Sunday 25 August 2013

Anticipation


Life is all about anticipation. Good or bad, the journey to our goal often eclipses the event. R L Stephenson said, and I paraphrase, that it is better to travel hopefully than to arrive. Literally true in the case of some, long anticipated, holidays or theatrical offering. The pleasure, with rueful hindsight, was all in the preparation. Fearful anticipation is similar but frequently emotions are reversed. If we express disappointment when arriving at a dreary hotel that had filled our weeks with excitement, we equally express pleasurable relief when an experience we feared turned out to be nothing of the kind. Flying, visits to dentists, an important interview. All come into this category. Good or bad, whatever enriches or blights our lives is filled with anticipation. We spend every day anticipating tomorrow, whatever it may bring.

I have been thinking much on anticipation this past week or so. A few weeks ago I rashly booked an appointment with someone who specialises in sensual domination. The gender is irrelevant as, tied up and naked and blindfolded, it is only you that matters. Or it is in my case. I have flirted, briefly, with this side of my nature for some time. But a fully fledged session was a first. And I had a couple of weeks to think about it. Anticipation kicked in big time. Pleasure and fear combined and a fee, or tribute as it is sometimes called, was well earned even before I set out. The powerful force of anticipation had gone into overdrive and, good or bad, the actual experience could not negate that. I reckon, for submissives, it was always thus. We are hardwired from birth. Think about it.

The most fearful childhood memory for many of us of a certain age was that dreaded phrase ‘Wait till your father gets home.’ It is almost a cliché but it has that ring of awful truth. The uttered phrase usually meant, a few agonising hours later, a very sore bottom. However hard we were whacked it almost came as a blessed relief. No searing sting to our naked backsides could be as painful as the mind numbing wait. It was the same at school. Told in assembly to wait outside the headmaster’s study was the ultimate fear for every schoolboy. Long before any cane landed on juvenile trousers many were reduced to tears in anticipation. And if it was likely that those same trousers would be taken down the fear increased fourfold. Abject pain was quickly followed by relief. It was all over and the reality had been more bearable than the prospect. Summoned for unexpected corporal punishment in class created a similar scenario. Except the time between anticipation and bending down was considerably reduced and the relief, when it came, muted.

But it is when we get older that the pleasurable ingredient of anticipatory discipline begins to kick in. Initially it is a fearful, inexplicable, thrill when the teacher produces his cane or strap. You are frightened, you are scared, but you are also excited. Instant pain in your bottom is assuaged by comradely attention and the displaying of the marks. The suffering is eclipsed by the attention from schoolfellows. In your young and developing mind you begin to enjoy the anticipation regardless of the pain. It is but a short step to total enjoyment of the anticipatory fear, especially if your pants are coming down, and a lifetime of disciplinary pleasure. Without that anticipation no willing erstwhile schoolboy would ever stand in front of his master or mistress preparing to drop his pants. Without that anticipation, joyfully embraced or fearfully denied, no bottom would be bared and no cane would swing. Or at least not for a fee.

I paid that fee, it was a female dominant for those who wish to know such things, and it was well worth it. Tied up, naked, blindfolded, it was a long way from my school days. But in some respects, nasty cane landing on bare bottom, it was little different. Samuel Johnson said that ‘Nothing concentrates a man’s mind as much as knowing he will be hanged in the morning.’ Submissives would say that nothing concentrates the mind as much as knowing that his pants are coming down for a caning. That is what he loves, that is what he anticipates. Fathers and schoolmasters have a lot to answer for. Alfred Roy

Sunday 11 August 2013

The Deviant Duo - A Kidnapping Story (FF/M)

I have many fantasies. Most not put into an action but grist to a fertile mind. Being kidnapped has a special frisson for a variety of reasons. A total feeling of helplessness in the hands of skilled tormentors. Much too risky to put into action if you are of a nervous disposition. And I am. But doesn't stop you musing on it when you stumble on such sites on the web. And there are a lot out there, albeit involving a very expensive day. Being naked and chased by ten amazon ladies or six military marines is probably a bit extreme, but there are slightly more acceptable scenarios. For those who fancy being captured, stripped, and blindfolded for CP pleasures then this is one of them. Inspired by the web but total fiction. As all the best fantasies are. Alfred Roy
 
 
The Deviant Duo (Albie's story)
This was a first for Albie. When he finally put down the phone he realised he was committed. It wasn’t the first time he had experienced such a sensation, but this was different. This time he was making a clandestine arrangement to meet two mistresses. Two. Two ladies who would do to him what one only usually undertook. Double the pleasure. Double the pain. And more than double the cost. It was the extra anticipatory thrill in his loins that told him it might be worth it.

He had considered the idea for a long time before making contact. He had sessioned with Mistress Oake a number of times. It had taken him a long time to find her but, when he did, he realised she was exactly right for him. Mature, nearer fifty than forty, severe, quietly spoken, flexible, and imaginative. She played any authoritative role he desired. From schoolmarm to governess, aunt to police officer, Mistress Oake regularly put the submissive Albie in his desired place. At least once every few months he threw off the shackles of reality and, behind closed doors, indulged his innermost fantasies. Therapy he called it. Therapy with your pants down, having your bottom well and truly whacked by a mistress of the art. Wrapped in the chosen scene he experienced everything his masochistic personality craved and when, at the end, she gave him a gentle and civilised release he usually shed a silent tear of thanks. In Albie’s opinion, not seriously expressed, such services should be available on the National Health. They were better than any pills for those in whom youth was but a distant memory. Mistress Oake and her ilk, quietly and anonymously, served the nation well.

And then he had seen a tantalising link on the internet. A Deviant Duo, that’s what they called themselves, had paired up to deal with clients of a particular frame of mind. Two mature ladies for double the price of one with kidnapping, a recurring fantasy of Albie’s, as an added stomach churning extra. He was intrigued and excited. He read the details and his excitement and desire increased. Mistress Shire, a lady he did not know, offered services which stretched to limits he wished to meet. And she fitted his picture of a female dominant in both form and age. So he phoned her and asked for the full double service, including being kidnapped. She demurred at first because she had never met him. But Albie persisted and gave her a reference. So a date, a time, and a place was agreed. Agreed because the reference the sweating Albie gave was Mistress Oake. And Mistress Oake was the other half of the Deviant Duo.

Albie stopped his car in the church car park and switched off the engine. It was a cold and dull day after the early promise of sun. He re-read his notes, hastily written during his nervous phone call. He was to park near the location’s only Church, he had, and buy a coffee from the adjacent cafe. He should then purchase a Daily Telegraph from the nearby newsagents and sit on the only bench for five minutes. He should arrange this for eleven fifteen. After five minutes he should rise and discard the coffee cup and newspaper in the waste bin next to the antiques shop, there was only one, ensuring that the coffee cup fell on the ground before being disposed of. It all seemed unnecessarily elaborate, Mistress Oake knew him well. But it was part of the game, or so he thought. To get him in the right frame of mind. He was then to walk along the wide tree lined path to the gates of the large country house on the edge of the village He would be kidnapped there. All very precise. But the last bit bothered him. If circumstances were not appropriate, families out for a walk or similar, he was to repeat the process at hourly intervals. If the situation conspired badly he could be drinking lots of coffee and half reading lots of papers. Albie sincerely hoped that puzzled cafe owners had toilets.

He nervously followed the instructions, almost to the letter. He substituted tea for coffee as he had never acquired a taste for the latter. But other than that he did precisely as told. Nothing happened. That puzzled him. He saw not a soul on his tree lined walk and five minutes earnestly studying a notice on the country house gate engendered no activity. Despondently he made his way back to the village. A middle aged woman passed him and for a second his spirits lifted. But other than a weak smile and a faint good morning the woman, not Mistress Oake, suggested nothing. If she was Mistress Shire she was well disguised. Dowdy brown coat and a lavender headscarf. He dismissed the bizarre thought and headed back for the cafe. He bought a second cup of tea at twelve fifteen and repeated the elaborate identification process. Again nothing happened on his walk and to kill time Albie entered the gates of the country house. The well worn notice, avidly read first time around, stated that a small garden centre was open from 11.00 am until 4.00pm. If he got nothing else out of the day, and Albie was rapidly losing hope, at least he may go home with a nice plant. Surprisingly there were about twenty people in the garden centre. Well known to the locals no doubt and the eight or so cars in its driveway indicated as much. A splendid array of exotic plants were an obvious draw. Albie could easily kill half an hour here before, he had decided, a final reprise of his tea and newspaper charade. One more time was what he said to himself as he studied a bench of sumptuous orchids. He was considering purchasing one when a large woman, equally intent on orchids, moved closer to him and pressed something in his side. Do not look around, she said, this is a gun. Purchase your orchid, if you must, and then walk towards the red car near the gates. I will follow you. Albie’s stomach lurched. This was it. This was what he had dreamed of. He did as she said but he did not buy the orchid. Plants, exotic or otherwise, were the last thing on his mind. He was finally being kidnapped.

The room was cold and large and bare. Albie knew all this from his state of undress and the echoing voices. He could not see, the blindfold was dark and thick. But he could feel the cold and hear the voices. Strong and stern and mocking. The one he recognised from the garden centre must be Mistress Shire, the other, familiar, was Mistress Oake. He relaxed slightly when he heard her soft tones. The setting was unusual but the pitch and rhythm of her words were unmistakeable. She must have entered the room when he arrived and he welcomed her presence. Now he felt safe after a ride tinged with fear and excitement. The woman who had kidnapped him had issued no further instructions. Said not another word. She had driven him out of the garden centre and, after a mile or so, stopped the car on a lonely road. Pointing with the gun she silently indicated he should get out. He did so and gathered his first, fleeting, glance at his captor. The sight was not unpleasing to a man of Albie’s taste. A large lady with a pleasant form and clear skinned face. Younger than the slightly built Albie but rich in the dominance which fed his fantasies. Whenever he saw such mature women he always had a desire to be taken over their ample knees and soundly spanked. It was a desire and need which had been firmly fixed from childhood. But this scenario, entered at his willing volition, was a long way from pleasant spankings in cosy rooms. This lady waved a menacing gun and, in her other hand, held handcuffs and a blindfold. The blindfold went over Albie’s eyes and Albie, forcibly but gently, was placed in the small boot of the car. Trapped in his dark and mobile prison and handcuffed behind his back, Albie lost all thoughts of sensuous spankings.

The drive was long and uncomfortable but made slightly bearable by the thick blanket he was lying on. This small consideration lessened his fear. He could not see but, as the car moved off, he could feel re-assuring air on his face. He would not suffocate. He was in safe hands and providing no officious traffic policeman wished to examine the contents of the boot he was on his way to a new and stimulating adventure. Providing, of course, that this was Mistress Shire of the advertised Deviant Duo and not some maverick nutcase. The thought, easily slipped into Albie’s fertile imagination, was almost as readily dismissed. Almost. Fear is a heady aphrodisiac to such men and the journey was long and lonely. Perhaps he should have purchased an orchid. The saleslady might have remembered him.

But now he was in the room and the silent companion slowly started to remove his clothes. She said nothing but he knew it was her from the distinctive perfume. First his jacket, then his tie and shirt. Then his shoes and socks and his trousers. Until he was down to his small top and white, tight fitting, briefs. Ralph Lauren. Specially selected in anticipation. He felt a stirring in his loins. Being undressed by his prospective tormentor was a big turn on for Albie. That he could not see added to his pleasure. And then the silent Mistress Shire placed a hand on his buttocks and expertly assessed the area. When she spoke her voice was low and mocking but appreciative. Albie had a nice behind, the voice said. Is anything else about him nice? As the voice said this the hands cupped his covered penis and testicles and assessed their worth. Albie’s excitement rose and surged even more when he sensed a second presence and heard a second voice. Albie likes to be inspected, it said. Albie likes to be humiliated. It was the voice of Mistress Oake and, as it spoke, the hands of Mistress Oake pulled the tight and white briefs down to Albie’s knees. The hands gently explored the hairs around the genitals and, equally gently, held the shaft of the now rigid penis. Albie seems to be getting too much enjoyment from this, the voice said. As it did so the hands squeezed the overfull balls in an expert feminine grip. Pain and pleasure combined and Albie, unnecessarily, closed his eyes. It was an exquisite masochistic moment. Or it was until a heavy leather strap landed with a resounding thwack across his naked, and nice, behind.

The unseen strap landed on his backside eight times. The sting as it struck Albie’s naked bottom did nothing to lessen his intense pleasure. In his darkness he was conscious only of a twitching throb in his penis and an increasing fire in his behind. He prayed it would not stop. Each thwack to his buttocks produced a heavenly burning and a wonderful feeling of being helplessly controlled. He wished for it to go on and on. Sadly it ceased after the eighth stroke and he felt unseen hands slowly pull up his underpants. Time that was put back in its box Mistress Shire said. Mistress Oake made a quiet laugh. Oh I think we can make it shrivel she said. Electrical sensations turn off most concupiscent boys. Albie shuddered and, almost instinctively, his penis contracted. The blindfolds, the handcuffs, the exposure of his lower body and the heavenly strap on his behind had all combined to surge his juices. But now fear of the unfamiliar returned again. What were they going to do? He trembled as the handcuffs were released and his small vest removed. Clad only in his underpants he was steered to another part of the room. His hands were raised above his head and he sensed his wrists being secured to leather straps. Soft hands spread his legs and secured his ankles to the base of a cold metal pole. The position was uncomfortable but not unpleasant. What followed was. One of the mistresses clipped something on his nipples. Initial pain induced a heightening of his masochistic senses. The same person, Albie thought it was Mistress Shire, prodded a vibrating rod against his exposed body. First his chest, then his legs, then the underside of his thighs. The slight electric sting increased as it moved towards his covered genitals. He knew it was Mistress Shire because the second mistress spoke as she moved around to his back. A bit of cold steel won’t come amiss Albie. As she said this he felt the cold steel press into his back and then, slowly, down to his underpants. Inside, caressing his buttocks. Albie was both stimulated and afraid. A knife? Practically naked, spread-eagled, nipples clamped and throbbing, and strange sensations both in front and behind. Fear and anticipation combined in a heavy mix. His pants are becoming moist one said. Perhaps you should take them off. The other, the familiar, the nice, Mistress Oake laughed. Such nice pants as well, very expensive. But ruined now. And then Albie heard a snip, a slight clash of steel. The cloth of his underpants loosened, fell away from his flesh. Scissors, he thought, scissors. Not a knife. He relaxed. He was still relaxing, spread-eagled, when the final bit of his pants fell away from him. Now he was totally naked. Naked and helpless with two dominant women he could not see. As the electric vibrator explored every inch of him, increasing in intensity, and unseen string or something was tightened around his balls, Albie had two thoughts. The one said that all was exquisite heaven, well worth the cost. The second, readily dismissed, was of expensive Ralph Lauren underpants. Bereft and shredded at his naked feet.

Time had become lost on Albie but he reckoned he had been in the unseen room at least thirty or forty minutes when beloved canes finally struck his behind. Two canes, a left hander and a right hander. Fifty strokes in all. Laid on alternatively by Mistress Shire and Mistress Oake. The pain in his backside was agonising. Severe strokes, hard and straight, heightened by the fact that the two women seemed to be trying to outdo each other. The last ten were exceptionally painful and if Albie had an erection it had long past. All he was conscious of was the searing stings to his naked backside. But he had no regrets. Pain and pleasure were being combined from unseen tormentors who both knew their skills and his limits. And when it stopped, when the last slash from the left hander had cut, a silence ensued. All rested, exhausted. Only the constant throb in Albie’s bottom and the heavy breathing filled the unseen room. He waited, he could do little else, wondering what was to come next. For a moment, nothing. And then something cold and wet was pressed against his chest. It was not unpleasant. Expertly the object was rubbed onto his chest, his arms, his legs. Inside his thighs. It scratched, it hurt slightly, and it stirred his being. Especially when it explored his bottom, his crack, his dangling testicles. Albie likes this. Mistress Shire. Said as the object continued its intrusive journey. Albie needs to learn. Mistress Oake. Said as the string tightened around his balls. Albie needs the bench. Said in unison.

Albie got the bench and much, much more. Arms ached from his suspension but other, unseen, sensations cloaked the discomfort. He was led to the bench, cold smooth wood, and placed across it. Face down. A convenient opening allowed his penis and testicles to be pulled through. Albie liked this. It suggested helplessness and domination. Enhanced, as weights were attached, stretching his appendages. He was still naked and blindfolded. In deference to his aching limbs he was not tied down but a broad leather fastening was placed across his back, just above the curve of his buttocks, and tightly secured. He could wriggle but he could not get up. The constriction fed his juices and rigidity below fought the unseen weights. All fleshy feelings combined. The strapping which followed was heavenly. First one mistress held his head pressed into her stomach as the other pounded his behind. Then places were reversed and the process repeated. Albie did not count how many times the thick strap, or at least it felt thick, lashed into his flesh. But he would not demur at fifty or more. All incredibly stung but none were regretted. And then multiple fingers undid the weights and the string around his private parts and anonymous hands probed the released flesh and, simultaneously, gently violated his manly crack. The sensation was awesome. Given all that had gone before, the effect was electric. Albie’s body searched and responded to the multitude of hands and cried out in tortured passion. The desire for blessed release manifested itself in a steely hardening of his cock as it readied itself for a culminating spurt. And that is when they, Mistress Oake and Mistress Shire, his unseen tormentors, stopped. Thirty more stinging whacks with the strap to his behind and Albee’s kidnapping experience was over. The last two disciplinary kisses, slow and intense, said this.

He showered and dressed. From being lifted off the bench to dressing had taken at least half an hour. They had sat him on a chair and given him instructions. Release the blindfold slowly, adjust to the light, rest for ten minutes. He did as instructed and on removing the blindfold blinked his eyes. He had not seen light for well over an hour, probably nearer two. Accustoming his gaze he saw that the room, although bare of normal furniture, was tastefully decorated. Two curtained windows contrasted nicely with the pale pink walls. The cold wooden floor with which his bare feet had made contact only extended about ten feet into the room. The other half of the floor, more than half, was covered by a large square carpet. It looked expensive. Rising, Albie stood on it and felt its softness. Still naked he turned and looked again at the bare half of the room. The bench where he was restrained and strapped, the steely contraption where he was hoist and spread-eagled. The uncarpeted floor where he had been undressed. Form was now given to his imagined pictures. Passion unspent started its rise again. The shower room is next door. That was the last thing they said before they left. He walked to the only door and quickly found it. Warm and inviting, expensive towels and soaps, talc and creams. He turned on the shower, adjusted the controls, and stepped in. As the water cascaded over his body, his hard and reddened bottom, his sore and sensitive genitals, he gently and liberally soaped himself. His own hands explored his own flesh. And when those same hands found the flesh between his legs he readily spurted the passion he had previously been denied. In the history of his ejaculations this was the most worthwhile. He would have preferred one of the mistresses to have done it but, he had to admit, never had he come so much and so long. If his experience had been expensive it was also uplifting and stimulating. Even if the cost included the loss of a favourite pair of Ralph Lauren tight fitting briefs. That did produce a secondary, unrelated, sigh when he pulled on his trousers over his very tender bottom. Perhaps, he mused, the torture still continues.

Mistress Shire said goodbye. Albie said it had all been wonderful, even if the gun spooked him. She smiled as she told him it was not a real one. He thinks he believed her. Mistress Oake drove him back to his own car. Albie said little. The afternoon had been stimulating but exhausting. But an experience he would cherish. He told her that. He had no regrets. And when he got home his reviving spirits lifted even more. Mistress Oake had given him a small parcel. From both of them. He tentatively opened it. Inside, wrapped in classy packaging, was a pristine pair of medium sized white briefs. Designer label. Albie smiled. The Deviant Duo had thought of everything.

 Alfred Roy (2013)
 
 
To Come :   Hugh, My Aunt and I  
(A boy gets caned by a man whilst a woman watches - scenario requested by a reader of my blog)