On punishment and bathroom sex

Things didn’t happen quite as I had thought they would, but I –was- punished for being late to bed. He didn’t use the cane because he came home tipsy after going to a beer tasting, and to be honest, it seemed like he was going to wait until the next day – which meant not happen – which honestly had me wondering if this was going to work at all.

I didn’t want to control him or correct him on it. As much as I’m sure it still would have hurt…it wouldn’t be the same if I told him he needed to punish me. (There are times when we’ve done that and it’s fun, but that…isn’t what this is about.) I waited until he was about to go to bed before I talked to him because I didn’t want to just sit on my feelings or let the dynamic fall apart from the start; I do want this to work. I just told him as respectfully as I could that not following through was why this hadn’t worked the last time we had tried it. We talked for a few minutes because in his mind not being sober enough to handle the cane was a very good reason to not try to cane me – and he was and is right about that.

But at the same time, this was the first test – we were two days into our 30 day agreement. If things were already going awry, how could we make the rest of the month work? If he explicitly told me he was going to punish me for tardiness – and held firm to that idea up until the point of execution – I felt like we were right back to letting this go. Punishments pushed off have never happened and I wasn’t exactly filled with confidence that this would be an exception. I don’t need him to be an overbearing micromanaging dominant, but I do need him to be able to draw a response out of me. If he’s all bark and no bite, even if I jump the first time or the second time, eventually…human nature…I am going to stop jumping. I don’t want to submit to a dominant I forge in my head – I want to submit to him.

It didn’t take him very long to decide I was right.  And even though I had made it clear that I wasn’t asking him to punish me (and really, I didn’t even want him to), he yanked my hairbrush out of my hand and bent me over. I’ll admit, I was a little peeved. That was my hairbrush! And I had only brought this up when I did because I didn’t want to manipulate him into punishing me and I was immediately worried I had. I stopped worrying about that pretty fast though because damn – that fucking hurt. I’d never had more than the occasional swat with it and I was so freaking surprised at the pain – it hurt and then it stung! Not that he’s big on warm ups anyway, but there were none – and he was swinging hard, and getting harder. I actually cried out on the last one even though I could see from the look on his face in the mirror that it was going to be a bad one. Stupid brush, I might never look at it the same again – despite not having the heft of the wooden spoon or flogger or the crack of the belt, it hurt. A lot. And left me barely red! Insult to injury.

And of course, he decided he liked that. Putting my hands behind head and admonishing me to keep them there, he began spanking my breasts with that stupid brush. OW. My breasts bruise pretty easily – I’ve never figured out why – but I was surprised how fast they came up. I don’t even know when it changed but at some point he spun me around to fuck me roughly from behind – while still swatting my tits with the damn hairbrush. I don’t remember much of it but I do remember being on the peak and he swatted my right breast hard enough to bring me down hard – I was snapped out it so fast because it felt like my whole breast stung. He grinned (sex in the bathroom has advantages) – bastard knew exactly what he had done! – and fucked me harder, still swatting my right breast. I’ve dealt with pain during sex before – clothespins on my clit and nipples, tabasco on my clit, him grinding into welts and bruises from me just being caned or spanked etc – but rarely more than the occasional spank during the actual fucking and I wasn’t sure if I was going to find my rhythm again to come during regular intervals of sporadic pain. Needless to say though..I did. Haha.

And it wasn’t that I liked the spanks on my breast – some of them were really hard! – but maybe it was the contrast, because I do remember that I came hard.

And damn, but there is literally a palm sized bruise on the outside of my right breast.

I have more I want to write about, but I think I’ll make it a separate post because I want to be able to find it easily later.

In the middle of the night, I'd go walking if I could only sleep..

It’s two am, and my head is a mess. So this post will be a mess.

Oh well.

Lying in bed chasing my head in circles isn’t working. I’m hoping if I chase it in writing I’ll find…I don’t know. Peace? My goal? Some sort of resolution.

Last night, when he went to put the baby to bed, I asked if I could suck him off when I got to bed since it was likely he was going to fall asleep putting her to sleep. I was enthusiastic. I like sucking him. I do. Even when it makes my jaw ache and I hate drooling, I like it. I like making him feel good. I wanted to blow him. I wanted his come in my mouth.

And when I got into bed, I asked him again as I gently undressed him if I could blow him. Good manners, confirmation…and then enthusiastically started licking and sucking. I wanted to give him pleasure, feel his cock pulse in my mouth. I wanted to feel his balls tighten in my hand and feel him shudder as he came.

Except it didn’t work like that. I was into it and he seemed into it, but I’m not fast at giving head. I knew he wasn’t close to coming when he yanked me off his cock to taunt me. “Is that the best you can do? Why did you even ask to blow me? Make. Me. Come.”

The taunting is hot for both of us. Well – it’s hot for me. I assume it’s hot for him because he’s not a big talker in bed, so if it’s not hot for him I doubt he’d do it.

I redoubled my efforts. Sucked harder, rubbed his balls a little more, made a bigger effort to use my tongue alongside the bottom of his cock and not just the head, tried to get him in deeper so the head of his cock hit the back of my throat. Gagged until my nose began to run.

I think looking back that’s what fucked me up. He wants me to deepthroat and I haven’t figured out how yet. I can’t get him past the back of my throat no matter what position we’re in. When I gagged it impeded my breathing because it got my nose going. It didn’t make it /harder/ to suck him off – it made it impossible to breathe through. I can only hold my breath for so long, so I had to open my mouth more often. And that’s all well and good to say now but at the time, all he knew is I was stopping and breaking the rhythm he needed to get off.

When he slapped me, I wasn’t surprised. I had one more chance to get him off, he told me, or he was saucing me. “Make. Me. Come.”

I tried. My lips were feeling funny from trying so hard, my jaw ached, and my neck ached, but I wanted him off. Until then I’d still been enjoying it. Now I just didn’t want to fuck up. And he was super hard, super turned on, harder than before he’d yanked me off his cock. Part of me wondered if he’d been close and had stopped me to draw it out, but I tried even harder, forced him deep into my throat, gagged over and over and tried to ignore it and keep up the rhythm. But breathing. I still had to breath now and then, and he told me later there were several times I almost had it but stopped to breath and adjust for a second. I didn’t honestly think he’d sauce me – I guess I thought he wanted to come in my mouth as much as I wanted him to.

When he yanked me off by my hair and started dragging me off the bed, I knew I’d fucked up. I had failed. I had failed in giving him a fucking blow job.

Without letting go of my hair, he dragged me to the kitchen – walking was so awkward because I couldn’t stand up straight, just sort of hobble, prisoner by my hair. I whimpered as we went, and whimpered harder when he grabbed the tabasco.

When he throw me on the couch and curtly ordered me to spread my legs, I complied, but felt near tears. Saucing for not making him come faster had been a threat before, but it had never ended up being an issue. He was almost silent as he rubbed it into my clit and onto my labia as I shook slightly. He taunted me, asking if I needed more. It was starting to burn and I protested, but I have no idea what I said. I don’t even know if it was words.

Roughly, he made me flip off my back onto my hands and knees. Grabbing my hair again, he fucked my mouth for a few moments to get his cock wet. I remember it made me gag, but the searing blistering pain between my legs was taking most of my attention.

When he grabbed my ass and started forcing his way into my anus, I don’t even think I more than whimpered, but that wasn’t due to gentleness on his part. He fucked my ass roughly, deeply, and as hard as he ever had before. Between the severity of the fucking and the burning pain on my clit I felt fucked up. Now and then I felt him slow his pace and looking back I wonder if he was pacing himself to give me the opportunity to come – it’s one of those unspoken things that he will usually hold off until I’ve come at least once or come if he knows I’m close. I wasn’t in the headspace to orgasm though.

When he came, he taunted me again and told me at least part of me worked for getting him off.

Ouch.

I had expected him to withdraw and clean up, but it quickly became obvious he had no intention of leaving. He’d withdraw almost all the way, and then slam back inside me, over and over. He pushed me down onto my belly – I cried out because it pressed my legs together and intensified the burning, which was still at full intensity. When he started grinding his hips into me, rocking his cock inside my ass, I did my best to brace myself as much as possible considering how gone I was with the sauce still burning – fucking like that feels, he’s told me, incredible for him, but it’s nothing but uncomfortable for me.

I have no idea how long it went on for – it takes a long time for him to get off that way, I think because he only does that when he’s just come and has stayed hard, so it’s harder for him to get off. I remember his nails scratching me, grabbing me occasionally, manhandling the parts of me accessible in that position.

When he finally came again, he withdrew and casually gave me permission to masturbate, which usually makes the burn easier to deal with. It had started to ebb slightly by then, and I still wasn’t in the right place to orgasm. I acutely felt the failure of not being able to get him off with my mouth.

He told me to clean up and come to bed – I pointed out I was still in a great deal of pain from the tabasco, and he nodded and told me to come to bed when able. Though not before squeezing my cunt and tugging my collar, telling me that I was his sex toy and needed to do better next time. (He’d never called me a sex toy before. I suspect he was experimenting. I don’t know how I feel about that label.)

When he went to bed, I cried.

Oh yeah. I cried because I had failed a blow job. Go me.

I just…I had been punished before for having forgotten to put my collar on. That night had been intensely erotic – his forcefulness and disappointment and roughness had been immense turn-ons and the night had gone much the same as this night had gone. I could have taken a lot more pain that night – I was in the right headspace for it, contrite for having fucked up and turned on by everything he did.

But failing isn’t fucking up.

I had failed. Which is a fuck-up, but it’s worse than just a fuck-up.

Blowjobs are sex 101. How the fuck did I not get him off?

When it finally faded enough to go to bed, I wrestled and then finally got myself to bed like a good girl, but I slept like crap, conflicted and upset.

Tonight when I went to bed, I was conflicted again. I had permission to go down on him, and I had permission to masturbate. Going down on him wasn’t required – his exact words were something like “if you want to” though I don’t remember the actual words. I got in bed. I touched him. I worried about failing and lay down. I sat up again. I stared at him and thought. Chased my head in circles. Thought about deepthroating and everything I’d read about it. Thought about how much I enjoyed his orgasm when he came in my mouth.

And decided I couldn’t let one night shake my confidence too badly. I started touching him, stroking him, to wake him up enough to ask if I could suck him. That usually works to get him hard quickly. Except that tonight, he stopped my hand. I froze and asked if that meant I shouldn’t go down on him. He grunted and I pulled my hand away, asking again.

In reply, he turned over.

Well, message received.

Except that now I feel resentful. I know before when he’d wake me in the middle of the night for sex, if I tried to shove his hands away or stop him because I wanted to sleep I got fucked anyway. And I can’t reword that to not make it seem like he was demanding, but that’s not what it was. He wanted me, and I wanted him to feel good. My body got him off even when I didn’t want sex, which made me want sex. It’s complicated. Haha.

I did resent that though, because if I wanted sex in the middle of the night I could never make him into my willing accomplice. It seemed terribly unfair and lopsided. (Which conversely turned me on, but I could never admit that…then.)

So now I tried to wake him and got turned away, and feel resentful…again. And I wasn’t even trying to get myself off, I could have masturbated! I wanted to go down on him. Oh irony.

And that has my head turned inside out. Because…that’s not a very submissive feeling, is it? It’s…not supposed to be equal. I want him in control. Need him in control.

But if that’s true, why do I resent that I just got turned down for a blow job? Am I worried that I really am not good enough at giving head that he didn’t want me? Is it rejection that’s bothering me?

Or do I just … feel…slighted?

Isn’t he supposed to slight me? I want him to put his needs before mine. I want to do things I don’t want to do because they get him off. (Say that five times fast.)

More and more, I’ve wanted to give him all of me, everything I have. We’ve been talking about making this thing…this game…this whatever we’re doing permanent. As in…he’s always in charge. Ability to say no – to a beating, to an ass fucking, to sex in general – forfeit.

We’ve talked about that. It’s like…in strong consideration, I guess, for lack of a better term.

I don’t doubt that it would be far from easy, but if I’m resentful because I was turned down for blowing him, am I cut out for that? Maybe I’m too needy and bitchy to belong to him. Maybe I can’t handle that. I’m having such a hard time with the vaginal sex ban because – while I get off from anal, from the roughness and how it’s so him-centric, so for-him – I’m not getting off the way I enjoy. I get off from fisting too, but don’t enjoy that. I like being fucked. I like sex. I like getting off with him inside me. Getting off from anal or masturbation or his fist (ugh) are not getting off the way I want to. If I’m having a hard time with that, how could I possibly deal with him calling the shots…forever?

Maybe I should tell him I’m better cut out to be a bottom or a bedroom sub than what we’re talking about. I feel like…him having all of me is the way we’ve been heading long before we introduced erotic pain. Like our relationship has been a D/s dynamic long before he put the collar around my neck. I see so many ways it makes sense for us and the idea /feels/ right. But this also feels like stupid shit to be wrestling with, so maybe…I’m just not cut out for that. Maybe I can’t give enough of myself to make that work. Maybe I’m too selfish. Maybe I’m just not skilled enough.

I’m out of ways to poke my brain and am not any closer to feeling like my head makes sense.

Midmorning stream of consciousness...

We didn’t play at all last night – I was physically exhausted and went to sleep very early. The night before we really didn’t play much – a little tipsy spanking (me being tipsy, him doing the spanking!) for the same reason. That’s left me a little…sultry, I suppose. My dreams last night – as they often are when my sex drive finds no relief in my waking hours – were vivid, bright, and lurid. They were the kind of dreams that have wake up gasping and arching my back, sometimes on the edge of orgasm and sometimes actually in the middle of coming.

(I wonder – am I the only one who has dreams like that? I’ve known for a long time my sex drive is stronger than most people’s; not in an unhealthy way (or at least I don’t think it’s unhealthy) but it’s always on my mind, and has been since I was very young. Sex dreams are normal for me, especially if for some reason my husband and I haven’t been having enough sex (I tend to wear him out, I think!). )

Unfortunately, I can’t remember my dreams from last night – just flashes of impressions. The taste of salty skin, the heat of another body pressed against the backs of my thighs, something about the desert and my hands being bound with silk…I remember bright purple pillows…being entered from behind and not having had a say in who in my partner was…being punished with something for enjoying it…

I remember it was intense, and unfortunately not much more. Usually I can recount my dreams as if they were novellas I read the day prior, but last night’s dreams are elusive. I’m not even sure that was a single dream.  I think his research into spices for “punishment” and teasing threats are insinuating themselves into my dreams. I believe it will be an interesting night, and I feel nervous and yet somehow very peaceful…this new way of interacting and having sex has been calming as much as it’s exciting and nervewracking. I suppose it has me feeling introspective.

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.