The Night Before

In which we begin to discover just why Grace was so agitated and needy in this first tale

Some sort of anteroom in a very grand house. Even this glorified cupboard had elegant cornices and a broad architrave to its eight-panelled door. In its exact centre was a small white footstool and on this, erect as a deportment diagram, stood Grace Whitley, naked as the day she was born.

It wasn’t exactly warm and Grace was enjoying the contrasts she was experiencing. Her skin was prickily dusted with goosepimples and her nipples tightly knurled, while the heat of her excitement flowed like aurorae through her hips and filled her bosom with blood, the areola a dusky pink, swollen and puffy, full of blood.
At a short distance away, and fussing in a shelved alcove, stood the proximal cause of her excitement, Irene Adler: Dominatrix, and Madam.

Adler was highly sought after in certain circles and Grace could quite see why. A slender dark comma of a woman, she radiated a steely resolve and sexuality that Grace had felt in her hip pocket when they met and now felt in her growling through her hips.
Adler was dressed in some confection intended to resemble the snake priestesses of Knossos, all bosom and skirts tight to her haunches, the many pleats accentuating every twitch. Tonight was to be a Cretan Fantasia and Grace would be offered to the Bulls from the Sea.

Adler had laid out Grace’s costume in the alcove and she could see the dark red curves and buckles of her fanciful armour, the helmet mask and the leash. But first Adler produced a pair of jars of ointment and, with firm fingers on Grace’s skin she began to paint. She was covered from toe tip to crown in white, so that she glowed like a ghost. Adler’s fingers were nimble and Grace felt herself lean into her touch as she painted her way up her calves and her thighs, her hips and her belly her hands, and her arms, and her throat. Each stroke and sweep an electric pulse; her breasts and her cunt aching for touch.

At last the woman moved to her breasts. She took a firm grip of Grace’s left nipple, cramming it and the puffy, nubby pink areole into one tightly clenched fist.

Grace was able to absorb the shock, and kept quietly rigid as Adler proceeded to whiten her breast. With a firm whole hand she rubbed, with great strong circles all around her bosom, massaging it and twisting it against the so firmly held nipple. Grace could feel herself bloom and unfold, feel the cooling air caress her newly bared, slick inner self. Her mind slid away to her centre, seeing only a dew-damp rose swelling, swelling in time to the music of the spheres.

She was brought back to herself by Adler’s Wedgewood crystal voice.

‘Oh my, isn’t that just perfect?’

She was gazing at Grace’s newly released tit, now dark with blood from areole to tip, a fat cone tipped with a rigid, rough nipple that fairly screamed with arousal. Adler changed brushes to a dark crimson.

With the first touch of the red-laden brush, Grace felt herself slipping. Her legs began to shake, full of erratic flashes of electricity, and her throat was full of a rising song, a note of pressure that Adler listened to with pointed interest. She paused in her painting. Raised the brush and one eyebrow.

‘Oh dear, Dr Whitley. Oh dear, oh dear.’

The admonishment may have been intended to snap her out of it, but did not.
In fact, it had the opposite effect. The woman’s stern disapproval went through her like a comet, blazing through her thoughts and nerve endings, racing down spine and pelvis till it lodged in her cunt as a roil of fire.

‘Dr Whitley, Dr Whitley! Grace!’

She came round, blearily, on fire from nipple to spine and navel to knees, melting inside.

‘You’ve done your training? With the Hitachi?’

Grace nodded. She had. Has made herself come to order every night for a month, six, seven, eight times, never taking longer than a minute.

‘And how fast?’

‘Thirty-seven seconds’

‘I’d hoped for faster, but it can’t be helped. Any more than we can have you having the big one right here right now. You’d be useless out there.

Now, these were sharp short things, right?’

They had been, and fundamentally unsatisfying, like sips of water when thirsty. But the drumbeat of an orgasm every forty seconds or so did have wonderfully dissociative effect.

‘Yes. Short. Sharp.’

‘Good. Here’s what we’re going to do. You need to come fast, and reset, or you’ll never get through it. I’m going to make you, OK?

Adler helped the unsteady, dreamy, Grace down from her stool and allowed her to rest herself against the shelves in the alcove. The discomfort of the hard wood was delicious, centering.

‘Now,’ said the priestess,’I want you to play with your tits, while I take charge of your fanny.’

Grace’s breasts felt weighty and taut. As if they were completely full of the wild storm she was riding. She could not bear to touch her heated nipples. She nearly screamed when Adler parted her legs and her strong fingers pushed and spread exposing her aching clit.

The older woman grasped her by the neck and turned her face up. Locking eyes with her, stern and unrelenting. The cruel, pretty, lips moved.


The first slap snapped Grace’s eyes wide, her mouth open in a shocked O.

But the slaps came thick and fast, unstoppable as the sea, fast, hard, regular waves of sensation bursting on the rock of her clit.

Grace began to shudder and twitch, losing her breath, vision flashing – Adler’s cruel grin, her perfect tits jiggling in time with her blows, rouged nipples oscillating in perfect arcs, the awful heat in her dark eyes, forcing her, forcing her on, too fast too fast oh it hurt –

Adler pulled her in, nestled her wildly throbbing head in the cool angles of her shoulder, her clavicle.

‘Bite me’ she whispered. And Grace did so.

She sank her teeth into the woman’s skin, tasted her, all warm and slightly salty, slightly metallic, and bit down. Adler’s muscle gave under her teeth, moving and crushing between her jaws, as the waves came faster faster faster

A single bright flash of lightning, sharp and hot. A sweet bright flash of blood on her tongue. A moment of blindness, and the storm flooded out of her, leaving behind a world washed clean and clear and full of possibility.

Grace wiped her mouth and looked at the love bite she’d tattooed into Adler’s fine throat, a shallow oval of dark purple bruise around livid flesh. A trickle of blood on the exquisite neck. Her breasts still felt full and weighty and the after-storm light still glowed deep in her cunt. But she was back in the room.

Masturbation Monday

Week 248

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