“The Cellar” is a very early story of mine. It’s more a scene than a story. Back then, I hadn’t learnt how to write dialogue and a plot was a luxury I felt I could do without. I offer it here because, whatever it may lack in craft, it makes up for in the sheer energy of brutal desire. When I wrote it I wondered what had become of me to have such things in my head. This was not the way I was brought up to regard women.
After it appeared on ERWA, I got a few mails from women who told me that, on certain nights, when the need was strong, they shivered at the thought of being in this Cellar.
It got me thinking about the gap between what we are happy to imagine and what we would actually want to do and what this says about desire.
My hand hurts from spanking you. On one cheek. Not red now. Starting to turn blue black. Fifteen minutes of punishment. Hard, large hand with all my weight behind it. Your face is covered in tears and snot. Your hands, each tied to the elbow of the other arm, open and close with spasms of pain. You whimper because you can no longer scream. You have made my cock hard against your naked belly.
I lay you down on the cold wet stone flags of the cellar. You strain to keep your butt off the floor. I put my boot on your clit and grind you onto the stone. I slip the tip of my pointed boot into your cunt. Even now you can’t resist fucking it.
I kneel between your legs and tell you to be very, very still. My razor, open blade not safety, slides over your pussy, kissing the edges of your clit. No lubrication other than your sweat. The blade is so sharp that, if I were to cut you, it would be seconds before you noticed and even then the trickle of blood would be your first indication. Despite the pain from your bruised butt you lay flat and still on the flagstones.
So smooth, your skin.I test the lack of stubble with my tongue but avoid giving you the satisfaction of having your clit licked. Your cunt snatches at my tongue, pleading for attention. You know better than to speak.
Your eyes widen as I reach for the rope that will tie your legs to the rings in the flagstones. You are split, newly shaven, moist and swollen.
When the riding crop hits your mound your scream surprises even you. You bounce on your sore arse, unable to believe the pain. Again. Again. Again.
Red welts rise, making chevrons pointing to your clit. A final, vicious, slice through the air ends with the tip of the crop connecting with your clit.
It takes several seconds before you stop twitching.
I kneel, lift your buttocks off the floor, your shoulders still on the ground, your legs stretched by the ropes. You are trembling. Yet, pain-slut that you are, your cunt is wet as I slide into it.
My hips move rapidly, pounding your abused mound. In minutes I am ready to come I pull out and rest my cock on your clit as ropes of white cum spray up your belly.
I wipe my cock on your thighs.
I watch you from the top of the stairs. You are still humping air, seeking release, as I turn out the light and close the door behind me.