Flirt and Consequences - #Flirting #BDSM #FlashFiction

By Lisabet Sarai

“Can I help you?”

My cheeks burn. He’s caught me, transfixed by the rope coils and shiny turnbuckles, hungry as a kid at a candy display.

“Um—no, thanks. I was just thinking...”

“About possible applications for our products?” He grins, eyes alight with mischief as he unfurls a thrilling length of scarlet cord. “Want a demo?”

He’s working-class burly, his rolled denim sleeves baring tanned, hairy forearms, Home Plus apron inappropriately domestic. Booted feet, big hands.

“I’m an expert,” he continues. “With our products.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Rising to his challenge, I straighten my spine and elevate my bra-less tits. His gaze flicks down. He licks his lips. My nipples ache.

“Maybe you need some clamps, too? For your project?”

“I might.”

“We also have a wide selection of dowels—in many sizes.” His massive fists clench and his nostrils flare.

I’m smoldering now. I love this game. It’s my move.

“Sarah!” Master rounds the corner, juggling electrical supplies. He grasps the situation in a single glance. “Teasing again? You know that’s twenty strokes with the cane.”

There’s a bulge under that apron. “Can I help you?”

Master smirks. “Sure. Why not?”

Seventy Times Seven

By Lisabet Sarai

“Please, Sir. I’m so sorry...”

Elena prostrates herself at my feet, pleading for forgiveness—again. I’ve already punished her for her latest infraction, as she expected I would when she showed me the damage. The whip marks that crisscross her back look red and puffy. I’ll have to rub some ointment on them later.

The knowledge that she has disappointed me pains her far more than my lashes, though. I can’t see her face, but I know it’s stained with rueful tears. Poor girl. She’s really hurting. I’ll admit I was angry when I discovered she’d left my favorite flogger outside on the balcony, despite the fact that it’s rainy season. I needed a good half hour to cool down before I could give her the thrashing we both knew she deserved.

Elena’s far from stupid—she has a degree in computer science from USC and makes a good living as a freelance consultant—but sometimes I think she has a congenital common sense deficiency. Plus she’s so eager to please that she forgets everything else but her kinky inspirations. For instance, I vividly recall the day she handcuffed herself to our bed, hoping to surprise me when I got home. She left her phone in the living room, so she didn’t receive my text saying I planned to stop at the club and wouldn’t be back till ten. Even if she had, there wasn’t much she could have done, since I keep the keys to the cuffs. By the time I finally returned, her wrists were a bloody mess and she’d lost control of her bladder, ruining our best satin sheets. Needless to say, I was furious—partly because I understood how risky her behavior had been.

I forgave her, though. I always do. Though I worry sometimes that in her enthusiasm, she’ll do herself some serious damage.

She tries to be a good sub. She’s imaginative, courageous, pliant and willing, completely heedless of her own desires in trying to cater to mine. If she were disobedient, bratty, or demanding, like some of my friend’s submissives, I’d send her packing, but her intentions are perfect. It’s just her implementations that are flawed.

There was the time I phoned her, for example, telling her I wanted her ready to be butt-fucked—as soon as I arrived. After giving herself an enema and inserting the biggest plug she could find, she arranged herself in the entry hall, her ass pointed toward the door. As it happened, I came up in the elevator chatting with Mrs. Schwartz, the elderly lady in the condo across the corridor from ours. I shut the door as quickly as I could when I realized what was just on the other side, but I’m pretty certain our neighbor got at least a peek at Elena’s delightfully plump bottom, with her rear hole distended by three inches of purple silicon. Since then, Madame Schwartz hasn’t even said hello.

Instead of sodomizing Elena that evening (which I knew she wanted), I paddled her until she screamed, then shut her in the closet for half an hour.

But after her punishment, I kissed her, forgave her, and fucked her until she came twice. Because how can I stay mad at someone so sweet and so devoted? Not to mention so lush, ripe and always ready for me?

“Get up, girl,” I order, trying to sound stern. “Go lie on the bed, on your stomach.”

“Are you going to whip me some more, Sir?”

Is that hope I hear in her voice?

“No, you’ve had enough for now. You need some balm on those welts.”

“Thank you, Sir.” She rises to her knees then dares to look me in the eye. I don’t chide her; she needs to see I’m no longer angry. “I’m really, really sorry, Sir. I swear I’ll do better next time.”

“I’m sure you will, Elena.” As sure as I am there will be a next time. “Now get yourself into the bedroom before I change my mind about that beating.”

“Yes, Sir!” Off she scrambles, relieved that I’ve regained my normal imperious manner. As far as Elena’s concerned, the sun is shining once more, when her Master is back to giving her commands.

As for me, I’m willing to put up with the good-natured ribbing my Dom friends give me about Elena. She’s worth the trouble. I’ll try to protect her from the consequences of her own thoughtlessness. Try to rein in my anger when she trips up once again. Punish her. Try to teach her. And forgive her, yet again. Because that’s what it means to love.

Reconnecting

by Jean Roberta

“Naughty” suggests childish misbehaviour. (The word was often used in the reality-TV series, Nanny 911, in which trained British nannies helped rescue American parents who felt their children were out of control. This program aired on Fox TV, 2004-2009.)

The appeal of “naughtiness” in sex scenes, IMO, is that a naughty adult is redeemable. The word suggests childishness or a temporary lapse in responsibility or consideration for others, but not a serious character flaw. A “naughty” person who confesses and accepts punishment is assumed to have been “corrected,” and is therefore as lovable as s/he was before offending someone else.



(Here is the cover of Spank, an anthology in which I have a story.)

In my most recent story (“A Garden in Winter,” still under an editor’s consideration), Lady Elinor rules the castle since her husband, Sir Lionel, left with a small band of warriors to join the Crusades. Having read too many romances, the lady assumed her lord would be absolutely faithful to her, wherever he went, no matter how long he stayed there. Before he departed, he promised to keep his troth. He wasn’t considering his physical needs, or the temptations to be found in the lands of the Saracens.

A local wizard, Sir Theobald, has spirited Sir Lionel back to his own castle, at Lady Elinor’s behest, within a magic circle.

Sir Theobald and his (ahem) dear friend Robin Goodthigh have sought sanctuary after their castle was attacked, and Sir Theobald has not been able to summon enough power to banish the invaders. The wizard’s plan is to raise collective power by means of sex magic. For that purpose, he has asked Margaret, Lady Elinor’s (ahem) maid, to bring two more people into the circle to make a balanced group of six: three men and three women. All are skyclad (naked).

Lady Elinor was delighted to see her husband within the circle, as dirty and bewildered as he was, but she was aghast when he seemed to think she was some available wench that he met on his travels. In this scene, the wizard helps her get even.

Margaret explains:

In a moment, I thought, we will all descend to our hands and knees like four-legged beasts, and reconfigure the circle by entering each other’s mouths, cunts, and back passages with fingers, cocks and whatever else would serve (half-melted candles?). The image in my mind aroused me so much that I could have reached a paroxysm without touching myself at all, but in the spirit of mutual consideration, I refrained. My cunt felt very wet.

“My lord, you have acted unspeakably with women who do not deserve to be spoken of. Is this not true?” The lady wiped her eyes, and wiped her wet fingers on her hips.

“It is, my lady,” groaned Sir Lionel. He reached for her, but she stepped away from him. He scratched his beard, and looked deeply ashamed of his bedraggled state. “My love for you never changes,” he claimed, “but as a man, I have a lower nature which demands its due when I am in lawless places. My dearest, you cannot fathom my depravity, but you could save me from it. You may use me as you will.”

Stephen and Joan stared at our lord, who seemed so eager to abase himself.

“Lady,” said Sir Theobald, “he speaks truly.” Our lady still looked offended, but a gleam of joy appeared in her eyes.

“Father Pureblood,” suggested Stephen, “recommends whippings for adulterers.” He twitched with merriment.

“But who among us ought to lay on the stripes?” asked Robin.

“The one who is willing,” replied Sir Theobald.

“The one who was betrayed,” said Lady Elinor.

Sir Theobald pointed with his index finger to a heap of clothing, outside the salt circle, and a length of leather arose from his robe and floated through the air until he grasped it. “Anything may become an instrument of correction,” said the wizard. He held the strip of leather in both hands, stretched and twisted it. One end became a plaited handle, while the other split into half a dozen tails to form a flogger.

Sir Lionel knelt at his lady’s small white feet, bent his head and kissed her toes. “I so wished to be your hero, my dearest love,” he told her, “but I have disappointed you, and I am heartily sorry.”

“My lady, will you accept a gift?” asked the wizard. He sent the new flogger drifting through the air to her. When it nudged her hand like a cat that wants to be stroked, she grasped the handle.

“You are a rutting hog in the form of a man,” sneered Lady Elinor, and for a moment it seemed as if she were addressing all three men among us, including young Stephen, who clearly compensated for his physical innocence with fantasies and self-love. Sir Lionel remained in a crouch, his back fully exposed.

The expression on our lady’s face was truly frightening. She drew back her arm, and brought down the lashes on her lord’s buttocks. His skin was stretched so taut that all his bones were visible, and I was afraid she would leave her mark on him for life. Fortunately, Sir Wizard hadn’t armed her with a deadly weapon.

The lady struck again, closer to Sir Lionel’s backbone and ribs. Red marks appeared on his skin, and he groaned softly.

“My trust in you is gone! Do you understand?” screamed the lady, bringing the lashes down again and again. Her question didn’t seem to need an answer.

On the sixth stroke, Robin emitted the yawp of a dragon who has been unexpectedly awakened. [Note: Sir Theobald has been giving Robin a hand job.] I saw that his cock had gushed liquid like a fountain. His thighs and the floor beneath him were drenched with the slippery essence of life. “Beg pardon, Sir,” he muttered to Sir Theobald.

Our wiseman could not keep from smiling, and I was so amused that a loud laugh burst from me before I could stop it. “What a sorry lot is here,” remarked Theobald, glancing at each of us in turn. “Perhaps a good whipping all round is needed.”
-------------------------------------

However, Lady Elinor isn’t finished. After flogging her lord, she says she wants to ravish him as though he were a maiden in a conquered village. The wizard helps her by creating a small metal dildo for her to wear, nothing too huge, and Sir Lionel (who is discovering his submissive side) finds it irresistible. After that, the wizard reminds Lady Elinor that hypocrisy is not attractive in a ruler, and he invites Margaret to show Sir Lionel how she “serves” Lady Elinor at night, when they share a bed.

Sir Lionel is so moved by watching their “games” that he dismisses Margaret and takes her place to pleasure his wife. Both the lord and the lady are satisfied, and both forgive each other fully.

Margaret feels heartbroken when she sees her lady wrapped in her husband’s arms. Margaret realizes that Lady Elinor never felt a fraction of the love for her maid that she felt for her husband.

However, a jolly woman in the circle has been waiting patiently for Margaret to notice her. Apparently, Margaret’s naughtiness was not her devotion to her mistress, but her shortsighted inability to see what was going on around her. As she finds out, all’s well that ends well.

I Guess It Skips A Generation

by Giselle Renarde

I took my mother for a walk a few weeks ago.  She won't go on her own.

We walked through the neighbourhood where I grew up.  It's not the ritziest area.  According to the Rap Dictionary, it has "the dubious distinction of having the highest concentration of subsidized housing in all of Ontario."  Lots of gang violence--the kind that's not widely reported because, hell, it's just black people shooting each other so who really cares?

When I was growing up in the 80s, the community had its sights set on cleaning up one particularly noticeable aspect of my neighbourhood: the rampant street prostitution.

I was young back then, and my family had problems of its own, so I'm not sure street prostitution was something I really noticed.  Actually, I remember seeing many more anti-prostitution signs than actual prostitutes.

But, as I said, I was a kid.  Sometimes kids take things at face value because, if you see something every day, it seems normal.

Although, realistically, of everything that goes on in this world, I'd say prostitution is right up there with falling in love on the normalcy scale. It's always existed, and it always will.

When my mother and I were out for our recent walk, the topic of prostitution came up--kind of weird, in a family that NEVER talks about sex.  And it was my mother who brought it up, too.  We were talking about the controversial proposal of building a casino here in Toronto.  My mom was against the idea because "people get addicted to gambling, and a casino would probably attract prostitutes."

Huh.  Is that what casinos do?

Anyway, my mother's general opposition to prostitution surprised me, and not just because I believe so strongly that sex work is real work and should be widely recognized at such.  My maternal grandmother and I have talked at length about sex work and we're 100% on the same page:

We believe that sex work is a valid career choice.  It existed long before we did, and it's not going away any time soon.  We recognize that some people are forced into the trade or enter it for reasons related to poverty and systemic oppression, but we have hopes that decriminalizing prostitution would ease many of the dangers faced by sex workers by allowing them easier access to protection from the forces that now tyrannize and harrass them.  That said, the biggest shift is never a legal one.  Stigma and sin are so deeply attached to sex work that very little can be gained until those perceptions are dealth with.

My grandmother and I have spoken at length about sex work.  For her, it's a feminist issue.  She's been my feminist inspiration for as long as I can remember.  That's why it always boggled my mind that my mom, wedged between her own mother and me, held such brazenly different opinions.

Maybe I shouldn't have been so surprised.  After all, isn't it normal for a kid to rebel against her mother's ways and beliefs?  My grandmother was (and is) an unapologetically strong woman.  I now realize my mother's got more strength than I gave her credit for when I was younger, but she's rather more on the Marge Simpson side of the scale.  And then along came me, and I rebelled again, swinging back in my grandmother's direction.

Prostitution, like pretty much everything else, is a divisive issue among feminists.  I'm starting to think there are as many feminisms as there are individuals.  But my grandmother laid a path for me, and I walk it whether I'm in my cozy neighbourhood or the rough but familiar one in which I grew up. 

I'll mention one more thing--a bit of a tangent to the conversation I had with my mother that day.  I'm not sure why, but I asked what her favourite song was.

She said, "These Boots Are Made For Walking."

"Really?"  I wondered if maybe she didn't understand the song.  I asked, "Why do you like it so much?"

She said, "It's about being a strong woman and standing on your own two feet."

Oh, mom.  I'd never have guessed.

True Punishment

By Lisabet Sarai

There's no warm up, no sexy leather thongs trailed lightly across my bared ass to make me imagine what's to come. He doesn't tease me about what a naughty sub I've been, excitement obvious in his voice despite the mock sternness.

He doesn't speak at all. He simply brings the whip down, fast and deliberate, slicing into my skin and triggering pain that makes me cry out despite my determination to remain quiet.

No reaction from him - just another stroke, precise and vicious, and two lines of fire now searing my butt. This time I choke down my moan – I don't want to make it worse for him – but tears already leak from my eyes. I hate this.

When he beats me in a scene, the pain is real, but pleasure almost drowns it out. Not physical pleasure, at least not at first, but the deep satisfaction that arises from knowing I please him. The sense that we're partners in deviance, that I fulfill his darkest needs, arouses me more than anything else. The beatings we share are sweet and intimate, no matter how extreme his challenges to my endurance.

Today is just the opposite. I've disappointed him, and I know it. Each stroke hurts doubly, because he's not enjoying himself, not at all. He beats me out of a sense of duty, because he is in some sense responsible for correcting my bad behavior. And he has shuttered his mind, disconnected himself from me as he performs this disagreeable task.

The loneliness and the shame are far worse than the whipping itself.

Thirty lashes, he has decreed, and I deserve every one. He hits me like a metronome, like an automaton, the whip each time landing on a new, unpunished area. The pain builds and builds. He adds to it with his apparent disinterest. My cheeks are wet; my cunt is dry. I silently bear it, waiting for this trial to end.

Some submissives, I've read, crave pain for its own sake. Not I. I want his touch, his attention, the sense that his instruments of torture are extensions of his will and desire. If he requires that I suffer, I'll do so with a glad heart, to the utmost of my ability. His lust, his heat, the tenderness he lavishes upon me after he's done his worst, make it all worthwhile. I love to feel his cum spattering my whip-streaked skin, marking me as his. I honestly don't need to climax myself, though he usually ensures that I do. The thrill of surrender is enough.

This, though, is not surrender, though of course he asked my consent after I'd admitted my guilt. I am indeed willing to accept this beating. If I refused to be punished, I would irreversibly damage our relationship. He might even send me away.

That terrible notion makes me forget the pain for a moment, as my mind spirals down into a black pit of loss. I've endangered the magic by disobeying, by being thoughtless and lazy and sneaky. I thought he wouldn't notice if I slipped those oh-so-juicy details about him into my story; I was of course wrong. He pointed out my lack of respect, too. Did I really think I could fool him?

He's not mad at me, not anymore. Too responsible a dominant to beat me in anger, he made me wait for my punishment, contemplating my faults, until he had calmed down. Now I sense only weariness in him, though his strokes are as powerful as ever. Distance yawns between us. His whip chastises my flesh, but his spirit is far, far away.

I'm in agony, my ass and the backs of my thighs so raw that I know I won't sit for days. I can't safeword out of this, though, even if I wanted to. To an outsider this might look like just another S/m game, but we both know better. This is true punishment – the administration of physical discipline, cut off from the emotional connection.

He'll forgive me after this trial, I hope. Our love is strong enough to survive this infraction. My punishment will be prolonged, though. Because I know he won't beat me for his own pleasure until the welts he's creating now have healed. No matter how much I tempt him by being naughty.