#600) In a Fleabag Hotel

Having modeled professionally in L.A., I was familiar with the name and image of Jane Birkin. If you’re not, that’s her pictured above. She was a model that successfully transitioned to acting. I thought she was beguilingly beautiful.

Here’s another photo of her. She was great at looking coy, even with her cute little butt bared for the camera.

This is a photo from a shoot that Jane is most famous for doing. For a woman who lived in Paris in the George V, who only stayed at the old world Pierre in New York, it was fascinating to see her in a skid-row fleabag hotel.

When I saw the photo-shoot, I was more than fascinated. I took the Vogue magazine with me to the bathroom and rubbed-out a series of really agonizingly exquisite orgasms.

The photo-shoot told a story, a story that captured me, heart, mind, soul, and clit. I hoped that it was Jane’s true story, that we were submissive sisters. She’s waiting in this grungy hotel in handcuffs, nearly naked, waiting for her lover. They have a ritual that they share. When she hears his footsteps approaching the door and his key in the lock, she gets ready for the ritual to play out.

Jane gets down on her knees and watches him cuff her to the radiator. She sticks her ass out as she watches him remove the thin leather belt from around his waist, double it in his right hand, raise it high overhead. The belt bites her bottom so deeply, so unerringly, so often; it becomes her whole universe. She doesn’t try to count the lashes, just bathes in their incessant bites, in their unending pain.

He must be a tennis player; he has just as powerful a backhand as his forehand. Jane feels both on both buttocks. He repeats, “You need to learn a lesson,” and she answers a whimpered, “Yes, sir.” Later he asks, “Are you learning your lesson, bitch?” and she answers a whimpered, “Yes, sir.” If he had asked, “What is the lesson you’re learning?” she would only have been able to answer, “Your belt hurts so much and I need it so badly!” But he does not.

He stops the thrashing, unlocks the cuff from the radiator and fastens it to her other wrist behind her back. They both know what will happen next, yet she’s unable to keep herself from whimpering, “What are you gonna do…?”

He answers by parting her abused butt cheeks, stretching her wide, until she feels her little brown eye gape and wink at him. He spits on it, then stabs his erection into her overflowing sex, just to coat it. Then she feels it pressing against her rear portal. She thinks, as she always does, a definitive no, it won’t fit, it’s far too big for me, I’m too tight there, don’t, please don’t do this! But she doesn’t give these screaming thoughts any voice, just lays there, presses back against him, feels him enter the tight passageway, feels him slowly slide his way in. It’ll be a butt fuck like this hotel, gritty and smelly and no-frills. She wishes that she could keep herself from climaxing. But she cannot, and he laughs as she grips him hard with the muscle spasms that wrack her, that make her whimper all the more.

Their ritual spoke to me when I first laid eyes on this photo-shoot. It spoke to me in a language I was just learning, S and M. Their ritual became my ritual. I rent a room in the cheapest skid-row fleabag hotel I can stand, just so it is passably clean, it passes my test.

I strip naked and wait, the metal handcuff around my right wrist. I hear his footsteps approach the door, hear his key in the lock. I arch my bare butt into the air and wait for the ritual to begin. I’m as excited as a little puppy, unable to keep my eager tail from wagging.

Thank you Jane Birkin for the gifts you’ve given to me, the ideas you planted in my head, the appreciation of what my butt is really for…

6 responses to “#600) In a Fleabag Hotel”

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