Dutiful Dereliction
Dark lusts fulfilled in a derelict house
Read the illustrated version of Dutiful Dereliction on Secret Obsessions
Beneath my heavy coat the knots that hold me tighten. Rope bites, pulling soft skin into leather wrinkles. The only clue to our purpose, the gag between my teeth, its buckle behind my head, catching strands of hair and causing pinpricks on my scalp.
The world fades. What is this place? We walk through large rooms with high, once white ceilings that are faded to parchment cream. All around paint and wallpaper are peeling and the no longer polished floors crunch with debris under my high heels. In my nose, there is the stale musty smell of neglect.
Time seems to slip away. I feel our hosts, ghosts from the past, watching me.
My master stops, turns to face me. I wait obediently.
He reaches out and unbuttons my coat. The coarse material slides across my naked breasts. Blood flows to my nipples as if eager to share in the sensation. Stepping back, he takes time to admire his captive before waving a finger in a circular gesture.
I turn, the coat slips from my shoulders and crumples on the floor.
He unfolds a long leather strop from his pocket and in response, I bend forward the skin tightening expectantly across my behind.
I know he is looking, imagining the sound of the leather biting into my cheeks and, afterwards, the sensation of pushing his flesh between them. His hand holding the strop does not move.
I feel his fingers on my skin as they push beneath the soft lace of my panties. He grips the waistband and tugs them down. The material bites into my thighs. Desire again creeps through me.
He unbuckles the gag, tearing at my hair, freeing my mouth for his use.
Naked, stripped of all but my stockings worn for him, I wait. I hear his shoes crunching on the floor behind me and, despite his instructions issued an age ago, turn to look.
My buttocks sting. I gasp and look away mindful of the game. I bend forward anxious to play, no anxious to be a true submissive. To fulfil his, and my desires.
The crack of the strop echoes around the empty room, mixing with my cries. My skin burns with each strike. Lust seeps from me, I feel it on the soft skin of my thighs. I strain against the bonds, my passion convulsing my body. I howl like a she wolf and the sound fills the room.
Rough hands move me forward and push my face into the dust on the unyielding top of a table.
I wait, the pain permeates through my body and tiny electric shocks rise from the folds between my legs. Nipples harden, fingers twitch with longing.
I sense his presence close to me, feel his gaze brushing my skin. I wait. Anticipation mounts. A single touch would spark a discharge that would flow through my being. There is silence. I can sense no movement. The only touch is imagined.
Still I wait. Arousal quickens I know my sex is soft and honeyed yearning for a touch. If I could I would slip my fingers between the folds knowing that this would bring forth another swish of the strop. Its biting strikes stinging across my skin would only add to my lust, but there is nothing I can do held tight by the rope.
At last, it comes.
Hands grip my curves, fingers biting into the pliant flesh, nails scouring my skin. I spread my legs, eager for him to quench my desire and feel the head of his solid, smooth, flesh sliding between my lips.
There is no resistance, I part like melting butter. The skin of his thighs melds with mine as he fills me completely.
The delight as he slides out, the skin and veins of his shaft sparking every nerve within me. His thrusts force wails of joy from my mouth which echo off the dusty, tattered walls surrounding us.
“Fuck me, fuck me harder,” at last I can no longer constrain my voice in obedience. I take control for a few seconds, shoving my sex against his thrusts, my body tensing. The room around me disintegrates and my entire mind is concentrated on the warm liquid life pulsing into me.
He pauses for a moment, breathing heavily, his sword sheathed in me like a perfectly fitting scabbard. Then he slides out.
I moan at the emptiness but he grabs my hair and spins me around, forcing me down. My stockings tear as the rough fragments on the floor press into my knees. His cock, still half aroused, seed dripping from its head, hangs in front of my lips.
I greedily take it in my mouth, tasting the bittersweet salt on my tongue as I slide it deep into my throat. Life returns, it is swelling again with desire for me. A desire that I am happy to submit to.
Become a free subscriber to read all my free stories on SimoneFrancis.com and my illustrated stories on Secret-Obsessions.com
Paid subscribers can read my erotic and BDSM books and serials.
One of the hottest, most intense new entries in the Simonian Canon! The ambiguity adds a lot here I think--you don't get too much into details about the two lovers. You leave the man a shadowy, dominant power, bringing his physicality in just enough to reference his wielding the strop, and of course, the geography of his cock. Her physical description is also sparse--the gag, the coat and bindings, the stockings--the contrast of them versus her naked body when stripped of her coat--the pain from the strikes, blood surging into her nipples, her feral "howl like a she wolf." Excellent work on POV--being totally in her mind--and giving a live update on every sensation and her desire to submit to him. Her being pulled by her hair, pushed to the floor, the stockings ripped, being positioned to fellate him, then the story ends abruptly. Given the dark, eerie setting, the chiaroscuro which dominates the space, the sparse imagery, and the sheer intensity of physicality and sensation here, I get a heavy dreamlike vibe from this piece, like we, as readers, are voyeuristically peeking into the dark shadows of a mind--a fantasy, something longed for, pined and desired, but denied somehow, except in the netherworld (or, as the Jungian psychologist James Hillman would say--"underworld") of the dreamscape, where inhibitions do not exist, morality is forbidden, and all pleasures are freely indulged without judgement, without consequence. Further, the shadowy, vague descriptions of the couple can allow readers to go beyond voyeurism to slip into the fantasy, and become one or both of the characters--neither the man nor the woman are described in painstaking detail, so the scenario's doors are open to all who have the desire and vision to engage the fantasy, share the feelings, the sights and sounds of the space, etc. It's something of an "interactive" piece of erotica. Among your finest, Simone! Bravissima!
“There is no resistance, I part like melting butter. The skin of his thighs melds with mine as he fills me completely.”
Suddenly I craved butter.. 🤤