Sex stories

Sex stories




Damask

This is my first submission here, and I hope you enjoy. It is an excerpt from a potentially longer tale. The premise is the Beauty and the Beast story, with a twist: the man becomes the Beast over time, and must be whipped back to the man again each time, so that Beauty becomes his keeper rather than the other way around. Note: does include some blood/edge play, don't read if that isn't your cup of tea.



It is time. I see the awareness in his eyes, even as the beast subsumes the man. He kneels on the flagstones by the fire gingerly, as if already in pain. I believe the transformation does hurt, as the two natures struggle within for dominance. But not as much as he will hurt in a moment.

I go to the box by the fire and delicately pull out my gloves. They are made of soft and thick leather, even thicker than his hide. He watches as I pull them on and smooth down between each finger, eyes shifting between heat and aggression.

I stride across the room to the basket, where I have gathered a few long, supple and wicked rose canes - not the innocent roses just unfurling, but mature flowers with a scent that wraps itself in a cloud around us, just tipping the balance between maturity and decay. I choose one twice as long as my arm, branching in the middle and heavy at the end with many blossoms. I sit in my high-backed chair and carefully strip the first foot of the cane, watching the beast from the corner of my eye as he watches me. Then I firmly wrap the cane around my hand, under and around three times and hold it tightly in my palm.

As I approach the fire his hackles rise. Some months the man prevails and some months the beast - this month still hangs in the balance - but since I own both, I always win in the end. I come to rest in front of him, where he hangs his head down but begins to show a fang. I part my legs, widen my stance. The beast has a very good sense of smell and a growl rises up from his loins, more felt than heard.

"Beast," I say, to goad him, although I am still speaking to the man, "will you submit, or will I wrest it from you?"

He growls again in return, but as I point to my feet he bows his head even lower and instinct takes over, for I have trained some control into him. He kisses and then licks the tip of my boot, then kneels up and kisses and licks the hand holding the cane.

"I will only ask you one more time, Beast. You know this is for your own good, although -" I laugh "you can smell that I'm not complaining. Will you submit? It will go better for you if you do."

He makes an inarticulate, animal noise.

I swiftly rap him on the nose with my knuckles, a gesture more humiliating than painful. He looks up into my eyes in sorrow and says thickly, "Yes, Mistress." He is not quite lost to himself yet.

"Good Beast," I say, and his hackles settle as he forces his body to my will. "You may move between blows, but do not flinch away from the cane or you will regret it."

I move behind him, use my free hand to give one deep stroke from shoulder to rump, feeling through the coarse fur the fine trembling of his body. Then I pull back my arm and strike.

We settle into a rhythm and the miracle begins. Scent and heat surrounds me as I sink into the moment as surely as he does, until nothing exists in the world but fire, sweat, blood, and the overripe roses. He recoils after each blow but not before, causing both pride and heat to well up within me. He growls constantly as the cane strikes and rises, and sometimes the growl rises to a whine of pain as I draw blood. As I flog him the petals rain down around him, settling on him and sticking to bloody and sweaty skin. I peel away the layers of fur-covered flesh and catch my breath as I do every time, for underneath is the perfect, raw skin of the man.

It takes minutes or hours, but by the end we are both shaking, and he is red and slick and tender as a newborn. I know the moment when the beast gives up to the man, for the growls turn into words, a mantra of "mistress" and "thank you". The cane is now nearly barren of petals, and many thorns have dislodged and remained in his skin. I throw it into the fire, which receives it with wet pops and hisses. I stalk to my chair. Sometimes at this moment I feel that the beast leaves him and flows into me, for the smell of his blood and sweat and even, as he crawls to my feet, his tears, has made me ravenous.

He kisses my feet reverently and works his way up my boots to my calves. My skin flinches everywhere I feel his lips, the feeling almost as rich as pain. He knows the next step in our dance and as I shift impatiently to pull my skirt around my waist he inhales. I know he can see the blood pulse beneath my skin, the wetness glistening on the wood like dew where I brushed up against it. First he licks the moisture from the wood, then lifts his nose and barely lets it brush my flesh. I allow him to pay homage for a moment, then I clasp his head between my thighs and force him in deep, letting him up only occasionally for a heaving breath.

He works my folds with his tongue and lips and occasionally teeth until I am bucking against him. The beast likes the next part but the man does not. I tilt myself up even farther, and I hear a muffled, "please, Mistress" but I still push his head down until he gives in and licks from my pussy all the way back between my cheeks. His tongue plays around my hole, tentatively at first and then bolder when I let him know with a painful tug on his hair that that will not do. He quivers from shame as I tell him to penetrate me, but his tongue stiffens and slowly opens me while I bear down against him.

As he fucks my ass with his tongue I look down at my beautiful man. His skin still looks raw, the firelight glistening off the occasional welt on his back. His arms are boxed behind his back as I have taught him, fingers clenched on elbows, keeping him off balance, but he still manages to thrust his hips helplessly as he eats me. Although I cannot see them, I know that his knees are red and marked by the stone, and his cock is pulsing and leaking onto the floor. He loves the shame, does my beast, and even when his mouth protests his cock still greedily begs for more.

His head is bent deep between my legs, exposing a graceful and muscular curve of neck that later I will mark. The sweetest of wet and sucking noises comes from our joining. My pussy is full and open and dripping, the moisture gathering and then sliding down toward his tongue and he groans when he tastes it. Occasionally he lifts his head to swipe his nose through my folds, nuzzling and kissing my clit fervently.

I can feel myself on the very edge of violence when I softly say, "enough". Immediately he pulls back, seeking my face for some hint of mercy, then swiftly lowering his eyes as I point to the ground. He bends down slowly, flanks trembling from the strain, and lays his cheek on the stones. I rise, go to the basket and find another cane, this one light and whippy with only a single bloom at the end.

"How tender is your skin right now, my love?" I ask.

"So tender that even the air against it is almost pain," he says, his voice hushed.

"This may hurt, then," I say. "Tell me your word."

"Damask," he whispers. It is the variety of rose I am whipping him with today.

"The flogging was for your sake, but this will be for my pleasure. Will you submit?" I ask.

I can barely discern the words, "Yes, Mistress."

"Then stretch yourself out upon the floor, spread your legs, and cross your wrists above your head." He hastens to comply. For a moment I gaze at him in wonder - the strength willingly restrained for his pain and our pleasure. I kneel down behind him and run a slow, curious finger from the small of his back, down between his spread cheeks. As I near his hole I can see his ass tense. I slap it lightly and laugh. "This will hurt less if you relax the muscles," I say, and he slowly does.

I test the cane in the air a few times, and his skin trembles as he feels the swish above him. I bring it down upon his right cheek, the thorns scoring before tearing away. Blood wells up in a few spots, and a bright line rises. I do the same to the left cheek. By the third stroke he is begging incoherently, no or yes or please, but never the word that would stay my hand. Just three strikes per cheek, laid out evenly and none touching and then I kneel down to kiss and rub the welts. At the touch of my finger, even gloved, his whole body tenses and he pumps his hips into the floor. I have no doubt this too is painful, as he fucks into the rough stones.

He is far gone now, his whole body moving sinuously, in a place where shame and pain only drive him deeper into himself. I have a sudden, wicked thought. "Enough?" I ask, and he moans in shame but shakes his head. Slowly I pluck the thorns from the stem, and lay them out beside me. When the stem is bare but for the single rose at its end, I touch his cheek. He turns his head toward me, his eyes glazed and slightly teary. "Open," I say, and his lips and teeth part. I take off a glove and sink a finger into his mouth. Then I take the stem and place it between his teeth. "Do not drop this," I order, and he clenches around it.

I pick up the first thorn, holding it in my bare hand, testing the point with my finger until I raise a drop of blood. With my other hand I gentle his back in long, slow strokes, until his writhing and thrusting has slowed a bit. Then I choose a spot between his shoulder blades, and sink the thorn in.

His whole body jerks, and I can hear garbled around the rose, "Please, Mistress". I lay an arm across his hips to still them and hiss, "Do not come." He moans but stills.

The second thorn goes in above his left ass cheek. The third and fourth I place along his spine. The fifth and last I slowly sink into the nape of his neck, that spot where a kiss can almost make him lose control. He is moaning constantly now, a low and pleading sound, and I have to remind him to clench his teeth.

I lean down by his ear, nuzzle it for a moment, and whisper, "Roll over, my love." He rolls onto his back and almost jumps as he realizes the thorns are still in him. His cock is so swollen it looks painful, and I decide to take mercy on him. I take off my other glove, wrap my fingers around him, guide him to my opening and take him in deep. His arms are still crossed above his head, so I rest my hands on them and grip his straining muscles as I ride. He is biting down into the rose now to try to muffle his cries, and I can feel his cock pulsing inside me. Each time I come down on him his whole body arches, and each time his back touches the floor again the thorns dig in a little deeper and his cries become hoarser. I slide my hands up to his throat, loosely cupping it and I gaze into his honey-brown eyes, where I am sure the profound love I see is reflected back from me. I lean down close to him, kissing and biting at his lips around the stem of the rose, then slide my cheek against his and whisper, "Come for me." As I do so my hand slips behind his neck and grabs him by the nape, finding the thorn which had almost fallen out with his thrashing and pressing it back in deep. His eyes widen as I pierce him and he screams as his hot seed fills me.

After he comes I keep riding, and this too drives him deeper into submission, for I know he is unbearably tender. I lift myself, feeling the semen seeping down and trickling between my thighs, then plunge onto his cock which is not yet soft. He dropped the rose as he screamed and now his pained moans ring out clearly, and in a few swift strokes I let myself go, coming around him with a cry. I continue to slowly ride him as the tremors die.

When I come back to myself a few moments later, I help him up from the floor gently, lay him on his stomach on the rug by the fire. He is shivering constantly, eyes still distant. I replace my gloves in the box on the mantel and pick up the jar of salve next to it. I caress every inch of skin on his back, sides, buttocks and thighs, plucking away the stray thorns and whispering praises to him for his bravery. The blood has clotted in his welts and none are very deep. Tenderly I smear the salve over each one, then turn him on his side with his back to the fire. The heat seems to penetrate and the shivers stop. He is massive compared to me, but so gentle and hesitant, and I gather him into my arms, rest my head against his cheek, and drift.This is my first submission here, and I hope you enjoy. It is an excerpt from a potentially longer tale. The premise is the Beauty and the Beast story, with a twist: the man becomes the Beast over time, and must be whipped back to the man again each time, so that Beauty becomes his keeper rather than the other way around. Note: does include some blood/edge play, don't read if that isn't your cup of tea.



It is time. I see the awareness in his eyes, even as the beast subsumes the man. He kneels on the flagstones by the fire gingerly, as if already in pain. I believe the transformation does hurt, as the two natures struggle within for dominance. But not as much as he will hurt in a moment.

I go to the box by the fire and delicately pull out my gloves. They are made of soft and thick leather, even thicker than his hide. He watches as I pull them on and smooth down between each finger, eyes shifting between heat and aggression.

I stride across the room to the basket, where I have gathered a few long, supple and wicked rose canes - not the innocent roses just unfurling, but mature flowers with a scent that wraps itself in a cloud around us, just tipping the balance between maturity and decay. I choose one twice as long as my arm, branching in the middle and heavy at the end with many blossoms. I sit in my high-backed chair and carefully strip the first foot of the cane, watching the beast from the corner of my eye as he watches me. Then I firmly wrap the cane around my hand, under and around three times and hold it tightly in my palm.

As I approach the fire his hackles rise. Some months the man prevails and some months the beast - this month still hangs in the balance - but since I own both, I always win in the end. I come to rest in front of him, where he hangs his head down but begins to show a fang. I part my legs, widen my stance. The beast has a very good sense of smell and a growl rises up from his loins, more felt than heard.

"Beast," I say, to goad him, although I am still speaking to the man, "will you submit, or will I wrest it from you?"

He growls again in return, but as I point to my feet he bows his head even lower and instinct takes over, for I have trained some control into him. He kisses and then licks the tip of my boot, then kneels up and kisses and licks the hand holding the cane.

"I will only ask you one more time, Beast. You know this is for your own good, although -" I laugh "you can smell that I'm not complaining. Will you submit? It will go better for you if you do."

He makes an inarticulate, animal noise.

I swiftly rap him on the nose with my knuckles, a gesture more humiliating than painful. He looks up into my eyes in sorrow and says thickly, "Yes, Mistress." He is not quite lost to himself yet.

"Good Beast," I say, and his hackles settle as he forces his body to my will. "You may move between blows, but do not flinch away from the cane or you will regret it."

I move behind him, use my free hand to give one deep stroke from shoulder to rump, feeling through the coarse fur the fine trembling of his body. Then I pull back my arm and strike.

We settle into a rhythm and the miracle begins. Scent and heat surrounds me as I sink into the moment as surely as he does, until nothing exists in the world but fire, sweat, blood, and the overripe roses. He recoils after each blow but not before, causing both pride and heat to well up within me. He growls constantly as the cane strikes and rises, and sometimes the growl rises to a whine of pain as I draw blood. As I flog him the petals rain down around him, settling on him and sticking to bloody and sweaty skin. I peel away the layers of fur-covered flesh and catch my breath as I do every time, for underneath is the perfect, raw skin of the man.

It takes minutes or hours, but by the end we are both shaking, and he is red and slick and tender as a newborn. I know the moment when the beast gives up to the man, for the growls turn into words, a mantra of "mistress" and "thank you". The cane is now nearly barren of petals, and many thorns have dislodged and remained in his skin. I throw it into the fire, which receives it with wet pops and hisses. I stalk to my chair. Sometimes at this moment I feel that the beast leaves him and flows into me, for the smell of his blood and sweat and even, as he crawls to my feet, his tears, has made me ravenous.

He kisses my feet reverently and works his way up my boots to my calves. My skin flinches everywhere I feel his lips, the feeling almost as rich as pain. He knows the next step in our dance and as I shift impatiently to pull my skirt around my waist he inhales. I know he can see the blood pulse beneath my skin, the wetness glistening on the wood like dew where I brushed up against it. First he licks the moisture from the wood, then lifts his nose and barely lets it brush my flesh. I allow him to pay homage for a moment, then I clasp his head between my thighs and force him in deep, letting him up only occasionally for a heaving breath.

He works my folds with his tongue and lips and occasionally teeth until I am bucking against him. The beast likes the next part but the man does not. I tilt myself up even farther, and I hear a muffled, "please, Mistress" but I still push his head down until he gives in and licks from my pussy all the way back between my cheeks. His tongue plays around my hole, tentatively at first and then bolder when I let him know with a painful tug on his hair that that will not do. He quivers from shame as I tell him to penetrate me, but his tongue stiffens and slowly opens me while I bear down against him.

As he fucks my ass with his tongue I look down at my beautiful man. His skin still looks raw, the firelight glistening off the occasional welt on his back. His arms are boxed behind his back as I have taught him, fingers clenched on elbows, keeping him off balance, but he still manages to thrust his hips helplessly as he eats me. Although I cannot see them, I know that his knees are red and marked by the stone, and his cock is pulsing and leaking onto the floor. He loves the shame, does my beast, and even when his mouth protests his cock still greedily begs for more.

His head is bent deep between my legs, exposing a graceful and muscular curve of neck that later I will mark. The sweetest of wet and sucking noises comes from our joining. My pussy is full and open and dripping, the moisture gathering and then sliding down toward his tongue and he groans when he tastes it. Occasionally he lifts his head to swipe his nose through my folds, nuzzling and kissing my clit fervently.

I can feel myself on the very edge of violence when I softly say, "enough". Immediately he pulls back, seeking my face for some hint of mercy, then swiftly lowering his eyes as I point to the ground. He bends down slowly, flanks trembling from the strain, and lays his cheek on the stones. I rise, go to the basket and find another cane, this one light and whippy with only a single bloom at the end.

"How tender is your skin right now, my love?" I ask.

"So tender that even the air against it is almost pain," he says, his voice hushed.

"This may hurt, then," I say. "Tell me your word."

"Damask," he whispers. It is the variety of rose I am whipping him with today.

"The flogging was for your sake, but this will be for my pleasure. Will you submit?" I ask.

I can barely discern the words, "Yes, Mistress."

"Then stretch yourself out upon the floor, spread your legs, and cross your wrists above your head." He hastens to comply. For a moment I gaze at him in wonder - the strength willingly restrained for his pain and our pleasure. I kneel down behind him and run a slow, curious finger from the small of his back, down between his spread cheeks. As I near his hole I can see his ass tense. I slap it lightly and laugh. "This will hurt less if you relax the muscles," I say, and he slowly does.

I test the cane in the air a few times, and his skin trembles as he feels the swish above him. I bring it down upon his right cheek, the thorns scoring before tearing away. Blood wells up in a few spots, and a bright line rises. I do the same to the left cheek. By the third stroke he is begging incoherently, no or yes or please, but never the word that would stay my hand. Just three strikes per cheek, laid out evenly and none touching and then I kneel down to kiss and rub the welts. At the touch of my finger, even gloved, his whole body tenses and he pumps his hips into the floor. I have no doubt this too is painful, as he fucks into the rough stones.

He is far gone now, his whole body moving sinuously, in a place where shame and pain only drive him deeper into himself. I have a sudden, wicked thought. "Enough?" I ask, and he moans in shame but shakes his head. Slowly I pluck the thorns from the stem, and lay them out beside me. When the stem is bare but for the single rose at its end, I touch his cheek. He turns his head toward me, his eyes glazed and slightly teary. "Open," I say, and his lips and teeth part. I take off a glove and sink a finger into his mouth. Then I take the stem and place it between his teeth. "Do not drop this," I order, and he clenches around it.

I pick up the first thorn, holding it in my bare hand, testing the point with my finger until I raise a drop of blood. With my other hand I gentle his back in long, slow strokes, until his writhing and thrusting has slowed a bit. Then I choose a spot between his shoulder blades, and sink the thorn in.

His whole body jerks, and I can hear garbled around the rose, "Please, Mistress". I lay an arm across his hips to still them and hiss, "Do not come." He moans but stills.

The second thorn goes in above his left ass cheek. The third and fourth I place along his spine. The fifth and last I slowly sink into the nape of his neck, that spot where a kiss can almost make him lose control. He is moaning constantly now, a low and pleading sound, and I have to remind him to clench his teeth.

I lean down by his ear, nuzzle it for a moment, and whisper, "Roll over, my love." He rolls onto his back and almost jumps as he realizes the thorns are still in him. His cock is so swollen it looks painful, and I decide to take mercy on him. I take off my other glove, wrap my fingers around him, guide him to my opening and take him in deep. His arms are still crossed above his head, so I rest my hands on them and grip his straining muscles as I ride. He is biting down into the rose now to try to muffle his cries, and I can feel his cock pulsing inside me. Each time I come down on him his whole body arches, and each time his back touches the floor again the thorns dig in a little deeper and his cries become hoarser. I slide my hands up to his throat, loosely cupping it and I gaze into his honey-brown eyes, where I am sure the profound love I see is reflected back from me. I lean down close to him, kissing and biting at his lips around the stem of the rose, then slide my cheek against his and whisper, "Come for me." As I do so my hand slips behind his neck and grabs him by the nape, finding the thorn which had almost fallen out with his thrashing and pressing it back in deep. His eyes widen as I pierce him and he screams as his hot seed fills me.

After he comes I keep riding, and this too drives him deeper into submission, for I know he is unbearably tender. I lift myself, feeling the semen seeping down and trickling between my thighs, then plunge onto his cock which is not yet soft. He dropped the rose as he screamed and now his pained moans ring out clearly, and in a few swift strokes I let myself go, coming around him with a cry. I continue to slowly ride him as the tremors die.

When I come back to myself a few moments later, I help him up from the floor gently, lay him on his stomach on the rug by the fire. He is shivering constantly, eyes still distant. I replace my gloves in the box on the mantel and pick up the jar of salve next to it. I caress every inch of skin on his back, sides, buttocks and thighs, plucking away the stray thorns and whispering praises to him for his bravery. The blood has clotted in his welts and none are very deep. Tenderly I smear the salve over each one, then turn him on his side with his back to the fire. The heat seems to penetrate and the shivers stop. He is massive compared to me, but so gentle and hesitant, and I gather him into my arms, rest my head against his cheek, and drift.

damask  

Sep 4, 2018 in bdsm

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