Regarding Wanda B


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Reprinted With Permission from Cuir Underground

Copyright (c) 1997 Cuir Underground

From Issue 3.5 - June 1997

Rgearding Wanda B.

An Excerpt from The Second Coming

By Mistress J.R.

Review of The Second Coming
Coming to Power: A Retrospective

Somehow it is still amazing to me: the way she twists and turns in her chains; how she screams when the whip comes down; her look of terror as I pull out the devices I've planned to use on her that night; how the tears run down her beautiful face and she bites her quivering lip when she sees it's all just started, that it'll be a long session and that yes, it's real. She's so unlike any bottoms I've known, the ones who attempt to endure almost silently, feeling it a loss of face to cry out. Not that they were not enjoyed immensely, but I love this one's whimpers and pleas and screams and begging, her soft appeals and shrieking no's, her offer to give me anything, to do anything, if only I'll stop. She cries and pulls away as far as the chains and restraints will allow. She gives me all her fear, her horrible fantasies, her vulnerability, and in so doing is free to face those fears and feel the release of giving up control; to feel the freedom that comes from being totally at my mercy, totally at my command. And it still amazes me, the wetness that builds between her legs, how her clit and cunt will swell until her wetness is impossible to ignore and I begin telling her what type of girl she is: one who loves the whip, the humiliation, who screams yet grows wet, who cries "stop!" but not our safety word.

So I release her and allow her to crawl. She kisses my boots and thanks me for what has occurred, and I catch her admiring her red raised welt marks in the mirror out of the corner of her eye. She sees me watching this and looks down as if ashamed. But she knows I know she is feeling proud now, and she smiles. She sees the bowl of water for her to lap from and the jar she can relieve herself into if need be. She drinks, her head lowered to the bowl, her ass raised, exposing her delicious sex. It is impossible not to want her. But she needs to service me first -- to rise to her knees and ease this heat she's caused in me. Her chain, the one she wears continuously locked around her waist, rattles as she crawls to me, eyes downcast as she receives her instructions. I feel her collar between my thighs as she gives me her thanks and worships at the alter of her mistress -- building then exploding then easing my heat until she drinks all my signs of approval. She is pleased with herself -- and should be.

I praise her as I pet her and put her bit and bridle in place. She moans as I lube her ass and show her the flogger she'll soon be wearing. She kisses it, and I lube the handle and slowly work it into her ass. She bites at the bit and moans -- then crawls for me, bridle in place and the thongs of the flogger swaying behind her, the handle gripped by her ass as the strands touch her thighs and the back of her legs teasingly. She goes through her paces for me, from a slow crawl to her prances, and occasionally I let the whip accentuate her stride. And then, when she's showing off the most, I stop her, tell her to crawl slowly again, then demand she quit using her knees. She pulls herself along with her hands and drags herself around the rooms and back to me. She's crying again -- crying yet proud -- and she looks at me questioningly as she rises to her knees before me and straddles my right boot. She eases herself up to where her clit rubs the length of leather from my knee down. She asks silently for my okay and upon my nod begins humping herself on my boot -- her wetness streaking my black boots and her scent rising to my nostrils and exciting me again. As she humps my leg, her hands holding my thigh, I call her a bitch in heat. I tell her that she is being excited by what decent women would be repelled at, by what most would call perversion, by what any woman but a cunt-sleaze-slut-bitch-tramp would shy from, would turn from. And here she is throbbing and begging, begging for forgiveness and begging for more as she humps and lubes my boots and leathers with her juices all the more. I watch her, ask her what she would not allow; she responds, "Nothing" -- as long as she can release her passion -- and begs for this release. I move my leg upward suddenly with enough force to tip her on her back. I demand she resume her all-fours position. Her wetness is incredible. She lifts her cunt to me as she lowers her head. I begin stroking her hard clit as I work my fingers into her swollen, ready cunt.

She's moaning again -- moaning and crying and begging me not to stop. She knows I've no intention to slow my pace. I tell her of things to come, and I remind her of past scenes we've had -- of the cutting, of showing her off and sharing her, of the piercing and shaving. I feel her open as each finger, one at a time, slips in until that final lubed digit, my thumb, curls and strikes...gently, slowly, but with no hesitation. She screams around her bit as my fist disappears inside of her. I fuck her slowly, then with a firmness that makes her tell me she's feeling high. And then that girl comes -- strong-- her clit, and her cunt, and I see the handle of the flogger moving in and out by her own ass muscles grasping and releasing. I withdraw my fist, slowly, release her mouth from the bit. She's sobbing. She thanks me and renews her commitment of belonging to me. I hold her and comfort her. She lies at my feet, and I go get the cold cloth to ease her still-present welts and confess my love and pride for her. She crawls onto the couch beside me, curls up, and places her head in my lap. Tears and whimpers and coos of satisfaction...

Sometimes it still amazes me.


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