2 comments/ 16907 views/ 2 favorites No Surf By: sabb "What?" "No surf today," I repeated, just making idle conversation, "Out there." Manly beach sat before us under a leaden sky. The low grey clouds moving swiftly, the water a dirty green. A hundred yards out to sea the surfers sat or lay on their boards in a ragged line, rising and falling on the long swell, waiting for waves that seemed unlikely to appear. Occasionally the smooth ocean was spattered and broken by brief showers of rain. "No. The winds coming off-shore and the rain deadens the water," he replied, turning to me fully and appraising me. I half smiled back, watching his eyes flit up and down me, then he turned his chair a quarter turn to face me. Him sitting at the small square table next to mine at the Café Steyne. "You don't look like you're here for the beach," he said smiling, his eyes indicating my rather overdressed look. Casual but overdressed for a visit to the beach, neat, formal casual, carefully overdressed. "No," I replied, "No, a doctors visit." "Nothing serious?" he asked, making a casual connection. "No. No. Nothing serious. It's over now. I'm just taking in the view," I offered, feeling the empty place opening up inside me, smiling at him suggestively. He understood, saying that he lived nearby and was filling in a lazy day. We entered the apartment and I moved straight in with little open lipped kisses, he joined me, my arms going to his neck, his hand to my package a few squeezes getting me well into him. Then I was pushing against him as we kissed deeper, grinding together as our arms encircled each other and our hands glided over each other. It's strange how clothes can disappear when you're occupied like that. I liked the hair on his chest running down his belly. Nice lush black hair on a tanned, worked body. He seemed happy to play his hands over my arse but I wasn't happy to go that way with him, even feeling what he had for me. Bigger than I could offer him, but it was I who pushed his hand to my engorging piece, suddenly knowing what I needed to fill that empty place that had opened inside me. I grabbed his hair pulling his head back kissing possessively down his neck to his chest . For now, right now, he was mine. And I wanted to feel my flesh throbbing inside him, his body moving under me, writhing before me. He resisted briefly, knowing he was the fucker, but my mouth and hands, my body, were insistent and he gave in to me. Compromised for me. I felt a rush and turned him, suddenly desperate for the main event. The physical. He ceased to be, he was nothing and everything. I didn't know him but my body understood his completely. I pushed him forward on the bed straddled him and kissed down his spine, wanting to feel each bump of bone, overcome by the perfection of it. Running my fingers over the mounds of hardness before my tongue arrived. Down to the end where his body separated and split. I slid back on the bed, pulled his hips up and he lifted his arse to me, making the moves. I was lost now stroking myself for a moment as I ran my thumb down between his cheeks, over his rim. Then I was in a rush to tongue his entrance, untidy as I lubed him, sighing as my fingers penetrated him, fucked him looser stroking his smooth passage walls, making him moan and wanting him to moan louder for me. "Yes," he grunted, as I stroked my fingers again at the same depth. His arching back had me throbbing and I reached under and held him as I positioned myself and made the first entry, moving in easily, grunting from the overwhelming pleasure of it as he took hold of me deeper and I reached under for his cock and stroked him. I began to move inside him my hips slipping into the fucking rhythm that was my perfect entry to paradise. On the edge of my awareness I felt my spine curl and uncurl, smoothly, painlessly and the empty space inside me started to fill. I rested a hand on his back, low down, feeling his spine moving as my rolling hips guided me in and out of his body. We lost ourselves separately, me building myself to my climax as he moved his arse in slow circles doing whatever he wanted to take his from me. The empty space inside me was suddenly filled as I grunted and jerked inside him, gripping his hip. My release came, my cream let loose deep inside him as I moaned. I ran my hands over him, under him, took over his cock giving him the final few strokes he needed to come. Catching his cream in my hand, wiping it on his belly. I fell away and pulled him in to me, feeling his warmth, his firmness. "You've got a beautiful back," I said, running my fingers lightly along his spine. "Are you into backs," he replied drowsily. "No. Yes," I replied, confused, "Right now I just appreciate how amazing they are. I had a problem." "You seemed fine to me," he said, turning his head so I could kiss his mouth. "Yes. It's gone, all gone. I found out today." "Oh. So this is a celebration fuck," he said, and laughed, rolling around so he faced me, his hand moving to my right nipple, his mouth to my neck. "Yes," I said smiling at him, not in a hurry to go anywhere else, "Yes. A celebration." No Surrender To Her It was horrible, but it was supposed to be. Every slash of her wrist brought agony onto my rump as she cackled. She wanted me to fail. She wanted me to scream enough was enough and spew forth my safeword. The safeword was "Surrender" but I would not allow her to succeed. In fact, I would have ceded to anyone else but her. She was my enemy, my sworn enemy. My writing nemesis. A rivalry colder than Arsenal and Tottenham and with considerably less mutual respect. So as my rump felt every stroke of her weapon, I ignored the pain, I fought it, desperate to dismiss the fire burning in my backside as a mere feathery touch. I kept my boxer shorts on for dignity: my jeans bunched around my ankles as I leant on the table. The soft red velvet of the fabric underneath my palm in contrast to vicious whip swooshing through the air and landing on my black underwear. "Ooh ... it tickles!" I cried through gritted teeth, shooting a glance at the assembled audience. This was a grudge match: scores were being settled. She had threatened to make me cry; I scoffed at the snarling bitch and told her to deliver. She offered, and I was goaded into leaning over the table with my jeans unbuckled to my ankles. But she was getting perilously close to my surrender. I fought the stripes of pain landing squarely across my flesh, the sharpness of the sensation as her whip bounced off my buttocks. The crack of her whip filled the small room as she grunted behind me. I could feel her launching her weight into her strikes, using every muscle in her body to drive the equine whip against my aching skin. She was desperate to hurt me. I could see her movements in the reflection of the glass, concentrating intensely on my pain. Her strokes became faster and faster, slashing against my bruised flesh with barely a pause for breath. I whimpered. My resolve was cracking. I wanted to yell, swear and cry. I wanted to squeal my safeword and admit her savagery was too much for me to bear. But I would not surrender to her. Nothing in the land would make that worthwhile, I could not capitulate to her. It would not happen. "Still tickling!" I teased, because the only alternative was to yield. "When are you going to start trying to hurt me?" I was moments away from crying. My rear was ablaze, no doubt a violent shade of red or purple that would be agonisingly painful for days. I focused on the patterns in front of me: my mind interested only in the interwoven stitching of the soft velvet tablecloth instead of the fierce beating unleashed on my defenceless flesh. They watched, chattering. I heard snippets of whispering, mutterings of disbelief from our mutual friends, tired of our constant bickerings. I was taking a wild pounding, but I was a depraved, kinky individual, and a brutal assault on my body was a small price to pay for claiming the tiniest victory over her. Determined, she unleashed harder and harder strokes of her whip against my buns. My nervous system was alight to the torture, my endorphins flowing into my blood stream to respond to her malevolence. "Ooh, I might have a felt a little something there." I lied. I felt everything. Every agonising stroke, every excruciating hit on my bloodied seat was torture. A self-inflicted torment from my ego for responding to her challenge that I could not hope to win. But I gritted my teeth, squeezing my muscles as the heat in my skin sizzled to her tune. This was mind over matter, sheer willpower as my body received a dozen more strokes: each one ten times more painful than the one that preceded it. She mopped her brow: the anger in the statuesque blonde translating into a strenuous workout. "Getting bored now," I called out, humming to rile her. To provoke her. To poke her consciousness and get under her skin. "I've had more of a beating from a toddler. This is pathetic." And that's when she swore, shouting as an avalanche of cruel emotion channelled through her whip to land in the middle of my bruises. To bounce off my sit spot. To rap the backs of my damaged thighs. To break my resistance. For me to yield to her pitiless swats. My fists screwed the tablecloth as my rump erupted into a mass of suffering. I panted, looking into the table so no-one could see the pain etched upon my face. My flesh was burning hot, my resolve all but crumbled as she wielded the whip relentlessly. "I'm bored," I cried, straightening my back and standing up. "I've not finished," she cried as I stepped towards our mutual friends. One of our audience patronisingly patted my backside with a giggle. "Aaaaahhhh, does it hurt?" "Ow," I squealed. "Fuck! Ahhh, that really hurt!" I lied as an unknown hand gently tapped my abused rump. "Sorry," she muttered, apologetically. "S'ok," I replied, before sneering at my nemesis. "They managed to hurt me with their hand, you didn't touch me with your whip." "I've not finished, get your arse back here," she demanded. But there was no way I could take any more of her punishment and shook my head. "Bored. And I've been hurt now so it would invalidate the test. You failed to make me surrender, you completely and utterly failed," I condescendingly crowed. But everyone knew the truth. I would not sit down properly for a week: every movement would be excruciatingly painful and I had taken a battering of epic proportions. Every waking moment I would be reminded that the bane of my writing world had given me a hundred lashes of the whip and I had taken it because my pride would not let me concede that a riding whip hurts. And it was almost worth it: I had not surrendered to her. She had not beaten me. I had won.