by Rob

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To find a dominant woman, I had always assumed one had to pay. Smiling Grace taught me otherwise. I came to know that smile well, but the first time, she was just a stranger brushing past me in the busy street. Then, I had suddenly been struck that she was smiling at me – and I noticed she was pretty.  Tall, slender and shapely.  When we had passed, I looked back over my shoulder at her again. And just at that moment, she did the same, the same pretty smile.  So we both stopped and approached each other. 

            I said as if joking, “Women are usually more careful about picking up men in the street.”

            Without hesitation she quipped back, “I don’t think I have anything to worry about from you, do I?” She seemed cheeky if not rude.  But certainly confident, and I like confident women.  I have always found it interesting the way even the most confident become yielding and compliant when aroused. “Shall we get a cup of coffee.  There’s a tea-shop just over there.”

I did not think twice about responding to the suggestion. She was definitely assertive. When we were at a table with our mugs, I let my curiosity out again. “To what do I owe this privilege of being picked up by a beautiful woman?”

            She looked back at me steadily, “You knocked into me as we passed each other, didn’t you. It was a message, wasn’t it?” I had no recollection of noticing her, or trying to nudge her deliberately, as she suggested.  She gave me that smile again, “I like pushy men. I like to see them weaken.”

We obviously had something in common! “So, I look weak then?” we were becoming strangely intimate, strangely quickly.  But she ignored me.

“What is you name? We might as well start at the beginning.  If we are gong to see what you are made of.  My name is Grace.”

“That’s a pretty name.  For a pretty woman.  My name is Rob.”

“And are you married, betrothed, partnered.”

“I am a fairly liberated male, Grace. I find women fascinating. Didn’t know it might be the other way around,” and I chuckled.

“Well, maybe you should get a decent haircut.  And go to some better clothes shops.” My mood faded a bit. She could be blunt. And also sharp.

“You can teach me.”

“I might,” she said, seeming more serious than the flippant conversation suggested. “Depends.”

            That was curious and I wanted to know what it depended on.  Should I ask her? But where were we going with this?

            “Let’s get to know each other a bit.”

            “I should think you know a bit about me by now. I’m pretty, you said.  Now you know I am frank.”

            “Pretty frank,” I said facetiously. She said nothing.  Her smile was not there.

            “What do you want to know about me? Do you want to feel my tits?” Obviously. she was playing along, making a fool of me. I should not have been so acquiescing from the start.  So, just to challenge her, I put my hand across the table and felt her breast, the hard seams of her bra, and the soft but pert tits beneath. It was nice.

            She did not move or protest, but said, “You do whatever is asked of you, don’t you.”

            I was not sure if that was correct, but I said, “Perhaps you would feel my cock under the table?”

            “Not at all. Cocks are all the same.  Some a bit bigger than others, but not much, and it doesn’t make much difference.” This was an extraordinary conversation over a cup of coffee.  I began to think I was going to be late for work.  But I was also interested in what this woman would end up wanting.  Did she want a date to roll in a bed together? Or what?

            “I am not sure what you are wanting here?”

            She replied quickly, “Just interested – this is the filthiest conversation I have ever had with anyone.”

            “Do you have lots of men around you.”

            “Quite a few.”

            “And they have polite conversation?

            “Unfortunately, yes.” And then she smiled again.  And I felt charmed by Grace again.

            “I have to get to work, but do we meet again?”

            “OK. Well, not this evening, but tomorrow will do.”

            “It will do for me too.” And I got up and left, trailing my hand over her other breast as I left the table.  She liked filth.

I had no idea where we would meet next evening, and so presumed it was not a serious invitation.  But she stuck in my mind for a lot of the time.  It was the filthiest conversation I had on a first meeting, as well.  In fact, the filthiest ever. I regretted not asking for her phone, or address.

            I was in the office the next day and the reception rang up late in the afternoon to say I had a visitor who was expecting to see me.  I said I would come down as I suspected I knew who it was.  But how did she know I worked here.  Perhaps she had been trailing me for a few days – but why? Or perhaps just yesterday she followed me.  I packed up my things. I was excited to see if it really was her. But I didn’t hurry… 

And it was her.  With her pleased smile.

,,,,,oooooOO0OOooooo…..

“I thought it might be you.” I started to say.

            “No, you knew it would be.”

            “I suppose so. How did you know where I worked?”  She didn’t answer that.

            “Come on. The car is outside, waiting to be towed away by now.” So I followed her to the car. It was a nippy sports car, as you can imagine for a woman like this. It might have cost fifty grand. It started up with a roar.

            “Where are we going?”

            “You’ll see. A friend of mine says I can go there this evening, but she’s not away till seven, so you can buy me a drink for a couple of hours.

I bought a couple of glasses of champagne. And we talked more conventional talk. She is the idle daughter of a wealthy commercial businessman, and has all the luxuries of the family home. I said I was a mere office clerk with aims of funding myself through university in a couple of years’ time.

            She asked what I will be studying.  I said, “It looks like I will be studying challenging women with pretty smiles.” So she smiled.

            “You could be right. It will depend how you behave yourself this evening.”

            “I think I’ll do alright.” I was imagining how this challenging woman would become limp and compliant, and wet in the right places for me.

            We’ll see….” And she changed the subject to find out more about me. I said I loved writing stories and would like eventually to be a novelist. And I was serious. She smiled again. And she put her hand on mine – perhaps her first affectionate gesture she had made – “And are they filthy stories? Or… er… clean ones?”

            “Clean,” I said, turning my hand so I could gasp her fingers. She hesitated, and then gently pulled her hand away.

            “I prefer filthy ones. We will have a filthy one tonight,” and she made as if to ,leave.

            [And that is how this story came to be written]

When we arrived at her friend’s flat for our private evening together, we entered and I was taken aback.  The walls seemed padded, a form of soundproofing. There were stocks, a St Andrew’s cross, a whipping bench, and the walls were hung with manacles, whips, black leather and plastic garments.

            “Whatever does your friend do,” I asked pointlessly.

            “She’s a professional tart,” she said matter-of-factly.

            “She certainly is. And are you.”

            “Oh, no.” And after a moment, “Not professional.”  And she smiled, and this time not just pretty, but also evil.

            “So, who is going to be tied to the whipping bench?”

            “Hmm. We can toss for it, if you like.”

            “And if I lose, how will you make me get on the bench?” I queried as if amused.

            “You might need to think again – It might not be losing.  You might be winning the best caning you’ve ever had.”

            “Um, yes with the prettiest woman I’ve ever had.” I replied quickly, and seductively.  I was feeling a bit aroused, and thought she was getting there too. But she looked stonily at me as if she was not charmed by my complement.  I put out my hand to touch her warm breast again, but she pushed it away. Her lips were parted as if she might tell me off.  But she did not. Or, perhaps even a little excited.

I got out my phone and took a picture of her standing in the room, the backdrop of all her friend’s furniture and implements.  I showed it to her. she held it in her hand looking at herself. “Now, I think you will be the one getting the whipping.”  I was a bit definite, a bit threatening. She frowned as if uncertain, so I explained. “If you don’t go along with my wishes, I can show this photo to your devoted Dad. I don’t suppose he’ll be pleased.”

            She clutched hold of my phone. “You don’t know where he lives.”

            “I can find out, Grace. You forget, I have been in your car and so I have the registration number. I can find out,” I was a little triumphant.  I did not in fact know the car’s number, but it was a good threat.  She then pushed the phone down the top of her dress and inside her bra.

And now she was a little triumphant, “And if you don’t get on the bench, I can show this photo to all your colleagues around your office.”

            “Ha, I could just get the phone back. By force.  I am much stronger than you.”

            “I don’t think so.” She slowly stepped forward. “I have trained in judo.” And before I could speak, she had somehow kicked her leg around the back of my knees and I collapsed, crumpled on the floor. I looked up. I suppose my eyes were full of surprised amazement. “Don’t mess with me, Rob.” Again, her face showed delight and triumph. I got up and placed my hands on her upper arms and drew her to me.

            “I like a tough lady.” I pressed my mouth on hers and kissed her. She did not resist.  She pressed back with a longing kiss. Eventually, I said, “I like a tough lady who is as pretty as you.” She looked unimpressed and pulled away.

            “Stop being seductive. You are an amateur. But” she added thoughtfully, “we kiss well together. Maybe I’d like a turn on the bench as well.”

“Me as well as you. On there.”  I pointed to the bench. There seemed no doubt about that.

“So, let’s take it in turns.” She had avoided a contest and threats.

“What will you do to me?”

“I would like to put the cane across your breasts for six strokes, then your buttocks for twelve.” She looked thoughtful in anticipation.

But she said, “Just that?” as if I was being unimaginative.

“I could push a vibrator up your pussy while your buttocks get beaten.  And one of those long romantic kisses after each stroke with the cane.”

“Hmm, that’s romance, is it?”, and then thoughtfully, “ Perhaps it could be romantic.”

She was so contemplative about what I might do that I asked, “Have you ever had the cane before? Hard?” But she decided not to answer.

“So what will you do to me?”

“Ah you’ll get something much harder.  See that pulley up there?” She pointed above the bench.  I’ll string you balls up to that so it lifts your back end off the couch.  Then, do you understand, if you wriggle after each stroke, or before, your balls will be yanked.  I hope they won’t come off.” And she laughed cruelly.

“Christ, that’s hard.”

“Certainly is.  Something for you to think about.” And she nodded her head wisely as if she was remembering similar assaults on other men.  “Why don’t we start with you a straight caning on me?” So we started.

…..oooooOO0OOooooo…..

Naked, I shifted the bench slightly and placed her, also naked, under the pulley.  We admire each other’s bodies.  In that moment, we were each the model of exciting beauty. There were leather straps I could see as I lowered the pulley.  I strapped these around her wrists, and slowly pulled her hands in the air. “Stand on tip toe,” I commanded. And she did. “You’re an obedient girl,” I told her. I asked if she would scream a lot, and she replied, maybe.  So I found a gag for her mouth, and then some tape to put over as well.  She could only breath through her nose.  So I pinched her nostrils shut for a few moments, until she started to writhe about breathless. When after about a minute I released her nostrils, I said “You didn’t like that.” She shook her head as she was recovering with deep breathing through her nose. I went to the wall to select a nice whippy cane. I came back, and instructed her, “You will count each stroke.  You can’t do it with your voice, so you must do it with your fingers up there,” I pointed to the ceiling where her hands were.  “Close your fists, and after each stroke open one finger.” I stepped back and very quickly before she was ready, I landed one hard on her breasts.  No warm-up. She jumped and turned away with her back towards me and was shaking her head. It was obviously hard on her. But one finger opened up. I told her to turn around but she could not move herself.  So I turned her, but as soon as I had done so she turned away again.

I then had to arrange the bench behind her and go and find rope so that I could tie her knees one to opposite ends of the bench.  She could not turn her body away, only her torso a little. I told her she was not cooperative and she should get extra strokes.  She shook her head.  I said it would only be one more because she was obviously not used to taking the cane.  I said perhaps we could get her used to it, one day. Her eyes were leaking tears, now. She knew I would not let up.  So I positioned myself to give her five strokes on the breast, plus the one extra.  I think if she had not had the gag and the tape her screams would have been deafening.  I would like to have heard them.  She was tearing at the ropes, and her hands at the pulley manacles.  But a finger went up at some point after each stroke, delayed sometimes as she lost track of what she must do. “That’s right,” I told her, “if the finger does not go up, you get an extra stoke each time.  Here comes the next one.  Her body tensed and she watched, hypnotised as it were as I swung my arm and the whippy cane caught her tender flesh and raised a bright red mark on each side within a few seconds as she writhed and writhed, the muscles playing all over her body, and she jumped slightly on her toes as if pushing herself away from the cane, though of course she hardly moved. She was feeling how pathetic she was. Some strokes hit her nipples.

When, after seven, her breasts were done, she hung limply.  I went to sit down on a stool and left her to hang. I contemplated touching her for her pleasure but this was not what she had given consent to. But… So what. So, after a few minutes I stood and went to the hanging body, still on tip toe.  I put my arm around her waist, touched her beautiful traumatised breast, touching a sad limp nipple and placed my other hand on her crotch. She wriggled a bit as if telling me to go away.  But her legs were still spread by the ropes so I had easy access to her special spot.  As I gently, and I have to say lovingly, fingered her, she did relax a little and then a bit more and more, till I felt a loving weight in my arms. I was not going to let here cum, only to help her to know she wanted to. It took a little while.  Her breathing changed but it was difficult to tell as she could only breathe through her nose. I hoped I got the right moment when I took my hand from her pussy and my arm from around her waist.  I undid the ropes and turned her around redoing them so that her backside was ready for me.  I was thinking of what she said she would do to me, so I did not feel I could be merciful, though I knew she had already had more than enough.  I realised she would be severely unkind to me, and probably decide never to see me again. So I had nothing to lose.

Her buttocks were perfectly rounded as they should be.  She was clenching them but that would not save her. I was going to continue hard.  The buttocks deserved a heavier cane, so I found one hanging amongst the medley of implements.  A beautiful selection, I noted, and wondered which one would be bruising me. As before, I landed the first stroke very quickly almost before I was ready and certainly before she expected. She heaved as if every single muscle in her slim body had jerked itself from its moorings. She was not going to enjoy this, but it was after all only twelve. The heavy cane left a wild red mark. Later they would become blue and black no doubt.  As we went on, she heaved and butted against the ropes and the bench and her fingers were a bit irregular and she of course clenched her fists a lot, a lot. There were some sort of voice sounds coming out of her nose and after every stroke she shook her head, until after half a dozen her movements lessened as the pain had destroyed her will, and maybe her consciousness. I paused and touched her face gently and she opened her eyes.  I told her I did not want her to faint and miss any of the cane strokes.  She closed her eyes again.  I stroked her face with my hand, “These are love strokes not cane strokes.” She did not respond with any movement and just hung. I doubt if her toes were taking much of her weight.

Then I decided to resume. Her head flopped down as I spoke, and I kissed the back of her neck as I started again.  Only five or six more.  But she was broken already. I did not have the heart to give her the full strength of my arm. I doubt if she noticed at that stage.  But at the end there was no movement after each stroke.  I let the pulley down straight away and I let her sit on the bench, her arms still in the air.  I took off the tape and removed her gag undid the ropes around her legs. She looked at me. “Bad,” she said, still breathless, “I hate you. I do, I hate you.”  I lifted her chin to look in her eyes.  She looked into mine expressionlessly, and shut her eyes again.  I kissed each eye on their lids. She murmured some sound.

I said, “I love you.” Not sure I had ever said that to anyone since I was a child.

She whispered, “I hate you.” And after a while she shook her head just a little and said, “I’ve never had an experience like that.  I think I could fall in love with you too.  Let me recover for a moment and then I shall give you such a bad time – so bad.”

Then after fifteen minutes, I was ordered onto the bench, face down.  I released her hands from the pulley, knowing it was the last moment of freedom before my ordeal. The wrist and ankles were manacled.  She found a cord and fumbled under my hip and between my thighs to get a noose of the cord round my balls and pulled it tight. The bench was now positioned so the pully, attached to the cord, drew my balls back between my thighs.  I had to raise my buttocks to prevent the cord tightening too much and strangling my privates. It was uncomfortable, but the more I relaxed this unnatural posture, the more my balls protested at the taut cord around them.  I was in a fix.  Why had I consented to this woman, not a cheap tart, but a tart all the same.  She was worthless to me.  Why had I said I loved her? It might just encourage her.

“Now let’s see what you are made of. See this.”  I looked around at her raised arm with the heaviest of the canes. “I hope you are used to this. Because I will be merciless.” I knew she would be. “Watch.” And she brought it down. The noise was sharp but immediately something sharper, the pain, ran through every fibre in my skin. I jerked, and though my balls told me not to I could not concentrate too much on their problem as the flooding pain from the cane took the breath away and all the focus of my mind except on that searing point on my buttocks that she had struck. I wriggled but then kept still and alternated between the two. “That’s hard,” I sighed.

“Yes, And that’s what I’m here for.  I have come alive again suddenly. I can feel my hot temper. This is not love for you.  This my hate.” And the next stroke came down.  “And I love hating you.” It was hard to keep still enough to prevent the cord from cutting through the neck of my scrotum as I imagined.  I am going to lose them, I said to myself. I wanted to tell her, but I knew it was no use.  Every pain fibre in my body told me I could not cope with the problem of the balls as well as the problem of the cane.  It was no use pleading with her, but after two more I could not help myself, and struggled with the words about my balls.

“You don’t…. want a castrated… man. Do you.”

“Ha,” she scoffed. “That’s power, do you see.” And the cane struck again.  It felt harder than any before.

“And what…. if I faint.” But the next one hit immediately.

“Then you will faint,” she said. “Held up by the balls.”  But she went across the room and let down the pulley.  I now lay on my tummy, the noose still very tight round my scrotum. I knew I was not going to feel much better as the caning went on, but at least she had rescued my manhood.  My head sank on to the bench, but immediately jerked up and I began to cry out with each stroke.  There was no let up with the pain, even though she had rescued my balls.  I don’t know how many kept coming – afterwards she said it was three dozen.  Then she went to the pulley again and yanked me, by the balls, into the original position. “I like you up there, struggling like that.” And I was struggling. Struggling. “You will get six more. You were merciless.  I am merciless. No drab male has ever bettered me.” And she began again with her six. At least I knew it was going to finish.  Just six to last out. She gave me one, and after the brief pause, we had had, it was so very bad again. That tidal wave of shrieking pain swept through my skin from the bottom of legs to my neck and above. 

At the centre of it the piercing focus in my buttocks. For a moment, I was nothing except a lacerated skin quivering with helpless protest. But I suddenly had an image. It was her in her naked body as magnificent as a queen, the female hero conquering all, and especially the honoured me. I knew for a moment that my pain was honouring her, her beauty, her strength. My abject and torn apart body was a dedication to her. And she knew it.  The life in her arms strengthened and strengthened, and my backside roared in despair at the peaks of mountainous pain.  But it could and would end.  She had said so.  And when it did, I didn’t know it had finished. She sat on the edge of the bench with her own bruised bottom. And sighed. I still hung there, or forcing myself still to save my balls,  Did I in fact have any left.  I could not tell.

She was in no hurry to let me down.  It was her power she was prolonging. She turned her head to me and said thoughtfully, “I am good at judo, aren’t I? Remember that.” I was concentrating too hard on my continuing predicament to think of a reply.  But I knew there were many things I would remember from tonight.  After twenty minutes or so she released my hands and feet but left my balls hanging in the air.  But at least I could grab the pulley and the cord and release myself.

“Are you going to be a man and fuck me hard?” she asked. I didn’t feel like anything energetic, nor did I know if my sex would function at that moment – or ever again in fact.  How could two people reduce each other to such abject lumps of bleeding flesh. And then I remembered the momentary flash of admiration of her exciting regal status, and I said I would give of my best.  She told me we would go back to my place, but we had to clear up here first.  I told her, with some irony to thank her friend.

“I think we will not do that again perhaps,” she mused. I said nothing.  My balls were aching in a worrying way.  Had we damaged them? “Are you OK?” she asked, seeming concerned.

“I’m not sure. The balls feel odd, sort of numb and painful at the same time.” 

“Let me look,” she said and knelt down to examine them.  She very gently squeezed each one, “Does that hurt a lot?”

“No, not a lot,”

“They’re OK,” and she swiped the hanging members as if I was making a fuss about nothing much.  She stood and started to tidy.

…..oooooOOOOOooooo……

Back at my place, we went straight to the bedroom.  Not quite her sumptuous style, probably.  We compared our stripes.  I kissed the ones on her breasts. I looked at hers and at my own in the mirror. I didn’t know which stirred my hormones most.  She agreed, touching my bottom with her finger which came away with a slight stain of blood. I was fascinated especially by those stripes on her breasts. I kissed them again, and she let me.  Perhaps pushing them forward in an offering. I think she was fascinated too by the damage she had done.

            “You’re a bastard.  No-one canes breasts”

            “No?” I queried, “Not as bad as wrenching balls off.”

We looked at each other.  We laughed. We were both naked.  We closed the gap between us and my arms went fully round her, and hers around me. We were united in love. Or could it be hate.

            She said quietly, her voice muffled by being buried in my shoulder. “I only did it to see if I loved you enough to let you enjoy yourself on me like that.”

            I was surprised. “I guess it is a love thing, Grace, showing someone how much you love them by suffering for their pleasure.” It seemed obvious as a declaration of love for someone, for their enjoyment.

            “Now you have to show me in another way how much you love me,” she said meaningfully, and asked which way to the bedroom; and she gave me the smile that made her look so pretty.