The wedding was beautiful, just us and a few family and friends in that small stone chapel down near Chatham. It was smart of you to decide to get married in the morning and save the reception for nightfall, since it gives us lots of time to relax and prepare and be alone. It was hard explaining to our parents just why we wanted to do it this way, but when we said, "We want to make our own traditions," well, they couldn't argue with that.
Now we're at the hotel, and as you're getting out of your dress--hanging it carefully so that if we have a daughter you can pass it on to her--I'm looking through the small leather case, the one that used to be a doctor's bag, making sure I packed everything we need. And I pull each piece out and put it on the table: the cuffs (with rings that lock), the clamps for your nipples, two different plugs for your ass (the smaller stamped with two Xs, the larger with three), the dildo. And the strap, which is short, tan leather and harder than any hand.
Now you're kneeling in front of me, smiling up at me. The wedding raiment is gone, the dress and the bra (and I remember the argument we had over that one, when you said your mother would die if she saw you on your wedding day without a bra--I grudgingly conceded, but tied you over a chair and gave you a hard paddling for being sensible; that was the first day I ever made you count the blows, and you made it to twelve before the first tears came, and I wiped them away with my cock and kissed you). You did agree that you wouldn't need underwear, and we both liked the stockings, which is all you're wearing now, white against your skin, mid-thigh and held by elastic. And you're so beautiful that all I can do for a moment is stare at you and wonder how we found each other. I'm quiet for so long that you chuckle and say, "Well?"
I take the cuffs and fasten them around your wrists and link them behind your back. And then the newest piece, the collar. We went to a pet store to pick it out, and then chose a tag for it, waited while they engraved it with your name: Isabelle. And the look on the clerk's face when he looked at the name on your credit card and then the tag and back again, and then at you, the smile you gave him, and he turned red and asked if you wanted a bag. You said no, thanks, and handed me the collar and we walked out of the store smiling, the clerk watching us the whole way.
I take off my jacket, toss it over a chair, loosen my tie. Stand over you and unzip and pull my cock free, and it's hard. Has been since we kissed in the chapel--did you notice how quickly I escorted you to the car? You lean forward and kiss its tip, taking the head between your lips, running your tongue in the slit, tickling me, pulling out the pre-cum. I know you're teasing me but I don't want to let go so soon, so I just promise another smack or two and put my cock back inside my pants. I don't like the smirk on your face, but then it will be gone soon enough.
I link my finger to your collar ring and pull you to your feet, kiss you lightly and unfasten the cuffs. "On the bed," I say, and you don't have to ask how I want you, which is on your knees and elbows, legs spread, ass in the air. Ah, your ass! You know, I fell for your wit, your looks, the way you laugh, but I stayed for your ass. It's your pride and despair, your body slender and then a glorious swelling where the hips begin--one of the best parts of my day is watching you struggle to pull a dress down over those beautiful curves. It's like you're two women, one a slim woman of good family, small-breasted, long, elegant legs. And then somewhere near your waist the bloodlines change--perhaps an ancestor of yours, a minister's wife, blindly copulating with the itinerant tinker, crying out under his rough hands as his thick cock pumps hot seed into her belly in the stable behind the church... However you came by it, your ass is a treasure, a marvel.
So it's important to choose the right implement. But it seems fair to let you pick--after all, it's your ass that's about to be beaten. So I offer you the choice, and you whisper, "Strap." I give you a light one with the paddle to show you what you're passing up, and then I raise the strap...and bring it down. The smack is loud in the room, and then your voice, clear and thin: "One." The first time we did this I knew I had a keeper. Your first tears didn't come until number six, and your voice didn't break until ten. And then there was the pause after twelve, followed by you saying, "More."
I'm working up a good rhythm now and your ass is turning color, the pale skin shading scarlet, no sounds in the room but the smack of the strap and your counting: "Eleven...ah! twelve...ungh...thirteen..." I don't want to neglect your needs; marriage is about communication, after all, so I ask how you're feeling by sliding two fingers between your legs, rubbing your wet, gathering it on my fingers, smearing it. I come near your clit and your hips twitch and I grin, my girl, my slut, getting off on her spanking. I wipe off the wet on your tender upper lip so that you can smell what your spanking is doing to you, your shame and pride and how when you get this way you can't tell them apart.
Back to the strap: Crack! "Fourteen...aghn!...fifteen..." And there's a nice image, your hand clenched as you take it, the ring catching the soft light, the wedding ring, a complete circle around your white finger, shining proudly while the new bride takes her punishment. "...Eighteen...ah! God!..nineteen..." and I round it out at twenty, no need to set a new record today, put some snap in the wrist and your body jerks up on the bed as you sing out the last number, and then I hold the strap to your lips and you kiss it. I toss it aside reluctantly, but then there's the reception and you'll want to sit down sometime. I lean down and kiss your pussy, and then up and put my lips to cheek, tasting the salt of your sweat. Your eyes are bright with tears and the mascara has run--will have to give you time to fix your makeup before we leave, even though you're not the first bride to cry on her big day.
You wait on the bed while I prepare the next treat. It's still at the bottom of the bag. I bought it just yesterday. It's a giant rubber cock. The package called it the 'Tijuana Lover,' and its length and girth are such that I'm not sure whether it's supposed to belong to a man or a beast, but the veins are realistic enough, and the head is shaped like a bell. It has a suction cup so you can attach it anywhere, the bathtub, the foot of the bed, or the wooden chair in this room, which I pull to the center. Now I slip a scarf around your eyes--I want the Lover to be a surprise, which I'm sure it will be. I was surprised when I saw the sample lying in the case, on its side, dwarfing all the other plastic cocks and vibrators. When you're standing I put your wedding veil back on and you smile slightly, and I kiss you again while linking your wrists behind your back.
The Lover goes on the chair, fixed pointing straight up; it looks like a rocket on the launch pad. I walk you to the chair, carefully position you so that one leg is on either side, and then I pull you down so that your cunt is poised over the Lover's head, just an inch or so above. It's not an easy position for you to hold but you can, what with the yoga and running and all, and your thighs are drawn and taut, and I really wish I'd thought to bring a video camera, because I want to remember everything.
Next come the clamps. We both agreed the ones that screw shut are better, so they can be adjusted...tailored for the moment. And I love the way your nipples darken when I put them on, and how the muscles in your belly contract as your breathing changes. Your thighs tremble now, it's getting harder for you to stand still though you're trying, you want so much to be a good wife, and you are so much better than you know, and here's your reward: "Slowly..." You lower yourself onto the Lover, and I say it again, "Slowly," and I watch as your cunt opens around the head, the lips separating as you slide down. You groan as you feel how big it is, how it fills you, and even as wet as you are it takes some time to come all the way down to the chair's seat, but you finally make it and let out a long sigh of pleasure and relief.
But you know that's not all, and you're right, because my cock is hard and the pre-cum is drooling down my thigh and it's time we did something about that, so I bring it out again and touch the head to your lips and you don't have to hear me tell you what I want. And as you begin the slow sucking I tell you, "Work yourself," and your hips begin a slow grind as you rock back and forth on the Lover. I bury my hand in your hair and pull you close and the sounds fill the room, our breathing and the sucking and the slurping as you hump up and down on the rubber cock, and maybe I should have let you have your hands free but it doesn't matter, you're beginning to peak, moaning into the head of my cock. Your ass slapping down on the wooden chair, your body contracting and trembling, and I feel rather than hear you say, "Oh, God!" as you hit the top, and it's just moments later that the cum rises from my balls and up my shaft and spills, in sharp spasms, into your mouth...
When I lean down to kiss you, you slosh some of my sperm back into my mouth and laugh, and I promise you you'll pay for that, brat, and your mouth is warm on mine and it's true, marriage makes the whole kissing thing better, our tongues twisting around one another as we feed. But the moment breaks when my eye catches the clock: "Fuck!" We have a stop to make on the way to the reception, and we've got to get moving now. This is the slapstick (no pun intended) side of bondage, the whole Jesus-our-family-and-friends-are-waiting-for-us-at-the-club side of things, and off comes the veil and blindfold and I free your hands--you'll have to deal with the Lover and the clamps on your own because where in hell is my tie?!?--and we're racing around the room and laughing and you say, "My mother's going to smell it on me," because there's no time to shower. As we leave the room I look back inside...the bed's a mess, and the Lover's lying on its side on the chair, still gleaming with your wet, and the clamps are on the bedside table like the Marquis de Sade's own cufflinks. I put the 'Do Not Disturb' sign over the door handle. I don't want the housekeeper finding that.
We dash down to the car and you pull out your makeup kit and get to work. Which is why you don't notice we're not taking the most direct route. First we have to make to stop at Pierce's Fine Piercings, which isn't as fancy as it sounds, since I don't think they've pierced an actual ear since Jimmy Carter was president. The driver parks and I pull you inside and now you're beginning to see that the ring I gave you this morning isn't the only one you're getting today. I made an appointment so we go right in, past the skater with the shaved head who’s probably waiting for an amphalong to make his little goth girlfriend shriek with joy. You don't even question what's about to happen, just ask, "Where?" with a little grin, and the college kid who's preparing the needle-gun doesn't bat an eye when I unzip the back of your dress and you shrug it down to your waist. He just waits while you unfasten your bra--your nipples still dark from an hour ago--and I hand him the rings, one for each breast. You grip my hand and hiss when the first one goes in, and your nails dig into me with the second, but we don't have time to admire his handiwork. We have to go, and race back out the door, me clutching a leaflet about the proper care and maintenance of your new piercing, and the driver gets us to the door of the club only forty minutes late.
You've never been lovelier as I help you out of the car, your eyes sparkling, your smile wicked. I do see something your mother will disapprove of, your nipples, which are hard as stones and visible even through the layers of dress and bra, and later on we'll slip off into the cloakroom so I can have a better look, maybe soothe their ache with my tongue. But now we have to get to reception, and we walk hand-in-hand into the room, and the first person who sees us is Aris, who runs over and hugs you and says, "Isabelle, you look so good!"
Now we're at the hotel, and as you're getting out of your dress--hanging it carefully so that if we have a daughter you can pass it on to her--I'm looking through the small leather case, the one that used to be a doctor's bag, making sure I packed everything we need. And I pull each piece out and put it on the table: the cuffs (with rings that lock), the clamps for your nipples, two different plugs for your ass (the smaller stamped with two Xs, the larger with three), the dildo. And the strap, which is short, tan leather and harder than any hand.
Now you're kneeling in front of me, smiling up at me. The wedding raiment is gone, the dress and the bra (and I remember the argument we had over that one, when you said your mother would die if she saw you on your wedding day without a bra--I grudgingly conceded, but tied you over a chair and gave you a hard paddling for being sensible; that was the first day I ever made you count the blows, and you made it to twelve before the first tears came, and I wiped them away with my cock and kissed you). You did agree that you wouldn't need underwear, and we both liked the stockings, which is all you're wearing now, white against your skin, mid-thigh and held by elastic. And you're so beautiful that all I can do for a moment is stare at you and wonder how we found each other. I'm quiet for so long that you chuckle and say, "Well?"
I take the cuffs and fasten them around your wrists and link them behind your back. And then the newest piece, the collar. We went to a pet store to pick it out, and then chose a tag for it, waited while they engraved it with your name: Isabelle. And the look on the clerk's face when he looked at the name on your credit card and then the tag and back again, and then at you, the smile you gave him, and he turned red and asked if you wanted a bag. You said no, thanks, and handed me the collar and we walked out of the store smiling, the clerk watching us the whole way.
I take off my jacket, toss it over a chair, loosen my tie. Stand over you and unzip and pull my cock free, and it's hard. Has been since we kissed in the chapel--did you notice how quickly I escorted you to the car? You lean forward and kiss its tip, taking the head between your lips, running your tongue in the slit, tickling me, pulling out the pre-cum. I know you're teasing me but I don't want to let go so soon, so I just promise another smack or two and put my cock back inside my pants. I don't like the smirk on your face, but then it will be gone soon enough.
I link my finger to your collar ring and pull you to your feet, kiss you lightly and unfasten the cuffs. "On the bed," I say, and you don't have to ask how I want you, which is on your knees and elbows, legs spread, ass in the air. Ah, your ass! You know, I fell for your wit, your looks, the way you laugh, but I stayed for your ass. It's your pride and despair, your body slender and then a glorious swelling where the hips begin--one of the best parts of my day is watching you struggle to pull a dress down over those beautiful curves. It's like you're two women, one a slim woman of good family, small-breasted, long, elegant legs. And then somewhere near your waist the bloodlines change--perhaps an ancestor of yours, a minister's wife, blindly copulating with the itinerant tinker, crying out under his rough hands as his thick cock pumps hot seed into her belly in the stable behind the church... However you came by it, your ass is a treasure, a marvel.
So it's important to choose the right implement. But it seems fair to let you pick--after all, it's your ass that's about to be beaten. So I offer you the choice, and you whisper, "Strap." I give you a light one with the paddle to show you what you're passing up, and then I raise the strap...and bring it down. The smack is loud in the room, and then your voice, clear and thin: "One." The first time we did this I knew I had a keeper. Your first tears didn't come until number six, and your voice didn't break until ten. And then there was the pause after twelve, followed by you saying, "More."
I'm working up a good rhythm now and your ass is turning color, the pale skin shading scarlet, no sounds in the room but the smack of the strap and your counting: "Eleven...ah! twelve...ungh...thirteen..." I don't want to neglect your needs; marriage is about communication, after all, so I ask how you're feeling by sliding two fingers between your legs, rubbing your wet, gathering it on my fingers, smearing it. I come near your clit and your hips twitch and I grin, my girl, my slut, getting off on her spanking. I wipe off the wet on your tender upper lip so that you can smell what your spanking is doing to you, your shame and pride and how when you get this way you can't tell them apart.
Back to the strap: Crack! "Fourteen...aghn!...fifteen..." And there's a nice image, your hand clenched as you take it, the ring catching the soft light, the wedding ring, a complete circle around your white finger, shining proudly while the new bride takes her punishment. "...Eighteen...ah! God!..nineteen..." and I round it out at twenty, no need to set a new record today, put some snap in the wrist and your body jerks up on the bed as you sing out the last number, and then I hold the strap to your lips and you kiss it. I toss it aside reluctantly, but then there's the reception and you'll want to sit down sometime. I lean down and kiss your pussy, and then up and put my lips to cheek, tasting the salt of your sweat. Your eyes are bright with tears and the mascara has run--will have to give you time to fix your makeup before we leave, even though you're not the first bride to cry on her big day.
You wait on the bed while I prepare the next treat. It's still at the bottom of the bag. I bought it just yesterday. It's a giant rubber cock. The package called it the 'Tijuana Lover,' and its length and girth are such that I'm not sure whether it's supposed to belong to a man or a beast, but the veins are realistic enough, and the head is shaped like a bell. It has a suction cup so you can attach it anywhere, the bathtub, the foot of the bed, or the wooden chair in this room, which I pull to the center. Now I slip a scarf around your eyes--I want the Lover to be a surprise, which I'm sure it will be. I was surprised when I saw the sample lying in the case, on its side, dwarfing all the other plastic cocks and vibrators. When you're standing I put your wedding veil back on and you smile slightly, and I kiss you again while linking your wrists behind your back.
The Lover goes on the chair, fixed pointing straight up; it looks like a rocket on the launch pad. I walk you to the chair, carefully position you so that one leg is on either side, and then I pull you down so that your cunt is poised over the Lover's head, just an inch or so above. It's not an easy position for you to hold but you can, what with the yoga and running and all, and your thighs are drawn and taut, and I really wish I'd thought to bring a video camera, because I want to remember everything.
Next come the clamps. We both agreed the ones that screw shut are better, so they can be adjusted...tailored for the moment. And I love the way your nipples darken when I put them on, and how the muscles in your belly contract as your breathing changes. Your thighs tremble now, it's getting harder for you to stand still though you're trying, you want so much to be a good wife, and you are so much better than you know, and here's your reward: "Slowly..." You lower yourself onto the Lover, and I say it again, "Slowly," and I watch as your cunt opens around the head, the lips separating as you slide down. You groan as you feel how big it is, how it fills you, and even as wet as you are it takes some time to come all the way down to the chair's seat, but you finally make it and let out a long sigh of pleasure and relief.
But you know that's not all, and you're right, because my cock is hard and the pre-cum is drooling down my thigh and it's time we did something about that, so I bring it out again and touch the head to your lips and you don't have to hear me tell you what I want. And as you begin the slow sucking I tell you, "Work yourself," and your hips begin a slow grind as you rock back and forth on the Lover. I bury my hand in your hair and pull you close and the sounds fill the room, our breathing and the sucking and the slurping as you hump up and down on the rubber cock, and maybe I should have let you have your hands free but it doesn't matter, you're beginning to peak, moaning into the head of my cock. Your ass slapping down on the wooden chair, your body contracting and trembling, and I feel rather than hear you say, "Oh, God!" as you hit the top, and it's just moments later that the cum rises from my balls and up my shaft and spills, in sharp spasms, into your mouth...
When I lean down to kiss you, you slosh some of my sperm back into my mouth and laugh, and I promise you you'll pay for that, brat, and your mouth is warm on mine and it's true, marriage makes the whole kissing thing better, our tongues twisting around one another as we feed. But the moment breaks when my eye catches the clock: "Fuck!" We have a stop to make on the way to the reception, and we've got to get moving now. This is the slapstick (no pun intended) side of bondage, the whole Jesus-our-family-and-friends-are-waiting-for-us-at-the-club side of things, and off comes the veil and blindfold and I free your hands--you'll have to deal with the Lover and the clamps on your own because where in hell is my tie?!?--and we're racing around the room and laughing and you say, "My mother's going to smell it on me," because there's no time to shower. As we leave the room I look back inside...the bed's a mess, and the Lover's lying on its side on the chair, still gleaming with your wet, and the clamps are on the bedside table like the Marquis de Sade's own cufflinks. I put the 'Do Not Disturb' sign over the door handle. I don't want the housekeeper finding that.
We dash down to the car and you pull out your makeup kit and get to work. Which is why you don't notice we're not taking the most direct route. First we have to make to stop at Pierce's Fine Piercings, which isn't as fancy as it sounds, since I don't think they've pierced an actual ear since Jimmy Carter was president. The driver parks and I pull you inside and now you're beginning to see that the ring I gave you this morning isn't the only one you're getting today. I made an appointment so we go right in, past the skater with the shaved head who’s probably waiting for an amphalong to make his little goth girlfriend shriek with joy. You don't even question what's about to happen, just ask, "Where?" with a little grin, and the college kid who's preparing the needle-gun doesn't bat an eye when I unzip the back of your dress and you shrug it down to your waist. He just waits while you unfasten your bra--your nipples still dark from an hour ago--and I hand him the rings, one for each breast. You grip my hand and hiss when the first one goes in, and your nails dig into me with the second, but we don't have time to admire his handiwork. We have to go, and race back out the door, me clutching a leaflet about the proper care and maintenance of your new piercing, and the driver gets us to the door of the club only forty minutes late.
You've never been lovelier as I help you out of the car, your eyes sparkling, your smile wicked. I do see something your mother will disapprove of, your nipples, which are hard as stones and visible even through the layers of dress and bra, and later on we'll slip off into the cloakroom so I can have a better look, maybe soothe their ache with my tongue. But now we have to get to reception, and we walk hand-in-hand into the room, and the first person who sees us is Aris, who runs over and hugs you and says, "Isabelle, you look so good!"
