Spanking Stories – Vanessa – Slave Girl

Tuesday, May 1, 2012


‘Dear Sir Larry Greythorpe,’ she wrote. ‘I have been following your escapades in Kane, magazine for some years now, and I finally find myself possessed of enough courage to write to you with a request. Do you remember the very first cabaret? I wasn’t there, of course, but I remember the details from the article about it in the magazine. The piece that I had in mind was the dream sequence’ – (dream sequence? What dream sequence?) ‘Where the black slave gets whipped by her master, and then goes into an exotic dance with an imaginary white female slave.’ – (Oh ! THAT dream sequence!) ‘You see, I’m a coloured woman myself, and for years now I’ve had this fantasy about being a black slave in the Southern states of America and being whipped by a real master. From what I can remember of your articles in Kane, you sort of specialise in helping out with fantasies. How would you feel about helping me out with mine?’

The rest of the letter covered a great many details, personal and otherwise, that don’t concern us here and now. The only bit that I think deserves a mention runs as follows. ‘I don’t think I’ve got the strength to take the cane,’ she wrote, ‘But I must say that the martinet sounds fascinating. I get the impression that this is just the thing for the beginner – which, I blush to admit, is just what I am. So, if you don’t mind being patient with me, perhaps…’ The letter ended there. Apart, that is from the signature. Vanessa. to say I was intrigued is to put it mildly. I put typewriter to paper immediately, and had the letter in the postbox before the gum on the stamp was dry.

I think Vanessa was just as eager as I was. Her second letter arrived within two days of the first, so quickly, in fact, that I found it hard not to believe that she’d brought it round by hand and dumped it in the mailbox. Be that as it may, the contents of that letter were everything that I could wish. Yes, she would be delighted to see me. Yes, she lived fairly convenient. In Earl’s Court, to be exact. What should she wear? She had a raggy old dress – would that do? And would I please bring-? Etc., etc., etc. I’m sure your imaginations are equal to the task of filling the blanks. And then came the bit that I’d been waiting for. ‘Would next Thursday afternoon at two-thirty be alright?’

The next Thursday saw me threading my way though the back streets off penywern road (and that’s ALL the clues you’re going to get!), my old black briefcase clutched in my hot little hand. She didn’t, apparently, want the full costume fantasy the first time around. This was to be a dress rehearsal, to see how she felt about playing out the fantasy for real. I don’t get actually worried about the fantasy scene, but I must admit to a certain frisson of uncertainty about what I’m likely to find when the door opens in answer to my knock/ring/holler or other summons. You see, every one of these encounters is a little like a blind date. You never know wether your counterpart is going to be Pamela Anderson or Roseanne Barr. In this case, however, I needn’t have worried. Vanessa was more than just presentable.

She must have stood around five feet tall in her bare feet. Which they were. A pale yellow housecoat was wrapped tightly enough around her to show that she had a slender little figure of the kind that begs to be unwrapped. Her skin – what I could see of it – was a pale coffee colour, and her hands and feet were small and delicate. Her face was a perfect oval, crowned with a bushy Afro hairstyle that just missed being totally “over the top” and set off to perfection the enormous brown eyes and little flattened nose. Her lips were full rather than thick, and her teeth, although large, were quite perfect and gleamed like polished ivory. I felt my heart rate pick up an extra beat as I took her in with my eyes. She really was quite lovely.

‘Oh!’ she gasped, pulling the housecoat a little more tightly about her body. ‘It’s you.’ (I couldn’t argue with that, really. It was.) ‘Come inside, quick,’ she continued, grabbing my lapel and pulling me through the doorway, ‘Before I loose my nerve!’ I found myself in a largeish room that seemed to do duty as living-room, lounge, bedroom, kitchen and study. In a corner by the window was a desk that bore a large computer/word processor and several piles of neatly arranged papers, giving that tiny area the look of a mini-office. In the opposite corner was as small a sink as I have ever seen, next to a small work-surface on which reposed a Baby Belling cooker and one of those electric kettles that looks like a tall jug. Underneath this was a small refrigerator that hummed happily to itself and an ironing-board reclined against the wall beside it. A narrow divan bed, a small armchair, a coffee-table and a portable television set on what looked like a bar-stool completed all the furnishing arrangements. Even as I took this in, I became aware that she was speaking again.

‘Well?’ she almost whispered. ‘Will I do?’ I turned to face her. She had allowed the housecoat to fall open. and was standing with her arms spread, inviting my inspection. And she was worth inspecting. Her legs were surprisingly long and slim, and her waist looked small enough to be spanned by two hands. Even as I looked, she dropped the housecoat completely and turned to show me her smooth, gleaming back. I ran my hand gently over them and felt them clench in anticipation. Slowly, she turned to face me, and I became tautly aware of the plump, grapefruit-sized breasts with their large, dark, almost black aureoles and succulent nipples. For just a moment she allowed her hands to flutter down to cover them, as if my appraising stare was just a little too much to be borne, but she recovered herself and, with an effort, placed them firmly behind her head. ‘Well?’ she repeated at length. ‘Will I do?’ I do not blush to affirm that I had to swallow – hard – before I answered. ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘You will do most admirably.’ I moved away from her and set down my briefcase. ‘Yes, my dear,’ I reiterated, striving to keep the tremor out of my voice. ‘You will do most delightfully. And what is it that you would like to do? She crossed to the bed and, trembling slightly, lowered herself to sit on the extreme edge of it. ‘I want you,’ she said, huskily, ‘To treat me exactly as you did that other slave. Don’t bother, with the words yet. Perhaps, some other time, you can come back and we can play out the scene just as you did before. But for now – well-’ She lowered her eyes and thought for a moment. ‘You see,’ she confessed, suddenly, ‘I’m afraid I’m a bit of a coward. I know I’ve dreamed about this for a long time now, but what if the reality doesn’t measure up to the dream? I might easily find out that I don’t – I can’t-’ her voice trailed off helplessly.

I pulled the armchair close to her, and took her hand. ‘If that’s the case,’ I replied, firmly, ‘We stop. Even a great many people who’ve been part of what we call The Scene all their lives don’t know what their limits are, and the whole point of a scenario like this is that the participants should enjoy it. So look on this as a rehearsal – a special session to find out what you enjoy, and what you don’t. If anything happens that you don’t enjoy, tell me to stop. And I’ll stop.’ The enormous eyes widened even further.

‘Just like that?’ she gasped.

‘Just like that.’ I assured her. She frowned a little in puzzlement and disbelief.

‘I didn’t think that, once you’d started, you could stop.’

I shook my head. ‘Some can’t,’ I answered. ‘I can. Shall we begin?’

For a moment she sat motionless. Then, in a sudden spurt of decision, she bounded to her feet with a whispered, ‘Let me get ready.’ I sat where I was as she moved behind me, and I heard the rustling of material as she climbed into the “raggety old dress” of which she had written in her letter. By now, I must admit the juices were fairly flowing, and it seemed ages before I heard her whisper huskily, ‘I’m ready master.’ (What is it about that word “master” that sets the hairs on the back of one’s neck tingling? I must have heard it a thousand times, and it never fails to produce the same effect!) Slowly I got up, turned to face her – and stepped back in time to that very first Kane cabaret. It was a very plain, simple summer dress with narrow shoulder straps and what had been a flared skirt, but she had so ripped and slashed it that the skirt was now little more than a ragged fringe around those polished silk thighs, and one plump recalcitrant nipple peeped temptingly through a rent in the bodice. She held her hands before her with the wrists crossed. ‘I’d rather not have my wrists tied – not just yet,’ she said with a shaky laugh. ‘Perhaps later. When we do it properly.’ I nodded. ‘Whatever you want,’ I agreed. ‘How do you want to start?’ ‘You know,’ she answered. ‘Cut my dress off. Remember?’

I nodded, and, opening my briefcase, I took out the Bowie knife that lay there, wicked and menacing. Her eyes widened once again. ‘Oh, my God!’ she breathed – not without reason. My Bowie knife is virtually a copy of those from the forge of the Arkansas master James Black, who made the original. Picture a blade ten and a half inches long, two and a quarter wide and three eights thick with a four-inch clip point, straight out of “Crocodile Dundee!” I sensed the trembling of her body as it approached her, and I lay my hand gently and reassuringly upon her back as I slid it under the shoulder strap of her dress. ‘Don’t be frightened,’ I whispered as the edge sliced through the fabric. ‘I’ll be careful not to hurt you.’ The material parted easily, and the cloth fell away from her shoulder, revealing the generous swell of one breast as it did so. A shudder ran through her entire body at the touch of the cold steel, but she made no move away from me. I stepped behind her and repeated the manoeuvre, and she gasped aloud as the ruined dress fell to her waist. A simple tug brought it cascading to the floor around her bare feet, leaving her naked once again and very, very ready.

‘Stay there!’ I snapped, sheathing the blade and tossing it to one side. The trembling of her body was now no longer fear but simple anticipation. ‘Now the whip!’ she hissed. ‘Now!’ Once more I turned to the briefcase, to bring out my very own favourite martinet – eight broad lashes of soft black leather mounted on an eight-inch handle of hickory, leather-covered and polished with use. She ran her tongue over her lips as she saw it, wether from fear or surprise I have no idea. I took her by her crossed wrists and, pulling her away from the fallen dress, I half-expected her to protest, but, after a moment of purely token struggle, she allowed herself to be pushed down into what I have been pleased to call the Triangle of Acceptance – her head and shoulders down on the floor, her fingers clawing at the carpet, those rich, plump buttocks raised and totally available over parted thighs, revealing full, ripe labia, already beginning to dew in her excitement with the pearly body fluids. It was time.

Slowly and gently – so very gently – I trailed the lashes across the lifted buttocks. I watched for the muscles to tighten involuntarily, then, at the exact moment of relaxation, I brought the lashes down across the naked flesh.


It was a cry, not of pain or protest, but of exultation, the cry of one who has realised a dream. ‘Yes!’ she cried aloud. ‘Like that! Again! And harder!’ I brought the lashes down again, and yet again, sending them spattering against the pale brown flesh that bucked and writhed in the sheer pleasure of this new sensation. The swing of my arm, the crack of the lashes and her cries of encouragement formed a heady rhythm, and it wasn’t long before a rich, dark bloom began to cover the dusky skin of those tempting nates. I broke off my ministrations for a moment, to the accompaniment of a wail of protest from my temporary slave, while I knelt beside her to insinuate my hand beneath her body to cup and fondle the soft brown breasts. She buried her mouth in the crook of her arm, crooning gently to herself, as I moulded the ripe, pliant flesh. Rising to my feet again – to the accompaniment of another wail of protest from my delightful partner (some women are never satisfied!) – I ran one hand lightly over the glowing curves of that beautifully heated rear. Satisfied that she was ready for it, I stood behind her, measured my distance carefully and began to swing the lashes forehand, backhand, forehand, backhand, catching each buttock in turn, while she writhed and squirmed, howling as she did so, totally lost in the depths of her fantasy.

I don’t know how long it was before she collapsed almost bonelessly on to the floor, gasping and panting like a sated animal. ‘Enough?’ I asked her. ‘Do you want me to stop now?’ She shook her head and wriggled her body straight, face down, before answering. ‘My back!’ she demanded. ‘Now, my back – and harder!’

For answer, I thrust the handle of the martinet into my belt, and, scooping her up into my arms, I carried her across to the bed and lay her upon it face down, her legs straight, her arms, with wrists still crossed, stretched out above her head. She was completely unresisting, and she gave a little whimper of pleasure when I trailed the lashes over the brown satin skin of her back. Suddenly she turned her face towards me, the liquid brown eyes starting to swim with tears. ‘This – this is my fantasy, isn’t it?’ she asked, a little uncertainly. ‘I can play it any way I like?’ I nodded, a little nonplused. ‘That’s the whole point of my being here,’ I assured her. ‘Why do you ask?’ She swallowed hard. ‘Because this time,’ she replied, in a voice so small that I Barely heard her, ‘I really want to be the slave. Don’t take any notice at all of what I say – no notice at all. When I want you to stop, I’ll – I’ll uncross my wrists. All right?’ I nodded, and stroked her shoulder, reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, Vanessa,’ I said. This is your dream. Enjoy it.’ She nodded once. ‘Nessie,’ she whispered. ‘Call me Nessie. And I’m ready now.’

The downward swing wasn’t as tricky as I had imagined it would be – partly, I suppose, because of the height of the bed. The first lash landed neatly across her back, just below the shoulder-blades, and she emitted a howl quite unlike anything she had given up until now. ‘No, Massa Buck!’ she wailed, in the accent of purest Dixie. ‘Doan make me do dis t’ing! Nessie ain’t a bad girl! I work in de fields, I scrub in de house, I cook an’ clean in de kitchen – but doan make me bed wid you! It ain’ right! It sinful!’ So that, I thought, was what she had in mind. The helpless little slave, forced into bed by a wicked master – real Simon Legree stuff! Down came the martinet again, and yet again, as she howled and pleaded, and the soft brown satin skin slowly began to darken to match the curves of her buttocks.

Stoke after stroke, lash after lash fell across the slender, writhing form as she pleaded and wailed – and wept! Yes, even wept. As she descended deeper and deeper into the depths of the fantasy that she had built up for herself, tears sprayed from the limped brown eyes as she thrashed her head from side to side. Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, she flung her arms wide, and, with a single squirm of her lithe little body she was lying face up, her face a mask of tragedy. ‘Doan beat me no more, Massa Buck,’ she whispered. ‘If I got to do it, I got to-’ Her voice trailed away, as she parted her thighs, bent her knees, and held out her arms to me in unmistakable invitation.

I have always been pretty good at quick changes, but I don’t think I have ever got out of my clothes more quickly that I did that afternoon. No sooner had my clothing joined her ragged dress on the floor than she reached over to me, and, taking my already lively love-dagger in one soft little hand, she drew me to her side, raised herself on one elbow and captured me with lips and tongue. I felt myself swelling and hardening as she sucked and nibbled, stroking and caressing with the hand that held me prisoner. Then, lowering herself once more on to her back, she raised her arms to me once again, with a whispered, ‘You wanna do it to me now, Massa Buck?’

For answer, I lowered myself on to her, feeling her arms and legs twine themselves around me as I did so. Her moist little sex seemed to open to me like a flower as I slid into her, slowly – so very slowly – a fraction of an inch at a time, as she gasped and wailed and pleaded. She was tight and resilient, like a strong little hand in a moist velvet glove. I withdrew almost to the limit. Then, with a great thrust of my hips, I drove back into her in one great surge. She bucked and wriggled underneath me as I rode her. I could feel all her sensations in the grip of her tight little sex. Her climax came long and satisfying with the clutch of her arms about me, her cry of triumph in my ear, and the tightening of the girths of pleasure.

* * * * *

It was sometime later that she asked me the question that had obviously been trembling on her lips for some time. Somehow we were lying side on that narrow bench of a bed, her head pillowed on my chest and one soft grapefruit of a breast cupped in my questing hand. She raised her head and looked at me with worried eyes. ‘was it – all right?’ she ventured. I couldn’t help smiling. ‘I should be asking you that question,’ I retorted. She brushed my reply aside and grabbed my manhood, teasing it gently back to life. ‘You know what I mean,’ she insisted. ‘Was I all right?’ I laughed, nodding ‘You were quite wonderful,’ I assured her. She shook her head. ‘Not just – that,’ she answered. ‘I mean – all that “Massa Buck” stuff. You didn’t think it was – well – stupid?’

‘Look,’ I replied, ‘If you want to play at being Nessie and Massa Buck, just give me a bit of notice. Then I’ll bring the costume and the props and we’ll play out the whole fantasy. This was just a dress rehearsal. And watch what you’re doing to my chopper down there! In the words of the prophet, if you don’t want the apples, stop shaking the tree!’

She grinned wickedly at me, and moved her body astride my hips. ‘I got to show you I an obedient girl now, ain’t I she whispered, easing herself on to my love-pole, ‘Or maybe Massa Buck won’t come callin’ agin-’

Oh, he will, Nessie.

He will.

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