Category Archives: images

Before Sunrise

It was a half and hour before sunrise, and Amy was already up. The sky outside was slowly lightening, with the promise of a sunny day. Everything was quiet, few other people in the household were awake. Just the kitchens really.

Amy liked this part of the day, she had a few minutes which were completely hers, at a time when she still had energy to do something about it. She slid her hand between her legs, feeling herself already wet from anticipation of her next duty. A delicate touch, and she shivered just a bit. It didn’t take long anymore, and she didn’t want to come too much, Mistress might not like that.

But, since she’d been waking Mistress up, she’d been getting everything she needed that way. Even if it just made her want more. She strapped on a front-tying corset, which pushed her breasts up and covered nothing. A simple dress over that, and she was dressed according to Mistress’ desires.

It was already light enough that she didn’t need a candle to find her way to her Mistress’ room in the east tower. It was becoming second nature, anyway, to follow the stone hallways and up the uneven stone stairs. Windows were cut in the turret, letting in the predawn light. Amy lifted her skirt to keep it out of the way, climbing the forty-odd stairs to the top of the tower.

Arriving in her Mistress’ room, she walked silently to the bed. She removed the dress, letting it pool on the floor. Gentle nudging at her Mistress’ legs and she rolled over, legs wide. Amy knelt there, lowering her mouth to her Mistress’s pussy. She licked, and teased, arousing her Mistress, and forcing her to arise. Hands clutched at her head, her collar, pulling her more deeply into Mistress’ sopping cunt. Feet pressed against her back, and her Mistress shouted out.

Amy crawled to lie next to her, and her Mistress turned and smiled. Amy felt her Mistress’ fingers press against her pussy, and she came again and again, blocking out the sound of the cock’s crow greeting the new day.


Being Mean

“It’s not easy being mean,” she sang under her breath.

She’d looked over the toys she had this morning, and nothing there inspired her. Nothing gave her spark that said, “Use that on him.” She’d looked over her little sub and bit her lip. This just wasn’t going to work.

“Okay, slutboy,” she said. “We’re going shopping.” He let out a deep sigh. He hated shopping almost as much as she did. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you something to do while we’re there.”

So they took the van.

It wasn’t a mini-van, or even a finished van. It was unfinished and raw inside, other than a futon she’d tossed down. She let him kneel and tied his arms so they were up and reaching for the ceiling. She also tied around him to the sides, so he wouldn’t flail about as she drove. Also, so he couldn’t move.

His cock was right where she wanted it, inside it’s little plastic cage.

She was going up to the new development on the outskirts of town. They’d built a Target or a Wal-Mart up there. And there was a big hardware store. The drove and he moaned a bit in the back. Hard to do more when you’re gagged, after all.

She pulled into the lot, and climbed into the back of the van. She tossed a dress at him, and unsnapped his restraints. “Here’s fifty bucks,” she said. “You’ll get an orgasm for each new toy you bring me. You have an hour.”

He pulled the dress over his head, and she undid the ball gag. He slid on some shoes, and she handed him the cash. “Don’t spend it all in one place,” she said. She handed him his purse, and he blushed.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said.

Maybe it wasn’t so hard to be mean after all.

Her First Flogging

The whip came down against her back. She gasped in mixed pain and pleasure. “Do you like it?” he asked her..

“Yes,” she whispered.

The whip again– she gripped the ropes above her as the leather fell against her back.

“Why do you like it?”

“W-what?” She asked, trying to understand the question around the warm pain of her back.

He hit here again, three times, hard, all on her right shoulder blade. She cried out as he did it, her shoulder red and raw. “Why do you like being whipped?” he asked again.
She thought for a moment. Unable to answer, she felt horrible. Here she was, trying to give him what he wanted, and she couldn’t. He whipped her again. Yes, she thought, whip me, whip this poor little slut who can’t answer her master’s question. “Because I deserve it,” she said.

He stood right behind her, his fingers pressed against her tender back. He whispered in her ear. “Why do you deserve it?” He drug his nails across her back and she shuddered, feeling shocks pass through her, shocks that normally only she could give herself. It hurt; she wanted him to do it again.

“Because I’m a bad girl,” she said. The words barely escaped her lips. “And I need to be punished.”

“Punished?” he said, digging his nails into her flesh. “For what?”

Before she could answer, he was flogging her again. Left and right, right and left, up and down, all over her back. She jerked and twisted against the ropes, hiding from the flogger, wanting him to hit her again and again. Harder.

He stepped up behind her, and gently ran his hand over her warm back. “Are you sure you are bad? Or do you just like it when I hit you?” He grabbed her hips, and then his cock was between her asscheeks, rubbing quickly. She moaned as he used her.

His fingernails scratched against her back. “Well?” he asked. He pulled back, and his cock slipped down inside her. “Or is it something else.”

“Use me,” she said. “Abuse me. Take me. I don’t care. Just touch me.”

He reached around her, painfully grabbing her breasts. She cried out in joy. He rammed into her, over and over. His lips found her ear, and he spoke. “You are such a fucking slut.” He scratched her aching back and pounded into her. “Aren’t you?”

She felt her heat inside her, him touching her all over. Taking his pleasure in her, and giving her some in return. “Aren’t you?” He insisted again, pounding her cunt with his cock.

“Yes, Yes. I am a slut,” she shouted out in orgasm.

The Sultan's Slave

“So,” the Sultan said, as he stroked her breasts and belly with a feather from some exotic bird. “You did not want to become a slave, yet you are one anyway.”

“That is right, Sir,” she said. Her hands were bound above her head, her ankles were tied together. This was no longer strange. “I don’t know how this happened, exactly.”

“Tell me, then, what went wrong with your life?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps if they hadn’t gotten their hooks into my daughter Cassie. Perhaps if I hadn’t lied to my husband about the blackmail. Perhaps if I hadn’t gone to that hotel the first time; if I’d never answered the personal ad.”

“But you did.” His hand roamed over her nipples. The rings Marcus and Jacob had insisted she get made them so much more sensitive. Her husband had never quite understood, but he’d noticed and enjoyed the change. She wondered where he was today.

“Yes, I did. I was lonely, my sex life uninteresting. I thought it was my husband’s fault. Now I’m not so sure. If I’d only been more available to him, more willing to experiment.”

“You have always been willing to try new things with me.” His long middle finger slid between her labia, teasing her clit. She gasped.

“It’s not a question of willing anymore,” she said. “I am what I am.”

He teased her clit with care and precision. Tiny shocks shot through her. He grabbed one of the nipple rings with his teeth, and twisted and pulled on it. She angled her knees out, giving him as much access as he wanted, trying to urge him on.

“Mother. Wife. Free woman?” He asked around her nipple.

“No, not anymore.” He slid two fingers inside her, his thumb pressing on her clit, pressing it and rubbing it. He bit her nipples and she cried out in passion.

“What then? What?”

“Slut. Slave. Concubine in your Harem. Your whore.”

“Yes.” She felt his cock press against her as he continued rubbing her clit. “But you want to go back, right? To be with your husband, your children?”

He stopped playing with her for a moment while she answered. “No!” she almost shouted, unsure of whether she was answering his question or complaining that he had stopped. Both, she knew, deep in her soul. He returned to what he was doing. “I’m yours,” she said. “Always. To do with as you please.”

He grinned. “Come for me my little slave.” She cried out in response. They had trained her well.

“Some day,” he said, as she floated down from orgasm. “You will tell me the whole story of how you came to be here.”

“Yes, your Highness,” she said.

“But for now, I have other needs.” He grabbed her head, wrapping his fingers in her auburn hair, and pulled her head to his crotch.

“Yes, your Highness,” she said as she sucked on his cock.

He let out a sound of exquisite joy.



Making Their Bed

The Master sat on the corner ottoman, watching them make the bed.

He’d commanded them to make the bed without the use of their hands, but of course Mandy hadn’t been able to obey him. Now her arms were tied painfully behind her, in long leather sleeves woven together from wrist to upper arm. Chrissie, however, still had use of her arms, for balance, and so forth, but mostly she kept her hands clasped at the small of her back.

He watched as they moved, asses in the air, sheet corners in their mouths, as they writhed in front of him, trying to pull the fitted sheets around the mattresses. With the bedframe in the way, that wasn’t working, so Chrissie lifted the whole corner with her head, as Mandy pulled the sheet over and down with a snap.

He smiled to himself, and slipped his right hand around his cock, stroking slowly. The sheets had just been changed yesterday, when Mandy had flown in. The three of them had made use of the bed from the moment he got her home, and the sheets had been covered in cum and sweat.

They tried the same technique on the other side, with Mandy lifting the mattress up, but first the sheet slipped out of Chrissie’s mouth. Then she pulled so hard it popped up off the other side. He looked up at the clock. “You have 20 minutes, ladies,” he said.

“Or?” Mandy asked. Chrissie cringed as she asked.

“You don’t want to know Mandy. Although, if you keep up this attitude you will.”

“Let’s go,” Chrissie said, urgently, before Mandy could say anything. He wondered if she was just baiting him. They had talked online about some of the things he used for punishment. She could be pressing him to do it, which meant, of course, that it wouldn’t be punishment for her.

He watched as they got three corners on, noticing the bruises on Mandy’s ass from last night, and the way her pussy glistened. Chrissie caught his eye, and winked at him, and wiggled her hips. He motioned for her to come to him, and she knelt before him, wrapping her lips around his cock.

“You’ve got five minutes, Mandy, or it’s punishment time,” he said.

She turned, and realized Chrissie was busy. He saw anger flash across her face, and then a slim, quirky smile.

She took her time on the last corner, not going too slow, but not as fast as he thought she could really go. Chrissie kept up her good work, keeping him aroused, and letting it build the way he wanted. When the time passed, he let Mandy know she’d be punished. He grabbed Chrissie’s head and came down her throat.

He was glad they’d used the black sheets; the stains wouldn’t show as much.

Watching the Lesson

Mistress had given Amy a break, and she was on it when she heard a woman scream. She slipped between the walls into the secret hiding places, to see what she could see. Screaming women weren’t uncommon in Mistress’ household, and Amy was glad, that for once, it wasn’t her.

Someone was playing piano, so she slipped to the hidden spying place next to the conservatory. A young man, with short dark hair sat naked at the baby grand piano. His back was bright red, and one of Mistress’ heavy leather floggers lay draped over the piano’s mahogany lid. Amy couldn’t see the man’s face, but she could tell where he was looking.

On the other side of the piano was a girl. She looked to be about the man’s age, and she had long blonde hair that cascaded down her back. Her hands were bound behind her back, her legs spread wide by a metal bar attached to ankle cuffs. Mistress stood next to her with a crop in her hand. There was an angry red line across the girl’s large, firm breasts.

Amy smiled to herself as Mistress caught her eye and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Knowing Mistress approved, she slid a hand inside her skirt, to her moistening cunt. This would be good, Mistress’ games were always good, unless you were the one under the lash.

“That was one,” Mistress said to the man. “Look at this red line.” Mistress ran her hand over the woman’s breasts, the woman whimpered. “Make no more mistakes. If you continue like you have been, you won’t be able to see one line from another. I’d continue to beat you, but it’s too obvious you enjoy it.” Mistress stole a glance at his crotch, and Amy realized that the pianist must be hard, rampant and humiliated. She moved her hand faster against her crotch.

The girl whimpered again. “Please, Patrick, play well, like you did for the Duke.”

He nodded, and began to play again, a complex and beautiful piece. His finger slipped, even Amy could tell it was a flat note. Mistress swung, bringing the crop cruelly down on the blonde’s breasts. “Mary,” Patrick cried out, in the process making several other wrong notes.

Mistress swung three times more, and three more bright red marks appeared on the Mary’s breasts. Amy felt her cunt begin to tighten, and slowed her movements down. She wanted to savor this for as long as her break might last.

“I’d suggest you continue playing,” Mistress said, twirling the crop in her hand. Her free hand cupped the blonde’s breasts, and she licked them as the young girl whimpered in pain. “Your nipples are hard, Mary, maybe you enjoy this too?”

“No no no no…” Mary pleaded, as her body betrayed her. Amy orgasmed as the young girl pleaded, a knuckle between her teeth, to keep her quiet.

“Play, Patrick,” Mistress demanded. “And get it right, or I’ll keep whipping your fiancée.”

Patrick began playing again, and Amy realized her break was over. Before Mistress could notice, she slipped away and back to her chores. Maybe next time, she would be under the crop, or learning piano at Mistress’ careful hands.

Secret Infidelity

Rachel wore a black latex bodysuit with cutouts for her breasts and crotch. Her feet were locked into six inch stilettos and a spreader bar which kept them a yard apart. Chains bound her ankles and arms to a St. Andrew’s Cross. She was bound on the stage at The Chained Triangle, a leather dyke bar. She looked out on a sea of faces, all there to watch Mistress Jane work.

Jane stood behind her, and leaned forward, reached around and gripped her right breast. “I know you fucked him,” she whispered in Rachel’s ear. She knew. Rachel felt her stomach churn; she pulled on the chains to steady herself. She scanned the women in the crowd – her community. “Lesbians don’t fuck men, do they Rachel?” Jane whispered to her.

“N-no.” She felt her nipples harden.

Jane continued to caress her breasts, tweaking her nipples. “Look at them, Rachel. They know you and me, the know us. We’re part of their family. Think how betrayed they will be if they found out.” Her hands slid from Rachel’s breast to her crotch. “Want me to tell them?”

“No!” Rachel cried out.

“What will you do for me to keep them from knowing you’re bisexual. To keep them from knowing how you cheated on me, and with a man?”

Rachel looked out at them. Now, they weren’t just a crowd, she could pick out her friends: Alysa, Janet, Mo. Mo, who had been raped and hated all men, and women who deluded themselves by liking them. What would they think of her? Of her secret? “Anything,” Rachel whispered. “I’d do anything to keep them from knowing.”

“I’m going to cane your breasts,” Jane said. Jane knew how she felt about caning. No permanent marks, not on her breasts, ever. Jane had whipped her with a crop once on her breasts and that was much too much. She shook her head back and forth.

“You said ‘Anything’, Rachel, so that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to strike them over and over until your pretty, perky breasts are covered with red welts.”

“But our agreement…”

“The one you broke, when you slept with Richard? That agreement?” Jane tweaked her breasts, hard as she spoke. “I could tell them, could dump you, leave you alone. Maybe I should.”

“No,” Rachel said.

“That’s what I thought,” Mistress Jane said and picked up the cane.

His Sculpture

His sculpture was of leather and bright blue plastic wrap. It was suspended from the ceiling with a careful balance. She could hear a faint buzzing sound from within it, as it slowly swung from side to side like a pendulum.

The artist turned to her, “Do you like it?”

She smiled, blushing and nodded.

“Do you want to touch it?” he asked her intently.

Again she nodded. He took her hands, and pressed them against the sculpture’s torso. It was warm, and soft, the plastic slick against her palms. Her hands felt glued in place where he had placed them.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Touch it however you want. Imagine what it must feel like inside. It can’t hear or see or smell or taste us. The only thing it knows is touch. And that is your power. Touch it.”

She moved her hands over it, down legs and arms, sliding in the private place between the legs, caressing the chest, the head. She couldn’t tell gender, and only imagined she was stroking a cock or breasts as she slid her hands over the leather and plastic.

He watched as she played with his sculpture. Watched the sculpture try to move and squirm to get more touch. He watched as she reacted, touching here, and there; one hand on her own breast, moving down to her own crotch.

“What do you think?” he asked, coming up behind her. “It’s intriguing, isn’t it?” One of her hands was on the sculpture the other, pressing her dress into her cunt.

“Y-yes,” she said. “I think…”


“I think I want…”

“Want what?” he asked, grabbing her free hand, and running it over the hanging sculpture. She stammered, some part of her couldn’t go on. “Tell me,” he demanded. “What do you want?” He guided her hand to the sculpture’s crotch, pressing it in.

“I want to do it,” she said, and shuddered.

The sculpture moaned.

He laughed, triumphant.

Mermaid Sunset

I search the beach.

Little Rikk is beside me. He darts in and out of the waves, swimming like a native. Or one with a gift. I finger the seashell necklace, and look out among the waves. Looking for something. Looking for mermaids. Looking for her.

I search the beach.

Rikk is gone now, on his quest. A man from the village stays with me, he is sweet and caring. He touches me with tenderness and love. I try to love him back, but there are others in my mind. A girl with iridescent skin, and a voice like a dolphin.

He sees it in my eyes; he sees it in my ways. Every morning I walk the beach, looking, the sun in my eyes. Every evening I walk the beach, the sun casting my shadow on the waves. Every day I look for her, but every day I return to him.

He holds me while I weep, and makes sweet, tender love to me.

I search the beach.

War has come between the faeries and the elementals and people are caught between them. The men have gone to fight, for one side or another. Rikk visits, secretly — he can go where he pleases, now, he is so strange. But he loves his mother.

The mermaid’s kiss is matched by others now, and I know someone has marked his heart. He finally understands why I do what I do. Before he leaves, he takes the seashell necklace, and carves me an ocarina from the conch shell. He mutters unhearable words over the rest and hands it back to me.

He kisses my cheek, and then is gone.

I search the beach, and sometimes I stop to play the ocarina.

It is quiet now; the man is gone, and I am too old to attract the attention of anyone else. One of the village children helps me in my chores, gathering items from the beach. We were done early, and I sit on the dunes.

Rikk is coming in a few days. It will be the last time, I know. He has bigger things to do, and I am an old woman who was once young and taken advantage of by faeries. I wouldn’t change much about my life — it has been good and satisfying, with a wonderful son.

But I miss her so, the mermaid I met when he was only four.

And so, I walk the beach, searching.

The sun lay behind me, casting my shadow long across the sea, reaching for the incoming sea. I saw dolphins on the horizon — it had been so long since I had seen them. I touched the necklace, pulling the attached conch to my lips. I began to play a tune Rikk taught me only a few weeks before.

It is a maudlin tune. It speaks of goodbyes and it speaks of the sea. The waves crashed against the beach, keeping time for my playing. I closed my eyes, losing myself to the song, and breathing in the scent of the sea, the scent of the mermaid I found so long ago. The dolphins called out to me, so like her halting voice. And still I played the song my son gifted me.

Then I heard a voice, female and lilting, harmonizing with my melody. I opened my eyes, and she was there, standing in the surf, ocean spray swirling around her feet. She was naked and blue-green, and there is a pink scar running from her right shoulder, down between her still-perfect breasts. Her arms are out and inviting, a spear in one hand. Her face was lovely and youthful, but her eyes were old as mine.

And suddenly I was aware of the toll time had played on my body. The wrinkles on my face, the drooping of my breasts, everything about me that was no longer the lovely girl who wandered too far into the woods, or the young mother who saved a mermaid’s life

We stopped at the same time, she and I. I dropped the conch, and it swung where it hung on the seashell necklace; she halted her singing, and smiled at me. “The war is over,” she said, her accent much improved. I walked toward her, feeling the waves crash about my feet.

I touched her scar, my hand between her breasts. We kissed, and I felt the old electricity. She pulled off my shift, dropping it into the surf, where it was carried away. It no longer mattered to me.

She slammed the butt end of the spear into the sand, and cupped my breasts in her hands, and I sighed at the touch. I missed it so. “We won,” she said.

I pulled her close to me, our bare skin touching. I wore only the seashell necklace. She carried only a spear. “I know, he told me.”

“I have been fighting for so long.” Her voice was a quiet whisper against my neck. Her eyes grew even older, and I felt my own age in them.

“I waited.” She kissed me then, her lips against my neck, and I felt it all the way down my body.

Her kisses were like water after a desert crossing. Soft salty licks on my lips; tiny touches sliding down my neck. Her hands enclosed my breasts, lifting them back up, her thumbs teasing my nipples. She began to whisper, sing-song words which I could not hear. I felt excitement course through my body as the seashell necklace grew warm around my neck.

One of her hands slid down my body, my legs opened to allow her access. She continued to speak and my arousal grew. I clasped my hands behind her neck, holding on, keeping my balance. I became acutely aware of the surf, then, the same crashing waves that had accompanied me on the ocarina fed their energy into my arousal. With each crashing wave, I felt it build; her fingers on my bud kept me there, kept me rising with the tide.

Her words remained unhearable, but I knew her chant grew louder as the waves became more and more insistent, my arousal more inevitable. She removed her hand from my breast, and touched the central shell — a sand dollar, from which the ocarina hung. I heard three notes, and she kissed me.

I came then, a wonder like I’d never felt. The waves crashed over us, and through us. Her taste filled my mouth, my legs clamped around her hand, keeping her near me. We fell, and we were sucked out to sea in the undertow.

The water turned us around so that her tongue and lips were between mine, and her fins melted away, allowing me access to the special place between hers. We rolled in the water, our lips locked on each others’ sex, I reveled in the memory of her taste even as I reclaimed the sensation. I felt wonderful and alive with her hands on me, as we frolicked in the ocean.

At some point, I realized we’d been underwater since we’d been pulled out to sea.

Soon after, I realized, so long as we kept moving, I didn’t need to breathe — I didn’t need to remove my lips from hers, interrupting her pleasure. And she didn’t need to do the same to mine.

With that, I clamped my lips on her, sliding my tongue between her lips, teasing her clit with my tongue. She cried out, and this time it wasn’t dolphin clicks, but sound I could feel all around us. Her cries of pleasure rippled across my skin, echoes of sound all around us. I felt the others, dolphin and mer, around us, swimming, playing, making love.

I was one of them now, and they swam to touch me, too. I came then, over and over, for a very long time.

Rikk and the mermaid — they had made me part fae, allowing me to join her. And they had made me young. I wept salty tears, as she kissed me again, and led me among my new kin.

I no longer search the beach.

But sometimes, I’ll look out at my old village, and wave to the people there, wistful but happy.

Over Dinner

I was in the kitchen, dressed in a simple sarong, wrapped around my waist for comfort. I was preparing our dinner and waiting for her to get home: hamburger was browning on our small gas stove, and bread was baking in the oven.  She must have gotten home early, when I heard the front door slam  A few moments later she stepped into the kitchen.

She was wearing her work outfit: flannel shirt unbuttoned, a sleeveless shirt on underneath. Her hair was cut short, but still mussed from her hard hat, which was tucked under her arm. I could see her nipples pressed against the white cotton of her undershirt. Just under her work belt, her pink cock poked out of her khakis.

She motioned with her chin, and I knew to turn around, over the stove. Placing my hands on either side of our cooking dinner, I felt my cock go firmly erect. Surreptitiously, I turned off the gas. The belt and hat hit the ground, and I felt her hands shove the sarong aside.

She leaned against me, her cock sliding up the crack of my ass as she did it. Her body pushed me down towards the burners as she reached over me. “Extra virgin,” she chuckled as she grabbed the bottle from the shelf over me. “As if.”

She chuckled to herself as she uncapped the bottle. I listened to the slippery noises of her masturbating the eight-inch dildo and felt myself get harder. Her oily hand pressed against my asshole, coating it and preparing me for her inevitable invasion.

I felt the tip of her cock press against my asshole.  One of her hands pressed against the small of my back, the other pulled my right ass cheek to the side. She slid inside me, and we moaned together.

“You like it when I fuck you, don’t you?” she whispered into my ear.

It wasn’t a question.

“You like it when your daddy comes home from work and takes your sissy little ass. Don’t you?”

She was above me, pounding into me, taking me. One of her hands circled around my waist and grabbed my hard, pulsing cock. “Oh yes you do, you do,” she said, laughing.

Dinner sizzled below me, even off the heat, and I grabbed the sides of the stove to keep her from pushing me into it as she f ucked my ass.  She pounded into me, slipping and sliding.  Her hand on my cock followed her rhythm, back and forth.

My knees grew weak as my arousal grew.  She slammed into me, and ground against me. I felt her shudder behind me as her orgasm caused her to clench all over.  Her hand on my cock squeezed painfully as I shot out my own orgasm, splattering cum against front of the oven.

I stood there in front of the oven, drained, unable to move yet. She slid off and out of me and tossed her cock in the sink. I heard her zip up her pants and start to walk out.

“Clean this shit up,” she said.  “And make my dinner. I’m fucking hungry.”