Welcome to another episode of Bedtime Stories with Salty Vixen. Tonight’s story is titled “The Whip is Purple”. I remember when we had band and Spanish together. I was the quiet one who had a mad crush on you. You didn’t know it. Nobody knew I liked you. Do you remember when I had my first modeling job? I told your friend to tell you, that was the only way I could talk to you, as you made me so nervous! You approached me at lunch about it, asking me “I hear you’ve got a modeling job” Your voice, your words, I can not forget, that you noticed me that day. Years later, we had history together and whenever I saw you in the hallway, I would smile. You never knew how much I looked up to you, even after all that happened years later. My crush still lingers as when I think about you after all these years, I still blush….I wonder, do you remember me?
Do you want to spank me, oh I hope you will tonight, baby… let’s begin…
The whip is purple. From the tips of the soft, wide suede tails to the D-ring on the end of the handle, it’s a deep, rich color. Studs in the handle aid grip, but at the moment there’s not much danger of you losing hold, as there’s little energy involved. The tails are being stroked across my skin. They speak for you, soothing, lulling. No words necessary.
There’s no restraint involved, either. No “scene”, no safeword, no headgame, no power exchange, none of the playacting that usually surrounds the activity that’s about to unfold. Just the giving and receiving of sensation between the three of us. I am, naked, face-down on the bed, pillows raising my hips, another pillow for my head, arms folded beneath it. You, similarly stripped, gradually working to find the action required. And the whip, supposedly “gentle”, but I’m not sure. It looks like we’re both about to find out.
You start slow. Just running the tails through your fingers feels sensuous, so you can imagine how this feels for me, face down, feeling the unseen tendrils trailing down, across back, bottom and thighs, then back up again. You are watching closely, feeling with the whip, watching for signs. You detect a slight shiver. The room isn’t cold, as such, but it feels as though the heating’s been on, but not enough to warm the place up. Still, my tremors may yet be anticipation, or fear. If the whip speaks for you, my body speaks for me, if I learn its language.
You are now flicking the tails, tips meeting flesh, not enough to mark, but enough to blush, and a tinge is appearing. This takes a surprising amount of skill, measuring the distance and getting the flick of the wrist just right. Too soon, and there’s no contact. Too late, there’s too much. There’s a light whistling sound, and heavy breathing, and the dampened sounds of the outside world. No words, still - You are not sure you would hear any from me, my head buried in the pillow, hair cascading and hiding me. But my body speaks volumes, from the way the skin discolors under each strike, to the slight movement of arms, legs, hips. A slight rotation, grinding myself in the pillow beneath my hips. The chill is gradually dispelling.
Mmmm..The intensity is increasing. You have been working on my upper back, but it’s clear that there’s real arousal being generated by the sharp crack of the whip on my sexy ass. A slow stroke keeps the tails spread on impact, caressing and soothing. Putting some muscle in ensures that the tails bunch together up to the moment of contact, transmitted a dull thud, a hard bucking. You alternate between the two strokes, surprising me with sudden, intense change, tugging reluctant gasps from me. Nothing more though - we still have our advocates speaking for each of us. You the whip, and me… mmm..my body, as you move around the bed, swinging as you go, heat rising at both ends.
You are now just whipping my lower body, bum and thighs, moving quickly now, fast and hard strokes covering the entire area. Leaving no time for a stroke to register and be processed before delivering the next, You can see that I am steadily climbing a ladder of arousal. You whip down from above, landing the tails between thighs and flicking my pussy. The low groan, accompanied by the way I raise myself in preparation for the next stroke, indicates lust, not mere pain.
Now, as the end-game approaches, the overwhelming sensation is one of heat. Yours, from the exertion, creating a sheen of sweat on your torso. Mine, from the effect of suede on skin, the reaction of the body’s natural defenses, and also from my arousal, obvious in sight, sound and scent. The connection now has feral overtones, and you know that even if I can’t tell it from the place you’ve sent me, I won’t need much more. You determine a figure in your mind, and quickly drum out the rhythm, raising my arm high and bringing it down fast, counting in your head, attempting one last boost of endorphins in me. You don’t need any more than you already have.
Suddenly, it’s finished. Again, no words, we just sense it. All three of us. And then you drop the whip. You want to share the heat. You crouch, and press yourself to my back, feeling the glow of bruised flesh, me feeling the warmth of sweat and worked musculature. Further down, more heat, of a different kind, as you enter me with a single thrust. I push back. Neither of us last long, both gushing, and then we hold each other as we come down, together. Time passes. Neither of us can say how much.
Gradually, our shared heat will be replaced by that of the mid-day sun, streaming through the gaps in the curtains, and of the warm, fragrant bath we will share to complete the come-down. But for now, we lay together, intertwined, contemplating how much more heat we’ll both generate.
Next time.
