January 11 2012, 4:21 PM by Lord Henry Wotton
Correspondence between andromeda and me.
My fetish for pale-skinned, light haired, blue-eyed women
Lord Henry Wotton Mon, Jan 9, 2012 at 11:46 AM
I do need to discuss how wonderfully sexy you sound. Your appearance feeds many fetishes of mine, for petite women, for long-haired females, not to mention my appetite for pale-skinned, blond, blue-eyed girls.
It does leave some still to the imagination, such as how pert your breasts are, and how they curve into your waist, and then flow to what must be a very round bottom, a bottom that is waiting and eager to be exposed with rough, strong hands, and paddled over and over. Yes, how that pale skin, with its repeated smacks, would certainly turn the color of rouge, and would certainly moisten your cunt and engorge it's lips and it's clit.
But you would not be over my knee for such discipline, no, you'd be hoisted by ropes, silk naturally, ropes tying your arms behind you, ropes pulling your legs apart, and ropes intertwined with your impressively long hair, yanking your head backward, forcing your neck to arch, displaying your throat . . . might I hold something there? Something sharp? Something pointed? Might I be permitted to lap as the red liquid bubbles forth?
Or have I ventured further than decorum permits, M'Lady?
shy andromeda Wed, Jan 11, 2012 at 2:39 PM
In such a position, M'Lord, I might be graced with the opportunity to feel the large bulge of your erection straining against your pants, pressing into my hip as I lay prone.
And maybe, just maybe, if I was really lucky, your hand might wander for a few moments to explore my wetness.
Yet, the alternative you devised exceeds my wildest exceptions; it is the realization of one of my darker fantasies.
Indeed, it would be a far more raw and memorable way to receive your instruction.
My arms tightly bound behind me, forcing my shoulders back and chest forward; presenting my firm, round breasts.
My spread legs revealing my dripping wetness. Revealing my need.
Relishing the sound your open palm makes as it connects with my naked flesh. The yummy, lingering sting.
Feeling heat radiate from my cheeks: the ones on my abused rump from the focused attention they've received... and the ones on my face from embarrassed excitement.
Unable to prevent myself from moaning with pleasure; pleading with you, begging you not to stop.
But you do stop. You leave. You withdraw to retrieve something...
And then as you approach, I experience a thrill of fear.
I close my eyes and tremble as I feel the sharp blade against my throat, delicately tracing the curves of my neck and collar bone... not yet inflicting damage, merely a teasing threat.
You decide to end my fearful uncertainty and I gasp at the shocking sensation of the biting blade.
Then... I feel your hot breath on my skin, your tongue moving over the welling of blood. Tasting me.
A renewed rush of wetness surges between my legs. And I'm dizzy with the thought of feeling your tongue tasting other parts of me.
...
The other writings I promised you will follow very soon, M'Lord.
Lord Henry Wotton Wed, Jan 11, 2012 at 3:28 PM
Over my knee has its possibilities as well. I know you know how to obtain what you want when you want by exercising your feminine wiles, a smile, a jut of your full breasts, perhaps a wink, and a request, a soft cooing request, making most males crumble at their knees, as my knees are right now dreaming of being in the presence of such a alluring woman. But maybe I do resist, calling you into a room, trapping you, yanking down your jeans, ripping down your panties, pulling you onto my lap, while you kick and squirm and scream. I inspect you, your pussy, your ass, with my eyes, with my nose, with my tongue, before smacking your nicely rounded ass with my open palm, smacking you until your fight has left. I force you to stand in the corner, your hands above your head, your pants and panties still lowered, your red ass visible to all who enter, perhaps stand for 10 minutes before I test your wetness once more, with my fingers and my tongue and my erection, thrusting into you, plunging and plunging until you are close to cumming, but I do not allow it. No. I forbid you; I scold you. But you beg, and beg, "Please Sir, let me cum." But no, I do not, as I continue to fuck you. You ask again, at least you attempt to, but I shove my fingers into your mouth. You suckle, you whimper . . . and you beg.
Correspondence between andromeda and me.
My fetish for pale-skinned, light haired, blue-eyed women
Lord Henry Wotton Mon, Jan 9, 2012 at 11:46 AM
I do need to discuss how wonderfully sexy you sound. Your appearance feeds many fetishes of mine, for petite women, for long-haired females, not to mention my appetite for pale-skinned, blond, blue-eyed girls.
It does leave some still to the imagination, such as how pert your breasts are, and how they curve into your waist, and then flow to what must be a very round bottom, a bottom that is waiting and eager to be exposed with rough, strong hands, and paddled over and over. Yes, how that pale skin, with its repeated smacks, would certainly turn the color of rouge, and would certainly moisten your cunt and engorge it's lips and it's clit.
But you would not be over my knee for such discipline, no, you'd be hoisted by ropes, silk naturally, ropes tying your arms behind you, ropes pulling your legs apart, and ropes intertwined with your impressively long hair, yanking your head backward, forcing your neck to arch, displaying your throat . . . might I hold something there? Something sharp? Something pointed? Might I be permitted to lap as the red liquid bubbles forth?
Or have I ventured further than decorum permits, M'Lady?
shy andromeda Wed, Jan 11, 2012 at 2:39 PM
I do need to discuss how wonderfully sexy you sound. Your appearance feeds many fetishes of mine, for petite women, for long-haired females, not to mention my appetite for pale-skinned, blond, blue-eyed girls.
I'm pleased M'Lord takes pleasure from my appearance. I'm also both flattered and humbled that I possess features that feed some of M'Lord's fetishes. It does leave some still to the imagination, such as how pert your breasts are, and how they curve into your waist, and then flow to what must be a very round bottom, a bottom that is waiting and eager to be exposed with rough, strong hands, and paddled over and over. Yes, how that pale skin, with its repeated smacks, would certainly turn the color of rouge, and would certainly moisten your cunt and engorge it's lips and it's clit.
But you would not be over my knee for such discipline, no, you'd be hoisted by ropes, silk naturally, ropes tying your arms behind you, ropes pulling your legs apart, and ropes intertwined with your impressively long hair, yanking your head backward, forcing your neck to arch, displaying your throat . . . might I hold something there? Something sharp? Something pointed? Might I be permitted to lap as the red liquid bubbles forth?
I confess I was at first disappointed to discover I would not be bent over your knee to receive such discipline. For it is a satisfying thought to be held in a disgraceful position; my bare bottom exposed and vulnerable to your corrective ministrations. In such a position, M'Lord, I might be graced with the opportunity to feel the large bulge of your erection straining against your pants, pressing into my hip as I lay prone.
And maybe, just maybe, if I was really lucky, your hand might wander for a few moments to explore my wetness.
Yet, the alternative you devised exceeds my wildest exceptions; it is the realization of one of my darker fantasies.
Indeed, it would be a far more raw and memorable way to receive your instruction.
My arms tightly bound behind me, forcing my shoulders back and chest forward; presenting my firm, round breasts.
My spread legs revealing my dripping wetness. Revealing my need.
Relishing the sound your open palm makes as it connects with my naked flesh. The yummy, lingering sting.
Feeling heat radiate from my cheeks: the ones on my abused rump from the focused attention they've received... and the ones on my face from embarrassed excitement.
Unable to prevent myself from moaning with pleasure; pleading with you, begging you not to stop.
But you do stop. You leave. You withdraw to retrieve something...
And then as you approach, I experience a thrill of fear.
I close my eyes and tremble as I feel the sharp blade against my throat, delicately tracing the curves of my neck and collar bone... not yet inflicting damage, merely a teasing threat.
You decide to end my fearful uncertainty and I gasp at the shocking sensation of the biting blade.
Then... I feel your hot breath on my skin, your tongue moving over the welling of blood. Tasting me.
A renewed rush of wetness surges between my legs. And I'm dizzy with the thought of feeling your tongue tasting other parts of me.
...
The other writings I promised you will follow very soon, M'Lord.
Lord Henry Wotton Wed, Jan 11, 2012 at 3:28 PM
Over my knee has its possibilities as well. I know you know how to obtain what you want when you want by exercising your feminine wiles, a smile, a jut of your full breasts, perhaps a wink, and a request, a soft cooing request, making most males crumble at their knees, as my knees are right now dreaming of being in the presence of such a alluring woman. But maybe I do resist, calling you into a room, trapping you, yanking down your jeans, ripping down your panties, pulling you onto my lap, while you kick and squirm and scream. I inspect you, your pussy, your ass, with my eyes, with my nose, with my tongue, before smacking your nicely rounded ass with my open palm, smacking you until your fight has left. I force you to stand in the corner, your hands above your head, your pants and panties still lowered, your red ass visible to all who enter, perhaps stand for 10 minutes before I test your wetness once more, with my fingers and my tongue and my erection, thrusting into you, plunging and plunging until you are close to cumming, but I do not allow it. No. I forbid you; I scold you. But you beg, and beg, "Please Sir, let me cum." But no, I do not, as I continue to fuck you. You ask again, at least you attempt to, but I shove my fingers into your mouth. You suckle, you whimper . . . and you beg.