Fancy

“He’s got a trademark.”
Fancy was washing my hair at the time. Her short nails sent shocks through my nervous system every time she lathered; it felt good.

“A what?”
“A trademark. He’s got a way, with a weapon.”

“Oh.”
“And you’ll be experiencing it tonight, my love.”
“Yes Miss.”

Fancy dunked my head under the cold bathwater without warning.

“Get dressed.”

Men aren’t my style, not usually. I like women, tall and flat chested, voluptuous, potbellied and luscious. Fancy was perfect – squashy in all my favourite places, rich and endless. She tasted like the sun in winter and looked like a dream. Fancy is my love. Fancy dressed me in a pink frock with lipstick red love hearts on the fabric, and turned me this way and that before the mirror to make sure the seams were straight. She was wearing a tight white shirt and tuxedo trousers, her cloud of dark hair wrapped in a scarf.

I rested my head on her shoulder.

“I don’t want to go.”
“You’ll like it when you get there.” allowing me to hug her, she inhaled the lavender scent of my hair and pinched the top of my arm. “We’d better go.”

‘There’ was an unimposing building in the centre of town, and down some slightly too steep stairs to a room that was never lit by anything but candles and oil lamps. The heat was welcome, and we eagerly surrendered our coats to the sweet-faced boy behind the cloakroom counter.

Friends were there, smiling and deep in conversation, with large glasses of wine or liquors in their hands. Fancy held my arm and walked me to the bar where she ordered a gin martini for herself and a glass of lemonade for me, then we waited for people to come to her, which they always did.

Aaron leant in for a kiss.

“Looking delicious as always, the pair of you.”

He cuffed my ear; try as he might, Aaron could never sexualise me. Said I was too young. He was born the year the the Beatles had their first number one and eyed anyone born in the 1990s onwards with suspicion. It made him hard to like. He adored Fancy though, and they laughed a lot together. Hearing her laugh was my favourite thing.

As 8pm approached, the flow of bodies began creeping towards the parlour door, always kept shut to make sure the bar tab was covered and everyone a little lubricated before the night proper began. Fancy held my hand tightly so she didn’t lose me to the wave of guests; when the crowds parted and we were inside, my insides fizzed and clenched with anticipation.

This room was darker still, with lamps highlighting the decadent brocade of a couch or shiny leather surface of a bench. Layla was already buckling Stephen into something that might have been a couture strait jacket. They liked to show off.

In a corner, Miriam and Amy were bent over with their hands behind their heads and their skirts tucked into their belts, being inspected by Mademoiselle and Aaron with interest. I watched Mademoiselle avail herself of some black latex gloves and insert one finger abruptly into Amy’s cunt but I couldn’t hear the alarmed moan escaping her lips over the heady strings and bustling noise of temptations being pursued. Besides, my eyes finally alighted on the furthest wall, where there was a smaller bench, the kind you might knock up of a weekend as a DIY project, big enough for one – for me. And behind it, Tom, watching us.

Fancy pushed me forwards and watched me walk up to him, clasping my lemonade in both hands, and ducking my head as I murmured my polite greeting.

He took the glass off me and set it on the mantle behind him.

He pointed at the bench, and I curled my body around it obediently, just as Fancy had directed me to. She didn’t move from her position; she felt very far away as he pushed the flouncy material of my dress out of the way so he could see my bare backside.

“Right or left?” He called out.

“Left.” Replied my love, sipping her martini, looking beautiful.

He pressed something cold and flat against my lower back.

“This will not harm you. Who do you belong to?”
“Fancy Xavier.” I replied evenly.

“Good girl. This will bite, but nothing more.”

The first slice was excruciating – I made to rise from the bench but he pressed me down with his large left hand.

“Oh yes; I lied.” he whispered in my ear “But struggling will only make it worse. You know that.”

Sharp-flat pain sharp-flat pain sharp-flat pain. Each time he made contact with my skin I felt as though it might be the the one that saw me off. There was one final thud of impact and then nothing. It seemed over too quickly. Suspiciously quickly even though I lay there with tears streaming down my face.

In my peripheral vision I could see him picking up a Polaroid camera from further along the hearth, then stepped behind me again.

“Why don’t you come and admire my handiwork, Ms X?”

I recognised the tinny clatter of her stilettos on the wooden floor and my cunt dripped. Soon she was close, her voice melodic and clear over the harsh throb of pervert’s voices.

“You do such beautiful work.”
“Oh stop.”
“Look how clear the lettering is. How do you manage it?”
“A magician never reveals his secrets.”
“Shame. Girl, look at your backside now.” She knelt beside me and kissed my ear, holding the photograph in front of my face. There was my own left buttock, much reddened, but pale in comparison to the neat, blood-speckled lettering towards its upper third – FX in a serif font, and just above, a small, perfectly formed heart, already turning purplish.

“The heart fades, alas. I can top it up next week though. The lettering will scar if you tend to it properly.” he said from somewhere behind me, but I was lost, not listening, staring at the image of my vast expanse of skin, in the presence of my Miss.

Contented. Owned. Loved.

“And now everyone will know you are mine.” She whispered. “For always.”

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Lessons Learnt

Note: Everyone in this scenario is an adult well over the age of 18, only experimenting with educational power dynamics.

Six months and whilst our romance still burns, I accept and expect to be pushed. To be punished. To be treated sternly on occasion. And Sir, you oblige.

Sunday School is my favourite. This is where I excel. This is my absolute favourite. Before I button my crisp white blouse – before my Sir I never ironed at all, and blush to think of myself as a slattern – I brush out my hair, parted and plaited, enough to grip. To instruct.

I’m wearing my school uniform, naturally. Actually, it’s your school uniform, your tie in house colours burgundy and gold. And a crest. My school never had a crest.

I have to be ready for 9am lessons. You have a room. I don’t ask how you got it. Two desks and one wall lined with books. At Sunday School, Sir is absent. There is only Sir. It is Sir who calls “Enter.” when I knock and walk primly through the door, clutching books to my chest.

“Good morning, Sir.”

“Miss K. You are late. Over the desk.” You don’t even look up, you only stand and watch me spread myself over it as instructed. This time it’s not the belt but your hand. My knickers are pulled down to mid thigh before I even realise it.
“Repeat after me. ‘Lateness will not be tolerated’,”
“Lateness-” the first smack makes me gasp.

“Will not. Be tolerated.”

I repeated after you. Each time the sting is more pronounced, the ache in my cunt deeper. On the sixth stroke your hand lingers, bringing its own heat. I will not cry.

“Did you do your homework, or am I going to have to invoke further penalties?”

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Caught.

 

“This, this is unacceptable. You know it’s unacceptable, don’t you? You know the rules.” He yanked the dildo out of me and waved it briefly in front of his lips. Crimson faced, I nodded but wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“I come home from the pub, from a nice afternoon with some friends from work, and find you on your hands and knees fucking yourself without my permission. Riding that big, fleshy dildo and grabbing your tits and moaning like a common slut with the windows open so anyone could hear you.

“I’m sorry, Sir.” I murmured, but he wasn’t listening to me.

“You’d been playing for hours, hadn’t you? Teasing yourself. Look at your cunt. Look at how red and full your lips are. Look at your clit, how red and sore it looks. Look.” He moved forward quickly and pushed down on the back of my neck, forcing me to examine my own arousal, smelling it.

“I left you here, and you said you were going to have a nap. You’re wearing my favourite dress, the blue one with the ruffles, but look at you, with the sleeves pulled down so you can display your breasts.”

His fingers were entwined in my braids and he pulled my head upwards so I had to look into his eyes.

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Dahlia learns her lesson

In 2016, I participated in Emmeline’s Team Amazeballs Erotica Exchange – we gave one another a prompt, and she asked me to write something based off Rosetti’s Lady Lilith, which I knew nothing of, instead imagining her as a petulant debutante with a string of music teachers in her wake.
I hope you enjoy this not so little historical tale.

Dahlia adored her music lessons. That precious hour of the day where she was indulged with lyricism and beauty. And the presence of a tall, broad, older gentleman whom she knew her father had chosen precisely because he was almost as old as her grandfather and could not be described by even the kindest soul as handsome.

To Dahlia he was the most exciting part of her lessons. He was the reason she was allowed in the music room, un-chaperoned, for one whole hour. She exploited every single minute.

On music days she woke early but didn’t rise from her bed until almost midday. She would lie in a blissful reverie, and explore the wonders of her own body as if the territory were new to her. Her own large breasts, which came to stiff, perfect peaks. Her own flaring hips and rounded tummy with its sweet fair hair. Fair hair which curved in a path between her legs, becoming coarser and darker until it curled outwards in a shield over her cunt which seemed preternaturally wet and wanting.

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