#346) Like a Moth Drawn to the Flame

We’re hanging out in his backyard by the pool. It’s hot and humid, so I take my bathing suit off.
As I smear sunblock on the newly-exposed areas, Jake asks, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“What? You have a privacy fence surrounding your property…”
“That’s strike number one, little girl,” he responds. “Get to number three this afternoon and you know what happens?”
I’m finished covering my smaller-than-a-champagne-glass titties with lotion, so I roll over and start coating my larger-than-a-bucket-booty. I rub the white cream into the creamy flesh, part the hillocks and grease-up the crevice between them. Looking him in the eye over my shoulder, I even slip a slick finger up my rosebud.
He watches as if hypnotized, but still manages to mutter zombie-like, “That’s strike two…”
I squeeze more lotion onto both hands, one hand returns to the valley between my bum to get that hole really slick, while the other plays at my pussy. I look away from Jake dismissively as I say, “What…? Afraid that what I’m doing will get you hard…? Or are you afraid it’ll get you hard, and I won’t be able to tell…?”
I love making derisive comments about Jake’s peenie. He’s perfect there, satisfies me every time, but doesn’t think so, doesn’t have any confidence, so it’s his Achilles heel. And this brat can’t help but poke him there.
“Three,” he says under his breath. He takes me by the arm in so angry a manner, it takes my breath away. Before I know it, he’s turning me over his knee.
“Do it! Punish me! But do it in a different way than you ever have before… impress me with your creativity…!” I challenge.
Jake is very creative! If my weakness is being an insufferably annoying brat, his strength is being a creatively cruel Dominant. The other night, we were in his home-office, and I mouthed-off at him. He slowly pulled by clothing off (I wasn’t wearing much), as I sat on his desk. Then he applied one of those black binder-clips, the ones with those two matching wire handles that press them open, he put one on my sensitive nipple. I gasped at the intense pain. He put a second one on my other nipple, and I involuntarily gasped again.
“You’re too loud, stick out your tongue, little girl,” he commanded. When I did, he applied a clip to my tongue.
Satisfied that I was sufficiently muzzled, her pulled my legs apart, put a clip on my labial lip. I moaned, probably louder than I’d gasped. He put another clip on the other side of my pussy. I’ve had clothespins applied to all these tender regions; this was five times as painful. It took me right to my limit of tolerance. Jake then looked in his desk’s bottom drawer, found a ball of string, unraveled a length about two yards in length. As I suffered, he slowly tied that string to the wire-handle of the clip on my tongue, then down to one nipple, across to the other, down my body to each of the pussy clamps. I knew what was coming. Jake yanked the string, pulling all the clips off me at once. Blood rushed to each of these erogenous regions. I screamed. But as he twisted my titties’ tops with each hand and thrust his erection into my sex, I came almost immediately. That was two nights ago; I need another fix. Jake’s domination of me is a drug and I’m addicted.
So, Jake lifts me from my OTK position and sits me on his lap. He looks me in the eye. It’s like looking at a cobra, there is no empathy there, just hunger. It makes me shiver, even though it’s close to ninety degree out by his pool. I’m wet, very wet, very quickly.
“Okay, little girl… let’s see what we can come up with…”
He puts me back on the concrete pad on my beach towel, facedown as I was when I started this game of matching wits. Jake goes inside the house. He comes out again with his hands full. He puts most of the stuff down on his chaise lounge chair, takes out a cigarette and lights it with his silver lighter. He holds it to mouth as I lay on the ground. I’ve been trying to quit, but I need the steadying jolt of its nicotine, so take a drag. He shows me a strap I’ve never seen before.
“This is a Spencer strap, little girl. As you can see, it’s made of rubber. Your sunblock lotion won’t hurt it, will just make its already mighty sting hurt even more.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“I’ve had it. I just thought it was too much for you… But that smart-alecky mouth needs heavier measures than what I’ve used on you in the past.”
Jake has used some very persuasive implements on my naughty ass to try to make me behave, so he’s saying something.
“How many strokes am I to get with it?”
“I was wondering the same thing… This is what I came up with…” He picks up an ordinary three inch long candle, shows it to me. “I’m going to put this up your butt, arch up for me…”
I’m a history teacher in the straight world. For some reason, in this perilous situation, my mind jumps to minutia about candles, how the Colonials made them with animal fat that would sizzle and smoke as it burned, how they were made by tying multiple wicks to a rod and then dipped in molten paraffin, that this was the “candlestick” that Jack jumped over in the old nursery rhyme. The rude parting of my buttocks brings me back to reality; Jake is familiarizing me even more intimately with his candle.
The candle goes in easily, too easily with all the slick sunblock I fingered up there. I have to grip it tightly to hold it in place. Jake lights the candle’s wick just as he did our cigarette. After just a second, a droplet of melted wax drips down the side of the candle until it reaches my anus. It burns. It makes me flinch. Flinching wiggles the lit candle, shaking another droplet loose. It, too, burns my butt hole. I’ve had hot wax dripped on my nipples, on my skin, but it’s much more intense on my anus. My rosebud is more sensitive, and this candle is closer to it than previous candles have been to my body. I’m silently freaking out, I’m crying within a minute.
“I’d planned on working out some relationship between how well you endured the candle with subtracting the number of smacks I administer with the Spencer strap, but you’re not bearing up well at all, little girl…”
“It really burns!” I articulate the obvious around my sobs.
“Wait ‘til you feel a set with this,” Jake counters. He pinches the flame with index finger and thumb to extinguish it, pulls the candle out of me the same way. And then I feel the new strap.
Explosive. That’s the only word that comes to mind with the first smack with the Spencer strap. It explodes across the surface of my ass, both the sound and the pain are blinding. Fireworks explode behind my tightly-closed eyes. The second smack is exponentially worse. He gives me ten. I’m submerged in sobbing by the third, in my sub space by the eighth. The tenth smack is administered across the backs of my thighs. I shriek loud enough to alarm the neighbors. I ball, kicking my feet and pounding my fists ineffectually against the concrete. Jake reinserts the candle up my poor little pooper.
I once saw the seasonal fires race across Los Angeles, flames reaching skyward in the Hollywood Hills, engulfing movie star’s homes. That conflagration pales in comparison to this lit candle up my butt! Jake had jammed it in deep, and the candle had burned down some in its first insertion, so that now flame is precariously close to my jolly good hills. The heat makes my butt cheeks flex and relax in spasms. They were already sensitized from the Spencer’s kiss. A big drop of molten wax drips down, across my pucker to singe my vagina.
In a miraculously short period of time, Jake has transformed a mean-spirited bitch of a brat into a contrite little cunt confessing her sins.
“Please, sir… I’m so sorry for misbehaving! I deserved your ingenious punishment, but now I’ve learned my lesson! Please take that candle out! It’s really burning!”
“Yes, the candle is really burning..” Jake repeats drolly, mocking me, “I see the flame…”
“I mean that the candle is really burning my pussy, my anus, my cheeks! It burns like a motherfucker! Please take it out!”
My Top brandishes the strap in front of my face. “How about I give you another set with this? Let’s see if I can put the flame out with a strap stroke… Let’s see if I can drive that candle into your bowels with one strap stroke… A hole in one, get it?”
That history teacher conjures up an image of the transcontinental railroad, driving that last big spike in at Promontory Point, but now he wants to spike me, nail me to the pool deck. I have visions of having to rush to the emergency room with a candle inside me that I can’t get out! Trying to explain this to the ER doctor, with him thinking that this is almost as bad as a gerbil…
“I’m afraid, Jakey!” I sincerely plead. “Give me the strap, but take the candle out first, please!”
“You’re asking for another set with the Spencer strap, little girl?”
“If you wish, sir! Just without the candle…”
“Aren’t you a good little submissive, asking for hard punishment?” he asks rhetorically. He’s won. He knows it. It’ll be a mind-blowing set of strap strokes, probably with an end zone victory dance to boot.
I didn’t count on him extracting the candle and turning it end over end, putting it out by crushing the burning end against my right butt cheek. The flame went out right away, but the molten wax branded me slightly. My butt clinches. I half-expect him to put his cigarette out on my left cheek, that’s how lost I am in my sub space. Instead he starts my strapping.
“Count these, little girl.”
“Yes, sir! One! Thank you, sir!”
“OW! Two, thank you!
“UMMM! Three, thanks.”
Argh, fo… (whimper)”
“Ssss (boo-hoo)”
“Pleas… no mor, sirrr (sobs)…!”
I’d cashed-in my chips. Instead of pushing them forward, I arched my butt out. Jake accepted the invitation, answered it with about ten hard fast licks with the strap, forehand and backhand, standing over me. It would’ve been so sexy… if it hadn’t been my butt getting whipped.
I hear the strap drop to the pool deck beside me. I feel Jake lay on top of me. I sense his cock seeking out my openings. It finds my wet pussy and pushes its way inside. This was Jake’s version of aftercare, showing his love with a rigorous fuck, his empathy by smacking my flaming fanny with the cadence of his hips. But the strapping was my version of foreplay, and I am ready for him, even welcoming of the intrusion, thankful for the penetration, indebted for the fuck.
His hands find mine and we interlace fingers, his mouth finds mine and we kiss, his cock hammers into me, and we climax together, gushing and grinding, moaning and mumbling expletives.
Dr. Jake has correctly diagnosed my severe case of the Bitchies, and prescribed just the right medicine in a stiff dose. I kneel by his side on the hard concrete, as he lounges in the sun on a chaise lounge lawn chair. My eyes are downcast. Oh, and my bathing suit is back on. I’m cured, for now…

9 responses to “#346) Like a Moth Drawn to the Flame”

  1. I experienced something similar 45 years ago. Angelika, my girlfriend at the time, was a nymphomaniac.
    I no longer wanted to fuck. She took a candle, fucked herself in the ass with it. Suddenly the candle was gone.
    But I accompanied her to the emergency room and said I had done it.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. I gotta have one of the them there Spencer Straps!!
    It sounds like the fastest most effective way to change bitchiness (is that a word) to contrition.Plus there is an added kinky benefit for me. I get to watch her once pale skin turn a beautiful shade of fire engine red as I hear her pained cries of surrender and contrition as well as the sound of a wickedly devised instrument slapping her sexy butt! Pure sensual joy!
    Jean Marie why do you do these things to me?? Thank you so very much for doing so! Please don’t stop!

    Liked by 2 people

    • Spencer straps REALLY sting, I mean the kind of sting where you HAVE TO dance, have to rub butt cheeks after each stroke! Wish I had access to one today, but this one that I had experience with was a former boyfriend’s, so he retained custody of it when we split-up. Which reminds me, I could write a story about retaining ownership of favorite implements when a couple breaks-up…

      Liked by 2 people

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