The Mean Guy

I went over to his house after work, intending to pick up blackberries and my tit collars and a couple other things I had left over there after the long weekend, before heading back out for a run. Or, maybe that was what I had intended in the beginning, when I thought he was going to have people over and maybe be heading out for dinner with his ex. When I discovered otherwise, all bets were off.  I wanted what I hadn’t gotten over the weekend.

Don’t get me wrong, what I had gotten was goddamned hot: embarrassing headgames, W fucking my body and my mind, me fucking my mind, friends fucking with my body.  Using me as W had determined I would be used.  But what I didn’t get was the physical reminders that he’s The Mean Guy. I got pretty rope, I got my mind raped and fucked and abused. I was exhausted emotionally, and have some pretty hot stories as well as pondering to do about it all.  But I didn’t get bound and gagged and beat up.  And I was jonesing for it.

And this afternoon he was only too willing to satisfy that craving–on his terms.

Always always in my head I think about what it will be like. I think what he will do to me, I think what it will feel like, I think about how it will go. And no matter how worked up or anxious I get, it’s always worse than I imagine.

Worse, and better.

Worse because it always hurts more than I remember. Worse because in my imagination the edge of what I can take is always reached a lot sooner…and so when I actually do get there, it’s been far more intense than I imagined it would or could be (and I am always amazed that he knows, every time, where that edge actually is, when I don’t know myself.) Better because he just fucking makes it work, makes it hot, makes me insane with need and want and pain and euphoria. Better because he does it his way and there is never a moment when I don’t feel completely under his control, completely in hand, in a way that I apparently just don’t have the capacity to imagine. That saying “beyond my wildest dreams”? Yeah, that.  Beyond my imaginings. Once I said to him, half teasing, “No one else could handle me.” I may have been teasing, but only because there was far more truth there than I wanted to admit then.  It’s the bald truth. No one else could take me where he does.

Where he took me this afternoon was down to the basement. Where he took me this weekend was…somewhere much more esoteric, even while everything we did was rooted in these physical things we do, in this body that he offers to his friends, in his voice in my ear telling me what I will do and with whom. This weekend he owned my mind, this afternoon he owned my body.

And yet…it was so so much more than that, than simple brutality. He’s done that before, and there is a stark, ferocious beauty to that, an ecstasy in that kind of scene as well. This time though…his hands were on me, his body pressed to mine in between the strikes of the cane or the paddle or the singletail. His hands told me how much he wanted me and desired me, even how much I had pleased him over the weekend. At one point, after having driven me to edge by pain, he stepped close and wrapped his arms around me, pressing me hard into the spikes that he had placed against my chest and belly.  His hands were so insistent, his body pressed the length of mine, and I thought about him coming in to our room late that first night we were gone. I thought about him on top of me in the dark, insistent then too, thrusting into me, shuddering, and it felt the same. He was making savage love to me with his whips and his cane and his paddles and ropes, just as he had with his body and his mouth and his cock that night. And I needed that. I needed that relentless savagery combined with sensuality. I needed to feel his desire flogged by his own ferocity, I needed to feel him on the edge as much as I.  I got just what I needed. And more.

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