textfiles/sex/a-scene.txt

Archive-name: Bondage/a-scene.txt
Archive-author: theClone
Archive-title: Scene, A


Copyright 1991 by theClone.
released into the public domain.

the Clone fantasizes about a scene...

I think it was the blood that kept my attention, really. Not that
there was so very much of it, but it was quality blood. I mean the
image. I'm not explaining this right. I mean amidst the almost three
dozen rising welts on her back there were only three slashes that were
bleeding. I think they were on purpose. But they were bleeding so
well. Not a lot, mind you, but attractively.

You see, the blood was trickling in rivulets from these three
lashes and running down her back. The scarlet tracks split and joined
and resplit as they made their way to her shapely ass. Just in the
small of her back they spread thinly into the fine lines and contours
of her skin like a red river delta. And surrounding each gash, was a
slight red spattering, where the blood mist flew from the lash and
settled.

Where not rising or running red, her skin was pale. It was beyond
pale, it was white, like snow or alabaster. Like the little cotton
puff clouds on a fair day, her skin was. The contrast was shocking.

She hung there, her knees bent, legs unsupportive. Still
conscious, but no longer holding herself up, she hung there by her
arms. Almost without will. Her head was bent to her chest, and I
could see that the strain on her shoulders was tremendous. Yet she
hung as she had been told to before the whipping. The fact that she
could relieve the pressure on her shoulders but chose not to was
unfathomable. Admirable.

He was standing behind her, and a little to her right. She
wouldn't have been able to see him even if she craned her neck. But
she never tried that either. We were a little further back and more on
the left, safely out of lash range. Not that we ever believed Paul
would lose control of the whip; we all agreed that he was the best of
us with it, but safety was cheap insurance.

"Watch her carefully," he whispered to me. "Let me know if she
moves. I'll be right back."

I nodded ascent, and Paul dashed out of the playroom.

In less than a minute he walked calmly back into the room with an
armload of supplies. He was also one of the more inventive members of
our Club. He set them carefully down behind her, and then picked up a
dark blue cylinder with a little white picture on it. He opened a
spout on the top, poured the white contents into his hand and set the
container down. He walked up right behind her.

"I'm back my love," he said into her ear. "You may stand now. Are
you ready for more?"

She carefully placed her feet, and slowly straightened her legs,
taking the pressure off of her shoulders a bit at a time. She flexed
her shoulders what little her restraints allowed. She shifted her
weight back and forth on her feet until she seemed comfortable, rolling
her head a bit as she did. In a minute she was standing straight and
firm. Admirable, indeed.

"If it please you, my love," she said, "I would indeed like more."

As soon as she finished speaking he spread the substance across her
back. "Ungh," she gasped loudly, as if barely stifling a scream.
She almost lost her balance and her knees bent as she reflexively
strained forward.

"Salt," I whispered to Tim, next to me.

"Not even Paul would do that," Tim replied.

"Paul would do anything, and Trish almost so. Trust me, it's
salt," I said.

Paul's glance darted to us only briefly, but it spoke volumes. I
made a mental note to stay off the business end of his whip until he'd
had time to forget that I'd spoken almost aloud during his scene.

He wetted a cloth from a bottle of water and wiped down her back.
She sighed at the cleansing and the cool feeling on her hot welts.

"Shhhh, darling," he said. "Rest a moment."

Paul took that moment to carefully remove his clothes, fold them,
and place them neatly on one of the tables in the playroom. This too
was behind Trish, and she couldn't tell what he was doing. Paul
doesn't have the most magnificent body I've ever seen, but it is quite
firm and flexible and serviceable. And he could use it well, when he
so chose. When he turned back to the scene, his erection made it clear
that tonight would be one of those times.

He walked back to her, picking up the tube of lube along the way
and opening it. He knelt behind her and spread her ass cheeks. He
lubed her hole well while licking the extra salty blood now drying in
the small of her back. He rose, lubed himself equally well and dropped
the tube nearby, just in case. He walked back to his pile of items and
picked up a small paddle like thing I couldn't quite see. He slipped
the wrist strap over his hand.

He went back to her and spread her cheeks again. He positioned his
penis at her ass and entered just slightly. Paul then put his hands on
her hips and pulled her firmly to him.

"Ungh," she grunted again. She relaxed and slide steadily onto him
until he was all the way in. Then he slowly pulled back until his head
was just inside of her sphincter, and he proceeded with one more slow
relaxing stroke.

As he was about to begin his stroke again, he grabbed the paddle
that was hanging around his wrist, and I saw that it wasn't a paddle at
all. I was stunned to see that it was a currycomb. I wondered where
he got it; I hadn't known that the Club had one.

This time, as he began his slow stroke in, he dragged the currycomb
firmly down her back, until it and his pelvis met at the blood delta in
the small of her back. She screamed. There were many red parallel
tracks crisscrossing the welts and cuts his lash had already induced.
On the out stroke, he didn't touch her back, but rather bent his head
and blew cool air across the fresh marks. She sighed.

This then became his rhythm. In-stroke-drag-currycomb.
Out-stroke-bend-blow. In-stroke-drag-currycomb. Out-stroke-
bend-blow. In-stroke-drag-currycomb. Out-stroke-bend-blow.
In-stroke-drag-currycomb. Out-stroke-bend-blow. And her rhythm was
scream-pause-sigh-pause. Scream-pause-sigh-pause. Scream-
pause-sigh-pause. Scream-pause-sigh-pause.

The pauses became shorter as Paul sped up. Her sighs became
grunts, and her screams became scream-moans as they slid into the
grunts that had been sighs. He was relentless and tireless. In
minutes there were bright red streaks across her entire back running
from shoulder to ass. She had begun to bleed again from her cuts, and
she had fine red welts rising on top of her wide, wild lash welts.

When he came, he was buried deep inside her, and she shuddered
once, straining against her chains as he pressed her forward. She
shuddered again when he withdrew, still semi-erect. He walked to her
front for the first time since the scene began and kissed her gently.

"I love you," he said.

She mumbled something I couldn't hear in reply and let her head sag
onto her chest. He held her up, unchained her arms and carried her
carefully over to another of the tables. He wrapped her in the blanket
he'd had ready there and carried her up to her room. He would come
back later to get his things, right now she was his first concern.

We filed out of the playroom and into the library, where we each
got a glass of our favorite vice. I looked at Tim. He was already
looking at me.

"Maybe he will ask to do me next," I said.

"Or maybe I will," said Tim.

"Or maybe I'll ask to do you," I said looking at him with my best
lascivious glance.

"Maybe I'd let you," he said.

Do The Job, theClone.

--