Sarah's Way Ch. 02

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kylejer
kylejer
181 Followers

At that point we were touching only at our genitals, with the tip of my cock barely inside her pussy. She was gradually. . . very gradually . . lowering herself down on me, and driving me crazy doing it.

I tried to thrust up against her, but got a quick stern admonishment of "No!" This was to be done Sarah's way.

She finally lowered herself the rest of the way, then grinded her hips around in a circular motion. My cock felt the warmth and smoothness of the inside of a woman that it had been craving all day. I anticipated this moment, not the moments that came before.

Sarah started to ride me, bouncing up and down on my rod. She made herself more comfortable, putting her knees down on the bed, rocking back and forth and up and down, while reaching forward and massaging my chest.

She let me reach up and touch her breasts.

Sarah began to rub her clit with her left hand, her right hand reaching back and grasping my balls as she quickened the pace.

"Come on, Mark, I need you to come for me now. You have to do it, Mark, now come for me," she panted.

Her hand tightened around my balls and it was as if the sexual energy she squeezed out of them went right up to my cock.

I felt it building, and Sarah knew it was coming, too. I cried out when I knew it was about to begin. She squeezed hard on my balls, hurting them while at the same time increasing the intensity of the moment.

Sarah thrust herself down on me and stopped, letting me empty my load up into her.

When I finished, she quickly pulled herself up and cupped her crotch in her hand, then moved forward and straddled my face.

"Open your mouth," she ordered.

I did not say no, but turned my head and grunted a protest.

"Mark, open your mouth!" she said sternly. "You have to do this!"

She grabbed me by the chin and turned my face up. I opened my mouth.

Sarah spread her pussy lips wide and looked down, her red hair hanging down. She aimed and watched as my semen dripped out of her into my mouth. I gagged slightly as a drop hit the back of my throat.

Sarah lowered herself down onto my mouth, still spreading herself open.

"Go on, Mark. Clean me out now. Do your best," she said. I started to lick rather tentatively. "Come on, use your tongue and get as deep as you can."

I'd heard semen described as salty in flavor, but I didn't find it so. But it wasn't the flavor that was the turn-off. It was the fact that I was being made to eat my own come.

Mixed with Sarah's essence, of course. As I licked, she rubbed, working her clit furiously and pushing her pussy ever harder down on my mouth.

Her breathing was quickening. "I'll give you something to wash it down with," she said.

And so she did. Sarah had never been vocal in her orgasms, but her muscles would tense up and she would pull me tight. This time she just forced herself down on my harder and I tasted what was happening.

Her come mixed with my own and flowed into my mouth and down my throat. Sarah continued to rub her clit and continued to flow freely. She moved from my mouth forward, then back to my chin, then up and down, wiping her sex and her come and mine all over my face.

She spread her ass cheek and planted her asshole over my mouth. I ran my tongue around the opening as I did in the shower a week before.

Sarah turned around, facing my feet, but kept rubbing her pussy and ass all over my face as she worked my balls between her thumb and fingers, feeling and hurting each one in turn.

"Uhhhhhh! Uhhhhhh! Uhhhhhh! Uhhhhhh! Uhhhhhh! Uhhhhhh!" she became more vocal as she came again, giving her more to spread over my face. I felt it running down my face and around my ears.

Eventually, she was spent, and I needed to breathe normally again.

Sarah slipped down onto the bed beside me and had me turn on my side in front of her, but facing away. She held my arms down and snuggled her face against my back.

"You were great tonight," she whispered.

When I tried to get up to go to the bathroom she pulled me back with a gentle "no."

"You'll be fine," she said when I protested that I wanted to go.

I think she knew that what I really wanted was to go wash my face. She didn't want me to.

And so we both drifted off to sleep and I awoke in the morning with our come dried all over my sticky face and an awful taste lingering in my mouth.

When I got up to go to the bathroom in the morning, she came with me. I never liked someone watching me pee, so Sarah brushed her teeth as I went, but then stopped me from leaving. She motioned for me to sit down on the floor by the toilet.

It was her turn next. Still nude -- her robe was on the floor by the couch -- she sat on the toilet and I heard the sound of her stream hitting the water. She had me get a bit of toilet paper, then taught me how to dab her dry.

She had me reach in the cabinet below the sink and bring out a box of a feminine douche product.

"Now, when I have you come inside me, I will always have you do your best to clean me, like last night, but I always liked to freshen up a bit after you've done that. They say we don't really need to do this, but I like to," she said.

The notice that I would be licking my come from her vagina whenever I deposited it there did not escape me. That image, however, was set aside because of what she was doing right in front of me. Sarah taught me how to use the douche on her, and I was amazed that she would let me get involved with her feminine hygiene needs.

In a departure from our usual Sunday morning procedure, Sarah wanted to shower before having coffee. She ordered me to come with her.

I sat on my legs at the back side of the shower while she explained the procedure. She would be wetting and washing her hair, which gave me the opportunity to wash her body thoroughly. She showed me the soaps and body shampoos she preferred, and I was to ask which to use.

She said she did not normally shave her legs and underarms on Sundays. But she preferred to do that herself anyway, since she figured she would be faster at it.

I was being trained in how to personally care for her bodily needs.

A major caution was not to get too busy with my hands.

"I don't care if you get an erection; in fact, it would be flattering, but don't ever act like this is about your pleasure. You are to do a good job bathing me, and that's all that counts," she said.

I toweled her dry and she had me dry myself, too, so I wouldn't "drip on the floor like a dog."

As she dried her hair, I was to rub her skin with a moisturizing body lotion. I did her feet and legs first, working my way up and massaging her legs all around. She let me do her butt and back next before turning around so I could get her belly and breasts. I was to be sure to lift each breast and work the lotion underneath. I moisturized each arm separately when she finished drying her hair.

She let me shower then, and I was finally able to wash all the dried girlcome off my face. She brushed her hair and went to make coffee.

I found her wearing her pink robe, sitting at the head of the dining room table with some coffee and a light breakfast.

"I'm just having some cereal and toast for breakfast," she said chirpily. "You get to have me!"

She motioned me down and when I was slow to pick up what was going on, she just said, "On the floor, under the table."

I crawled under the table and she scooted her chair back, then her butt forward all the way to the edge of the chair. She opened her robe and spread her legs wide, placing her feet as wide as she could.

"Very slow and gentle. Just use your lips and the tip of your tongue," she instructed.

I planted a soft kiss on her outer lips then started to lightly graze the tip of my tongue over them. I always wished she would shave there, but she never did. Still, there's nothing like a bright red bush.

She just had me work her for a few minutes, enough to get her a little moistened, but not too aroused. I felt she may have done it just to continue to show me that morning that my life was becoming a life of service to her.

I got my own coffee and breakfast when she excused me and ate while she worked on the Sunday paper.

The rest of Sunday turned out to be pretty normal, up until evening. I was allowed to dress and go outside for some spring yard work. She went to do some grocery shopping and run some errands.

When I was back inside later in the afternoon, I just naturally undressed, showering again after a day's worth of outdoor work. I was nude, fixing a simple dish for supper when she returned.

After supper she again helped clean up, and talked to me about the next day, and the future.

"It's probably best that you just get up early and get done in the bathroom before I get up, because then I'll need you to help me. You'll have time for coffee and breakfast while I'm doing my makeup and some other stuff. Once I'm through with you in the bathroom you'll be on your own to get ready for work yourself."

After we were through, she went on with additional duties for me.

"Mark, now that sandal season is here, you'll be responsible for taking care of my feet between pedicures. You'll need to plan to do that on Sunday night because I want my feet in good shape heading into the week."

She taught me how to use a pumice stone to sand off any calluses that started to develop.

"But I'm probably fine now, because I just had a pedicure."

Instructions on nail care were next. It was better to file to keep growth under control, but clipping was necessary, too. I had to use nail polish remover on each toe to strip off old chipped-up polish.

Then I needed to wash her feet. There was a plastic pan procured just for the task. I was to fill it with warm water and some concoction from a Bath and Body Works store, then give her feet a good washing and deep massage.

After they dried, I was to apply the new polish. It was just be a clear seal today, as she didn't think she had a great color to match what she was planning to wear Monday.

I got to take a break and clean up while they dried. Then it was time to moisturize -- and worship.

"Always allow a little extra time. Because after making them look good, you should make them feel good. And you are so good at that, and I think you love to worship me feet," she said.

She had used that phrase often, as if she wanted me to get familiar and comfortable with it.

When the feet duties were over, I went ahead with what I was dreading:

"Sarah, you said I should talk to you tonight about an appointment for my caning."

She smiled.

"I knew you would remember. Let's see. . . I decided against keeping your body shaved. I think it will be nice to do once in a while, but most of the time I want my man to look regular. But I would like to do your caning before your body hair grows back much.

"Why don't we plan it for after work tomorrow? Can you get off quickly enough to get home a little bit before me?"

"I think so," I said.

"Good. Get naked and get your cane out and be waiting for me by the stool when I get home. I'll cane you right away before I change. You may want to eat a really good lunch tomorrow, because I'm not sure you're going to feel like much supper later. Besides, you'll need your strength."

I assisted with her bathroom duties early Monday. She ignored my raging hard-on as I helped bathe her in the shower and apply moisturizing lotion to her lovely body. When she dismissed me I had to quickly dress and head out the door for work. Throughout the day the images of running my hands over her breasts and butt, and massaging those perfect legs and feet with soap-filled hands, filled my mind and caused me to scoot my chair far forward to make sure no one noticed my daydreaming had made me hard.

The coming caning came to mind from time to time, but the fact that I was going home to a goddess was foremost in my mind, and made me count the minutes until the end of the day.

I rushed home and hurried, stripping naked quickly in fear that she would be home earlier than I expected and find me fumbling with clothes. When I was naked, I grabbed the cane and ran to the living room, placing it on top of the stool. I stood and waited, and after a few minutes sat down.

I remained seated on the floor next to my caning stool when I heard Sarah coming in. She entered the living room and I fell in love with her again.

She wore an emerald blazer over a white, low-cut pull-over top, her bra pushing her breasts together and lifting them to display an ample cleavage that I'm sure got plenty of attention from the men in her office that day. But it wasn't just the cleavage, but her overall appearance that was stunning.

Her skirt was a deep, dark green, matching and contrasting the emerald top, reaching just below her knees. She wore no stockings; on her feet that I worked so hard to care for the night before were a pair of open-toe tall heels. Her jewelry, from her bracelets and hoop hearings to her necklace holding a large pendant was copper, as was the buckle on the wide leather belt visible through the open blazer.

Even her make-up had hints of the copper color that matched so well the green of her outfit and her eyes. Her long, nicely curled red hair hung just over her shoulders. She was astoundingly beautiful, looking confident and professional while at the same time irresistibly sexy.

This was one amazing woman who was about to cane me again.

"Hi! Oh, you're all ready for me! That's great! I'll be with you in a moment, as soon as I go to the bathroom," she said as she passed by. I stood by the stool and waited.

"My God, you're gorgeous today," I said when she returned, clutching something in her left hand.

"Why, thank you!" she gushed. "I really appreciate that, Mark!"

"That outfit is beautiful, and it matches your red hair and green eyes so well."

"It's so sweet of you to notice. I really do appreciate you saying that. I love the flattery, but it's not going to save your butt today," she said, picking up the cane with her right hand.

"It wasn't meant to," I said as she guided me with a gentle touch of her hand to the stool.

"Now, I got a pair of handcuffs for you, Mark. Would you like me to cuff you to the stool so you can't stand up like you did last time? I was easy on you last time because it was your first caning. If you get out of line this time, it will cost you a lot more, and this is going to be rougher than last time," she said.

"No, I think I'll be fine," I said as I bent over the stool, assuming the position she taught me last time.

"Ok, then we'll just save these for later," she said, setting the handcuffs aside on the coffee table.

Sarah squatted next to my face, which was pointing down, in the opposite direction of my upturned ass. Switching hands with the cane, she placed her warm right hand on my lower back, her fingers gently caressing me.

"Mark, I was really proud of you asking for this caning to make things right after what you said. I'm going to punish you when you make me angry, and sometimes that will be with a caning or a paddling like you got on Friday, and sometimes it may be something else. But me punishing you isn't going to be enough to make things right. You're going to have to do something on your own to do that. I think most of the time I cane you will probably be after you ask me to.

"It was sweet for you to worship my feet, and it's OK to offer to do something that makes me feel good if you're trying to make things right. But I know what turns you on and what doesn't, and offering to do something that turns you on isn't going to cut it. But I know you're on the right track because you asked me for this caning and didn't forget to make the appointment, and you're here naked and ready for me.

"I'm really proud of you. Unfortunately for you, all of that only counts if you actually get the caning," she said, standing up and taking the cane back in her right hand.

She stepped behind me.

Sarah began tapping me very rapidly with the cane, not hard, but persistent. The stinging never stopped and my butt writhed beneath the soft blows. She covered my butt from the tops of my legs to my back with soft, rapid strikes.

"Owwwww!" I protested, hanging on tight to my place on the stool, but starting to twist my hips around in a futile attempt to avoid the cane.

"Hold still, Mark," she commanded, and there was no doubt that it was a command. "I'm just warming you up with the cane, the way I warmed you up with the paddle before."

That comment brought back the knot in my stomach, knowing that this was going to get a whole lot worse before it got better.

I told myself I wasn't going to cry this time, and in a manner of speaking I didn't. Tears ran down my cheeks, but I avoided the sobs and other sounds that come with it. I clenched my teeth and let the tears flow. There was nothing I could do about them, and nothing I would do to stop what Sarah was doing to me.

But I still couldn't stop myself from squirming.

"You're just making things worse, Mark," Sarah cautioned. "You have to learn to just submit and take it."

She eventually stopped, my ass by then burning with pain, but I knew the real caning had not begun, but was about to.

"Ok, it's time," Sarah said. "You're going to have to do better than you just did in the warm-up."

Whoosh! Crack!

I screamed with the first blow, which felt as if it had been delivered with all Sarah's strength.

Whoosh! Crack!

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

I screamed again, long -- too long.

The third blow took my breath away. I was unable to scream because I needed to inhale. I could not inhale because the force of the blow and the pain paralyzed me for a moment.

The fourth blow came and I gasped for air, filling my lungs, and holding it in.

My existence seemed to fade at that moment. I did not lose consciousness, but lost my sense of self, as if a pause button were clicked on my very thought processes.

The late afternoon sunlight spilled through the patio door and illuminated the carpet fibers below me. I noticed how they glistened, and noticed how my hands, clutching the lower bar on the stool, had lost their color, the knuckles white. They seemed like someone else's hands.

My body went limp and I relaxed my grip on the stool as another blow and then another and another came, each delivering a new experience in pain. I was silent through each blow.

At that point, my caning was not something I had asked for or submitted to, nor was it something Sarah was doing to me. It simply was. My existence consisted of the repeated blows of the cane; the recurring and persistent pains, each different in its own way; the sights of my hands and the sunlight and carpet fibers; and the tears dripping into the carpet like rain.

I accepted my caning without protest, without movement, without squirming. I neither wished it were over nor hoped that it would continue.

But continue it did, far longer than the pitiful 12 strokes I received the first time.

When it pleased Sarah to stop, she stopped, and mouthed some words of praise for how I took it. I neither listened nor understood.

She tried to help me back into a standing position, but I collapsed on the floor at her feet.

Those lovely feet, framed so beautifully by the heels she wore, became my new reality. With tears still flowing, I reached out and put my arms around her legs at the shins, clinging to her.

I pulled back slightly and kissed each of those feet in turn, right above her toes. The cane pointed down by my ear.

Sarah squatted down and petted my hair with her hand.

"There, there," Mark. "It's over now, and you did quite well. I think you really do belong to me now."

I kissed each of her feet again in assent.

Sarah helped me up to a kneeling position, then retrieved the handcuffs from the table and secured my wrists behind me. I made no move or sound to protest.

kylejer
kylejer
181 Followers