Part I Here
puppy’s tender nipples were so stiff they ached under the gaze of these twelve strangers. For the first time since she had received her confirmation letter, her heart dropped to her stomach and she wondered what was about to occur. It was only knowing Mister was nearby that steeled her as The Chair approached.
He curled his finger under her collar and yanked her forward, chin jutting upward and her eyes widening.
“Stand up straight, puppy.” He admonished, punctuated by a slap across her cheek.
To his peers, he said the following.
“My fellow lovers of the vile, vivid and virulent, welcome. Your dedication to the club’s aims of sensual, consensual desecration is appreciated and celebrated. It is midday; time for fresh meat.”
He placed his hand on puppy’s back and pushed her forward.
“Joining us today we have puppy, a stupid slut with no morals whatsoever. Touch your cunt, puppy.”
She reached between her thighs without a second thought and fingered her sodden slit, already blushing. As she masturbated, The Chair spoke again.
“This fat little lump appears innocent and plain at first glance, but as you can see she has no issue debasing herself for strangers on a single instruction.”
It was a sharp, painful truth – she had bent her knees, for better access to her slippery cunt but also to better show off that cunt to her audience. Her fingers disappeared inside and she fucked herself the way Mister had asked her to a hundred times. And yet this was nothing compared to what was to come. Nothing at all.
Left to her own devices, puppy sometimes got herself in hot water. She went looking for trouble and Mister had to rescue her. Or at least keep close by, ensuring her safety.
The Library Club met each month on a Sunday afternoon. For an hour. Only an hour. They were an elected committee – six masculine, six feminine, and they invited pliant, pretty, precocious submissives to their lair to indulge their wicked and salacious desires.
Submissives would have to prove their worth before they were permitted to attend; prove they knew their own minds, loved themselves and understood their own needs before a Committee member would engage with them. They would be interviewed over the course of days, or weeks. Observed in their daily interactions. And if all was well, their invitation would follow.
puppy had discovered them all on her own, without the help of Mister or Claudia’s sarcastic guidance. In her online community of Dominance and submission, there was a man who told stories online. He drew crowds of stricken admirers, and puppy was among them.
Part One Here
Part Two Here
Part Three Here
Claudia was an engima, unknowable. Everything about her was abstract – Mister described her body in great, unending detail, but brown eyes, black hair and a smile lighting the way for years didn’t paint a clear picture in Puppy’s mind.
Until one day, when everything changed. She answered her door at 8pm that night, and he was on her doorstep.
“Run upstairs and slip into that nightie I bought you. The one a size too small that shows your tits and belly. And put make up on. Red lipstick and lots of eyeliner and mascara. You have ten minutes. No bra, no knickers.” and he stood on the doorstep, watching her scamper to the bedroom.
She looked beautiful on her return – a different beautiful to her face when she opened the door. A different beautiful to the way her lips distorted with his cock in her mouth. A different beautiful to her sleepy morning selfies.
She stood before him proudly, hands clasped behind her back. The darker skin of her nipples highlighted behind the white chiffon-y material. Her belly protruded and he couldn’t help reaching out to stroke her. She smiled wider. Mister smiled wider, too.
He smiled as he spat in his palm, reached out and smeared her hastily made-up face into a red and black halloween mask.
“Coat on; come with me.”
An extract from a much longer, more complicated piece I have very mixed feelings about.
We sat side by side on our bench, watching the lights kick over the fun fair, finishing our ices. She attacked vanilla ice cream the same way she approached cock sucking. B’s technique – whether for effect or out of habit – was to lick hers daintily, using her tongue rather than her mouth, slurping away at the swirl of cherry syrup. She knew I was staring, looked up and toyed with the chocolate protruding from her dessert.
“Do you want my flake?”
I hated him.
Sucked his cock.
Slapped him in playful fury and laughed at the wide red mark on his preternaturally reddened face. Kissed him with angry passion backed up against the flimsy chipboard walls of my flat and wanted to bruise him. Every week, I fucked him with bile in my stomach and poison on my lips.
“You can make plaster casts of cocks. A vibrator made of your best feature. Something to remember you by.”
The dining chair was part of a collection that had been in the hands of the Douglass family for two centuries and some decades. It cost more than one of the scullery maids would make in all her years of service. This thought did not trouble Camilla. She stood at the farthest corner of the room and nodded complacently. Though the crowds would surely be pulsating and vast, she felt confident her audience would be able to see its gilded form from every possible viewpoint, and not miss one second of the sport.
Hector closed his eyes. He could hear the distant sounds of the approaching crowds, but his bindings prevented him from turning to face them as they entered. Though why should he wish to do so? To see the pity and lust in their eyes? He kept his gaze fixed to the floor. He swallowed. He sweated.
He had felt Camilla’s lips around his cock and then her nails in his thigh. But this was more than two hours previously. She had brought him to the room – the large drawing room, he realised with trepidation, gently lead him to the chair, the only item in the vast space, and stood gazing into his eyes as she undressed him. He moved only to allow her to remove his shoes, his britches, his fine jacket. Then she wrapped the heavy ropes around him, laughing as she did so, calling him her captive in a low, teasing voice.
Now he heard the heels of her boots on the marble floor, heard her unlocking the doors, and her haughty tones.
“Welcome, weary travellers. I hope you are in good spirits for this evening’s sport. Make room, spread yourselves out. I promise you will see something worthy whatever your vantage point.”
Voices became hushed when their eyes alighted upon him, but soon rose again to a murmur. Hector caught snatches of their conversation.
“… For breeding, I take it. Look at the size.”
“… This evening, I wonder…. I wonder at his thoughts on the matter.”
“Cowed and quite unlike himself. We never saw him so quiet in his manor.”
Hector almost smiled.
Soon the room grew thick with the heat of curious bodies. He knew what was approaching.
The final Smutathon story! This for Gorgeous Missy who asked for a D/s Threesome which I hope I have delivered.
Look at him. King of the castle. The cat that got the cream. Lying here in this reasonably priced hotel room with his wife and her lover. These beautiful women. One of whom he owns and worships, one he adores as she serves his beloved.
He had girl strip as soon as she entered – she was not permitted to glance at the bed where beloved sat astride him – and instructed her to stand at the open window with her hands behind her head, exposed to the patrons in the bar opposite. He asked her to raise her hand each time she was spotted, and describe the response of the voyeur.
“He is making lewd gestures.”
“He grabbed his crotch and then pretended to grab my hair as if I was sucking him.”
“Good. He knows that’s all you’re good for, girl.”
“Now a woman is looking.”
“Just looking. Her eyes are wide. She’s stroking the rim of her champagne glass.”
Beautiful Bee’s story. Shared with permission. Written with love.
“Close your eyes and count to ten. Slowly. Then knock on the door. Can you remember that?”
She nodded and he petted her head, lovingly.
“So desperate to please, aren’t you?” and she nuzzled his hand.
“So desperate to prove herself. “
He reached down and twisted her prominent nipple between his thick, unforgiving fingers and she moaned.
“Pathetic.” He laughed as he shut the door behind him.
Naked in the centre of the landing, she brought her hands to her face and began to count out loud.
I tease. I poke. I prod. We bicker. We bicker. We bicker. Friends for a while. Never made it to lovers, brief or otherwise. More adopted sibling than fuck buddy. But hugs that last a fraction too long. Bend at the waist to flash my knickers. Smack my arse as we pass on the stairs.
No blood shared. No awkward Christmases.
Early Saturday morning, wearing a T shirt, long socks, nothing else. Bend at the waist to flash my thighs. Head buried in the fridge, reaching for the last piece of chocolate cheesecake. His slice. His slice we all swore we would leave so he could enjoy it today. In my hands, melting slightly with the guilty heat. Heavenly sour sweetness on my tongue, crammed into my slutty mouth as I hear his footsteps on the staircase, in the hall, on the tiled kitchen floor.
“What are you doing?”
She looked innocent. I looked at her and thought of quiet corners with scuffed sci fi novellas, big jumpers, hot chocolate; pictured her hiding from the sun, studious and careful. I looked at her and thought the world would swallow her up.
I didn’t know – didn’t expect – that she had already chewed up and spat out the world long before I clapped eyes on her.
“That tea is too hot, you’ll burn yourself.”
Her voice sounded strange, cut through with an almost imperceptible sliver of harshness. I brought the cup closer to my lips.
“I said. Put. It. DOWN.”
She was wearing a pale orange sun dress, lying back into the rich leather sofa, Cleopatra-like. Regally stirring brown sugar into her own drink.
This was our third coffee shop hookup of the Summer. Usually we just sipped our drinks slowly, split a slice of something covered in chocolate and then found a quiet corner to make out in for an hour or so. Low-key. I’m older, but she’s more experienced. Both sub-leaning. We shared our secrets – the ones that made our blood run cold with anticipatory glee – and committed them to memory. I tied her wrists with Alice-blue ribbon and beat her with a crop one evening, but that was an anomaly. The exception to the rule. She leads, I follow.