass, the clinking of ice the only other sound besides Billy's work.
Just an idea.
Billy was relentless, yet precise. He wasn't simply hitting; he was sculpting sensations. The initial sting gave way to a throbbing ache, then a burning heat that spread through Emily’s core. She was crying, gasping, her body a canvas of crimson and white, her mind unraveling with each strike. But beneath the agony, something else began to stir – a dark, forbidden pleasure, born from the absolute loss of control, from the intensity of being so utterly dominated and experienced. Her pussy, though bruised and tender, began to pulse with a desperate, burgeoning arousal.
With each crack of the paddle, her orgasm felt closer, a dark wave threatening to break over her. Billy, sensing the shift, increased the pace, his strikes becoming a rapid-fire assault. Emily’s body convulsed, her feet arching in the stirrups, her hips bucking with a primal, animalistic rhythm. The pain was exquisite, pushing her to the very edge, then pulling her back, only to drive her closer again.
Finally, with a last, searing strike that seemed to split her open, Emily shattered. A scream tore through her gag, her entire body rigid, then slack, as wave after wave of shuddering, agonizing pleasure wracked her. Her bruised pussy seized, contracting violently, releasing. Her insides felt liquid, her mind blank, save for the echoes of the paddle and the lingering burn.
Billy stepped back, his paddle held by his side, its dark wood now glistening slightly. He looked at Emily, still trembling and spent, sprawled on the rack, her pussy swollen and vividly red, a testament to his art. He gave a slight, satisfied nod.
Samantha lowered her glass. "Well done, Billy," she murmured, her voice silk-smooth. Then, her gaze returned to Emily, a dark possessiveness in her eyes. "Now, little bird," she whispered, leaning in close, "let’s see how much more you can take." The silence of the soundproof room stretched, heavy with the promise of more to come.
