Happy Anniversary ... part 1!

I don’t even know where to start this post – there is so much in my head and in my mind and in the past few days! I’ll break this up into a few posts because so much happened that I’m having trouble sorting my head out.

I guess I’ll start with my mouth and say – OUCH.

Yes, good place to start. Auspicious, even.

Let’s backtrack. Last Thursday, I was on my knees between his legs, his cock in my mouth, sucking him. Eyes closed as per his rules. Occasionally he’d grab my head and force himself deeper in my mouth – occasionally I gagged, coughed, spluttered. But I wanted him to come, wanted to feel him pulse in my mouth.

And we were well on our way, except one of those times when he took control, we tore my tongue.

Uh…yeah. I can’t really explain it except that I tangled my tongue with his penis as he was thrusting and my tongue got shoved backwards before he made it to the back of my mouth. I felt it happen – a really sharp twinge – but oral sex like that is never comfortable and I really didn’t think much beyond breathing without gagging other than a quick mental “ow.” And then I tasted blood as I tried to move my tongue to lick him when he let me suck him again…and my brain caught up.

I managed to tear my “sublingual frenulum” which is what the little membrane that connects your tongue to the bottom of your mouth is called. It means that extending my tongue too far in any direction is painful, and it bled quite extensively the night it was injured.

To my credit, my first thought was “how can I get him off when my tongue is swollen!” which he got a kick out of, before declaring my mouth off limit til it heals. Which was fantabulous timing, since Saturday was our anniversary and we had a babysitter the whole day. Boo.

And unfortunately, it’s now been several days and while the wound is closed, it’s not healed and is still sore. Double boo =(

But Saturday brought our anniversary, a day blessedly child-free (thank you, M-I-L!), and a day booked at a couple’s hotel (it’s essentially a sex hotel, though I don’t know if it’s a regional phenomenon or if they’re throughout the u.s.). And even better, the conclusion of the ban on vaginal sex. Sentence served (no time commuted for good behavior though!).

Which meant I was desperately turned on and had been operating at that level for days. I was ready to get sincerely utterly and totally fucked.

And that meant, of course, that he made me wait.

When we got into our little cabin, he made me close my eyes and strip. He collared me and…I realized he’d made a modification. There was some kind of lead or leash attached to the collar, and that was new. I was told I couldn’t open my eyes until he told me to – and then he pushed me onto all fours and started fucking me from behind. I knew I was in trouble when I got close to orgasm immediately – I just felt –starved- for him inside me.

But instead of pushing me over the brink, he stopped, laughed and told me he was eating. I was then tied to something, my food put in front of me and told to eat. My food was messy, so he allowed me to use my hands. (I was grateful for that – it was unnerving to eat on the floor…eating without my hands…I dunno.) Occasionally, he’d reach down and stroke my hair…like I was a dog. I actually remember thinking “He’s going to treat me like a dog!” and being both startled and unnerved by that.

It felt…strange. It was the most overt expression of the agreement we made since we’ve started. It was humiliating. And somehow, oddly comfortable in a way I find profoundly discomforting. The ease of slipping into that…it felt normal. And that’s disquieting, because while I am comfortable with the idea of games that get me off, we’ve definitely long since passed the point where this is a game (at least – in my mind…I suppose it’s not my place to speak for his, although I believe we’re on the same wavelength). We’re finding our comfort levels in a new way of interacting and it bothers me that I’m so comfortable giving up my … my … my what? Autonomy? Personhood? Feminism? Self? to getting him off and…to what? Getting him off and satisfying him, I guess.

And yet as uncomfortable with how much this fit it was also really hot.

Like, really hot. It felt erotic. I felt distinctly powerless – periodic tugs on the lead reminded me I was on my hands and knees on the floor, eating on the floor by his choice and not mine because I hadn’t had one. So little but so…not little, too. Distinctly aware that whatever he told me – whatever he wanted – was his. And that was completely tantalizing, even if I was doing my best to eat a chicken sandwich, with my eyes closed, that was determined to fall apart.

When he decided I was done eating, I wish I could say he told me to blow him. He led me – by the collar – onto the bed, and directed my mouth, but it wasn’t his cock.

It isn’t that we have done rim jobs in the past, but it was a long time ago, and I didn’t like it then either. I suppose for the same reason I don’t like anal sex – it feels…icky, I guess. It took me a couple moments to work up to what he wanted, and he was patient…to a point. But far sooner than I’d like, he had me licking his asshole. And then impatiently demanding “More! Deeper!” until I was sticking my tongue in as deep as I could go, my nose and face pressed so deeply into his ass that at times it impeded my breath. I felt…even more humiliated. He had me doing it because he liked it – it was something we hadn’t done in ages because I don’t like it. And despite how much I didn’t like it, I liked that he was making me do it anyway. It’s as close as I’ve ever come to balking – which isn’t to say close, but he knew this was something I dislike. And somehow it’s hot that he had me doing it anyway.

And then, finally – mercifully - he told me to fuck him. The cabin we were in had mirrored ceilings and I know he enjoyed that, but I was still not allowed to open my eyes – and yes, I asked. Usually I can only tolerate sex in that position occasionally because riding him puts him deeply inside me in a way that gets painful. And I won’t lie, it was – but the need to fuck him was so intense that nothing was going to stop me. Even though I was setting the pace, he tugged the lead on my collar and slapped me often enough to remind me I was only setting the pace because he wanted me to. I never stopped moving, but those little moments re-oriented to me in the incredible flurry of movement that possessed me. He beat my breasts as I bounced up and down on his cock, eliciting the occasional squeals and yelps – and the immediate response of “Take it, whore.” That’s not something he usually calls me, but it worked here, and if anything pushed the frenzy up a notch. (This breast beating also earned my first and only bruise of the day, despite the intensity of the spankings and pain to follow – it’s a tiny thing too, the size of my fingertip.)

I don’t honestly know how many times I came while on top of him; I have no idea. The first orgasm came and went almost too fast – it was so, so, so long overdue and so long awaited that I felt almost trigger happy and it came up before I had a chance to savour it. He slowed me down the next time, controlling the pace a little more, and the second time I came I could feel the moisture on my thighs and on him, felt like my heart might hammer out of my chest and felt incredibly heated. If he hadn’t made me keep going I might have melted, lost in a languid haze, but I have literally lost track of what came after that. More orgasms, more pain – pinched nipples, smacked breasts, and fingers dug into my hips.

And eventually, he set the pace entirely, dictating with hands how fast I should bounce and how far out of me he should go…when he finally came, I collapsed on top of him.

And fortunately for me, the next item on the agenda was collapsing together into the hot tub  =)

Finding my center in the pain..

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.  

The line between submission and masochism...

We’ve played a lot with sadism and masochism, but less with dominance and submission.

And don’t get me wrong. Erotic pain is definitely a turn on. I hate calling myself something like a painslut or a masochist, because those terms seem so much bigger than me, but it is what is.

I like being hit during sex. I like having my ass smacked and spanked until it's bruised. I like being hit with a belt and having clothespins clipped to my breasts. I like being fucked on all fours with the pins on because it makes my breasts sway and agitates the pinched flesh. I hate/like Tabasco on my clit because it burns and hurts.* I like ginger because stings and burns (and then leaves you fiercely hot).* I like having my anus flicked, whipped, and smacked. I like having my breasts spanked and smacked and pinched, the nipples pinched.

And I like the bruising afterwards. I like looking at them and feeling sore, remembering what I did to earn those bruises.

And what that makes me, I don’t know. Perverted, without a doubt. But even as much as it hurts and is “pain,” it’s the intensity of the sensation that gets me. Before we started acting these desires out, I knew I wanted them and just lacked the courage to see if my husband was willing or interested…my fantasies played around the most intense experience I could come up with, and my fantasy life knew what I wanted long before I could admit it.

So being hurt during sex? (Hurt, not harmed.) Yes. Okay, that’s me.

And not that regular sex doesn’t still have a place in our sex life…it does. A nice place. A comfortable place. A familiar place with the man I have been with for 12 years and married to for nearly 6, in pretty much the same way for most of the more-than-10 years we’ve been having sex. I sincerely doubt it will ever lose that place. I like sex – good sex, bad sex, sweaty sex, marathon sex, quickie sex – and I do not /dislike/ the sex that has made up most of my actual sexual experience.

But.

My lover spanking me? Smacking different parts of me until I’m quivering, skin pinkened and coloured by bruises? Squeezing my sore ass that he beat the night before, just to make me squirm and remember exactly what we did the previous night?

Hot, and right. It’s what I want, what I have wanted for a long time, and for me, it is so, so much better than regular sex. I feel engaged by it.

And while there are definitely things we haven’t done yet – I suspect that I will like them when we do. Canes are on the way. Floggers on the way. I’d like to try face slapping…if I can work up to telling him about that.

But that being said…as much as I have never, since the first time I can remember fantasizing about while masturbating, have never once fantasized about regular sex, there is a theme bigger than pain in my fantasies…

…and it is control.

Or at least, I always thought of it as control. Before I knew there was a world where dominance and submission were acted out consensually in the bedroom, I fantasized about being controlled.

Often times the control was by force, by being overpowered, ravished. Being made a slave, or a prisoner.

But mostly, that was because it was about being put into a situation where I could not escape, being subject to the whims and pleasures of another – having my existence become solely about their pleasure.

And obviously, “solely” isn’t quite a standard I could live up to, though it makes great fantasy element.

But.

I finally talked to my husband about this aspect of my sexuality. Or at least, introduced the concept. We didn’t go into a lot of detail or talk toooo much, because, well…surprisingly, this was harder to talk about than asking him to hit me. And that wasn’t easy to bring up.

But somehow, telling him I’d like him to take control of me, to be in charge, to make me do things…things I sort of want and sort of don’t want…things that are…some of them humiliating….

Difficult, difficult, difficult.

He wasn’t totally surprised. I mean…I’ve gotten him to start talking dirty to me. To “punish” me. He’s known for a while it turns me on to be “forced” into sex. Wanting to be controlled and humiliated isn’t…shocking, considering.

But even more difficult, going through the motions isn’t good enough for my picky kink. Nope. If we play with this, he has to want it.

Because if he doesn’t want it, I don’t. And I mean…some of the things I want I don’t want. Which is confusing enough. But if he doesn’t want to do something but he would do it for me…there are people that works for and that’s great.

I’m not one of them.   

He had known for a long time I responded well to having my hair pulled during sex. And then for some reason when we were talking one day I found out he only did that for me, not because it did anything for him…and that just, blew it for me. It stopped being hot and just started being annoying.

Because while I don’t want to totally sublimate myself in his desires – that’s great fantasy fodder, but does not a long term healthy relationship make, because I have my own needs that need to be taken care of – pretending I am when it’s really just going with the flow for him isn’t what pushes my buttons.

I appreciate that he’s willing. I do. It’s sweet.

I don’t want sweet.

I want to be wanted so badly that at least in some way his needs matter more, his desires matter more. I want what /he/ wants and in a very real manner it doesn’t matter if I want it or not…if he wants it enough to “force” me into it chances are…I’ll find it erotic.

I want to be ravished because he can’t resist fucking me. I want him to want something from me so badly that he’ll take it if I won’t give it…for him, there is nothing I won’t give, but it has to be something he wants. Because if he only does it because he thinks I want it, then I don’t want it.

I don’t know if that makes sense, but there it is.

We’re easing into it to see if it really is something he wants. We’re starting with something I knew he wanted and I always said no…and to be honest, I hate it. Haha.

Right now, I can’t orgasm without his permission. One week trial basis.

That sounds easier said than done.

But I am the woman who on a day off when he worked and babygirl’s grandma took her for a day, I masturbated because I had the time and inclination…16 times. (I counted. In my defense, that was my first alone time in two years other than falling asleep…but still. 16!)

I really, really hate this.

But he really, really likes it, because I hate it. And that means I kind of like it too.

It’s complicated. :P



*The difference between Tabasco and Ginger is pretty extreme. Neither are pleasant, both turn me on. Tabasco is pain - Ginger stings. Different sensations. I prefer Ginger, it leaves a pleasant feeling afterwards which Tabasco doesn't, but Tabasco fits better depending on the mood and is easier to keep around...

First time with ginger paired with an intense beating..

So I am sitting on a very very bruised and sore butt right now! *g*

We haven’t been able to play around for a few days, so we were both eager. We set aside all of yesterday after the baby went to bed – no chores, no movies, nothing else. Just each other.

He randomly sent me an email that just said “We’ll be using the cuffs tonight.” We bought a nice pair of leather cuffs but haven’t used them a ton – so his email just sent..chills down my body. Throughout the day he sent me little one-liner reminders of the general plans for the evening and just…wow. Even if it hadn’t been on my mind, he definitely did a good job keeping it at the forefront!

That night, he quickly fastened the leather cuffs on my wrist…which in and of itself was pretty erotic. I’m so pale that the contrast between my skin and the black leather was…stunning. I excused myself to go dress for the evening and surprised him by coming out in nothing but black fishnet thigh-highs and a sexy black top…mmm. I liked the thigh highs, they felt really sexy.

We opened the night with some attempted deepthroating. We did set aside half an hour for me to practice deepthroating bewfore playing, since I really want to be able to deepthroat. I’m getting close! Err…he’s getting close? The idea of throat fucking and deepthroat is so erotic and it’s something that turns him on so much that I really want to be able to do it. We made progress but I’m not there yet…soon, I hope!

When I decided I’d gone as far as I was getting for the night, he flipped me onto hands and knees and told me to spread…immediately he started pressing against my anus and I freaked for a second. I remember asking “Already?!” and he just replied “Now!” and I felt the head of his cock pop into my asshole. Ow! In the past – when we’ve had gentle anal – he’s had me back onto him at my own pace so I had time to accommodate to having him inside me. He told me to do that now and I forget what I said, but I didn’t want gentle…I wanted it rough. We hadn’t played in days and I was hungry for him, and…I wanted it to hurt. That’s strange to say, but I wanted it – and told him so. Without a second to arguing, he forced himself – slicked up only by my mouth from oral only a couple minutes before – entirely inside my ass.

The pain was shocking, stunning, and hugely invasive. It was the kind of pain that’s hard to describe – I didn’t feel torn, just…invaded, completely. I was gasping and not screaming, not exactly, but moaning about the pain – but he ignored me, fucking my ass harder and harder.

Abruptly, he stopped – pulled out entirely, and left me gasping. “I’m not ready to come just yet.”

So hot.

He grabbed something – the wooden spoon, I think? – and began swatting me as he forced himself back inside me. The swats didn’t really hurt – not as much as him inside me did – but it definitely set the tone as he fucked me. Something about being spanked during rough sex was so erotic…it felt so…used. Like I was there for his pleasure. So so hot!

When he finally came, he left me gasping on my hands and knees as he went to clean up and then pretty casually dismissed me to clean myself up.

When I came back, he was equally casually peeling a piece of ginger.

And this…wasn’t a surprise, exactly. I mean…I’d been there when we bought it. But he’d “tested” it on me earlier – had me lying on our bed with a big piece of it pressed to my clit. At first it felt cold, but it began slowly building up, stinging and burning until I couldn’t keep still. “Keep it on. Do. Not. Move. It.” Whimpering and wriggling, I kept it there, my legs pressed shut by him as he occasionally quizzed me on how it felt.

It fucking burned!

And now – despite that! – he was carving a plug of it. I think I was trembling when he – still very casually – told me it was going up my ass. When he finished peeling it, he told me to go rinse it. “Quickly!” he reprimanded when I stalled just a litttttle bit. I won’t lie, I was super intimidated.

But I carefully walked to the bathroom and…tripped, sending the damn thing flying, breaking the end off. I rinsed it anyway and brought it back. I expected to be in huge trouble for that, but he calmly carved a new notch at the bottom and sent me to rinse it again – without dawdling or breaking it.

When I managed to succeed, he had me spread myself open and slid the root in to the notch.

Honestly, at first it was just cold. But it started to sting really quickly – and he didn’t waste any time smacking me. Gentle swats on my clit made me jump and I couldn’t help but tense – and it was like the ginger flared inside me. Intense!

He soon switched to whacking my butt and as much he ramped up & I knew he was hitting me harder than we had played with before, I was also way more turned on than I expected. Occasionally he stopped to touch me and finger fuck me and he teased me about how wet I was…he was pretty clearly surprised at just /how/ wet I was. And…I was really, really wet.

Time lost meaning as he spanked me with the spoon; a whack on the thigh, a spank on the butt, a smack on the breast…all paired with the freaking burning plug in my anus and I was ready for him to fuck me. So, so, so ready.

I started moaning and asking him to fuck me…and he told me to beg. Like I meant it.

And usually…I can’t beg. It’s embarrassing. It’s too much.

But last night? I begged. Fuck me. Fuck me? I wanted him inside me!

He paused.

And offered a deal.

How many smacks was it worth to me? I was starting to really feel them, although it was distant…I wasn’t all there. Too turned on?

Tentatively, I offered…15?

He laughed. 25, he told me.

25. Scary sounding number. I was already sore. But would he really not fuck me if I didn’t?

…I was pretty sure he wasn’t bluffing, and damn it, I needed to come!

So 25 it was – with a catch. I had to count – and ask for the next one.

Freaky. Hot.

At 10 I didn’t think I’d make it.

At 15 he was hitting harder, jarring me out of the fuzzy space I was in.

At 20 I knew I’d make it.

21 hurt like hell.

And then 25 was here.

I was so wet. His cock was soaked as soon as he entered me – but sex with the ginger in felt weird. Strange, and I asked for it out. And then I told him he was taking it out.

He smirked at me and took it out – and then asked how many smacks it was worth to me. I was stunned, that hadn’t occurred to me! Too shocked to handle, we settled on 10.

And he was not holding back! Ow. Ow!

But I was so turned on (and sore) – sex felt amazing. He took me from behind and I came almost immediately, totally incoherent…I felt it everywhere, my asshole throbbing, my clit hardened – I came at least once more before he did, but I think it was actually twice more. I was lost, so lost…

It was amazing. And intense. Best sex I’ve had in a long time…and we have a lot of sex.

When he finally came and we held each other, coming down from it, we kissed and it was sweet…and I made the mistake of mentioning we hadn’t at all pushed my limits.

Which meant he promptly had me back on all fours, smacking my butt again. Ow!

I was protesting – we had just had sex! It had been the second time he’d come, which I was sure meant there was no sex again tonight. I like being spanked, but not without sexual context. He ignored my protests and kept spanking…and he said I might be able to negotiate my way to getting fucked again.

Warily, because I was sore – and he was still spanking me as we talked! – I asked how many.

60.

60!!

I had no idea how many times he spanked me before we settled on an amount for sex before, but 60 was a lot.

It sounded like a lot. I was pretty sure it would feel like a lot.

But despite multiple orgasms and two rounds of sex, I felt starved. I wanted to drop off that cliff again, wanted to shudder as I came while he fucked me…

60.

It was a lot, and these were I think some of the hardest spankings he’s ever given me. 10 felt so incredibly far away. 20 and I was writhing after each stroke. Halfway and I was definitely unsure my ass could hold up. 40 I was starting to bliss out again, getting locked into the heat and intensity of it. 50 and I was gone, totally confident I would make it.

51 rocked me. Badly. It wasn’t the hardest hit, but he thwacked me directly on my asshole with the handle of the spoon – ow. That’s a place that turns me on to be whipped, but he’d already roughly fucked my ass earlier…I was almost ready to call it off. But 9 more? 9 more? 9 more, and so wet I could hardly believe it?

The next couple were lighter to I think apologize for 51 – but the last 5 were intense, aiming closer to my thighs or solidly across both cheeks. They stung and flared, but when 60 came and went, I incredible. Fucking sore, but incredible – accomplished, hot, and completely triumphant.

I came hard again, and each time he thrust into me, there was this .. sensation, or sensations, rather, that are hard to describe. The pleasure of his cock combined with the pain of his hips digging in to my sore ass…

It was erotic.

It was intense.

Afterwards, my ass looked red with only shadows of bruises to come, but I could feel the swelling beneath the skin where the bruises would be, the firmness that meant deep bruising was coming.

I wasn’t disappointed this morning – I have one sore, bruised ass today.

And I am totally fucking content.

Reclaiming the evening...

Last night nearly didn’t happen, which had me fairly upset. He had spent the day teasing me, building it up – before putting our daughter to sleep he even very carefully set up supplies for tonight in front of me. He gave me instructions – when I finished my shower I was to assume a specific position on the couch and masturbate. He would be back to play in 20 minutes.

Well, fast forward, and after my shower I waited on the couch for an hour before giving up on him. He had fallen asleep. (Which by the way, cemented that if he ever suggests tying me up before he puts her to sleep….nope! Never. Ever. Not a chance. I don’t think he would, because he’s always with me when we’ve done any kind of bondage before, but note to self – if he ever suggests it, refuse 100%.)

At which point I went online, looking at more spanking porn, got restless, watched a movie (Diary of a Nymphomaniac – more graphic than I expected, although considering the subject matter I shouldn’t be surprised, but an interesting movie that I’ll watch again when I can focus more), and finally, grudgingly, clipped off the zipties he had fastened around my wrists and ankles for later ease of …binding me? Bondaging me? I just realized, I haven’t the faintest idea what the appropriate terminology there is, but for immobilizing me).

When I threw myself into bed and shoved him off of me as he tried to curl up with me, I must have woken him. He glanced at the clock and swore, and started apologizing. I didn’t to fight but I was hurt, so I limited myself to monosyllabic answers and tried to hide the tears I was trying not to shed. I wasn’t angry. Well, maybe a little pissy, but not truly angry. Just…hurt. It was like being stood up for a date, and one that the other person had spent the entire day building up.

I was amused that he offered to get up right that second. I was like…no. Haha. I mean, in my mind that ship had sailed about 90 minutes prior. So I’m amused he suggested that at all, I’m going to attribute that one to just waking up because yeah, there was no way.

And then…he started touching me. Running his fingertips up and down my back, my sides, lightly over my butt, my legs…I love that gentle kind of touching, that almost tickle that’s more stroking. It very quickly relaxes me or drives me wild, depending on where…and he knew it. (I’ve been touch centric since I was little, because the household I grew up in didn’t touch. Rarely hugged, kissed…not an affectionate household, and that was something I knew I didn’t want in any relationship I had, and when we had our child I knew that was going to be different for us.)

Honestly, I hadn’t decided we were even going to have sex, much less play – I pretty much figured if he had ditched me by falling asleep, unintentional or not, it was only fair that he touch me and help me sleep, right? So with that thought in mind, I let him touch me. I was moaning without realizing it pretty fast (I’d been turned on all day – I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that it was easy to get me to slip back to that…state?).

When he asked me to turn over, I did it immediately and without thinking about it. He continued stroking me and then – I must have been out of it, because I don’t remember him moving? – he was between my legs, licking me gently. I don’t know if I had been already wet, but I was, fast – and when he gently tugged me out of bed, I found myself following without any real protest. I did warn him I didn’t know that I wanted to play with him, I was still upset…his answer was noncommittal and I was amused to find myself in position over his lap a minute later.

I told him to at least go slow and touch a lot, because I really was upset. He said all right, stroked my back a bit, and then promptly smacked my ass, hard.

I of course protested. That wasn’t going slow!

At that point, he actually did slow down – a lot of really slow build up in intensity, sometimes on my feet, sometimes on my butt, my thighs, my breasts…I was moaning but for some reason determined not to cry out. As far as I knew the threatened punishments were off the table, but I guess I wanted to see if I could do it?

At some point, the new spoon we bought came out. That thing definitely has a bigger impact than his hand, even though I knew he was using less force. He sometimes used the handle and sometimes used the bowl of the spoon – it was so interesting, the handle felt a lot … heavier? More impact from it, which surprised me and I’m not sure why. It definitely left some interesting marks and welts and we learned that you have to be a lot more careful with an implement than a hand – we’ve never really played with stuff before (we had a small whip at some point before, but it was a rubber one, and we’ve never really done a lot with this until we discovered just how much this really turns me on). I can’t quite explain what happened, but the spoon was at an awkward angle I guess, with me on all fours, to spank my breast, and hit poorly? I don’t know how to explain it but there was immediately a wicked bruise. Today it looks horrible, but feels like any other bruise – at the time I didn’t really feel it, I was pretty lost – but he was definitely very cautious after that happened.

When he thought I was about at my limit, clothespins came out. (I wasn’t and was really enjoying it, but he was worried after that smack on my breast.)

Wow. I have to be honest, we had tested one earlier and I thought these would be easy to take. I can’t remember how many he got around my areola, but it was a lot. A lot. And they pinched a little at first, but jiggling them even slightly…ow! Those he left on for a bit, maybe 10, 15 minutes? The ones on my pussy lasted only a minute or two – I was so turned on that those stung really bad. He told me how hot it was, which helped, but wow, did those sting! As he clipped each one on, he occasionally brushed the ones on my breasts…ow!

He had me thank him after each one was on – and that was new. We’d never tried to get me verbalize about what I was going through other than “ow” and moaning – I’m shy about this. Participation in the sense of seeming willing…I don’t know. Part of what’s so hot for me about this is him doing it to me, so I can enjoy it but not…self inflict? That was what was so strange about the tabasco the first time, I did it to myself – that usually feels too dark, too perverted for me. I need that sense of “he made me do it” to enjoy…so I thought thanking him would be hard, would break it for me, but it was actually really hot. I’ll have to think more about why, but it was really hot.

By the time he removed the clothespins from my sex, my breasts were really starting to sting – and he had me switch from being on my back to all fours, where he started fucking me from behind. I have large breasts, but I never noticed just how much they bounce when he fucks me. Well – with the clothespins on, I fucking noticed! He’s evil – he told me afterwards he knew exactly how much I would feel that.

It actually hurt enough that I had to ask him to stop, but I think in retrospect that was more the surprise of finding out much I bounce during sex. I think next time we try that I’ll be better prepared and able to take the pain.

He had me thank him as each one was removed, some gently unclipped and some simply pulled off – I couldn’t decide which hurt worse, but afterwards he spanked my breasts more. My breasts were aching and stinging as he slapped them. I have to wonder what was on my face, because he was watching me very intently. I’ll have to ask him about that later…I do wonder what I looked like. I remember it hurt – flinching, hands clutched behind me so I wouldn’t try to protect them – and then pushing my chest out for more.

When he stopped, there were butterflies in my stomach, because I knew what came next. He offered me a choice – did I want the long cucumber up my ass, or the fat one? I knew he’d pick the fat one if I didn’t say something, but I was silent anyway, too mortified to choose. Either way, this would be the biggest thing I’d ever had inside of me – could I take it? Could I stretch that much? I wasn’t honestly sure and the nervousness, the fear, titillated me as I listened to him carve notches in the cucumber so it wouldn’t be lost inside me. As he lubed me and lubed the cucumber, I felt tenser than I had been all evening.

I’m not sure how large that cucumber was (in retrospect – should have measured it! Oops!), but it took a long time to work in. I was whimpering about how it was too big, I couldn’t take it – and he just told me to take it, that I could do it and he wanted to see it. He had me fuck myself onto the cucumber, so the embarrassment of fucking a cucumber was there too. He teased me, told me I was perverted for fucking a cucumber, and I think I must have been blushing, but all I could focus on was this huge … thing! … invading me. I felt so stretched and I kept telling him it was too big, too big – and he kept telling me to take it. When he had it in, he started fingering me, pushing me to come as he shot a video on his phone, fucking the cucumber in and out of me.

When he yanked it out, I whimpered again – the thing had been impossibly big for me, but I felt empty without it…until he started fucking my ass. I was so turned on, so horny at that point, so wet – I can’t remember if I came once of multiple times, but I was so lost by then, so far gone by the time he finally shuddered and came himself.

And I’m such a cheeky brat. After we cleaned up, both of us, and joked about the cucumber, I told him he hadn’t met his goal – I was nearly as sore as I was the other night, so I told him I would probably comfortably be able to wear jeans the next night.

I was trying to get him to spank me!

I can’t even explain my motivations, but I wanted him to spank me more. He told me he’d tried to go easier because we’d been using the spoon, and I teased him that that was nice, but I was definitely not going to have any issue sitting down the next day. At which point he finally did spank me more – I remember it really did hurt but though I swore and cried I was pushing back for more almost immediately.

I’m not as sore as I was the other day, but I definitely couldn’t wear my jeans today.

Testing limits

Last night.

He’d been teasing me, playfully threatening me, the whole day. He wanted, he told me, to punish me – he wanted tabasco on my ass, inside my ass.

Cue sheer terror. Every time he mentioned it, I felt like my heart would beat out of my chest. It seemed unthinkable. I couldn’t do that, and did my best to communicate that. I think I got through, but he threatened – oh, how he threatened. He would make me ask for it – make me choose. My pussy, or my ass? And if I refused to choose – he’d put it on both.

Fear. Excitement. Horror. Apprehension. Arousal.

He couldn’t do that to me. He wouldn’t.

Would he?

Maybe, but not, I was mostly confident, tonight.

When we played last night, I knew I was in for it – I’d told him the previous nights I hadn’t reached my limit for spanking. And well – I knew as soon as the first spanking fell I was going to find my limit tonight.

Interspersed with caresses, slaps fell – some hard, some soft, different spots on my butt. Some ached so deeply I couldn’t help but cry out – so slapped and stung and faded to warmth after only a moment. Sometimes he touched my legs, my thighs, my clit, my feet. Sometimes he parted my ass cheeks and flicked my anus, eliciting yelps.

(As an aside, I still don’t know why flicking or whipping my anus turns me on so much. Another fantasy element accidentally come to life one day a long time ago when he playfully flicked it and instead of yelping I flinched and pressed my ass back at him, begging with everything but words for more. Anal is so difficult for me, and internally I am still so torn over it – I feel like I shouldn’t like it, shouldn’t want it. It’s not just taboo, but it’s the same reason I like being spanked, like being whipped – it HURTS! And even the most gentle anal still has pain associated with it. There is pleasure, but there’s always pain too, and that mix…especially in fantasy…

I don’t know what it is. I’m multiorgasmic, but I have an imagination that runs away with me and any intense sensation becomes fodder for that imagination. Anal was something I both abhorred and fantasized about for a long time, which is an interesting combination. My husband is incredibly focused on my ass, so he eventually shoved me past my prejudice and anal has become a regular part of our sex life.)

As the spanking went on, there was less touching and more spanking, harder slaps. He was clearly determined that I wouldn’t find these pleasurable slaps like the day before – he meant for them to sting, and it worked. Sometimes the slaps came so fast I found myself crying out and wriggling away, but he chased me – eventually pausing for me to catch my breath.

Sometimes, I tensed – anticipating a blow. Often he struck anyway, and being tensed didn’t really help – sometimes, he waited for me to relax and then slapped. And sometimes he ordered me too, and failing to comply immediately lead to several very fast slaps that left me crying and writhing and wriggling to get away.

And while I can’t come from being smacked, I was wet.

Oh my god, was I wet.

And then, on all fours, he started fucking me – but I couldn’t come. If I came, he told me, he was hotsaucing my clit. I had to tell him to stop when I was close to coming – but every time I stopped him before HE came, I got ten hard slaps on my ass.

At that point, my ass felt like it was glowing, swollen and hot. Ten slaps left me crying out, and he said he could already see the bruises.

How long did I make it? How many times did I get to be on the edge of orgasm and stop him?

I’m not sure. To be honest, I hate games like that – I’m extremely sensual and multiorgasmic and just…sex without being able to come is frustrating, and not in the way that’s enjoyable. I play those games for him, because I know how much they turn him on and how much he has fun with them – but they’re not really fun for me.

Each time he entered me, and I felt myself getting closer – and oh, he was pushing me close, sometimes going for a bit even after I told him to stop – he threatened me. If I came…it was the sauce. Was it worth?

And if I held off on coming, my reward was going to be giving him a blow job.

Unfair! I wanted to come.

Oh my god, I wanted to come. I was aching. And despite him going in and out of me, which usually leaves me in need of lube no matter how hot and turned on I am, I was dripping. I could feel the proof of how turned on I was dribbling down my clit.

That was something I thought only happened IN BOOKS. When I thought about it after he went to sleep later I laughed, because I thought that was literary license – not something that happened. But I was that wet.

And finally – I knew. I couldn’t take any more slaps. My ass ached.

We had found my spanking limit. (And I’m pretty sure his hand hurt – he had to take his wedding ring off, haha, because his hand was kind of swollen.)

It wasn’t a choice of whether or not to come any more – it was sauce or slaps.

And I couldn’t take the slaps.

I begged to come – and he sounded surprised. “You want me to burn you?” he asked, and I couldn’t answer because I didn’t. If it was just holding back from orgasm – as much as that wasn’t fun, I could do it. But I was in one of those wonderful dilemmas that I always fantasized about – pick your pain. Burn or slap.

I begged to come. Over and over, desperate. He fucked me hard and I came – it felt like my whole body throbbed. My ass hurt every time he slammed himself inside of me, the skin so sensitive and sore that his hands on my ass actually stung. It hurt to move my legs, and I knew there were bruises forming deep beneath the skin.

But as I came, none of it mattered and if anything it added to the power of the orgasm. It was like I could feel everything – his stomach against my butt, his hands on my hips and ass, my nipples brushing against the arm of the couch – and nothing, because all I felt was the overwhelming all-encompassing climax.

I wanted it to go on forever.

But when it ended, he told me I had to be punished. Still shuddering from my climax, I could barely argue, but I remember begging him not to.

Actually, I don’t totally know what I said, if it was anywhere close to coherent or if it was just “please don’t, please, please” … small echoes of the pleasure I had just experienced had the muscles in my arms and legs still quivering.

But no, he assured me, I had to be punished. I begged, but I was going to be punished anyway. He told me to flip over or he was putting it up my ass, and I wasn’t ready for that, so still pleading, legs closed, I flipped onto my back.

He ordered me to part my legs, and I fought to keep them closed, begging, nearly crying, but my legs fell limp when he actually got…not angry, but…I can’t describe it. The order to part my legs wasn’t playful and it was..close to angry? I still tried to close my legs but it was half-hearted, and though I never stopped begging, something cool and wet dripped onto me.

I think I was crying. I don’t know.

“Does it hurt yet?”

“No..it takes a minute..”

It felt like forever, the anticipation of a pain that doesn’t end when a hand is lifted, and being on my back, sore ass rubbed into the rough couch, hurt.

But then it started burning, and I forgot everything else. It seared and burned and I can’t even remember how it felt, indescribable unless you’re experiencing it but then you’re too incoherent to voice it. It seared and it felt like forever, and I was sure he’d gotten more of me, because unlike before every bit of my exposed pussy burned – no skin on my labia untouched, and he even rubbed it under the hood of my poor throbbing clit.

Roughly, he ordered me to my feet. He tried to force his way inside my ass and I had the presence of mind to ask for lube, which he did. I tried to relax my ass enough to let him inside but it was so hard to focus on that as I sobbed about the burning pain on my vulva – it hurt so badly! He reminded me that that was because I was being punished, and forced his cock inside me. He fucked me as I sobbed, and then he sat, ordering me to ride him and make him come or he’d sauce me again. I tried – I really did, but honestly, that didn’t work for me.

I hate riding him during anal and I usually won’t do it – I can usually only have anal if he’s pushing for it, and I won’t ever ask for it or initiate. Riding scares me because I feel like I can actually injure myself – I’m not sure if that’s possible, but either way, there was no threat that was working to get me to do that enough to get him to come. I tried to comply, but he finally ended up just fucking me really roughly. I usually come when he uses me like that, but I was so focused on the pain I was in that I didn’t.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t turn me on. Being used like that and having the pain of his cock stretching my asshole while my clit burned..

I was so wet. So so so wet. And when he finished, I touched myself, with no reserve, rolling my hips and stroking my clit with my finger tip as it burned. I begged him to finger fuck me, make me come, and he obliged – and it still burned.

I’m pretty sure he must have used more, or maybe I just lost all concept of time, but it felt like it burned for an eternity.

When it finally ebbed slightly, enough for me to have myself back under control, I leaned against him and kissed him gently.

And then rougher, forcing my tongue inside his mouth. Biting his lip. Biting his nippes, his chest, his hips and thighs. I knew it hurt like hell but he barely fought, and then I sucked him, hard. I wanted him hard again, I wanted his cum in my mouth – I tried to threaten him and told him I’d fuck him if he didn’t get hard fast enough, the implicit threat of the sauce that was still burning getting onto his cock – but he was spent, and eventually, I gave up, kissing him deeply and touching him.

We examined my bruising in the mirror in the bathroom after I cleaned up and saw the bruises that were just starting to come up. I liked it. He gently patted my ass – a normal gesture – and I winced. He laughed – the gesture had been a normal every day one, and it hadn’t been meant for pain.

Shortly after, he slept, but I was too wound up to sleep. I read some more spanking erotica, thought about toys. We had talked about buying toys. Canes interested me, but frightened me – you can do so much damage with them if you don’t know what you’re doing, and though we’d played around with bdsm stuff years before, it was only in the past few weeks that my interest had really peeked and we’d started really playing around. He didn’t know what he was doing, and I was afraid to buy one and then find out this was a fad for him that he wouldn’t be interested in next week.

But oh, they interested me. I found something I thought might be worth experimenting with – a chopstick, actually, and used it to thwap the soft insides of my thighs. It left some lovely stripes, but it was too small and too light to do anything more serious – but it was enough to show me I wanted it.

And in the back of my mind, the rest of the night, I thought of the sauce, and I thought of my ass. I wanted to do it, to feel it.

I don’t know why – morbid curiosity?

But it was late, and I didn’t.

But I wanted to.