Just Call Me...Lover. - Sex Stories

Just Call Me...Lover.

... moon, a goddess like her, and her one and only peer.

There, upon that roof, I photographed her, using an old Leica left over from the war, and whatever light that we had to hand. Those photographs I've yet to see but their composition and production were the focus of her stern and uncompromising perfectionism. So, I stood back and traced the lines of her body with an artist's eye, wondering what Modigliani, Henry Moore or that prolific Andalusian, Picasso, might make of her.

Could either of them capture, in paint or bronze, the relentless spirit of desire I saw in her eye or taste the arcane essence of lust that only I could distil from the sweat of her brow? - Or so I thought at the time, in my arrogance.

And there in her hand, as always, was her most prized possession. Made of leather, ebony and cobra skin; her heavy riding crop. Fashioned long before her birth in the bazaars of Cairo, and still inhabited, I'll wager, by the cobra's unquiet shade.

After we had used the last roll of film we silently descended the steps and soon found ourselves in the cellar. It was a dry and dusty chamber, built of almost monolithic stone, but not unpleasant for it was subtly permeated by the sweet aroma of wine and pine resin, wild thyme and rosemary and other age-old scents that defied identification. I had placed two candelabras on the sturdy olivewood table near the centre of the room, with six lit candles in each. Since she did not comment on them upon entering the room, ...

... I was as certain as I could be that their presence pleased her.

Between the candelabras was a length of fine, black linen cord. Next to this, she placed the riding crop, adjusting its angle fussily until it sat on the table at just the right place. She spent all of ten seconds scanning the room then cast a glance at me with her lustrous black eyes.

“Strip.”

I did as she wanted and she handed me the rope.

I bound her wrists to an ancient iron hook, that we had earlier found bolted to the ceiling. That sturdy hook might have been placed there just for her, the perfect gift from the distant past; such was her glee at its discovery.

I took up the riding crop, turned and glanced at her. She stood with her back to me, legs parted, bare feet firmly planted on the stones and in the dust of the ancient floor. Her long black hair hung down her back; straight and shining in the candlelight. Her hips swung to one side with the cleft of her perfect ass defined elegantly in shadow.

“Don't waste time now. Beat me...and do it without warning.”

Wanting, of course, to please her, I stepped up and delivered three rapid hits on her thighs.

Crack, crack, crack.

With suppressed annoyance, she said, “I dislike odd numbers. Hit me again, in even-numbered strokesonly harder...lover.”

CRACK! crack, crack, CRACK!

“Is that better?” I whispered loudly.

“Yes, but you have much to learn.”

“No doubt.”

“Now beat me while I tell you about my life.”

This statement ...