A love like this, where your words pierce heart-shaped wounds into my flesh, is the only love. Nature created us this way; perverse, animalistic, trapped…
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.
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.”
Sometimes she wanted him to go down on her because he wanted to, not because she wanted to come. Not because the thought of his handsome face, his stubble burning her inner thighs made her melt and shudder, though it did. Of course it did.
She wanted him to go down on her and eat her cunt and not care if she came or not. Actively avoid the things he knew would make her climax. Though her clit ached and her cunt grasped, his face nuzzled possessively between her thighs was powerful enough. She wanted him to press the flat of his tongue against her vulva and lick her with fury, not delicacy. With taunting, grim determination to taste every inch of her; her enjoyment irrelevant.
Swipes would be made at her pulsing, reddening nerve endings but only enough to make her twitch, and this was an excuse to hold her tighter, place the full weight of his body against her parted thighs and raise his head long enough to hiss “Keep still you little bitch.” before descending to torture her once more.
And so that Wednesday night she sat with her scissors and a book in her lap, reading through the middle chapters of a slight paperback from Grandad’s stash. A sub-Bond spy novella where the hero ended each chapter balls deep in a beautiful woman. All fucking, all cock in cunt action; the occasional bitten nipple or slapped arse but nothing more intriguing.
Still, as she read the passages, and cut around the dirty words, she thought of her Mister, who was somewhere, nibbling Claudia’s tender skin. She pulled up her t shirt and snapped a photo of her tits, not artistic but laced with urgency, and sent it to him, knowing he wouldn’t reply. A reply would break the spell.
The first in a series of short scenes from an imagined cuckquean relationship
She has sat on her hands until they are numb, willing herself to leave him be. He has not asked her to. He hasn’t asked her for anything, Today is Wednesday; he’s seeing Claudia. Claudia is being taken to dinner and Puppy is sitting at home in her room. She is not allowed to know where they are going. Last week they went to the theatre; it was only four days later he told Puppy what they had seen, how he had enjoyed it.
He had told her how she had brought him off during the second act – how he spat in her palm as the crowd laughed and she worked it around his cock with glee. When he came, he wiped the resultant mess over her face and walked her brazenly out into the street with white splashes of semen adorning her otherwise unremarkable face.
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?”
Two pink pigtails and one wet cunt. Last week she was a gift, with a wide, white bow tied around her neck and her bare breasts pegged at the nipple. Curled at the foot of His bed the night she was returned to Him, she thought of the party she had attended.
A group of men – a stag; a team-building exercise; she never knew – encircled one. Each a little drunk, a little full of bravado. Pawing at her naked and dimpled body. The smallest, the least imposing, smirked at her as he smacked her across the breasts, so hard it winded her. Two hands grabbed her wrists as he spat on his fingers and insinuated them between the lips of her cunt. More impact followed – A gentle giant would hold her face in his huge, terrifying palm before slapping her. The heat warmed her body and her puckered skin smoothed, at least for a moment.
“On your knees.” An order, a disembodied voice. She knelt.
Love sticks and stays.
Each year someone would nudge her, point out a handsome face in the street, or theatre.
“You’re only twenty five. He wouldn’t want you to mourn forever.”
Even his mother’s grief seemed to wane before hers, smiling when Frank was brought to memory and able to talk about her son with warmth and mirth. Lily smiled weakly and sipped her tea, aware of the minutes until she was alone and could weep.
“It’s…. Lily, it’s been three years.” Mrs Bates eyed the wedding band on Lily’s hand. “Frank would want you happy. Not weeping for him still.”
How could she tell her mother in law how she’d grown so unhappily used to the space on the bed beside her remaining cold and still, that she could not bring herself to think of another man’s warmth enveloping it.
“There is time.” She said at length, and Mrs Bates nodded.
The year dragged on. Snow began to threaten. Lily reached for her darned woollen stockings each morning, the fine nylons tucked away for warmer days. Still her poor heart didn’t heal, stagnating in her chest like sour meat. It was heavy to carry around and wearied her.
With no children to care for, she went through her days in a kind of repetitive haze. Wake. Work. Bathe. Bed. She barely ate. She was a ghost, keeping to a tight beat of streets and buildings. Venturing outside of comfort – to the park when she and Frank had met, or the pub they had visited often, was out of the question.
December began and the darkness was pricked with sharp white lights. Each shop window she passed was full of painful wonder, but she steeled herself to look. At the toys she would never buy for the child she didn’t have. At the pearl-handled razor she would never wrap in delicate paper, eager to see Frank open it on Christmas morning. Tears began to seep out from under her frost-tinged lashes.
“Sadness in winter burns brighter and more sorely than the summer, don’t it?”
Came a voice at her ear.
Lily turned her head; beside her was a woman a little taller than herself; older, perhaps sadder. Her hair was hidden behind a brightly coloured turban.