He hurt me with his rope last night. Nothing more, just 4 or 5 pieces of rope, one of which he brought up cruelly between my legs, and then made me ride for what seemed an eternity, but which I am sure was not long at all. Funny how time telescopes when you are in misery.
As he tightened the crotchrope, I tried to relieve the pressure by balancing first on one high-heeled tipee-toe, and then the other, to no avail. I am still trying to decide if choosing Option A (wearing a pair of jean capris) was better than Option 1 would have been: a crotch rope in my (newly waxed) and naked cunt. (And yes, he did call them Options 1 and A. Goofball.) I knew what the trade-off was: naked pussy means the rope will go between my lips, which translates to avoiding some of the pain caused by pinching the rings, but having the rope really painfully lodged between my legs. Wearing the jeans means less intensity of the rope to my cuntflesh, but a greater possibility (a certainty, actually) that the rope will mash the jean cloth into my rings and pinch them painfully. He also warned me that if I chose Option A, the rope would be a lot more severe.
Later, when he brought a sore, pissy Jade down from the “lot more severe” rope, he reminded me that he had warned me.
“As advertised,” he said. Funny guy, right?
Not so funny to my poor, abused cunny. Here’s the kicker, though. Ad gets home tonight after being gone all week – and I can’t wait to fuck him. With my sore pussy.
I want him to pound me, to bruise me more, to make my pussy lips swollen and puffy and tender. Then I want to go back over to W’s tomorrow night and have him hurt me there all over again. Have him slap it and crop it and whip it and fuck it until I can’t put my legs together. Until I am shaking and begging for him to stop.
I don’t know where this desire is coming from. I do know when it started though. It started when I first realized that I wanted to get my outer labia injected with saline, and he carried it one step further, saying he wanted Ad and he to fuck me right after it was done, to pound into me, while my lips were swollen and engorged. I’ve masturbated to that image more times than I can count, since he said it. But the reality–?
I’ve never been one for pussy torture (says the woman who got ten piercings in said pussy.) But seriously, getting pussy-whipped has never been something I’ve asked for or wanted. Until recently. And I can honestly say that “wanting” it is definitely a strong term for what is really a convoluted mixed-up mess of feelings. I’m terrified of having my pussy hurt. I remember the first time W and I played, and he did his special, trademarked & patented cunt grab, digging into my pussy in a way that no one ever had (or has since), shocking the hell out of me.
And making me come, helplessly, painfully, hating it as I did because I knew that he knew that as much as I hated it, it turned me on. Which meant he would do it again, and again. And has.
As deeply shocking as that act is to me, as painful as it is, I’m not afraid of it.
I’m terrified of having my pussy slapped, smacked or whipped. Have been, ever since I got my hood ring installed so long ago, and I discovered (via the application of a crop by my Ex) how bad that hurts. In fact I am so afraid of it that I broke a wooden toy that W had placed on my ankles to keep me legs apart at a party, when someone else (jokingly) threatened my cunt with a crop and I panicked. Since then W has slapped me there with his hand, a flogger and a crop, but never on my hood piercing, and he doesn’t (deliberately) hit my cunt lip rings.
But now, inexplicably, I want him to.
The other day he was grinding his palm into my clit. I had told him that I have been trying to reinstall my hood ring myself, but was having no luck, and that my pussy was very tender – so he deliberately ground his hand into it. What I didn’t tell him was that the night before I had used Baldy on my sore, sore clit, over and over, crushing the hitachi into my cunt even though it hurt – because it hurt – and then doing it again. And coming, over and over, even as I gasped in (self-inflicted) pain. He didn’t know all that, but he mauled my cunt, all the while whispering in my ear about grinding the steel bar into me if and when I got it put back in, telling me how much he wanted to hurt my cunt, how bad he wanted to make it hurt, how he wanted to grind the steel into my pussy, because he knew I wanted it, that I was his Industrial Girl and I’d come like the fuckhole I was, even if it did hurt.
And of course he was right. And of course I have been fantasizing about it – and terrified of it, and of making it happen – ever since.
Last night, as I balanced in misery on that fucking crotchrope, he came over to me and pulled it tighter. “Make it come,” he said.
“I can’t,” I gasped, feeling only white-hot pain between my legs.
“Make it come or take a caning in this position,” he threatened.
“No, no…I can’t, I can’t…” I whined and pleaded. The rope wasn’t just hurting my cunt, it was rolling over my tailbone and I was really, really sure I wasn’t going anywhere good, that misery was all there would be for me.
He tightened the rope, and thrust himself against my hip. “I know you can feel how hard this makes me. I like hurting your cunt.”
I could. As he pushed himself against me, as I felt how hard it made him, suddenly my cunt throbbed in response. The pain in my tailbone receded and there was only his hand and the rope between my legs. For one moment I wondered if he really could make me come, in spite of that other misery. I know for a fact that if the rope hadn’t been hurting my tailbone I could have.
But that’s something we will never know, because he moved his hand, and the moment he took his hand away, the pain in my tailbone flared anew and I cried out, in real pain this time. He must have realized it was real distress, because he relented and took me down. Being the standup guy is he though, he fucked my abused pussy soundly later that night, and I did get to have that orgasm. How lucky can a girl get?