All Change for Amy

Geraldine was on her knees, her plump, firm backside high in the air, a canvas for her Master’s pleasure and discipline. Fresh stripes from the cane, laid down only an hour ago, were angry red lines across the perfect globes of her buttocks and the sensitive tops of her thighs. Each one was a memory, a point of searing heat that grounded her in the moment. Her Master held the leash in his hand, pulled taut, forcing her head to bend back at an uncomfortable angle to take the strain as his cock rammed in and out of her ass in a relentless, punishing rhythm. She groaned around the gag strapped securely in her mouth, the red rubber ball stretching her lips wide. Her perfect red lipstick, applied meticulously earlier, made a grotesque 'o' shape around the invasive object.

She could feel the change in him, the tell-tale sign of his impending release. His cock seemed to gain even more girth inside her, swelling to an impossible thickness as he was about to come. He growled, a low, primal sound from deep in his chest, and pushed extra hard, driving himself into her as deep as he could, his hips slamming against the tender welts on her backside. She clawed at the thick pile of the carpet beneath them, the pain and the pleasure a blinding, overwhelming vortex. She had another week before she was allowed to orgasm. It was a restriction, a rule of his ownership, that she knew better than to argue with. Her pleasure was secondary, a gift to be bestowed, not a right to be taken. Her role was to be a vessel for his, to endure, to serve, to submit. And in that submission, she found a peace she had never known.

Later, as she lay with her lover and Master, the aftershocks still trembled through her body. She felt safe and secure in his arms, the strong, muscular limbs that could inflict such pain now holding her with a surprising gentleness. He aimlessly twirled his fingers around her nipples, which were still hard and sensitive from the rough play. She kissed his strong neck, tasting the salt of his sweat, the scent that was uniquely him. As she lay there, her body sore and sated in a way that had nothing to do with her own release, she wondered what Amy was doing. She was amazed at how easily the other woman had fallen into place, how quickly the facade of the bored housewife had crumbled to reveal the submissive slut lurking beneath. She had been a little concerned about the suggestion at first, but it had been a good call. It had been suggested that she join the rambling club and make friends with Amy, to befriend her and draw her out. It had been the right call; Amy was a natural, a perfect canvas for their art.