The Bad House

Locked up. The door closes behind us. The heavy wooden door in the low doorframe of a converted prison cell. A place for being locked up, restrained, punished.

The party isn’t for a couple of hours, and although we have to get ready, it’s been half a week since we saw each other. Half a week since I had you under my hands. Half a week since we enjoyed the sensations of each other.

So there’ll be no waiting until after the party.

Your knickers have been in my pocket since the car park. I’m acutely aware that you’re wet, that you’re accessible. But however beautiful you look in that dress, it has to go.

As your dress falls away, unzipped and lowered to the floor, my hand on your neck guides you to the bed, holding you close to me as I move you, making sure I feel your body brush against my trousers, against my cock, hard within them.

I steer you slowly, but unquestioningly onto the bed, kneeling you. My hand leaves the back of your neck and you feel it stroke over your beautiful skin, down your spine, no less slowly, but no less certain, until it strokes over your bottom and underneath finding the wet, soft cunt between your kneeling open thighs.

I let you feel my fingers on you for a moment. Long enough to wonder how many times you’ll come before we check out tomorrow. Long enough to wonder how I’ll take those orgasms from you. Long enough to know I won’t stop the orgasms until I’ve stolen your consciousness.

But I step away, open my bag and take out the rope I’ve brought. Instinctively you move your hands behind your back, but I move in front of you, drop the rope between your knees and place my hands on your shoulders, stroking downwards, drawing your arms in front of you as my hands move lower, bringing your wrists together above the rope. holding them in one hand now, firmly, I reach beneath them and taking the rope, begin to loop it around both wrists in loose circles, before you feel them tightening into cuffs as I wind the rope through the middle, leaving long tails of rope from the centre of the cuffs.

Letting the tails fall between your knees, I take your head in my hands and bring your mouth to mine, a long deep kiss, feeling yourself weaken in my hold, before the kiss breaks, and you’re pushed forwards, not quickly, but in a slow, controlled descent until your face and shoulders meet the mattress.

Your eyes close, and as my hand strokes again from your neck, over your back I feel the deep sigh of relief that leaves you along with the last vestige of control.

My fingers stroke over the tight hole between the spread cheeks of your bottom, knowing I’ll be inside it before we check out tomorrow. Further to the soft wet folds of your cunt unable to resist lingering there for a moment, then to the ends of the rope between your knees.

You feel pulling, the rope binding your wrists to your ankles, forcing your back to arch, opening your thighs and lifting your bottom, presenting it to me to harvest. To crop.

Of course, you knew this would happen. We smuggled the crops past reception in your dress hanger, the only thing long enough to conceal the four foot long whip.

You’ll have six of each crop, only six. A taster of what’s to come after the party. Even so, the first stinging line across your bottom comes suddenly. Your gasp, your plea for another making my cock twitch inside my trousers. Two, a pause as I watch a line of red rise on the pale skin of your perfect bottom. Three, another pause as I relish the sight of the drips on your cunt as it twitches. Another gasp. Four, Five and Six coming quickly one after the other, the hot lines losing their neat, parallels in the flurry.

You have an awareness of my fingers gently stroking the livid colours for a moment, before I reach for the longer crop. The knowledge it’ll be next the only thing stopping you begging for more.

I wonder if you hear the sweeping sound of the long crop in the air as it swipes through before making its hard, sharp contact with your pure skin. You don’t flinch or tighten before it strikes. But the angry line of red it leaves as it whips around the side of your hip is there before your whimper dies away.

The next five come quickly, each harder than the last, each rewarding me with another twitch of your increasingly wet cunt, framed so beautifully by the way you’re bound.

You’ll be feeling these twelve marks, my marks, at the party later. Every time you sit you’ll be reminded what I did. Every time I put my hand on your tender, bruised bottom when we’re dancing, you’ll feel my ownership of you.

But now all you feel is the heat of your skin, and my fingers pushing inside you, making your tight cunt yield to them, moving inside you, the pleasure of them there contrasting with the burning skin above. Their movement quickly changing your twitching into deeper, consuming contractions as your orgasm breaks over you, your body straining against its restrictions as it takes a hold of you.

You’re blurting gratitude at me while I release your ankles, and pull you from the bed, to the floor, to your knees and open my trousers. You’ve earned my cock, Earned the feeling of it between your lips, in your throat. And I can’t wait any longer to let you draw your reward from me, to feel your reward dripping from your face onto your body.


Mine

© Charles Rochester 2016

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One thought on “The Bad House

  1. Pingback: Sinful Sunday 35 – Room Service | Filth & Erotica

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