"You Won't Make Me Cry..."

Friday, about half five, early November, she had phoned me from her car. Told me she was now travelling home to an empty house with an empty heart - she'd been dumped, dumped callously: a cursory, emotionless message left on her voicemail. And already halfway to his large house in the country...

"I-I don't want to go home," she had blurted out, sounding almost in tears.

I had been the follower of her kinky escapades shared freely on her profile, ridden vicariously the roller coaster ride of her loves, her career, her social life, had commented humorously, wittily, and insightfully on her blogs, and had gradually become her online friend, her confidante. And sadomasochism, domination, submission, obsession, the intensity, the aesthetics, the lust, and drama of it all drew us in together... possibly, I feared, like moths to a flame...

"Come to mine, don't be alone..."

*

Ryde Harbour. Ryde Harbour at night.

I had been talking of Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and Ayn Rand; she of the artists that moved and inspired her, that fed her knowledge and further keened her near genius intellect when I had quietly observed her long auburn hair being blown gently across her elegant features in the chill November breeze. I had watched her brush back the strands from her face and had concluded that she was kind of beautiful, realized that I wanted her, realized that I now sought to hurt her in a way that only she would have wanted to be hurt...

I had seen the yachts tugging gently against their moorings, the dark water of the harbour, almost lacquer black, rippling in the sodium lights. I had gazed across at the old pavilion, now a bowling alley and beyond at the night-lit streets rising gradually up on the easy slopes. I had perceived the totality of my own small vision, the town and everything as on canvas, but not as an artist would have it, frozen in time, but rather as alive and dynamic painted in moving colours upon the canvas of oblivion.

She had wheeled around and kissed me on the lips, catching me unawares. And I in turn caught her hand. She was tall and willowy, her blue eyes now plaintive.

"I'm getting cold, let's go back to yours," she said in her distinctive, yet fading, South African accent.

I pressed my mouth softly against hers and kissed her.

"Okay," I replied.

I waited for her to light a cigarette before slipping my arm under hers and strolling back, like lovers, to my flat.

Destiny beckoned...

*

Game on.

I ordered her to strip naked in front of me whilst I sat on the blue sofa.

She had said nothing, merely obeyed, yet had stared at me, almost disconcertingly, the whole time with her large blue eyes unfocussed and had slowly unbuttoned her white cotton pinstriped work shirt before slipping it off and allowing it to drop to the floor. She then bent down and removed each of her knee length shiny leather boots before pulling off her long black tights. As she straightened up, I just said: "Bra, next."

All the time gazing at me, she put her long bare right arm behind her back and unhitched the clip of her black bra. Now loose she pulled it off exposing her small white tits to me, her nipples engorged and erect.

I didn't say anything -- I didn't need to -- and she now stuck her thumbs in the band of her scanty black knickers prior to pulling them down swiftly and stepping out of them.

She was naked in front of me, her arms by her sides and vulnerable -- the way I liked a female to be.

"Do you like what you see? Do you approve? Am I good enough?"

"Yeah, I suppose so," I responded with a smile that quietly reassured her that I was still playing the game.

"I'm sometimes a bit self-conscious about my body."

"Why?"

"My breasts are too small... and I've got a lot of moles, especially on my back, though none are really big... my ex said I should have a skin transplant..."

"Twirl round."

She moved slowly round such that her long, beautifully curved back faced me so that I could inspect it. I also wondered if this was part of a game I was unaware of; a game within a game.

"No, you're fine... besides I sometimes like... beauty spots... can make a woman more interesting, intriguing. Your ex was a cunt... I'm a cunt too... but in a different way."

"Thank you." She then lowered her head.

In fact, for all her 'flaws' she was beautiful: tall for a female, about five seven, long limbed, slim with shiny and curly auburn hair, with elegant and proportioned features. Her vagina had been shaved recently but I had noticed a few bristles poking through -- she would shave it for me in the morning. She was late thirties but appeared ten years younger -- I was a lucky guy.

I got up suddenly and ordered her to walk in front of me to the back bedroom. She padded naked though the small hall and then into the bedroom.

"I want you to lie face down on the bed."

She complied and I went back, entered the main bedroom, opened my cupboard, and selected a curly handed cane about three feet long and a quarter of an inch thick -- stingy rather than thuddy.

I then returned to the back bedroom where she said: "It doesn't matter how hard you do it, you won't make me cry... no one has."

"Okay, stretch out and grasp the poles of the headboard -- I'm not going to mess around, it'll become progressively worse, and you'll get no mercy from me."

I had raised the cane and brought it down like the first drop of rain in a summer shower lightly upon the twin peaches of her cheeks. She had said nothing and hardly stirred.

The next stroke was harder, had whooshed though the air and had made a loud 'thwack' as it had impacted on her exposed buttocks.

The drops then became a shower.

She then began to twist and gasp with each stinging stroke.

The shower edged into a storm: harder and more frequent.

I watched her writhe and squeal with agony, yet still she didn't sob, observed her beautiful white buttocks transform into a palette of crimson.

I began to pull the cane from over my head and with full force lay it across her posterior...

Suddenly she pulled her long legs up to her quivering body and pushed herself up onto her elbows -- she had surrendered. She then threw herself at my body in her moment of abject submission.

I took her fine head in my arms and stroked her long hair knowing she was mine now and comforted her before lowering her gently to the mattress.

Her blue eyes were watering and her face flushed from the thrashing. But it was over now.

On her back now I made her grip the supports of the frame such that her sexy arms were stretched out. I pulled her legs apart and thrust my head betwixt her thighs. I then pushed my middle fingers into her cunt whilst sucking and licking her clit. With my left hand I squeezed her tits and nipples roughly.

I pumped her slowly at first then gradually faster whilst keeping my tongue in time.

Steadily, I increased the pace before feeling the sudden contractions of her cunt grip my fingers. But all I did was merely thrust more strongly.

She then cried out as though in pain, cried out my name and all I did was carry on thrusting. Time after time she climaxed screaming with ecstasy and then finally completely spent and exhausted, she could take no more and had sunk back on to the mattress sweating and gasping with the exertion...

I got up, lowered my trousers and briefs, took my achingly hard cock in hand and swiftly wanked myself off making sure my spunk shot across and onto her breasts...