I don’t know what got into me yesterday. Maybe I was a little stung that he had said that sometimes when he’s getting ready to play with me he feels like giggling? Maybe I was just stressed? Maybe I felt attention starved? Maybe I’m just a brat?
I’m not sure, but we were at his parents for dinner. When my inlaws and babygirl were in their living room watching a movie, we were in their kitchen…I don’t even remember why. And he got grope-y, grabbing and pinching my breasts and nipples. (I wrote this 15 minutes ago and just came back to it. In thinking about it, I think what got into me was I felt uncomfortable with pushing physical stuff at my inlaws’ house and reacted.)
And whatever it was, it put me in a mode I haven’t really been in in a while. And not that I don’t get cheeky or playful – I am and I do – but this was more.
I got…pinchy and pokey. I smacked his butt, I pinched his thigh. Not hard enough to hurt or bruise but…enough to get That Look (tm). Yeah…that one. The bug eyed, shocked, glaring, annoyed “You did NOT just do that!" look.
Uh…I guess I did. I put up bravado as we “discussed” it on the way home too, when he told me I was so getting punished. I was not, I insisted, because he had told me this thing we’re doing wasn’t working.
No, he told me – he hadn’t said that. He said he felt silly sometimes, but he was still going to cane my ass for pinching him which is Not Allowed.
No, I’m not getting punished, I insisted. If he thinks this is silly it’s not working. (Who was I arguing with? I’m not sure.)
But he was going to cane my ass and That Was That, bravado having completely failed on my end. At which point the “Oh fuck, what did I just do!!” mentality kicked in.
Because I have to say, I’m really developing a hate/hate relationship with the cane. It hurts. And if I’m not turned on or warmed up, it hurts even worse. It feels like my skin is splitting. And the worst part is that while I end up with some pretty welts for the night, I rarely bruise from it.
Yeah. All that pain and no marks. With the heavier delrin cane I sometimes have pinky-tip shaped bruises from the very tip of the cane, and I did end up the first time with some impressive bruises on my thighs and hip, but generally – the next day there isn’t a single mark on me.
All that pain and NO marks. Boo.
And I knew since this was punishment, there wasn’t going to be any kind of foreplay or warmup first. Eight strokes, no high level of arousal to make it easier to deal with. Ow.
Shortly before we put the baby to bed, I ended up getting a phone call and it was unpleasantness rearing it’s ugly head due to my aunt’s murder back in June. I have just started feeling balanced after her death and the phonecall was a pretty bad one, so it had me off kilter. To his credit, he offered to let me off for the night and just hold me – but I wanted to try with the caveat of not doing anything we couldn’t immediately undo (like Tabasco, since once it’s on you just deal with it – it just has to run its course, or bondage we can’t immediately remove in its entirety). As I put my collar on for the night, I figured I would either lose myself completely in accepting whatever he wanted to give, or I’d burst into tears, and neither were really bad outcomes in my mind.
So when we started, my stomach did flips because I was already feeling off, and he had decided if we were playing, we were playing and not – forgive the quasi-pun – half-assing it. He brought out the rattan cane, which is longer, thinner, and much more frightening than the shorter thicker delrin cane. (I actually have no doubt the delrin one can do more damage, but the rattan one is scarier. Explain that!)
When the first stroke fell, he told me to count. It hurt, but it was manageable. So was the second. In between strokes, he thwapped my calves, my thighs, my upper back, the soles of my feet, moderately. Enough to sting, enough for me to feel it as I recovered momentarily, but not enough to welt or make me flinch.
The third one – which felt like it landed exactly where the first and second had, the juncture of my ass and thigh – had me gasping and reminding myself that I want this, wanted it hard, had earned it – and finally stammering out my count. Five more…five more. Fuck though – it had been hard.
Fourth and fifth was just as hard as the third, and while part of me – the back of my head – was whimpering that I needed it harder, the rational part of my brain screaming that it hurt too much, he was hurting me, I couldn’t do it – I managed to keep count.
The sixth was lighter, and I forget what his wording was, but he implied that it was a mercy. I groaned out loud, gave my count, braced myself – trying to relax – feeling the smaller stinging taps on the rest of my body – and he told me the next two would be the hardest yet.
The last two made me jump and sure I couldn’t take it and struggling to remind myself it was almost over. The pain was intense, searing – I really fucking hate the cane. Hate it enough to want to use internet slang like “zomg.” And I bought the damn thing. Damn it!
When it finished, he told me now we could “really” play. The leather cuffs went on. He had me kneel, head down, wrists clipped together with the d-rings on the cuffs behind my back. And he started rubbing oil onto my slit, inside me.
I said something really articulate and insightful. “Oh fuck, you’re going to fist me!” I think he laughed. Of course he was going to fist me. He knows I hate it. He’d been waiting to do this for a week and a half. (It’s a monthly ban. Yeah.)
I really do hate it. I hate the worry that I’m being too stretched out. I hate the mockery it makes of regular sex. I hate that I get off on it and how it makes me lose complete control. I hate the feeling of coming on his fist, the strange feeling of muscle spasms that can’t really spasm because they’re so fucking stretched. And while I’ve never been quiet during sex, I hate that I can’t shut my mouth of when his fist is inside me. “Oh fuck, oh shit, oh fuck, ow…” et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum.
I swear in my head and in my blog and in my journal all the time. I don’t swear out loud. Except lately, during sex, because I can’t shut my freaking mouth off.
And I never know how it’s going to feel. Sometimes it’s instantly arousing. Sometimes it hurts. He usually takes his hand in and out several times and sometimes it will vary from one insertion to the next. I have no idea what the difference is. I remember begging him to stop after I came once, pleading, and hearing him tell me “No.” That was it…no justification. Just no. He didn’t need one, but it didn’t stop me from begging. I really do hate fisting. But he loves it. (Well – he thinks it’s hot. I tumblr fisting porn for him because he likes it and all I can think is – “ow!” When he finally decides he’s had enough of my protesting and decides to fist my butt…I’m in so much trouble. I know how hot he thinks it is but it scares the hell out of me.)
At one point when he pulled out, it made me scream. I don’t remember why, but I remember the sound ripping out of my throat. I remember my heart beating hard against my rib cage.
The cane came out again. I don’t remember which one, as I was pretty gone – lost in my own head. I think it was the rattan cane, and while he says he wasn’t hitting quite as hard, the sensation this time was much more…languid. Sharp but not omg-my-skin-is-splitting painful and felt completely different. Headspace and arousal level made a huge difference. And…they should. It was punishment earlier, but it was interesting, looking back on it. How many slices of the cane? I have no idea. A lot more than eight, I think, but I was gone.
The next thing I remember was his hand forcing me open again, forced inside me, and another orgasm as I whimpered and ended up splatted on my stomach, legs thrown haphazardly around him and face ground into the arm of the couch. (Ouch – I don’t have a bruise there today, but it feels like I do despite lack of visible bruising.)
I lost track of how many orgasms I had on his fist, but they definitely stopped being the pleasant warm-glow melty kind. They became the pleasure-so-intense-my-body-ached kind. And when he decided he was done – my protests long since gone from begging to mostly whimpers with occasional “ows” thrown in – he took my ass.
You’d think since we’ve had anal almost every day – sometimes multiple times a day – for over a month now it’s be easier.
And I suppose on –some- level it is. It has to be. No amount of kegels can keep your sphincter 100% virgin-tight…
…but it doesn’t feel any easier. I guess it lets him fuck me harder, and I know he’s taking pleasure in it. It was some of the roughest sex we’ve had and I felt every millimeter of the welts the cane had left as he pounded against me.
It was rough enough that I don’t even know if I came or not. I probably did – the level of eroticism was very high. But I don’t remember it – I mostly remember the harsh groaning as he came, his cock spasming inside me, every twitch…
He left to go clean up. When he came back, he unbound my hands and let me go clean up. When I came back, I asked if we were done and he said yes.
And then…gosh. I don’t really know what possessed me other than I didn’t feel done. I didn’t want to go back to earth and had a lot deeper to go.
He was tired, so I suggested (ugh – yes) that he use tabasco. Easy pain – no effort for him – a lot of physical pain for me. I wanted him to hurt me. I wanted to be gone, for him to get hard as he watched me hurt…I wanted to be nowhere but in that exact moment.
“But just a little…” I pleaded. Only a little. Enough to burn and make me whimper, but I couldn’t ask him to really hurt me. I didn’t think I had –that- much deeper to go before I got to the headspace I wanted.
He didn’t indulge me. When he sauced me, it was with a great deal more than we have ever used.
“Too much!” I cried.
“You’re welcome!” he told me.
And that shut me up. It was exactly what I had asked for, even if I began second guessing myself the moment I said it. It would center me, leave no room to worry about the trial for my aunt’s murder or whether fisting had left me stretched out or the cleaning I had to do or any other mundane concern.
The pain didn’t build like I was used to – it crashed over me, intense, hot, searing and so fucking hot my whole body seemed to flush with it. With his permission I rubbed my hard clit, twirling it with my fingers, my wetness mixing with the peculiar scent of the hot sauce.
He took pictures as I masturbated, and any other day that would have freaked me the fuck out. But I was…not enjoying myself, but riding the pain. Whinging occasionally, mostly lost in my own head. For how long? I don’t know. A long time. While to a degree pain is pain and this pain has its own unique flavor that is as strong as it always is, he doused my cunt. I was dripping, which meant every teeny bit of exposed skin – and every bit that wasn’t exposed that he cruelly massaged the hot sauce into – was past hot. It was a searing pain that felt like it was eating into my body and there was literally nowhere else I could go at that moment. Those moments.
When it ebbed – slightly – and I came back into reality, sort of, I asked if he was hard. Needless to say…he was. I asked him…begged him…to fuck my ass. I don’t remember the exact conversation, but he expressed surprise and I reassured him I knew it would hurt, that I wanted him to use me and to get off on me, get off knowing his cock would be hurting me and that my cunt was still searing between my legs.
He pushed me into a position I hate – face smashed to the floor, ass in the air. He can penetrate so deeply and I can’t move at all to dodge or make it easier to bear. He used me as roughly as I had asked for, my immediate cries of regret and “ouch, ow” ignored.
I think I came. I don’t have any idea. As hot and erotic as it was, orgasm was long past the point. I know he came, shuddering against me.
And you would think the evening would end there, but the tabasco was still eating at me, burning and hot…so as he lay there, I gently sucked him. He wasn’t getting off again – he was spent – but he told me my mouth felt good. So with him lying on the couch, I gently licked and sucked his semi-hard penis, kneeling on the floor next to him.
And as I did it, he smacked me over and over with the cane, aiming to bruise me, as I occasionally thanked him (but mostly kept my mouth on him).
It is full of righteous indignation that I report today that my only bruise is from the single bite he placed on my inner left thigh, to match the bruise on my right thigh from a couple days earlier. Hmph! Damn canes.
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