#18) A Different Photo, Story, Era… – GRAPHIC CONTENT

Now look at this photo. It was taken decades ago, nearly a century, in black and white, of course.
But look at her eyes. She cannot bring herself to look at her lover, her betrothed. Her visage is filled with her guilt. She, too, has misbehaved. But her attitude is a world away from her modern-day counterpart’s, the one photographed in color on the couch. Mores of the time, along with other mental constructs are on this young lady’s mind.
This photo documents the first time he is seeing her unclothed buttocks. She took her knickers off herself, hiked her dress up and bent over in the middle of his living room floor, placed the bundle of birches on her lower back, and waited for her fiancé to come back to his home.
When he did, he stopped frozen at the sight of her. It was a vision that he’d long fantasized about, dreamed of, masturbated to, revered to the point of worship. When he was again able to move, he rushed to her side, embraced those lovely globes with both hands.
With trembling lips (but her eyes still averted), she confessed, “I was bad…”
“I know. What puzzles me is why?”
“I don’t know. I only know that I behave badly at times…”
His fingers seemed to have a mind of their own. They dug into the soft, pale flesh. His eyes roamed over her curves ravenously. His voice came out as if in a dream, or a prayer, “I’d love to cover this bottom with kisses…”
“It wouldn’t be proper,” she returned in a voice that betrayed her passion for the same. “We won’t be married for another week… that is, if you still want to…”
“Of course I want to! I love you with all my heart!”
“Then you know what you must do… take over for my recently departed father, God rest his soul… keep me in line… the only way that works…”
He took hold of the bundle of birch twigs, took position behind her voluptuous behind, took aim. If ever that old adage, “this hurts me more than it does you” held true, it was now. But she needed it…
Swish, Whhittpp!
That far-away look in her eyes was clouded with a painful wince, then tears, as stroke after stroke belabored her bottom. White hot pain matched the bright red welts the birch bundle imbued into her tender flesh, but she accepted each one and repositioned her backside prominently, almost obscenely.
The whipping did more than address her errant ways, it touched something deep within her. She tried to be good, but was powerless to keep from scissoring her thighs together like some possessed cricket. Her machinations were silent but potent. She was building toward a powerful orgasm. But it wasn’t proper in 1931 for a woman to give rein to such unbridled passionate displays of one’s sexuality.
Her lover could not miss all the tell-tale signals she exhibited. Her labial lips swelled until they protruded from between her thighs. It secreted copious jism and a heady scent which were impossible to keep secret. Her musculature began to tremble as convulsions wracked her entire corporal being. His intent evolved from punishing her previous indiscretion to thrashing the devil that clearly possessed her out. It became an exorcism. But the demon would not be quelled by the birch beating; it seemed only to fan the hellacious flames into a raging inferno. It became a vicious cycle; he beat her bottom, she climaxed, he thrashed her all the harder, she orgasmed all the more. It could have gone all night long. Even though her once pristine posterior was ravaged, it was his arm that gave out first. That, and the fact that the bundle of stiff twigs were reduced to limp fronds.
In stark contrast to the wood in his hand, focusing on his beloved’s beautiful bared bum aroused the man mightily, inspired wood in his loins. If he was honest with himself, he’d have to admit that it wasn’t just her glorious ass that excited him, it was thoughts of punishing it. Tossing away the handful of worthless splinters, he debated how best to proceed. He really wanted to follow his first impulse and cover her now incendiary tush with kisses. But he knew that giving license to these feelings would lead them both to weakening, having sexual intercourse before it was sanctioned. He wondered if he should segue to spanking her with his hand. But he feared touching her exquisite, burnished buttocks would only enflame them both to the same ruinous conclusion. He didn’t trust himself even to take her in his arms, comfort her properly, caress her wounded rump and dry her tears. He simply sat down in place, cross-legged like a little boy, and stared at her, now even more radiantly beautiful than ever.
Only then did her eyes meet his as she summoned the courage to say what she needed to say. “On our wedding night… in a week… promise me that you’ll treat me just as harshly, whip me just as mercilessly… give way to your passions… promise me…”
He wondered, not for the last time, if he was engaged to some freak of nature, a wanton, highly-sexed hussy. But he didn’t care. It’d be their little secret. What he did care about, what he could not ignore, what was far more engorged than anything little, what could not be kept secret was his throbbing aching erection. He had to release it from the restraining confines of his trousers. His testicles were beyond blue, they were purple! He unzipped and, with difficulty, withdrew his rock hard manhood.
Her eyes, which only a moment before had mustered the courage to lock onto her lover’s gaze now shifted to the elephant in the room. She had babysat her young nephews; she’d heard that a man’s little thingy would stiffen and grow. But the reality far exceeded her wildest dreams.
Unbound by any clothing restrictions, this god in her eyes, her Prometheus now smiled at her and whispered, “I promise.”
The occasion had to be commemorated. He’d just given her the gift of immortal flame in the form of a scorching whipping, and she was indebted, in love, in lust, consumed. For the first time in her young life, this was administered not by a parent to answer for a wrong, but by her lover to quench an insatiable hunger, a part of who she was at her essence. She crawled over to where he sat, puckered up, and kissed him full on the lips in way that she had never dared before. The kiss lingered, deepened, tongues twirled as hearts danced. They both became lost in it. Her delicate forearm grazed the head of his baby-arm-of-a-cock, just a gentle grazing, a caress. By mistake. But it was enough, combined with the passionate kiss. His erection lurched once, then began to erupt.
If you were going to commit suicide, one of the most successful means would be to put the upturned revolver under your chin. The triangle of soft tissue between the chin, the jawbone, and the throat is the place to aim to be sure to blow yourself away. That was the exact spot where his first spurt of ejaculate hit her as she kissed his mouth. It hit with such velocity and volume that it knocked her back on her heels. Its potency blew her away. After the initial release, streamers of cum erupted from his manhood in successive fashion, arcing high into the air. It looked like a New Year’s Eve celebration, it was so festive. It looked like the couple was into bondage, as thick ropes of cum covered her, from her reddish hair on down. Far from being offended or put-off, she took it as a compliment, a tribute to their incredible attraction and their secret kinky bond. They were a big-city couple, but she suddenly had a fantasy of living with him way out west, in Montana or some such place. He was her dude, a cowpoke who had lassoed his filly, wrestled her down and bound her tight, only to brand her hind-quarters radiantly as his. She giggled like a little girl as she told him her dream, she swooned when he picked her up, carried her to the loo, and bathed her lovingly, shampooing her hair, gently soaped her naked curves.
True to his word, one week later he helped her out of her wedding dress, then enjoyed removing all the lacey underthings, like eating the icing off their wedding cake first before the substance. He spanked her nude magnificence masterfully, and when they were both hot for it, he put his monstrous thingy (her pet name for it) into her femininity, breaking the seal, taking her virginity. Fortunately this time, he did not erupt right away. He pistoned her sex with his, dug his fingers into her well-upholstered derriere, brought them both to a fevered pitch. Then he erupted just as explosively as the first time with her, if not more so, though this time it was neatly contained within her womb. I’m happy to report that man and wife lived happily ever after (in the eyes of their neighbors and society).

3 responses to “#18) A Different Photo, Story, Era… – GRAPHIC CONTENT”

  1. This is a photo that’s different from yesterday’s in almost every way (hence my title), but I wanted to address it in the same way. I did not name the characters or focus much on character development. I purposefully did not specify what each woman did to earn the discipline. Again, it was the woman’s eyes that caught my attention, sparked that inspiration to impel me to want to write about it.
    Sometimes, when I finish a story, the characters stay with me. I want to do more with them. That’s how I felt about these two. That’s why I ended this story with that last line as I did. I thought I might continue to develop what their marriage and sexuality would be like in the 1930’s. I may yet come back to them, write more, but not right now.
    Anyway, I hope you enjoy this tale! If you do, please tell me about your reactions; I’d love to hear from you!


  2. Wow, you really put a lot into this blog and your writing. I’ve scrolled back to here from the latest post reading several stories along the way. This scene appealed to me particularly for some reason. So moral. So respectable. So honest? Not that I don’t also love your other posts!!!!

    Liked by 1 person

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