…although the pictures in this post might not make it seem so. ;-)
So yeah, last night I finally got whacked something good.
And made to suck cock.
And fucked with W’s new ass slapper.
And had my ass probed and stretched as a prelude to W’s new brainchild, “Anal August.” (Watch this space for details. I believe there may be something for all you out there in the blogoverse to contribute, if you feel so inclined.) ;-)
The night started out with drinks and dinner, which led to much hilarity, and this.
(Excuse the blurriness in some of these. Ad took them with his cell phone. He said a minute ago when I complained about it, “You’re damn hard to make stand still! Sometimes you get a bit…full of yourself.” What! Moi? Anyway, blurry or not, the pics are too much fun not to share.)
The end result wasn’t bad though:
Actually that was only the beginning. And my favorite part was still to come. Having W push me to my knees, shove his cock in my mouth and tell Ad to whip me was hot (especially because it made W get hard as a rock.) And having Ad bend me over and hold my ass open for disgusting pictures was embarrassing (and therefore hot.) Listening to them banter back and forth, hearing their laughter was fun.
But what I needed was the pain.
Sometimes, it is the pain that I want, that I need.
W says I am not a masochist, as he understands the term. And perhaps I am not. There are times when I read what people that need pain write and I get acutely uncomfortable. That’s not me, I don’t need pain for pain’s sake. I don’t crave it. Most times, I think pain is a vehicle for me. A vehicle to that endorphin-induced high. To finding my submission, to finding my courage, to finding my self. To finding that place inside me where I open up and soar. And yes, sometimes it is about pleasure, and I get turned on by the pain, and the pain translates to “fuck me now!” But W is probably right, strictly speaking, it’s not about the pain for me.
Except when it is. Like last night.
Sometimes pain has a purity to it, a clarity and a sharpness that I can taste, like clear, cold, spring-fed water on the back of my tongue, as it happens. And as soon as it’s gone, as soon as I’ve swallowed it down, I want another taste. This isn’t a blooming pain, it isn’t a warm, enveloping pain. It’s sharp, and jagged, and startling. I don’t float and glow and let it curl around me like smoke; I convulse with it, my body a lightening rod as it sears through me, burning with the cold clarity of lightening, electrifying me for that one, heart-stopping moment, before it’s gone and I can breathe again.
Breathe and ask for more, because that’s exactly what I did.
W had pulled me back between his legs with my back against the couch. He had one hand on my throat, holding my head tipped back, exerting the slightest bit of pressure, and with the other he used his new toy between my thighs. On the insides of each thigh, over and over, and on my cunt, the sides of it, almost on the clit, even my be-ringed lips, although he was very careful there. I gasped and jerked in his hand, and felt his hand tighten, felt my breath coming shorter. And felt the tap of his toy, lightly but insistently reminding me to open my legs to him. To welcome the pain, to ask for it.
And I did, over and over.
And then, when he stopped, I asked for it again. For real. With my words. I was soaring high on the jagged edges of that lightening, and I never wanted it to end.
It did, eventually, but I had the red marks all day to look at, to remind me.