Corner Time

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Belle stands in the corner, hands on head, knickers around her ankles. Swaying on the unaccustomed high heels thrusting her peachy posterior delightfully into prominence. she meekly obeys her man’s stern instruction not to rub her glowing posterior.

When Rod takes control Belle goes weak at the knees, his to use however he wishes, her anxious speculation as to what might happen making the moment all the sweeter. He certainly smacked her bottom thoroughly today, five long minutes while of her quite specular derriere squirming in discomfort, rendering Belle hot, damp and incredibly aroused.

“Oooh, that spanking went on for ages,” she pouts ruefully.

“You were very naughty,” replies Rod, permitting Belle to gratefully massage her smarting cheeks. His efforts have evidently had an aphrodisiac effect, Rod’s finger effortlessly slips into the welcoming wetness of her pussy.

Belle turns to face the man currently ogling her lustfully. Unconcerned by his objectification, she revels in being so ardently desired – the feeling is mutual. He opens her blouse to free prominent boobs….

“How’s it going?” enquires the Muse.

“Not great,” the Writer admits, looking up from his keyboard.

“Want me to have a look?”

“Please,” he says, gratefully, “after all, you’ve inspired many of my efforts.”

“What’s the total so far?”

“Over 100,” the Writer seems as surprised as is she. “Early efforts in spanking magazines and erotic story collections, much of it sadly lost – the perils of floppy discs. Fortunately, the later stuff was published online.”

“Shows how many years you’ve been spanking me,” The Muse smiles conspiratorially at the recollection. “Had enough practice, what’s the problem?”

“Don’t know, inspiration almanbahis failure?”

“Really? I’ve always been pleasurably surprised by your inventively smutty mind. How can we resolve this sorry situation?”

“All I’ve got so far is the vignette you just read – no narrative or proper characterisation,” the Writer sighs.

“True, but what you’ve written is definitely erotic – I submit as evidence that reading it has made me wet.”

“My description struck a chord, then?”

“I’ll say! This isn’t fiction, it’s my lived experience. Feels as if the scenario just happened, here and now.” The Muse has a sudden thought. “Were that the case, we’d be about to embark on the best bit.”

“Aftercare?” The Writer is quick to pick up her train of thought.

“Exactly, let’s begin with me adopting the stance of your fictional penitent and see what happens.” Once in position facing the wall, she hikes her skirt revealing skimpy knickers

“Hands on head, if we’re keeping to my plot,” instructs the Writer. She obeys with a cheeky grin, jiggling her buttocks. The writer’s cock stiffens, his Muse wobbles slightly.

“Standing still is tricky,” she complains, kicking off her heels.

“That wasn’t in my story,” cautions the Writer, “I’d say you’re deliberately being disobedient.”

“Who me?” Face a picture of innocence. “Ow!” Two ringing slaps sting her all-but-naked behind.

“And in the interests of accuracy, your knickers should be down,” ignoring a yelp of protest he tugs the skimpy panties to her knees, exposing two glowing handprints.

“If we’re being precise, when your story stalled, I – that’s assuming it was me – was facing the other way.” The Muse spontaneously twists around, adding provocatively, almanbahis giriş “and getting her boobs fondled.” Taking the hint, the Writer lifts her top to uncover braless orbs, nipples already erect. He tweaks each, eliciting a gasp. “Careful, you know how sensitive they are.” Quite, touching her tits is like flicking a switch marked ‘excite’, never failing to immediately turn the Muse on.

“I think you’re enjoying this way too much,” says the Writer, “perhaps further discipline is required?”

“No way, remember the storyline, this is where you reward good behaviour, for taking my punishment well.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever been well-behaved.”

She giggles. “What can I say? I like sex a lot.”

“And like a lot of sex,” he observes wryly, slipping a hand between her legs creating an electric surge of sexual excitement. Her perfect pussy yields to his questing digit. The Muse gasps delightedly.

“More of that please”. Her slippery slot, aching with anticipation, easily admits a second probing finger. He curls both inside her honeyed portal, seeking the sensitive G spot. Shuddering with arousal, she grasps his shoulders for support.

“Unhand me,” the Writer softly rebukes.

The Muse pouts. “But I want…”

“You’ll get what I decide.”

“And what exactly will you permit?” Adopting a defiant expression, the Muse hastens to move things along by discarding her panties completely.

“Is this the real flesh and blood, hot to trot you speaking, or the character in my story?” The Writer is becoming confused. His Muse takes a moment to consider the question.

“Life imitating art, or art imitating life, all a bit cerebral in the context of an incipient fuck,” she replies impishly.

“Put almanbahis yeni giriş another way, will your orgasm be solely on the page,” he asks, “or here and now?”

“Both, I hope,” the Muse grinds against the Writer’s hand, then disobeying the earlier instruction, frees his straining erection. “I need your cock, right this instant, she says, breathing heavily. Sounds like a plan, thinks the Writer, withdrawing his fingers to ease his member inside her slickly accommodating vulva.

“Oh, yes,” she groans exultantly, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and legs around his waist, “good job you’re strong.”

“You Jane, me Tarzan,” he says, “although a knee-trembler against the wall is hardly romantic.”

“A little bit of rough never did this girl any harm.” Hips bucking, hair awry, the Muse relinquishes any vestige of composure. With his entire length blissfully accommodated, her swollen clitoris is forced against his pubic bone as the Writer thrusts masterfully. Thighs trembling, back arching, her consummately penetrated cunt spasms tightly around his cock.

“Please don’t stop, I’m almost there. Go on, shoot in me,” she gasps, not that the Writer requires urging, or can delay his orgasm. The Muse thrills to the hot surge of his release, jetting deep within her pussy and precipitating her own convulsive and very vocal, climax. In a tangle of limbs, the two slump to the floor, a hot mess of joy and satiation.

“We may have broken the fourth wall there,” mutters the Writer.

“Talking to me, or your readers?” the Muse enquires.

“The divide between reality and fiction seems to be blurred,” replies the Writer, increasingly unsure.

“All gone meta,” observes the Muse, “quite the artistic fashion these days I gather. Glad to have helped to shift your writer’s block, plus I got the post-spanking pleasure without any preceding pain.

“Is that really a good thing?” The Writer knows her too well.

“Fair point, possibly not. Maybe I do need a real-life spanking.”

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