The Holiday - Part 2 free porn video

We thanked the manager for his present and left the stage. I kissed the little waitress good-bye and slipped my arm gently round Bob’s waist: he guided my feet as I tip-toed in my slender heels in the darkness along the uneven path.

“You didn’t mind my going off like that, did you?” I asked tentatively. “With that man, I mean?”

“Not at all. I hope you had fun. Watching you gave me a good erection, and your little waitress friend noticed and sucked me nicely. Are you going to have her? I want to watch if you do.”

I had hoped this would be the moment to introduce the subject I was longing to discuss, but we seemed to be moving away from it. I tried again.

“If I do anything you don’t like,” I said shyly, “I hope you will … er … teach me.”

I wanted to say “punish me”, of course, but somehow my courage failed me. He looked down at me with a smile.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I certainly shall.”

Of course we both knew what was going to happen as soon as he, and I, and the lovely new whip arrived at our suite. But I left it at that for the moment. I let my head fall against his shoulder as we walked.

“Ah, it’s so nice being nude together. Here in the open air,” I said.

“You say that now, do you? You made me wait a long while.”

“I explained to you. I was making myself wait.”

“Are you going to stay nude for the rest of our holiday?”

“Perhaps. We’ll see,” I said flirtatiously. “Maybe I’ll wear little things sometimes. Little things to please you—for you to take off. And little things to please me.”

“What sort of little things please you?”

I hesitated for a moment.

“Do you remember what you said a while ago? About how tight my, er, you know, arsehole was and how nice it was for you?”

“Yes, I think so,” he said.

“And then you said—I thought it was so clever of you—you said it must be the same nice feeling a girl gets from a tight corset.”

“Do you like wearing a tight corset?”

“Oh, yes. Yes! If it’s really, really tight … and wearing nothing else, of course … except shoes, and other … you know …”

“Other bondage gear? Yes, I’d like to see you do that.”

I nodded, my heart too full to speak.

“I’ve wanted to fuck you ever since I first saw you,” said Bob. “Of course. But I’m so glad our first fuck was in public.”

“So am I! I love fucking in public.”

“And I love girls who love it.”

“You’re not jealous?”

“Of course not! I like my girls to be promiscuous little sluts.”

I let out a great sigh of contentment.

“Yes, that’s what I am. Ever since I first appeared at a strip-club … the manager hadn’t told me that as soon as I was nude men would come up on stage and fuck me while the others watched. It was such a lovely surprise! And then I knew that was what I wanted to do. Always … without stopping for a moment.”

“And get paid for it?” said Bob with a smile.

“No, no, that doesn’t matter … maybe when I’m old enough to work for money. For now I just do it for my own pleasure.”

Bob stopped and kissed me. His hands stroked my pierced breasts.

“How lovely you are!” he said. “My perfect girl.”

We walked on for a while. A thought struck me.

“You know, it’s a funny thing about being nude. It feels so natural, and nice; and yet … if we did it all the time perhaps we wouldn’t enjoy it so much.”

“Yes, clothes can be very stimulating. The right sort of clothes, on the right sort of girl.”

“And the rules about what we cover up and don’t are so strange. I mean, just now it’s quite normal for a girl to go about in public showing off her legs; but before it became the fashion if she did that everyone would say she looked like a prostitute.”

“I like a girl to look like a prostitute,” he said.

I gave him a little tap on his bare bottom. Just half-way between a stroke and a slap.

“You would,” I said.

“But girls enjoy looking like prostitutes. Secretly. Go on, admit it.”

“Of course we do,” I said. “But only when all the other girls are looking like prostitutes too. When it’s the fashion.”

“Well, I’m glad it is now. The shortest possible skirt, the longest possible hair and the highest possible heels—that’s my idea of the perfect girl, and don’t you forget it.”

“Or no skirt at all—just the heels and the hair,” I said, tossing my head and skipping a little in my heels to show what I meant.

“Yes. Better still. But not so easy to introduce as a popular fashion,” he said.

“It’s strange, really,” I went on. “A girl has three holes to be fucked in. That’s the way nature, the Gods, made her. It’s nice. But somehow we insist that in public at least a girl must cover up two of her holes and leave the third one free for everyone to see. Why is that?”

“I don’t know; but it’s given me an idea. Why don’t we start a fashion which allows girls to expose any hole they like so long as they hide the other two? Think of girls going doing the street with their mouths firmly hidden and sealed, and wearing skirts which are either completely frontless or completely backless, showing either their pussies or their arseholes? Can you imagine anything more delightful?”

I giggled happily. We were nearly at the door of our suite. As soon as we were inside I went to the bedroom. In our absence the staff had removed the coverlet from the big bed and made everything ready for our night together. I lay back naked on the cool sheet and kicked my feet in their deliciously tight shoes.

“Come and fuck me,” I said softly. “Please.”

Bob looked down at me.

“I’m not sure I can just yet,” he said. “Not after what your waitress friend did to me.”

“Beast.”

“But I’m sure I can work up an appetite.”

He shook out the lashes of the whip.

“Oh, yes … please!” I said. “I’m longing for it. It’s so beautiful …”

There was no point in pretending not to want it. Acting coy, and begging for mercy, could come later.

“Do you have a corset with you?” he asked.

“Of course! Shall I put one on?”

“Yes. I think you’d look nice in a corset. That would give me an appetite all right.”

I jumped off the bed and ran to the dressing-room. From the shelf where I had stored it I pulled out a little corset in white leather, designed to squeeze my waist cruelly while leaving my breasts and arse uncovered. It had a series of silver buckles down the front, but they were for decoration: the real constriction came from the long laces zig-zagging down the back. It was a present from a lover who liked to see his girl bound as tightly as possible and to hear her squealing with pain—I mean pleasure. Perhaps Bob had the same fetish. I hoped so.

I fixed the pretty corset round me as best I could, then walked demurely back to Bob in my high-heels.

“Please make it tighter,” I said shyly.

I turned my back, and gasped with delicious pain as his strong fingers pulled the laces tighter, ever tighter, round the metal hooks. At last he was satisfied, and knotted the ends in a double bow.

“May I see?” I asked in a little voice—my breath came only in tiny gasps now.

“Of course.”

There was a big mirror in a corner of the room. I preened and pirouetted in front of it: I had never seen myself look so beautiful. Bob stood behind me and petted me. At last I leant back against him.

“Please whip me,” I murmured.

“Not yet,” he said.

I turned to him in astonishment.

“Oh, but you must!” I said imploringly. “With that lovely new whip … with all those beautiful lashes … pure white, matching my corset … and I want it so much!”

“You’ll want it even more if you have to wait.”

“Beast! I want it now!”

“Of course you do; but I want you to want it even more. After all, you’re mine now and must do what I want.”

His strong hands tightened round my little constricted waist, imprisoning me even more. I decided I liked the idea of being his submissive slave. I twisted round and knelt before him—carefully, my corset made movement difficult—and took his cock in one hand, weighing and tickling his heavy balls with the other.

“Oh, it’s so big!” I said, “and so beautiful!” And then, after a brief interruption, when I could speak again, “and it tastes so lovely when you come!”

“You like the taste of cum?”

“Well, of course! Every girl does. I just can’t get enough of it.”

I knew very well that men love to hear a girl say that, which was why I said it—don’t you think I’m growing up to be a naughty little flirt?—but it was true as well.

I was suddenly aware of a strange noise in the distance. I stood up, walked carefully to the window and leaned out into the dark.

“It sounds like screaming,” I said.

Bob joined me at the window.

“Yes, you’re right,” he said. “It’s a girl screaming. I expect her lover is torturing her.”

The screaming stopped, for a moment, then started again. I was conscious of other noises in the night. Somewhere nearby a girl was alternately sobbing and begging for more.

“Oh, the lucky, lucky girls!” I said softly, then turned and kissed Bob. “You will torture me too, won’t you, and make me scream in agony like those girls are doing?”

“Of course, darling, all in good time.” He put his hands tight round my waist and made me gasp with the sudden pain. “I want you to scream louder and more beautifully than any of them. Promise?”

“Of course I will. If you promise to make me!” I stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “I won’t let you down. Everyone here will say, ‘How cruel that American is being to his little Japanese girl—and what a fantastic time she must be having!’”

He said nothing, but looked down at me in a way that made me shiver with fear and desire.

“It’s so lovely to be here with you,” I went on, more seriously now, “and I want you to do all the things to me that you most like doing to a girl. I want to learn all the things you enjoy most. So I can enjoy them too.”

“Some of the things I like are a bit … you know …”

“Perverted? But I love perverted sex!”

“Where did you learn that word?” asked Bob, laughing.

“Isn’t it right?” I asked anxiously. “I was reading about it in a series in a girls’ magazine and I looked it up.”

“Yes, it’s right. Or you could say kinky.”

“Kinky,” I said, trying it out. “No, I think perverted sounds nicer.”

“The way you say it, it is. But what do you call perverted?”

“Well,” I said, trying to remember the articles exactly, “I suppose any kind of sex that isn’t just you fucking my cunt is perverted to some extent.”

“That gives us a lot of scope.”

“Of course, the perverted sex I love best of all,” I went on seriously, and looking at him reproachfully, “is being tied up and whipped.”

“Go on.”

“Won’t you please …?” I begged, looking longingly at the lovely white leather multiple whip lying on the bed.

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? But I can’t wait till tomorrow!”

“Yes, you can. It’s all part of the pervertedness. Dream of it. Long for it. Think how much more you’ll love it when I at last let you have it.”

“Mm’mm, I suppose there is something nice and kinky about that,” I said, trying to please him by using his word. “But you won’t make me wait too long, will you?”

“Tomorrow morning. I promise. Think of the appetite I’m building up. Making myself wait too.”

There was something in that. Surely he would whip me all the harder after spending the night looking forward to it. It was a bit like the way I teased myself when I was stripping, making myself, as well as my audience, wait before at last giving us both the pleasure of my complete nudity.

“Go on about perversions,” he said.

“Is that what you call perverted things in general? Well, I want to specialise in perversions. When I start my career. So please teach me all you know about them.”

“Start by telling me about the ones you already know.”

“Well, taking you up my arse. Breasturbating you. Sucking your cock and drinking your cum,” I said. “Of course that. And having you suck me in return. Did you enjoy doing that?”

“Loved it,” he said. “I want you to sit on my face again. In just a few minutes. You taste really good.”

“Thank you. Of course we did that on stage together. Are sex and nudity in public perversions? They feel so nice and so natural.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want you to stop doing them,” said Bob, “so let’s assume they are perversions and belong in your repertoire. Now,” he went on, stretching out on the bed behind me, “I’m hungry again. Come and wash my face with your gorgeous pussy. Let’s be perverted together.”

“Tighten my corset more first.”

“Are you sure you can stand it?”

“I can stand anything … if it’s really kinky.”

So then I knelt over him, while his strong hands round my tormented waist pulled my crotch tightly down over his mouth and nose. His clever tongue soon brought me to orgasm and my pussy poured its thick juice into his greedy mouth. This time I leant backwards, resting my hands behind me, so that my anus was easily available to him: he took the hint at once and his tongue travelled endlessly between my two holes, swinging me helplessly to and fro. The ecstasy of my cunt and anus combined with the agony of the corset took me straight to heaven.

At last his cock could stand it no longer and we twisted round into a sixty-nine position: I stroked and sucked him to orgasm and drank his rich creamy cum, while he teased my delighted cunt with his fingers.

*

I was wakened by the morning sunlight streaming through the open windows. We had not bothered to close them or draw the curtains: anyone who wanted was welcome to watch us and share our pleasure. To my surprise we were still lying head to tail, his flaccid cock close to my lips and his head pillowed on my thigh. Then I remembered how we had fallen asleep, in that position, lips and tongues gently pleasuring each other. I had been sleeping in my high-heels and my feet felt cramped. I eased my shoes off, kicking them onto the floor and wriggling my toes luxuriously.

Very carefully I slid out from under the sheet which partly covered us. I was naked: Bob had insisted on my removing my corset before sleeping, despite my pleas that wearing it through the night could give me delightful dreams of thrilling sexual constriction. I picked it up along with my shoes and tiptoed to the dressing-room.

I found the key to my white leather collar, removed it, and treated myself to a luxurious western-style bath. Then I patted myself dry, made up my face, renewed the gold varnish on my toenails, and lightly scented my breasts and pussy. It was time to decide what to wear for the pleasures of the day ahead.

I had worn white for my first “honeymoon” night. It would be nice to wear white again: it would match the beautiful whip for whose kisses I was so longing, and its white lashes would look pretty blending with white straps and fetish gear. But on the other hand black suggested dungeons, bondage, torture—and my aim was to suggest to Bob the experiences I most longed to enjoy. Perverted. Kinky, to use his word.

So black it was: tight black shoes with heels so high I could hardly manage them, black wrist- and ankle-cuffs, a high black collar forcing me to hold my head proudly upright, a halter round my breasts with silver studs decorating the leather straps where they crossed. Finally I hung a pretty pair of silver bells from the rings in my nipples. Should I wear a gag? I had a lovely one with straps over my forehead as well as round the back of my head. No: I would invite Bob to gag me, but leave the decision to him. Probably he would prefer to leave me free to scream and beg for mercy. Yes, it would enhance his reputation as a lover if the other hotel guests could hear me! The thought made me giggle pleasurably.

I walked back into the bedroom, teetering on my heels, holding the gag in one hand and letting its straps dangle behind me. Bob was awake, sitting naked on the bed. He looked at me appreciatively and reached for me; but I avoided his hands and made for the beautiful white whip lying tangled on the table where he had left it. I picked it up, coiled the slim lashes neatly, and presented it to him with a bow.

“Now?” he asked. He sounded reluctant. I hoped he was only pretending.

“Now,” I said firmly. “You promised.”

“Oh, all right. How about coming in your mouth first?”

“Whipping first,” I insisted, “Lots of whipping. Then all the fucking you want.”

“Come with me, then,” he said, scrambling off the bed and taking my hand. “Nice cuffs,” he added as he opened the door to our suite and led me onto the broad wooden veranda outside which overlooked the garden.

“Thank you,” I said. I’m glad you like them. Is there anything else you’d like me to wear? Would you like to gag me?”

I held out the gag and face-mask I had brought with me.

“No, I think not. You’d look pretty gagged but I’d prefer to hear you scream.”

So I had guessed correctly. But I pretended to be surprised.

“Are you going to make me scream?”

“Oh, yes, darling,” he said softly, as he held me with his free hand and kissed me tenderly. “You will scream. You won’t be able to stop. You will scream so that everyone will hear you. ‘That must be the little Japanese girl being tortured,’ they will say.”

“Ohhh,” I said. “And how they will envy me … the girls, at least.”

My heart was beating fast and I could feel the juice gathering in my pussy. This was going to be lovely.

In the middle of the front rail of the veranda was a broad arch framed with strong beams. In the sunlight I could see that there were four big hooks fixed to the verticals, with short ropes and clips hanging from each. It was a simple rustic whipping-frame, but it would do. Bob put down the whip, then positioned me on the top step and fixed the four clips to my cuffs. When he had shortened the ropes, I was tautly spread-eagled in the sunshine, facing towards the lush garden of the hotel. Bob patted my bottom and gave my nipples a friendly tweak.

“Very nice,” he said. “I shall enjoy whipping you like that. But just one or two decorations first.”

He left me for a moment, then returned with items in his hand I could not quite see. He stood in front of me and held two little pincers before my face.

“You know what these are?”

“They look like little clothes-pegs.”

“Yes; and I’m sure you know how clothes-pegs are used for sexual pleasure. But these are special. Look how strong the springs are.” He demonstrated, closing the pegs tightly onto his finger. “And look at the little metal jaws with their tiny sharp teeth. Do they excite you?”

“Oh, yes! They’re beautiful! Where did you get them?”

“They’re made expressly for masochists like you to enjoy, and sadists like me to use on helpless girls. You can get them in specialist sex-shops.”

“Specialists in perversions?”

“That’s right. For sweet girls like you who like their sex, well, perverted. Shall I put them on?”

“Oh, yes, please!”

Delicately Bob opened one of the little pincers and fixed it firmly over one of my nipples. A great rush of pain surged through me.

“Is that enough, or would you like the other one too?”

I was beyond speech. I could only look at him pleadingly. He took his time, letting the sharp jaws close slowly, so slowly, over the other hard, erect nipple. The glorious pain was like an electric circuit flooding through my body and merging with the flow of pleasure from my pussy.

“Thank you. Oh, thank you!” I mouthed silently. I want to wear them always … always … I wanted to add, but couldn’t.

“I like my girls to hold their heads up when I whip them,” Bob was saying.

I guessed at once that the other device he was carrying was a nose harness of some kind. He quickly inserted the padded hooks into my nostrils, led the cord over my head and through a metal loop at the back of my leather collar, then pulled it tight till I was gazing at the tops of the trees.

“Very nice,” he said, knotting the cord firmly. “Very arousing. Now I shall begin. Do you want to know how many strokes I shall give you?”

“No,” I murmured. “I am your slave. Torture me as much as you wish.”

“You’re sure it won’t be too much for you?”

“It can’t possibly be too much!” I said indignantly. “Just try and see!”

“Very well.”

The lovely new lashes were awaiting me, ready to be introduced to my soft trembling flesh. Bob took up position behind me where I could not see him.

“Ready?”

“Oh, ready!” I whispered. “I’m always ready.”

For a few moments he teased me by just tickling me with the lashes: then their full force swished down on me. Bob concentrated on my bottom, of course, but varied his angle so that my thighs and my waist also received their share. The long lashes curled right round me, and sometimes Bob cleverly used only their tips on my thighs so that the ends could pass between my legs and flick their lovely pain at my dripping pussy. I lost all sense of time as I swayed ecstatically in my bonds and absurdly high heels. Soon I began to scream joyfully at every fierce stroke. I didn’t care if I was heard by other guests. I wanted to be. This heavenly place no doubt rang night and day to blissful screams of ecstasy from tortured girls. I had heard them in the night: now at last I was one of them.

All at once, with one part of my mind, I heard voices. People were approaching along the path to our suite. Tied as I was I could not see them, but at last they came into view and stood in front of me: a man and a girl carrying an elaborate breakfast on two trays. The man showed little reaction but the girl smiled broadly.

“Good morning sorrr! Good morning maam!” she said.

Bob kept on whipping, and I kept on groaning, squealing and begging for more.

“Don’t worry sorrr, maam!” she cried. “We’ll go round the side.”

There was a little gate in the side of the veranda railing. They disappeared from my vision and busied themselves, I supposed, with laying out the breakfast on the table behind us. Then they returned with just the empty trays, and bowed.

“Thank you, maam! Thank you sorrr!” said the girl. “Have a good day!” And then, stepping outside the script she had learned, “Be happy, maam!”

Bob went on whipping me as if nothing had happened and I went on screaming and imploring. But even heaven cannot last for ever, and at last Bob threw the whip aside and moved close to me. I could feel his erection pressing urgently against my hot, tormented bottom.

“That was lovely, darling,” he whispered in my ear.

“It was lovely for me, too. Heavenly. Must you stop?”

“I can’t go on for ever. Now, shall we fuck? Or would you like breakfast? Or shall I just leave you hanging here helpless so I can enjoy looking at you?”

“Oh, fuck me, darling. Please fuck me.”

So Bob released me from my bonds and my nose harness, and carried me carefully onto the lawn in front of our suite. The grass tickled and stimulated my tingling flesh beautifully.

“Please let me keep my nipple-clamps,” I begged.

“Of course. They look sweet on you.”

He took me in his arms and thrust his huge erection straight into my dripping pussy. We were both so aroused it didn’t take us long to come. We did nothing kinky, but straight sex is good too, occasionally, if you can find time for it between the perversions.

*

After breakfast, and another session of fucking on the lawn, we had wandered out to explore the resort’s grounds. Now we were sitting lazily together under a tree in the big garden: I was half lying between Bob’s open legs and leaning against his bare chest. I was naked above the waist too, and he was stroking my breasts and everywhere else he could reach, whispering into my ears from time to time that I would surely be more comfortable completely naked. I had on only a little microskirt in bright red, tightly moulded to my bottom, and with a broad black leather belt snug round my waist. I had chosen it to wear on our walk, knowing it would tease and tempt him even more than complete nudity would have done. Nothing underneath, of course; and shoes with heels and ankle straps. In fact the shoes were a bit difficult for wearing in a garden; but I knew the stimulating effect they had on Bob, and that was what mattered.

I was looking forward to getting completely nude, but there was no hurry. For the moment it was nice to lie within Bob’s arms, remembering the morning’s glorious lovemaking. I hoped he was remembering it happily too: my bottom was still tingling delightfully.

“Let me help you take your skirt off,” said Bob for the umpteenth time, his fingers giving my nipples a sexy pinch. “We could leave our clothes here and go for a walk through the woods.”

“Later,” I replied. “I’m busy.”

“What are you doing?”

Of course he could see very well what I was doing, but I guessed he would enjoy hearing me tell him, and why. I had brought my beloved whip out into the garden—the beautiful cat with nine long white lashes which stung so deliciously as they caressed me—and was tying a series of hard knots into each lash.

I wriggled closer to him so that my bottom could massage the agreeably hard lump between his legs, and explained.

“So that it will hurt you more?” he asked teasingly.

“Yes. So that it will hurt me more. So that you can hurt me more when you make love to me with it.”

By wriggling closer to him I had caused my skirt to move up my bottom and just reveal my crotch, a fact of which we were both very aware. Bob began to tickle the outer lips of my pussy; then he took his fingers away and licked them.

“Please don’t stop,” I murmured.

He put his fingers back where they belonged, exploring a little deeper and higher.

“Do you call it making love when I whip you? I like that.”

“Well, of course. It’s the best way of making love there is. For me, at any rate. I suppose it must be frustrating for you, doing all that work and me getting all the pleasure.”

“I make up for it later. If you remember.”

I giggled. I remembered.

“If you take your skirt off we could find somewhere in the woods for me to whip you. Make love to you, I mean.”

“Later. I haven’t finished yet.”

“Let me see what you’re doing.”

I handed him the whip, showing him the lash I was currently working on. He ran it through his fingers, then tied the next knot himself, pulling it tight and hard.

“Like that?”

“Just like that,” I said, testing his work with my fingers. “I’ll remember that you made this special knot whenever it kisses me.”

I kissed the hard little knot myself; twisted round in Bob’s arms and kissed him; and then snuggled back into my original position.

“You remind me of something I was reading recently,” said Bob.

“Oh yes? What?”

“I’m doing some research into nineteenth-century English pornography.”

“Did they have pornography then?”

“Oh, yes. Some of it is very good. I’m thinking about working with some Japanese friends to publish a series of translations.”

“Did they whip each other?” I asked, pulling another knot tight.

“Of course they did! They loved whipping! They did it all the time. Of course the equipment was less sophisticated. What they really enjoyed was whipping each other with birch twigs.”

“Really? Was that nice, do you think?”

“They used to cut long flexible twigs from birch trees, bind them in bundles and whip till they broke and fell apart. The girls adored it, and kept begging for more; and the men liked it too.”

“Why do I remind you of that?”

“Well, watching you working on that whip, adapting it so it will hurt you even more … there’s a section in one of the stories I’ve been reading.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, in the story a boy and his girl have just spent their first night together. They are in a garden, just like we are. Except that they are wearing clothes. He is telling her how wonderful she was, and she is shyly thanking him for everything he did to her.”

“Sounds rather tame,” I said.

“And he takes her to a birch tree and invites her to choose the twigs she will be whipped with next.”

“That’s more like it!”

“So she chooses twigs, just as you are working on your lashes. Ones that will really, really hurt. Of course she is very inexperienced and doesn’t know which ones to choose. So he shows her the ones with hard knots in them … just like the knots you’re putting in that whip … and tells her they’re the ones she will love best because of course they will hurt most. And she feels them with her fingers and blushes and says shyly ‘yes’, and he cuts them for her. It’s a very charming scene. Then they sit on the grass together, and he binds the twigs into big, strong bundles. And she strokes them and kisses them, and decorates the bundles with pretty pink ribbons.”

“That’s a nice idea. Does the story tell how he beats her with them—makes love to her with them, I mean?”

“Oh, yes! They find a private place, she pulls up her skirts—she isn’t wearing anything underneath, you see—and asks him very prettily to whip her. He invites her to choose one of the bundles of twigs, so she does that, and kisses it, and begs him to give her a lovely whipping with it. Which he does till it falls to bits.”

“Lucky girl!”

“Shall we go to a private place so I can beat you like he did?”

“Not yet,” I said, “I want to finish this first.”

“You really want me to hurt you more?”

“Of course! You know I do. I adored the pain you gave me this morning. I can never have enough. And I can never forget it was you who taught me.”

“I thought it was a teacher at your school who gave you your first experience.”

“Well, yes, and there were others who whipped me. Some of them were very good. But you have taught me to love it.”

“What does it feel like when I whip you?” Bob asked after a pause.

“Wonderful! You know that.”

“Yes; but I mean, in detail, step by step.”

“Well,” I said, starting on the next lash, “the first few strokes—say the first four or five—are dreadfully painful. When men did it to me the first few times I didn’t think I could stand it. But then I began to love the pain because of what comes next.”

“Yes. I enjoy the way you screamed, and then begged me to go on.”

“Anyway, recently I’ve found I love those first few strokes more and more. Not just because of the way they bring me to the threshold of pain and pleasure. But for their own sake. For the pure pain they give. It’s beautiful.”

I pulled another knot tight and hard. Another lash finished: two more to do. Then I could ask Bob to try out the improved whip on me. It was a good moment to suggest something I had been thinking about for some time.

“I’d like to ask you … it would be nice if you would stop for a bit after those few opening strokes. You know, pull me back. Don’t let me pass the threshold. Make me experience the pain again. And again … and again … and then push me over into pleasure when you want to. Make it your gift to me. Make me wait for it.”

My heart was beating fast and I could feel my pussy flooding with nectar. I could hardly find words to explain what I wanted. But Bob understood.

“Would you really like that?”

“Oh yes! You do understand, don’t you?” I added anxiously.

“Sure. But it would hurt you terribly.”

“Oh yes!” I said again. “Wonderfully.”

“Shouldn’t we set a limit at first? Or have some way you can tell me you’ve had enough?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” I said indignantly. “You don’t understand at all. Not knowing how long it will last … fearing it might go on for ever … that’s what will make it so incredibly exciting.”

“All right. Four or five strokes …”

“… Very, very hard ones …”

“… Then a pause to bring you down again. Then some more strokes, then stop again. Just when you are about to cross the pleasure threshold. Then again … and again …”

“That’s right!” I said. “Just pain, agony. Pure. Beautiful. And not knowing how long it will go on.”

“It sounds very sadistic.”

“Yes. Oh, yes! Utter bliss! Pure perversion.”

Bob licked his fingers.

“You know, there’s a lot of lovely cunt-juice going to waste here.”

“Well—just thinking about it …”

“Yes, I know—but I hate waste. Why don’t you sit on my face for a while?”

I scrambled up and helped Bob lie on his back on a comfortable patch of grass near the tree. Then I pulled my tight little skirt up round my waist—well, it was more or less there already, of course—and knelt either side of his head. Some drops of juice pattered onto him. I began carefully lowering my crotch over his face.

“While I’m sucking you,” he said before it was too late, “you can go on telling me what it feels like to be whipped. You know, crossing the threshold, and what happens next.”

Then his mouth was fully occupied kissing and licking my pussy, his hands firmly on my waist under the little skirt, his tongue digging deep into my love-hole and slurping up the juice which had gathered there. After a little while I decided to give him an extra treat, and without warning—the way I knew men liked it best—I began pissing into his open mouth. I felt rather than heard his shout of welcome, and his hands pulled me even more firmly onto his face, his mouth clamping itself to my pussy and pee-hole as if it were stuck there for ever. I could feel his throat muscles swallowing rhythmically.

Of course at my age my experience is limited, but now I have got to know Bob better I believe he is unusual in his gourmet approach to sex. He loves the flavour of young Japanese girls’ pee—much nicer, he says, than that of older girls which can be harsh and bitter. And of course much more delicious than the pee of Western girls. (He once said Korean girls’ pee tasted of garlic, but I wonder if he wasn’t making fun of me.) And of course he adores the taste of cunt-juice—but that’s natural enough. I adore the taste and aroma of cum, and am doing all I can to sample lots of different varieties and try to identify the subtle differences.

Suddenly, after my flow of fresh piss had come to an end, I felt him pull a little away from me and ask me, in a thick croak, to tell him more about whipping. I sat firmly down on his face.

“Silence, slave!” I commanded. “No talking! Suck!”

He obeyed me, and I rewarded him by telling him what he wanted to know.

“Well, once I’m through the pleasure/pain threshold, then of course every stroke of the whip gives me the most incredible pleasure. But it’s not just pain which has turned into pleasure. It’s pain felt as pleasure. It could become pain again at any moment, and that’s what makes it so thrilling. Do that again!”

The tip of Bob’s tongue was scooping round and over my clitoris, making it erect itself helplessly and sending delicious spasms of pleasure right through me.

“That’s right, like that. And of course the whipping sends me up, up into a sort of unearthly paradise and keeps me floating there. It’s like an old-style top being kept spinning. It can easily stop. Does stop, when you get tired of whipping me. But somewhere in the centre of that paradise I know there is perpetual bliss. One day I’ll find it. Then I’ll never come back … What are you doing?”

Bob had altered position, pushing my bottom forward over his face; he had somehow formed the tip of his tongue into a hard point and was entering the muscular ring of my anus.

“Oh, yes!”

He was persuading me, in the best possible way, that what I really wanted was a good fucking. His mouth was back on my crotch now, his tongue deep inside me, sucking up the new flow of liquid his stimulation of my clitoris and anus had inspired. But I was determined to finish my work on the whip first. I looked round as best I could without breaking the firm bond between Bob’s mouth and my aroused, dripping pussy. The whip was lying sprawled on the grass, just within reach. I somehow managed to get my fingers to one of the lashes, and hauled it in. Holding it now by the handle, I put it behind my back and let the lashes brush teasingly over Bob’s bare chest. I felt rather than heard an “mm’mm!” sound vibrate deeply inside my cunt.

I brought the whip round to my front again, identified the two lashes which had not yet been improved, and quickly tied the little knots, pulling them as tight and hard as possible. It did not take long: I knew very well that I had deliberately spun out the task so far, teasing myself—and Bob—by postponing the whipping and fucking which would follow. But I couldn’t wait any longer. I pulled my crotch away from Bob’s mouth, stood up, and helped him to his feet.

“That was lovely,” he said, licking his lips and wiping a hand over his glistening mouth, “but it didn’t last nearly long enough.”

“Do you really like sucking my pussy so much?” I asked, for the twentieth time that weekend.

“You know I do. You taste delicious. And thank you for the piss. That was a lovely surprise.”

I looked down modestly.

“Help me take my skirt off,” I said.

Of course I could easily have taken it off by myself, but I knew he would enjoy doing it for me. He put his arms round me from behind and slowly undid the tight, broad belt. Then he knelt before me and pulled the tiny skirt down my thighs. He kissed my neatly trimmed cunt hair and looked up.

“Ready, darling?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “I’ve been ready for ages.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“I wanted to tease you. You like being teased, don’t you?”

“Yes. And so do you, you little pervert.”

He was out of his jeans now, his cock beautifully erect. My hands reached out for it.

“Oh, your darling cock,” I said, “Wouldn’t you like to fuck me first?”

“Whipping first, then fucking,” he said firmly.

“Of course, Master,” I said submissively. “Let’s go and find a nice place for you to tie me up. You have brought some ropes, haven’t you?”

He picked up a small shoulder bag which had been lying under the tree, and looked down at me with a smile.

“And … and please remember what you promised.”

“What about?”

“About … you know …”

I could hardly continue. I was about to commit myself to the most exquisite torment I had ever enjoyed. It was all my own idea and I could only hope I could stand the agony. There would be no going back.

“About stopping and starting again …” I managed to croak out. “Not letting me cross the threshold …”

“You really want me to do that? Again and again? Torment you till you beg for mercy? Except we both know you won’t?”

I nodded in dumb supplication. He took me and kissed me, one hand lightly tickling my bottom with the tips of his nails, the other suddenly squeezing my nipple fiercely.

“Oh, that was lovely!” I said when I had got my breath back.

“What a sweet little masochist you are!”

“Of course,” I said. “All Japanese girls are masochists.”

“Nearly all,” he corrected.

“Well, some just haven’t yet discovered the truth about themselves. They love pain really. They just have to learn.”

“Yes,” said Bob. “And it’s my job to teach them. That’s my missionary work.”

Both fully naked now, we walked together into the woods in search of a suitable spot where I could be bound between the trees and subjected to new refinements of exquisite pain. My pussy and arsehole, damp with Bob’s saliva, fluttered eagerly in the fresh air; but it would be a long while yet before they could be penetrated as they longed to be. I had the beautiful whip in my hand, its loving lashes dragging lightly along the grass. I was on my way to be tortured … tortured slowly, ever so slowly, into Paradise. I longed for it more than I had ever longed for any sexual experience before.

It wasn’t difficult to find a suitable place. We came to a big tree with a horizontal branch about three metres above the ground. Someone had thoughtfully fixed a pair of short chains to the branch, ending in big steel rings. Bob put down the bag he was carrying, opened it, and produced black leather cuffs. I surrendered my lovely whip and held out my hands as he buckled the cuffs firmly round my wrists. Then he looped short lengths of rope between my cuffs and the rings hanging from the tree, and shortened them till I was standing tautly, my feet just able to take my weight as I stood in partial contact with the ground. Bob took another rope and tied my ankles firmly together, then wound the rope round my legs before tying the ends at the level of my knees. I was now completely helpless, and trembling with desire.

“Torture me, Master—oh, please torture me,” I murmured.

“Soon, darling, soon. A little decoration first.”

He held before my eyes the pair of special masochist nipple-clamps, the ones he had used on me earlier that morning. He attached them tenderly, the fierce little jaws biting lusciously into my erect nipples.

“Ohh, lovely! Ohh, thank you, Master!”

“Now kiss the whip.”

“Of course. Before it kisses me.”

He held it to my lips, and longingly, lovingly, I kissed each darling lash in turn.

“Please give me a good whipping. A lovely whipping. The most wonderful whipping you ever gave anyone. Like that girl in the old story you were telling me about …”

He disappeared from my line of vision, and I felt his fingers stroking the trembling flesh he was about to torture so beautifully. Then at last it came.

“Swish …”

The most erotic sound I know: the tiny moment before the whip strikes, caressing and loving me.

“Ohhh!!”

The supple leather lashes bit into my arse, enhanced by the flashing golden points of extra pain from the little hard knots I had worked so hard to add to their beauty.

“Swish …”

Again; this time with all Bob’s strength. The pain was the most extreme I had ever felt; it flooded through my yearning body, pure and not yet blended with pleasure.

Another short pause; another agonising stroke from the nine knotted lashes; and then again. I could sense the pain/pleasure threshold ahead of me: it was almost within my reach and I longed for it so … a fifth stroke would send me, screaming with joy, through the gateway …

It didn’t come. With a refinement of cruelty—which I somehow remembered, in another life, having devised myself—Bob let the lashes fall; I floated sadly back to earth.

Three more times Bob subjected me to this refined torture, taking me to the edge of bliss and then refusing to let me cross it. I was completely helpless: I had not agreed with Bob how many times he would repeat the process, nor of course were we using cowardly devices like “safe” words. I had started on a journey which I was powerless to stop. I suddenly realised that this was the most extreme form of the self-teasing which I enjoyed so much: making myself wait for the moment when I finally became nude in a public performance, keeping myself unsatisfied and holding back from the ultimate sexual gratification … The fifth time Bob at last relented and allowed the lovely whip to take me all the way to the heart of Paradise, to that infinity of bliss and pleasure which I know is where I belong.

NOTE: Victorian pornography is a fascinating study. A good place to start is a magazine called The Pearl, which appeared from July 1879 to December 1880 with a final issue dated “Christmas 1881”. It includes some very enjoyable serial novels. Complete sets are easily available in reprints and on the internet. In some ways our great-great-grandfathers’ tastes were different from ours: they liked their girls fatter and with more pubic hair, for example. But their literature contains delightful and vivid descriptions of whipping, oral sex, slavery, nude sex-parties and so on.

The charming pre-whipping ritual which Bob describes to Takako occurs often in Victorian pornography and is based on real life. In his enjoyable and often stimulating study of Victorian sexuality The Worm in the Bud: The World of Victorian Sexuality (London, 1969), Ronald Pearsall describes a Mrs Walter, who advertised “a respectable chastising service for unruly daughters”, using “a strong narrow table, straps (waistband with sliding straps, anklets, and wristlets), cushions, and good long pliable birch rod.” The victim would be required to bring the instrument herself from where it was kept, kiss it reverently, and beg to be given the best possible whipping. Afterwards, her sensuality on fire, she would again worship the instrument and, on her knees, prettily express her thanks and beg the gift of another lovely whipping soon. When a whipping had been promised in advance, she might be required to construct her own birch bundle from a quantity of twigs provided. Clearly an “unruly” daughter was one who had been detected experimenting with masturbation, and the service provided by women like Mrs Walter ensured that she experienced the delights of the whip and the cane just at the right time for them to become an essential part of her sensuality. She would then one day be a delightfully submissive bride for a suitably stern Victorian husband.