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.




Simonne loved the festive season; snowflakes drifting lazily down, hypnotic fires crackling and sparking in the large, stone fireplace; long evenings with the heavy drapes offering privacy as they glowed in the subdued lighting; ethereal music, haunting and evocative, setting the mood. It was a season of vampires and wolves, where make belief could become reality. It was a time where the mind could transcend physical boundaries, where souls could find their mates.

She curled up in plush velvet club chair, wallowing in its cozy grasp, luxuriating in its softness. The book she had been reading lay beside her, the story ended and the lessons learned.  It was a tale of the search for the secret of an exotic scent developed in Cleopatra’s age; one that had the power to unlock the ability to remember past lives, to transport one into the arms of lovers in times long past. The book had stimulated her mind, excited her senses, sparked her imagination.

A bottle of Isle of Jura, a rich, sensual, single malt, stood on a table next to the hearth.

Isle of Jura, Superstition

Isle of Jura, Superstition

The flickering flames lit up the Ankh symbol etched on the front of the bottle, mesmerizing Simonne, drawing her deeper and deeper.  Simonne held her crystal glass up to her lips, and watched  the light dance across the bottle’s facets. The Ankh, Egyptian symbol of eternal life – could it be the talisman needed for her  to join her soul-mate in that other world?

The scotch’s taste was cravingly addictive; the elixir tantalized her taste buds, teased her receptors. Light golden and smooth to the palate, hints of marzipan, a little nutmeg and a lovely hint of smoke. She tasted the Celtic sea breeze it embodied as she drifted deeper and deeper, her mind blocking out her physical world, seeking the peace that would enable her to enter her secret world.

The single malt was working its magic, seducing her senses, transporting her mind away.  Salty beach air, sea weed, sweet caramel with a puff of peat smoke and sun on the heather. She felt herself spiraling down a vortex, to a place far off, the delicate notes of the potion fueling her trance. Spices and orange, a little fire. Wet cedar bushes, pepper and cloves. Her senses were intoxicated, her mind was at peace, and with the whisper of one leaving this world, her spirit slipped though the portal and in to a supernatural vortex. Her mind spiraled down deeper and deeper and she felt herself being carried across an ethereal divide and into the vast universe of multi-dimensional consciousness.

Dreams come alive

Simonne was not alarmed; it was a journey she had made in her mind on occasion before. She arrived as a spirit, unburdened by the corporeal, undetected by her soul-mate. A deep emotion overcame her as she drank in the presence of her true love waiting there; Anais Haron, slender, sultry, sophisticated and timeless, the embodiment of elegant, feminine essence.

Anais!  Her lithe body was the prototypical form for fashion understatement: the satin gown she wore was chic, classic…..timeless. Pearl earrings and necklace accentuated her elegance; blond curls tumbled down to frame an enigmatic face, a face that could be stern one moment, coquettish or playful the next.

It was the cane that Anais toyed with that set Simonne’s heart racing.

“Come over, Simonne, I know you are here!”

Her voice was controlling and smooth, forceful without malice.  As Simonne materialized in front of Anais, she knew instinctively what was required. This was the relationship she craved, the submission she had always yearned to offer. Simonne removed her clothes, folding them carefully under Anais’s watchful and critical eye. The outer layers came off easily, but her intimates caused a struggle. Her fingers, trembling with emotion, fumbled with her bra’s hooks: a combination of arousal and fear, trepidation and eagerness.

Was this a lucid dream or alternate reality? Was her mind playing tricks or had she really manifested her deepest desires?

A Victorian side chair, stood in the middle of the room; Simonne knew what was expected. She bent over the back, standing on tiptoes so that she could get a grasp on the sides of the blue velvet seat. The silky feel of the seat fabric felt wonderful to her agitated fingers, calming, something tactile that could ground her reality. She sensed rather than saw Anais move behind her, inspecting her, appraising her body, measuring her compliance.

The cane tapped at her ankles and the command that Anais issued was instantly obeyed. Simonne shuffled her legs apart, aware suddenly of her own arousal. She could see her own breasts hanging down the back of the chair, her nipples erect, crying for attention, demanding their own pain. She desperately wanted to squeeze her thighs together, to build the sexual tension, to seek a deeper pleasure. With her thighs spread wide, her calves already starting to ache from their extended position, Simonne knew there was no chance of relief.

Her own vulnerable position suddenly struck home. Here she stood, naked and aroused, her sexual waking unclothed and on display, waiting to be swished by an elegantly dressed and composed lady. The contrast was stark; the shame brought a flush to her cheeks.

Simonne lifted her head slightly to watch as Anais circled her slowly. In her upside down position, it was Anais’s lower form which captured her attention. Slender ankles, petite feet supported on strappy, high heeled sandals, a hint of glitter adding sparkle to the elegant form. She seemed to glide around the waiting Simonne rather than walk, her feet moved with the grace of a ballerina, emulated the stealth of a cat.

The inspection complete, Anais stood in front of Simonne, her arms held down in front, the cane delicately clasped at both ends, gripped lightly by the tips of her fingers and thumbs. The cane was white, her nails a bright red. Simonne fixated on the pattern they caused: white red white red white red. Like a candy cane, she thought herself, how perfect for the season. Despite her predicament, a wry smile fleeting flashed across her lips; “…and in a few minutes, my bottom is going to have the same candy cane affect!”

“You want to be swished, don’t you Simonne?”  Anais’s voice was mellifluous, her tone steady and non-judgmental.

Simonne couldn’t believe that this as happening at last. She had always wanted to be caned, always wanted to submit. In the life she led, it was unthinkable; she had a career to protect, a professional reputation to uphold, a social expectation to meet. Yet here she was, and it was happening at last. How would she perform, could she take the pain?

“Yes Anais, please swish me.”

Simonne swallowed; her response seemed to come from an outside source. She couldn’t believe she had actually asked to be whipped, had offered her compliance. A faucet seemed to have opened between her thighs and she wondered what sort of slut Anais must think she was. Her heart seemed to be beating uncontrollably; she could feel it thumping against the top of the chair over which she was stretched.

Anais tapped the cane tentatively on the bent over bottom. Simonne carried little extra weight so the target was smooth and taught, the white skin pure and clear as freshly fallen snow . A cane makes a delightful swishing noise, a satisfying thwack on impact, imparts a wonderful tactile shudder to the one in control. Simonne was oblivious to these finer effects in which Anais could delight, insensible to the lewd show she provided in response to the stroke. Her bottom waggled uncontrollably, desperate to find some relief. Backwards and sideways, up and down; her thighs spread wider as she drooped in pain.

The second stroke caused a reaction which amplified the first. Her leg kicked back and up involuntarily, her hips gyrated, her breasts lunged forward over the velvet chair back. The scream that seemed to come from so far away was her own; the grip she had on the chair set broke as her right arm flung back to rub away the pain.

A girl’s bottom is made for a whipping; Anais knew that Simonne could take more. However, she had other plans for her: embers to be fanned into flames, flames into passion. Anais gently eased Simonne up straight, licked away her salty tears. A hug, a cuddle, fingers that delicately massaged the back of the distraught woman’s neck. As her emotional equilibrium returned, Simonne found herself bent over the now seated Anais’s lap.

Anais’s gown felt silky against Simonne’s naked belly, slippery perhaps but a sensual delight. An arm that was surprising strong despite being so slight, held her around the waist, pulling her closer, holding her steady. The palm that stroked her bottom felt cool against the throbbing heat, the finger that explored her welts, stroked and teased her moistness, offered a promise of a bliss still to come. The slaps that Anais delivered built on the previous heat, massaging it, enflaming it, driving it into every inch of her lower form.

Simonne gave up trying to predict Anais’s next move. Hard slaps followed gentle caresses, external stroking preceded urgent probing. All she knew was that her body was starting to resonate, vibrating uncontrollably, demanding release. Her squirming across Anais’s knee took on a new urgency; unashamed she reached up to tug at and roll her own nips. In a fleeting moment, she realized how incongruous it was; her naked and unabashed, lustful performance, juxtaposed against the demure and polished presence of her elegant tormentor.

That thought rapidly fled her mind as the spasms in her body increased, her release getting closer, climax within reach.  Her paroxysm of pleasure was like none she had ever experienced, the heat of her skin matching the warmth of her soul. Every single cell in her body seemed to vibrate in harmony, and as her pleasure racked body stopped shaking, these same cells seemed to subside into a post-orgasmic bliss.

Deeper and deeper, the bliss seemed to envelope her. The world seemed to stop revolving as she drooped over Anais’s lap, her body spent and her mind at peace. Simonne felt herself entering a vortex, spiraling down, a comforting, embryonic blackness embracing her, swaddling her and then carrying her away.

Potential realized

As she floated back into consciousness, Simonne felt the warmth of the fire caressing her, her book’s cover prodding uncomfortably into her side. The bottle of Isle of Jura ‘Superstition’ sat on the table, and beyond the curtains, she could hear the distant sound of bells pealing their festive chimes.

A knock on the door demanded her attention, but when opened, there was nobody there. A thick carpet of fresh snow blanketed the steps, no tell-tale footsteps offering up evidence of a recent visitor. But lying at the top of the steps, cushioned on a pile of pristine snow, was a cellophane wrapped candy cane, a defining symbol of the festive season. A simple card was attached to its crook and the feminine script brought a wistful smile to Simonne’s lips:  “You were wonderful, darling. I hope we can do it again. Love, Anais.”

Retrieving her unfinished glass of scotch, she took a delicate sip. A hint of peat and a touch of honey, fresh and fragrant, tropical fruits and a trace of salt. A whisper of mead, the faintest suggestion of mild cigar smoke. Simonne knew then, that at this time of the year, open your mind, and all your dreams can come true.