When things got “worse”…

So then there was the second half of the night.  I didn’t expect there to be a second half, to be honest.  I went over to W’s after being at the Other Guy’s, after having gotten my butt spanked pretty well, feeling a little buzzy, a little self-satisfied, maybe even smug.  mjw04231blogI’d done it—asked for exactly what I wanted, orchestrated it, gotten exactly the amount I wanted, left without having given up any of my control or myself.   That’s what I’d wanted, right?

Hmm. Maybe not.

Maybe that was part of what I wanted, to see if I could do it, see if I could control a boy, even while he thought he was controlling me. Smugness…yes, that’s what I felt.

That, and sassiness.

I have different reactions to different kinds of scenes.  For instance, W and I did a beautiful scene that was fairly intense, but instead of being wiped out after, I was flying, aggressive and sassy and wanting to attack him (in fact did pretty much that, pushing him back on the floor and kissing on him, rubbing myself against him, teasing and playing with him in a way that is not my usual way of reacting, so much so that he remarked on it.) Other times I curl into a ball in his lap, or put myself at his feet, wanting nothing so much as to feel his hand on my head, his fingers in my hair, to know that I am cared for, that I am back home and safe.

This time, I was definitely feeling up and sassy when I arrived at W’s.  My plan was to work on a computer project with him, sort of vanilla after my lil spanking scene.  W took one look at my red butt (and maybe my attitude) and had other ideas. So much for me being in control anymore.mjw04239ce

Damn how that man can strip me bare emotionally, laying me open and vulnerable.  It’s been a week or more now, and much has happened since then and now, but I can feel myself getting wet just remembering the way he took a few pictures and then, without so much as a by-your-leave, guided me into his front room, bent me over his couch, tied me down and gave me a proper spanking.  The kind I couldn’t escape from, the kind that left me with no control, that reminded me who was really in control, every minute, the kind that didn’t stop until he was ready to stop, even when I went through the “oh this is nice and oh yumm! orgasm! ” phase into panic mode, where I was fighting mindlessly, heedlessly, just trying to escape the blows. God I love that place.  I love it that he takes me there, that he pushes me there, that he doesn’t give in, that he doesn’t let me have control.   And sure, I love it when he stops, when I am panting and gasping and sniffling and he is holding me and I know everything is all right again, but that first part…that is an incredible edge to be on.

As I have intimated here before, I have some abuse in my past, an early, ill-advised marriage to a man that lost control when he drank and “knocked me around.”  Nothing brutal, but aggressive and frightening coming from a 6’3” 190 lb man when I am 5’3” and weighed about 90 lbs.  It was my utter helplessness—and his loss of control—that terrified me so much during those episodes.   I could not get away, I could not stop him or change the way it would end, once it started. I was helpless and defenseless against his larger size and aggression, and I learned quickly that fighting back only resulted in things getting worse.

When I started all this stuff, I recognized what I was doing, the edge I was playing on.  I recognized and am not afraid to admit (no matter how non-fucking-PC it is) that there were aspects of his aggression that attracted me, that excited me.  I didn’t know any better.   I didn’t know about consensuality, I didn’t know about BDSM, I only knew that his aggression fed something in me that I liked to feel.  Thank goodness I recognized that it was unhealthy before I was seriously hurt, and left him behind to enter into a very vanilla, very conventional marriage.   I tried to mold myself into the “perfect wife” that I assumed was what was necessary in order to have a “safe” (read non-violent) marriage.  And it worked, for the most part.  What didn’t work was that I was restless, I was discontent, I was unsatisfied. I didn’t know how to assuage those feelings, I didn’t know where they stemmed from, until I discovered BDSM, and found that edge again in a safe environment.

In the beginning, it was absolutely imperative that I have some level of control…I wanted to be tied, I wanted to be hurt, but I wanted to know I could get loose, get away, say stop, if I got scared.  I liked circling the perimeter of that particular edge, but wasn’t ready to fling myself off it yet.   Contributing to that was that I didn’t completely trust my partner not to lose control—not because he ever had, I know one of the subconscious reasons I “chose” him was because he was always in such control of himself (opposite of the first one)—but because, with my history, trusting in someone else’s self-control did not come easily.  I never lost that fear, really, until I started playing with W.

And that is the strange part in all this.  Because it is in those moments when we are playing, when I fight, when I am beyond thought, when I am in pain and fear of more pain, and he pushes just that much farther…when his aggression comes to the forefront, when I feel his heat, his desire to subjugate, to conquer, and he is holding me down and no longer playing in this “safe” place…it is in those moments that I fly free, that I leap from the edge and soar, flying in the face of my fear.

Capital Letter TLC

He told me I’m not allowed to talk about how nice he was last night and today, because he is, you know, the Mean Guy, and it might wreck his Mean Guy rep, but obviously I am ignoring that. ~grin~

There’s a price to pay for the things we do.  A price I often pay, hours or days later, in what’s commonly referred to as “subdrop.”  Sometimes it is light, a mild feeling of disconnect or fuzziness, maybe a bit of sadness or sense of loss.

Sometimes, it is much worse.

The fact that W and I play at such an intense level also contributes to the frequency, length and severity of my subdrop.   The fact that many of the things we do are so emotionally charged also affects it.  I don’t have the research to back up my theory, but I conjecture that my own struggles with SAD (Season Affective Disorder) also play a part in the severity of my subdrop.  As such, I take these sometimes vague, amorphous feelings and anxieties seriously and attend to my emotional & psychological needs without my usual bravado or attempts to be tough.  I have no problem telling my SO or the Mean Guy, “I’m feeling fragile, I’m feeling broken, be kind to me, fix me” when I know that it is subdrop (or simply “The Drop” as I see it in my head), something I would never do if it was just me being mopey or letting the anxiety-hamster out for a spin on his wheel.  To be perfectly blunt…when it’s bad, it scares me.  During those times, I am careful about being alone, I don’t drink alcohol, I limit my  proximity to things that might trigger the darkness.

In the past, it has always been A that has picked up the pieces when I am feeling shattered.  W does wonderful aftercare directly after a scene, but since we don’t live together he is usually not around to bear the brunt of The Drop with me.  And there’s also this: when I have been in the midst of it before I have avoided him, plain and simple. I have canceled plans with him and gone home alone, or to A, or taken myself somewhere where there are people and I can’t be weak, rather than turn to him.  Not because I don’t think he would be loving and take care of me, but because…even if I am able to say, “I’m feeling vulnerable, I’m feeling small, I need you,” I hate to let someone–I haven’t wanted to let him–see that side of me.  Call it vanity, or pride…

Or maybe, call it what it is: fear that he will not want me anymore if I am not the Jade he knows. If I am this small defeated person that I become when in the midst of it.

That changed last night.  We have a party we are planning for, and I have been over at his house each night working on it.  I was committed to going over last night, but not so much that when I started spiraling sometime in the late morning I couldn’t have called and said, “I need to go home,” or some other excuse.  I wrote and deleted about 5 emails.  I picked up the phone.  I vacillated back and forth.  Mostly the thought of being home completely alone (SO had class, his father was out for the evening) kept me from canceling.  The Drop was sharp, and dangerous.  Being alone was not an option.  So I planned to brazen it out.  I could do that, right?  (Ha.)  Then A called–he had skipped class due to car trouble.  And suddenly I had my usual option.  Cancel with W, go home to A, let him pick up the pieces of me and help me put myself back together.

I didn’t do it.  I emailed W, and told him I was feeling…not well.  In need of care.  “tlc” I said in my email, b/c I was writing it from my cellphone and I couldn’t see the damn number pad thru the fog in my head to make capital letters.   He sent me back a note to expect TLC – capital letters.  And capital letters TLC is exactly what I got.  He took wonderful, gentle care of me.  Yes, he’s the Mean Guy.  But he’s the Mean Guy with a kind heart.

But don’t tell him I told you.

Things can always get worse…

mjw04234fl1

…or better, depending upon your perspective.  Mine, in this instance, is most definitely the latter.

There was a lot of banter/IMing, texting, Daddy/lil girl talk going on beforehand.  I can roleplay via non-FtF with the best of them.  But, once I got there, except for the plaid skirt, knee socks, Mary Janes, white blouse and navy tie, I was still myself, in my own bratty/bottoming head.  I was there for a spanking, dammit, I don’t need all the “Daddy’s bad girl” talk.  Though part of me does wish I could stay “in role.”  It seems like it would be fun…just not real do-able for the reality-based chick that I am.  Suspension of disbelief I can do (usually) during a movie, maybe a play, usually a book.  But in real life?  Not so much.  Probably why I am not an outrageously rich and famous actress, instead of the working drudge that I am.

In any case, once I had arrived I was led into the bedroom post-haste, turned over his knee without delay, and was given a solid hand-spanking, followed by a hairbrush paddling, and, at the end, by a couple whacks of his belt.  There is something about the sound of a belt snicking out of its belt loops that clenches my stomach like nothing else.  I was punished with a belt during a brief attempt at domestic discipline with my ex, and just that sound is enough to throw me back to those memories–not “fun” play at all.  But I was glad that it didn’t throw me into that bad headspace, merely touched on it enough to give the experience bite.  I have toyed with the idea of asking for a beating with a belt, one that will drive me through that space that the ex left in my head, and onto the other side, but am not sure about that.  Sometimes my “face your fears” attitude makes me bite off more than I can comfortably chew and swallow.

In any case, it was a satisfactory spanking.  It was also a spanking in which I was in control the whole time.  We pretended that he was, but I know, even if he doesn’t, that he wasn’t.

I mentioned in another post the conundrum of having to ask for whatever-it-is that I am wanting–pain, pleasure even, a spanking, a certain type of play.  A large part of the reason my interactions are so intense/successful with W is that I don’t have to ask for anything.  As I’ve said before: I show up; he does things to me.  It’s pretty basic, and that very simplicity is what makes it work.  I don’t have to want/need/ask for anything…I turn off that part of me (until he has me mindlessly begging, but that’s a different thing too) when I give up control of myself to him.  That’s the trigger…not what actually happens (although those things are filled with triggers as well), but that they happen with or without my will, and oftentimes against my will.  It is the lack of control that I need, and asking for a thing detracts from that.  Not enough to make this particular experience bad, though.  In fact, it was quite enjoyable, for what it was.

I happen to like spankings, and often wonder if I had been tossed into a different crowd at the beginnings of my explorations into BDSM if I wouldn’t have ended up a spanking “specialist”.  I’m glad I didn’t, because I like so very many things–how sad it would have been to have missed out on all the other awful torments that can be visited upon a girl’s body & mind!  But the physicality of a spanking, the very essence of a spanking being that intimate connection of the Top and bottom’s bodies, the soft, vulnerable belly against his thighs, his hard, hard hand against tender white skin, the feel of a leg holding mine down or a hand on the back of my head, or holding a wrist…it is all intimate in the extreme and combines to cause something extraordinary to happen: I can orgasm from a spanking. With very little stimulation of the “regular” sort (clitoral), I can come with a spanking.  It’s amazing to me that this can happen.

It didn’t this time, but I got very very close.  If he’d known that I was capable of such, perhaps he would have continued when I started seriously squirming and mewling, instead of backing down.  I didn’t really care, to be honest–I wasn’t there for an orgasm (and this is probably why I didn’t tell him, I didn’t want that to be his focus, either.)  But how very delightful to discover that about myself (I have had many many sexual spankings with A during which I orgasmed, but those always included overt sexual/clitoral stim as well.) To just blossom into an orgasm from the actually feeling of being spanked–wow!  Now that was a fun discovery.

So that was all fun, and good, and I would probably go back for more.  There is a part of me that likes to go into a scene knowing I can get what I want out of it, very specifically, and then walk away.  Kind of like a booty-call of another sort.  Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am.  And in this case, it doesn’t even have the onus of sex, of being sexed or having sex, attached to it.  So that’s all good.

But of course, that wasn’t what I really wanted, was it?  That wasn’t what I was truly after, when this whole quest came about.  What I really wanted was both–the loss of control AND the feel-good of the actual spanking.  And guess what?  I got it!  But that piece will have to wait till later to be told.

Just remember…

Why do I get so wet just thinking about a spanking?  What is it in a person’s psyche that equates spanking with sex?  Or, at least MY psyche.

Tonight’s my spanking date.  I am excited, nervous, and yes…wet.  Sopping, actually.

I am nervous, though.  My head is not in the same space as it was before, when I craved a spanking like a smoker craves his next cigarette.  So…I am a little nervous.  Or maybe a lot.

Just remember, he said, you asked for this.

Asking for It

Besides my two regular guys, I have a friend that I see occasionally for…variety.  Variety on Monday is going to be a spanking date, a Daddy/little girl scenario, and all because I asked for it.  This is the first time I have asked for a specific type of scene…err, well I take that back.  Not the first, exactly.

I ask A to do things to me.  I ask for spanking & sex, and I asked him for the enema thing a couple weeks ago.  But he didn’t get what I wanted with the enema, that just wasn’t his thing.  A different thing all together.  And spanking and sex is…spanking and sex.  Yummy as well, but a different thing too.  It’s the Dominance that I miss, the coercion, the feeling of being controlled/being helpless/being forced/of submitting.  I love the physical sensations, don’t get me wrong, but…well, I crave the other stuff.

This particular fellow and I have had an usual road…there has been lots of D/s play via IM & text, several good vanilla dates, both with his gf and alone, and one…okay…play date.  He’s got a good hard hand, and likes to play fight, likes a challenge, which is fun, but, well, to be brutally honest, even though (per W’s instruction) I made sure he knew I had a mouth and ass available for his sexual use…it didn’t happen.  Beatings and no sex??  Sure, I like that too, but all signs pointed towards both prior to it actually NOT happening.   So yeah, I was disappointed.

But since that time, he has amped up his rhetoric in IM, and been very insistent about having another date.  I like him, I like our dynamic in IM, I liked him during play…I just want him to use me sexually as well.  W says that’s what I am for, and I want to make W proud of me, dammit.  I like to do what I am told.

Then last night, after all my spanking jonesing, (of which he (G) was appraised), he left me with, “I’m off, send me salacious texts if you have a mind.  Or better yet come over and let me spank your ass.  I’ll beat your bad-girlness out of you.”

Huh.

So…I text him.  I text him in a role I have never played before.  I’ve been a bad girl, Daddy…

And we were off.  And now…I have a play date Monday after work, before I head over to W’s to get stuff ready for the un-VDay Party.  I just have to find a way/place to change from work clothes to my schoolgirl garb before I go over.   And find out how W feels about me coming over with a (hopefully) very sore ass.

Poor Barbie!

bondage-barbie

I never knew that the original Barbie was based on, according to this article, a German doll called Bild Lilli, which (…) was based on a prostitute from a German adult cartoon.”  That, I love.  And this quote from the article: “…the doll she created was a merchandiser’s dream. In marketing terms, her philosophy (was) that Barbie could be whatever her owner wanted…”

I always had moral issues with what is basically a sex-object being sold to our daughters as the “ideal” in feminine beauty and appeal.  I never bought them for my daughter, never played with them as a young girl.  So imagine my surprise, and…joy…when I discovered that W has Barbies and…perverts…them! He has “Bondage Barbies” in his house, and we are planning to have several out for guests to “play” with at our un-Valentine’s Day Party next Saturday; he also has an entire gallery on Bondage Demons devoted to the poor abused dolls (link to “Feature Galleries” and scroll down to “Demon Dolls”.)  Lovely Barbie bondage as well as some clever rhyming to go along with them.

How…delightful.

Firsts, part 2

This is what I so really want: a long, relentless, over the knee spanking. One that goes on and on till I am a sobbing, snotty mess, where I am held down while I squirm and try to get away, one that has nothing to do with fucking me (until later, when I am drug off his knees to my own knees in front of him, still snotty, tears running down my face, and he makes me suck his cock, chokes me on it, doesn’t let me recover til he’s done.) And then I am held, and loved, and it’s all okay. I think this is the only “punishment” scenario I ever have. But I crave it right now.

I am not sure what spurred this desire for punishment, the desire for tears.

Or maybe I do.  I was feeling PMS-y, needy and reactionary and thin-skinned…and I just wanted that to be gone.  I just wanted to get all the emotion and tears and anxiety out.  So it is either a good spanking or a sad movie, right?  Truth is, though, I’ve never been driven to tears in a scene before.  Twice there have been tears, but both times were after a scene, or near the end, and it wasn’t pain that broke me open.  It was something deeper, much deeper than where mere pain can go.

I promised to write about this, way back when.  You can read about the first part of it here.  But I never could bring myself to go back there, until tonight, as I lay in the bath and thought about crying.  Because that was the night I cried, startling and disconcerting W, I believe, and maybe myself, with the intensity of them.

How do I even go back there, how do I start?  I don’t know where it began, how we got to that place, where he had his entire hand inside of me.

Sometimes it takes me a while to get to a place where I can write a thing out.  I need the buffer of distance to find clarity, I need to be a safe distance from it before I can approach it in a way that won’t open me up again.  And while I did write about this when it happened, in a private post that is as raw as I felt, it is almost too raw to bear, even for me, even here, where I come to open myself up, to bleed myself out.  But he showed me the pictures the other day, and now I can’t get them out of my head.  Looking at the pictures, I feel it all again.  And I see those damn pictures when I close my eyes, when I look at his face, his hands.

His hands.  God.  So many of my dreams, so much of him is in his hands.  I feel them at the oddest moments, I crave them at times with an intensity that makes me catch my breath.  Curled in his lap, looking at those pictures, I felt such an abject need…  I am not a begger, not a pleader, or at least not in words.  I know I pleaded with him then:  “Please, please, can we do it again?”  in a voice I didn’t even recognize as my own, in a soft, broken voice, a voice that came from someplace inside me I didn’t even know existed.  That was the place that he found that day.  A place I didn’t even know was there.

How could I do anything but cry?

Later, at dinner, he told me about how he had held still, and how I had pulled him in.  I remember that moment, that moment of utter stillness, with both of us on the cusp.  I quiet myself now and fall into that moment again.  He had let my hands down from their restraints at some point, though I can’t really say when.  My legs were still up, a tall V in red cuffs and black heels, but my hands, they were clutching his wrist, holding on for dear life.  Words tumbled in my head–did they come from my lips?  Yes, yes, yes…no, no please, please wait…please, oh god please…until suddenly it all changed, and I was pleading for a different thing altogether.  It was no longer him pushing in, but me begging him to come in, to come into me, inside me.  I was taking him, not the other way around.  It was pure, mindless voracious need.  I needed him inside that deepest most vulnerable place inside me, in my womb, in my belly, so deep inside me he could never leave.

And it was like that, like my entire self was being peeled open to reveal the deepest part of me, and I had brought him there, invited him there, sucked him inside of me there. I think I screamed as I pulled him in, deep primal wordless gutteral screams that might have been pleasure or pain or joy or awe.  Or maybe, triumph.  I was, purely, mindless.  Empty of every thing, every thought, every desire, except him.

I don’t know how long we stayed like that, him crouched over me, his hand inside me to his wrist.   He says he barely moved his fingers, but it felt like…like earthquakes inside me.  Like I was being exploded from within, like he was touching every part of me from my heart to my womb to my cunt.

My heart, damn.  Maybe that was the night he touched that place in me too, when it began.  I don’t know.

I couldn’t come with him inside me.  It hurt too much, was too instense, when the spasms started to come, when I’d start clenching.  I wanted to, so much…and I still do, and I will, eventually.  But when I expelled his hand–because that is what I did, expelled him, pushed him out of me–it was like giving birth, and I came so hard I saw colors.  I came, and I cried, like I never had before.  And he held me while I put myself whole again, while I tried to find my center, now that it had been taken from me.

Sometimes, it IS all about me

I love it when I wake up to one or the other’s hands on me, pressing, mauling, pulling, squeezing;  fingers or a cock slipping inside before I’ve fully had a chance to wake; a mouth on my neck, a hand on my throat; a whispered “cunt” in my ear.

Even better is to wake up to both their hands on me. One holding me down, the other fucking me with his hands and mouth; the feel of a hard cock pressed against my hip, another in my hand; of one of their legs pinning mine, holding them open so the other can have full access to my hole; the feel of their bodies heavy on mine…  And them making me come, first one and then the other, “tag you’re it,” over and over, till my stomach muscles hurt, till my legs tremble, till I can’t come any more and I beg them to stop.

I know they say they enjoy it too, but seriously: I can accept that it’s All About Me at that moment.  (smirk)  W even says that the things he does when he tortures me, those things are all about me too, though if I don’t like it, how that can be so I just don’t know.  Oh wait–because even when I don’t like it, I do.  Yeah, forgot that bit of twisted submissive-head mindfuck.

Anyway.  Point is, I think last night really was All About Me.  And it was fun! A lot of what I do what I do because I get off on knowing I am doing it for them, because they want me to, because it turns them on, because I like giving myself up to someone else’s control, to be used, to be tortured, teased, fucked, exhibited, hurt, played with, petted, loved…  But last night…last night I don’t know what they could have gotten out of it.  But do I care?  Not a bit.  I wasn’t pleasing either of them, I wasn’t thinking about pleasing anyone (not even myself) I was just enjoying what was happening, experiencing things.

It wasn’t a real “scene” as such.  W wanted to suspend me to see how I could take it, what I could take, what worked, what didn’t…and I got to say what worked, what didn’t, I got to enjoy it and say when I had had enough, and they just tied me up and made me fly…it was like being one of his bondage barbies, a toy to be dressed up in rope and played with.

I was scared the first time (I don’t like being off-balance) but once I realized I wasn’t going to fall, really truly wasn’t going to (there’s a difference between knowing it and believing it), it was just pure pleasure.  And surprisingly, at the end, I hit that place in my head when I stop being on, stop thinking, stop being in my head…and am just there.  It was lovely.

flying-glowy

Hmm, thinking about it, I got to that space in the last suspension, when there was quite a bit less control in it for me, when he pulled my legs back in an uncomfortable position and I couldn’t move at all except to writhe a bit as he touched me, as he stroked me between my immobilized legs…  A theme perhaps?  I love that loss of control.  Yes, yes, even when it’s All About Me, I still need that edge to push me there.

And then this morning, A pulled my panties down and started to fuck me from behind, slowly, while I was still half-asleep.  I moaned and pushed back against him, opening myself to him.  I didn’t want to come, I didn’t want sex, I just wanted to feel him inside me.

He pulled out and pushed the tip of his cock against my ass.  I resisted.  He stroked me, coaxed me…I resisted.  He pushed farther, keeping himself just far enough inside that he wasn’t through the tightness yet, but just resting there, holding me open.  And waited.

I wiggled slightly against him.  It felt good, dammit.

He pulled me back against him, held me, held himself still.  I started to stroke myself…and felt myself opening, giving, allowing him inside me.  No pain at all, he slips in, filling me, stretching me pleasantly.  In moments he has lost the ability to stay still and is thrusting against my no-longer resisting body; with one more thrust he spends himself inside me, hot, wet, filling me another way.  I sigh as he shudders against me, loving the feel of him, loving knowing that it has been me that has caused that loss of control. But now I want more…and I can’t get there.  If he’d been able to hold back a few more minutes…

I roll onto my back.  “I want to come,” I say.  I don’t often ask for/demand it.  I either do or I don’t, and if I don’t and want to, there’s always fucking myself later.  But I don’t want later.  I want it the way I want it…

I take his hand and slip his fingers inside me, using my fingers as a guide.  He knows what I want, but it’s about me this time, it’s what I want, and I want to show him, I want to tell him.  I am still not coming though, something that happens occasionally.  But I am determined to get what I want, so I reach back for Baldy, my hitachi.  And I tell him exactly how I want him to touch me, something I almost never do: “there, yes, there…don’t stop, harder, oh yes…please, don’t stop, push, god, there…there!”  And finally, finally, I come.

Sometimes it is All About Me.

Morning Sex, W’s version

Morning sex with W is a different thing altogether.  After an night of play, of pain and sex and predicament and pictures and teasing and talking and more sex, we wake slowly together to the clank of chain, the feel of each other’s skin, gray morning a glow in the windows.

I turn from my side, where I have lain through the night, the shackles tight at throat, ankles and wrists, to my back; feel his warmth all along my side, feel the length of chain heavy across my chest and belly, between my legs.

His hand, heavy on the chain, on me.  He pulls on the chain, feels along it where it runs between my legs.  He squeezes my breasts, one and then the other, testing, perhaps, if they are tender from last night’s clothespins.  They are, but the pain now is sweet, almost tender.  He pulls me closer to him, until I am snugged against him, and, eyes closed, he strokes me, my hair and face, my arms, my legs, the heavy metal ring around my throat, the wet warm spot between my thighs.

I turn into him. “Hi,” I say.  He opens his eyes and looks into mine for a long moment.  “Hi,” he says back, and smiles.  There is so much more I want to say, but I don’t, I just kiss him, press my body against him, feel the chain warming between us.

He rolls and presses me onto my back.  My hands are caught between us, my movements hindered by the shackles and chain.  He grips the ring at my throat, holds me still with one hand; with the other he cups my sex, capturing the links of chain between his hand and the tender, bruised flesh of my labia.  I am still tender and swollen from the night before, and he presses the chain against me, but not too hard; his goal here is pleasure, I think, not pain.

I sigh and open myself to him.  He presses his fingers into me, grinding the palm of his hand against my newly-shaven, too sensitive mound.  I moan and push against him.  I feel his fingers dig into me, and the throbbing discomfort I feel as he spreads his fingers inside me, as he invades me, fuels my lust–I begin to move against him in earnest, turning, twisting, writhing.  Grinding.

I fuck his hand, pull and grind against it as he digs his fingers into me, insensible and blind with need.  I come quickly, shuddering against him, holding his hand to me, remembering the night before, the feel of his mouth on my shoulder as I knelt, arms tied crucifix-style, clothespins covering me from armpit to armpit.

And then…

He is on top of me, pressing me back into the mattress and pillows.  His hands are everywhere, in my hair, pulling my head back, at my throat, encircling the shackle there, on my breasts and hips and thighs, pinching, mauling, forcing my acquiescence, forcing me to open to him.  My legs are akimbo beneath him because that is the only way I can be open to him with the chains restricting my movements.   I grasp his cock in my hand and run the tip of it along my wet, swollen slit.

“Put it in,” he tells me, his voice a growl.  I do, wanting him inside me desperately, needing him inside me.  “You’re such a slut,” he says, “such a good little whore.”  And I think about myself as I was moments ago, grinding blindly against his hand like an animal in heat, and I know it’s true.

“Yes,” I say.

He thrusts into me, grinding the chain between us.  He tells me how dirty I am, tells me I am fuckmeat, his cunt to do with as he pleases.  “You’ll fuck anyone I tell you to,” he says, and I know it is true.  My hands are between us, and I am squeezing myself and him at the same time.  He is whispering in my ear, telling me the dirtiest things, thrusting against me as I push up against him, feeling him and the chain and his hands and his voice in my ear and I am agreeing to every word he says.  I am his slut, his cunt, his whore.  I will do whatever and whomever he wants, now, tomorrow, whenever.  And yes, I will come back, slimed with their seed, in my cunt, in my ass, in my hair or on my face and present myself to him, if that is what he wants. Yes, yes and yes.

And then, as I begin my rise to another orgasm, as I ride the edge and begin to strain for whatever-it-is that will tip me over, I feel his excitement rise, I feel him letting himself go there as well, and as he comes inside me, as I feel him shudder, I explode in an orgasm as well, panting, squeezing, sucking him in.

After, I slide the chain between my legs again, deliberately coating it with our fluid, and I smile.

Scattered Remembrance

It’s funny how the mind works.  W tells me, “If there aren’t any pictures, it didn’t happen.”  Maybe that’s true.  Or maybe not.  I have my word pictures, and sometimes they serve me just fine.  Tonight I am sitting in my front room, watching the snow out my window and working on a new piece of erotica.  Or maybe erotica is too sweet a term for this piece.  It’s not sweet at all, but it’s not meant for an anthology, it’s not even meant for this space, but for a series of photos he took of me a while ago that he will post over on Bondage Demons. I love the pictures, but the story I am writing is raw, and “not appropriate subject matter” for most of the places I submit to.  In any case, in it I am describing the rope he wound around my throat and tied me to the floor with.  And as I write it, I realize I am not remembering that rope, that time, which was actually some weeks ago.  I am remembering…Sunday.

I am remembering the feel of his hands as he pulled my face into his crotch, as I opened my mouth and took him inside–and he wound that rope around my throat, slowly, inexorably, tightening it, loosening it, making my head swim and then allowing me breath, forcing me to choke myself as I struggled to take him as deeply into my throat as I could.

I had forgotten that part.  I wish I did have a picture now.