The Crystal Ball

Irish Cream Liqueur

Think of a bottle of Irish cream liqueur; consider its promise of sultry decadence without provoking moralistic outcry. Picture in your mind’s eye the warm color tones of the label and the liqueur, painted in shades that have been picked off a rich, golden palette; patterns that blend as they swirl, an illusion of motion airbrushed to static, the promise of the harmony contained within that deep brown flask. Using your imagination, savor the delicate sip which delivers that delightful yet subtle blend of tastes, one that simultaneously tantalizes yet satisfies, piques yet soothes, calms yet arouses. Imagine swooning as the sensual elixir caresses your lips and your palate, every contact with the creamy potion satisfying a sensual need.

It’s a sensory experience that oozes dreamy eroticism, caresses your senses, calms yet arouses.

I like to think of my entering into her apartment as being a “Baileys experience.” From the deep piled cream carpet that cuddled my toes, to the warm cream-colored walls topped with ornate crown mouldings. A fire glowed in the hearth, radiating gentle waves of heat to warm and comfort, embrace and seduce. Off-white, deep leather chairs, bookshelves with leather bound books, display cabinets with exotic displays: glittering lead crystal vases filled with cut-glass beads, Waterford crystal ornaments, Delft china tea sets, a brass clock with its mechanism whirring around.

Anastasia herself, was the epitome of grace and old fashioned charm. Her appearance was graceful, chic and stylish. Long bangs swept to the side of her head in a blond, curly bob, while a few stray wisps demonstrated a refreshing will of their own. Anastasia’s fair complexion offered an unblemished canvass: glossy, moist lips hinted at a seductive spirit; deep, intelligent hazel eyes expressed her inner soul: intuitive, sensitive, dominant yet compassionate. Teardrop sapphire earrings sparkled in the soft light, a glittering diamond choker circled her graceful neck.  Her deportment and movements exhibited ballerina-like grace, her manner and expression conveyed as much as her words.

The Crystal Ball

She invited me to sit at the round mahogany table, a central pedestal and turned legs accentuating its elegant simplicity. A black cloth covered its surface, a flawless quartz crystal ball stood on a rosewood stand at its center. It seemed to have a way of pulling my attention towards it, the tantalizing and elusive gift of prophecy on offer.

“Will it be able to predict my future?” I asked in a wishful tone.

Anastasia’s laugh was like the tinkle of delicate crystal bells; cheerful without being frivolous, laughing at me sans malice.

“No, Adèle, it is your mind that will create the future, not the ball. For wherever your mind goes, your body is sure to follow. Only you can create the future for which you yearn.”

I looked at her, a smile flitting across my lips. I was smitten with her beauty and bewitched by her charm. She was so self assured without an ego, so assertive without an attitude. I found myself seduced by her natural charm; control came to her so naturally and I longed to submit.

As I sat and stared into its inky depth, Anastasia’s voiced lulled and hypnotized me, taking me ever deeper, drawing me down. Her mellifluous voice was silky and smooth, flowing like honey, compelling without force. As I continued to gaze into the crystal ball, her voice seemed to fade to a place far off. While at the back of my subconscious, I could hear her sweet tones, my focus was on the forms materialising inside of the globe. Colored clouds, rich purples, deep blues, inky blacks, swirled in confusion, their patterns random, their message hidden.

As the images began to swim into focus, I became distantly aware of my body’s response: a slight increase in the tempo of my breathing, a gentle burning in my breasts, the hint of a delicious warmth smoldering to life between my thighs. It wasn’t lewd, it was beautiful; it wasn’t degrading, it was uplifting. The interaction I witnessed between the images of the two ladies was all too obvious: the submission a gift of trust, the control a benevolent offering of power exchange. The dance of pain and pleasure that I observed in those ethereal images bound them, the pleasure in what they could offer the other, excited them. The tawses and canes I saw were instruments of arousal, the ropes and binding-straps served to focus their pleasure. The positions assumed seemed to be neither shameful nor coarse, the physical reactions were simply poetry in motion.


In that deep space inside my head, I knew then that it was not improper to submit; if I had the courage to offer, my dreams would be fulfilled.

My awakening from that trance was as gentle as when I had sunk down; I became aware of Anastasia’s compassionate look before realizing her voice had gone quiet. She did not ask any questions because she knew that what I had seen in that ball was between my subconscious and me. I looked at her reflectively, and once again wondered whether my prophecy could come true; was the risk of the pain of rejection worth more than the reward at stake?

I rose slowly from the table, determined to try, to seize the moment, to test my inner soul. I knelt at Anastasia’s feet and put my head on her lap, felt her gentle hands caress my shoulders, felt them move down my tense back. She pulled me up gently up and across her knee. As she slowly pulled my skirt back, I felt my breath catch in my throat, my lower form exposed, my submission on offer. She toyed with the elastic on my panties before pulling them down, the agony of expectation seeming to hang in the air.

The first smacks were gentle; they did more to excite than to hurt, the beautiful sting was a sensation I had craved so long. As she picked up the tempo, I felt my body start to respond; the blood rushed to my face, my legs began to kick. I did not even try to keep my thighs locked in place, for I knew now from my prophecy that there was no shame in my display. Even though my arousal was obvious, my lust was on hold. I knew instinctively that there was much more to play out.

I will never fathom how that tawse materialized in her hand, it just seemed to be another manifestation of her magical way. There was, however, nothing subtle about the way in which she spanked my rear. She applied the handle, rather than the tails in a blistering performance that reduced me to tears. There were direct, bruising blows that pulverised my flesh, glancing swipes that polished and burnished my skin.

And through it all, her sweet voice bubbled along, a commentary on the developing state of my punished behind. Her tone was so conversational, so unsympathetic, so matter of fact. Couldn’t she see how much pain I was in? She ignored my protests and brushed off my pleas.

“Your plump bottom can take so much more, Adèle! Girls’ bottoms are made to be punished.”

I was so relieved when she finally stopped, my sniveling and pleading making me sound like a young girl. I had lost all my composure and no longer cared about my lewd show; if kicking legs and wobbling my bottom could help just a bit, then that is all about what I cared. I had had the spanking I so dearly wanted and had had the opportunity to submit to an assertive soul.

It was then, when I was at my most vulnerable, that I learned the true meaning of submission: when someone submits, they surrender control.

“Adèle, you have got what you wanted, haven’t you?” she asked.

I nodded vigorously, too distraught to reply. Tears flowed down my cheeks, my sobbing was my shame.

“Well in that case,” she continued, “don’t you think it is right for me to get what I want now?”

Anastasia’s desire soon became very clear. She flipped the tawse around and began her game. I immediately began to experience the fierceness of a two tailed strap. The brutality had gone, replaced by an exquisite finesse and while still draped over her knee, I danced to a new tune. She picked her spots carefully, only the most sensitive would do. The tongues of the strap danced into my most tender zones: the crack of my bottom, the insides of my thighs. A hiss and it kissed my pouting sex; a gentle flick ignited my exposed rosebud into a raging fire.

I screamed and kicked with a new found vigor. I have no idea how she managed to continue to hold me, but her knees became her altar on which to  offer my pain, my body the libation for her lustful thirst. I soon forgot my well spanked bottom as the tawse explored fresh new ways to energize my show. I put on a lewd performance for Anastasia that night, one that that she longed to see, one in which she too could fulfill her deep desires.

It was in that cauldron that the bond between us was forged; my unconditional capitulation was what she sought. It was in that crucible that we realized the relationship we both sought, one that enabled us to to blend our ying and yang.

Later, as we sat cuddling in front of the glowing fire, I experienced a warmth that seemed to converge from all quarters: a glowing bottom, a deep, warm kiss, a body next to me radiating a satisfied heat of its own, and a delicious glow as the Irish cream slipped down.


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