Safiyah Neferet vs. The Morrigan - Goddesses of War

[BlackAkuma]

The words came out easier than Morrigan expected, as if they were rehearsed from a play she had forgotten, but were coming back to mind. It made sense, though - after all, how many times had similar words been spoken to her, muttered by submissions as she mercilessly thrashed them? It was a role she knew by heart, even if she rarely had the chance to play it.

Safiyah, to her credit, excelled at her role, as well. The Morrigan made a note to ask her what her experience in BDSM was, once this was all over. Assuming the woman didn’t just give her the silent treatment again, she could hook her up with a few clients. If she wasn’t doing this professionally, she was leaving good money on the table.

So. Now what?

First thing was first, she needed to be released. While the current position was perfect for punishment, there were so many things that Safiyah could do besides whipping her back into shredded hamburger meat, and she seemed to recognize that. The warning she gave was unnecessary, but welcomed all the same, giving Morrigan good cause to meekly - as meekly as a woman like her could - nod in supplicant agreement.

”Yes, goddess.” She was getting good at saying that.

One knot undone, freeing her arm. The Morrigan let it down and rolled her shoulder, getting the feeling back as Safiyah worked on the other, slipping it free with a deft hand. With the other gone, she enjoyed freedom once more, or a small measure of it. She knew exactly how to use it.

The Morrigan turned about, closed her eyes, and drooped down to her knees before Safiyah, opening herself up in total subjugation to the smaller woman, like some great, tamed beast. She spoke in a low, hungry tone. Obedient, but not bothering to hide the wanting in her voice. ”I’m all yours.”

[Lightman]

Safiyah heard the words slip from Morrigan’s mouth, smooth as silk unwound from a forgotten spool, carrying the echo of a thousand scenes this woman had scripted for others. They landed softly, familiarly, a mirror turned back on its maker.

She savoured the irony. This giant of a woman, who probably had commanded so many to whisper similar pleas, now recited them with the ease of muscle memory. Safiyah wondered briefly how many had knelt for her in this very room, voices cracking under the weight of her own unyielding hand. The thought curled warmly through her, a quiet validation.

And yet Morrigan’s gaze held a spark of appraisal, green eyes tracing her form as if measuring a rival turned ally. Safiyah met it steadily, her bare soles pressing into the chill marble, grounding her against the pull of curiosity.

And now what, indeed.

She moved first, fingers deft on the leather straps, loosening the first knot with a flick that spoke of practice. Morrigan’s arm fell free, the broad shoulder rolling in a slow circle, chasing blood back to numb limbs. Safiyah lingered a beat, watching tendons shift beneath scarred skin, then turned to the second binding. It gave way just as easily, the Irishwoman’s frame slumping forward into the scant freedom granted.

Morrigan pivoted then, deliberate and unhurried, eyelids fluttering shut as she sank to her knees. Boots scraped the stone, a low grind that echoed her descent, her massive body folding into supplication like a storm cloud yielding to the horizon. Total. Utter. The sight stirred something fierce in Safiyah’s core, a hunger sharpened by the contrast: all that raw bulk, tamed and offered.

Her eyes drifted to the wall, where toys gleamed in orderly rows under the dim lamps, silent sentinels of past indulgences. And something would catch her attention, its wide oak face polished to a sheen, handle wrapped in supple leather. She crossed the room in three unhurried strides, toes curling against the cool floor, and plucked it free, weighing its balance in her palm. Solid. Promising.

She returned, circling once to admire the kneel, then stepped close enough for the air between them to thicken. The paddle’s edge ghosted along the curve of Morrigan’s backside, a feather-light tease over latex-clad muscle, tracing the seam where thigh met hip.

[BlackAkuma]

There was a state that submissives entered in, that Sabine had always taught Morrigan to aim for. There was no official term for it, but they coined one between them: Subspace. That blissful way of being where a submissive is perfectly accepting, perfectly open. Where you hit the right buttons, encapsulated their desires, and left them pliable. Willing. Moldable. Every submissive had their locks, and once you found the right pressure to apply, you could pick it, open them up, and, well…

The sessions in which Morrigan managed to pull it off were some of her most satisfying. There was no universal tell, everyone had their own triggers. It was like porn itself - you knew it when you saw it—a vibe.

The Morrigan knew she was there, now. As she kneeled at Safiyah’s feet and offered her body to the woman who’d so masterfully defeated her, she enjoyed the gift she’d given many others. Something was comforting in obeisance, a divine bliss in supplication. While she would never fully trade it and give up her role as a dominant, this sort of submission was something she rarely enjoyed. Maybe that made it sweeter. Being good at domination herself allowed her to appreciate being on the receiving end in a way few could.

She closed her eyes, reveling in the moment as Safiyah moved about her. Her footfalls were light, the barests taps on stone, and even in the silent stillness of the room she could barely make out where the woman was or what she was doing. She heard the subtle sound of something being pulled off a rack, the growing heat of another body entering her space, the scent of Safiyah’s salted skin in the air, and-

”Ah.”

The Morrigan gasped as she felt something touch backside. Wooden. Sturdy. She knew exactly what it was. A paddle, and her favorite one, at that. Oak and varnished to a lovely sheen. It had holes running through it, so it made this lovely swoosh when you swung it hard enough, like a hawk coming down on her prey. Expensive, but a worthwhile investment. You pay for quality.

She took the touch as a silent order, leaned forward, spread her leg, and raised her ass, offering it up to her mistress as the perfect target.

[Lightman]

The Violette traced the paddle’s flat edge along the curve of Morrigan’s backside once more, slow and deliberate, letting the cool wood whisper against fabric. Safiyah regarded Morrigan in silence, recognising the change in her with the same precision she applied to every exchange between them. There was a stillness about the larger woman now, a quiet acceptance that had not been present before, and Safiyah understood what it meant without needing to name it. She had seen it before in others, that moment when resistance gave way to receptivity, when control no longer needed to be forced because it had already been surrendered.

She moved around Morrigan with deliberate calm, her steps unhurried and measured, allowing the pause to stretch. The waiting was intentional. Anticipation, she knew, could be as powerful as any direct action, and she let it settle fully before proceeding. Every small sound, every shift of air, was part of the discipline she imposed, keeping Morrigan aware of her presence while denying her certainty.

Morrigan leaned forward then, boots shifting with a low scrape, legs parting wider as she arched her hips upward, presenting herself as an ideal canvas. Safiyah admired the offering, the way vulnerability transformed strength into something exquisite. She pulled back slightly, letting the wood lift away, then grazed it down again in a feather-light drag, building the tension coil by coil. The denial sharpened everything, turning waiting into its own exquisite torment.

Until finally, her arm drew back, and the paddle connected with a sharp crack upon hardened flesh.

[BlackAkuma]

Be still. Be calm. Simply let the moment be the moment.

The Morrigan relaxed as Safiyah worked her way around the room, staying close, playing around the perimeter of her senses. The choice of a stone floor wasn’t merely an aesthetic choice, either. The cold touch on skin was oppressive, sterile, and heightened every sensation that occurred while you skin was pressed to it. As Morrigan leaned over and her bare breasts pressed to it, a shiver ran down her spine and her fine hairs stood at attenton. She was ready.

Of course, the hammer didn’t drop right away. Safiyah was, clearly, a patient woman, and she knew how to wield the Sword of Damocles. The Morrigan’s body tightened and tensed as she waited for the impending strike, her muscles visibly shifting under the skin. Her mind raced, and every sound could’ve been the prelude to the pain. When, when, when…

There.

Safiyah brought the paddle down with a swift, savage force, one that sank deep into Morrigan’s creamy flesh and made her entire body jolt. She jerked up and let out a hoarse cry at the startling strike, only for her to ease down a moment later and retake her supplicant position, this time with a shaking body. Her fingernails scrapped against the stone as she settled down and let out her whispered words, filled with agony and longing. ”Thank you, mistress.”

[Lightman]

Safiyah did not linger on the first strike. Once the moment broke, she followed through with quiet certainty. She struck harder this time, the swing whistling through the holes before connecting with a resonant crack that echoed off the stone walls. The next blow landed fiercer still, driving deeper into yielding flesh, drawing a shudder that rippled from hips to shoulders. She escalated deliberately, each subsequent smack building on the last, turning heat into fire, tension into release. Each measured action firmer than the last, delivered without flourish or hesitation. There was no anger in it, no indulgence. Only intent. She’d watched Morrigan’s body react, noted the tension, the discipline in how she returned herself to stillness after each correction. That mattered more than the act itself. Safiyah said little, offering only a low, clipped instruction now and then, enough to anchor the moment and nothing more.

Patience remained her greatest tool. She let the silence stretch between movements, let anticipation do its work, let the room itself carry the weight of what was happening. Bare feet shifted against stone as she adjusted her position, always deliberate, always controlled. Morrigan’s readiness was no longer in question. Safiyah had seen the change settle fully, the struggle replaced by acceptance, and she pressed no further than was necessary to confirm it. The thanks laced with agony and desire, but Safiyah paid them no heed; words meant little now.

…

Time blurred after that, into a haze of command and yield. What followed was methodical and unhurried, a process rather than a spectacle. When Safiyah finally stepped back, the scene had been reshaped into something orderly and resolved. Morrigan was secured, ropes that bound the beast anew, wrists secured high, boots planted firm as her body hung suspended in exquisite restraint. Firmly contained by design rather than force, her earlier defiance was reduced to quiet compliance. Safiyah checked her work once, efficiently, fingers testing knots and placements with the same care she applied to every task. She surveyed the marks she had etched, the quiet bliss etched into every line of the subdued form. She gathered her few belongings, the room’s hush broken only by laboured breaths.

Satisfied, she straightened and reached for her things, her heels and her jacket. The room felt different now, emptied of tension, its purpose fulfilled. Safiyah paused only briefly, casting one last look over her shoulder. “You know where to find me if you crave more.” She said, her voice calm and final. Then she turned and left, bare footsteps fading against stone, leaving the silence behind her intact.