Yes, Virginia Ch. 04

"Good, I think you understand your situation now. Want to lick something else?"

"Yes, V."

"Always wanted to, haven't you? Always had an urge to find out how I taste when I'm being cruel. Isn't that right, Marcy?"

"Please V ..."

"Not yet. I don't accept that one; I take it, and you are nowhere near ready yet to be taken. Kiss the front of my skirt. Put your lips on the cloth over my body and think naughty subby thoughts of what you'll do if I'm ever generous enough to make you ..."

Lord. That felt bloody good, if she was thinking lurid anticipatory thoughts, she wasn't alone. I put my hand under her chin to give her the hint.

"... Up, please. Door at the end of the corridor, you lead."

She opened the door and stopped dead. I gave her a firm slap with the crop to push her through so I could follow. My sweet little sex Pixie was tied to the bed in that tight X that suited her so well. She was wearing a black satin blindfold, and her steel collar secured with the antique padlock. I pushed Marcella to the bed and bent her across Pixie's body: knees pressed to the edge of the mattress and hands flat on the far side of her. Marcella's breasts swung down very close to Pixie's belly, and she must be aware of the presence around her, but they did not quite touch. I pushed Marcella's legs apart with my knee and gave her six of the hardest I could lay on her. She was no more used to taking it than I was, six had her gasping and sobbing.

I pulled her up by the shoulders and whispered my instructions very quietly in her ear. I didn't want Pixie listening to that: I wanted her to know I was in charge, but not for her to hear the words first time from me. That would spoil it entirely. She had an idea where this was all leading, but I hadn't shared the details in advance. I raised my voice at the end, for the bit I did want to share.

"Get on the bed with her. Rub yourself up on that soft thigh and tell her who you are. Do it now, before I hurt you again."

Marcella followed my orders perfectly, forking herself over Pixie's leg and cupping her face in a lover's caress as she spoke to her.

"Hello, Gemma, it's Mistress Marcella. My cunt's so desperate from Virginia beating me, would you please let me push it against you. Please, Gemma, please let me suck your beautiful breasts."

Pixie gasped out a shocked affirmative, and Marcella's mouth and hands went to work on her pleasure. I gave Marcella another cut across her bum, and Pixie felt Marcella yelp with a mouth full of her breast. I bent down, and for the first time between us I gave my Pixie what could fairly be called a romantic kiss on her lips.

Marcella begged – she truly abjectlybegged– for the obvious next step, and I gave her a few more slaps on the back of her legs while Pixie teased over an answer before granting permission. I sat on the edge of the bed, took off the blindfold and cradled my girl's head so she could look down the length of herself and see that severe domme haircut nestled submissively at the apex of her legs.

"You just ride that, Pix, I promise you there's no better feeling in the world. You deserve it from someone who'll do it better the first time than I ever could. Lie back and ride, Pix. My treat: you be just as beautiful or ugly as you want to be."

I'll leave it to you to judge whether it's beautiful or ugly, but I have to say I was proud that she took after me. She was, at least this time, firmly in the 'lick my hot cunt, you fucking slut' camp. Until her voice failed her, and she panted and groaned; and as she came I kissed her full on her mouth.

I told Marcella to get off the bed and kneel for me again. I pulled her chin up and invaded her mouth as roughly as I knew how with my tongue, thrusting selfishly inside her to plunder every trace of Pixie's taste. I pushed her face down into the rug and made sure Pixie saw me rest my court shoe between her shoulders. I sat back down on the bed and kissed Pixie the way I hadn't kissed a woman since I was in love seven years before. Then I stood up and gave Marcella a good hard slap across her bum before putting my shoe on the back of her neck.

"Know your place now, Marcy?"

Mumble into the rug. I pulled her upright and tapped the crop under her chin.

"Couldn't hear, try again."

"Yes, V."

"What are you for?"

"To please you, V. To do whatever you want."

"Gemma would like a bit of uncomplicated rough from a woman who knows what she's doing. She needs it very harsh and dirty when she's in the mood, and deserves to be treated with respect the rest of the time. And what I want is for Gemma to be happy. Mouth open, Marcella, tongue out for your Mistress."

Her jaw had already fallen open with shock, but she managed to stick out her tongue like a proper sub. Very gently, I laid the key to that padlock on her dark pink flesh and held her eyes in mine as she fought the urge to swallow.

"Treat her right, Marcy, and don't you ever call her 'Pixie'. Leave it on the latch when you're through."

I turned round, bent down, and for the last time in my life I kissed her.

"Goodnight, Pix. I truly hope it works out for you."

As I walked down the stairs, I realised I was crying.

I needed a quick and simple drunk. Neither my mind nor my bladder were in the mood to spend a couple of hours getting outside half a case of cider, so I unwrapped the bottle of JD I had been about to send Uncle Jack for his birthday. It suited my choice of music better anyway.

Menthol in my holder, Waylon looping on the CD player, shot glass and open bottle on the coffee table in front of me – I settled down for a session of serious self-pity. I turned both volume and bass a tad too high and let that wall of twang overwhelm me. It went up my spine, building and swelling for ever like the teasing brink of an infinitely delayed orgasm as I drank to the memories of Pixie and me.

I knew a girl at university –that's in the social sense, by the way, not the Biblical – who once confessed to me in her cups that her nights were full of the most extraordinary rape and snuff fantasies. When she finally got into bed with her boyfriend she found it disturbingly icky that he went down on her. Fantasy and fact are two very different things. Solitary masturbation scenarios are hardly the place to work through the implications of your desires. Writing fiction is a useful modelling tool, it lets you sit back and concentrate on something more than your own mind and your own hand. I look at the screen, and I think: yes, that's about right. That's how it would work out in practice.

It would be fine for some people, they could do it all as a big selfish orgasmic game and no harm done. In the real world I never once touched Sally/Marcella, but I know that's the way she was. It's never been me. For me, it's never really been about cunts and tongues and the thrill of hurting their body. It's always been an emotional thing, it's always needed that personal connection. Even the brief flares of base passion that were never going to lead anywhere were more to me than living dolls to pose and manipulate. Don't get me wrong, I get as much pleasure from the sight and feel of the female body as you do. But in the end, my thing is to fuckwomen. Not dolls, or toys; not even the dehumanised animals that I might superficially treat them as, but the person within and beyond all that. As I have always said, I am a romantic at heart.

So I'll keep this one out of interest, and I'll share it with you. I'm sure there will be some cold bleak night when she's away and I'll bring the fantasy out to play for what I need just then. Maybe you will too; if it works for you as well as it does for me then I'll be touched and flattered. But when I'm quite honest, I'm happier that it stayed that way; I don't think I'd have coped too well with the situation in practice.

This has been a long one, all day at the kitchen table with no distractions until I'm done. When I finish writing, she tells me to have a sit in the comfy chairs next door and she'll get me something light and suitable. We don't grow wheat, of course, and neither of us could bear to raise livestock to kill. We do keep chickens. There's a local bloke who takes my tiny Yarlington Mill crop off my hands every year and gives us an appropriate amount of cloudy homebrew in return. It's not exactly self-sufficiency, but it feels better than buying everything from the supermarket.

She serves me an omelette of our own eggs and local ham; sourdough toast from bread I made. It's not really a cloudy homebrew meal on this fine summer evening, so she gets out the champagne flutes and pours us both some Katy Rose. There's the second half of that Bramley tart I made on Sunday for afters.

My beloved comforts me with apples.