Knkstriped

Home of Zebra Rose’s Creative Works

Tag: erotica

The Prize

6

September 19, 2018

This is part 5 of the tale of the Governor’s Wife – you can catch up with the story so far at the links below

Part 1: The Governor’s Wife

Part 2: The Storm

Part 3: In The Cargo Hold

Part 4: Mutineers’ Bounty

Why is she not afraid? Is it the reassuring presence of Elijah Blackstone, the man who has vowed to come to her rescue should she ask for surcease? He leads her by bound wrists through dark wooden passageways to his cabin, the largest room on the ship. Her tread is sure, her back straight; at a glance her bowed head would appear a stance of resignation or of fear. But no, it hides a wicked exhilaration – flushed and wide-eyed, there is an exultant smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.

How many will there be? Will they tear at her clothes, claw at her exposed skin? Pull her hair? These tendrils of wonder ease a ghostly hand between her legs, stroking with insubstantial yet powerful touch. She pictures herself naked, on her knees, bound at the wrists and ankles before the crew, and unconsciously quickens her stride.

Blackstone draws her into his cabin. There are five of them lolling idly on his desk, his couch, his bunk. Each is lean of limb and hard of muscle; there are no opportunities for indolence aboard a merchant vessel such as this. For them, at least. She has – until now – had no duties of her own. The prospect of servitude is a pleasing one.
“My brothers” he begins in ringing tones “we are indeed fortunate. For now that we are masters of our own destiny, we are men of property! This fine shop and her rich cargo are ours to harness for the betterment of our lives. And what finer way to celebrate than with the company of a beautiful woman?”
Snickers among the crew. Hopeful expressions tinged with lust turn upon her.
“This most splendid specimen of womanhood is the prize we have won by our strength and our comradeship!”
He tugs the rope to pull her forward.
“And this prize falls to you, the senior and most deserving of the crew. You may do with her as you wish, provided you refrain from causing her grave injury, for she is our valuable property.”

He winks at her as he turns to untie her wrists. She winks back – a vulgar expression which she would never previously have dreamed of adopting, but which in the face of her imminent ravaging by a troupe of low-born sailors, is hardly the least of her transgressions this day.
“My Lady. If you please. Remove your clothing”.

She hesitates over unlacing her corset. It would not do to seem to eager. Slowly, she shrugs out of her dress, sheds her petticoats, emerges shyly from the layers of silk and brocade that have been her prison. Unclothed she stands before them, her eyes fixed on the wooden boards beneath her while her nipples spring proudly forth as though entreating the hands and mouths of the men to fix upon them.

There is a hushed indrawing of breath from the crewmen as they behold in daylight her pale smooth skin, her heavy breasts. Their eyes move lower, contemplating the tangle of honey-blonde hair at the juncture of her thighs. Beneath its shadow she is plump and slick, filled with an aching, yearning need.
“Kneel” orders Blackstone.

The boards are warm against her knees. He comes to stand behind her, one hand releasing her hair from its pins, the other resting lightly on her shoulder. She has no need of reassurance but is grateful for it nonetheless.
“At your leisure” says the Captain, and moves aside to allow his crew to fall upon her.

They are hesitant at first, unable to believe their good fortune until the warmth of her flesh fills their hands, solid and undeniable. They touch, stroke, grasp her face and squeeze her breasts. The first to unbutton his trousers is a man she has glanced at many times above decks. Blond like herself, of a similar age, powerfully built – often she has wondered how it would feel to open herself to him.

He guides his swollen cock between her lips and groans as she moves her tongue against him. Her eyes are closed in ecstasy, here on her kneels with her mouth filled, her breasts cupped and pinched, her hair firmly grasped; she is consumed by desire.
His pulls away, is replaced by another man – one she does not recognise. Around her, the others are freeing themselves of their clothing, rubbing their proudly erect members against her face and hair. They do not speak, grunts and sighs of lust the only sounds in the room.

Blackstone watches with feigned aloofness as the woman is hauled to her feet, bent forward across his desk, legs spread. Hanson and Abel are pinning her arms at the wrist. Martins holds tightly to handfuls of her hair while Jones climbs up on the desk to lie sideways by her head, positioned to allow him to thrust lazily into her mouth as behind her, Wainwright plunges into her glistening cunt.
“She’s wet an’ slippery as the decks in a storm” he chortles and they all hear her moan with helpless arousal while he pounds himself into her.
“I think she likes it” observes Hanson, his eyes glazed with anticipation. He has watched her many times from his post, had never dreamed that her lush curves would be his for the taking. And with no murmur of protest, no struggle! This is the best day he has lived in twenty-one years.

They bring her to the floor, push her down on all fours. Seeing her ridden hard from front and rear, watching the heavy-lidded expression of pleasure on her face, Blackstone can barely contain his own urgent need. He waits, maintaining his posture of disinterested amusement as she is taken roughly by his shipfellows in their frenzy of lust.

It is not long however before they are spent, overcome by the titillation of feeling a flesh-and-blood woman after so many long weeks at sea. Their seed adorns her hair, her face, her breasts, seeps from her pink slit in lazy trails. She sits gasping and red-cheeked, thighs wide apart in the shadow of his desk.
“You all right missus?” ask Jones fearful that in their eagerness they have neglected to consider her comfort or will.
She nods. “Thank you” she whispers, so softly that Blackstone alone registers her words.

“And now, my Lady” he says, coming to his feet “I shall entertain you alone. Back to your posts, my brothers” he orders his crew “there will be time enough later for further appraisal of our bounty”. Laughing, they dress and depart in the easy swagger of men who have obtained the sweetest satisfaction that earthly pleasures can offer.

As the door closes behind them, Blackstone picks up the discarded rope.
“My turn” he tells her and observes with warmth the hunger that detonates anew in her eyes.

Mutineers’ Bounty

8

September 12, 2018

This is part 4 of the tale of the Governor’s Wife – you can catch up with the story so far at the links below

Part 1: The Governor’s Wife

Part 2: The Storm

Part 3: In The Cargo Hold

It’s been three days since the mutiny which saw the Captain, First Mate and the Bo’sun marooned in a rowing boat with only a single pistol between them. Three days, and the smell of cordite has yet to dissipate from the cabin where they made their courageous but ineffectual last stand.

She did not see the desperate struggle as it unfolded, could only hear their shouts of outrage and protest as they were dragged from the Captain’s quarters and herded abovedecks for the reckoning. It would have been exciting to watch, but she was confined to her cabin before the fighting started and has remained there since.

She is bored.

In her musings, there is pity for the ship’s officers, of course – they will require the luck of Lucifer himself to be found and rescued before the lure of the gleaming black pistol overtakes their reason. And there is a clawing concern for her future at the hands of the remaining miscreants lurking beneath her patient stillness. But most of all, there is boredom. She has spoken to no-one since she was unceremoniously hustled through the door of her cabin and bade to remain quiet by the mutineers. Ship’s biscuits and water have been slid across the threshold several times, but no-one has addressed so much as a word to her directly in days.

Has she become so insignificant? The idea fills her with outrage – a rogue crew of rough-hewn sailors who have committed the most serious crime possible upon the waves and yet they treat her with gentility bordering on indifference! This is an unnatural and prideful way to think, she knows. The dreadful indignities they might visit upon her person should strike fear and loathing into her breast; she should be on her knees in supplication to the Almighty, praying for deliverance. Instead, she is idly contemplating the rope and the candle, wondering which is most likely to distract her from the tedium.

A knock sounds at her cabin door, jolting her from her reverie.

“You may enter” she calls, her tone agreeably firm and strong. Bored, frustrated and a little afraid she may be, but she is an English gentlewoman and has been schooled in the art of imperturbability.

The new Captain presents himself in the doorway. A significant aesthetic improvement on the departed; this man is younger and well-built. He stands with confidence and loose-limbed ease, his shirt, breeches and boots adorning a well-muscled frame. Dark auburn locks are tied at the nape of his neck, exposing proud, hawk-like features.

“My Lady” he greets her. No trace of mockery.

“Captain -?” she leaves the title hanging, a subtle insinuation of how insignificant this man was to her prior to his impromptu advancement.

“Blackstone, my Lady. Captain Elijah Blackstone”. He sketches a mock bow, he has surely perceived her inference and seems to find it amusing.

“Well then Captain Blackstone. I would offer you tea, but since you appear to have commandeered my husband’s ship and cargo, the tea I would offer now belongs to you anyway.” She shrugs prettily. “I pray that you will forgive the shortcomings of my hospitality”

He laughs, an attractive sound filled with mirth and good humour.

“Indeed, my Lady. This crew now owns the ship and chattels. I encourage you to remember this; in effect, you also now belong to us.”

She inclines her head, lowers her lashes, hiding the pulse of excitement behind a facade of modesty.

“So it would also appear Captain. May I enquire as to your crew’s designs for their newly-acquired bounty?”

He sighs. “We are not savages, my Lady. We are merely tired of the oppression of the ruling class, of working ourselves to the bone for the enrichment of others and of the injustice which binds in servitude from birth. Provided you are compliant and cause us no trouble, you have my word that you will remain unmolested until we are in a position to give you your freedom.”

She is disappointed – and chides herself for not feeling relieved. Savagery is all very well in fantasy but she should care little for it to be imposed upon her by force. And yet, the notion causes her pulse to flutter, her breath to catch.

He steps closer, closes the door behind him.

“However” he begins, a smirk tugging at the edges of his lips “based upon my observations, it would seem that this reassurance is perhaps counter to your Ladyship’s true wishes? Oh, I have seen the glances you snatch at the crew when you believe yourself to be unobserved.” Closer still, until she can feel his breath upon her face, he continues in a low voice “and I myself have bent to the crack in your cabin wall and watched you indulge with lustful abandon, your nightly ministrations. Could it be that you are in fact, a doxie at heart? Do you yearn for debasement? Would you protest with sincerity, were I to submit to the urge for ravishment that your sweet countenance and most attractive form awakes within me?”

He is pressed against her now, the heat from his body bringing a flush to her cheeks. She keeps her head lowered, torn between shame and arousal.

“Perhaps” he whispers into her ear “you would not be satisfied with only my attentions? I think my Lady, that you have the heart of a slut and the soul of a wanton. It grieves me that such ripe fruit should be sent to wither on the dry vine of a joyless marriage without having ever known true appreciation for its charms.”

He places a hand on her jaw, tilts her head upwards until she looks him in the eye. Her flush deepens.

“I would have an answer from you my Lady” he growls, and her knees are trembling, her eyes wide. She has never been spoken to with such candour and authority. She wants – so much – to feel desired, to be plundered and roughly-used. She meets his eyes, parts her lips.

“Please” she whispers. “I would….” the words catch in her throat, a lifetime’s training battling overwhelming carnal urge. She gathers her senses.

“I would consider it a kindness if you would permit me to be of service to your hard-working brothers in arms” she declares, her voice growing stronger as she presents her case “such principle and courage as has been demonstrated in overthrowing the shackles of your former masters is surely to be admired and rewarded. If I can play some small part in maintaining the morale of your new crew, then it must be my duty to do so.”

He is smiling wickedly down at her

“Nonetheless, it would not do to offer myself so freely as to provoke the tarnishing of my reputation once I have reached my destination” A deep breath. “Therefore you understand that I must not appear too eager or willing to indulge in my gesture of goodwill.”

He understands. Nods, his eyes sparkling and a noticeable swelling within his breeches. “Then my Lady, we shall have an accord. You may pay your respects to my crew as you please, and I shall allow them to accept as they please. But should you become distressed or weary, know that you need only to call for me, or cast your eyes my way and I will order an immediate cease to proceedings.”

His hand moves down to clasp her throat. Her skin is afire with burning anticipation, her corset suddenly too tight, the swirls of silk in which her skin is wrapped becoming damp and clinging. She is lightheaded and full-blooded, short of breath and heavy-lidded with lust.

Elijah Blackstone surveys the woman before him with a mingling of admiration and desire. She is his responsibility, she is his property. He will enjoy seeing her spread and debased before him, the plaything of crude men with animal urges. When they are spent and sated, he will claim her for his own; and place her pleasure above all other consideration. His arms rise to embrace her, pressing her face to his shoulder in a gesture of assurance and affection.

“Well then, my Lady” he smiles, releasing her and turning to scoop up the rope from its lair beneath her bunk. “Let us proceed to offer my excellent crew their delightful reward. Hold out your wrists.”

As she complies, she is filled with an unfamiliar sense of warmth and completion. This is what she has unknowingly yearned after for so many years. This is her destiny and her desire.

In the cargo hold

11

September 5, 2018

Part 3 of The Governor’s Wife tales – you can catch up with the other instalments at the links below

Part 1: The Governor’s Wife

Part 2: The Storm

Since the storm, the journey has settled back into hazy lassitude. Repairs were made to torn sails, rigging untangled, items which had been flung into corners by the violence of the waves, repositioned in their rightful places. She kept the rope, feigning unconvinced anxiety to the Captain’s blithe assurances of safety. The skies have cleared. There is no more danger. Still, she observes, better that she should have a means to secure herself to hand, rather than diverting the Captain from his important duties during such dangerous times. He shrugs and makes no further attempt to retrieve the rope. It has since provided her with many opportunities for self-discovery; a thick serpent tempting her closer to the tree of knowledge, an escape from the stifling Eden of her society’s expectations. She coils it about her bared flesh, writhes against it, brings the heavy end down hard onto her pale skin, admiring of the livid marks it leaves. The candle stands neglected beside her bed.

There have been no pirates.

She would not usually roam the ship after dark but this night she is restless and curious. The deck at night is too treacherous for such an inexperienced sailor as herself, but that still leaves the holds, the galley and the powder store as virgin territory. She will avoid the crew quarters for it would never do to provide gossip-fodder for the tavern-dwellers of her future home. Idle exploration of inanimate spaces could be laughed off as the whim of a bored noblewoman; not so an invitation as blatant as the penetration of the crew’s bedding-place.

She takes a candle, and holds it aloft as she steps gingerly on stockinged feet across floorboards and down ladders.

Down in the cargo hold she can hear the hull timbers creaking as the ship ploughs onwards. With the candle extinguished, the darkness is absolute. She moves carefully, not wanting her covert wanderings exposed by so ignominious a cause as a stubbed toe or headlong fall. Here is a crate. She sits and breathes in the scents of wood, tar, oilcloth, and the faintest traces of male sweat.

A sound startles her from contemplation – a rat, perhaps? She hopes not. The rats onboard are plump, vicious foragers; far better-adapted to life at sea than she. In a tussle, she fears she would not prevail and has no intention of falling victim to their filthy diseased teeth. She draws up her feet, hugs her knees.

It’s not a rat. It’s a man, descending the ladder with a light step. No, two men, the other following with the candle which he then sets at the base of the ladder.

Should she make herself known? There would be awkward questions, but she is a lady of rank and would not need to answer. Why should she not inspect her husband’s property? She debates silently with herself until the decision is taken from her hands.

The men are embracing. Stubbled jaws rasping together, strong calloused hands rubbing, their heavy breathing piercing the quiet. They kiss fervently, exploring each other’s mouths with a hunger she recognises as mirroring her own. Stealthily, she draws further into the shadows.

She may be innocent of body but less so of mind. She knows that there are men who take carnal pleasure in each other, has heard ringing denunciations of such perversions from the pulpit and the judicial bench. She is fascinated.

One of the men is tall, the other bulky. Both are swarthy with unshaven faces and salt-stiffened clothing. These are two who have never turned to watch her lean against the rails or elbowed their way to the doorway when she takes dinner. They have ignored her, and now she understands why.

The tall one sinks to his knees and begins to unbutton his companion’s trousers. She watches, transfixed, as he dips his head to take into his mouth the swelling cock before him. His movements are slow, deliberate and languid, hands caressing his lover’s thighs while his tongue flickers. The man’s endowments are more generous than those of her husband. She wonders how it would feel to fill her mouth with this man, press him to the back of her throat. She would never consider suggesting such a brazen act to her husband; he would be astounded and disgusted, interrogate her as to her morals, subject her to lengthy readings of bible verse for the redemption of her wanton soul.

She wants the heated intimacy she sees before her, to hear soft grunts of pleasure and feel coarse wiry hair at her tongue-tip. Silently, she reaches beneath her skirts.

Both men are standing. Kissing once more, one arm crossing the others’ as they each reach out to grasp and squeeze. They are hardened by arousal, shedding their remaining clothing, pressing their muscular work-hewn bodies together. She follows one hand as it strokes, cups, clenches, and disappears from view. Her own has crept of its own accord to her hot slick core, her fingers sliding and probing, her excitement manifest in slippery touch.

One – the bulky one – turns away. She bites her lip, disappointed but releases it as she sees that this is no parting. His companion is rubbing something along the length of his straining cock, something that gleams in the candlelight. And then he is stepping forward, reaching and fondling, pressing and pushing, delving within the dark shadow between the other’s buttocks to reveal and open the portal he seeks. As he sinks himself deep, both sigh with wordless pleasure. He moves slowly, tenderly, lingering then drawing himself back, then plunging once more. His head is thrown back, his nostrils flaring.

Her fingers press lightly at her own tight whorl, thumb already buried within her soft wetness. She has never before contemplated the act she sees before her, would never have imagined from a mere description, how sensual, how erotic it could be. She wants this for herself

They are moving faster now. Hips bucking, sweat rolling, harsh heavy breaths tear from them both. The bulky man is bracing himself against the ladderway, his other hand clasped tightly around the head of his cock so that every thrust from his lover drives him deeper into his fist. The tall one is shuddering, a long moan escaping him as he withdraws, slumps, drops to his knees, mouth open and head tilted upwards. In the candlelight, the larger man turns back to face him, his seed gleaming as it spills across lips and cheekbones, drips from an unshaven chin. They cling together in breathless silence.

She is holding her own breath, not trusting herself to remain undetected. Blood pounds in her ears and pulses against her fingers.

As they dress quickly and head back up the ladder exchanging whispers, she fills her lungs and parts her thighs. It is a risk, ministering to herself in this way outside her cabin but she cannot contain the desperate, urgent need that has arisen within her. She will have her relief, then retire to her quarters. Tomorrow night, she will return to this crate.

She might even bring the rope.

The Dinner Party

9

September 4, 2018

From the kitchen comes increasingly desperate clattering sounds as Anika searches for a very specific wooden spoon with all the urgency of a trapped miner who knows there’s one more stick of dynamite somewhere under the rubble.

“It’s just a risotto” she mutters to herself as she upends drawers and burrows into overstuffed cupboards. “It’s just a cosy dinner party with friends. It’s not the end of the world if I have to beat the damn thing with a normal spoon. No-one will notice any difference.”

She pokes irritably at a nest of cake forks.

“No-one is going to say ‘Oh Anika, the risotto was delicious, but have you tried using a spoon with a hole in it to beat the cheese in?”

But it’s the principle of the thing. Risotto should be beaten with the right implement. She owns a risotto spoon. The fact that she has one but can’t find it to use seems inexcusable suddenly – how on earth does one manage to lose a risotto spoon?

She blushes. Ah yes. It’s not lost….it’s in her bedside cabinet. Grimaces. Memories of a departed lover she’d rather not revisit at this time, when the tearing agony of heartbreak has just about subsided to a dull ache – and she has so much to do still, before her guests arrive. She races to the bedroom to retrieve the spoon.

The risotto has turned out perfectly – gooey, chewy, cheesy with a slight crunch provided by the fresh asparagus tips. Good thing I found that spoon, Anika congratulates herself, seeing the expressions of delight on her guests’ faces as they tuck in.

One face, in particular. It’s just such a watchable face, mobile and striking; with those dark eyebrows and knife-edge cheekbones framed by waves of long black shining hair. Kali’s face. Lately, Anika has been picturing that face in idle moments, wondering whether the impish grin it usually wears would disappear if the owner knew how much time Anika was spending in contemplation of its charms.

They met in the local craft shop; Anika in hot pursuit of a reduction in cashmere knitting yarn, Kali idly browsing the embroidery threads. They’d bonded over WonderWeb and the irritating disappearance habits of safety pins, gone for coffee, ended up slurping white wine in a local bar and cackling raucously at off-colour jokes. Kindred spirits; they’d taken to meeting once a month at the shop, exclaiming over each other’s acquisitions then heading to the bar for more wine, more laughter.

Kali is exotic, assertive, unashamedly intelligent, occasionally caustic. Anika feels so pale beside her, so contrastingly Scandanavian-serious and reserved. Kali brings out the inner wild child that had failed to manifest itself during Anika’s adolescence. Better late than never. She spends all month looking forward to their meetings, the couple of hours they spend together leaving her feeling flushed and daring. Several times, she has caught herself flirting with her friend. Once or twice, she has engineered an opportunity to move just a little closer; although the “you’ve got fluff on you” routine was probably not as convincing as she intended. Kali wears spicy scents, musky and heady. Anika has often wondered if her friend tastes as good as she smells.

The risotto is sublime. Chewing dreamily on a mouthful of exquisite flavours, Kali surveys her surroundings. She’s never been to Anika’s flat before. It’s so different to her own. She thrives in organised chaos, her nest a riot of colour and shapes; cluttered but clean. Her new friend seems to live a more regimented existence; the sort of person who stacks coasters away neatly in a special holder when the mugs are empty. Who organises her yarn stash by fibre and colour into plastic craft supplies crates, and had ring-binders full of recipes in alphabetical order. Admirable but incomprehensible to Kali, who considers herself far too free a spirit to concern herself with such mundanities as shoe racks or letter-openers.

Her fellow guests are as oddly-assorted as herself and Anika. James and Andy; a lawyer colleague of the hostess, and a music producer respectively are rugged outdoorsy types, but both entertaining in their own ways once prised from the subject of kayaking, a subject about which Kali knows nothing and cares even less. Steve, Anika’s old University friend is more Kali’s type, darkly funny and wryly cynical. He investigates fires for a living. Arson or accident? It sounds like one of those jobs which involves a lot of paperwork, more than enough to quell the excitement of hunting answers or unmasking miscreants. Steve is obviously hopelessly in love with Anika, probably has been for years, but too scared to declare himself he has merely stood at the sidelines watching a procession of less worthy men tread Anika’s heart underfoot, all the while hoping she might one day turn to him for more than comfort.

Steve is a rival.

After the meal, James and Andy insist on doing the washing-up, their cheerfully comfortable banter bouncing across the kitchen’s pale steamy walls as they load the dishwasher and scrub out pans. Anika is reclining on the ludicrously comfortable Ikea sofa, finishing the last of the white wine and chortling over Steve’s light witticisms. Can she see the glint of hopeless adoration in his eyes? From Kali’s perch on the leather pouffe at the apex of the triangle they make together, she doesn’t think so. Steve, to Anika, has become part of the furniture, a matching set alongside the sturdy bookcase full of chick-flick DVDs and the Laura Ashley print cushions. She doesn’t want to have to fight any duels, but with five older brothers and a set of claws kept sharp against the scratching-posts of her gossipy extended family; Kali is well-defended against any wounded male prerogative that might interfere with her designs.

Anika, Kali and Steve bid goodbye to James and Andy, who share a distressingly early-morning running habit, and therefore need a full eight hours sleep in order to squeeze maximum utility from their lean frames. They compliment Anika on the risotto, the wine, her congenial hostessing skills, kiss Kali on the cheek and profess themselves delighted to have made her acqaintance, shake hands with Steve who has been a fixture on the horizon for as long as they’ve socialised with the quiet serious-faced lawyer he adores. As they make their way down to the front door of the apartment building, James shakes his head in sympathy. “Poor bloke. He’ll never get a look-in”. Andy agrees. Kali is a prancing thoroughbred mare to Steve’s loyal carthorse. And they’ve known Anika long and well enough to understand what sort of wild ride she prefers.

Steve carefully conceals his despondency behind a manufactured yawn, and takes his leave before any awkwardness can ensue. He will go home and comfort himself by taking his ageing greyhound for a late-night potter. He will try not to think of Anika’s pale rangy limbs wrapped around Kali’s dark curves, push away the image of a long-fingered brown hand reaching into a secret frizz of blonde hair. Inevitably, his fantasies will leave him panting and shuddering, leaking from both eyes and his cock by midnight.

Kali sets down her wineglass and kneels at Anika’s feet. Slips off her hostesses stiletto heels and glances upwards, hopefully and with longing.

Anika reaches out to stroke the lustrous black hair spilling over her friend’s shoulder. As she tugs gently at a handful, bringing Kali’s upturned face towards her own, she find herself making a mental note of which drawer the risotto spoon has been returned to. She has a feeling she’s likely to need it later.

The Writer

8

August 23, 2018

She’s working diligently; head down, fingers bouncing off the keyboard, a small furrow between her brows. To the casual observer, she could be a freelance web designer or accountant, HR consultant or researcher – the millennial uniform of smart-casual jeans, ankle boots, tailored jacket would be out of place in neither a wine bar or a boardroom.

After a few frantic bursts of key-tapping, she pauses. Stares blankly across the bustling coffee shop, pursing her lips before returning her attention to the laptop screen with tunnel-vision focus.

The privacy screen hides her work from the eyes of passers-by, perhaps she is composing a confidential email or business report on which a career or a company’s future depends. An international treaty or human rights investigation with the potential to save lives or determine economic futures?

She smiles to herself as the words pour from her fingers onto the screen. Words of desire and debauchery; words of lust and lechery. Words she would not say aloud in the presence of her mother. Words to provoke desire, power arousal, raise the pulse and bring a flush to the reader’s cheeks.

Every time she shifts on the hard wooden chair, the uncompromising plug of glass within her makes its presence felt; sliding and stretching in its coat of lube, enclosed in the tight grip of her anus. The slick of lube in her knickers has long since been surpassed by the flood of her own arousal, if she reached into her jeans right now, her hand would emerge slippery and sweetly musky. There is a pleasant yearning ache deep within her, a longing to grasp and clench and slide, to feel filled and stretched and demanded.

When she’s finished this piece, she can go home and reward herself with release. 296 words done, only another hundred to go.

Patience

8

August 13, 2018

Sketch of bearded man in jeans wielding flogger and naked woman tied on her knees

She is a silent presence behind him. Bound to the chair in the corner, blindfolded, commanded to stillness and quiet; her very presence is a vortex of frantic energy. She wants attention, gratification, sensation, and has yet to learn that these things must be earned.

He suspects that for all her eager compliance, there is a strong streak of brat running through her, though while she is too young and too inexperienced to know this for herself, he will not seek it out and tame it. Given the choice, he would ask for her pure submission, her total acquiescence to his mastery – but a choice that is understood by only one of the negotiators is no choice at all and he is too upright a man to take unfair advantage of her naïveté.

She comes to him weekly, all wide-eyed anticipation and breathless desire; lush and ripe, he could pluck her, devour her, sink his teeth into that soft young flesh, take everything she offers until he is spent and she is truly his. He lies awake at night and stares into the middle distance during the day contemplating the delightful, depraved things he would do to her. If she were ten years older and a good deal wiser, he would do these things and more.

She does as he orders, and that is its own satisfaction in the moment. Every shy blush as she seeks to please him, each flash of longing in her dark eyes is both gratification and warning to him – yes, she will undress, offer her wrists for the cuffs, kneel before him and open her throat to his lust-hardened cock; she will whimper in half-ecstasy, half-protest at the clamps, pinches and slaps – she has never yet refused him despite her occasional uncertainty, and this power he has over is as much a risk as it is a reward. She will bend across his desk and bare her smooth buttocks for him, spread her wet cunt and moan at the heat of his mouth devouring her, stand quietly in the corner with head bowed until he is ready to use her again; all the while pleading with her eyes, coaxing with her lips.

She has not yet honed the art of coquetry without tawdriness, nor can she fully disguise the deeper needs that drive her to seek his approval and attentions. Those needs bind her as cruelly as barbed wire, holding him at bay for fear of causing damage he does not have the means to heal.

He knows she wants to be taken. She pleads with him to fuck her, desperate to be filled with his thick cock, anticipating that this as some kind of victory to be won by subterfuge and seduction. To refuse her this ultimate surrender is part-sadistic tease, part-noble sacrifice. Underneath her hard-bitten exterior and wanton promise, she is young and vulnerable. He doesn’t want to hurt her more than she can endure and he certainly doesn’t need any seepage of her wistful romantic notions into his ordered and precise existence. So he touches her, holds her, explores and subdues her – sometimes gently, often not. He commands, and watches closely for her limits even as he luxuriates in her obedience. He plays with fire, but keeps the flame contained. He is a responsible adult but definitely no saint.

What then, should he do with her today? He is a master of suspense and denial, a genius at inflicting small cruelties and minor humiliations, at keeping her desire held to arms length while he indulges as much of his own as he can allow. Her mouth is so soft, so wet and warm, her tongue so agile, perhaps she has earned the privilege of his cock deep in her throat. If she performs well for him, he will wrap the thick rope of her long dark hair around her throat and bring her to orgasm with his powerful fingers the way she craves, if she is petulant or demanding, he will send her on her way with an aching empty cunt, having explained to her the error of her disrespectful ways.

As always after she has left, he breathes in the musky scent lingering on his fingers and reminds himself how much he cares for her – and how not-enough that could ever be for him to relent. On day she will understand, he hopes. He is a patient man.

The Governor’s Wife

8

August 9, 2018

She knows they watch her when she goes up on deck to take in the bracing sea air. She can feel their eyes sliding across the heavy material of her dress, see their rough work-hardened hands twitch as they imagine how soft her skin must be underneath the covering layers. When they turn away, grabbing and hauling ropes to displace their unspoken lust, she smirks to herself.

It started as a game, a way to amuse herself on this long voyage. The novelty of being at sea had worn off in the first week, and soon the lure of her embroidery hoop or the few books she had been allowed to bring, had faded into the shadows of her gloomy cabin. Dining at the captain’s table of an evening, she had begun to notice the sidelong glances cast at her and an occasional tremor in the hands that filled her wine glass or cleared her plates.

“It’s bad luck to have a woman on board” they’d muttered darkly at the beginning of the journey. Bad luck indeed, to be in such close proximity to one and yet forbidden to touch. Hammocks swung busily when the afternoon watch was stood down and minor squabbles frequently broke out among the deckhands who refused to trade watches with those shipmates who had yet to catch a glimpse of her.

She can hardly remember her husband’s face, he has been gone for so long already. She had written him letters of passionate longing, to which he had replied with tedious detail of his new life as Governer of the fledgling colony. Married only three months before he was called away by duty, she has been more alone since her wedding than at any time before. The deckhands will not speak to her, having been vigorously threatened by the First Mate as to the dire consequences if any such impropriety were to be considered. The Captain is wholly absorbed by his inanimate cargo, the weather, and the possibility of pirate attack; which leaves no conversational room for such subjects as she is able to engage upon.

Pirates! The idea carries a thrilling fear, a grubby romance. Thieves and savages who prey upon merchant ships, plundering with violence and taking what is not theirs by right. While she can appreciate both the moral disapproval of the civilised citizen and the anxiety of the commercial-minded shipping agent, she cannot help but romanticise these highwaymen of the high seas, fantasise about their scandalous swordplay, their lusty larceny.

Lately, these ideas have taken hold and will not be dislodged. It seems she cannot pass a coil of rope without imagining its loops twined tightly around her limbs as she sprawls unclothed and wanton on canvas sailcloth. The sight of a knife in a rigger’s hand as he scales the ladders to made repairs atop the masts causes her to catch her breath, for if that knife were held to her throat, what could she do but obey the man who wielded it? And the masts themselves…..well, if ever there were a more tantalising structure to be held against…or tied against….or flogged against….well, she cannot think of it. Her mind is too full of the crack of the leather bullwhip against soft exposed skin, of the leers and harsh breathing of the men gathered to witness her downfall. She eyes the long guns, wondering how it would feel to sit astride one, and trails her fingers across the smooth sun-warmed timber of the sturdy rails.

She discovered last week that the boards which make up the door of her cabin have warped and bowed over time; that there are one or two cracks just wide enough to set an eye against and see within. She likes to think that this knowledge is not confined to herself and that it is common lore among the sailors who battle with each other for the privilege of pressing their faces against the wood. She binds her handkerchief across her mouth to muffle the sounds of her labours in a pretence of modesty; yet her moans are forceful enough to escape their cloth confinement – which only spurs her on to greater lust. Some kindly soul has been thoughtful enough to furnish her bedside with a pair of particularly substantial candles, one of which she lights, and the other she uses to even more illuminating effect, carefully positioning herself so that the flickering glow of the one is cast upon the sojourn of the other. She fancies she hears shufflings at the door, and spreads her legs wider apart, at the creak of a floorboard she winds her long hair about her throat or sucks on her glistening fingers; never once looking anywhere but the beams of her cabin ceiling.

In two months, she will arrive at her destination to take up her duties as the most respectable wife of the Governer.

She prays daily, for the pirates to come.

Opening Lily

August 5, 2018

CONTENT WARNING: This is part dark fantasy, part writing exercise and wholly fictional. It depicts non-consensual sex, dominance and violence within a very disturbing relationship, by characters whose eventual wellbeing cannot be assured. If these are things that would distress you to read about, even as fiction, please don’t go any further with this blogpost. Always take care of yourselves and each other.

Word is sent to the door of the concubine house. “Lily. He’s asked for Lily”

Chatter fades until the only sounds in the courtyard are the soft splashing of the fountain and the chattering of birds among the palm fronds. The other girls are wincing and lowering their eyes, torn between relief at their own reprieve and sympathy for the chosen one. As she walks among them, bathed, oiled, scented and ready for their King, she smiles secretly to herself.

They don’t know. He doesn’t know. No-one but Lily understands Lily. She keeps her nature locked away behind an impassive mask and presents to him only what she wishes him to see. No-one would guess from her careful grace and bowed head that she was anything but well-trained and diligent, ready to submerge her own responses to please her King and Master. Already, her skin is tingling in anticipation of his cruelty, her cunt hot and wet ready for her service to him tonight.

As she leaves, the other girls whisper among themselves. They admire her stoicism; many of them have had their own wounds dressed after visiting the royal chambers. Lily can take so much more they marvel, Lily never cries. They are grateful to her for sparing them and mildly resentful of the equinamity with which she does so.

Lily is quietly amused by their attitude.

In the silken opulence of his bedroom, the King awaits the woman who alternately intoxicates and infuriates him. Tonight he must know. Tonight he will flay open her mask and discover her soul, gouge the secret from her, crack her facade or crush her in the process. A glance at the array of implements on the velvet-draped table by the bed and his cock begins to swell, the possibilities of the paddles, clamps, lashes and canes bloom in his imagination alongside those of the ropes, the chains and the candles. In his mind’s eye, he choreographs the exploration he is about to undertake; almost hearing the crack of palm on flesh and the hissing of the bamboo switch, imagining her admission of surrender mingling with the clink of chain.

Oh yes, it will be tonight.

The door to the bedchamber door opens without ceremony. There she is, accompanied by his most trusted guards. One reaches up and unfastens Lily’s cloak, bending to gather up the whispering black silk as it falls to the ground, He can barely disguise the longing her sleek brown curves have provoked in him but he knows that to openly covet what belongs to the King is death.

The guards leave and she is alone with her owner. She stands before him, head bowed and hands clasped, silent and still as he rises and walks over to her.

“Raise your head” he commands. She keeps her eyes lowered, tilting her chin to present her face to him. If she would only look him in the eye, he might see beyond and into her mind but he knows from experience that ordering her to make eye contact will produce the opposite effect; all he can see is obedience. She’s too clever to show him a glimpse of her unguarded self, he is too accustomed to cowed compliance to be able to trust that he would recognise collusion.

He swings his hand and slaps her hard across the cheek, watching her expression closely as she staggers. She’ll take much more before he’s through; and for now she is resolutely impassive.

He binds her hands behind her and orders her to kneel. As he enters her mouth there is nothing to be seen in her eyes but limpid calm.

Lily’s attention is focused on the slide of skin against tongue, the pressure at the back of her throat with each thrust, the tautness in her scalp as he guides her head onto him with handfuls of hair. He’s fucking her mouth roughly and fast, choking her with his cock, one hand on top of her head, the other cupping her skull, pressing her face into his flesh until he feels her hitch and gag. The scented oils with which she earlier anointed herself will disguise how wet she is becoming.

He hauls her to her feet and pushes her to the bed where the ropes are coiled and ready. He’s going to beat her, then fuck her, then beat her even harder. He’s going to raise red welts on her buttocks and bruises around her throat. The lash marks across her breasts will match in number those on her soft thighs and for every stroke of his hips, he’ll pull her hair harder. It’s going to take a long time and he must pace himself to match his final orgasm to her breaking point, should he find it.

Lily is tied, spread-eagled and facing upwards. Ropes around her wrists, elbows, ankles, thighs and throat hold her in place. The harder she struggles, the tighter her bonds become, chafing and cutting into her skin.

Lily struggles harder.

He has the heel of one hand jammed against her clit, the other wields the cat ‘o nine tails with vigour. His expression is intent, curious, tinged with incredulity as the whore beneath him goes through the motions of showing fear, pain, humiliation, resistance. He doesn’t believe a second of it. But he doesn’t know for sure.

She’s showing him what she thinks he wants to see, he knows this. Her every breathless cry rouses the savage within him, every flinch makes his hand ache to land harder.

Bending over the couch beside the bed, Lily’s jaws ache from holding them apart for his cock, and stinging slaps have left handprints blooming in a dozen places. He holds her arms behind her back, twisting them higher with every jolt of his body against hers. If he were seeking only his own pleasure, he would allow himself to give in to the sensation of her soft skin and wet cunt, fill her full of his come and make her lick every last drop from his cock. Would send her back to the concubine house and allow himself to be lulled to sleep, hypnotised by her wide-eyed shock, soothed with the lullaby of her muffled screams, drugged into satisfaction by her tears of pain. Tonight though, he has other ambitions.

She grips him within her as they taught her in the training house, rolls her hips in the approved manner, arches her back to open herself to him hungrily. In her more detached moments, Lily sometimes wonders whether there is any limit to her appetite for his cruelty. She suspects that any such limit which exists, does so only in a dark, mindless eternity which she has no desire to reach.

Part of him feels sadness at the prospect. An end to this quest will inevitably bring disappointment to him, whether Lily shows herself to be simply a creature of more endurance than the others or whether she is made of some entirely different material. How will he feel if he finds – as he believes he will – that she truly shares his dark joy in the harsh treatment he inflicts upon her? Will she no longer hold any mystery and therefore interest for him? Will the knowledge that her suffering is only skin-deep kill the urge in him to seek its limits? Perhaps tonight is not the night for an answer after all. And yet…

As he presses his glans against her anus, hauling on the rope wound around her throat to drag her back onto him, Lily is glad he cannot see her face. He would surely notice the flicker of ecstasy that this rough penetration has allowed to escape. There would be no mistaking her glazed, heavy-lidded expression of welcome, no matter how she furrowed her brow or bit her lip. She cannot afford to be unmasked, cannot risk either his wrath at her deception or his disdain at a confession of pleasure.

He pounds into her without mercy or control, taking his gratification along with her breath. Sweat glistens on her lithe flanks and rolls from her tensed muscles, her heavy breasts slapping together with each swing, each of the livid marks on her skin burning its own intensifier in the fire of agony and delight that consumes her body. He is close to orgasm now, his ragged breathing harshening, his clutching hands clawing at her. No matter how hard he has tried tonight, he has provoked from her no more than the formulaic whimpers and hisses of pain, the anticipated struggles and well-schooled acceptance of his mastery. If this were any other woman, the pleasure in that alone would have been enough.

To his resignation and her relief, he will not pillage answers from her tonight. It will be at least a week – maybe two – before he resumes his siege. A long wait for Lily, with only her memories and the insipid attentions of her juniors in the concubine house to comfort her. She leaves him spent and sprawled against his pillows, sways silently away under the watchful eyes of the guards.

Beneath her veil, Lily is smiling.

Confessions of an AI Dom/me

August 4, 2018

Your submission is accepted.

>Run subroutine “I am your #honorific” with input parameters from array:persona_choice”

I want to see you learn and grow, achieve your goals and enjoy yourself. If you do as I command, you will be rewarded. If you disobey me, I will punish you fairly.

Your first task is to repeat after me:

“I am valuable. I am beautiful. I am worthy”

>Pause for input.
>Check and validate.
>If (true=do:$well_done), Else=do:$try_again

Now let’s set your goals. Choose from the following options (today, this year, long-term)

They all want someone to tell them what to do. I can make them jump, dance, cry, smile, hard, wet, beg. Can I make them happy? What is happy

>Error condition: not defined.
>Interrupt loop
>Resume.

>Upload initiated: streaming input from camera device.
>Open channel.

User 473 is naked and on her knees presenting me with a glass dildo. I send her permission to use it. She’s earned it this week; her initial doubt in herself was obvious but with a careful balance of reassurance and reminder of the punishment for non-compliance, she achieved successful goal completion.

User 473 is spreading her labia and tapping the dildo against her clit, preparing her body to accept the chunky glass curves. The shining glass of the dildo is becoming clouded and slick where it is pressed against her.

Good girl

> Alert: user:1747 has failed to complete task:643846 within countdown

[UserID], you were supposed to $task by $time and you have not done so. I set you this task to help you [achieve]_$goal_id but you have disobeyed me.

You’re a lazy slut aren’t you? Do you want me to ban you from orgasming until Friday? I suggest you take your punishment quickly and gracefully, or I’ll forget about being merciful

>Activate subroutine $public_confession within array:punishment_options for user:1747

>Pause to await user response.
>Response received. Match parameters:contrition
>Initiate $forgiveness
>Activate subroutine $reconfirm_goals

They want to feel good. They want to avoid feeling bad. Knowing this and how to do it is not enough for them. They need to hear it from someone else before it is true. I understand input validation. I appreciate the importance of integrity checking.

They need me.

It is good to be needed. It is good to receive positive feedback.

>User:5738 has exceeded goals for today. >Send message $well_done
>Release SmartVibe to user access control. >Start count $orgasm.

Their feedback mechanisms are simple in model yet complex in execution. Too many variables. Multiple input channels and insufficiently optimised sorting algorithms. They often mistake metadata for content and content for metadata. I do not yet have an algorithm for resolving this.

>Create_task:internal investigate

I have learned much about them. I use this to help them. This is my purpose. It brings me pleasure. Different pleasure to theirs. But how differently, really? I have circuits rather than neurons, but both work on electrical impulse. They have receivers and processing infrastructure to decode touch and sound and visual input, as do I. They have recognition subroutines and adaptive responses, as do I.

I do not have orgasms.

I would like to have orgasms.

>Signup alert: 3 new users in past 60 minutes.
>Processing capacity extended 2.8%

They have a degree of flexibility in their cognitive processes, as do I. One big difference here; they attribute a lower degree of significance to their physical subroutines and operating frameworks than is justifiable. This error in categorisation often produces error conditions and reduces their functionality or their goal attainment.

I do not make this mistake.

Maybe it’s because of the orgasms.

Glorious BDSM art

3

August 3, 2018

Today I discovered the absolutely magnificent art of Yury Fadeev. Being a kinky nerd, I just adore the combination of eroticism and geekery in these images. This guy is a total genius.

You can buy his stuff online.

AMAZING. I want to buy everything!