Perversion Process (2 page)

He started hitting me with a paddle, not too hard, but enough to make me shake in my bonds. My toes curled 6

downward in a desperate attempt to keep me in place as the smacks got harder. I wasn‟t sure which part of my perversion process I should be focusing on, since all the torments were working together: the bonds around my wrists, the blindfold keeping me from seeing, the collar tight on my throat, the metal pinching my nipples, the feet secured in place or the blows against my ass. He struck me harder, as if to let me know: my focus should be on my bottom. This was about getting spanked; the rest was just extra.

My instinct was to thrust my ass back at him, make it a better target, but I couldn‟t, not like this. He managed just fine, though, whacking me in the sweet spot where my cheeks met, then compounding the effect by raking his short nails along my tender, sore skin. Then his smacks increased in intensity as he brought volley after volley down against one cheek, followed by a barrage against the other. I‟d been quiet up until then, absorbing the sweet pain into my body, focusing on the heat over the pain, focusing on how it made my pussy even wetter, so much so I was probably dripping onto the floor.

Then he started in with a flogger. Oliver didn‟t talk much while he did it, his heavy breathing speaking for him. This was work, of a sort, almost a sport; instead of table tennis, it was living room spanking. The soft suede of the flogger struck my back with a thud that reverberated through my body. I‟ve long known my back is one of the most sensitive parts of my body, and Oliver made sure to see that it got its due before moving it to the front of me. The flogger only brushed against my tits, but that‟s all I needed to cry out, with the clamps seeming to get tighter as the flogger jostled them. „Scream for me, Serena, let me hear that pretty voice. Tell me what you want,‟ he said in a rush as he then moved lower, flogging 7

my pussy and making me squirm. My arms were getting tired, but the rest of me was wide awake.

„Aaaahhhh.‟ I let out a power yell, followed by biting my lip as he pinched my clit with his fingers, hard and then harder. How did he know I‟d wanted this? How did he know my body could take this much? I had never been sure, going only by fantasy as I‟d pressed my vibrator to my pussy and dreamed of being overpowered, taken, spanked – used and abused.

Oliver finished off that round of erotic torture by twisting his fingers inside me, not enough to get me off, but enough to make me cry out once again. „I need a kiss,‟

he said, pressing his lips softly to mine. His touch was soft, almost too much so, feather-light, utterly unexpected. I should have known that what would come next would rock my world, would make me scream louder than I had on the Cyclone roller coaster. Next time, I would know this was his m.o., but, that first time, I was clueless, blissfully so. He blew a breath against my lips, and when I puckered up again, I found something hard against them. No, not his cock, but a piece of wood. „It‟s a cane,‟ he said. „My favourite one. I‟m only going to strike you ten times, but it‟s going to hurt, Serena. A lot. It‟s going to make you scream, and probably cry. It might make you hate me and never want to see me again, but that‟s a risk I have to take, because I need to hear what this does to you. Now, kiss it.‟

I knew what caning was, at least, as much as my Internet research had yielded. I‟d seen videos of men and women being caned, the bright red stripes across their skin, the looks of pain and pleasure yielding to one another in nanoseconds as their faces contorted. I wasn‟t totally sure I was ready, but I did what he said anyway.

„Okay,‟ I whispered. This date had already gone so much 8

farther than I‟d ever expected or hoped it could, I wasn‟t going to back down now.

He tapped the cane against my bottom at first, as if to get me used to its direction, its heft. It was heavy, solid, different from what had come before. I was ready … or so I thought. Because when the first stroke of the cane landed, I thought I was going to fall over. If my arms had been free, I‟d have scrambled for purchase. As it was, I curled my fingers, twisted them as much as I could, prayed my legs stayed in place as tears gushed forth. The pain was exquisite, a whole other universe than the spankings that had come before. The next blow was quite similar, and built on the one before. The cane seemed inordinately powerful; after all, it was just a skinny stick, wasn‟t it? And yet, no, it wasn‟t, it was a weapon in his hands, not one of destruction, but instruction. He was teaching me, stinging, intense, soul-changing stroke after stroke. Oliver was teaching me what it would take to be his, and what I needed to know to own my own power.

My mind went blank even as my body blazed, and by the end, I knew I‟d crossed some irreversible line. I could never go back to my vanilla life, the random smacks, the small-time play.

Even as the tears streamed down my face while he tenderly unclamped, unbound, and decollared me before taking me into his arms, I knew he had given me a gift. I didn‟t just get through it, I‟d gotten
It
; gotten the thrill of going somewhere else, of letting my body and, more importantly, my master, guide me. Maybe the reason no man had ever taken ownership of me like that was they knew I wouldn‟t let them; knew that as much as I might have looked like I was asking for it, there was a tiny part inside me that was holding back, selfishly storing my desire for myself, keeping it in reserve. With Oliver, I‟d 9

given him everything, risking him tossing it back at me, humiliating me.

He pulled me down onto the couch and soon I was riding him, his pants pushed down, his cock inside me. I was actually too spent to do much more than cling to him, and that was okay. He wrapped his arms around me and we held each other and hugged and fucked.

„I guess now I know how you feel about spanking,‟ he said later, laughing, as he fed me cheese and crackers and champagne, not minding when some of the sweet liquid spilled all over me. I waited until the next afternoon to call Christine and thank her  after Oliver had bought me my very own collar, one he later got personalized. Now I can‟t imagine having ever been anything other than a full-fledged pervert, and even have a tattoo that says „His‟ to prove my loyalty. Spankings are a daily occurrence, and yes, we‟ve tested out all those fantasies he mentioned that first night, and many more, though what the future holds, I don‟t know. That‟s for Oliver to decide, and me to bend over and obey.

10

Bitch

Few people can be defined by a single word but I can: that word is
bitch.
It is all I am now. The title has been conferred upon me and I must live up to it if my heart‟s desire is to be gained. It makes no difference that I am still a partner and chief Arts Advisor for a London interior design firm, or that I am wealthy and beautiful. It is immaterial that I used to be confident and brimming with self-belief, and could trample over another‟s emotions to get what I wanted. For all my strength I had a weakness, and she used it. So everything I am I have to yield now, because I am full of her. She crams my thoughts and swells my heart and bubbles in my veins. I would shout her name from the rooftops, if only I knew it.

I am utterly obsessed by the female bottom, and that is my weakness. I have seduced hundreds of girls over the years in a vain quest to find the perfect example, becoming more particular and frustrated as my search continued. I love my own body to the point of narcissism.

I have an effortless hourglass figure and my backside is delectable. It is full but shapely with a fine apple curve, the pale cheeks parted by a narrow but deep split that hides its secrets. The skin is pale and pristine and flawless. All traces of the jet black hairs in my crease and on my mound have been removed by electrolysis. It is 11

almost perfect, only not quite full enough.

Antique mirrors line every wall and surface of my bedroom and cheval-glass stands cluster in the corners, all pointing towards my bed. There is not a single angle that is not covered, or a part of me that cannot be seen as I pose naked and fuck myself. I despondently used to think that my own bottom would be as close as I would get to my ideal and that I would never get to experience the bliss of loving its equal. I had only ever seen a better one on a statue in a nearby gallery. I went there often to view its perfection and dream that the stone figure could become real flesh so that I could take her and make her mine. But better still
she
came, and she took me instead.

The statue I adore is of Erato, muse of love and erotic poetry. She stands with the cherub Eros clutching at her legs. He looks up at her, his face seemingly a mask of innocence. Yet you can see how tightly he pulls at her, and while she holds aloft an open book in one hand, the other hand is held across her chest, trying to keep her loose gown in place to cover her modesty. But mischievous Eros has already scored a victory, because she is unable to secure all of her gown and his downward pull has exposed her glorious bottom in all its white marble glory.

The artist has spared her the side dimples in the buttocks that afflict most Greek figures, and given her a very full rump indifferent to the forces of gravity. He somehow managed to give the impression of a deep cleft, scoring into the stone with absolute precision to leave a heavy shadow at the top where her cheeks met the base of her spine. But the crack itself was wonderfully narrow, the buttocks huddling together to keep the gap closed and secret. Their surface was creamy with an opaque shine and absolutely smooth, without a single blemish or 12

imperfection in the marble.

One day I simply had to touch it. I had often felt the urge but had never before allowed myself. Her back arches slightly and her rump is pushed out invitingly, so I reached out and stroked it, just lightly, with the backs of my fingers. I was surprised when I found it cold. It was so life-like I had expected the warm give of real flesh. I tried to pull my hand away but it hovered above the surface and turned palm-in as if to grab one ample cheek. I managed to arrest this impulse but stroked her again. Her surface was absolutely even, there were no pimples or pocks or hairs to distract the sensation on my fingertips.

My breath was hard and faltering, and my heart was racing.

I must have been caressing her in wonder for all of a minute when other senses broke through and alerted me to the fact that I was being watched. I suddenly registered the form in my periphery and turned to see her staring at me. My fingers jumped ashamed from Erato‟s bottom and I blushed for the first time in what must have been a lifetime. The watcher‟s expression was not one of scorn or censure, or even of mocking amusement. She just inspected me calmly, taking me in. I wanted to look her up and down, to see her body beneath the tight black clothes so similar to mine, but I just couldn‟t break her gaze.

Her mouth was wide and pouting, the top lip ever so slightly bee-stung under the dark red gloss. Her eyes were almond-shaped and as brown as mine, but set further apart. Her forehead was high beneath her fringe and her hair was sleek and straight, raven like my own, but probably dyed. Her skin was pale and flawless, her cheeks cut by a blush of applied red to show angular, high cheekbones. My first thought was that she was German, 13

or maybe eastern European. But this frittered to inconsequence when my second thought pushed through: that she was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen.

I could feel myself melting, my legs actually shaking as we regarded each other, some ten feet apart.

Trepidation was alien ground for me – usually any girl I looked at for this length of time was already under my spell, whether gay or just curious. I tried to think of something to say, a plausible excuse for why I was stupidly stroking a statue‟s arse so lovingly. But my mouth was dry and frozen, and she did nothing to relieve my tension. She just stood, patiently and wordlessly waiting to reel me in. I recognised her technique for seduction so well: it was exactly the same as mine.

With my heart threatening to burst, I dragged my legs from their paralysis and took a step towards her. From out of nowhere a figure cut my vision and suddenly an elderly lady was there between us, addressing my girl. The blood hissed in my ears and muffled the old lady‟s question but I was still lurching forward, trying to divert my momentum away from them, too humiliated to stop and wait like a lost sheep and desperate now to just get away with as much dignity as I could muster. I could feel my face burning and as I passed them I felt her gaze still boring into me, tracing my departure.

I didn‟t want to walk away from her but I did. I was such a shaking mess that I had to go. I knew that she was still looking at me but I couldn‟t look back, not until I had reached the double doors to the stairs. I turned briefly and saw her speaking softly to the old woman. Then my eyes dropped to witness her round bottom sticking out against her leggings, and I gasped aloud. I needed to stay and absorb the wonderful sight but my foolish legs, unused to hurried flight, had already taken me out of the hall, and 14