Beauty and the Beast

(Not a very original title, I admit.)

M/F: Straightforward Sado-Masochism; caning and so on, with a certain amount of 'topping from the bottom' perhaps.

I first posted this story on Literotica, as polynices, in 2009 but I had it removed later.

[NOTE: For anybody who's unsure, the German name Inge is pronounced as two syllables, with a hard g: In-guh, approximately.]

~

Beauty and the Beast

She turns the key in the lock, pushes the door open and ushers him inside; then snaps on the light, turning to him. Her cheeks are flushed and rosy with excitement. Her smiling face with shining eyes looks up at him from beneath her cap of warm blonde-honey hair.

Her flat is one large room with a kitchen and bathroom off: a narrow bed in the corner; some cupboards and a table; one ragged easy chair; one bookcase. There are discarded clothes scattered here and there – upturned shoes and tangled underwear and so on. He takes it all in quickly but doesn't speak. He's still uncertain; unconvinced. Is this just too good to be true? Can he believe his luck?

'You will use the Rohrstock, no?' she asks him, laughing.

He looks back blankly.

She wriggles her shoulders in comical frustration and smiles her apology.

'I don't know how you say in English, but the ... '

She mimes a tiny cane blow, her closed hand snapping sharply at the wrist. But still he shows no sign of comprehension - though, in truth, he understands. He wants her to confirm it unequivocally. He wants the whole initiative to come from her.

She goes abruptly to her wardrobe and hunts around inside. Then she turns to him and – matter-of-factly, plainly - displays two canes with school-masterly hooks at their ends. Both thin, pale, whippy things, which are obviously much used. Each of them, he sees, is split and a little splintered at the tip.

'This,' says Inge simply, 'is what I like. The Rohrstock, no?'

'They're canes,' he says. 'Say "cane".'

'Cane,' she repeats obediently, the vowel perfect.

'Will you do it to me now?' she asks him, smiling.

He draws a sudden breath.

'Of course,' he tells her. 'Come back over here.'

---

She returns to him slowly, teasing, laying the canes on the table as she passes it; catching his eye; making him look at her – at them. She stands before him. He gestures towards her hips.

'Take your skirt off,' he says, gruffly. (There's something rising in his throat. There's a rough thickness there. He knows it well, this thick constriction, a foretaste of the coming guilty pleasure.)

She reaches behind her to unzip, then the frilly rah-rah falls in a puddle round her feet. She steps out of it daintily. Her little thong is pink.

'Take that off too,' he tells her, and she wriggles it down her thighs, then bends to disentangle it from her feet. Then, straightening up again, she drops the thong and stands before him in only her strappy top. He sees her tricky breasts are jiggling slightly, the nipples roused beneath the thin blue fabric. He also sees her cunt is naked, brazen and fully shaved. He extends a hand and touches one finger to it, tracing lightly down the cleft – a feathery lightness. She tries to be still under this interrogation but her flesh shrinks nevertheless, anticipating the moment when caress will turn to slap.

He looks seriously into her wide blue smiling eyes.

'You want this, do you? Really? Really want it?'

'Oh, yes,' she says. Her face is serious now. 'It is really what I like, you know?' she says.

---

He steps forward to her so that they are standing almost side by side, but facing in opposite directions – she towards the door, he to the back of the room. He crooks his left leg out and braces against her thighs, then – carefully, with utmost deliberation – he hooks his left arm round her slender waist. (He feels her belly quiver, warm, against his inner arm, where his elbow crooks.) With his right hand, then, he presses on her back, firm and insistent so that she has to bend. The resultant pose is a little awkward but, when he is supporting her whole weight with his left leg and arm, he brings his right hand up, takes aim at the warm, plump buttocks thus presented, and brings it down with one almighty smack!

She shrieks and jumps, her shock mixed intimately with both delight and fear. He feels the sharp intake of her breath through her belly against his arm. But he doesn't pause for any breath himself – not his or hers. He slaps her hard again, hard on the arse, and hails a rain of blows on this her sweetest part – her fundament. He spanks her til he feels the warmth rise in her, and then he goes on spanking until his hand stings much too much. And, then and only then, he stops. She's laughing, sobbing, panting when he lets her up.

'Oh, you are a beast!' she says. 'Your hand is very hard!'

He motions to her to turn and inspects her buttocks. Her arse is rosy red and, when he touches – very gently now, with careful sensitivity – he feels the glow as heat with an intensity so surprising, it's as if he's lit a furnace deep inside her flesh.

'Happy so far?' he asks her.

'Happy, yes. But I said you are a beast. Du bist ein Tier. Your hand is heavy!'

He goes to the bed, sits down, and beckons her.

'Across my knee this time,' he says.

He thinks perhaps she won't understand him, but she gets the idea immediately and lies down across his lap with a little giggle – with gaiety, in fact - with a jolly, gay excitement, as if he's invited her to some rare treat – as, indeed, he realises, he has. He has, indeed.

Lying there, face downwards, with her bottom high on his lap and her blonde head hanging, she brings both hands behind her, quite unbidden, and crosses them across the small of her back. He grasps both wrists in his own huge hand – the left - then prepares to spank again with his other hand.

This time he's slower, more methodical. He takes the time to enjoy her responses. When the first slap lands, he feels her grunt against him almost before he hears it, then feels the blow's impact ripple through her body. She isn't shrieking now, she's accepting the pain, allowing it to rise and become part of her; floating inside it, maybe, and letting it wash around her. After seven or eight spanks he stops and, slipping two fingers between her parted thighs, he examines her cunt, checking for wetness. There is a lot: she's slick and soapy in between the folds.

'You're getting off on this,' he murmurs.

'Yes,' she gasps. Then, almost petulant, almost imperious: 'Don't stop. You beat me very well. I like it very much. Don't stop. I want it all.'

Obligingly, he spanks her harder now, and aims to land the blows precisely, trying to find the exact sweet spot where the curve of her arse meets its apex. And with every slap she makes a different sound, as if she were giving a commentary on each and every one; her own critique – her own appreciation.

When he finally lets her up, after half a hundred spanks, she's red in the face and panting hard from the exertion of lying across his lap so long. She comes straight back to him and, throwing her arms round his neck, she kisses him everywhere – on the lips and the cheeks and the forehead; on the throat; on the nose. Her tiny breathless kisses are like butterfly caresses, swaddling him and smothering him with love.

'You are my beast,' she breathes between the kisses. 'You are my own dear Tier. You are my darling.'

---

When she releases him, he stands and gets undressed. His large erection, once revealed, doesn't surprise her. After all, she's been intimate with it for some time now, feeling its insistence against her thighs as she lay across him. But she kneels immediately and leans to take it in her mouth – then checks herself.

'Is this right? Do you want me to do this?' she asks, looking up at him.

He nods. 'Oh, yes,' he says. 'That's what I want all right.'

She bends eagerly to the task and when her mouth engulfs him it seems to be the softest, warmest touch he's ever felt. Her lips encircle his cock's end lovingly; her tongue teases the underneath, near the tip of his glans. He feels himself stiffening and throbs inside her. She is so delicate, he thinks; so vulnerable.

She reaches up and takes the root of his prick in her hand, frotting gently underneath it with her fingers to encourage the sperm to rise. But he pushes her head back slowly until her mouth disengages, and pulls the fingers away.

'Not yet,' he says. 'I don't want to come just yet. We've got other things to do.'

'What things?' she asks, excited. 'Are you going to beat me now with the Rohr – the cane, I mean?'

'Very soon now,' he tells her. But first, he sits back down and gestures at her top. 'Take that off,' he says and, instantly obedient, she slips the flimsy blue garment over her head and off, leaving her blonde hair tousled in its wake. She stands there fully naked, waiting for further orders.

'Now touch your clitoris,' he tells her, but she looks uncertain.

'Meinen Kitzler?' she asks to be sure, and she points to her cunt.

'Yes, your clitoris. Your Kitzler. Your little button.'

She takes him literally. She slides a single finger into the top of her slit and stands there motionless.

'Can I rub her?' she asks him. 'Can I make her warm?'

He nods. 'Do it,' he says. So she crosses her index finger across the middle one and begins to rub with that, digging in deep and blowing little breaths through o-ringed lips. Her face reddens suddenly and there's a blush across her chest. Her breasts are heaving too.

'Stop!' he tells her. Her fingers halt abruptly, and she stands there awkwardly, frozen and caught, desperate and bereft, on the brink of her explosion - her relief.

'Now I'm going to cane you.' He looks around the room. 'Where do you usually do it?' he asks. 'Where do you usually have it done?'

She points to the table. 'There,' she says and stepping across to it, she grasps the farther edge with her fingertips and bends across it, her bottom presented for his delectation.

She looks back at him, over her shoulder. 'This is good for you?' she asks.

He grunts agreement and picks up one of the two canes that are lying next to her. He tries a practice stroke and Inge, unseeing, flinches as the blow swishes behind her through thin air.

Something fierce rises in him now. He wants to violate. He wants to shock her. He lays his thumb in the crease of her arse and probes until his thumb's ball is lying tight against her anus. He feels it open slightly as he presses and he feels the suck of it. So he adjusts the angle slightly and presses in, pushing the thick thumb in, sudden and crude, as far and as deep as the knuckle. Inge howls with outrage. He smiles and twists the thumb inside her, in the warm and welcoming dark.

'Do you like this?' he asks her, smiling.

'Yes. No. Yes,' she pants, grimacing.

He laughs. 'Well, make up your mind,' he says. 'Do you like it or not?'

'I like it not,' she says. 'I mean, I do not like it. But I am masochist, you know, so it is good for me. It feels bad, so it feels good, nicht wahr? Do you understand?'

In answer, he presses his thumb in harder and she squirms under his hand.

'Oh you very bastard!' she cries to him, her English failing. 'You dirty dirty bastard! You hound!' she says.

He laughs again, then slowly pulls the thumb out. Then, stepping back, he takes aim with the cane. He plays the trick again, the empty swish in air, and again she stiffens - flinches.

'Please,' she pleads.

'OK,' he says. 'This time.'

The first stroke lands a little high; it's more difficult to be exact with the cane than with his hand. There's something unsatisfying, something flat, about the impact, and when she, surprisingly, only grunts a little at the pain inflicted, it's as if she too is aware of his imprecision.

He tries again, touching her first with the cane, laying it gently across that curve of her arse, that place where she culminates – the most tender and exposed. Then he draws the cane back and brings it down on her – not harsh but sweet, like a batsman or a golfer timing the swing exactly. And it hisses and stings across her with such intensity that she instantly stands bolt upright as if raised on wires, and her two hands go to her buttocks, and she sets off across the floor in a comical, rapid run, all the way to the door and back again. And then, as the sting, still potent, begins to wear off, she stands beside him, rubbing her bottom; breathing; but grinning as well; grinning through the pain.

'Oh, you!' she says, at last. 'But that was very good. But hard. But good!'

'Do you want some more?' he asks. And she nods and bends again.

He examines the wheals he has made: two pink lines that curve across her bottom – the high one thinner, the other already widening and darkening towards red.

'How many of these can you take?'

'You must decide,' she tells him.

He gives her twelve more. She doesn't stand again, but at every stroke she yelps and her bottom wriggles. He always gives her time to absorb the blow before he begins the next. Sometimes her leg kicks up as soon as a blow is landed; it is as if the sting is conducted out of her, running along the leg like electricity discharging. But that is fantasy, he realises. He can see her bottom's reaction to every stroke, the enduring pattern of wheals increasing as a record of this punishment, this pleasure. And he marvels at her willingness to take it when he knows that he could never endure it himself. Even one of these strokes would be too much for him. He would never consent to bend before anyone as she has for him.

Finally, he stops. She stands up, gingerly. He puts a fingertip to one of the marks – a wheal; not on it, but above it, tracing it. He can feel the heat from there, radiating out. He wonders how it feels to her. He knows women like Inge are often proud of their bruises; proud of the continuing pain all the time until the wheals heal up. He would like to ask her about it, but he knows this isn't the time. It isn't a time for 'talking about'; it is a time for just feeling and being.

She turns to face him. 'What will you do to me now?'

'What would you like me to do?'

'Anything. Anything that will make you truly happy.'

He feels fierce exaltation rising up within him.

'You know what I want,' he says, thickly. (He can feel the constriction in his throat again; he can hear a high thin buzzing in his ears as well.)

'Then you must take it,' says Inge, simply, so he takes her arm and, roughly, leads and drags her to the bed.

---

He piles two pillows in the middle of the mattress, then positions her like a dog, on all fours across them, with her bottom pointing backwards. Then he mounts the bed and, creeping in between her legs, leans forward across her back and briefly grasps her breasts. Her rump is warm against his thighs and he tries to find her anus with his prick, pushing in blindly between her buttocks.

Thinking he's found the place, he presses forward hard, but the angle's wrong and he slips off target. Inge, ever helpful, reaches back and grasps his prick. She guides him in and, when his cock is truly up against her arsehole, she tells him: 'Now!' And this time, when he pushes, he feels the penetration, and his cock slides in. He feels a tiny 'pop' as he enters her, and Inge gasps. He pushes harder and penetrates her to the root, he feels. Then, confident of their connection, he presses her shoulders down, and then her hips. They topple forward together, until Inge lies prone beneath him, her arse raised up, her pelvis supported by the pile of pillows. And, sure now of his platform, he begins to bugger her in earnest. She pants and squeals beneath him and, as he fucks her arse, something rises in his mind – that deep, fierce thing. And, suddenly, he is simply animal, exulting in his power and sweat and sex. And the sweating woman under him accepts him totally – complete in himself, complete in herself, with no pretence on either part.

He fucks her hard until he comes inside her, then they lay there still, conjoined, til his penis shrivels. Then, after he's pulled himself out of her, he asks: 'Did it hurt you much?'

'Of course,' she says. 'But it was good, nicht wahr?'

He considers asking if she means good for him alone or good for both of them, but then he realises it really doesn't matter. He lies on his back beside her and asks her instead: 'Did you come?'

'Not come exactly. No,' she says. 'But I felt something. I felt very much, in fact.'

She giggles at him, or at the memory.

'Do you want to now? Shall I do something for you?' he asks.

But she smiles and says: 'Just watch me. That is enough.' – And she slips a hand between her legs and rubs, lying beside him, legs open, on her back. He wonders how her damaged bottom feels from the pressure on the bed. And then he wonders how it felt when he was buggering her so hard, his hips slapping against her bum with every stroke. But he sees the climax rising in her face, and sees her, grinning, come against her hand. And then he sees her relax and, curling towards him, she lays her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes.

'Will you do things to me again in the morning?' she whispers, purring - yawning.

And he answers her quietly: 'Yes.'

Then, delighted with her and with himself at last, he falls, delightedly and guiltlessly, asleep.