Dutiful Dereliction

by Simone Francis

Bondage & submission illustrated short story

The world fades. What is this place? We walk through large rooms with high, once white ceilings that are faded to parchment cream. All around paint and wallpaper is peeling and the once polished floors crunch with debris under my high heels.

Most of the rooms are empty apart from the occasional piece of dust sheet covered furniture, shrouded as if their owners intended to one day return and reclaim them. As long as it is not today I think. In my nose there is the stale smell of neglect. Beneath my heavy coat the knots that hold me tighten. Rope bites pulling soft skin into leather wrinkles. Time seems to slip away. I feel our hosts from the past watching me, the only clue to our purpose, the gag between my teeth its buckle behind my head catching strands of hair causing pinpricks on my scalp.


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He stops. Turns to face me; I wait obediently then he reaches out and unbuttons my coat. The coarse material slides across my naked breasts. Blood flows to my nipples as if eager to share in the sensation. He stands back, taking time to admire his captive.

Bondage short story photo illustration Simone Francis

He waves a finger in a circular gesture and I begin to turn. The coat slips from my shoulders and crumples silently on the floor.

He unfolds a long leather strop from his pocket and in response, I bend forward the skin tightening expectantly across my behind. I know he is looking, imagining the sound of the leather biting into my cheeks and, afterwards, the sensations of pushing between them.

His hand holding the strop does not move. Instead, he lifts me up and turns me to face him. His fingers work inside my soft lace panties, desire again creeps through me as he grips the waistband and pulls them down. The soft material bites into my thighs.  He pulls off the gag tearing at my hair. I stand waiting, displayed like a captured slave.

All that matters naked, stripped of all but my stockings; worn for him. He approaches from behind, I hear his footfalls and despite his instructions issued an age ago turn to look. My buttocks sting. I gasp and look away mindful of the game.

I bend forward anxious to play, no anxious to be, a true submissive. To fulfil his, and my desires. Rough hands move me forward and bend me down pushing my face into the dust on the unyielding top of the covered table.

I wait, tiny electric shocks seem to permeate my body rising from the folds between my legs. Nipples harden, fingers twitch with longing. I sense his presence almost feel his gaze brushing my skin. I wait. Anticipation mounts. A single touch would spark a discharge that would flow through my being. There is silence. I can sense no movement. The only touch is imagined.

I wait. Arousal quickens I know my sex is soft and honeyed yearning for a touch. If I could I would slip my fingers between the fold knowing that this would bring forth the swish of the strop which would only add to my lust but there is nothing I can do held tight by the rope.

At last, it comes. Hands grip my curves, fingers biting into the pliant flesh, nails scouring my skin. I spread my legs, eager for him to quench my desire and feel the head of his solid, smooth, flesh sliding between my lips. There is no resistance, I am soft and slippery, parting like melting butter. The skin of his thighs melds with mine as he fills me completely.

Bondage short story photo illustration Simone Francis

The delight as he slides out, the skin and veins of his shaft rubbing against, sparking every nerve in, the muscles within me. His thrusts force wails of joy from my mouth which echo off the dusty, tattered walls surrounding us.

“Fuck me, fuck me harder,” at last I can no longer constrain my voice in obedience. I take control for a few seconds, shoving my sex against his thrusts, my body tensing. The room around me disintegrates and my entire mind is concentrated on the warm liquid life pulsing into me.

He pauses for a moment, breathing heavily, his sword sheathed in me like a perfectly fitting scabbard. Then he slides out.

I moan at the emptiness but he grabs my hair and spins me around, forcing me down. My stockings tear as the rough fragments on the floor press into my knees. His cock, still half aroused, seed dripping from its head, hangs in front of my lips.

I greedily take it in my mouth, tasting the bittersweet, salt on my tongue as I slide it deep into my throat. Life returns, it is swelling again with desire for me. A desire that I am happy to submit to.



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