EVE IN EDEN 4 | women belly bdsm stories

"Another satisfied customer," Denise remarked, a little smugly Eve thought, as Daphne stumbled away a minute later, her arms cradling her wounded jugs, the dress still hanging about her waist, her bra thrown over one shoulder by a dismissive Denise.

"The thing is they think I can't hurt them, being a bit on the small side. Well there's one that knows different now."

"Do you think I should go after her, and make sure she's alright?" Eve asked, full of contrition for the way she had allowed herself to be swept along on the waves of hot uncontrollable desire that had filled her belly during the breast lashing.

"I shouldn't if I were you," Denise advised, "A girl likes to be alone with her tears at times like this. Time enough for your sympathy when she comes back. If I know our Dee, she'll have mended her mood with her make-up, and be chipper as usual when she does come back."

Well not quite, Eve thought, watching her friend's return, some fifteen minutes later. She managed something near a genuine smile for friends who greeted or condoled with her, but there was something a little stiff about it, as in the way she moved. Her bra was back in hiding again but the deep cleavage was crossed by several angry dark bruises, that not even Max Factor's best cover-all could disguise, and there were still hints of red rims around her eyes.

Once more the circus roared around them, bared woman flesh of all description regularly called upon to accept rod, strap or paddle, to expurgate those sins of dress and deportment that their friends pointed out so helpfully. By now a tall athletic brunette had joined them. Daphne introduced her as Lavinia.

"Larry comes from the other side of the island," she explained, "You'll have to visit some time. They have interesting activities of their own over there. Make your hair curl. Regular tartars, and that's just the women."

"Take no notice, she's only jealous," Lavinia advised, "but do come and stay.

The races start next month. Come over for the opening meeting."

"Love to," Eve agreed. She liked the look of this tall friendly new acquaintance.

The three of them moved about from group to group, chatting here, watching there. As the evening wore on Eve was finding it more and more difficult to distinguish between winces of sympathy for some choice hurt suffered by a bare and bending delinquent, and spasms of hot desire that rippled through her belly and set her cunt weeping, though not exactly tears of sympathy. Daphne seemed almost completely recovered now, but Eve fancied she saw the occasional trace of fear flicker across her face if an acquaintance seemed to be inspecting her visually a little too deeply, and from time to time she caught her looking down at her heels, running a hand over her stocking seams on the back of her thighs, or trying to catch a glimpse of herself in a mirrored surface. She did not think the latter was a matter of vanity.

Watching her friend, she failed to observe that Lavinia was watching her.

"You must be one of the few not carrying some marks by now," Lavinia remarked suddenly. Daphne covered Eve's confusion quickly.

"Oh Eve's a visitor," she assured her, "she's excused."

"I may be only a visitor but I certainly don't wish to be excused," Eve answered hotly, "I've just been lucky; that's all."

Late in the evening Lavinia found her way over to where Daphne stood with Eve, having a last drink before getting ready to depart. The two friends stood chatting for a while, comparing their various and numerous stripes and bruises, laughing over the comical fates of some of their mutual friends. Suddenly Lavinia turned her whole gaze on Eve, where she stood quietly taking in their discussion.

"And what about you, darling?" she asked, "did you collect some mementos of our little soiree?"

"I stayed lucky," Eve replied, "I managed to avoid attention all evening."

"A picture of perfection," Daphne chimed in, "not a mark on her; clothes or bottom."

Lavinia's eyes did not waver for a moment from their fixed stare locked onto Eve's own. "Is that so?" she murmured thoughtfully. "Well we'll soon see about that."

A sly smile flicked over her lips. "Good little girl are we? Put on clean knickers just like mummy said?"

"Of course," Eve replied, "everything trim and nice, just as Dee prescribed."

"Show!" Lavinia almost snapped the word and Eve looked at her puzzled.

"Get your pants down and show me your gusset." Lavinia demanded.

Eve hesitated a second then reached under her dress It was a snug fit, and she had to ruck it up tightly before she could reach her pants. Thumbs hooked into the elastic waistband, she slid the silken garment over her hips and stood on each leg in turn to release it and hand it to her interrogator, feeling cool air on exposed moist membranes as she did so. Lavinia took the proffered scrap of exquisite lingerie and turned it inside out, applying the gusset to her flaring nostrils. Eve blushed deeply as she saw the moisture was not confined to her crotch. The gusset gleamed with her secretions.

"Smells of old fish and sticky with it," Lavinia declared. "Ripe and soaking; as soiled a pair of skimpies as I've ever tasted and an utter disgrace."

Daphne stepped in to defend her friend.

"Come off it, Larry, you know damn well there's not a woman in the room who hasn't wet her pants by now. You can smell musk everywhere you go. You can't call Eve out for that."

"But I just have," Lavinia replied sweetly. "Unless, of course, your little friend wants to hide behind her status as a guest?"

Eve had no doubts as to what lay ahead. Penalties were always dealt out on the nearest part of the anatomy to the offending dress item, and there could only be one place in contact with that ripely soaked scrap of cloth Lavinia was waving at her accusingly. But she wasn't about to hide behind her status as a guest.

She had already committed herself too deeply for that to be an option.

"OK, you win," she said. "How do you want me?"

"Sure you don't want to appeal?" Daphne asked anxiously. "You've got a good case, Larry means to strap your cunt. You do realise that, don't you?"

"Would you appeal?" Eve challenged her.

"Er, well, perhaps not. But then I'm a resident," Daphne said lamely.

"Quite so," Eve replied grimly," No. No appeal. Lead on Lavinia and let's get it over with."

Lavinia led the way to a low narrow coffee table.

"Hike up your skirt, and put your bum on the end," she instructed. With her dress pulled up onto her hips, Eve gingerly placed her buttocks on the edge of the polished wood, placing her feet slightly apart to steady herself.

"Now lie back and put your arms down and grip the legs that end."

Eve obeyed, and then was ordered to put her feet further apart and spread her knees to open up her thighs and put her vulnerable pudenda on display.

Strangely, although by now she was beginning to feel real fear, her vulva was wetter than ever. Lavinia leant over her and pushed the gusset of the offending panties between her teeth.

"This is going to hurt," she said, "and you'll be better off for something to bite on."

In view of what she expected lay ahead, Eve accepted the moist rag almost with gratitude tasting herself salty on her tongue, the musk of her sex strong in her nostrils. Her fears were doubled when Lavinia unclipped the suspender on the front of her girdle, so that she could turn back the front panel, leaving the tender female meat totally open and exposed.

Lavinia hauled up her own dress above her waist and threw one long shapely nylon-clad leg over Eve and the table until she stood astride her waist, facing her feet. Looking up Eve was treated to a view of a tightly packed girdle, covered by a pair of panties whose crotch was patently as soaked as her own offending garment. Below, a series of livid welts from some earlier adventure adorned the soft white flesh of the thighs, where they sprang bare from the stocking tops, hauled hawser tight by the constricting roll-on. Despite her own fear and danger she felt a sudden rush of lust as she watched the play of the firm muscles under the welts.

She could also see a long narrow black leather snake dangling from Lavinia's hand as she positioned herself, a snake that disappeared as Lavinia brought her hands together in front of her and raised them high.

"Stand by for six scorchers," she announced and the strap whistled as it descended. With an audible 'thuck', it fell across the wet slot of the pouting vulva. Eve screamed behind her impromptu gag and jerked her legs together, blasted by the searing agony of the assault on her most tender woman's parts.

Lavinia let her writhe for thirty seconds or so then called her to order.

"You have to keep your legs open," she declared, "That stroke won't count, and nor will the next, if your thighs aren't wide open when the following stroke is due. Do I make myself clear?"

Eve moaned in assent and forced her reluctant legs to part and offer up her aching mound for the next awful belt. When it came she could not hold out, and jacked her thighs closed again, but had sufficient mind left, not to speak of fear of incurring even one extra stroke of that cruel leather, to make her muscles obey her and open up after only five seconds or so.

Lavinia was almost purring as she raised the strap again. This time, when she brought it down, she leaned forward with it, and let the thong go a touch deeper, so that the tip found its way into the bottom of the buttock crack and seared the anal bud itself. Once again Eve went into convulsions, strange whining noises coming down her streaming nostrils, bubbling through the spattering mucus. It took longer to regain control, but she laid herself open again in time to avoid further penalty and Lavinia struck again. Once more the strap fell full on the swollen vulva, its liquidity apparently undiminished by the pounding, judging by the wet smack of the impact, and the liquid spray it shot onto the inside of the splayed thighs. Three equally wet and weeping strokes later and Eve was at the end of her tether, her belly filled with anguish and heat, writhing uncontrollably on the hard bench, snorting with pain, her face a mask of snot and tears, her make-up in ruins, but she had won through. Tenderly Lavinia prised the panties from her clenching teeth and used them to wipe away the disgusting film from her face, before bending and kissing her full on her bitten lips.

"You were wonderful, darling," she breathed, "I've never enjoyed whipping a cunt so much in all my life."

Eve, returning her kiss with interest, her belly and genitals burning with arousal as much as with appalling agony, could only wonder how often she had indulged in this awful but electrifying sport.

A minute later she was allowed to sit up and adjust the tabs of the girdle to haul the nylons spinnaker taut again, before attempting to stand. She found she could not close her legs properly, so sore and swollen was her sex and, as for panties, she threw decorum to the winds, and the saturated underpants in the trash. Daphne and Lavinia helped her waddle, legs astraddle, to the powder room, now taking on the appearance of a casualty clearing station in some particularly desperate battle zone, where she joined a knot of other women repairing the damage of the action, all moving stiffly in one way or another. As they were leaving, Lavinia kissed Eve again, this time with not quite the same hot inflamed passion, but warmly enough.

"Remember, you must come over and stay with us soon," she declared. "There's so much to see on the other side of the island, and I'm sure you'd enjoy it. I'll give you a ring once you've recovered."

Despite the fact that this woman had just whipped her cruelly on her genitals, Eve found herself responding as warmly, and promising to visit soon.

Their homeward progress was stately and sedate. Daphne was making sure no pot-holes or other obstacles set her aching breasts leaping in their nylon hammocks.

As the car hummed quietly along, Eve remarked on the ferocity with which the women sought out each others' weaknesses, and punished them so severely.

"It's just a healthy outlet for our natural competitiveness," Daphne explained,"

all women look on each other as potential rivals and this is a way of letting those feelings come out without doing any damage to relationships."

"No damage! They must all hate each other by now."

"Really? Is that how you feel about Lavinia?"

"Well perhaps not," she admitted, "Yes, I see what you mean, although she did half pulp my cunt. I don't think I'll ever be able to take pleasure from it again."

"You want to bet? I guarantee that before the night is through you'll be howling like a bitch in heat."

"Oh Daphne, what a ridiculous idea. Anyway," Eve added semi-hysterically, "I suppose you could say we were damn lucky."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Well, when you were shooing me out of the house, you remarked that we'd be damned lucky to come home with less than a dozen apiece on our bums and, just look at us. Not a scratch between us. Battered boobs and a ruined cunt, but not a mark on our bums."

Daphne's prophesies proved right on one point though. True enough, the throbbing in her cunt drove sleep away, and she lay tossing on her bed, unable to settle.

At first it was pain, but soon the old feminine alchemy turned it to ever hotter desire, especially as she caught the sounds of Daphne's orgasmic howls from the bedroom at the far end of the same balcony on which her own opened. All those thoughts of hot masculine gristle filling her aching void returned, with interest. For a long while she tried to drive them away, but they would not be put down. Her own fingers failed her too. Apart from the fact that her swollen tender love bud was too sore to touch, her mind was set on hard shafts and male dominance, not dainty feminine ministrations. Daphne's howls had long since silenced into satisfaction, but still she could not sleep. She threw off the sweat soaked sheet and wandered naked onto the veranda, hoping desperately that the cool night air and the quiet sounds of the nightlife in the bushes might soothe her enough for her to return to bed.

Quite bare, she rested her arms on the wooden rail, flinching momentarily as the rough timber brushed her nipples, then deliberately letting them rub along the harsh bark, generating part pain, part pleasure that did nothing to cool her mood of arousal. Somewhere to her left a small bright red eye opened and shut at the far end of the veranda, where Gordon and Daphne's room lay. Someone, it could only be Gordon, was leaning there smoking a cigar.

Her first instinct was to flee back to her own room, but the raging demon between her legs was having none of that. She had heard Daphne receiving her share of 'consolation' earlier, as she had tried in vain for sleep, and now it was her turn. Slowly she began to walk along the long bare boards towards that beckoning eye. When she was about half way along, the eye became a shooting star, describing a high parabola into the air before falling to the shrubs below the balcony. Gordon had seen her pale white form moving in the starlight and was coming towards her. She stopped and waited with unwonted docility for his approach.

"Couldn't you sleep either? Dee was very restless at first, although she's sleeping sound enough now."

"I should think so," Eve replied, jealousy lending an edge to her voice. "She howled like a cat through at least three orgasms."

"You wouldn't deny a girl her consolations would you?" Gordon remarked coolly.

"It wouldn't be so bad if we all got them," Eve replied bitterly," there are some of us who have certain needs."

"What can you mean?" Gordon mocked her.

It was too much. The dam burst. Molten lava swept all caution away.

"Damn you! You know perfectly well what I mean. I need prick, I need a man. I need you. Fuck me, stuff me, cram me, ram me, do anything you like to me but shove that great shaft of yours right up me until I choke on it. I can't go on like this any longer."

"You're desperate for it, aren't you," he observed.

"God Gordon, yes. I've just got to have it. Please Gordon. It's not fair. You saw to Daphne so she could get to sleep. Do the same for me. After all," she concluded with an insane giggle, "I am your guest, and it's a host's duty to satisfy a guest's wants."

"OK, you win, but I caned her first, to settle her. She was as rabid as you."

"Then cane me too. I don't care. Anything you like, but fuck my brains out. I can't take any more of this."

"Spoken like an Edenite," Gordon said approvingly. "Go back to your room while I hunt out a cane."

Almost crying from a heady mixture of lust, fear and need she scuttled back to her room and threw herself on the rumpled sheets again, her hands instinctively clasping her aching belly. Thirty seconds later Gordon stood in the doorway, flexing a serious looking rod between his fists.

"Hands and knees, please, with your back to me," he dictated. "You're getting eight this time"

She didn't care or rather, was past caring. All she wanted was that enormous bulge that tented his dressing gown in front, and she didn't care what it cost to get it.

The first stroke almost sent her flying. She hadn't remembered what a penal felt like in her rush to get fucked. Now it all came back in spades, but her need carried her through. She howled and squirmed as each hot lick bit into her flaming buttock flesh, but her beaten hams were always back in place for another stroke before he had to remind her. Cut after cut slowly mounted, forming a tight hot swollen ladder of rapidly darkening welts, nearly four inches wide by the time eight were packed in.

He was right though. It steadied her. She was half mad with desire when she started; by the time the last had fallen she had calmed sufficiently that she was aware of the coming sexual act for its own sake, though still aching with her hunger for it.

As Gordon laid down the rod, she made as if to turn, but he checked her with a word. Suddenly she felt a hard object nosing at her tight sealed sphincter.

"Not there, please," she pleaded, "in my cunt."

"You'll have all you can take later. For now this is my fee for servicing you,"

Gordon said thickly, and thrust his hips forward brutally.

She screamed, but the rod went home, and the filling of her belly was relief in itself. Her heat was such that she could ignore the new pain of her stretched anus and concentrate on the feelings generated by this male penetration. As he began to ride her those feelings rose rapidly in a screaming crescendo. She had been sodomised once or twice before, usually at the beginning of an affair, when she would have done anything to please a new lover, but, for the first time in her life, she could feel an orgasm building from her buggery. Gordon caught and nurtured it with careful timing, until she howled like a bitch, just as Daphne had predicted, then withdrew his smoking rod without discharging himself. Only then did he let her turn onto her back, and plugged her needy vagina, forcing the massy rod up to the hilt in the swollen sopping orifice. He pumped her vigorously, as she squirmed and howled under him, clasping her legs about him as she went into a second belly-churning spasm, then allowed himself to discharge into her gulping womb as she crested her third orgasm of the night.

Her arms and legs relaxed, and she lay, panting under him. She looked up sleepily.

"Thank you, Gordon, that was wonde..." she began. As he withdrew his softening shaft from the slick tunnel he looked down at her sleeping body, limbs thrown wide open to reveal the inflamed and engorged vulva, still swollen from its thrashing, a thin stream of their mingled seed and juices seeping stickily down to stain the sheets between her open thighs.

"You'll do," he murmured softly.

It was noon next day, when Eve tapped gently on Daphne's door and went in to return the clothes she had borrowed for the previous evening. "Er," she hesitated, holding out the stockings, the gloves, the cheeky little hat, the smart suede pumps, "do you mind if I keep the girdle a little longer. Actually,"

she added, with unusual coyness, "I thought I might try wearing it all day."

Daphne grinned knowingly. "Nice and comforting, isn't it? Even when it squeezes the welts on your arse together. Or should that be, especially when it squeezes them."

"Er. Yes. Actually, Gordon caned me last night. Did he tell you?

"I already knew."

"How!"

"Well, apart from the fact that I heard you howling like a pig, and not only when he caned you, I just caught sight of the welts sticking out under the edge of that girdle you're so keen to wear."

Blushing furiously, Eve dropped her other bits and pieces on Daphne's dressing table and retired in confusion.

Gordon returned that evening to find two calm, attentive and seemingly content young women waiting for him, though he did note that both were very careful how they set their buttocks on their chairs when it was time for dinner.

"Met an admirer of yours at the club today," he remarked, turning towards Eve.

She looked at him blankly.

"An admirer?" Daphne was all curiosity, "do tell."

"Angus McKensie," Gordon obliged, "You remember. Your Scottish friend from the airport."

"He's no friend of mine," Eve retorted hotly, "a real MCP if ever there was one."

"Don't you want to know what he said?" Gordon asked, winking at his wife.

"I can't stop you if you insist on telling," Eve replied rather unconvincingly.

"The club was buzzing with the dark deeds of your witches coven last night,"

Gordon informed them. "All the husbands and others reporting what they'd been told by their wives and mistresses. Seems that we weren't the only household with confessions and absolutions last night," he added with a grin. Daphne and Eve chose to ignore the allusion.

"Anyway, it seems our Eve was quite the heroine. Everybody was full of praise for the visitor, and the way she entered into the spirit of the thing, allowing Lavinia to call her out, and taking a cunt busting with considerable courage."

Eve looked down modestly at her plate.

"Anyway, it served to increase Angus's already high opinion of you, from your short time together and knowing you were under my wing, he sent his compliments

on your behaviour."

"The cheek of the man, and how typically patronising of him!" Eve burst out indignantly, "he can stuff his compliment. The man means nothing to me."

Daphne and her husband exchanged knowing glances over her bent head, as she studiously concentrated on her steak tartare. Both were thinking of the Bard's dictum about protesting too much.

Lavinia was as good as her word. Her call came just a week after the gathering, and by then Eve was beginning to walk without spreading her legs wide, in imitation of a duck, to keep the pressure off her pussy. It was still sore, but a companionable soreness. It kept her wetly conscious of herself, but not so much as to distract her completely from what was going on around her. In accordance with the unwritten law of the island, she and Daphne didn't try to hide from the world, and visited with neighbours, lay by the pool, their stripes and bruises little concealed by tanga bottoms, and discarded tops. Daphne's swollen breasts excited universal admiration, with their livid bruising, now turning rainbow coloured, and her battered nipples, still refusing to resume their habitual baby pink.

Eve was even persuaded to sit a horse before the week was up. She moaned a few times from the pounding of her bruised pussy on the hard leather saddle, and Daphne cut the ride shorter than she would have done merely on account of Gordon's stripes that radiantly adorned both bottoms. All in all it was a quick recovery as healthy young women can make in such circumstances.

"Come over tomorrow," Lavinia urged. "Pack for a fortnight at least. There's the races coming soon, and you wouldn't want to miss those."

After she rang off, Eve reported the gist of the conversation to Daphne, who smiled enigmatically.

"Oh no," she said, "you mustn't miss the races. They're something special."

"In what way special?" Eve wanted to know, but Daphne told her she'd find out in due course, and wouldn't add anything further.

Eve tried another tack. Was Lavinia wife or mistress, and what was the difference in this peculiar society?

"Not a lot," Daphne admitted," most women are both, in any case. Lavinia is married to Mark, as it happens, but I'm pretty sure she is the regular mistress of one of Mark's friends as well. That's apart from the occasional use of her that he offers to guests and other acquaintances."

"Don't the women get a say in these things?" Eve asked indignantly.

"Well, in theory, we are completely at our husbands' disposal, and just do as we're told, but it's not exactly unknown for a woman to indicate that she's interested in some man, in which case a sensible husband will permit the liaison, even formally instructing her to go to him. Sometimes there's a price though."

"There always is," Eve remarked dourly. "Don't tell me; let me guess. Something to do with rods and bottoms?"

"Got it in one, though by now I'm not surprised. You've seen enough of our ways.

Yes, they may be expected to pay in the local currency for the privilege. Many a man finds his dish spiced with a fresh hot sixer each time he has her, which does nothing to diminish the enthusiasm of either party to the affair."

"A month ago I wouldn't have believed you," Eve admitted. "Even a week ago, I'd have said you were exaggerating but now, after my own ....experiences," she

flushed slightly as she recalled how hot she'd been when Gordon 'took' her after first lashing her bared buttocks with a penal -"well I can see there might be something in it."

"Don't play the innocent with me, young lady," Daphne said laughing, "I know just what you're thinking. Well I'm very happy for you that Gordon striped you and stuffed you that night, and I'm sure you learnt a lot from it. And the previous evening's events too. You're beginning to appreciate the finer points of our way of life, like the pleasure of seeing a woman well beaten, as well as the satisfaction of being that woman yourself."

"You've got it all wrong," Eve protested. "I wouldn't get the slightest pleasure from seeing a woman beaten. It does nothing for me."

"You lying little hussy," Daphne cried without malice. "You even wanted to see me beaten. Not that I blame you," she hastened to add," a woman bent over the bars is beautiful, all buttock, lovely female flesh; with any luck, a plump pudenda pouting through the gap. And then the cane cutting into it. The flesh lifting as if of its own accord. Maybe a grunt or a moan. Perhaps she'll lift one hip as she goes up on tip-toe, to try and keep the rod from her flank. It's a test of fortitude and a struggle against the rod. Pure poetry. You're not telling me you're not moved by it, if it's only to wet your knickers."

Prev Next