Truth or Dare….Back by popular demand or is it desire (-;
*THIS EVENT IS NOW FULLY BOOKED* WE WILL BE HOLDING ANOTHER IN DECEMBER SO FEEL FREE TO EXPRESS YOUR INTEREST NOW TO SAVE LOOSING OUT ON OUR NEXT ‘GET TOGETHER’.
T-Girl Gigi & Tessa will be joining me on the above date. We are branding this date as ‘Truth or Dare’. Why? because we can drag anything out of you. We will conquer your fantasy and your carnal desires and have you reeling with giddy anticipation.
Designed for all levels of interest from admirers to lusty Dames, as well as the curious deviant. All participants must meet our minimum age requirement of 30 years…no exceptions!
Kick your curiosity in to action and join myself, Tessa and T-girl Gigi for a day of safe, sane and consensual lusty giggles and fun on 26th Oct at our ‘Truth or Dare’ gig.
There are all sorts of costumes for you to wear from rubber to pvc to sexy lingerie. Corsets and stockings, heels galore. Make-up and wigs should you so wish. Or just as you are, no frills just spills (-;
Apply within via email or phone for our ‘Truth or Dare’ with Mistress Jane, Tessa and T-Girl Gigi xx
TEL: 07928636021 email: email@example.com
Thanks for a great CFNM session today! I really appreciated the attention to detail and will definitely want to come again.
|“There is a march of Science; but who shall beat the drums for its retreat?”|
The girl with the ponytail reappeared and held the door open for us while pointing down the corridor. As we filed past she gave an encouraging grin that for some reason only increased my anxiety. By now even Graham had gone quiet. “This is creeping me out!” I heard Mazher mutter behind me. Doctor Barzani strode ahead of us, those long, long legs swishing in the fine hosiery and ridiculously I wanted to drop behind her to see if she wore the kind with the seams up the backs. We entered a room that had obviously once been a gymnasium even to the extent of the thick green and orange rubber floor mats, the wooden climbing frames bolted to the walls and the long low forms arrayed beneath them upon which the class would have sat. For some reason the phrase from innumerable news broadcasts flashed through my mind – ‘The executions took place in a converted gymnasium’. I bet they did, I thought, wishing by now I’d never gotten into this business.
At least the misery of uncertainty was about to disappear; for there ahead of us waited six sets of what I could only describe as ‘apparatus’. Each consisted of a pneumatic black shape that resembled a collapsible car seat and – incongruously enough – a virtual reality helmet of the sort favoured by hardcore gamers dangled from it by coiled tubes. Twin sets of parallel loops protruded from the seat at positions equivalent to the limb joints on the human body. The floor and its collection of mats was a network of crazily inscribed wires, Ethernet cables and extension boards. Doctor Barzani stopped and held out her arms to check our progress. “Right, ladies and gentlemen,” she spoke reassuringly. “Well need you to take up position over the equipment so you’re kneeling on the seat with your palms on the floor. Don’t worry, it’s semi-automatic so you will be guided into position.” She then walked briskly over to a raised area like a platform at the bottom end of the gymnasium and I craned my neck to follow her.
There stood another workstation upon which was a desktop computer connected to a portable television set; the type used by industry with the innards gaping and uncased as the domestic set would be. I also noticed an oscilloscope among the equipment maintaining its steady display of a single brief signal across the green screen. Even more ominously, someone had parked a trolley next to the workstation and its sole cargo consisted of a single black and grey cube. Thick plastic pipes snaked from brass terminals on the top of the cube across the rubberised floor to all six sets of apparatus.
I stopped and stood for a moment trying to make sense of it all before Doctor Barzani’s voice floated into my consciousness above the sound of her fingernails clacking on the computer’s keyboard. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would take your places please?” The oscilloscope waveform continued its steady sinister beat.
By now my mounting sense of anxiety clouded my judgement; I should have turned and fled immediately but glancing nervously at my fellow test subjects and seeing them shuffle toward the chairs I involuntarily followed suit. Gingerly I approached the nearest set of equipment and gripping the back of the seat, lowered myself onto it, my knees sinking into the black Naugahyde. God it felt creepy – cold and clammy. Thee ponytailed girl had drifted over to stand behind me and I was conscious that in this position my rear end was sticking right up in the air. “Oh, you’re wearing jeans … ” she said before her voice trailed off.
Damn! I thought, remembering that I hadn’t read the joining instructions properly. I now remembered they said ‘wear leggings or yoga pants – no thick material.’
“Doctor?” The girls called out and then I heard the click and squeak of those high-heeled shoes and caught the scent of Chanel Number Five. I twisted round to see the doctor in her white coat leaning down over me. “I’m terribly sorry but your jeans are going to have to come off,” she said, her face set in a serious expression. “We need to get efficient conductivity you see.”
“Okay.” Blushing furiously I unbuckled my belt and in this most embarrassing of positions snaked the jeans down around my hips while she leaned forward to retrieve a bundle of wires that terminated in Velcro pads from the floor nearby. To my astonishment I then felt Doctor Barzani’s fingers actually touching my backside through the tight briefs whilst she attached the wires to my posterior. She then circled round to where my head lolled down as I rested my weight on my palms, the seat sinking queasily and knelt in front of me. In such close proximity were we that I had to drag my eyes away as the hem of her lab coat and minidress slid above her knees, exposing a shapely section of charcoal-meshed thigh as she attached more of the pads to my chest and neck. The sweet scent of her perfume filled my nostrils and that beautiful face swam but a few inches from mine but the smile twitching the corners of her flawless mouth had a distinctly vulpine quality to it … All too quickly she was done.
My discomfiture had not gone unnoticed amongst the other members of the group. “Hard cheese, old son!” Graham hooted. “You’ve got to do it in your pants!”
“Great budgie smugglers, mate!” the lanky blonde Aussie girl called derisively down the row to my left as she took her place. “Are they your pulling pair?”
“I’m a grower, not a shower!” I retorted. But I was pleased to say she had to expose her own ‘botty-huggers’ when Doctor Barzani turned back her denim miniskirt to attach the Velcro pads to the tautly curved seat of her pink panties.
At this juncture of course I should have been contemplating what these strange adhesive pads were for. Barely had I the time to register the Australian girl’s embarrassment (and derive some malicious pleasure from it) than Doctor Barzani walked back to my position. Just as I opened my mouth to ask the inevitable question she took the helmet and slipped it over my head. On being plunged into darkness two things happened. With a hiss of compressed air a gag like a car’s airbag punched inside my mouth to cut off any cries and squeals. Having something like that so suddenly inflate in my mouth felt invasive and I experienced a brief moment of panic in that I might choke – ‘the gagging reflex’ as it is (ironically) called. Simultaneously – and certainly quicker than I could react – the wrist and ankle cuffs, which had snaked about my joints, snapped into life, automatically adjusting for a perfect fit.
The machine cinched me tight and drew me down upon it, into something that must have resembled the missionary position so that my buttocks and haunches were positioned up on a higher angle than my head. I could only imagine the others in the same predicament, kneeling forward, trussed thus, displaying our rumps clad in tracksuit bottoms, the fashion of tight black leggings or briefs in the case of the Australian girl and I – ready for whatever came next.
Eerily a computerised voice spoke from a speaker from within the helmet. I immediately recognised it as a synthesis of Doctor Barzani’s except it sounded even huskier. “You are being restrained for your own safety and well-being,” the voice intoned seductively. “Continue to breathe normally: your vital signs are being monitored.” My mind swirled in confusion I could sympathise with a luckless animal caught in a snare. What the hell were these weirdoes going to do to us —?
— Then the voice began to speak again.
The Pursuit of Knowledge …
On Wednesday morning I caught the eight thirty three from Brighton to Chichester to begin my little adventure. The day before I had a brief conversation on the subject with Carole who looked at me doubtfully while biting her lower lip: “You did go through it thoroughly with them, didn’t you?”
“Of course,” I lied.
During the brisk fifteen minute walk from the station inside the city walls and close to the Cathedral I saw many beautiful period houses that had been reclaimed from commerce. The character of the city had changed and a domestic hum was replacing the hush of office life and I enjoyed the early spring sunshine on my face as its rays slanted down over the rooftops and between the pilasters to reflect on the windows of parked cars. No wonder North Street received acclaim from Nikolaus Pevsner and Ian Nairn in the Sussex volume of The Buildings of England as ‘the perfect street for an English country town’. And somewhere inside this portentous Georgian façade would be the former school converted by Solaryde into their research facility.
Once buzzed in through one of the glass security pods I stepped into the reception hall with its high corniced ceiling and which still retained the elegant Adam oval staircase. It wasn’t hard to visualise what this place must have looked like when it had been a school with pupils heading in noisy crocodiles up and down those stairs: all excited chatter; sports bags and gossip. Stepping from behind the dais a girl in a white silk blouse and whose long black ponytail dangled down to the small of her back led me across the lobby toward a series of rooms converted into cellular offices. There seemed to be nobody else around and the building was eerily quiet apart from the whine of computer or other electrical equipment; the noises of the street shut off by the vacuum-sealed doors.
“You’re just in time; Doctor Barzani is expecting you. She’s just about to start the briefing” was her perfunctory greeting and as we walked along the corridor a surveillance camera high up near the veiling panned to follow our progress.
“Here you are.”
The girl ushered me into a barrel-vaulted room converted into an office. Five faces turned to look at me – these belonging to the other volunteers sitting in a semi-circle around a functional metal workstation desk. And there seated at some distance to the side of the desk was the elusive Doctor Barzani herself.
“Ah David! Welcome. Please take a seat. I’m just taking the group through the preliminaries and explaining the background to what are our phase II clinical trials …” The smile switched direction to the girl who had shown me in. “Thank you, Rachael. We’ll be done in about ninety minutes so you can buzz them out then, okay?”
I was barely conscious of the others in the room as I took the vacant chair – so preoccupied was I in drinking in the beauty of the woman opposite. My God was she gorgeous! Jet-black hair, swept up into a simple and completely practical hairstyle, accentuated her high-cheek-bones and a straight, perfectly proportioned nose. Wide-set brown eyes with delicately painted lashes complimented a mouth in which the upper lip curled a little and the lower lip was a little fuller than the upper. She is beautiful, I thought. If you drew a line down the centre, both sides of her face would be almost exactly the same. Her cafe au lait skin was flawlessly smooth. And I’m pleased to say she even wore a white lab coat over her tight black minidress and those long shapely legs were hosed in black nylons that found their perfect accompaniment in spiky-heeled shoes. A name badge pinned to her lapel read SAHIRA BARZANI BSc. Expressions like ‘stunner’, ‘honey’ et cetera would seem ridiculously inappropriate when applied to such an amazing woman …
“You’ll be helping us here today with our work in developing and evaluating novel treatments through the first in the series of single and multi-centre trials …” There were half-a-dozen of us in Doctor Barzani’s office. We were all around the same age – early- to mid-twenties, students from various academic establishments. And her group now being complete, she launched into an exposition of the programme but it proved to be as opaque as Carole’s earlier explanation. To make matters worse (or better, depending upon your perspective) she had this habit of reclining right back in her swivel chair, legs crossed and one glossy high-heeled shoe dangling in a seductive manner from her foot so the ball in the fine-denier hose shone almost pinkly through the charcoal mesh … Stop perving at her legs! I told myself sternly, you’re here for the advancement of science – not to letch at good-looking women. I tried to distract myself by taking the occasional glance beyond the French windows at the stone flags that let out into the garden. But it proved difficult …
After the rather sinister hush of the remainder of the building it felt a relief to be back amongst people. Of the other five volunteers, one in particular caught my eye – tall and leggy girl with a sun-reddened face and a disarranged hairstyle of blonde locks and dark roots that I found quite appealing. She spoke in an Australian accent and asked the most questions of any of us but I was too lost daydreaming about the beauty of Doctor Barzani to hear barely a word of either these queries or the concomitant answers.
“ … Designed to optimise alternative mindpaths through appropriate stimuli to re-engineer neuro-linguistic programming into generating more societally acceptable responses …” To be honest I was so fixated on Doctor Barzani’s lovely face and that ruby lipped mouth I was away with the fairies. I took not one whit of notice of what she was actually saying … until ‒
“– We have laid on some light refreshments for you so please enjoy these, get to know each other and then in half-an-hour we’ll start.” Naturally there was some form-filling and the doctor passed a clipboard amongst us that had attached the thick legal waiver to be signed and of course a slip for the nominated bank account for each person to receive their expenses and remuneration. We then filed out into a common area where tea and coffee urns stood on a trestle table alongside a respectable selection of biscuits, muffins and other pastries. I’d no sooner poured myself a cup of coffee (which proved to be surprisingly decent for this sort of thing) than I received dig in the ribs from somebody and I looked up to see an immensely tall and gangling youth who peered down at me through thick-lensed spectacles. “Hello mate,” he said in a suitably posh voice. “I saw you eyeing up the good doc. Quite a looker isn’t she?”
“She’s that all right,” I cackled, taking a liking to this eccentric character. “So what do you make of all this business? It’s a bit mysterious. I mean nobody’s told us what’s in store.”
“The chance to make a few quid – easy money that’s all.” Flicking back a lock of straight-combed blond hair he suddenly stuck his hand out. “Graham,” he said.
I shook it and replied, “David.”
The third boy in our group had by now drifted over to introduce himself: “Mazher.”
We exchanged handshakes and introductions complete began speculating on the nature of the experiment we would soon be participating in. “I’m not sure I want to be a lab rat,” Mazher confessed; face pensive. “But I need to get my car back on the road.”
“I’m sure it’ll be all right,” I replied although by now I did have a few butterflies in the stomach. Despite the tall arched windows in the room it seemed perceptibly darker outside and the third youth’s words brought back the feeling of unease I experienced earlier. Keeping a discreet distance the three girls also had their heads together discussing the situation. Only Graham seemed unaffected by the mood of apprehension. “Tell you what I’m going to do,” he winked conspiratorially, “once this is over I’m going to invite Doctor Barzani out for a coffee.”
“I mean they keep mentioning Newman,” Mazher persisted. “What’s all that about? Who is Newman and what are his theories? How come nobody’s given us a straight answer since we got here? Don’t you think we should be finding out more about this stuff? Because that’s probably what they’re going to be doing to us? I mean don’t you think we should know!”
“No idea,” Graham chortled, “all I care about is they’re paying us and I want to get my leg over with the doc and that’s all I need to know!”
“And you reckon a coffee’ll do it, do you?” I guffawed. “I admire your confidence.”
“If she’ll have a coffee with me it’s a start, isn’t it?”
Mazher laughed and shook his head. “You guys are hopeless, aren’t you?”
“Okay ladies and gentlemen. We’re ready for you now.”
……………………to be continued
“Face your front!” Mistress Gwendolyn commanded briskly and as reluctant as he felt, Tom took up the required stance, clutching the edges of the chair’s seat for dear life It cannot be far off five of the clock, the young man pondered sullenly, when is she going to release me so that I may attend the Prince? And damn the Prince, he thought with sudden venom. If the little rascal had not made such a mess of his Latin verbs then I would not be suffering such torment … but that, of course, happened to be precisely the point.
Mistress Gwendolyn glided smoothly into position behind and to the left of him and her fine white teeth flashed as she lowered the cane to the horizontal. “It has a marvellous crooked form does it not, Master Tom? The raised bumps along its length make for some spectacular bruises and the sharp bite it do impart have a truly lasting effect upon the recipient – like a sharp sermon delivered on a frosty morning!” She chuckled once more at her own wit.
“Yes Mistress,” Tom agreed and his sulky mood made him careless. “It is a repandous as the King’s legs ‒ ” Horror-struck at what had just passed his lips he snatched a hand away to cover his mouth.
“Master Tom!” The Lady of the Wardrobe half-laughed and half-gasped in mock horror. It was the worst kept secret at court that the King suffered from rickets and nobody really believed the official story of how his guardian, Sir Robert Carey had cured him of the malady in childhood. “You ought to have your ears shorn off at the pillory for such disloyalty! I was going to give you a dozen – but now you shall receive another six.” She shook her head in supposed sadness, those ringlets falling about her slim shoulders. “You bad, bad boy! In truth I do not know who has been more likely stalled to the rogue: you or your playmate!” Then she set to the denouement of her work.
Tap tappity-tap. The tip of the cane played its little dance upon his mottled proffered buttocks as she measured her first stroke. The ferula was a brutal weapon – a veritable a broadsword or a war hammer in the disciplinarian’s armoury – but the cane, a relatively new import from India required skill and precision, in the manner of a rapier, to employ it properly. “Well, my boy,” she teased him; “you shall earn your firewood this day!” Having gauged the distance, while the poor suffering Tom waited, she gave a deft, lateral flick of the wrist
A half-strangled cry of pain was wrung from him before Tom almost quite realised it. And immediately came the tormenting, mocking tap-tap-tap as she calculated her second stroke. Again he heard the hollow whoosh of displaced air followed at a discernible interval by that hateful sensation which threatened to overwhelm his senses. His buttocks were erupting, a blistering pain searing through skin and flesh. Every subsequent stroke of the cane seemed to be lacerating them afresh. He desperately wanted to tear his hands away and evade that next blow but he checked himself. He had absolutely no doubt that she meant her threat of a flogging at the at the cart’s arse – a shaming punishment for prostitutes – in front of all those leering, cackling fishwives.
He gripped the chair until his knuckles turned white.
Mistress Gwendolyn paused for a moment to allow him to calm his breathing. Sumptuous and gilded though it undoubtedly was, the court of King Charles could be staid at times with much emphasis on decorum and reverence for the monarch. One had therefore to take one’s pleasures where one could find them. And seeing the young man’s muscular hindquarters positioned over the back of the chair, already crimson in their fury and now transected by mauve lines darkening at their edges, she delighted at the sight of her handiwork – especially when made so on such a fine-looking lad. He was no town-raised cokenay milksop softened by easy living but a village youth, rangy and strong-looking. He took his undeserved punishment stoically: his head of dark locks held low; back straight and legs slightly parted. Other ladies at court would have taken their pleasure with him in a different manner, she knew but this she found much more enjoyable. Oh yes, my laddie, she thought, we shall have this dance again …
Tap-tap- Thwatt! As her victim flinched visibly and as yet another parallel carmine stripe appeared, with its distinctive white line in the middle, she felt her nipples harden beneath her shift and a warm glow stole throughout her body from her loins. She almost lost herself in the sensation but even while drawing back the cane again for its next biting sting she knew she could not exceed the boundaries of the punishment. A solemn responsibility is after all conferred upon the disciplinarian and duty is duty after all. Even so, something about the young man’s dumb resilience, the way he kept his head bowed and suffered that lashing irritated Mistress Gwendolyn in an unfathomable way. He must be close to tears by now, she reasoned and how better to force the issue by a nice, hard low one delivered right across his previous marks — shwack!
The effect proved immediate and dramatic. A piercing howl that most certainly frightened the life out of anyone within earshot in the palace reverberated in the scullery as Tom left to his feet, clutching his backside. Mistress Gwendolyn had to dig the tip of the cane into the floor and rest her palms upon it as she fought the urge to collapse with laughter as he hopped about, hobbled by the garments about his ankles and looking at her in hatred with eyes puffy, red and awash with tears.
“Adjust your hose, my boy and smarten yourself,” she giggled evilly, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “It is five of the clock now and I’m sure you will not wish to be late. We spent a merry afternoon together; did we not?”
The glare from Tom’s handsome face slicked by tears told otherwise. He bent forward to pull up his leggings, gasping because the motion caused the skin of his buttocks to stretch. The Lady of the Wardrobe smirked in satisfaction when he winced as the fabric of the hose snapped on the lambasted flesh of his rear end. Taking a small cloth she began wiping her implements clean of the perspiration and other bodily oils before replacing them in the calico: until next time.
“Go to the Prince now and impress upon him how much you have suffered at his behest and of the necessity of his improvement. You are – as no doubt you truly see – the hostage of his good behaviour: the Whipping Boy!”
Hi Mistress Jane,
I’m slowly coming back down to earth and now able to reflect on my experience with yourself and Lunna. I must admit I was in a bit of a daze directly afterwards and somewhat euphoric.
What a fantastic time I had, it has been a while since I last session-ed, but you made my time with you somewhat of a memory that will stick, you knew exactly what buttons to press (literally) to get me going and just held me there on the edge.
I still don’t feel I can fully express my feelings about my experience with you both, but my god it was good.
I would like to thank you both for an amazing time. Lunna was fantastic and a very naughty latex lady, the hood topped it, and you know exactly how to bring the very best of the time to encourage full realease to leave me completely drained!!
Thanks again to you both, and I still smell of latex which is great!!! 😏
Take care both of you and I am already looking forward to the next time I can present my latex self to you.
Best regards M.
Tom could not help but gasp at the pain as he felt the hard edges of the wooden shoe bury themselves in his soft flesh. The crack seemed to resonate in the snug little room. Again that experienced arm swept down and this time the shoe smote his left buttock. He gave a grunt and immediately her arm returned to its position ready to strike. “Six with the sandal I think – on either side,” she said brightly. “I do prefer the wood to the velvet although I suppose you have cause to disagree with me?” Adopting a steady rhythm she alternated the blows from left to right and her wooden sandal imparted a curious combination of a thud and a burning sensation that young Tom tried to escape by struggling off her lap. His legs kicked and scissored and he energetically wriggled and writhed with every wringing whack.
“I do not shirk my duty in punishing you and you must not be deficient in persuading your playmate to pay greater attention during his Latin verbs,” the chatelaine explained. “I mean – attempting to form the future active indicative as if it belonged to the second conjugation! A thrashing is much merited.” To make matters worse, he felt her fingers in the waistband of his hose. “Come, young master, we must bare your bottom!” she said briskly as she tugged the clinging garment down to expose his buttocks, now a pleasing melange of pink, cream and very crimson flash. “Sadly for you, no felix culpa this!” The hotly suffering Tom felt her body shake slightly as she laughed at her own joke.
“You do squirm, my laddie, worse than an eel!” Mistress Gwendolyn chuckled. “We’ll soon have the remedy for that.” With a rather unladylike exclamation she hitched up her skirt, followed by the shift beneath it until a shapely leg in a blue silk stocking wrapped around his lower thighs and drew him in tight. In this position his bare buttocks – framed by the white lacy stocking-top – were perfectly cocked for the remorseless descent of the sandal. “Wriggle to your heart’s content, my little piglet!” she laughed. “You won’t get free. I can grip very firmly I am told!” Her captive thus secured she whipped the sandal left and right; he bucked and squirmed (at times hardly able to breathe) as the burning sensation spread. The sandal rose and fell, bouncing off alternate buttocks that flattened momentarily underneath each impact before springing back to their lean curvature.
Whack! Crack! Whack!
Ow! Ouch! Owww!
Finally Mistress Gwendolyn lifted her leg away and allowed him up. Tom, hurt and embarrassed and scarcely able to believe what was happening to him, rubbed his bottom.
“Rather more to the job than hunting and playing dice with the Prince isn’t there, Master Tom?” she laughed. That the woman found his discomfort amusing made matters even worse. Mutinously he reached behind him to pull up his hose until a vicious, searing agony – shocking in its suddenness – made him snatch his fingers away.
“I did not tell you to adjust your clothing!” The Lady of the Wardrobe regarded him sternly and she slowly lowered the bamboo rod with its crooked handle. Silently cursing her Tom blew on his swollen knuckles (which now competed with his blistered bottom), which felt as though they had been burned with a fire-iron. She replaced the rod and rattled round for another instrument of torment. His heart sank when he recognised it: the terror of every schoolboy – the ferula!
“Doubtless you received this in your school?” she asked.
Tom nodded glumly. It was a long wooden ruler that became flatter and wider at one end forming a circular shape like a paddle. He noticed how the blade was drilled through with a pattern of holes in much the same manner as the battledore paddle used in baking, laundry – and very probably on the bottoms of miscreants in household discipline! The village schoolmarm had been a little old woman; terrifying and the children often whispered behind her back that she must be a witch. And yet I would prefer her to this creature, he thought to himself, her beauty notwithstanding.
“When your teacher administered the ferula they did so upon your palms, I’ll be bound?” Mistress Gwendolyn said in that same conversational tone. Her face brightened and she seemed pleased again – happy at watching him squirm. “I on the other hand regard that as a waste of a good implement. I prefer to punish on the spot where boys learn their lesson best!” She pointed at the chair. “Bend over the back and place your hands upon the seat.” He moved stiffly to obey, still rubbing his aching bottom until the very last minute before taking his hands away to grip the smoothly polished wood. “That’s it, all the way over.” The auburn-haired beauty prodded him with the pommel. “Keep those legs straight!” She tugged at the hose strung about his muscular thighs to ensure they were sufficiently clear of the target area and drew the circular blade of the ferula back to her right shoulder, her keen eyes measuring the range. “Twelve you shall have – on each side.”
Tom kept his gaze fixed on the seat six inches from his nose, nerving himself for the blow that would surely come. The skin of his buttocks – already sorely abused by her sandal – seemed to prickle in expectation … Blatt! Because of the holes in its flat surface, when swung the ferula thus sang through the air with no cushioning effect caused by its passing to mitigate against the blow inflicted upon the recipient’s posterior. And Tom found the skin of his right buttock then be compressed by the blow up into little pockets of flesh to produce a ‘blister’ effect. He gave a half-strangled gasp of anguish and automatically whipped one hand back in a vain attempt to protect himself. Suddenly that awful old schoolmarm seemed like a sister of mercy compared to this hellion
“Hold still, young sir! Should I miss and catch you upon the lower back it would be so much the worse for you; not least because needs must I would have to start again!”
Chuckling at the morose expression on his face she tapped his left buttock with the flat of the blade. “A fine contrivance this; it can – as I’m sure you know – cover an entire arse cheek with each lick. It can redden up a lad’s bottom flesh like nothing else!” Tom shivered involuntarily: it seemed wrong for such a courtly woman to utter a crudity like that but he had little time to dwell upon the contradiction. The ferula returned to her shoulder … Splatt!Mistress Gwendolyn settled to her task, beating out a tattoo on those crimson, stippled buttocks balanced above the back of the chair. Tom stared intently at the seat, his entire body flinching with each swat, his bottom feeling like one huge burning blister. It throbbed in time with the spanking.
The mistress swung the ferula again and again and again.
Tom set himself to counting; trying to ignore the intense burning in his paddled bottom and willing the number of strokes up to the twenty four the woman had promised would be his last.
Twenty one. Twenty two.
Twenty three …
“Twenty four,” Tom cried out, the words catching at the back of his throat from his distress. “I beg of you, Mistress, twenty four!” he sobbed as if it were some magic phrase that he could invoke to stop the punishment.
To his intense joy those terrible sounds of wood striking bare flesh ceased and he felt nothing but the warm air upon his tortured nates. Hardly venturing to believe his ordeal might be over, Tom gingerly lifted his right hand away from the edge of the seat to fan his posterior. As he did so, till bending forward, he twisted round as far as he dared to see what she was doing. Once more he noted the clatter of wooden objects; she was at the table with her back to him and laying down that hated ferula. Thank God, he thought. Thank God, dropping his gaze quickly before she spotted him.
Then he smelled the rosewater and heard the click of those dainty shoes as the woman advanced upon him – and in her right hand she clutched the evil, knobby bamboo rod. His heart skipped a beat in horror. Surely not …! As smartly as any cavalry trooper on parade with his mortuary sword, Mistress Gwendolyn flicked the cane up to her right shoulder. Those onyx eyes and their extraordinary rises were shining now with something other than the satisfaction of a responsibility well-performed.
“Well now, young Tom, we do come to the final act of our little tableau – the cane!”
Last weeks Decadence & Debauchery saw the arrival of my lovely friend and accomplice Manchester’s very own, Miss Torment who joined me for our recently advertised Double Domination Halloween event which ran over two days here at my studio in Reading, Berkshire. The event was fully subscribed within 4 days of its launch and not only did we receive the usual suspects but saw some new faces as well. Miss Trixy was also on hand to join in the fun.
The sessions were fun as well as wide and varied which keeps us on our toes. Our first session kicked off with a ‘Miss Torment special’ tie and tease. Miss Trixy and I watched as she wrapped our first subject round her little finger and had him begging for more of her delightful touch and teasing throughout his session. We had a very interesting session with a guy who had an acute arm fetish, that was fun. Lots of role play. Satin panty fetish, edging and ruined orgasms and cp. The following day we had an early start and our first session was with my loyal panty pervert. We had a medical scenario followed by a triple fisting to a foursome where The Leather Master joined in. Miss Torment will be making the journey from Manchester back down to sunny Reading in the spring yo join me for more Decadence & Debauchery! I shall look forward to it, and I know a few of you will be to. Enjoy the photos………..
We rounded off the evening in the local curry house with a bottle of red.
Raven haired Miss Torment combines her very own unique style tie and tease with strict sensual domination. She also specialises in bespoke cuckold sessions at her Manchester chambers. Take a look at her link below.
Do you relish the thought not having to make any decisions at all? To relinquish all control of your mind, your body, and your soul? For your body to be played with, your mind to be immersed in a intense haven of euphoria and your soul to regain its sense of self.
BDSM: Bondage Discipline (BD) Domination and Submission (DS) Sadism and Masochism (SM) in layman’s terms, sounds quite scary to some, especially the ‘Sado’ part. But basically all it means is giving over control and getting down to some kink and fulfilling your fetish fantasy however tame or extreme that may be. At the end of the day it is You the client (He who holds the purse strings) that approaches Me The Mistress with your ideas, your fantasy, your wildest dreams, your fetish, your means of escape. And it is I, The Mistress that translates your fantasy in to a real time experience…….reality.
For a brief time you want to be detached from yourself, from your normal role, while your whole being is immersed in a fantasy land. It helps to refresh your outlook and gives you time to escape, after all, this is all about escapism. To some, a hobby and a mere ‘dip your toe’ exercise, and to others a source of invisible delight, but necessary. A distraction from the norm. Embrace it and I will enhance your experience as best I can.
How ever hard or heavy a scene looks, don’t be fooled by a photo. As the scene may look ‘full on’, in reality the sub maybe experiencing lite sensual and erotic sensations although covered in head to toe rubber, which to some gives the impression extreme forces are at hand. Its not all about pain, whips and chains….its all about trust and handing over control of Your fantasy. Relax and enjoy the ride.