August 18, 1788
Mon Cher Donatien
I hung in a content silence. Your Japanese ropework held me up, off of the ground. The long lengths of rope culminated above me… all knots out of reach. But plainly visible. So I might see them, long to reach for them, or tie them tighter.
You took out your pipe, Meerschaum. Filled the bowl. Tamped it down. Then lit the tabac with a match, the hint of sulfur reaching my nose. “The scent of brimstone,” you mused out loud. I joined your smile. A sophisticated man of leisure, you knew the world. Having traveled all across Europe and far into Asia. Not just a man of commerce, but also a collector of experiences. Many of them inappropriate, except for the most enlightened company.
I looked around our chamber, our chamber. Long ago I started calling this dungeon by that moniker. Sure, you were the owner. It was tucked away in your spacious Maison. But without me, it would be a hollow chamber. How arrogant of me, I thought. But the truth was undeniable. For with all the eligible, and ineligible women in Paris, you chose me. To take me, then mold me. Your Galatea, within this ivory skin. So easily bruised, yet so yielding to her Pygmalion.
“Which do you prefer,” you broke the silence. As you always did, with a thunderclap. Your hands making a single clap. “Douleur ou plaisir?” Pain or pleasure. There was a time I would always go with the latter. But all of that had changed, a lifetime ago. I reflected upon the question, which gave you pause to draw in some smoke. Releasing it in an anticipatory puff.
“It depends,” I answered, daring to look your way. You motioned with your pipe for me to continue. “I can no longer consider one without the other.” I paused. Collected up my thoughts. You rarely gave me a chance to speak, so I wanted to make the most this gift. “At times I prefer pain, at first it was because I needed to punished. Pleasure… was always a lover of mine. Always welcome. But eventually, stale as any love becomes. But together, they compliment each other. Both heighten my feelings, my awareness.” I stopped, feeling like I had just rambled.
“Tres bien.” I felt proud, happy. I had pleased you. I had never wanted to please any man. Satisfy them sexually, oui. Fulfill my obligations as a wife to my husband, oui. But to truly want to please… anyone. Anyone, other than myself. I was selfish that way. An aristocratic curse you called it.
With that, you arose from you chair. Put down the pipe. Then walked over to the wall with all your implements. All of them hanging like sweet stinging promises. Gifts to be delivered with severity when you decided. You selected the burgundy suede flogger.
I raised my head, held my chin level with the floor. Took a deep breath. You grabbed a hank of my long black hair, used it to twirl me around while you inspected my nude, suspended body. You stopped when my derriere was in the perfect position.
Beginning with soft but steady swats, you warmed me up. I could feel my cheeks pinken. They joined the flush color of my warm cheeks, part excitement, part embarrassment. You quickened the pace, but not the intensity. This was meant to be sensual, for now. I loved you were completely in control. I was tied tight, would occasionally wriggle to test my bonds. I also knew that this aroused you. For you like to play with your prey.
You turned the suspension slightly, so you could have a better reach. Then you focused on my feminine charms, starting with my breasts. First one, then the other. Back and forth, increasing the intensity with each round. I pulled my head back out of the way. Bit my lip.
“Count,” you commanded.
“Une, deux, trois,” the pace quickened. I tried to keep up, but your flogging was faster than I could count. I tried using my fingers to keep up with the swats. Hoping you would not see me. But knew that you would. I lost count. The barrage stopped. My poitrines were on fire.
“You disappoint.” The words wounded me.
Your flogging resumed, lower, between my legs. Striking my perfume box with a harshness unexpected. I could not keep from whimpering, tears burst from my eyes. The flames burned between my thighs, radiated up through my body. I sobbed uncontrollably.
“Maintenant, ma peche c’est prete,” you whispered. Yes, now your peach was ready. Your fingers gently probed my nether lips. You entered me for the first time.
Mon Cher Donatien
I hung in a content silence. Your Japanese ropework held me up, off of the ground. The long lengths of rope culminated above me… all knots out of reach. But plainly visible. So I might see them, long to reach for them, or tie them tighter.
You took out your pipe, Meerschaum. Filled the bowl. Tamped it down. Then lit the tabac with a match, the hint of sulfur reaching my nose. “The scent of brimstone,” you mused out loud. I joined your smile. A sophisticated man of leisure, you knew the world. Having traveled all across Europe and far into Asia. Not just a man of commerce, but also a collector of experiences. Many of them inappropriate, except for the most enlightened company.
I looked around our chamber, our chamber. Long ago I started calling this dungeon by that moniker. Sure, you were the owner. It was tucked away in your spacious Maison. But without me, it would be a hollow chamber. How arrogant of me, I thought. But the truth was undeniable. For with all the eligible, and ineligible women in Paris, you chose me. To take me, then mold me. Your Galatea, within this ivory skin. So easily bruised, yet so yielding to her Pygmalion.
“Which do you prefer,” you broke the silence. As you always did, with a thunderclap. Your hands making a single clap. “Douleur ou plaisir?” Pain or pleasure. There was a time I would always go with the latter. But all of that had changed, a lifetime ago. I reflected upon the question, which gave you pause to draw in some smoke. Releasing it in an anticipatory puff.
“It depends,” I answered, daring to look your way. You motioned with your pipe for me to continue. “I can no longer consider one without the other.” I paused. Collected up my thoughts. You rarely gave me a chance to speak, so I wanted to make the most this gift. “At times I prefer pain, at first it was because I needed to punished. Pleasure… was always a lover of mine. Always welcome. But eventually, stale as any love becomes. But together, they compliment each other. Both heighten my feelings, my awareness.” I stopped, feeling like I had just rambled.
“Tres bien.” I felt proud, happy. I had pleased you. I had never wanted to please any man. Satisfy them sexually, oui. Fulfill my obligations as a wife to my husband, oui. But to truly want to please… anyone. Anyone, other than myself. I was selfish that way. An aristocratic curse you called it.
With that, you arose from you chair. Put down the pipe. Then walked over to the wall with all your implements. All of them hanging like sweet stinging promises. Gifts to be delivered with severity when you decided. You selected the burgundy suede flogger.
I raised my head, held my chin level with the floor. Took a deep breath. You grabbed a hank of my long black hair, used it to twirl me around while you inspected my nude, suspended body. You stopped when my derriere was in the perfect position.
Beginning with soft but steady swats, you warmed me up. I could feel my cheeks pinken. They joined the flush color of my warm cheeks, part excitement, part embarrassment. You quickened the pace, but not the intensity. This was meant to be sensual, for now. I loved you were completely in control. I was tied tight, would occasionally wriggle to test my bonds. I also knew that this aroused you. For you like to play with your prey.
You turned the suspension slightly, so you could have a better reach. Then you focused on my feminine charms, starting with my breasts. First one, then the other. Back and forth, increasing the intensity with each round. I pulled my head back out of the way. Bit my lip.
“Count,” you commanded.
“Une, deux, trois,” the pace quickened. I tried to keep up, but your flogging was faster than I could count. I tried using my fingers to keep up with the swats. Hoping you would not see me. But knew that you would. I lost count. The barrage stopped. My poitrines were on fire.
“You disappoint.” The words wounded me.
Your flogging resumed, lower, between my legs. Striking my perfume box with a harshness unexpected. I could not keep from whimpering, tears burst from my eyes. The flames burned between my thighs, radiated up through my body. I sobbed uncontrollably.
“Maintenant, ma peche c’est prete,” you whispered. Yes, now your peach was ready. Your fingers gently probed my nether lips. You entered me for the first time.
I wonder…a reward?
This series is enchanting.
I have to read from the beginning. This piqued my interest.