FAWC 1: My Lady

In the coming hour I never truly loose my hard on but it rises to greater then fall to lesser degrees of mahogany. The need for release however also grows. Grows till I'm all but in agony myself.

Clare works with first the riding crop, then with a slim rubbery paddle. As I watch lust making me sound like a bellows Tonya's ass begins to glow a cherry red. Soon she can no longer hide the whimpers despite the fact that Clare punishes her for then. At some point a trip to the Narnia hutch brings battery toys into play. When Clare crosses to me and hands me a small remote I'm trembling.

"Here make yourself useful," she says.

Little bigger than a cigarette lighter the thing has only a button and a slide switch. I quickly learn though that's all that is needed.

As I vary those two controls Tonya begins to issue deep throaty moans. I learn that the button stops them, something that will bring almost immediate response from the woman. A near demanding sound that brings an equally immediate punishment from Clare. The slide raises the intensity of, I'm guessing, the vibration within Tonya from the toy Clare slide inside.

That I have a woman...a Sub on remote control is almost more than my poor steel hard cock can take. I know from the feel that the tip has leaked enough to smear the inside of my underwear.

I find myself watching Clare. Like a conductor at work she doesn't make the music she directs it too crescendo. With one hand she frigs Tonya's clit with the other she lands stinging pops from the paddle. At every moan of pleasure there is a sudden screech of pain that follows.

In the end is a near thing as to who is going to cum first, Tonya...or myself. Or maybe Clare. I've seen a few shivers from her that could be near orgasmic.

Finally the stimulation, pain and fingering are too much. Tonya screams out around the ball gag Clare fitted her with. The near fury of pops that sound brings on drives her to a second, then a third orgasm just that quickly. The stinging blows stop only when she grows silent, though she continues to cum from what I can see.

As her Sub shakes and trembles Clare looks at me and smiles. With her hand dripping she lets the paddle drop to the bed next to the whip. When she crosses the room I feel a sudden rise of apprehension. Her hand, fingers glistening, lands palm flat in the middle of my chest. As she pushes I step back then back again. She closes the door behind her then reaches for the remote. She takes it from my nerveless fingers even as pressure from her other hand is guiding me towards her front door.

"What..what?" That I'm being directed to leave comes to me in almost a sudden shock.

She makes me stop just by her door.

"I want you to know that I have never allowed anyone that doesn't call me 'my Lady' to witness what you have just seen. I tell you this John Perl so that you know just how privileged you have been. I have given you a glimpse into the very heart of my soul. I have shown you the dark part of me that only my Subs get to see."

Her hand moves from my chest.

"We are done, John Perl. You and I. I have nothing left that I will let you learn. I do hope that you put what I have shown you to some good and maybe your writings will be worthy of the effort I have given." She opens the door behind me.

Stunned I stand there just looking at her.

"Good night John Perl...and goodbye."

* * * *

The surreal state lasts for days.

I wander in a near haze at times through my normal routine. My closest friends begin to worry. Well Cory doesn't. He just watches me with a look and a knowing smile.

When I had gotten home from Clare's I had simply collapsed onto my bed exhausted. I laid there for only second through when the sex reek of my shirt rose up to me. Bringing the cloth to my nose I breathed in the deep muskiness that Clare's hand had rubbed in. A mixture of smells... sweat, rubber, and over all a woman's heavy scent.

My cock found my hand and I exploded after only a stroke or two. I pulled the shirt off and buried my nose into it even as I uses that cum to stroke myself hard again. I screamed out my second orgasm much later.

That I was screaming "Clare!" should be no surprise.

For days that shirt and I are one in the night. Then with a painful slowness the smell begins to fade. I nearly cry when after nearly a week I can not detect even a hint of it. Whether I'm wanting to cry in frustration or relief I don't know. I find myself unable to get the images I saw from my mind. They come to me at odd hours. Only the near brutal amounts of masturbation since then has me not springing hard at those odd times.

The fire in Clare's eyes as she swung the whip...then the paddle. The cries of Tonya, be they pleasure or pain, both are arousing now in memory. Even the ones that I made her give with that little remote have power now in my memories.

* * * *

The keyboard before me sits untouched. The blank screen unblemished by even a single pixel. I lift my hands and then let them fall back into my lap. Ideas flash then die like shooting stars, they blaze by too quickly to see. I know if I could capture them that I could alight the page with their holy fire.

But I can't.

Words come to me begging to be written. Pleading with me to take them and use them to my pleasure and for the pleasure of others.

Yet still I sit. Still the screen remains unblemished. Still the keyboard is untouched.

My eyes go to the shot glass on my desk. The bottle next to it. More and more this week I seem to be spending my time searching through alcohol fumes for inspiration. All it brings is memories of screams and cracking whips. Lusty grunts, then orgasmic cries.

Washing my face with my hands I get to my feet. I cross the room to the window and stand looking out into the world. I watch it passing by in the rain. My hand lifts to touch the glass. The condensation from the cold drizzle beads the surface under my finger. Slowly I trace out two words in the droplets. I stare at them.

Images flash through my thoughts then. Not the familiar ones I've been hoarding but the others. The nights of sitting with Clare at dinner or in her living room after as she explained about her lifestyle. The number of nights that it happened were few but I recall ever second of each.

The two words I wrote start to cry tears down the glass. I watch them fall unable to decide, unable to write or even to think....no that's a lie. I can think, but only think of the two words.

I just can't acknowledge that I want to say them.

Wishing I could cry like the window I crawl into my bed and stare at the ceiling fan. There will be no sleep this night either.

* * * *

The Garden Home looks no different. Still modern suburbia. No hint of the woman's...the Dom's life within it's walls has spilled out to the world.

I'm trembling as I walk to the door. I 'm trembling even harder as I lift my hand to the door.

Like with the typewriter I can't seem to make it function. So simple a thing. Just knock, yet I can't do it! My hand wont respond.

Knock.... knock damn you!

Clare opens the door before me.

"Hello John Perl," she says her gray eyes on my face.

Her voice rolls out to me those throaty tones sparking memories that I start to push away. Then embrace.

"Hello...my Lady."