Prisoner

As I’ve mentioned before, I don’t often go into fantasy-realms when we are playing. I don’t pretend that he is someone other than who he is, that I am a damsel-in-distress, or that I am being kidnapped, etc., even tho these are strong themes in the stories he often tells me when he is fucking me, and I get off mightily on them when he does. But I’ve just never been much of a make-believe girl, at least in this respect, and I don’t tell stories in my head while he is abusing me.

Except when I do.

This was one of those times.

He was rough with me, abrupt and callous, shoving me down to the floor and tying me quickly, efficiently, face down, with my arms spread in a posture of utter submission and helplessness.  When I tried at one point to lift my head he shoved my face back down and held my head there for a long moment, my cheek grinding into the floorboard until I stopped struggling.  Later he would use his bare feet to accomplish the same thing, stepping on the back of my neck and head to force my face back to the floor to enforce his unspoken directive: I was not to lift my face.

Using the rope, he hauled my legs up and under me and secured them there.  Having my knees drawn up enhanced the feeling that this wasn’t about sex, this was about punishment.  And as he used his bare feet on my back and neck to shove me down and hold me there, stepping on me, how could I help but conjure up images and feelings of being a prisoner being tortured?

And yet.

And yet there was still something so incredibly erotic about the feel of his bare feet on my skin. Something so charged in being pinned by his feet. Of him holding me in place with my neck between his feet as he slashed at my back with a whip.

And there was something else.  Something about him, his demeanor, his intensity, during this scene. He was harsh in a totally different way, as though he, too, was channeling my fantasy. (In talking later he confirmed that yes, that was where he had gone as well.)

It’s a scenario I just might want to revisit.  A fantasy I just might want to venture into again, just to see where it takes me.

And him.

Rope as Foreplay

I had a sleepless night last night, but in the end it was worthwhile: I finished the edits on a story I’ve been working on with an editor and got an acceptance letter this morning. It was the first time I’ve been asked to revise a story for publication.  Always before I have had simple rejections or acceptances, with the occasional, “We really like this story, but it’s not quite right for this anthology,” type rejection (one of which, “Are You Gonna Be My Girl,” I revised on my own and submitted elsewhere, where it was accepted.) Although I know a lot of writers that despise making editor-requested revisions (or refuse to do so) it was an interesting exercise for me, and in the end I think I got a better story out of it. The thing it highlighted for me was how differently I perceive rope than might the average reader.

For me, the rope itself is foreplay.  When he touches me with his rope, he is touching me with his hands, with his power, with his desire. I feel it right to my marrow. Anymore, just the scent of the hemp rope is enough to make me wet;  the sight of him picking up a piece of rope, uncoiling it, running it through his hands, makes my breath start to come quick and my pulse race.  And he hasn’t even laid a hand on me. It is intensely erotic, and for me, in writing a story about a woman and a man and a piece of rope–even if they are not engaging in overtly sexual acts–I am writing about them having sex. Because that is how I, personally respond to rope.

My story had a slow, erotic build-up to a sex scene at the end. The eroticism was derived from her reactions to the rope that bound her wrists, as opposed to anything he did sexually to her while she was bound. In fact, in its first incarnation, I deliberately made him not touch her in an overtly sexual way. The fact that he didn’t was erotic (and frustrating) to her, just as it would be to me. I’d be on fire, feeling the rope, knowing what could happen, waiting and anticipating.  It would be–and is–a delicious agony, as I wait for what I know must come (in my case either pleasure or pain.)  My story was a subtle attempt to highlight this, and, as such, for another ropeslut such as me, it would probably be highly effective.  But as “mainstream” erotica dealing with power dynamics in relationships, it didn’t convey the sexual punch that the editor was looking for.

“More sex,” was basically what I was told. I was a little nonplussed by that at first. What? The entire story is one long sex scene!  But then I went back and reread it.  Objectively.  And I saw exactly what she was saying.

This is my reality. The picture below is of a scene we did that, on the surface, seems…static maybe.

And for the first half hour-ish, this was all that happened. Well okay, he started out by making me sit at his feet while he sat in a chair, and suck his cock while he tied my wrists to my upper arms, first one, then the other, all the while pushing my head down on his cock whenever I came up for breath.  But when he put me on the floor, that is exactly how I stayed.

What you don’t see is me writhing, not fighting the ropes, but to grind my cunt against the floor.  Opening and closing my legs as far as the ropes would allow, thrusting and pushing as waves of heat and lust washed over me.  The smell and feel of the rope was intoxicating, but it was the sound of the rope hitting the floor behind me, as W coiled and uncoiled it, the thumps of it on the hard wood, that sent shudders through me.

By the time we got around to this part:

I was already so worked up I could have come if he’d blown air on me.  I burned, with anticipation, with frustration, with the need to feel his hands on my skin, my ass, my cunt–and with the uncertainty of what exactly he was going to do.

As it was, sitting on me backwards, grinding my nipple collars into the floor, and mauling my ass, shoving his fingers inside me and in general handling me like a piece of meat, did the trick quite well.  But the point is, I am almost convinced that given enough time to squirm on the floor, I could have come without him touching me at all. I was that aroused just by the feel, sound and scent of his rope on me.

In any case, I went back and revised my story, adding in some actual foreplay, and using orgasm control and denial as the vehicle by which I highlighted her building anticipation and frustration.  And really? For the average reader, I think it works better.

But for me…for me sometimes the rope is foreplay enough.

His Girl

“I want you to stay here after it’s over,” he said. “I’ll want to get my girl back.”

There are all sorts of aftercare.  I usually tend to think in terms of my needs for it, as do most people; a bottom’s needs for some kind of care after an intense or physically demanding scene are usually pretty obvious.  My needs vary, depending on the type (and severity) of the scene. Sometimes I bounce right back up, ready for more; sometimes I tease, play and joke; sometimes I need an hour or even a couple of days to recover, with commensurate aftercare by one or both guys.  Sometimes the aftercare I need is of a physical nature: a blanket, arms to hold me, hydration, a quiet space to come back to earth.  Other times it is emotional: kind words, a reconnecting, being told I did well or that he is proud of me. A lot of times, part of my own aftercare–especially after emotionally-charged scenes–is in allowing myself to noodle through the experience, to pull it apart and examine it, parsing the experience out piece by piece as I try to gain an understanding of what I went through, physically and emotionally.  All of these needs are well-documented and usually catered to very well; my guys like me to recover well and fully so that they can do it all over to me again.

I don’t know if W’s need to “have his girl back,” after it was over was exactly an expression of an aftercare need, but I do know that what he was saying, that he wanted me back, his Jade, not the piece of voiceless fuckmeat I had been reduced to, was as deep a need for me as it was for him.

I wanted to feel sex with him as a connection to him, as a bonding with him, not as something remote and emotionless and mechanical that was being done to me. I needed to feel him, to see him–the man, not what he had had to become in order to use me, and allow me to be used, the way he had.

Sex for us is always heavily charged with overtones of dominance and submission. It can’t help but be, that is who we are with each other, it drives our sexuality and feeds our arousal.  It is often rough and at times trips along the tricky line of consensual-non-consent. But even at its roughest, even when he is subjugating and dominating and forcing and hurting and pushing and taking, there is always a connection between us. There is at its core this thing between us, the emotional heart of what we feel for each other, and even as I am opening up my body to him I am opening up my heart, and I know that he is sharing his with me.

That was, of course, absent from the scene the night before.

I recognized very early on in the scene, before I went into that no-space, that having lost the ability to communicate–to speak–had a very profound affect on me.  In fact I think that may have been the strongest contributing factor to how deep I went, and how quickly.  For instance, that picture I posted in yesterday’s post? I had no idea that I had been smeared with the oils and paints that the other Top likes to use.  I remember one very clear detail: after they had shackled me, and the other Top had cut off my clothes, he came at me with the oil.  I recall that moment very clearly, and then seeing the paint container in his hand, but then nothing else of him painting me at all.  It was not until I saw the photo that I even realized he had covered me with it.  I was that removed from my own body and what was being done to it.  Oh, I came back, but that was later, after they had removed the “no speaking” restriction.  Then I was back to myself: I was playful, and laughed and teased and bratted. And even later, in the car on the way home, I was wildly aroused and excited, and tried to get W to let me fuck him while we drove (he didn’t. LOL)  But there is that whole space of time when I simply wasn’t there.

In thinking about it now, I actually recognize the space I went as being very similar to ponyspace. There, too, my voice is taken from me. There, too, I am a dumb animal, reduced to a body, an animal, although in the case of Onyx, a much-loved, cared-for, pampered animal. I don’t exactly disassociate with my body in ponyspace, as much as with W and Ad as men, as sexual partners.  They are my humans in that space, my handlers, not my lovers.

W was most certainly not my lover that night.  I lost all connection with him as my lover, and was definitely no longer “his girl.”  Which was exactly what he was looking for, I think. I was as much a collection of holes to him that night as I was to myself.  If it had that profound an affect on me, wouldn’t it have on him? His statement beforehand that he would need to “get his girl back” may have been for my benefit, but I don’t know.  Playing this way is edgy for us both.

So yesterday, even after being used that long and hard, even though I was so sore, I still needed sex with him.  Desperately.

That was the aftercare I needed.  And that I think he, too, needed.

And he obliged.  Oh, it wasn’t sweet love-making.  Even as aftercare it is never that (and wouldn’t work if it was.)  He hoisted me up on his desk and fucked me there next to my computer, whispering dirty things in my ear.  He pushed me to my knees in front of him on the couch and told me to hump myself on his leg until I came while giving him head.  And then he came, groaning as he filled my mouth.  He held me, one arm around my throat, while I masturbated to an orgasm, because I’d been distracted by giving him head (yeah, not so much a multi-tasker in that respect.) And later…later, in bed that night, he pushed himself into me and filled that empty space inside me, the space that was still “no-space” with his come as well.  And it was in that moment, as he held me tight, releasing himself into me, that I finally, truly, came back to myself.  That I became “his girl” again.

A Collection of Holes

Sometimes, a scene can get hotter in the remembering of it.

I know, that sounds counter-intuitive, or maybe like it wasn’t hot in the doing of it, but that’s not exactly true.  It’s…more complex than that.  And less, in a weird way.

I’m not really sure I can even verbalize what I mean.  I am pondering, and noodling, and turning it over in my head.

I’ll start backwards, and see if I can get there, make sense, that way.

This morning I woke up feeling pretty low, maybe even negative, about the scene last night. I recognize, now that I am out of that headspace, that this is actually a typical emotional reaction for me to the type of scene we did: very sexual, very objectifying, very degrading. Feeling an emotional backlash after that should be expected, but for some reason I am always taken by surprise when I wake up this way, and this morning was no exception.

So what was I negative about?

The set-up for the scene was incredibly hot. W has a friend that he has allowed to play with me before.  The guy comes in to town, gets a hotel room, and W takes me to him and allows him to do degrading things to me while he watches, and occasionally joins in.This time the scene was going to be decidedly less corporal than last time; more sexual.  W wants to get me gang-banged at some point, and this was his “calibration” to see how I’d do being fucked (and fucked, and fucked) for hours at a time.  What made it hot was that from the moment I went thru the door of the hotel until we left 5 hours later (me in W’s undershirt, high heels and nothing else) I was not allowed to speak.  I was an object, a collection of holes, a body to be used.

And use me they did. Hard, every hole, with hands and objects and cocks, until I was “used up,” as W put it, and barely able to function, much less speak. W’s objective of turning me into a “thing,” into “fuckmeat,” was well accomplished. But I didn’t really get how well it was accomplished until today, when we debriefed about the scene. In fact, all I had was this vague sense of unease, of feeling as though I had somehow failed, that centered around the fact that my memories of the night were so unclear and out of focus I couldn’t really remember what had happened, except for the fact that I do know neither man had an orgasm.

Okay, so yeah, let me just get it out there: sex just doesn’t feel complete when the guy doesn’t come. I have learned to accept that W doesn’t always come every time he fucks me, but that’s because I know that he enjoys it just as much as if he had. Hell, maybe more, because I think sometimes he doesn’t allow himself to orgasm as an extension of his power over me, and that that psychological edge is more fulfilling to him than the physical release might be. And, in the end, though it may be after two days of fucking me and hurting me and making me suck his cock, I win he eventually does lose control allow himself to come.  But generally, with the general populace, having an orgasm is a pretty good indication that “I did my job well.” I know, I know that isn’t really the case, and that, especially in BDSM, coming isn’t always or the only goal. But, damn, it just feels good (mentally and physically) when they do.

So that was a start to why I was feeling off, and what I communicated to W. And we talked about it…

And as we talked, I started to realize that even that part of it was objectifying.  They just used my holes. In and out. I came that night, twice that I remember, but even that wasn’t the objective, as it is so many times when W puts me thru hours of marathon sex. They didn’t care if I came.  They didn’t care if they came.  It wasn’t about sexual satisfaction or gratification.  It was about using me, using my body, a set of orifices.  My body came because it is trained to do so, because it simply can’t help but come when it is stimulated certain ways.  But it had nothing to do with me, with Jade.  It was my body reacting to physical stimuli.  And it was only in remembering that, in thinking about it, that how really fucking hot it was set in to my brain.

There was something else that happened during the scene that I didn’t recognize until we started talking about it.  I went to a space that I never have before.  When I said I was fuzzy and couldn’t remember clearly what happened? What I realized was that that was because I truly had gone into that headspace where W had put me.  He accomplished it far better than I think even he knew until we talked about it. I had shut off.  My brain had turned off so completely that I was, simply, an empty body, meat, a collection of holes to be used by them.  Stunned into insensibility and numbness.

It makes my cunt ache, just thinking about it.

Preparations

I got to work yesterday morning, opened my computer bag, and started unpacking everything onto my desk. Laptop, power cord, iPod attachment, bottle of lube, cellphone cord, work folder…

Holy shit. Lube?? Lube!

I’d forgotten that I had thrown it on top of everything in my computer bag on the way out the door, as part of packing for a “date” that W has set up for tonight.

I’m having a hard time thinking of it as a “date.” And really, it isn’t at all. It’s…an assignation. He’s taking me to a hotel room to meet a Dom that he has allowed to use/play with me once before.  Once there, it is not a “social” occasion. I will not be allowed to speak or socialize at all, in fact, and will be there to be used as fuckmeat, as a collection of holes, as a body and nothing more to be used and abused by them both.

A really hot fantasy, right?

But in reality…I am a ball of nerves and anxiety. So much so that although I packed the lube (a concession on W’s part, because of my concerns about damage to my inner labia/rings) I forgot to pack my work clothes for today.  It’s kind of hot that I had to come to work in “spare” work clothes that I scrounged for at his house. I keep looking down at myself and it reminds me about tonight.

Sometimes, I wish that W would do that intentionally…prep me more. Send me to work with tangible reminders of what’s to come, of what I am, especially in a situation like this.  Tell me to wear something just this side of inappropriate, or to do certain things throughout the day…  But that’s not really his thing.  Mostly (at least in this case, I assume) because he doesn’t want to interfere with work.  But hell, I’m already having a hard time concentrating.  Then again, if that’s the case, maybe I don’t need his reminders, right? I already keep myself on the edge of anxiety.  Damn I make a good Dom! lol

Speaking of the line between fantasy and reality…my keyed-up state caused me to confess a nasty fantasy to a total stranger today. I have some dirty fucking fantasies, let me tell you, (and fantasies about dirty fucking), most of which, tho inspired by the nasty stuff W growls in my ear when he’s fucking me, I would never confess to.  Oftentimes not even to him, although he knows me well enough to know what turns me on, so can probably imagine the kinds of scenarios I dream up.  But detailing a fantasy in email or verbally is always hard for me. It’s even hard to do here, tho you wouldn’t know it to read my posts. But yes, doing it here, confessing those things, speaking the words (even thru the keyboard) is an adrenaline rush of fear and anxiety and embarrassment.  I can only do it because there’s this computer screen, and this blog, between you and I. I don’t know you, I don’t know who you are, who is reading these words, or if anyone is.  I can pretend that no one is.  I can pretend I never said it.  Like a kid hiding under a blanket, you can’t see me anymore once I click send.

(Of course that illusion is shattered when I get emails on my Fet profile from people I do know, like in real life, like that I talk to all the time, telling me how hot such-and-such a post was. lol)

Anyway. Confessing something like directly to someone in email was a bit outside my usual behavior. Impulsive. Daring, even.  Inappropriate.

I blame W. See? Even when he doesn’t “dom” me, he does. He makes me do all kinds of crazy shit.

Open

In my fantasy, I am on my elbows and knees, ass lifted, legs spread to give the man behind me better access. He pumps into me steadily, almost mechanically, and really is mostly an afterthought, something I am barely paying attention to.

It is the man in front of me that has my attention.

He is holding my head up by the hair, arching my neck back painfully as he slides his cock in and out of my mouth.  When I purse my lips, attempting to suckle him, to pleasure him, he pulls out and slaps my face sharply. “Did I tell you to do that?” he says. “Just open your mouth. Yes, like that.  Let it hang open, cunt.  Go on, let your tongue hang out.  You’re just a hole for me to fuck, nothing more.”

And I do, making of my mouth an open, gaping hole for him to fuck himself into, which he does, fucking my mouth, fucking my throat, while spit drips down my chin and I gag every time he hits the back of my throat.  I don’t resist, I don’t try to close my mouth around his cock, I leave my tongue and mouth loose like he’s told me to. “You’re a hole,” he says as he does. “Just a hole to be fucked.”

And I am.

In reality W and I lay in bed, the thick, damp heat the only blanket covering our naked bodies. Idly, almost unconsciously, I stroke the sensitive, swollen lips between my legs. We just had the hottest scene downstairs. It had happened completely unexpectedly, arising accidentally out of a simple picture-taking request by a friend: he wanted to see pictures of me in my glasses, hopefully “messy” ones.  We didn’t really plan on the “messy” part, that’s not something that W would normally do, although we had enlisted Ad’s assistance and we were going to try later in the week for that.  One thing led to another though, and by the end W had sprayed my face  and glasses with semen as I lay, bound and helpless, on his desk.

That’s the first time anyone has ever done that to me. And holyfuckinggod it was HOT. So hot that I fucked myself into three more orgasms after he was done, whimpering and thrusting myself blindly at him as he struggled to keep me from wriggling off his desk in my gyrations.

And so hot that hours later I was still revved up, and couldn’t keep my hands from my pussy lips as we lay in bed.

My so-very-tender, battered-and-bruised, pussy lips.

Did I mention that the night before he had put an impossibly tight cuntrope on me? And that it squeezed my clit in between the two pieces of rope that he strung from my wrists behind my back to a bolt in the ceiling? And that I was on tippy-toes in five-and-a-half inch heels with my ankles secured to a spreader bar?  No? Ah, well, I was. When I say my pussy was bruised and battered, I mean it.

And yet I still couldn’t keep my hands off it.

“Please,” I said as we lay there, “can I make myself come?”

He chuckled. I think he knew the pleasure/pain I was causing myself, and that I just couldn’t help myself.

“Yes,” he said, “but suck my cock while you do it. I want your mouth around my cock when you come.”

Obediently I slid down his body and, laying my head on his belly, drew his half-hard cock into my mouth, while trying to find the right angle to touch myself. For a few minutes, he let me simply hold him in my mouth.  He knows how hard it is for me to concentrate on more than one thing.  But soon I felt his hand on the back of my head, in my hair, and he began thrusting his cock into my mouth. Oddly, though, he didn’t push me down on his cock, but rather held my head still and fucked himself into my mouth. In and out he slid, while I simply held my mouth open…

…and was transported into my fantasy.

My mouth was so wet, his cock so long and hard and slick, slipping in and out of my mouth.  Within moments I was convulsing in an orgasm, all the while holding my mouth open, a wet, open hole for him–the him that was fucking my mouth in reality, and the “him” of my fantasy. A two-fer!

*Edit: If you are on Fetlife, you can see this story with pictures here: http://fetlife.com/users/29538/posts/626060.

30 Days of Kink: Day 7 – Favorite Toy

Day 7: What’s your favorite toy?

Are we talking sex toy or BDSM toy? I’ll go with BDSM toy, since this is 30 Days of Kink. That’s a really hard one to call. I both love and hate all of W’s toys, all of his implements of misery, because he can use every one of them in a way that is good pain, and a way that is a misery. But even that, while I am hating it, is good. Sort of. In that weird, fucked up way that I feel about all our kinky toys.

It’s also a moving target. I can love canes for days and days, and then suddenly be unable to tolerate them. I’m kind of in that space now, actually, mainly because my tolerance level in general has diminished in the time that I’ve been recovering and not playing much, but W is still using them like he used to, heavy and hard with little build-up. So I wince and cower and tremble as soon as I see one of those fuckers in his hand, whereas before I used to anticipate them, if not with joy, at least with some expectation of pleasure.

In any case, right now I am in a love/hate relationship with the new whip I got him at Spanksgiving. A little 2-foot singletail, it can be used close up and has all the lovely zing of a long whip with none of the space requirements. It can be vicious or not, and I love it both ways.

As I mentioned in today’s Wanton Wednesday post, there are more pictures to go with the “Prisoner” picture, and more story to tell.  Here is one of those pictures: the result of that wicked 2 ft singletail.

Wank Wednesday – Default

“No,” I say.  This is always my default. Odd for a submissive woman, right? But that’s the truth of it.

“No, don’t make me do that.”

“No, I don’t want to hurt.”

“No, I don’t want to experience that.”

But in the end, I always end up saying “yes.”  And often, “Yes, please…” If only in my mind.

“Yes, I want whatever it is that you offer, whatever it is that you demand, whatever it is that you want.”

His wants become mine, so entangling and confusing that I don’t know where mine end and his start anymore.

On my knees, mouth open, he doesn’t even have to force my mouth to his cock to take his piss anymore. I still start at that default place, that instinctive, reactive, “No!” but we both know it means nothing.

Standing spreadeagle, wrists and ankles tied, seeing the shadow of the whip in his hand on the wall. “No,” I think, “I can’t take it!” But we both know the word for the lie it is. I can, and I will.

My body exhausted, my cunt feeling torn open, laying there gasping for breath, he reaches for me again. “No,” I whisper, hoarsely. But we both know in moments I will be gasping “Yes, yes!” again as he shoves his fingers inside me and tears another orgasm from me.

Reading his words about what will happen on a future date, I shake my head. “No, I don’t want to do that–” And then I type the word “Yes,” just as he knew I would.

When did “no” become just another word for “yes?”

Wank Wednesday is the brainchild of Ruby Kiddell of The Erotic Notebook. A weekly writing prompt and gathering place for a weekly “festival of smut,” you can see all the submissions by following her Twitterfeed, the hashtag #wankwednesday, or visiting her blog.

Flexibility

So yeah, we’re getting back into our routine. :-)  Part of our routine, is, of course (however) having a certain amount of flexibility on our part, to account for the many unexpected things that can come up in a day/week.

For instance, a cold.

W and I both caught some kind of throaty-chesty-cough thing while we were on vacation (only manifesting after we got back though, thank goodness.) But that meant that Wednesday night at W’s was kind of quiet (well except for our fits of oh-so-sexy coughing.) After a yummy pre-Cinco de Mayo dinner and margarita and some good catch-up talk, we retired early.  Here’s a secret though: he may be The Mean Guy, but he’s not always mean.  Laying in bed that night with him, he pulled me close and his hands roamed all over my body. Not grasping, pinching, slapping or mauling, just…stroking. Touching. Caressing.

That’s right. The Mean Guy lay in bed next to me and caressed me (and I him) until we both fell asleep, wrapped tight in each other’s arms.  And slept that way all night. Unused to sleeping there, I woke several times to find, each time, that he still had a tight hold on me. I love it that he holds me all night, even in his sleep.

The cold also prompted W to declare that we were both on “light-duty” for my Work from Home day on Thursday. I was a bit relieved. I’ve been jonesing for some heavy play for days (weeks) but I was not physically up to it and I knew it.  I was happy to work in my new red satin robe and zebra stripe heels, and just enjoy being with W for the day.

Of course things didn’t turn out quite that way.  As the cold medicine I had taken started to kick in, I started to feel better. Not up to “hard play,” but up to some picture-taking, maybe.  I loved the scarlet robe against my barely-tan skin, and the red heels on my not-yet-photographed, bought-on-a-whim and oh-so-trashy zebra heels (W, later: “I shouldn’t like them, but…I do…”) and wanted a to try some pics with the sash tied around my wrists.

And so it began.

Pictures first, at my request and direction, but the feel of his hands on me, binding me, however simply, and I start the slow slide into that space with him that I love best: his to use, to direct and command. I was soon on my knees with his cock in my mouth, and then grinding myself against his thigh, heedless of the fact that I had a conference call in ten minutes.

Being a good Boss, he reminded me of my work duties, and, legs shaking, I made my way back downstairs to be a Working Girl of another sort.

“Keep me hard during the call,” he instructed.

I did as he directed, sucking and stroking him while trying to follow along on the call.  I did fairly well, too, actually contributing a few times before putting the phone back to mute and turning back to what I really wanted to be paying attention to.  He laughed at me.

In still more necessary flexibility, our plans to have me stay over and play that night were also unexpectedly altered. Again, we adapted. “When do you have to leave?” he asked. “By 4:45,” I said. “Okay, after lunch you’ll check your email and do anything that needs doing, and then I’m going to take you upstairs and beat you up.

“Nothing dangerous,” he continued, a concession to our cold-medicine-addled brains, “but that doesn’t mean it won’t be violent.”

God I love The Mean Guy.

But before that, he took me to lunch.

From my post in my writings on Fetlife:

Conference call over.

“You need a palate cleanser before we go to lunch, ” W says.

Yay! I think, dropping eagerly to my knees. He’s going to come in my mouth! Oh, happy day!

I grin up at him. “Like the lemon sherbert on the boat?” I say.

“Kinda like that,” he says. Then, as I wrap my mouth around his cock, “Four swallows.”

I suck happily away for a moment. W’s going to come in my mouth! Hooray! I think. Until a moment later, when another thought occurs to me. ‘Four swallows’? How does he know he’s going to come that exact–

And I realize suddenly what he’s REALLY going to use to “cleanse” my palate. I pull abruptly away. “Oh no, no no no…” I plead. “That’s not what you meant, is it??”

He grins.

That’s exactly what he meant.

Damn I’m slow on the uptake.

Pfft-blech-yak.

Lunch is really going to taste good.

Here’s the kicker: he wouldn’t let me wash my mouth out before we left. I rode to the restaurant and had to wait for my food to arrive to wash away the musky taste of his piss from my mouth.  Goddamn he’s perverted.  And so am I, apparently, sitting here getting wet all over again as I write about it.  And I don’t like drinking piss.  But my body reacts, each and every time, to his hands, to his rope, to his voice, to his demands, even when he makes them sounds like requests. Even when he makes me drink his piss.

And yes, in answer to your question, the food was about the best I’d ever tasted.

When we got home I did as I was told, checking my email and taking care of a couple things, and then we headed upstairs.

Enter another instance of flexibility: I’d taken his cane & whip bag home with me accidentally.  So the beating he’d been planning instantly became something else…

Face down, our beautiful new blue rope binding my wrists and ankles tightly, just the feel of his hands, his rope enough to make me a squirming wet mess on the floor.

Well maybe not just his rope and hands. There’d been his hand in my hair, shoving my mouth down on his cock as I knelt in front of his chair while he tied the ropes around each arm, his cock gagging me, his manner hard and unrelenting.  There was the way he pushed me to the floor, and came around in front of me after he’d tied my ankles, dragging my head up, forcing me to take his cock again, fucking my mouth and throat while I struggled to breathe.  There was the way he fucked my cunt with one hand, so hard and deep, while he fucked my mouth with his cock (I couldn’t believe I could bend that way.)  And later, the way he sat on me backwards, his fingers digging into my cunt, driving me to a frenzied, twisting orgasm as I strained against him and the ropes, panting, my voice hoarse and weird-sounding from my cold.

Later, sprawled on the floor across his legs, my mouth wrapped around his cock once more, I got what I’d been wanting all day: he came, pumping hot, sticky semen into my mouth and finally washing away the last remnants of his piss.