Lavendar Falls

A magic spot

Helene had a special spot that she loved to visit when she needed an escape, one where the crystal clear mountain stream tumbled down over a cliff into a rocky pool. Protected on one side by a deep grove of silver birches and on the others by heavy foliage covering the steep hill side, the setting was idyllic, landscaped by the brilliance of Nature’s hands.  She named that place “Lavender Falls” on account of the vibrant, purple bank that flowed down on one side, its scent intoxicating and its color exotic.

A white, waist high fence was the only man-made structure evident. Ideal for hanging her towel over, it fenced in the soft grass boundary that ran down to the pool’s edge where the stream gurgled out on its onward journey.

Brilliantly colored sunbirds flitted around the branches, competing for grace with the blue and red dragonflies that danced from reed to reed. Every now and then, ripples raced across the glass smooth surface as a trout reached for a morsel or a swallow skimmed in search of a nymph.  Warm, smooth rocks soaked up the sunshine as they sloped down to the water’s edge, inviting a towel to be spread, encouraging a body to lie down.

Isolated and private, Helene knew she could always find solitude there. It was so peaceful, so tranquil, so serene; an ideal place to shed her inhibitions, cast aside her clothes and bask lizard-like and naked in the caressing warmth.

Sometime they are called waking dreams, sometime meditative trances.  She entered a place deep inside her mind where time stopped and the physics of our universe became suspended; somewhere where dreams could be spun, new realties created, hopes achieved.

Sapphic Magic

Helene was predictably surprised when she heard the merry chatter of approaching voices. Feminine and gay, the two interlopers entered the setting on a footpath that threaded its way through the grove of birches. Helene lay on her towel, too stunned to cover herself, too flabbergasted to rise and greet the ladies who had walked into her private paradise.

They were dressed in elegant Victorian era sun-dresses, their high-heeled shoes incongruous in this natural setting. On reaching the edge of the forest, they shrugged off their footwear and delicately picked their way forward. The shorter of the two, some might have described her as curvaceous, was carrying a wicker picnic basket. The taller, willowy and elegant, had a bundle of birch switches in one hand; a diamond studded bracelet twinkled in the sunlight on her other wrist.

Space-time warps, Jungian collective consciousness, the intersection of multi-universes. There are all sorts of ways in which this phenomenon could be explained but it set up a magical scene, one where Helene found her dream turning to reality, her trance to exquisite interaction.

“Oh my, Cait, look at what we have here!” the one exclaimed. “Quick, capture her! I just have to whip her bottom!”

“You would, wouldn’t you Em!”, came the response, “You make me jealous.”

The two gorgeous ladies laughed, and as Cait set her wicker picnic down, Emma found herself a comfortable rock to sit down on and watch the activity.

Helene, still stunned, not knowing whether this was a dream, a figment of her imagination, or perhaps a subconscious stream of thought playing games with her mind,  lay there bemused and watched  as Cait reached into her pinafore pocket and pulled out a bright red silk scarf. It was only when her hands were bound behind her back, the bonds firm but gentle, secure yet forgiving, that  Helene  realized that she really was in trouble. Caitlin’s strong hands helped her first to her knees, and then onto her feet.

“Ask Emma to whip you, and then I will release you,” Cait instructed.

“You have to be kidding! I will do no such thing of the sort!” Helene protested.

“Let her ride the rail. I am sure that in no time she will be begging me to swish her!” suggested Emma.

Helene found herself being frog marched over to the white fence. Her towel was spread across the top rail, and Caitlin encouraged her to straddle the fence. A little upward pressure on her bound arms, two smart slaps across her rump and a painful tweak of her ear resulted in Helene squealing in pain and protest, but making a valiant attempt to mount the rail.

She watched aghast as Caitlin sat down next to Emma and began to unpack the picnic basket. A crisp, white linen tablecloth was spread on a rock; two settings of silver cutlery, crystal wine glasses, bone china plates were laid out. Bright green apples, sparkling white wine, rounds of cheese, butter and baguettes; the perfect menu for a day in the country.

Helene found it to be the most surreal experience of her life; two Victorian ladies partaking of a mouth watering repast, chattering gaily and watching her with interest. Meanwhile, her feet could barely touch the ground on either side of the fence; by standing on tiptoes, she could just relieve the pressure of the top rail pressing into her sensitive parts.

The strain began to tell; her calves ached, the balls of her feet throbbed. Lowering herself gently onto the top rail, she felt the hard wood dig in. The pressure turned to discomfort, the discomfort to pain. The pain too intense, she settled back onto her aching legs; a few seconds of respite, and then the option of riding the fence once again became preferable. The predicament that she was in tormented her; unbearable pain in her calves or screeching pain in her crotch.

“Let me off the fence here, please!” Helene begged.

The two Victorian dressed ladies looked on at her, amused as they sipped the crisp white wine, nibbled delicately at slivers of bread rolls and cheese.

“Oh Em, she is wonderful! Look at her riding the post. Up, down, up, down…just as if it was a pony from the stables. Wouldn’t it be fun if we had one of the stable boys here to lead her around?”

Helene flushed; the women, despite their elegance and good nature, were beastly!

“Please!” she asked again, “I will do anything…just let me down.”

Caitlin put down her wine. Wagging a finger at Helene, she responded: “Didn’t I tell you that you should ask Emma to swish you?”

Helene looked beseechingly at Emma.

“Swish me please Emma; please whip me and release me!”

The Swishing

Silver birches, Helene found out soon enough, have many purposes. They do indeed offer privacy, a glade in which the most erotic experiences can take place without prying eyes; an endless supply of switches and a bountiful supply of whipping posts are added benefits.

With arms stretched out sideways and tied to two soaring silver birches, she felt exposed and vulnerable.  The robins sang and a squirrel eyed her with suspicion before scuttling off to take care of an acorn it had found. She caught Caitlin’s eye and gave her a furious look; Caitlin eyed her back a mischievous grin playing across her lips, the wine glass hovering nearby to refresh her palate. To be spread between two trees like this for a whipping was bizarre; to have an audience looking on and reveling in the ignominy caused her face to flush and her spirits to sink.

The whipping started out almost gently; Emma swung the birch rods against her backside softly at first. Her pace was languid, the stroke was light. A pleasant warmth began to permeate the space between her thighs; her shame was soon forgotten, her surprise behind her. As Emma increased her tempo, Helene felt her breathing deepen. Her hips began to sway, moving back so her bottom could meet the rod, shaking wildly in response to its wicked kiss.

Caitlin watched entranced, her hands between her thighs worked their magic, as the erotic dance progressed. The orchestration was sublime; it seemed as if all of nature was in harmony. Lithe and supple, Emma flicked and switched, her movement were graceful, her timing was perfect. As if an extension of her arm, the birch swished and whistled, a soulful sound, striking in its clarity, its swishing sound a messenger of pain. Nature played the accompaniment: leaves rustled in the birch grove, water tumbled over the waterfall, birds trilled in the trees.

Helene danced a dance of rapturous torment; her screeches turned to cries, her cries turned to moans. Spent at last, her head slumped forward, the silken ties supporting her straining wrists. With trembling fingers, wet from where they had been laboring between her own thighs, Catlin undid the ties and supported the swooning Helene back to the warm rocks, down to her soft towel.

It did not take Emma and Cait long to disrobe; dresses were shrugged, slips and petticoats dropped, girdles and panties kicked aside. Flushed and aroused, they lay down besides Helene. Kisses and hugs, urgent probing and rubbing ensued. Legs became entangled, fingers interlocked. Helene, revived by the bodily warmth, found her pain massaged away to pleasure, pleasure to lust. Once again, a symphony of sounds filled the air; moans or pleasure, the sounds of bottoms being smacked, thighs rubbed, buttons pushed, and urgent pleas for release. The residue of pain was washed away as Helene’s aching body was bathed in pleasure and anointed with lust.

Finally it was all over; their thirsts had been slaked, appetites satisfied, senses satiated. They lay there on the rocks, porcelain-like skins being caressed by the evening sun, the symphony of nature playing harmonies in the background; crickets chirped, a marsh wren sung, sunbirds flashed overhead in bursts of joyous color. Heads were pillowed on breasts, arms and legs locked in love.

Sweet Scent of Lavender

It was Emma who untangled herself first, and while Helene slept, she and Caitlin wove a wreath their new-found lover.  Dandelions, daisies, Queen Anne’s lace and poppies; they tied and weaved a crown of friendship for Helene. There was one stem left over: a vibrant lavender, fresh and fragrant. Gently Emma laid it between Helene’s breasts as she offered their spent lover a gentle kiss and a delicate touch goodbye.

Helene never really understood how that event took place. When she rose from her trance, her life was as it was before. There were no marks on her bottom, no lingering pain in her haunches. Her wrists bore no signs of bondage, her calves were not stiff. However, a fragrant petal of lavender nestled between her breasts and its delightful scent gave her cause to reflect.

She never again encountered visitors on her meditations, but her soul was opened to new pleasures in life; the whisper of the birch, gentle embraces of Sapphic love, the enduring fragrance of freshly picked lavender.


2 thoughts on “Lavendar Falls

  1. Norah says:

    Gail you write beautiful prose.. I feel like jumping head first into this story……….. glad to see Cait and Emma back to their old tricks… Norah


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