Disclaimers: There is sex between two women.
by WarriorJudge
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I had a case of criminally negligence homicide brought before me once. A young lad threw a ball at his fellow player, which hit him hard on the chest - shortly thereafter the playmate dropped dead on the ground. A physician gave his expert's testimony in court before me. Commotio cordis was the term he used. Commotio cordis, he explained, occurs as the result of a blunt, non-penetrating impact to the precordial region, often caused by a blunt trauma to the chest, which transmits to the heart and disrupts the heart's electrical system. In some cases the impact seems relatively benign. The impact triggers a change in the electrical rhythm of the heart from a normal rhythm to a fatal arrhythmia, like ventricular fibrillation. Commotio Cordis involves sudden cardiac death after a chest blow without physical damage to the heart.
With my own heart, however, the mechanism wasn't Commotio Cordis, but a long, procrastinating and gradually less and less agonizing process of dying and necrosis. I've heard people say that just because you're through with your past, doesn't mean your past is through with you - And not without merit, I should think.
I remember being 3 years old when I first heard this verse from the Book of Proverbs, presumably written by the wisest man in the world: "Spare the rod and spoil the child".
I remember it being a warm autumn Sabbath's afternoon. My parents insisted on resting and forsaking all labor on the seventh day, like God did after his creation of the world had been completed, or so my parents would have me believe.
In the early afternoon I got out of bed and went to my parents' bedroom, I can't even recall the incentive. I saw both of them naked, my father on top of my mother asserting himself in a peculiar manner, which at that point in my life had been foreign to me. Innocently enough I thought they were playing and it filled my heart with joy. It took me a few years to understand what I had walked in on.
I remember him darting out of their bed, his face livid. Oh and how quickly my joy was distorted into fear as I ran. A few moments had passed before I saw him again, fully clothed and fuming. He held a rod in his hand.
"You are old enough to comprehend now why you're being punished." He said as I focused my attention on the deep wrinkles between his thick eyebrows. "You are being punished because you disobeyed me. I told you not to get out of your bed."
I know now that was not altogether true. That couldn't have been the reason, or at least not the main or only one.
"Spare the rod and spoil the child" He said sternly.
That first time my father smacked me, I smirked, thinking with a smile I would reach in and find the father whom I had known and not this enraged stranger hitting me. As he kept at me, my hands were burning from the lashes and I began to weep, which was what I should have done in the first place because only then did he stop.
My father was a large robust man, easily capable of terminating me with a single blow. You wouldn't have known it by looking at his raging face, but when he beat me, he was never out of control. On the contrary, he was in full control of his wrath and mastered his faculties. His hands were steady; the strikes he delivered were very precise. He never broke any of my bones nor has he left a scar on my skin. He never left a mark that wouldn't fade away after more than several hours…A true believer in corporal punishment, he was. And I observed and absorbed his measures and proceedings.
My parents, my father in particular, were devout, ardent in their religious beliefs and true to a zealot's genuine nature, I suppose, they did their very best instilling those beliefs in me. My father used to rattle my bed in less than gentle manner each and every morning just before dawn for morning prayers. He gave me a small prayers book and showed me which verses to cite.
“Why?” I asked him once.
“Because God is the creator of the universe and He rules it. He's omnipotence and He provides for us. He is our Lord” My father impatiently explained. He sounded as if he couldn't comprehend what had been the point of explaining the obvious.
“I have no Lord" I said not sure whether it had been my defiant spirit, or whether it had been sloth, hating to rise while it was still dark outside.
However, whichever it had been, the hard slap to my face proved to me that I had made a severe error. My mind was never structured for the concept or dichotomy of believing and disbelieving - in my world as I perceived it, there was only what I saw and didn't see, what I heard and didn't hear and what I knew and didn't know. Notwithstanding, I was born with the existence of God in my reality, born and raised by my parents. I should have known better than to say what I had said.
By the time I've reached my seventh year of life, a good while after I had learned that in order for the beatings to stop, my correct response should be sobbing, I became willed enough, spiteful enough and resentful enough to deprive my father of my crying. Whenever he would take his rod to me, I would determinedly bite down my lower lip with my milk teeth, fight the quivering of my proud held high chin and oppressed my tears. I would leave my aching body and go somewhere else magical beyond my father's grasp.
He believed he was educating and disciplining me – He wasn't completely wrong, for these were my very first lessons in self control and shutting myself out, like a type of autism. These were the corner stones of the brick wall surrounding my heart.
My mother has never stood between my father and me, not out fear of him, mind you, for he has never raised his hand against her, but out of complete faith in his doctrine. Nevertheless, back then I was still her little, albeit freakish daughter so I've seen compassion and empathy for me in her eyes.
Two years had passed; I was coming back to their hut after I'd been guiding the sheep out in the fields for the better part of the morning. I made my way to the bathroom in order to wash away the stench of the animals. Through a crack in the door I saw my mother taking a bath. Mesmerized, I was watching her running her hands on her curves, the issue of invading her privacy for some reason, never crossing my mind. It was her mature femininity that captivated me.
"Damn that redheaded abomination you gave birth to, woman. Damn that depraved behemoth" I heard my father shouting from behind me. I paid hell that day.
A few days later a stranger came to their home. The physician confirmed my mother's suspicions that she had been with child.
My mother's confinement was a hard one. Several weeks into her pregnancy she was taken ill with rubella. That condition caused, among other things, an edema in both her legs and hands. Her fingers had gotten so swollen she couldn't even wear her wedding ring anymore. To ease her suffering, every evening after supper, I would fill up a pail with cool water and some tangy powder, which her physician had prescribed and massaged her feet submerging in the solution.
When first my brother was prematurely born I was glad thinking finally there would be another to share my father's wrath with. But when he first smiled at me, I thought if there were angles like my father believed this is what they must look like.
On account of my mother's illness he was born with one hand crooked and shorter than the other so it was fixed in a pillory, which gave out a repugnant odor. His breathing was constantly accompanied by wheezing. Being that his esophagus was poorly connected as well, a tube was inserted into him and so whenever my mother changed his diaper she would order me out of the room and close the door behind her.
Cedar, was the name my parents chose for him, like the sturdy tree - Which was a bitter irony, because my brother was so weak and fragile like a dried twig, so much so that on the eighth day of his birth a circumcision couldn't be preformed on him. Maybe because of it all, I loved him as I much as I did.
During his first months, I used to play with him going to any length in order to elicit the tiniest of smiles that would light up his innocent angelic face. My favorite chore became rocking him gently in my arms lulling him into slumber.
It was Friday midday just before the Sabbath. I was standing in the kitchen watching my mother preparing Cedar's bottle. He was seven months old.
"Go wake up your brother" She asked of me. I remember it as if it was yesterday. As I was approaching my parents' bedroom where Cedar's crib was stationed, I failed to notice that the sounds of wheezing I'd grown accustomed to hearing weren't emanating from with inside the room. Once inside, the chilling stillness slowed my paces. I knew then that something horrible had happened; Things would never be the same again. An unseen hand had altered things from the way I've known them all my life to be into something far worse.
I, like most children my age at that time I reckon, couldn't grasp the absolute finality of death.
As I was staring at his bluish skin complexion, his purplish lips, his shut petit eyelids, I laid a single tentative finger on his forehead. He was cold. Running back to the kitchen my legs could barely carry me they were shuddering so badly.
"Mom," I exclaimed "There's something wrong with Cedar!" The bottle, which my mother was holding, dropped into the basin. She rushed to Cedar's crib almost knocking me off my feet along the way.
Then I saw her picking up his lifeless body and running with him outside to the field where my father had been working, wailing and ranting like a mad woman -- Leaving me behind alone in the hut staring at the spilt milk in the sink, thinking that just as he had prematurely arrived he had prematurely left. The brick wall around my heart half built.
Later on that day, I heard them talking about buying a tombstone. I didn't even know what a tombstone was then but figured it had something to do with his death and silly me I was excited to learn a new word used by grownups. I don't know when or where they buried him. They didn't allow me at his funeral. To this day I don't know where he's buried and consequently I've never visited his grave.
At the Shiva I haven't seen my father crying, not even once. I remember the tears in their clothes, though. All the mirrors around the house were veiled and it actually gave me some comfort for I didn't have to see my devilish reflection in them.
Throughout the Shiva, dozens of strangers were pouring in and out of the house, conveying their condolences to my parents. My mother's friends were fussing over me, preparing my meals and such in the kitchen whilst my parents were sitting on the ground in the common room. There was not a moment of serenity and peace in the house, which is exactly the point of a Shiva, not to leave the mourner alone with his woes and sorrows.
Getting up from the Shiva, all of my brother's clothes, his colorful toys, his bottles, his crib -- every shred of evidence of him ever existing had vanished from their house. It was as if he never happened. For years I've thought they did it for my benefit, so that I wouldn't be too traumatized by the event of his death. I didn't realize then that it was them who were too weak and incompetent to come to terms with his passing.
I suppose it was their assiduous extinction of his memory that would cause me to cry over him for the first time only ten years later.
The years that followed his death were burdensome. My parents became bitter, stricter, glacial and further and further withdrawn. My father would be quicker to resort to violence, using his rod on me.
They never spoke of Cedar again, at least in my presence. The only time I've ever heard my father mentioning him was when he told me once "I've buried my son. You can go to hell for all I care".
As for my mother, on these ever more often-occurring discipline sessions, that compassion I've been used to seeing was now absent from her eyes. At first I believed it had been the withering of her emotions after Cedar's death. But then she uttered that vile accusation, which the fear of it harboring an iota of truth would deprive me of sleep in years to come: "If you'd been gentler in handling him he wouldn't have died. You killed my child"…'My child' she said, as if I weren't her child and Cedar not my brother.
My mother has always been the kind of woman who didn't believe that disasters just happen. As far as she was concerned it always had to be someone's fault.
I now regret never having the nerve to tell her all those years ago that she ought to blame her God for it, and yet, I know that they had no need for God to blame since they had the Devil under their very own roof.
When I've reached 13 my father came after me and into the barn with his rod. What prompted the attack that time was what he perceived to be insolence on my part. He raised his arm readying it and as it was steadfastly making its way towards impacting with my body, I gripped his wrist halting it in mid air. Clutching it, I forced him to the ground; his back pressed hard against a tidy haystack, every muscle in my body taut and inclined, my face, as I hovered over him, merely an inch away from his.
"Raise your hand at me one more time and 'honor thy Father and thy Mother' will get a whole together different meaning for us" I hissed snidely between my clenched teeth, barely controlling the rage shivering through my body. It was the first time I have ever seen fright in him.
For better or worse, he has never laid a hand on me after that incident. That was my first nibble at my own power, but I was yet to be fully convinced.
At sixteen, After I had thrown the warlord ruling our village off power and conquered his domain by the force of my sword and determination, my subjects crowned me their Lord and Master.
At the ceremony of my enthroning, well scrubbed of my previous status as a vassal, I wore a shiny golden armor, my black Judge's robes and a mauve colored ribbon across my torso. I saw the manner in which young lads, young lasses and mature women were eyeing me, knowing I could take and have every single one of them. I caught a glimpse of my father standing in the cheering crowd and for the first time in my life I could see him being proud of me. Is this what it takes to make you proud, old man? Ovations, Ribbons, Power, the seat of Judgment? I couldn't hold back the look of contempt I cast him.
Then I looked around closer than I had before, and it dawned on me, that my father was hardly the only one. My subjects were worshiping my power. It had nothing to do with who I was. All they were seeing was the power I exuded. They were utterly oblivious to who I was and it didn't even matter to them. Power was all that was valued. I've realized then that to earn respect I could never be weak. I could never relinquish power or control. I would never submit to another.
I've never considered my childhood to be too wretched, forlorn or hideous. Years as a presiding Judge I've witnessed the atrocities people are capable of committing against their offspring and it made me realize my parents have hardly been the worst.
Nevertheless, this notion hasn't affected me. My humanity has long been locked up like the mad woman in the attic. I might hear an occasional howling and shrieking but I do my very best to ignore it and it has been getting easier with each day that passes.
On his deathbed my father told me: "You are undaunted and immune to weaknesses. You are a Sovereign. I've made you who you are."
I leaned down and over his bed and looked into his shriveled tired eyes "Then I have you to blame for it, you foolish old man. Take a good look, for every ounce of power I either lose or relinquish, for anything stronger than a light breeze, and I crumble down like a fortress built in the sand too close to sea."
The last brick was laid down sealing my heart, completely.
by WarriorJudge
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…So you see, I can't submit to another.
Yet here I am before my Lady's bed, on this day, her special day, kneeling like a common slave, disrobed of all my instruments of status, of warfare, of judgment and of pleasure -- Nothing but plain white cotton garments of servitude on my back. My shoulders slumped, my gaze downcast, my arms folded in my lap -- Waiting for my Lady to wake up, and begin her special morning.
I'm looking at my sleeping ravishing beauty now, her arms flung above her head and I can see in my mind's eyes how I'm slithering beneath the covers, sensing her sweet warmth of slumber against my skin, pressing my hard yearning body against her naked one, fucking her.
I disregard the inciting images flaring inside my head and regain my focus.
I'm silently watching her stretching her voluptuous body beneath the linen and her eyes flatter open. Just before I downcast my gaze, I catch a glimpse of her smoldering green eyes looking at me in wonder.
I can feel them gliding down my body, examining me, trying to decipher what must appears to her as a game, a folly.
I know my well-toned physique will never pass for a body of a slave, for even though my muscles are slack now, they are still chiseled and bulging. The swell and outline of the curves of my biceps, thighs, shoulders and waists can easily be detected beneath the thin delicate white fabric. The only sporadic scars I have on my flesh are small and thin, evidently done by a blade in combat and not by a whip of slavery. Nevertheless I am hoping that my demeanor will be convincing enough.
“Good morning, girl” She uses that delicious authoritative voice I've heard her use countless times before with the Lodge's staff. As I've suspected, it doesn't take her shrewdness long to appreciate my intentions. At the corner of her sensual lips I see a knowing, delighted and contented smile.
“Good morning, Milady” I try and do my very best to sound fidgety, preparing myself to do my Lady's bidding. On this day, I will stifle my demons; I will arrest my irresistible ever-present urges to quarrel with her; I will curb my compulsion to brawl no matter how persistently she'll tempt me to – and I know she'll do her very best, if only to prove us both that I'm not capable of doing what I set out to do, that submitting before her doesn't rank amongst my skills.
A slight nod of her head informs me that she accepts my offering. A mischievous glint in my eyes, the last sight of her Lord she'll ever see today, informs her I accept her challenge.
“Be a dear and draw the curtains open,” She orders me sweetly. Her amusement of the situation still lingers in her voice.
“Yes Milady,” I humbly say. My eyes are fixed on the ground. I am quick on my feet, my shoulders drooped. I'm feeling oafish and cumbersome on account of my extraordinary height…Not a body of a personal slave…by any measure.
As I'm drawing open the curtains, inviting the sunlight into my Lady's bedchambers I hear her calling from behind me. “Now go fetch me some breakfast”. She uses and accentuates that particularly degrading word more suited for communicating with a dog rather than a person, knowing full well how much I loathe it.
I swallow down an offensive response. “Would that be your usual, Milady?” I ask.
She feigns to ignore me, as if I don't even deserve her gracious reply. She pulls the covers off her bare frame, not the least bit bashful about her nakedness like the true illustrious Lady that she is. I mutely avert my glance away from her gorgeous body out of respect. She covers herself with her silk green robe and reaches for the morning paper I placed on her nightstand while she was still sleeping.
I make my way to the door. As I was trained I bow deeply in front of her before I leave to fulfill her orders. As I'm coming down the stairs, I'm hoping I won't chance another lodger on my way to the kitchen, for the last thing I need right now, is to hear some provocative remark pertaining to my uncharacteristic semblance of a servant.
A few moments pass and I'm back in her chambers carrying a silver platter packed with pouched egg, freshly baked olive bread, goat cheese, cantaloupe and strawberries. I'm setting the table for dining, meticulously arranging the porcelain plates and shiny silverware I polished beforehand.
With laziness suiting nobility, she gets out of bed and seats herself to the table once I'm done. She silently taps the rim of the coffee cup with her finger and I pick up the pot and pour the steamy liquid into it.
"Do you expect me to slice the bread myself? Honestly, where were you trained?!" She scolds me.
As I stand to her left and behind her, I raise the knife in my hand and look down at her. That last outburst of hers almost proved detrimental to my equanimity. She sips from her coffee, while my glare alternates between my hand clutching the knife and the back of her neck.
"What are you waiting for, girl? For the loaf to slice itself?" she goes on irking me.
"My deepest apologies, Milady" I finally say and though I can't see her face from this angle, I just know she's smiling triumphantly now.
"Now run along and draw me a bath" She snaps her fingers at me to prompt me, not even courteous enough to grace me with her glance while doing so. Yet I stay obstinate, not letting her mistreatment of me undermine my resolve to sustain my facade.
I make a second trip downstairs to the boiler room this time, with two large wooden buckets in my hands. I fill them both to the brim and scurry back to her chambers. From the corner of my eyes I catch her lascivious eyes running over my flexing muscles. My Lady could never quite resist ogling them. By the completion of my fourth round to the boiler room, her bathtub is filled to my satisfaction. I generously scatter some scented minerals and pour half a quart of jasmine oil into the water for I know how luxurious my Lady is.
She finishes her second cup of coffee when I inform her that her bath is ready for her. She gets up and I wait for her to pass me on her way to the bathroom, so to not inappropriately walk before her. I enter her bathroom after her. As I stand before her, I bend my knees a little minding not to tower over her.
She waits for me to take her robe off, and I do, evading both her eyes and magnificent nakedness so close to me now. I diligently kneel before her, my eyes fixated on my hands taking off her slippers rather then somewhere else on her form such as a certain member at the same height as my face at the moment.
She places her delicate hand on my forearm stabilizing herself as she enters the soothing perfectly heated water. I gently motion her head to tilt backwards, gather water in both my hands and carefully drizzle it down her gold tresses minding not to get any into her eyes. I lather my hands with soap and when a fine layer of foam appears I delve my fingers into her hair and tenderly move them against her scalp. I leer at the apex of her supremely shaped breasts above the waterline, regarding the necklace I've given her on our consummation night. I've never once seen her taking it off, and I feel a faint troubling presence of inexplicable guilt and qualm I can't rid myself of.
Once I've covered every inch, I wash the soap away with water. Next I apply a reach mask to her soft hair, as I know she fancies and when her golden locks are immaculate and shiny I braid them up and over her head and begin moving my large hands over her nape and back. Her skin is delicate and soft beneath my fingertips.
Fittingly, I leave her the task of washing her front. Kneeling on the tiled floor next to the bathtub, I move back to rest my buttocks on my heels. I see my Lady moving her petite alluring hands over her attractive curves; her caresses shamelessly demonstrate her narcissism. All those attributes of hers that are generally considered shortcomings, I, like a feebleminded adolescent, find enamoring embarrassingly enough, and a familiar sensation is rising within me. Still, I remain the epitome of subordination.
When she is finished she immerges out the bathtub like a goddess, the water cascading down her body as if idolizing her. I rise back to my feet and facing away from her, I cloak her shoulders with a supple dry towel and offer her my arm to keep her poise as she exits the tub.
After drying herself, she discards the towel onto the floor, naturally, leaving it for me to pick up and goes to her bed to lie on her stomach.
"I will have my massage now" she states as if it was some indisputable fact.
"Of course, Milady" I whisper obediently.
I warm a splash of scented oil I had specially imported from Morocco between my palms, and position my knees between her sprawled legs. I lean into my Lady and begin rubbing her shoulders, sliding the heels of my hands down between her shoulder blades then farther down I dig my thumbs into her flesh and rub small circles into Emma's lower back. I feel her naked thighs against the sides of my knees tighten and when I lean my weight in to place more pressure on my hands my crotch brushes against her silky backside. I pause, awaiting her to farther instruct me.
Emma clutches a pillow and commands me to go lower.
As I knead the voluptuous flesh of her buttocks, wondering if she has any idea how wet she is making me, her muscles tense. Only that and her grip around the pillow are my indication that she derives pleasure from my actions. Not a single sound of pleasure emanates from her, as if to remind me that I'm here for her pleasure, not the other way around.
Eventually, I move down each thigh, along the backs of her legs to the arches of her feet. I keep my touch on her efficient and professional, not a hint of any other motive but my task exactly as she ordained. Nevertheless, from my vintage point I can see the glistening wetness pooling between her legs.
She pulls one knee up, spreading herself open and issues a raspy order.
"Touch me."
As trained, I knew better than to touch her anus with my hands. I splay the ex-assassin's round taut cheeks to better access the puckered concealed flesh awaiting me. Once the opening is wide enough, I trace the rim with the tip of my tongue. I know it must feel pleasurable to her, since she's making impatient attempts to press herself harder against my face.
It's hard. I'm hard. My suffocating desire constrains me to enter her, but I mustn't. I feel her moving against me, lifting her backside implying her wish to be touched even lower. I take her swollen nether lips into my mouth and suckle the tender petals. My tongue slides down and deeply into her hot moist slit. Her marvelous flavor dances in my mouth resurrecting my palate, as I'm lapping at her sex trying not to appear too eager. Her hips dictate the pace, thrusting down repeatedly against my lengthy thick tongue.
I can tell that she reached her climax by the slight arch and twitch of her back, the curling of her toes and the surge of her rich essence is flowing into my mouth. Savoring it, I swallow the abundance.
She doesn't wait till she's fully recovered. Her buttocks give me a coarse push against my face, repelling me as if after using me she didn't want to have me touching her for more than was absolutely necessary.
My patience with her is wearing thin. I have to dig my fingers into the side of my thigh to prevent my hand from delivering that sassy ass of hers a solid spank.
The fastidious Emma gets out of bed and goes to her closet to pick out something to wear. She opens the wooden closet doors and begins to take out numerous gowns, sequined frocks, smocks and slammerkins, leaving them strewn all around her. I fuss over them, picking them up and straightening them like a blue-arse fly.
Eventually she chooses one out and hands it over to me. She lifts up her arms, and I put the frock over her head, dressing her. Her firm breasts poke out on top of her stays, as white and protrude as elbows.
For the better part of the afternoon, I'm occupied with fawning over my high- maintenance droning taskmaster, fulfilling her every whim, following her every demand, which entails various tasks she knows I detest, such as shining and refreshing her shoe collection, dusting, polishing her furniture and so on.
As the sun is making its descent beyond the horizon, I'm glad to see this day, by far the longest day of my life, finally about to be over. Emma commands me to light up the hearth and lanterns and then fetch her manicure kit.
Emma is lounging on her cozy sofa. I'm sitting demurely at her feet on the adamantine floor, painstakingly manicuring her perfect toes.
“What do you make of this lover of mine?” She asks me. This frolicsome dance we've been engaging in today, converts into something altogether different.
I swear my heart nearly loses a beat upon hearing her question. I admire her, though for exploiting my offering to its fullest. "Which one would that be? Milady is always surrounded by so many women." I know I shouldn't have but in light of today's events thus far, and the unsettling feeling I have, sensing a slight tremor coming from the ground beneath me, I simply couldn't restrain myself any longer.
Lady Emma smacks my mouth with the back of her hand. The slap isn't too hard to be sure, for its purpose hasn't been to cause pain but to humiliate me into place, and I, within keeping a proper slave's conduct, endure it silently, not exhibiting the tiniest manifestation of pride.
“I have no opinion to offer Milady.”
I see her sitting on the edge of her seat, her back arrogantly extended and rigid “If I ask you your opinion, that means you have one to provide,” Her tenacity's notoriety is well deserved.
“But surely that is not my place,” I try to appease her.
“Don't make me remind you your place again, girl” She firmly warns me that she's not to be trifled with and I observe the aristocratic snob in her, which is exactly what makes my sacrifice all that grander. She is a descendant of royalty and I'm a descendant of a humble beginning, a peasant - a sheepherder.
I can taste the delectable tang of the words 'Will that be high up your ass, Milady' in my mouth, but out loud I reply "Milady and her Lord both are complex, single-minded, proud women and so they have a complicated affair.”
“Such a clever girl yet has no reservations stating the obvious. I've expected more from you, girl. I've expected some insight into my philanderer lover…That Lord of mine fornicates with anyone with a pulse. On second though, she had Amethyst too…She fornicates with anyone, period. What a sorry excuse for a lover she is,” She says, directing her gaze at me. She set the snare and is now anticipating my downfall -- that moment in which I won't be able to silence a malicious retort, in which a single misstep will send this entire travesty tumbling down and me to my defeat along with it.
I take a deep breath to regain my composure.
"All the other women your Lord has taken to her bed ever since you two became lovers… the reasons for it haven't been merely the obvious - Her lust, her pride and her thirst for conquest. She thinks you've infected her with love, weakened her with it, and she punishes you for it. She fervently hates that she loves you. It's her worthless effort, her futile endeavor to win the battle that's been tearing her apart inside -- eradicating you, convincing herself that her heart is not yours but utterly secured as solely her possession"
I feel the blood rushing down from my face. I feel a massive lump in my throat threatening to smother me. I feel a violent shaking in my body, but looking down on my hands so neatly and steadily resting on my knees, I realize the tremors are a figment of my imagination. It is making me feel so lost, so exposed that I literally dread every second that goes by when I'm still in Emma's presence. After Cedar's death I've never dreaded anything anymore.
This is it. The moment of my demise I told my father about on his deathbed all those years ago. That ounce of power I've relinquished. That light breeze in a form of a tiny allocution I've just made transforming me back into being the child that I was, now indiscriminately vomiting truths in a manner which my mouth has been too dammed to utter back then.
When her toes are manicured to the best of my ability, I release her foot and stand, slouch; my head stooped "Would there be anything else, Milady?" I manage to say without disclosing my compromised state, hoping she will be benevolent enough to dismiss me.
Still not directing my eyes, I feel her glare bearing into me "Give me back my Lord” She orders me reticently.
Upon hearing her command, a metamorphosis commences. I stand tall, stretching my body to the fullest extent of my stature, my shoulders stout conceitedly pushing back, a rush of boiling blood in my veins, my muscles full to bursting and my chin condescendingly held up high. And just as the Dark Magistrate is about to conclude her full restoration, she disintegrates into nothingness.
Nothing short of a grim panic grips my guts. A frantic tempest rises in me blowing my insides in search for my illusive persona, but the Bleak Judge's place of burial eludes me. I feel stripped and exposed in my private turmoil and my distress rapidly metastasizes.
No one before her has ever made me lose the only me I have ever known. The day of her rejoicing is the day of my calamity.
But my Lady Emma is an astute woman. She witnesses the turbulence and bewildered chaos in my eyes and she recognizes and comprehends that I'm on the brink of imploding.
She outstretches her arms reaching for me, "Come to me, Herm" She says, and my heart turns a hair sour for I adore the way she shears my ridiculously girlish birth given name, butch-ing it up for me. As I feel her bitter sweet and undeniable presence in my heart, I recognize whom she invited. When I collapse downwards into her welcoming arms, our embrace creates a fusion and at this moment, she and I are no longer Lord and Lady, but Herm and Emma.
On this night, the night of her birthday, Emma caught her first glimpse of who I might have been.
I didn't notice whose lips sought whose but I find myself kissing her deeply, drawing her into my mouth, feeding off her, my tongue roaming inside her scorching mouth, so saturated with longing it hurts. We're intertwine in each other for a long time, in which her soft moans fuel me, her hands in my red hair and on my jaw strengthening me, her sizzling desire empowers me, her devotion reconstitutes me. The Bleak Justice is slowly and gradually recomposed, albeit not entirely still.
When we finally separate, we are both breathing heavily and unevenly.
I see her glowing green eyes piercing mine, "Welcome back, my Lord" she whispers and smiles a smile laced with joviality.
Feeling a little awkward myself, I disregard her words. "Did you enjoy the birthday gift I gave you?" I ask.
"Did you enjoy the one I gave you?" She further insists.
"Of course, I have no idea what you're talking about" Indeed better secured behind my stoicism, but an impudent shadow of a smile at the corner of my mouth tells her what she already knows. I clear my throat "There's a question pending" I make an attempt to deflect the attention to another subject, but inwardly, I acknowledge she's so lovingly given me.
"I'm not one of your defendants" The Lady looks down on me "To answer your question, your submission was just scarcely reasonable. My suggestion to you -- stick to being who you are -- My brooding, self-righteous, all knowing, fiendish, brutal, egomaniacal paraphiliac Lord and Lover"
I stand up, lean forward, ominously frowning I pinch her chin between my thumb and forefinger, and motion her to stand up and face me. I allow no other soul to speak to me the way I allow her. In all honesty I allow her liberties I seriously doubt I can afford.
"Such superb superlatives, dear Lady, and it's not even my birthday" I say as she melts into my arms. With her chin still clasped between my fingers, I force her to look at me. In her pervasive eyes I see range of emotions she harbors for me, like nothing I've ever been subjected to. She makes me feel like no one has ever made me feel before and we kiss again.
"You know," She says while the tip of her fingers lightly stroking the cotton white fabric clinging too tightly to my shoulder, "You look pretty hot in these servant's garments, Your Honor."
"You'd think so". I nod. Over her shoulder I see my Judge's robes hanging over a hook by the bathroom door "I'll have you know that clothes are the biggest lie ever told."
She places her finger over my lips to shush me "Now, do what you do best, my Lord - Me" her voice still riddled with authority.
"Oh, a definite 'Yes, Milady' on that one".
With her palms pushing against my chest, Emma extracts herself from my tight hold of her and retrieves a wooden chest from under her bed. Reverently, she takes out a harness, attached to it, a colossal phallus. As I see my favorite device looming out of the chest, I feel nothing short of utter elation. The mere sight of my petite blonde beloved holding it in her small hand stirs desire in me. She hands it over to me "To do with as you deem fit, my handsome Lord" she says.
"As I deem fit" I absentmindedly repeat after her as I take it from her. "I want to see you sans clothes and attitude."
"Well, since I'm in a good mood, I'm willing to meet you half way" She replies and her lithe fingers start to undo her frock's buttons, one after another, till the expensive adorned garment slides down her body. For the first time today I get an eye full of her form in all its outrageous glory, not mere stolen glances here and there, and what a sight this treasure of mine is. My ravenous glare is washing over her, penetrating her. I listen to the almost overbearing silence between us as I drink in her astounding beauty. The staggering passion I have for her resonates throughout my body, in each cell and it's through the depth of my passion for her that I learn the capacity of my own abyss.
She leisurely climbs into bed one knee at the time like a lioness, swaying her buttocks, and I know she makes a spectacle out of it for my gratification. I monitor my breathing; supervise the simmering of my blood, reining in my reaction to her.
Mindlessly, my grip around my phallus tightens as I watch her waiting for me, on all four, on the bed, her round firm ass lifted, making a mute plea. But I hear volumes that override and cancel anything else I might hear. The manner in which she presents herself to me is absolutely bespoke. Say what you will about us, about our unhinging bond, and inflammatory affair, our 'Folie a deux,' but no one knows me - my desires and tastes - better than she does and the awful truth is my new reckoning that no other can.
I'm trudging to close the gap between us. My footfalls are heavy on the floorboards. One large callous hand cups the succulent vibrating rounded flesh, my fingers imbedded into what's exclusively mine. My eyelids become too heavy for me to keep my eyes peeled. The singular sensation that she and I experience now is this connection that validates a part of who we are to one another – our intimate axis.
But the constant burning in my loins that was launched this morning coerces me to give and take what both of us need. My other hand, the one that holds the phallus moves it along her slit, lubricating it with the product of her arousal.
"I'm glad to see we have so much in common, Emma. Apparently we both find submission stimulating" My voice hoarse under the burden of my lust.
"You don't sound surprise," She answers as she moves her hips against the massive shaft, making me appreciate her most clandestine spot.
When my phallus is saturated with her wetness I press its head against her engorged pinkish lips barely giving her a sample of what's to come.
"You're not going to make me beg for it on my birthday, are you, Stud?" she sulks.
I just knew she would say that.
"No" I answer after several moments of contemplation.
"Good, because I have no inclination to."
I knew she would say that too. I know her better than she gives me credit for.
A single thrust and the phallus is plunged all the way up her snatch. She gasps her pain, adjusting to its size and length. The leather straps of the harness are loosely dangling between her creamy thighs. "Here you go. Hold it inside you." I say "Drop it and I'll be very disappointed." I see a shudder run down her spine. I release my grip from around the phallus and I see her muscles straining against it to keep it in her.
That spank that tickled my hand earlier today finds its way to her buttocks. The sound of the harsh impact delights me, and so does the little stings in my palm. As I remove the striking hand I notice ripples crawling fast through her shimmering taut ass and down to the hard nodule of her womanhood. The anew gash of essence she secretes nearly makes her lose her grip on my cock. Just as the heavy instrument is about to slip out of her, she regains control of it, and to my salacious eyes her talented dripping sex sucks it back in.
I move away from her and roll down my white pants of slavery, yet I remain every bit enthralled by my dangerous blonde. I take my time now, neatly folding them and putting them away, protracting Emma's delicious agony. Her legs are shaking from the effort.
Then, I move to stand behind her and I press my flaming crotch to her ass and attach myself to her by fastening the leather straps of the harness to my pelvis.
I hold her by her hips with both my hands and I sluggishly pull out of her, listening carefully to the wet sounds my member is making coming out of her. Then, I commit yet another gross encroachment into her and pulling out of her again. A slow penetrating rocking ensues, making our euphoric desire mount with each thrust. She tries to control the pace by pushing herself back and faster against me, and I, too deep into the sexual haze she is generating in me, fail to foresee the forceful shove she outlets and I lose my hold of her.
She turns to lie on her back and she looks at me standing to the foot of the bed, to my body nothing more than a shabby shirt of servitude, barely covering my ass and black leather harness. She beckons me with a motion of her finger to join her in bed and I do. I lie on top of her, my slender lengthy rugged body fits so perfectly with her smaller softer one. My need for her coursing rampantly throughout my expended veins, my blood is condensed with it. Her glowing orbs are taunting me as do her ample breasts.
I feel her sweat soaked body beneath me trembling - a testament of her unquenchable dark desire for my touch. Her nipples are pricked and hard, flooded with lust-intoxicated blood. I see them quivering under my owning gaze urging me to take them. My thick tongue snakes out and over the irresistible mounds. I lavish my demanding touch on them, sinking my teeth into the milky breasts nearly ripping the tender flesh like a diabolical predator. It's nothing short of carnage. My searing breath and touch on her as I'm stuffing my wet hot mouth with her breasts suckling her nipples, only farther stoking the fire consuming my woman.
She's wild, almost out of control. She is violently convulsing beneath me as I devour her, feast on her. She's giving voice to her pure raw rapture. She feels her Dark Judge branding her body with her blazing fire and she knows she'll be taken hard tonight. Privy to her flagrant state I know she hungers for me to possess her, and I will.
Emma's fingers finding their way beneath my cotton shirt. Her fingernails are digging into my back, raking a trail from the apex of my ass to my nape, and drawing my seething blood. I growl as I feel my blood tainting the white fabric on my back. When her hands reach my shoulders she shoves me again, tearing me from her body. I suspend my weight above her on my tattooed arms.
"Take off your shirt. I want to feel you, you vile oversexed Brute" she sultry rasps what sounded like an order to me.
"I'm not your slave girl anymore. Rip it off yourself, my horny shrew" I bellow, thinking she has given me enough orders for one day.
She clasps the lapel and with one swift motion the thin fabric gives in. She is showing me a side of her I've never seen before. As she's removing the shreds, I feel a sharp pain in my back caused by the suppuration of the cloth attached to my flesh by the clotted blood. As soon as I'm completely bare I crush my body down on her, burning skin against burning skin, my phallus trapped between us and I feel her liquid fire seeping out of her camera obscura. Kneading and squeezing her breasts I pierce her lips with my tongue, and she sucks it.
When I mark her neck with my mouth, she whispers in my ear. "There's something I want to give you. Lie on your back."
I raise an eyebrow but compliantly I roll off her and support my torso over my elbows as she positions herself between my legs. Emma takes my phallus in her petit hands, her sweet pink tongue glides out of her mouth and she begins to twirl it painfully slowly around my cock's tip. The sight of her, between my legs, her tongue so expertly, so enticingly licking my erection makes me believe everything is, as it should be. In this moment of lucidity the world makes sense to me. My breath is labored and my heart is pounding in my chest. This is not enough. My lust demands more. My desire is soaring to a new unfamiliar level of sexual awareness.
"Take it into your mouth, Arrriahhh!!" I roar.
She looks at me, and though I'm confident that her nether region cries out for satisfaction, I see satisfaction in her maddening features. I could never put my finger on the reason as to why she derives such pleasure out of torturing me. What is it in my suffering that causes her such sublime contentment?
She opens her mouth as wide as she can and takes my cock into her mouth, her full lips wrapped around it. She sucks it; her head is moving up and down my length, her sassy breasts are swaying with the primal rhythm. I shift my weight to one elbow and I weave my fingers into her blonde silky hair, encouraging her movements. I push my crotch upward against her mouth and grind myself into her. She's admirably enduring it. I feel the pressure of the base of my shaft against my aching need.
But that's not enough, either, and then I think that my need for her is endless - nothing she gives me will ever be enough. I want her too much.
"I need more!" I grunt.
She slides to the ground. "Then come and get it, Warrior."
I crawl down to the floor and she's scooting away, but I soon pounce on her and pin her to the ground. As she's lying on her stomach, I secure her down by placing my arm over her neck, immobilizing her head and mashing her shoulders and breasts onto the ground. I snake my other arm beneath her hips, raising her luscious ass to better my excess into that place which no one is allowed into but me. I press my loins against Emma's anus. That spot, which earlier today I worshipped with my tongue, will now be filled by me. She's beyond wet, beyond ready to receive what I give her.
I ground my hardness, slick with her saliva and sex nectar, into that tight divine core of hers, cramming every inch of me into her. My breasts are squashing against her shoulder blades. She urges her hips upward to feel as much of me as she possibly can. My hand beneath her is washing in her scented moisture that is squirting out of her, as I'm chafing her slippery hard clit with my fingers. She likes it when I sexually assault as much of her as I can simultaneously.
I know this is not about to be over just yet. I hear those pants, moans and cries coming out of her, the harbingers of her climax, as I'm drilling into her slowly. She's writhing beneath me, striving for her pinnacle and I know it is not too long before she will make her frustration known to me. I ease my arm from over her neck a little, giving her the illusion she can actually get away from me if she really wants to.
Emma doesn't let me down. She takes advantage of the opportunity, crawls out from under me and I'm after her gaining up on her. I seize her, catching her by her ankle, the one with the bracelet I've given her, in an iron vice and I drag her back towards me. Closing my hand on my cock I guide it, attempting to thread her again, but she gets away.
However, only as far as the corner of the room. With her back to it, she's now on her knees trapped between two walls and me. I'm on my knees as well facing her.
“Your trying to get away from me is almost as convincing as my being a slave girl.”
“Baby, you said you won't make me beg for it today. That was your punishment for doing just that,” She says playfully, trying to catch her breath. “Now, behave.”
“Then spread them” I drawl.
She does, she straddles me, lowering her sex down onto my phallus taking it into her, encircling and locking her legs around my slim waists, and against my ass. I rest my hands against the walls to each side of me for support, and she clings to me. She has no hindrance left in her to present me with and neither do I.
I give us what we both crave, my hips are vigorously impaling her, delivering hard deep blissful fucking, further mounting our urgent need for release. My probing strokes are swift and uncompromising permeated with my sense of entitlement. She is mine. The well-lubricated prick occasionally slips out of my beloved and scrapes her clit. Her heaving breasts are hopping at the bestial pace I set, pounding into her sodden flesh. The stare we share is licentious and intense. I can no sooner deny that she is my destiny than deny loving her or who I am. We have no need for words between us. All that can be heard now is the harmonic music of our passion and the slapping of our sweating bodies against one another.
I watch her face contorting with the ultimate painful pleasure. Our bodies are jerking in an unadulterated ecstasy, allowing our climax to claim us. The waves of this storm, threatening to pull us both under and drown us, as we both hear our grunts and screams erupting from our throats.
I'm not stopping, for my desire to give her pleasure is taking precedent over any other desire. I keep ramming into her with long deep jabs.
And a second orgasm hits us. My short fingernails are grating the walls as I bask and lose myself in the earth-shuttering release, shouting my lover's name. My cock is being clenched again and again by Emma's sex and a torrent of fluids are surging out of me and streaming down Emma's quivering womanhood, mingling with hers.
She slumps forwards against my chest gasping for air and I catch her in my arms. Slowly I pull my cock out of her. A few moments pass before I get up and gently place my forearm beneath Emma's neck, the other beneath the backside of her knees. I lift my spent lover and make my way to an armchair by the window, carrying her in my arms.
Emma places a kiss on my still flushing cheek as I seat myself into the armchair with my love still cradled in my arms. I relish the feel of her naked, extraordinary body against my own. She's resting her head on my shoulder taking pleasure in my breasts and muscled chest against her back.
"From here on end, not only my love, but my body and my darkness are reserved only for you, Emma" I, a lawmaker, decree a draconian law of fidelity.
"Darling, I've already told you…" She begins to argue against the impunity I've sanctioned.
But I cut her off "I know what you've told me. I'm done making us both pay a penalty neither of us deserves. It's not open for debate. I've said all I had to say on the matter."
A few moments pass and then Emma teases me "But isn't it a bit like barring the gates after the horses have left the barn?" The edge in her voice is no longer there. She sounds sated.
My fingers casually caressing her sex still rendering its last spasms "Left the barn?! Do not dare me into proving you wrong, Emma."
"Don't get all pompous and tell me what else did you get me for my birthday, lover" She fondly places her hand over mine.
I nuzzle her ear making goosebumps rise on her neck "You got me, which is more than anyone else has ever gotten from me. That ought to be enough for you, my insatiable material girl" I reply, yet in my soul I know, there isn't a wish I would deny her.
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The End