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The Canvas

Category: BDMS
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You stand before me, hands behind your back, awaiting instruction attentively. I gesture in a way you understand. You unhook your bra, slide off your panties and hand them to me. I inhale the warm undergarments, kiss them, then set them aside.

I step closer, grip you firmly by your upper arms and lower my head onto your throat, just under your collar.

My lips close around a familiar purple blemish. I take your bruised flesh into my mouth, teeth clamping on it, and I suck hard on you.I feel you squirm and writhe, but you hold your ground. Your vein pulses in my mouth, stronger as I suck more assertively, until your head starts to turn and your whimpering comes.

I take my teeth off you, and look at the glistening vivid blemish, more swollen and darker than ever. I take you by the hair and walk you to my full-length mirror, to let you look at yourself. Your fingers stray instinctively to the fresh bruise.

“Your thoughts, darling.” “I love it, Christopher. I love your mark on me.” “Tell me why I do this.” “To mark me as yours.” “There’s more to it than that, darling.”

Standing behind you as we study your nude form in the mirror, I stroke your face and breasts with the back of my hand, a gentle touch.

“It’s also about the compromising of perfection. This” – I fondle your breasts and nipples – “is perfect, beautiful. I like to impose flaws on it, on you. In this way I take possession, make your perfection mine, make you my work, not nature’s. You are my canvas, darling. I write myself on your body. Your role is to render your beautiful self to me to spoil – to willingly let me flaw and mark you for my own ends.”

“Yes, Christopher, I do, so willingly. I offer myself to you to bruise, to mar, to tear. I want to be your work, not nature’s.”

I slip my fingers into your mouth, and you suck on them hungrily, turning your face back to catch a direct glimpse of my eyes.

I turn you to me again, then pull out a length of white cord. You watch my eyes and hands as I pull your arms behind your back, and make you hold them by the elbows. Moving back and forth behind and in front of you, I wind the rope around your forearms, elbow to wrist, then round your front, under your tits, and back and forward. Next, the rope goes up between your tits, over your shoulders and down your back again, round your wrists and round your front again. When I’m done, your tits stand out prominently, the rope is tight on your ribcage and your arms are bound tightly behind your back.

I take your right breast in my hand, squeezing slightly. I hold it high, from where the rope hugs its base. Your nipple is hard. I raise my free hand and slap your breast hard, with a sharp smack. You yelp and whimper. The breast reddens. I slap your tit again. And again. And again. Each slap is harder than the previous. Your cries grow louder, turning from yelps to shouts. my hand is further back with each wheeling slap. Your beaten breast is red and swollen now, larger and darker than its sister.

I look you in your tear-streaked eyes. “Darling, do you think it will bruise?” You nod mutely, stifling sobs. “Brave girl. Now we can’t have you asymmetrical, can we?” “No, Christopher, no. Please beat my left breast too.” “I don’t think you really want that, darling.” “No, I do, I do. PLEASE beat my tit, please hurt me, please make my breasts black with your bruises. I am your canvas, my love.”

I nod, and pause to kiss your lips, a kiss you return lovingly.

I take your left breast now, and holding it firmly I raise my hand high. But I pause there, holding the pose.

“Do it, Christopher. Please, I beg you. Slap my tit as hard as you can,” you cry.

I bring my hand down fast, with a resounding smack. Your cry is deep from your throat. You stagger a little, unable to balance well because of your bound arms. I lift my hand and slap your tit harder. Harder. Harder. It starts to redden, then shades into purple, and swells to match its sister. Both nipples are dark and hard. You face is streaked with hot tears. I feel you tremble.

I pause, then offer you my open palm. It’s red and warm. You kiss it lovingly. “Thank you, thank you for hurting me, Christopher. Thank you for marking me”

I rest both hands on your shoulders, palms on the ropes that push out your tits and bind your arms, and I apply pressure. you sink easily to your knees, and I think I spy a tiny smile.

I open my belt and fly, and my hard thick cock flops out. You lean forward and kiss the tip, reverently. Your tongue snakes out and your turn it round and round the cock that you love, scooping up drops of precum and savouring them. My hands go deep into your thick hair, and I pull you in. You take the length of my cock to the back of your throat smoothly. It slips in like a salmon in your wet mouth. Your head bobs on my oozing cock, and I thrust in time with your forward pushes. Gag and drool collect in your mouth and spill from your bottom lip, you gasp periodically for breath, as I fuck and fuck your whorish mouth, pounding the back of your throat. My thrusts become more and more jerky, rough, savage, your head snapping back, but you suck for all your worth, hollow-cheeked, my cunt desperate to serve me, to feed on my semen. I feel the switch go in me, my balls tightening, vein fat and ready. Your eyes rolling up to me show me you feel it too. I ride your face faster to the finish, slapping into it, fucking hard…

I gush down your throat, thick creamy spunk coating and filling your mouth, over the palate, the tongue, the teeth. You suck and suck hard, but I pull out against the powerful suction and squeeze a couple of jets of cum into your face, on the side of your nose and top lip. Your tongue snaps out and you slurp the stray spunk from your face and all around your mouth. My slut’s face is beaming, a creamy cummy smile. I stroke your hair and kiss your forehead.

I’ve painted a beauty today, I say.

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