Welcome to another episode of Bedtime Stories with Salty Vixen. Tonight’s story is titled “Last night”. Dear Sir, Last night, as I was falling asleep,I felt the dark crimson wash, and I knew.
My dreams last night were about you, for me to tease and make you laugh and a playful cry. Most of all, to own you. Tonight , I will don my long black vinyl corset. Black stockings, silk shorts and boots. Projecting my image to entice you Like a deadly flower.
Not fair, is it. It should be perhaps a more equal contest. But I am hungry, and I do not care to play fairly tonight.
I want you. What do I care that you see only the image and in the Woman?
For now I will set aside My long term goals, as the hunger is too great. I cannot hold it for the long term good.
I will Hunt.I will Capture and I will play until My hunger is temporarily cooled down.
Then kissing you gently,I will send you home and dream of tomorrow.
You know, Sir, you created the Femdom in me and I fucking love when you hand the power over to me. Are you ready for you to call me Mistress Salty Vixen? This is a FemDom Story.. let’s begin..
"Strip." My word is your Law, and you obey, quickly and fluidly.
"Here." I pat the suspended cross, that you might climb upon it. "Face up" - and you are shackled, arms and wrists to the supporting chains; leather straps across your thighs and biceps seal your fate.
You are all that is beautiful at this moment, as you turn your head to look at me in silence. Oh, I know some Dommes like the lowered eyes - but not me. I want to see. I want to know. Let me into your soul; I want no less.
A 1/2 inch wide leather strap secures your cock and balls, at full attention and dripping in anticipation. I pat the wetness a moment, and bring my fingers to your lips, that you might worship the hand that produced it.
"Comfortable?" I ask, grinning. "Yes, Mistress," you murmur, knowing that it matters not, if your health is not at risk.
Like a feminine Dracula, I bend over your body, preparing to take what is mine. A kiss becomes a nibble becomes a bite becomes torture upon your beleaguered nipples...and your first groan rips from your mouth...soft at first, crescendoing like opera and fading to a whimper as my mouth leaves your body.
"What hell it must be", I muse, "to crave and dread the same thing at once!"
But no matter, for I hold in my hand the nerve wheel you so dread. Lightly at first, beginning at your exposed arms, I touch you like the kiss of a feather. As I roll it slowly down your body, I apply pressure in proportion to the proximity of my hand to the cock I've so thoughtfully bound. You, however, are helpless: how can you resist? If not one shackle bound you, could you then move away? No, my captive slave, you know you could not. Rather, the shackles are my mercy to you, that no involuntary twitch might mar your concentration.
"It's like a thousand needles pricking" you explained to me once when I asked how the wheel felt. And I nodded in happy agreement, for when I tested it I thought the same thing.
To your bound balls, burgeoning from their entrapment, I can only guess at the sensation it must cause. I know only that your attempts at thrashing cannot be controlled by your conscious effort.
Your salvation is also your doom, for I bore quickly, ending that particular torment. My crop kisses your thigh tops lightly, patting alongside the edges of your muscles, drumming the inner thighs in a sweet staccato.
Your pale sides seem to call out to me, and I lay the crop aside momentarily. Your eyes are locked into mine, as I set my nails to your flesh and stripe your torso. A return of my hand to your mouth finds fervent worship of my power over you, and the wetness of each of us grows.
Releasing one arm, one leg, I stand at the side of the horizontally suspended cross and turn you over; reshackling the freed appendages before releasing and reattaching the others. "Lift" I command, patting your ass. Obedient (what else could you possibly be?) you do as I say and rise up, that I might slide your discarded underwear beneath your dripping cock. "We cannot mess up the equipment!" I chide, and you apologize for being so messy.
"By the way, I've bought a new whip," I mention with glee. "Please, Mistress, use it on me," you plead. "Let me give you my submission." A kiss, full upon the lips, draws us into one another for what seems to be an eternity. Knowing the effect your words will have, you murmur into my ear, "I am Yours. Do whatever You want." A wrenching spasm leaves my eyes glittering, as the first small orgasm passes. The cross sways from my motions, yet you show only the desire to please me again; it is no cheap lust, but a blending of souls in the age old gift of Dominance and submission.
I resume the tapping with my crop, covering your shoulders with leather kisses. Your ass jiggles so well beneath my blows, pinkening slowly. The one fault I find in you is your skin's resilience, for I have been unable to bruise you. Your pain threshold is growing, yet I have always found your limits before leaving the marks I cherish. I want tangible evidence the next day...I have only my scratch marks to view, and it is not enough. I want you to get out of the shower, towel off, and see the reminder of my ownership. Someday!
But for now, I continue, speeding up and slowing in time to the music. Your body seems to follow my crop, for it lifts off the table when I land with particular emphasis. Red now, your ass contracts after each stroke, and I bend to kiss it. Hot breath upon hotter ass, I flick your cheek once lightly with my tongue ...and follow it with a swift crack of the hand. Your gasps and cries rise like a prayer to the ceiling.
This new whip is my gift to you, for it is of softest deerskin, clingy, sensual and gentle even at full swing. It is a gift to me, for it smacks loudly, and allows the force I need to give much earlier in the session than my other toys do.
And so I stand sideways at the foot of the cross, and raise one foot off the floor. Holding the whip overhead in both hands, I revel in the moment and let fly. Flogging in earnest, I move all around you: the shoulders, the thighs, the sweet curve of your ass! And you groan, and writhe, and cry out; giving me what I must have. Sweet, sweet submission flows from you in waves, bathing me in bliss.
"The cane" I whisper into your ear, "I want you to take three blows from the cane." Your eyes roll up in despairing surrender, as I add the final torment: "You must ask for each blow, and thank me afterwards. If you forget to thank me, I will add a stroke." Your slow intake of breath is precious to me. "Mistress, please cane me." "I can't hear you, slave." Louder, your voice quavers just a bit: "Mistress, please cane me!" How can I help but kiss you for that, my slave?
We've never done this; I've only practiced upon the chair in my house. Yet I take out the small cane I bought months ago, raise it above your perfect, vulnerable red ass and strike. A scream escapes your lips. Twin lines appear instantly, before your hips even return to the surface. "Thank you!" you manage, and I grin at your obedience. Lovingly, my hand soothes the surface of your tortured skin. "Only two more," I croon sweetly.
The slump of your body shows your despair. "You can take as long as you need to before asking for the next," I grant, yet it is unneeded. "Mistress, I'm ready for the next", you gasp. No quarter given, I strike again. "THANK YOU OH GOD MISTRESS PLEASE HAVE MERCY!" you scream, and I hold you, trembling against my body. "Sshh," I soothe, "I'm so proud of you! You're doing so well! Good boy, good slaveboy,"
I croon into your ears, kissing away the tears from the corners of your eyes. "You're my sweet slave, aren't you, my sweet slaveboy" I murmur, rewarding you with my approval and the words you need to hear. Nuzzling up to me, you press against my face and nod. "I'm your slave, Mistress Salty Vixen, You own me" you say, vocalizing that which means so much to you. "How many more, slave?" I demand softly. "As many as pleases You, Mistress". "How many more that I promised, slave?" "One, Mistress, You promised one more. Please, Mistress, be merciful" you beg. Oh, how I love to see you beg. The final stroke is gentle in comparison to the first two, rewarding you for going further than we have ever gone. Your thanks are profound, genuine and sincere.
Gathering you to me, I hold your trembling body and survey: six perfect lines, not parallel, but no overlaps, no wrapping...not bad for a first time. Tracing the welts with my finger causes you to cry out. I am compelled to stroke your head, kiss your forehead...I cannot touch enough of you. You are my property.
It is late. Almost sadly, I unshackle you from the cross and help you down. Your immediate worship of my feet shows that the evening's activities meant as much to you as they did me. Oh, that there was no such thing as time! That we might never break this spell which binds us both together, that it might never ebb so that the mundane might intrude! Yet there is only two hours left of our time together, and those must be spent guiding you back from the land I have taken you to.
