I kissed her lightly on the lips, which caused her to
come awake, her eyes slowly adjusting to the sight of me laying
underneath her. She smiled, dreamily, and kissed me back.

My hands, now free to roam where they would began to
lightly explore everything within reach while my mouth continued
to teasingly caress Lisa’s lovely tits. Her own hands came up
and cupped her swollen globes from underneath, offering the erect
tips for my oral inspection. Not wanting to frustrate her more
than was necessary, I accepted her offer.

Mouth, tongue, light nips with the inscisors, gentle
squeezing from my hands, I worked on her breasts for several
minutes until I felt Lisa take my head in her hands and pull me
back up.

I could tell that the instructor was watching me,
waiting for me to collapse — or perhaps trying to figure out
what I was doing in her class. It wasn’t an advanced aerobics
class, but it was more than what a beginner like me should have
been in. I signed up knowing only that I needed some structured
exercise — no one told me what I was getting into, or, more
probably, I wasn’t paying attention. Now, I was too proud to
admit that I was in a little over my head. Yes, the instructor,
a rather nicely put together brunette who appeared to be about 19
or 20, was definitely looking at me.

———————

Arla was sitting beside him as they raced along the 101. The ocean to
their right appeared and disappeared through the hills. The wind swirled
into the Jag. He shifted gears. She seemed pleased with how he did that.
They drove up through the hills and it got cooler. It started to rain, or was
it mist?
“Hey, we’re driving through a cloud” he said.
The car felt snug and strong, and he looked over and what he saw,
what he saw, was Arla slipped down below window level with her skirt
hoisted up and her legs wide open and her panties pulled to the side…
Smiling like the sun and moon, she seemed to fill all the space in the cabin.
But Bobby was cool. He kept driving, as the wind tore at her skirt
in the corner of his eye.

Another time he had overstayed his welcome–probably–on her sofa.
He knew how to do that, and he knew what Arla would do about it.
“Bobby,” she would say, “aren’t you tired yet?” There was a lamp to
either side of the sofa, making the light in the room ever so soft and the
quietness of the house ever so loud.
“Oh, I dunno,” said Bobby, “I feel kinda tense, you know.”

They’d had a really nice night, all in that room. She had rattled on and
on about her girlfriends’ faults and life mistakes–all nineteen odd years of
their various lives–and he had pumped her for lascivious details as though
he could creep into her friends’ rooms also while they undressed. She
knew this and she fed him tidbits, but mainly she was listening to her own
voice. Six times at least, Bobby’s penis inflated and deflated. And now he
was “tense.” What that meant was that he wanted to be rewarded for being
such a damn good listener. This was not going to be a Platonic relationship
if he could help it! And Arla was mixing things up. He was the only
person she could trust. That didn’t sound good at all.
He had no need to worry.
“What’s that in your pants, Bobby?” she asked. “Your flashlight? Did
you bring your flashlight? Let me see it. Its so dark in here.” And she
clicked off a lamp.
Sweet talk.

————–

Arla, your name is your lips around my dick. Arla, I smell your hair
rising off my lap. Arla, your fingernails are perfect and your hands are
cool. Arla, your sweaters are spun from New Zealand sheep. Arla, you
sucked me into you and swallowed me into your head and hair. I did not
see your face until you turned over and said, as you laid on my right
thigh, “I’m just going to rest a minute; and then you must go.”
Bobby’s fingers were drumming on the wooden steering wheel. The
rain was coming down hard now. He should go. He pushed his keys into
the slot and twisted. Nothing. A click.
Oh jeez! Now what? He could go back in, try to speak to her, make
her remember. Or he could walk off into the rain. That would satisfy
something. But then he would have to come back with tow truck and
embarrass her and….
He tried to start the Jag again, and was about to try for a third time,
feeling more rotten and stupid and panicked by the moment, when the
passenger door opened.
Arla! Her hair was sprayed with drops but was not wet. Her face was
shining and damp as she tumbled into the seat beside him. She smelled of
wool and chocolate and everything good.
“Let’s drive!” she said.
Bobby prayed a prayer with the sincerity of an acetylene torch. He
could have willed the car to fly, and kept it flying, on his desire and
happiness alone. He turned the key. The Jag leapt to life. And the road
crunched under his tires.

From the house, Arla’s sister called her to the window.
“There’s that creep, Bobby James. I bet he’s been parked there for
hours again. I’m going to get rid of him.”
“Hey, be nice” said Arla.
She came to the window and watched Belinda cross the wet lawn to the
little Toyota. She saw Belinda open the passenger door and start yelling.
She watched the car pull away, and Belinda walking quickly, almost
running, back to the house.

–

Lenya pressed her lips against the soft yellow down of Marte’s pussy.

More like a duckling, she thought, than a little pussy-kitten. It

smelled of new-born life like a freshly hatched duckling.

Lenya loved kissing her little duckling, nuzzling up next to it,

rubbing her nose and lips in it.

“Damn, girl, are you going to eat it or play with it?” Marte asked

impatiently.

That was the problem with loving these hard-body aggressive types.

Lenya loved watching Marte on the rugby field, dominating all her

opponents with ease even though they outweighed her two to one in some

cases. Dancing triumphantly over their fallen vanquished bodies. But

the drive that gave her her commanding will to win seemed to make her

overly goal oriented in other pursuits as well.

Marte wanted her climax now–not later. To be fair, she would lay there

and let Lenya lick her pussy to her heart’s content after she had her

first few orgasms, but for now she wanted immediate relief.

“I thought it might be nice to take our time and enjoy ourselves, you

know, go slow and build up.” Lenya said.

“Think again, Bitch.” Marte was sorry as soon as she said it. She

didn’t mean to hurt Lenya’s feelings. She was just frustrated.

Lenya looked down and started licking. Her tongue lapped at Marte with

a mechanical cadence. Passionless.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Marte said. “I’m still psyched from the win, that’s

all. Take your time if you want. I`m cool.”

Marte lay back and relaxed as Lenya now went down in earnest. Marte

figured she would. Lenya was good to her. Better than she deserved.

Lenya quickly had her Amazon mistress moaning. Marte looked at the

angelic face between her thighs with grateful appreciation. That such

a dainty slip of a girl could go down like a waterfront whore when she

really wanted to, to please her woman, to please Marte, gave Marte

such a rush that she suddenly let loose a gushing climax.

“Ooh, thank you, my little Dynamo. I love you.” Marte said, petting

Lenya’s hair. Then stroking her cheek and lifting her chin to get a

better look at her submissive angel.

“I’m an ogre, aren’t I?” Marte said. “All my teammates are jealous of

me. Having you to come home to and eat me. They’ll be lucky to get

licked at all much less by an angel.”

Lenya just smiled and put her face to her little friend, her little

duckling.

Lenya brought Marte to orgasm a few more times and Marte fell asleep

contented.

Lenya nestled herself against the sweet softness of Marte’s crotch

like she was a duckling snuggling in the nest.

Marte briefly opened her eyes and smiled sleepily at Lenya placing her

hand on Lenya’s head.

Before she drifted off to sleep again Lenya asked, “Am I your little

duckling, Marte?”

“Yes, sweet thing, you are my little duckling.”

Together they fell asleep.

[Fade in.]

[Curtains open on Gregory, sitting on his trademark stool, on an

otherwise blank stage.]

Yes, it’s me again… gosh, it’s been… well, too damn long since

I’ve been out here… but there’s a reason for that. I just found out

that my funding from the NEA is being cut… apparently, someone from

the Jessie Helms camp snuck in here for the performance of Dragonlove

that I did some months ago, and I’m just finding out about it now. So

I’ve been out pounding the pavement, looking for a way to beat the

system… and yes, I have already thought of using a flogger, thank

you very much. [Gregory smiles]

Anyhow, I’ve also been keeping busy working on some more of my

writing… whereas Dragonlove was pretty much entirely fantasy (I

based it on a headspace that I put someone in once…), this story is

only half-fantasy… ok, well, the story as such is not real, but it

*can* be…

So, without much further ado… enjoy!

[Gregory rises, and walks off stage right.]

[Curtains close]

[Fade to story]

The party crowd is getting a little stifling, so I step out onto the

patio for a breath of fresh air. I look at my pocket watch, musing for

a moment how much it reminds me of the one that Jack the Ripper

carried in that movie… and I note that it is getting close to the

time we had arranged.

I slip back inside, and weave my way through the crowd into the

playroom, where I find an open stretch of wall. I lean up against it,

setting my toybag down beside me. I open it, and remove one of my

lighter floggers. I close my eyes, examining the handle of the cat by

touch only, while the pair in the scenespace close their scene with

what sounds like a two-by-four. *THUD* *THUD* *THUD*, and the bottom

grunting, then yelling, then screaming an almost unintelliglble

safeword. I open my eyes to see the bottom taken down from the frame

and wrapped in blankets, then moved to a space on a couch.

Somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock strikes the hour. The time

has come.

You enter the room, nodding a silent greeting to a small group of

acquaintences by the doorway, then approach me. You stand before me

for a moment, then kneel, resting your head on my thigh. I use the

handle of my flogger to lift your chin, raising your eyes to meet

mine.

A raised eyebrow. A nod.

A smile. A shiver.

You take my offered hand, and I help you stand. Hand in hand, we

approach the frame, and I lean you forward to rest your body against

it. I raise your hands, and slip them into the cuffs that were left

attached to the frame. I run my fingers down your arm, then across the

bodice of your dress, feeling you tremble as you wait for something…

anything… more visceral to occur.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see me reach into my pocket and

pull out a flash of silver. As you close your eyes, you feel a sharp

point pressing into the side of your leg… then the sound of material

tearing. You look down to see the side seam of your skirt split about

six inches up from the hem… and me holding a seam ripper. You watch

over your shoulder as I tear out the seams holding the back panel of

the dress, and toss the material aside, leaving your ass and thighs

nicely framed by the remaining material.

I step back to admire the tableau, then I remember the flogger that I

was carrying. You watch as I pick it up, giving the air around you a

few strokes to warm up, then I step behind you, out of your line of

sight. Then silence…

And more silence… one minute… two… five…

*SMACK* You feel my hand across your ass, and you jump in surprise.

*SMACK* again, and this time a quiet squeal escapes your lips.

*SMACK* a third time my hand falls, and this time you tense your ass

muscles in anticipation, before my hand lands.

*swishCRACK* Half a dozen lines of fire slash their way across your

ass, *swishCRACK* across your thighs, *swishCRACK* and criss-crossing

your ass again. The third stroke managed to elicit the scream I was

looking for, so I stop there, and tuck my “emergency” whip into my

back pocket again.

“That was for anticipating too much. Next time it will be 10.”

You shudder, then look over your shoulder to meet my eyes with yours.

I flash a Roger Moore smile at you, then just as quickly, I drop my

smile, and my gaze hardens. I take out the seam ripper again, and

start removing the panel covering your back. This time, I am a bit

less concerned with being careful, and several times, you feel the

point of the ripper scratching angry red lines along your sides and

shoulders.

Eventually, your back is bared along with your ass. I am inwardly

pleased to note that you took my advice, and decided against wearing a

bra. I run my fingers across your shoulderblades, enjoying the feel of

you twitching like my hands were charged with electricity.

I pick up the flogger I was playing with originally, and slide the

tails up over your ass cheeks, then up your spine. I receive a shiver

and a moan in response, so naturally, I assume that I have chosen the

proper instrument to use…

I start lazily swinging the tails at your ass, pretty much letting

gravity do most of the work for now… after a dozen or so swings, I

quickly snap the tails at your ass like a beach towel, hearing the

CRACK of the leather on your skin, then your squeal as the sting

travels from your ass to your brain to your mouth.

I switch to a slightly heaver whip… one with more thud to it. Then I

unleash it on your naked back. The first few blows don’t elicit much

of a response, then I aim a strong stroke downward along your spine…

before it lands, my consciousness begins walking the line between

lifespace and headspace…

[The stroke seems to fall in slow motion as my arm sweeps downward,

the tails flying comet-like off the end of the flogger's handle. As

leather makes contact with flesh, I can hear each tail land, then

watch the skin tinge with red, one millimeter at a time, until a

seven-inch strip of warm, pink skin forms...]

I’m yanked back into real-time by your rather loud confirmation that I

indeed hit you with the flogger: an interesting combination of grunt

and yell. I like it so much that I strike you again in the same

fashion, but to one side of the first blow. Then the other. Then up

higher on your shoulder. Then across your ass. Then down the sides of

your thighs. Then under your armpits. Then down your spine again to

complete the circle… each blow giving me a satisfying grunt/yell,

and some squirming, which makes it easier to hit a larger number of

targets.

I take a moment to approach you, and run my fingers across your pink

zebra flesh. I half-jokingly ask you if you’re ready to begin now, and

somewhere, outside the sphere, I hear someone laugh. You don’t answer

me, so I grab a handful of your hair and turn your head to make sure

that you are still in *some* plane of being, if not mine… your eyes

are closed, but as I tighten my grip on your hair, they open. Again, I

ask you, in a whisper, if you are ready to begin. You mouth a “yes”,

then close your eyes again…

I release you, then search in my toybag for the one impliment that

you’ve not met yet… in fact, you will be the first to feel it. I

shake the tails out, and drape them over your shoulder. You turn your

head to feel the leather caressing your cheek, and I chuckle inwardly

when you jerk your head away from what you find sliding over your

skin: leather and knotted cords combined. I pull the flogger away, and

swing it hard through the air, listening to the tails whistling.

You start squealing… “Please pleasepleaseplease *stop*!”

I am a little surprised to hear this, especially since I had not yet

landed a blow with the flogger… still, you must have a reason for

being so vocal all of a sudden.

“Yes? What is the problem?”

“I… I can’t do it. I’m not ready yet… please don’t… please, it’s

going to hurt… I’ll do anything, just don’t…”

“But you said that this is what you wanted. You told me that you

wanted me to hurt you… that you *needed* for me to hurt you.

Catharsis and all that… remember that conversation?” I crack the

whip against my leg for emphasis.

wallop...>

“Yes. I remember it and I still want it and I want you to hurt me but

I’m scared I’m scared I’m scared…” Your voice keeps ramping up in

pitch, and I’m afraid that soon it will be out of my range of hearing,

so I cover your mouth with my hand to stop you.

“You don’t have anything to be afraid of. If you safeword, I’ll stop.

If you pass out, I’ll stop.”

You shake your head, so I assume you want to speak, and pull my hand

away. “I’m not safewording… I’m just telling you…”

“You’re not safewording? So, this is until you pass out… hmmmmm…

maybe I should call someone over to let me know when that happens…”

You shake your head violently, then close your eyes and try to calm

yourself down. “I didn’t mean that. I’m not safewording *now*… not

yet…”

“Ahh… my mistake then. I apologize.”

You remain quiet for a minute, then open your eyes again and look into

mine. “Ok… I’m ready now, I think… but…”

“Yes… but?”

“Um… kiss me? Please? Before you start again?” I could swear I see a

tear in your eye…

Softly, I stroke the side of your face with the back of my hand,

smiling. “Of course I will, my dear…”

You shiver at my touch, but manage a smile. “Thank you.”

I mouth a “you’re welcome”, then lean forward to kiss your forehead,

then your lips. You make no effort to either increase or decrease the

intensity of the kiss, so I simply let you feel my lips on yours for a

moment. Then I kiss your earlobe, and whisper into your ear… “I love

you. Remember that…”

You shiver again, and nod a little, before turning your head away.

Obviously, the discussion is over. I step back to my position behind

you, and raise the flogger over my head…

“It is done.”

My arm arcs downward, and the leather and cord brand new trails of

fire across your back, turning the already-pink skin a little closer

to purple. I am almost too busy admiring the color changes to realize

that you screamed… I quickly replay the sound in my mind, but

safeword wasn’t anywhere in it… so I continue.

I aim the next shot at your ass, whipping the tails over my head

before striking at you. You squeal before the blow lands, and I watch

you tense your ass cheeks up again before they are marked by the

lashes. The side of your right buttock starts to show the first signs

of a lovely bruise, but instead of continuing to use this new toy, I

remind myself of my earlier warning to you.

I switch the flogger to my other hand, and take the small whip out of

my pocket again. “You were anticipating again. What did I tell you

about that?”

You mumble something that I can’t quite hear, so I lash your ass with

the small whip. “What did you say?”

“Um… 10 with the small whip?”

“Correct. Don’t bother counting them, it will only take longer…”

I administer the strokes, each one causing you to squirm a bit more,

and whimper a little louder… until the last: I swing the cat upward

between your legs, catching the tails on the lips of your sex. As you

shriek and rise up on your tiptoes, I drop the small whip, and use the

leather and cord monster to give you a strong two-handed strike down

your back, then across your ass again, before you can catch your

breath.

I wait a moment, until you manage to gasp a breath, then the tails

lash out again, catching you across your thighs. Again you scream, and

again it is not safeword, so I start criss-crossing your upper back.

Each stroke causes you to press against the frame, trying to pass

through the frame to get it between yourself and my toy. I pause, then

start whipping up the backs of your thighs and the bottom curve of

your ass. Again you rise on your toes, not screaming now… just

sobbing and whimpering.

I alternately stop and start this whipping, letting you relax a moment

before I drive you up on your toes again. Occasionally, I let the

tails fall on your back, causing even more purple-and-red speckling to

counterpoint the mottling on your ass.

Somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock strikes the hour. The time

has passed.

I pause a moment, letting my arm recover for the final stroke. You are

slumped on the frame now, panting, mewling, shaking. I shake my

muscles out, and give a couple lazy wind-up strokes that just brush

the insides of your thighs, before I snap the flogger up, sending the

tails between your legs to assault your pubes. As you gasp and prepare

to scream, I finish the stroke by yanking backwards on the handle,

pulling the leather and knotted cords across your cuntlips…

Somewhere, in the back of my head, I am reminded of a line from Steve

Martin’s short story, “Cruel Shoes”…

The screams were incredible.

As were the sobs, and the whimpers, and the shaking, and the gasping,

and the panting, and everything else that you do as you come back down

from that last stroke. Finally, you manage between shivering attacks

to say “Mercy.”

The flogger drops from my hand, and I come up behind you. I unhook the

cuffs, and let you slump against me a moment, before I sweep your legs

up and cradle your still-shaking body in my arms. I carry you to the

couch, and gently lay you down on it, before kneeling by your side.

Someone… one of the hosts, I think… hands me two glasses of ice

water. I down one in one swallow, then fish an ice cube out to let

melt against your lips. You suck on the cube, then motion dazedly for

a drink from the other glass, which I give you.

Once you finish drinking your fill, you close your eyes and take my

hand, pulling it to your mouth to kiss my palm. I mimic your action,

then hold your hand tightly in mine. I close my eyes, rest my head on

your shoulder, and let the rest of the world fade away…

=====

“One little piece of my soul

One little piece of my whole life

I give to you

Take it now…”

–