Nightmares are also dreams Part 25

Tara is padding around, fox ears on her head and fox tail sprouting from her butt plug. She is snuffling and sticking her nose into things and generally having a good time. Her small smile says that she loves the game and wants to play.

Sara is staring in unconscious horror at the elaborate off-white dress. One of those flouncy meringue wedding dresses that shops try to sell to the happy and unsuspecting. She looks at me as if I’d lost my mind. I smile back angelically. Fallen angels count, right?

“You can’t be serious,” she states. Her voice empty with shock. Ah, horrible dress therapy, why did I never think of this before?

“Do you not like it? I had it special ordered just for you. I have it on good authority that your father’s second wife wore the exact same dress.”

“His SECOND wife?! You mean the tramp he left my mother for,” her voice rising in incredulity and anger.

“It could have been his third. To be honest, I’ve lost count. I’m sure it’s in a file somewhere. Would you like me to check,” I reply calmly.

Letting out a low groan, Sara turns to me and whines, “Why are you doing this?”

I look at her for a beat. Letting the silence stretch. Then reply, “Your parents deserve to know that you are happy and married. Just like you wanted. If you are wondering why that photo will include Tara nude and being a little fox…then ask yourself this: would you ask her and me to hide who we are? Is that who you want to be be?”

She looks at me and sees the disappointment lurking, waiting for her answer.

I know that she loves us and accepts us. But to expose these kinds of things to her parents is a completely different proposition.

She knows this is a punishment. She knows that I will not harm her. But still, she’s human. And exposure of secrets is one of the hardest things we do. Especially to people whose image of us is in contrast to the truth.

She turns away, eyes cast down. Almost inaudible, I hear her say, “Ok.”

Then she whips back around to me glaring fiercely and proclaims “But I won’t be doing this in that monstrosity. I have my own clothes and I will pick something I deem appropriate.”

I smile, wryly, and say, “Well, it is your day. You have 30 minutes to find a dress and get into it. The makeup artist will be done with us by then.”

I watch the triumph fade to panic then into something like horror. What am planning flies across her face?! Then she’s off like a shot into her closet.

I turn away and go to the hall closet where my tux is kept.

Moments later I hear a shriek and a cry of “Don’t lick that!” coming from Sara’s direction. Then out pranced Tara looking impish and smug.

This is going to be fun.

Nightmares are also dreams Part 24

Tara’s lips linger over her wife’s. Their breath mingling for the barest moments. Pushing away slowly she stands. Sauntering over like the fox that ate the hen.

I can’t help but smile when I see her confidence restored. And I seeing my approval, Tara lights up in response. She grabs Mr. Fox and sits. Rather primly for one clad only in a stuffed fox.

“Well,” I ask, “what are we to do about this breach of protocol?” I cast a glance at Tara and, as her smile fades, I shake my head. No. Not meant for you.

“Sara dear. You seem to have forgotten that today was to be a slow day of agony. And instead partook of pleasure. Now, she is a sweet succulent peach, to be sure, but that does not excuse the breach of protocol. Whatever am I to do with you?

I suppose, technically, I should punish you in some way. I had planned on hot stones, just a scoach under the temperature at which flesh burns as our next step. Not enough to do harm but enough to think that harm would be done. It’s a shame really.”

The disappointment and fear in Sara’s trembling flesh makes me smile. If only with my eyes.

I wonder if she knows what punishment I had waiting in the wings….

I go to our closet. The walk-in cedar lined walls reflecting the subdued lighting and almost making the wedding dress shine as if in a spotlight.

“Come, dear Sara. Release your bonds and stand, do. I have a present for you.”

I grab the dress by the hangar and sweep around into the bedroom proper. Sara has released the wrist restraints and is bent over working on the ankle ones.

I move to stand in front of her. Knowing that in doing so, the hem is likely to be visible from her position. But she takes her time, almost defiantly, and releases the second cuff before looking up.
Seeing the dress, she looks puzzled. In response, I pull out my cell phone and call for our detail.

“Honey, it’s been more than ten years since we were marries. I think it’s time your family knows. So we are going to take wedding photos. And send them off to your parents. I’m sure they will be ecstatic knowing that their precious jewel is so well loved.”

As I speak, I see the puzzlement fade and be replaced by outright horror. Her parents are a particular kind of monster. And I know she has never confronted them with the truth of her life and lifestyle. Nor will she be doing so now. But I’m not going to let that drop until we have our photos in hand. Let her fret a bit. We’ll talk about it in aftercare.

“And here, my dear. Don’t forget to bring our darling pet along. She’s going to be so beautiful collared and playing, nude at our feet. Aren’t you dear Tara?”

Tara smiles at us shyly and nods eagerly.

Now Sara will have to try and pretend that this is all a happy and good thing. It’ll eat her up.

My little pain slut…did you think that you would get what you wanted so easily?

Nightmares are also dreams Part 23

Some heavens are found when we give in to our desires.

I’ve tried to make this day about control and the measured step by step of needs building until the pressure itself became an agony. It would have been a masterwork. But watching my Tara play with my Sara…the gentle torture of pleasures inflicted.

The soft kisses and gentle caress of fingertips. The sounds of bodies moving against each other and soft silk. The smell of sweat. Musk saturating the cool afternoon. Faint but detectable, for one whose smelled this heady mixture before.

I sit saddle style against the chair I brought for Tara. Arms resting on the chair back. Soft smile tugging mouth upward.

I don’t know if I’m the one who is changing or we are all growing together. I wonder if my current line of work, taking me away from cold planning and corporate maneuvering, and back into the field…if somehow with my blood lust sated, I want only gentle things.

I look up from my minds wander to see Sara looking at me, her blindfold discarded in the tumult. I see her. And know that pleasure is never enough for her. And seeing her see me, my fire wakes from dormancy. She kindles my flame as she ever has. And in our shared fire, my mind tracks to the sound of ragged gasping.

While others might take the sight of two beautiful women making love to be enough for desire…I know something so simple and without that black edge of control and pain, will never be enough. Not for me. Not for Sara.

And while Tara is made of gentler things, still, her joy on my leash…she has a place with us. Her fox to our wolves.

“Tara,” I say, “get up please. It is time for me to play.”

Nightmares are also dreams Part 21-Pel

I watched from the archway. Sunlight through the gauze day curtains soaking into hardwood and emitting the soft glow of reflection. Tara, all tall and wearing her scars inside her, drew her nude body down onto the silk sheets. Her eyes lost for a moment while she ran her hand against the silk. Lost in sensuality or memory for a moment. She reaches for Mr. Fox. A two foot long anthropomorphic fox dressed in overalls, soft faux fur covering plush. Huggable and squishable.

Tara teases Mr. Fox along Sara’s body. And I’m lost in the sensuality of it. Yet this is in direct contradiction of my order. And still I find myself unwilling to break the tableau. Unwilling to reassert my will. The thought of Tara, blood spattered and shell shocked from earlier, pauses in my mind.

Does she try to find control in the act of sensuality. In knowing she has nothing to fear from Sara. Especially in the coiled serpent of the hind brain which sees prey tied down and helpless. However, false the image is. Quick release cuffs and desire are all that hold Sara to the bed.

Did she make the conscious decision to act counter to order or is this impulse? In a way, it is irrelevant. At some future point, I will need to punish her for it. Not what she does but that she failed to ask permission to do it. I’ll keep it in the back of my mind but I won’t be using it today.

She acted in accordance with her rage earlier and she finds herself empty now. And wants to fill that hole with love and comfort. I know that feeling. And I want to encourage her to indulge in this appropriate space.

Despite what is often portrayed, being a Master is not about the scene. Scenes are negotiated ahead of time.

Being a Master is seeing what occurs and acting in accordance with the spirit of the rules you’ve laid out. It’s holding your submissives in your heart and always acting from a place of love.

This infraction by Tara will result in something small like a extension of a time out when she does something else which is a infraction. Something which hurts the dynamic or is an obvious bid for punishment.

Had Sara done the same thing, I would know that the punishment she would incur would have been a part of why she did it. And I would indulge her in something brutal and creative. Because, for her, this is the dynamic we’ve agreed upon.

Some may argue that I am too much in my head on these things. Or complain that I don’t adhere to a single rule set. But really, it’s all about taking care of my loves in the ways that they desire and need.

Nightmares are also dreams Part 20-Sara

I hear that tiny sound of giggle that only comes from Tara’s throat when she’s both happy and nervous. It sounds like hesitant bells. Like fear wrapped in brightness. I wish I could get up and go to our wounded bird, our limping fox girl.

I hear her light steps move into the bedroom. I hear Pel’s heart cave as he sees us together. That palpable tension of fear and frission. Of a Masters next steps, dissipates.

The sounds of whispers sounds like offers phrased as instruction. What comes next a mystery, but as much as the fear of the unknown grips my heart. The fear of what might be, I think I’m safe. I flashback to another night that I was given and…but no. This is not that.

The soft fur caresses my calf. Trailing comfort and warmth up my body.

The sound of a murmur that is just audible reaches me.

“And this, Mr. Fox is the leg of our Sara. It is soft but firm. She can wrap it around and also leap up with them. After her shower, her legs taste like cinnamon….it’s probably her soap, but I like to think it’s just her.”

The soft fur cups my ass, squeezing and pulling apart cheeks. Exposing the one spot of warm on the back of my body to the coolness of the room.

“Do you see this Mr. Fox? This is Sara’s butt. Pel likes to put things in it to make Sara squeal but she doesn’t have a tail….. YES. I have a tail, I am a good fox girl. My master tells me so.”

The fur works its way up my back, trailing the lines of the scars and scar work. Whip lines and the raven. The marks of this life and Pel’s claims.

Hair trails across my face, and I soft breathes warm against my lips.

Whispered, “And this, Mr. Fox, is my Sara. She’s sometimes my mistress but mostly my lover and friend. She’s mine, Mr. Fox. And you can’t have her.
But now you’ll always long for the touch of her body. Aren’t I nice!”

It’s impossible to laugh tied face down like this but oh, how I want to. It escapes like a a hiccup and is swallowed by the devouring lips of Tara. Making her claim. Our little fox girl. She’s growing up.

Nightmares are also dreams Part 18-Pel

Our friend leads Sara out of the bathroom. His movements are mechanical. Just one more piece in machinery. A cog spinning and giving the result desired.

A fundamental difference in experience and approach. I tend more to the psychological. Into the knowing and intuitive leaps that drive experience forward. The shift from warm and loving to harsh. To complete control. And back to sweet kisses. Back to silly gestures and a kiss to the palm.

Watching him cuff Sara back down and settle her without a caress or lingering touch. Something I’ve never been capable of. Control can be taken too far. Can stifle the spontaneous action that makes one’s heart sing.

He packs up his gear and heads out with a nod. Silence and sensory deprivation are the order of the day.

I hear a murmured conversation at the door and go to look…

Tara is back and she’s covered in grime and blood.
I rush over and take her in my arms.

I ask, “What happened?”
She replies, her voice strong with the soft edge of fatigue, “We found them. Jen is torturing them…

I was torturing them…I thought I needed to. To make me feel safe. To make it better.”

She pulls back, searching my eyes for the loathing she thinks she deserves.

I say, “It never feels the way you think it will. Mostly, when they are dead…All you will feel is safe.”

Smiling lopsidedly, I say, “You had a long day. Do you want to rest?”

She nods.

“Do you want to stay with me or do you want Mr Fox?”

Softly, she whispers, “Both.”

I smile and say, “Well, I am playing with Sara right now but if you can sit very quietly you can watch. Do you think you can sit quietly?”

“If I have Mr Fox, I can,” she smiles.

“Okay. Go cleanup. Then get Mr Fox and come sit in your chair. Remember. Be very quiet,” I command.

Tara walks away, shedding her heels and padding softly into the guest bathroom.

I suppose it’s a good thing we got through the electricity element already. I shudder to think what would have happened if she walked in. As it is, I’ll need to switch a bit and go more sensual. Maybe build up to the harsher things.

Well, whichever. Sara is still getting caned today. That is the midway point and she squirms so much when I do it.

I wonder if Tara will want to try.

Nightmares are also dreams Part 17-Sara

The quiet sets in. Long seconds with only my heartbeat and the rush of blood through my ears to accompany the waiting…the anticipation…but first I tap out a yellow on the wall. Yellow for distress, yellow for, not stop but help.

The gag is unknotted and the soft warm cotton falls away.

Pel…Something in me whimpers with relief, its Pel.
Pel whispers, “Whatever could be wrong, my darkest night?”

Tension eases and the fear of moments…minutes?…before subsides.

“Bathroom please,” I whisper.

With a disappointed sigh Pel unlocks my restraints and stands me up. He does this economically with a minimum amount of touch and briefly I have this flash of what did I do wrong before I’m being marched to the bathroom. The blindfold stays on as he guides me to the toilet and sets me down.

The door closes and I’m alone but I dare not take off the blindfold. Instead I go pee and reach out by memory to get clean. Nothing has been moved thankfully and I am able to wash up without difficulty.

With the water running, I hear voices in the bedroom and I go still. Who is Pel talking to…I strain to hear but the muffled sounds through the door and the rushing water make that too indistinct.

When I shut off the water and knock on the door ready to go back, the voices have stopped. Maybe I was hearing things.

Again the hands that lead me to the bed and place the restraints back on are businesslike and without hesitation. Like I’m just meat. And that more than anything spikes my fear. Pel is constitutionally incapable of not kissing me when he touches me. At least on the palm of my hand or o to my neck, but never like this. Like I don’t matter…

Nightmares are also dreams Part 16-Pel

When I proposed this day of play to Sara, I posed it as stretching of pleasure and boundaries. We have taken our play to extremes before so I knew that this proposal would be one she was interested in.

But, when I said it would be an exploration of sensuality, I could see the disappointment hiding in her smile. Sensual play has always been my foreplay and her aftercare. So to her it wasn’t the high she was looking for.

In times past we’d gone fairly deeply down the roads of pain. Whips with leather covered ball bearings is a favorite of hers. Blade play, including cutting is more my comfort level. Even taking it so far as to create a scar through scarification on the canvas of her milky skin.

I’ve gone fairly close to the edge of life and death with her. Even going so far that we would keep a medical team in the wings in case we needed them to pull her back from over that edge.

We’ve employed some psychological components but nothing in the fear area. Nothing that delved deeply into those zones. So today, I wanted to try that.

I started by taking away her physical liberty. Something comfortable that I’ve done before. Then escalated to removing her sight and her speach with blindfolds and gags. Again, something we’ve done, though with less frequency.

Then I isolated her. No talking, no certainty of presence. Sounds of movement, of leather on hardwood. But allowing the time to stretch out. Until, at last the tension was broken by sensation. But not welcome sensation. Using a Wartenberg pinwheel with carefully removed spokes, I took her down the road of bugs crawling on her. It is an unpleasantness we’ve talked about that I know unnerves her. And once I had her truly frightened, I reminded her of my presence but in the darkness of the room and the harshness of my voice pitch low and the brevity of the exposure to sight, I knew that her mind would start to manufacture and question.

Then electricity play, hard and harsh. Pain like she’s never known, throwing her out of comfort and into panic. (Administered by a friend of ours, one we’ve played with before. I don’t feel comfortable with my ability in this area yet, so I am observing.)

When he called her a slut, I knew it hit home. She flinched as if struck and thrashed. And the scent of her fear filled the room.

This is the edge we will ride in this scene. Abject fear, coupled with pain and pleasure and the unknown.

We’ve been together for a long while. You have to try new things to keep it fresh.

Nightmares are also dreams Part 15-Sara

If it weren’t for the sound of creaking leather, I would think that I was alone. Pel hasn’t talked for almost 10 minutes but I can hear him by the toy chest or in the closets. I know that this is all a ploy to keep me guessing as to what what he’s doing, what comes next…

I smell incense burning. Apples and sandalwood drift through the room. The scent enticing and distracting. Pulling me into memories of the last time I smelled this. Years ago on our honeymoon, after an intense session of flogging. Laying with my head on his lap, smelling his unsaited arousal. Knowing that we only rested before something new.

I breath it in then feel a hot burn connect and pool then go cold and pull my skin taught.

Again, it spills across my skin, the burn and surprise pushing me, tumbling into float. It burns its way across my taut flesh until cooling into runnels.

The pain comes. The heat right on the edge of burning. Then cooling and hardening. Some, distant part of me says, wax. “He’s using wax,” but that logic is soft words said from horizons away.

I anticipate the next pour and when it comes I shudder as the pain tips me further. Closer and closer to orgasm. The wax running, still warm against the softness of my damp cunt. I whimper around the gag, as much of a beg I can muster. My thoughts shattered across the feelings of the flame made physical.
So close to tipping over the edge…

The sharp, harsh snap screams me awake. The electric sharpness and the small lightning pounds through nerve endings. No longer floating, I scream against the gag as electricity pours through me, for eternity…for moments.

He loosens my gag. The wet plop comes free, teeth no longer clentched, but the memory of the actinic fire coursing through my nerves…fades into shame…

His words, soft against my ear, almost bring tears. The extent of my failure made known and complete.

The soft growl breathes out, “Did I give you permission to cum, slut?”

The word slut rocks through me, so tame. But it rocks me back. Like I’ve been smacked with a baseball bat. Pel never calls me things other than his Morrigan or his Darkest Night.

I listen closely, hoping to hear more words, as the gag is replaced with a fresh cloth. Then I’m biting into the fabric hard again. The electricity snapping into my skin, right on the verge of damage…

“Who is this?” the fear gibbers in my brain, is it Pel…it was his voice…wasn’t it?