Toys, Toys and More Toys

Literotic asexstories – Toys, Toys and More Toys by yummymeusli,yummymeusli
We all love toys. Men love toys, women love toys, children love toys… we all love toys. As we women get older our toys seem to be bedside drawer, or under the pillow based but as the male of the species progresses their toys get bigger and bigger and they cost more and more and yet more and certainly won’t fit into a bedside drawer or under a pillow. With my husband it started with steam. No, not a kettle chugging away in the corner but a full blown miniature steam engine that, when running, would power polishing discs and grinding wheels, hammers that went up and down and, joy of joys (yawn), a whistle.

To be fair, at various parties if he fired it up and got everything running like clockwork a small crowd would gather round the table, their mouths wide open and dribbling with jealousy. But they were exclusively the men in the house. We women were talking about our children, whether we wanted to move, where we were going on holiday – nothing as important as the chaps whose utterances would be along the lines of ‘we used to have one of those’ and ‘my dad had one’. You get the idea.

Of course as time marched on and dust gathered all over the Mammod and it eventually made its way into the attic it was replaced by a classic car. An MGB Roadster. British racing green, brown leather interior, coffee coloured mohair hood and, of course, wire wheels. Then there was the garage to house it. Things had already got slightly out of hand until one day and, totally out of the ether came the breakfast table statement “I’m thinking of buying a tractor.”

We have a few acres surrounding our house and for thirty years we’d managed perfectly well with a little 42 inch cut Wheel Horse ride-on mower.

I did my best but before three sunrises had passed I found myself being bundled into the car and driven twenty or so miles to a place in the country where there were rows of ‘compact’ tractors. None new but all very nice and practical. And there standing in front of a wooden stable block stood Harry.

Ah, Harry. Six feet three inches tall. Typical Englishman with his immaculate overalls, peaked cap and a slightly rough edge to his aristocratic bearing. As though fiddling with the tools of the ‘trade’ had rubbed off on him and he was now operating at a more ‘human’ level. Lucky (rich) people have houses on top of a hill, facing south with beautiful views over uninterrupted fields with the occasional cow grazing leisurely in the dappled sunlight. Harry’s house stood nearby in just such a position. He was one of life’s fortunate ones.

My husband took the tractor he was interested in buying off around the paddock, testing all the gears, the hydraulics and so on. In all it took no more than ten minutes but even as he was driving off Harry stared at my short (ish) skirted legs. I went beetroot but he chirped up.

“I like women in short skirts…” he paused, then added “especially when they’ve got the legs to carry it off.” I wasn’t wearing a mini-skirt but it was short enough to demand care when bending over.

“Right.” was about all I could manage.

“You carry it off well.”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you, for brightening my day, giving me something even better than the countryside to feast on.”

“Gosh.”

“You see I think women that wear short skirts are making a statement.”

“What sort of statement?”

“Now that, my darling, would be telling – and I’m not sure I know you well enough to do that” another pause then added “yet.”

I think I must have gulped or made some sort of noise. “Hope I’m not offending you.”

“No. No, not at all.” He wasn’t offending me in the slightest but I was suddenly looking at him in a completely new light.

Long story short: they haggled, they bargained, they talked money, delivery, dates, times and so on, then they shook hands and the deal was done.

Two days later and, without my prior knowledge, Harry and tractor arrived. My husband drove it around the property, checking everything was as expected. Harry piped up once more, this time in a more darkly, deep voiced, mysterious way..

“Shame.” It was just one word but I knew what it was about..

“I didn’t know you were delivering it today, otherwise…” My voice trailed off as I realised where I was heading but it didn’t matter because he finished my sentence.

“…You would have worn a short skirt and not jeans.” I was slightly taken aback and my voice almost failed.

“Yes.” My husband slowed the tractor up as he came towards us. I was staring up into Harry’s eyes and my husband’s enigmatic smile gave his thoughts away ‘I know what’s going on’. At that stage though, I’m not sure I did.

Two days later with my husband at meetings in London I got a text message from him:

Darling

Harry forgot to bring the service history, instruction manual and other bits of paper for the tractor, plus the standard toolkit that should have come with it.

Would you mind collecting them when you’re next up that way? Better phone first as he’s often out collecting or delivering bits and pieces. His number is 01234 567890.

I know there’s your favourite Masseur up there so maybe you could combine the trip with some stress relief.

XX

I had a different sort of stress relief in mind but I am so often wrong about people and situations that I wasn’t at all hopeful of anything happening. But naturally I had no objection at all and immediately rang the number and left a message for Harry to call back. I’m sure you can guess what was on my mind, and when he returned my call the following morning suggesting I visit early that afternoon he added, somewhat mysteriously, ‘Because I’m free till six’. My heart skipped a beat and I was almost lost for words. All I could manage was that I’d be there around 2.30.

At this point I’m trying to remember my thoughts and feelings. He was a devilishly handsome man. Tall and seemingly very fit with dazzlingly bright blue eyes. He wore immaculate light grey overalls, with poppers all the way down the front and I found myself wondering how he kept them so clean. He was clearly perfectly refined and sophisticated but with an air of honest son of the soil but he also appeared to be nothing of the sort. My husband is a writer so gets to know the details about everyone he meets. Say’s it’s like food for him and he had previously told me that Harry was once a banker in Switzerland, made a lot of money but hated the lifestyle. He was the second son of a wealthy farming family but his elder brother had taken over the running of the estate since their father had retired.

All of that meant that Harry was now in one of the larger and very remote estate houses, including a stable block and disused tennis court and a few acres of grazing land and on that site he kept all of the machinery he had for sale. So yes a son of the soil but one who’d flown and found a new way.

2.00 PM came and I took a deep breath and climbed into my car. It was only a fifteen minute journey so I had to drive round some little single track lanes to use up some of the time. These little tracks and lanes have passing places every so often and wouldn’t you just know it, the very first car I met and had to reverse for was driven by – you’ve guessed it – Harry. He lowered his window and I did the same.

“Are you lost?” He asked.

“No, just a little early.”

“So not lost… just keen.” I left that all alone in the air.

“Mmmm, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

He was gone and I felt so stupid. I was back in the land of my childhood: always being the first one to arrive at a birthday party and having to make small talk through red cheeks, or being called teacher’s pet for clearing up the text books after class and thanking the dinner ladies after lunch. Here I was making a fool of myself all over again. It was all so silly.

I turned the car round and made my embarrassed way to Harry’s yard. Of course he was waiting for me, leaning nonchalantly against his Land Rover, that devilish grin decorating his face and all six foot three of him hunkilly handsome and self assured. I got out of the car.

“Ah, even shorter than the first skirt I saw you in.”

“Is it?” I muttered lamely

“Yes.” he was so laid back I was amazed he didn’t fall over. “Even shorter and worn for me no doubt.”

“Well, I’m not sure…” my voice tailed off.

“Were you wearing it when I phoned to arrange for you to come over here?”

“Well no, but it’s a hot day and it was clearly going to get…” I stopped myself from immediately finishing the sentence, trying desperately to think of another ending: There was none “even hotter.”

“Yes,” his laconic style inhabiting the pause “I think it probably will.”

“The toolkit’s here in the stables and the paperwork’s in the house. After you.” He held out his arm indicating I should go to the stables. I made my way inside and was simply amazed at how fantastically well preserved it was. I could imagine it being used for hundreds of years by successive hunting men and women and all the stable girls and boys and, of course, all the shenanigans that would have taken place. Even more fascinating and, in my case, apposite was the staggering collection of riding crops that were hanging from the walls. There must have been hundreds of them and I found myself in automaton mode walking down the line caressing them, imagining them biting my bottom, my thighs, my tummy, breasts and the palms of my hands.

“It’s quite a collection isn’t it?”

“Incredible.”

“Some were here when I took over but I’ve added quite a few. Some new but a lot from antique and junk shops, some used by famous jockeys, horse men and women.” He opened a drawer in the large cabinet in the corner. “Here’s the toolkit. I’ll put it in your car shall I?”

“Yes please. It’s open.” I carried on with my journey down the line of crops on one side and then along the rest down the other wall. Oddly enough, I wasn’t self-conscious. I was so engrossed in this extraordinary collection that even Harry’s exit hadn’t hastened my progress. His voice broke my reverie.

“Do you want to come up to the house and collect the paperwork?”

“Mmm, yes, yes. Sure.” I started off following him up the drive, the silence between us seemingly the beginning of a sort of bond. He stopped.

“You know the way, you go first. I can savour some of the lovely views.” As it meant climbing some stairs I was slightly thrilled to think that the views he was referring to were my bottom and legs. When we got to the house he opened the door and led me along a corridor and into a large sitting room at the other end of which was a very strong looking door. I was clearly staring at it a bit too obviously.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yes, of course.”

“That door is the entrance to my study and nearly all the time if I’m not here, or whenever I have ‘ordinary’ guests it stays firmly locked. I only allow very special people to pass through it. People who, I believe, share certain attributes, attitudes and foibles with me.” He moved closer and into my personal space. “I think you may be one of those.” He paused and stared right through me and into my soul. He flicked the hem of my short, short skirt. A shot of electricity zapped through me. “Am I right Joanna?” But he gave me no space for an answer, quickly adding “I’d like to take you through that door. Would you like to go through it Joanna or would you be content to stay on this, the pale side?”

My immediate thought was ‘pale side equals vanilla side, ergo; the other side is the dark side.’ I gulped feeling my body heat rising. For me, the term ‘sir’, is no longer merely a common noun but has taken on the role of an adjective. I can add it to the end of a sentence and it becomes a statement that I am submissive and willing to submit to whomever I am speaking with.

“I’d like to go through and see the non pale side…” I nearly added that word to my statement but refrained, not being totally sure what I was being offered.

“Come along then.”

There were three locks on the door and as he undid the top one the sharp click reminded me of a stiletto heel on a marble floor, the second of a restraint collar being locked into place around a delicate neck and the third of a handcuff snapping shut around a small, trembling wrist. He walked through.

“Come.” I followed and found myself in a heavenly daze, bemused and speechless, for the sight that opened up was truly made in my heaven. It was a large oak panelled room dominated by a wall of bookcases on one side and facing it a staggering array of paintings of every manner of corporal punishment plus very classy black and white, beautifully framed photographs depicting naked and semi naked women striking poses that reeked of sex and spanking. I realised that the time had come for me to submit.

“It’s a beautiful room…” I paused and added “Sir.”

“So, I was right. And your statement with your short skirt that I mentioned when we first met was ‘beat me’, is that right Joanna?”

“Yes sir. Please beat me.”

“Is that all you want from me Joanna?”

“No, I want to be used by you sir.”

“In any way I wish?”

“In any and every way you wish sir.”

“Move to the centre of the room.” I moved to the spot he was indicating. “You should be aware that I don’t mess about. I spank hard, I wield implements with an expert eye and a strong right arm. I stretch and suspend my victims in such a way as to allow me full and unfettered access to all of the most intimate parts of a woman’s body. I scold and I degrade a woman, telling her how low and filthy she is, calling her names and making her feel worthless and all the while making her feel wonderful through the physical reactions I am causing throughout her entire being. I make the judgement about the level and pace of punishment and there is no safe word. I’ve not got it wrong so far.” He started circling me, looking me up and down as he did so. “If you, at any time, ask me to stop, the session will end there. Do you understand me Joanna? I am in total control.” I could feel my innards shivering at the thought of three hours of being used and abused by this man. But my answer was both inevitable and predictable.

“I understand Sir.” He was facing me and I was gazing up at him as though I was a little girl staring up at Santa Claus. I felt his arms reaching round me and then the hem of my skirt being tucked out of the way and into the waistband. I could feel his breath on my forehead, a slight graze from a thumbnail across my skin. I was wearing full, white panties and he felt my bottom through the thin material. I heard my stomach gurgling again. He stopped and went to the desk and drew a short wooden paddle from the drawer and then moved a chair into the middle of the room. He sat and beckoned with a waggling hand.

“Over.” I draped myself, knowing what to expect and had to wait no more than a few seconds for the first blow to land. I realised immediately that he had meant what he said and, not only about the level of punishment to expect but also the standard of verbal abuse that poured forth with it. He decorated each wallop with a single word and I shan’t replicate it exactly here as doing so becomes dull, so I’ll just repeat the sentence you can insert the wallops.

“You are a filthy slutty fucking whore who, from the moment we met has been causing no end of grief in my life as I was forced by your temptress like behaviour to be in a permanent state of randiness. People like you only understand two things: Punishment and sex and today my little strumpet you are going to get both in spades, in bucket fulls, by the hundredweight and, when I’ve finished with you I’ll throw you onto the street where slappers like you belong.”

I won’t go on dear reader, but he did: on and on during a full ten minute paddling. And, I have to admit that, although I don’t like that sort of verbal abuse, from Harry, my new Master, it was having an effect that was as much between my legs as across my buttocks. But, it was also causing a noticeable change to a very truncheon-like protuberance that had nudged against my tummy between his legs.

“Up you get.” I used his thigh to heave myself up. “What do you say?”

“Thank you Sir.”

“No whore. From now on you refer to me as ‘Master’ Got it?”

“Yes, I understand… Master.”

“Take that silly skirt off.” I unclipped it. “Give it to me.” I handed it to him. You won’t be getting it back: you’ll be driving home naked. Understood?” I coughed but remembered the bit about the session ending at the first sign of protest.

“I understand, Master.”

“Say it, whore.”

“I will be driving home naked, Master.”

“Come closer.” I stepped forward. “Legs apart.” His hand shot out, snake-like and felt my panties. “You REALLY ARE a slut aren’t you? You’re soaking wet already. I could rip your clothes off right now and abuse you for an hour and you’d love it wouldn’t you?” I said nothing. “WELL?”

“Yes, Master, you could rip my clothes off right now and abuse me for an hour and I’d love it Master.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to wait. Panties off.” I slipped them off and without being asked, handed them to him. “Over again.” If I’d thought that the paddling was hard the spanking was worse, far worse. Hard and fast but also concentrating first on my left buttock for 24 spanks then the same on my right cheek, then following with 36 still on the right cheek followed by 36 on the left, then 48 on the left and finally 48 on the right. I was in a daze, my head empty and my bottom on fire. He pushed me gruffly off his lap and I tumbled to the floor. I wanted to rub but knew that would be like pouring petrol on a fire so rolled my bottom against the carpet instead.

“Up.” As always his masterful tone was abrupt and slightly chilling. I struggled to my feet. “Spread your legs.” I obeyed. “Further apart.” I stretched some more just as he rose standing to my right, placed his left hand against my bottom and, with his other hand inserted two fingers inside me. I squirmed onto him feeling the passions rising in me as though a kettle were just starting to boil. His left hand started a rhythmic spanking, not as hard as before and, this time alternating one spank on each buttock. It gradually became harder and my grinding more aggressive. I could feel myself getting close and I started to grind from side to side as well but he must have sensed my advanced state because he withdrew.

“Take the rest off.”

“Yes Master. This moment couldn’t have come soon enough. I simply longed to be naked in front of this man and realised that this had been the case since I first laid eyes on him. In fact it was at this moment that I realised that, in fact, I wanted to be naked with this man. I unbuttoned my blouse and slipped it off. He took it. Reaching up behind me I unclipped my bra and slipped that off as well. My first wish had now come true. I was naked in front of Harry. He stepped forward and gripped my nipples, twisting them delightfully cruelly. I mewed and he twisted harder. ‘My kind of guy’ I mused. He nodded towards the other end of the room.

“In a moment you are to go through that door. In the other room you’ll see a post with two dildos attached, one at mouth height the other round about the level of an average pussy. They are both adjustable. Have the top one in your mouth and the lower one rubbing against your clit. I’ll be through in a moment.” He carried on his pinching and twisting and I continued loving it. When he stopped however it was only to attach a pair of butterfly nipple clamps with weights hanging from them. “You may go.”

I hadn’t particularly noticed the door and as I opened it the light came on automatically and there, in front of my eyes was the playroom to end all playrooms. ‘I’m in heaven’ was all I could think: the place was loaded with ‘gear’. In front of me, as promised, was a heavy upright wooden beam that seemed entirely superfluous and unnecessary. Attached to it were two dildos just as Harry had described. As I made my way over to it the weights swung to and fro sending little rivulets of pleasure through me. I lubed the upper one with spittle then swallowed it all the way down and ground the lower one between my legs. From the corner of my eye I saw Harry entering the room. He quickly attached cuffs to each wrist and then fastened each to hooks in the wall either side and above me. It was a wonderful set up and I was helpless. Then he fastened something around my ankles, drawing them together, thus forcing the pressure from the lower dildo to be even more intense.

“I’m going to beat your naked, slutty arse with this.” He showed me a broad leather strap. “And I’m going to keep going till you can take no more and then give you more.” He started slashing into my behind. “You’re a worthless, slutty, low down whore. What are you?” I left the dildo.

“Yes, Master, I’m a worthless, slutty, low down whore.” I swallowed it once more. The strapping was forcing me to move this way and that, the lower dildo aggressively rubbing against my sweet spot and the nipple weights rocking left and right sending incredible sensations through me.

“You’re a filthy piece of rotten meat, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am a filthy piece of rotten meat.” Having to repeat the insults each time as an admission was very degrading but was having a strangely erotic effect.

“Who is your Master?”

“You are my Master.”

The strapping slowed with a less energetic pace in control but then a series of six heavy slashes bit into me and then they stopped. He gently removed first one nipple clamp and then the other. I longed for him to squeeze the life back into them but he didn’t instead he attached another pair but across the other angle: side to side and not under and over as before. These weights were heavier than the first. I don’t know what he did but they started to gently vibrate and then the pattern of vibrations changed and I later found out he was using some form of remote control. By this time I’d been strung up quite a while and Harry released my ankles first and then one by one, my arms and he had to almost catch me as my knees buckled but that wasn’t going to stop him: more, much more was to come.

He supported me for a few moments while I recovered my senses. I do believe that his hardman veneer cracked for a moment as he looked at me with a question in his eyes… ‘You okay?’ it seemed to say. I knew that I had to respond.

“Thank you, Master. That was beautiful and well deserved.” The veneer sealed over once more.

“Kneel.”

“Yes Master.” I knelt and gazed up into his eyes. He un-poppered his overalls and, naked beneath revealed his long, fat, hard cock.

“You know what to do.”

Oh my God, it was such a beautiful sight and, it is always a tense moment as disappointment is easier to find than the joy that was now in prospect for me. His overalls were quickly kicked away and now my second wish, that of being naked with Harry was a reality. Just as he had made me squeal with pain and delight so I fully intended to return the favour in a most generous and terribly greedy way. I started by using my long wet tongue to moisten the tip, then the shaft, then, dipping underneath I took each of his swollen, heavy balls into my mouth and suckled them before moving back up the shaft, opening my mouth and taking him wholemeal inside. He must have read my mind because his hands gripped my head and he started face-fucking me as though he’d not cum for years.

“That’s it slag, take the whole damn thing. It’s all you’re good for and don’t think for one moment that just because I’m going to squirt bucket loads inside and all over your head in a few minutes that you’re going to get away without being used again.” His fucking became yet more aggressive. “I can cum any number of times with the right whore and you, my little cum bucket, are going to get whatever I want to deliver. Got it?” I muttered my response through my cock-filled mouth. My mind was racing with the thought that he really was in charge and he really did want to fuck me but it was against the rules but, how could I resist? In any case, I’d broken the rules so many times by now that it was a bit of an arbitrary question. As his thrusting became more rapid, so did his breathing and the insults. He was deep in my throat now but withdrew almost completely then thrust home again. It was this action that now took over. “Get ready to taste the best seed in town, far better than a slut like you deserves. Far better than you’re worth… AAAAGGGGGGHHHHH” His eruption started slowly at first but then there began a stirrup pump of semen in my throat, my mouth then over my face, in my eyes, then back into my mouth thrusting for all he was worth. I was loving every bit of it and knew that he’d let… or rather, make me lick it up. He pulled out.

“Open wide.”

I lowered my head, opened my mouth and watched in bare face delight as he massaged the last squirt out of him and into me and then continued with the driplets and the droplets, falling into my open mouth. He stopped.

“Clean me.”

I took him back into my mouth and licked out the last traces of his efforts. “Now lick the rest up.”

“With pleasure Master.” I scooped it up with my fingers and, not losing eye contact for a solitary second, wiped it into my mouth in a slowly repeated m movement till I had swallowed every drop.

He stood up and looked down at me.

“Hands on head.” I obeyed and his lithe body disappeared from view only to return a few moments later with two glasses of water. “Here, drink this.”

“Thank you Master.” It’s funny how thirsty one does get during these sessions and, given Harry’s approach to cp it was a real change of tempo but it wasn’t to last long because as soon as I had finished the water he snapped back into character.

“Come here slut.” I got up and faced him. “Wrists.” I was still wearing the cuffs from the upright session and he led me by them across the room to a heavy wooden frame. He raised each arm in turn and attached me to some chains so that I was stretched as though on a cross. Then he attached a spreader bar between my ankles so now, spreadeagled and fully on display. He fitted different nipple clamps to each in turn and then inserted something inside me. It started to vibrate.

“I’m going to beat your backside BITCH.” I was amazed to see that his cock was already getting hard again. He produced a three foot long wooden baton with which he started to beat me and beat me hard. I was squealing but the vibrations going on inside me seemed to be randomly changing through a series of different pulse rhythms and it was heavenly. He started much more gently on my inner thighs but then, after extracting little response from me, upped the ante and beat them hard as well. I have to admit that it was a challenging level of pain but I could feel myself getting close to orgasm and I was visibly writhing. The vibrations were that good.

“You… yer filthy bitch will only cum when I say so: Got it?” The vibrations stopped but only just in time.

“Yes Master.” He exchanged the nipple clamps for some with even heavier weights.

“Your first caning happens here.” I said nothing. “WELL?” he boomed

“Thank you Master.” He picked up a medium rattan cane tapped his distance and, well, you know Harry by now, wasted no time in slicing me six times. Not too hard but a great start. Another cane, slightly heavier and twelve were gifted to me in rapid succession. He came round to my front and gripped my chin forcing me to look up at him.

“A caning from me is so much more than a slut like you deserves. You should be left to the junior set, the wankers and the boys just starting out. So you’ll thank me again later and, bitch, you’ll do whatever I say.”

He changed the clamps once more. Then took up a medium malacca cane, tapped his distance and gave me eighteen strokes, nearly full force. Suspended as I was I was able to take them and felt slightly peeved that I wasn’t bent over. “Two more canings to follow.” I was slightly unsure if I could manage them but said nothing. He removed the spreader bar then released my cuffs.

Once again he had to support me slightly but this time with him being naked as well I acted up a bit so as to be closer for longer.

I gripped his solid cock as he led me over to a spanking bench which was like a low vaulting horse but with knee and arm supports and gaps in between. He laid me on it prostate and then fastened my arms and calves so I couldn’t move. I heard him go to the umbrella stand of canes and he brought two over to me.

“Eighteen in total, twelve with the first, six with the last. Which one first bitch?” I studied them. A senior Rattan cane and a slightly heavier than medium Malacca.

“The Malacca first please Master.”

“This, my slutty whore, is going to hurt. And you deserve it don’t you?”

“Yes Master, I deserve a thorough caning.”

“I won’t take any notice but how hard do you think your caning should be?”

“It should be hard, Master. Very hard.”

“You want a hard caning.”

“I need a hard caning Master and only from you.”

“Grit your teeth slut.” I took him at his word and looked ahead not wanting to watch him deliver the strokes.

Swish, splatt Swish, splatt Swish, splatt Swish, splatt Swish, splatt Swish, splatt

A short pause

Swish, splatt Swish, splatt Swish, splatt Swish, splatt Swish, splatt Swish, splatt

The first twelve were delivered in rapid succession with just that pause in the middle. It’s a style of caning I find most difficult to deal with and before the last had landed I was gurgling from the back of my throat with a sort of muted protest that I couldn’t control. My breasts were crushed against the cushion material and I could feel the moisture down below. I was already off the launching pad. He came round and, standing in front of me, thrust his cock into my mouth which killed my protest straight away. I could tell that this wasn’t to be another cum session but more a means of reinforcing my helplessness, of making me even more aware of my vulnerability. He gripped my hair and held me in position. He was being very thorough. Making sure I felt his balls against my chin and the bulbous tip within my throat with every thrust. He decorated each one with a vivid and frightening description of what he intended to unleash on my bottom.

“I’m going to cane that sexy arse of yours so hard you won’t be able to sit down for weeks. Then I’m going to spank you some more and watch you writhe and wriggle and listen to you begging for mercy and I will show you NONE.” He went on with the tirade till he finally pulled out leaving my aching jaw dribbling. He returned the malacca to the umbrella stand and took out the rattan then took up position once more.

“Count them out slut. And, remember, this is going to hurt you a lot more than it will hurt me. Six. Ready or not, here comes your beating.”

Swish CRACK… I felt it rip through me like a line of fire. My breath caught in my throat. I paused, allowing it to flow through me. I find, at times like these, that it’s best to relax, not to tense up and to take time to savour the deliciously challenging feelings.

“One, thank you Master.”

There was no tap, tapping just the hiss of rattan renting the air asunder and then its progress halted in its tracks by my naked, soft, sore flesh. Knowing what to expect doesn’t help in any way, in fact, if anything it allows one to imagine something worse than it turns out to be. But this stroke really got to me and I thought, for one moment, that I might even find tears emerging before the six were through.

“Two, thank you Master.”

The third thundered in immediately and, just as had been promised, mercilessly. I ground my flesh into the soft leather of the bench, finding some relief in the sexual heat that was rising inside me.

“Three, thank you Master.”

Once more there was no pause and he brought that lovely happiness stick down with even greater force. I growled aloud and ground harder into the bench hoping to find relief in an orgasm.

“Don’t you dare cum bitch, ‘cos if you do I’ll stop and throw you out just as you are.” I stopped the action, knowing that he meant it but felt the urge all the more for that.

“Four, thank you Master.” No sooner had the words left my mouth than the next sliced in and I found myself howling a sort of low sound that smacked of intense, beautiful pain, pain of the sort people like me crave. I let it soak throughout my entire being. It was like being in a bath of Epsom salts, as it reached into all of the corners my aching body possessed.

“Five, thank you Master.”

Harry appeared in front of me and lifted my chin and stared right through me.

“You know what they say about the last, don’t you slut?”

“Yes Master.”

“What? What do they say about the last?”

“That it’s always the hardest stroke of all.”

“That’s right and this is going to be no exception.”

“Yes, I understand Master.”

He returned and took up position again. This time there were five or six quite hard taps that some newcomers might think were actual cane strokes however I knew they were just the precursors of what otherwise could be a misplaced strike that would be a game finisher and I could sense that Harry wanted me howling after this one.

The tap tapping continued and then there was that tummy churning pause. The moment or two when one thinks one knows what is heading one’s way but there’s a dribble of fear at the back of one’s mind that this could be horrible. And then I heard it: the awe inspiring whistle of a cane being slashed through the air as though a batsman was going for a very big six. The one that seals the match, the sort of six that lands at the back of the stands, amongst the spectators. The whistle entered my unconscious mind just nano seconds before the cane exploded deep in my buttocks, approaching the bones with an impolite introduction and forcing a gut wrenching howl from my loins through my body and exiting my mouth and hanging in the room as I followed it with a sharp intake of breath and then another howl. This time like a dying dog. Another intake and some panting then a slowing of the breath. A tear in the corner of one eye and a growing sense of pride in having taken it. I took my time, hoping to keep my feelings under firm control.

“Six, thank you Master”.

I felt him releasing my ankles, then my wrists and then he gave my buttocks a few hearty slaps. I gripped his embarrassingly hard cock and pumped it.

“Turn over and hang that slutty head over the edge. I’m going to fuck that throat till it’s as sore as your arse.” I struggled to turn over, knowing that the contact twixt bench and bottom would be a bit bewildering. I winced as the two came into contact. “What am I going to do, slut?”

“You’re going to fuck my slutty throat till it’s as sore as my arse, Master.” My head was hanging, ready for him. He started to prod at my lips. I played a little hard to get, knowing this would make him even more aggressive and my blood was up. I needed a proper ploughing.

“Open, bitch.” I carried on resisting but he pinched my nostrils together so, without opening my mouth, I wouldn’t be able to breathe. I held out for a few moments but then I opened with a gasp and he pushed straight in and pressed home and to the hilt, allowing me no time to get used to his great girth once more. I so love dominant men (well, people actually). Twisting my nipples with one hand and gripping my hair with the other he fucked my face in such a domineering and confident way that I found myself in a part of heaven reserved for very special people. I know not where from – my eyes were covered by his balls – but he produced a rabbit vibrator and handed it to me. “Take it slowly, bitch” Having an intimate, nay, almost professional knowledge of these devices I switched it on, sight unseen and pushed it deep inside me, the ear against my clitoris.

“That’s it, that’s all you’re worth bitch.” Then as he fucked my face and I fucked myself I found myself almost crying with lust, with happiness, with the living in this heavenly moment and with the prospect of glorious release. As I rubbed my bottom against the leather and the rabbit against me and he pounded in and out of my oesophagus I could feel his tempo rising and mine matching his. I couldn’t imagine him having very much to offer by way of semen, but I didn’t care: he was using my throat the way God intended. And boy, he was using it well. His nipple work grew more challenging and I could feel that connection between them and my lust drifting me over the edge and as I felt my tummy tensing in the arch backed, pre-orgasmic moment I felt him pull out of me and, knowing what was about to happen I kept my mouth wide open and just like in a porn movie he started pumping his cock with his fist.

“Please give it to me, Master. I want all of it.” I felt the shudder run through my entire body as wave after wave of intense spasms wracked me. His pumping grew faster.

“I’m cumming. Take it bitch. And don’t spill a drop.” He started to shoot, not as hard or as high pressure as before but a surprising amount. “Aggghhhhh.”

“Oooohh, yes, yes, YESSSS.” My own orgasm still running wild, my head reeling, my mouth open, his lovely sperm becoming mine, his hands at my breasts, mauling them, then pinching nipples and drawing out the last shudders of my climax and the last thigh tightening spurts of semen and the rabbit now redundant lying on my belly.

A while later we were back in the stables, I was still naked, he was now back in his overalls sitting in his chair behind the desk with me on the other side of it, enjoying him enjoying looking at me.

“You’ve got a great body.” The abusive language was now gone, replaced by the soft, commanding tones of Harry, the public Harry.

“Thank you Master.”

“It’s Harry now.”

“I’d prefer to call you Sir.”

“As you wish.” He got up and crossed to me, lifted my chin and stared deep into my soul. “Maybe next time we’ll introduce something more challenging.”

“What do you have in mind Sir.?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out… in good time.” He dropped my chin and reached in his pocket and handed me my keys and mobile phone. “Now, you’d better get going.”

“But my… my clothes.”

“Ah ah.” He shook his head. “A deal is a deal. You drive home naked with your camera facing you and running and send me the file when you get home.” My heart sank as I realised that it was now rush hour and the roads would be crowded and slow, me naked, with welted bottom and sore nipples.

“Please.” He looked at me, shook his head and walked off.