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  =)

A month, a lifetime...

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

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.

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.  

Highlights of week two

I meant to have this up a few days ago, right after week one, but life has been busy, and he’s been rather demanding of my time, too. (I’m not complaining!)

Unfortunately, details are a little fuzzy at this point. It was a few weeks ago, yanno? And that’s too bad, since I really wanted to keep my thoughts together about this, but oh well.

But that being said, two things do stick out from week two:

First:

The orgasm ban was sort of lifted. I still had to ask permission to masturbate to sleep, but I could come during sex without permission and I could masturbate any other time I had the opportunity…with a caveat.

Just one little caveat.

Damn ginger. I have never masturbated with any kind of insertion, but his rule? Masturbation is fine – other than the one before bed – but only if I’m anally figged.

The first night he put the rule into effect, I tried it. I had never come while having ginger inside me and…wow. I came almost immediately and it was super super intense. I felt…it was strange, but even though he was long since in bed (darn job that requires getting up early!) having to masturbate by –his- rule made me feel like he was there. And…having a ridiculously big ginger root stuffed into my ass (I honestly do not think he could have chosen a larger one…ow!) actually made the fantasizing more intense because it added a level of physical sensation to it too.

It was humiliating too. Both because I wanted to masturbate SO badly that I was willing to shove a large freaking vegetable in my ass to do so – and because he knew that I did and that I would – but also because I willingly – no, eagerly – shoved the damn thing into my ass.  It made me flushed after the first orgasm from what I had done.

And that wasn’t even touching the physical effects. Ouch! Burning, stinging, heat. It was so strange feeling my muscles clench and spasm around the root as I came…ouch. Hot. I wanted to take it out. I wanted to come again.

I’m sure no one will be surprised which impulse won…

And second:

“Accidentally” and “fisted” are two words I never thought I would pair together without “wasn’t” or “not” or “won’t” etc, and yet...here I am.

The vaginal sex ban is continuing to drive me wild. Is it October 15^th yet? No? Are you sure? Where’s my fast-forward button! Not only has it had me craving sex, but it’s had me incredibly incredibly turned on almost all the time. It doesn’t impair my ability to get stuff done – not quite – but it’s never far from my mind.

Ever.

When we had a few minutes to ourselves, he touched me. Finger-fucked me. Teased me more and chastised me how much longer we had to go. (A month at that point! Ack!) Teased me with more fingers and taunted me that if he stretched my cunt out enough he might never fuck me there again.

I can’t really explain what happened next except that I felt starved for the sensation of being fucked and I was totally spaced out on the feeling of what he was doing to me. But somehow – without lube and without really trying to – I was wet enough that his whole hand popped inside me. There was a distinct sensation as it happened – he jokes that it was a “schwoop!” sound and no, it wasn’t, but it was the physically distinct sensation of his hand popping past that ring of muscle at the entrance to my vagina. Though that sensation –can- be painful, it wasn’t – I was so turned on it was merely (merely!) intense.

The moment it happened he was shocked. He paused. I wasn’t shocked – while I felt what had happened my thinking brain was definitely shut off.

When he pushed me to come, it was on that intense border of pleasure-pain. I was out of my head. I begged him…to stop, to continue, to be gentler, to be harder…I don’t know what I wanted, but I remember begging.

And afterwards, when I got back into my head…ow. I was so. Freaking. Sore. Which…makes sense. There is a reason lube is your friend when it comes to fisting. For days after every kegel brought back that sore sensation.

But despite that – and despite us deciding that we should try to avoid accidental fisting in the future – wow. I was wet enough that my –body- provided enough lubrication to fit my husband’s –much-bigger-than-my-hand-hand inside my me.

And thus ends the tale of me being accidentally fisted…