I’m staring at an inverted heart. A perfect peach. Ripe for the plucking. My husband’s bottom is small, firm, and round. His legs would make many a woman jealous and I wonder if any of his squash partners have ever commented on his smooth hairless limbs or the lack of pubic hair. Despite a taste for slinky lingerie he’s still a fit sexually active red-blooded male, not one of those prancing ninnies who desire nothing but cross-dressed humiliation and the chance to kiss Madame’s feet. Not that there’s anything wrong with that…. (Sissies!)
He’s aroused but apprehensive. Kneeling over a flogging trestle in tarty fishnets and red frilly knickers, hand behind his back, face in profile on the leather head rest. I like to see his reactions as he is punished. He’s aroused, already anxious to be inside me but he knows he must first face the ordeal of fire.
The chamber is lit with red candles, perfumed with rose oil and the twelve red roses he bought me are close at hand. I like to rub the thorns over his ruby red bottom as a final reminder of what happens to naughty boys. Our Valentine’s Day ritual always starts with him presenting me with a gift, this year a delicious black and red leather heart-shaped spanking paddle, which will soon tan his taut white rump as red as the surface of his thoughtful gift. Black and red, the colours of fetishism. Or should it be purple and black? Well, a careful Top shouldn’t leave bruises. Not after a slow gentle warm up. But I feel more like a pagan priestess today. I may have to be cruel to be kind. He is gagged, with a pair of my recently worn knickers. Every now and again I rub a finger inside my shaved pussy and dab the moisture under his nose. He groans, eager to snuff up my scent.
We have agreed that forgetting to research my Valentine’s Day lecture is a serious offence, heinous enough to merit a punishment spanking. I had been asked to address the London Ladies Munch. And I wasn’t expecting to chip my nail varnish surfing around the net scaring up information. That’s his job. As he well knows. Although the London Ladies wouldn’t want much of a lecture, as it gets in the way of champagne-fuelled gossip and the highly enjoyable character assassination of any ladies not present. I stand back and start to rehearse my speech.
“Some believe the Bible prohibits the symbol of the heart, since it is associated with the pagan observance of Valentine’s Day.”
Four hard smacks get my boy’s full attention. I take the paddle, press it to his lips. He kisses it, reverently, knowing it symbolizes my dominance over him.
“Others think the heart should be purified on this day. And some, including myself, believe the inverted heart represents a soundly smacked bottom,” I use the paddle to underline these words.
It’s harder than I thought to get a satisfying smacking sound from the leather implement. Maybe I need to swing it harder, lower down on the sweet spot. Well, we have plenty of time to practise. He wriggles and mewls all the same, always a pleasant sight and sound. But I want more. I have better luck with three hefty open-palmed smacks, which draw a muted protest.
“There’s no better way to purify the heart than to deal with its fleshy counterpart. Your impudent, little rump.” Three more very hard smacks elicit some twists and turns. Cuter than kittens at Christmas. His lean little bum is luscious, almost demanding you smack it. I stroke his hair, breathing over his face and into his mouth, rubbing my hand inside his slinky knickers to check he is rock hard. He moans harder as my finger tips brush over his anus. He is yearning to be penetrated, while fearful of which implement might enter his most secret place. Kissing him passionately I press a purple butt plug into his mouth. He sucks at it busily, my darling demonstrating just what an eager little tart he is. He will be needing that busy little tongue later when I am Queening him, rocking back and forth on his face. I take the plug, the width of three bunched fingers, lube him up and press it in his bottom. I pull his panties back up and give his rump a maternal pat. He’s squirming with pleasure as we kiss, slowly and lovingly, still hungry for each other after all this time.
When we started it was all about him. I was apparently privileged to watch a preening narcissist get in touch with his feminine side, a female persona whose appeal eluded me. While it was occasionally fun I could only see it as a waste of a perfectly manly man. While he would once have been thrilled to tart around in lingerie, imagining himself to be as alluring as his beautiful Mistress he is now all too aware that these pleasures must be paid for. I’m breathing deeply, drunk on power and wondering how far I can go this time.
Domme, do no harm. A simple mantra I recite whenever the spirit of vengeance threatens to claim me. It would be all too easy to tan his hide till the tears ran down his face, over the leather headrest and onto our thick dungeon carpet. (Note to self. Push his boundaries. Soon.) But today is about love.
“Valentine’s day didn’t used to be childishly sentimental – a cutesy, vomitous exchange of newspaper greetings and cards. “Ickle Susie loves her big Poppa Bear.” Hearts and chocolates. It used to be Roman women yearning to have their bare flesh whipped by strips of cow-hide.”
I abandon the paddle for my hand and soon hear a satisfying smack ring out. It sounds so good I give him two sets of six. I remove my panties from his mouth. I wish to hear his cries of distress as clearly as possible..
“Drunken lust-crazed maidens fighting each other for the honour of being flogged with leather whips. Pert white buttocks striped red, cries of initial outrage becoming urgent pleas for more. Heat from glowing bottoms spreading to nearby erogenous zones.”
The smacks ring out, colouring his bottom a darker red.
“Ow! Please! Mistress! Not so hard!”
“How else will you learn?”
He knows better than to argue.
“Romance!” I signal the change of subject with a hefty slap across both cheeks, then gently scratching the reddened surface with my fingernails. I run my hands up and down the insides of his legs, then tease his cock and balls. Slowly and carefully I peel the panties down, freeing his stiff manhood, which is yearning to be inside me. For which ultimate pleasure he will have to wait. I am as moist as he is hard. Were I not such a scrupulous avoider of the vulgar I would say we are both ‘gagging for it.’
“Romance is the only fetish sanctioned by society. The glue that keeps workers chained to their mortgages.”
I put my index finger to the base of the butt plug and wriggle it slowly, enjoying the look of pure dumb pleasure on his face. I keep up the finger fucking as I sift through my thoughts on Valentine’s Day.
“The original Valentine was a priest who married couples in secret after the Emperor Claudius made marriage illegal. I suppose that’s one way of bringing back the romance to these mutual slavery contracts. Make it illegal.”
I give him another two sets of six slaps. He’s finding it harder to stay in place.
“Keep still! Or I’ll cane you. And you wouldn’t want that, would you, my lad?”
Decorum is restored. If one can use that word of a man kneeling to offer up his bare bottom for punishment and penetration. I stroke his warmed flesh, keeping him yearning for my touch,
“Some anthropologists think two years is the limit for chemical attraction, for a union to last any longer each party must make an effort.”
Two more sets of six slaps and I can hear a whinier note in his voice. Good. I’m getting through to him.
“Perhaps female domination is the answer to marriages that have gone stale.
That’s female domination in the sexual sense as opposed to the usual henpecking. Women can be powerful and capricious while men can be as slutty as they like, becoming the sex slaves they were always designed to be.”
I pick up the paddle and start to cook his flesh, ignoring his pitiful protests.
“These cute little buns of yours are going to glow like red hot coals.” Three of the best and brightest accompany those words. I find the spot that gives the best whacking sound, although it’s still not as resonant as my hand. Keeping the whacks coming on the same spot has him moaning hard.
“Please, Mistress! Ow! Please…I can’t…OWWW!”
Time to give the little lamb a rest. That certainly is a most attractive shade of crimson.
I crouch down and slip my fingers into his mouth, watching the cute little slut suckle eagerly. .He’s still moaning, deep in his trance. Time to give his prostate another workout. I jiggle the butt plug up and down till he looks like the proverbial cat with the cream. I do spoil him. You should always spoil the one you love.
“For what are we without love? Heretics like Gore Vidal restrict themselves to casual sex, refusing to believe in Cupid’s darts.. Having said that, even the suave and sophisticated Mr Vidal spent his life with a platonic partner – probably just to have someone to tell him how great he was everyday. That’s writers for you. Almost as needy, and deluded, as the average X factor contestant.”
I pour some rose-scented water over his bottom, which will make him feel the remainder of his spanking more keenly. I settle into a steady rhythm of loud, hefty smacks, putting my arm around his waist as he starts trying to avoid the blows.
“Take your punishment, my boy. Or it’s the cane for you.”
Instant acquiescence. He is so well trained. I keep the spanks coming, opening his cheeks to get right into the crease, right on top of that butt plug he loves so much.
That brings soft sighs of pleasure. All very well but I take more pleasure from hearing his reaction to the next flurry of sharp smacks.
“To keep or rekindle the passion in a long term partnership try giving something which will become a fetish – ‘an object that is believed to have magical or spiritual powers’,”
Which is how I think of my canes come to think of it. I pick one up and swish it through the air.
Well, it’s a women’s privilege to change her mind. The pause lengthens, redolent with his fear and my passion.
“A fetish object can any reminder of shared passion – love letters, cinema tickets, cute little dildos, scented lubes. Knickers and stockings are perennial favourites but don’t let him keep too many intimate trophies. Or he’ll be straying into Hannibal Lecter territory.”
Just as he’s enjoying his little break I give him three quick hard swipes, as close together as I can manage. Which makes him howl.
I stroke it better or as better as a soundly spanked and beaten bum can be.
I kiss him on both cheeks before unleashing two hard strokes. His eyes screw up tightly as he tries not to whimper. The next stroke gets him right on top of his legs. He’ll feel that whenever he sits down for the next few days. Saving the best till last I step back and give him one from the shoulder. They’re harder to control but luckily it catches him right across the centre of his crimson cheeks. He yelps in pain, his hips swaying from side to side, his breathing now well out of control.
“Please! Mistress! No more!”
I look at his bottom, beaten deepest, darkest red, striped by the cane. He’s panting, on the verge of tears.
“Have you been thoroughly punished, my dear?”
“Yes, Mistress.” Ooh, it’s good to hear him gasping. On the verge of tears.
“You may rub your bottom.”
He grasps his burning cheeks and rubs furiously, his agonized face a perfect picture.
“On your back, boy!”
He lays himself down, grimacing as his well beaten bottom hits the carpet. As usual it has been vacuumed to within an inch of its life by my love. I hitch up my robe to mount his face, treasuring his deep groan of satisfaction. Which soon turn to a frenzied moaning as he licks and nuzzles me front and back. Very soon I’m floating off on clouds of pure pleasure. Eventually, having gorged myself to my heart’s content, I take him into my mouth. If I could talk I might finish off with this: “Valentine died in 269 AD. Which more or less commands you to wrap yourselves around your lover in a 69 position.” I pump his shaft as he gets close. I don’t swallow his hot, salty seed. But only because it’s one of the best anti-wrinkle creams Mother Nature has gifted us. I rub it around my eyes and forehead then cuddle my boy close. I wonder whether I’ll give the London Ladies the secrets of my special face pack. Maybe I’ll keep it to myself. They don’t deserve it. You can’t love everybody.
….as told to Mark Ramsden