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Supergirl’s visit to Earth was going so well until the incident with the kryptonite butt plug and the exposure wall at the supervillain convention. By the time she got loose, her bottom was super sore!
Artwork is by Mavis.
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Supposedly this scene from Unrestrained by Joey W. Hill is a punishment for orgasming without permission, but nobody seems very committed to the punishment portion of the bit:
“Come here, woman.”
He bade her stand at the arm of the chair and took the spatula and clip from her. “Spread your legs.”
When she did, he clasped the lips of her sex in firm, sure fingers, compressing them before he opened the three-inch-wide clip and slowly let the jaws come back together, holding on to her clit and labia. The compression was uncomfortable, but it also jammed all those aroused nerves together, making dense sensation arrow up through her core.
“Bend down, toward my lap.”
She did so, and he took hold of her hair, wrapping it around his fist and guiding her all the way down so her mouth was pressed, blissfully, on the straining denim over his erection. She could smell the heavy, musky scent of it, knew he’d likely spilled some milky precum against the fabric of his shorts. She wanted to taste him more than she’d ever wanted to taste anything. His hand tightened in her hair. “Fold your arms beneath your breasts. Press your knees against the side of the chair.”
It put more of her weight forward, so her forehead was pressed to his opposite thigh. Her fingers dug into the chair cushioning as she adjusted her knees so her thighs stayed open.
“Good girl. You learn fast. This will help you remember what happens if you come before your Master orders it.”
The spatula strike made her jerk. He’d said there was a difference between discipline and a punishment for pleasure, but he didn’t seem to hold back on either. Her capacity to absorb the pain seemed greater now, though, her ass lifting toward it, wanting more, even as every strike made her cringe and think, Ow ow ow . . .
He didn’t tell her how many he was going to do this time, and by the time she was trying hard not to writhe, her ass singing with pain, she was about to beg. Her clit was pulsing beneath the hold of that clamp, her pussy tingling. When he dropped the spatula and pulled the clip off, she cried out at the painful rush of blood back to the area. It was mitigated by his touch, the clamp of his fingers over her clit, worrying it, making her hips lift up to him again. Please . . . oh God . . . It feels so good.
He pushed her up, shifted her so she was down on her knees between his feet. She watched with eager desire as he opened his jeans, adjusted them and the boxers beneath enough that he freed his cock, levering it out to stand tall and thick before her gaze. Roy had been a good size, more than capable of filling a woman, and Dale was the same. Her gaze coursed over the thick vein along the base of the shaft, the hint of the heavy ball sac still nested in his shorts.
“Hands behind your back, Athena. You’ll suck me off with your mouth alone.”
She desperately wanted to touch him, learn him with her fingers, but she was starting to understand his diabolical strategy. The tighter he held the reins, the more powerful the wanting became. The more she wanted, the more it turned him on, a closely intertwined strand that drove them both.
Clasping the base of his cock in one hand, he brought her down on him.
Steel and velvet, musk, salt. Lust and heat. She savored that first contact between the cushion of her lip and the broad head, the dampness of his slit. He kept total control of her movements, pushing her down deep on him. He did it slow, so she had time to adjust, but he still went all the way up against her gag reflex, making her fight not to choke.
“Relax your throat. Take all of me. There you go. That’s my sweet girl.”
She sucked that salty-musky taste, reveling in it, and when he let her slide up, she worried his slit with the tip of her tongue, sucked on the ridges of the corona, and then she was pushed down again. She worked within what his grip would allow her, flicking her tongue along his length, sucking on him so hard she hollowed her cheeks as she did it.
“Fuck, you’re good at this. I might keep you on your knees all the time.”
How crazy was it that she loved hearing that? She redoubled her efforts. She wanted him to come in her mouth, wanted to swallow his seed. She was wet and throbbing yet again, ready for another climax. It was exhilarating, terrifying, the way her body responded to this, to him. But would he allow her that? Or would he leave her hot and wanting, because he was immersing her in what it was to be a submissive? His kind of submissive, commanded by the inexorable will of her Master.
His thigh muscles were starting to flex and twitch in that way that told her the climax was close. His grip showed that as well, as if men lost an awareness of their own strength as they reached that crest. Or perhaps they realized getting rougher was something a woman craved, feeling his loss of control in that aggressive power. She sucked and licked even more ardently. She wished her hand was where his was, wrapped around the base of his cock, so she could feel that vein pump when the seed started to come through.
With a groan, he thrust up hard into her mouth. His ejaculation flooded her throat, several long, strong spurts that kept her swallowing frantically, trying to make sure none of it escaped her lips. Her chest heaved with the effort, her throat fighting against that gag reflex.
His animal noises of release kept her working to please him. When his touch finally eased, her scalp was stinging from his grip and her eyes were watering from the effort, but all she wanted to do was keep at it. Instead, she did the next best thing. She started to clean him, licking more gently, absorbing with pleasure the postclimactic shudders of his body, the way his fingers stroked her hair, yet also paused to do short, quick pulls, a pleasurable discomfort to her scalp. Then he had her under the arms, dragging her into his lap to grip her neck and hold her to him for a hard, deep kiss. The zipper of his open jeans bit into her sore ass, his damp cock mashed against her pussy, and she loved it, the visceral, sticky perfection of it all.
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I’m not enough of a botanist to know what sort of weedy stems these old-time lesbians are employing for the whipping on this vintage French postcard, but the stems and flowers look somewhat like thistles to me, although not precisely like any of the varieties that grow in my part of North America:
The postcard itself might be from the Biederer/Ostra ouvre, but then again it might not; there were a lot of risque postcard publishers on “the continent” before WWII.
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One of my favorite genres of porn is the image — much more likely to be an imaginative artwork than an actual photograph — of a BDSM session or sex scene in progress where it looks like the entire contents of somebody’s sex toy cabinet or adult playtime duffle bag has exploded all over the bedroom or the dungeon, as the case may be. And then, when you take a second look, you realize there are so many cast-aside whips, paddles, sensation toys, restraints, bottles of lube, half-burnt candles, clamps, plugs, dildos, sounds, and other devious instruments of pleasure that whoever planned this happy event must surely have stopped off at an adult shop on their way to the tryst, because nobody’s in-house assortment of sex toys could possibly be that exhaustively complete!
In its most extreme form this sort of image is rare, but in truth I’m a sucker for just about any erotic illustration or photo that gives pride of place to the sex toys, and especially the impact toys, that make all the erotic fun possible. Do I have a little bit of a toy fetish? I suppose I might!
Almost as much fun is the before-the-action version in which all the sex toys are carefully arranged in a meticulous array around the object of one’s affections. Everything in its place, all objects of fun convenient to the grasping hand of an avid lover. Under no circumstances are we going to interrupt the festivities to go rummage in the cupboard or fumble in the bag under the bed! Because that’s no fun for anybody. We’ve all been there, and it kills the moment. A creative lover gets his or her shit together well in advance.
Depending on the amount of compulsive obsession in play, these scenes may or may not have a much smaller number of sex toys in play, but what they might lack in sheer number of toys, they can make up for in well-organized style. Sometimes it even appears that the position of each toy in the scene has been curated as carefully as the limbs of a bonsai tree, so much so that you can tell what toy is in use by the missing-tooth gap in the tableau.
There’s also a sub-variant where the used sex toys (and the happy recipient of all that attention) are arranged with precision at the end of the scene, as if for a trophy photograph. Perhaps this is the sexual equivalent of snapshotting your dinner table for Instagram, but after you’ve enjoyed your meal?
Image credits: The kneeling leashed and clamped blonde (upper image) is by Punchdrunkey. The kneeling submissive surrounded by sticky sex toys (lower image) is by アヌリタ (Anurita).
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In At Her Husband’s Command by Lily Harlem, Melody and her masterful husband are preparing for a kinky dinner party when she gets distracted from their kitchen prep work by watching his strong hands knead the bread dough and imagining herself in its place. When he catches her ogling him, their preparations get delayed somewhat:
She smoothed a crease from the black satin tablecloth she’d carefully ironed earlier, and straightened the antique candelabra she’d set in the middle.
“Bend over.”
Her breath caught in her throat as a firm pressure was applied to the centre of her back.
She did as instructed, folding double until her breasts pressed on the tablecloth and the cool material rubbed her cheek.
So we have got time?
She smiled, but only briefly, because then she bit down on her bottom lip so he wouldn’t guess her feeling of triumph that she’d gotten to him.
“There is a time and a place for giving your master suggestive looks and allowing desire to fill your eyes,” Ivor said, dragging up her skirt and exposing her naked buttocks.
Cool air washed over her skin and a tremble attacked her pussy. Her heart rate picked up.
“And when we have our friends’ visit to prepare for, it is very inconvenient for you to make me think of reddening your arse and wanting to fuck you.”
“I’m sorry, Sir.” She closed her eyes. She wasn’t sorry, not at all. If she’d been damp in the kitchen watching him knead the bread, now she was very definitely wet.
He stroked her buttocks, the small calluses on his palms scratching her flesh. “You’re marked from last night.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Was it too much?”
“No, of course not.”
“Good.” He delivered one hard slap to each buttock, the sound echoing around the room and clattering over the slate tiled floor. It was just the kind of noise they didn’t need neighbours hearing.
Melody barely flinched. Until the sting of his slaps layered into fire, she could handle it fine.
“You wanted to be the bread?” he asked, stepping away from her.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I did.”
“Open your eyes.”
She did as instructed. He was standing to the side of the table and held up the long wooden serving plank that the bread would be placed on later. It had a handle and a large flat rectangular surface the size of a small tray.
Her heart rate picked up. She’d been spanked with many implements over the years but this… this was new.
And scary.
“If you can’t sit down later, if you need to eat your meal standing, then that’s your own fault,” he said, rubbing his hand over the surface of his newest toy. “And you can explain to the guests that you flirted shamelessly with your master when you should have been preparing for their visit.”
Melody didn’t think her flirting had been particularly shameless, but if Ivor said it was, she’d go along with it. Arguing would be futile, plus the glint of excitement in his eyes thrilled her. His new spanking paddle had clearly got him really hot under the collar.
She risked a glance at his groin, just visible over the surface of the table. Sure enough, a long, thick bulge strained at his fly.
A groan escaped her throat. God, would he fuck her too? Now? Just a quick fast one after he’d reddened her buttocks to give them both some release and possibly a little stamina for later?
Later… a few sweet hours and then…
She didn’t have time to think about later because the air behind her whooshed in a cool breeze, then a crack of pain covered both of her arse cheeks.
She cried out and shifted up the table.
Fuck, that had hurt. The pain was deep and profound as well as sharp and mean.
Another hard whack.
She went up onto her tiptoes and clenched the tablecloth, gripping it in her fists.
“Mmm, very nice,” he said, caressing her arse. “A beautiful, broad band of redness.”
“Yes, Sir,” she murmured.
“I must use this more often.”
“Yes… ah…”
He’d hit again.
She harnessed the pain, the way she was adept at doing and allowed it to pool in her clit. Grinding against the table, she enjoyed the way the hard wood dragged against her body and crumpled the satin.
“Good girl,” he said. “That’s it. Make it feel good.”
She knew she was lucky. Ivor was a kind master who allowed her to find relief by rubbing herself as he spanked her. Whether it was the table, his leg, or the back of the sofa, it was permissible.
“More,” she gasped. “More, please.”
He gave it, hard and fast, another five paddles that had her skin raging as though live fire had raced over it.
She clenched her internal muscles, a drip of moisture oozed down her thigh, and she reached for her clit.
Crash.
The paddle had landed on the floor. Ivor was behind her, kicking her feet wider.
Melody moaned, knowing what was coming. Gazing lustfully at him as he’d made the bread had been the best thing she’d done all day.
His cock was there, searching for her entrance. Then he was pushing, shoving, burying deep.
He gripped her hair, yanking it into a rough ponytail. “I’m going to fucking fuck your red arse, you bad sub,” he said, his voice laced with tension.
“Yes, yes…” She arched her back, pushing her hips up and taking him deeper—so deep he nudged up against her cervix and his wiry pubic hair scratched over her tortured butt.
Again she groaned. She adored that deep dense sensation combined with his body further abusing her skin.
“Come quickly,” he ordered. “This wasn’t in our schedule.” He withdrew, pounded back in.
Melody’s feet were lifted from the floor. She was at his mercy. She was his. He could do with her as he pleased.
Her forearm was being squashed by her body but she didn’t care; she worked her clit, trying to keep a rhythm as he fucked her with increasing enthusiasm. His cock was thick and bloated; he wasn’t far from orgasming.
The air was bashed from her lungs, she snatched in breaths when she could and surrendered to his domination of her. Soon the pressure was spiralling out of control, the need for release all she could think of.
She stared out of the window, at the sun shining on the fields the same way it had minutes ago. The world carried on, nothing changed, but within her body a cataclysmic event was about to erupt.
“Come, come,” he shouted, dragging on her hair with one hand and gripping her hip with the other.
The tension uncurled, romping through her body and spreading bliss to every nerve ending. She was owned by him, her pleasure was his. What they had was so special and all she’d ever wanted and needed.
Her master came, flooding his release into her in several near-violent thrusts. He shouted her name, sent an unholy praise to God, and knocked her further up the table.
Melody melted into his grip. Adoring his moment of climax. The fact that it was she—his wife, lover, and submissive—who produced such gratification, gave her a wondrous feeling of power.
“Oh, yeah, baby,” he said, folding over her, his chest touching her back. He released her hair and kissed her temple. “You’re so fucking bad but so fucking good.”
She suppressed a giggle as she panted for breath. She adored his post-coital murmurings. He stopped being the big bad dom and became a grateful puppy who just wanted to coil himself around her.
His weight was heavy but she didn’t complain. The tablecloth was creased beyond salvation and no doubt stained with their pleasure. It would have to be quickly washed.
They stayed like that for several minutes. Melody’s heart rate slowed and her breathing came under control.
Eventually he lifted up. “We have work to do,” he said, withdrawing. “More now than before, so step to it.”
He gave her arse one final swift slap.
The delicious sting reverberated through her and she could imagine the ripples travelling over her skin, slipping in tiny waves over her buttocks then being absorbed into her thighs.
But she didn’t enjoy the moment for more than a second. She had work to do.
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It pleases me to imagine that in some early 1980s sorority there was a strict rule against resorting to pornography, because the sisters were expected to channel all of their sexual energy into the broader campus community for the greater social glorification of the house. (That’s a very fancy way of saying they were supposed to fuck frat boys and win popularity contests.) Of course, in such a sorority there is only one penalty for getting caught with your fingers in your twat and a bunch of dirty magazines:
Photo is likely from either a spanking magazine or a catfight fetish magazine, but I don’t have source.
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The scene is somewhere in a private home, at the heyday of the amateur Tumblr porn era. A wife who has tried her husband’s patience once too many times is face-down in the bathroom with her hands restrained, waiting for the enema bag to finish filling her up:
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