{"loaderData":{"4":{"story":{"id":"bf91fb7b-3819-400c-82df-ed0ac7e1ab81","seriesId":null,"seriesName":null,"currentUserId":"00000000-0000-0000-0000-000000000000","added":"2022-01-03T12:40:05.575Z","title":"Beauty And The Beast","slug":"beauty-and-the-beast","shortId":"7fvfXOMT","authorNote":null,"disclaimer":null,"type":"Short","paidUrl":null,"synopsis":"Male dominant canes and otherwise abuses willing female masochist. Told from the male's point of view.","partCount":1,"parts":[{"partId":"572ec822-13fe-4592-9410-21deb3a7fc6f","title":null,"summary":"Beauty and the Beast(Not a very original title, I admit.)\nM/F: Straightforward Sado-Masochism; canin","wordCount":3092,"readTime":15,"number":1,"state":"Published"}],"currentPart":1,"contentTitle":"Chapter 1","content":"

Beauty and the Beast

(Not a very original title, I admit.)

M/F: Straightforward Sado-Masochism; caning and so on, with a certain amount of 'topping from the bottom' perhaps.

I first posted this story on Literotica, as polynices, in 2009 but I had it removed later.

[NOTE: For anybody who's unsure, the German name Inge is pronounced as two syllables, with a hard g: In-guh, approximately.]

Beauty and the Beast

She turns the key in the lock, pushes the door open and ushers him \ninside; then snaps on the light, turning to him. Her cheeks are flushed \nand rosy with excitement. Her smiling face with shining eyes looks up at\n him from beneath her cap of warm blonde-honey hair.

Her flat is one large room with a kitchen and bathroom off: a narrow \nbed in the corner; some cupboards and a table; one ragged easy chair; \none bookcase. There are discarded clothes scattered here and there – \nupturned shoes and tangled underwear and so on. He takes it all in \nquickly but doesn't speak. He's still uncertain; unconvinced. Is this \njust too good to be true? Can he believe his luck?

'You will use the Rohrstock, no?' she asks him, laughing.

He looks back blankly.

She wriggles her shoulders in comical frustration and smiles her apology.

'I don't know how you say in English, but the ... '

She mimes a tiny cane blow, her closed hand snapping sharply at the \nwrist. But still he shows no sign of comprehension - though, in truth, \nhe understands. He wants her to confirm it unequivocally. He wants the \nwhole initiative to come from her.

She goes abruptly to her wardrobe and hunts around inside. Then she \nturns to him and – matter-of-factly, plainly - displays two canes with \nschool-masterly hooks at their ends. Both thin, pale, whippy things, \nwhich are obviously much used. Each of them, he sees, is split and a \nlittle splintered at the tip.

'This,' says Inge simply, 'is what I like. The Rohrstock, no?'

'They're canes,' he says. 'Say \"cane\".'

'Cane,' she repeats obediently, the vowel perfect.

'Will you do it to me now?' she asks him, smiling.

He draws a sudden breath.

'Of course,' he tells her. 'Come back over here.'

She returns to him slowly, teasing, laying the canes on the table as \nshe passes it; catching his eye; making him look at her – at them. She \nstands before him. He gestures towards her hips.

'Take your skirt off,' he says, gruffly. (There's something rising in\n his throat. There's a rough thickness there. He knows it well, this \nthick constriction, a foretaste of the coming guilty pleasure.)

She reaches behind her to unzip, then the frilly rah-rah falls in a \npuddle round her feet. She steps out of it daintily. Her little thong is\n pink.

'Take that off too,' he tells her, and she wriggles it down her \nthighs, then bends to disentangle it from her feet. Then, straightening \nup again, she drops the thong and stands before him in only her strappy \ntop. He sees her tricky breasts are jiggling slightly, the nipples \nroused beneath the thin blue fabric. He also sees her cunt is naked, \nbrazen and fully shaved. He extends a hand and touches one finger to it,\n tracing lightly down the cleft – a feathery lightness. She tries to be \nstill under this interrogation but her flesh shrinks nevertheless, \nanticipating the moment when caress will turn to slap.

He looks seriously into her wide blue smiling eyes.

'You want this, do you? Really? Really want it?'

'Oh, yes,' she says. Her face is serious now. 'It is really what I like, you know?' she says.

He steps forward to her so that they are standing almost side by \nside, but facing in opposite directions – she towards the door, he to \nthe back of the room. He crooks his left leg out and braces against her \nthighs, then – carefully, with utmost deliberation – he hooks his left \narm round her slender waist. (He feels her belly quiver, warm, against \nhis inner arm, where his elbow crooks.) With his right hand, then, he \npresses on her back, firm and insistent so that she has to bend. The \nresultant pose is a little awkward but, when he is supporting her whole \nweight with his left leg and arm, he brings his right hand up, takes aim\n at the warm, plump buttocks thus presented, and brings it down with one\n almighty smack!

She shrieks and jumps, her shock mixed intimately with both delight \nand fear. He feels the sharp intake of her breath through her belly \nagainst his arm. But he doesn't pause for any breath himself – not his \nor hers. He slaps her hard again, hard on the arse, and hails a rain of \nblows on this her sweetest part – her fundament. He spanks her til he \nfeels the warmth rise in her, and then he goes on spanking until his \nhand stings much too much. And, then and only then, he stops. She's \nlaughing, sobbing, panting when he lets her up.

'Oh, you are a beast!' she says. 'Your hand is very hard!'

He motions to her to turn and inspects her buttocks. Her arse is rosy\n red and, when he touches – very gently now, with careful sensitivity – \nhe feels the glow as heat with an intensity so surprising, it's as if \nhe's lit a furnace deep inside her flesh.

'Happy so far?' he asks her.

'Happy, yes. But I said you are a beast. Du bist ein Tier. Your hand is heavy!'

He goes to the bed, sits down, and beckons her.

'Across my knee this time,' he says.

He thinks perhaps she won't understand him, but she gets the idea \nimmediately and lies down across his lap with a little giggle – with \ngaiety, in fact - with a jolly, gay excitement, as if he's invited her \nto some rare treat – as, indeed, he realises, he has. He has, indeed.

Lying there, face downwards, with her bottom high on his lap and her \nblonde head hanging, she brings both hands behind her, quite unbidden, \nand crosses them across the small of her back. He grasps both wrists in \nhis own huge hand – the left - then prepares to spank again with his \nother hand.

This time he's slower, more methodical. He takes the time to enjoy \nher responses. When the first slap lands, he feels her grunt against him\n almost before he hears it, then feels the blow's impact ripple through \nher body. She isn't shrieking now, she's accepting the pain, allowing it\n to rise and become part of her; floating inside it, maybe, and letting \nit wash around her. After seven or eight spanks he stops and, slipping \ntwo fingers between her parted thighs, he examines her cunt, checking \nfor wetness. There is a lot: she's slick and soapy in between the folds.

'You're getting off on this,' he murmurs.

'Yes,' she gasps. Then, almost petulant, almost imperious: 'Don't \nstop. You beat me very well. I like it very much. Don't stop. I want it \nall.'

Obligingly, he spanks her harder now, and aims to land the blows \nprecisely, trying to find the exact sweet spot where the curve of her \narse meets its apex. And with every slap she makes a different sound, as\n if she were giving a commentary on each and every one; her own critique\n – her own appreciation.

When he finally lets her up, after half a hundred spanks, she's red \nin the face and panting hard from the exertion of lying across his lap \nso long. She comes straight back to him and, throwing her arms round his\n neck, she kisses him everywhere – on the lips and the cheeks and the \nforehead; on the throat; on the nose. Her tiny breathless kisses are \nlike butterfly caresses, swaddling him and smothering him with love.

'You are my beast,' she breathes between the kisses. 'You are my own dear Tier. You are my darling.'

When she releases him, he stands and gets undressed. His large \nerection, once revealed, doesn't surprise her. After all, she's been \nintimate with it for some time now, feeling its insistence against her \nthighs as she lay across him. But she kneels immediately and leans to \ntake it in her mouth – then checks herself.

'Is this right? Do you want me to do this?' she asks, looking up at him.

He nods. 'Oh, yes,' he says. 'That's what I want all right.'

She bends eagerly to the task and when her mouth engulfs him it seems\n to be the softest, warmest touch he's ever felt. Her lips encircle his \ncock's end lovingly; her tongue teases the underneath, near the tip of \nhis glans. He feels himself stiffening and throbs inside her. She is so \ndelicate, he thinks; so vulnerable.

She reaches up and takes the root of his prick in her hand, frotting \ngently underneath it with her fingers to encourage the sperm to rise. \nBut he pushes her head back slowly until her mouth disengages, and pulls\n the fingers away.

'Not yet,' he says. 'I don't want to come just yet. We've got other things to do.'

'What things?' she asks, excited. 'Are you going to beat me now with the Rohr – the cane, I mean?'

'Very soon now,' he tells her. But first, he sits back down and \ngestures at her top. 'Take that off,' he says and, instantly obedient, \nshe slips the flimsy blue garment over her head and off, leaving her \nblonde hair tousled in its wake. She stands there fully naked, waiting \nfor further orders.

'Now touch your clitoris,' he tells her, but she looks uncertain.

'Meinen Kitzler?' she asks to be sure, and she points to her cunt.

'Yes, your clitoris. Your Kitzler. Your little button.'

She takes him literally. She slides a single finger into the top of her slit and stands there motionless.

'Can I rub her?' she asks him. 'Can I make her warm?'

He nods. 'Do it,' he says. So she crosses her index finger across the\n middle one and begins to rub with that, digging in deep and blowing \nlittle breaths through o-ringed lips. Her face reddens suddenly and \nthere's a blush across her chest. Her breasts are heaving too.

'Stop!' he tells her. Her fingers halt abruptly, and she stands there\n awkwardly, frozen and caught, desperate and bereft, on the brink of her\n explosion - her relief.

'Now I'm going to cane you.' He looks around the room. 'Where do you \nusually do it?' he asks. 'Where do you usually have it done?'

She points to the table. 'There,' she says and stepping across to it,\n she grasps the farther edge with her fingertips and bends across it, \nher bottom presented for his delectation.

She looks back at him, over her shoulder. 'This is good for you?' she asks.

He grunts agreement and picks up one of the two canes that are lying \nnext to her. He tries a practice stroke and Inge, unseeing, flinches as \nthe blow swishes behind her through thin air.

Something fierce rises in him now. He wants to violate. He wants to \nshock her. He lays his thumb in the crease of her arse and probes until \nhis thumb's ball is lying tight against her anus. He feels it open \nslightly as he presses and he feels the suck of it. So he adjusts the \nangle slightly and presses in, pushing the thick thumb in, sudden and \ncrude, as far and as deep as the knuckle. Inge howls with outrage. He \nsmiles and twists the thumb inside her, in the warm and welcoming dark.

'Do you like this?' he asks her, smiling.

'Yes. No. Yes,' she pants, grimacing.

He laughs. 'Well, make up your mind,' he says. 'Do you like it or not?'

'I like it not,' she says. 'I mean, I do not like it. But I am \nmasochist, you know, so it is good for me. It feels bad, so it feels \ngood, nicht wahr? Do you understand?'

In answer, he presses his thumb in harder and she squirms under his hand.

'Oh you very bastard!' she cries to him, her English failing. 'You dirty dirty bastard! You hound!' she says.

He laughs again, then slowly pulls the thumb out. Then, stepping \nback, he takes aim with the cane. He plays the trick again, the empty \nswish in air, and again she stiffens - flinches.

'Please,' she pleads.

'OK,' he says. 'This time.'

The first stroke lands a little high; it's more difficult to be exact\n with the cane than with his hand. There's something unsatisfying, \nsomething flat, about the impact, and when she, surprisingly, only \ngrunts a little at the pain inflicted, it's as if she too is aware of \nhis imprecision.

He tries again, touching her first with the cane, laying it gently \nacross that curve of her arse, that place where she culminates – the \nmost tender and exposed. Then he draws the cane back and brings it down \non her – not harsh but sweet, like a batsman or a golfer timing the \nswing exactly. And it hisses and stings across her with such intensity \nthat she instantly stands bolt upright as if raised on wires, and her \ntwo hands go to her buttocks, and she sets off across the floor in a \ncomical, rapid run, all the way to the door and back again. And then, as\n the sting, still potent, begins to wear off, she stands beside him, \nrubbing her bottom; breathing; but grinning as well; grinning through \nthe pain.

'Oh, you!' she says, at last. 'But that was very good. But hard. But good!'

'Do you want some more?' he asks. And she nods and bends again.

He examines the wheals he has made: two pink lines that curve across \nher bottom – the high one thinner, the other already widening and \ndarkening towards red.

'How many of these can you take?'

'You must decide,' she tells him.

He gives her twelve more. She doesn't stand again, but at every \nstroke she yelps and her bottom wriggles. He always gives her time to \nabsorb the blow before he begins the next. Sometimes her leg kicks up as\n soon as a blow is landed; it is as if the sting is conducted out of \nher, running along the leg like electricity discharging. But that is \nfantasy, he realises. He can see her bottom's reaction to every stroke, \nthe enduring pattern of wheals increasing as a record of this \npunishment, this pleasure. And he marvels at her willingness to take it \nwhen he knows that he could never endure it himself. Even one of these \nstrokes would be too much for him. He would never consent to bend before\n anyone as she has for him.

Finally, he stops. She stands up, gingerly. He puts a fingertip to \none of the marks – a wheal; not on it, but above it, tracing it. He can \nfeel the heat from there, radiating out. He wonders how it feels to her.\n He knows women like Inge are often proud of their bruises; proud of the\n continuing pain all the time until the wheals heal up. He would like to\n ask her about it, but he knows this isn't the time. It isn't a time for\n 'talking about'; it is a time for just feeling and being.

She turns to face him. 'What will you do to me now?'

'What would you like me to do?'

'Anything. Anything that will make you truly happy.'

He feels fierce exaltation rising up within him.

'You know what I want,' he says, thickly. (He can feel the \nconstriction in his throat again; he can hear a high thin buzzing in his\n ears as well.)

'Then you must take it,' says Inge, simply, so he takes her arm and, roughly, leads and drags her to the bed.

He piles two pillows in the middle of the mattress, then positions \nher like a dog, on all fours across them, with her bottom pointing \nbackwards. Then he mounts the bed and, creeping in between her legs, \nleans forward across her back and briefly grasps her breasts. Her rump \nis warm against his thighs and he tries to find her anus with his prick,\n pushing in blindly between her buttocks.

Thinking he's found the place, he presses forward hard, but the \nangle's wrong and he slips off target. Inge, ever helpful, reaches back \nand grasps his prick. She guides him in and, when his cock is truly up \nagainst her arsehole, she tells him: 'Now!' And this time, when he \npushes, he feels the penetration, and his cock slides in. He feels a \ntiny 'pop' as he enters her, and Inge gasps. He pushes harder and \npenetrates her to the root, he feels. Then, confident of their \nconnection, he presses her shoulders down, and then her hips. They \ntopple forward together, until Inge lies prone beneath him, her arse \nraised up, her pelvis supported by the pile of pillows. And, sure now of\n his platform, he begins to bugger her in earnest. She pants and squeals\n beneath him and, as he fucks her arse, something rises in his mind – \nthat deep, fierce thing. And, suddenly, he is simply animal, exulting in\n his power and sweat and sex. And the sweating woman under him accepts \nhim totally – complete in himself, complete in herself, with no pretence\n on either part.

He fucks her hard until he comes inside her, then they lay there \nstill, conjoined, til his penis shrivels. Then, after he's pulled \nhimself out of her, he asks: 'Did it hurt you much?'

'Of course,' she says. 'But it was good, nicht wahr?'

He considers asking if she means good for him alone or good for both \nof them, but then he realises it really doesn't matter. He lies on his \nback beside her and asks her instead: 'Did you come?'

'Not come exactly. No,' she says. 'But I felt something. I felt very much, in fact.'

She giggles at him, or at the memory.

'Do you want to now? Shall I do something for you?' he asks.

But she smiles and says: 'Just watch me. That is enough.' – And she \nslips a hand between her legs and rubs, lying beside him, legs open, on \nher back. He wonders how her damaged bottom feels from the pressure on \nthe bed. And then he wonders how it felt when he was buggering her so \nhard, his hips slapping against her bum with every stroke. But he sees \nthe climax rising in her face, and sees her, grinning, come against her \nhand. And then he sees her relax and, curling towards him, she lays her \nhead against his shoulder and closes her eyes.

'Will you do things to me again in the morning?' she whispers, purring - yawning.

And he answers her quietly: 'Yes.'

Then, delighted with her and with himself at last, he falls, delightedly and guiltlessly, asleep.

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