Yesterday W tied me up in the basement and made me watch paint dry. If you have got to know me at all via my writings, you know how well that went over.
Actually he made me watch him paint, not watch paint dry. He let me loose before that (which can apparently take 11 hours, so thank goodness, right?) But it amused him to tie me up in my pretty purple corset, poofy skirt and high heels while he worked on a painting project, so he could look at me whenever he needed a break from the painting. And, to be perfectly honest (and fair) he did let me have my phone to play with.
“I hope you went pee before we started this,” he said as he tied me. I hadn’t.
“I have to pee,” I said, as he put away his paint brush and started untying me about an hour later.
He gave me a look. “Imagine that,” he said. “Well, one more stop, then you can go.”
That one more stop was upstairs to be tied to a pole so he could cane me.
Finally! Good use of my poofy skirt. But damn…I still had to pee!
“How long should I go?” he asked musingly, as he lined up the cane with my ass. A rhetorical question, as he will go as long as he wants to, no matter what I answer. So I didn’t bother. “How about…” he continued, “until you pee?”
My head whipped around at that one. “No!” I said. “We’ll be here forever!” My ass would be a bloody mess well before then.
“Yeah, and I don’t want to mess up my floor,” he said. “Okay then, until the letter P.”
That I could handle. Or so I hoped. “A – B – C…”
Here’s the thing about W and his canes. Sometimes, I love them. Sometimes he sort of starts in slow – or something like slow for him, anyway – and builds them up. Though never pleasant, at least then they are tolerable and can even get to that lovely pain/pleasure intersection. And sometimes he uses specific ones that are more tolerable to me, or that I even like a little bit…he has about a half dozen canes (silly me, I bought him a bunch, thinking he’d, you know, use them the way I like.)
Unfortunately that was pretty faulty thinking on my part. So usually, I hate them. I whimper and shudder as soon as I see him grab a cane. “Please, a little warm up this time?” pops out of my mouth before I can bite it back. And it usually doesn’t do any good anyway. Swift, heavy, sharp, stingy, whippy, sometimes brutal strikes is how he likes to lay them on, and I grit my teeth and pray for it to be over. Or cry out and try (ineffectually) to escape, though no matter how I wriggle or stamp my feet or breathe, the pain will be what it will until it isn’t anymore. I feel like it lessens it if I can move a bit, and maybe just believing that makes it so, but the reality is, who knows. They hurt like fuck, no matter what. So I bear it (barely), and sometimes I get that pleasant buzzy feeling as the pain dissipates, but…like it? Not so much.
And yet.
When it’s over, I already want more. I am literally wanting it again the moment it stops. One half my brain is sad that it’s over while the other half is pissed off that I am even thinking that. “Shut up!” it says to the stupid half. Usually, the smart half wins out, and I don’t ask for more.
Usually.
This day, even as he untied me so that I could go pee, the stupid part of my brain opened my mouth and said, “Gee, you should have taken my panties down and taken a picture of the nice cane stripes.”
Shut up, shut up, shut up! The smart half screamed. The stupid half just grinned that stupid grin that it gets and watched in glee as W tied me back up (this time on my knees to the banister) and told me to get my ass up in the air as he got his cane back out.
This time, though, even though I was sure it would be as miserable as the first time, I made that discovery I mentioned in my subject line: a warm-up does wonders to how I perceive pain.
I know, I know, not a huge discovery, and not something I didn’t already know, but this was literally night and day. The first go-round was misery and pain and suffering. Did I get wet or excited? Not a bit. Oh, mentally there is something to it. I know damn well the reason W does it like that: it turns him on. Enough that he stopped me, post-caning and pre-retying me, to have me suck his cock for awhile, regardless of the fact that I still needed to pee. (“You can hold it a while longer so you can suck my cock, or suck it while you pee,” he’d said. And while part of me appreciates him being so thoughtful (I of course chose to wait to pee) the other part thinks well, damn, it’d been hella hot if he’d drug me into the bathroom and shoved his cock in my mouth while I was peeing!) But yes…that – that he gets off on it – does something for me. It’s not sexual exactly, but it works for whatever reason.
But the second time, after my ass had been warmed up by the previous caning, was a whole different experience. I could feel myself getting wet, feel my cunt twitching with every strike, and the pain of the cane was less. Granted, he may have been hitting me lighter, and it may have had to do with how he was hitting me (quick taps and strikes) but even as the intensity built, as he continued to hit me, the pain began to melt into pleasure. By the time he was done, all I wanted was for him to shove his cock into me. And what better position to be in for just that?
I looked around, a little befuddled, as he untied me and led me, unfucked, to the toilet.
“You didn’t fuck me!” I said, dumbfounded.
“Oh…” he had the grace to look a little sheepish. “I guess I didn’t think about it. I was thinking about you having to go pee.”
Damn men and their one-track minds.
