The Blonde Samurai. Jina Bacarr
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ears, but where? When she wiggled her arse, she experienced no pleasure, no excitement, no dubious badge of honor stamped upon her buttocks. Nothing.
“Here,girl, stick out your arse more so I can reach you,” his lordship bellowed, his tremulous voice exciting her. “Without delay!”
“Y-y-yes, milord.” Molly poked her backside outward in a most ungainly manner, releasing gas as she did so, her embarrassment at letting go like that in an unladylike pose replaced by her pent-up need for deviant pleasure. What was he waiting for? She’d longed for this moment, dreamed of it, the heat of her excitement filling her neck and face when she doodled in her book, drawing a female stick figure bent over and receiving the ultimate kiss of fire over and over again…
She couldn’t stop a sudden shiver announcing her imminent expectation of the crop finding its mark this time.
His next stroke landed before she could swallow, making her choke on her saliva. But it was a sublime pleasure, she had to admit, panting, her need building to a higher peak. Her loud, guttural sounds inflamed the lord’s passion for his work. A rawness in her produced a flow of sweat on her body that made her naked buttocks shine with an illumination as if a regal white halo circled her arse. She heard his lordship uttering with amazement the number of strokes falling on her behind with an even regularity.
“…eight, nine, ten, eleven…” he counted as she settled into the rhythm of the whipping, the white heat emitting from the crop branding her pearl-white bottom with the pleasure she craved.
It was no wonder she let go with a loud, frustrated groan when he stopped before her twitching pussy had found its release, the wildly burning sensations making her belly full and heavy and bringing her back to the edge. She clenched her teeth, trying to hold on to the pleasurable sensations, begging him for more. Silence. What was happening? It was as quiet as an empty pew on a church holiday. She opened her eyes and turned her head, praying he hadn’t deserted her, when the next stroke found her hungry arse and sent her back up the spiral, laughing and gushing with joy.
“Yes, yes,” she groaned without shame. “More…more.”
Dear, sweet Molly, the vicar’s daughter, got her wish. His lordship laid one, two, three quick strokes upon her red-streaked buttocks, hot and fiery, the tip of his crop striking the crack between her cheeks and sending her into wild abandon, her sweet juices oozing down her stockinged legs. She never heard the sweat-soaked lord pause for a breath as he continued his strokes, her cries of want turning into a crashing cacophony of wails and screams as she reached the height of an orgasm that never seemed to dissipate. And why should it? she asked herself as the laird’s strokes continued until he pulled every quiver, every spasm from her hungry pussy. No matter what happened, she must find a way to take her place under the old oak tree as often as possible. But how?
“I’ve never seen a lass take to the crop with so much enthusiasm,” his lordship said, soothing her red bottom with soft caresses after he’d released her, then he surprised her by taking off her bonnet and stroking her hair as if it were soft velvet, running his fingers through it with a careful and loving touch. “Why have you not come to me before?”
“My father, the vicar, keeps me busy on Wednesday afternoons.” She mewled softly, snuggling her body closer to him. She wanted to hold on to this moment and never let it go.
“A pity, my fair Molly, for I’d like to see you quiver again under the stroke of my crop.” He sighed. “But I cannot go against the vicar’s wishes.”
“If I may be so bold, milord,” she began, thinking.
“What is on your mind, Molly?” he asked, turning her face to his and studying her eyes beaming with excitement.
“Since you’re the laird of the land, why not start a new tradition?” she asked, giving him but a moment to think it over before she pressed onward. “Shall we say, every Thursday at three in the afternoon?” She twisted her body to show him her lovely bottom crisscrossed with red welts, then wiggled, making him take in his breath. “I’m finished with my chores then.”
He smiled. “Thursday it is, Molly, just for you, and don’t be late, for I’ll be bringing a surprise for you. Now, spread your buttock cheeks, girl, and show me your arse hole.” He unbuttoned his silk breeches the color of a ripe plum and out popped the biggest cock she’d ever seen, not that she’d seen many, but she was sure his was the biggest. “I’ve got something here I know you’ll like.”
Molly did as he asked, a smile on her lips and a new feeling of independence surging in her soul as he mixed her juices with a rose-scented oil, his fingers gently massaging her puckered entrance before he slid his cock into her, stretching her anal hole with a deliberate slowness. She groaned, but she didn’t complain. How could she? She, Molly Pearlbottom, the vicar’s daughter, was as happy as a nectar-filled flower being sipped by a hummingbird, her bottom dewy and tinted pink, her eyes glowing and a naughty, curious voice inside her wondering what that surprise could be…
I can’t reveal the rest of the tale without spoiling it for you, but I assure you I found books like this and others in Lord Penmore’s library. I admit I embellished the scene with a new ending, giving Molly the upper hand with his lordship. I predict that someday you, yes, you, dear lady reader, will have the opportunity to read such stories about empowered females.
Until then, you shall have to make do with your imagination as I did, evoking speculation as to what went on in that padded room in the London town house. A girl tied to a cross, struggling with feigned distress and teasing his lordship with her tongue circling her lips. Or James strutting around the room cracking a single-tail whip, his willing victim bent over, her arse quivering with anticipation. Not to mention my husband orchestrating the regal decadence of a hot wax scene, the gummy residue trailing an elaborate pattern around the girl’s nude breasts and hardening on her taut brown nipples. I prayed it was not the melted wax of votive candles, such unholy thoughts grabbing me and not letting go.
Were these scenes conjured up by my starved libido? Or demon nightmares of flesh and blood? That is for you to decide, dear lady reader. I spin these tales not merely to tantalize you, but to give you heed as to what may be going on under the confines of your own roof. I beg you to confront your husband if you believe ’tis so. Then again, you may wish to participate…
Though I was not acquainted with what other depravities went on in the upstairs back room, his lordship devised a clever method to let me know when his private hell was in session. The smell of turpentine, beeswax and charcoal powder, along with other smells I couldn’t identify, permeated the air. I couldn’t help but inhale the arousing odor when I went searching for a new book to read in the library, the fancy of my imagination overpowering my need for literature when I rustled my silk skirt and pearl-embroidered petticoats up the stairs. I would grab a book without more than a glance at its title then pretend to look through it, while inside I discarded the idea of reading as a way to soothe my hunger and focused instead on the illuminating power of smell to satisfy my lust. I would inhale the pungent odor and imagine a bundle of twigs tied together with crisp blue ribbons taken from my hair and wielded by a tall man with shoulders the breadth of an ancient Spartan and dressed in black from head to toe. In my daydream, I lifted up my skirts and turned my bare backside to him, my white stockings held up by blue garters, my quivering flesh covered in quick succession with crimson stripes from the striking of the rods, blow following blow, and groaning gave in to more groans.
I grew so accustomed to the scent of fresh black polish, quite distinct it was, that my capacity to ignore it barely diminished. On the contrary, the vitriolic odor awakened a dark side of my personality I had previously left hovering in that limbo part of my mind that existed between dreaming and doing.
Would I enjoy the reality of a whipping as much as the fantasy? I often wondered. I couldn’t answer. I was either going mad or I was a fool to deny my husband