The daily and not so daily ramblings of my life, creativity, relationship with my husband and the rest of the world.
Warning: This is about my whole life, real and fantasy, and may contain adult content. Read at your own risk.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
“What for?” My question was information seeking, not challenging. As I got up and headed for the basement, I was genuinely puzzled. Not sixty seconds before he had said we were going out, just running errands; bank, grocery store, and maybe hardware store. And I was doing it. I really thought he had thought of some last minute chore that needed doing before we got into the car.
“Don’t ask me why!”
He shoved me hard face down onto the bed. Ohhhh, oh, okay. I get it. I had been pouting a bit. I've been better, a lot better, but still fragile, still not quite as sure of myself. And he had been pretty gruff all morning, and with each growl, each heavy handed correction I had gotten quieter, more distant, shrunken up deeper inside myself. A little attitude adjustment seemed to be in order.
I was already wearing my cuffs and collar and he wrenched my hands behind my back, tried to thread some rope through the rings and growled in frustration when the rope was too thick to fit through. I giggled and commented that I had not had ropes in mind when I designed these cuffs and crawled over to the side of the bed and reached for the toy bag and handed him a couple snap hooks. And then on impulse I slipped on a blind fold.
My heart was racing, it has been months and months since he has done any kind of bondage. I still wasn’t sure exactly what he had in mind. The last few times it was just goofy. Tie her up and see if she could get loose. Nothing rough or even sexual, just experiments to see what knot would hold.
He ignored the snaps for a while, still fussing with the rope and then picked up a snap and clipped my hands behind my back. Then he proceeded to tug at my arms and lift up on the waistband of my pants and I lay there trying to figure out what the hell he was trying to accomplish, not fighting but not particularly cooperating either, mostly because I just couldn’t bend that direction. After a while he snarled at me to get my ass up in the air and unsnapped my wrists and refastened them behind my knees. Another Ohhhhh moment.
He laid into me with a cane, hitting me exactly on the crease between my thighs and ass. It hurt a LOT. I didn’t know if he was hitting me harder than usual (though looking at my ass now… I know now that was exactly what he was doing.) but at the time I wondered if I was just feeling as physically sensitive as I had been emotionally. I howled and squirmed like crazy, tipping over from my knees to my side and as he continued to hit me, striking that same place over and over I continued to struggle and eventually rolled over onto my back and tried to hide my ass.
He dropped the cane and began to tug on my pants, forcing then slowly down over my hips exposing my ass inch by inch. Oh fuck, I knew if it hurt that bad over my clothing I was in deep shit if he got access to my bare ass. I was babbling, pleading, “You don’t want to do that. You don’t want to pull my pants down. It will hurt too bad. Please, don’t.” My pleas only seemed to spur him on. He took his time, selecting various implements of ass destruction from his armory. The strap was crazy, then that new narrow paddle, then the cane again, various floggers. I was squirming, gasping, screaming, yelling, giggling… more than once getting my fingers caught when I would reach down to somehow protect myself. And nothing hurts worse than taking a hit on the back of the fingers. Then, bang! Something crashed into my pussy, my bare tender exposed pussy. I think I got airborne with that one. As I thrashed on the bed, screaming louder and louder as the pain swelled and grew, blanking out my mind, he casually trailed the legs of the homemade flogger I have named ‘the squid’ over my tenderized ass.
I was breathless, “You did NOT hit my pussy with that????!!!!!”
He chuckled evilly. And I protested, “You will break my pussy!!!”
He did not say anything but when I felt a soft cloth dabbing at my labia, I asked incredulously, “I’m bleeding?”
“Just a little.” And then he chuckled, again!
“Oh you evil bastard, you broke my pussy. I just know it. You broke it.”
I had both hands clamped over my pussy. I did not care if he broke my fingers. I was not allowing him access to my pink parts again, EVAR!!! He grabbed my ankles and tied them up over my head. I think my squirming had made him accidentally hit my pussy and he wanted to hold me down a little better. I did not resist but I had not let go of my pussy either.
Once he had me tied down a little better, he was back at it, making sure that no part of my ass went unpunished, no tool or toy left off the agenda, from heavy leather flogger to nasty narrow gom jabbar. I remember him commenting once that he loved the strap best of all, because I had bought it for him. I do know he kept returning to it. He would stop and tease me, walking around the bed, touching my face, poking at my pussy and anus with the sharp tips of various things while I squealed and screamed and twisted and begged. I was raw, bruised and just a little bloody by the time he finished.
Then he walked away, leaving me blindfolded, bound, contorted, my legs up over my head, my hands still clutching between my legs, protecting my sore pussy. I lay still, puffing, listening, wondering what he had in mind now, what item he needed that he did not have at hand here in his room. I slowly, gently, tentatively ran my fingertips over my sore ass and pussy, as far as I could reach with my wrists still bound.
I had never really mellowed under that rain of sensations, he had made sure that nothing lasted long enough, predictably enough, changing up the pain too quickly for me to start to fly too high. But now, now finally left alone to feel the echoes of sensation, the afterburn? As it were? I could feel my body finally relax and the rush of my blood through my veins.
He made no effort to hide the sound of his feet on the stairs as he came back down. His voice was a little surprised, “You have not moved.”
“Was I supposed to?” My voice sounded a little foggy, distant.
He laughed and began to untie me, working his way from bound ankles and clipped wrists, ending with pulling the blind fold off. “Come on, we need to get going if you are going to get to the bank before it closes.”
Oh god, he expected me to just jump up and run those errands. Okay… okay… He is driving so I can do this… can do this… can do this. It was funny how everything seemed blurry around the edges, echoed in my head. I had to hold onto the stair railing tight as I wobbled up the stairs. When my vision cleared enough I peeked at my ass.
I am tattooed, marked, striped, and speckled. Black marks, blue marks, red, pink, and purple, my ass looks like an impressionist (snort... pun intended) painting. I bent over and check out my girl parts… was it broken???? The bite of the squid was unmistakable. A cluster of purple red contusions, sort of raw bruises the size of about two silver dollars reaches from my inner thigh up and across my labia. I am so impressed I run a fascinated finger across the sore and uneven surface, each mark raised up and tender. I hiss and cannot help but touch it again.
Even now, hours later, I can feel the sting, the ache and I remember those moments taken out before running errands. He has been an amusing mixture of pride and embarrassment. Attitude adjusted, both mine and his.
Old enough to know better, young enough not to care. I am in a long term, heterosexual, monogamous, formerly total power exchange relationship with my husband. We are exploring where we go from here. I am a once published writer of erotic fetish fiction novels.